How the Duke Was Won

by Lenora Bell

  He closed his lips around her breast and suckled. She threaded her hands into his hair as they moved together. She’d known it would be like this. That he would sweep her away and never let her come up for air.

  He was almost all the way inside now. It stretched and stung, but then he shifted a little so he could reach around and touch her. His thumb found her sensitive flesh, and soon she was moaning above him, her wetness easing his passage, a string held taught, vibrating, the pleasure building in slow, sensuous waves.

  All her life she’d lived beneath a canopy of leaves, crawling through darkness. Now, in his arms, she knew what life was like for the hawk soaring above the trees. The weightless feeling of leaving the earth behind and climbing to some impossible new height.

  When she thought she might die, when her stomach muscles clenched until it was painful, she flew over the edge of the forest into a sunrise of pleasure so intense it burned her to cinders in his strong arms.

  She was hot as tropical sun, hot and wet around him, her climax still contracting her inner muscles around his cock.

  “Wrap yourself around my waist,” he said. And she did. Circling him completely. Her legs hooked behind his back, his hands cradling her sumptuous arse.

  He plunged all the way inside, then lifted her hips, almost sliding all the way out.

  Then slid home again.

  Faster now. Keeping her exactly where he needed her to be. Angling up, into that place so far inside her. The one that knew his name. And would never know another.

  She was his duchess. His passionate, impulsive, outspoken duchess.

  “I can’t believe I found you in cold, old England,” he whispered into the decadent silken waves of her hair. He thrust again, loving the way she clenched around him, took him in, and asked for more with her eyes and those soft moans.

  “You’ll never dance for anyone but me,” he commanded.

  “Never,” she gasped.

  “My duchess only dances for me.”

  “Yes. Only you.”

  Now the pressure was building, the pleasure mounting.

  “Good,” he panted. “Feels . . . so . . . good.” He pumped faster, pushing up into her silken heat. She moaned and raked her nails down his back, through the linen of his shirt. He moved hard and fast. So close now.

  Her eyes screwed shut, as if she was holding back tears. He slowed. Used every reserve of strength to stop. She was an innocent. This was her first time. Outdoors, with her skirts rucked up around her waist. He hadn’t even removed his clothing.

  “If this hurts,” he gasped, “if you don’t want this, all you have to do is say so.”

  Her eyes flew open. The blue of wide open seas engulfed him.

  “I don’t want you to stop. It stings . . . a little. But it’s . . .” She smiled shyly. “Fierce and melting and dangerous and . . . beautiful. All at once.”

  He remained still, while his prick jerked inside her, begging for completion.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said. He kissed her cheek. “I never want to hurt you. Ever.”

  She adjusted her hips. Relaxed around him. Sliding tentatively at first, then with bolder movements, using the leverage of the bench beneath her knees, she found a rhythm that had him clawing for the last shred of his control. “Oh,” she moaned, taking all of him inside her and rubbing against him.

  That one small sound was almost his undoing. He had to fight for control. Find strength so deep inside he hadn’t known it existed. He clung to the edge of his climax, needing her to be there with him.

  He reached between them, using his thumb in exactly the right place.

  The bench shook beneath them. James’s boot kicked into a new position, startling a bird, who flew away with a shrill protest.

  Scruples be damned.

  She was his duchess. And he wasn’t going to wait a moment longer to claim her. He threaded her arms tighter around his neck and pulled her legs more firmly around his waist. He gripped her arse, feeling his orgasm closing in like a tropical hurricane, gathering heat and energy, spiraling so fast there was nothing but this driving need.

  She clenched around him, her breath coming in rapid, shallow gasps. When the storm broke, and he came inside her, it was melting and dangerous and all the things she’d said.

  He leaned his head against her soft breasts, listening to the rapid fluttering of her heart. He loved the feel of her curves pressed against him. Loved how her cries had rung natural and untutored. With no artifice.

