Never Desire a Duke (One Scandalous Season)

by Dalton, Lily

  No doubt she stood with her ear pressed to the door at this very moment, coveting the luxury only he would enjoy just as soon as he could get his clothes off.

  He closed the door rather loudly and stripped naked. Sinking into the water, he eased back, relaxing into the delicious heat.

  There, as steam bathed his chest, shoulders, and face, he fumed, wishing she was there naked across his lap, her golden skin slippery and wet. For nearly a year, such fantasies had tormented him, although in reality he’d never enjoyed her in such a manner. In those early months of their marriage, he’d taken immeasurable pleasure in their lovemaking, but the nightly act had always occurred in the very respectable paradise of their marriage bed. She’d been so young and inexperienced. He had thought to take things slowly, assuming there would be plenty of time later to teach her other pleasures and to explore more daring settings.

  For nearly a year he had been a dedicated onanist. Only in the vivid imagination of his mind, in the silent privacy of his rooms in Vienna or Töplitz, had he taken her against a wall as she cried out his name or thrust into her from behind as she bent over a chair, her long hair tumbling to the floor.

  The idea of not pulling out of Sophia, his beautiful wife, at the moment of completion had become a constant fantasy in his mind. That she had now agreed to intimacies but held him at a distance made the anticipation all the more torturous. When he’d told her he was half out of his mind for wanting her, he had not been exaggerating.

  With his hand clamped on his cock, he held a vision of her riding him in the bath, her glistening breasts bouncing in his face. Candlelight bathed her skin, and she smiled as she leaned down to kiss him, long and hard on the mouth, with no trace of doubt or mistrust on her lips.

  Vane, his imaginary temptress whispered against the skin of his throat and down his chest, until with a sudden cry she arched back, bearing down with her hips so forcefully her movement sent water splashing to the floor.

  With a groan, Vane closed his eyes and reclined his head, rhythmically sliding and squeezing his hand along his rigid length until he exploded, her name an agonized whisper on his lips.

  *

  Sophia paced in her dressing gown and slippers, unable to bear Claxton’s cruel taunt any longer. The parading of the buckets. The sloshing of all that delicious hot water. Bah! She could practically feel its luxurious heat from here behind her very cold door, standing on her frigid floor in her chilled bedchamber.

  That he would wield such an extravagance as a means of torment, to make her pay for displeasing him, proved what an insensitive lout he was. She intended to confront him and tell him exactly what she thought of his cruel games. Only she had to wait until he was finished with his infernal bath.

  But no…just then she heard his footsteps in the corridor, stealthy ones, as if he were trying to sneak down the hall, outside of her hearing. Lucky for her the floorboards of the old house told tales.

  Throwing open the door, she leaped out.

  “Did you forget the soap?” she loudly accused.

  Claxton barreled into her.

  Only it wasn’t Claxton.

  Another man stared down at her, his eyes wide and his face pallid beneath a mountainous winter cap. A scarf covered his mouth and chin. Sophia shrieked.

  The man plowed past and bumped her shoulder. Sophia went sprawling. He uttered some indeterminable exclamation and turned back toward her. Fearing violence, Sophia cowered against the wall.

  “No, please,” she begged.

  Claxton’s door flew open. “What is it? Another creature in your room?”

  When he saw her, his query stopped short. His eyes fixed on the man, now a shadow in the darkness at the end of the corridor.

  “Who are you?” he growled, his expression instantly murderous.

  The man ran for the stairs, his boots pounding out each step.

  “Stop there,” Claxton roared.

  But the man didn’t stop.

  Claxton lunged into the hall to crouch beside Sophia, unconcerned, it appeared, that he was almost completely naked, with just a towel across the waist, clutched at his hip. His thigh, dusted in glossy dark hair, covered the most intimate part of him.

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “Just a bump as he went past,” she answered, dazed.

  “Go in your room and lock the door.” He helped her up. “There may be others.”

