When Seducing A Duke (20 page)

It was Thursday, May 31. Her wedding day. Rose awoke and met the bright morning sun with a mixture of apprehension and anticipation.

Birds sang, the breeze blew, and there was nary a cloud in the sky as she peered out her window at the garden below. The servants had set up an arbor there, near the fountain, and a few chairs sat on the thick green grass.

Not many guests had been invited. She’d always thought her wedding would be a kind of storybook affair, at St. George’s with attendants and a flower girl and white doves flying overhead. Silly, perhaps, but it was still a little sad letting go of the fantasy.

At least the groom was right, she allowed, turning away from the window. And while she might not be able to lay claim to his heart, she could be reasonably certain of his liking for her, and that it wasn’t simply desire or duty that led to their union.

Love could grow. That was what she told herself, but it didn’t ease the shadow of dread hanging over her heart and dimming the sun on this beautiful day.

She turned her thoughts to happier affirmations as she rang the bell for Heather. She was going to be a duchess, something every girl dreamed about as a child. She was going to have a husband she adored, family she enjoyed. And tonight, she would go to Grey’s bed without the thought of scandal or the fear of being caught. She’d be a liar if she said that the thought of having him make love to her for the rest her days wasn’t enough to put a smile on her face.

If she closed her eyes she could almost feel his hands on her skin, his fingers probing, touching her in all the right places. His mouth, burning a moist trail from her head to her toes—oh, and the things in between!

A soft knock on the door pulled her from her carnal thoughts. Her cheeks were hot as she called out for her maid to enter.

But it wasn’t her maid. It was her mother—already dressed for the ceremony in a pearly lavender satin gown. Rose’s eyes filled at the sight of her. It was the first time she’d seen her mother out of black since her father’s death.

“I thought we could breakfast together,” her mother said, closing the door behind her. “I’d like a little while longer to enjoy you as mine alone.”

Rose wiped at her eyes. “You’re going to make me cry.”

“Well, then it will be your husband’s job to make you smile.”

Rose blushed again, remembering where her smile had come from just moments before. Her mother laughed softly—a lovely sound. “Do we need to discuss what happens on the wedding night, my dear, or have you thoroughly educated yourself by stealing my magazines?”

“You knew?”

Camilla frowned, but there was no anger in it. “Do you think I’m a fool? Of course I knew. At first I thought I should stop you, and then I realized that I didn’t want you going to your marriage bed as frightened as I was.” She shrugged. “I suppose there are some who would think that awful of me to let you read such things, but I’ve never been very good at playing the hypocrite. You’re not frightened are you?”

“No, Mama.”

Her mother nodded, then sat on the edge of Rose’s unmade bed and regarded her with a gaze that was strictly maternal. “Are the rumors I’ve heard true, Rose? Were you and Greyden found in a compromising position?”

“We were.” There was no point in lying. “I’m sorry, mama.”

Her mother waved a hand. “You wouldn’t be the first to be sent to the altar this way.” She folded her hands in her lap. “As long as you want this marriage, Rose, I’m not the least bit concerned about how it came to pass—although a little more discretion might have been preferable.”

“I do want it. Very much. I love him.”

Camilla sighed into another smile. “I know. I believe he loves you too.”

Rose shook her head. “He has yet to say it.”

“Men always feel it long before they say it, my dear. They’re a little slow that way.”

She laughed, just a little—enough to ease the tension from her shoulders. “Thank you for being so understanding, Mama. It means so much to me.”

Her mother stood and came to her, taking both of her hands in hers. “I suppose I could rant and give you a good head-reading, but no good ever came of that. You’ve made your destiny and now all that’s left is to follow through. My main concern isn’t that you never give the gossips something to natter about. My only concern is your happiness, and I think Greyden makes you happy.”

“He does.” She frowned. “And oddly miserable at times.”

She was pulled into a warm, sweetly scented embrace. “That’s love, dearest. Welcome to it.”

