The Duke's Men [1] What the Duke Desires (21 page)

He thrust the thought from his mind before it could tantalize him.

She was right about one thing—if he’d known of Bonnaud’s past, he wouldn’t have been
so eager to take this trip. He wanted to think he wouldn’t have had her and Manton
arrested, but he’d been quite angry that morning. There’s no telling what he might
have done.

But now that he knew her better, it was hard not to see things from her perspective.
“So what happens now? We speak with the new head of the Sûreté to find out where your
brother has gone?”

“Actually . . . um . . . I was thinking we should talk to Vidocq first.”

The nervousness in her voice put him on edge. “Why? If Tristan works for the Sûreté,
then they’re more likely to know where he went on his last case.”

“Well, yes, but the new head of the Sûreté doesn’t exactly
like
Tristan.”

Maximilian scowled at her. “Why does that not come as a surprise?”

The moon through the window cast a soft glow on her tense features. “My point is,
the minute a duke of your consequence starts asking questions—”

“You’re afraid I’ll get your brother dismissed.”

“Well, you
did
just say that you would.”

“I was angry. And I was speaking of what I would have done before.”

“But not now?” When he didn’t answer, she added, “Vidocq is more likely to know where
Tristan is, anyway. They are great friends and Tristan wouldn’t take on any big case
without talking to Vidocq. The Frenchman has such excellent instincts, and he is so
knowledgeable about—”

“You just want to see Vidocq again,” he snapped. “Admit it.”

A frown furrowed her brow. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh yes you do. Vidocq is more
charming
than I am, more
knowledgeable
, more
brilliant
.” Driven once more by a jealousy he was at a loss to comprehend, he shifted to the
seat beside her so he could glare down at her. “Clearly you can’t wait to see him
again.”

She gaped at him. “You’re utterly mad.”

“Yes, I am. You make me so, every time you open your mouth and start praising that
bloody Frenchman.”

“Oh, so now you’re going to blame
me
for your surly—”

He cut her off with a kiss. A hard one, born of jealousy and bad temper and a need
to blot Vidocq out of her mind.

But it only took a moment for it to turn into something more. A real kiss, born of
obsession, need, and bone-deep desire. God, it was sweet to kiss her again. So bloody
sweet.

Hooking his hand behind her neck, he held her still while he molded her mouth with
his, exulting when she moaned and parted her lips. At once, he deepened the kiss,
driving his tongue deep, claiming her in the only way she would let him, the only
way he should let himself.

For a long moment, there was no sound in the carriage but that of his roaring pulse
in his ears as he drank from her mouth over and over, reveling in the heady taste
of her, the scent of French perfume in her hair, the feel of her hands clutching his
coat, drawing him closer.

Suddenly she thrust him away. She stared at him, her eyes wide and wary, her breath
coming in urgent gasps. “We said no more kisses. You promised.”

“
You
promised never to lie to me,” he countered. “You broke your promise.”

“No,” she whispered. “I never once lied to you, I swear. Not once.”

He wanted to argue the point, but as he thought back over their conversations, he
couldn’t remember her ever speaking any actual lies. Still, that didn’t change anything.
“You may not have lied, but you deceived me about your brother, which is practically
the same thing.”

“No, it’s not. Strictly speaking, I followed our agreement to the letter.”

“Then
strictly speaking,
I will follow our agreement to the letter, too.”

Hauling her onto his lap so that she faced away from him, he clamped one arm about
her waist to hold her still.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she protested as she tried to wriggle free.

He pressed his lips to her ear. “We agreed to no kissing, but we said nothing about
touching. And if you can call it fair to deceive me, then I can call it fair to touch
you
.”

Then he swept his hand up to cup her breast inside her cloak. She froze. He didn’t
wait for her protest; he just fondled her shamelessly, teasing her nipple to a taut
little point through her gown. Ever since last night, he’d been haunted by half memories
of what he’d done, how she’d felt in his arms. So this time, by God, he was going
to do it while he could remember it.

He half expected her to argue or at least make some attempt to break free. But she
just sat there breathing hard. The more he caressed her, the more she arched back
against him, her hands digging into his thighs.

“Max,” she said hoarsely, “you shouldn’t . . . you oughtn’t . . .”

“Yet I am,” he murmured against her ear. “And you like it, too—admit it.”

Sliding his hand over to caress the other breast, he tugged at her ear with his teeth.
The little whimper
she gave in response fired his blood almost as much as the feel of her lovely breast
filling his hand.

“You probably don’t remember,” she choked out, “but last night I swore . . . I’d box
your ears if you ever . . . grabbed my bosom again.”

“I remember. I just don’t care. Besides, you can’t reach my ears,” he murmured, feeling
cocky now that he had her melting in his arms. “And you don’t want to box them anyway,
do you?”

She twisted her head to look up at him, her breath a rapid staccato. “I want . . .
I want . . .”

“Tell me what you want, dearling, and I’ll give it to you.” He released a long, shuddering
breath. “You feel like heaven in my hands. Pure heaven. I’ve wanted to do this practically
from the moment I saw you . . .”

Her eyes were lost and luminous in the moonlight. “Liar,” she whispered. “You wanted
to throttle me.”

“Only so I could get my hands on you. I wanted to touch you so badly I could hardly
think straight.” He slipped his hand down her leg so he could inch her skirts up.
There was more he wanted to touch. “Last night was sheer torture . . . unbuttoning
your gown . . . unlacing your corset . . . You may not realize it, but I was the one
who did that while you slept. Not some servant.”

“I know,” she said, surprising him.

