What to Do with a Duke (26 page)

He slipped his hands under her shift and raised it slowly, sliding his palms over the firm curve of her bottom and up the lovely arch of her back, his thumbs brushing the sides of her breasts. Her skin was so soft, so smooth.

He broke their kiss so he could pull the cloth up and over her head. And then he looked at her, standing in front of him in only her shoes and stockings, her hair still up.

She blushed and started to cover herself, but he stopped her.

“No, Catherine.” He turned her so she faced the window, the afternoon sun bathing with warm light her beautiful, round breasts, her slim waist and belly, the reddish curls between her pale thighs. “Let me see you.”

“I'm sure we should pull the curtains,” she said, her voice trembling with embarrassment and nerves. She was flushing, all of her.

“No. I want to see every curve, every shadow of your beautiful body.”

She tried to twist so she wasn't facing him so directly.

“Don't hide.” He touched her breast and watched its nipple pebble.

“You are the one hiding. Why don't you take your clothes off?” Her words were brave, but he still heard the tremor beneath them.

“I will, soon.” There were many different ways to play this game, but this time—his only time with her—he wouldn't play any games at all. They should have at least an hour before anyone wondered where they were. He wanted to enjoy every minute. “In a little while.”

“Now.”

“I am afraid that once my clothes come off, my control will, too, Catherine. Let's wait, please? Just a little longer.”

She looked at him suspiciously, but he was telling the truth.

“At least take your coat off.”

“All right. I can do that.” He
was
rather warm. He struggled out of his coat.

“And your waistcoat.”

That was easy enough to shed.

“And your cravat.”

He'd never freed himself from a length of linen so quickly.

“And now, your sh-shirt?” She looked at him cautiously, as if shedding his shirt might turn him into a ravening beast.

“Come help me with it.”

She stepped cautiously toward him, but when he didn't pounce on her—he forced his hands to stay at his sides—she relaxed and concentrated on freeing the buttons at his throat. He felt her fingers brush his chin; he watched her bite her lower lip as she concentrated. He breathed in the clean, lemony scent of her hair and skin.

She was so different from the London women he knew, as different as Loves Bridge was from Town.

Zeus, he wished he could stay here and have an ordinary marriage like Catherine's sister and Dunly were starting today, but thanks to his weak-willed ancestor and Isabelle Dorring, that wasn't something he could hope for.

Ah, that's right. He'd meant to show Catherine the duke's diary and discuss his mother's visit—

Perhaps some other time.

She'd got the shirt buttons open now and had started to pull his shirt out of his pantaloons.

“Ohh!” Her fingers traced the line of hair over his stomach to his chest. “Your body is so hard, and yet it's soft, too.”

“Um.” The part that was hardest she hadn't encountered yet, but it was pushing insistently against his pantaloons, eager to be free. He grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head.

Catherine ran her hands over the muscles in his arms and shoulders, and then hugged him, pressing her cheek to his chest. “I can hear your heart beating.”

It was a wonder she couldn't see and feel it, too, it was thudding so hard. He wanted her more than he'd ever wanted any woman in his life.

It was difficult to go slowly, though. He drew in a deep breath and concentrated on the sensation of her palms sliding over his back, her breasts pressed against his skin.

He ran his fingers through her hair, plucking out her pins one by one, until the lovely silken mass, a mix of fire and light, tumbled down her back. He kissed her neck, right under her ear, and whispered, “You still have your shoes and stockings on.”

“Oh!” She giggled nervously. “I'll just get them off, shall I?”

“Allow me.”

“No, really. I'll—oh!”

He knelt before her and kissed her belly. “Hold on to me, if you need to.”

“I won't—
ohh!
”

Her hands grabbed his shoulders as he kissed the top of her thigh, so very close to his ultimate goal. Her warm, musky scent tempted him, but he wouldn't go there yet.

He untied her garter and slowly, slowly slid her stocking down her leg, kissing her inner thigh, her knee, her calf. She was breathing in little pants and moans. Her legs were shaking; the scent of her desire urged him to hurry.

He would not hurry.

“Lift your foot, Catherine.”

