And he most definitely had gone mad, because he was currently circulating the social event of the evening whilst searching for a blond-haired she-devil.
This is a mistake.
Yes, entirely. He could readily admit it, yet he could not stop himself.
For a week he’d held out, staying busy with his accounts and clubs. By day nine he’d begun drinking heavily, fisting his cock as he relived the memories of her kiss and the feel of her skin.
Day eleven had found him at one of the city’s high-end brothels, one he hadn’t visited in ages. He’d turned around and left before even removing his coat. How could he fuck another woman with the taste of Violet still fresh in his brain?
By the end of day twelve, he was stalking his London home like a starved dog, snarling at anyone who dared bother him. He locked himself in, convinced that Violet was a fever in his blood, one he merely needed to ride out. Then she would be out of his system forever and he could get on with his life.
It hadn’t worked.
Now he was broken, unable to concentrate. An utter mess of a human being. A man on the verge of hysteria.
Just once more, he’d promised himself earlier today. If he could touch and kiss her just once more, that would be enough to get her out of his head. Then he could set her free, where she could marry anyone she pleased.
He was doing her a favor, really. Most young women—his deceased wife included—came to the marriage bed completely ignorant and unprepared. Max would leave Violet a virgin but at least teach her about sex and her own pleasure.
God, you’re pathetic. You’re attempting to justify bedding an eighteen-year-old woman.
Yes, but he was too far gone. He’d beg if necessary. Everything about her had been too perfect, too right. It had been the most erotic night of his life, one he couldn’t help but relive every time he closed his eyes.
She was confident for her age, self-assured in ways that had surprised him. When was the last time he’d been surprised? Perhaps his liaisons had becoming boring of late, more rote than exciting, but Violet had energized his existence. She made him feel ten years younger and more randy than a university lad in a bordello.
“Ravensthorpe.”
Max froze at the sound of the familiar voice, making sure to wipe his expression clean. He’d avoided Violet’s father since the night in his study, uncertain how he could face his friend after what had occurred. The only good part about seeing Mayhew meant that Violet was likely in the room, as well.
He cleared his throat and spun around. “Mayhew.”
Charles slapped Max’s shoulder. “Haven’t seen you in ages. Where have you been keeping yourself?”
At home, dreaming of fucking your daughter.
Instead, he said, “Here and there.”
“Heard Louisa gave you the shove-off, my friend. A shame, indeed. Have you already found someone new?”
Max suppressed a wince and adopted an easy smile. “Not as of yet, no.”
Charles leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “In that case, I’ll happily show you a new place I’ve discovered. It’s in Cheapside and the women are willing to do anything for the right price. And I do mean anything.”
After spending so many nights in Charles’s company, Max had a good idea of what “anything” might include. “I believe I’m set for the moment, but I’ll let you know. Are you here with your wife and daughter?”
“Just Violet. The missus is peeved with me again. Said I came home smelling like perfume too many nights this week.”
My father hardly has a moral ground upon which to stand. You of all people probably know that better than most.
How much did Violet know about what went on between her parents?
Max frowned at his friend. “I hope you shelter your daughter from hearing such things. It could leave a damaging impression with her.”
“Come now, she’s a grown woman. I’ve got two suitors sniffing around her skirts, so best she learn how marriage works between a husband and a wife.” Charles’s brows lowered, his expression etched with disbelief. “Besides, you cannot tell me Will isn’t aware of your mistresses.”
Suitors? A dark cloud rolled through Max, his mood blackening at the thought of some repulsive masher pawing at that lovely girl. Scowling, he said, “Will is a man, not an impressionable young woman. And just who are these two suitors?”
“The young lords Wingfield and Sundridge. I had hoped Surrey would take an interest, but he seems enamored with the Gabriel chit’s dowry.”
“Wingfield undoubtedly has the pox and a bowl of porridge contains more intelligence than Sundridge. You cannot in good conscience encourage either of those fools.”
“How on earth did you come by that information?”
