by Alyson Chase
He picked the ruler back up. “This will be more intense, but I want you to welcome it. Welcome the heat, the flash of pain, and the burn of pleasure. Clear your mind of everything but that next stroke. At this moment, there is nothing outside this room that matters. It’s only you, taking what you deserve from me. What you need.” He trailed the backs of his fingers along her crease. “Do you understand?”
She nodded against the desk, a soft moan escaping her lips. She waited patiently for him to continue, seemingly content to exist in the moment, a slight smile curving her lips. She looked satisfied. Happy.
His stomach twisted. There would be no going back to the Black Rose after Liz. No paid whore ever accepted a punishment so sweetly that it made him ache to tie her to his bed for a year and not let her go. That it was a chambermaid who was the perfect foil to his needs . . . He ground his teeth. This night was but a brief glimpse of heaven, a heaven he could never enter. The distance between a duke and a servant was too great to even entertain the notion of a relationship. And his damn code wouldn’t allow him to use a maid for a casual intrigue.
The unfairness of it made his muscles clench, made the next stroke harder than he intended. She squeaked in dismay, only relaxing when he brought his palm up to rub the strip of red that flashed across her skin.
“Keep counting, Liz.” He brought the ruler down again, more temperate this time, but still strong enough to raise a fleeting red mark. “Breathe, and count, and relax into it.”
She sucked in a deep breath, released it. “Twenty-two.”
“Good girl.”
Her soft whimpers and moans grew louder. The next time he stopped to caress her, he let his fingers whisper over her opening, circling the slick entrance before retreating back to her plump bottom. Damn, she was wet. Warmth spread through his body. She was a natural.
She arched her back, chasing after his touch. “Please.”
“Please, what? What do you need, Liz?”
“I don’t know.” Her knuckles whitened around the desk. “Make me stop feeling like this.”
“Feeling like what?” He leaned over her, and ran his fingers through her silky tresses.
“I don’t know!”
He kneaded the base of her skull. “Shh.” Her face was tight with tension. Had she never drawn pleasure from a man, from her own fingers? The evidence of her innocence made his heart pang. Dallying with a green girl came with an extra responsibility. An extra honor. “I realize you don’t know. But you will. I’ll take care of you.” Standing upright, he drew her up with him, keeping a steadying arm around her waist. Sweeping a hand beneath her knees, he lifted her in his arms. The drawers at her feet effectively hobbled her, and damn if the thought of her bound ankles didn’t spear heat straight to his groin.
He settled them on the settee. The flickering candlelight made her dark eyes glitter. Placing a broad palm low on her abdomen, he rubbed soothing circles, inching lower with each pass. She had given so much of herself to him that night that he wanted, needed, to bring her pleasure. Show her what her body was capable of, how to quench the fire that burned in her veins. But most virgins didn’t allow the liberty of a slow finger-fuck without some persuasion beforehand, so he moved cautiously, rebuilding her ache to a fevered pitch.
“Have you ever brought yourself to completion before?” he asked. He stroked up and down her inner thigh. Each pass dragged her skirts higher, brought his fingers closer to her heat.
One of her fists gripped his waistcoat, but her voice had regained its normally placid tones. “No.”
He smiled down at her, satisfaction licking through him that he would be the first to make her fall apart, knowing that he would be responsible for making that serene façade crack. He suspected that very few people were allowed to see her without her mask.
His finger swept through her drenched folds, and she sucked in a sharp gasp. He circled lightly over the little bundle of nerves.
Her eyes went liquid. “Montague, that feels . . .”
“Yes?” he asked. His cock was hard enough to pound a horseshoe into shape, and every twitch of her bottom drove him a little further past reason.
“So good.” She sighed and sank limply into his hold, her legs falling open as much as her drawers would allow.
“You’re going to feel a whole lot better,” he said, his voice gruff. “Close your eyes. I want you to concentrate on feeling the pleasure I give to you and nothing else.” He waited impatiently for her to comply. When she did, he was able to let his own mask slip. He didn’t have to hide what this woman in his arms did to him.
