Duke of Sin

by Adele Ashworth

  He settled himself just within her heated walls. Vivian braced herself, closing her eyes, her hands gripping his shoulders.

  “Mmmm…” He moaned, eyes squeezed shut, his hands back on her hips to better guide her. “You are so wet, so—tight.”

  Her thighs tensed; her breathing wavered; a flicker of fear washed over her. But as soon as he began to make small thrusts upward, she nearly climaxed from the feel of him easing his way inside her.

  He drew a nipple into his mouth again and she gasped aloud, trying desperately to focus on holding back as she knew he was. It hurt a bit more than she expected, felt so incredibly tight, and for seconds she worried that he might not fit. He pressed harder, faster, pushing ever deeper with each thrust until at last the uncomfortable constricting gave way to an exquisite sense of fullness deep inside.

  He stilled his movements when at last her body consumed all of him, his mouth to her breasts, his hands kneading the soft flesh, his tongue flicking the tips.

  Vivian couldn’t breathe, thought she might heat to bursting. Then the faintly glimpsed sensation to move became overwhelming.

  Slowly, she began to rock back and forth against him, switching to small circles when she found her rhythm and a pace of her choosing. He matched it, a slight groan escaping him as he let her make love to his body.

  “Yes,” he whispered between sharp breaths, “God, you’re so good, Vivian.”

  She whimpered, clutching his shoulders, quickening her pace, nearing her peak with each tiny rotation.

  “Come for me, sweetheart…”

  She opened her eyes and glanced down to him. He lifted his hands to her breasts again to knead gently, then looked up into her eyes, his thumbs flicking over her nipples. His concentration on giving her such enjoyment put her over the edge.

  “Oh, yes, Will,” she breathed, moving faster, digging her fingers into him. “Oh yes, oh yes…”

  She very quietly cried out as she exploded within, feeling every pulsating wave of exquisite pleasure flow through her and rhythmically caress the thickness of him deep inside.

  “God, I feel you,” he said huskily, leaning his head back and squeezing his eyes shut. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop—”

  He shoved his hips up once, twice, while she continued to move against him faster, harder, wanting him to experience every sensation with her, because of her.

  “I’m coming, Vivian…” he whispered seconds later.

  She whimpered from that, rotating her hips steadily against his. Suddenly he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around her, hugging her close, his face in her breasts as he groaned and jerked into her.

  She felt the slightest pulsations within her, knowing now that he had spilled himself deeply. In many ways, Vivian was to contemplate later, the notion that he risked so much to be with her thrilled her more than anything had in years.

  She slumped against him, his cheek still against her chest, his warm breath teasing her nipple with each fast exhalation. She held him securely, listening to her own rapid breathing, noting how they were both now perspiring in the humid night warmth.

  The outside remained still, remarkably silent, making her feel as if they were the only people alive. Resting her cheek on the top of his head, she stared at the rows of tulips to her left, their brilliant color softly illuminated by faint torchlight. The night air surrounding them smelled of plants, earthy soil, which still coated her skin and hair, perhaps the faint traces of a coming rain, and of him—a seductive musky scent that was all male, all Will. She knew now that she’d recognize it anywhere.

  For minutes they stayed joined, neither saying a word. Finally she felt him slip out of her, effectually terminating the act that had bound them so intimately. He continued to cling to her silently, though, as if he were somehow afraid she’d vanish.

  Vivian decided at that moment that he needed her. She’d never felt that way about a man before. Through the years men had wanted her, certainly, had tried to bed her, use her for status, befriend her, enslave her—or so it felt—but never before had she sensed an almost insatiable need from any man that included far more than just the physical. Right now, enclosed in her small patio garden, she sensed that Will felt more for her than he’d probably even realized. That frightened her. If there was one thing she knew positively could not happen between them it was a lasting relationship. If he got too close emotionally, she was afraid she might grow to love him.

  Slowly, she began to ease off of him. “I’m sticking to you,” she whispered.

  He nuzzled her breasts for a final time. “Mmmm… A marvelous heat.”

  On shaking legs, she pushed against the back of the bench to help herself stand, her gown falling down around her legs to properly cover her. He ran his fingers through his hair, and with that she turned away from him to button her shirt and allow him privacy to do the same to his pants.

  “I have something to confess,” she said after a moment, glancing to the house again to notice with great relief that it remained closed and in darkness.

  She heard him stand, adjusting his clothes, so she walked a few steps to her work table, into the torchlight again, and began to tidy up from her dirt toss earlier.

  “I’m anxious to hear it,” he maintained, standing quietly where he was.

  At his contemplative tone, she paused very briefly while brushing loose soil into one hand with the palm of the other.

  “Stop working, Vivian, and look at me.”

  Her heart began to race again, though this time it had more to do with nerves. But she did as he bid, straightening and turning to face him boldly.

  He continued to stand in the shadows, and although she could tell he’d crossed his arms over his chest, she couldn’t read his expression. She supposed she should feel glad about that.

  “I—I’m not sure what to say.”

  He inhaled, then murmured, “You’re ready to tell me everything, to let me help you, to confess who Gilbert Montague is and what information he has about you that has you willing to sell your soul to the devil.”