His son, actually, who loved to gossip more than a maiden aunt, but Max didn’t say as much. “Just know that I am right. She can do better, Charles.”
Mayhew hooked his thumbs in his vest pockets. “Might not have much of a choice. The girl isn’t exactly putting forth an effort. She stands against the wall and watches at every event. I never should have encouraged that photography habit of hers.”
Photography? Violet was one of those Kodak Girls? He could almost picture her behind a camera, studying and observing. Laboring over her prints in a developing room. He hadn’t much experience with photography himself, but he’d love to see her in action someday. “Perhaps you should put it off, let her experience this first season without pressuring her to marry. Then choose her a husband next year.”
You are going to Hell, Max. Straight to Hell.
“Can’t. I promised the missus we’d marry Violet off this year.” Charles lifted a shoulder. “No idea why my lady is in such a rush, but I won’t disappoint her—not on this.”
Because he planned to disappoint his wife in other ways.
Max shifted on his feet and stifled the urge to say more. He had no right to interfere with Violet’s future. After his own disastrous attempt at playing husband, he couldn’t marry her—or anyone else—so he should just leave off, turn on his heel, and quit this bloody ball.
Yet he wouldn’t. Because she was here, somewhere in this very room. And if he didn’t find her soon, he might tear this ballroom apart with his bare hands.
Charles tipped his chin toward the dance floor. “Ah, I see Wingfield’s claimed her for another dance. That’s the second one tonight.”
Max’s head whipped toward the dancers, and he spotted her right away, her golden hair gleaming in the gaslight overhead. The breath locked in his lungs and he had to remind himself to breathe as he examined her. She was absolutely lovely in a cream silk evening gown with intricate beaded work covering the bodice. The delicate column of her throat was bare, begging for Max’s mouth and hands.
That same sizzle whispered over his skin, like desire had commandeered his flesh, making him burn everywhere. Once more. That’s all I need.
Wingfield’s gaze drifted down to Violet’s bosom, where it lingered far longer than was polite, and Max’s hands curled into fists. Wingfield would need to be put in his place, it seemed.
“I’m headed to the card room,” Charles was saying. “Care to join?”
“I’ll pass. Excuse me,” Max said, already drifting into the crowd. He moved to the edge of the dance floor, not bothering to hide as he caught Violet’s eye. She stumbled when she spotted him—requiring Wingfield to steady her with a hand on her hip—and blinked.
Momentarily setting aside the need to pummel her dance partner, Max tilted his head toward the terrace. She nodded ever so slightly then looked away.
Excellent.
He ignored those who attempted to catch his attention as he strode through the crush. The whole world could wait, as far as he was concerned.
Now was time for play.
Chapter Six
He was here.
Ravensthorpe was here and wished to see her. Violet could hardly believe it. Had her plan worked? It had been two weeks since t
heir night together and she’d grown despondent, certain she’d erred in giving him space. So, she’d buried herself in her classes at the Polytechnic Institute and in her photographs. In fact, after so many hours in the developing room, the chemicals had begun to sting her lungs.
All that had been worth it, however, because the handsomest duke in London had arrived . . . and he’d motioned for her to meet him outside.
Her chest worked to draw in air, her corset growing tighter at the idea. Would he kiss her again? Goodness, she hoped so. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about their night together, the way he’d touched her, as if he already knew every part of her. As if they’d been together for years.
He thought he’d ruin her. Destroy her and toss her aside. Violet didn’t believe it. She was safe with him, protected. Cared for. He’d pushed her away out of loyalty and an overblown sense of nobility, but perhaps he’d come to realize that he was safe with her, too.
Finally the music ended and Wingfield led her off the dance floor. “Lady Violet,” he said, and she noticed the beads of sweat on his upper lip. “Would you do me the honor of joining me—”
“No, thank you, my lord. I must find my father. You’ll excuse me?”
Without waiting on a response, she curtsied and then darted into the throngs of lords and ladies as she made her way to the French doors.
