The Duke

by Gaelen Foley

  With a subdued answering smile, she caressed his cheek, roughened by his day’s beard. “You’re a handsome devil, Hawkscliffe. When you’re not scowling, anyway. Put your head back.”

  He obeyed. She caressed, kneaded, and rubbed his neck and shoulders, silent at her work. To his surprise, her ministrations helped.

  “Feels good?”

  “Mmmm.”

  Gradually Hawk allowed himself to drift into the pleasure of her touch. Slowly the tension began easing from him.

  “Yes, that’s better, my love,” she whispered, running her warm, sure hands up slowly from the sides of his neck to stroke his long-clenched jaw.

  He grew lax and mesmerized by sensation. His body was hers, clay in her hands. Behind his closed eyes he imagined what he wanted to do to her. Fille de joie. Pleasure girl. Meanwhile, she caressed his temples carefully, then her fingertips feathered lightly over his forehead, pressing tiny hollows under the curve of his eyebrows, holding points there that only ticked dully now.

  She paused—just long enough for a pang of disappointment to flash through him to think she was done with him—but he was mistaken. Brushing her knuckles silkily against both sides of his face and down his neck, she reached over his shoulders and unfastened a few more buttons down his shirt. Then she slid her hands inside of it, caressing his bare chest, exploring him.

  Hawk tensed with want, his heartbeat slamming. He didn’t dare open his eyes for fear that this was all a dream and he sorely didn’t want it to end; he felt her unbutton his shirt the rest of the way until her silken hands brushed it open against his sides. The coolness of the air grazed his skin and the warmth of the nearby fire tinged his belly, warmed his groin.

  As she reached over his shoulders, he felt her soft face beside his, nestling against his cheek as her hands glided across his chest and down his belly. His flesh raged with agonizing, craving life beneath her sweet, seeking touch. Anticipation swept through him like a fire, need such as he had never known with any lover in the past. Touch me. Oh, God, yes, please touch me, help me. His breathing pulled deeply. He gripped the chair arms, waiting to see what she would do.

  He felt her kiss his ear, tonguing his earlobe lightly, and he fell thoroughly under her spell. But then he let out a soft groan of soul-deep gratitude and sprawled his thighs when she molded her hand over his hardness through his black trousers, petting him.

  Perhaps she was waiting to see if he would protest, but he could not, being completely in her thrall.

  His chest heaved; he was poised and throbbing as she touched him then unfastened his trousers and slid her hand down inside.

  “Oh, Robert,” she whispered in approval as she grasped his smooth, rigid shaft and caressed him, base to tip and back again.

  He moaned and lifted his hips, hungry for more. She gave it, freed him completely from his trousers and stroked him, lightly at first and then more firmly. His hands curled over the chair arms with a white-knuckled grip.

  He could feel her watching his face, as though studying his reaction to every little nuance of her touch.. . learning the exact specifications of his pleasure like a true professional. The tip of her tongue followed the curve of his ear, driving him wild.

  He turned his head, sought her lips, and kissed her in trembling greed as she gripped him, endlessly stroking. All of a sudden, her touch stopped. She ended the kiss and he opened his eyes, hazy and glittering. He looked up at her in shocked dismay from under his tousled hair. She couldn’t possibly leave him like this. He’d pay her anything.

  But she was not leaving, he saw in shameless relief, she was only walking around to the front of him. He stared at her in need and wonder and want, knowing that he had dreamed of this with her. She held his gaze, her beautiful face seductive and cool, her eyes dark orchid blue, shimmering with desire.

  Laying her hands on his broad thighs, she slowly lowered herself to her knees between his legs. He waited breathlessly, entranced; he had never been so aroused in his life. Like some beautiful pagan worshiper, she ran her hands up his bare chest, kissing as she went. She raked her fingers through the wiry hair on his chest and flicked his nipples with her tongue while, lower, she cupped her hand to him and fondled his rigid cock.

  Hawk could not believe his good fortune. He had not asked for this, hadn’t bought this; she didn’t have to do it—and that only meant that, right here and now, it wasn’t his money that she wanted—it was him.

