All I Want for Christmas Is a Duke

by Vivienne Lorret

  “I grew up in the awareness of one thing first and foremost,” he added. “My duty to the dukedom. It granted me power and wealth, yes. But it demanded payment in return. Too high a price.”

  Chapter Five

  TOO HIGH A PRICE.

  Kingsbury’s statement echoed through Patience’s mind long after their conversation had drifted to safer topics. It was still throbbing in her brain like a constant pulse as they sat down to dinner.

  Duty and sacrifice. Her own marriage had taught her those hard lessons. If only she could be certain he’d been referring to her when he’d mentioned the price he’d paid. The words might have rung with the truth to her ears, but she had to be certain she wasn’t merely hearing what she wanted to hear.

  Heaven only knew she longed deep in her bones that he’d meant her, for it put the lie to his sister’s words. With every passing hour in Kingsbury’s company, Diana’s claims seemed less and less credible.

  But that only meant it was becoming more and more difficult for Patience to guard her heart. She was softening, melting like the snow outside beneath the sun’s steady rays, a slow drip that dissolved her defenses.

  “I wish to lodge a complaint.” From his place at the head of the table, Kingsbury set his goblet down with a decided thunk.

  Patience looked up from her plate. Lost in her thoughts, she’d been absently separating her roast goose, mince pie, and vegetables into neat little piles. “Is it the wine?”

  Along with the meal, she’d barely touched her glass.

  “Not at all. The claret is quite excellent.”

  Thank goodness. She’d sent up to the manor for one of the earl’s better vintages. It was the least she could do when receiving a duke for Christmas dinner.

  “Are you ready for something stronger? Port, perhaps?” Beneath the cover of the table, she crossed her fingers. She’d neglected to request any specific gentleman’s drinks.

  “Do not trouble yourself. And before you ask, the meal has been lovely. Not that you’d have noticed.”

  She lowered her lashes. The blasted man saw everything.

  “Your cook has outdone herself,” he added before wiping his lips with his serviette. Then he pushed back his chair. “No, my complaint is rather more personal in nature. You never answered my question earlier.”

  “What question?”

  He prowled the length of the dining room table, almost casually, but his gaze never left hers. She twisted her serviette in her lap while sifting through this afternoon’s conversation for a clue as to what he was hinting at. Certainly not his enigmatic comment about duty and sacrifice. That had not been phrased as a question. Nothing else sprang to mind, but then this man’s very presence took up a great deal of room in her thoughts. Was this how a cornered mouse felt when faced with a cat?

  “You never informed me if your sense of tradition would be offended if we dispensed with the mistletoe.”

  “Oh.” She dropped the poor tortured bit of linen in her hands in favor of her wineglass. She tipped a fortifying swig down her throat, and the corners of her jaws ached with the claret’s dryness.

  Duty and sacrifice.

  Once more, the duke’s words to her threaded through her imagination. She still couldn’t make sense of them. A reference to their aborted romance, perhaps—­Lord, please—­and yet he’d called his wife perfect. To him that price could have well been losing her to the childbed.

  Patience was hardly in a position to demand clarification.

  Guard your heart. Linnet’s admonition chased the duke’s words through her mind. The problem was, Patience didn’t know if she could, despite Kingsbury’s description of his late duchess.

  If Patience gave in and kissed him again, she knew quite well she wouldn’t stop there. Not that he’d demanded rights to her body. No, in a way this was worse. In her current position, she could never hide behind mere duty. If she went to his bed, it would be in open acknowledgment of mutual feelings. Mutual desire. Mutual lust. Mutual hunger. Mutual need.

  Looking at him now—­that sculpted face, his dark hair emphasizing the blue of his eyes, the broad-­chested body—­she admitted to herself that she did, indeed, want him. She always had in an earthy, carnal sense that, ten years ago, she’d been too innocent to recognize. She wanted all of him, with nothing held back.