To Ravensthorpe.
Giddiness ignited in her chest like flash powder—and then Charlotte appeared in her path, a questioning expression on her friend’s face. Violet stopped before she careened into the other woman. “Hello, Charlotte.”
“You never finished telling me about your new suitor during our shopping trip yesterday.” Violet’s expression must’ve reflected her sudden panic because Charlotte continued. “Calm down. I meant Wingfield.”
“Right.” Violet exhaled in relief. “Wingfield.”
Charlotte’s brows lowered. “Who did you think I meant?”
“No one. Just unaccustomed to having a suitor, I suppose.”
Her friend drew closer. “I am so happy to see you dancing. Three times tonight! For once you’re not standing against the wall, watching everyone else.”
Violet had no desire to converse at the moment. She tried to gracefully edge around her friend. “I don’t know what’s come over me. Perhaps I should get some air.”
“Oh, excellent idea. I’m due for a dance, so I’ll find you after.” Charlotte squeezed Violet’s hand and then disappeared into the crowd.
Violet wasted no time in hurrying to the French doors. She slipped onto the terrace, where cool night air washed over her exposed skin like a caress, causing her to shiver. With no torches or lamps outside, darkness engulfed her.
Strong fingers wrapped around her arm and began pulling her deeper into the gloom, helping her down the stone steps. She didn’t need to see his face to know it was Max. His presence surrounded her, a feeling of safety and danger, arousal and comfort all at the same time. She went willingly, eagerly, unconcerned with getting caught.
Once on the ground, he tugged her into an alcove hidden underneath the stairs. Before she could see his face, he was on her, the muscular length of him flush to her front, her back against the rough stone.
But he didn’t kiss her.
He put his mouth near her ear, his warm breath coasting over her skin. “Happy, little mouse? For two weeks I’ve tried to forget you. A goddamn fortnight, yet here I am—all because I cannot get the taste of your pussy out of my head.”
Her lips parted on an exhale, his words both thrilling and arousing. Wetness gathered between her thighs, her pulse hammering in every bit of her sex. “Very happy, Your Grace,” she whispered and slid her hands along the rigid slope of his chest.
“Christ,” he bit out, bending to rock his hips into her thigh, his erection large and hard against her. She melted, her limbs growing languid. “I want to fuck you right here,” he growled. “Turn you around and toss your dress above your head, bare you and sink inside.”
“Yes,” she gasped, definitely ready for that. There was emptiness, a place in her soul earmarked just for him, and she needed him to fill it.
“Hold your skirts.”
“What?”
But he didn’t explain, merely sank to his knees and began pushing layers of silk out of his way. He looked . . . possessed. Wild, like a starving man at a buffet. She moved to help, gathering the skirts in her arms until cool air washed over her stocking-covered legs.
Finding the part in her drawers, he lunged, pressing his face toward her sex, disappearing underneath layers of cloth. Then she felt the bold swipe of his tongue along her seam, and her knees wobbled as sensation jolted through her. His hands cradled her buttocks and lifted her left leg to place it over his shoulder.
“You must remain quiet,” he ordered and dove under her skirts.
He wasted no time, licking and sucking until she whimpered. She thrashed her head as he tended to every part of her, driving her higher and higher, and lust tightened her muscles. He feasted, softly grunting in response to her moans, his mouth and tongue unrelenting, unforgiving against her flesh.
Voices suddenly sounded above on the terrace, a few revelers out for a bit of fresh air, no doubt.
Though she was well hidden, she froze, her chest heaving, and stared down at Ravensthorpe. The light of the moon revealed Max’s smirk as he appeared from under her skirts. “Quiet,” he mouthed, then returned to his task.
Sweet heavens.
She trembled under the onslaught, but her mind was stuck on the fact that they weren’t alone out here. What if they were discovered? She tried to dislodge his face from between her legs, but the duke wouldn’t budge. In fact, he doubled his efforts with her clitoris, sucking on the bud, laving it with his tongue.
