Seduced

by Pamela Britton

  Force her into backing down, would he? They would see about that. Proudly she stood before him, knowing that the morning light turned the fabric near transparent. She knew it for certain when she saw the way his eyes slowly lowered and then narrowed infinitesimally. She threw her shoulders back, watching as a glint of heat entered her eyes.

  And that was when Elizabeth got her first taste of what it was like to control a man’s desire. The duke didn’t want to desire her. And yet he did.

  It made her feel naughty. Made her feel saucy. And it was a feeling she’d begun to like.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lucien felt like a young lad gazing at his first naked woman. But the sight of Elizabeth standing before him in nothing more than a chemise, her hair flowing around her shoulders like a river of mink, made him seriously consider a career in the clergy. Damnation.

  “Are you quite—” He coughed, chagrined to realize his throat, and subsequently his voice, had gone raspy. “Are you quite certain,” he began again, “that you want to put your hands on me, ah, put yourself in my hands?”

  Did her eyes sparkle? Could she truly be looking at him in the same devilish way he usually looked at her?

  She walked toward him, and she’d obviously picked up a thing or two in the ensuing hours since she’d last tried to walk like a strumpet. Her hips swayed enticingly. Her shoulders drew back to reveal pert breasts. Her lips smiled cockily.

  And for the first time in his adult life, nay, the very first time ever, Lucien found himself fighting the urge to retreat from a woman. The master of seduction was in danger of becoming the master of … nothing.

  “But, my dear husband,” she drawled in the exact same tone he himself liked to use, “I believe I need to get comfortable with a man’s stare. Who better than to practice on than you? A man experienced at controlling his base needs. Or so you say.”

  It hit him then, what this was all about. She’d called his bluff … just as he’d called her bluff earlier.

  And from nowhere came the urge to say, brava. She hadn’t backed down. In fact, she’d turned the tables on him. Nicely.

  A spurt of admiration filled him. By God, she was full of surprises. If he hadn’t been married to her, he would have found himself liking her.

  “Indeed,” he said, as she stopped before him. And—good God—were those her nipples he could see? He almost groaned, for it was, the dusky hue teasing him. Not only that, but he could see the curve of her breast. The pale flash of her stomach. And—God help him—the small indentation of her navel.

  For a second Lucien wondered if this was God’s punishment for the part he’d played in his brother’s death. Who would have thought he’d desire his new wife? But he did. What was more, she seemed to realize that. Elizabeth the shrew was gone; in her place was a woman that would do a courtesan proud. Devil take it, she leaned toward him. He found himself tilting away. His hands clenched, then unclenched, Lucien trying in vain to remind himself that he was the one supposedly in control. He had the upper hand.

  Didn’t he?

  “Very well,” he forced himself to say, hard-pressed to remember where the conversation had just left off. “If you wish to parade around dressed thus, feel free. I would, however, suggest you put on a wrap. Wouldn’t do for you to catch a chill.”

  And make your nipples hard.

  He bit back a groan.

  If she grows chilled, you can warm her up.

  “No, I cannot,” he warned himself.

  “Cannot what?”

  Damnation, she had him addled.

  “Cannot—” he struggled for a suitable reply. “Cannot fetch your wrap for you.”

  She lifted a brow, and he realized then and there that she knew that wasn’t what he meant. Good Lord, how had this happened? She was supposed to have been so frightened by his presence that she would call the whole thing off. That had been the plan anyway. Only, somewhere, things had gone horribly wrong.

  He turned from her, knew that if he didn’t, he would surely scoop her up and toss her upon the bed.

  “Come,” he instructed.

  Argh, he’d come alright.

  His hands clenched again as he crossed to their dressing room. Not much adorned the room but wardrobe closets and a settee. It was to one of those closets that he crossed, the dark oak door opening soundlessly.

  “Since you’re already in a state of déshabillé, let us see what other items you can use to your advantage.”

  He stopped before their wardrobe closet, opening the doors with more force than necessary. Undergarments hung there. He reached in and pulled out a corset, turning to her just in time to see her eyes widen.

  “Come, my dear. Let me show you the proper way to lace this up so that your breasts are shown to their full advantage.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He bit back a smile, noting the telltale teeth marks in her lips. “Come, come,” he urged, wiggling the garment. “This is what you want, is it not?”

  It didn’t look like it was, but he’d just called her bluff, and she knew it.

  Check.

  “Very well,” she said, her shoulders stiffening as she brazenly faced him. “Show me.”

  Checkmate.

  He held the corset out before him, studying it for a second before he gleaned how to put the thing on (he’d only ever taken them off). When he looked up, he saw her staring at him. “Turn around,” he ordered.

  She looked ready to balk.

  “Go ahead. I shan’t bite.”

  Oh, yes, he would if given the opportunity.

  Slowly, reluctantly, she did as instructed. Lucien stifled another groan. If the front of her had been stunning, her back side was simple perfection. A narrow waist curved into a heart-shaped rear. Sunlight projected through her chemise, revealing long, slender legs.

  He didn’t think it was possible to grow any harder for her, but he did.

  “Move your hair.”

