My Last Duchess

by James, Eloisa

  He took a bath and ate an excellent meal, bundled in a warm wrapper, sitting by a crackling fire. The butler withdrew, taking the footman with him, and the house fell into silence.

  It had to be two in the morning. He pulled open the curtains. Below his window a streetlamp shone through the snow, another sign of Sir Peter’s care for his property and his family. Streetlamps were still unusual, though he had the feeling that one day London streets would be lined with them. Snow still fell but lighter now, drifting and spinning rather than tumbling down.

  He turned from the window, leaving the curtains open so that the room was lit with a soft, romantic glow, an excellent setting for a seduction, if only a lady would join him. The bed was laid out in fine linen that smelled faintly of lemons and starch. The mattress was comfortable. A warming pan had taken the chill from the sheets.

  It had everything to make a guest happy—except for one thing.

  Which explained why he lay awake, staring into space, hoping.

  Ophelia didn’t want to be a duchess, and he didn’t blame her. He had too damned many children, and yet he couldn’t bear the idea that even one might not have existed—and that included his orphaned ward, Parth.

  He would even marry Yvette again, knowing what lay ahead, to have their children.

  Just as he was deciding to close his eyes and fight for Ophelia’s hand the next day, the door opened soundlessly.

  He slid out of the bed faster than he’d ever done before, threw on his wrapper, and snatched her in his arms as an involuntary groan escaped his lips. “Bloody hell,” he whispered into her hair, “I feel as if my blood went to a simmer hours ago, and I haven’t calmed down since.”

  Ophelia’s hair slipped through his fingers as she tipped back her head. She’d washed out the powder, and damp strands of silk covered her shoulders.

  “I want you,” she whispered. “But perhaps not as a husband. I haven’t decided that yet.”

  “Am I on probation?” He wasn’t sure what to think about that. His body had no doubts. He could seduce her, bind her to him, show her the pleasures of making love, because it was possible that Sir Peter had not.

  The ethical side of him didn’t feel happy about seduction without marriage.

  “I’m a widow, Hugo,” she said, her eyes crinkling into a smile. “I can bed whomever I wish, and I choose you. Tonight.”

  “What if I seduce you into marriage?”

  She laughed, the sound lazy and sweet. “Do your worst, Your Grace. Do your worst.”

  He had her on the bed in a minute and unwrapped her as carefully as if she were made of the finest china.

  And when he realized that she wore nothing under her wrapper?

  In strong contention for the best moment of his life.

  Chapter Seven

  Ophelia hadn’t bothered to put on a nightgown. Why should she? Hers were all white and edged with lace, clothing that hinted at chastity and innocence. A woman bent on sin needn’t pretend to virtue.

  That meant she got to see Hugo’s eyes darken and his jaw clench as he pulled open her dressing gown.

  She followed his eyes down. She was a creamy, curvy type of woman, whose breasts had become even more lavish after nursing Viola.

  The desperation in his eyes fired her blood—past a simmer, straight to a boil that made her shift on the bed, pink rising in her cheeks, her hands reaching for him.

  He moved back and pulled off his wrapper. She caught a flash of hard male body, a slice of golden skin, and then his mouth crashed down on hers and his body lowered with hardly more grace.

  His weight made a sob rise in her throat. There was something so comforting about being surrounded by warm strength. The feeling of a man’s body on top of hers was marvelous.

  He began kissing the side of her neck, so she turned her head and ran her hands over powerful shoulders.

  She felt untethered, as if she were held to the bed only by the weight of his body. How could she have forgotten the delicious feeling of skin roughed by hair, hard-muscled thighs, and hard other things? Hugo rolled against her and her arms tightened as her belly clenched. A puff of air escaped her lips.

  “Tell me if I’m too heavy,” he murmured.

  “I like it,” she said. She almost stopped there, but this man wasn’t her husband—and she didn’t want another husband. With a lover, she could be absolutely honest. So she kept going. “I like the way our knees knocked together, and the fact your arse is extremely muscled.”

