Duchess in Love (19 page)

H
er throat was dry. She curled her fingers around the belled shape of her empty brandy glass.

“As it happens,” said her husband, “I do see something that I like. Very much.”

The fire crackled behind them, and he stepped closer, so he was standing just before her.

“May I take it?”

For a moment she didn't understand his question. He wore no scent, just a smell of himself, an open-air, woodsy smell with a touch of chalk.

“Why do you smell like chalk?” she asked, stalling for time.

“Before I start a sculpture, I work on paper.”

“So you've been sketching goddesses,” Gina said, desperately trying not to think about his question. “Does Esme—”

But he took the words from her mouth and kissed her, his mouth sweet against her lips. Large hands gently uncurled her fingers from the brandy glass. She relaxed into his arms thinking:
Yes, take what you want
. But she didn't say it out loud. It would be too easy to add:
Please, please, please
.

He seemed to have forgotten the question altogether. He
was running his fingers through the long strands of her hair, brushing his lips gently across hers. “You have lovely hair,” he whispered. “It shines in the firelight like fire itself.”

“Very poetic,” she said, trying to lean closer against his body.

He kissed her again, his lips soft and coaxing.

“I didn't sketch a goddess. I found myself sketching you,” he remarked, with just a shade of surprise in his voice.

“Well, I'm no goddess,” Gina admitted. That truth took a bit of the enjoyment out of her.

“You're better,” he said, rather thickly. Enjoyment flowed right back into the pit of her stomach. He was kissing her neck as worshipfully as if she were a goddess.

But it wasn't what she wanted. It wasn't—
wasn't
the same. So she took her arms from where they were docilely slung around his neck and let them slide down his back.

He was delicately kissing the side of her cheek. He started kissing her ear.

She trembled, spreading her fingers against the lean muscles of his back. Then she pulled, sharply, snapping his body against hers.

He was muscled, Cam was. She could feel muscles all over his back, through the thin linen of his shirt. The feeling made her heart pound in her chest, and made her press closer and closer to his body.

“If you won't take it,” she said huskily,
“I will.”
She twisted her head to capture his mouth and licked his lips so that he had to open them and kiss her, kiss her the way he had yesterday. He tasted dark and delicious and like Cam.

Finally his mouth lunged against hers. He licked her lips, great stroking, predatory kisses that made heat surge through her legs. It was a kiss that let time pass, a lazy, impassioned, heartbreaking kiss.

His hands slid over her breasts. She cried out, sound
lessly, against his mouth and arched into his hands. But he couldn't get any closer.

“Cam!” she choked. She opened her eyes and saw him looking down at her, laughing eyes looking as depraved as ever.

“Were you wishing to experiment, lady wife?” he whispered.

His hair was standing on end, dark eyes, dark lashes that made her feel dizzy with desire. She nodded, hearing the ocean pound in her ears.

But he waited, eyebrow raised. His hand kept up a lazy sweep over her breast until she pulled him to her again. She held him as tightly as she could. It couldn't be called a caress since she had the grasp of a drowning woman.

“Damn you,” she whispered, “kiss me.”

“The duchess is swearing,” laughed the duke. His eyes searched hers. “Kisses only?” Why did his voice sound so calm when hers was raw with desire?

She nodded.

He swept an arm under her legs and cradled her against his chest. Then he took her to the bed and yanked at her bodice. It came down, and his mouth closed on her breast. Gina cried out loud.

She couldn't seem to stop herself. Every time, every single time he suckled at her breast, she cried out again and arched up against the weight of his knee as it parted her legs.

He wrenched at her gown and it ripped neatly down the seam between lace and silk.

Then he bent his head again, and she sank her fingers into that wild black hair and writhed under him, clutching at his shoulders.

Suddenly he moved and lay on top of her, with only the cloth of his pantaloons and the frail silk of her ruined gown between them, and rocked downward hard. Without con
scious thought she pushed back, rubbing against his hips. He made a hoarse sound and opened his mouth over hers, great throbbing, tormenting kisses. She closed her eyes and begged silently. Begged that he would know what she wanted without her having to say something so humiliating.

