Some Like to Shock (Mills & Boon Historical) (Daring Duchesses - Book 2)

by Carole Mortimer

  William, she knew, was vicious by nature, in word as well as deed, and enjoyed nothing more than hurting her. But Benedict—Benedict should know better than to listen to the opinions of a man he did not even like. Especially in regard to a woman he claimed he did like. A woman, he had shown on more than one occasion, he also desired.

  She sighed. ‘I believe it means that, when we meet again at the wedding of our mutual friends, we shall be polite to each other, if nothing else—’

  ‘I am not feeling very polite at this moment!’ Benedict’s eyes gleamed as black as jet as he glowered down at her.

  She gave a rueful shake of her head. ‘I am only too aware of that. But perhaps in time—’

  ‘Time! Genevieve, I have spent the past two days battling my desire for you, to absolutely no avail!’

  She blinked up at him. ‘You have?’

  ‘I have,’ he confirmed grimly. ‘And I do not expect that doing so for another two days—

  two weeks even!—will have any greater effect!’

  Benedict had stayed away from her because he was trying to deny the desire he felt for her?

  Genevieve looked up at him searchingly, at last knowing the reason for the lines of strain beside those beautiful black eyes and sensually sculptured mouth, the nerve pulsing in his tightly clenched jaw and the tension in his shoulders, arms and thighs.

  Her expression softened. ‘If you genuinely feel that way—’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Then why are we arguing?’

  Why indeed?

  But Benedict knew exactly why he had battled against his desire for this woman. Against Genevieve herself. Because, although he might try to deny that, too, he knew that she touched that part of him he had thought long buried. Ten years buried. In the same crypt where his parents’ bodies lay lifeless and still.

  Genevieve reached inside him to the Benedict who had once seen the world with the same wonder and pleasure as she now did. The Benedict who had basked in his parents’ adoration of him, as well as the adoration of every young and beautiful woman he met. The Benedict who had been young and happy, and without the cynicism or ruthlessness which were both now such a part of him.

  That was why he fought against this desire he felt for Genevieve. Why he fought against and mocked the wonder and enjoyment she seemed to find in everything and everyone. Well … almost everyone—the one exception was William Forster and their dislike of each other was undoubtedly mutual.

  Because Forster genuinely disliked Genevieve? Or could the other man’s dislike have more to do with the fact that his father had remarried again so late in his life, to a young woman who was not only beautiful, but also of childbearing age, and in doing so had threatened William as being sole heir to the Woollerton fortune, if not the titles?

  Whatever his reasons, Forster’s dislike of Genevieve had very little to do with Benedict’s own contradictory feelings towards her, inasmuch as he wanted to push her away at the same time as he wished to have her so close to him that he had no idea where he stopped and she began!

  He gave a self-derisive smile. ‘I have absolutely no idea,’ he admitted heavily.

  Genevieve did not believe Benedict for a moment, had watched the emotions he had been unable to hide as they flickered across his usually unreadable face. Anger. Frustration. Resignation. Not the usual emotions one associated with a lover, she felt sure, but he at last seemed to be at peace with himself when he reached that state of resignation.

  She held out her hand to him. ‘Then shall we, as you suggested earlier, go upstairs to my bedchamber?’

  ‘Even though I was extremely boorish, and something of an idiot in the way I suggested it?’

  Genevieve smiled ruefully. ‘Even then.’

  Benedict’s fingers were firm about her own as he at last took her hand and the two of them left the salon together, to walk through the deserted silence of the entrance hall and ascend the stairs to her bedchamber.

  Not laughing together, or filled with excitement as they rushed impatiently up the stairs, as Genevieve had envisaged in both her daytime imaginings, and her night-time dreams, about this particular man. Instead they moved slowly, neither of them making a sound, as if to do so might bring an end to even the tenuous and tense peace that now existed between the two of them.

  Which indeed it might when Genevieve’s nervousness increased with each step they took, her heart pounding rapidly in her chest, a fine sheen of perspiration on her brow, even breathing becoming difficult as they walked down the hallway leading to her bedchamber.

