The Duke and the Lady in Red (13 page)

He knew many a girl who had married at seventeen. Why did he find it appalling to think of her being on her own at so tender an age? “How did you manage to survive?”

“With skill, cunning, and perseverance.”

“And a fair amount of swindling?”

“I never take from those who can ill afford to be taken from.”

“You believe that somehow makes you noble?”

“No, not at all. And I know I shall pay dearly for it. Just not yet.”

“On the contrary, I believe it is time you paid for leading me to believe you are far more experienced than you are.” Setting aside his glass, he stood. He didn't see fear in her eyes, but merely curiosity and desire. Always the desire. He'd never met a woman who made him feel as though she yearned to be with him. Oh, women certainly sought out his company, flirted with him, teased him, tempted him. But they never made him feel as though something deep within them called to something deep within him.

Crossing over, he took her glass and set it on the table. She didn't object, she barely moved, her gaze never leaving his. He no longer trusted himself to read her moods, to read what she might be communicating. She had fooled him once. She could be doing it again.

Yet she'd come here to his lair, to poke the tiger. She had to know that he'd have not bothered her if she'd stayed in her room and simply gone to sleep. He might have felt differently in the morning. His temper might have cooled by then.

Instead she'd joined him. She had to have known where her actions would lead. Bracketing his arms on either side of her, folding his hands around the arms of the chair, he leaned in and took her mouth. She responded as though she were kindling and he'd struck a match. In spite of his impatience and rough taking of her earlier, she opened her mouth to him, her tongue swirling over his. No shy miss. Not at all.

She gained nothing by pretending to want him. She had the money. He had met her terms, although he was already regretting that he'd agreed to let her have an hour alone in the afternoon. He wanted to be with her every moment, every second until the time of their bargain came to an end. Slipping an arm beneath her legs, another around her back, he lifted her and cradled her against his chest. He didn't want to consider how well she molded against him, how perfectly she fit. Nothing in life was perfect. Nothing fit exactly.

Yet he could almost swear that she did as she settled against him.

“I do know how to walk up stairs,” she said.

“But my legs are longer, will get us there faster.”

She dropped her head to the curve of his shoulder. “Why do you lock yourself in your library when you're in a foul mood?”

“I don't like others to see my temper.” He started up the sweeping staircase. “I see it as a weakness.”

“I don't think anything about you is weak.”

She was wrong there. Where she was concerned, he wasn't nearly as strong as he needed to be. Twice now this evening she'd diffused his anger with little more than a smile. If he weren't careful, she might change him irrevocably.

That he could not risk.

S
he thought she could become accustomed to his strong arms holding her, to his carrying her where he wanted her to be. The thought angered her. She'd not needed anyone since she had run away from her father when she was seventeen. She hadn't exactly been on her own, but she was the one responsible for the others. They were with her because they believed in her, because she was the one willing to do anything to see them all safe.

Wasn't that the reason that she was now in the duke's bedchamber as he slowly lowered her feet to the carpeted floor?

It had to be the reason, the only reason. She wouldn't allow it to be more, to think that perhaps a week with her wouldn't be enough for him. That something grand could come from something steeped in retribution.

She would leave here with memories only. She knew that. He would not give her any part of himself that she could carry away. All he would give her was pleasure. Nothing deeper than that.

His large hands slowly worked free the buttons on her nightdress. A cheap thing that she could easily replace if he ripped it apart. But no, he had chosen to ruin something that had cost her a pretty penny. She smiled. No, it would cost
him
as it was included in the bills he would be paying. And then he would pay for it again when she had another ordered before the week was done.

She supposed she should have waited until all the creditors were paid before she came to be with him, but he was a blackguard with standards. A duke who would pay his debts, even if those debts were hers. Strange how she trusted him, trusted his word.

A little voice whispered for her to trust him with everything, but she couldn't. The time spent with him was as much for herself as anything. As her nightdress slid to the floor, she thought of nothing except him, except Avendale.

The satisfaction in his eyes, the admiration, the heat.

“God, but you are beautiful,” he said, his voice rough with desire. “I could flog myself for going so quickly before and denying myself the sight of you completely unclothed.”

“Perhaps I'll flog you for denying me the sight of you.” She didn't know from where her boldness heralded. She only knew that it felt right, that with him there was no shame in the naked form, no mortification in what they would share.

He wasn't done up nearly as much as he'd been before. She merely had to release a few buttons at the front of his shirt, not even the cuffs. Then he was reaching back and dragging the cloth over his shoulders, over his head, slowly revealing a sculpted stomach and chest. Bronzed. And she wondered what he did to expose himself to the sun.

His eyes glinted with satisfaction. He knew he was beautiful. She wished she could bring him down a notch by telling him that she'd seen better, but it would be a lie and there was enough deception between them. Her fingers trembled slightly as she gingerly touched them to the heated flesh.

Avendale groaned low and she felt powerful to be able to affect him so. She flattened her hands just below his ribs and slowly caressed upward. Such firmness, such silk. How could he be both? She carried her hands on a journey over his chest, along his shoulders, and down his powerful arms. His muscles were like granite.

“I would tell you that you're magnificent,” she said, meeting his eyes, “but I suspect enough ladies have told you that to swell your head.”

“None of them mattered.” His jaw tensed, a muscle there jumped, and she wondered if he'd fought to stop himself from saying she mattered.

What silly, fanciful thoughts. He cared nothing for her beyond what they would have here. He could have asked for a fortnight, for two, and she'd have granted it. But he merely wanted a week, and then he'd be done with her. As much as she might wish otherwise, she was one of
them
. The ones who, in the end, didn't matter.

But she wouldn't think of that. Not tonight.

