One Dance with a Duke (36 page)

His hands roamed possessively over the curves of her backside and hips. “Do you really know what a trial it was, Amelia? To look on from a distance while my wife danced and flirted and captivated every man in the room? Can you truly understand how that feels?”

Yes
, she thought.
Yes, you ridiculous man. Of course I know what it feels like, to stand by unnoticed while you hold every woman in the room in thrall
. She hadn’t considered it until this moment, but was it possible she’d enjoyed tonight partly out of revenge?

The devil in her said, “Tell me. Tell me how it feels.”

His reflected gaze trapped hers. Meanwhile, his hands were doing unseen, wicked things. “Perhaps I should say it made me immensely proud. That wouldn’t be a lie. But neither would it be the whole truth.”

She felt her skirts lifting in back, tangling about her ankles and teasing the sensitive hollows of her knees. Air rushed over her exposed legs, both cooling and inflaming her.

“The truth is”—his thigh nudged her legs apart—“it also made me angry.”

His fingers brushed the sensitive slope of her inner thigh, traveling up to stroke her sex. She was ready for him, her intimate flesh already swollen and damp with excitement, and the discovery dragged a low moan from them both. The hard ridge of his arousal branded her hip.

“It made me want to teach you a lesson.”

He roughly prodded her legs apart and moved to stand between them. Excitement rushed through her. In the mirror, the reflection of her breasts rose and fell at a suggestive pace, as though he were already moving inside her. His own breath came faster as he leaned against her, propping her skirts at her waist with his abdomen while his hands worked the buttons of his fall.

Within seconds, she felt him poised at her entrance. Her body ached for him. Wept for him.

“Yes?” he breathed.

“Yes,” she answered.

Yes
. He entered her in one hard, quick thrust that rocked the dressing table on its legs. Her body cringed at the sudden assault, but he gave her no quarter. He slowly withdrew, pulling out almost to the tip before driving home again, all the way to the hilt.

“This is mine,” he said, clutching her hips. He nudged deeper still. “Mine.”

He was so deep inside her, so hard and strong. He was all she could feel. Toes, fingers, lips, ears, skin … all the fringes of her body melted to insignificance.

Lifting her at the waist, he began to thrust, setting a brisk, unforgiving rhythm. Atop the dressing table, her bracelet rattled on the gilt tray. The reflection of her breasts bobbed in time with his movements, bouncing erotically and threatening to overflow her bodice. As the force of his thrusts increased, the dark border of one areola eased free. Now the neckline chafed her hardened nipple … back and forth, back and forth as he
moved, hemmed silk rubbing against the exquisitely sensitive nub.

And inside her … oh, God, inside her he was reaching places she hadn’t known existed. Pleasure coiled in her womb, volatile and intense. A devastating explosion seemed inevitable, and she worried that afterward, she would never be the same again. The strength left her arms. She leaned forward over the table, resting her weight on her elbows. The change in position earned his grunt of approval, and he began to thrust faster still. The folds of her skirt and petticoat wadded between her pelvis and the table edge, and as he moved, the bunched fabric stroked her just where she needed it.

“Spencer,” she gasped. She let her head roll forward, resting her feverish brow on one forearm.

“No.” His fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her head back up. The sharp yank on a thousand nerve endings sent pain and pleasure rushing from her scalp to her toes.

“Watch yourself,” he commanded her. “Watch yourself as you come. Every other man can see you as you were downstairs. Witty. Desirable. Charming. Elegant.” Each word drove home with another thrust. “But this is when you’re goddamned beautiful, and this beauty is mine. It’s for me, and me alone. Now and forever. Do you understand?”

She wouldn’t have thought it possible, but he doubled the force of his motions again. A bottle of eau de cologne rolled to the floor, crashing open in a flood of rich scent. Her senses were overwhelmed.

“Mine,” he said, on a hard, spanking thrust.