  Because she was not just nervous in regard to what was about to happen—she was terrified! For fear that this time with Benedict might turn out to be just as much of an ordeal as her wedding night had been. And if it should be, if she disappointed Benedict because of what Josiah had done to her—

  No, no, no!

  She must not think about Josiah. Must not allow even the briefest of memories of him, of the horror of her wedding night, to intrude upon this time with Benedict, a man she had come to trust this past week.

  She could not allow the past to affect her future, knew now that not all men could be as monstrous as her husband had been, that Benedict certainly was not a monster. She had known only pleasure in his arms, in his touch and his caresses, and there was no reason to suppose she would not do so again.

  Dear God, please do not let me fail in this, Genevieve prayed inwardly as the rapid pounding of her heart, to her at least, grew even louder. I will be good. I will be kind. I will not ask—expect—anything else from You. Just please, please let me have this one time at least, with Benedict, that I may look back on with pleasure rather than pain …

  ‘Can you be having second thoughts …?’

  She turned to look at Benedict once they had entered her sunlit bedchamber and he had closed the door behind him, his expression as unreadable as she hoped her own was as he looked at her beneath hooded lids, and knowing that he must have sensed her trepidation, if not her fear. ‘Why on earth should you think that?’ She infused a lightness to her tone which she was far from feeling, the sun shining brightly in the windows adding to her nervousness.

  It had been late evening when Benedict had made love to her at Vauxhall Gardens, with only the golden glow of the lanterns overhead to see by; what if Benedict did not like her naked body in the daylight? If he saw some blemish there that he found unattractive and unsightly?

  ‘Possibly because,’ Benedict answered her ruefully, ‘you are now looking at me as if you expect me to rip the clothes from your body and ravish you where you stand—Genevieve …?’ His tone sharpened as he saw the way her eyes had widened with apprehension. ‘I trust you know me well enough to realise that I would never behave in such a loutish fashion towards a lady?’

  ‘Of course.’ Genevieve forced the tension to ease from her body as she smiled up at him, knowing that it was too late for her to be concerned as to whether or not Benedict would still like her body in the daylight. Far too late … ‘I was merely fearful for my new gown,’ she dismissed softly. ‘It is very pretty and only arrived from the dressmaker this morning, and I should not like to lose it quite so soon!’

  Benedict smiled indulgently. ‘In that case, I suggest you allow me to remove it, and put it to one side, before we progress any further?’

  She moistened the dry stiffness of her lips before answering him. ‘I believe I should like that.’ She turned her back obligingly.

  Benedict knew he would ‘more than like it’, that he had been anticipating, aching, for this moment since he arrived at the house almost two hours ago!

  Even so, he was surprised to note that his hands were actually shaking slightly as he moved to stand behind Genevieve and began to slowly unfasten the buttons down the length of her spine, pushing the material aside to reveal that she wore a gossamer-thin white camisole beneath the gown, which did little to conceal the creamy delicacy of her pearly skin, thin ribbon straps crossing over the slenderness of h
er shoulders.

  ‘Benedict …?’ Genevieve voiced her uncertainty as Benedict paused, arrested by the vulnerability of her nape as she bowed her head slightly forwards.

  He stepped close behind her, warmed by the heat of her body as he bent his head slightly to touch his lips against that delicate vulnerability. She tasted of a heady combination of flowers and honey. ‘You are so beautiful, Genevieve …’ His hands rested on the slenderness of her hips and he pulled her back against him as his lips now travelled the length of her throat.

  Genevieve quivered as a multitude of sensations swept through her; relief that Benedict did not find her unsightly so far, hot and cold shivers running up and down the length of her spine at the feel of his lips against her heated flesh, causing her skin to tingle, the fine hairs on her arms to rise and a dampness to her palms as she fought her rising trepidation.

