Mad About the Duke (21 page)

The sleeping garden reminded her of St. Maur. She peeked over her shoulder at him. So much one could see and guess at, and so much very hidden from sight.

And once again, she longed to know more of this man. Who was he that he could be so thoughtful, so funny, so efficient?

So terrible at driving a carriage?

She glanced over at him, his long legs stretched out and his eyes closed. But it was the smile on his lips that caught her heart. It made him look much younger than he claimed to be. And it made her wonder something else…

“Why haven't you—,” she began, then she stopped herself.

His eyes opened slowly, the depth of their blue
hue enough to take her breath away. “Why haven't I what?”

“I, um, that is to say, I was wondering…,” she stammered, then glanced out at the garden. “If you've been here in the summer.”

“Lady Standon, that isn't what you were going to ask,” he said, sitting up.

“Of course it was,” she said, smoothing at her skirt and not looking at him.

“No, it wasn't,” he asserted, rising up and coming to stand next to her. “Now what did you want to know about me?”

Elinor pressed her lips together and wondered if she could hazard another lie, but when she looked up into his eyes, those wonderfully blue eyes, she was lost. Squaring her shoulders, she dove in. “That is to say, I was wondering why you never remarried.”

“Should I have?” he asked, coming closer.

Oh, heavens no!
she would have told him. For then she wouldn't be standing here imagining the impossible—of him taking her into his arms and kissing her senseless. Leaving her breathless. Teasing her into dreaming of an afternoon spent…

She'd vowed not to do this. 'Twas folly.

But what wonderful folly,
she thought, sweeping aside all the reasons why they shouldn't be kissing to make room for one very simple one: she longed for this man in ways she could barely fathom.

Looking into his eyes, she saw the same war being waged—
should we or shouldn't we?

“It is just that today has been so delightful,” she said, trying to keep her words from trembling at the same wild pace at which her heart was hammering. “It seems a shame that you haven't anyone to spoil so.”

He laughed a little. “I hardly call tossing you into the ditch ‘spoiling.' As for the rest of the day, it has been my pleasure.”

Pleasure
. That word trailed down her spine, sending tendrils of shivery delight in their wake.
My pleasure
. Oh, if only…

“And mine to share it with you,” she said, moving ever so closer to him, her gaze fixed on his, looking for any sign of acquiescence, of surrender.

What harm is there in a single kiss?
she thought in a daze as his head dipped slightly, as he stepped closer, one hand on her sleeve, the other winding around her waist to pull her ever closer.

His breath mingled with hers as he paused, for just a second, his lips hovering over hers. Elinor's body thrummed alive, beating with heady anticipation as his lips finally covered hers and once again they were united, lost, together in a single kiss.

She melded to him, to the heat of his body. No, it wasn't warmth she sought this cold day but heat. Searing, blazing heat, as she opened up to him, let his tongue sweep over hers, as his strong hands pulled her ever closer, tugged her up against him.

No longer was she bundled in layers of silk and wool, she was entwined with
him
.

Elinor knew she should pull away, keep to her word, remember why she'd hired him.

But all she could think of was why she wanted him.

Why she was falling in love with him—because he ignited a fiery passion in her after a lifetime of just breathing.

St. Maur did this. Brought a winter garden to full bloom in her heart.

“I promised,” he whispered in her ear, his lips warm
and tender on the lobe. “I promised you I wouldn't.”

“I forgive you,” she teased, pulling him back into another heady, hungry kiss.

 

James knew he was wandering into deep territory when he tucked her into his arms and kissed her. It was a dangerous, perilous course.

Because all too soon he was going to have to give in to this madness and tell her the truth.

That he was Parkerton, that he loved her and that he would do everything in his power to make every day like this one, if only to see the happy light in her eyes, hear the joyful sound of her laughter.

To feel her lips press against his with longing and desire.

But as he kissed her, he found that the lure of being St. Maur held him too tightly. The freedom, the heady joy of being, well, ordinary. It made every moment of his life suddenly quite extraordinary.

Would she kiss him with the same abandon if she knew the truth? Would she run away in a hay wagon with him? Hold hands while touring a half-finished house? Could he have this life he'd discovered and share it with her?

He pulled back for a moment, stared into her happy, starry eyes and couldn't do it. Couldn't break this blissful spell, couldn't end the magic that suddenly, inexplicably bound them together, had caught them in its snare the first moment they'd met.

Would the Duke of Parkerton ever admit to falling in love at first sight? Never!

But James St. Maur could. And he had. Utterly and completely.

 

St. Maur continued to kiss her, but his explorations were not limited to her lips, for his hands trailed over her, along the lines of her hips, up her waist, finally coming to cup one of her breasts.

Elinor felt a wisp of cool air on her legs and realized that he'd managed to draw up the hem of her gown and was even now cupping her backside, drawing it right up against him.

Against the hard, stiff rod straining beneath his breeches. And for the first time in her life she knew, she understood.

This was how it was supposed to be.

When a man truly desired a woman, she thought wryly, happily. And here she was, in his arms, her body pulsing awake. Whatever her future held, whatever man she married, she still held a fleeting fear that he might never love her.

Not long for her as St. Maur did.

This is your one chance to know passion, Elinor. Don't let it pass you by.

 

James knew this had gone far further than it should have. After all he'd promised.

And she gave you her forgiveness…

Demmit, Elinor was an irresistible piece of muslin.

Even now, with her in his arms, her hand tracing a heated line along his chest, he could barely breathe. Get his senses in order. He'd only thought to kiss her…just this once…but like everything about her, just once was like falling headlong into an inescapable trap.

A passionate one.

Yet there seemed to be an innocence to her touch, to her gasps and sighs.

