Dreaming of the Duke (The Dukes' Club Book 2)

by Eva Devon

  Desire and anger raced through her, a formidable combination. Fury at her traitorous hunger erupted inside her. She hauled back her palm and ready to crack it against his cheek but she didn’t. She hesitated, her gaze trailing to his soft lips. Lips so strong yet lush and full of promise. And in that hesitation, he acted.

  Jack lifted her up onto her tiptoes and he bent down capturing her mouth in one swift hot kiss. The kiss was meant to devour and devour it did. All her resolve and anger sparked into a well of need. Her clenched hands relaxed and instead of shoving him away, she grabbed onto his broad shoulders opened her mouth to him.

  It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that for her whole life she had had to forgo ultimate pleasure so that one day she could be free of him. . . and now? Now, that she was in his presence with him kissing her, it was the most perplexing thing to realize that she had desired no man as she now desired him.

  For just a little longer. That was all she desired. Just a little longer and so she tilted her head back and drank in the sensation of her body melded against his.

  Just as he should be, he was hard in all the places that she was soft. The plains of his chest were taut and even through layers of fabric she could feel the precise definition of his strength. She wanted to drown in it. To give herself up to pleasure.

  The tips of his fingers traced over her back, then his palms slid up her sides until they were at her breasts ready to cup them.

  Oh, how she ached for his hands to cover her breasts. But she couldn’t. Could she?

  This was madness! She was throwing her future away for his touch!

  Panting, she tore herself away. “I cannot do this.”

  His own face was dazed with passion. “You want this,” he said and goodness, his voice was shaded with sin and the promise of all the forbidden things he would do to her.

  “I want my freedom more.”

  “You can have both.”

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  “Give me a week. One week.”

  “Why?”

  “To pleasure you. In any way. . . In every way you wish and then if you wish it, I will find a way for you to be free. You will never have to see England or my family again with no ill effects. If that is what you wish.”

  Good god, could she say yes?

  *

  Christ, he needed her to say yes. His sanity was riding upon her answer. Just the feel of her beneath his gloved fingers was the sort of temptation a boy feels on his first night with his first woman. He hadn’t felt this completely alive in a decade and he couldn’t relinquish that for anything.

  Cordelia licked her lips and swayed. “If anyone ever knew.”

  “They never will,” he assured her. Hell, at this point he’d say anything to get her damn frock off her body and free her for his touch, but luckily, his reasoning this time was based on the truth.

  Her breasts rose and fell quickly, and her eyes were wary even if they were full of heat. “You will let me go. If I give you one week.”

  His own desire twisted up into something else that felt suspiciously like regret. It sounded as if she were selling herself to him for her freedom. Perhaps that was what she was doing and it was in the end, what he was asking her to do. But in one week, he could rid himself of his hunger for her, couldn’t he? And she would get her freedom and a bit of pleasure in the bargain. . . That had to be the answer. “One week and then I will take you to the nearest port, and I will handle my grandmother.” He hesitated. He’d never gone against the old girl before. But he could. If he had to. And for Cordelia, he would. He wouldn’t let her be destroyed for him. “I am the Duke of Hunt after all.”

  “Then I won’t say no,” she whispered. “I don’t even wish to say no. But you must understand, it is not you I desire, as difficult as it is to admit. I don’t even know you. It is your body. . . your abilities that I long for.”

  He nodded, his own body humming with the knowledge that he was going to use every bit of carnal knowledge he had to win her over. It was ever the case. His body was a vehicle for a woman’s corruption and he would joyfully corrupt her. It was in his nature and at present, whether she wished to admit it or no, it was her primary desire. “One week,” he said softly.

  It would have to be enough.

  Chapter 15

  The hunting lodge on the Devon coast was ensconced in a small valley, with sharp, rocky hills covered in verdant grass on three sides and the crashing ocean on the other. Cordelia stared out at the sea, knowing that somewhere out there (well due south really) was Africa and her brothers.

  It was all very disconcerting to know that they were getting on with out her. She’d placed a great store into the importance of her contributions to their work. Surely, no one could replace her? This sudden uncertainty in her work was a sudden and most unwelcome shock and she could only assume it pertained to her husband still sitting atop his horse. For each day here she spent with him, each day in this grey, unfriendly, rule ridden country, she was away from her dreams.

  She swung her glance to the two story stone, Georgian house. Inside it lay her ruin. She scowled at it. Not because she thought the stone faced house ugly, but rather because she had a remarkable desire to go inside and get on with it.

  The entire ride here had been a battle within. To give in or not to give in? Well, she’d promised a week, and unlike some others that she could mention (the entire Eversleigh clan for instance) she kept her promises. And this was a promise she might actually enjoy, if she gave herself permission.

  Jack swung down from the formidably sized equine and stood behind her, molding his front to her back. As he slid his hand to her middle, he whispered against her neck, “Steam is exuding from your ears.”

  Her stomach fluttered at the close contact and a large part of her, the virgin part, urged her to bolt. The other side, her adventurous no nonsense side, said running would be the act of a coward, and coward she was not. She lifted her chin, determined to seem unmoved by his presence and the spicy maleness of him that was, if she admitted it (something she would never do aloud), swoon worthy. “My brain is a trifle taxed.”

