One Dance with a Duke (18 page)

“Very well. If you win, I will pay you four hundred pounds.” He released her hand. “And if I win, you will come sit on my lap and lower your bodice.”

Oh dear
. Her hands curled into tight fists—one still on the table, the other in her lap. “I … I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. If I win this hand, you must come sit on my lap, lower your bodice, and expose your breasts to me.”

“And then what will you do?”

One of his dark brows lifted in a clear signal of carnal intent. “Whatever I wish.”

Amelia’s mind whirled. Dare she take his wager? The odds were against her. He was clearly the superior player, despite her gains of the last hour and this one paltry victory. But she wanted so badly to clear Jack’s debts on her own.

Even more than that, she wanted to best Spencer at his own game and watch that superior look slide straight off his smooth-shaven face.

But another part of her—a heated, yearning, deeply feminine part of her—perversely wanted to lose. To sit on his lap and strip this dress from her body and feel those strong, sculpted hands cup her bared breasts. And that ought to have been the strongest argument for getting up and leaving the table that instant.

“You will remain clothed?” she asked. She was an utter fool.

“But of course.”

“There must be a time limit.”

He nodded his agreement. “A quarter hour.”

“Five minutes.”

“Ten.” He removed a timepiece from his waistcoat pocket and laid it on the table.

Her fists uncurled, and she ran one damp palm over her skirts before reaching for the cards. “Agreed.”

With trembling fingers, Amelia began to gather the cards. The duke’s small discard pile lay off to one side, with the result that she reached for it last and added it to the bottom of the pile. As she turned the deck on its side to divide it for shuffling, the card she saw gave her a violent start.

The ace of spades.

Quickly masking her surprise, she split the deck and shuffled with energy. The duke had discarded the ace of spades. It made no sense. No one discarded an ace in
piquet. There was only one way to account for such a thing.

He’d sabotaged himself and allowed her to win. She’d thought herself gaining on him in skill, improving to his level. But in reality, he’d been in control of their match since the very beginning, manipulating the results. And now …

She looked up, and his intent, desirous gaze trapped hers.

Now she’d played right into his hands.

With an odd sensation in her chest, equal parts dread and anticipation, Amelia dealt the cards. She played them as best she knew how. And she lost. Badly.

She never had a chance.

“A stroke of luck,” he said. In a matter of seconds, he had the cards stowed and the table shoved aside. Then he patted his knee meaningfully. It was uncomfortably close to the gesture one might use to call a dog.

She needn’t obey it. He could make no claim on her honor, when he’d secured the wager through trickery.

Oh, but she wanted …

She
wanted
.

“Ten minutes,” he said. “No more. I’m a man of my word, remember? Come here, then.” He extended a hand to her, in almost a gallant gesture.

And Amelia accepted. She’d wanted to learn how to enjoy physical passion without risking her heart. Wasn’t this the perfect opportunity? It was only ten minutes.

She rose from her chair and crossed the short distance to his seat before turning sideways and perching awkwardly on his knees.

“Not like that,” he said impatiently. Grasping her by the hips, he lifted her and half-stood, repositioning them both as he sat back down.

Amelia discovered, with some horror, that she was
now straddling his lap. The thick folds of her skirts bunched up between them.

“Much better,” he said, still cupping her hips in his big, strong hands. He raised his eyebrows in expectation. “You remember the penalty. Lower your bodice.”

“On my own? But my buttons …”

“I daresay you can manage.”

Drat him, he was right. A lady didn’t grow up in genteel d’Orsay poverty without learning the trick of undoing her own buttons. She slowly raised her arms and folded them at the elbows, reaching behind her head for the topmost button of her gown, positioned at the base of her neck.

Clutching her hips tighter, he released a soft groan.

It took just a brief glance downward to learn the reason for it. With her arms raised like this, the bodice was straining at the seams. At the same time, the position thrust her breasts upward, with the combined result that twin scoops of flesh threatened to overflow her neckline.

His eyes fixed on the exposed tops of her breasts, and Amelia felt unspeakably tawdry. Her fingers trembled as she released the first button. Then another and another still. By the time she’d reached the fourth, her bosom was rapidly lifting and falling with her nervous breaths, and the duke’s breathing had taken on an audible rasp. She paused, unable to reach the fifth button.

