The Duchess in His Bed

by Heath Lorraine

  With his arms around her, positioning her just so, he inhaled her fragrance of strawberries, the very fruit that he thought had inhabited her hair to give it the barest reddish tint when the light hit it at certain angles. He’d spent most of their journey to this room noting the different ways the light struck her hair, changed the shade of it. He wanted to remove all the pins that held the strands in place, gather them up in his hands, and bury his face in the silken tresses.

  Instead he placed his lips against her neck where it curved into her delicate shoulder, took great satisfaction in the hitching of her breath. He had a feeling she’d be like kindling, easily set alight when he went about ravishing her completely. “Striking the ball here will send it on a path to the left.” He guided her hands, moving the stick over. “Here, to the right.” Another move of her hands and the cue. “Here, it will follow the path outlined by the cue.”

  Sliding the cue between her fingers, he imagined himself sliding within her. Taking a deep breath to clear his mind of everything other than the table, he envisioned the play, then guided her as together they struck her white dotted ball. It bounced off three sides before hitting the red ball, careening toward the other side—bounce!—and traveling across the green to smack against his ball.

  He stepped back. “Easy. The balls remain where they are. Now you give it a go on your own.”

  He positioned himself to the side, so he could view her more easily. Her concentration was astounding, as though her task were a matter of life or death. She licked her upper lip before biting into the lower lush one. God help him, he’d be the one who was kindling when the time finally came.

  She brought the cue back, pushed it forward—

  Smack!

  The ball rolled quickly toward the corner, bounced away to hit the opposite side, and rolled diagonally toward the other corner where it hit, bounded back, and came to rest a few inches from the red ball. Disappointment washed over her face. “May I try again?”

  “If you like. We’re not playing yet. Simply practicing.”

  The next strike hit the opposite side and rolled to a stop. She sighed. “I suppose it takes a good deal of practice to be as good as you are.”

  The third time was a charm, or part of one at least. She hit his white ball. She looked at him hopefully, her smile tentative. “Perhaps we should use your modified rules. If we did, I would have scored?”

  “One point.”

  “And I’d get another turn? I wouldn’t have to hand the cue over to you yet?”

  “Correct. We’ll go with the more flexible rules.”

  “You’re incredibly kind and sporting. Are you going to allow me to go first?”

  “There’s a method for determining who goes first. It has to do with each of us hitting our balls, bouncing them off the far end, and the one—” He shook his head. This was all for fun. The wager didn’t involve money or pride. “It doesn’t matter. As my guest, you may go first.”

  “Thank you. May I alter our rules a bit?”

  Leaning his hip against the side of the table, he crossed his arms over his chest. “What did you have in mind?”

  “When one of us scores a point, he—or she—gets to ask the other a question, which must be answered truthfully or a forfeit must be paid.”

  “What will the forfeit be?”

  Nibbling on that lower lip again. He could barely wait to do his own nibbling. “Whatever the point maker decides. I think it will add a level of excitement not to know what might be required.”

  Bless her. Fortune had smiled on her with the last hit, might again with a couple more shots, but once the cue came to him, he’d rack up eight points in a row. Eight questions. He could ask anything of her. He nodded. “Done.”

  She smiled brightly. “Very good. Will you set it up properly for us to begin?”

  He placed the red ball at the opposite end, both whites at theirs.

  Closing her eyes, she inhaled a deep breath, slowly released it. Opening her eyes, she bent over the table, holding the cue just as he’d instructed, her grip relaxed. Her eyes were focused with a predatory gleam in them.

  She struck her ball, the smack echoing around the room, as it rapidly rolled toward its destination, bouncing off three walls before clacking against the red ball, and spinning off to send his white one upstream. With a triumphant smile, she placed the end of the cue on the floor, holding it as a knight might have held his liege lord’s banner after claiming the castle. He couldn’t blame her. She’d gotten incredibly lucky with that shot.

  “That’s a point for me, and a question for you. Tell me about your first time with a girl.”

  So that was the direction in which she wanted to take the inquiry. He was grateful she’d gotten an opportunity to ask such a brazen thing of him because he would return the favor when it was his turn. “That’s not a question. That’s a command.”

  “Fair enough. How old were you?”

  “Sixteen.”

  Her eyes widening a bit, she gave a nod and moved around the corner to take up a position on that side of the table. She glanced down the length of the table one way, then the other. Two steps to the right. Lined up her shot—

  Smack!

  Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Clack against the red ball. Bounce. Clack against his white one. A slow roll into stillness. Retrieving the chalk, she began dusting it over the end of her cue. “Did you love her?”

  He was surprised to find himself having to answer another question. “No.”

  She arched a brow, indicating his answer had been insufficient, although it had been to the point.

  “I like women. I enjoy them immensely. But I don’t fall in love, which I should think you’d find reassuring. I won’t be a clingy lover.”

  “You’ve never loved a woman?”

  He grinned. “You haven’t earned the right to ask another question.” He doubted she would. Her luck should be running out.

  “True.” She set aside the chalk, walked around the table until she was in front of him. “I need you to step aside.”