  His grin was pure mischief, a man’s wicked fun, not a boy’s.

  She let her fingers dance over his bottom, making him shiver. “I would never have mentioned that word to Peter.”

  “Could we forget the word ‘Peter’ and keep ‘arse’ instead?” He pulled back, coming up on his knees so she could see his face. He was older than Peter had been, with traces of laughter around his eyes.

  “You don’t fancy comparisons?” She reached up and traced the amused arch of his lip.

  “Not allowed in polite society,” he stated, with all the calm authority of a duke.

  “Are there any other rules I should know about extramarital congress?”

  “No thinking. Thinking is as bad as mentioning former spouses.”

  “I can’t stop thinking,” Ophelia said. “I think all the time.” A little panic slid down her spine. She pictured the way she and Peter had made love. They were invariably courteous and kind with each other. Of course they had been thinking during the act.

  She had constantly thought about what Peter would like her to do next. She had the strong feeling he had done the same. That’s why their marital life had been so successful.

  But just as that panic rose, it dissipated. She wasn’t marrying the duke. What they did in bed this evening wouldn’t set a pattern for future years to come.

  “I will try to make you stop thinking,” Hugo said. His voice rumbled, confident and happy at the same time. “Making love is a time to be in the flesh.”

  Ophelia wrinkled her nose. “Is that some sort of pun on intimacy?”

  “In your flesh?” His eyes danced with laughter when he leaned over and kissed her, and somehow joy came with his touch.

  Ophelia didn’t pull back until she decided that if they didn’t move on to being “in the flesh,” she might burst. Her insides were tightening; no, all her muscles were tight. Every time he thrust his tongue between her lips, her heart beat faster, and her hands clutched him more tightly. Her core was aching for him in a way that she didn’t remember.

  Because it had been so long: that was the only reason she didn’t remember. Hugo would never succeed in making her stop thinking. Thinking was what she did best.

  Another twinge of anxiety went through her. Did she even understand how to do a bedding that had nothing to do with marital satisfaction, or procreation? One that was for nothing more than shared pleasure?

  “Are there any other rules?” she asked, surprised by the hoarse tone in her voice.

  “Experience suggests that I have energetic seed, so I will do my best to protect you.” Hugo leaned over and picked up something that Ophelia instantly recognized, because Maddie had told her about it. The object had the appearance of a sausage without filling, oddly adorned on one end with a pink ribbon.

  She wrinkled her nose. “I surmise that is a condom.”

  Hugo shrugged and dropped it back on the bedside table. “We’ll have no use for it unless you promise to marry me.”

  “What?” Ophelia’s eyes caught on his chest. He had a delicious set of indentations that led right down his torso. Muscles, presumably. And he had a trail of hair that arrowed down to his . . . And her eyes stopped again, lower.

  The duke was a great deal larger than Peter had been. In fact, he was of a size that she considered—though she had never considered such a thing before—to be obstructive. Perhaps impossible.

  His eyes followed hers. “Yes, there’s that.”

  “I see,” she said carefully.<
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  Hugo moved backward, and her eyes moved with him. “It’s not that interesting,” he said.

  “Actually, it is.”

  “Same general shape as most men’s, from what I’ve seen.”

  He ran his hands down her front, his fingers pausing on her nipples, sweeping on and around her sides to her back. “Let’s go back to discussing arses.” His hands curved under her body, around her bottom, and a hoarse sound escaped his throat. “Yours is marvelously round. Perfect, in fact.”

  Ophelia’s mind had split in two. Part of her brain was busily informing the rest of her that this behavior was utterly inappropriate. She couldn’t take her eyes off the part of him that rose proudly, bobbing in the air. The sight of him made the melting sensation in her stomach increase. Probably that was sinful. Certainly it was embarrassing.

  The other part of her mind suggested she tuck her arms behind her head, so she did, causing her bosom to rise into the air. He wasn’t the only one who had impressive . . . parts.

