Waking Up With the Duke

by Lorraine Heath

  They brought their horses to a halt beside a tree almost bare of leaves. It was quite possibly the largest oak she’d ever seen.

  “And here we have the best climbing tree in the entire world,” he said magnanimously.

  “This should interest me because . . .”

  “We’re going to climb it.”

  She stared at him, dumbfounded. “You can’t be serious. We’re not children.”

  “But we’re still young.” After dismounting, he hung the lantern from a branch and tethered his horse to a bush. “And it’s fairly easy to climb.”

  “And when was the last time you climbed it?”

  He came to stand beside her horse. “Hmm. Let me see. Three days before you arrived.”

  He slipped her feet out of the stirrups, placed his hands on her waist, and helped her dismount. Then he was pulling her toward the monstrous tree.

  “How old do you think it is?” she asked.

  “Hundreds of years, I’m sure. It was no doubt used to hang a good many villains. Once you make it to the first branch, you’ll find that the others have grown out in such a way as to almost make a natural ladder.”

  But reaching the first branch was a challenge. He had to lift her, and she had to stretch out. Once she was on it, she clung to the trunk, catching her breath. He scrambled up, then moved past her, guiding her onto the next branch. Higher and higher they went until they were so far up that she dared not look down.

  “This is as far as we’ll go,” he finally said, easing her out onto the branch and helping her to sit down.

  She was almost light-headed. “We’re fortunate that we didn’t have a mishap in the dark. We probably should have waited to do this during the daytime.”

  “Ah, but then we’d have missed it.”

  “Missed what, Your Grace?”

  He wrapped his hand around hers, brought it to his lips. Although she wore gloves, she could still feel the heat of his mouth. “Just watch.”

  It began slowly, hidden behind the craggy horizon, revealing itself the way she’d attempted to reveal her body to Ainsley that second night: leisurely, provocatively, almost shyly. She saw the first hint of sunrise as ribbons of dark blue, pink, and orange began to chase away the night sky of black, moon, and stars. She shifted her gaze to Ainsley and recognized reverence in the calmness of his features. It was a look she wanted to see him direct her way.

  For all she knew, maybe he did. In the darkness, as he made love to her. Within her bed she could feel, smell, hear, taste so much. But she could see so little. Silhouettes and shadows. She wondered what the light would reveal.

  “I am always humbled by the grandeur of nature,” he said quietly, as though he didn’t want to disturb the beauty unfurling before them.

  “I’ve not climbed a tree since I was seven. I’d forgotten how liberating it was.”

  He gazed at her. “Is that when you took your tumble?”

  She nodded. “After that, I wasn’t afraid of the actual climbing, but my father’s temper was quite terrifying.”

  “Pity. I think you were meant to climb trees.” He turned his attention back to the sunrise. “Besides, I rather like your little scar. I think it shows rebelliousness.”

  Squeezing his hand, she held her silence and watched the sun reign supreme over the land. She wasn’t even certain Walfort had ever noticed the scar. But then, he never intruded on her bath, never saw her knee when it was not hidden beneath skirts, a nightdress, or sheets. Now it was a part of her shared with Ainsley and no one else. Their little secret. Her feelings surrounding so trivial a part of her person confused her. Why had she never shared it with Walfort? How had Ainsley known she would love sitting on a tree branch at dawn?

  “If I have a little girl, I’m going to encourage her to climb,” she said wistfully, then continued with more determination. “I’m going to encourage her to reach for everything, even if she thinks it’s beyond her grasp.”

  “Just as you’re doing now.” His eyes were on hers again, as though the sunrise was suddenly insignificant and she was all important. “I don’t underestimate the courage that it took you to come here.”

  His words touched her heart. She had misjudged this man in so many ways. “I fear I was not as kind to you as I should have been. Nor did I trust your reasons for consenting to Walfort’s ludicrous idea. I thought you were interested only in lifting a skirt. I’ve been here only a few days and already you’ve given me far more than I expected or in all likelihood deserve.”

  She didn’t notice when he removed his gloves, but his warm fingers were suddenly trailing over her face as though he sought to memorize the sensation of every line and curve.

  “You deserve far more than I could ever give you.”

  I’m falling in love with him.

  The thought struck her, knocking the breath out of her. It couldn’t be. Her feelings for him were generated by the sharing of their bodies. It was natural to feel love for someone with whom she shared such intimacy. But then she thought of the duchess. She had been intimate with the seventh Earl of Westcliffe yet had not loved him. Did that make her own reasoning invalid?

  Was it his smile, his tenderness, his generosity, that was causing these blossoming emotions to burst forth? What she felt for him was so different from what she felt for Walfort. It could not be. It simply could not. It was the situation. Not the man.

  When she left here all these confounding feelings would remain behind. He would be no more than an occasional guest when he visited Herndon Hall. She would treat him with politeness and no more.

  She would feel the same for any man willing to give her a child.

  But even as she thought it, she knew she was lying to herself.

  That night, following dinner, they sat in the library, each reading a different tome. Or at least he was. She was simply holding the book open, waiting as each second took an eternity to move on to the next one. What hour was the correct hour for retiring in order to make love?