  The notion ought to shock her, for she’d never faced her marriage bed with such enthusiasm.

  One night. The voice of temptation rose in her, intriguing, tantalizing. She could have one night and yet not call herself his mistress.

  Kingsbury picked up her hand and lifted her knuckles to his lips.

  Patience gathered her courage. “You spoke of your regrets last night.”

  “That I did.”

  “Were those you mentioned the only ones?”

  “Oh, my dear.” He tugged at her hand, his intent clear. He wanted her standing on a level with him. “Last night we barely scraped the surface of my regrets.”

  So much quiet reverence fueled that statement that her throat ached. Warmth spread through her chest, while the hopeful corner of her heart sat up and took notice.

  The back of his hand brushed her cheek. “But perhaps we should discuss your regrets, as well.”

  She had just as many as he, but she was only prepared to discuss one of those at the moment. “I regret never learning the true joys of marriage.”

  His palm settled at the back of her neck. “Do you mean motherhood?”

  “And all that leads to it.”

  His free arm snaked about her waist, pulling her against his chest. Yes, she wanted his body pressed to hers, but not like this. She wanted her skin next to his, their hearts pounding in tandem, as close as humanly possible.

  His forehead came to rest against hers, their lips inches apart. “I can show you that. Gladly.” He brushed his lips against hers, the kiss light—­too light for all her yearning. “I just don’t think here is the best choice, unless you’d like to shock the servants and find out how sturdy this table is.”

  Heat washed up her bosom and all through her. Good Lord, she was blushing like a schoolgirl. Oh, the image he’d conjured in her mind. She’d never considered such things.

  The low rumble of his laughter promised all manner of wickedness. “Ah, I’ve got you thinking about it, haven’t I? For a woman who was married four years, you’re still quite the innocent.”

  “You . . . you paid attention to such things?”

  “The length of your marriage? From the moment I saw the announcement in the Times—­months out of date, mind you, since I was on the continent—­I cursed every day, every hour Worthington was allowed to have you.” His grip tightened at her nape and waist. “I would have saved you had I only known in time.”

  She placed her fingers over his lips. “I don’t wish to talk about our past. Not now. Not tonight.”

  “No, we’ve much better things to do. Above stairs.”

  They made it as far as his bedchamber, barely crossing the threshold before Patience found herself sandwiched between a solid wall and Kingsbury. His mouth descended in a devouring kiss that stole her breath and inflamed her senses. A decade’s worth of yearning poured into that single act.

  His tongue flicked against hers, and she welcomed its invasion. He possessed her mouth the way his body would possess hers—­with his whole self and his full passion.

  As she responded, her fingers crept to his neck to slip beneath his cravat and collar, seeking the skin beneath. She needed that warmth as proof this was all real. It was happening here and now.

  At long last.

  Smooth, heated skin, the roughness of stubble, the softness of his hair, the solidity of bone and sinew beneath. The sandalwood scent of him filling her nostrils, filling her being, yet soon that wasn’t enough. Her body craved his entire person, not the duke but the ma
n.

  She tangled her fingers in his cravat, and he pulled away with a groan.

  “Why have you stopped?” She went on trying to work the knot loose.

  “If I don’t, I’m going to have you here and now against this wall.” A most devious grin spread across his face. “Unless—­”

  “I’ve never done such a thing, if that’s what you were hinting at.” The swath of linen came free in her hand, and she went to work on the fastening at his collar. “There are so many things I haven’t done. I’ve never wanted to do them.” She caught his gaze and held it. “Until now.”

  “What things?” The question emerged as a raspy whisper.

  “Would you prefer I told you?” She let her hand slip down his firm chest, bypassing, for now, the buttons on his waistcoat, until she reached the falls of his breeches. Until she clasped the whole, hot length of him through heavy fabric. “Or showed you?”

  A tremor passed through him. “You’re going to kill me.”

