Granted, it was the end of the very long day. The party had gone spectacularly well, with only one and a half vomiting incidents, two hair-pulling fights, and four tragic tantrums about not winning.
She walked to the room and stepped inside, holding her breath.
He lounged, as only he could lounge, in his chair, long legs stretched out in front of him, head resting on the chair. His hand dangled off the end of the armrest, his cravat dangling from his fingers.
His chest rose, and then he did as well, striding toward her, past her, to shut the door.
Putting them inside the room together as they hadn’t been since she’d asked him—no, told him—she wanted this. Wanted him.
Her corset, even though it fit perfectly well this morning, suddenly felt as though it was constricting her all over. It felt hard to draw a full breath, and her lips were suddenly so dry.
He returned and stood in front of her, his dark eyes gazing down with an intensity she couldn’t mistake. Nor, judging by the way his expression shifted, had he misjudged what her face must be saying.
He lifted his hand and placed his fingers on her cheek, drawing his hand back so his fingertips were just behind his ear. “Tell me,” he said.
She licked her lips, and his eyes focused on the movement, his sharp intake of breath demonstrating his reaction.
She didn’t break eye contact, even though she wished she could retreat—prim, precise, methodical, ha!—took a deep breath. Then spoke.
“I want this, Marcus.”
Unlike last time, he didn’t take her immediately in his arms. Instead, he slid his hand down her arm and took her hand, pulling her toward a sofa tucked into the corner. The sofa was small, just made for two people, and had the same worn, cozy look as the rest of the furniture This was his room, the only room—besides his bedroom, obviously—that was well and truly his alone.
Just as if he were escorting her off the dance floor and returning her, ever so gently, to where she had been before, he held her hand as she lowered herself onto the sofa, then took his place beside her.
His place. It was his place, deny it though she might.
They sat there in silence, not touching, not moving. It felt so right, so companionable, that Lily just wanted to sigh and lean back against the sofa and regard him.
So she did.
His head bent toward her, and he paused for a fraction, his expression still hesitant, which surprised her. He, who was so in command—and commanded—all the time, now the unsure one, when she was so sure, so certain of what she wanted. What she knew he wanted.
“Kiss me,” she said, in a passable imitation of his commanding voice.
He smiled in recognition of her tone, that gorgeous mouth curling up irresistibly, and he lowered his lips to hers, pressing them against them in an almost tender kiss.
Which when their mouths met immediately blazed into something more, something far more. It felt to her as though the whole world had been painted in drab colors until it blazed to life, lit by his kiss.
She drew her hands up to his neck, wrapping them around it, holding him closer still, so his upper chest was pressed against hers.
Her nipples began to ache, but not in a painful way; her breasts felt heavy, and wanting. She wanted more, wanted his body fully against hers, wanted him to never stop kissing her.
He was clasping her on the shoulders, and she uttered a growl of frustration deep in her throat before taking his hands in hers, sliding them down her shoulders, down her arms and onto her breasts.
Ah. That was more like it. It felt wonderful, to have his hands there. He wasn’t doing anything with them, so she wriggled a bit, just enough for him to hopefully get a hint about what she wanted.
And then, yes, his fingers curled around the globe of her breast and his thumb found her nipple, which likely wasn’t so difficult to find, since to her it felt as if it were about to burst through the fabric of her gown, even though that image, when it came to her, was rather awkward.
But oh, when his thumb began to move, to touch and caress her nipple, to rub so she arched her back and pushed even closer to him, she felt her mouth—still touching his, still warm and moist and wonderful—curl up into a smile, and she felt his mouth smile in return, and then she slid her tongue between his lips and licked, relishing the hitch in his breath as he reacted.
The pressure of his mouth got harder, and it seemed the intensity had increased also, as his tongue licked hers, and her lips, drawing back only to ravage her again.
Meanwhile, she was giving as good as she got, drawing his lower lip between her teeth and giving it a quick nip before again plunging her tongue inside his mouth. She realized she was gripping his shoulders so tight that she might bruise him, so she placed her palms flat against his chest, feeling the play and movement of his muscles under her fingers. And then she found his nipple and slid her finger over it. He raised his mouth from hers, and for a moment she was worried he was going to tell her no, and she would die never having known what his chest felt like, but instead he just said, “I want this, Lily,” then lowered his mouth down to hers, allowing her hands free to roam all over his chest, to slide from his nipples—hard as well, which surprised her—down his sides, over his ribs, each area she touched hard and firm and, even though she didn’t know for certain how she knew this, delicious.
Oh, and his hand was so warm on her breast, and his thumb was still gliding over her nipple, and it was almost enough, but not quite, so she withdrew one of her hands from his chest—sad moment though that was—and tugged on the shoulder of her gown, drawing it down her shoulder, at least as far as she was able.
He drew back and gazed at her, his eyes heavy-lidded, his mouth, his gorgeous mouth, just inches from hers. “Can I help you with that?” he asked in a husky voice that sent shivers down her spine.