  She fairly snorted. “That’s a bit dramatic.”

  “Is it?”

  An instant concern overwhelmed her. She didn’t expect him to be so… reserved. Or at least it seemed as if he were.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked in marked hesitation, clasping her hands in front of her. Then a surge of heat swept over her. “Was I—not—”

  “You were magnificent,” he replied, his tone gruff.

  She positively marveled in that. At any other time she would have grinned and embraced him. But the mood had subtly changed.

  “Will you be honest with me?” he asked after several silent seconds.

  She swallowed. “As honest as I can be.”

  He turned his head to the side, thinking, then gazed back at her. “Vivian, I have been with several women.”

  Confusion enveloped her. “Are you expecting me to be shocked by such a confession?” Or maybe jealous?

  He ignored her question as he began to stride in her direction. “Of those few women, I’m almost positive only two were virgins. One was my wife when I married her; the other was you.”

  Oh, my God…

  She nearly collapsed. A small sound of horror escaped her as her hand shot up to her throat.

  He stopped directly in front of her, staring down at her, his expression grave. “Would you like to explain that to me, sweetheart?”

  She could hardly find her voice. When she did, she completely ignored everything he’d just said. She refused to discuss it.

  “I have a proposition, your grace,” she mumbled, mouth dry, body trembling inside.

  A flicker of surprise crossed his face. “A proposition?”

  She forced a smile. “I propose that we work together. We get a reasonable copy made of the manuscript and—”

  “Vivian, what the hell are you talking about?”

  She blinked. “You’re certainly not going to give me the original, I realize that no
w.”

  Slowly, he began to shake his head. “I don’t care about the manuscript at the moment. Tell me why— how—were you a virgin?”

  “I’m not a virgin,” she said, sounding rather more defiant than intended. She simply would not discuss it, and he had to understand that.

  He chuckled snidely, running a palm over his face. “You’re certainly not now.”

  A warmth oozed through her again as the memory of the last perfect hour filled her mind. If only he would concentrate on that.

  “You never had intimate relations with your husband, did you?” he tried again.

  Taking a long, deep breath, she replied, “My past is irrelevant.”

  “No it’s not,” he countered, moving one step closer. “Not anymore.”

  Her brows shot up. “Yours is.”

  That bold statement stopped him cold. In an intensely quiet voice, he murmured, “Don’t play games with me, Mrs. Rael-Lamont.”

  For a long, drawn out of moment she held his gaze, wishing a hundred things could be different between them. But she refused to consider the pain.

  Finally, she whispered, “Please don’t make me talk about it, Will. I can’t.”

  She watched a stream of emotions pass over him—disbelief, anger, even a marked hurt. Then he backed up a step, dropped his arms and narrowed his eyes with contempt. “I suppose there is nothing more to say. Good night, madam.”

  He turned his back on her and left through the side gate.

  Vivian stood where she was for a long time, staring at the spot where he’d made love to her, hearing nothing, feeling everything. At last she went to bed when the rain began to fall.

  Chapter 13

  Wilson had said she’d find his grace on the beach, and no sooner had she left the garden trail—the expanse of a turbulent ocean spread out in front of her—than she saw him, sitting alone on a patch of long grass, just above the shoreline. He wore casual clothes just darker in shade than the color of the sand, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows that now rested on his raised knees.

  Vivian paused for a moment a few feet away, studying him from behind. The memory of two nights ago was still so fresh, so erotic to her, she’d had trouble concentrating on anything except him since he’d left her standing alone in her patio. It had made yesterday’s tea at Mrs. Safford’s home quite uncomfortable, especially with the nosy, invasive questions flung her way regarding last Sunday’s debacle at St. Mary’s Church. If she wasn’t careful, there would soon be rumors swarming all over town suggesting that she and the Duke of Trent were associating improperly, even intimately. She couldn’t have that with her social status and livelihood at stake. And yet, here she was, calling on him again at his home and meeting him privately. At least this time they were more or less out in the open, in relative view from the house. They needed to talk to each other, really talk, and she had vowed to herself, before she’d left the confines of her home, that she would do everything in her power to keep their physical attraction to each other at bay. At least long enough to get some things said.

  “Are you going to approach me or just stand there and stare at my back?”

  She smiled at the forced roughness of his tone as she began to walk toward him. “I was thinking.”

  He picked a blade of grass and twirled it between his fingers. “Well I hope you weren’t thinking of murder.”

  Vivian supposed she could be offended by that, but she knew instinctively that he was in a manner teasing her with shocking words underlining perhaps a small degree of self-pity. But the fact that the comment seemed so personal warmed her heart immediately. He always seemed to have a way of doing that.

  She moved slowly down the grassy slope until she stood directly behind him, wrapping her arms around her waist to ward off the cool afternoon breeze as she gazed out to the gray and choppy sea. “I wouldn’t dream of murdering you right now,” she replied evenly. “Eventually, maybe, but not now.”

  “I won’t give you a copy of my manuscript, then, until I’ve hired sufficient protection.”

  “Ah. Well, no one would kill for a copy, your grace, but perhaps for the original.”

