What a Duke Dares

by Anna Campbell

  She saw something else too. Something that pierced her like a sword. For all Cam’s excitement, there was a distance behind those brilliant eyes. He might want her to yield unconditionally, but if he felt anything beyond physical urgency, it remained forever locked inside him.

  As he tightened his hips and plunged into her, she released a broken sob of anguish.

  Pen’s harsh cry pierced the air, but it was too late. As he seated himself full length, Cam felt the delicate membrane tear.

  Appalled realization crashed down and he went utterly still. Beneath him, Pen lay stiff as a board. All the lithe looseness had vanished the moment he took her.

  Incredulity and shame battled inside him.

  Incredulity. Shame. And unforgivable pleasure.

  Because lying here, the strongest sensation was pleasure.

  “Pen?” he asked shakily. He loathed that he loved being inside her. He loathed that his deepest physical nature wanted him to stay. With clumsy tenderness, he brushed back the hair clinging to her damp face.

  “Pen, I’m sorry.” His apology was thick with regret and raging arousal.

  “Finish,” she forced out in a guttural voice that he didn’t recognize. “For God’s sake, finish.”

  Every muscle in her body hardened against him as if her very skin rejected him. The hands that circled his arms were tight as manacles. She breathed in broken little gasps.

  Damn, damn, damn.

  “I’ll hurt you,” he said, frantic with remorse.

  “You’re hurting me now,” she snarled, nails digging deep enough to draw blood. The sting was the least he deserved.

  He’d been so tragically, fatally, criminally wrong. Why the devil had he listened to the vicious lies? Hell, if anyone knew not to credit spiteful tattle, he should.

  Like a coward, he buried his head in the warm nook between her neck and shoulder. What he’d done was reprehensible. The result of arrogance, prejudice, stupidity, and selfish lust. Not to mention lacerating jealousy of her imaginary lovers.

  But he’d wanted her so badly that he’d been blind to the signs of inexperience. Her skittishness on the journey. Her volatile reaction when he’d suggested an affair. Most of all, tonight’s crippling nervousness.

  All this knowledge came too late, too late.

  He’d been so convinced about the string of lovers. Whereas everything he knew of Pen declared her fastidiousness. Sod it all, at nineteen, she’d been too fastidious to marry him.

  The compulsion to finish beat in his blood. His heart crashed against his ribs. Every hot clench of her body awakened shudders of delight.

  His mind insisted that her body tightened to expel the invader. His mind insisted that he must withdraw, beg forgiveness, leave her alone. His mind insisted that he’d never make recompense for his actions tonight.

  Even so, he lingered. Drew the scent of hot, aroused Pen into his lungs like incense. She smelled like the woman he’d kissed, but different. As though lilies suddenly blossomed on a favorite rosebush. As though he’d worked some deep change in her, beyond the mere matter of two bodies colliding in pain and pleasure.

  The crackle of the fire played soft counterpoint to her panting distress. Somewhere outside a night bird called, a high, melancholy sound that echoed her cry as he’d entered her.

  Gradually she gave him what he waited for. Her shocked rigidity softened. So infinitesimally that unless he’d tuned his attention to her so closely, he’d miss it.

  She was woefully removed from squirming urgency. But she was no longer so tense that she’d likely break if he made the slightest twitch.

  Every muscle howling for release, he rose on his arms. He opened his eyes and saw her bite her lip to stifle a protest at his movement. Hell, he knew he hurt her. Guilt sliced at him like razors.

  She stared up at the tester, embroidered with gilt Rothermere unicorns. Tears trickled from the corners of her eyes to soak the black hair spread around her like tangled silk. Compared to her ashen cheeks, her lips seemed startlingly red, bruised with his kisses.

  “For pity’s sake, end this.” Her demand rasped across his nerves. “I want this over.”

  “My dear—”

  He faltered into silence. After his ruthlessness, he had no right to speak endearments. His lips brushed hers in a kiss meant to comfort, but her nearness defeated him and he deepened the contact. He tasted tears.