“Yes.” She watched, mesmerized, as her reflection flushed pink. Her swollen lips fell apart, exposing the tip of her tongue. She stared into the jewel-like blue of her own eyes, soaring closer to release with each delicious thrust. He was right; there was true beauty there.

“Yes. Oh, Spencer.
Yes.”
Her eyes squeezed shut as she came. She couldn’t have stopped them, any more than she could keep her eyes open for a sneeze. The force of her climax was too powerful, too sudden. It went on and on, as he drove into her relentlessly.

As the tremors in her core ebbed, she sensed the shift in him—that slight hitch in his motions that signaled he’d gone past the point of return.

And now she forced herself to look. She watched in the mirror as his jaw went tight, and his lip curled back to reveal gritted teeth. His face was contorted with pleasure, as if it felt so good it hurt. His eyes closed, and his neck arched.

That mask of primal, raw lust—it was for her. She’d done that.

“Yes,” she urged him. “Come for me now.”

He gave a harsh cry and froze as he spent inside her, digging his fingernails into her hips. She would have bruises there tomorrow. She would cherish them.

They remained there, joined, gasping and shuddering against the much-abused dressing table. He laid his brow on her bare shoulder. Perspiration misted them both.

He withdrew from her body, and she trembled helplessly in his arms. Her knees refused to solidify. She wondered if she’d even be able to stand.

“Oh, Amelia,” he finally said, sounding drugged and weak. “Come here.”

He helped her to the bed. She lay boneless atop the coverlet while he played lady’s maid, removing her gown, stockings, and undergarments. He dampened a cloth at the washstand and swabbed her brow and neck with cool water before dragging the cloth lower, to soothe the tender flesh between her legs.

He stretched out beside her on the bed. “Are you well?”

She managed a nod.

He smoothed the stray hairs from her face and kissed her cheek. Then he kissed her neck. And then that delicate pulse just beneath her ear. He kissed her everywhere. No eager nips or seductive swipes of his tongue. Just tender, reverent brushes of his lips against her skin, from crown to toe. Her exhaustion was so complete, she wasn’t even ticklish. He kissed the insides of her elbows, her belly, her knees, and even the broad, fleshy mound of her hip. She didn’t so much as flinch. Then he settled between her legs, spreading her thighs to accommodate the breadth of his shoulders. His fingers parted her gently, and he dropped a soft kiss against her sex.

Her hips bucked, just a little.

“I’ve been waiting forever to do this.” He stroked her with his tongue. “You taste so good.”

And with that, any fight in her was gone. She lay there, letting the beautiful pleasure sparkle and swirl through her veins. She brought one hand to his hair, sifting through the dark curls as he kissed her languidly. Within her, the need mounted again, and she knew he would soon bring her to another blissful crest—but she didn’t want to hurry. In some ways, she couldn’t imagine a greater pleasure than this. Knowing that there was a party downstairs and a bottle of brandy next door, but what her husband most wanted to do at this moment was just this: to lie between her legs and worship her body with his lips and tongue. She fought the rising climax as long as she could, wanting to prolong this time they were sharing together.

But she couldn’t make it last forever. He pursed his lips around her bud and did something indescribable with his tongue, and her peak was upon her before she even had time to breathe. First piercing, then soft and buoyant as a wave.

Oh. Oh.

Oh
.

He rested his head on her belly. “I’ve missed this.”

She smiled, stroking his hair. They’d shared a bed every night for weeks now, and they’d never done exactly “this” before. But she knew what he meant. He meant he’d missed her. Emotion thickened her throat.

“Spencer?”

He lifted his head, a silent question in his eyes.

“Please speak,” she begged him. “It’s a lovely moment, and this is where you ruin it. This is where you say something arrogant and insensitive. You know, to save me just in time, before I lose my heart to you completely.”

He gave her only a smile.

“Oh, dear.” She let her head fall back to the pillow. “There it went. I’ve fallen in love with you now.”

