When You Give a Duke a Diamond (14 page)

“With bathing?”

“With women. I’m not one of your gallants.”

Juliette stared at him, not comprehending for a good long minute. And then she gasped. “You mean you’ve never”—she gestured at the bed—“before?”

“I have. Once or… twice.” He looked away, and she could tell that though he held onto his dukely arrogance, the subject was embarrassing him. Oh, if only he knew the truth about her. But, of course, he expected her to be the expert. Who wouldn’t? She was the Duchess of Dalliance.

In truth, she had been with a man more than once or twice. She’d been married. But that had been a long time ago. Still, she supposed making love was one of those things you never forgot—or two people figured out as they went along.

Her heart pounded as she considered what she and Pelham were about to do. Was this what she wanted? She wanted a husband, a family. Pelham was unlikely to ever consider marrying her. He was a duke—as he reminded her every other minute.

But when she looked back at him, she saw, once again, that vulnerability. There was more to this man than his bluster and arrogance. He had secrets. She wanted to know what they were.

She wanted to know him.

She put her hands on the sides of his face. “Why don’t we both forget what happened before and just think about what is happening now?”

“You’re very good at that.”

“Yes, too good sometimes.” She bent and kissed him. It was a gentle kiss, slow because she wanted the fire to build. And slow because it had been a long time since she had been with a man. She wanted to remember the feel of his lips against hers, the roughness of the stubble on his cheeks under her fingertips, the hardness of his thighs under her bottom.

Their lips met and parted, met and parted, and she was only vaguely aware of the smell of fresh linen, the crackle of the fire, and the patter of rain outside the window. She memorized the taste of his mouth, the texture of his hair when she ran her fingers through it, the sound of his breathing—still steady, though she was already half panting with desire.

For a man who had little experience, he knew how to kiss her until her toes curled and her lungs ran out of air. She could feel him hard and straining at the junction where their bodies met. If she freed him, it would be an easy matter to have him inside her. And while her body called for immediate satisfaction and her heart warned her against doing anything that would fuel her infatuation with him, she ignored both of them and pulled Will—awkwardly—to his feet.

“Let me help you out of these wet clothes.”

She undressed him, and he stood still, assisting her in the way he might a servant. He was used to being served. Used to having people cater to him.

What if she turned the tables? What if she made him serve her?

Oh, it was a delicious thought, and not simply because she liked the idea of a duke playing servant to her duchess. She wanted to challenge him. She wanted to see who he was when he wasn’t in his element.

She pulled his shirt over his head and took a moment to steel herself. This was worse than she thought. She’d known he was an attractive, athletic man and he kept in shape, but she hadn’t expected his chest to be quite so muscled, his shoulders quite so broad, or his waist quite so trim.

She swallowed. Hard. His bronze flesh gleamed in the flickering firelight, and she had the urge to lick every inch of it.

But no.
He
was going to service
her
. And even undressing him was for her benefit now.

“Are you having second thoughts?” he asked.

Juliette realized she’d been standing and staring at him for too long. “No.” She shook her head. “No. I was admiring you.”

He frowned and looked down at himself as though he had never seen his own chest.

“You’re beautiful,” she whispered.

“I believe I’m supposed to say that to you.”

“Oh, you will,” she said with a smile. “Just don’t swoon.”

“Swoon? I’m a—”

Before he could say
duke
, she loosed the fall of his trousers and pushed them down over his hips. That shut him up, which was her objective exactly. When she had the trousers off, she threw them over a chair and stood back to admire him.

“Those are going to wrinkle,” he said, “not to mention soak the chair through.”

“Mmm-hmm.” She nodded absently. Yes, he was a very nice male specimen. Muscled legs, shapely calves, and though his comments about wrinkled clothes belied it—his interest for her was evident.

Quite evident.

“You know the rumor is that men swoon when I but disrobe.”

He raised a brow.

“I don’t know where that started, because it’s never happened, but right now I feel as though I could swoon from looking at you.”

“I’m not precisely certain what to reply to a statement like that. I feel rather… like an object.”

She laughed. “I’m sorry. I know the feeling, and it’s not altogether pleasant. But I suppose fair is fair. Your turn to ogle.”

She gave him her back, and when he didn’t move for several seconds, she glanced over her shoulder. “Are you going to undress me?”

“I—”

“I can’t do it myself. Oh, but you’re not afraid of swooning, are you?”

“No.” He gripped her shoulders and straightened her, then set about undressing her. He’d obviously never undressed a female before, because he was completely unfamiliar with the laces and tapes and pins securing her garments. But she didn’t give him instructions. Men hated that. She simply allowed him to flounder until she finally—
finally
—stood in only her silk chemise.