  From downstairs, there came the sound of a door slamming open in its frame.

  Claxton lunged down the hall, a blur of long limbs and corded muscle. Sophia stared after him, the magnificent sight of him making her almost forget the intruder. Seconds later, her husband, the naked savage, returned.

  “Damn it. I need clothes.” He disappeared into his room. A moment later he barreled past her again, pulling on his coat. “Lock your door.”

  Sophia glimpsed a flintlock fastened to his side.

  She did as he ordered, retreating into her room and locking the door, doing her best to remain calm, praying the man did not have a weapon or wish them harm. After what seemed an eternity, Claxton knocked, announcing himself.

  Fresh snow encrusted his hat, shoulders, and boots. Exertion flushed his cheeks.

  “He ran straight for the forest. I followed his tracks for some time, but did not wish to be drawn too far from you and the house. If only I’d not taken the time to dress.”

  “You had no choice. You couldn’t go off naked into the snow.”

  He took another deep breath and flashed a grin. Again, almost instantly, his expression returned to serious. “Was the man someone you recognized?”

  “His face was covered with a scarf, but from what I did see, I don’t recall ever seeing him before. Not at the village inn or elsewhere.” She bit her bottom lip. “He was carrying something in his arms, but I didn’t see what it was.”

  He scowled. “Doubtless he thieved something.”

  “What if that’s how my window came to be open last night? That man coming or going?” The idea that an unknown intruder had been in the house, possibly while they slept, left her completely discomposed and no small amount terrified. What if the man returned? What if he was a murderer?

  He nodded. “It’s winter. He may be a pauper simply looking for shelter in the storm, in a house known to have long been empty. I did not undertake to inspect the premises after our arrival.” Claxton glanced upward toward the floor above them. “He could have been here all along, and we did not know it. I shall go down to the village in the morning to report the matter to the watchman, though I’m not certain what good it will do.”

  “Could he have gotten inside through the priest hole downstairs?”

  “No one knows about that passage but my brother and the Kettles and now you.” He shook his head. “No one. My brother and I were sworn to secrecy over its existence, and the Kettles would never tell.”

  Beginning downstairs, they carried a lamp from room to room and confirmed all doors and windows were secure and that no one else lurked in the shadows. While they did so, they searched for any sign that someone had been living in the house beneath their notice. Three floors, countless rooms, and nearly an hour later, they returned to the corridor between their rooms. On the uppermost floor in a small stove, they’d found warm embers, certain evidence someone had indeed been in the house without them knowing.

  “The house is secure,” said Claxton. “There is nothing to do now but go to bed.”

  Sophia peered into the darkness at the end of the hall. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep a wink, for fear I will awaken to that man standing over my bed.”

  His blue eyes flashed with heat. “I’d be more than happy to sleep with you.”

  Never before had she been more tempted. The discovery of a stranger in the house left her anxious and not wanting to be alone. In London, with a house fully staffed with servants, she would not be so unnerved, but Camellia House was located on a property set apart by itself and had so many rooms, all shro
uded in darkness. It was just the two of them.

  Claxton’s physical competence and skill with a weapon added much to his attractiveness. Still, she ought not to invite her husband into her bed out of fear, but rather because she was emotionally ready to share such intimacies again. They’d checked all the rooms and found no one. She shouldn’t be such a ninny.

  “You have your own bed,” she said, doing her best to sound firm.

  He moved toward her with a sudden and purposeful intensity.

  “There was a stranger in this house tonight,” he said quietly. “I don’t know how he got inside. I don’t know if he’ll return.” Unshaven, with his shirttails hanging free beneath his greatcoat and no cravat, he looked more like a pirate than a duke. A swarthy, handsome pirate. “Don’t be ridiculous, Sophia. We’re sleeping together tonight.”

  The determination in his manner sent a trickle of alarm down Sophia’s spine and an undeniable thrill. She retreated into her room, but in the moment she could have closed her door against him, she did not. He followed, as she knew he would, pushing the door closed behind him.

