When Seducing A Duke (2 page)

She stood as still and poised as a gazelle as he approached, and just as likely to bolt if he conducted himself in the wrong way.

Patience, Kane, he told himself. Patience.

He walked up to her, every step measured and unhurried. Her head reached just above his chin, and she tilted it back to look up into his face. Sweet lips parted, revealing the moist pink flesh inside. He wanted to touch her, feel that slick moisture against his finger. He wanted to taste it with his tongue.

He held out his gloved hand. “I would like very much to dance with you, my lady.”

There was no hesitation as she slid her silk-clad fingers over his. “I would not dream of denying you, my lord.”

A thrill of anticipation raced down Grey’s spine as he led her onto the dance floor, the other dancers swallowing them into their ebb and flow.

Denial? No, there would be no more of that tonight.

When he had offered his hand, she took it. There was the slightest tremor to her long, delicate fingers as his own closed around them. He led her onto the dance floor where they joined the other couples doing a more seductive version of the waltz than most ballrooms ever witnessed. It gave him a convenient excuse to hold her just as close. The corseted swell of her ribs rose and fell with her breathing beneath the flesh of his palm. He made her nervous—the rapid rise and fall of her spectacular breasts was proof of that, as was her inability to raise her gaze to his.

A little anticipation was a good thing, but he did not want her afraid of him. He wanted her as eager for him as he was for her.

“Shall we converse?” he asked.

She looked up, giving him a glimpse of dark, sparkling eyes behind her frilly mask. “On what topic, sir?” Her voice sent a delicious shiver down his spine. It was deeper than Rose’s, and a little breathy, but close enough that his body reacted with such enthusiasm he thought he might embarrass himself by arching a massive erection right here on the dance floor.

“Whatever suits you,” he practically growled. “I will be content to watch your lovely lips move.”

Her eyelashes fluttered; clearly she was not used to flattery, or even flirtation. She really was perfect. “You flatter me. Perhaps I have little conversational skills. I should hate to bore you.”

He shook his head. “I find you fascinating.”

Her head tilted and a slightly mocking smile curved that gorgeous mouth. “Sir, you barely know me.”

Grey pulled her closer. His thigh brushed her hip. It was like bumping up against a hot stove, so great was the shock to his anatomy. “In my heart we are the most intimate of friends.”

She opened her mouth—probably to protest—but he robbed her of the words by claiming her lips with his own. In the middle of the ballroom, he let her mouth scorch his, tasted her with his tongue. Hot and wet, his assault ignited a fire in them both. He could feel her body’s answering arousal as she pressed her sweet self against him. She brought her tongue to his as she dug her fingers into his shoulder, clutched at the hand he had wrapped around hers. She tasted of champagne and warmth, and her lips were every bit as delectable as he suspected they would be. He wasn’t aggressive in his pursuit, but she could have no questions as to his intentions.

Hell, no one within a mile radius could have doubts as to his intentions!

When he finally lifted his head, breaking the kiss, she stared at him, her eyes slightly glazed behind the mask. She licked her lips, and Grey knew with a strange, sensual certainty that she was savoring the taste of him.

“Let us not play games, love,” he murmured, his mouth still very close to hers. “The moment I saw you I rushed down here to claim you before any other man could try.”

“You did?” She sounded genuinely surprised—and delighted.

Grey bit back a groan and managed a grin instead. He let go of her hand, and reaching inside his coat pocket, withdrew the key Vienne La Rieux had given him. He raised the filigreed metal for her inspection before gently inserting it between her breasts. She gasped as the cool metal touched her skin, went completely still as his fingers settled on the warm swells. Her skin was like silk, smooth and fragile. He wanted to run his tongue over the delicate blue veins barely visible beneath the surface, taste the salt in the valley between.

But here was not the place.

“It’s for a private suite,” he explained. “Shall I meet you there, or will you break my heart and refuse me?”

In the space of a few agonizing heartbeats, he waited. Then her fingers closed over the ones that lingered upon her breast and a sweet but teasing smile curved her lips. “I could never live with the guilt of knowing I had broken your heart, sir.”

“How long do you require?” Christ, he was as hoarse as a boy!

“Ten minutes,” she said instead. “Is that agreeable?”

Hell, no. “Five.”