  After their adventure that morning, they returned to the cottage, where she took a nap and then ate an immense breakfast. She’d never been so famished in her life. It had embarrassed her, but amused him that she’d eaten until she was miserable. In the afternoon they rode to the village and enjoyed warm, delicious gingerbread at the bakery. The little girl who had sold him weeds when they attended the fair was on hand to sell him more when they emerged. Ainsley laughed and purchased them for a crown. Only this time, instead of shoving them into his pocket, he offered them to Jayne. She gladly took them. Weeds that meant more to her than any flowers he might have sent her. The moment was something to be shared between them, somehow special.

  When they returned to the manor, he made no untoward advances, was the perfect gentleman during dinner. He suggested they adjourn to the library to read before bed. She was left with the sense that his enthusiasm toward her might have waned, while hers toward him seemed only to increase.

  It was maddening. She did not want to sit here with Jane Austen. She wanted to be in her bedchamber with Ainsley. She wanted him holding her, touching her, drawing her into the realm of carnal delights. She wanted to massage her fingers over his sculpted muscles. She wanted to hear his moans echoing around her. She wanted to be bolder—

  “Is the story boring?”

  She jerked her gaze up to meet his. “Pardon?”

  “You’re fidgeting. I thought perhaps the tale had failed to capture your attention. I have many other books if that one is not to your liking.”

  She almost told him that she wasn’t blind, and could see them lining the shelves. But castigating him would certainly not hasten his journey to her bed.

  “I’m simply a bit tired. We had such a busy day that I was thinking of retiring early.”

  His smile was all-knowing, irritating . . . and the most sensual one she’d ever seen.

  “Well, if that be the case . . .” With a fluid movement he set his book aside and stood.

  How could h
e appear so casual when she was practically shivering with anticipation? Placing her book on the table, she rose. When he offered her his arm, she set her hand on it. So annoyingly formal, as though they were once again strangers on the verge of engaging in an unemotional act.

  Could he walk any slower? He was very close to standing still.

  “My legs are not so short that you must take such small steps,” she groused irritably.

  Laughing, he scooped her into his arms, apparently relishing her unexpected squeal as she twined her arms around his neck.

  “I wondered how long it would take,” he said, clearly amused.

  “For what?”

  “For you to desire me.”

  “You insufferable lout. It is as I said. I’m rather weary, anxious for sleep.”

  His long strides began eating up the distance to the bedchamber.

  “Put me down, Ainsley. Your servants will know what we’re about with such an open display—”

  “She’s exhausted,” he said as they passed the butler. “Can hardly walk.”

  She buried her face in his shoulder. “You are so cruel.”

  “If I were cruel”—he began making his way up the stairs—“I’d have waited another hour before putting you out of your misery.”

  She snapped her head back as they reached the landing. “You knew where my thoughts wandered?”

  “Mine were not far behind.”

  They were in her bedchamber, their clothes scattered on the floor before she realized they’d not doused the lamps.

  “The light—”

  “Let it stay with us tonight.” He wrapped a warm hand around her nape, holding her in place while he trailed his moist mouth over her throat. She closed her eyes on a sigh of pleasure. “Do not deny me any longer the pleasure of gazing on you.”

  She did not want to consider that the entire day his nearness, complemented by distance, had been a ploy, a way to lure her into yearning for him with such need that she would let all propriety go. No other man had ever seen her standing bared before him, the blush rising from her toes to her hair.

  Ainsley leaned back, giving his gaze the freedom to roam over her. She could see the hunger and desire, something the darkness had always denied her. Now that she saw what it had kept from her, how could she welcome it back?

  He was athletic and powerful. Long legs and sculpted muscles. She’d felt it all, of course, but to see it was to appreciate it all the more.

  “You are so beautiful.” He skimmed his thumb over her nipple. “Dark. Dusky. I’d wondered.”

  His were dusky as well. Turgid. She longed to feel them against her tongue. It wasn’t fair that he could have her clamoring for him while he was so unaffected. Well, not completely unaffected. Not unaffected at all. Every aspect of him stood magnificently proud before her.

  He’d been tormenting her all day. She would return the favor. Leaning in, she ran her tongue over his nipple. His chest vibrated with his strangled groan. He threaded his fingers through her hair, held her head, pressed her nearer.

  “Vixen.”

  It sounded as though he’d pushed the word up from the depths of his soul. It made her feel powerful, in control. Brazen.

  Taking both his hands, she backed toward the bed, dragging him—quite willingly, judging by the predatory gleam in his eyes—with her. When they reached their destination, he lifted her onto the bed and followed her down.

  He didn’t resist when she rolled him over, sat up, and took in her fill of him.

  “See anything you like?” he asked, his fingers stroking her spine.

  With a self-conscious laugh, she peered into his eyes. “You are so comfortable with this.”

  “I appreciate the marvels and complexities of the human form. Someday we shall have to make love in the afternoon, in the sunshine.”

  “During the day, you mean?”