  “I doubt it.” Good heavens, where was this wantonness coming from? Her husband had attempted to convince her to perform such acts as she was now contemplating, but she’d never desired them before. With Kingsbury, her body demanded she explore.

  A gentle squeeze, and his eyes fluttered shut. “I’ll finish too soon. I’m no longer a lustful lad of sixteen who can stiffen every other moment.”

  “We’ve the entire night.” Her fingers drifted upward, releasing one button after the next. “Is not part of the joy between bed partners in the giving of pleasure as well as receiving?”

  His only response was a shudder and a groan. His erection leaped into her hand, and she ran her palm down the heavy shaft. Soft skin slid over a steely inner core, impossibly hard. Her internal muscles clenched with the need to be filled.

  She sank to her knees.

  NATHANIEL HISSED OUT a breath at the sight of Patience—­at such a moment he could think of her by nothing other than her given name—­at his feet, cheeks flushed, breasts heaving, full, rosy lips parted to take him in. The wet heat of her mouth engulfed the head of his cock, while her hand slid to the base, her grip firm. God, so perfect. Her tongue circled the ridge of flesh; then she plunged deeper.

  Blood pumped to his groin and, with it, an urge to thrust into her throat. Better to grit his teeth and let her have her way. He’d last longer—­he hoped—­perhaps long enough to savor the full embrace of her body. Not just her mouth but her nails on his shoulders, her thighs clasping his hips as he drove them both to completion.

  Soon.

  He threw his head back and stared at the ceiling while, in his imagination, he tossed her onto the thick feather mattress and listened to the bed ropes groan as he mounted her. God, yes, and he’d draw every last bit of pleasure from her.

  Over and over, she pulled back, her tongue circling, lapping at the beads of moisture that formed on the tip of his erection, before taking in more of his length. Ever hotter. Ever deeper. He grazed the velvety skin at the back of her mouth, and his bollocks tightened. He needed to stop her before he spent, before it was too late.

  He threaded his fingers through her hair, his palm cupping her scalp, but her rhythm only increased. Her cheeks hollowed, the pull sweet and hot and eager. Sweat prickled on his brow, and pleasure burned at the base of his spine.

  “God, stop, before I spend.”

  Her mouth released him with a pop, but her fingers still curled about the base of his cock. He shuddered at the sight of her, kneeling before him, looking all too pleased with herself. If he didn’t miss his guess, she knew quite well that she’d nearly brought him to his knees, figuratively if not literally.

  Her grip slackened, fingers slipped away, and he nearly sighed with relief. He drew her to her feet, swept her into his arms, and placed her in the center of the mattress. Never taking his eyes from her, he tore at his garments, discarding them heedlessly on the floor. His valet would have a fit of apoplexy to see the mess Nathaniel was making, but he was past caring.

  He needed Patience the way he needed air. He needed to hear her cries as he wrung every last drop of pleasure from her.

  She sat up to ruck out of her gown, and he held his breath at the hints of rosy skin she bared to him. Naked, he climbed onto the bed to help relieve her of her stays and chemise. Then he stretched out beside her to indulge in the sight of her lush body. His gaze followed each curve, her neck, her shoulder, her rounded breasts, to the flare of her hips and the length of her thighs.

  Then he pulled her against him, flesh to flesh, and took her lips once more.

  Chapter Six

  KINGSBURY’S TONGUE INVADED her mouth to twine with hers until she was mindless with the ache to be filled. Patience wrapped her arms around him and gave over to the sensations he aroused. The taut muscles of his back tightened and jumped beneath her fingertips. His breath wafted hot over her neck as he trailed his lips along her throat. His tongue darted warmth and moisture in its passing, and deep inside, a sensation of emptiness throbbed.

  Her hips shifted restlessly against him in a demand for something she’d never before asked for. Something she’d never thought possible. With Kingsbury, though, it would be. Her body knew as much, if her mind did not.

