“Trying your best to seduce her, of that I haven’t any doubt.”
“Perhaps.” A smile tickled the corners of his mouth. “She’s receptive. I must take my chances where I can.”
“If you’re found with her, that’s it. It’s over for you.”
“What do you mean?” Ashton glanced at his brother.
“You’d have to marry her then or risk ruining her. And we know you wouldn’t do that.”
Why in the world would Tristan believe he wouldn’t marry Eleanor? Had he not just made his intentions clear? “It wouldn’t be such a bad thing, as I’ve been trying to tell you.” He tore his gaze from Tristan’s, watched the youngest Fitzsimmons daughter argue with her mother. Again.
“Are you serious?”
“Of course I’m serious. I’m an honorable man, and I would do right by Lady Eleanor. Besides, it wouldn’t be a hardship, marrying her.” Ashton paused. “It might be what I’m after if I’m being truthful.”
“I see.”
Did his brother see? Ashton allowed his thoughts to wander. Marrying Lady Eleanor, making her his duchess, would be the best thing he could ever do with his life. He needed a duchess. He cared for Eleanor, more than any other woman. But did he love her?
One didn’t need love in a marriage for it to work. Look at most of the couples within the haute ton. Many of them despised each other, which in turn drove them to another’s bed.
But Ashton didn’t want to find himself in another’s bed. He wanted only Eleanor.
And he was about to prove it to her, too.
Chapter Seven
ELEANOR WANDERED DOWN the hall, glancing to and fro, searching amongst the long shadows. She had no idea where Ashton was. Only knew that he had pulled her aside after dinner, reminding her to meet him in his study in twenty minutes, which was now.
Shivers moved through her as she recalled exactly the way he whispered those illicit words in her ear. Softly, his voice so deep it had reverberated throughout her body. His lips so close to her ear she’d felt them move against her sensitive flesh, the hot gush of his breath. A touch so shockingly intimate and so decadently delicious she still savored it.
Reminding her of that earlier moment in his study, when he’d pulled her into his lap, held her so closely to his body she’d felt his need for her press against her bottom.
She wanted to feel him again. Now. Every night for the rest of her life . . .
Entering the study, she glanced about, but he was nowhere to be found. A fire burned in the hearth, its gently flickering light casting shadows that danced upon the walls. He wasn’t sitting at his desk or in one of the overstuffed chairs by the fireplace.
Where could he be?
How he teased. She didn’t believe he had it in him. He was so confident, commanding, a polite yet sensual gentleman, and so very smart. Witty. Interesting both to talk to and suddenly so very interested in her once more, which she found delightfully shocking. And worrying, she still couldn’t deny it.
Yet when he looked at her, it was as if he saw no one else in the room. When he spoke to her, it was as if his words were for her alone.
She loved that. She believed she could love him.
Idiot girl.
Eleanor rested trembling fingers against her lips. How scandalized all of society would be! Her mother would be thrilled. So would her father, if he could rouse himself from his usual drunken stupors to acknowledge the fact that his daughter would become a duchess.
Most would say she was using Ashton for his money. So he could help her destitute family. Some might even say he bought her.
But Eleanor didn’t really care about his wealth or what the ton thought of them. All she wanted was him.
She swept through the large study, going deeper into the shadows, eager to find him. Outside, it was dark, the thick clouds obliterating the moon and stars. The snow had stopped, but the rain had resumed. A steady beat against the windows that seemed to calm her racing, excited heart.
And then she saw him. Saw him the exact moment he noticed her, and she rushed to where he stood in the doorway. Throwing herself into his arms, he caught her with a chuckle. Shut the door behind them with a quiet click and held her. Against the wood paneling of the door, his body nudged so intimately to hers, they were a perfect fit.
“You’re late,” he murmured, nuzzling his face alongside hers, his finger tracing the ribbon she’d tied earlier about her throat.
“I’m sorry. It took a while to get away from my mother and the duchess.” Her voice hitched, her breathing lodged in her throat when she felt his lips skim her cheek. “They wouldn’t stop talking.”