“Uh.” She looked down at him, her face flushed, her eyes not quite focused. “What are you doing to me?”

He smiled and lifted her foot for her—at least she was aware enough to bend her knee. “Removing your shoes and stockings.”

That earned him a breathless giggle. “I don't think I'll survive the process.”

“You will.” Though he might not. He slid the other stocking off more quickly, and then touched her core gently with his index finger. She was wet and slick and very ready for him.

“Ohh!” She jerked her hips back, and then moved them toward him again, so he took a small taste, his tongue just brushing her sensitive nub.

Her hips jerked back again, and she moaned.

It would be so easy to make her come now. One more touch and she'd be there. But if this was his only time with her, he had to make it last as long as he could.

He stood and kissed her slowly. “I love how soft you are.” He slid his hands over her arms. “And how you smell and taste.” He grazed his lips over her jaw. “And I love how you gasp and moan when I touch you.” He rubbed her nipples with his thumbs and smiled—and panted a bit himself—when she drew in her breath, closed her eyes, and arched to press her breasts into his palms.

If he didn't get her on that bed soon, he was going to embarrass himself.

He jerked back the coverlet, put his hands on her waist, and lifted her onto the mattress. Then he scrambled out of the rest of his clothing.

“Oh.”

Catherine was staring at his cock. It
was
rather hard to miss.

“May I touch it?”

“Yes.” The word came out as a croak.

He grabbed the bedpost to stay upright as she ran one finger carefully over his length and then cupped his bollocks in her hand. This was good. He should give her a few moments to become familiar with him.

“All men hide this in their pantaloons?”

He strangled on a laugh. “Yes.”

Her eyes widened, and she looked at his cock again.

“It's usually smaller.” He swallowed. “And not so, er, stiff.”

If only they had more than this one time....

No. He couldn't turn Catherine into a kept woman. This once could perhaps be forgiven, but it couldn't be repeated.

And once it was over, he might not want more. This time might cure him of her. It would be good if it did. They had no future together.

Unless she conceived—and then he had no future at all.

She wouldn't. He would be careful.

He leaned over to kiss her, pressing her back against the pillows, and then he was on the bed with her. Enough with going slowly. He couldn't wait any longer.

“I want you, Catherine.”

“And I w-want you, too, M-Marcus.”

He felt an odd twinge of disappointment.

Why? There was nothing to be disappointed about. He had an eager, willing, beautiful woman naked in bed with him, a woman who had just told him she wanted him. No, he had
Catherine
in bed with him, not just any woman.

What more could he wish for?

Oh, God. He wanted her to say she loved him.

Idiot!
He knew nothing of love. Desire—wanting, needing—
that
he understood. Pleasure. Passion. He would use all the skills he'd learned over the years to make this . . . whatever this was . . . wonderful for Catherine.

He kissed her eyes, her nose, the corner of her mouth. He brushed his lips over her throat, her collarbone, down to the lovely swell of her breast.

“Oh.” She was panting again. “Oh, Marcus.”

He inhaled, trying to memorize her scent. He wanted to memorize all of her—her taste, the sound of her small breathy moans, the feel of her soft body beneath him—and yet his need to bury himself in her warmth was surging, drowning out everything else.

He had never felt this way before. He prided himself on his control, but his control felt very fragile and unreliable now.

He kissed the side of her breast. Her nipple was already a tight nub. He touched it with his tongue.

Catherine moaned and arched. Her hips twisted on the mattress.

“Marcus. Oh, Marcus.”

A thread of pride slid through him. He wanted her to remember this, too, to have it imprinted on her soul. To have
him
imprinted there.

He teased her with light kisses and glancing touches before drawing her nipple into his mouth.

“Oh!”

He did the same for her other breast.

She was writhing under him now, her breath coming in short, fast pants, her hands sliding frantically over his back.

“Please, Marcus. Please.”

She was wild with passion. He'd known she'd be this way. She felt everything so intensely.

He wanted to make this last for hours. Forever. But his need was growing too insistent to deny. He moved lower, kissing the underside of her breast, her belly. He dipped his tongue into her navel and then pressed a kiss to the lovely curls beneath it. She smelled damp and hot and ready for him.

