When Seducing A Duke (6 page)

“I think it’s lovely that Grey is so protective of you.”

Rose might have laughed if her chest didn’t feel so tight. Lovely indeed. “Shall we ring for dessert, Mama?”

Rose hadn’t much of an appetite for the ginger ice cream Cook had prepared, but she ate it anyway. It was delicious, and she made herself enjoy it. She wasn’t going to let this mess with Grey spoil anymore of her dinner. She had engineered this situation—had deceived the most important man in her life since her father—and now she had to face the consequences, all the way to the end.

Obviously Grey couldn’t wait to leave her company, but was he running away from her, or toward the woman he was to meet that evening? Would he even show up at Saint’s Row, or would she sit there alone and wait?

Were she a strong and decent woman she would keep her earlier resolve and not go, but if there was even the slimmest glimmer of hope that he would come to her, her heart demanded that she be there to receive him.

And truth be told, she was already humming with a different kind of anticipation—the carnal kind. It made her feel dirty and excited at the same time. And it would not be denied.

She had thought giving herself to Grey—indulging in her fantasies—would ease her desire for him, but it hadn’t. If anything, it had made things worse. She wanted him more—craved him more—than she had a week ago, despite the fact that nothing would ever come of it.

After dessert, she went to her room to change. Her mother believed that she was spending the evening with Eve at her home. She didn’t feel bad about lying. It was far preferable to the truth in this case.

With the help of her maid, Heather—youngest daughter of Miller, the butler at Bramley—she changed into a pretty chocolate-colored gown and redressed her hair. Then, she said good night to her mother and took one of Grey’s carriages to Eve’s. She managed to avoid taking her maid by giving her the rest of the evening off. Such a ruse never would have worked had she been going anywhere but Eve’s. Once the carriage drove away, she walked just down the street and hailed a hack to take her to Saint’s Row.

She remembered to put on her mask before walking up to the door. “I’m a guest of the Duke of Ryeton,” she told the doorman who received her. He moved aside and let her in without question. He handed her a key as she passed. Rose didn’t look at it until she was at the foot of the wide sprawling staircase. The fob attached had a room number on it—the very same room they had shared the week before. Clutching it tightly in her fist, she climbed the stairs to the suite and let herself inside.

Would he come?

She sat on the edge of the bed and took off her gloves.

Would he come?

And then, hopeless fool that she was, she waited.

She wore a mask again.

This one was a deep, rich chocolate satin that matched her gown and complimented her hair and complexion. Grey didn’t mind that she chose to conceal herself from him again. He had worn his mask as well, but then he always did the few times he risked being seen in public.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said as he closed the door to the private suite behind him.

She rose from where she sat on the side of the bed, the snug gown hugging every curve, the tiny sleeves threatening to slip from her exquisite shoulders. “I almost didn’t.”

That was a little honesty he could do without. Then she added, “I assumed you had surely changed your mind, and so I thought to save myself the disappointment.”

Changed his mind? He could no more do that than ask night not to fall. There had been no question as to whether or not he would keep his part of their bargain. He couldn’t have stayed away if he’d wanted to. His will simply wasn’t that strong.

“You do not know the strength of your charms, madam.”

“I do not doubt my own attributes, sir, merely their ability to hold the attention of a man such as yourself.”

“And what kind of man is that?”

“A man who prefers to make assignations with women whose names he doesn’t know.”

Grey laughed. He wasn’t the least offended by her, in fact he found her honesty as amusing as it was bold. “The same could be said of you, madam.”

“I do not think so, Your Grace.”

He stilled as he hung his discarded coat on the rack in the corner. He only had to turn his head the barest inch to see her. She stood, hands clasped together in front of her, shoulders back as though waiting for him to do something.

“You know who I am?”

She nodded, hands clasped in front of her. “I do.”

Moving away from the coat rack, Grey moved toward her, keeping every step measured, every move careful. “You know the stories about me, then?”

Another nod. “Yes.”

“And yet here you are.”

“Here I am.” She held her arms out slightly at her sides, a gesture of supplication if ever he saw one. “Are you surprised?”

“To be honest, yes, I am.”

She smiled then, the lush bloom of her mouth curving invitingly. “Perhaps it is you who underestimate your charms, Your Grace.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“What would you have me call you?”

Darling. Lover. Best fuck ever.
“You may call me Greyden.”

“All right.”

“And what may I call you?” He couldn’t really call her “mine.” Could he?

“Whatever you wish.”

“You have my name but refuse me the same confidence? Why?”

“Because you have a reason for your mask, Greyden. And I a reason for mine. Give me whatever name you wish.”

