by Eva Devon
“Oh,” she countered tartly, “I do take heed to your so clearly expressed opinions of my morality or lack thereof.” She cocked her head to the side, “For which, Your Grace pot, I do believe you have called the kettle black.” Her long curls danced over her shoulder as she narrowed her eyes and finished, “You make certain my heart is hard which ensures the voracity of my intentions.”
“You have a heart, my lady?” he riposted. The words my lady drawled out of his mouth as a sort of curse that seized his heart and terrified him because in every sense of the word but one, she was his lady. God how his body sang to take her, to kiss her, to know her passionate intelligence in a binding way that left nothing between them but scorched bodies and requited lust.
“What was left of it is gone now.” She shrugged. “Hearts while pleasant things, have no practical use in the pursuit of one’s future happiness.”
“Thank the maker then that your rather attractive body and your seeming intelligence makes up for the lack of such a vital organ in a woman.”
“Vital?” She laughed, a rich, soul seducing, thought stealing reverberation. “The only vital organ I have to a man is quite a different one in my experience, and alas, it is not the brain of which I speak.”
Why was this so resoundingly horrid?
He’d hurried here, ripe for the pleasure of her unusual company not pain. Yet pain was exactly what this was, as if they were both trying to get as many cuts in before the true battle began. Where was the pert creature who’d bandied with him so delightfully? He missed her, but all too quickly, he knew that woman had been an illusion and this taunting siren was the real Cordelia, Duchess of Hunt. “A woman’s brain is known to be smaller and therefore inferior,” he said lightly, aiming the dart carefully. “No wonder men care more for this other organ. And you have not neglected it, have you? Not if you are asking for a divorce.”
Bright color stained her pale cheeks but then her brows rose carelessly, the meaning clear.
“A woman,” she said lowly, her voice final, “must find her pleasure elsewhere, Your Grace, when her husband will not do his marital duty.”
A snarl, a veritable snarl, passed his lips. He was not sure if his fury resulted from her insults, the shock of their union, or the fact that she did indeed seem to think so little of him. “You hate me then?”
She laughed again, this time the sound a rich buttery lilt. “No. Hate requires far too much effort. I feel nothing but irritation that I have a husband at all.”
“That is why you came to London?” he asked flatly, still shaken by the force of her laugh upon his body. Still undone, by the fact that her base opinion of him struck home in a way he had not known since his father first made it clear how worthless he was. “Because you feel nothing for me.”
“Except inconvenience.”
That gave him pause. She found him to be an inconvenience? What a change in circumstance. Wasn’t it he who found women to be irrelevant and disloyal? “And you wish a divorce?”
She brought her hands together and clapped slowly. “Bravo. Does repetition improve the word?” She strode toward him, none of the sensuality or openness that had guided her the night before in her body. Instead, she seemed closed and unattainable. “I wish my independence.”
“To. . . To. . .” His skin crawled at the very idea of other men’s hands upon her.
“Be with other men?” she queried, her eyes sparking at his discomfort. “Yes, Your Grace, since you have given no indication in the past years,” her voice dropped and their was an edge of pain to it, “to ensure I had no need of them.”
“And what if now—” He cut himself off, the words completely ridiculous and inspired from his cock, not his brain. He couldn’t go down that path. It had been one of the great appeals of being married and yet not being married. He’d never had to be a husband. He’d never had to test the loyalty of his wife or risk failing so utterly again in the eyes of one he loved.
“What if you wish me now?” she finished for him. She took another few steps forward until the hem of her skirts brushed his boots. She glanced up through her lashes, her very nearness a dare. A dare born of anger and resentment. “What matters is that I do not wish you.”
Just like every one else. No one wanted him. Not the real him.
Just those few words negated any sort of chivalry he might have still held close. Didn’t want him? She wanted his body. He knew that for certain. After all, her lips, those full, heady lips, were half open and all he could think of was the night before when he had so very nearly kissed her. “And if I wished to know what I shall be missing? What I have given up?”
“By all means,” she licked her lower lip slightly, moistening it, challenging him, and yet a moment of vulnerability softened her features before she whispered. “have it, then have done.”
The scent of vanilla and cinnamon surrounded him and the heat of her near body teased his already simmering senses. His mind was playing the most devilish tricks. He’d come here to continue what they had started, but if he were to do so with his. . . With his wife. . . what would occur?
Everything would change. Absolutely everything. If he bedded her, there would be no going back because then he would have to prove her unfaithfulness beyond all doubt to be rid of her. The entire world, but most importantly, he, himself, would know that he had shared her with God knew how many others. And debauched as he was, he wasn’t sure that was something he quite wished to do. He’d had enough married women. Having his own would be perhaps one too many.
She shook her head. “You see, even now, you do not truly wish—”
Silencing the doubting voices in his head, giving way to the demands of his body, and a sadistic part of his soul, he crushed her to him and brought his mouth down on hers. It was a kiss meant to punish. To punish for putting him in such a position. For the pleasure they were meant to share and yet now could not.