“More,” he whispered roughly. Desire was plain in his voice. “Go on.”

Carefully, she lowered her arms and bent them behind her back, flexing her shoulder blades together and stretching her fingers toward the valley between them. His breath caught again. If the previous posture had put her breasts on display, this position all but served them up. His face hovered inches from her brimming cleavage as she undid the fifth button, then the sixth. Although
her neckline gaped, her tightly laced stays kept her breasts pert and round.

Seven now. Then eight.

How many buttons were there? Ten? Twelve? Twenty wouldn’t be enough. She loved the way he was looking at her, and the power she wielded over him as she eased each button loose. She didn’t feel tawdry anymore. She felt erotic and sensual and wanton … and completely not herself, for those were certainly not words that applied to Amelia d’Orsay.

But she wasn’t Amelia d’Orsay any longer, was she? She was Amelia Dumarque, the Duchess of Morland.

She was this man’s wife.

As her fingers neared the midpoint of her back, the bodice began to fall away from her body. His pupils widened with anticipation.

With a little roll of her shoulder, she dislodged one sleeve from its tenuous position on her arm. The fabric slid downward, taking half of her bodice with it. She pulled that arm free, and then easily bared the other. A chemise and stays still covered her torso, but she’d never felt so exquisitely naked. Uncertain what else to do with them, she allowed her hands to dangle at her sides.

With possessive leisure, his eyes roamed every curve of her body. Perspiration beaded in the valley between her breasts. The room was thick with leftover afternoon heat, and even if it weren’t—his bold appraisal was heating her from the inside out. No man had ever looked at her this way. Oh, she’d been ogled by Mr. Poste, and by a fair number of other men since. When framed by the right neckline, her bosom never failed to draw men’s notice. Unfortunately, none of her other attributes held their attention beyond that brief, greedy glance.

The duke’s gaze was different, though. Not leering,
but appreciative. Speculative. There was more than idle admiration going on behind those eyes. There was thoughtful planning and intelligent strategy. His eyes drew sweeping arcs over the thin gauze of her shift, as though he were mapping out each possible approach.

What a novel sensation, to be the object of strategy. What would it be like, to be pursued by this man with just a fraction of the determination and resources he devoted to pursuing that wretched stallion? Heat swirled through her at the idea, and she felt herself melting between her legs.

“God.” He tightened his grip on her waist and hauled her forward, bunching her skirts higher between them and bringing her pelvis in sudden, startling contact with his.

A little gasp escaped her. Obviously men did not melt between the legs. No, they grew hugely, demandingly hard. In response, her own body softened further.

“Your stays,” he choked out. “Unlace them.”

Breathless, she shook her head. “Only the bodice. That was the wager.”

Groaning, he released her hips. She closed her eyes, suddenly afraid. Not afraid she’d angered him, but afraid this interlude would end.

A touch, whisper-soft, grazed her hand where it dangled at her side. Soon the sensation echoed on the other hand—not only matched, but multiplied. He swept light caresses over the backs of her hands, her sensitive palms, and up the delicate skin of her wrists. Amelia wanted to moan. His touch was so sweet, so unbearably sweet.

Slowly, gently, with excruciating care, his fingers climbed her arms, lingering in the tender hollows of her elbows and skimming over the rounded flesh of her upper arms. He caressed the exposed planes of her upper back, and she shivered with pleasure as his fingertips traveled up her spine and traced the sweeping curve of her collarbone.
He dipped a single finger into the tender valley of her cleavage, then just as quickly drew it out.

She wished she’d obeyed him and unlaced her stays, so labored was her breathing now. She was faint with longing. Her eyelids trembled, even though she kept them tightly closed.

She felt him shifting, closing the gap between them. His breath warmed the curve of her neck. And then his lips pressed against her pulse.

Her eyes flew open. If he was kissing her neck, he couldn’t meet her gaze … and in that case, she wanted to see everything. As he lightly nibbled the underside of her jaw, she studied the peeling wallpaper with ridiculous concentration.
This is real
, she told herself.
The Duke of Morland is tasting my neck as though it were the most luscious, succulent fruit this side of Eden’s gates, and this is all real. There is the wallpaper to prove it
.