Ashton chuckled, his arms tightening around her waist. “I know of what you speak. Their incessant chatter can go on for hours.”
“Yes. My sisters are no better.” She rested her hands on his chest, her fingers curling into the fine fabric of his waistcoat. He’d changed for dinner, looking more magnificent than ever. “I missed you,” she confessed softly, her heart in her throat, her stomach fizzing with nerves. The confession took a great deal, but once the words left her, she felt nothing but relief.
This was all she’d ever wanted. Being with this man, locked tight in Henry’s arms. That she was given this second chance was almost too good to be true.
He smiled and bent his head, his mouth close to hers. “I missed you too.”
Their lips met, clung, lips parting, tongues searching. He tasted delicious, like the sherry he’d indulged in earlier. He smelled of leather and tobacco, a hint of spice, an edge that was his own masculine scent. She wound her arms around his neck, threaded her fingers through his silky-soft hair, pressing down on his nape so he would deepen the kiss.
He did as she silently bid, curled his tongue around hers, his hands sliding up and down her sides, coming ever closer to her breasts with every pass. She broke the kiss first, her heart racing, her head spinning, and he blatantly cupped her breasts, their gazes meeting as he kneaded her flesh through the confines of her stays.
“Such bounty,” he whispered. “Do you remember how I used to . . .”
“Stop.” She pressed her fingers to his lips, and he gently bit the tips, causing her to yelp and yank her hand away. “Don’t speak of it. Please.”
“Ah, don’t be shy, my sweet, sweet Eleanor.” He slowly drew his thumbs back and forth across the front of her breasts, her nipples beading painfully beneath his teasing touch. “I cannot forget the little sounds you made when I slipped my hand beneath your bodice and circled your nipples with my thumb.”
Her body tingled with the memory, her thighs shaking. “Henry,” she murmured, unable to articulate what she needed.
Groaning, he swept her into his arms, carried her to the settee that sat near the large picture window that overlooked the grand gardens. Gently, he laid her down, her head propped on the settee’s arm, her skirts spread out around her.
He sat on the opposite end and pulled her feet into his lap, his hands curving around the heel of her slippers. With infinite care, he slipped her shoes off, his fingers curving around her heels, burning her through her stockings. All the while, he watched her, her shoes dropping to the floor with a soft thump as he slid his hands up beneath her skirts, touching her places no man had dared go before.
“Your skin is so soft,” he murmured, his expert hands massaging her calves.
She bit her lower lip, desperate to contain the moan that wanted to escape. But it was no use. His magical hands felt too good, and, finally, she tilted her head back and whimpered, licking her lips when his fingers skimmed the back of each knee. His hands went higher, brushing against the ribbons at the tops of her stockings before he touched the bare skin of her thighs.
“Henry.” His name came out a rushed exhalation when he stroked the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, pushing between so she had no choice but to spread her legs to his seeking touch.
Glancing up, his gaze met hers, dark and wild, the heat within nearly scorchi
ng her. “I’m moving too fast, aren’t I, love? Forgive me.”
Without warning, he came up over her, his hands pressed on either side of her head, fingers curled around the edge of the settee, his body melding with hers. Her spread legs accommodated him perfectly, and he settled between them, her skirts puffing up around them.
“Christ, you’re beautiful,” he whispered before he took her mouth in a searing kiss, his tongue thrusting deep.
She could do nothing but take his delicious kiss, smoothing her hands down his back, subtly urging him closer. He trembled beneath her touch, his muscles bunched and hard as rocks, vibrant intensity rolling off him in potent waves. She tried to coax his kiss into gentleness. Drawing away from him before pressing her lips to his once more, she slowed him down, rested her hand against his cheek as she slid her thumb across his jaw.
“See how you calm me?” he asked once he broke the kiss. “I touch you, and all I want to do is take. Take, take, take.”
She smiled, traced his lips with the tip of her finger. “There’s no need to rush.”
