When Seducing A Duke (3 page)

It was only sex, he told himself. This emotional reaction was because of her similarity to Rose, because she seemed so genuinely taken with him. It was nothing to worry about. Nothing that wouldn’t go away once the sun came up.

Bracing himself on his elbow, Grey lowered his head and took one puckered nipple into his mouth. Heat rushed through his blood as she moaned in pleasure, fingers digging encouragingly into his scalp. Her back arched, and when he sucked harder, she cried out, pressing those lush lips against his, parting her thighs for him.

He repeated the process with her other breast, rubbing the length of his arousal against the damp cleft of her body. She was all wet heat and willing flesh. It would be so easy—it was so tempting—to slid into her tightness and lose himself there. But not yet. Not yet.

He slid his hand down her torso, his fingers tracing the faint ridge of her ribs. Down the soft curve of her belly he moved with excruciating stealth, circling her navel and then down, until finally he found the damp and wanting place between her thighs. She didn’t have to ask, didn’t have to make a sound, for him to know what she wanted. Little moans escaped her mouth regardless, and she lifted her hips in invitation. One of his fingers parted the dewy lips of her sex to slide within, and found with surprising ease, the spot where he knew she ached to be touched. His lover cried out when the tip of his finger stroked and teased the little knot, and Grey acknowledged her pleasure with a gentle nip of his teeth against her nipple. Then he replaced his finger with his thumb, letting his fingers ease down through her wetness.

She gasped when he slid the length of one finger deep inside her. Her hips jerked upward, and he delved deeper, moving his finger, exploring with it until he found the ridge that made her squirm and moan. He became ruthless then, stroking and teasing until she ground herself against his hand, beautifully, beyond caring or shame. And then, as his thumb ruthlessly brought her closer to oblivion, he slid a second finger inside her.

Strong muscles clenched at his hand, urging him on. She was soaked between her thighs and his hand moved easily against her slick flesh. His own body was so tight and tense Grey felt as though he might come apart at any second, and yet he could not bring himself to deny her this pleasure, nor deny himself the pleasure of watching her face as climax claimed her. He raised his head to look at her.

And then she exploded. It was like nothing he’d ever seen before. Her chest and neck were flushed with the same blush that infused her cheeks. Her soft lips were parted, letting her cries ring out without censure. Her entire spine arched like a delicate wave, giving herself over to the sensations igniting every nerve.

She was beautiful.

When Grey came up on his knees over her, he knew the smile he gave her was beyond smug. “Did you like that?”

She blinked at him. “How can you even ask me that question?”

Grey laughed. Hands on either side of her head, he bent down and kissed her once again, nibbling on the sensuous curve of her lower lip. He nudged her thighs apart with his knee and she spread her legs willingly.

Reaching down, he guided himself to the entrance of her sex, where she was so very warm and damp.

And then he pushed forward, slowly parting her flesh as he eased his own inside. His lover dug her fingers into his back, lifting her legs to better adjust the angle of his intrusion. The walls of her sheath eased to accept him. She stiffened just for a moment and he thought…but no. She wrapped her legs around him, urging him deeper inside.

“Christ, you’re tight,” he rasped, shuddering just a little as he finally came to rest fully within her.

She stilled. “Don’t you like it?”

Another harsh laugh. “My love, you feel so good I don’t know how long I can last.”

Then the vixen moved her hips beneath him, eliciting a groan from deep within his chest. “You naughty wench.”

She laughed—a throaty chuckle that cut off abruptly when he thrust inside her. That would teach her to tease him, he thought smugly. And oh, dear Christ, she felt like Heaven!

Every slick thrust brought him closer and closer to the edge. Every time she raised her hips to accept him he lost a little more of his control. Grey didn’t care. He was too far gone to care. He withdrew only to bury himself inside her, over and over again as her nails scored his back and his fingers dug into the bed.