There was no denying the shudder that racked her frame, no denying it was anticipation that wrought it. “As you wish.”

Somehow Grey managed to release her and let her walk away. His hungry gaze followed her as she moved across the floor, moving through the crowd as she made her way toward one of the exits along the far wall of the ballroom. Once she stopped and glanced back over her creamy shoulder at him. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he reckoned he could see the desire in her gaze despite the distance.

Five minutes. Not that long. A mere three hundred seconds. Why, he spent longer than that on his appearance in the evening. And it wouldn’t do for him to seem too eager, would it? Wouldn’t want his lover to know just how badly he had to have her.

Leaving the ballroom and making his way to the back stairs took thirty seconds. Climbing the stairs another twenty. Still, he had told her he’d give her five minutes before he’d even come to the room. He still had to wait.

He skulked in the shadows until he could wait no more. Two minutes early, he moved down the plushly carpeted corridor.

Denial was no longer an option. Tonight was all about indulgence, and he intended to indulge so lavishly and wholeheartedly that neither he nor his mystery lady would be able to walk properly for a week.

He was almost to the door when a hand grabbed his arm. Annoyed, he turned to face the intruder.

And that’s when he saw the fist flying toward him.

Chapter 2

G
rey ducked and the man attached to the fist fell into the wall, a victim of his own momentum. “Bastard,” the man spat from the floor where he slid. “I’ll kill you.”

“Not tonight,” Grey remarked dryly, straightening his cuffs. “Perhaps when you are sober you could give it another go, however.”

His assailant stared at him through bleary eyes. It wasn’t the first time Grey had been the victim of a surprise attack, but the last one happened some time ago and his reflexes were not what they ought to be. His heart hammered shamefully in his ribs. The arse had actually surprised him.

“Do I know you, sir?” he asked, wasting time studying the man’s familiar features when he should continue on to his lovely lady.

Spittle flew—intended for Grey but landing mostly on the man’s own chin and lapels. “You shagged my wife, you filthy bugger!”

Grey’s brows rose. A strange amusement filled him. “I’ll have you know I bathe regularly, sir.” He frowned. “Martingale? Is that you?”

The man huffed, tried to push himself upright and failed. “You know it is, you…you fussbudget.”

He would laugh at the absurd insult if he hadn’t realized the man had every reason to want to kill him. He had shagged Lady Martingale—many years ago. He’d shagged their daughter as well. Mother and daughter had gotten into a very public row over him at the theater one night. Bad form all around.

Grey offered the man his hand. “Let’s get you to a carriage. You should go home.”

Martingale slapped his hand away with a snarl. Somehow the man found enough strength in his alcohol-saturated muscles to stand, though he had to cling to the wall to do so. “Go frig yourself.”

“Come now,” Grey said softly. “Let me assist you.” It was the least he could do given all the harm he’d done. Of course Lord Martingale wasn’t a saint either. He’d been doing some burlesque dancer while Grey dallied with his womenfolk, but Martingale had been discrete and Grey…well, he’d never been known for such virtue.

Martingale shoved him, but it was the drunken earl who stumbled rather than Grey. “Sod off. Those men should have cut more than your face, you piss ant.”

“Yes,” Grey replied coolly. “But they didn’t. And you should have taken better care of your wife.”

The two of them stared at each other for a brief second, Grey still and composed, Martingale unsteady and filled with drunken anguish. And then, all the fight seemed to abandon the earl, leaving him deflated and bent. He turned and staggered down the corridor, leaning on the wall for support.

Grey watched him go with some regret. Of course he wouldn’t have welcomed further altercation, but perhaps spilling some of his blood would have given Martingale the satisfaction he wanted, granting Grey some atonement at the same time.

Instead, he was left feeling oddly empty. Perhaps he ought to leave. He hardly felt romantic at the moment. Still, it wouldn’t be gentlemanly of him to keep her waiting. He should at least apologize.

He turned and moved toward the room where she waited. The door opened just as he raised his fist to knock, and his lady stood there, gasping when she saw him.

Grey frowned when he saw the reticule in her gloved hand. “Were you leaving?”

“I was, yes,” came the cool reply with a lift of her round chin. “I do not appreciate being kept waiting, sir.”

Grey smiled, all thoughts of his own departure evaporating at the challenge she presented. He stepped over the threshold, forcing her to retreat into the room. “Anxious, my lady?”

