A Vixen For The Devilish Duke (Steamy Historical Regency Romance)

by Olivia Bennet

“But you like it?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Good.” He reached for her shoulders and pulled her back so that she was leaning against his chest. She expelled her breath in a long, whispering huff. He flicked some water onto her breasts, his head leaning against hers before trailing his finger down her stomach. Hooking her foot with his, he looped her leg over his so that she was open to his touch. With his middle finger, he stroked her until she was undulating in the water, keening with need.

  “Harry!” she whispered, begging.

  “What?” he asked in the same tone. “Tell me what you want.”

  “I…don’t know.”

  He laughed against her throat and then lifted her up as he got to his feet and carried her to the bed even as she squeaked in surprise. “Don’t you worry. I know what you need.” He said before laying her down and then straddling her. Leaning down, he put her nipple in his mouth, suckling gently as she jerked this way and that. He slid his hands beneath her thighs and widened them slowly. Arching himself against her, he let her feel his hardness, the force of his arousal. Her response was needy in the extreme and pushed him over the edge.

  “Oh Adelia, I can’t wait any longer,” he said, even as he pushed against her.

  “Y-yes, please,” she hissed as he thrust slowly into her, pulling her thighs as wide as they could go.

  “I shall try to go slowly.”

  “All right.”

  Soon he was completely sheathed inside of her and there was no better feeling he had ever experienced.

  * * *

  The sting of pain she felt as he breached her almost brought her out of the state of needy want that she had been in since he’d pulled her to him in the carriage. However, it was gone so fast and all she had to focus on was the size of him inside her, the feeling of being filled so completely it was as if she was split in two.

  She did not know how she was able to accommodate such a thing inside of her without combusting. She knew he was trying to be gentle and slow and was grateful for it, but there was something she was craving. Something she felt just beyond her reach but if she stretched enough, she might grasp it.

  “Harry, please,” was all she could think to say.

  “Patience, my love. You shall have it. You shall have everything I can give you.”

  Those words made her mew like a newborn kitten. One half of her could not believe that sounds that were emanating from her throat. The other half was simply hungry and demanding, wanting more—and willing to do anything to get it.

  “Harry,” she moaned.

  “Yes, my love, yes,” his thrusts got deeper, longer, more forceful and she could feel that thing she was searching for as if it were on the tip of her tongue. Her body arched, legs coming up of their own accord to curl against his waist, giving him more room to work. No stranger to grabbing opportunity when it presented itself, Harry increased his tempo so that Adelia thought she might be seeing stars in front of her eyes. She screamed, arching upward, wanting to give all of herself.

  He groaned loud and long, his body jerking, losing its rhythm as something exploded in her mind and her vision went white before shattering into a kaleidoscope of rainbow-colored shards.

  “Harry,” she whispered and then collapsed onto the bed, feeling him empty himself into her as her body milked every drop as if it were manna and they were in the desert.

  Everything disappeared for a while and when she came to, she was lying spread-eagled on the bed, with Harry half on, half off of her. His eyes opened and looked into hers. He smiled.

  “How are you feeling?” he whispered.

  “Sated,” she replied with a lazy smile of her own, “and hungry.”

  Harry laughed. “For food or…”

  Adelia turned to study the ceiling in wonder, “Both, I think.”

  His laughter rang out louder even as he got up to get her a bunch of grapes and pour her a glass of wine. She watched him as he walked, buttocks flexing in the most becoming way. He turned around to find her ogling and smiled impishly.

  “Like what you see?”

  Her face heated up and she looked anywhere but at him. “Well, I think it’s required as you are my husband.”

  “Indeed. It is absolutely mandatory that you like what you see,” he teased as he handed her the glass. She pouted at him.

  “You’re being mean,” she said before taking a long sip of her drink.

  “What? I am simply agreeing with you!”

  “Well then…since it’s mandatory, do you like what you see?”

  His eyes traveled down her body from her naked breasts to her blanket covered lap. “I think that I love it.”

  She quirked an eyebrow. “You think?”

  He smirked. “I know.”

  She took another sip of her wine and popped a grape in her mouth. “That is good to know.”

  * * *

  The Earl arrived back home with his family, tired out from all the dancing and frolicking they had done at the wedding. He was glad to see that even Dorothea had been enjoying herself. Her new beau was attentive and solicitous of her every want and need and the Earl thought they would suit very well.

  He was glad not to have to send her to a Roman convent but he had promised his other daughter that she would be suitably punished. And so he would penalize her by giving her ten thousand pounds less than Adelia for her marriage settlement.

  The Earl of Braewood’s people had already reached out and negotiations were about to start in earnest. He was happy to give them what they were asking for, it was not much in the larger scheme of things, and he was sure that the Earl would make a good husband to his Dorothea. It was a good compromise.

  “She will not accept it without throwing a fit, you know it as well as I do,” Lady Cornhill had said.