  Slowly, and in a way that seemed almost sensual, she lifted her waist-length hair, pulling it over one shoulder. Damnation, but he loved the way craving her made him feel. Out of control. Excited. On edge. He wanted to do things to her. Wanted to plunge inside of her. Wanted to hear her rhythmic groans of pleasure. Wanted to feel her body contract and contract and contract around him.

  Only, he couldn’t.

  But the pleasure, oh the pleasure of coming up behind her, right behind her. He stayed there for a second, inhaling the sweet scent of her. Roses. She didn’t move, although he could tell by the way her chest heaved that she was far from unaffected by his presence.

  And then—God help him—he couldn’t resist moving closer.

  She gasped, turned. Wide, violet eyes peered up at him in shock. She only jumped an arm’s length away, and yet the essence of her stayed with him. Aye, and the desire.

  The air stilled, grew heavy. He told himself to go to her, to kiss her, touch her.

  But he knew if he did, he would have her, and that he must never do.

  Ever.

  “Touch me, Elizabeth,” he said instead.

  She didn’t look like she understood his words. Truth be told, if she felt anything like he did, she would be hard-pressed to think at all. “What did you ask?” she said, her voice breathless.

  “Touch me,” he said, discarding the corset, stepping forward and grabbing her hand.

  Her eyes flickered, lips parted.

  “Here,” he said, placing her hand against him.

  “Lucien,” she gasped, drew away. “You go too far.”

  “Do I?” he asked, frustration making his words terse. “Is this not what you want, Elizabeth? Do you not want to learn how to entice a man?”

  “No. I mean yes.” She looked away from him, her eyes darting from left to right. “You were going to teach me how to dress.”

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  She peered up at him, her eyes wide.

  Run, little girl, he silently told her. Run away and never
come back, for if you do not, you will start something neither of us will be able to finish.

  But she didn’t run. She stayed right where she was, her hands at her sides, her hair concealing her left breast. He almost turned, but something wouldn’t let him. Maybe pride. Maybe determination. Whatever.

  “Touch me,” he ordered again.

  Why, oh why, didn’t she run? Why didn’t she do what any other virgin in her place would do?

  He studied her. Watched the way her chest rose and fell, her plump breasts pearly globes. Watched the way her pulse beat at her neck, the skin throbbing rhythmically. The way she trembled.

  “Do it,” he ordered.

  “I can’t.”

  “Do it or my lessons are over, for there is no point in instructing you in the art of seduction if you cannot touch a man without blushing.”

  She lifted her chin. He thought he might have done it then. Thought he might have convinced her to turn tail. Instead, she lifted a hand and, God, she touched him.

  A gasp escaped from his lips. He almost closed his eyes. Almost picked her up and carried her to the bed there and then, but that odd pleasure/pain had begun to build again. That excitement that made him want release and not want release. The feeling of hovering on the brink.

  And all she’d done was touch him. It defied belief. But he was closer to a release than he’d been with his last three lovers.

  She drew her hand away.

  “No,” he ordered, pressing her hand against him again. “Stroke me.”

  “I can’t,” she gasped. “ ’Tis not right.”

  “We are man and wife, Elizabeth. What could be more right?”

  She didn’t answer, her mouth parted, eyes gone topaz blue.

  He pressed her hand against him again. “Stroke me, Elizabeth. Stroke me and learn the power that a woman can have over a man.”

  She closed her eyes. He pressed harder, showed her how to move her fingers over him. And, God, the pleasure it gave him. “Yes,” he hissed. “Like that.”

  And she did it. Bloody hell, she did it, her eyes staring at him in wonder and curiosity. He tilted his head back, feeling a release build.

  “Harder,” he instructed.

  The pressure increased. Sweet Jesus, she touched him exactly right. And then, against his will, he was coming almost as quickly as he had the first time he’d had a woman.

  “Lucien,” she gasped.

  But Lucien didn’t hear her. He was too busy containing his cry. Too busy trying not to fall to his knees. Too busy enjoying a woman’s touch for the first time since his brother’s death.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Thank you, Elizabeth,” she heard him moan what seemed an eternity later but was mere seconds.

  Elizabeth stared up at him, her body trembling, her mind whirling, mortified by what she’d done, empowered by how she felt.

  She’d made him lose control.

  It was exactly as he’d said. It made her feel splendid. Potent. Desired.

  And aroused. Her body trembled, her woman’s mound tingled. She herself hovered on the brink of something, something she felt sure he’d just experienced.

  “And now it is your turn.”

  Her body pulsed at his words. At the look in his eyes. She moistened in a place that burned and throbbed in a way that made her legs tremble.

  “No,” she said, even as her mind whispered, yes.

  He ignored the word, his right hand reaching for her. And then he touched her right breast. Just a light touch, but it felt like fire. Her nipple stung, as his thumb worked the tip of it.

  No, screamed a voice. ’Twas not supposed to be this way. She was the one in control.

  And yet she wanted to be out of control. Wanted what he had had moments before, whatever “it” was.

  “Lucien,” she moaned.

  “Stand still,” he ordered. “Do not move, for if you do, I shall stop.”