  Tupping one’s own fiancée at a Cyprian’s ball. Not the usual outcome of such an evening. Usually he ended up in the arms of a worldly courtesan.

  Probably, that would have been much safer.

  A courtesan would know the score. Would expect him to give her a gift of jewelry and leave.

  He’d said he didn’t want to hurt her. But wasn’t that exactly what he was going to do if he married her and then left her alone in England? He set her off his lap, adjusting his trousers. She nestled against him on the bench.

  Tenderness rose from some untapped source inside the dark well of his heart. He stroked a lock of damp hair away from the smooth curve of her cheek and tucked it behind her ear. He wanted to make wild promises about staying by her side forever.

  He wanted to tell her what she wanted to hear.

  But he couldn’t do that.

  He had to remain silent.

  Do what he always did. Give expensive jewelry and leave.

  It was killing her, this silence.

  Cracking her heart into pieces inside her chest. There would be a hollow, rattling sound when she stood up. She’d had her moment of insanity. The fire in his eyes and the heat of their bodies together. She would remember it forever.

  But now she had to tell him. Even if it ruined all of her plans.

  “James,” she began, but he didn’t hear her. He was already moving off the bench, walking into the shadows.

  Charlene heard him strike tinder against steel. Soon he had a candle lit. It must have been so lovely here once, but now the plants had grown wild and vines twisted everywhere, cracking the stone pillars and sprouting through the flagstones. With all that plant life, the air was warm and humid, still holding the day’s sun in a riot of green limbs.

  She could wait another few minutes.

  “What is this place?” she asked.

  James sat next to her, folded her into his arms again. “The duke’s orchid conservatory. It was his obsession. He’d spend hours every day out here, growing new exotic varieties.”

  He glanced up at the cracked glass ceiling. “They call him ‘the Mad Duke’ now. It looks like no one’s been here in years. Nick and I used to play out here when we were boys, pretending to be explorers.”

  Nick had to be Lord Hatherly, the man who had banished Grant.

  “We’ve been friends since childhood,” James continued. “I left for the West Indies. Explored real jungles. England’s too tame for me, too set in its ways. I could never be happy here, Dorothea. I hope you understand that.”

  Yes. She saw that. He was made for open spaces, not ballrooms or tearooms.

  “James, I have something I must tell you,” she whispered, the words wrenched from her lips.

  He stroked her cheek. “First let me show you something.”

  He pulled a small, blue, velvet-­covered box out of his discarded jacket pocket.

  Blast. Please don’t let it be—­

  “This was my mother’s,” he said, opening the box.

  Diamonds.

  “Her name was Margaret. She would have liked you. She wanted me to be happy. And you make me happier than I ever thought I could be.”

  It wasn’t ostentatious. Just a small cluster of diamonds fashioned into a flower, set in delicate, twining gold.

  “You’re so quiet,” he said. �
�You don’t like it. You can select something better, more fitting for—­”

  “I love it.”

  She loved him. No, no she didn’t.

  “Then try it on.” He caught her hand, but she resisted. If he slid the ring onto her finger, she would dream for just one second that he was giving this ring to her. To Charlene.

  He frowned. “You don’t want to wear it?”

  “Oh, James, of course I do.”

  He slipped the ring onto her third finger and kissed her knuckles. “I know I said I wanted a business arrangement, but then you tumbled me arse over ears onto my own carpet. What was I supposed to do?”

  She smiled, remembering that moment. The horror on the countess’s face. The flapping steward.

  “There,” he breathed, brushing his thumb across her lips. “That smile. That blinding smile. A man could make that his life’s ambition, to produce that smile.”

  “James. Don’t.”

  “Why? I need someone like you, so full of light and life and conviction. What you said about me having a responsibility to create a new kind of manufactory. I think you’re right. I’m having an architect draw up plans.”

  That was something, at least. Some glimmer of good in the accumulated soot of all the lies.