Heather had arrived, so after sending her downstairs to ask Cook to have breakfast sent up, Rose bathed and allowed her maid to start working her magic while she and her mother nibbled on warm croissants with strawberry jam and sipped delicious cups of chocolate.

Her wedding gown was pale ivory silk with tea-dyed lace at the neckline, bustle, and hem. Mr. Worth himself, while not the designer, would have to approve of the fine detail in the embroidery that covered the bodice and circled around her hips.

Heather gathered her hair up in strips, curling it with tongs and pinning it in place until the back of her head was nothing but a neat nest of smooth curls. A large pearl and gold comb slid into place behind the mass. Matching pearl drops and a multistrand choker completed the look. The pearls had been her mother’s, and before that her grandmother’s. And now they were Rose’s, to be passed on when she had a daughter of her own.

Children. Good lord, she could barely believe she was getting married! Thoughts of children could wait.

Ivory slippers and a bouquet of orange lilies, white orchids, and tea-colored roses completed the ensemble. The flowers were perhaps a bit much, but Rose thought them pretty.

“Everyone is here,” her mother announced, turning away from the window to bestow a broad smile upon her daughter. “I wish your father was here to see you.”

The mention of her father killed some of Rose’s joy. “He wouldn’t be happy to see me marrying Grey.”

Camilla’s brow tightened. “Nonsense. Grey is not the same man he was back then. And your father would only want to see you happy.”

Rose wasn’t quite certain her father would agree with that assessment of Grey, but it really didn’t matter, did it? Her father was gone—had taken his own life. And Grey, regardless of what her father had thought of him, had stepped in and cleaned up Charles Danvers’s mess.

“Shall we go down?” Her mother offered her arm. “No doubt your groom is anxious to claim you.”

They walked down the stairs together, through the hall. Rose’s heart pounded rapidly, and her fingers trembled as they clutched the stems of her flowers. When they reached the glass terrace doors, music began to play. Startled, Rose peered through the glass and spotted Grey’s sister Bronte playing a harp near the arbor. Of course he hadn’t hired musicians. She wasn’t bothered by that, however. It was much more intimate to have Bronte play.

“Ready?” her mother asked.

She took a deep breath, held it, and then slowly exhaled. “Ready.”

They stepped out onto the terrace, and the few guests present turned to watch her. Grey’s family smiled at the sight of her—and Archer made her smile with an exaggerated wink.

Eve was there as well. Dear, wonderful Eve. She was actually crying a little, dabbing her eyes with a lacy handkerchief as Rose and her mother drew near.

And then, she saw Grey standing near the vicar beneath the arbor, and her feet moved toward him without being told. Her mother sat down beside Eve and Rose made the rest of the journey on her own.

He wore a stark black jacket and trousers with a crisp white shirt and a cravat the same tea-color as the lace on her gown. In his lapel was a single orange lily. His thick hair was brushed back from his handsome face. And, yes, that was a little silver at his temples. His strong jaw was freshly shaven, and she could smell the faint scent of his shaving balm.

Perhaps the most wonderful thing was that he had chosen not to wear his mask. It was mostly family present, but to show his scar in front of Eve meant so very much to her.

His pale blue eyes seemed to smolder with heat as she approached, filling Rose with feminine pride. Perhaps he didn’t love her, but he looked at her as though she was the most beautiful woman on earth, and for now that was enough.

He didn’t speak as she came to stand beside him, which was just as well because she doubted she would be able to form a reply. He simply took her right hand in his left and gently squeezed.

Three weeks, Rose realized as the vicar began to speak. It had only been three weeks since that first encounter between them at Saint’s Row. In fact, it was three weeks to the very day.

If that wasn’t a happy coincidence—surely a good omen—she didn’t know what was.

“Do you, Rose Elizabeth Danvers…” Rose tried to listen but it was so difficult with Grey watching her as he was. It was only when Grey smiled that half-smile of his that curled her toes and made the base of her spine tingle that she knew the vicar had asked her that very important question.

