The Duke Buys a Bride

by Sophie Jordan

  She knew what was happening. She was wholly, achingly aware and the sensations seizing her body were hard to ignore. Heady and enticing. Her skin hummed very much like it had the night before when he touched her palms, his fingertips feather soft. Only this was . . . more. More intense. More breath-robbing. Her flesh felt tight, as though it didn’t fit over her bones.

  She wanted to lean into him and explore these new sensations a bit longer. Her limbs felt languid and heavy, her lower stomach tight, pulsing. And between her legs something unfamiliar pulled there. Different and frightening but no less exciting.

  She surrendered to it.

  Holding herself still, she enjoyed the drape of his body over hers far more than she should. So heavy and male. She inhaled. Oh, he smelled so good. She closed her eyes in the semidarkness in one long agonizing blink. It was wanton, she knew. Guilt flashed through her until a voice rose up inside her in swift defense. Wasn’t this the thing she had been longing for? A new life? New experiences?

  Besides, she wasn’t doing anything. She wasn’t even moving.

  She was just lying here. No harm in that.

  His hand shifted. Those fingers that had brushed her palm and arm so intimately the night before covered her breast now. Heat shot through her from her breast to the throbbing at her center.

  She whimpered and arched her spine, thrusting upward.

  Even though his palm was broad, it didn’t fully cover her breast. A rather embarrassing fact. She’d bemoaned the state of her chest all her life, wearing baggier dresses so she did not call attention to her bosom. She’d been a late bloomer and she had continued to develop after she moved in with the Beard family. When the older Beard boys had started to notice, snickering at her and fixing their gaze on her bodice and even being so bold as to toss pebbles at her chest, she’d felt so shamed. She’d done everything to hide them.

  Now this man had his hand on her and she wished there was no layer of fabric between them. She wished she felt the texture of his hand, the calluses of his skin, on her.

  Her nightgown only made it worse. The fabric bunched beneath his palm, a barrier she loathed. Unthinkingly, she arched, pushing herself up into his hand until her nipple brushed the valley of his hand. The slight pressure made her moan. She bit her lip, killing the sound. She waited several moments, making certain she hadn’t woken him.

  Still. Her pulse didn’t slow. The burn didn’t abate. The throb didn’t lessen.

  He was dead-to-the-world asleep. What would it hurt? She shifted, bumping back into his swelling manhood while simultaneously pushing her aching breast up into his cupped palm.

  His hand flexed on her and her lips parted on a little mewl.

  Suddenly he went rock-still behind her, his entire body going rigid at her back.

  He was awake.

  She stilled, too. Not a breath escaped her.

  She held herself tight and waited. Waited for him to fall back asleep. Waited until she could fall asleep, too, and wake up in the morning and pretend this entire thing was a dream.

  Only he didn’t do that.

  “What game are you playing at?” he growled.

  Don’t breathe. Don’t speak. Don’t make a peep. He’ll think you’re sleeping.

  He whispered her name against her hair. “Alyse?”

  She was actually proud of how motionless she held herself. Still and silent as the night.

  He brought his face closer until his lips were right at her ear, brushing sensitive skin as he spoke. “Asleep, are you?”

  She jammed her eyes shut and fought back a shiver.

  That liquid-dark voice continued its slow assault on her ears. “Did you think you could push on my cock and I wouldn’t wake?”

  Sheer determination had her choking back a gasp. He couldn’t prove she’d been awake. She simply had to feign sleep . . .

  The hand covering her breast started to move then, squeezing and fondling until a cry climbed her throat. He dragged his palm across her already distended nipple.

  It was useless. She was lost. A choked sob escaped.

  “I warned you this would not be a real marriage. Did you think to trap me? That I would take you in a wild attack of lust? I have more control than that.”

  “No, I didn’t think that at all.”

  He rolled her onto her back then, staring down at her and that was tragic. Because then she saw his face. All sharp lines and hollows. That too beautiful mouth. The wildly mussed hair that begged for her fingers.