  “Are you sure you have not overheated from my very presence.”

  She glanced up and threw him a condescending stare. “Your presence while intriguing will hardly induce my brain to go a roaming.”

  He chuckled, his dark eyes heating with amusement and decidedly something more exciting. “Are you certain?” Those eyes of his focused on her lips, his lids suddenly heavy and not with sleep. “It seems to wander off every time we kiss.”

  Much to her consternation, her lips parted, as breathing normally suddenly became a challenge. “Are you attempting to seduce me?” She cleared her throat and straightened her shoulders, refusing to be so easily won. “Because if you are, you are failing.”

  His lips parted in a slow smile. An amused knowing smile. “Not all seduction is about sexual congress, my dear.”

  His knowing was greatly irritating as she was used to knowing most everything. And yet. . . And yet, she couldn’t help being suddenly excited at the prospect of learning something new. Something entirely foreign to her. So instead of pretending as if she already was aware of such a thing, she furrowed her brow and asked, “Is it not?”

  He brought his other hand to rest on her hip and slowly turned her body so that it was only with an inch distance of his. “Seduction is a game.”

  She was not particularly good at games. She was much better at study and work. So, she rarely played them lest she fail. And she hated the idea of failing somehow in love making. How humiliating it would be to be bad at it. She searched his face, looking for any sign that he was ribbing her, but his face was only husky with desire and something else. . . Understanding. She swallowed. “Have we already been playing it?”

  “Most certainly,” he said softly.

  She nodded. “Good. What next then?”

  He laughed a full booming laugh. “Eager are we?”

  She scowled
. “One cannot learn without practical application. The reading of books is most useful, but eventually one must how shall we say. . . Take the bull by the horns.”

  “What an interesting analogy. I do think I like being compared to a fiery bull.” His amused grin belied the seriousness of his words and he paused, the sea breeze suddenly whipping up and playing with his dark hair. “How much theoretical knowledge do you have?”

  Cordy bit down on the inside of her cheek. Not much. Her mother had been reticent despite her own scandalous behavior. In fact her mother had spent little time at all with her, and certainly never the sort of time which would induce such intimate conversation, and her father had shoved a book of animal husbandry at her. Her brothers had certainly given her many clues as to the necessities of the male anatomy. But beyond the basics she was as untutored as anyone could be and suddenly she found herself tensing, a feeling of shocking insufficiency sweeping over her. She was Jack Eversleigh’s equal, nay superior in almost every way. . . But one. She averted her eyes and mumbled, “Not much.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Not much,” she huffed again.

  He bent down slightly, angling his ear toward her. “Do forgive me, I missed that.”

  She whipped her gaze back to him, ready to deliver a blazing set down when she spotted the twinkle his eyes and the twitching of his lips. She scowled (an expression quite unfamiliar to her but suddenly frequent in its application) up at him. “Have you finished?”

  His shoulders began to shake with laughter. The laughter of dark wicked temptation and yet there was a lightness to it. The sort of lightness that convinced one to stick their hand in a fire, certain they would not be burned. “Oh duchess, I have not even begun.”

  And with that he swept her up into his arms, cradling her body against his broad, linen clad chest.

  Cordy gasped and her own body revolted, rather like that of a cat held over water. “What the devil—”

  Jack grinned. “Now. Now. Enjoy it.”

  One would have thought she weighed no more than a sack of potatoes the way he could bandy her about and it was getting quite distressing. She was an independent woman after all, more than capable of ambulating on her own.

  Where was her parasol when she needed it? Then again, his muscled arms really were rather nice, and her palm over the solid beat of his heart was most curious. Perhaps this was all part of seduction? “Enjoy what exactly, may I ask?”

  Jack strode down the small stone walk, lined with white and yellow roses leading up to the house and he paused at the door, and kicked with a booted foot. It gave a most alarming squeal as the lock broke free and the red painted panel swung open. “Why, me carrying you over the thresh hold of course.”

  Cordy froze in his arms, her heart doing the strangest dance within her chest. By all rights, the very symbol of him carrying her over a threshold should have induced nothing but irritation and rebellion within her.

  Irritation and rebellion seemed to have abandoned her somewhere out on the road, because instead she felt a sort of aching warmth in the vicinity of her heart, an aching warmth which sent her hands up to his strong neck. “Well if you insist on playing a part, Your Grace, so shall I.”

  “Good. That shall make this all perfectly pleasant.”

  Playing parts.

  Cordy swallowed as she stared at his perfect face. It was all a game. Her intimacy with a man far more beautiful man than she, was an illusion. He was the toast of society and she was an oddity. And she had to remember that. Or else she might lose the greatest prize of all. Her heart. She shook her head and glanced about the small foyer. “Down please.”

  “Enough romance?”

  She snorted, ramming up the wall she kept in place to keep others out. She wouldn’t lose her heart. She would not, for she’d never let it within distance to be captured. Besides her heart was already firmly owned by Egypt and she was not the sort to switch allegiances over a few minor flutters of infatuation. “Seduction seems more preferable to romance.”