  “Indeed. But if her sister can stand to keep Dorothea’s indiscretion a secret from her husband, I can stand to endure one of her tantrums without giving in.”

  “I wish you good luck with that endeavor, dear husband,” Lady Cornhill said with a smile.

  The Earl knew that he would need it.

  The End?

  Extended Epilogue

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  Preview: Guilty Pleasures of a Bluestocking

  Chapter 1

  Miss Deborah Wilds founds herself pacing up and down the parlor in her father’s manor. She felt edgy with anticipation. Each time she passed the window, she peeked through the glass, hoping to catch sight of a carriage.

  No sign of him yet.

  All she could see was the long, neatly manicured path at the front of her father’s mansion. Trees shedding orange and red leaves lined the path and stretched their limbs toward the gate, obstructing her view of the road beyond.

  Deborah smoothed the skirts of her sky-blue gown for what felt like the thousandth time and ensured her long blonde hair was still neatly pinned at her neck. She knotted her fingers together as she paced, her heart knocking steadily against her ribs.

  These nerves were not entirely unpleasant. In fact, they were quite the furthest from unpleasant that she could imagine.

  Deborah had been drawn to Leonard Fletcher, the Duke of Tarsington, from the moment she had first caught sight of him three years ago. Back then, she had been a shy young lady of sixteen. The few times she had been in the Duke’s company, she had found herself awestruck and tongue-tied, flustered by her attraction. In those days, the Duke had seemed a distant, untouchable figure. A handsome young gentleman to be admired only from afar.

  And yet, now, three years later, they were to be married.

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  Deborah could hardly believe it. Each time she rolled the word through her head, it made her heart beat little bit faster.

  She peeked out the window again.

  Still no sign of the Duke.

  Deborah kept pacing.

  She wished she could let the joy of becoming the Duke’s wife fill her completely. If she could have chosen any gentleman to be her husband, it would have been the Duke. A part of her recognized just how lucky she was to find herself in such a situation.

  But the Duke was never supposed to have been her husband. It was her sister, Edith, to whom the Duke had first been betrothed. Her sister Edith who ought to be meeting the Duke of Tarsingon at the altar and returning to his mansion as his Duchess.

  But Edith was gone. She had been lying in her grave for more than two and a half years. And still the sting of it felt raw. Everything Deborah did was done in the shadow of her grief. Everything was done with Edith at the back of her mind.

  As time had passed, the once-striking pain had become a dull ache, but it was an ache Deborah feared would never leave her. And now here she was, about to married to the gentleman intended for her sister. Beneath her attraction to the Duke, Deborah felt a sizeable amount of guilt. It felt as though she were benefitting from her beloved sister’s death.

  Deborah tried to push the thought away.

  Edith would want me to be happy. I know she would.

  And a life as the Duke’s wife, Deborah knew, had the potential to make her happy. Very happy, indeed.

  The clatter of hooves outside the house made her start. She hurried to the window and caught sight of the large black and gold carriage rattling through the front gates. Inside it, she could just determine the broad-shouldered outline of the Duke.

  The sight of him made Deborah momentarily push aside her thoughts of Edith. She hurried to the mirror above the hearth and re-checked her hair, re-smoothed her skirts. She couldn’t remember ever being so fixated on her appearance.

  The knock at the door made her heart speed. She clenched her hand into a fist and forced herself to breathe deeply. Today, she would hold herself together. She would not behave like the foolish, tongue-tied child she had been in her previous, fleeting encounters with the Duke. She had been introduced to him as Edith’s younger sister and had responded to his warm greeting with a garble of unintelligible words. She had raced upstairs to her bedchamber and buried her head beneath her pillow, too embarrassed to face him.

  But things were different now. She was to be his wife. With luck, the Duke had forgotten how much of a fool she had been on the day she had first met him.

  She heard the butler’s murmured words, and then the Duke’s voice, deep and gentle. And here was her father, the Viscount of Chilson, strutting into the entrance hall to greet his future son-in-law.

  Deborah couldn’t make out their words, but she could imagine the smile on her father’s face. Could imagine him puffing his chest out and pushing his shoulders back as he invited the Duke into their home.

  “Do come in, Your Grace, you are most welcome here.”

  Deborah knew it meant a lot to her father that his daughter might be married so well. She couldn’t begin to imagine what her father had done to attract the Duke of Tarsington into their family. After all, she was nothing but a viscount’s daughter. And an awkward, tongue-tied one at that.

  The parlor door clicked open. Deborah froze, standing rigid like a soldier at attention.

  “Miss Wilds,” said her father warmly, “you remember His Grace, The Duke of Tarsington, I’m sure.”

  Deborah swallowed heavily, her mouth suddenly dry. The Duke was even more handsome than she remembered. His dark hair was trimmed neatly at his collar, his angular jaw smoothly shaven. He wore a cream-colored shirt and dark blue coat, a silver cravat tied neatly at his throat. He seemed taller than she remembered.