A peep of indignation bubbled up from her throat and she resisted for a moment, her body tense and hard angles in his embrace as if she’d never been kissed at all.
He didn’t cease because he had to believe that what had happened last evening had not been a creation of his hunger for her, and that she truly did desire him as much as he had desired her. She had to, even her hate of him, couldn’t change that could it?
The answer came when her body softened against his and her hands slid over his arms and held him to her fiercely.
A moan of sheer need replaced her protest and she opened to him. He slid his tongue into her hot mouth, licking and teasing her. With each moment that past, their kisses were more and more consumed by the fiery exchange of breath, the hot strokes of tongues and lips.
His hard cock pressed against his breeches, proof how badly he wanted her. It was all he could do not to lay her down on the floor tug up her skirts and find the evidence of her own desire.
This kiss had to last. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her up against his chest and on the tips of her toes until the only thing keeping her upright was his strength.
When at last he’d explored every corner of her mouth, he kissed her jaw, then buried his face into the tender flesh of her barely bared neck. They clung to each other in the knowledge that at any moment they could pull apart and never touch again.
He pressed open mouthed kisses to her throat as she dropped her head back giving him all the access he could ever desire. The wild beat of her blood pounded beneath his lips, maddening his desire to tear her clothes from her limbs and kiss every last inch of her. He nibbled slightly at the delicate skin hovering above her collarbone and she gasped, her fingers digging into his arms, the pleasure as intense for her as his at giving it to her.
As he kissed slow, hot kisses along the base of her throat, he slid one hand up her tight bodice, caressing her body through the layers of silk and undergarments.
She arched against him and for a brief moment he was tempted to rip the frock to shreds.
But instead, he leane
d back and gazed down on her rapt visage. It pierced him through, the pleasure on his wife’s features. Unlike all the other women he had known, there was something full of wonder on her face.
And he didn’t want to cease. Not while he had her here in this moment, not when as soon as she had her divorce, she’d no doubt be gone.
Chapter 7
The same townhouse
Four thirty in the afternoon
How could she have let him kiss her?
The thought thundered in her brain, one great recrimination hammering again and again. She’d fended off many kisses, unwilling to give herself over to sensual passion. She should have pulled away. But she couldn’t, not when her entire body demanded it. My god, this was her husband, and he was rough and angry and so powerfully erotic she could do nothing but ride the storm of his mastery.
She should say no. She should. But the kiss was so hypnotic, so incredibly tempting she couldn’t find the strength within her to say no.
Say no?
She should scream no at the top of her very lungs but she feared that if she did scream the only word she would be able to scream would be a resounding yes!
Slowly, she opened her eyes and realized he was staring down at her. His gaze was half closed with desire. “I want you,” he whispered. “Without reservations. Once. Just once.”
And oh how she wanted him. Her husband. It was such a cruel twist of fate that the man she suddenly desired more than any other man she’d ever met before was the very man who she should hate above all others. He had abandoned her, after all. Yet, her body refused to hate him. She said nothing as she lifted her hand and traced the side of his face, wishing he wasn’t so handsome, wishing that he didn’t make her feel so utterly alive in his embrace.
He swept her up into his arms and carried her to the striped pink silk chaise and lowered her so that she sat facing him. Easing her down, he knelt directly before her on the soft rug. His fingers flicked at the hem of her skirt as he held her gaze, his eyes ablaze with dangerous passion.
“I have thought of nothing else since last night,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Nothing else but you.”
“I am not going to bed you and. . .” Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at him. His words were pure torture to her conflicted soul. It was imperative she remember it was her body he wanted and nothing else. And in fact, it was only his body she longed for. For she knew him not at all. “I do not believe such drivel, Your Grace.”
“Jack,” he said softly as if she hadn’t just made her position plain. “You must call me Jack. And it is not drivel. It’s the truth.”
Good God, his gaze was powerful, she wanted to tear her own away, but couldn’t. Not when his eyes seemed to speak more volumes about what he would do to her just awakened body than any words could ever do. In fact, his eyes seemed to have a direct connection to her soul and the wild heat spinning within her. “Truth though it may be, calling you by your given name seems. . . unwise.”
“But you must,” he tilted his head slightly, his dark hair brushing his forehead. “Because we are going to be intimate. Very, very intimate”
His hands traced over her slippers then he clasped her ankles, massaging his thumbs over her silk stockings. She gulped. “Are we?” she asked feeling most uncommonly stupefied.
In reply, he tugged her skirts up, sliding them over her knees, pressing them back to her hips, exposing her stockinged legs and her lace undergarments.
Shock and a most alarming anticipation held her frozen. She should move. She really should, and yet her damnable curiosity held her still. Yes. Curiosity should always be explored and she’d often wondered about the mating rituals of. . . She sucked in a shaking gasp as she realized that she was indeed going to see what he might do next. His eyes dropped from hers and wandered over her legs.
Instead of taking his leisure, he reached forward, took handfuls of her thin, lacy linen drawers and tore them apart. The sound of fabric ripping mixed with their rough breath. Cool air caressed her as her most secret place was bared to his eyes. “What are you doing?” she yelped, shocked.