“How the bloody damn hell do you get into all of that each day?” he asked.

“I have a lot of help.” She turned to face him and saw his gaze flick to her shoulder, where one sleeve of the chemise had fallen down. “But this”—she indicated the silk garment—“is fairly easy to remove. Simply tug on this little string, and it pools at my feet.”

His eyes were so dark they looked indigo as he reached for the string. She caught his hand before he could tug it. “Don’t swoon.”

He gave her a murderous look, and when she released his hand, he tugged. He kept his gaze on her face, which surprised her, and then took a slow, leisurely perusal of her from teeth to toes and back to her eyes again.

“Do you feel faint?” she said with a smile.

“I wouldn’t be averse to the idea of lying down.”

She took his hand, led him to the bed, and lay on her side. He followed, and when they were face-to-face, he bent to kiss her. She put a hand between them. “What
would
you be averse to, Will?”

He gave her a look that was part undisguised interest, part horror.

“Because, you see, I have a rather extensive library, and I read something I would like to try.”

“In a book?”

“I believe we have had this discussion before. I do read.”

“Of course.”

“More than the
Morning
Chronicle
.”

“Obviously. Do you always talk this much?”

“No. Let me be brief. I want you to give me pleasure.”

“I believe that is the general idea.”

“With your tongue.”

His brows went up. “What sort of books are you reading?”

“The sort I hope you will benefit from as well.” She cupped his cheek. “You can say no.”

“Why the devil would I say no?”

And then he kissed her, and she realized her plan was turning against her. She had thought to control him, but she’d failed to consider she had been in control thus far.

Now he was taking over—something he made all too clear by the way he kissed her—taking everything, leaving her unable even to catch her breath before the next assault. And when he took over, she feared she might lose herself altogether.

Their lips met again and again, and then he rolled on top of her, bracing his weight on his elbows and pinning her under him. The feel of his skin on hers was a heady mixture, like drinking too much of the finest brandy. Her head swam, her senses reeled, and the earth seemed to tilt. When his mouth left hers, she wanted to cry out. Instead, she arched as his lips brushed the skin of her neck and his teeth scraped the tender flesh of her earlobe. She dug her fingers into his back, feeling the taut muscles and the smooth, wet skin under her tingling fingers.

“How am I doing so far?” he whispered.

“I…” She wanted to give him some pithy, amusing answer—after all, she was the so-called expert—but she was having a difficult time forming a coherent thought when his hot breath fanned against her neck.

“I’ll consider your stuttering a positive sign.”

He still sounded so cool, so composed. She wanted to break that composure, but she needed to think to do so.

And then his mouth closed on her breast, and she could barely remember her name, much less that she wanted to shake Will to the core. She dug her hands into his hair and breathed, “Please. Yes, please.”

His tongue flicked her nipple, rolled over it, and she was in exquisite agony. His hands cupped her breasts then made long, lazy paths down her belly, teasing the fine blonde hair at the juncture of her thighs.

“Juliette,” he murmured. “May I tell you something?”

“Yes, anything. Just—” She didn’t even know what she wanted anymore—more of the same, much, much more.

“You’re beautiful. I see why men swoon.”

She opened her eyes and met his gaze. He was looking at her so intently, and the moment their gazes met, she felt something pass between them that was more than physical attraction, more than this physical act between them. She could not have said why those words from him meant so much to her. She’d been told she was beautiful thousands of times. But this was a man who gave compliments rarely, if ever. This was a man who meant what he said.

She felt beautiful when he looked at her. In his arms, as she was now, she felt the rest of the world was far, far away, and she was safe in this world of their own making. Somewhere far away she was the Duchess of Dalliance and he was the sixth Duke of Pelham. But here they were Will and Juliette. And in this moment, she didn’t have to pretend.

“I…” she began, uncertain what she would say.

“Shh.” He put a finger over her lips. “Don’t speak. Simply feel.”

His mouth meandered with torturous slowness down her belly, pausing to kiss and tease her in all the most sensitive spots. When he reached the apex of her thighs, he nudged her legs open. Juliette didn’t know why she should resist or feel suddenly shy. He gave her a questioning look, and she wanted to tell him she’d never done this before. But that would elicit only skepticism or confusion, and she didn’t want him to stop.

He brushed his stubbled cheek against the tender skin of her inner thigh. She moaned as he pressed soft kisses against her leg, inching ever closer to her core.