“Rose. I will call you Rose.”

Was it his imagination or had she froze, just for a second? Of course she had. He was an ass to make such a suggestion. If she knew who he was, then she no doubt knew who Rose was as well. “As you wish.”

Grey held out his hand. “Come here.”

She did, slipping into his arms as though she belonged there. “Mine,” he whispered roughly against her ear. “That’s what I want to call you.” It wasn’t the first time he’d made such a declaration, but it was the first time he’d ever meant it.

She pushed against his shoulders, angling herself so she could look into his eyes. “Why? You don’t even know me.”

“I don’t know you, but I’ve been looking forward to tonight ever since I woke up that morning last week and found you gone.” He slid his hand up the graceful curve of her spine to cup the back of her head. “And so have you.”

He cut off any reply—any denial—she might have tried to make with his own mouth. Her lips yielded so sweetly beneath his, easily parting for his tongue to slip inside and taste the warm wetness of her mouth. She affected him like the most potent wine, making him lightheaded and warm. She made him lose all control, all reason.

It was a feeling he wanted to cling to as long as he possibly could.

They undressed each other slowly, making a sensual game of it. When he carried her to the bed she wore nothing but her stockings—a sight more arousing than any he’d ever seen.

They came together easily, her body slick and ready for him. The humid vise of her sex wrapped around and held him with a tightness that made him grind his teeth in an effort to maintain control. Christ, she felt like heaven. He could stay inside her forever.

But forever wasn’t possible, so he settled for most of the night. Sometime just before dawn, they fell side by side on the damp and tangled sheets. He disposed of the last sheath he’d used, and closed his eyes in sated oblivion. His fingers fumbled and finally found hers as they rested against her thigh.

Her hands were so soft.

When the darkness came he fought it, knowing that the night would end when sleep came for him. But Hypnos, god of slumber, would not be denied, and even Grey’s will was no match.

He woke the next morning alone. Again. But this time, a soft brown mask lay on the pillow beside him, and beneath that a sheet of Saint’s Row stationery upon which was written two words.

Next Thursday.

Chapter 6

I
t was late Friday afternoon when Grey returned from taking tea with his mother, Archer, and Bronte.

It had been a good visit, he reflected as he left his mount with one of the grooms near the stables. His mother hadn’t bothered him about finding a wife. She seemed to have given up on that dream and moved on to Arch. Plus, she had Bronte to concern herself with as well. The youngest Kane sibling was on her third Season and had already turned down four proposals of marriage since her come-out. With a sizable dowry and investments of her own thanks to their brother Trystan, Bronte was in no hurry to “sell” herself as she put it. Grey couldn’t blame her. She was only twenty, and wanted a man who saw more than her fortune. He wished her luck, as she might be in for a bit of a wait. Fortunately, any man worth his salt realized that women became more interesting and attractive as they got older, so he had no doubt that Bronte would eventually meet someone who saw her true worth.

Speaking of interesting women…

There, on a blanket spread over the lush green of the back lawn, was Rose. She wore a wide-brimmed straw hat to protect her from the sun, and a coral-colored day gown with very little adornment or trim. Not for the first time, Grey was struck at how much older she was than when she’d come into his care. She wasn’t a girl anymore. She was a woman.

Not just a woman, she was obviously a bloody siren, because no matter how much he intended to carry onward to the house and take care of some business before bathing and dressing for dinner, he found himself walking across the freshly cut grass toward her, mesmerized by the ruffling of her skirts as the warm breeze tugged at them.

She was engrossed in reading a magazine, which she held in both hands to keep the wind from picking up the pages. In fact, she was so involved in her reading that she didn’t seem to notice his arrival.

“And what is the popular color for gowns this Season?” he asked with a smile when it became necessary to announce himself.

She gave a little start, and when she raised her face to look up at him, her cheeks were pink, her eyes wide. She looked, for lack of a better comparison, like a child caught doing something she oughtn’t.

“Oh! Hello, Grey.” She glanced away. “Um, blue seems to be very favorable this year.”

Arching a brow, he nodded at the periodical in her hand. “Beg pardon. I thought you were reading a ladies’ magazine.”

“I am,” she replied with a coy smile. “But fashion is not one of its main areas of interest.”

With an expression like hers—very much like the Cheshire cat in that book by Lewis Carroll—he doubted it was an article on housekeeping that put such becoming color in her cheeks.

“May I?” he asked, holding out his hand.

Her grip on the magazine tightened, reluctant to give it up. “Only if you promise not to tell Mama you saw me reading it.”

Oh, this was trouble. Still, it was none of his business what a grown woman of three and twenty read. He was curious, that was all. “I promise.”