  He chuckled softly, tossing her a sideways look. “Sit, madam, and tell me why you’ve sought me out here on this dreary day.”

  Of course she did as commanded, adjusting her hooped skirts out around her to her right, which allowed her to fix herself in appropriate closeness to him at her left.

  She didn’t immediately speak, either, since being next to him like this gave her an odd sense of comfort she wasn’t ready to lose to an argument. And they had much to discuss that could lead to irritation, though she intended to do her best to avoid it.

  “It is dreary, isn’t it?” she agreed at last, gazing out over the waves, colorless save for white crests, the visible ocean free of vessels and fishermen. “Why are you here when there isn’t much of interest to see?”

  He sighed aloud. “I was thinking as well.”

  When he added nothing more to that, she said, “I would assume a man of your position would have more important things to do.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, nodding slowly, “but my position also allows me to organize my time as I please. The masses will follow regardless of what I do or where I do it.”

  She couldn’t stop herself from laughing. “The masses?”

  He shrugged and shot her a quick glance. “Haven’t you been privy to the masses, Vivian?”

  “What masses, pray tell, are we discussing, your grace?”

  “The masses who live for gossip and form opinions based on not one shred of reasonable evidence.”

  Smile fading, she leaned back a little, resting her forearms on the soft grass behind her. “I’ve tried for the last fifteen years to live as privately as possible, not sharing parts of myself on purpose in every attempt to avoid gossip.”

  “And yet,” he remarked, “when you least expect it, it’s flung back at you, rearing its ugly, misinformed presence for everyone to observe and be drawn toward without resistance or restraint, like little ants to a marvelous picnic luncheon.”

  Vivian wondered for a moment how he wanted her to interpret that, deciding he meant social talk regarding both of them, not just him alone. “You’re referring to Sunday when we stood outside St. Mary’s?” she asked.

  The side of his mouth twitched up. “Exactly. Fortunately for you, my sweet Vivian, most of the people in our quaint town have tired of gossiping about the who murdered his poor, tortured wife.”

  Poor, tortured wife.

  She exhaled slowly, afraid of saying something inappropriate when in actuality, more than he could possibly know, she understood his feelings so very well. At last, she murmured, “I’ve learned to draw my own conclusions about others, Will. Most people of any worth do the same.”

  He turned to look at her, his eyes roving over her face, taking note of her features so intently she felt a bit of heat rush into her cheeks.

  “What, then, are your conclusions about me?”

  Such a grave question asked in so brusque a manner made her hesitate. To lie to him now would surely be disastrous, for if nothing else, Vivian felt strongly that he knew her thoughts and motives almost as well as she knew them herself. He would instantly see through a deception.

  With only the slightest doubt remaining, hidden beneath the surface, she revealed, “I don’t believe you killed your wife.”

  For several long moments he gazed into her eyes, his lids narrowed in assessment. She refused to look away, to back down, even if, for only a second or two, she sensed an inner trepidation as it dawned on her why he carried such a dark reputation—so masculine, so brooding, so strongly intense. But strangely it was also those very same qualities or quirks of personality that she found so positively fascinating about him.

  Finally he lowered his gaze to her lips, then reached out to touch them tenderly, his expression void of emotion. She didn’t draw back but instead, very gently, kissed his fingertips.<
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  He swallowed somewhat harshly, seemingly perplexed by that reaction, then dropped his hand and looked back out over the roaring ocean.

  “I didn’t kill her. My wife had a… condition, Vivian. Her name was Elizabeth, the second daughter of the Earl of Stanwynn. When I married her she was beautiful, two weeks shy of her eighteenth birthday, and so in love with me, which at the time I found amusing because our marriage had been planned by our parents nearly twelve years earlier.”

  How could she not be? “And your feelings for her?” she prodded nonchalantly, controlling her own insecurities from slipping into her tone.

  “I loved her,” he answered at once. “She was such a delicate thing, soft and considerate, blond and pretty. I truly had hopes for a compatible marriage, for several children and an old-age companion. But it took only months of living with her to realize I didn’t know her—or at least her inner personality— at all.”

  Vivian refrained from reply, not wanting to interrupt a long-awaited disclosure. A gust of wind swept around them and a shiver ran through her, but she refused to give in to the cold when the man had suddenly become so revealing. She sat up and crossed her arms in front of her, rubbing them with her bare palms to stay the chill that blasted inland from the sea.

  He picked another blade of grass—a long one— and began to play with it, attempting unsuccessfully to tie it into a knot. “The first year was difficult, but then I assumed all marriages have some difficulty in the beginning as couples try to adjust to each other and their new relations. But she was often irrational. I didn’t know how to view that.”

  “Irrational?”

  He picked another blade of grass. “She would be so… energetic, so happy and full of excitement, so overjoyed with life sometimes, Vivian, that she had trouble sleeping, sitting still, even for meals, concentrating on the simplest of tasks. Her mind constantly seemed to race with new thoughts and ideas of how to use her position as my wife to better society. During these times of high enthusiasm she made great plans for her future, spent my money without restraint or care. She once bought every female member of my staff at my London townhouse a pair of ruby earrings.”