He held her hips still so he could touch his tongue to the hard, tight nub hidden in her moist folds.

“Ohh.”
She spread her legs wider. “Marcus.”

He circled the nub with his tongue, savoring her taste.

Her hips jerked down into the mattress. “Marcus.” Her voice was high and tight.
“Marcus!”

It was time. He couldn't wait any longer.

He rose up over her and looked down into her face. Usually, he bedded women in the dark, his eyes closed to focus on his own pleasure, but Catherine was different. He wanted to watch her as he slid slowly into her warmth, her tight channel opening for him, welcoming him—

Until the moment he broke through her maidenhead.

“Oh!” She flinched, sucking in her breath.

He froze. “Are you all right, Catherine?”

“Y-yes.” She swallowed, and then smiled at him, running her hands down his back, flexing her hips slightly. “Yes.”

Some strange, warm feeling flooded his heart, and he leaned down to kiss her before moving again.

Ah. She was so wet and tight and hot. Every stroke was exquisite torture.

“Oh!” She stiffened under him. “Oh!”

She was close. Very close. He thrust again.

She screamed his name and bucked under him, her hands gripping his arse while her inner muscles gripped his cock, pulling him deeper and deeper into her. He breathed in her hot, sweet scent.

And then the pleasure came, wave after wave of intense, consuming pleasure. He couldn't think—he could barely breathe. He wanted it to go on and on and on forever.

It didn't, of course. After the very last ripple subsided, he collapsed onto Catherine, sweaty, exhausted, and more deeply satisfied than he'd ever been.

He turned his head and kissed her neck, savoring the feel of her body under his, of his cock—

Good God!
His cock was still buried deep in Catherine's body.

—from Isabelle Dorring's diary

 

 

Cat ran her hands up and down Marcus's broad, sweat-slicked back and tried to breathe. He was still inside her, in the most private part of her, his body heavy on hers, pushing her into the mattress. She couldn't move.

She didn't want to. She was exactly where she most wished to be.

Her hands drifted down to his firm arse. What he had done to her—what they had done together—had been so very, very carnal and yet oddly spiritual, too. Something in her soul had shifted.

She closed her eyes and waited for shame to come.

It didn't.

Perhaps it would come later, when she was alone. Now though . . . Mmm. She hugged Marcus closer. Now she was happier than she'd ever been.

She felt Marcus's lips on her neck. She turned her head to kiss him back, but suddenly he stiffened.

She gasped at the obscenity, and then gasped again as he jerked free of her and bolted off the bed, leaving her damp, naked flesh exposed. She shivered with sudden cold and anxiety and pulled the coverlet up over her. “W-what's wrong?”

He was so beautiful. The worry twisting in her gut couldn't distract her from that. The afternoon sun, streaming in the window, highlighted his shoulders, the muscles in his arms, his broad chest, flat belly, and narrow hips. Even his flaccid male bit was oddly handsome.

And not so flaccid. It grew longer and thicker as she studied it.

Marcus grabbed his pantaloons off the floor and almost jumped into them.

“I'm sorry,” he said, reaching for his shirt.

“About using that word?” Was that the reason he was scrambling into his clothes? “Don't give it another thought.” It had been very shocking, but she certainly wasn't going to take umbrage at it. “I forgive you.”

She extended her arms, letting the coverlet slip down. The cooler air now felt good—and made her nipples tighten. She wanted his mouth on them again. “Come back to bed.”

He shook his head sharply, his eyes tortured. “It's not the word, though I'm sorry about that, too.”

“Then what is it?” Worry twisted again, letting embarrassment and the beginnings of shame in. Had he not enjoyed the encounter as much as she had? She'd thought he had, but then what did she know about such matters?

“I was apologizing for spilling my seed in you, Catherine. I had meant to pull out before that happened.” His jaw flexed, and he looked away.

She flushed. This was an embarrassing conversation. “That's all right. I didn't mind.” Mind? She'd loved having him pulse into her. She'd felt so close to him then.

And now it turned out it had all been a mistake. Oh, God. The beauty of what they'd just done faded, leaving her feeling old and sad and . . . discarded.