  He exhaled through his nose, his eyes gleaming.

  “Very well,” she said, endeavoring to keep the quaver from her voice. “Let’s sleep together. I admit, I will rest more easily, knowing you are here.” Clasped at the front of her dressing gown, her hands held the embroidered collar together primly over her breasts. “I—I think I might read for a while. What about you?”

  He removed his coat and draped it neatly over the back of a chair. “I’m not here to read.”

  In one smooth movement, he removed his shirt over his head. Powerful muscles bunched in his shoulders. Firelight bathed his skin, revealing a deep striation of muscles along his torso, chest, and arms. Certainly he knew he was beautiful. That naked, he became temptation personified.

  “I’ve been very patient,” he said softly, advancing toward her. She backed away until she could go no farther, having come to the wall. His gaze traveled over her with an almost dispassionate ease. “I’ve tried, however ineptly, to be thoughtful. Sensitive. Understanding. Have I not?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I would agree that you have been.”

  “Good. I’m so relieved we finally agree on something.” He lifted his hand to the back of her head, and eyes burning, slowly lowered his face toward hers. Every nerve, every muscle, every fragment of her body capitulated. She closed her eyes, her lips burning, tingling with anticipation.

  He halted suddenly, exhaling against her cheek. “I almost forgot. No kissing allowed. That would constitute romance, which you specifically told me you don’t want or need. We are here for the business of making a child, correct, Sophia? And only that.” He drew back. “Your rules.”

  “I did say that,” she breathed.

  She had indeed said something like that, and it would look badly on her if she now told him to never mind. Inwardly, she shook of her regret. They were here for the purpose of conceiving a child. Not for any sort of…frivolous recreational activity.

  “Yes, you did.” He touched her hair. Her cheek. A look of puzzlement came over his face. “Working under such rigid strictures,” he said, brow furrowed, “I’m not quite certain how to proceed.”

  He was being ludicrous, of course. Her husband was an expert and knew exactly how to proceed. Light as a feather, his fingertips traced a path over her collarbone. She forced herself to remain calm and silent, not wanting him to see how his touch affected her. But inside, oh, inside, every nerve burst out in flames.

  “Clearly,” he drawled, “I shall have to improvise.”

  The same fingers delved inside her collar to lift and push her robe from her shoulders. He tugged it farther, somewhere near the waist, so that the quilted silk fell to pool at her feet. The frigid air of the room chilled the bare skin of her shoulders and arms.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” he said quietly. He moved closer, backing her against the wall. His hands smoothed up her arms, feeling warm and strong and oh, so competent. “But I do not recall there being any limitations made on…sucking?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  She swallowed hard. Sucking.

  Such a naughty word, especially when spoken from Claxton’s lips.

  Holding her arms just above the elbows so as to prevent her movement, he lowered his head, lightly brushing his nose and lips against her temple, her ear. Not kissing her. Instead he caressed her with his breath and skin and texture.

  She shivered, taking pleasure from that barest touch.

  He exhaled and nuzzled her cheek and neck, leaving a path of heated breath and friction on her skin, one that ended at her breasts. She still wore her short stays over her chemise. The undergarment lifted her breasts, displaying them as if for a feast. She sighed. Exhaled. For feast Claxton did.

  Legs bent and openmouthed, he explored her breasts, dampening the fine lawn that covered her skin with his heated breath. Exploring the plump underside and the crevice between. At last he took an erect tip in his mouth. Her eyes rolled back and she sighed, her legs instantly weak.

  Oh, but then he sucked.

  “Claxton,” she cried, her hips bucking off the wall.

  He held her there, unrelenting, as with his teeth he tugged the lace edge of her chemise low, until one breast popped free.

  “Very nice,” he murmured, his breath tantalizing the nipple.

  “I told you before, I don’t…need to be seduced.”