The room was made for assignation. The wallpaper was heavy and obviously costly. Huge bouquets of colorful Oriental flowers bloomed against the flat black backdrop. The plaster on the high ceiling was the same golden beige as the trim around the windows and door. Heavy drapes framed the window, designed to keep out all light or intrusion the city offered. The floor was walnut, polished and buffed to a high-gloss shine, and accented with plush rugs in the same colors as the wallpaper. The bed—a massive four-poster monstrosity—was hand-carved mahogany, covered in black bedding—with gold satin sheets turned down for the occupants.

Had waiting here, knowing what was going to happen between them when he arrived, made her nervous? Had she sat on the edge of the bed squeezing her thighs together in a vain attempt to assuage the itch deep inside her?

“I was anxious,” she informed him more than a little haughtily. “Waiting has a way of cooling ardor.”

He laughed then, as he closed the door, sealing the two of them into the room. Was it just him, or had the temperature gone up several degrees?

“Do you reckon?” He stepped closer. “I’ve always found that the more I have to wait for something the more I want it.”

She stood her ground, but he could sense that she might bolt at any moment. They were so close their torsos were almost touching—hers rising rapidly with every breath. Grey’s entire body was tight, tingling. Dark eyes rose to meet his. “Then you must want me very badly, sir.”

There was no denying the spark of desire in her gaze. Golden flames seemed to burn in the chocolate depths, drawing him toward their heat as though he was nothing more than a powerless moth. “I do.” His voice was rough, but if her shiver was any indication she didn’t mind. “I want you very much.”

Soft lips parted, but no sound came out. She simply watched him with that molten gaze, driving out all thoughts other than that of possessing her.

He wished she would take her mask off so that he might see all of her face, but she might expect him to do the same, and he couldn’t have that. He didn’t want her to see the damage done to his face, didn’t want to face her questions, spoken or not.

He lifted a hand to curve around the back of her neck, drawing her closer. Her breath was warm and sweet against his face as he lowered his head. She came up on her toes, fingers clutching at the lapels of his coat, as he claimed her mouth with his own. She kissed him with the same hunger he felt in his soul—and when they finally broke apart, he wasn’t the only one breathing hard.

“Champagne,” Grey rasped, releasing her. Did she even notice that he’d loosened the lacing that held the back of her gown together? A few tugs at the shoulders and he could peel the snug garment off with little difficulty. But he didn’t want to rush this. He’d found the perfect fantasy and he meant to savor every inch of her.

He tossed his coat over a nearby chair and unbuttoned his waistcoat as he moved toward the champagne waiting on ice. As he poured a flute for each of them, Grey untied his cravat. There, now he could breathe properly again. Christ, he was a mess!

When he returned to her, a glass of champagne in either hand, she was sitting on the edge of the bed, studying the base of his throat through his open collar. Grey didn’t think his neck was all that fascinating or different from any other—not that he had ever compared that particular part of his anatomy to another man’s.

He sat next to her on the bed, and she took the champagne he offered, downing a healthy swallow. Ah, his little bird was so sweetly innocent, something he would have found amusing in his younger days, but now…it was sweet.

“Sip it,” he encouraged. “We have all night.”

She glanced at him. “Do we?”

He nodded, dipping his index finger into the cold liquid in his glass. “We do.” He didn’t want to think that she might have someone to return to before the sun rose. He refused to think of anything but the two of them together in that room. Nothing else mattered.

He brought his finger to her mouth, tracing the curve of her lower lip, brushing the sensitive flesh just inside. She met his gaze boldly, and flicked her tongue against the pad of his finger. The wet heat of her touch sent a wave of lust over him. She was a temptress—an arousing mix of sensual promise and innocent wonder.

If he survived the night he would be sure to thank God for sending her to him, not that he deserved such a gift.

They took turns caressing the features of each other’s faces. Never once did he try to remove her mask, nor she his. She seemed to understand his need to remain hidden.

Her fingers brushed against him like the softest of feathers, so delicate and warm. Grey closed his eyes, giving himself up to the exquisite torture of her exploration. Her thumb slid across his lower lip and he flicked it with his tongue as she had done to him. She gasped in delight—surely the loveliest sound he’d ever heard.