  She fidgeted beneath his weight.

  What was wrong with her? He’d accused her of seducing him so that he would be her husband in truth. She shouldn’t be admiring his looks.

  “You woke me,” she accused. “With your big body smothering me and your hand on me!” A partial truth.

  His eyes narrowed. “And instead of extricating yourself you start purring like a cat in heat.”

  “Oh!” Before she could help herself, she lashed out, slapping him across the face.

  “A couple days together, a few conversations and you decided you liked me . . . that I might make a good husband, after all.”

  Stunned, she stared up at him. Perhaps she had begun to like him a little bit, but he was mad indeed if he thought she had set out to seduce him. “You arrogant bastard. How could I ever want to be married to you?”

  He stared back, looking equally astonished. But also furious. It was the fury that made the metallic taste of fear rush into her mouth. She’d just called him a bastard. What if she had pushed him too far?

  He gripped her by both arms, his fingers digging. She braced herself, prepared for a reprisal. A hard shake. A slap. She knew it was done. She’d seen other women bearing bruises in Collie-Ben and vowed it would never be her. She’d not be an outlet for any man’s fists.

  He looked prepared to retaliate. Prepared to commit violence. She braced herself.

  But it didn’t happen.

  His mouth came down over hers. Hard. Punishing. She knew that was what he intended. She’d struck him and this was his way to strike back at her.

  She couldn’t have pushed him away or slapped him again if she wanted to. Her hands were crushed between them. She struggled to unwedge them, ignoring the way his mouth on hers made her feel alive. As though she had been struck by lightning. Woken from a hundred years’ sleep. Plunged from icy depths into the brilliant sun.

  His skin, from the waist up, pressed sleek and hot against her, singeing directly through her nightgown. Her breath caught, beating like a madly fluttering bird in her too-tight chest.

  She managed to release one hand. Tearing her lips free, she pushed with all her might, shoving him in his smooth-skinned shoulder, forcing space between them. Not a great deal of space but it was something. It was separation. At least his mouth wasn’t branding her. That intimacy was gone even if her lips still stung and hummed.

  Gasping, she stared at him, her hand burning where it pressed into his skin.

  Their breaths crashed together as they stared at each another. His eyes gleamed in the near dark, like water floating over gemstones.

  “What was that?”

  “I think it seemed rather obvious.”

  “Not to me.”

  “Then it’s called a kiss. Shall I show you again?”

  “Of course not, you brute! I didn’t like it.”

  The air crackled, alive with energy and prickling heat.

  “I think you did.”

  “You’re mistaken.” Her heart beat so hard and fast in her chest she was sure he could hear it.

  “And you’re lying.”

  Her hand was free. She could strike him again as he most certainly deserved. Lying, indeed! The man’s temerity was boundless.

  Except she didn’t want to hit him again. Her gaze dropped to the shadowy outline of his mouth. She wanted . . .

  With a whimper of defeat, she dove in and kissed him again.

  He growled in approval.

  The kiss started hard, a
s it had earlier, but it didn’t stay that way for long.

  His lips softened. Turned to nibbling, kissing entreaties where he managed to husk against her lips, “Open your mouth to me.”

  Bewildered—at her reaction, at him, at this—she obeyed. She was helpless to resist him. Helpless to resist herself.

  His tongue entered her mouth and stroked her own. She gasped and jerked at the strange act. He pulled back slightly, staring at her with eyes that were as inscrutable as ever but also brighter, as gleaming as polished gems.

  This was it. Her turn. The time to pull back before things got any more out of hand.

  The opportunity slipped past. He dipped his head, kissing her again, rubbing his tongue against hers until she was moaning and turning boneless beneath him at the shocking friction.

  He settled his big body between her thighs, his hands falling to her hips, yanking at her nightgown until it was hiked up to her thighs and no longer barring him.

  They kissed and kissed until her lips went numb, until her tongue felt raw from mating with his. He began moving, rocking his hips between her thighs, his manhood thick and prodding in the fabric bunched at the apex of her thighs.

