The Duke's Suspicion (Rogues and Rebels)

by Susanna Craig

  She didn’t struggle against his hold. All the fight had gone out of her. What a fool she had been. Fixing unseeing eyes on the pattern of the coverlet, she waited for him to release her.

  The hand that had been curled around hers let go first…only to slide slowly, lightly up her arm, over her shoulder, to cup the side of her head. “Erica?” A question and not a question. Wonder. Reassurance. The warm pressure of his arm against her hip did not relent. “I’m sorry. You caught me off guard.”

  She dragged her gaze back to his face. “I should have thought by now you’d have come to expect the unexpected where I’m concerned.”

  A smile ghosted across his lips, momentarily softening his granite features. “You’re right, of course. I only meant…that is to say…after you turned me down…”

  Once more her eyes were drawn to the complex geometry of the coverlet. “I turned down your offer of marriage.”

  “Ah.” The almost imperceptible rise and fall of the bed linens attested his breathing. For a long moment, he made no other sound. “And I take it you would not welcome another.”

  She would have shaken her head if she did not fear it would dislodge his hand. “You’ve read my journal. You know what I am. I cannot be what the Duke of Raynham needs.”

  “I see.” Another hesitation. “You do not wish to marry me. But if I understand things correctly, you do, however, wish to—”

  “Yes.” The word swooped in before he could place some terrible name on her desire.

  The arm at her hip tightened almost convulsively. With gentle pressure, he lifted her chin. Still, it required every bit of her strength to meet his gaze, dark and raw. “You’re a young lady of good family, Erica.” She parted her lips, but his fingers curled against her scalp. “You may save your protests on that matter for another day.” Reluctantly, she kept her silence. “And I’m no rake,” he added.

  She’d known as much, instinctively. “A bit of a rogue, perhaps?” she asked, hopeful.

  Another almost-smile flickered across his lips and into his eyes, the suggestion of light in the dark pools of his irises. “Perhaps. But on the whole, a gentleman, as I seem to remember telling you once before. And any gentleman who knows that a lady is prone to impulsive behavior ought not to—”

  “Impulsive?” she broke in. “I’ve been waiting for you in your sitting room, in total darkness, for hours.” Every time the mantel clock had announced the quarter hour, a bit of her resolve had slipped away, it was true. But it was back in full force now.

  One dark brow arced. “Is that right? Then you must be chilled.”

  She had not imagined, with the high frame of the bed pressed against the front of her legs, that he could somehow pull her closer still. But when the arm around her waist shifted, her spine willingly bent forward beneath its urging. One of her hands caught the edge of the mattress in an instinctive attempt to break her fall. The other settled against his bare chest. Her journal slipped to the floor, forgotten.

  She wanted, needed, a moment to absorb the sublime sensations: the hard curve of his muscles, the tickle of silky dark hair between her spread fingers, the searing heat of his skin against her palm. But his voice once more commanded her attention.

  “You’re in my bedchamber, Erica. Almost my bed. What is it you want? Because if it’s only a few more chaste kisses, I would be only too happy to oblige you.” Chaste? Oh, dear God… The memory of those moments in the conservatory rushed through her veins like heady liquor. “But something tells me you’re after something more.”

  “Yes, more,” she murmured, bringing her lips to his. “Everything.”

  “Promise me,” he demanded when she let him have his breath. “Promise me you didn’t come here tonight to punish yourself further. To be ruined in earnest simply because a few gossips imagined the worst.”

  She drew back just enough to allow him to see the puzzlement on her face. “What has punishment to do with pleasure?”

  His answering expression…well, she hadn’t words to describe it. He might insist he wasn’t a rake, but there was something decidedly wicked about the smolder in his eyes. “Ah, love, what an innocent you are…” His next kiss caught her lower lip between his teeth. A nip. A flash of…not of pain, exactly, but of pure sensation that called every cell in her body to attention. “Still, I’ll have that promise.”

