Her Duke at Daybreak Mythic Dukes Trilogy

by Wendy Lacapra

  “My lady” is just an expression.

  An expression which did not imply affection nor, for goodness’ sake, belonging.

  Yet, she could not shake the feeling she had become Ashbey’s lady sometime during the night. Her lips were tender, and her legs ached in mild protest, as if she’d taken a long and vigorous ride. Secretly, she savored her muscles’ resistance. This was what it was to have a body well-pleasured.

  She snuggled into the pillow, reliving the salient moments of the extraordinary night. Ashbey, striding into the room, robed like a sumptuous Prince, though shockingly bare beneath. Ashbey, holding her in a tender embrace against his heated skin and swaying as if to music only he could hear. Ashbey, using his clever hands to stroke her intimate places until her nerve endings sung.

  It was mortifying to remember the primal force that had then taken control, animating her body so she moved as she had never moved before. Oh, she’d seen shadows of women and men coming together in strange and thrilling ways. Shadows moving on the walls of the brothel on her tiny island. Shadows that had made her hot with want.

  When Octavius was alive, she’d packaged up her secret desires in shame and set them away, determined to be good.

  I’m not good.

  I know.

  She turned her face to her pillow.

  A decade of pinned up longing had unraveled in just one night. A frisson of desire ran beneath her skin as she remembered the feel of his hips between her thighs. Back in the dressing room at Marie’s, she’d towered over him as he sat, but he held all the power. Last night, she’d been the one in control.

  His lust, his pleasure, his honest, raw need—they had all been for her alone. She could have asked—no, demanded—anything.

  She’d called him Ashbey, and not even given him her Christian name. She wasn’t sorry. If she’d granted him leave to call her Alicia, she’d have hooked one more stich in a pattern far too dangerous to complete.

  She stretched out into the indentation where the duke had slept.

  Had he slept? Or had he left after she’d fallen asleep? He’d implied this was his bedchamber but, apart from the rumpled sheets, there was little proof he ever inhabited the room.

  A strange, hollow feeling threatened from the edge of her consciousness. She knew so very little about the duke. Not that she hadn’t searched. The gossip sheets hadn’t mentioned his name since she’d been in London, and the Ashbey entry in The Correct Peerage listed only names and dates.

  More sobering still, he’d visibly prickled when he suspected she’d pried.

  She rubbed the base of her palm over her eyes. This exhilaration would not last. The delight must come to an end. She was not a part of the duke’s world. She could never be a part of the duke’s world.

  What would it mean to have been claimed in full and then to go back? Go back to the endless monotony, the loneness and the pain?

  She’d told the duke she’d known pleasure with Octavius. Perhaps that had been what she needed to believe. What she’d called pleasure had been closer to satisfaction, the kind that came after having fulfilled one’s duty. But the kind of pleasure she’d experienced last night? That had never happened before.

  She scowled.

  Correction, again.

  What had happened last night had never happened to her before.

  She rang the bell, determined to rise.

  What was new and special to her, was tritely familiar to Ashbey. A man did not display such ease in his skin without extensive experience in the nude. And if she wanted to keep her head...and her heart...she must keep that in mind.

  What was new to her was commonplace to him.

  What had happened to Ashbey last night had never happened before.

  His wild and uninhibited release had filled him with indescribable pleasure and yet, in the moment just before sleep, he’d felt as if he’d given over part of his soul—complete surrender. Last night had been everything he had hoped, but this morning brought home the incalculable cost.

  Cerberus, his Arabian, sensed his unease and danced. Ash calmed the horse with a soothing stroke to his neck.

  He could not have given over his soul. Mystical connection was for poets and artists and men who lived for sensation, not for men born to privilege and responsibility, and certainly not for a man hemmed by a legacy of madness and murder.

  Danger lurked in the mere acknowledgement of how deeply he’d been moved. What good would it do? Chev had warned him not to create a scandal for the young widow. And, that wasn’t the only reason. He could have no future with Lady Stone.

