A Sinful Duke She Can't Refuse (Steamy Historical Regency)

by Olivia Bennet

  The awareness of her was the best kind of distraction. He could hardly focus on his conversation with Barstow, or worse yet, the young lady who joined them shortly after.

  His attention was on the other side of the ballroom, where Isabella lurked with her bright sienna eyes and pale creamy skin. Her silk gown, in several russet shades, fit her like a glove and showed off all her attributes, including the twin mounds of her lush breasts.

  She looked so…soft.

  He knew without a doubt that the color would stay with him for a long time. Whenever he saw that color from now on, his mind would jump to her and how she looked tonight—the candlelight flooding her skin, bathing it in warm, soft light, cheeks flushed from either the heat or the dancing.

  Yes, he was a fool for her.

  Excusing himself from his companions, he made his slow way across the dance floor to where Isabella sat feigning indifference to her surroundings.

  Chapter 16

  These Games We Play

  “Miss Addison,” he bowed mockingly, unable to hide the smirk on his face as he reached her. She raised her head slowly with faux surprise.

  “Your Grace, I thought perhaps you had forgotten me.” She surveyed him from beneath her lashes, looking not at all pleased.

  “Isabella,” he said softly, just loud enough for her to hear.

  He sat down beside her—not near enough to breach propriety but close enough to feel how tense she was and notice the set of her shoulders. Her chin was also raised, jaw clenched. Emmanuel did not know what he had done to anger her. He let a moment pass.

  “The ball, it’s quite splendid,” she nodded towards the orchestra.

  He cocked an eyebrow at the shallow attempt at niceties but answered her all the same. “Yes, indeed.”

  The atmosphere did not get less awkward and the conversation was stilted. Emmanuel did not understand why. It struck him, then, that he was not sure about appropriate topics of conversation in this setting. Not any that would assist him to understand Isabella’s ire. He got carefully to his feet, making an elegant leg, before holding out his hand. “May I have the honor of this dance?”

  She blinked up at him as the first strains of the next set began. He wondered if he needed to repeat himself, but the furrow on her brow stopped him.

  “You want to waltz?” she asked.

  Nodding, he replied, “I learned in Vienna, where they say it originates. Allow me to show off my skills.”

  It did not evoke the smile he hoped for. “You never told me you went to Vienna.”

  His smirk intensified. “There are many things about me you do not yet know, Isabella.”

  Her eyes lit up as she got to her feet, and his breath caught. “Well then, I suppose I’d better begin to learn.”

  “Indeed, let us begin. Dance with me.” His words were spoken so softly that they were almost swallowed up by the din.

  * * *

  Isabella looked at his hand and swallowed. She placed her hand in his to allow him to lead her to the dance floor. He paused a moment, gaze locked with hers, and placed a soft kiss a few inches above the back of her hand.

  That evening gloves were de rigueur was a huge injustice, in her opinion. Any self-respecting heroine would mourn the inability of his lips to touch her skin, because of the satin between them.

  Emmanuel silently led her onto the floor, where they were joined by other couples. The chatter of voices ceased as the first bars of the waltz filled the hall.

  Her hand clasped his, the other on his shoulder. His left hand slipped around her waist.

  Oh, Lord.

  She looked around the room, aware of his hand like a brand on her waist, settled in that little curve, upon the burnt umber of her gown. She had chosen the gown especially for the wedding. She knew how well it brought out the color of her eyes.

  They began the dance in unison, the gentle sweep of their steps falling naturally into a rhythm as if they had done this a hundred times before. Emmanuel was such an accomplished dancer. With such a command of his prosthesis, he led with gentle strength, swirling her across the waxed wooden floor in time to the strains of the violin, which masked the clicking of his knee and ankle. With such graceful movement of his upper body, it was not noticed that he may have taken a few less steps here or there. One only saw his elegant, fluid passage around the floor.

  Very soon, sensation made her dizzy as with a smile, she let him propel her so that they moved easily together, as one.

  The room faded into the background and her heart raced. She basked in his gaze which was fixed upon her. He studied her face intently. She tracked his eyes as they moved from one attribute to the next.

  Her breath came fast and short and she felt exposed. Still, she did not look away but matched him gaze for gaze. Her eyes lingered on his full bottom lip, a sudden urge to taste it overwhelming her.

  The dance ended far too soon, with partners separating and making their bows and curtsies. Isabella suddenly realized that they had spoken not one word to each other. Indeed, she did not have enough breath for it. Regardless, a great deal seemed to have passed between them. Emmanuel escorted her back to her seat. He made to release her arm but she gently placed her hand over his.

  “May we take some air? It’s rather close and stifling in here, wouldn’t you say?”