He pulled on his stockings and shoes. “You will have to marry me now. As soon as the party is over, I will talk to your father. Then I'll get a special license. We can be wed in just a few days.”

She felt sick. “I can't marry you.”

“You have no choice.” He put on his waistcoat. “If I had pulled out in time—and I assure you I usually do—you would not be at risk—well, not at so much risk—of conceiving. But as it is”—he shook his head. “I am not such a blackguard that I would allow you to suffer the terrible scandal that an unwed pregnancy would bring.”

That's right. What had been an earth-shattering experience for her was just one more pleasant tupping for him.

“But what about the curse?”

He paused in tying his cravat. “What about it?”

Was the man being purposely obtuse? “If you marry me and it turns out I'm carrying your heir—” Oh, God! It finally hit her.

She was elated and horrified at the same time. Her stomach knotted. She was going to be ill.

No, she wasn't. She swallowed determinedly.

“If you marry me and I'm carrying your son, you might d-die.”

He shrugged and arranged the linen folds more to his liking and then struggled into his coat. “That can't be helped.”

“It
can
be helped!” She threw off the coverlet and stomped over to him—or stomped as well as she could, naked and barefooted. “I can refuse to marry you.”

She still had some control over this situation. She had a choice. He couldn't force her to wed.

“Catherine, be reason—” He turned to find her just inches from him. “Good God, woman, put on some clothes.”

“Why? You weren't complaining about my nakedness a few minutes ago.”

“I'm not complaining now, I'm just—” He stepped around her to grab her shift and shove it at her. “Here.”

She snatched it out of his hands. “What? Do you wish me to go back to the party? Shall I stroll over on your arm and announce to everyone what we've been about?”

“There will be no need for that. If my seed does take root, everyone will know exactly what we've been about in a few months' time.”

“They'll know far sooner than that if you insist on marrying me out of hand.”

“What does it matter? If you're increasing—”

“But I might not be, isn't that right?”

He scowled at her. “Yes.”

“Then let's wait to see which it is.”

He was still scowling. “But I've dishonored you.”

“I didn't feel dishonored until now.” It was true. What had been special and glorious and wonderful now felt sordid and shameful. She pressed her lips together to keep from crying.

Marcus made an odd little noise, something between a growl and a sigh, and put his arms around her. “I'm sorry, Catherine.”

“You are used to this sort of activity, but I am not.” Oh, drat. She
was
going to cry.

“I know, Catherine.” He stroked her hair. “I'm sorry.”

She tried to stop the tears. She sniffled and swallowed, but there was no damming them. They surged out on a sob.

She
hated
crying. Her nose got red and stuffy and she always got a headache.

Marcus held her, but there was nothing loverlike about his touch now. He could have been her father. Lud, he could have been a total stranger.

She finally found the strength to push herself away. “I am not going to marry you.”

He looked at her, but his eyes were shuttered. She had no idea what he was thinking. “All right. I will not speak to your father now. Let us wait until we know for certain if you are increasing.”

“I still won't m-marry you.”

Even she could hear the waver in her voice, but Marcus, tactfully, did not mention it.

“I'm going back to London, Catherine. I'll leave in the morning. I think, ah,
things
will be too hard to manage if I stay in Loves Bridge. The Boltwoods have noticed our closeness, and the rumors are likely to start up again. My departure and continued absence should persuade everyone that any suspicions are groundless.”

Marcus was going to leave? She felt a bubble of panic rise in her throat. He was going to desert her just as the third duke had deserted Isabelle.

No. She must not allow her imagination to run wild. The two situations were not at all alike.

“Just remember,” Marcus was saying, “you swore to write me immediately if you discover you are with child.” The shuttered look lifted briefly, and she caught a glimpse of his pain.

“I said I would write. I will—
if
I am enceinte.”

He sighed and took her hands, holding them in his large, warm clasp. She tried to pull away, but he tightened his grip briefly, and she chose not to struggle.

All right, his hold
was
comforting.

“You are not alone, Catherine. Whether you consent to marry me or not, I shall take care of you and any child. Things may not be easy, but they will be all right. I have wealth and power, and I can and will protect you.” His grip tightened. “Do not give in to despair as Isabelle did.”