  She did as well.

  “Are you commanding my attention?” Hugo inquired.

  “Yes,” Ophelia said, breaking into a giggle. “This is so funny,” she added, allowing herself to say precisely what she was thinking. “I never imagined laughing in bed.”

  “Huh.” Hugo slid his hands to her front and then they curved around her breasts. “I don’t feel like laughing,” he said, voice rough. “I don’t mind if you do, Ophelia. Laugh as much as you like.”

  Ophelia sucked in air, all impulse to giggle leaving her. His lips drifted across the curve of her right breast, lingered just long enough to make her quiver, and then closed over her nipple.

  Sound rasped through her throat and her hands flew from behind her head, winding into his hair, holding him in place. Not that he showed any particular wish to move. For long minutes his mouth caressed the curve of one breast or the other, returning to her nipples.

  And Ophelia just let it happen. Behind her closed eyes, the world receded until nothing existed but a hot, heady pleasure that melted into desperation. Reason and logic floated into the dark. Desire was like hot tea on a cold day: she actually felt it slip through her body, warming her in places that hadn’t felt frozen.

  But had been, obviously.

  Gradually, she began feeling slightly anxious, nervousness thrumming alongside desire. She didn’t want to orient herself to the real world. She wanted to stay in the warm darkness, her body twisting under his caresses, low moans coming through her lips.

  But . . .

  Peter would have stopped long ago, moving on to the next, for lack of a better word, activity. Surely Hugo would rather be doing something else. Something less one-sided. Unfortunately, she was selfish. Self-interest choked the words in her throat.

  Instead she clutched his hair more tightly, embarrassing noises flying from her mouth every time he tightened his lips or curled his tongue around her nipple.

  A shrill inner voice made itself heard. She and Peter had been considerate bed partners, and after hearing stories from other women as a young bride, she had redoubled her efforts to express her appreciation for his kindness.

  Yet here she was, taking without giving.

  She forced her eyes open. Hugo had her breasts plumped in both hands. Far from looking restless, he was suckling a nipple with an intensity that made another moan escape her lips. He looked as if he couldn’t stop himself.

  Thoughts were going every which way in her head. A streak of pleasure was followed by a panicked protest that she ought to do the same for him. The breath caught in her throat, because he did something—that thing—with his tongue, and fire streaked down her legs. She couldn’t focus on his expression because she kept closing her eyes. Her toes curled and her legs shook and she almost felt as if . . . which was absurd.

  Her eyes flew open again and she craned her neck. He didn’t show any signs of getting bored. But he must be getting bored. And she . . . well, she was ready for what came next. A good deal readier than she sometimes was.

  Hugo lifted his head, making her hands fall from his hair, and met her eyes. “Stop thinking.” His tone wasn’t that of a duke accustomed to obedience. It was the growl of a man in the grip of pure lust.

  For her.

  Ophelia blinked at him. “I was just . . . I don’t want you to grow bored.”

  Hugo broke into a chuckle.

  “I thought you didn’t laugh in bed,” she said, her mouth curving up. She reached out to run her hands down his forearms. They were powerful, muscled. The arms of a man who could protect anyone, a child, Viola . . . Her mind wandered away from thoughts of her child.

  Ophelia didn’t need protecting and neither did Viola.

  But Ophelia needed more of him. Fierce, base desire roared through her body.

  Hugo reared up on his knees and shook his head. His hands settled on his hips and her eyes were drawn precisely where he, apparently, wanted her to look.

  “If a man is bored, what happens to his cock?”

  Ophelia managed to stop a flinch. She was a widow, not a maiden. She had to get used to bold speaking and words that were considered fit only for sinful congress. Because that’s what she was engaging in: sinful congress.

  He reached down and ran a hand over his private parts. Ophelia watched with utter fascination at the way his hand clenched, even twisted a little. The head emerged from his hand looking red and—

  Ophelia lost her train of thought again.

  “It would wilt,” Hugo said, because she hadn’t answered.