  She blinked up at him, more aware than ever of his height advantage. Her eyes took in his elegant brown beard, noticing, not for the first time, that it was streaked with red and auburn. She gazed at his matched mane, long and straight, pulled into a black ribbon at the back of his head, emerging in a loose hanging fall. The candlelight made his lips look lush and full in the flickering light. The hair and beard were so suggestive of a man of the sea, of her very own pirate.

  “Of course,” he smiled, taking her hand and leading her through the guests towards the veranda.

  Isabella glided over to the balustrade, setting her hands on the railings and relishing the cool stone against her heated skin. She stared out into the moonlit darkness, savoring the peaceful silence between them. He broke it soon enough.

  “Miss Ralston seems to be a kind soul. Lord Barstow is most fortunate.”

  “That she is. And one of my best friends,” Isabella agreed. “We grew up together and I hope her marriage will not make us grow apart.”

  “I expect you shall make sure of that,” he murmured, walking slowly toward her. “They seem very much in love.”

  Isabella nodded, her eyes on the distant moon, replicated beautifully across the center reflecting pool before them.

  She focused on the rippling orb, seeking to distract herself from her racing heart as he moved closer to her. It felt as if they were all alone here on the veranda, even with a ball continuing mere yards behind them.

  “He seems to care for her a great deal,” Isabella said.

  “I cannot wait until it’s our turn.” He cut through her thoughts, and she gave him a sidelong glance, her eyebrows raised.

  “I do not believe you have asked…yet,” she replied slowly.

  “Yet…that is the pertinent word.” He grinned at her, pushing back slowly from his position in order to face her more fully.

  “Is it?” she was a little breathless, moistening her bottom lip even as she swallowed nervously.

  His face went blank momentarily, brow furrowed, “Well…I mean to say… you and... I thought—I mean…”

  He cut himself off as he stepped back a little.

  “Yes…?”

  His mouth opened but he said nothing more. His sudden muteness gave her pause, and then she was emboldened. She turned to face him, taking a step closer to him so they were standing flush against each other. She knew it was a risk—knew that anyone could come out to the balcony at any time and see them. She did not care. At this point, all that would precipitate was an earlier than planned marriage.

  “I suppose we should find out if we are compatible, do you agree?” she said boldly, her hands flat on his coat, fi
ddling with his buttons.

  He gaped, blinking at her. “How would you ascertain that?”

  Their eyes met before hers trailed along his features once more, skating down the slope of his sharp nose, to his well-shaped lips.

  She let him see the want in her eyes. Letting the tug she felt towards him—still so confusing yet increasingly common—take her over. The knot permanently lodged in her gut loosened, warmed, becoming altogether more pleasant, and addictive.

  His eyes dropped first, a hand reaching out but not touching.

  “I, I should li-like that, I think.” He swallowed audibly.

  “You would?” she crooned softly. “That is good. I would so have hated to be feeling this way all on my own.” Her voice trailed off as she ran a hand down his gold lapels, to his engraved gold cufflinks.

  She felt breathless at the way he was looking at her—

  “I most certainly would.”

  Isabella swallowed. Now that she had gotten them both aroused, she had no idea how to proceed.

  “I mean to deal with you with honor, Miss Addison.” His breath was now haggard, each inhalation in time with her own. The world seemed to melt away a little at the edges.

  “I appreciate that, Your Grace.”

  Their eyes locked, each unable to take a step forward, or back.

  Gently, her hand slid up his arm to grapple again with the lapel of his jacket.

  “From the moment we met, I have wanted to put my lips to yours. Will you forgive me for my desire?”

  She nodded. “Only if you forgive me for mine.”

  Isabella knew she was playing with fire, she knew that this could all end with embarrassment and blushes, but she also saw the way he was looking at her.

  She had heard what he had said to Lord Barstow that morning. Her heart was his, she knew that, knew that she cared for him beyond her prior comprehension of the emotion. She tightened her hand more securely on his jacket lapel, pulling him boldly towards her, and dismissing the fear of discovery. She took what she wanted. “Emmanuel, men are not the only ones who must declare their intentions with purpose,” she whispered. “A woman must, too.”

  Then she pressed her lips against his, and everything before was nothing.

  The feel of his lips on hers was a sensation unlike anything she had ever felt before in her life. The cool wetness of his lips, merging with the warmth of his breath, all presented to her with immediacy. It was a physical assault on her senses, the feel of his lips pressing down on hers, as his arms, like bands of steel, encircled her waist and drew her close.

  She went up on tiptoe, wrapping her arms around his neck and clinging for dear life.

  The kiss was getting out of hand and she knew it. But she could not pull back or make him stop. She did not want him to stop.

  “Have you seen my sister, Miss Addison? She suddenly disappeared from the dance floor.”