Smiling, she glanced at the old man before returning her gaze to Grey’s. “I do,” she replied. “I certainly do.”

Chapter 17

I
t wasn’t the wedding she deserved, Grey thought as he sat at the table, eating luncheon with his bride and their guests, but no one would ever know that from looking at her.

Rose hadn’t stopped smiling since the ceremony. She was smiling now as she chatted with his mother. Was he alone responsible for that smile? That was too heady to contemplate. And far more responsibility than he was comfortable assuming. If he could make her smile so wonderfully, then he could take it away just as easily.

He never wanted to be the man who broke Rose’s heart, and it killed him knowing that he was going to disappoint her very badly one day. It was unavoidable, he could only hope that it was a long time in coming.

And that she might forgive him for it.

It would be easy to think that she had tricked him somehow. That marriage had been her goal since she first sought him out three short weeks ago. But that wasn’t fair. He was too smart to fall for such a ploy. And Rose could never be that devious.

As if sensing that she was the object of his thoughts, his wife turned her attention—and that amazing smile—to him. Grey raised his glass to her, hoping that his gaze told her all the things he could not until they were alone.

He was not disappointed. The smooth apples of her cheeks brightened with the sweetest shade of pink that filled his head with thoughts of rubbing the rough of his jaw against her bottom cheeks until they turned a similar hue. And he would—just as soon as they were alone.

For now he would have to be content with watching her and being grateful that he didn’t have to stand up any time soon.

Luncheon—instead of the traditional breakfast—was a drawn-out affair full of conversation and joviality. Even Grey experienced a lightness that he hadn’t felt for some time. And when Archer raised his glass and toasted to his and Rose’s happiness, it brought a lump to Grey’s throat that refused to budge even after the cake had been cut.

He thanked his brother for it when he walked his family to the door later.

“I meant every word of it,” Archer replied, giving him brief, fierce hug. “Even though you don’t deserve a woman as fine as yours.”

Didn’t Grey know it.

Rose’s mother was the last to go, departing several hours after the other guests as she was returning to the country not only to give the newlyweds time alone, but because it was where she felt most comfortable.

Seeing the tears in his wife’s eyes as she bid farewell to her mother, Grey promised that they would join Camilla as soon as the Season was over.

And sometime he would have to take his wife on a wedding trip. It was only proper. Perhaps they could go to New York and visit Tryst. She deserved a trip. She deserved a husband who would show her the world and all the wonders of it.

Once the carriage bearing Camilla was gone, Grey offered Rose his hand and led her into the house. “I have a wedding gift for you.”

“You do?” Myriad emotions crossed her features, the last of which was dismay. “I don’t have anything for you.”

He squeezed her fingers. “You are gift enough.” And he meant it. There was nothing she could give him that he wanted because he already had the one thing he’d most desired—her.

Inside he directed her to his—their—bedroom where he poured them each a glass of wine and pulled her down onto the bed beside him. It was nice, this companionship between them, this ease that marriage had created now that they no longer had to hide their regard and desire.

“Do you want to know what your gift is?” he asked as she snuggled into his side.

“Yes.” Her eager brown gaze rose to meet his, accompanied by a shy smile. The sight of her took his breath away. He was unable to help himself, and lifted the back of his fingers to caress her cheek.

“Look behind the pillow,” he instructed, taking her glass of wine from her to free both her hands.

She turned, giving him the opportunity to admire the snug fit of her bodice as it hugged her sides and the curve of her pretty breast. When she faced him once more, she had a magazine in her hands.
“Voluptuous?”

Grey smiled at the naughty light in her gaze. “A full subscription. Perhaps you will discover between the pages other activities you would like to sample with me.”

It wasn’t much of a gift, certainly not an expensive one, but Rose embraced him as though he had given her the world—and he had the wine stains on his cuffs to prove it. “Thank you!” She kissed his cheek. “Oh, Grey, thank you so much!”

