How to Dazzle a Duke (30 page)

Pity, that.

A drunken Dutton was quite, quite entertaining, purely as a

subject of ridicule, you understand. Whatever had happened to

turn him from that profi table path?

“Your sister needs you,” George Grey said, pulling

George Prestwick’s chair practically out from under him. “Go to

her. Now.”

“Oh, bother it,” George Prestwick said, rising to his feet. “I

ask you to excuse me,” he said to the players.

Dutton barely looked at him as he was so very busy staring

heatedly into Antoinette’s wide green eyes. She was a remarkably

beautiful woman. Anne felt positively dowdy, and she was dressed

most prettily in a modestly cut muslin gown with a simple silver

cross at her throat. Lady Lanreath was spectacularly arrayed in

a low cut gown of white silk with an absolute fountain of pinked

topaz around her throat and dangling from her ears.

“It is a lovely thing you do, Mr. Prestwick,” Anne said. “A

woman does require so very often to be protected from men who

are too casual in their address and too fervid in their manner. I

can assure you that Miss Prestwick will be most glad of your

assistance.”

“Do you think so, Mrs. Warren?” Mr. Prestwick asked.

“I’m quite certain she does,” Dutton answered in her place,

vile man, “as Mrs. Warren feels very much put upon by the

slightest attention paid to her.”

“How very unusual,” Lady Lanreath said softly. Lady Lan

reath had a very soft, very calm demeanor that was quite excep

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tionally attractive. It was hardly possible for Lord Dutton to resist

her. “I so very seldom meet a woman who is as shy of attention

as I, Mrs. Warren. Perhaps you will come and visit me some af

ternoon so that we may discuss it?”

Lord Dutton looked ready to pop.

Anne felt better than she had in an hour. What a lovely

woman Antoinette was, how astute and how supremely generous.

Perhaps she would not tumble into Dutton’s bed after all. Anne

nearly sighed with satisfaction. But she didn’t, for that would

satisfy Dutton too readily and she had determined weeks ago

that Dutton should, for as long as possible, be starved of satisfac

tion. Perhaps for as long as he lived. It was possible, wasn’t it? He

might even deserve it.

“I should love to, Lady Lanreath,” Anne said, smiling.

“Your sister,” George Grey said again, though he was staring

at Dutton and looked very close to smiling.

It was rumored that George Grey had struck Dutton a blow

to the belly not over a week ago. What delicious fun that must

have been.

“Yes,” George Prestwick said with a sigh. “If you’ll excuse

me?” and with a bow, he and Mr. Grey left them.

“May I join you?”

Anne looked up to see Lord Ruan standing with his hand

upon the chair previously occupied by Mr. Prestwick. Dutton

looked entirely comfortable with the notion. Lady Lanreath, on

the other hand, did not. How very interesting.

Seventeen

“I think you should know that I’m not going to find this at all

enjoyable,” Penelope said as Iveston escorted her out of the draw

ing room and into the wide and well-lit stair hall, “but I might

find it excessively interesting. As an experiment, you understand.

A sort of comparison study. I do find it logical to assume that all

men kiss very much alike, allowing for differences in the shape

of the mouth, but once that is accounted for, how different can

one man be from another?”

“I quite understand,” Iveston said cheerfully. “I’ve come to

quite the same conclusion about women, and given the fact that

I’ve kissed more than a few, I can assure you that your supposi

tions are, in general, correct. One woman is very much like an

other. Nearly indistinguishable, actually.”

“More than a few? How many?” she asked.

“I haven’t counted.”

“Why not? That lacks a certain precision, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose it does. There simply have been too many.”

Penelope felt the shock of that statement, which could cer

tainly have been a lie and most likely was, penetrate her bones.

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Too many? How on earth had Lord Iveston kissed even one girl?

He never left the house!

He was peculiar in the extreme. Everyone thought so. There

was not even any dispute about it. Every rumor of him, and she

had listened to every one, naturally, as he had been on her very

informal list of possible husbands, was firmly and resolutely clear

that he was both odd and excessively retiring. How could he have

kissed a girl?

Of course, if she were being honest, and she was always scru

pulously honest with herself, he had kissed rather well. It did

imply some small bit of practice on his part. Perhaps he had

kissed a distant cousin once. Or a harlot. That made sense. He

had more money than manners. He would have to pay to attain

any female attention at all.

She felt immeasurably better.

And then felt profoundly worse.

A jade? He had paid to be kissed by a woman of the town?

What had that been like? And could she do any better?

Of course she could. She was better than any strumpet. Every

strumpet. She was completely certain of that.

But she eyed Iveston as he pulled her along, her hand clasped

in his, barely taking notice of her as he decried the stair hall as

too peopled, the servants hurrying up and down in their duties to

the Lanreath guests, then pulled her without due care down the

stairs and out a rear door to the small garden behind the house.

It was raining, lightly, but still raining.

Iveston was clearly an imbecile at this sort of thing. Her

groom had been much better suited to an out of doors rendez

vous; at least it had been warm and dry with a solid roof over

head. What sort of seduction was it to be in these conditions?

A very brutal one, apparently, for Iveston, without another

word to ease her into it, or a gentle caress to announce his inten

tions to approach her, turned upon the flagstones, caught her in

How to Daz zle a Duke

217

his arms, and kissed her with all the delicacy of a . . . of a . . .

well, she couldn’t think what. Couldn’t think at all, actually, as

his kiss quite swept her up and out of all thought.

How had that happened?

Before she knew what she was about, and she wasn’t com

pletely sure she’d ever know what she was about again, she’d

lifted herself up onto her toes, clasped her hands to his head, and

was returning his kiss in full measure.