They clung to each other, bodies undulating. Grey could hardly think let alone speak. His mind was numb as his body came alive with every sensation and feeling. His heart seemed to swell within his chest as the tension within him grew. He’d had plenty of meaningless encounters in the course of his lifetime, but this wasn’t one of him. He’d fallen headlong into infatuation a few times as well, but nothing had ever come close to this.

What was it about this woman? Was there something special about her? Something other than the fact that she reminded him of…

“Rose,” he whispered.

If she heard him, she didn’t let on, thank God. It was inexcusable of him to speak another woman’s name during intimacy, even he knew that. But he hardly had time for regret as he could feel her limbs tightening around him, feel the strain in her muscles as she teetered on the edge. He thrust hard and deep, quickening his movements until the hot wet grip of her undid him and they came together, cries of pleasure blending so that he couldn’t tell her voice from his own.

It was only by the grace of God that he remembered to withdraw at the last minute and spend on the sheets rather than in her.

They lay together, tangled and sweaty, breath coming in shallow gasps for what easily could have been an hour or mere minutes. Normally he would have been up and dressed by now, but Grey found himself in no such hurry, and when his lover started to pull away from his embrace, he stopped her. “Don’t go yet.”

She looked at him, and damn her she must have seen the desperation in his features because she said nothing, only lay back down beside him, allowing him to draw her against his chest.

Grey brushed his lips against the silky skin of her bare shoulder. “I want to see you again.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

He cupped her jaw with his hand, turning her head so that she was forced to meet his gaze. He didn’t care if she thought him pathetic or desperate. Nothing else mattered but that she acquiesce. “Please.”

“When?” Her voice was a little hoarse, not nearly as low and breathy as it had been all evening. Damnation, she even sounded like Rose.

“One week from tonight,” he replied, heart dancing for joy. “I won’t be able to get away before then.”

“All right,” she agreed. “Where?”

“Here. In this very room. I’ll make the arrangements.”

She nodded. “Here. One week from tonight.”

Grey smiled. Her voice had been stronger this time, her tone more enthusiastic. “Thank you.”

And then, in case she mistook their conversation for dismissal, he pulled her close and covered her body with his own once more. He kissed her softly, tenderly, patiently waiting for her to fully recover before launching a second seduction. He kissed the edges of her mask, her cheeks and finally her lips until she began to move against him, hips seeking his.

He made love to her a second time, and afterward, when they’d both collapsed limp and replete, Grey allowed himself the luxury of falling asleep in her arms. How long had it been since he’d spent the night with a woman? Too long. He’d forgotten the pleasure of soft flesh pressed to his own, the feel of a lush bottom against his thighs.

As he began to drift off, he realized that he didn’t know her name, and had no way to find her should she not return the next week. If she changed her mind she would be lost to him forever. Part of him knew that he could get over the disappointment if she decided to neglect their appointment. And another part…

That was the part that had him wrap his arms around her and hold her as tight as he could.

Dawn was still some hours away when Rose Danvers opened her eyes.

Good lord, how could she have allowed herself to sleep? It was late. She had to get going if she was going to catch the first train—if she was going to trick her mother into thinking she’d spent the night in her own bed.

She couldn’t waste any more time lying there watching Grey sleep, listening to his gentle snores and soft sighs.

Though, truth be told, she could stay like this forever. He was so beautiful it broke her heart. The mask he wore hid nothing from her, she who had memorized every line and detail of his face years before. Even that ragged scar couldn’t diminish the perfection that was his every feature. His eyes were closed now, but when open they were the clearest, loveliest blue with a hint of spring green. His nose was long and strong, his cheekbones chiseled, and his jaw broad. But it was his mouth she loved most. She loved the way his lips moved when he spoke, curved when he smiled. And most of all she loved the way they felt against hers.

Thank you, God. Thank you for giving me this gift.

She couldn’t help but touch him one last time, even if she risked waking him. She lightly brushed a lock of hair from his forehead, feeling the dark, silky strands between her fingers.