He stopped. Took his hands away.

“No,” she gasped.

She closed her eyes tight against what she saw on his face.

“Gina.”

She pretended not to hear.

“Gina. We have to stop now.” His voice was far too controlled.

“No!” she said sharply.

He laughed, and she opened her eyes.

“How can you laugh?” she demanded.

“Not for want of desire, if that's what you're asking.” Even a novice could hear the rasp in his voice. He pulled away and sat on the edge of the bed.

Every inch of her body was quivering with pleasure and frustration and desire, all mixed together. She glanced down at the rip in her nightrail. Yellow silk was pushed to the side and a round, plump breast with a pale pink nipple lay open to the air, rising and falling with her breath. It was beautiful; it looked different, felt different, than an hour ago.

She looked up to meet her husband's eyes. A moment later a dark hand curved around the firm weight of her breast.

She sighed and arched her back, just a little, so she plumped into his hand.

“Damn it, Gina,” he said, his voice strangled in his throat. “You're driving me insane—” And he bent his head.

It seemed to be some kind of involuntary reaction, she thought shakily, hearing her own cry echo a second later. He kissed her and she…again. And again.

He had both breasts now, and she twisted up against his hands, his mouth; soft hair brushed her skin and he suckled hard, harder. Cries flew from her lips until a large hand covered her mouth. She bit it.

He rolled away, breathing hard. Gina followed him, enjoying the way her ravished nightrail fell in shreds over her creamy skin.

She came up on her knees before him. “Men have nipples too, don't they?”

He seemed to be trying to catch his breath, so she pulled up his shirt. He did have nipples, beautiful and flat, like ha'penny pieces on his muscled chest. She ran a finger experimentally around one and he shivered, as if she'd touched the surface of a lake.

“If I kiss you there, will
you
moan?”

“Absolutely not,” Cam said, staring at the ceiling. She guessed he was trying to ignore her until he got control of his breathing.

So she dipped her head and continued on her experimental way.

Somewhat to her disappointment, he didn't make a sound. But his body quivered and one hand came up to her shoulder, slipped under the ruined lace and ran a delicate caress over her naked skin. She could hear the air shudder in his chest. It was sound enough.

She came up for air and he pushed her away. His breathing was wild and his eyes were wilder.

“Damn it, Gina!”

“The duke is swearing!” she mocked. “Call out the army! Summon the militia!”

He rolled his eyes at her. “Be still.”

She bent over, green eyes alight with mischief, cradled his face in her hands, and pursed her lips into an exaggerated kiss. “Mayn't a wife kiss her husband?”

Her lips were full, cherry red, swollen, luscious.

Cam could feel a headache coming on.

“We have to stop this nonsense,” he said woodenly. “Enough. Another few moments and your marquess will find himself cheated.”

“He would be cheated if I lost my virginity,” Gina said.

“But we're nowhere near that point.”

“So you think!” he snapped.

White arms entwined his neck. The thought made him shudder. If he didn't get himself out of his chamber, he'd make Gina his. No question about that. Except that she had her pompous marquess.

A sweet, warm voice breathed into his neck. “Thank you, Cam. I…found it very enjoyable.”

He grabbed her arms and pulled them off his neck. “I agree. Very enjoyable.” He stood up and moved away. But when he met her eyes he couldn't keep up his bad humor.

She was laughing. “I can't tell you what pleasure it gives me to realize that I, plain old Ambrogina, have driven a man to the edge of despair.”

“I wouldn't call it the edge of despair,” he replied rather stuffily.

She grinned. “That's how Esme describes it.”

“Well, she might not be so far off,” Cam admitted. Just watching Gina sit on the bed was enough to drive him to despair.

Even as he watched she swung her long, slender legs from the bed and pulled on her robe. He could still see one beautiful breast peeking out. Then she pranced over to him like some sort of exuberant femme fatale.