  Then his amazement fled before the onslaught of ecstasy as she kissed her way back down his stomach. She licked a light, teasing circle around his navel then parted her moist lips and slowly, tentatively took the crown of his towering erection into her warm, wet mouth. He dropped his head back against the chair with a delicious groan and touched her silky hair. She sucked him lovingly, her warm, firm hands vigorously stroking all the while to the very root of him and gently caressing him everywhere.

  Gasping heavily with need, he ran his fingers through her hair, lowered his chin and watched her, brushing her cheek with his knuckle in stormy tender lust. Why— how—wherefore he had denied himself this for so long, he could not imagine.

  After several minutes of sheer bliss, she glanced up with a wicked little harlot smile, the stuff of schoolboys’ dreams, running the tip of her tongue up the length of him. She caught his eye with her sultry, knowing gaze, then bent her head again, swirling her tongue around and around his ultra-sensitive tip.

  If her movements and her wide, adoring eyes when she lifted her lashes and gazed at him, held a certain ingenuous naiveté, this slight betrayal of inexperience did not lessen his pleasure, but only enhanced it. Too much expertise on her part perhaps would have been disturbing. He could not resist her as it was.

  After he knew not how long, she moved back and met his stare in steamy seduction; he held her glance in fierce, animal want. He longed to lift her skirts and let her ride him right here in the chair. But she had other ideas. She stayed on her knees, clasping his hips, raking him with her nails. Suddenly he captured her around her nape and dragged her to him, kissing her in luscious savagery.

  He heard her soft moan of welcome under his ravishing kiss. God, he had wanted to kiss her like this since the first night he’d seen her at Harriette’s. Nothing tame, nothing controlled. He wanted to let it all go with her, until he had melted the last crystal of ice that made up her haughty facade, love her like fire until he had freed the angel inside her.

  At length she stopped him, pressing him back into his chair. He caught her hand, threading his fingers through hers.

  “Let me make love to you,” he whispered.

  She shook her head with a slight, cool, mysterious smile. “Just enjoy.”

  He had no power to protest as she went down on him again. Opening her sweet mouth wider, she took him into her very throat, nearly choking on the size of him, then she eased off, sucking him wholeheartedly with new, unmistakable intent. He closed his eyes in surrender.

  Deprived as he was, it didn’t take long. While his groans of ecstasy filled the room, his young courtesan beauty moved back and brought him to orgasm with her hot, silken hands, a shattering release that spurted high upon his chest and belly.

  “Oh, God, Belinda,” he finally gasped out, collapsing back in his chair, utterly spent.

  He was barely even aware that several moments had passed and she had risen to her feet, but presently she produced the unfolded muslin square of his cravat and tossed it on his belly with a sultry, knowing little smile.

  “Feeling better, Hawkscliffe?”

  He laughed, a lone, haggard syllable, as she delicately downed the last of his brandy. Nonchalantly, she took back the now sodden cravat and tossed it into the fire with a casual flick of her hand.

  Hawk merely stared at her in shocked admiration, too sated to move a muscle.

  What a woman.

  In silence she sauntered back to him and fastened up his trousers again, then lingered near him, idly stroking his chest and shoulder with
her fingertips. Her lashes veiled her downcast gaze.

  “Are you going to sleep here? Shall I get you a blanket?”

  He grasped her wrist gently and tugged her down onto his lap, slipping his arm around her waist so she couldn’t escape. He brushed her disarrayed hair behind her ear, noting the veiled look of uncertainty in her eyes.

  “Why did you do it?” he asked softly.

  “Because you needed it. Didn’t you like it?” she asked, instantly on the defensive.

  “Oh, God, yes,” he declared with a husky laugh. “Did you mind it?”

  “Don’t be absurd. You have been calling my skills as a courtesan into question since the night we met, and I thought you should be put in your place,” she said haughtily, tense in his arms.

  He gave a soft laugh and pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek. “Well, you have made a believer of me, Miss Hamilton. Feel free to put me in my place whenever you desire.”