  “I’m willing to try. I’m willing to learn how to be a better father. A better man. Flor hasn’t screamed once since she met you. I don’t know what you told her, but she actually sat down and completed all her lessons. I sacked that awful governess. You can choose a new one.”

  Just for the space of an instant, Charlene imagined a different world. One where they could be a family. James, Charlene, and Flor. In this world, she’d been born the legitimate daughter of the earl. In this world, she could wear his mother’s ring.

  It was a seductive dream.

  And it could never happen.

  But he was willing to change. For her.

  No, not for her. For Dorothea. For the woman he thought she was. Pure. Good. Pedigreed.

  “I won’t be the husband you deserve,” he said. “I won’t even be here most of the time. But when I am, I will always try to make you smile. And I will never stop attempting to win your heart.”

  She turned her head away from green eyes that glinted like emeralds among the vines and flowers.

  He caught her chin in his fingers and turned her back to face him. “Damn. I’m making a mess of this.”

  “No. You’re not. It’s me. I’m not . . . her. The woman you’re talking about. I’m not . . . Why are you saying these things, damn you.”

  He smiled. “See? No proper debutante would say something like that.” He drew her in closer, dropped a kiss near the corner of her mouth.

  Because I’m not proper, or a debutante, or any of the things you need your duchess to be. She should just blurt it out, or she’d never say the words.

  She couldn’t. What did she think was going to happen? Did she think he’d renounce Dorothea and marry her? Dukes never married illegitimate girls who’d been raised to be courtesans.

  Charlene would lose Lulu’s apprenticeship, and James’s eyes would lose that reverent glow.

  “So, what did you need to tell me?” he asked, nuzzling her neck.

  Her heart beat faster, thumping against the cage of her chest.

  Water dripped from a leaf above and landed on Charlene’s cheek.

  In St. James’s, Dorothea shook out the contents of her trousseau trunk, fingered fine linen and lace. Prepared for her wedding.

  At home, Lulu dreamt of painting ruined castles in fields of wildflowers.

  Charlene closed her eyes. “Only that I must go back. My friends will be worried,” she whispered.

  Coward.

  “I’ll take you to Vauxhall.” When she tensed, he smiled and stroked her cheek. “Don’t worry, I’ll leave you near the entrance. No one will see you with His Disgrace before our wedding.” He loosened a candle from the sconce, took her hand, and led her outside, into the cool air and starry skies. She shivered and wrapped the black cloak tighter.

  In the bloodred leather interior of his carriage, bordered by his strong arms, the wanting settled around her so thick she could taste it. The sweet lure of honey and the bitterness of tansy tea. Brewed with salty tears.

  He drew her closer against his warmth. His mother’s ring was heavy around her finger. Now the pain of losing him would be so much worse. But she’d never had him. Not really. What she’d had had been built on a foundation of lies.

  She had to find a way to give the ring to Dorothea early tomorrow morning.

  They were in sight of the stone archways of Vauxhall.

  “Stop the carriage,” she said. “Please.” She was so close to breaking down and sobbing in his arms. She had to leave.

  He waved the footman away and helped her alight from the carriage himself. “Lady Dorothea.” He bowed, tall and commanding, every inch the duke.

  She walked a few steps. Turned around. She didn’t care that there were ­people about. She ran back to him and stood on her tiptoes, slipping her arms around his neck.

  His lips found hers, and he kissed her until she was breathless. Until she forgot her name. Until there was nothing but heat and urgency and sweetness.

  It would have to last, this kiss. Their last kiss.

  It would have to last a lifetime.

  Finally, he broke away. “I will call for you tomorrow evening,” he said. “They can’t keep me away from you, Dorothea.”

  He climbed back into the carriage.

  “Good-­bye, James,” she whispered, knowing there would be no tomorrow.

  Chapter 24

  James would not wait weeks to marry Dorothea.