As if she'd never known such pleasures.

But how could that be? She had to know. She'd been married.

His hand curved up under one of her breasts and he cradled the weight of it, rolled his thumb over the tip until it peaked.

Just a little bit more,
his desires clamored.
A little bit more…

But “more,” he discovered, was a tricky word to master.

“St. Maur,” she gasped as he opened the front of her gown skillfully, greedily, and freed one of her breasts. But her protest faded to a soft mew of pleasure as he took her nipple in his mouth and sucked on it, ran his tongue over the pebbled flesh.

She gasped and melted toward him. “Oh, whatever are you doing to me?”

Whatever are you doing to me?
he could have asked as well, for not only did she have him in a rare state of passion—rock hard and willing to indulge his ducal prerogative of taking whatever he wanted—but his desire for her was also filled with an even stronger notion of possession.

His.
She was his. No one else's. And would always be so.

It was the same way he'd felt when he'd found her at the ball and realized her state—and how she'd gotten so pot valient—and why he'd nearly hauled Longford outside and pummeled the wretch and damn the consequences.

How dare that bastard assume…

James had never felt that way before, known such a passion, one he couldn't shake loose from where it had taken roost in his chest.

In his heart.

But that consideration was for another time.

Somehow, they'd fallen down onto the wide settee and were a tangle of limbs. The lush rise of her breasts pressing against him. Her hips moving beneath him, rising and falling in a cadence all their own, taunting him, enticing him.

Her gown had risen up around her waist and her stocking-clad legs wound around his.

His fingers trailed a slow line up her bare thigh, relishing the silk of her skin, the shivers that his touch sent through her flesh.

When it got to her apex, he felt her legs pull together, instinctively, protectively, but he pressed forward, teasing the curls there with slow, languid strokes. With each one, she relaxed, until with another sigh of pleasure, she opened up, unfurling before him, for his exploration.

Parting the soft folds, he found the nub hidden there and stroked it.

Her eyes opened for a moment and she looked up at him with a look of shock and surprise. He kissed her forehead, her nose, her lips, and then kissed her deeply and slowly, before he began to stroke her again.

This time her legs widened and he slid a finger inside her moist, hot core. Again she moaned, but this time he continued to kiss her, letting his tongue slide over hers, even as his finger did the same dance over her sex, sliding in and out, teasing her and tormenting her.

Her hands reached down and began to tug at the buttons on his breeches, seeking to free him. And the moment she did, not only were his pants undone but so, also, was he—for she wrapped her hand around him and stroked him.

“St. Maur, I cannot breathe, I'm lost,” she whispered into his ear. She moved restlessly beneath him. Her hair fell in a tangle of fair curls, framing her face.

The woman before him was a vision of irresistible passion.

And without thinking, he moved to fill her, take her, give in to the heated passion clamoring inside him for release.

Recklessly, dangerously.

James Lambert St. Maur Thurstan Tremont, the 9th Duke of Parkerton, a man who'd never before given in to such brash desires, found himself undone.

This is best done half dressed,
he'd teased her the other night.

And now he'd fallen into his own trap.

It was madness indeed, but all he could do was lower his head and take her lips again, drowning in a kiss that drove him deeper into the madness that this woman breathed into his life.

 

Elinor knew the moment he gave in to his desires, for a wild, dangerous light illuminated his eyes.

She shivered for a second, then realized that his madness was her delight. His touch had left her coiled up with unrelenting passion. Elinor ached as he stroked her, as his touch, his lips, the press of his body atop hers opened a floodgate of desires within.

Oh, goodness gracious heavens,
this
is what it is all about,
she realized.

And how could she know that it had barely begun?

The same crazy, wild madness that seemed to have taken hold of St. Maur descended over her. She
wanted this man, this dark, dangerous man who'd come into her life and turned it upside down.

Ignited this madness inside her. Tormented her dreams, and now enflamed her body.

How had she done this? How had she found the brazenness to be so wanton?

How could she not…

It was in that need, that overwhelming desire, that she'd reached for him, opened his breeches, opened them and explored him…touched him. Let her fingers curl around the hard length of him and stroke him.

St. Maur groaned, loudly and deeply.

The passion, the power she'd spied before, that lion pacing in his cage, arose, freed from his bonds, the constraints of good Society and unwitting promises.

I do believe I can act properly, but if you fear you cannot…

No, she couldn't…had no desire to…and thankfully, neither did he.

She stroked him again, shifting beneath him, her body aching for so much more…

This is how it is supposed to be
…
This
…This, wild untamable madness.

Knowing with all her heart what she wanted.

His fingers continued to tease her, draw her higher, bringing her toward something altogether beyond her current state of madness.

And when he pulled back for a moment and looked down at her, all she knew was a horrible sense of impatience.

God, she wanted him. Now. Forever. Always.

And while the second two were hardly possible, the first one was.

And while she couldn't summon the words, her body gave him the “by your leave” he seemed to need before he caught hold of her hips and entered her, thrusting inside her and taking her past anything she could have imagined.

 

“Oh, yes,” Elinor gasped as he entered her. She rose up beneath him, caught hold of his hips and pulled him closer.

“Please, St. Maur. Please,” she begged. Her hips continued to slide over him, teasing him into following her cadence.

She reached up and caught his face with her hands and pulled him down so she could kiss him. Slide her tongue over his, join with him in every way possible.

His body reacted much as hers did, sliding into hers, stroking her. Their passions took over, calling to each other, teasing each other, pulling one then the other higher and higher.

His pace quickened, as did hers. Her hips rose to meet his eager thrusts.

“Oh, yes, please,” she gasped, not knowing exactly what it was she was begging for—all she knew was that she wanted more.