What a Duke Wants (17 page)

His whole body jerked in response. Catching her hands in his, he pulled her up toward him. “Yes, I would confess a taste for that, but not now. Now I have something different in mind. Something much more usual, but still I trust pleasurable—for both of us.”

Trying to pull her hands free, Isabella grinned at him. “I do trust it will require you to remove your breeches. I still maintain that your not being naked is most unfair.”

“If you will be still for a moment, my wiggling wench, I will see what I can do about that. I do believe it was my task to strip for you and despite some distraction”—he licked his lips and grinned back at her—“I am more than willing to comply.”

He released her hands and she fell back into the pillows, rolling onto her back to stare at him.

H
e felt like a lusty schoolboy. He had almost disgraced himself while pleasuring her a moment ago, and as her glance swept down him to fasten on the bulge in his trousers, he had to fight the need again. The scent of her musk wafted about him and he finally tore his eyes from her to stare at the deep purple of the wall beyond. It was almost enough to grant him control. Keeping his gaze firmly from her, he started to undo the buttons of his breeches.

Her soft sigh finally drew his glance back. She was staring at him, her lips parted. He swallowed hard as her gaze rose to his. Her pupils were huge in her eyes, the light blue almost black with desire. Undoing another button and another, he forced himself to think of nothing except her eyes, her desire. He would make this good for her if it killed him.

And at this moment he feared that it might.

“I don’t remember it being so big,” she whispered.

He couldn’t help himself, he laughed, and laughed hard. “You are priceless, my Bella. Did your sister’s books have words? That response could have been scripted.”

She looked startled at his laughter and then joined in. “I can see why you would say that—even I know it is what every man wants to hear—but really, imagine it from my point of view. It seems unbelievable that that is supposed to fit into me.” Her gaze skimmed down her own body to the juncture between her legs, the damp curls like fire against her white skin.

He fought for seriousness. It was hard when she brought him such constant delight. “Does it scare you? You did not seem scared before.”

“Not really. A little, I suppose. A girl is told of the pain and not the pleasure, and it is hard to reconcile the two. I will be happy when it is done.”

Her words from earlier came back to him. “Even though it will change your life forever?”

“I can’t believe we are talking—now. This is not at all how I thought it would go.”

He was kneeling above a naked woman he’d been longing for for well over a week, his cock was so hard it might burst at any moment, he was fighting to hold himself back at every second, and he was willingly asking if she was sure she wanted to do this. “No, I can’t say that this moment is how I imagined it either.”

She pushed up on her elbows, raising her breasts toward him, letting her knees fall open. “Then perhaps we should proceed—assuming that you do plan to proceed.”

He laughed again, but moved between her legs as he did, kicking his breeches aside. “Yes, I do have very definite plans.”

Moving over her until he was pressed against her entrance, he looked down into her eyes, seeking any sign of hesitation. No matter how he wanted this, wanted her, he had to be sure it was mutual, that it was really what she wanted.

She lifted her hips, rubbing against him.

It was all he needed. He positioned himself, slid in with firm thrust, felt the barrier and then—heaven. There could be no moment more blessed than this.

He heard her gasp, saw her eyes widen, felt her whole body draw tight—and then she relaxed, not completely, but enough.

He pulled back, slid forward again.

Her glance moved down to their juncture and then back to his face. She shifted her hips a little, then again, tightened herself around him. Then she smiled, a full-face smile of joy. “That was not so bad at all. In fact”—she shifted again—“I think I could come to like this.”

Now wasn’t that just what a man wanted to hear from his mistress? He bent forward to kiss her on the lips, before straightening his arms and finally allowing his body to get down to business.

He lost track of all but the pleasure then, the thrust and recede. He heard her gasps, saw her face tighten, her mouth open, heard her call his name, and then in a final deep thrust he let himself go, let her name escape from his own lips as he gave in to the moment of endless color and darkness.

I
t was hard to even think. Isabella’s entire body felt like it had melted into the bed. She was no longer a virgin, no longer untouched. And she didn’t feel one bit different. Oh, there were some aches in places that she’d never ached and she certainly knew some things that she hadn’t twenty minutes before, but she’d expected to be more changed.

She’d come to bed a girl and expected to leave it—well, to leave it a mistress.

Instead she was still just Miss Isabella Hermione Masters.

