Falling Into Bed with a Duke (Hellions of Havisham)

by Lorraine Heath

  “No, I’m more a man of action. I simply do it.”

  “And if the lady objects?”

  “I suppose I’d stop. But I’ve yet to have a lady object.”

  “You’re certainly not lacking in confidence.”

  He captured her gaze, held it with a challenge in his own. “Would you want a man who was?”

  He had the right of it there. She wanted a man who knew exactly what he was doing and how to do it remarkably well. With a quick shake of her head, she turned her attention to her scotch, finishing it off, grateful that it was finally kicking in, helping her to relax.

  Taking the glass from her, he passed it off to a footman, never shifting his eyes from her. She found herself wishing a man would look at her with that intensity if she weren’t masked. She considered tossing it off, but then he would walk away and she would never again have the opportunity for the attentions of one such as he. Or worse, he would laugh at her audacity to come here. She had confidence in all things save her ability to lure a man into wanting her.

  “I must beg your forgiveness,” he said. “Gentlemen aren’t supposed to approach the ladies but rather are to wait until they’ve made their selection.”

  “But then you’re not one to follow the rules.”

  His eyes narrowed again. “We are acquainted.”

  “Your reputation as a hellion is quite well-known and documented from what I read in the gossip papers.”

  “I suppose I have my moments.”

  An abundance of them based on the rumors and speculations. She’d never much cared for the gossip sheets. It wasn’t real journalism, and yet it did provide information that was serving her now.

  “I am at a disadvantage,” he said, “for all I know about you is that you are adventurous.”

  Her heart gave a little kick. Had he realized who she was? “How would you know that?”

  “You’re here. This is not a place for the timid but rather the bold. Although the question remains, exactly how bold are you?” He skimmed his finger along the side of her neck. She’d never before noticed how sensitive the skin was there. Or perhaps it was simply his flesh carrying some magical properties that heightened awareness. She imagined his touch over her entire body, the gratification it would bring. “Bold enough to retire to the bedchamber that I’ve already reserved, to adhere to my wishes, to find pleasure in my arms?”

  She had never shied away from anything: drinking spirits, smoking her father’s cigars, using profanity. She was quite certain it was her bold behavior, her unwillingness to be perceived as a simpering female, that was largely responsible for her never having had a suitor fall head over heels in love with her. Yet here was a man who seemed to admire boldness in a woman, at least in a woman he wanted to bed, not necessarily in one he wished to wed.

  Squaring her shoulders, she met and held his gaze. For tonight, she could give but one answer and come away satisfied. “Yes.”

  His eyes darkened with triumph, his smile one of pure maleness that set her heart to thundering. She wanted him to give her that smile when they were finished. She wanted to be far more than he’d ever known, to give him something better than he’d ever had. Her competitive streak—which more than one gentleman told her was unattractive—was rising to the fore. But wouldn’t every woman want to be unforgettable?

  With a slight bow, he indicated the doorway through which she’d entered earlier. As she turned for it, his hand came to rest possessively against her lower back, the heat of his flesh seeping through the thin fabric to warm her from head to toe. He so easily ignited her passions. Her nerves thrummed, yearning for a heavier, more sure touch.

  Confidently, he guided her into the hallway and up the stairs. With each step, her knees seemed to weaken. Grabbing onto the banister, she refused to swoon or give any indication that, as much as she wanted this, she was also quite unnerved by it and where their journey would lead. The landing branched out into three hallways. They took the one to the right. Their feet were eerily quiet on the thick carpeting. Apparently, no one wished to be disturbed. Moans, high-pitched squeals, grunts drifted from rooms they passed.

  “Thicker doors would be nice.” She didn’t realize she’d spoken until he chuckled.

  “Your cries of pleasure will eclipse all of theirs.”

  She snapped her head around to look at him. No arrogance, simply knowledge and confidence. He knew what he was about. That was what she wanted: a man of experience and skill. It seemed silly to hesitate now that she had it. She’d come here to shed her virginity in a manner that left no regrets. Being with the Duke of Ashebury was certain to be memorable.

  When they reached the very last door, from inside his jacket he withdrew a key and inserted it into a lock. With a turn of the brass, a twist of the knob, the door swung open only a fraction, only enough to reveal the bed laced with shadows that danced as candles flickered.

  It was incredibly large, roomy enough for two, perhaps even three. A canopy of heavy velvet was tied back to reveal the thick counterpane, one corner neatly folded to expose red satin sheets. She would lie between them with him.

  He didn’t push her forward, urge her to go in. He merely waited as though they had all the time in the world, as though minutes weren’t ticking by, as though no one would stumble upon them and know the sort of mischief into which they were getting.

  “If you’ve changed your mind …” he said quietly. Perhaps not all the time in the world although his tone reflected no impatience.

  He would let her go was left unspoken, and yet she heard the words as though he’d shouted them. Nothing he could have said, nothing he could have done would have reassured her more that he would take care with her. That he was the one with whom she should spend this night.

  She walked into the room. The few flickering candles placed at strategic points and a low fire burning in the hearth were all that held complete darkness at bay. A table to the side housed a bottle of champagne, decanters, tumblers, and crystal flutes. A sofa rested before the fireplace, a fainting couch waited near the window.

