What a Duke Wants (11 page)

The event.

She was going to do that, here, now.

Her gaze left Mark’s and flitted across the duke’s parlor. It was not a grand room, the furnishings hardy and well used. But it was far finer than she’d known for years.

There was no bed. Did they need a bed? Did she want to do this without a bed?

It suddenly seemed tawdry.

She was thinking too much.

And then she met his gaze again. The desire was there. The need was there. But there was more. There was that— Oh, she didn’t know a word for what she saw. She wanted to say
love
, but she was not so foolish. But there was something.

“You seem nervous.” His voice was raspy.

“Yes.”

He reached out and trailed a finger over the curve of her breast, not touching the peak, but outlining it. He swallowed, hard, as he touched her. “We don’t have to do this. I promised I would be content with kisses.”

“You want more, though. You want this.”

He smiled at her words, his glance filled with irony. “I am a man. There is not a man alive who would not want you, as you look now, your lips swollen with kisses, your breasts tight from my touch, your hair mussed about your shoulders—and—”

“And what?” What more could he have to say? His every word convinced her more and more.

“And the innocence that shines from you, your uncertainty, your need to be kissed until you are blind with desire, kissed until you cannot think the thoughts I see spinning through your mind, the knowledge that every experience, every move, every feeling will be the first that you have felt. You drive a man to do things that he should not. Gads, I am not a man for fine words, and listen to me. You bewitch me, Isabella. You have from the first moment I heard your voice, saw your face.”

All she could do was stare at him. Her hands were still on her breasts. She knew her mouth gaped open. How could she resist such honesty? This was a man who held nothing back from her.

This was the man she would marry. She didn’t care if he could provide for her—although he did promise to—and she rather thought he could.

All she cared was that she had him.

He was a man she could trust.

She reached out and placed a hand on each of his shoulders, drawing him toward her.

Chapter 11

W
hat was he waiting for? Mark was not a fool. No man would refuse what she offered. Far better to explain things later. Then it would be impossible for there to be any misunderstandings between them.

She would be his, would have to let him care for her. There would be no chance that she would stay with Mrs. Wattington.

And besides, no rational woman could be upset that he was a duke. She would be pleased.

He knew he was justifying his own actions, that he was finding an excuse to do what he wanted, but there was no way he could resist her, no way he could risk losing her, losing this.

He leaned into her embrace, letting her pull him tight. His lips found hers, felt them open beneath him, her tongue as eager as his. He forced his hands to the back of her waist, not allowing them to go where they wished. She might be eager, but he would keep this slow, keep her with him every step of the way.

And he would allow her to stop—this must be her choice as well as his.

She was not so controlled. Her fingers tangled in his hair, seeking to draw him closer than was physically possible.

He ran his hands down her backside, cupping her buttocks and lifting her until her legs separated, bending up to wrap around his waist. A simple shift of hip and she was where he wanted, positioned over him, only layers of fabric separating them.

She drew back, her eyes wide. Staring at him she shifted, feeling him with her body, her mind trying to comprehend. She swallowed, but did not pull farther away. She moved again, experimenting. Her hands slipped down his neck and came to clasp tight about his shoulders. She leaned back, pushing the apex of her thighs farther against him.

He gasped as she rubbed herself against his full length.

She smiled her delight at his response.

He longed to pull her to him again, to kiss that mischievous smile, but his hands were holding her to him. Glancing about the room he spotted the table and stepped toward it.

Her mouth opened at the bump and grind of the step. A light laugh escaped her.

How could such passion be such fun? He’d never before felt this mix of need and joy, delight.

Reaching the table, he settled her upon it. She glanced back, startled, and then dropped her hands from his shoulders, bracing them behind her.

He slid his hands down her hips and legs until he reached her slender ankles. He started to slide his hands back up, inside her skirts. Someday soon he would cover her legs in silk instead of coarsely knitted wool. He closed his eyes and for a moment saw her only in those fine silk stockings and rosetted garters. Pulling in a deep breath he opened his eyes again. The reality of her was so perfect he had no need for fantasy.

He slid his fingers upward, past her knees, up to her thighs. He was close, so close. His body throbbed with urgency, while his mind cautioned patience.

“Stop.” Her single word held him.

She couldn’t mean it. But he had promised himself he would not push past her desires.

His fingers stilled, but only with the greatest of efforts.

“You want me to stop? I thought you wanted this.”

The smile she gave him then revealed a far greater understanding than he would have believed. She might not know the act, but she certainly knew how to be a woman. “Yes, I want you to stop. Just be still.”

