Damn. He grew even harder. “Say it again,” he commanded, angling her head back so that he could devour her mouth as he wished.
“Alistair.”
His lips met hers in the next instant. He meant to kiss her tenderly, but when she opened for him, her tongue darting out to meet his, he could not control himself a moment longer. He kissed her with every last drop of passion raging through him, with all the love, the reverence. She made a sound in her throat, a whimper of desire, and it inflamed him more. Their tongues writhed together, mouths open and hungry. Her fingers sank into his hair, twisting, holding him to her as she kissed him back with just as much abandon.
She caught his lower lip between her teeth and nipped, tearing a strangled moan from him. Damn it, he had not anticipated her boldness, and it was enough to make his ballocks ache with a deep need for release. Of course, he ought not to be surprised. How like Lydia to be as fierce a lover as she was a person, unapologetic and fearless.
He broke the kiss and caught her up in his arms without a moment’s hesitation, carrying her to the freshly turned-out bed dominating the far wall. The day had been onerous and rife with duty—the ceremony, the wedding breakfast, welcoming her to his household and performing introductions, a polite dinner as husband and wife—but now, at last, it was time to take what was his.
“Alistair,” she protested as he made his way across the chamber. “I am too tall and ungainly to be carried about. I insist you put me down at once.”
“Your servant, Duchess.” With a wicked grin, he dropped her into the center of the bed.
She laughed, her gray eyes dancing, mouth red and swollen from his kiss. Her smile was something to behold, for it didn’t merely enhance her beauty. It made her somehow…luminous. “Perhaps you ought to take care in your proclamations, lest I force you to honor them.”
He wore nothing beneath his dressing gown. Originally, he had thought not to offend her maidenly sensibilities by completely disrobing before her their first night. But now he could see the wrongness of it. She was his Lydia, and she had bitten his lip as if it were a sweet. He wanted every drop of uninhibited wickedness she had to give.
“I assure you that I did not misspeak.” His fingers went to the belt keeping his dressing gown in place. “Indeed, I would like nothing more than to be your servant, my love.”
Her eyes rounded as she took in his meaning. When he undid the knot and shucked the robe altogether, standing before her naked, her eyes went even wider. Her gaze traveled the length of him, lingering on his erect cock, and her tongue darted out to wet her lips. A charming flush crept over her cheekbones, down along the regal column of her throat, and disappeared beneath her robe de chambre. He wondered where it stopped.
Slow and precise in his movements, he joined her on the bed, kneeling at her dainty feet. He grasped her slim ankles, relishing the brand of her warmth entering his palms and radiating throughout his body with a poignant hum of pure, molten need.
All traces of levity were gone from her face as he met her shocked stare. “Warwick, what in heaven’s name do you think you are doing? Studying my feet? I insist you cease at once.”
His grin deepened. She was the oddest female, and he loved her for it. No other lady had ever dared to order him about in the bedchamber. He ran his thumbs over the knobby bone of each ankle. Slowly, he pulled them to opposite sides of the bed, opening her legs. She still wore her dressing gown over a chemise, maintaining her modesty, and the sight of her lying on the bed, covered in white linen and lace, thighs slowly parting, nearly undid him.
“Your feet are beautiful,” he told her, lowering his head to drop a kiss to the top of first the left, then the right. His hands, meanwhile, continued their westward and eastward journey, opening her legs even wider.
“Warwick,” she protested again. “You bedlamite, my feet are disproportionately large for a lady. No one in his right mind would think them beautiful.” She wriggled then, shimmying her bottom in an effort to shake free of his hold. Instead of liberating herself, however, she only served to send the hem of her robe and chemise upward, over her knees.
Good Lord, another shimmy would send it over her thighs. “Stubble it, wife. Your feet are as perfect as the rest of you.”
He kissed her ankles next, his starving gaze taking in the sight of her calves and kneecaps. He had never once been entranced by the sight of a lady’s knees before tonight. But he could not help himself. Like a supplicant, he kissed his way up her legs, running his tongue in the hollow behind each knee where he discovered she was particularly sensitive.