  “I think you could get a better shot from across the way.”

  Narrowing her eyes, she glanced over the table. “Possibly. But I like my chances here.” With a pointed look, she jerked her chin to the side.

  He situated himself at the head of the table, near the farthest corner from her so he could watch her more closely. She didn’t hesitate. Another series of bounces and clacks.

  “When was the last time you were with a woman?”

  Damnation, how was she managing to set herself up so she was hitting both balls, fairly flawlessly, moving each into position so she could strike both again?

  “Mr. Trewlove?” she prodded.

  Right. The annoying question. How long had it been? Several weeks before his brother Finn had given him this property in late November. Since then he’d been too busy getting it ready and striving to build his clientele while continuing to manage the Cerberus Club. “At least six months. How long since you slept with a man?”

  Had she been with anyone since her husband died?

  She gave him a sad smile, a small pouting of her lips. “My observation skills are somewhat lacking, but I don’t believe you’ve had a turn and earned a point yet, so you can’t ask any questions.”

  She took three steps to the right, lined up her shot, and delivered another scoring play. Her saucy grin nearly had him drawing her into his arms. “Do you pay for your pleasures?”

  He stared at her, at the confidence rolling off her. Four perfect shots. What were the odds that a novice—

  Understanding dawned—bitter and sweet. Not four. Seven. The practice shots had been designed to make him believe she was unfamiliar with the details of the game. To add to her ruse, she’d claimed the incorrect ball as hers and asked silly questions of him regarding the rules. He released a great bark of laughter. “You conniving minx. I do believe you duped me. You’ve played before.”

  She had anticipated that he might s
ulk or mope about, perhaps even get angry with her and refuse to play, but she’d wanted to gauge the type of man he truly was. For some reason it had been important as the moment of actually being intimate with him grew closer to becoming a reality, as the intensity with which he looked at her had seeded doubts as to whether she could truly go through with the venture. But of all the reactions she’d expected of him, laughter had never been considered. She rather wished he hadn’t laughed. It was boisterous and joyous, reached deep down inside her and made her want to laugh when she hadn’t in months, perhaps years. Not full laughter, not the sort that made her eyes water with tears. He grinned at her as though she’d suddenly been crowned queen, as though he quite enjoyed being made sport of. Or perhaps he enjoyed that she’d managed to pull one over on him.

  “You have played before,” he repeated.

  “You haven’t any points to ask questions,” she reminded him, “but then you didn’t really phrase it as a question, rather more as conversation, so yes, I have played. Many times. And I did mention we had a billiards room. You were forewarned.”

  “Where all the gents go without the ladies in attendance,” he said in a falsetto voice that was more teasing than mocking and made her smile.

  “When we had company. Otherwise, my husband, my sisters, and my brother played. I enjoy the challenge of controlling the ball.” Especially when she felt herself losing control elsewhere. “Some men might have taken offense at my tricking them.”

  “I, on the other hand, applaud your cleverness. I was a swindler in my youth with my little peas. I appreciate a well-played dodge.”

  “Dodge?”

  “That’s what they call it on the streets, when you gain something by underhanded means or by lying.”

  “I never lied,” she was quick to point out. “I simply omitted the truth of things.” She waved the cue stick over the table. “Shall we continue?”

  “By all means.” He walked over to the wall, leaned against the space between two large heavily draped windows, and crossed one foot in front of the other and his arms over his chest, appearing relaxed and satisfied. “But know this, sweetheart. If you miss those balls, I will show no mercy. My questions will be designed to make you blush from your toes clear up to your hairline.”

  She didn’t know what possessed her to think his inquiries would be more exciting than hers, tempting her to deliberately miss the next shot. “You still haven’t answered the question about paying for your pleasures.”

  “I don’t. The ladies flock to me.”

  She arched a brow. “Not for the past six months or so.”

  “No. I’ve been too busy managing my businesses, in particular making a go of this place.”

  “Once the Season is fully underway in the next few weeks, you’ll no doubt see an increase in interest and profit.” Since Parliament had opened in February, most of the nobility was already in Town and the Social Season would soon begin in earnest.

  He nodded toward the table. “Let’s see how long you can keep this streak going.”

  For hours. She’d often done so, used it as entertainment when she awoke in the middle of the night in her lonely bed and couldn’t drift back off. It amused her to see how long she could go without a miss. So she set herself up for the next shot, took it, succeeded, and glanced over at him. “Do you know who your father is?”

  “We’re getting a little personal now.” His tone was flat, carrying the tiniest hint of displeasure.

  Still she scoffed. “Asking about your paramours wasn’t?”

  He studied her for a full minute before confessing, “Yes, I know who sired me.”

  Another successful turn. “Who is he?”

  Slowly he shook his head. “Sorry, love. I’ll have to take a forfeit here because as I told you last night, I never discuss him.”

  She rather thought she could understand that, how it must have hurt when he learned he’d been given away. “My apologies. I shouldn’t have pried. The question was unconscionable. What’s your favorite color?”