  Lady Stone—he snorted—he did not even know the woman’s name.

  Ash could not promise Lady Stone a future. He had no future to promise.

  Her strange magic had breathed new animation into his veins, but how long could such a feeling possibly last? How long did he have before the darkness converged once again? This strange quickening would pass, and he’d be returned to his numb, void prison.

  Lady Stone deserved more. She was far too lovely to imprison as well.

  Lovely? She was more than lovely. She had a quality to her, an artless openness in want of nurture and protection. What kind of monster would he be if he forced her to live in his world, knowing what had happened to Liza? To Rachel? To his mother?

  If he could, he would have sworn to protect her light. But experience had shown him what would happen if he stayed close. His gloom would attach to Lady Stone. Gloom deadly as smoke from an unquenchable fire. The same gloom that stole everyone close to him.

  Fog below cloaked the village, the harbor, and the sea. Its fingers even covered the charred portion of Wisterley, vacant since the fire that had claimed both his father and his wife. The single, visible structure was the tower peeking out of the mist. A tower which held Lady Stone.

  Ash understood a warning when he saw one.

  Chev was right. Lady Stone had suffered enough. For now, Ash could give her pleasure, for a time. She would not wish the alternative.

  No one wished to be chained to a man haunted by ghosts.

  He urged his horse to a gallop although the rain hit his face in stinging drops.

  Two more nights was all he would permit himself to steal. Two nights he intended to savor.

  Alicia spotted Ashbey out the entry hall window. He emerged from fog as if he’d been formed by the storm. The beast he rode was as ferocious as Satan, and galloping so fast, Ashbey’s greatcoat flapped wildly in the wind. All the discomfort and fret building since his absence, all the annoyance she’d cultivated to protect her heart, vanished.

  Together, man and beast formed a breathtaking vision. She sighed. He couldn’t help that he was striking.

  She could never mean to him what he could—if she allowed—mean to her. However, to be angry was a fruitless endeavor. Anger at Octavius had been equally absurd.

  She meant something to the duke. Just like she’d meant something to Octavius. Something that made Octavius rescue an orphan from a near-deserted isle and keep her the way one kept an antique doll—a pretty thing to be displayed and never touched.

  Octavius had never even carried her over the threshold.

  Perhaps Octavius believed her a waif incapable of giving or receiving great passion. If that was so—she smiled—she had certainly proven otherwise.

  She shrugged. She had Ashbey. For now. That was all she could ask for. All, in fact, she wanted. Ashbey and his world belonged to some different strata. She had reached too high once before, and intimately understood the consequences.

  She turned away from the window and back to her book.

  First, he’d stable and brush down his horse, then he would want to wash, then he’d need a bite to eat, and then—

  The door clattered open and he strode into the hall, stopping short two long strides past where she sat by the window. His coat arced out as he swiveled.

  Intoxicating, those eyes.

  She hadn’t even realized he’d moved until he took
her book from her hands.

  “I was reading!”

  “Allow me to summarize,” he said with mock seriousness. “In the end, she dies. He realizes, too late, the the error of his ways.”

  The corner of her lip turned up. “It’s not an unhappy kind of book.”

  “Evelina?” he read the title.

  She nodded. “The heroine was just attacked by drunken sailors and then rescued by prostitutes.”

  He widened his eyes. “Shocking.”

  She grinned. “You should try reading it.”

  He tossed the book onto a table. “I should do many things, but what I choose to do is take you back to bed.”

  The flush that darkened her cheeks sent a pleasurable rush through her body. There were many reasons to protest—the sun had not yet set, she had only just dressed, and, and, and...

  “Mustn’t you eat?” she asked.

  “Excellent point.” He leaned back and called down the stairs, “Mrs. Kent?”

  A muffled acknowledgment sounded from below the stairs.

