The Art of Duke Hunting (21 page)

“Oh God,” she moaned. “What are you doing?”

“Giving you pleasure,” he said gently. “All the pleasure you deserve and want from me.”

And then he lowered his body, never removing his fingers from her, and she watched in shock and wonder as he bent his head to suckle that part of her.

She could not breathe. She dared not move for fear that he would stop. He clamped his mouth on her peak, and did something unspeakable with his tongue. And at the same time, his fingers inside of her beckoned without pause.

She was dizzy from not breathing and her palms fisted the sheets below her. His free hand forced her other leg wide open.

“Yes, that’s it,” he rose to whisper. “Open yourself to me.”

What was this? What was he doing to her? She should never have allowed this to begin. Because now she was incapable of stopping him. It was a passion and a torment so far from what she had thought she understood.

She tried to hold herself back from the edge, but she could not. She was suddenly flying. Flying to a place too close to the sun, she was certain. She was so hot, and she burned from the pleasure of it. And it did not stop. She had never ever possessed these sensations and she was certain she never would again. As the edges of her vision began to darken, she finally took a breath and fell back down to earth.

“Take your time,” he whispered. “You’re still weaker than you know.” He rose back up to lie beside her, and released one of her hands from the balled-up sheet to hold it within his own. His thumb brushed the back of her wrist. She had never felt so exposed and vulnerable in her life and she did not like the feeling. She preferred to be the one doing the giving.

“Please,” she finally whispered. “Please come to me.”

And then he was rising to mount her. At least now she knew what to expect. And yet, as he placed the large, blunt end of him against her, she realized that this would not be like either of the two times they had lain together. This was something impossible to fully understand.

He entered her gently, until she grabbed his buttocks and pulled him closer. He slid into her, in one long, slow glide, until she could not take any more of him. He angled her hips with his strong hands, and then he drove into her, every last inch inside her.

He didn’t move, and she could not hear him breathe. She held very still to let him regain control.

“Why is it so good?” he murmured.

“Because it’s you,” she said simply. “And me.”

The long slow slide and release began, and she gave every last part of herself to him and received every last part of him.

She raised one knee and he latched on to it with his strong arm, clenching it to his chest. And she reached behind to stroke his sac, which seemed to bring him to an unknown plateau. It filled her with such happiness to see him lost in passion that she could not stop the flood of a release deep inside of her. Lost with him somewhere this side of heaven, her muscles pulsed and clamped down on him.

R
oman Montagu was stunned. Something he rarely if ever had been in his life.

This woman beneath him was the most beautiful vision he had ever seen. Her long hair framed an image of such intense emotion, it scared the hell out of him.

And yet, he could not have denied himself no matter what the cost to either of them. He was caught in a maelstrom of pleasure, incapable of escape. He tried to think of anything except the touch of her fingers on his ballocks and the tightness in his lower back. He was a hair’s breath away from a complete loss of control when he felt her clenching him as she strained to find release.

Using a force he had not known he possessed, he plunged still deeper inside of her and stilled. She made an inarticulate sound, which nearly undid him.

He wasn’t sure how much longer he could go on. His release was poised in his shaft, inching ever closer to the end. Through sheer force of compassion he continued, thinking only of pleasing her.

And then suddenly, she stopped undulating under him.

“Wait,” she whispered. “Wait.”

He did as she bade. “What is it, March?”

She pushed at his shoulders, and he understood that she could not breathe with his great weight upon her. He rolled to one side and tried to keep pushing into her but she would have none of it. Relaxing totally, he allowed her to roll him onto his back, and in the process his arousal sprang free of her warm depths.

A cool breeze fluttered over his body before he realized she had moved to between his legs.

No.

She would not.

No gently bred countess would ever—

He shouted as she took him in her mouth, and cradled his ballocks with her gentle hands. He bit back another shout, horrified that he might awaken anyone in the manor.

Oh, God. It was too good. It was too damn good. She was taking him deep in her mouth and touching him everywhere with her bewitching hands. She was swirling, and giving, and driving him . . . to a place he did not know.

And then he could not stop it. And she would not let him. She moaned, and lightly, very gently took him far inside, and then paused.

He pulsed, and then tried to pull outside of her, but she would not allow it. He thrilled to the warm sensation of her mouth as he gave up all control and experienced the most profound climax of his life.

When he finally stilled, he raised his head to find her meeting his gaze. Light brown hair was tousled around her oval face, her gray eyes looking back at him with mystery and with such tenderness it suddenly made him very shy. He smiled.

“Are you all right?” he rasped out.

“Of course,” she whispered.

He reached over his head for the glass of water he knew was there and offered it to her. “Are you certain?”

She drank from it. “Yes.” She handed him back the glass and he returned it to the table, never letting his eyes stray from her face.

Her eyes studied him, uncertain. “Are
you
all right?”

He answered without thought. “Of course. How could I not. You are . . .” He did not know what to say. It had been the most extraordinary experience.

“Shhh . . . there’s no need to say anything,” she murmured.

He wasn’t sure he agreed. Females were so damned complicated to understand and . . . no. Esme was easy to understand. She didn’t want his compliments. She wanted his love.

He had already told her he loved her. But for some blasted reason he could not say it again now. It was lodged in his throat, under so many layers of confusion. But there was some part of him that guessed that perhaps he had only said it before due to the stress of the moment in the maze.

That was the only reason he had said it. And he did not want to feel as if he had to tell her again. Love should feel natural. No one could force it. And right now both of them needed the peaceful oblivion of sleep.

“Come here, March. Will you not let me hold you again tonight?”

She looked at him a long time before she eased into his arms.