“I know.” He closed his eyes and hung his head. “God, I know. I’ve waited for this moment with you for so long. Relived our last intimate encounter over and over again in my mind in the hopes it would happen again.”
“After all this time . . .” She swallowed hard, the swell of emotion rising within her threatening to take over. “I cannot believe you still feel this way about me.”
“Do you feel for me, Eleanor?” He wrapped his fingers about her wrist, holding her hand in place. “Do you still care?”
“I wronged you,” she whispered, her throat raw. “In the worst way imaginable, and I am so, so sorry.”
He squeezed her wrist. “You’re forgiven, love. Now tell me. Do you want to be with me?”
Slowly, she nodded, squeaked when he leaned in and gave her a brutal kiss. His hands were everywhere, his fingers tugging at the front of her gown, brushing against the tops of her breasts.
She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, could only feel. His heated breath against her bare flesh, his nimble fingers slid beneath her bodice, touching her breasts. She arched beneath him, frightened yet wanting more.
So much more . . .
“Good lud, what is this?” screeched a familiar voice from above.
Icy cold panic filled her, and Eleanor scrambled to push Henry away. He stumbled off the settee, standing before her while she struggled to right her gown. “Lady Cochrane,” he said, his voice calm, his breathing anything but. “What a surprise.”
“I should say so, you scoundrel.” She whacked his shoulder with her fan. “What are you doing with your hands all over my Eleanor?”
“Mother, please.” Eleanor stood behind him, rested her hand briefly on his back. She wanted him to know that she wasn’t upset. She would stand beside him despite what was going to unfold.
For she knew it was about to become horrific.
Chapter Eight
TRISTAN HAD SET them up. Ashton knew it from the moment he saw Eleanor’s mother standing before him, her eyes blazing, her body shaking with righteous anger. He glanced over her shoulder, saw Tristan looming in the doorway, a knowing smile curving his mouth.
Damn his brother. He didn’t want it to happen like this. Never like this. He wasn’t one to make a public spectacle.
And the last thing he wanted was to humiliate Eleanor.
“What say you about this—this compromising position you’ve put my daughter in, Your Grace?” She slapped him with her folded fan again, and damn if it didn’t sting. “She’s a good girl. I will not have you dragging her name through the mud like she’s some sort of cheap harlot. Or allow you to treat her as your harlot no matter your position, Your Grace.”
“I have no intention of Eleanor’s becoming a harlot,” he said with a bitter shake of his head.
“Then what is your plan? Whatever are you going to do?”
“I . . .” His voice trailed off, and he glanced behind him. Eleanor stood there, looking as if she’d been thoroughly ravished and utterly beautiful with it. Her dark hair loose and falling about her face, cheeks rosy and flushed, her lush lips swollen from his kisses. Her gaze met his, and she patted him on the back, offered him a reassuring smile that sent a zing straight to his heart.
Mine. The word whispered through his brain. She belonged to him. What happened had just ensured it.
“Well?” the countess asked impatiently, stomping her foot.
He turned to face her, his jaw firm, his focus clear. “I want to marry your daughter, my lady.”
Both ladies gasped, much to his surprise. Didn’t Eleanor understand what tonight’s secret meeting was really about? Yes, he’d gotten ahead of himself, but asking for her hand in marriage had been his plan all along.
Now that he had Eleanor back in his life, he wasn’t about to let her go.
Slipping his hand into his trouser pocket, he withdrew the gold ring and turned to Eleanor, presented the cherished piece of jewelry to her with trembling fingers. “This ring has been in my family for generations. And I want you to wear it as my wife, Lady Eleanor. Will you do me the honor of agreeing to be my duchess?”
A gasp escaped her, and she bent her head, blinking profusely. Gently, he slipped a single finger beneath her chin, tilting her head up so he could look into her eyes. Unshed tears formed in their dark depths, a single shining drop slipping down her cheek. He caught it with his thumb, caressing her skin. “Are you sure you want me?” she whispered.
He chuckled. How he adored this woman. That she would need to ask . . . “More sure than I’ve ever been in my life.”