Had this night really happened or was it a dream? Had she truly given her virginity to the one man she held above all others? And had she actually heard him whisper her name, or had her heart imagined it?

So many thoughts swirled through her mind and yet she couldn’t seem to concentrate on any one. She had done what she set out to do and she would not regret it. If there were to be consequences then she would face him. She didn’t expect anything of Grey, but she hoped…

She hoped that now she might live without her incessant desire for him defining her every waking moment, every action. Perhaps now she would be free. And yet, she’d agreed to meet him the next week. That wasn’t freedom, that was the beginning of an affair. An affair she couldn’t afford to continue. It was too risky.

Quietly, she crawled off the bed, her legs shaky, muscles trembling. The tenderness between her thighs told her it was indeed real and not a dream. She dressed as quickly and completely as she could. She would fix her hair and check her appearance in one of the retiring rooms downstairs before rushing out to hail a hack.

At the door she hesitated, glancing back at the man on the bed. It felt wrong to leave while he was asleep, without leaving something of herself behind. She reached down and tore one of the rosettes off the bottom of her gown. There were so many no one would notice that six, let alone one, was missing. She placed the burgundy silk blossom on top of the table near Grey’s discarded cravat.

There, at least he would know she thought of him before she went.

And then, she cast one last glance at the man who had changed her forever before gently opening the door and ducking outside. She hurried down the stairs, checked her appearance as she planned, and then ran outside into the predawn street to hail a hack. Lucky for her, there was a steady stream of them traveling the length of Saint’s Row. Apparently there was no shortage of early morning departures from the club.

She gave the train station as her direction to the driver and climbed in the back, settling against the cushions.

The coach hadn’t even reached the end of the street when the tears started coursing down her cheeks. What the devil was wrong with her? She’d just had the most amazing night of her life—a soul stirring experience with the man who haunted her dreams and made her feel like no other.

So why, then, did she feel so awful?

Chapter 3

S
he was gone.

Grey woke to the sound of rain beating against the windowpanes—a gentle tinkling sound that made him want to roll over and wrap himself around the delicious woman in bed beside him. That was how he realized he was alone. He hadn’t even heard her leave.

Instead, he gathered the pillow she’d slept on close, and inhaled the lingering scent of her into his lungs. Her smell—fresh like the rain pattering outside—filled him with a longing so intense it damned near unmanned him.

Who was she to fulfill his fantasies so completely? Had she been a dream?

Tossing back the blankets, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. There was no point dallying if he was alone. He had to get back to Mayfair and prepare for the arrival of his guests. Facing the “real” Rose would be so much easier now.

Completely dressed save for his cravat, Grey reached for the discarded strip of silk and found a single, rich wine-colored rose ensnared in the length. It was from his lady’s gown. Smiling, he raised the delicate bloom to his nose, even though he knew it would have no scent. So she hadn’t left without thought or feeling. Why that should warm him so was a mystery. It was only sex. Still, that she should leave him a faux rose, when she was indeed his faux Rose…well, the irony wasn’t lost on him.

It would be a long week until he saw her again. As he wrapped and then tied his cravat around his neck, he thought about how it had felt to be with her—how tight and hot and wet she’d been. Almost shy. He had no trouble believing she was every bit as virginal as Rose would be.

Next time he wouldn’t have to be quite so careful, though he would have the patience to explore much, much more of her than he had last night. The mere thought of what they might do to each other was enough to waken his cock. He had to stop thinking about her, else he’d embarrass himself.

Grey left the club through a private members door, where there was less chance of being seen by others on the street or leaving the club. Of course, the hackneys knew about it, which made it all the more agreeable. No one had to feel obliged to make their driver wait all night, coat of arms on display for any and all to see. He gave his direction to the driver, climbed inside, and was soon on his way home.

The interior of the carriage was nowhere as fine as his own, but it was clean and comfortable—all that he required. He’d certainly been in worse. In his younger days, long before the incident that left him scarred and changed his life, he had been quite the rake, enjoying any and everything that was debauched, debased, and decadent. And he hadn’t cared who knew of it either.