  Dear God, he was a swine. Self-disgust struggled to rise above his craving to complete the act.

  Gingerly, he retreated. Her breathtaking tightness made every inch excruciating and rapturous. Then very carefully, he eased inside, hearing her muffled grunt of surprise at the unexpected smoothness. She didn’t stiffen against his invasion, although he caught the flinch she tried to hide.

  Brave Penelope.

  He moved again, gently, although the need to lose himself shook good intentions. He hooked a hand beneath her knee, bending it to aid his entry.

  Another withdrawal. Another careful thrust. Rewarded with a sigh, this time conveying something other than discomfort.

  He shifted again and again, desperate to grant her some scrap of pleasure to make up for his sins. But with every moment, control frayed.

  On a long groan, his hips surged forward and his seed flooded his wife’s virgin womb.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Cam’s body crushed Pen into the mattress. Shock receded, but every breath reminded her that he hadn’t been gentle. She still couldn’t believe that the wild crescendo ended in such awkward intimacy.

  Astonishment kept all other emotions at bay. Although resentment, regret, frustration, wretchedness, confusion all hovered.

  She tried to make sense of what had happened. She’d always imagined that Cam would please her as a lover. She’d feared that he’d please her too much. His hold over her was already terrifyingly powerful.

  The overture to Cam’s horrible invasion had been extraordinary. Better than being in his arms on the yacht. Better than anything in her life.

  If the prelude was so breathtaking, surely the act itself must be even better. Then he’d thrust inside her. The union had given her no joy. Which seemed so unfair when she’d edged beyond discomfort and toward satisfaction before he brought everything to an abrupt end.

  She made herself look at Cam, then wished to heaven that she hadn’t. Now the worst ache resided in her soul. He looked completely devastated and self-loathing clouded his green eyes.

  “Pen, I’m so sorry,” he whispered brokenly, and kissed her forehead with a grieving tenderness that slashed her heart into tattered shreds. His tenderness was much more painful than his possession. She had no defenses against it.

  He eased out, setting off twinges through her body. Stupidly she missed him the moment he withdrew to collapse beside her with an unhappy grunt.

  “It was my duty,” she said dully. Now that the pain faded, she was aware of a heavy restlessness, like Cam had held her high in the air and couldn’t decide whether to drag her to safety or drop her to destruction.

  “It should have been more.” Regret deepened his voice. “I was a clumsy oaf.”

  “I’ll live.” With every minute, her aches subsided. The physical ones at least.

  “Pen, don’t be gallant. I can’t bear it.” Then in a shaking voice, he asked, “Why the hell didn’t you tell me you were a virgin?”

  She started. “Why would you think I wasn’t?” Then shame filled her. “It’s because I let you touch me on the yacht, isn’t it?”

  Shocked denial made him grimace. “No!”

  She stared into Cam’s face and wondered just what he’d imagined she’d been up to. The possibilities made her sick. She looked away and mumbled, “I don’t want to talk about this now.”

  “We’ll have to talk about it sometime,” he said implacably.

  “Just… not now.” Through her misery and exhaustion, anger stirred as she recalled him asking her to be his mistress. He’d obviously spent the last weeks convinced
that he traveled with a woman who rivaled Jezebel for wickedness.

  While nothing had matched the pleasure she’d found in his kisses and caresses, she hadn’t absolutely hated the act. She wished desperately she knew more about what men and women did together. After all those racy conversations in Continental salons, she’d considered herself worldly. None of those sly, witty exchanges had hinted at the raw, earthy reality of a man’s body pushing into a tight female passage.

  She stared up at the tester. She’d never see the Rothermere unicorns without remembering how Cam had thundered into her. Given she’d just signed up to a lifetime as the Duchess of Sedgemoor, those unicorns would remind her over and over.

  “You should go back to your room.” She rose against the pillows and dragged the sheet up. Lying naked beside him, she felt too much like a ritual sacrifice. She winced. Changing her position launched a barrage of new twinges. Between her legs, she felt sore and sticky.