  A corner of his mouth hitched up. “Sweetheart, you can ask me anything you want, doesn’t mean I’ll answer or am offended by your curiosity. I’m actually quite touched you want to know more about me, are beginning to see me as more than just a cock. Bodes well for the bedding.”

  Not if her face was as red as the heat of it made her think it was. He tossed that word cock out so casually, the way most people might say tree or butter or good morning.

  “Name the price for my forfeit,” he insisted.

  Placing the larger end of the cue on the floor so the stick stood vertically, she wrapped her hands around the narrowing portion, fearing she might need the support if he accepted the forfeit. “Remove your waistcoat and cravat.”

  His eyes darkening, falling on her with the weight of stone, daring her to look away or not to—she couldn’t be sure—he shoved himself away from the wall and leisurely began unknotting his cravat as though he had the remainder of his life in which to accomplish that goal. The movement of his fingers was mesmerizing, and she imagined them unlacing the back of her gown, drawing it down over her shoulders with the same sensual flexing and unflexing of his hands. Her mouth was suddenly dry. When he was done, she would ask for more brandy, perhaps request the entire bottle. Or maybe he could direct her to a nearby lake where she could plunge herself into the icy depths before she went up in a conflagration of heated desire.

  When the white linen was free of its mooring, he unwound it from about his neck, pulled one end of it until it completely surrendered its hold on him so he was able to toss it onto another chair. She watched it sail effortlessly through the air as she might journey if he lifted her up and tossed her onto a silk-covered mattress.

  It somehow seemed incredibly intimate to see so much more of his neck. She had an urge to trail her mouth over the corded tendons there.

  Then he went to work on the buttons of his waistcoat. Never before had she seen a man undress himself. Had never seen as much of a man as she saw of Aiden Trewlove. Forearms and neck, sinew and strength. He was turning her into a wanton, revealing just enough to make her want to uncover more.

  When the waistcoat hung loose and parted, he shrugged out of it in a masculine roll of his shoulders that made it difficult to draw in air. That bit of clothing was also flung aside. With his gaze still focused intently on her, he reached up and flicked three buttons of his shirt through their holes, revealing the tantalizing hollow in the center of his collarbone at the base of his throat. Her tongue touched her upper lip when it desperately wanted to taste his skin there.

  He dropped back against the wall, crossed those magnificent arms over that incredible chest, and produced a smile that was at once wicked and tempting. “I wonder what forfeit I shall ask of you when the time comes.”

  The time wasn’t going to come, but she did wish she was bold enough to purposely miss simply to see where he might lead her. No doubt into a temptation she’d never known. It did not bode well that her fingers had tightened around the cue to such an extent they’d gone numb. Releasing her hold, she shook out her hands, opening and closing them to get feeling back into them. Regaining her equilibrium, she stated succinctly, “Wonder all you like, but it will be for naught. I have no intention of making a miscalculation in my shots.”

  And she didn’t.

  “Do you know anything about your mother?” she asked.

  “I assume you’re not referring to my mum, Ettie Trewlove, but to the woman who gave birth to me.” His tone didn’t hold the bitterness it did when discussing his father, but she sensed a bit of sorrow, remorse, perhaps even regret. “I don’t know anything about her. I assume she was his mistress, but that’s only speculation on my part.”

  “I can’t imagine how difficult it is not to know everything about your past.”

  “I accepted the circumstances of my birth long ago. Ettie Trewlove made them not matter.”

  “I’m glad.” She didn’t like thinking of h
im as a young lad, picked on or beaten because of a situation over which he had no control. Well aware that people were not always kind to those born in shame, she didn’t want to consider that her plans would involve her child being labeled as such—or worse—if the truth were ever discovered.

  Taking a deep breath, she moved into position for her final play. She glanced over at him. For the lack of tension in him, he could have been stretched out on clover beneath the shade of a mighty oak watching as the billowy clouds passed by. “You seem rather relaxed for a man on the verge of having to fulfill all my demands.”

  He lifted a shoulder in a careless shrug. “I’d always intended for you to win, but I’d expected to have to work at the losing.”

  She didn’t know what to say to that, to know he’d gone into the game with the express purpose of doing as she commanded. There was a kindness to him, an unselfishness she’d not entirely expected. “I’m glad to have been a surprise.”

  “You are definitely that, sweetheart.”

  The endearment seemed to be more heartfelt, which gave her pause. She was here for a bedding, not an emotional entanglement. Best to get the game over with and move on to business. She lined up her final shot, took it, knew both exhilaration for winning and disappointment the game was at an end. She turned to find him merely studying her, simply waiting.

  As difficult as it was, she managed to hold his gaze. “Final question: Do you want me?”

  “More than I crave air.” He pushed himself away from the wall, walked to the table until only the narrow expanse of green separated them, placed his palms flat on it, and leaned toward her. “You won the game. What is my lady’s pleasure?”

  “Exactly that. Pleasure me until I forget I’m a widow.”

  Chapter 7

  It pleased him beyond measure that she hadn’t asked him to bed her, although he suspected she thought her words were merely another version of the same thing. But he wanted to teach her differently, wanted to show her there was more to it than the rutting.