She rolled onto her side and peered at Mark. He was flat on his back, eyes closed, a sheen of sweat on his brow and chest. She ran her fingers through the light hair covering his breast. That was different. Twenty minutes ago she would have thought before taking such action. Now it was reflex. And a rather nice reflex. He opened one eye and smiled at her.

She smiled back, and then stopped. Her eyes were drawn to an ugly mark across the top of one thigh.

She reached out and traced the heavy scar, the red ridge hard beneath her fingers. “The war?”

“No, my own foolishness. I think I mentioned a scar from jumping off the vicarage roof. I landed on the iron fence. I am lucky that I didn’t do more damage. It is very close to areas I would hate to have impaired.”

“I would say we are both lucky, then.” She stroked up his leg, along his belly, and up to his chest, ignoring his sudden stirring.

“Do that again,” he said.

She flattened her palm, rubbing it all along him. “Like this?”

“I feel like a big, lazy cat being petted. I’d purr if I knew how.”

“Hmm, that sounds almost like a challenge. Can I make a duke purr? I would admit it’s a possibility I’d never considered.” She leaned over and laid a kiss just above his right nipple. “You taste salty.”

He rolled onto his side and, placing a finger under her chin, tilted it up so that he could kiss her on the lips, softly, sweetly, but with definite intent.

There was power in that intent—both for her and for him.

She’d never realized that sex involved power. That was another difference that twenty minutes made.

For instance, she already knew that if she let her kiss trail down his chin to that point where chin and neck merged, if she nipped him there, not hard, just a nip—then— Oh yes, that was exactly the response she’d expected.

She nipped again. Slightly harder.

Chapter 17

S
he didn’t want to open her eyes. The bed had shaken when Mark rose a few minutes before, but she was not yet ready to move. Even through her closed eyelids she could tell that dawn had come, but she was sure it was still early, too early. Rolling onto her stomach she burrowed her face into the pillows.

Was there anything mistresses were supposed to do the morning after? She’d never heard of anything, but then it wasn’t like she’d ever heard much about being a mistress. She stretched in the bed, reaching for each corner with a limb. A large bed was a rather wonderful thing. She couldn’t remember ever before being able to reach out without a foot or hand going off the edge somewhere.

Her whole body was sore in the most wonderful of ways.

Maybe being a mistress wouldn’t be so bad.

And something smelled like coffee.

Coffee brought to her bedroom in the morning, now that would be almost heaven.

Had Mark gone down to fetch it?

It didn’t seem like something a duke would do, but then after last night it was hard to think of Mark as a duke. A duke would surely never do half the things they’d done last night.

She stretched again, and with supreme effort she rolled over to look at Mark. He was not a quiet riser. Did he have to slam every drawer in the chest? She opened her eyes.

And blinked.

Divers stood at the dresser, opening and closing the drawers with little clear purpose. Mark’s clothing wasn’t there, was it? She didn’t remember him bringing anything yesterday and there hadn’t been anything in the drawers when her own meager bag had been unpacked.

Divers slammed another drawer shut. “Will that be all, Your Grace? The king is expecting you within the hour.”

“See if there is any marmalade. I do not care for the currant jam.” It was Strattington’s voice that answered.

Careful to keep the covers wrapped tight about her breasts, Isabella rolled over toward the voice. Yes, it was definitely Strattington. The carefully cut black coat and flow of white linen and lace left little mistake. She wished she could pull the covers over her head. It was difficult to go to bed with one man and awake with another—even if they did share the same body. And that was not even adding in Divers.

After spending years in service Isabella was accustomed to sharing a room, and on many occasions a bed, with another maid, but never with a snotty valet. It was impossible to imagine a more miserable way to wake each morning than to Divers’s lean face. He’d looked down on her during that first meeting at the inn when he’d awoken Joey and he clearly was not pleased to be here now. He was slamming the drawers on purpose. She was sure of it.

That brought on another thought. That first night at the inn—it had been Mark who had demanded she take the baby out to the stable yard. Only Mark had already been out in the yard.

Divers turned and glared at her, shutting another drawer hard. “I’ve put away a few days’ linen, Your Grace. I will bring anything else needed when I am summoned. I imagine you will need me each morning that you spend here.” He did not make it sound like he expected to be called often.

“That will be fine, Divers.” Strattington turned, in all his ducal splendor, and saw her watching him. “Ah, you’re awake, Bella. I fear I must be off to do my duty to the king. Divers will give you a purse of coin. I am sure that you have shopping to do. I do not imagine your current gowns will meet your new needs. You may have the accounts sent to me, but there are other baubles and things you will desire. I am sure that Divers can instruct you on the best place for a woman in your position to shop. He does seem to know everything.”