  “You’ve made that perfectly clear,” he murmured against her skin. “So I suppose it’s not necessary to say you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen…even though you are.” His heated gaze met hers, and he worshipped her with his hands. “And I won’t tell you that the first time I saw you I knew…I knew…there would never be anyone else.”

  Lips parted, she whispered, “Claxton—”

  “Instead I’ll do my best within the boundaries you yourself laid out.” His hands skimmed down the length of her torso to her hips, which he planted firmly against him, before seizing her arms again.

  “Very well.” She gasped, feeling the distinct outline of his member against her belly. “If you must.”

  “As I recall,” he whispered near her ear. “Neither was there an edict against licking.”

  Oh yes. Licking.

  “Ah…correct.” She sighed.

  His head swooped again, this time to her bare breast, his tongue licking up from the underside to encircle and lave her nipple. His unshaven jaw abraded her skin. She watched, transfixed, until she could bear it no longer. She needed completion now or she would go mad.

  “Claxton, I’m ready.”

  “No, you’re not.” He chuckled. “Not just yet.”

  Oh, but she was. She knew what body parts went where, and she was ready for all of that to take place now, but he refused to relent, fixing her helpless against the wall, like a quivering butterfly, pinned. He caught her nipple between his tongue and teeth. Everything inside her went wet and slick and hot.

  “And biting,” he murmured. “Not forbidden.”

  She whimpered when he sank to his knees, releasing her arms at last. He shoved the hem of her chemise above her waist, exposing her. With his teeth, he nipped the sensitive skin at her waist, her hip, and her thigh, sending off little shocks of sensation along her spine. She moaned, half-senseless. Such an indelicate response, but she could not help herself. Refusing still to touch him, she pressed the flats of her hands against the wall. Reached to grip the drapery. Thrust her fingers into her hair.

  With a curse, he unfastened his breeches. No drawers encumbered him, and his member sprang free, magnificently aroused.

  His hands swept up her legs, again lifting her chemise, rubbing her thighs, urging them apart until at last, his hand was there, stroking, massaging, one finger slipping inside to glide against her slickened center. Without preamble his mouth joined his hand.

  “Claxton, please,” she cried. “I can’t bear it.” Sophia’s breath
caught in her throat. Her legs almost failed her. “Oh, my, that’s sucking again.”

  “You smell good,” he murmured. “Taste so divine. Sweet. Better than sugar. I knew you would. Mere observations of fact, of course, naught to do with romance.”

  In the next moment, the room spun around her, he carrying her to the bed, where he dragged her chemise up her body and off, leaving her naked.

  He’d been playing with her before, but now a different expression ruled his countenance, one of controlled reverence.

  “Are you cold?” he asked softly.

  “Yes.” She shivered, crossing her arms over her breasts, miserable without his touch, conscious of his gaze always on her body. He did not deny her long. Divesting himself of boots and breeches, he joined her, stretching across her, pulling a blanket over them both.

  Surrounded by shadows and firelight flickering on the bed hangings, they seemed in a place removed from the rest of the world. A haven of warmth, linen, and naked skin. She lay beneath him, half-drunk in anticipation. She remembered how he would feel inside her and knew she would cry out from the pleasure.

  He lifted her hair, fanning it out over the pillow.

  “Beautiful,” he whispered. “Like chocolate silk.”

  He disappeared beneath the blanket, suckling her breasts and spreading her thighs to again taste her there, squeezing the swollen part of her with his hands and mouth. He’d never kissed her there before. Made love to her in this way. She hadn’t known such sensations were possible.

  Stretching, she gripped the headboard. She felt languid and beautiful. Like a wicked goddess, taking pleasure at the hands of her immortal lover.

  When his tongue went suddenly deep and flat, massaging the most intimate part of her with quick, rhythmic thrusts, she felt herself slipping into a sort of delirium. Forgetting her own promise not to touch, she grasped his head, fingers staving through his hair.

  “Claxton, I want—”

  She couldn’t say it. She’d never been one to speak her desires aloud.