She didn’t answer, just shifted so her back was to him, and he took the hint, unbuttoning her gown and pushing it, no, practically shoving it down her shoulders as she shrugged out of her sleeves. When the fabric was at her waist she twisted back around, her upper half now in just her corset and shift. The expression on his face denied her even the remotest chance of embarrassment; it was wanting, yearning, lustful, hopeful, and desirous all at once.
She put her fingers—her now shaky fingers—to the ties of her corset and pulled, feeling the ease in her chest as the stiff fabric unfolded from her body.
Revealing her breasts covered only by her thin shift.
His gaze immediately went down, and he sucked in a breath and licked his lips.
And didn’t that make her think of things she’d never, ever thought of? Such as his mouth on her breasts, his tongue flicking her nipple, kissing the underside of her breast, licking her skin.
Oh, goodness.
Her shift was cut low, and she drew it down so it was lower still, exposing all but the nipples in question.
The room was absolutely quiet, save for their breaths, which were faster, loud, and oddly sensual. It was just him and her in this room, together, and the solitude of it all made Lily feel as though nothing else existed, nothing mattered, outside this room. For right now, at least.
She would think of other things later on. Important things, such as her future, his future wife, Rose’s happiness, what would happen to all of them. But for now there was the matter of her breasts, and his hands, and her hands, and his chest, and their mouths, and all of that put together into one—or hopefully more—glorious moments.
She reached her hand forward, a sly smile on her lips, as she began to undo the buttons of his shirt. As each button came undone, it seemed he did, too, his broad chest expanding and contracting with each deep breath. She undid the buttons, then yanked the fabric of his shirt to either side, frowning when she couldn’t see as much as she wanted.
She pulled it up from the bottom hem and flung it off onto the floor, then gazed at what was revealed.
Well. That was all worth it, wasn’t it?
Well. And that was impressive as well.
She reached forward to put her palm on him, and he exhaled and closed his eyes, his expression one of pure enjoyment. “Touch me, Lily,” he said in a hoarse growl, a low rumble that made her body tremble in response.
This, for once, was not a command, but an entreaty, and she obliged, sliding her hand all over his warm, smooth skin. His muscles shifted under her touch, and she stroked him with more confidence, then leaned forward to kiss him again. Keeping her hands on him.
He devoured her mouth, his tongue sliding in and licking and sucking until she truly felt as though it was just them, or more than that, just their bodies, enjoying each other.
His fingers played around the neckline of her shift, then suddenly slid under the fabric, on her breast with nothing between them. And it must have looked odd, his arm bent up at a right angle as his hand went down to cup her breast in his palm, but it certainly felt wonderful, and besides, no one was there anyway—because that would be odd as well as shocking and reputation-shredding and all sorts of things she couldn’t think of now—so she didn’t care what it might look like, she just cared how it felt.
And it felt lovely. His hand cradled her breast, that clever thumb moving up to slide over her nipple, the sensation spreading throughout her entire body, including there, which she was surprised to notice. She’d not heard much of women getting pleasure from all of this, but she’d be very surprised if he was getting more pleasure than she was at this moment, because if he was, she had no doubt but that he would explode and die from happiness.
So far he had shown no signs of either exploding or dying.
What he was showing, however, was an incredible resourcefulness in the variety of ways he could both kiss her and touch her breasts. It was impressive, really, and she would have said that to him if he weren’t kissing her so thoroughly, and if she didn’t have serious doubts about her ability to speak at the moment.
The clock chimed just as Lily was trying to recall her own name, and they leapt apart, not very far owing to the smallness of the sofa, but apart nonetheless.
Lily felt wonderfully, achingly tender all over, and glanced over at him, hoping he didn’t suddenly have one or both, heaven forbid, eyebrows raised in some sort of judgment.
But no, he was looking just as intense and passionate as before, his gaze holding hers as though never wanting to let go.
Don’t let go.
He drew a hand—a hand that trembled—through his hair, and heaved a deep breath.
“We have to stop,” he said, still in that low, throaty tone. As though he wanted to say something else and the words he did speak were pulled out of him reluctantly.
She knew they had to stop, even though she didn’t want to.
She drew her shift back up, not breaking eye contact with him. Not wanting to run out in a mad panic, as she had the times before. She didn’t want him to think she didn’t want this. She did. They just—couldn’t.
Not with everything at stake.
Apparently now was the time for the truth to come rushing in to disturb their sensual solitude.
The only question was, was it too late for her?
A duke’s command is second only to the Queen’s. And if the duke is persuasive enough, he might even be able to persuade Her Majesty that his command is far better than hers.
—THE DUKE’S GUIDE TO CORRECT BEHAVIOR
Chapter 25
Well, that could have lasted two hours and he still wouldn’t have been satisfied. He tried to calm his breathing, tried not to reach for her again.
She turned to him and he did up her buttons with shaky hands. Had this all really just happened?
The erection tenting his trousers informed him that yes, indeed it had.
And his cock was importuning him to continue.