A woman in her position.
Last night she had not felt much different. Now she felt a hundred years older.

She was the duke’s mistress, not Mark’s lover.

She thought she’d learned that lesson already, but evidently he’d fooled her again.

Mark existed only in the dark of night—and in her mind. Strattington was the reality.

Her reality, and she’d best not forget it.

She glanced over to Divers, who pulled out a small purse and dropped it atop the dresser with a clang.

S
he was worth more than she’d expected, or else Mark was a very generous— Damn, she still didn’t have a word for what he was to her. She’d go with
provider
for now. It didn’t feel right, but it certainly was what he was.

She weighed the purse in one hand and then shifted it to the other—none of this felt right.

Last night had been almost magical, far better than she’d expected, but this morning didn’t even reach mundane. It might even be considered awful.

She hefted the purse again. She’d been desperate for money for months, if not years. Why then did finally having a pocket full of coin make her feel—feel dirty? A simple purse had turned a night of wonder into something tawdry, something very tawdry.

She was a whore.

Mistress
might be a far better term, but she had never been one to hide. She might run from trouble, but she was always honest with herself. She had known what she was doing, she had just not been prepared for how she would feel afterward.

She was a whore.

Dropping the purse on the dresser, she sighed. At least she was a very well-paid whore.

Her plain gray dress lay draped over the back of a chair, ready for her to wear. Running a hand over the sturdy fabric, she found herself comforted by it. She’d hated the simple dresses when she’d first acquired them. They were ugly and would have fit a cow as well as they fit her. She’d once asked another maid about having them fitted and been laughed at. It had not taken long for her to understand that looking frumpy and invisible was a valuable accomplishment.

Not that it had helped her with Mark, he’d seen through her plain dresses without a second glance.

What did she require as a mistress? Her sister had always had the most deliciously enticing dresses, dresses that could appear appropriate, but were anything but. She remembered a dress that had swirled about Violet, making her appear to be dressed in a fine spray of mist. The dress had covered her completely and yet left one believing she could be naked at any moment. Isabella had been so envious of that dress as she’d worn her own demure, maidenly, high-cut pastels.

Now she could wear things like that. She was probably supposed to wear things like that.

Violet’s modiste would probably be delighted to make dresses for the Duke of Strattington’s mistress. Only that would be dangerous. She could not risk the possible contact with her family. That could only lead to disaster.

She grabbed up the purse again, squeezing it tight between her fingers. The bag lay heavy in her palm. It would make a worthy donation to an orphanage. Wouldn’t Strattington be surprised to know her thoughts?

Of course they were only thoughts. She was a practical woman.

M
ark gazed across the room at the Duke of Brisbane. How did the man manage to stand perfectly straight and still look like he was lounging? The morning of waiting upon the king had been endless. The whole matter seemed to consist mostly of nodding at whatever nonsense was recited. Even the Duke of Hargrove was looking distracted from the proceedings. It was all more talk of the coronation—more discussion of train lengths and who would wear what color. Who would ever have thought that a king would spend time discussing which colors those who stood near him would be allowed to wear? Hints that it was inappropriate for Mark to wear black, despite his mourning, had not been subtle. Apparently he would choose to wear a deep teal blue if he were actually a loyal subject.

Could a man be hanged for treason for wearing the wrong color?

Suppressing a sigh, he resolved to leave the whole matter up to Divers. The valet had to serve some purpose. Going back to the days when Douglas had supplied all his needs would have been delightful. His quiet companion was far better than Divers and his dour glances. Divers had not been happy to be summoned this morning. He’d seen it as far below him to wait on Mark with Isabella in the chamber.

But Mark had been loath to leave her before she awoke.

Isabella, his Bella. She was a beauty and the shortened name suited her.

A yawn took him, and was quickly swallowed. He would need more sleep this night if he was not to drowse before the king.

He looked across the room and saw Brisbane watching him. The other duke raised a brow. Mark had not hidden the yawn well enough.

I
sabella stood still as the long yards of fabric were draped about her body. It would be her first new gown in years and the prospect should have filled her with joy. Only what good was a fabulous gown when she had nowhere to wear it? Even coming to the modiste’s she hurried from door to carriage and back again, her face veiled.