“Good heavens, Warwick.” His name was a moan.
He licked again. Kissed. Raked her sensitive flesh with his teeth before glancing up her body and meeting her gaze. “Alistair, my love. Else you shall once again be Freckles.”
“I am sure I do not even know who I am at the moment,” she said, her busy hands finding his hair once more. “Oh, good heavens.”
“Yes,” he agreed darkly, pushing the hems of her nightwear higher, until they reached the tops of her thighs. He urged her knees apart, and dropped a kiss to each inner thigh.
“Alistair,” she gasped, and it was adorable. “This is depraved. You must not.”
He smiled, the heat and musky scent of her near and tempting. Her tone and her body’s response to him both told him that she wanted this every bit as much as he did. But she liked control, and venturing into the unknown surely had her at sixes and sevens. “I must.”
He kissed higher, stroking her thighs. She was perfect, so bloody perfect, and he could only thank God that none of her other suitors had ever recognized the gem before them. That she had somehow, by some stroke of magic, become his.
He went higher still, to the enticing curves of her hips, so near to her center that her flesh, glistening and pink and so damn enticing, was visible. Just a tongue’s stroke away. He glanced back up at her, that beautiful face at the end of the white fabric, and he wished she was naked so that he could admire the rise and fall of her breasts, the dip of her belly, so that he could see her as she was meant to be seen. “I want to taste you, love. Will you let me?”
Her lips fell open. He had shocked her, and though he knew he should be ashamed, he could not regret—not even for an instant—giving in to how very much he wanted her. All of her.
“Alistair?” Uncertainty underscored her voice.
He blew air over her seam, gratified by the answering, swift buck of her hips. “Do you trust me, my love?”
She didn’t hesitate in her answer. “Yes.”
He was humbled. Gratified. And he was going to bloody well worship this woman. This woman he loved. His wife.
His.
Something primal overcame him. He dragged his hands to her bottom, cupping her arse, and lifted her to his mouth. He licked into her, closed his lips over her responsive pearl, sucked, worked it with his teeth. She tasted like the abundance of spring, like sweetness and musk, salt and sea, earth and life and everything that was necessary. Nothing had ever tasted so bloody good on his tongue, and he knew instinctively that nothing ever would.
Listening to her sounds, following the cues of her body, he learned her. Found what she liked. Just where she liked his tongue, how firmly she wanted his teeth to rake that sensitive bundle of flesh. He didn’t stop until he had her where he wanted her, and she shook and spent against him, crying out in a soft exhalation, her body tremoring, coating his tongue with her essence.
And then, he rose on his haunches, dragged her robe and chemise the rest of the way up her body. He didn’t stop undoing and tugging until all of it was gone, and he knelt between her thighs, admiring the pale gloriousness of her form in all its splendor.
“Lydia.” Her name became a caress as he ran his hands up her long legs to her waist, and then higher still. He cupped the firm, round globes of her breasts, thumbed her hard nipples. “Lydia, my darling.”
“Please,” she cried out, writhing beneath him, her slick fol
ds undulating against his aching cock.
Breath hissed from his throat, and he knew he would not last much longer. Bowing his head, he sucked a nipple into his mouth. He licked and nipped, kissing along the ridge of her collarbone, her neck, the spot behind her ear that made her wild. “I want inside you, love.”
“Yes.” She gasped when the head of his shaft grazed her pearl with each movement of her hips against him. Her hands traveled over his body, fanning flames of desire into a raging inferno. Over his chest, his arms, his back. Tentative strokes that gave way to bold strokes. “Alistair, I cannot wait.”
He kissed her then, instead of answering, a long, deep claiming, allowing her to taste herself on his lips. She was sweet, so bloody sweet. Everywhere. He guided himself to her entrance, breaking his mouth away for a moment to gaze down at her. God, she was lovely, her hair a dark halo about her face, her blue-flecked eyes glazed with passion. His wallflower bluestocking turned to fire in his arms.