But he could not. It would not only not be respectable, it would be reprehensible. He knew full well she was an innocent—his governess, for goodness’ sake—and he was not one of those men who would abuse his power for this kind of gain, even though he might abuse it to get strawberries in winter.
She was more luscious than a strawberry. And he knew he would want her in any season.
She turned back to him, her mouth swollen from his kisses—their kisses—her chest still moving up and down with her rapid breathing. Her body still just there, within reach.
“I should go,” she said in a husky voice. One that sounded as though there were things she wished to say. Of course there were. He just hoped they weren’t things like, I quit, you scoundrel, or We will never do this again.
Or I don’t feel anything for you beyond lust.
“Thank you for your help with the party.” It wasn’t what he truly wished to say, of course, but he couldn’t even figure out himself what he wished to say. Not even what he needed to say.
He was completely at sea about what to do next. Never, in his brief (in many ways) history of fornicating, had he had a woman in his arms who had appealed to him so. Who had stormed his gruff fortress, challenged him, made him want to take time—all the time in the world—with her.
It left him off-balance. Unsure about anything, even what he wanted to say.
She smiled, a mixture of shy and knowing, and that curve of her mouth was so alluring he just wanted to kiss her again.
Which he would want to do even if she were frowning, unless she had just told him she didn’t enjoy his kisses. Then he might forbear the action.
But what was remarkable was that he knew, off-balance though he was, that she did like it. That she had felt as in the moment as he did. That if things weren’t as they were, they would be further along in their exploration of each other.
“I will just go check on Rose, then,” she said, getting up and pulling the sleeves of her gown up, straightening the bodice and smoothing the skirts.
Removing any physical indication of what they’d just done, even though it was irrevocably marked on his heart. Not to mention his very frustrated cock.
“Good night, then.” He swallowed against the lump in his throat.
She was going to check on Rose. Rose, who needed his good name not to be scorned and shunned for all her life. Rose, for whom he had hired this woman, an honorable, respectable woman, to teach her what he could not.
“Good night,” she returned, walking slowly to the door. The door opened and she stepped through, taking a piece of him as she left.
As it shut behind her, he leaned back against the sofa and rubbed his face with his hands.
The house was still when he finally emerged. He hadn’t come to any sort of conclusion, not one that didn’t involve things that couldn’t possibly happen (her knocking on his bedroom door later, for example, was highly unlikely). But at least he wasn’t in a torment of frustration, sexual or otherwise; no matter what happened, it was his uppermost duty to ensure that Rose’s safety and future were protected. That was what mattered more than anything.
He’d never placed anyone above himself before. And no one had ever placed him anywhere in particular. Was this an essential part of humanity he’d missed out on? He suddenly resented his parents for their casual parenting even more. To think they’d had the chance to be a part of a child’s upbringing, to guide him through life, to love him, and instead had chosen indifference, lavishing whatever small attention they’d had on his brother . . . well, now that he knew what they had missed, he felt sorry for them.
He walked slowly upstairs to the second floor, feeling as though his world had opened up and tilted upside down all at the same time. The hallway was quiet, a few candles left burning, since the staff knew of the master’s late night habits, and crept, catlike, to his door.
Her door was several feet beyond, on the other side. To the rig
ht of where his daughter slept. The two most precious people in his life.
He couldn’t knock on Lily’s door, not without a good reason (and it was not a good reason that he just wanted to kiss her again). He had to summon his will not to do what he wanted to do most in the world, something he’d never had to do before.
He placed his hand on the doorknob and turned it, opening the door to his silent, empty bedroom. A part of him was disappointed she hadn’t made her way here, but of course the other part knew that she couldn’t have possibly done that, not without making a choice that was irrevocable.
Miller had laid his nightshirt out on the bed, since Marcus had told him not to bother waiting up. He was relieved not to have to interact with anyone, he didn’t know if he could speak properly. Not without blurting something out that would, again, be irrevocable.
He’d put his shirt back on again sometime back then—he didn’t remember doing it, but she’d taken it off—and now slid it off his shoulders, dropping it onto the floor. Wishing it were her hands removing it. His trousers were next—she hadn’t gotten to those, more’s the pity—and they slid down his legs so that he was clad only in his smallclothes. Those, too, he shucked, then drew the nightshirt on, the cotton fabric touching the places she’d touched. His shoulders, his arms, his chest.
It would be of no use touching himself tonight. Now that he knew how her fingers felt, how her breasts looked and felt, anything he did for himself would be a mere echo of what he’d actually experienced. Ultimately unsatisfying, no matter how much immediate satisfaction he was able to have.
Was this what the rest of his life would be like?
He snuffed the candle by the side of his bed and got lost in the darkness.
Rose had waited impatiently for him to come in for breakfast. Lily had also been waiting, but not driven by the same motives as Rose. How would he act toward her? Was he horrified at her behavior? Would he wish to dismiss her?
Did he want to do it again?
She hadn’t slept much the night before, since there was so much to think about. And not think about.
The Duke's Guide to Correct Behavior Page 19