  Her breath caught as Benedict slipped one of the ribbon straps of her camisole from her shoulder before she felt those warm and sensuous lips against her bared flesh, groaning low in her throat, her head falling back against his shoulder as his hands moved slowly up her abdomen, igniting a fire wherever he touched, before those same hands cupped beneath her breasts. ‘Benedict …!’ Her groan became a keening cry as he ran the soft pad of his thumbs across the aching tips, infusing her with a heat that travelled quickly down to between her thighs.

  Just looking down at those golden-skinned hands as they cupped and kneaded her breasts, thumb and finger gently squeezing the engorged and rosy tips visible through the thin material of her camisole, made her ache with longing, with a need for the same overwhelming pleasure Benedict had shown her she was capable of feeling.

  ‘Benedict.’ She straightened her spine to move slightly forwards and away from Benedict before slowly turning to face him. ‘You are wearing far too many clothes,’ she explained huskily at the question she could see in the jet of his eyes. ‘May I …?’ She reached up with the clear intention of removing his jacket.

  ‘Gods, yes!’ A nerve pulsed in Benedict’s tightly clenched jaw as he stood perfectly still in order to allow Genevieve to remove his jacket before unbuttoning his waistcoat, his hands clenching at his sides as she removed that before unfastening his neckcloth and disposing of that, too. He was able to feel the slight trembling of her fingers against his flesh as she unbuttoned his shirt before touching, caressing, the heated flesh beneath, his chest softly rising and falling as he found it difficult to breathe. ‘Take it off, Genevieve, please!’ Benedict longed to feel those caressing fingers against his bared chest.

  Her gaze held his as she pulled the shirt from the waistband of his pantaloons, bending forwards slightly to place her lips against his hot and burning skin as she pulled the material slowly upwards, her little pink tongue a rasping caress against his sensitised flesh.

  Benedict pulled the shirt up impatiently over his head before discarding it completely, his breathing becoming laboured as he felt the rasp of that little moist tongue against his nipple, licking, at his now pebble-hard little nubbin. ‘Will you let down your hair for me, love?’ Several curling red-gold tendrils had already escaped the confines of their pins and now lay silkily against her nape, inducing a longing in Benedict to entangle his fingers in that silky softness as she continued to pleasure him with her lips and tongue.

  Her eyes were a deep and hypnotic blue as she raised her head to look at him. ‘You may do it for me if you wish, Benedict …’ she invited softly. ‘There are but three pins at my crown,’ she added helpfully before returning to her sensual ministrations of his muscle-defined chest, her fingers a light caress against the heated skin of his back as she turned the attention of her tongue and teeth to his other nipple.

  ‘Dear Lord …!’ Benedict groaned low in his throat as he felt the nip of those little white teeth against his roused flesh, causing his cock to surge eagerly both up and forwards beneath his pantaloons and his fingers to fumble slightly as they sought the three pins that secured Genevieve’s hair.

  She glanced up at him beneath long lashes. ‘Am I hurting you? Do you wish me to stop?’ There was no teasing or tormenting in her tone, only that trepidation he could see in her eyes.

  ‘Gods, no!’ Benedict breathed harshly again as his hand cupped the back of her head to tug her close again. ‘I do not want you to ever stop, Genevieve!’ His fingers found the last of the pins securing her hair as he once again felt the soft rasp of her tongue against him, allowing those soft red-gold curls to cascade down on to her shoulders before falling halfway down the length of her slender spine. ‘Magnificent …!’ he breathed hoarsely as he at last tangled a long length of those silky curls about his fingers. ‘I have never seen such beautiful hair as yours,’ he assured gruffly as he looked down at her in wonder.

  Genevieve’s lips curved against him as she smiled her pleasure at his compliment, her earlier feelings of nervousness beginning to ease. If not completely …

  She knew there was still so much more to lovemaking than she had so far shared with Benedict. So very much more. And she so hoped, fervently prayed, that she would not lose her nerve before that should happen—

  ‘Genevieve …?’

  She was very aware that another shuddering quiver had swept through her before she could call a halt to her panicked thoughts, no doubt alerting Benedict to her predicament, although she hoped not the reason for it. She smiled tentatively as she looked up at him. ‘I am a little cold. Perhaps we should finish undressing quickly and get beneath the bedcovers?’