  “I think I saw her go out to the veranda.”

  They drew apart as the voices came closer, leaning their hands on the balustrade, and trying to look as if they had done nothing more strenuous than talking.

  “There you are, darling. Mother was worried.” Sarah glided toward them, a bright smile on her face. Isabella grimaced, knowing that Sarah had probably seen more than she was letting on. The girl lived to torture her.

  “It is hot inside. His Grace and I were simply cooling off.”

  “Cooling off?” Sarah glanced at the Duke from beneath her lashes. “Indeed.” She held out a hand to Isabella. “Shall we go?”

  “I am not ready to leave yet.”

  Sarah glared. “It is not seemly for you to stay here alone with a man.”

  “A man? He is my betrothed.”

  “Is that so? Where is the betrothal agreement? I have heard no announcement. Are you sure you are not delusional?”

  Emmanuel took a threatening step toward her but Isabella reached out and restrained him. “It’s fine, Your Grace. I shall see you…another time.”

  She tugged at her sister’s sleeve to get her moving. Now that Sarah had managed to induce Isabella to do as she wanted, she seemed in no hurry to leave. She kept staring at Emmanuel in a speculative way that annoyed Isabella to no end.

  “Sarah! Let’s go.”

  Her sister turned at last and they walked back into the ballroom.

  * * *

  Emmanuel stumbled to his carriage, as his tiger ran forward to help him up. He had maybe imbibed a little more than he had intended. It had been a long time since he had socialized in such a way. Since he had felt as if he was amongst friends. He looked back at his life, stretching back in lonely self-imposed isolation. He wondered if it was his own insecurities stopping him from immersing himself fully in the activities enjoyed by his peers.

  For the sake of his future wife, he needed to try.

  Why does her sister hate me?

  It was strange to him that as much as Isabella and her mother were welcoming and friendly, her father and sister were distant and cold. He did not understand if it was some sort of jealousy or prejudice. He wondered how much weight he should put to their opinions. He needed to be sure that their attitudes would not turn Isabella against him.

  It was too late now, he was not willing to go back to living without her. He resolved to solidify their invitation to his estate so that he might ask for Isabella’s hand in marriage. He had received a letter from his aunt just that morning, informing him that she had redecorated the entire guest wing, changing all of the décor, everything from the wallpaper to the furnishings.

  Emmanuel would have been the first to admit that perhaps his house was a bit drab and old-fashioned. If she had modernized it—sparing no expense—it was more than past time. She was now working on the parlor, dining area, and music room. She was thinking of ordering a new pianoforte.

  Aunt Helen never did anything by halves and if her excesses got out of hand, Uncle Edric was there to remind her of sensibility. Emmanuel trusted them to do what was best.

  Tomorrow he would call upon Lord Gefferton with a formal invitation to his home two weeks’ hence. That would give everyone sufficient time to make arrangements. At last, he would have her at his home and they would see once and for all if this match could work.

  Isabella would finally be his.

  Chapter 17

  Country Trip

  Emmanuel tapped his toe as he waited for Lord Gefferton to appear. His fingers beat a staccato on top of his cane, as he gritted his teeth, trying to contain his annoyance. He had sent a note, just that morning, notifying the Viscount that the Duke of Helmsfield would be calling on him at precisely three o’clock. It was quarter past that now, and he was still waiting, in the drawing room, for his appointment.

  If he had had any doubts before that the Viscount harbored some antipathy towards him, they had been dispelled by this disrespect.

  Just remember why you are here. He repeated it to himself like a mantra. The Viscount could be as discourteous as he pleased, but Isabella was interested in him and her mother was on their side. Emmanuel was not above being underhanded to get what he wanted…and he wanted Isabella.

  The door to the drawing room opened. “Apologies, Your Grace, for the unconscionable wait. I had a sudden emergency I had to resolve.”

  “Indeed?” Emmanuel got to his feet, to greet the Viscount.

  “Yes, my apologies.” He pointed towards his study, “Shall we?”

  Emmanuel nodded curtly. “We shall.”

  He followed Lord Gefferton to his study, all the while reminding himself that he was a Duke, well-versed in the art of controlling his emotions. He would not let the Viscount get under his skin.

  Lord Gefferton led Emmanuel to his study and closed the door behind him.

  “So, Your Grace, what did you wish to discuss?”

  “Well, as you know, I have interest in your daughter.”

  Lord Gefferton nodded.

  “In the interests of forging closer ties, I would like to invit
e you and your family to visit me on my estate for a week. The hunting is excellent, and so is our hospitality.”

  “That’s very kind of you, but hardly necessary.”

  “Perhaps not. But if we are to be family, it would bode well for us if we can get along.”

  Lord Gefferton sighed. “Yes, I see that.”