He eyed her reactions hungrily, feeling every bit of pleasure that flickered across her face in his own body. He left his thumb on her clit while one long finger probed at her slick entrance. When the tip of his finger entered her, her warm sheath clutched eagerly at him, and he couldn’t keep back the curse that flew from his lips.
She either didn’t hear him or didn’t care, too wrapped up in her own body’s reaction. Her head dropped back over his arm, exposing her porcelain neck. He probed a bit deeper, added a second finger, careful to keep his thrusts shallow so as not to hurt her. This moment was all about pleasure.
Her walls sucked wetly at him, and he dragged his fingers out and up to slicken her firm nub. Pressing her hips up, she sighed happily when his fingers reentered her channel. His thumb swiped around her clitoris faster, adding pressure when she arched and mewled.
Fuck, she was beautiful. He couldn’t believe he wasn’t taking this needy bundle of woman presented so prettily before him. She was so far gone she wouldn’t protest if he fucked her like he needed. Like she needed. His cock pulsed against her bottom, eagerly agreeing with the sentiment.
But there would be consequences to those actions, consequences that would weigh more heavily on Liz than on him. So he told his cock to stand down, and gripped the writhing woman more tightly so she wouldn’t wriggle herself right off his lap.
Her breathing became short, gasping. Her eyes snapped open and she fixed her gaze to his. “Montague? I don’t . . . I can’t . . .”
He pressed a kiss to her brow. “Shh, little bird. Let it happen.”
Her hand fisted in his neckcloth, pulling the linen tight around his throat. “But . . .”
He flicked his thumb over the pink nub and she was gone. A cry tore from her throat as she convulsed around his fingers, her body jackknifing up and her thighs clamping around his hand. He kept rubbing and thrusting, extending her first orgasm out as long as he could.
When the last shudder left her body, she sagged against him, spent. He gathered her close, burrowing his nose in her hair and smelling her sweet scent. Raised to be a duke, Marcus wasn’t short on self-esteem, but never had he felt more powerful than he did right now. Watching her break apart in his arms, from his hand, was almost enough to satisfy his own desire.
Almost. He could take her to his rooms right now, show her even more of what a man could do to please a woman. Remembering her body’s violent reaction, he smiled. He would have to hold this woman down so she didn’t come off the bed at her crisis. Or tie her down. Both ideas made his cock throb so hard it hurt. He could . . .
He could do nothing more. He’d done all that he would allow himself. He would probably still burn in hell for the liberties he’d taken with this innocent, but at least he’d limited himself to his stated purpose. He’d shown her what her body was capable of, let her explore some of her desires in a safe environment. The rest of her sexual awakening would be up to her.
Reaching down, he pulled up her undergarments. “Lift your hips.” She obeyed without question, and he arranged her drawers and retied the little knot to secure them. Smoothing down her skirts, he dragged in one more deep breath, his nose nestled behind her ear. So sweet. “Can you stand?”
She drew back her shoulders. “Of course. That was . . . wonderful, but not so tremendous as to remove my abilities.” Putting words to action, she slid off his lap and shook her skir
ts to fall loosely around her ankles.
Marcus raised an eyebrow. His head knew better, but his body took that as a dare. It wanted nothing more than to prove her wrong. Fuck her so hard she wouldn’t be able to walk straight for a se’nnight. But she wasn’t a challenge. She was his maid.
He eyed her closely. “Are you all right?”
She rubbed her palms against her skirts. “Yes. As I said, that was lovely. Thank you.” She bit her bottom lip. “Is that common? Do most women experience that same . . . release?”
“If the man is doing his job right,” he said. “There are many pleasures to be found. For someone like you they will be found in the marriage bed.”
A flush crept up her throat. “The marriage bed, yes.”
Marcus rose to his feet and tipped her chin up. “You have nothing to be ashamed of for what happened here. Nothing occurred that would ruin your chances for a match.” His gut clenched. She would make some other man a lovely wife. One of his footmen perhaps, or a country squire.