And when his mouth touched here there—at her heat-filled center—she wanted to burst into flames. She arched into his lips, crying out when his tongue darted out to touch her. She was certain he must be appalled by her behavior, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. She clenched the bedsheets and held on as the ecstasy reached higher and higher crescendos. She thought she might die from the intensity of sensations, thought she might expire from craving what he promised her with each touch from his tongue. And now his fingers had plunged inside her, and she was aching and all but sobbing for release.

When it came, it took her breath away. The sound of blood rushing in her ears deafened her, the world went bright white, and she all but broke open. She gripped his hair, holding on to her anchor in the tempest of sensation.

Pelham watched Juliette’s eyelids flutter closed, watched the rise and fall of her breasts as she struggled to calm her breathing. He didn’t need to ask if he’d pleased her. If he’d pleased her much more, they would have alerted the entire establishment to their lovemaking. As it was, he feared those in the rooms closest to theirs had a pretty good idea what they had been doing.

For once, he didn’t care. Her pleasure had given him pleasure, and when he looked down at her flushed face and her long, willowy body, he wanted to do it again. She was beautiful. Her body was perfect in every way—soft and curved as a woman’s should be. Her legs were long, her breasts full, her glorious hair in a tangle on the pillow.

And he’d pleased her.

He, who had so little experience with women, had pleased London’s most celebrated courtesan. It wasn’t that Will had no experience. He’d been as curious as any young man and found willing women plentiful. He’d tussled with one or two, and found the experiences satisfying physically but still strangely unfulfilling. As he grew older, he thought he might enjoy the act a bit more, but he was always so busy. And most of the ladies to whom he was introduced were not the kind one dallied with.

He might have paid a woman for her services, but he found the thought distasteful. And then he had met Lady Elizabeth, and he need only wait until after the wedding and he could have her as often as he wished.

Of course, Juliette was teaching him relationships with members of the fairer sex weren’t quite as simple as he’d imagined them. Nor was he such an innocent as to believe that every man and woman experienced the passion he had with her. When he’d looked into her eyes, there was something there.

Something he did not want to examine too closely.

He glanced down at her, meeting her light blue eyes when she peered up at him. “Apparently, you don’t require any books to tell you what to do.”

He smiled. She made him laugh. Even when he didn’t want to be amused by her, it was difficult not to smile. The cold, imperial Duchess of Dalliance was warm and amusing and all but infectious. God knew he couldn’t seem to get enough of her.

“I do enjoy reading.”

She sat, her silver-blonde hair falling around her. “So do I.” She gave his chest a small shove, and he supposed she wanted him to lie down. He complied, curious as to what she would do next. “Let me tell you what I’ve been reading about.”

He was hard for her instantly. He’d been hard, didn’t think he could want her much more than he did, but suddenly he was all but aching for her. “Why don’t you show me?”

“Why don’t I do both?” Her gaze never left his, but her hands stroked him slowly. Up and down, then a pause. “I’ve read that a man is most sensitive here.” She circled him with her thumb, teased. “Would you concur?”

“I might.” His voice sounded strained, and he cleared his throat. But then she began stroking again.

“And that a little pressure here…” She paused and applied exactly the right amount of pressure. He groaned, shocked the sound had come from him but seemingly unable to stop it. “Or cupping a man here…” He groaned again and began to sit up.

She pushed him lightly. “Not so impatient, Will. Good things and all that.”

Her hand on his chest was a feather. He could have tossed her down and been inside her within moments. He could have found release and perhaps given her pleasure again, as well. But he was a patient man. A disciplined man. He eased back down as she stroked him again.

She was driving him mad, and he fisted his hands at his sides and tried to keep his gaze on her face. But she licked her lips with that small pink tongue, and so he had to look away. At her breasts. The nipples were pink and hard, and he wanted to take one in his mouth, suck gently…

She bent, her soft, full breast rubbing again his thigh. “What are you–?”

And then her mouth closed on him—hot and wet and taking all of him in.

“Oh, good God!” he exclaimed, and then words failed him as she stroked him with her mouth, teased him with her tongue, and sucked long and hard. He felt he would explode inside her. He didn’t want to, but he knew he would not be able to stop himself.

And then just when he was about to cross over, she released him and sat. There were no words for the need he felt. He reached for himself, but she caught his hand and put it on her breast. And then she climbed on top of him, straddling him.

She was the most exquisite creature he had ever encountered. Her skin, her hair, her shape were all painfully exquisite. She took hold of him, guiding him into her wet core. Slowly. Inch by punishing inch.

She was tight around him, and he fought hard to control the urge to plunge into her hard and fast. Finally, she sheathed him to the hilt. She waited a moment, until he opened his eyes and met her gaze.