  He’d flung one arm over his eyes, so she had no idea whether he’d drifted off or whether he merely avoided his dissatisfied bride. Except the dissatisfied bride couldn’t help stealing this opportunity to study the superb masculine form beside her. Long, lean, powerful. Intriguingly hairy on his chest and… down there.

  Surreptitious interest stirred in places that she thought could never react again. The heaviness between her legs turned hot and insistent, instead of purely uncomfortable.

  One question beat at her over and over. Was the act always like that?

  “Do you really want to be alone?” Cam sounded weary and reasonable, a different man from the passionate seducer. “I’ll go if you like, but I need to make amends and I can’t manage that from behind a closed door.”

  “As long as we don’t have to do it again,” she said stiffly, sidling toward the edge of the bed.

  “You’re safe,” he said grimly. Without taking his arm from his eyes, he caught her wrist with his other hand.

  She tensed, but as his hold was loose enough to break, she didn’t shake him off. “I don’t feel safe.”

  His expressive mouth, visible beneath his forearm, thinned. “You used to.”

  “That was… before.”

  Sighing, he lowered his arm and released her. She’d seen his expression after he’d taken her. He’d looked ready to slit his throat to save the world the trouble of shooting him. He still looked like he’d forsaken his last hope for happiness. Her heart twisted with a stupid female need to assuage his cares.

  She battered down the impulse to take him in her arms. What comfort had he offered when he’d so ruthlessly used her? Then left her incomplete at the end.

  “I can apologize again, Pen,” he said bleakly.

  She avoided his desolate jade gaze and stared down to where her fingers folded and unfolded the sheet with idiot compulsion. “Don’t.”

  A silence fell, then she felt the mattress move as he rolled away. She should be glad he went, but something in her was disappointed that he didn’t stay to persuade her. Not into doing… that. But she’d appreciate him making an effort.

  Oh, devil take her, she was a complete mess. She wanted this. She wanted that. None of it made any sense. After what Cam had done, she shouldn’t want to see him again. However impractical that might be, given today’s marriage ceremony.

  She was almost as annoyed with herself as she was with Cam.

  Which didn’t prevent her watching as he walked away. The back view was just as spectacular as the front. The proud set of the head, even now when his pride smarted because he’d failed to satisfy his bride. The wide powerful shoulders. The straight, well-muscled back. The firm globes of his buttocks.

  Like her, he still bore the shipwreck’s marks. Healing bruises and abrasions, including a slash of dark purple across his ribs. Anger ebbed out of reach, although disappointment remained. Whatever tonight’s disaster, he’d nearly died saving her.

  She waited for him to enter the duke’s apartments, but instead he veered off into the luxurious bathing room. Disgruntled, Pen straightened against the pillows. If he wanted to wash, couldn’t he do it in his own rooms?

  He emerged carrying a bowl and towel, and with another towel slung low around his narrow hips. He set a small mahogany table beside the bed and placed the bowl upon it. He turned and with one hand, hooked up the heavy red robe, covering himself.

  “Lie down,” he said softly.

  “Why?” she asked suspiciously.

  “I’m going to make you feel better.”

  She bit back a sniping response that his absence would achieve that most effectively. Anyway, it wasn’t true. As her discomfort faded, she felt lonely and teary and desperately in need of kindness. Even if the kindness came from the man who had hurt her.

  Very gently he pried the covers from her clinging hands and drew them down, revealing her nakedness. Tonight she’d cursed her stupidity more than once. She cursed it again when she realized that she should have gone in search of a fresh nightdress while he was in the other room.

  She acted a complete ninny. A brazen ninny at that.

  “Leave me alone,” she said, grabbing uselessly after the covers.

  “Pen, a wash will help.” He paused, and she knew he hated having to reiterate his good intentions. “I promise, only a wash.”

  The urge to curl into herself and hide from those probing eyes was strong, but something in his face told her that if she did, she’d hurt him, as she’d hurt him when she’d claimed that she no longer felt safe. Yet again she derided her soft heart.

  “Very well,” she said reluctantly, stretching out.