It was too much.
Her eyes closed, the pressure building as fear and arousal mixed to overwhelm her, and she shoved her forearm into her mouth to stifle her cries as she came apart. Her body spasmed as her walls convulsed, white light exploding behind her eyes. When she regained herself, he gently dipped and swirled his tongue at her entrance, like he was trying to soak up every last bit of her taste.
Finally, he shot to his feet, his dark eyes glazed and hot. Her wetness coated his face and chin, and he licked his lips as he brought her hands to his waistband. “Finish me, Violet. Right now.”
Oh, yes. She wanted that desperately. “What about . . .” She pointed to the terrace.
“They left. Hurry.”
Swiftly, she unfastened his trousers and moved his shirtfront out of the way. “So many clothes.” He made no move to help, staying perfectly still except for the breath sawing out of his chest.
She unbuttoned his undergarment and reached in, taking his shaft in her hand. The soft skin was stretched tight, her fingers unable to meet around his girth.
He dropped his forehead against her temple. “Squeeze hard,” he said, giving a little thrust of his hips. “Stroke me. Fast.”
Obeying, she tightened her grip and pumped his erection. He sucked in air and placed his hands on the wall behind her head. “That’s it, my little mouse. Precisely like that.”
He was so beautiful with his chiseled jaw and the few silver threads at his temple, his skin taut with excitement. She reached her other hand down to his testicles, rolled them in her palm, and Max let out a drawn out, “Fuck.”
Hot breath hit her cheek as he began to talk. “We haven’t long. Your father is in the card room and he’ll come looking for you when he’s done. I have the taste of you in my mouth. Would you like the taste of me in your mouth, as well?”
Her nipples tightened inside her clothing, and she rubbed her thighs together in a desperate bid for friction. Goodness, yes. She most definitely wanted that.
She started to lower to her knees, but he held her upright. “Wait.”
He tore off his evening coat, folded it over, and dropped the cloth to the ground. She lifted her skirts and kneeled on his co
at as Max began working his cock, rougher than she had, focusing almost entirely on the head. “Now, Violet,” he gritted out, so she pressed forward and opened her mouth. Steadying her with a hand on her crown, he slid the head past her lips and groaned when she sucked. It took one swirl of her tongue and he reached his peak, his fingertips trembling on her scalp as spend coated the inside of her mouth.
“Yes,” he gasped and shuddered. “That’s it. Take it all.”
She did, gladly. Her body sang in self-congratulatory pleasure as he climaxed, and when he finally pulled out she swallowed him down. Resting a palm against the hard stone, he lifted her chin with his free hand. His thumb traced her lips. “I expected you to spit but you didn’t, did you?” He helped her stand then pressed his forehead to hers. “My God, Violet. What have I ever done to deserve you?”
He touched his lips to hers, kissing her softly, sweetly, with so much tenderness that she wanted to bottle it and hold onto the emotion forever. “Max,” she whispered into his kisses, clutching him tightly. “Your Grace.”
When they broke apart, he breathed, “Thank you, sweet girl,” before stepping back. He tucked and smoothed her hair instead of righting his clothing. “There. Now you may return inside.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll go around the side and find my carriage. I’ve no desire to stand around a stuffy ballroom this evening.”
Did that mean . . .? Giddiness flooded her chest, her heart swelling to a ridiculous size. “Did you come just to see me?”
“Go back to the ball.” He began redressing, his attention on his buttons.
She shifted on her slippers, the gravel crunching beneath her feet. “When will I—”
“Inside, Violet.” His tone was sharp and authoritative, the one he no doubt used when the Duke of Ravensthorpe wished to get his way.
But he was not the duke with her, not any longer. He was Max. He would not push her aside, especially when she still had the taste of him in her mouth. “Not until you tell me when I will see you again.”
“We cannot do this.” He pushed his shirtfront into his trousers. “It’s too risky.”
Duke I’d Like to F… Page 48