“It’s only a magazine, Rose, but you are welcome.”

She pulled back so that he could see her face, the delighted flush in her cheeks. “It’s not just a magazine. It’s a gesture of…trust and respect. Do you know how many husbands would forbid their wives to read such literature?”

Yes, he did, and he would hardly call it literature. “I’m of the opinion that a husband can only benefit from his wife reading this kind of material.”

A coy, seductive—wonderfully wicked—smile curved her full lips. “Perhaps we will both benefit.”

He could shag her senseless right then and there. He gave her back her wine instead, and positioned himself with his back against the headboard. He tugged her close, turning her so that she sat with her back against his chest. “Read to me.”

She looked horrified at the idea. “What? No, I couldn’t.”

Grey trailed his fingers down the side of her neck, smiling smugly as she shivered. “Read it. Please.”

Her fingers trembled slightly as they parted the pages. “What would you like to hear?”

“A story,” he replied, brushing the tip of his finger along the curve of her ear. “Something that will take a while.” Because the longer she read, the longer he could touch her at his leisure.

“Lady Jane’s Confession,’” she read, her voice a little huskier than normal, “‘Or, An Adventure in Lust.’”

Grey gently pulled a pin from her hair and set it on the bedside table. “Sounds interesting.”

He listened with one ear as his bride began to read in that sweet, rich voice of hers. There was a slight tremor to her words—anticipation perhaps? As she spoke, he plucked each pin from her hair until he was able to comb his fingers through the thick, silky strands, draping and arranging them over her right shoulder so that the left side of her neck was left vulnerable to his attentions.

“Oh! I cried as my lover slid two fingers into my dewy chasm, awakening the most voluptuous of feelings within me. Gently he moved his hand in and out, frigging me with the most maddening patience.’”

Passion quivered in her tone, sending a bolt of lust straight to Grey’s groin. His cock stirred, hardening quickly as she continued to read. He bowed his head, brushing his lips along the curve of her ear, dampening the delicate flesh with the tip of his tongue. Rose shuddered against him, her breath hitching. But she never faltered.

“‘ I was ready to spend, writhing beneath the force of his ministrations, when suddenly he fell between my splayed thighs and took my aching little clitty into his mouth, forcing me to erupt in such sensation that I thought I must have lost all reason.’”

Christ.

He slid his hands up her sides, around to her front to graze her breasts, the round swells just above the neckline of her gown. The fingers of his right hand eased inside her gown, manipulating the flesh inside her snug corset, until he found her hardened nipple, blunt and tight against his hand.

Rose gasped, arched her chest against his touch. His cock swelled in response. And the fingers of his other hand slid around to her back, to fumble with the row of tiny buttons that kept him from her bare skin.

“Keep reading,” he commanded. Did she hear the rasp in his voice? Did she know how badly he wanted her? How much she excited him by reading such explicit words aloud?

“‘ I regained my senses to find my lover hovering over me, his thick cock in his hand as he guided the large purple head of it to my quivering cunny. He thrust his hips and filled me with one stroke, forcing me to cry out at the rapture of his intrusion.’”

Buttons undone, Grey pulled her gown from Rose’s shoulder, immediately fastening his mouth on the sweet flesh there. He pinched her nipple with his other hand. She was so responsive, rounding her spine to push her breast against him. Her legs moved beneath the narrow skirts, and he could see her thighs pressing together. Did it ease the ache, or make it all the more intense?

Suddenly, he knew what he had to see. Removing his hand from her corset, he pushed her gown down to her waist before moving so that he could pull it over her hips and toss the froth of fabric to the floor. She was left in her corset, drawers, and stockings. He removed his own shirt—male pride swelling as well as his prick at her frank and open appreciation of his bare skin. His shoes and stockings went as well, so that he was left in nothing but his trousers as he returned to his previous post behind her on the bed.