  Not after what had happened last night. Someone could have recognized her. She’d promised to behave like a proper duchess from now on, but he’d been thrusting inside her at the time. She probably would have promised anything. It was best to marry her swiftly and spirit her away from the eyes of the ton.

  Into his bed, where she belonged.

  Picturing what they would do in the enormous island of the ducal bed, marooned for days . . . weeks . . . made his heart beat faster and his palms dampen.

  He took a sip of too-­bland hot chocolate. “I’ve decided to roust the archbishop and obtain a special license,” he said to Nick, who was seated across from him in a breakfast room at Brooks’s.

  Nothing had changed here in the ten years James had been absent. The white-­whiskered porter had recognized him immediately when James and Nick had arrived last night. This morning, the breakfast room was as tomblike as ever, with discreet waiters gliding noiselessly across thick carpeting, serving hot rolls and coffee to club members nursing brandy headaches and reeling from losses at the gambling tables.

  Nick peered over the edge of his newspaper. “Come again?”

  “Why should I wait and marry in Surrey? I’ll be married here in London by special license.” Saying that out loud made him feel happy. Not that he wanted to examine the feeling too closely. It was just there, like a hidden vein of gold in a granite mountain.

  “That’s what I thought you said.” Nick set down his paper and lifted an eyebrow in the direction of a thin, elegant waiter, who hastened to their table. “Morley,” said Nick, “fetch a skilled physician, a bucket of ice water, and a strong draft of laudanum. His Grace is unwell.”

  Morley bowed and snapped his white-­gloved fingers at a young waiter. “I shall see to it immediately.”

  James shook his head. “That won’t be ­necessary—­I feel fine. Hatherly’s only having a bit of fun.”

  “Very relieved to hear it, Your Grace,” Morley said, his long face carefully expressionless. He bowed and returned to his station.

  “You should have helped me with that bottle of smuggled whisky last night,” Nick groaned. “If y
our head pounded like mine, you wouldn’t be contemplating anything as rash as marriage.”

  “Lady Dorothea inspires . . . reckless acts.”

  “Nothing would inspire me to marry save a pistol held to my chest.”

  James finished his chocolate. “You’ll see when you meet her tomorrow, since you’ll be one of our witnesses. She’s no common debutante. She’s extraordinary . . .”

  With the most intriguing blend of passion, intellect, and beauty James had ever known, although it wouldn’t do for him to spout. Not in a breakfast room at Brooks’s, where wives were strictly off-­limits.

  Nick nodded. “Fine. But I won’t stop giving you arguments in favor of bachelorhood until the moment the curate sounds the death knell.”

  “You know I have to marry.” James attempted a blasé shrug of his shoulders. “May as well be tomorrow.”

  “You don’t fool me, you know.” Nick tore apart a roll and slathered it with butter. “Leave it to you to do something as disreputable as fall in love with your own wife.”

  Love? James hadn’t thought of it in those terms. He’d sworn off love after his mother died. He would admit to feeling different, somehow. Probably just the remaining glow from the extraordinary night they’d shared.

  If she behaved, he would treat Dorothea with respect and gentleness while he was in England. He had no doubt that she would, in turn, be a caring mother to Flor, and their future children, while he was abroad. Even if Dorothea’s conduct was far from impeccable, he believed that she genuinely cared for his daughter, and he hoped that her family reputation, ­coupled with her new title, would smooth Flor’s road into society.

  “Scoff all you want,” James said, “but never say never. You might find a woman one of these days who’s willing to overlook your many faults.”

  “Not going to happen.” Nick attacked another roll. “Wish Dalton was here to talk some sense into you. Remember our oath? We were never going to marry, and, above all, we were never going to become our fathers.”

  “I will never become my father,” James said. “You know I didn’t plan any of this. Life threw me this bend in the road, and I’m only making the best of it.” It was far more than that, but James wasn’t going to admit that Dorothea was very nearly making him rethink his aversion to intimacy.