Could she go on like this? She honestly wasn’t sure. Every night as she curved beside Mark’s warm body it didn’t seem so bad. She felt like his lover—even as she reminded herself she was not. She worked hard to hold herself in reserve, to not allow her emotions to become involved—and then he’d come in looking so tired and worn, and he’d smile at her.

The things that smile did to her, the convictions it made disappear.

“Are you unhappy with the fabric? I find the color quite wonderful on you.” Yvette, the modiste, spoke, her mouth full of pins.

“No, it is very nice. I was thinking of something else.”

“Now what would be bringing that frown to your face? With a protector like yours you should be smiling for days. Handsome and generous.”

Protector
. That was the word she’d been looking for. Mark was her protector. It was a better word than any she had thought of. When she curled against him in the early hours of the morning, when he pulled her onto his chest and her nose tickled in the hair on his chest, she did feel protected, feel that all was right with the world.

And then daylight came.

Daylight and Divers. She always made sure to pull on a shift sometime in those predawn hours. There were some things she did not want seen by any man but Mark.

Only he wasn’t Mark in the morning. He was Strattington.

It seemed strange that even after several days she could not see them as the same man. She’d grown used to the change, but she still could not reconcile it. Mark plied her with kisses. Strattington left her with purses—and with Divers.

“You are frowning again. Are you sure I am not sticking you with pins? I would hate for you to have any complaints,” Yvette said.

Mark had suggested she call herself Yvette that first night at the inn. Somehow she did not imagine he’d had the plump, graying modiste in mind. Although her accent was quite delightful.

Isabella smiled and tried to find a response. “I am just wishing I had somewhere to wear the dress. It seems a little grand for dinner at home. I had something much plainer in mind when I first came in.”

“I was instructed to be sure you had a full wardrobe and that is just what I will do.” Yvette stepped back and surveyed the yellow silk. “You look like a buttercup. It suits you well, but I would never have considered the color myself. I was quite surprised when you suggested the shade.”

A buttercup. It was exactly the thought Isabella had formed when she’d seen the heavy silk. She wondered if Mark would remember. A dress was surely better than a whole yellow house.

That did bring a genuine smile to her face.

“B
e sure you don’t keep His Grace up too late. He’ll never find a wife if he doesn’t look his best. He must secure the succession. We wouldn’t want the bloodline to be polluted.” Divers shut the bedroom door with a slam as he left.

She was growing to hate Mark’s valet. It was bad enough having to deal with him in the morning, but he’d taken to stopping by at odd hours—and always with a snide comment. Isabella wished Douglas would return from whatever errand Mark had sent him on. Douglas might have been quiet, but he never made her feel worthless the way Divers could with a single glance.

And he went through her belongings—daily.

Did he think she was pocketing the coin that Strattington left each morning? Well, she was, but she was smart enough to keep it either on her person or tucked away at night. When the time came she wanted to have options. Life had taught her the necessity of preparation.

Pacing back and forth across the room, she tried to keep thoughts of the past from her mind. This was her life now. It might not be what she wanted, what she wanted now, but it was hers.

It was the waiting for Mark that was hard. With a small sigh, she settled into her chair and stared at the door to the chamber. It would make more sense to wait for Mark in the bed. He never arrived before midnight and always came straight to her, his intent clear.

Waiting in the bed would, however, have made her feel even more of a harlot than she already did.

Wives waited in bed for their husbands to come home. She knew that, but somehow it didn’t seem at all the same. If she waited in bed her whole life would devolve into what happened there—not that it wasn’t wonderful. It was. Mark was endlessly considerate and imaginative. A woman could not have a better lover.

The front door of the house creaked open. The sound was unmistakable, the loud click and light scratch on the marble floor below. The soft tread of footsteps across the hall, mumbled words to the porter, another click as the door was shut and the key turned for the night, and then she heard him on the stairs.

Running her fingers through her hair, she glanced down at herself—at the red velvet robe and thin linen night rail. The modiste Divers had taken her to had tried to persuade her that lace and translucent silk were what she needed, but Isabella had held firm. The linen might be so thin as to hint at what was beneath it and the robe was very close in color to scarlet, but they still seemed like clothing a decent woman might have worn—clothing that Miss Isabella Masters might have worn. If Mark wanted her in black and gold lace he could buy it himself.

The handle of the door turned. She blew out a long breath, releasing the anger and worry that had held her all day. These moments, these hours, would not be touched by the rest. She knew she was foolish, but the smile she greeted him with as the door swung open was real.