  “A tray in half an hour, please.” He raised a wicked brow. “Make that a full hour.”

  Her grin deepened and he swept her up into his arms.

  Octavius had neglected to carry her over a threshold, but Ashbey carried her up two full flights of stairs. Somehow, that made everything all right.

  Chapter Nine

  Eschewing ceremony, Ash deposited Lady Stone on his bed. The ropes beneath the mattress made her bounce. She laughed, low and throaty, an invigorating sound that oscillated back and forth through his body like a deep caress.

  The surge of excitement that followed his all-out gallop merged with the thrill of anticipation.

  “When I’m finished,” his smile was predatorial promise, “you won’t have the energy to laugh.”

  “Is that a warning—” she shimmied to the side of the bed and fluttered her lashes over lust-drunk eyes, “—or a promise?”

  He cupped her face. She was so exquisite. Trusting, too. She had no idea how dangerous he was. If he had his way, she’d be bound to the bed, splayed and twisting with need.

  But, he’d vowed not to debase.

  He brushed his fingers over her neck and cheeks, memorizing the angles of her face and bathing her in sensation. He stroked the most sensitive places with expert fingers, never allowing his hands to dip below her collar.

  Slowly, she surrendered. When her neck relaxed, he moved his hand beneath her hair, holding her still as he traced her jaw with his lips.

  Her whimper was sweet prologue, but he wanted her to ache, to burn. To murmur an ardent please with a look that was only for him.

  He nibbled on her earlobe with a hungry, breathy bite, feeling her response. She was trembling. Probably already wet.

  He could refrain from subjecting her to physical restraints, but need he deny the potent satisfaction of having her beg for his touch?

  No.

  He pulled back and stood, folding his hands behind his back. She sat straight, eyes half closed, hands on either side of her thighs, gripping the sheets. She held her lower lip between her teeth—an enticing show of eager innocence that rumbled through his want, loud as thunder.

  A crease appeared between her brows. “Would you like me to remove my dress?”

  He considered. “Keep it on.”

  She blinked, looking hurt. “Do you wish me to remain still as well?”

  Still? “God, no.”

  “Then why must I remain clothed?”

  He assessed the picture she made—a lady, dressed for a country morn, if with skirts somewhat askew. “You needn’t, if that is your wish.” He forced a knee between her thighs, and straddled her leg. He made no attempt to hide either his admiration, or his arousal. Her nipples came to delicious points. “However, before you decide, may I show you my wish?”

  She nodded.

  He loosened her bodice, happy to discover her stays had a little give. He slipped his fingers beneath three layers of fabric and drew out her breasts, one by one, being sure to brush her skin as he tucked away the rumpled bits. At last, she was fully, beautifully exposed.

  “Better,” he said.

  Her cheeks turned a fetching pink. Pink that spilled like punch over her neck and shoulders.

  “Are you wet yet?”

  She swallowed. “I think so.”

  He rolled her right nipple between his fingers. “Now?”

  “Yes,” she whimpered.

  He teased the sensitive tips of both her nipples, savoring each hitch in her breath.

  She whimpered again. “Please, Ash. Please.”

  There it was—a rich chord of yearning, supplication and reverence. The resonance was, for the first time, flawless. The sound played in him as if he were an instrument, and she, a musician.

  His cock shifted beneath his clothes, extending to his thigh. Her gaze fixed on his tented falls, eyes wide.

  “May I?”

  “If you wish.”

  She unbuttoned his breeches. Then, she glanced up. He nodded.

  Reaching inside, she cupped his balls, with heavenly fingers. She slid her palm down his length. Then, she moved one hand up his member, the other down, until both hands were gliding over his cock. He silenced his own, desperate please.

  “I’ll,” he said hoarsely, “never again be able to wear these breeches without getting hard.”

  She smiled. “I like touching you.”

  This was punishment, obviously. Soon, he’d be enfeebled. Prostrate at her feet.