  She watched him wring out the cloth and lift it over her stomach. Before he touched her, she grabbed his hand. “This doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you.”

  His gaze darted up to meet hers and she read his profound remorse. Unfortunately, remorse didn’t strike her as a particularly strong foundation for marriage.

  “Pen, let me do this.” He made no attempt to break away. “Please.”

  Pen wasn’t proof against Cam’s uncharacteristic humility. Reluctantly she released him. He took the gesture as permission to continue. Very carefully, he began to wash her. Starting with what should have been unexceptional places like arms and neck. He winced every time he touched one of the yellowing bruises from her ordeal after the Windhover went down.

  She should be immune to Cam’s touch, but her skin tingled as the warm, damp flannel wiped away the night’s sweat and, she had to confess, much of the bitterness.

  When he trailed the cloth over her midriff, every muscle clenched. By the time he reached her breasts, she breathed unsteadily. He didn’t linger, but the soft friction had her nipples hardening as if he kissed them. She mistrusted the wayward responses that left her lightheaded as though she’d had too much claret.

  Methodically, he moved to her legs, washing thighs and knees and shins and feet. This felt like slow seduction, although she caught his flinch when he saw the blood on her thighs.

  He dipped the cloth in the water and gently parted her legs. She made a soft sound of distress.

  Slowly he raised his head as if emerging from a daze. He’d concentrated so hard on what he did, he’d barely looked beyond the area of skin he washed. His eyes were as lifeless as malachite in his dark, intense face. “Trust me, Pen.”

  She bit her lip. She’d trusted him earlier and had come to grief. But she couldn’t deny a lifetime of love. She let her legs fall open, although no man had seen the private hollows of her body. He thoroughly washed each fold and valley, soothing every sting. His gentleness squeezed her heart into a tiny ball.

  She bit back another whimper, not this time of discomfort. Although this intimacy made her more embarrassed than she’d ever been in her life. How could her body respond like this? After years of imagining a man in her bed, of imagining this man in her bed, she knew now what happened. Pain. Shame. Regret. Powerlessness.

  Yet with every stroke, he smoothed the disagreeable memories and replaced “
never again” with “perhaps.”

  With trepidation, she watched him wring the cloth. She’d been afraid that his passion might have left her a bloody mess. She was reassured to see only a trace of pink in the water.

  Finally the torture that had transformed into dangerous allure ended. He dropped the cloth into the now cool water, dried her one last time, and lifted his hands away.

  The silence preyed on her nerves, but she couldn’t force words through a throat jammed with tears. Not from pain this time, but because whatever pain he caused her, she loved him. She’d always love him. His care only proved that never having him love her in return would eat at her until her dying day.

  The slow washing, like a ritual, had calmed him. Just as it had calmed her. His jaw no longer looked chiseled from stone and the lines around his mouth and eyes had relaxed.

  He bent toward her. She thought he bowed to say good night. The atmosphere between them had become strangely courtly.

  But his head lowered and lowered.

  Before she could think to move, he placed his lips on her pale stomach, just above the navel. She felt the warm, damp brush of his kiss. Her skin tightened, although the kiss felt more an act of homage than a sensual invitation.

  Questions flooded to her lips but died unspoken when he lifted the bowl and turned toward the door. Pride and confusion kept her from asking him to stay. She felt piercingly alone watching Cam walk away. But not so alone that she was ready to endure his use of her body.

  Cam went through the door, leaving it ajar. A gesture of reassurance, the way one left a candle burning for a child in the dark. He must guess that she found this cathedral of a bedroom intimidating.

  Awkwardly, still sore despite Cam’s ministrations, she struggled to stand. She needed a nightdress.

  When she emerged from the dressing room wearing another of the late duchess’s seductive peignoirs, Cam leaned against one of the carved oak posts at the base of the bed. He still wore his robe and his expression was calm.

  Perhaps he came to say good night. Then she noticed the decanter of red wine on the dressing table near the empty glasses. Given how he’d arrived with brandy, the wine struck an ominous note.