  He grew still and blinked at her. “Have you never—” He shook his head. “Never mind. I don’t wish to know.”

  But she suspected he already did know. She was being awakened to so many new notions and experiences. To lie with a man with no clothes on at all. With Walfort, her nightdress had gone up but not completely off. Flames never wavered and teased her with glimpses of him. The dark protected their modesty. They would certainly never come together during an inappropriate time such as the afternoon.

  “I suppose you don’t even limit yourself to bedchambers,” she said.

  He grinned wickedly. “Another item to add to my list.”

  “What list?”

  “Of new experiences to which to introduce you. A thick blanket in a meadow in the afternoon.”

  “Outside? I was thinking . . . I don’t know. The library.”

  “The library it is. The next time it rains.”

  She was scandalized by the notion. And titillated.

  “Tonight, however, have your way with me.” He shoved his hands behind his head, an expectant look on his face.

  “Pardon?”

  “You were the one anxious to get me here. Do with me what you will.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve not your experience. I will disappoint.”

  “Jayne, if you do nothing more than straddle me and ride me, you will not disappoint.”

  Straddle him. She imagined the positioning of their bodies, how it might work, how exposed she would be. He took her hand and wrapped it around his velvet heat.

  “At least make me beg,” he said with a lowered voice that indicated it would not take much to bring him to that point.

  “All right. Yes. You think I can’t do it.”

  “I know you can.”

  He shouldn’t be playful. Walfort came in, saw to business, and left. Inwardly, she shook her head. She needed to stop comparing them. In all matters, Walfort fell short, but then he’d not achieved a reputation as a great lover. Ainsley had.

  She did not want to consider how many women had educated him. She would not feel jealous when she was now the benefactor of their lessons. If Walfort had not married so young and limited his conquests to her, he might have been as skilled. Did that mean the fault rested with her?

  “You begin by gliding your hand up and down,” he said.

  “I know how to begin,” she snapped.

  “Oh, heat. I like that.” His eyes smoldered, stoking the fires of her own desires.

  He shouldn’t be making her comfortable with all this. It was supposed to be quick, to the purpose. She was not supposed to anticipate, to want.

  She grew warm with the thoughts of what she could do to Ainsley. Yes, she would very much like to hear him beg. She thought of a cat she’d had as a child and how sensuously it had prowled.

  She gave him what she truly hoped was a sultry look—and hoped he wouldn’t laugh. If he laughed she would die. “Prepare to beg.”

  He issued a deep, guttural curse as she stretched out over him. His eyes darkened and he fisted his hands into the sheets, relinquishing all power to her.

  And she reveled in it. Touching him, teasing him, taunting him. She used her mouth, her hands, her breasts, every part of herself to torment him. His hands traveled over her with an urgency that surprised her, as though he needed her desperately. His groans echoed through the room. His harsh breathing ignited her desire.

  She’d never been so bold, had never known she could be.

  But even though she was the one in control, he followed. Touching her, kissing her shoulder, molding her breasts, gently guiding her with murmurs of approval and deep-throated rumbles. She was as fevered as he when he finally growled, “For God’s sake, Jayne, end this torment.”

  She straddled his hips, looked down on him, scored her fingernails up his chest.

  He grabbed her hips and bucked. “Woman!”

  Feeling victorious, she lifted up, lowered herself, guided him home. With his hands roaming over her, urging her on, she rocked against him. She fanned out her hair until it was a curtain around them. She watched him as his pleasu
re escalated. Being above him was such a glorious position, gave her such a clear view of him. She was grateful for the light, illuminating the wonder of this moment.

  Then the tables turned and all the torment she had been inflicting returned to her full force. She found herself hurtling through star-filled heavens, crying out, felt the power of his release crashing through her as hers erupted. Together. They peaked together. She didn’t even know it was possible, was undone by the bond it forged between them.

  Something else special that was to be shared between them. A secret bouquet of memories that must remain here when she took her leave.

  As limp as a wilted flower, she eased onto his chest and listened to the hard thudding of his heart.

  Using only the tips of his fingers, he began to slowly caress her back, and she wondered where he found the energy to move at all. She thought she might never again, that she would simply remain still and silent forever.

  “Had I known that with lamplight you’d have transformed into a tigress, I would have insisted the lamps remain burning from the beginning,” he murmured.

  “Did I disappoint you before?”

  “God, no. I like that each time with you is so very different.”

  “Tonight I felt . . . unencumbered.”

  “That was quite obvious.”

  Testing her muscles, she stretched a little. “I don’t think I have the strength to move off you.”

  “Then stay. Your weight is no burden.”

  “I’m close to falling asleep.” His fingers lightly stroking her were luring her into the land of dreams.

  “Sleep,” he said in a voice as drowsy as hers.

  She didn’t remember drifting off, but when she awoke, she was alone in the bed, the covers tucked around her, the lamps no longer burning. The fire on the grate provided enough light for her to see his standing silhouette. “Ainsley?”

  “My apologies,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I was in the process of returning to my bedchamber. I thought it was what you would want.”

  It was . . . when she first arrived. Now . . .