“Oh, Henry.” The tears flew freely now, streaking down her face as a sob escaped her. “Yes. Yes, I’ll be your duchess.”
“Well, my word,” the countess muttered, as Ashton embraced the woman who had just agreed to become his wife. “This couldn’t have worked more in my favor.”
Calculating wench.
He slipped the ring onto the fourth finger on Eleanor’s right hand, not wanting to go against tradition and give her the ring on her left hand before they were actually married. “You’ve made me a very happy man,” he whispered.
She nodded, sniffed. Tears streamed down her cheeks freely. “And you, Your Grace, have made me an extremely happy lady.”
“I say, what’s going on in here?” Tristan asked, strolling into the room without a care, amusement dancing in his eyes.
Ashton glared at his scheming younger brother. “I’ve just asked Eleanor to marry me,” he announced loftily.
“After I caught them in a most scandalous embrace,” the countess added with a wink in Tristan’s direction.
Lord help him, Ashton knew they were in on it together. The look that had just passed between the two of them more than confirmed it.
“Have you no patience, brother?” Tristan grinned.
“Not when it concerns the lady I want as my wife.” He slipped his arm around Eleanor’s shoulders, smiling down at her. “Now that I know she’s agreeable, I’m rather anxious.”
“Do you realize what you’ve just done, young lady?” Lady Cochrane eyed her daughter. “You’re about to become a duchess. You!” She said it as if she were in a state of shock. “I would’ve believed Penelope or even Olivia snagging a duke, but never . . .”
“Watch how you speak to my future wife, Lady Cochrane,” Ashton fairly growled as he tightened his arm around Eleanor’s stiff shoulders. “Best you recall that you are speaking out of turn to my duchess?”
Eleanor’s mother paled, her mouth gaping open and closing like a dying fish. “M—my apologies, Your Grace. But she is my daughter, after all.”
“And she shall soon be the Duchess of Ashton, lest you forget, which I am most certain you won’t. Once we’re married, she’ll be above your station, you do realize.”
“Of course.” The countess nodded, her gray-tinged curls bobbing about her face.
“So it would be best if you no
t remind my dear, precious Eleanor of what you view are her faults. Because in my eyes,”—he gazed at her, saw that Eleanor looked up at him with wonderment on her face—“she is perfect.”
“Oh, Henry,” Eleanor murmured, her voice trembling.
Unable to resist, he kissed her soft cheek, allowed his lips to linger. Her mother was heartless. Cruel. That she would say such a thing in front of God and everyone . . .
He wouldn’t tolerate it.
“I am far from perfect,” Eleanor whispered as she leaned into him.
“You are to me,” he murmured close to her ear, inhaling her fresh, feminine scent. His entire body stiffened with arousal. “And that is all that matters, is it not?”
Chapter Nine
ELEANOR CREPT DOWN the dark hallway, her slippered feet so light they made not a sound. Candlelight still flickered in the sconces that dotted the corridor, guiding her way to the room she sought.
The Duke of Ashton’s bedchamber.
Nerves sent her limbs trembling, her stomach bouncing. She’d paced her very own bedchamber not a half hour ago, fretful over her potential decision. Should she visit him in his bedchamber alone? Or was that most possibly the worst idea she’d ever considered? After all, he’d asked for her hand in marriage. He’d given her a precious family heirloom too, to wear on her finger.
She still couldn’t quite believe it. After all this time, he still wanted her. Wanted her to be his duchess, his wife.
His lover.
Her heart lodged in her throat, she settled her hand on the cold metal of the door handle. Fingers trembling, she slowly turned it, going still when the hinges creaked as she pushed open the door.
Warmth greeted her, the flickering light of a fire casting the room with mysterious shadows. Reminding her of her illicit meeting with Ashton in his study only moments ago though this was far more scandalous.
Of course, what did it matter? She was to marry the man and hopefully soon. Why could she not visit with her future husband? Though there wouldn’t be much visiting. Plenty of hungry kissing and wandering hands and . . .
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