  “It would be so easy,” he said against her lips. “I could just lift your gown and slip inside.”

  She nodded senselessly. He could . . .

  Want pulsed through her. Right now it sounded like the most perfect thing ever.

  “Can I touch you, Alyse?”

  She nodded, knowing she would have agreed to anything in that moment. Anything to quench the pulling ache between her thighs.

  She didn’t even fully understand what she agreed to until she felt his hand forage under her nightgown and slide against her folds.

  She jolted at that first brush of his fingers.

  “So wet,” he declared. “So ready.” Sharp little pants escaped her as he stroked his fingers up and down, learning her intimately. “It wouldn’t even hurt if I eased . . . inside.” His finger tested this theory, pushing in her channel.

  “Oh!” She arched beneath the sweet invasion and the shift in position did something. Brought him deeper, brushing against some place that made her shake and moisture rush between her legs.

  Shame had her seizing his wrist. “I’m . . .”

  “Let yourself go.” He pushed deeper, curling his finger and rubbing it in a small circle against some hidden place inside her.

  She shattered, a scream wrenching from her throat. Impossibly, she was wetter now, slicking his fingers. She’d never been so mortified in her life.

  His forehead dropped against hers. “That was . . .” He couldn’t finish the word. His eyes were closed and he looked in physical pain. “You’re going to kill me,” he whispered.

  “W-what did I do?” she whispered back.

  “I won’t shag you,” he choked, opening glazed eyes to stare down at her.

  She stiffened. “I don’t remember asking—”

  “No, you just came apart in the most splendid fashion and left me so aching I can taste my teeth.”

  “Oh.”

  He withdrew his hand from between her legs. “How am I going to resist you now?” His voice was strained.

  She stared at him in confusion. He’d made her feel magnificent, but now he looked in pain. His face was the perfect expression of torment.

  “You’re a witch,” he muttered, shifting slightly, the motion rubbing the bulge of his manhood directly into her. “From the moment I saw you, I’ve been doing things entirely out of my character.”

  “Is it in your character to deny yourself what you want?” The question popped out of her mouth before she could consider it. She was baiting him and she knew it was ill advised, but it stung. It hurt that she was so very objectionable to him that he was not only angry at her but at himself, too.

  “I’m not legitimizing this union,” he growled even though he didn’t pull away from her.

  “I didn’t ask you to!”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw. He remained above her, between her splayed legs, his arousal pressing directly against her core. Clearly, despite his words, his hunger hadn’t abated.

  She fidgeted, both satisfied and anguished, her arousal twisting sharper as he pushed his hips forward, grinding himself into her softness with an ill-concealed groan.

  She clucked her tongue. “If you’ll have naught to do with me, then you best go find some other female to satisfy your very pressing needs,” she flung out.

  “The kitten has claws.”

  “And whilst you do that perhaps I shall find someone who can finish what you’ve started.”

  His eyes flared. “The vicar is only a few rooms down,” he reminded.

  “Oh?” She feigned consideration with an angle of her head. “Convenient, indeed.”

  “Brat,” he snarled and then his mouth claimed hers again.

  She gloried in it.

  She didn’t even know herself, the woman lying in this bed with this man, provoking him into acting, into kissing her when he clearly did not want to . . . but then everything had changed in the span of a day. Why wouldn’t she be different, too? Why couldn’t she be?

  She’d brought him to the brink. His hands went to the laces at her scoop-necked nightgown, tugging them open. Then the bodice was down and her breasts were exposed. His mouth followed, sucking and licking until she was writhing under him in joyous torture.

  “Marcus,” she pleaded, latching on to his name in the throes of passion, saying it when she couldn’t even think it before. She ran her fingers into his thick head of hair. “Please . . .”

  He groaned and stilled, dropping his head between her breasts. “Temptress . . .”

  She? A temptress? It didn’t seem possible.