She nodded. “I should go.” Her tremulous voice made the words a question.
He slid his fingers off her soft skin, clenched his fists by his sides. “Yes. Go to your room and rest.” She backed away, her dark eyes running over him as if trying to memorize all his details. Her back bumped into the door and she grasped for the latch. “And Miss Smith.” She paused halfway out the door. “You will not miss any more meals.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” She lowered her eyes and dropped a curtsy, once more the perfect servant. He watched her leave and his shoulders sagged. For the first time in his life he hated his nobility.
Chapter Thirteen
The air was stifling, the sun’s rays beating down upon her, but Liz hardly noticed the sweat coursing down her back. She, Molly, and two other maids were on outside window duty, a task Molly had rolled her eyes at when they’d been assigned it that morning by Mr. Todd. With no shade on the west side patio, and windows that stretched as high as ten feet off the ground, it was the bimonthly chore that all the maids dreaded.
Plunging her rag back into her bucket, she barely noticed the sting of the vinegar on her scraped hands. Across the manicured lawn in front of the stable, the duke sat astride a large sorrel mare, walking the horse forward, then backwards. The horse’s steps were faltering, uncertain, but she responded to the duke’s commands.
A stable boy stood ten feet away with a mastiff sitting silently at his side. Montague urged the horse towards the pair, but before they reached them the horse skittered sideways, yanking her head at the reins.
The edges of Liz’s lips curled up. The dog was big; there was no doubt about that. But the horse probably outweighed the animal ten times over. Unreasonable as it was, the mare was scared of the dog, and all the gentle prodding by the duke didn’t seem to be changing her mind.
“You left a big streak there.” Molly stepped next to Liz, cutting off her view of the duke. She pointed to the window Liz was working on. “Todd will notice that. You need to clean it again.”
“Of course.” Liz kneaded her lower back. The window tax hadn’t induced the Duke of Montague to brick up any of his windows, a fact Liz sorely regretted at the moment. Looking at the size of the estate before her, she estimated that Montague probably paid more in taxes each year than her father had earned in income his entire life. The wealth of the duke was staggering.
Taking her wet rag, she climbed up the ladder and peeked over towards the stable again. The duke gripped the large horse between strong thighs, his trousers pulled tight against his flexing muscles. He rode the horse like he was a part of her. They moved as one. The tails of Montague’s coat fluttered after him as he drew the mare into a gallop. Liz swallowed, trying to bring moisture back into her mouth.
Man and beast were a beautiful sight.
“That streak isn’t going to disappear by wishing it away,” Molly hollered up to her.
With a sigh, Liz turned to the window. Stretching up, she passed her damp rag over the smudge. The ladder wobbled, and Liz clutched the top with a gasp.
“Careful!” Molly held the legs of the ladder. “Those dang footmen, taking the good ladders for the chandeliers and leaving us this rickety pile of wood.”
Sally, the youngest maid in the duke’s service, piped up. “I saw one of them nice sturdy ten-foot ladders stored in the stable. Maybe we could get a groom to bring it over for us.”
Liz hurried down the steps. “I’ll do it.” Tossing her rag in a bucket, she smoothed her hands down her skirts. She darted a glance at the duke, and her heart skittered in her chest at the thought of getting closer to him. “I’ll go to the stable and ask for it.”
“I’ll go with you,” Molly said, throwing her own rag down. She stretched her arms into the air. “Anything to stop working for a couple of minutes.”
The two wound their way down the curved granite staircase onto the front lawn. The stable loomed in the distance. Montague rode in tight circles beneath the Roman frieze at its entrance.
As they walked closer, the duke raced the mare the length of the stable, spinning the horse on two feet under a large clay urn in a second-story arch at the far end. He goaded the horse to another arch, made another turn. Using the arches as guideposts, Montague ran the horse back and forth between different points, the horse beneath him responding to every command with precision.