“But you have no idea what I suffered doing it. Why do you think I went to the taproom
and drank myself silly? So I wouldn’t climb into bed with you and put my hands all
over you, the way I wanted to when I was unlacing you.”

“I kept expecting you to. I waited for you to . . .” she whispered.

“You were awake?” he said incredulously.

“Part of the time. I held my breath and waited to see what you would do . . . I was
so afraid . . .”

He froze just as his hand brushed her stocking-clad knee . . . “Surely you know I
would never harm you, dearling.”

Her eyes met his. “That’s not what I was afraid of. I was afraid that if you climbed
into bed with me and put your hands all over me, I might just . . . let you.”

His heart thundered in his ears. She desired him. What’s more, she was
admitting
she desired him.

That was all it took to have him kissing her again. She was in his arms now, and he
desperately wanted,
needed
, a taste of her. So to hell with their stupid bargain. He had her now, and he wasn’t
letting her go until he got his taste.

C
LEARLY
L
ISETTE’S EARLIER
headache had turned her good sense into Swiss cheese. That was the only explanation
for why she was letting Max caress and kiss her.

He called you
dearling.
Twice.

The absurdity of that thought made a laugh bubble up in her throat, but his kisses
were so fierce and ravenous that it died there. She shouldn’t care about such a silly
thing as an endearment.

But she did. Max wasn’t angry. He wasn’t holding her prisoner or retaliating. He was
kissing her as if she held the key to the meaning of life, as if he meant to gain
it by making her desire him madly.

His hand slid between her legs and inside the slit in her drawers, startling her.
“Max!”

“Let me give you pleasure, dearling,” he said hoarsely, melting her objections again
with that one sweet word. “Let me show you what desire feels like.”

Then he cupped her tender parts, and every inch of her leapt into high alert. “Oh,
Lord . . .
Max . . .
”

He began to rub her there, stroking her so devilishly that she groaned. Did he know
how it made her yearn for more?

“You like that, do you, minx?” he said in a self-satisfied tone.

Oh yes, he knew. “It’s . . . very . . . interesting . . .”

“Interesting, hmm.” He teased her mercilessly. “I can do this all night. Admit it.
You like it.”

“You’re a devil.” She dug her fingers into his arm. “All right, yes . . . I like it.
Please . . . Max . . . please . . .” She didn’t know what she was begging for. All
she knew was there was more. She could sense it, feel it, just beyond her.

“I’ll do whatever you wish, dearling. Just tell me one thing.” He raked kisses down
her jaw to her throat. “Did I really have you on my lap last night?”

His hot caresses made it hard for her to think. She fought to clear her mind. “Yes . . .
On your lap . . . yes . . .”

“Like this?”

“No!”

“Thank God. I’d want to remember
that
, for damned sure.”

She choked out a laugh. Then his finger slipped inside her where she felt aching and
slick and hungry, and her amusement turned to pure hot desire. He slid his finger
in and out, playing with the little button there,
making her squirm and press against his hand like a shameless wanton, wanting more.

“Well, minx?” he said hoarsely. “How do you enjoy that?”

“You’re making me . . . insane . . .”

“Good,” he whispered against her ear. “You’ve been making me insane since the day
I met you.”

The swaying of the coach made her rock atop his lap, and now she felt something hard
pushing up against her bottom. His arousal? It must be. She knew
that
much about a man’s body. Oh, Lord, was that what his . . . his
braquemard
felt like? So thick and sturdy?

She wriggled her bottom over it again, and he groaned. “Holy God, Lisette . . . don’t . . .
do that.”

“It’s my turn,” she said coyly, repeating the motion. “How do
you
like being teased?”

“I like it . . . too damned much,” he growled.

Taking her by surprise, he suddenly shifted her to sit sideways across his knees.
Then he fumbled with his breeches, and next thing she knew he was pressing her hand
down onto something heated and long and hard.

Ohh, it was his
braquemard.
How fascinating. She’d never thought it would be that firm. Yet supple, too.

“Please,” he said in a guttural voice. “Stroke me, dearling.”

“How?”

“Like this.” He closed her hand around his flesh, then showed her how to pull on him.
“Not too hard . . . yes . . . Oh, God, yes, exactly like that.”

His moan made her exult. He was as much a prisoner to desire as she. How thrilling
to have him so seemingly helpless in her hands, as thrilling as when she’d realized
he was actually jealous of Vidocq. Max had even admitted to caring for her. The haughty
and powerful duke laid low by
her
? It seemed impossible.

Yet he was breathing even harder than she, his
braquemard
was rigid as stone and growing longer and harder with each stroke, and he was calling
her
dearling
and
minx
with what sounded like real affection.

Then he released her hand so he could return to fondling her between her legs, and
she gasped. It felt
wonderful
, more wonderful than she’d ever expected.

And the best part was that it was Max doing it, Max kissing her neck and shoulder,
Max who was thrumming that sweet little button between her legs with such an expert
touch that she could feel something rising deep in her belly, a twisting tension fighting
to break free.

“Max . . . Oh, Lord,
Max . . .
”

“Yes, dearling,” he rasped. “Take what you want . . . take it . . .”

Her blood was like a fever in her veins and her heart was racing and any minute now
she was going to come apart like a piece of glass . . . vibrating so furiously that
it shook . . . shook . . .
shattered
!

“Lord save me!” she cried, rocked by a piercing pleasure.

Then he came apart, too, in her hand. As he released a cry of his own, something wet
spilled over her fingers and onto her bared thigh, startling her.

For a moment they both just sat there, their bodies shaking and their breathing heavy.