  She was no beauty. Her hair was likely her best feature, although people often remarked about the unusualness of her eyes. Still. A gentleman like him . . .

  He had to have seen his share of beautiful women.

  “I’ll not do this,” he said, his voice soft but no less firm. He pushed up to look at her. “I’m not that weak.” He stopped with a swift shake of his head. “You’ll have to appease yourself as my housekeeper. You’ll not have me for your husband.”

  She let out a breath. “I don’t seek to trap you.”

  “Good.” He stood from the bed, staring down at her. His gaze raked over her, taking in her exposed breasts and her bared legs. “I confess you offer more enticement than I expected.”

  She scrambled to set her nightgown to rights, covering her breasts back up and shoving the gown down to her ankles.

  The corner of his mouth kicked up as though he found her attempt at modesty amusing. “But your wiles will not work on me.”

  Her eyes traveled over him, a thousand prickles of heat flashing over her skin. “You’re fully naked!” Truly naked. Naked from the waist down. He’d climbed into bed with her without wearing a stitch of clothing—again.

  “You well know my sleeping habits, by now.” He shrugged a shoulder.

  “I thought we discussed you discontinuing those habits.”

  “Did we?” Another shrug. “Perhaps I will adjust and start wearing clothes to bed. I did not expect you to throw yourself at me.”

  “Me?” she choked. “You have a very high opinion of yourself.”

  He splayed a hand against his chest, drawing her attention to that lovely chest, firm and well-formed. She’d seen it before but it still unsettled her. She didn’t know a man could be fashioned in such a way. Mr. Beard had been pasty pale with a definite paunch. “You were begging for me quite sweetly. I didn’t anticipate that.”

  Nor did she.

  She yanked the coverlet back up to her chin. “You are quite safe from me.”

  The look he gave her was full of skepticism and right then and there she vowed she would not touch him again. Never permit him to so much as stroke her palms. Never kiss him even if he should change his mind and attempt to kiss her. She wouldn’t even look at him wit
h admiration lest he think she was mooning over her.

  He reached for his trousers. Once he had those on, he sank down in the chair before the fire and tugged on his boots.

  “Where are you going?”

  “As you said. I’m sure Gregoria can satisfy my needs. You’ve left me with quite the raging cock.”

  She gasped, glaring at him. “You are a foul man.”

  “You weren’t saying that moments ago.”

  With a huff of outrage, she rolled over, presenting him her back.

  Fuming, she stared at the curtained window as she listened to his movements, angry and reminding herself that she had no right to be.

  Certainly he had kissed her and it had been magnificent. Yardley’s bland fumbling kisses paled beside the sensation of Marcus’s lips on hers, his tongue in her mouth, his hand between her—

  She pulled her thoughts up hard, killing them with a mental rebuke. No. She was not enamored. True, he was handsome and blessed with a strong, fine body that made her belly tighten in strange exciting ways. He spoke well and moved with a panther-like grace and at times he demonstrated a kind nature.

  But she had not—would not—form an attachment.

  He was a rude, cold man.

  He could dally with all the maids in Scotland and she would not care.

  She was his housekeeper and nothing more.

  Chapter 15

  The wolf feared he might be a hunter of prey, after all.

  When Marcus returned to his chair in the parlor, he had no intention of finishing out the night in the arms of Gregoria despite Alyse’s scathing suggestion.

  Even if he accepted the invitation he read in the maid’s eyes, it wouldn’t make him feel better. It might alleviate the ache in his groin that had started the moment he woke with Alyse, but it would not get Alyse out of his mind. Or wipe the taste of her from his lips. Or rid his ears of her voice.

  No, soon he’d be back to wanting her and he would feel the perfect wretch for slaking his lusts on some hapless maid whose name he would not remember within the week.

  He sighed. Wanting Alyse. He feared that was now a perpetual condition. At least until they got to Kilmarkie House. Then they would resume their proper and respective roles. He probably wouldn’t even notice her anymore. She’d do what housekeepers did and he would do what he . . . did.