  “I give you my word.” Anything, anything, if he’d only go on kissing her that way.

  “Then turn around.”

  Her disappointment at his growled command lasted only as long as it took for her to follow it. She heard him shift behind her, then his deft fingers went immediately to the row of buttons running up her spine and undid them at a leisurely pace. When she could at last slip free of her gown, he went to work on the strings of her corset. The duchess’ maid had been hard pressed to persuade her to wear it, but the unexpected eroticism of allowing Tristan to remove the dreaded garment dissolved any regret Erica felt. With torturous slowness, he drew the cord through the eyelets, first left, then right, then left again. With each hiss of fabric against metal, another inch of her flesh was bared to his gaze. When he reached the end, he paused to wrap the cord around his hand. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him slide it over his knuckles and lay it on the table beside the base of the candlestick, a silken snake, coiled and waiting.

  Waiting for what? The question fluttered through her mind and was gone, chased away by the warm invasion of his hands as they slipped between her corset and shift, first shaping her waist, then rising higher. The corset fell away to join her dress on the floor.

  His hands swept lower then, working in tandem, learning the flare of her hips and the curve of her bottom before ascending once more, his thumbs lightly tracing that forbidden cleft before mapping the valley of her spine, climbing to the sharp angles of her shoulder blades. Just another few inches and there would be nothing between his hands and her skin…

  She was worrying her lower lip with her teeth. In anticipation, yes. But the little sting of discomfort also made everything else more real. A pinch to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. At last, his fingertips reached the gathered edge of her cambric shift and brushed across her bare skin. She couldn’t contain the eager quaver that passed through her.

  But his voice could. “Settle,” he said.

  And her body heeded his command.

  Despite her obedience, he made her wait. Or perhaps he was weighing his options. At long last his fingers swept around the neckline of her shift to the bow in front and tugged it loose. She longed for him to run his hands over the front of her body as he had her back, unabashedly craving his touch on the aching peaks of her breasts, the curve of her belly, the secrets places below. Instead he brought his hands to her shoulders and slipped her shift down over her arms, over her hips, until the only barrier between them was an old pair of woolen stockings held in place by limp garters. Her toes curled in embarrassment, but the memory of his voice kept her otherwise rooted to the spot.

  His right hand stroked up her arm, raising gooseflesh as he passed, then over the sharp peak of her shoulder, along her collarbone, to pause at her throat. His strength, his power—in check now, but undeniable. Saliva pooled in her mouth, and she swallowed hard, knowing he would feel the movement. How could she be so hungry for something she had never tasted? Three fingers crept to the left side of her jaw and urged her to turn her head.

  Her body followed. At first, not knowing where to look, her eyes once more took refuge in the patterned coverlet, although he’d cast it aside. But in another moment, instinct—fascination—took over and her gaze roamed at will over his naked body.

  In order to undress her, he’d risen from his recumbent position into a sort of half crouch, legs spread. There was something almost feral about the rangy pose, the way his golden brown hair gleamed like a lion’s mane in the candlelight. She had no doubt he could devour
her, if his control ever snapped. But oddly, the thought produced no fear. He had the tautly sinewed legs of an expert horseman, and between them, his manhood jutted from a nest of dark curls. When it bobbed beneath her appreciative stare, her throat worked up and down again.

  For all she knew, he was studying her with similarly lascivious intent. Her eyes only dragged themselves back to his face when the pressure of his hand along her jaw could no longer be denied, and even then, she could not entirely stifle a whimper of disappointment.

  He…smiled at the sound. Or maybe not. For if that was a smile, then she’d never seen its like before, except perhaps on a cat. His thumb came up to tug her lower lip free of her teeth, then brushed across its tender fullness.

  “Doesn’t that hurt?”

  “Only a little.” Suddenly she wanted to cover herself with her hands, to hide from his knowing gaze. “I think somehow it helps me focus. Most of the time, I don’t even know I’m doing it.”