Those eyes. Those cool, clear eyes. He would never forget them as long as he lived. She moved, and he moved with her—as one. He was part of her and she of him, and he could all but read her mind, know when she wanted more pressure or less, and she seemed to know when she should move faster or slower. He caressed her, memorizing every slope of her body, marking it as his, taking note of her every reaction.

And then her head fell back, her hair brushing his calves, and her hips began to move furiously. Will could stand it no longer.

He grasped her waist, and without breaking contact, flipped her over. Fast and hard, he plunged into her. Every thrust slaked him of his need and seemed to double it, as well. She was calling out his name and meeting him thrust for thrust. His hands were shaking, his hair falling in his eyes, but he opened them and stared at her as he came, hard and completely. She clenched around him and shuddered. Her arms came up, her hands cupped the back of his neck, and he lowered his forehead to hers.

She kissed him, softly, sweetly, as he emptied himself into her. And then, as one, they rolled to the side and fell into an exhausted sleep.

***

Pelham woke some time later—hours or minutes, he wasn’t certain. He was alone in the bed and heard the sound of someone moving. He rose on one elbow and peered into the darkness of the unfamiliar room. “Juliette?”

“I’m here.” There was enough light from the fire for him to see her outline. She had stepped behind a screen in the corner.

“What are you doing?”

“Washing. We didn’t take any precautions to prevent a child. I don’t think simply washing will help, but I didn’t think it could hurt.”

Pelham lay back on the pillows and put an arm over his eyes. He’d never even thought about the possibility Juliette would conceive a child, his son or daughter.

What an entanglement that would be. He could imagine Juliette’s sweet body heavy with his child. She would be beautiful—even more than she was now.

But he didn’t want her to carry his child. A courtesan would not be the mother of the seventh Duke of Pelham. How would he even be certain he was the father?

He heard something rustle and moved his arm to see her standing beside the bed. She was wearing a white dressing gown and looked almost virginal.

“You don’t have to worry. I don’t think it’s the right time for me to conceive. Or perhaps I’m unable. I was never able to conceive with Oliver.”

“What precautions do you take with your… protectors?”

She gave him a blank look and then seemed to remember herself. “Oh! I…” She trailed off, seemingly at a loss for words. “I don’t want to talk about that.” She slid into bed beside him. “I don’t want to think of other men.”

But the spell—and it must have been a spell for him to act as he had—was broken. He could not stop thinking of the other men she’d been with. Was he just another in a long line?

He slid out the other side of the bed, and she frowned at him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” But everything was wrong. He’d been intimate with a courtesan! He’d known he had a weakness for her, and he’d allowed himself to succumb.

And the worst of it was—He turned his back to her and tugged on his trousers, which were still wet and uncomfortable—another transgression he could blame on her. But he wasn’t really angry about the trousers. He was angry because what they’d shared had meant something to him. For that brief time when he’d been kissing her, touching her, moving inside her, he’d forgotten he was a duke, forgotten he was a member of the House of Lords, forgotten he had a dead fiancée and stolen diamonds to find, and he’d just been Will. He hadn’t thought about what time it was or if he was missing dinner or how the rain had thrown off his schedule. He had thought only of Juliette—her scent, her taste, the feel of her hair running through his hands.

He’d never lost himself like that before. Never. Every action he took, every step he made, every single thought was analyzed and justified and considered. His father had drilled method and precision into him. Routine. Punctuality. Dignity.

Pelham swore he could still hear his father’s voice when he slept. He dreamed of the sadistic old man.

But just for a moment, in Juliette’s arms, he’d been someone outside the man his father had made him. He’d been his own man with his own desires and needs and preferences. His father, that skeleton he carried with him always, had been vanquished.

But now the former duke was back, and he was weighty. Pelham couldn’t stand to look at Juliette and think of what a disappointment he’d be if his father was alive to see him today.

“Will?” she said quietly.

He pulled his shirt over his head. It, too, was wet, but he didn’t want to take the time to find dry clothing. He shoved his feet into his boots, which, thankfully, had escaped the tub.

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I need some air.” He started for the door without looking at her.

“Is it something I said?”

He’d seen her out of the corner of his eye and cursed himself. She was on her knees, her hair tumbling over her shoulders, the white of her dressing gown and the sheets pooled around her, making her look like an angel.

She was no angel.

“Will?”

He opened the door.

“It’s storming out—”

He closed the door on her words, cutting her off. There was pain in her voice. He’d heard it. He’d caused it.

He was no better than her Oliver.

He was no better than his father.