  He stepped in. The door clicked closed. The lock snicked into place.

  She jerked her gaze back to the satin sheets, then turned her attention to a box perched on three legs that rested near the foot of the bed. With two steps she neared it, studied it, tried to make sense of why it would be here. “Is this your camera?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  She swung around to face him. “Surely you don’t intend to take a photograph of us … copulating.”

  He chuckled low. “That would be quite the trick. No. I want to take a photograph of only you—lying on the bed.”

  Chapter 3

  ASHE didn’t know who was more shocked: her at his request or him for her use of the word copulating. Ladies tended to fancy the act up with genteel words like “make love” when he had never in his life made love to a woman. He bedded, he fornicated, he … copulated. It was refreshing to be with a woman who was realistic about their purpose in being here.

  Still, based on the sudden widening of her eyes, she might very well be prepared to copulate, but pose for him was another matter entirely. Not uncommon. His request generally caused hesitation. “Before you say no, allow me the opportunity to explain.”

  “It’s perverted. No explanation is necessary.”

  Perhaps her forthrightness was not to be welcomed after all. “I assure you that what I have in mind falls well outside the realm of perversion. Please, have a seat before the fire.” Giving her no chance to decline his invitation, he marched over to the table and lifted a decanter. “I’ve never known a lady not to prefer champagne.” He poured the scotch he’d reserved for himself into two tumblers, lifted them, and faced her.

  She’d not moved.

  The disadvantage to not knowing her identity was that he had no history of her with which to map out his strategy. It was also a challenge that he embraced. Most ladies wanted to be with him badly enough that they were willing to d
o anything he asked. But not her. He was taken off guard by the thrill of being in the presence of one who wasn’t so quick to fall into his arms.

  Since she knew who he was, she had to run about in his posh circle, which meant that in all likelihood she was an aristocrat. Possibly married. Insufficient light prevented him from determining if there was a fading indention on her finger from the recent removal of a wedding band. Not that it mattered. Her presence indicated that she was either unhappy or curious or bored. Women came here for all sorts of reasons. Men for only one: They wanted a willing partner who was unlikely to be infected with the French disease. Men paid a membership; ladies did not.

  With a slight tilting of his head, he indicated the sofa. “Please.”

  He watched the delicate muscles of her throat work as she swallowed before gliding over to the sofa and tucking herself into a corner. Every movement was poised and elegant. Her deportment had not been left to chance. She’d been trained. Definitely nobility.

  Settling into the opposite corner, he extended the glass, grateful when she took it. He stretched his arm over the back of the sofa. An unfurling of his fingers would have him touching her skin, and he was tempted to do exactly that, but he feared his boldness would make her more skittish, and his desire for the photograph came first. She didn’t flinch or retreat, but her eyes were alert, watchful. He liked that she wasn’t afraid, but neither was she stupid.

  “I’m not one to hurt women,” he felt compelled to say.

  “I should hope not. My father would kill you. Extremely painfully and very slowly.”

  No husband then, or perhaps a bastard who didn’t care. He arched a brow. “You would confess to being here?”

  She lifted a pale, delicate shoulder. “I could suffer through his disappointment much more easily than I could suffer through not gaining retribution for being wronged.” A corner of her mouth hitched up. “On the other hand, I might just kill you myself.” She gave a quick nod. “Probably would. I’d find immense satisfaction in it, come to think of it.”

  She took a sip of the scotch, a glittering in her dark eyes as though the notion of doing him in pleased her, and for a moment he almost forgot about the photograph, as desire stronger than any he’d felt in a good long while pierced him. He almost asked her to remove the damned mask, to reveal herself. To tell him why she’d chosen to come here tonight. Instead, he honored the purpose of this place to hold secrets sacred.

  “You certainly don’t seem to lack confidence,” he mused.

  “No, I’ve never been accused of that.”

  But he heard in her voice that she had been accused of something, been found lacking in some regard. He almost followed that trail of inquiry, but this place was not a confessional, and he wasn’t here to lighten anyone else’s burdens. Merely his own. To that end, he swallowed a good portion of his scotch, welcomed its fire, allowed it to work its heat through his chest. “There is beauty in the human form,” he said quietly.

  Her gaze came to rest on him, and he thought there was beauty in the eyes as well. He cursed the mask that shadowed hers. Brown perhaps. But intelligent. He’d like to see them in the sunlight. He’d like to see them smoldering when she was lost in a vortex of passion, when her body was reaching for the peak, when it flung her off it. “Yet we hide it beneath layers of clothing as though it’s something of which we should be ashamed.”

  “Our bodies are personal, private.”

  “I won’t take that from you. All I want is your legs.”

  As though he were a schoolboy in need of having his knuckles rapped with a ruler, she narrowed her eyes. “A lady’s ankles are not to be shown.”

  “And yet at this very moment you’re barefoot.”

  “I was told it’s the way it’s done here. Yet you’re not.”