“There will be pain,” he rasped, poised to take her. So bloody close to heaven. “I will go slowly, my love.”
She nodded. “I trust you, Alistair.”
The simple statement sent a stab of guilt straight into his gut. She did trust him—he could see her open heart and innocence there in her sparkling gaze. He did not deserve her trust, for he had not been truthful with her about his need for her dowry. It nettled him now, with a fierce persistence, but the damage had already been done. He would tell her, he promised himself, as soon as he could. Nothing could induce him to ruin this night, this chance to make her his.
He kissed her again, and thrust his hips, sheathing just the tip of himself within her tight, wet channel. She gasped against his lips, and though it nearly killed him, he remained still, allowing her to adjust before he proceeded.
“All right, love?” he asked.
She kissed him lingeringly. “All right.”
Their mouths clung. He slipped a hand between their bodies where they were joined, delving into her slick folds to tease her where he knew she liked. Another slow roll of his hips, and the last barrier between them was broken. She stiffened beneath him, fingernails biting into his shoulders, but never ended the kiss, her tongue sliding into his mouth in a mimicry of the way he thrust inside her. And then she moved beneath him, bringing him deeper.
He kissed the corner of her mouth.
“Alistair,” she murmured, clenching around his cock. “I will not break.”
No, she would not. His wife was strong and capable, and at her urging, he canted his hips, fully seating himself. She released a seductive sigh, beginning to move with him. As one, they went together, over the edge of passion, reaching heights he hadn’t even known existed. She was perfection. He thrust. Everything he had imagined and more. Another pump. Fingers worked over her flesh, bringing her to a frenzy until she tightened and shuddered on him, spending again. Another thrust. He was keenly aware of every sensation: the sounds of their bodies meeting, the scent of violet and arousal perfuming the air, the sweet taste of her on his tongue, her breasts crushed against his chest, nails raking skin, her long legs around his waist, her mouth urging him on.
One more swivel of his hips and he buried himself inside her to the hilt, losing himself, filling her with his seed. He rocked into her again and again as the waves crashed over him, and he found himself in her.
“Lydia,” he whispered against her lips. He had not told her the full truth, but on this night, he would tell her the only truth that mattered. “I love you.”
Chapter Seven
The next fortnight proved the happiest, most charmed of Lydia’s life. She and Alistair enjoyed a honeymoon at his townhouse, and while it was not the ordinary way of things for a newly married couple, she could find no fault in it. They were not at home to anyone. No social calls, no visitors, no balls or soirees as the Season had yet to begin. Instead, they spent their days talking, laughing, and making love.
Love, Lydia thought with a secretive smile as she put the finishing touches on her toilette for dinner that night. She wore her hair in a loose fashion, piled at her crown with curls framing her face, a simple evening gown of claret red, her bosom on display for her husband’s benefit. He possessed an equal fondness for her bosom, her legs, her hair, and her wit. Of the four, Lydia had only ever been proud of the last. Her bosom was too small, her legs too long, and her hair a dull, uninspiring shade of not-quite-red and not-quite-brown.
Her husband had informed her that her bosom was perfection, her legs drove him mad, and her hair was the most bewitching shade of auburn. None of it was, as her cynical inner scientist initially suspected, rooted in meaningless flattery. No, Alistair actually loved the very parts of her she had always detested most. He made her feel wanted, desirable, and beautiful… He made her feel the same coursing joy that she felt when she gazed upon the night sky and marveled at its brilliance and its endless, innate secrets. He made her feel powerful and awestruck all at once.
She had not imagined it possible for another person to complete her. Indeed, before their marriage, she had not realized she was half in need of a whole, even if she could so clearly see now that Alistair—love—was precisely what she had been lacking. It still thrilled her to think of his confession the night of their wedding.
Love was an emotion she had never expected to succumb to, and it was certainly the last thing she had expected from the Duke of Warwick. Yet, he surprised her almost daily as he revealed all the facets of himself.