Amazing how a torn face and vicious beating could change a man’s priorities.

The hack delivered him to his front door. Ryeton House was a sprawling throw back to another era—a Palladian design with neoclassical elements added by Robert Adam almost a century earlier. Grey supposed it was his turn to add a little something to the design, as his predecessors had, but he hadn’t the heart to make the poor old girl endure any more “dressing up.” He liked her just as she was.

The interior of the house was much like the outside—old, but elegant, and owing much of its style to each generation of Kanes who had lived there. Never once had the dukedom passed outside of Grey’s direct bloodline, and though he knew his chances of producing a legitimate heir were slim to none given that one had to marry for any offspring to be recognized, he took comfort in knowing that Archer or Trystan would no doubt provide the necessary boy to take over when Grey was long dead.

The smell of breakfast greeted him as he crossed the hall—buttered eggs, sausage, ham, fresh bread…Grey’s stomach growled in response. He was famished. Instead of heading upstairs to his bedroom, he pivoted on his heel and, after tossing his overcoat, gloves, and hat onto an obliging table, entered the dining room.

Archer, freshly shaven and bathed sat in Grey’s usual spot, sipping coffee and reading the
Times.

“Get your arse out of my chair,” Grey barked by way of greeting.

His younger brother bent his newspaper—Grey’s newspaper—and peered over the top with an arched brow. “Well, well,” he intoned, dry as burnt toast. “Look who finally decided to crawl back to the roost. You look like shite.” But despite the insult, Archer rose and moved his plate from the head of the table to a spot on the right.

Grey smiled. He had stayed out longer than Archer. That hadn’t happened for a long time, and he was decidedly smug about it. “Thank you.”

He sat down at his usual place, flipped a snowy white napkin over his lap, and removed the mask that had been stuck to his face all night. It felt good to free his skin from the snug leather. He would remove the traces of spirit gum left behind, later in the bath.

“You aren’t going to bathe before breakfast?”

Grey loaded his plate with a selection of everything. “No.” He was too hungry—and not at all in a hurry to wash away the lingering scent of his mystery lover. “Anything of interest in the paper?”

“The usual drivel. Lots of dithering about Russia and Turkey, and the fact that the Princess of Wales is in Greece.” Archer snapped the paper shut and set it aside. “I ran into Aiden and Blackbourne last night at Saint’s Row. They said they overheard Martingale bragging about taking a swing at you. Since you don’t look the worse for wear, should I squelch the rumor soundly?”

“He took a swing at me all right, and then fell flat on his arse.” Grey poured a cup of coffee. The whole debacle seemed much more amusing in the light of day. “But don’t bother saying anything. Everyone knows he’s a lousy drunkard who couldn’t hit the broad side of a coach with a cricket bat.” It was unlikely that society would believe Grey left the house let alone lost a fight to such a man.

Archer’s dark brows hitched. “You’re very chatty this morning. Not to mention almost congenial. Shall I assume your evening was satisfactory?”

“Assume whatever you like.” He shoveled a large forkful of eggs into his mouth. Sublime.

Archer scowled. “Bugger. I’d tell you.”

Grey inclined his head in agreement as he ripped a chunk off a still warm roll. “You’re not as discreet as I.”

“What rot! Since when?”

Pale, creamy butter melted on the soft bread in Grey’s hand. “Since always.” He popped the delicious morsel into his mouth. Had food always tasted this good?

His brother snorted in disgust and Grey took pity on him. “My night was lovely, Arch. How was yours?” More than lovely, it had mellowed him to such a state that he wasn’t the least bit anxious or agitated about seeing the real Rose. In fact, he’d wager this time he could take her into his arms and give her a welcoming embrace without wondering what it would be like to feel her nipples against his tongue—a thought that had been a genuine low for him given that Rose had been seventeen or eighteen at the time. He’d been eight and twenty and old enough to know better.