  He shifted downward, and his lips closed about her nipple and drew—­drew on the bud, drew a heavy gasp from her throat, drew the knot of need in her belly ever tighter. His tongue circled the peak, and she arched into the caress in an unconscious demand for more.

  He raised his head, caught her eye, while his lips stretched into a truly wicked smile, wolfish and knowing.

  “Don’t—­ Don’t stop.” The words burst from her lips on an airy note of longing.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. Not when you beg so sweetly.” He dipped his head once more, and a dark lock of hair fell across his forehead. He trailed his tongue over her breast, flicking at the nipple, and sending hot currents of hunger shooting through her veins.

  Her fingers dug into his shoulders until she was sure she bore a sliver of skin beneath each nail. He repeated the motion, and this time, his hand slipped across her belly to her hip, trailing fire in its wake, a fire that raced through her limbs.

  He paused once more, and a whimper escaped before she could clamp her mouth shut. A low chuckle rumbled up from his chest, the tremor passing through her as well, so closely were they pressed together.

  And yet, not close enough. “Please.”

  “Please what?”

  She canted her hips, needing his fingers, or better his staff.

  “No, no, you want something. You’ve got to tell me. Otherwise, it will be my pleasure to tease you until morning just so I can listen to those lovely sounds you make.”

  She swatted at his back. His fingers were so close to where she wanted them. “Your Grace—­”

  He pressed a finger to her lips. “Nathaniel. You’re lying beneath me in my bed. The least you can do is drop the title nonsense.”

  She drew in a breath. Such a seductive tone that it compelled her to comply. But if she did—­if she obeyed—­it would tear down a barrier between them. If she allowed him the humanity of his given name, how vulnerable might that simple familiarity leave her? How open and raw and hopeful her heart?

  “Patience.” Her own name taunted her, tempted to reply in kind. How easily he stripped her of formality.

  “Nathaniel.”

  “God, yes. Say it again.” His fingers slipped farther, sketching the line where her thigh met her body, close, so close.

  “Nathaniel.”

  His touch eased between her legs, parted her folds, and trailed moisture from her entrance to the bud at its crown. “I’ll make you scream it yet.”

  He traced a lazy circle about the tiny peak until she wanted to scream for another reason altogether. She pressed her hips into his touch and arched her back, but he seemed determined t
o spend the remaining hours until morning toying with her.

  Unable to stand the torment, she skimmed her hand along his chest, across his belly, until she gripped his length. His breath expelled on a hiss. She pressed forward, spreading her fingers down the length of his shaft until they encountered the springy curls at its base.

  His head sagged against her, and a shudder passed through him, strong enough that she felt it in her own body, as though he’d coaxed the reaction from her. With a grunt, he shackled her wrist and pulled her hand away.

  “I’m not about to take that chance again,” he panted. “I won’t let you have me off and take nothing for yourself.” He bent her arm back until he held it above her head, the back of her hand pressed into the pillow. “I wonder, though, how many times I can bring you to crisis before you beg me to take you?”

  Good Lord, the very idea. A moan parted her lips at the thought of everything he’d try to do to her.

  He pressed his lips to the fleshy undercurve of her breast, then his teeth abraded the spot, just hard enough to send a jolt of pleasure to the center of her belly. His fingers circled once again, more insistent, driving her along an ever-­climbing spiral of heat and need and sensation.

  Yes, Lord, yes.

  She arched into the touch. He trailed kisses down her body, and she shuddered with the anticipation of him treating her as she’d just treated him, his tongue branding her most sensitive flesh, marking it as his. The warmth of his breath wafted along her inner thigh, and she trembled.

  Soon now, soon he’d show her true pleasure. She threaded her fingers through his hair. The soft strands slipped against her fingertips. Their ends tickled her inner thighs. His fingers shifted and he parted her, exposing her utterly.

  At the first burning touch of his tongue, a moan escaped her lips. He licked a path from her entrance to the tiny bundle of nerves at its crown, and her palm fitted itself to his head, holding him in place. Just there. Oh yes, there.