“Just now?” Chuckling, he rolled off her and came to a sitting position, resting his forearm on one bent knee. “Well, thank God for belated blessings.” He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s been coming on rather longer than that for me.”

“What?” She sat bolt upright. “What can you mean? Since when?”

“From the first, Amelia. From the very first.”

“No. I don’t believe it.”

“Don’t you?” He cast a meaningful look at his waistcoat pocket, where a corner of white peeked out.

“Why on earth are you still clothed?” she teased as her fingertips closed over the bit of linen. Her hands went utterly useless, however, once she plucked the cloth from his pocket and stared at it. It was
her
handkerchief. The one she’d pressed on him that first night on the Bunscombes’ terrace. Embroidered with her initials in purple script, twined round with ivy and decorated with a single buzzing honeybee. Had he truly been carrying it ever since? Carrying a
tendre
for her, as well? She could never have believed it, had she not been holding the evidence in her hand.

She looked up at him, astonished. “Spencer …”

Color rose on his cheekbones, and he shifted defensively. “Go on, do your worst. You have already accused me of being a romantic and a sentimental fool. I don’t know what more you can say to discredit me.”

“You are a sweet man.”

“God, there it is.” He flopped back on the bed, as if shot through the heart. “Repeat that to anyone, and I will have you brought up on charges of slander.”

“I wouldn’t dream of telling a soul,” she said, smiling as she nestled close. “I like it being our secret.”

His arm encircled her naked shoulders as he heaved a contented sigh. “Might I be allowed an endearment now? Or will you accuse me of treating you like a horse?”

“That would depend on the endearment, I suppose. What did you have in mind?”

“My dear? My darling? My sweet?” Skepticism tainted his voice as he tested each phrase.

“No, none of those. Too overused to have any meaning.”

He rolled to face her. “What about my pearl? My blossom? My treasure?”

She laughed. “Now you’re just making fun.”

He cupped her face in his palm, and what she saw in those entrancing hazel eyes made her breath catch. A capacity for emotion so fierce and loyal, it flashed with the enduring fire of diamonds. Deeply buried, but worth any effort to reach.

All teasing fled his voice. “My wife. My heart.” He tilted his head, considering. “My dearest friend.”

“Oh.” Emotion pinched sweetly in her chest. “I think I rather like that last.”

“So do I, Amelia.” He pulled her close for a kiss. “So do I.”

“There’s Briarbank.”

Amelia’s mount pranced sideways as she pointed. Spencer nudged Juno forward and let his gaze follow the indicated direction, scaling down a craggy bluff and winding into a bend of the river. There, tucked against a wooded bank, sat an ancient stone cottage. Smoke puffed in welcome from its chimney, rising above the trees and hovering above the river like a miniature cloud.

“It’s a lovely prospect, isn’t it?” Her eyes swept the verdant countryside and winding valley.

It was indeed, he thought, surveying the view. Lovely didn’t begin to describe it.

The green plateau they currently occupied was home to the ruins of Beauvale Castle. The castle’s crumbling turrets had been well positioned for defense. They overlooked the valley of the River Wye, and from this high bluff, one could see for miles in any direction. Miles of forests and farmland, displaying every shade of green in Nature’s palette. Dark, mossy glens that swallowed the sunlight; fields of summer alfalfa that sparkled as a mild breeze teased the grass.

“‘Once again I see these hedgerows, hardly hedgerows, little lines of sportive wood run wild,’” she recited quietly.
“‘These pastoral farms, green to the very door.’” She gave him a smile that arrowed straight for his heart.

How could he not love her? He’d married a woman who quoted Wordsworth. And not merely to impress or sound well versed in modern poetry, but because the verse meant something to her, and she kept it in her heart.

She looked at him through her lashes. “You’re very quiet. What are you thinking?”

At the anxious note in her voice, her mount moved beneath her. For her first lesson, she was doing quite well, but she still lacked the confidence to fully control a horse. It would be some weeks yet before he could allow her to ride alone.