She hesitated, then put the pages into his hand.

Placing his finger between the thin sheaves to mark her spot, Grey flipped to the cover. Christ on a pony!

The magazine looked fairly harmless—the sketch on the front showed a demure young lady in a stylish gown and hat, sitting on a park bench. Only upon closer inspection could one notice that the object of her attention—and rapturous smile—was the young man bathing in the lake just on the edge of the page. He was bare-chested—quite possibly bare everywhere, but that key part of anatomy was carefully hidden with a line of text that read, “Ten ways to keep a gentleman at home—and in bed.”

He didn’t want to see what she was reading. He had heard of this magazine before.
Voluptuous
was a racy publication for women, filled with erotic stories, advice, and articles about sexual relationships, how to conduct oneself to avoid scandal, etc.

He could take her to task for reading it, but what would be the point? No doubt the information in it would serve her wisely someday. He gave the magazine back to her. “I have to confess, I’m a little surprised to find you reading such…material.”

She shrugged. “I was curious. My parents were so happy in their marriage, so very much the opposite of most of what I’ve heard. If I’m to make a match as good as theirs, I need to know as much as I can about how to have a satisfying marriage.”

Grey almost groaned. The image of Rose “satisfying” herself filled his mind with such clarity it was difficult to remember he’d never actually seen such a delightful sight. His body stiffened at the delectable images his mind conjured, and he had to fold his hands in front of him to hide his growing arousal.

“There’s just one thing I don’t understand,” she remarked, setting the periodical aside for a moment.

“And that is?”

She tucked her skirts around her legs, denying him further glimpses of her ankles. “Would you by chance know what gamahuching is?”

Grey would have thought himself far beyond the age of blushing, but the heat in his cheeks was unmistakable. “Good lord, Rose.” His voice was little more than a rasp. “That is hardly something a young woman brings up in casual conversation.”

Oh, but he could show her what gamahuching was. He’d be all too happy to crawl between those trim ankles and climb upward until he found the slit in her drawers…

Rose shrugged. “I suppose it might be offensive to someone of your age, but women aren’t as sheltered as they once were, Grey. If you won’t provide a definition, I’m sure Mr. Maxwell will when I see him tonight.” And with that threat tossed out between them, the little baggage returned her attention to her naughty reading.

His age? What did she think he was, an ancient? Or was she merely trying to bait him? Tease him? Well, two could play at that game.

And he refused to think of Kellan Maxwell, the bastard, educating her on such matters.

“I believe you’ve mistaken me if you think I find gamahuching offensive,” he replied smoothly, easing himself down onto the blanket beside her. “I have quite the opposite view.”

Beneath the high collar of her day gown, Rose’s throat worked as she swallowed. “Oh?”

“Yes.” He braced one hand flat against the blanket near her hip, leaning closer as though they were co-conspirators. “But I’m afraid the notion might seem distasteful to a lady of your inexperience and sheltered upbringing.”

Doe eyes narrowed. “If I am not appalled by the practice of frigging, why would anything else done between two adults in the course of making love offend me?”

Christ, she had the sexual vocabulary of a whore and the naiveté of a virgin. There were so many things that people could do to each other that very well could offend her—hell, some even offended him. As for frigging, that just made him think of his fingers deep inside her wet heat, her own delicate hand around his cock, which of course was rearing its head like an attention-seeking puppy.

He forced a casual shrug. Let her think he wasn’t the least bit affected by the conversation. Hopefully she wouldn’t look at his crotch. “Gamahuching is the act of giving pleasure to a woman with one’s mouth and tongue.”

Finally his beautiful innocent seductress blushed. She glanced down at the magazine in her hands, obviously reimagining some of what she had read. “Oh.” Then, her gaze came back to his. “Thank you.”

Thank God she hadn’t asked if it was pleasurable because Grey wasn’t sure his control could have withstood that. Still, glutton for punishment that he was, he held her gaze. “Anything else you would like to ask me?”

Rose shifted on the blanket. Embarrassed or aroused? “No, I think that’s all I wanted to know.”

“Be careful, Rose,” he advised as he slowly rose to his feet once more. He had to keep his hands in front of him to disguise the hardness in his trousers. Damn thing didn’t show any sign of standing down either. “Such reading may lead to further curiosity, which can lead to rash behavior. I would hate to see you compromise yourself, or give your affections to the wrong man.”

She met his gaze evenly, with a strange light in her eyes that unsettled him. “Have you stopped to consider Grey, that I may have done that already?”

And since that remark rendered him so completely speechless, he turned on his heel and walked away.