  She lowered her lashes, smiling. They lingered like that for a moment, she, stiff and wary, he, nuzzling her cheek and the crook of her neck, trying to ease her. She felt warm and wonderful to hold.

  “Did I do it right, Robert?” she asked almost shyly after a long moment. “Honestly? You can tell me the truth.” He started to laugh at the absurdity of the question, but he went motionless when she added, “Because you see, I—I never—”

  Shocked, he stared at her.

  “You didn’t like it,” she said, stiffening as she read his face.

  “No, you were glorious, my angel. Come here,” he whispered, taking her face tenderly between his hands. He silenced her fretful worries with a light kiss that deepened. Slowly she allowed him to part her lips and taste her tongue. God help him, he believed her. But why had she chosen to bestow her gift on him? He trembled as he kissed her. She was his entire world in that moment, as his mouth caressed the satiny cushions of her lips; he drew her breath into his lungs and caught her tiny sigh on his tongue and lost himself in mesmerized worship, savoring the mouth that had consumed him.

  Luscious and deep, he gave her a kiss to tell her everything he could not say. She began to melt into his embrace, returning his kiss more urgently, running her fingers through his hair. He felt her desire blossoming like a tight rosebud unfurling for the sun’s slow sumptuous heat.

  He trailed his hand down her neck, longed to kiss her there, but could not tear himself away from her sweet lips. Plying her mouth with gentle insistence, he caressed her pale hair and thought, God, girl, what are you doing to me?

  A few minutes later she ended the kiss, breathing heavily. Pulling back, she stared at him, her violet-blue eyes vulnerable and haunted. He trailed his finger down the curve of her cheek. “Sleep with me. Let me return the favor—”

  “No. Good night, Robert, I must go.” She squirmed in his arms but he held her more tightly, smiling besottedly at her half-hearted struggles.

  “Stay, lovely. Sleep in my arms.” He cupped her face and leaned to kiss her again, but she slid away from him and swiftly padded out of the library in a whisper of silk.

  Hawk frowned as the door closed. He wondered if he should go after her, but no. Whatever her reasons, Belinda didn’t want to be touched right now and he refused to blunder with her. She knew better than any woman he had ever met how to keep a man at bay. How was a knight to scale her walls, storm her citadel, take the ivory tower of her heart? he mused, feeling lonely now that she had gone. As his troubled gaze wandered the perimeter of the library, it settled upon the tuned piano and it occurred to him that there were other senses she possessed which he could gratify.

  “Our souls need music as our bodies need touch.” Wise finishing-school courtesan, he thought, smiling ruefully.

  With a great heave of effort, he got up out of his leather chair. His shirt and waistcoat hung open down his bare chest as he sauntered toward the piano, cracking his knuckles.

  He sat down wearily at the bench, lifted the lid. With an odd pang of nostalgia for some part of himself that had gotten lost along the way, tentatively he touched a key, feeling the lonely note echo down into the well of his soul. If she would not accept his touch, he would give her music.

  The ivories felt satin smooth beneath his fingertips. He paused and closed his eyes, drawing the most beloved piece he knew from his memory and hoping, for both their sakes, that he still remembered how to pour out his heart through his hands....

  * * *

  Shaken up, fighting tears of confusion, Bel changed into her dressing gown then stalked over to her satinwood vanity.

  That kiss. My God.

  Her hand trembled as she poured water from the pitcher into the wash basin. She set the pitcher aside and leaned down to splash her face before bed, scrubbing it a bit too roughly, all the while reeling inwardly with the blind despair of one who fights an invisible enemy.

  She could not believe she had done it. Like a true, dyed-in-the-wool prostitute, she had performed fellatio on the duke of Hawkscliffe and he had been so ... beautiful. So beautiful in his surrender, so beautiful in his release, the luminous haze of satisfaction in his dark eyes afterward. She wasn’t even sure herself what her motives had been, but it seemed she had needed to flex her power over him— to show him that all the while he judged her a whore, he failed to realize she knew exactly how to bring his holier-than-thou facade tumbling down.