She jerked her hands free. “I am not such a coward.” Suicide was terrible enough, but she would never kill her baby.

Marcus frowned. “I don't know that Isabelle was a coward, Catherine. I think she must have felt overwhelmed and abandoned and saw only one way out. I don't want you to do the same. Write me. I will come, and we will find a way to deal with the situation.”

“So you aren't going to marry someone else immediately like the third duke did?” She tried to laugh. She'd meant it as a joke, but it had come out more like a wail.

“Of course not.” His frown deepened. “Though I will have to marry eventually.”

He would. He still needed an heir. And when that happened—

Oh, God. She would die.

“I've been meaning to tell you that I came across the third duke's diary,” he said, “hidden in a desk's secret compartment. If his scribblings are to be believed, he did love Isabelle and planned to defy his mother to marry her.”

Plans were one things. Actions were something else entirely.

“But he didn't marry her.”

“No. I don't know why.” Marcus shook his head. “I think he didn't know she was increasing. There's no mention of it in his diary, and, from reading the entries, I'd say he was the sort to have written about it in embarrassing detail.” He grimaced. “He seems to have worn his heart on his sleeve.”

Something this duke clearly did not approve of.

“However, I do not have to worry about that, do I? You will tell me if you are bearing my child.”

His gaze held hers so she couldn't look away. The part of her that had been most involved in their recent encounter suddenly felt heavy and soft. Did she hope she was carrying his child? How very foolish!

“I said I would, and I keep my word.”

He studied her for another heartbeat, and then nodded as if he believed her. He pulled out his watch and frowned. “I've been away from the party long enough—maybe too long. I have to go.”

“You're really leaving for London in the m-morning?” Drat. Her voice had wavered again.

“Yes”—his brows rose hopefully—“unless you've changed your mind about marrying me?”

She couldn't trust her voice, so she just shook her head.

“Then there's not much more to be said, is there?” He started for the door.

Panic clawed at her throat, but stubborn determination kept her rooted where she stood. “Wh-when will you be back?”

He paused, but didn't turn to look at her. “I won't be, unless you send word that you're with child.”

His voice was calm, but when she looked more closely—which was hard to do with the silly tears trying to force their way out of her eyes—she saw his fingers were curled into tight fists.

He did look back then. “Or if you write to tell me you've changed your mind about wedding me.”

She shook her head again. She couldn't do that.

He nodded. “Very well. As I said, I'm hopeful that by leaving I'll stop any further speculation about our connection, but I can't guarantee it. If things become unbearable, let me know.”

He didn't ask her to swear it, which was good because she wouldn't have done so. She couldn't justify keeping his child from him, but her reputation was her own affair.

He looked at the bed, and she tried to memorize the line of his brow, the sweep of his lashes, the angle of his chin. This was likely the last time she would ever see him.

She bit her lip hard. She would
not
cry anymore.

And then he looked at her. She thought he was about to say something, but instead his jaw hardened. “Good-bye, Catherine.”

She nodded to acknowledge she'd heard him. If she tried to speak, she
would
start crying. Or she might throw herself at his feet and beg him not to leave, and she had too much pride for that.

He hesitated, clearly waiting for her to say something. When she didn't, he bowed slightly and left. She listened to his steps echo down the stairs and then heard the back door open and close.

She took a quick step to the window, just in time to catch a glimpse of him before he was hidden by the overgrown vegetation.

Oh, God.

She'd never see him again.

She stumbled to the bed and sat down heavily as her legs gave out.

The room felt so empty.
She
felt empty. She'd always thought it silly when people talked about hearts breaking, but now she knew it was true. Hearts
did
break, and the pain was too intense for tears.

“Oh, Poppy. I didn't see you come in.”

Poppy leapt up onto the bed and butted her head against Cat's hand. This was odd. Poppy tolerated her with moderately good grace and would allow herself to be petted occasionally, but she'd never sought Cat out.

“Did you realize I needed company, Poppy?”

Poppy blinked at her and then butted her hand again, admitting nothing.

It didn't matter. A calm, quiet, restful companion was exactly what Cat needed at the moment.