Glasses empty, Grey set both flutes on the table once more. This time when he came to her, he took her into his arms and brought her to her feet. The champagne made her relaxed and languid, but not unsteady. She stood, still letting Grey’s fingers tug her tiny sleeves gaping at her shoulders. Gently, he pulled them down her arms, and when they refused to go any further, he reached around her and tugged on the laces of her gown again. Slowly, the bodice loosened and finally drooped. The gown’s bustle was built in, so when the burgundy silk bagged around her hips, he was able to push it to the floor. He hooked an arm about her waist and lifted her out of the pool of fabric, setting her before him once more.

No false modesty, no confident preening. This beautiful specimen of womanhood stood before him with nothing but honesty as his hungry gaze raked over her. She was still clothed, layers of delicate underthings hiding her flesh, but his mouth was as dry as desert at the sight of her.

Grey’s gaze fell to the swells of her breasts, straining against the edge of her pretty pink satin corset. They would fill his hands, pliant and warm beneath his fingers. As she breathed, the blush hued petal of aureole peeked over the tiny rosette trim. He reached out and settled his fingers there.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, lowering his head to place gentle kisses on the top of either breast, and then up to her collarbones and neck. “You smell like spring rain,” he told her, breathing in the gentle warmth of her skin.

“Do you like rain?” she asked, breathlessly.

“I do.” His gaze held hers. Her eyes bright as twin moons as he raised his fingers to her jaw. “It cleanses the world, leaves everything fresh and new in its wake. And it’s so clean and pure.” He dragged his thumb along her lips, down her chin. “So sweet and wet.”

She smiled saucily at him. “Lucky for you England is such damp country.”

He grinned. Even her wit was similar to Rose’s. “Indeed.”

Then he kissed her again, this time with more hunger and passion than he’d shown before.

His fingers—surprisingly unsteady—managed to make short work of the busk front of her corset, as her hands tugged at his shirt, pulling it free of his trousers. Grey released her long enough to pull the garment off and toss it across the room. When he reached for her again, she stopped him by bracing her hands against his waist. Her hands were so soft and warm, he sighed at the feel of them against his skin.

“Wait,” she whispered. “I want to touch you.”

Grey let his arms fall to his sides. “Then touch me.” Damn her for putting that note of pleading in his voice, but he was too far gone to let pride stop him now. She could bring him as low as she wanted so long as she kept touching him like he was something rare and special rather than the all too flawed man he was.

She ran her hands over his flesh, tracing the dips and swells of his torso and chest. Then up to the bones of his shoulders. She seemed to find his form fascinating, a fact that inflated his confidence as well as his cock. Every place she touched quivered at her touch, as though his body had been starved for such contact.

Grey hauled her against him once more. “Now it’s my turn to touch you.”

He kissed her again, untying the ribbons of her chemise. He pushed the fragile fabric down her arms until it slid free and pooled at her feet. Her arms came around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair as he tore his hands away from her long enough to unfasten his trousers and dispatch them. It wasn’t until he swept her into his arms and set her on the bed that he realized she wore nothing but her stockings, and that he wore nothing at all.

Greedily, he raked his gaze over the full length of her. Her legs were long and shapely, the calves slightly muscular. Her hips were full, belly soft. Between her thighs, soft dark hair beckoned for his touch. Her waist was narrow, her breasts full, topped with delectable pink nipples that hardened under his appreciative gaze. Christ, but she was all pink and dusky cream—a delicacy that made his mouth water in anticipation of tasting every inch of her.

Her appraisal of him was every bit as frank and appreciative. Her eyes widened as her gaze fell upon his erection, stroking his self-satisfaction to a new level of smugness. He’d never been one of those men who doubted his size or prowess, but this woman made him feel like a stallion, or a god of some kind.

She reached out and touched him there, curling her fingers around the length. Grey hissed in pleasure. She stroked him, and he thrust against her hand, prick pulsing in delighted response. He let her explore and pleasure him until it became too much, then he covered her hand with his own and gently drew it away.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asked.

He laughed—a rasping sound. “Christ, no. I just don’t want to come in your hand.”

She flushed the prettiest rose. “Oh.”

Grey smiled at her, touching his fingers to her cheek. His heart pinched at the contact, a response that struck fear in his chest.