Tongues were fully involved.

Heated breath.

Smooth lips.

Hands that held her against him with such force and such

determination that she could do nothing but respond in kind. To

be polite, most likely. Just meeting him halfway, really, that’s all

it was.

It was a kiss. She was supposed to be kissing him, showing

some warmth about it. That had been the bargain.

And she was going to be found fully as accomplished at it as

any common doxy.

Yes, that sounded ridiculous and completely off point, but it

felt entirely on point and that’s all she cared about at the moment,

how she felt.

She felt glorious.

He was quite good at it, kissing, that is. Holding, too.

It was quite astounding.

She was responding quite . . . enthusiastically, and it might

not have all been to do with their bargain, not that he needed to

know that. The only thing she was determined that he know was

how well she kissed.

This ought to do the trick nicely.

Just for a bit of variety, and to show him she knew her way

around a man’s mouth, she moved his head in the other direction

with her hands, lifted him off her a bit, and nibbled his lower lip.

218 CLAUDIA DAIN

He made a noise very much like a growl, which was very nice

indeed, and clasped her more firmly against him and kissed her

very much more deeply than before.

It was very nice. She might have moaned. She did hope not.

The rain, a heavy mist of cool water, drifted over them. The

droplets tangled in his golden hair, a shimmering veil of glisten

ing beauty. His cheekbones stood out, his nose, the arching ridge

of his brow, all illuminated in a silvery sheen. He looked nearly

magical, otherworldly, and so very beautiful. His skin was cool

beneath her fi ngertips, his hair slick beneath her palms. She felt

hot and pulsing, a fire against his watery smoothness, her breasts

aching, her breath ragged and thin, like upward fl ying embers

struggling against a downpour.

He pulled away from her, slightly, only slightly, and whispered

against her mouth, “You did not learn this from a groom.”

She snickered lightly and licked her way down his throat,

nibbling the pulse point on his neck, pushing aside his cravat

with her nose. “Have you ever kissed a groom? Don’t be so dis

missive.”

He let out his breath and pushed her down on her feet, step

ping back a half step. Was any more proof needed that he was

peculiar?

She grabbed his lapels and pulled him to her, staring at his

mouth. “I insist on meeting the conditions of our bargain, Iveston.

You shan’t make me default.”

And then, pulling at his coat, she made him kiss her.

In truth, it wasn’t that difficult. She clearly had a knack for

this sort of thing. One could only hope Iveston was intelligent

enough to realize it.

He didn’t have much strength to resist her to judge by his

response. He grabbed her round the waist, pulled her against

him, and kissed her quite savagely.

It was quite wonderful.

How to Daz zle a Duke

219

Her groom hadn’t been savage in the least. Timid and curious

would be the best words to describe his lessons. Iveston was quite

utterly ruthless.

Who would have thought it?

Not only regarding Iveston and his apparently instantaneous

transformation, but she would never have suspected that ruthless

savagery would be at all appealing to her. Yet it was. Very.

“What else did you learn, Pen? Did you learn this?” and so

saying, he ran his hand up the side of her body, the heel of his

hand just brushing the side of her breast. It was most alarming.

Her heart almost thudded right out of her ribs. She wanted more

of it, immediately.

“Oh, naturally. He was very thorough. A natural tutor,” she

lied, her breath against his cheek, her mouth caressing his face,

his jaw, his throat. He had such a lovely throat, so long and

cool, his pulse pounding against her lips. It was quite extraordi

nary, what that did to her. She felt completely unlike herself.

Certainly that must be a bad thing, yet it did not feel bad in the

slightest. How very odd. She hadn’t thought a thing about her

groom’s throat, once she’d seen it fully. Perhaps there had been

something wrong with it. She ought to examine Iveston’s more

thoroughly, just to determine what it was that was so fascinating

about it. “You aren’t shocked, I hope.”

She slipped her finger inside his cravat and pulled it down,

exposing his throat more fully.

He slipped his hand over her breast, fully, and squeezed.

She thought she might faint, if fainting meant lurching into his

hand and moaning in the most outrageous manner imaginable.

“Don’t,” she gasped. “Don’t. Don’t. Don’t stop.”

“Can’t,” he whispered, nibbling her lower lip, the heel of his

hand rubbing over her throbbing nipple. “Won’t.”

The rain had turned to mist, weightless and cold, yet it did

nothing to cool her. Her skin ached for his touch. Could he

220 CLAUDIA DAIN

feel that in her? Had his doxy taught him how to feel a woman’s

longing?

His mouth captured hers again, open and wet, cool mist and

hot breath, his lips sliding against hers, his tongue tangling with

her own. His hands swept up her back, his fi ngertips grazing

over her bodice ties, snagging them, pulling at them, pressing her

to him in silent demand.

Silk had never before felt so thick. She might as well be wear

ing three layers of wool. She wanted his hands on her, skin to

skin. She wanted more, everything, and she wanted it in the

dark, with her eyes closed, with everything but the feel of his

mouth and his hands washed from her thoughts. There was no

thought to this, no reason, no explanation. There was only

Iveston.

No, not Iveston. She’d ruined it. She’d broken the spell of his

hands.

Not Iveston.

It was Edenham she wanted. Edenham was the right choice.

Edenham’s name was a bell in her mind, dulling and distract

ing from the impact of Iveston and his wicked mouth.

And then Iveston grabbed her by the arms and pushed her

away from him. She gaped, her mouth still reaching for him, her

hands plucking at his shirt. He pushed her again, more forcefully,

and turned his back to her.

It was everything she could do not to press herself against the

long, straight line of his back.