Accepting the bone he’d been tossed, Archer helped himself to a roll as well, only he slathered his with strawberry preserves as well as butter. He grinned. “Enthusiastic,” he replied with a touch of bravado in his rich baritone. “You might even call it downright athletic.”

Grey picked up a chunk of ham with his fingers and bit off a large bite. “What did you do, bugger the entire Cambridge rowing team?”

A piece of sticky bread narrowly avoided striking him in the eye and hit his cheek instead. “Twat.”

As he wiped the jam off his face, Grey laughed—a genuine from-the-belly chortle that felt so good he could hug his insolent younger sibling. It wasn’t long before Archer was laughing with him.

“I’d give my right nut for a night as lovely as yours must’ve been,” the younger man commented as he refilled both their cups with rich, black coffee. “What was she like?”

Grey sobered and lifted the cup to his lips. “She was everything I’ve ever wanted.” But as soon as he said the words he knew them to be a lie. “Or as close as I’ll ever have.”

Archer regarded him carefully, popping a piece of his strawberry-soaked roll into his mouth. “Let me guess—dark hair, fair skin, and an ass you can sink your teeth into?”

He didn’t know whether to laugh at the accurate description or cuff him for his impertinence. “Something like that.”

His brother nodded, took another bite, chewed and swallowed. “You know, I’ve never understood why you just don’t marry Lady Rose.”

And here he’d thought he’d managed to conceal his obsession with Rose. “Because she’s not for me.”

“That’s just more rot and you know it.”

Grey sighed. How often had he had this same conversation within himself? It didn’t matter what argument the side of him obsessed with Rose made, the few shreds of decency he had left inside him knew what was right.

“It’s not up for discussion.”

Archer shook his head, a sneer curving his wide mouth. “Jesus, Grey. If I were lucky enough to find a woman I wanted that badly, I’d do whatever it took to have her.”

Another forkful of eggs. “But I can’t have her. There are too many reasons why she and I would never work.”

“Name one.”

“She’s enamored of parties and balls and longs to be a social darling.”

“So get rid of the mask, get your arse out into public, and join her.”

“I’d rather take out my eye with the jam spoon.”

Archer shrugged. “Obviously you don’t think that much of her, then.”

Grey’s fork clattered to the plate. “Fuck you.” Now he was as foulmouthed as his brother.

The other man was unruffled. “It’s a damn shite excuse and you know it.”

“How about the fact that I’d never know if marrying me was just a way to say thank you for my saving her family?”

Archer made a face, as though it was obvious. “You could ask her.”

Grey slouched back in his chair, regarding his brother as though ten years rather than months divided them. “Would you want to know the answer if it was you?”

His brother didn’t have a quick retort for that. And it was plain as the fading sneer on his face that Grey had made his point. “I suppose not.”

His appetite gone, Grey tossed his napkin on the table. “I’m a decade her senior. I was a friend of her father, and I’m sure she looks upon me like a benevolent uncle. Even if she didn’t, I promised Charles I wouldn’t lay a hand on her.” The Earl of Marsden had been one of his dearest friends—practically his only friend. A promise to such a friend should not be easily broken.

Archer jerked back, disbelief coloring his angular features. “Why the hell did you do that?”

Grey shrugged. “He asked it of me.”

Shaking his head, Archer exhaled a breath. “You never told me that before.”

“I suppose I was ashamed.” And hurt, even though he understood his friend only made the request to protect his only child from a man whose sexual conquests had resulted in his being marked for life. Were the situation reversed, Grey might have very well demanded the same promise. And despite being a libertine, he was a man of his word.

Archer stared at him for a long moment, elbow braced on the table, chin resting on his thumb as his index finger stroked his stubbled upper lip. “Devil take it, Grey. Charles Danvers was one cruel bugger.”

A bitter smile curved Grey’s lips at the insult to his late friend. “Quite.”