  It sounded like a threat. Her mind balked at the words, but she didn’t move, feeling rooted to the floor. She didn’t flinch as he reached out with his other hand and lightly stroked her left breast. Her eyes closed. A low moan filled her throat.

  “Don’t move,” he warned again.

  Had she moved? Heavens, how could one tell when one’s whole world spiraled toward … something? She felt as light as air, and as wild and untamed as the Welsh coastline.

  One of his hands dropped lower, skimming the flesh of her belly, caressing the circle of her navel, stroking her softly in a spot no man had touched before.

  Another moan escaped.

  “Yes, Elizabeth,” he said softly. “That’s it. Let it go. Let it happen.” His hand dropped lower, cupping her.

  “Lucien,” she moaned again.

  “I’m here, Elizabeth. Right here. Hold on to me.”

  And she did. She’d lost her willpower. Lost her sense of right and wrong. All that mattered was this, this thing that built inside her. This need for, for something.

  “Let it go, Elizabeth,” he ordered again, his voice right by her ear, his hand rubbing her rhythmically. “Open for me.”

  God help her, she did. She spread her legs. Allowed him full access. His fingers fondled her. Teeth nipped at her neck.

  And then light flashed before her eyes. She moaned. Then moaned again and again.

  “Yes,” she heard him say. “Yes, Elizabeth. That’s what I wanted.”

  She clutched at him, would have fallen if he hadn’t caught her. ’Twas like she flowered from the inside out, as if she gave him all of herself. Throb after throb after throb pulsed between her legs. She wanted to call out, wanted it to go on forever. Alas, it ended far too quickly.

  And with it, reality returned.

  She stood in their dressing room, her chemise caught between her legs, his hand still cupping her, moisture dampening the place where his hand pressed.

  He stared down at her, his chest heaving, eyes blazing. And then he turned and calmly strode to the door, leaving the room as soundlessly as he’d come.

  An hour later Elizabeth was no closer to making sense of the tumultuous event than she had been before. If anything, she was even more confused and upset by all that had transpired both this morn and last evening.

  She paced the castle’s dark and drafty halls, wondering where he’d gone and, more importantly, what he was thinking. She paused before a portrait she’d discovered in the library, a man riding a black horse with a docked tail stared arrogantly down at her, a pack of hounds frolicking at the horse’s hooves.

  “He was my father.”

  Elizabeth just about came off the ground. She turned sharply, disconcerted to see the object of her thoughts glide into the room as calmly as a ship to harbor, no trace of what had happened showing on his face. It was as if he’d forgotten it. As if it had meant nothing to him.

  Would that she could act the same.

  He’d touched her between the legs.

  She blushed at the memory.

  “His portrait used to hang at the Ravenwood family seat. I brought it here to remind me of all the reasons why I do not eat chicken.”

  “I beg your pardon?” she asked, having to force herself to follow his words and not remember the incredible pleasure he’d given her. And she him.

  “He died choking on a chicken bone.”

  She watched him come toward her. Volumes of books lined the walls from floor to ceiling. Tall, oblong windows shot sunlight directly on him. The white shirt he wore was unbuttoned, his bronze skin glowing from exertion. And still no trace of what had happened flickered in his charming eyes, at least, not that she could tell.

  She, however, felt ready to ignite.

  “How unfortunate.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  They lapsed into silence, a silence that made Elizabeth uncomfortable. That must be why she blurted, “Where have you been this morning?” like a jealous wife.

  He lifted a brow. “Why? Did you want another lesson?”

  She stiffened
. “Of course not. I was merely trying to be polite, as you apparently are.”

  He stared down at her, clasped his hands behind his back as he looked up at the portrait again. He seemed to be grappling with himself, for he appeared almost nervous. It was another few seconds before he turned to her. “Elizabeth, we should likely discuss this unfortunate attraction we have for each other.”

  Unfortunate?

  “I think in light of it, you should call off our lessons.”

  She stared up at him, her whole body humming at his presence, her heart beginning to thump in fits and starts only to burst into a frantic rhythm. He turned up the heat of his smile, and she wanted to melt. Instead, she stiffened.

  “Me call it off?”

  “Yes, you,” he said, “for it was you who lost control.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. But do not take it personally, my dear. You are inexperienced. I forget about that when I am around you. But surely you can see that continuing with our lessons might cause you to lose control again. I would hate for that to happen, for I am, after all, only a man, and if you throw yourself at me, I might not be able to resist.”

  Throw myself at him!

  Lucien watched as her face filled with outraged color, his heart pounding as he waited, nay, prayed for her to call it off. “I can assure you, you are in no danger of that,” she said.

  “Oh, and how would you know that?”

  “Because I am not as innocent as you think. Because I know you were just as out of control as I.”

  “I was not,” he lied, utterly determined to keep the truth from her; wouldn’t do for her to realize she made him feel as edgy as a trapped bee.

  “The evidence points to the contrary.”

  “Beginner’s luck.”

  “Do you think so?” she asked.

  “I do,” he said.

  “Well, I think you are wrong.”

  She did? “Do you now?”

  “I do. I would wager my skills have taken you quite by surprise.”

  “Indeed?” And he cursed her ability to read him so easily. Demme, now what?