Stumbling over a flat rock, Liz tore her gaze away from man and horse. It wouldn’t do to have anyone notice her attention to the duke. But he drew her into his orbit, a pull as strong as that of the Earth over the moon. She blew out a breath. Probably every young maid had such fancies around the duke. There was nothing special to her feelings.
But did the duke touch every maid as he had Liz? If Peggy was correct Montague didn’t. Which made last night unique. Special. Something intimate shared just between her and the duke.
She let Molly stride ahead, watched her slip into the stable as Liz held back, lingering by the outside wall. Leaning her shoulders against the cool stone wall of the building, she watched the training exercises. Montague was so focused on the horse he was teaching, he didn’t notice his maid tracking his every move.
She’d let the man take scandalous liberties of her, and they’d turned her world upside down. To him, it was just another day.
She pressed her palms flat against the smooth stone so she wouldn’t dig her nails into her palms. She should leave, join Molly in the stable. But her legs didn’t want to move. Montague rose into a half crouch, his leg muscles bunching, his back a rigid line. The hair rose on her nape. The collar of her dress, a soft band of cotton around her neck, became constricting.
She was a fool.
She was at Hartsworth for one reason, and one reason only. To save her sister. Developing feelings for anyone, much less a duke, was out of the question. She simply wouldn’t allow it.
Pushing off the wall, she turned her back on Montague. She took a deep breath. Two. Gathering her calm façade about her like a cloak, she prepared herself to face Molly.
A crashing of hooves was her only warning.
A pile of bricks slammed into her back. Arms wrapped around her waist, and Liz was flying, spinning in mid-air before landing on a hard body. They rolled until Liz was facedown in the dirt, Montague covering her body with his own. The scents of bay rum and sweat mixed with crushed grass filled her nose, making her dizzy.
Or perhaps that was the large man on her back, squeezing the air from her lungs.
She opened her mouth, but only a harsh gasping emerged. Immediately, Montague rolled off of her. He ran his hands along her torso, down her limbs, shouting for the stable master all the while.
Liz lay where she landed, stunned, unable to enjoy the feel of the duke’s hands on her body. His touch was impersonal, searching, and when he reached a sore spot on her ribs she whimpered.
He cursed.
Footsteps pounded their way. “Your Grace!” The stable master loosed a phlegmy cough, tried to catch hi
s breath. “Are you all right?”
“Obviously, I am unharmed,” the duke bit out. “It is Miss Smith I am concerned about. Go fetch the doctor, at once.”
The stable master shouted to someone, and Liz saw a child’s feet race into the stable. The sound of a horse galloping away brought her back to her senses. She was lying facedown on the grass, and she wasn’t quite sure why. Placing her hands under her shoulders, she pressed up.
The duke’s broad palm on her back stopped her. “Easy. We’ll go slowly.” With his assistance, she rolled to her side and up to a seated position. Kneeling beside her, Montague tucked her against his chest, supporting her.
“I’m fine.” Liz turned her head from side to side, trying to figure out what had happened. The chestnut-colored mare stood some thirty feet away, eating a hole in the lawn. A crowd of grooms and Molly stood in a semi-circle around her and the duke, all wearing similar expressions of shock. And a massive clay urn lay on the ground not three feet from her, a large crack running from handle to handle.
Tilting her chin up, she found the arch above where she’d stood empty. She sagged back into the duke, her head resting on his chest.
“Of course you are.” His voice was low, angry. “Brooks, find out how this happened. Now.”
The stable master disappeared inside the structure, and Montague turned his focus back on Liz. “Aside from your ribs, where do you hurt?”
She was sore everywhere. A six-foot-something man had flung himself upon her from his horse, and they’d both landed hard on the ground. She frowned. He’d landed harder and fallen from higher. If anyone needed a doctor it was probably Montague.
“I am uninjured.” Placing a hand on his thigh, she pushed off of him until she sat on her own. His muscle flexed beneath her fingers. “But what happened?”
“I saw the urn wobbling above you.” His breath was hot on her cheek. “Thank the gods Daisy is a fast horse.”