  Is such a thing possible?

  Perhaps it was just his lofty position that made him look so delightfully imposing.

  “Of course, Your Grace,” Deborah managed, bobbing her head and falling into something half way between a curtsey and a stumble. She straightened hurriedly, cursing herself for her foolishness.

  So much for holding myself together.

  She could feel color rising in her cheeks.

  But His Grace smiled broadly at the sight of her, striding across the parlor with deliberate footsteps. He was clearly feeling far more confident about this meeting than Deborah.

  “Miss Wilds.” He took her outstretched hand and brought it to his lips. Deborah felt a sudden shudder of excitement go through her.

  She heard her father’s footsteps disappear from the parlor. Heard the door click closed. The Duke stood in front of her with a warm smile and expectant eyes. The sight of it half filled her with excitement, and half filled her with dread.

  “Wonderful to see you again, Your Grace,” she managed, her voice coming out softer than she had intended.

  And at her words, she saw the Duke’s confident gaze flicker a little. Saw something else in his eyes. Is he also nervous at the thought of this meeting? Perhaps, but there was something more. Something deeper. Did he too carry guilt over the fact that they had found themselves here? Was he thinking of poor Edith, lying in the earth? Was he thinking about the lady who ought to have been his wife?

  Deborah cleared her throat. “Please, Your Grace. Do sit down.” She gestured an armchair. The Duke sat, Deborah perching on the edge of the chair beside his.

  She knotted her fingers together, glancing nervously around the room. Her lady’s maid, Sarah, was sitting in the corner of the parlor with her hands folded neatly in her lap. Deborah looked hurriedly back at the Duke. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She had spent the morning rehearsing potential topics of conversation—tell me about your lands, are you a hunter? Did you have a pleasant summer?—but as his dark eyes found hers, all logical thought slipped from her mind.

  “I’ve been looking forward to meeting with you again,” he said, his comment doing little to steady Deborah’s nerves.

  “You have?” she garbled.

  “Yes. Very much. I’m rather looking forward to getting to know you better.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I…”

  He is looking forward to getting to know me better? After this pitiful display? How can such a thing be possible?

  Her cheeks felt impossibly hot. She churned through her mind for a suitable response. Came up with nothing.

  She was saved by the click of the parlor door. The butler appeared with a tea tray and set it carefully down on the side table, then vanished from the room almost as quickly as he had appeared.

  Deborah drew in a steadying breath. “Tea, Your Grace?”

  The Duke smiled. “Thank you.”

  Carefully, Deborah filled two cups, her knuckles whitening around the handle of the teapot in an attempt to stop her hand from shaking. She lifted the first cup and saucer and handed it to the Duke. As she did, her hand knocked against his wrist, sending tea slopping down the front of his coat.

  Deborah gasped in horror. “Oh, I’m so dreadfully sorry. Please forgive me. I…” She lowered her glance, unable to look him in the eye. Her stomach rolled over.

  What is he thinking? Is he comparing me to Edith?

  Deborah’s sister had always been so composed, so full of grace. She was certain Edith had never done anything so clumsy as spilling tea all over her future husband.

  But the Duke just smiled, taking the teacup from her hand. “It’s quite all right, Miss Wilds,” he said mildly. “It’s no matter.”

  “I’ll fetch a cloth at once,” Deborah spluttered.

  “It’s not necessary, I assure you. It’s just a drop.” She could feel him trying to catch her eye. “Please don’t fret.” The warmth in his voice made the muscles in her neck begin to relax a little. She felt the edginess inside her begin to dissipate.

  The Duke brought it to his lips. After a moment, he set the cup and
saucer back on the side table. “I’ve made you nervous,” he said. “I’m sorry. I hope you know that was not my intention.”

  Deborah managed a faint smile, despite the heat she could feel lingering in her cheeks. She hated the way her fair skin colored so easily. At the slightest hint of discomfort, her cheeks would flame, announcing her embarrassment, her nerves, her desire. Sometimes it felt as though her every thought was on display for the entire world to see.

  “I am rather nervous,” she admitted, peering into her teacup. “This is a rather momentous occasion.”

  And I’ve been dreaming about you since I first met you…

  The Duke nodded. “Yes. I must admit, I was a little nervous this morning, as well.” He shifted in his chair to look at her more squarely. “Perhaps today we might put aside these overwhelming thoughts of the future? Perhaps we might focus on simply getting to know each other a little better?” There was a hint of hesitance, of shyness in his voice, and it made Deborah smile.

  “I would like that, Your Grace,” she said, meeting his eyes. “I would like that very much.”

  * * *

  Leonard peered out the window of the carriage and watched the neat rows of houses roll by. Bath was beautiful at this time of year; the trees fiery in the autumn, the river high and glistening. A thick bank of clouds had begun to roll across the sun, reminding him that winter was not far away.