  The seriousness of his expression seemed to grant the act far more weight than it warranted, in her opinion. Biting her lip was just another bad habit she’d been unable to break.

  “Am I interfering with your concentration?”

  A nervous laugh caught in her chest. “Oh, yes.”

  “Well, we’ll just have to see what can be done about that.”

  How he lifted her onto the bed so effortlessly, and without losing his balance, she could not afterward explain. In the moment, it was the most natural movement in the world, the steps of a dance through which for once she did not stumble, and when it was over, she was lying on her back in the middle of the ducal bed. With the duke looming over her.

  When he lowered his mouth to hers, she understood at last what he’d meant when he’d called their earlier kisses chaste. What a difference it made when their lips weren’t all that touched. The hair on his chest tickled her breasts, and his member was hot where it rested against her hip. She wanted to wrap her arms around him, but somehow, he’d pinned her hands at either side of her head, their fingers tangled, and that was good too, so good that she caught herself wishing he would tighten his grip.

  How could possession be a kind of freedom? She only knew that she wanted his weight and his heat, and when he drove his tongue into her mouth, she yearned to take him deeper still. As if he could read her mind, he stretched her arms above her head until he could take both of her hands in one of his. His free hand settled over her throat, stroking along her jaw, coaxing her to open to him fully. She sucked greedily on his tongue, and his answering grunt was accompanied by a sharp thrust of his hips. Reprimand? Or reward? Either way, she did it again.

  His hand slid from her throat to her breast, and he traced its curve and cupped its weight before rubbing the flat of his palm over the sensitive peak. That gentle abrasion was the sweetest torture, and her hips rose from the bed, seemingly of their own volition, seeking something to ease the growing ache. He shifted then, lowering his hand to her waist. The kiss grew shallow. “Easy, love,” he murmured against her lips. “Your eagerness made me forget myself. But this is new to you. Let’s take this slow, shall we?”

  “I don’t want to go slow.” Patience had never been her strong suit.

  She felt his mouth curve into a smile as he kissed his way across her cheek to whisper in her ear. “Whatever gave you the idea that you’re in charge?”

  While he nibbled at her earlobe and traced the whorl of her ear with the tip of his tongue, she took stock of her situation. Naked but for her stockings. Pinned by Tristan’s hands and his weight. Entirely at his mercy. A frisson traveled along her spine—not fear. She wanted this, that much she knew, even if she wasn’t entirely sure what this was, and even if she didn’t quite understand why.

  He nipped the delicate skin at the base of her throat, and the momentary sting was like an electric charge, snapping her attention back to him. Not unlike the way she bit her lip when something demanded concentration—that prick of sensation drove back the distractions and, for a moment, everything was clear. He’d watched her do it. He knew. He understood.

  She thought of her journal, lying abandoned on the floor. That awful list of her mistakes, her feeble attempts to correct them. What else did he understand?

  Promise me you didn’t come here tonight to punish yourself further…

  But there was a kind of punishment in the way true pleasure fluttered just out of reach. She closed her eyes and gave herself up to the scent of his skin, the temptation of his mouth, and the frantic scrub of her pulse. Oh, she was tired, tired of trying to maintain control. Let him have it. Just for tonight.

  He soothed the tiny bite with his tongue, then brought his lips back to hers, and his kiss was gentler now, and sure, as if she had communicated her resolve to him. The hand that pinned her wrists relaxed, and a whimper of protest rose in her throat. “No. Don’t let me go.” She needed him to hold her, needed to feel his strength, his power.

  “Shhh,” he soothed. “I won’t.”

  He shifted, reaching for something, and in another moment she saw the cord of her corset in his hand. “I could tie them. But only if you wish…”

  It was nothing she had ever imagined. And yet…didn’t gardeners often tie a delicate vine to a trellis, to give it the support, the security it needed to thrive?

  Her hair slipped over the smooth linens as she nodded. Carefully, he wound the cool silk around her wrists. When she tugged against it, it did not relent.