He obeyed, waiting.

“I want to feel you first. You mentioned I could examine—examine it.”

“What?” His heart missed a beat.

“I don’t want this hurried, rushed. If I am going to do this I want to know it all.” She leaned forward and traced a single finger down the front of his breeches.

It was a gesture full of seduction, of temptation, but more than that—he looked in her face and saw . . . curiosity.

She was caught in passion, filled with it, but she wanted knowledge. He swallowed. Straight seduction he could have handled, but this?

“Stop.” It was his turn to say the word.

“Am I doing something wrong?” Her hand pulled back and her eyes mirrored uncertainty.

“No, I just need a minute or neither of us will be happy with the outcome.” He drew in a deep breath and counted slowly to himself, then he reached out and took her small hand within his own, squeezed it once in reassurance, and brought it back to its original position.

He gasped as her hand traced his length. Her eyes were wide. Her gaze met his and then moved lower. Her fingers moved back and forth, outlining him.

He was going to die. Or else he already had. The sensations she sent through him were beyond words.

And the look on her face.

Her fingers suddenly moved up to his waistband, catching at one of the buttons of his fall. Her glance came back to his. She chewed on her lower lip and then slipped the button free and then the next. He could almost feel her caution and her inquisitiveness.

He took the opportunity to draw in another breath. He could not be sure he had breathed the whole time she had touched him.

And then her fingers were beneath the fabric, stroking his length.

“Your skin is so soft. I didn’t expect that.”

He couldn’t say a word, couldn’t do more than swallow as she ran her hand over him again, her fingers pausing to figure out his shape, to understand the movement of his skin over the hard strength beneath.

When her fingers wrapped all about him a tiny cry leaked through his lips.

Her mouth formed an O and then she ran her hand up him again, a grin growing as he jerked in response.

The smile that formed across her lips spoke of innate seduction. She might not know what she was doing, but she knew she did it well.

She leaned forward so that her other arm was free. She quickly worked at the remainder of the buttons until he was bare before her.

She gulped, glanced up at him and then back down. “I didn’t believe the pictures. I should have.”

Not knowing what to make of that he put it aside for later—much later.

She moved her hand again, watched his body clench in response.

That was enough. He reached forward and caught her hand, stilling it. “My turn.”

Placing a hand on each of her thighs he pushed her skirt up, inch by inch. Her arms dropped behind her again as she leaned back.

Her muscles were tight and he sensed that not all of it was anticipation. He slowed his movements yet again. Bending forward he blew softly on her bare breasts. Playing a little longer would have its own rewards.

He opened his mouth, caught her nipple between his teeth, felt her squirm and cry out under her breath. “I can’t wait until we can do this every night, every day, until we are wed.”

His jaw tensed, almost bit hard. He had not heard that. Had she really said that? Could it have been his imagination?

All he could feel was shock—and then greater shock as after only the slightest of taps the door to the hall swung open wide.

S
he felt his body tense. He pulled back, his face still.

She couldn’t believe she had said that. She refused to—and then—scratch. Tap.

The slight noise drew her gaze from Mark’s face. She glanced over his shoulder and clenched in horror as the door pushed open. An unknown maid walked in, a large snifter of brandy in hand. The maid pulled up short at the sight of them, her face paling. “They said you were out,” she murmured as she began to back out of the room.

Isabella shut her eyes tight, prayed that when she opened them she would not be sitting on a table half naked, staring at an open door. Squeezing her eyes as tightly as she could, she formed the picture she wanted to see when she opened them again. One. Two. Three.

She should have been more specific in her wish.

She was not staring at an open door. Now she was staring at not only the chambermaid but at the maid who had been watching Joey, and behind her—behind her was Mrs. Wattington.

Isabella’s whole body went cold. It felt as if ice had formed in her veins. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to move again as each muscle in turn froze solid.

Joey’s thin wail pierced the air. He sounded as desolate as she felt.

It was Mark who moved her legs together, brushed her skirts down over them, and turned to stand in front of her, blocking her fully from view. She could only hope he’d somehow managed to fasten his breeches. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the thought of him standing exposed before Mrs. Wattington.

There was silence.

It was a second that seemed to last for an eternity.

Isabella waited for Mrs. Wattington to say something. She always had something to say. Why silence now?

Mrs. Wattington’s gaze was not on Isabella, however. It was firmly set on Mark. Isabella could only pray again that he had fastened himself up.

Mrs. Wattington pursed her lips so tight that Isabella was sure they would fuse. Stepping into the room, she started to say something and then stopped. She stepped back for no reason that Isabella could understand, her delicate pink complexion growing white.