Grasping her by the shoulders, he gave her a necklace of kisses—kisses that grew increasingly hungry and fierce. By the time he reached the other side of her neck, he grazed her flesh with his teeth.

And then he really did bite her. Gently, but still she cried out in surprise.

“Hush,” he soothed, licking at her ear. “I’ve been wanting to do that ever since that damnable waltz.” Before she could even conceive of a reply, he added, “This, too.”

His hands slid around to claim her breasts. Greedily, possessively. He kneaded and shaped them, his fingers molding around the soft cups of her stays. Then, resting his forehead to her shoulder and releasing a lustful sigh, he burrowed his long fingers under the edge of her chemise, curved them under the swells of her breasts, and lifted. Her breasts sprang free with a nearly audible pop.

“God, yes.” He reclined, holding them up for his examination.
Her nipples contracted to tight peaks. Amelia felt like closing her eyes again, but she just couldn’t.

His finger covered the small freckle on the inner curve of her left breast. “Just the one,” he said softly. He trailed the same finger down, drawing a wide circle around the circumference of her areola. “And tawny, like spice.”

This is real. The Duke of Morland is eyeing my naked bosom with raw, unmitigated lust, and there are his dark, unwavering eyes to prove it
.

If she required any further evidence of his desire, it pulsed hotly against her feminine core. Bright pleasure sparked through her. Then his thumb brushed her hardened nipple, and she thought she would explode.

Pushing her breasts together, he leaned forward and buried his face in them, nuzzling either side in turn and swiping teasing licks over her breastbone. Then he pulled back and drew her left nipple into his mouth.

She couldn’t hold it in a moment longer. She moaned. But fortunately, so did he, so it wasn’t quite so embarrassing.

Keening low through her teeth, she brought one hand to the back of his head, teasing her fingers through his soft, curling hair as he sucked and licked. He transferred his attentions to her other breast, and the sensations began anew—so sharp and acute at first, then sweet and dark and deep. Without even thinking what she did, she rocked her hips against his, grinding against the hard ridge of his arousal.

“Yes,” he said, breaking away from her breast and kissing his way back up her neck. His hands slid to her hips, and he rocked her against him again. And again. Stoking her pleasure to a near-unbearable plateau.

“Yes.” He panted against her neck. “This is how I wanted you, that morning in the carriage. Just. Like. This.”

Truly? That morning they’d quarreled in the carriage, he’d imagined them doing
this?
He dragged her over his hard length again, sending a fresh surge of pleasure through her.

Her lips parted, and his name rushed out with her breath. A helpless plea for mercy, but he seemed to take it as encouragement.

“Amelia.” He clutched her hips tighter, nuzzled her ear. “God, we’ll be good together. I’ve known it from the first.”

No, no. Such dangerous words. She tried to block them out, but her shields faltered, and she let herself imagine, for just a moment, there was more than lust behind them. In her ears, his words echoed and altered, warping around all her girlhood fantasies and romantic dreams.
We’ll be good together. I’ve known it from the first. I’ve known you from the first. Oh God, Amelia. I’ve loved you from the first
. The foolish, useless craving for affection throbbed in her blood, made her hot between the legs. And her heart …

She didn’t think her heart could bear it if he spoke again, so she kissed him, out of sheer self-preservation. Stupid, stupid mistake. The emotions unleashed in that rough press of mouth against mouth … oh, they were a thousand times worse. His taste was too familiar now. He explored her mouth so thoroughly. It was all so unbearably intimate, it made her ache deep inside. She broke the kiss, intending to break away entirely.

But then he had his hands on her breasts again, and his mouth captured her nipple … Pleasure swamped her last hold on resistance. She was lost. Her hips moved of their own accord, rocking against his in a steady rhythm.

Hot sensation gathered between her thighs, spreading sweetly through her limbs. And still she craved more. She’d never imagined she could achieve pleasure this
easily—still mostly clothed, her body not yet attuned to his rough, masculine touch. But, oh, she was close. So close. That shimmering pinnacle of bliss hovered just beyond her reach, but she was striving toward it. Climbing higher … higher …