“I want you to keep reading,” he murmured against her temple, taking her right hand in his and guiding it to the cotton-covered juncture of her thighs. He nudged her legs apart with his own hand, sighing at the dampness that warmed the slit in her drawers. He drew her fingers down to that void in the fabric. “I want you to touch yourself while you read.”

Her flawless cheeks must have turned four different shades of crimson at his wish, but Rose didn’t remove her hand. She slipped nimble fingers inside the flimsy garment, spreading the opening wide so he could see the dark curls beneath, a hint of tender pink flesh. Grey watched with held breath as she parted the lips of her sex and slid a finger inside. Her breath hitched.

God almighty, she was going to be the death of him. He moved his hands to the hooks of her corset as she began to read once more. The little minx had a much stronger voice this time, as though she knew the power she had over him.

“Within minutes I experienced the familiar swell inside me and I spent again with a great flood of juices and a most enthusiastic cry.’”

Her corset joined her gown on the floor, leaving nothing but her short chemise between his hands and her full breasts. He cupped them in his palms. They were heavy, with tight tips that begged for his mouth. Soon enough he’d taste them. Right now this torture was too exquisite to end just yet.

Rose’s breath was becoming shallow as she read, her fingers working quickly between her thighs. Grey watched, dry mouthed as she pleasured herself. She reclined against his chest, legs splayed, the scent of her arousal drifting up to tease him like the sweetest, faintest spring breeze.

“But my lover was not done with me just yet. His member still stiff within me, he bade me to roll over, so that my belly rested on the pillows he’d placed beneath me. I half lay, half knelt before him, the round globes of my bottom lifted. He caressed them with his hands and then I felt his mouth on the right cheek. He licked me and nipped at me like a stallion at a mare. His tongue slid b…between my nether cheeks, touching me where no other man ever had before, awakening within me new sensations of such voluptuousness that I cried out at the sheer—
Oh, Grey
—joy of it.’”

Rose’s shoulders pressed into his chest as she lifted her hips to her own hand. Grey lowered his mouth to her shoulder, simulating on that delicate skin what the lover in the story did to his woman. He squeezed her breasts, pulling open the fragile cotton to claim the naked swells as his own, pinching her nipples and rolling them between his fingers. She gasped at the force he used, but didn’t ask him to stop. In fact, she pushed her chest against his hands.

“He slipped the massive monster between his legs into me from behind, awakening my already replete quim in the most delicious fashion. He took me like an animal, pressing his chest to my back and stroking my aching clitty with ruthless strokes until we spent together in a symphony of delighted cries.’ Ah! Grey,
ohh.”

Eyes closed, Grey held Rose tight against him as orgasm washed over her heated body. Her cries awakened something long dormant inside him, something so long forgotten he had no idea what it was, he only knew that it felt as though someone had punched him in the stomach and made him like it.

He plucked the magazine from her lax fingers and set in on the bedside table. Then he shifted her in his arms so that her chest was against his. Her eyes were molten, lazy pools of the richest chocolate. Her face flushed and dewy like the petals of her namesake. And those lips—those succulent, arousing lips—were parted, waiting for his kiss, unknowingly inviting his cock.

“I liked watching you make yourself come,” he whispered. “I think you liked it too.”

She stared up at him, the coyest of smiles lifting her lips. “I liked knowing you were watching.” And then his natural seductress brought her fingers to his lips—the same fingers she’d used to pleasure herself.

Lying with Grey, feeling the hardness of him against her hip, Rose experienced a surge of feminine power she’d never known before. His eyes darkened to a stormy blue as she pressed her damp hand to his mouth. And then his lips parted, enveloping her fingers in wet heat. His tongue licked her from knuckle to tip, swirling slowly from top to bottom, as though he wanted to savor every taste.

Her body throbbed in response, moving to press against him. She couldn’t look away from the desire in his eyes, the shaded and highlighted lines of his rugged face. The lighting was such that she could barely see his scar, but it didn’t matter. His scar had never mattered to her. She thought he was beautiful.