  He touched his knuckle to her chin, rubbing his thumb across her lower lip. She parted her lips. Instinctive. Unconscious. Not fully understanding the implied invitation.

  He wouldn’t imagine her lips around his cock. If he did, he might spill into her hands—a surprise and a disappointment.

  Summoning all his discipline, he caught her wrists in his hands, sunk to his knees between her thighs.

  “Lift your skirts.”

  She did.

  Now this was a sight to remember—her breasts, free of the confines of her dress, her shift and her skirts in rumpled confusion, and her white stockings, tied with tight little bows, giving way to peach-colored flesh, and all that invited beyond.

  Taking his time, he stroked her folds with his knuckle. Very wet, indeed.

  Her mew was that of a lost lamb, anguished and needful. She threaded her hands into his hair. The soft pressure against his neck was all he could take.

  Using his lips, he plundered without permission. She gasped, and her knee knocked against his shoulder. She tasted of welcome and warmth. He lost himself to his work.

  Her release came fast—too fast. He did not waste time on complaint. Instead, he hooked his arms beneath her knees, and rose, guiding her onto her back. His cock, rock-ready, needed no assistance. Inch by inch, he slid inside. Her limbs remained limp, and her hazy gaze fixed to the place where they joined until he fully disappeared.

  This was bliss—the only true euphoria he’d ever known.

  Still standing, he withdrew and then thrust—once, twice. Then, he was overcome. He bowed over her body, feeling her stomach, her breasts, even her small pants of air. He released her legs. She hooked her ankles at the small of his back.

  He filled her in wave-like motions while planting light kisses on her cheeks, her lids, her ears, her neck—anywhere, really. Soon, his release began to amass. His climax ricocheted in his bones, touching every nerve. A full-body experience—as stimulating as it was exhausting.

  He was fully satiated, and still he wanted to beg. What for, he wasn’t sure. He only knew that he’d never, ever experienced anything like Lady Stone.

  All this, and he had never taken off his coat.

  She unhooked her legs from his back. Reluctantly, he withdrew. She stretched out across the bed like a wanton, her wrinkled morning dress still shoved up her thighs. He touched the satin ribbon that held up her stocking.

  “Very nice.” He’d intended to say someth
ing more. Something witty and seductive and charming. Nothing penetrated his weary mind. Instead, he ran his nails over her thighs.

  She made a sound. A chuckle, perhaps.

  “If you can still laugh,” he managed a smile, “I must not be finished.”

  She scooched backwards on the mattress, and made an indifferent attempt to smooth out her skirts. Failing, she folded an arm behind her head and sent him a quizzical expression.

  “Imagine!” She measured her words as if she had just tasted—and enjoyed—some rare fruit she had expected to dislike. “Fully clothed coitus can be surprisingly enjoyable.”

  He hadn’t thought the term coitus could be seductive. Then again, any word that came from her lips would be seductive. Still, he’d have to expand her vocabulary. Not now, but rather when he could think, probably sometime hours into the future.

  He’d been right from the start—her hair did look smashing when strewn across his pillow. He’d done terrible damage to the day-dress, but regretted nothing. And from the look in her eyes, neither did she—her eyes were tired but pleasured, bewildered, and slightly amused.

  Sweat-teased curls clung to her temples, and crushed and twisted stays lifted her still-exposed bosom. She made no move to cover herself, not that he minded. If she was comfortable with uncovered breasts, he heartily approved. In fact, he’d have Marie make a special dress. One she could wear when they were alone. How interesting it would be to dine across a properly set table, with Lady Stone in full sartorial splendor, absent only the front of her dress.

  He moved his legs to accommodate a rush of blood to his groin. Then, he remembered.

  Three nights—and one had already passed. Besides that, he hadn’t dined at a proper table since the death of his wife, and those meals had been taken in excruciating silence.

  Then again, he hadn’t slept in a bed, either. Until last night.