With a deep, steadying breath, Lydia gave her reflection one last survey in the glass before heading down to dinner. Tonight was to be a night of firsts. Not only was it the first night that she and Alistair would officially welcome guests to their home as a married couple, but it was also the first night that she would tell him that she loved him too.
She had been too scared to say the words before now, too uncertain if what she felt for him was even real. Infatuation, after all, was one thing when it came to a gentleman of his impeccable looks. Love, however, seemed altogether foreign for a pragmatic soul like herself.
But time—and Alistair—could change everything.
And she was desperately, hopelessly in love with her husband. She just hoped that he would accept the gift of her heart and treat it with tender care.
* * *
For the first time in a fortnight, Alistair had been forced to share his wife, and though it had been with family, that didn’t render the obvious signaling of their honeymoon’s end any more palatable. He had to admit that not having her to himself rather left him feeling out of sorts, like a bear who’d been unceremoniously rousted from hibernation.
Of course, he knew that all good things must necessarily conclude, as in one’s glorious post-nuptial phase, which had been a series of laughing, loving, kissing, bedding, and occasionally pausing for sustenance. But logic had no place in his mind these days, at least not when it came to Lydia.
So he suffered through a stilted session of obligatory port with his father-in-law and Rand following dinner, the glare and brooding silence his friend continued to direct his way rather disconcerting. Rand had been well-pleased with his marriage to Lydia. But since his own nuptials had occurred not long thereafter, Alistair had seen precious little of his friend.
“My daughter seems quite happy, Warwick,” Revelstoke said suddenly into the quiet before puffing on a cigar. “I am well pleased the two of you wed at last.”
“It is my fondest wish to make her the happiest woman alive,” he said, for it was the truth.
“Utter rot,” Rand growled, finally breaking his silence. “You’re a heartless bastard who took advantage of a bluestocking who was on the shelf. Do not pretend to have a care for my sister’s happiness.”
Alistair stiffened, eying his sometime friend. Surely, he had not just so openly dishonored him? “I beg your pardon?”
Rand refused to look away or abandon his cause. Instead, he stared Alistair down. “Have not your debts all been paid?”
He had discovered the truth.
Guilt hit him like a fist to the gut.
“They were my father’s debts,” he gritted.
“The sins of the father,” Rand sneered. “You did not answer my question. Did you not use my sister’s dowry to settle the damn debts? Did you truly think I would never uncover the truth?”
Of course, he had, for it had either been that or face losing all, even if doing so had left him feeling sick. The time had come for him to confide in Lydia about his father’s debts, and he knew it.
Her generous dowry had settled all with plenty to spare, meaning he could begin rebuilding his estates. He should have told her before now, and he recognized his error with a twist in his gut. Part of him had been too selfish to mar their bliss with such a heavy revelation, but part of him was terrified to jeopardize the relationship blossoming between them by revealing the truth.
He clenched his jaw, forced himself to answer, “Yes, I used a portion of the dowry to settle my father’s debts, but if you dare to suggest that my intentions toward my wife are anything other than pure, you may as well name your second.”
“Aylesford,” Revelstoke bit out, using Rand’s courtesy title in a sure sign of displeasure. “Warwick. You will both cease posturing. Though you may be men grown, I am older and wiser, and believe me when I assure you no good will come of further such discourse this evening. Let us return to the ladies so we can once more recall that we are gentlemen.”
Grimly, Alistair stood. “Yes, let us rejoin the ladies before any graver errors are committed here.”
He stalked from the chamber, the fury filling him as much for himself as for Rand. After all, he could not say he would act or think any differently were he in his friend’s boots. He knew as well, his conscience needling him with increasing persistence, that he should have been honest with Lydia and with Rand from the beginning. That he should have told them both about the debts and his need of a dowry. He would have done so had he not feared that it would ruin any chance he’d ever possessed of making her his duchess.
A Lady’s Christmas Rake Page 28