This was a side of him, of any man, that she’d not seen. A wild demanding part. She’d expected him to touch her legs but not to storm her very gate. And she had absolutely no idea whether she should brain him or perhaps open her thighs a trifle wider.
“Taking what is mine,” he whispered simply, his voice the tone of hot whiskey and hunger.
She should have hated him for that, but it was not hate that made her ache. It was the painful realization that a secret, foolish part of her had wanted to be consumed by such a powerful man. . .a man who could match her for passion and fire and determination.
With focused intent, he studied her folds, then very carefully, he slid his forefinger over her opening, gathering its slick moisture before he circled it over a part of her anatomy to which she had only ever read about in the most obscure of medical texts.
Her hand flew to her mouth and she bit down on her knuckles to stop a cry of pleasure so intense it was nearly pain. Every inch of her skin tempted her to drop her head back and let him do as he wished to her, but there was something driving her now. Something more than just being the receiver of pleasure.
She wanted him to understand that she was in control of herself, that she couldn’t be controlled, not even by a master of sensuality like himself. He could not think her some silly twit to be done with as he pleased. Oh no. She was most definitely one who grasped life by the hands… Though at present what she contemplated grasping was something else entirely.
“And you, Your Grace?” she whispered as he circled his forefinger over her, teasing the little nub with deliciously wicked flicks. “Don’t you wish me to. . .” She leaned forward, her gaze locked with his and stroked her fingers over his smooth breeches, tracing the line of his hip then caressing his groin until her hand slid down and cupped the hard length straining against his clothing.
The heft of it was shocking in her grasp. She knew women took men’s shafts into their bodies, yet she still wondered at it. It seemed an impossible happening, given her own small entry and the girth of his member. But given how many men and women frolicked in the gardens of Venus, she had no doubts she would adjust.
If she wished it.
Which of course she did not.
No. She’d much rather dig about the sands of Egypt than. . . Cordelia sucked in a calming breath, determined not to lose control of herself or where she’d allow this to lead. Not when so much was at stake.
His eyes fluttered shut as she rubbed her fingers over the long hardened length. Still, even in his pleasure, he continued to stroke her, clearly savoring their mutual wish to drive the other wild with need.
Terrified by the heights he was pushing her to, she started to pull her hand away and stop this madness but as she did, the door swung open on its unfortunately well oiled and silent hinges.
It was so silent, she only caught the motion of the door opening from the corner of her eye and the sight sent her heart throttling against her throat in alarm.
With a yelp of consternation, Cordelia twisted away from Jack, her skirts wrapping about her legs. Simultaneously, Jack vaulted to his full height. In the fumble, the silky fabric of her skirts slipped her off the couch. To her dismay, she landed with a solid thump on the cream and rose Aubusson rug. . . At Jack’s feet.
Her knees poked up into the air and her palms slammed flat onto the floor, her mouth open in a silent o of shock.
“Sir Geoffry Bellamy and. . .” The old servant gaped, his silvery brows jutting up to his hairline. Apparently, even Smythe, butler extraordinaire, couldn’t overlook this particular faux pas.
Mortification rolled through Cordelia as Jack grabbed her forearms and yanked her to her feet. Her skirts tumbled about her ankles in an unorganized fashion and she had the decided impression that her virginal coif had gone morning after coital bliss.
Completely bumble brained, she knew she shoul
d probably be adjusting her frock back into place, but she was too lost in the damning realization that she’d been caught in deshabille with her husband by the solicitor protesting for her annulment.
Jack gave her hand a quick and surprisingly reassuring squeeze. “I do beg your pardon gentlemen, but the duchess was suffering a limb spasm and of course as her husband it was my duty to. . .ah. . .”
“Assist her?” Suggested Sir Bellamy. The older man’s cheeks bulged purplish pink over his starched white collar and his lips were twisted up like crushed rose petals in his shrewd assessment of the situation.
“Exactly,” Jack said smoothly. “So glad you understand, Sir Bellamy.”
The older man put a hand to his silver blue cravat and cleared his throat. “Yes, well, these things happen, Your Grace.”
Smythe continued to stand rather ineffectually in the doorway, preventing another person from entering.
Said person said brightly, “I say, might I come in? I am here after all in the position of physician. If the young woman needs assistance, certainly I could—”
“No,” Jack assured the hidden gentleman hastily.
Cordelia patted her hair, getting ahold of herself and her usual sense of authority. “Do join us Mr.?”
Smythe blinked furiously then stuttered, “S-sir. Michael Dillon, my lady.”
“Thank you, Smythe,” Cordelia soothed, amazed she was capable of sounding so normal given the outrageous circumstances.
The butler continued to stand there, his eyes flicking from the couch to herself then Jack, then back again as his mouth opened and closed.
One would have thought that under Kathryn’s employ he would have seen everything, but apparently, even Kate refrained from frolicking with the duke downstairs. “You may go now, Smythe,” she said kindly, hoping he would break out of his revery. “And allow Sir Dillon in.”
He gave a small nod, wavering. “Shall I bring tea?”