  “I understand,” Ophelia said, though she didn’t. Not really.

  “I was determined to find a third wife who was uninterested in bed sports,” Hugo said conversationally. “Or very experienced at them.”

  “I haven’t promised to be your wife!” She frowned at him. “I am experienced. I mothered a child, in case you need a reminder.”

  “My first two wives were both inexperienced, to say the least. They both got the idea right away, though.”

  Then he winced, because presumably he remembered just how expert his second wife turned out to be. Or how voracious. Or . . .

  She ought to be solemn and sympathetic, but Ophelia found herself giggling instead. “I guess your teaching was a mite too successful the second time around. Oh! I can’t believe I said that. I’m so sorry!”

  Thankfully, Hugo’s mouth eased into a smile. “Either that, or the golden locks of a Prussian count cast mine into the shade.”

  Ophelia didn’t need to glance at his thick head of hair to know which she preferred. “If we’re not discussing my previous spouse, oughtn’t yours to be taboo as well?”

  “Certainly in the bed,” Hugo said. “Where was I?” He reached out, his eyes gleaming.

  “You truly don’t mind?”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “This,” she said with a wave that vaguely indicated everything above her waist. “I thought you’d want to do other things.”

  “Have you ever heard of the poet Robert Herrick?”

  Ophelia shook her head.

  Hugo curved his hands around her breasts again. “Display thy breasts, my Julia—well, have to change that line, won’t we? Display thy breasts, my Ophelia, there let me behold that circummortal purity.”

  Ophelia giggled, looking down at his hands and her breasts. “Circum-what?”

  “Circummortal. No idea what it means. I’d suggest ‘dazzling’ in your case. Perhaps ‘round.’” He pushed her breasts together and they plumped up. “Because your breasts are dazzlingly round. And God, so dazzlingly delectable.” He lowered his head, and whatever he said next was muffled by her skin.

  Time passed. Ophelia decided to stop bothering about what he was thinking. Peter never—no. More generally, she doubted that many men thought about poetry while they were in bed.

  Hugo’s fingers were making their way down her sides, creeping across her stomach. But all the time his lips kept going from one breast to the other unt
il her legs were trembling. To her shock, her whole body was damp, her hair sticking to her brow. She couldn’t stop moving either, wiggling under his weight, trying to silently suggest that he direct his attention elsewhere.

  “May I?” Hugo asked sometime later.

  She raised her head and stared at him. His eyes gleamed at her, desirous. He didn’t look like a duke any longer.

  But that was all the intelligent thought she could muster. She’d never appreciated her breasts before. No, that wasn’t true. She had been inordinately proud of them for producing milk on command when Viola had needed it.

  But now?

  This was different. Every time he tightened his lips around one of her nipples, heat connected to far-flung parts of her body, making her shiver.

  “May you what?” she asked belatedly, hoping that he meant he would take that large . . . tool of his and do what God had designed it to do.

  But no.

  “Kiss you again,” he said, with such a sweet expression that her lips shaped a smile without conscious thought. In one smooth movement, he moved up so his elbows were on either side of her ribs. They fell into a kiss. A different kiss than she’d ever experienced, because she had never, ever, felt a shivery excitement that tightened her chest and made her entangle her legs with his like a wanton.

  Her hips couldn’t stop arching toward Hugo. His response was to kiss her more deeply, hovering over her, kissing her with the same ferocious attentiveness that he gave her breasts. As if there wasn’t something better to get to.

  Finally she had to ask.

  She pulled back.

  “Phee?” His voice rasped, and when she put her hand on his chest, it was not heaving . . . but his heart was pounding.

  “Aren’t you wishful to go on to the rest?” She couldn’t think how else to phrase it.

  “No.”

  “Because I haven’t agreed to marry you?”

  “Yes and no.” He started dotting kisses on her face. “I’m enamored. I’m metaphorically at your feet. I don’t want to muck this up. I want to know everything about you. I could happily do nothing but kiss your breasts for hours.”