  She turned slowly, taking in the brightly champagne brocade papered walls, and cream and gold carpet beneath her feet. The house was beautiful. A diamond bauble with no substance to it.

  “Aren’t they the same?” Jack asked.

  “One would assume there was some affection in romance.”

  The humor slipped from his face. “Of course. And there is to be no—”

  “Affection between you and I?” she queried as she made a show of studying the dark wood stairs climbing the right side of the foyer and then down the wide hall which led to the back of the house. “No, I don’t think there shall be any of that.”

  “I see,” he said, his voice lacking the joviality which had warmed it before. “Purely physical.”

  “I thought I had made that clear. Besides, isn’t that your ideal?”

  He stared at her for a good long moment, his eyes shuttering. “Yes. Yes is it. I had forgotten.”

  “A bad memory?” She forced a playful smile, feeling that somehow they had stepped onto dangerous ground. “Sure sign of old age, Your Grace. You must—”

  “Jack,” he said flatly.

  She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Stop your gracing me. My name is Jack.”

  The air around her seemed to chill and for the first time in the last twenty-four hours she recalled her initial impression that her husband was hiding something very dark beneath his jovial surface.

  “Jack,” she tested slowly, the syllables and consonance playing out over her tongue and teeth. It was remarkably sensual suddenly saying his name, and saying it carefully. Despite herself, another smile (good lord how often did one need to curve their lips?) replaced her recent brittle grin. A gentle, genuine smile. “A splendid name”

  “As is yours.”

  To her consternation her cheeks blazed at the simple complement. “I had nothing to do with the choosing of it, I assure you.”

  He sighed and then ran his gloved hand through his dark hair, tousling it into unruly waves. “Are you incapable of accepting a compliment.”

  She cocked her head to the side, contemplating his assertion. She’d never really given compliments any thought. She didn’t receive them generally unless it had to do with her efficient running of her sites. “It depends.”

  He took a step forward, his booted step silent on the carpet. “On what?”

  She shrugged, her heart beginning to pound again. “What the compliment is on.”

  “If I was to contemplate your intellect.”

  “Most acceptable.” She nodded and involuntarily began to take a step back. Stopping herself mid retreat she quipped, “Thank you.”

  His gaze roamed up and down her body as if he sensed her sudden discomfort. “I have yet to compliment it. It was a hypothetical.”

  She pursed her lips in annoyance. “Must you be so contrary?”

  “Must you?”

  She hmphed and started to turn away, giving him her shoulder.

  His hand reached out and slipped his gloved fingers around hers.

  She stopped, but did not face him. Her breath came in sudden quick takes at the intimate feel of his touch. It was so gentle, so soft, yet so alive.

  “And if I was to contemplate your beauty.”

  Her throat suddenly choked up, tightening in a most alarming fashion. To relieve the unfamiliar feeling, she blew out a harsh breath and tried to pry her fingers from his. “Please do not make fun.”

  His fingers tightened, refusing to let go their hold. “Make fun?”

  She bit down on the inside of her cheek, desperate not to face him. Desperate not to talk of her mother and the horror of being an ugly daughter in the face of a resplendent mama. Squaring her shoulders, she queried quickly, “Are you not hungry? Do we even have any food? I am quite famished.”

  “Cordelia,” he said his voice firm yet kind.

  “Are there servants?” she rambled on. Or clothes for goodness sake. I shan’t w
ear this dress for a—”

  “Cordelia,” he cut in pulling her in slow degrees towards him. “You are beautiful.”

  She glanced back at him, commanding the tears threatening to lock her throat and sting her eyes to keep at bay. She would never let him see her cry. She knew the weakness of tears in women and she would never fall prey to it. For tears did nothing. “Thank you for your. . . For your exaggeration.”

  He lifted his free hand had cupped her cheek lightly, caressing his thumb along her chin. Jack lifted her face upward. “Why do you say exaggeration? Can you not accept what I say?”

  “Please do not use lies to seduce me. Especially such blatantly false ones. You do not find me beautiful.”

  “Are you mad, woman?” he breathed.

  “You said it yourself.”

  “Said what?”

  “That what you are attracted to is my adventurous spirit. You never once mentioned my beauty.” She looked away. For though it pained her, she could not look into his eyes. Not at this moment, not as she found that there was perhaps a crack in her wall after all.

  Chapter 16

  Just Past Dawn

  The Dukes’ Club hideaway

  Beautiful girls in Jack’s experience knew that they were. . . well, beautiful. As he gazed down into his wife’s earnest eyes, his heart beat in the most alarming and painful of ways. What bastard had taught her to believe she was anything less than a diamond of the first water?

  And he had an eye for women. Could see the ones that were glorious. The ones that left the powdery, uninspiring little pretty faces behind. Cordelia Eversleigh was a woman who could slay a ballroom of men if she so chose, and she had absolutely no idea.

  That had to change.

  If it was the last thing he did, she was going to see how insanely, maddeningly beautiful she was. Carefully, he caressed his thumb over her lower lip, keeping his gaze locked on hers. “You are the most beautiful woman of my acquaintance, and since you will not believe what I tell you. I am going to show you.”