  Now both of his hands were free to roam. They sought and found her breasts, traced the pebbled edge of her areola. He dragged his mouth down her throat, over her collarbone, then his lips closed around one nipple as he teased the sensitive peak with his tongue. Her spine arched, lifting her chest to him, as if she imagined he could be coaxed into giving her more.

  The touch of his tongue became whisper light, the merest flicker of wet heat. At the same time, he ran his palm more roughly over her other nipple before taking it between his first finger and thumb and squeezing lightly. The pressure shot a charge from her breast to the secret place between her thighs, and tears stung in her eyes.

  “Too much?” The words whispered across her damp skin, a cool breeze that stoked the fire higher.

  “Yes.” More groan than speech. “Please, do it again.”

  He didn’t, though. Not right away. Instead, he brought his lips to the place he’d pinched and began to suck in earnest. One hand ministered to the needy breast his mouth had abandoned, rolling and plucking the taut peak. The other hand slid lower, over her ribs and the sharper bones of her pelvis, pausing to play in her private curls before dipping lower still.

  She was already wet and swollen with wanting; the way his fingertips slicked through her folds would have told her as much, if she had not already known. Was there nowhere she wasn’t sensitive, no touch he couldn’t teach her to crave? His fingers were gentle, teasing, but every bit as focused as the pull of his mouth on her breast. And they were linked, somehow, so that every tug at her nipple sent a ripple of delight into those hidden recesses of her body and back again, until she didn’t know where one sensation ended and the other began.

  She couldn’t move, couldn’t not move, lifted her hips to his hand merely for the pleasure of having him pin her more securely beneath the weight of his arm. This was madness, utter madness, when she’d so hoped for peace, but she trusted he could give it to her, if only…if only he’d…

  “Come,” he ordered, his hot breath striking her breast as he pinched her other nipple firmly between forefinger and thumb.

  Though the command was unfamiliar, she knew she hadn’t the strength to resist it, didn’t want to resist it—resist him—anymore. With a choked cry, she gave herself over to the blinding rush of pleasure and release.

  Sometime later, he stirred, calling her back from a far off dream, and when she opened her eyes, it was to discover he’d hoisted hi
mself higher in the bed, so that they were lying side by side. “Erica?” His voice was pained. “Touch me.” With a tug of his fingers, the corset cord unraveled from her wrists, and her hands were her own again. “Please.”

  Clergymen, moralists, gossips all spoke of what a woman lost when she went to a man’s bed: her reputation, her maidenhead, even her place in heaven. Why had no one ever hinted at the extraordinary power she got in return?

  As if trying to make up for lost time, she raced one hand over his shoulder and down his arm to his hip, tracing the muscles, reveling in his hardness. His buttocks clenched and she followed the movement, her fingertips skating into the dimples she’d glimpsed from the doorway earlier. Then she eased herself apart from him just enough to run her palm over his chest and his abdomen, to curl her fingers in the dark hair that covered him there, and lower…

  “Wrap your hand around my cock.”

  She’d never heard the word before, but some commands were too primal to require explanation. Without hesitation, she curled her small, pale fingers around his dark, hot desire. So firm and proud, its potent shape familiar, like the stamen of a flower. Suddenly the figurative language of every botany text became literal, and she saw the truth they had tried to hide from young ladies’ curious eyes. He levered himself above her, and with a swift tilting of her pelvis, she brought his cock to the smooth, silky petals of her body’s opening. “Come inside me,” she murmured.

  A momentary twinge of discomfort told her, Yes, this is real, this is true. And then the slick glide of him filling her, the exquisite stretch, the certainty of his possession.

  “All right?” he whispered against her hair.

  Her arms came around his back. “Never better.”

  In some corner of her mind, she wondered if perhaps she ought to have known, having so often observed the bees at work in the flowers. But what could have prepared her for the power of his thrusts, the teasing agony of his withdrawal? Slow at first, and steady, then faster, a race toward pleasure, his arms and shoulders taut with strain and her own hunger rising once more.