  “Would you like for me to be, to even things up a bit?” Before she could respond, he tugged off his boots and stockings, stretched out his legs. “As for your ankles, it’s silly for Society to believe that a little showing of the leg is going to turn a man into an uncontrollable savage, unable to tame his baser instincts.” He leaned toward her, grateful when she didn’t recoil. But then something told him that she wasn’t one to retreat. “The body should be celebrated. Every line, every dip, every curve. Everything comes together so perfectly. It’s a marvel really. I take great pleasure in the beauty of it. There are nude statues considered great works of art. Nude paintings that people can appreciate, that very nearly bring them to their knees because they are so remarkable. Photography can be just as artistic, just as enthralling when done properly. I don’t know who you are. No one will ever know that you posed for me. No one will ever see the resulting image, except for me. It’s for my private collection. You won’t remove the silk. I’ll simply slip it up a bit past your knees. I’ll work with the shadow and the light. Then you’ll be captured in art.”

  “That’s not really why I came here.”

  “You came here for sex.”

  She opened her mouth, closed it. Sighed. “Well, yes, to be perfectly blunt about it.”

  “You shall have that as well. A photograph before, perhaps one after if you’re up for it. One in silk, one in sheets. We’ll be telling a story.”

  She shook her head. “It seems wrong.”

  Not to him. He got up, went to the fire, and stared into the writhing flames. How could he explain to her what it was like to constantly dream of mangled bodies? After twenty years, there were still nights when he awoke in a cold sweat, nights when he heard the screaming winds racing over the moors and imagined that they were his parents’ cries. He hadn’t slept through the night since he was eight years old. He thought if he could just replace the ghastly images of severed and contorted limbs with beautiful perfection, that eventually the nightmares would lessen. Perhaps they would even go away entirely. “What is wrong with appreciating the beauty of a shapely leg, a well-turned ankle, the arch of a foot, the curl of small toes?”

  He wouldn’t photograph anything that would make a woman feel awkward or taken advantage of. He just wanted peace.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m simply not prepared to be on display in that manner—for eternity.”

  He heard the absolute conviction in her voice and was torn between admiring her for standing by her convictions and cursing her for her stubbornness. Turning, he took a step toward her and held out his hand. “All right, then, if you’re not comfortable being photographed, let’s get on with what you came here for. I’ll make do with that.”

  Without taking his hand, she stood swiftly and he could fairly see the anger shimmering off her. Why the devil did he find it so damned attractive? Women never expressed displeasure with him, no matter how badly he behaved.

  “Make do?” she asked tartly. “I’d always heard you were a charmer. Now I have to wonder what other rumors regarding you are false.”

  “A good many of them, I suspect.”

  “Well, I’m certainly not going to climb into bed with a man who doesn’t desire me, who is simply making do.”

  She spun on her heel. He grabbed her arm to stay her actions. The heated look she directed his way could have felled a lesser man. Damnation, it only made him want her all the more. There was fire in her, smoldering, never before banked. She was here for something that was as important to her as the photographs were for him. He’d bet his life on it.

  “A poor choice of wording on my part. I’m disappointed that you won’t pose for me, but trust me, I am not disappointed that we are going to … copulate.”

  He cursed the blasted mask that prevented him from seeing if she was blushing, cursed the shadows that prevented him from seeing the flush of her skin.

  “You don’t desire me,” she announced.

  “Not desire you? Are you mad? I’ve never desired anyone as much. I have an artist’s eye, and while the silk may cover you, it still manages to reveal everything about you. That’s why I knew you would be perfect for the photograph.”

  “Pe
rfect?”

  She spoke the word as though she wasn’t quite familiar with it, as though it had never been applied to her. “Yes, perfect. You are not tall, but you have a good deal of leg. Based on the way the silk folds around them when you walk, I believe I would find your calves to be quite fetching.”

  “Fetching?”

  Again doubt. He was beginning to wonder if a troll existed beneath the mask. But then, as much as he loved lines, angles, and curves, he’d never judged by appearance alone. She was more than a face or legs or body. Her presence here was testament to that. Shy misses didn’t wander these halls, step into bedchambers. She was a woman who knew her own mind, knew what she wanted, and went after it. In truth, he found that aspect to her more alluring than anything that he might discover beneath the silk, or even the mask.

  “I don’t photograph just anyone,” he told her. “Only those I find pleasing.”

  “And how many is that, Your Grace? Based on your reputation, I suspect at least a hundred.”

  “Not even a dozen.”

  She seemed surprised by that declaration. “Did you not think you were special?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer, didn’t so much as nod, yet he saw the truth in her eyes. She thought herself lacking. Was that the reason behind her coming here tonight? Because she wished to feel appreciated? Again, he wondered if she was married, if some man failed to give her the attention she deserved.

  “Is it possible you might change your mind about posing for me?” he asked.

  “I couldn’t do anything so lewd.”

  “It’s very tastefully done, I promise you. The most intimate aspects of you will remain covered. Shadows will hide a good deal as well. The focus will be your legs.”

  “What do you do with the photographs?”

  “I don’t use them for any sort of erotic stimulation, if that’s what you’re thinking. I simply appreciate beauty.”

  “Beauty? In my legs?”

  Going to one knee, he wrapped a hand around her ankle. “Allow me to show you.”