  She had needed to give him a taste of what she could do for him, so that perhaps he might cease seeing her as bait and see her as a human being, or at least as a woman worthy of a role as his real mistress. And she had needed to show him that he was not as loftily high above her as he liked to pretend. So she had all but seduced her keeper. Why should she fear? Her position as his coddled, high-priced mistress was probably sealed now. She would be rich. He had liked it so much, he would probably want her to stay on as his ladybird even after he had finished with Dolph. But he was never going to respect her now. Not after that.

  She didn’t even respect herself and she must have become a true whore by now because somehow she wasn’t even sorry. The feel of him under her hands, the strength and heat and velvet of him. The taste of him. The response in him to her kiss, her every touch...

  She had set out to make a conquest of him, only to discover the terrible loneliness of her own heart, reflected in his vulnerable need—the emptiness inside her that cried out for his strength and tenderness. And in the end all questions of power were forgotten. To kiss him, to serve him, to give him such pleasure was pleasure enough for her, and that was a very dangerous state of affairs, indeed.

  Robert. She shuddered, squeezing her eyes shut tightly as the water trickled through her fingers back into the bowl, impossible as love to hold. She abandoned the wash basin, doubling over silently, holding her stomach and fighting a gigantic wave of panicked loneliness for him that was like a physical pain.

  He must not know. She must not feel this. A courtesan could not love or she would be destroyed.

  She made her way over to her bed and lay down, throwing her forearm over her eyes to stop the tears from coming.

  It was then that the first notes rose from downstairs, tentative, searching, like his first kiss that night at Harriette’s. She held her breath, listening. The enchantment grew as his music spread, enfolding her. She heeded, holding on to every note as if her life somehow depended on it.

  He played like a master. The sonata was intricate beyond anything she could have executed, tender, mournful and slow, then crashing into a grandeur and complexity that could only have been Beethoven and, as the moments passed, she knew that Robert was speaking to her, only to her, and a helpless laugh of joy escaped her lips as her tears broke free in a kind of separate release; for the first time, in this unforeseen way, with half a house between them, the frigid star of the demimonde finally allowed a man to touch her.

  CHAPTER TEN

  More than a fortnight later Bel stood before the looking glass in her Bond Street mantua maker’s shop. The brisk Frenchwoman checked th
e fit of the latest evening gown she had created for La Belle Hamilton, a resplendent concoction in ice blue silk with a heart-shaped neckline that plunged in the valley between her breasts. There was no mistake about it—this was a gown for a Cyprian.

  Bel’s gaze followed her hands as she smoothed the high, clean line of the gown’s skirts over her waist and hips. She could not help but muse that by all appearances she was indeed becoming the thing she pretended to be, and yet, in this role, she had unearthed a richer joy than any she had ever known.

  All she could think of was Robert.

  “He love this one, mademoiselle,” the woman murmured, her dark eyes gleaming with suave pride in her creation.

  “Oh, yes,” Bel agreed in admiration of the woman’s skill. She could hardly wait to see the look on Robert’s face when he glimpsed the daring décolletage.

  “Spezial occasion?”

  “The Argyle Rooms.”

  “I thought was for dinner party?”

  “No, that will be the pink one. This is for the Cyprians’ Ball.”

  Ever since the night of their interlude in the library, something new and miraculous had sprung up between them, lifting like a green, tender shoot of some as-yet unknown flower. She had forgotten what it was like to feel safe. To be happy.

  Their charade continued—routs, concerts, soirees, Vauxhall, Picadilly Saloon, the theater, the opera, the park. Robert did not speak of Dolph or Lady Coldfell anymore. Bel avoided mentioning them, too, knowing that the first of August would come all too soon and, with it, the termination of the agreement she and Robert had signed. Before that date arrived, she wanted an invitation from him to stay on indefinitely as his mistress.

  It was the perfect solution in her vastly imperfect world— perhaps it was the only solution. She could never return to respectability, nor did she relish the prospect of putting herself back on the open market when their scheme was done. How likely was she to find a new keeper whom she could trust half as much as her stuffy honor-bound duke? Besides, she dared to believe she was learning to make Robert happy.