She skimmed her hands up his arms, reversing the previous journey, until her hands rested where skin met cloth. She could see the bulge there, the strain against his trousers. She knew what it felt like buried within her, but she'd barely seen it.

Lowering her gaze, she flicked a button free of its mooring. Then another. Another. Setting him free. Pressing quivering fingers against the heat, she found it difficult to draw in air. “Had I gotten a good glimpse of this before, I might have been terrified.”

“Had I known you were a virgin, I'd have assuaged your fears.”

Easing down, she lowered his trousers, inhaling the musky, heady scent of him. When he stepped out of the cloth and nudged it aside, she glided her hands up his muscular thighs.

Slipping his hands beneath her arms, he brought her up. “You can explore later. For now I'm going to share with you what I was too selfish and consumed with need to share earlier.”

Once more, he lifted her up and set her on the bed, only this time he placed her along its length, her head coming to rest on a pillow. Stretching out beside her, he took her mouth so gently that she almost wept. Always there had been so much hunger between them, clawing at them, and she knew that he was tamping it down, striving to make amends when there was nothing which required recompense. Yet neither could she deny that she liked the slowness of his tongue stroking hers. She wound her arms around his shoulders, relishing the closeness of him.

Taking hold of her wrists, he pulled her hands over her head and clamped one hand around the fragile bones. “No touching,” he ordered. “This is all for you.”

“But I enjoy touching you. I take pleasure from it.”

His face hovering mere inches from hers, his gaze delved into her eyes. “You're remarkable.”

“Surely other ladies have wanted to touch you.”

“More out of obligation, I think. Because it was expected.”

She gave him a sultry smile. “They may have wanted you to think that, but I suspect they were quite delighted at the opportunity to run their hands amok over you. You're quite splendid.”

His eyes narrowed.

“It's not flattery when it's the truth,” she added.

“For now simply relish what I am about to bestow.”

Releasing his hold on her, he grazed his mouth along her chin, down her throat, eliciting tiny bubbles of pleasure that caused her toes to curl. He licked his way along the center of her chest, between her breasts, lapping at her skin as though it were coated in sugar.

She tried to keep her hands where he'd placed them, to grant him that bit of abeyance, but when he cupped her breast and closed his mouth around her nipple, she couldn't help but bury her fingers in the thick strands of his dark hair. Nor could she stop herself from moaning low, from arching her back. He suckled, lathed his tongue over the taut peak, suckled again, all the while kneading gently.

It was so marvelous, how he could touch her in one place and yet she seemed to feel it everywhere. She thought she might go mad with the sensations, and perhaps that was his intent: to drive her insane so she could no longer look out for herself, so she would have to surrender to his care for the remainder of her life.

What a silly thought. He didn't want her forever. He'd made that clear enough. He wanted her for only a week, seven nights. Then he would be done with her. Then she would stagger from his residence, a woman forever changed.

But she would neither resent nor regret it.

Not when he had the power to carry her to such heights as he had that night in the coach, as she suspected he intended to take her now. With him she could fly, she could be free as she'd never been before.

Once more, he placed her hands on the pillow. She almost cursed him. No doubt she would when she left. He would ruin her for anyone else, and a small voice echoed through her mind that that was his plan. To give to her as no other man ever would. To take from her as no other man had the power.

He shifted that incredible body of his, and she watched the play of muscles with his movements. The bunching, the knotting, the smoothing out. She wanted to see him without clothing, engaged in every sort of activity imaginable. He was perfection, the possessor of a body that did not betray. If she believed in gods, she would believe him blessed, but she had looked in his eyes and she knew he was not a stranger to betrayal, that he carried the scars deeply within him. Yet for all the darkness that hovered below the surface, still he had the ability to gift her with the beauty of pleasure.

Wedged between her thighs, he folded his hands around the curve of her hips and trailed his lips over her stomach, licking, kissing as he progressed to her navel. He circled it with his tongue, dipped it inside.

“I'll have brandy here later,” he rasped, and heat coursed through her with the image of him lapping at her flesh. Then he inched farther down until his breath was stirring the curls at the apex of her thighs.

It seemed decadent to see the top of his head between her parted legs. Reaching down, she threaded her fingers through his hair. She'd resisted touching him as long as she could.

Then his tongue laved a provocative path between the folds of her womanhood, and she pressed her thighs against him, tightened her hold on the strands of his hair. She'd thought he'd use his fingers again. Hadn't expected him to fairly worship her with his mouth. He nibbled, nipped, drew her in, tugged gently. Her head came off the pillow, her shoulders rolled forward.

“Avendale, what are you doing?”

He lifted his head. Within his smoldering dark eyes, she saw passion, desire, and possession. He owned her at that moment and he damned well knew it. “What I should have done earlier. What I want to do now. What I intend to do a hundred times before you leave.”

“It can't be proper behavior.”

“Do you want me to stop?” The challenge was there, but so was a flicker of doubt. He would cease his ministrations if she but asked.

She didn't trust him with her heart, but that wasn't fair because he didn't know it was part of the bargain. She trusted him without reservations when it came to her body. “No.” It was a breathless sound, lower than a whisper, and yet it seemed to echo through the room like a shot fired from a rifle.

He gave her a devilish grin. “Then enjoy.”

She slumped back down, stared at the velvet canopy above, as his tongue circled and swirled. She didn't want to take with her memories of velvet. She wanted memories of him. Lowering her eyes, she relished the sight of him between her spread thighs. Heat fanned out from her core to envelop her. Pleasure spiraled.

Sliding his hands between the mattress and her bottom, he lifted her slightly as though he were offering himself a tasty feast, and sensations zagged through her as though he'd delivered a lightning strike. She tightened her fingers in his hair. Her breathing became shallow, harsh. The pleasure ebbed and flowed as though he were the commander of the tides of hedonism.