She stayed there next to him and drifted into sleep. He smiled when she began to snore a little and then quite a lot. He realized it was the first time she had fallen asleep before him.

He was going to have to leave soon. They had made a bargain and he would stick to his end. She had an unparalleled talent and he would never hold her back.

He would give her every advantage he could afford to help her reach the pinnacle of her dreams to establish herself in the art world. Tomorrow he would arrange all the details to ensure a grand journey for her of epic proportions.

The one thing he refused to ponder was how he would feel as he watched her sail away. For some damn reason, he could not find slumber that night.

Chapter 14

E
sme woke from deep sleep, to find that once again, Roman had left her sometime during the early-morning hours.

She sat up, rubbed the sleep from her eyes and yawned, only to stop in mid stretch. The muscles in her arms, normally quite strong from forever lugging about her easel and painting things, were sore. She vaguely remembered clenching the bed linen last night and sank back down onto the bed.

She pulled the covers over her head.

God
.

What they had done to each other last night. It was like some sort of vivid, awful, embarrassing, fantastic dream. He had done things to her she would never have imagined, and she had . . . well, what she had done was not anything she had dreamed of ever doing. She had just followed his lead, which had taken them on a magnificent journey to a place she had not known existed.

Esme smiled to herself under the covers, which did not make the new day go away. She threw back the bed linen, and carefully tested her sore ankle with a bit of weight.

Hmmm.

It was still a bit sore, but she ignored it and hobbled to the bell cord.

Less than an hour later, she was washed, dressed, and atop the old gelding Dobby, with her artist’s gear well packed. And no one was the wiser, except her mysterious maid with the odd accent, Jacqueline Cooper, who had been instructed to inform everyone at the manor that she was starting a new painting in the direction she gave.

She settled under the shade of a tree overlooking Abshire’s grand estate. He had done her a great favor by way of his advice and so she would repay him with the gift of a painting.

First she broke her fast with the lovely foodstuff Cook had packed for her. And then she laid out her affairs in the rote manner she had adopted each day before she began to create.

As the day waned in the western sky many hours later, Esme put aside her brush and gazed at her creation. It was taking shape nicely. She liked the image of the shepherd in a pasture near the manor house. It gave light to the dark, somber stones of the manor.

It would take a few more days to complete, but it would be very much worth the effort.

After she had finished packing away her things, she could not bring herself to retrieve Dobby, who had spent the afternoon munching in the pasture.

She placed a blank piece of sketching paper before her and took up her brown-pigmented pencil. Her mind took over her hand and she roughly drew a face she now knew by heart. His brushed-back salt-and-pepper hair, his square face, and strong jaw with just the hint of a cleft. His magnificent sad eyes, and his long sideburns that were so soft to the touch.

She was not a great artist, she knew, because she did not have a strong talent in any one arena. She loved to draw and paint landscapes almost as much as she loved to sketch portraits. William was forever telling her that her landscapes were perfection. But she had always secretly preferred portraiture.

As she worked, she tried to conjure up excitement about the prospect of leaving for Vienna. Perhaps she would indeed invite William to join her this time. She would not make the mistake again of departing without a maid, or more likely now two. And a footman. It would be expected of a duchess, of course.

She tried to imagine saying goodbye to Roman Montagu. She allowed all the words to flow through her brain as she worked.

She must keep it very simple, and very light. He would prefer it that way. And she would see him once or twice a year as he had suggested.

And then her pencil stopped. The sketch was complete.

She mouthed the words she would use to wish him well when she departed. It was difficult to say with any sincerity.

She tried again. And again.

And then she realized she would never be any good at it. But she would only have to do it once, act as if she had every intention of seeing him again, and then she would take her leave of him, and ensure that she never saw him again by way of travel, her art and as many commitments as she could manage. It was as Abshire had said. She had to guard what was left of her heart.

She was not the lady for him. And he certainly didn’t want to be the man for her. He had not ever wanted to marry and he did not want children. He had little interest in art and less than little interest in traveling with her.

She looked at the portrait one last time and carefully placed it at the bottom of all her sketches. She did not have the heart to tear it to pieces, but she wanted no reminder of the man who would always haunt the corners of her mind.

R
oman examined the letters he had written to the owner of a shipyard and to several influential acquaintances in Vienna and in Prague. Every door she could possibly require would be open to her and she could explore, learn, and paint to her heart’s content. He wanted nothing more than for her to be happy.

She had missed the early supper. A servant had informed that she was painting in some field of the estate. To his surprise, Roman could not stop his thoughts from worrying about her as he retreated to the study to prepare his eventual removal from this, ahem, bucolic retreat.

Roman sanded the words on the pages again but did not seal the letters yet. He moved back the chair from the desk in the study of Derby Manor, and for the first time realized how much he missed being in his own townhouse in Mayfair. Prinny had not allowed him to send word to his mother or his sister, and he hoped they would not worry overmuch of his whereabouts. At least he could take comfort that the Prince Regent had given his word that he would personally inform them of his well-being, but swear them to secrecy until the riots in London cooled.

He was not thick in the attics. He knew Prinny wanted his whereabouts kept secret if only to force Kress to do his bidding. At least Roman had enough sense to know that perhaps the future king had the right of it. The entire royal entourage had gone too far, and they were all of them responsible. But when Kress married, as the prince had demanded, Roman and his closest friend could continue on as before—just with much more discretion. It would all be quite simple.

Abshire’s sodding words floated through his mind—“
Of course, you will have to attempt to look the other way when she takes a lover.
”

He stood up, restless all of a sudden.
God
. It was not going to be as simple as he wished. The thought of Esme leaving England and starting a new phase of her life without him was . . . well, it was difficult to fathom. And the idea of her taking a lover was unbearable.