“You're not supposed to be so triumphant about it,” he muttered.

“I didn't think I had the ability to drive a man—”

“—to the edge of despair,” Cam filled in.

A smile trembled at the corner of her mouth, but her eyes were serious. “Sometimes I feel as if I grew old without ever being young.”

“Old! You're what? Twenty-two?”

“Twenty-three. That's old to be getting married for the first time, Cam.”

“Not in the real world. In Greece, most women marry in their twenties.”

“I don't know the real world. I only know this world, and I've heard many young women called dried-up old maids, who were my age or only slightly older. I thought perhaps…” Her voice trailed off.

“Are you trying to tell me that you feel
dried up
?” His voice was ripe with disbelief.

“Not—it's just—” She fidgeted with the tie to her robe, and finally looked back at him. “Because I'm married, I have heard many conversations about bedroom matters.”

“I can guess. Women talking about what they enjoy in bed.”

She looked faintly surprised. “Actually, they mostly talk about what men enjoy. But I didn't have—” She started again. “It's obvious that men like very young women. You see it everywhere. Wives and their husbands rarely sleep together, and husbands have young mistresses. Not my age: younger.”

“Those men aren't married to you.” He let his hands slide through the silk of her hair, down the curves of her shoulders, brush her breasts, curl over the sweet curve of her bottom. “If a man was married to you, he would never want anyone else. Not younger, or older.”

“You don't think I'm too old?” Her eyes met his, and he was startled by the anxiety in them.

“Too old for
sex
? Are you addled, Gina? Your husband will probably be dragging you over to the bed when you're
both eighty-five and barely moving.” He risked looking down at her body, only to find that her robe had opened again, thanks to her fumbling with the tie.

He slid a rough thumb over one rose-colored nipple and a little sound escaped her, a little puffing moan. He did it again. She squeaked again.

“Gina, if I touch you there”—he did it—“what does it feel like?”

She gasped.

“What does it feel like?” he persisted.

“Quite lovely,” she whispered, so quietly he barely heard it.

He curved one arm around her back. She had turned a little pink and looked confused. Then, without warning, he sucked one of those luscious nipples into his mouth. After all, they were just sitting there, begging to be kissed.

She screamed, her knees buckled, and he barely managed to catch her weight in his arm.

“You're a shrieker,” he said with satisfaction. “In fact, I would say without hesitation that you are one of the most sensual women I've ever had the pleasure to kiss.”
If not the most,
he silently acknowledged.

She looked at him, green eyes lustful and embarrassed all at once. He smiled and decided to embarrass her some more. He tightened his left arm around her waist. “Dried up?” he said softly, into her ear. He let his right hand slip down the silky front of her gown. Suddenly his hand curved over the sweetest mound he'd ever felt. Even through silk he could feel heat. She quivered all over. “If you were any more responsive,” Cam said hoarsely, “a man would never let you leave your bedchamber.”

He couldn't stop himself and pulled her against him, hard. His tongue slipped inside her mouth, and his body strained against hers. He pushed her back on the bed, and she went
willingly, clinging to him. He spread the rip on her gown open wide so her whole delectable body lay there. He bent to kiss her and his hand drifted down…down.

She leaped against him when he touched her. Oh God, she was soft. Sweet. His mind went black with desire and he turned and took her mouth, plunging with his tongue while he longed to do the same with his body. Her eyes were shut and she was clutching his shoulders, gasping things he couldn't understand. But he didn't care.

He moved from her mouth to her breast and she twisted up against his body and screamed, a gasping little scream. And now he had her luscious body where he wanted it, his hand in her softness, sleek now, wet now, plump, throbbing around his fingers. When he lifted his mouth from her nipple she began to pull away, gasping “No,” and other foolish things. So he simply put his lips back and suckled. Small cries flew from her mouth, and there was no resistance, just that gorgeous body laid out for him, all sweet cream and silky skin, a tuft of hair between her legs like pale port wine.