Finally she spoke, addressing Isabella. “Joey has awakened unwell. My maid fetched me when you could not be found. See to him, then attend to me in my chamber.” She nodded to Mark with utmost and unexpected politeness and left the room.

The maid stared for another moment and then turned and fled.

Mark stalked to the door and slammed it shut. He stood facing it for a moment and Isabella could feel him try to gather himself. He turned slowly, examined her more closely.

“I am sorry. That was my fault. I should have locked the door. It never occurred to me that anybody would enter without being bidden. Do you want me to have the girl dismissed?”

“Oh no. That would never do. She was only doing her job.” Isabella thought that one dismissal for the day was enough. She had no doubt what would occur when she went to Mrs. Wattington’s room. She was only surprised that she would be allowed near Joey first.

Joey. She would focus on Joey, allow him to be the only thing she thought about

“I must check on Joey. I do hope he is not ill. It would be so dreadful if he were sick here, so far from home.” She slid from the table and tried to pull up her corset and bodice.

“And, of course, the first thing you think of is Joey, not yourself. Oh, come here. Let me take care of that.” Mark pulled her over and fastened her bodice with great skill and speed. She did not wish to consider where he had picked up such mastery.

“Thinking of myself would serve no purpose. What is done is done.” She stepped back from him and smoothed down her skirts. If she just kept moving she would not have to think. If she did not think she did not have to accept that any of this was real.

He caught her as she started to move toward the door, his lean fingers caressing her cheek. “I will make this right, Isabella. We will talk later—reach an understanding.”

T
he door closed behind Isabella with a light click.

Mark walked to the window and stared out into the darkness. He’d been a fool. Had she really mentioned marriage? Even now he was not sure, his mind so blurred by the aftermath.

It had been wrong to seduce her, no matter how willing she’d been. It had been even worse allowing them to be caught. He’d been practicing seduction for over fifteen years now and had never come close to being caught. Well, there had been one time in Lord Besley’s library, but the lady involved had made it very clear that the risk was part of the thrill for her.

He was trying to distract himself.

He had created this situation—or had he? Could she have planned it, arranged for them to be caught, attempted to force his hand? He considered—and rejected. No, she had been as shocked as he was, perhaps more so, by the intrusion. And it would not have fit with what he knew of her character.

Bloody hell, harming Isabella had never been part of his plan, not that he’d had much of a plan. There were enough shadows in Isabella’s eyes without his adding to them.

Why had he ever brought her to his rooms? He could have examined her cheek somewhere else. And why had he bloody well not locked the door? He hadn’t even bothered to take her to the bedchamber. If they’d been in there he would have heard the door open. The bloody maid would probably have just left the brandy on the table, for that matter. It wasn’t like the bloody bed needed to be warmed at this time of year. Bloody, bloody, bloody hell.

Pressing his face against the glass he wished it was as cold as a December day. He needed something to clear his wits and tell him what to do.

Oh, he knew what to do. It was what he’d wanted to do anyway. He’d set Isabella up as his mistress. He’d promised to take care of her and he would.

He couldn’t even pretend it would be a hardship.

He’d wanted her to have a choice. He’d wanted to be her choice, or at least he told himself he had.

He pulled back to look at his face reflected in the dark glass. If he’d truly wanted to give her a choice, wanted to put her first, he would have told her everything before. He hadn’t wanted her to have a choice. He’d just wanted her to think that she did. He hadn’t been willing to take the risk—and now all might be lost.

Had she really mentioned marriage? Would she ever forgive him if she had? Once she realized who he was, and she must have by now, she’d understand that marriage was impossible. She would be pleased by what he could offer her. What woman would not be? Every woman wanted beautiful gowns and sparkling jewels.

So why did his gut remain knotted? Why did he dread seeing her face now that he was the duke, not simple Mr. Smythe?

He put the thought away. Mrs. Wattington still needed to be dealt with. He walked toward the bedroom and considered which finery to don. If he was going to act the bloody duke he’d better dress like the bloody duke. And he had a certainty that the bloody duke was required for this interview.

Bloody, bloody hell.

I
sabella paused outside Mrs. Wattington’s door. Her hand was shaking and she refused to reveal even that much. Her chest hurt with the effort of holding her breath steady. At least Joey was fine.

All the boy had required was a new wrapping of dry cloths and a good cuddle and he’d been just as happy as could be, completely unaware of all the trouble he’d caused. She’d given him an extra hug and kiss as she left him, confident that it would be her last. Missing him would be just one more pain to add to her others.