  ‘If that is what you wish …’ A frown creased Benedict’s brow at Genevieve calling this sudden and unexpected halt to their lovemaking. She did not feel cold to his touch, in fact the opposite; her skin was ablaze with heat, her cheeks flushed, a slight feverishness to the blue of her eyes.

  ‘I believe it is.’ She stepped back and away from him before walking over to the bedside, her back still turned towards him as she slid the remaining strap of her camisole quickly down her arm before allowing the garment to fall to the carpeted floor, giving Benedict a brief glimpse of the delicate arch of her naked spine and the firm curve of her bottom before she slid quickly beneath the bedcovers and that nakedness was completely hidden from him as she pulled those covers up to her chin.

  Almost as if Genevieve were shy of revealing her nakedness in front of him …

  Benedict shook his head at his own fanciful thoughts. Of course Genevieve was not shy, she had been married for six years and a widow for one—a year during which he very much doubted she had spent all of her nights, or her days, completely alone in her bedchamber. No, Genevieve must, as she claimed, just be slightly chilled.

  And he knew the way in which he intended to warm her. How they would warm each other …

  Chapter Eleven

  Genevieve clutched the bedcovers beneath her chin, watching Benedict as he slowly sat down on the end of the bed to remove his boots before standing up again to face her, the darkness of his gaze holding hers as he slowly removed the rest of clothes. Hose. Pantaloons. Drawers …

  Her breath caught in her throat as he straightened after removing the latter, the darkness of his hair rakishly tousled, his naked flesh that same golden hue all over as he was bathed in the warmth of the sunlight shining in through the windows of her bedchamber. The width of his shoulders. His muscled chest covered with its light dusting of dark hair. The flatness of his abdomen. Down the long length of his legs, and even his long and elegant feet.

  Her gaze moved up slowly from those feet to his ankles, his calves, his knees, thighs, and finally to his—

  Genevieve stopped breathing altogether as she finally looked at the long length of Benedict’s arousal, long and proud as it jutted upwards from the thick thatch of silky dark curls, and so wide she doubted she would be able to span it with her fingers.

  She was allowing herself to think too much! Benedict had been kind and considerate during their lovemaking to date. There was no reason to suppose that would ever change.<
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  ‘Genevieve …?’

  ‘Yes …?’ She looked at Benedict now with wide and startled eyes, swallowing hard as she saw the questioning look on his harshly handsome face.

  Benedict gave a frown. ‘You seem … nervous. As if you were unsure of me? Of this?’

  The lightness of her laugh was supposed to sound dismissive, but even to her own ears it sounded strained. ‘You are being fanciful, Benedict. Come. Join me …’ She threw back the bedcovers beside her enticingly, at the same time as she kept the ones on her side of the bed pulled tightly over her own nakedness, watching now as Benedict strolled slowly round to the other side of the bed, the darkness of his gaze never leaving hers.

  As Genevieve’s gaze remained firmly fixed on his; she could not, dared not, look at the evidence of his arousal for a second time, knew that her control over her nerves was now stretched to such a point of breaking that it might snap altogether if she did so.

  She could do this. She must do this, if she were ever to find any shred of normality in her personal life.

  Normality …

  What did she know of normality between a man and a woman? Married at eighteen, to a monster of a man who had raped her on their wedding night, and allowed—no, encouraged!—his own son to beat her during the miserable six years that had followed, whenever Josiah considered she had committed the merest infringement of his rules in regard to what he expected of her behaviour.

  Just being in Benedict’s company this past two weeks had shown Genevieve that was not the normal behaviour of a gentleman towards a lady, even one newly met, let alone the woman to whom you were married. As for their lovemaking! Benedict had thought only of Genevieve, of her pleasure, during their times of intimacy together.

  As, she hoped, he would do so again today.

  ‘Are you going to release your death grip on the bedsheets and allow me to look at you, pet?’