What a Difference a Duke Makes

by Lenora Bell

  “He’ll sleep through the night now,” Mari whispered. “It rarely returns twice in one night.”

  They left softly, leaving the nursery door ajar.

  The corridor was dark and silent.

  His hand cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing across her lips. He tilted her face to one of the lamps burning on a hall table. “You’re hurt.”

  Mari touched her lip. Wetness on her fingers. “It’s nothing. His elbow caught me.”

  “It’s not nothing. Mari, you’re bleeding.” The raw emotion on his face caught her by surprise. “Come with me. I’ll take care of you.”

  Chapter 21

  Mari allowed Edgar to lead her to her chambers. He settled her into a chair and then dipped a cloth into the wash basin and wrung it out, touching it to her lips.

  She tensed.

  “Does it hurt?” he asked.

  “Not too much.”

  “You’re shivering.” He slid the counterpane off her bed and tucked it over her knees.

  She became acutely aware of the late hour and their state of undress.

  He was in a silk robe that had slipped open to reveal one of his powerful thighs. Was he wearing anything underneath?

  Her face felt hot and her feet were freezing despite her slippers.

  Longing crashed over her, stealing her breath.

  He brushed his finger over her lip again and she flinched.

  “You’ll have a bruise. He clipped you with his elbow and your teeth cut your lip.”

  His hands ran down her arms. “Any other injuries?”

  “Just the lip. I’ll look even more of a fright tomorrow.”

  “What do you mean, even more?” he asked with a puzzled frown.

  That had been the old Mari speaking. The one who thought of herself as frightful. Plain and freckled with awful red hair. Too thin and scrawny.

  But this evening, on stage, she’d seen something else in his eyes.

  “Nothing,” she muttered.

  “No, I want to know. Do you think of yourself as unattractive?” he asked, tilting her chin up and forcing her to meet his gaze. “Because you’re so very wrong. You’re beautiful, don’t you know that? Didn’t you see the way the gentlemen were staring at you this evening? Every man in the room was struck by your beauty. They all wanted to prostrate themselves at your feet.”

  Her breath caught. “All of them?”

  “You truly don’t know how stunning you are?”

  “I’ve always thought . . . I was told I was awkward and unpleasing.”

  “Whoever told you that was a blind fool. If it was a woman, she was jealous. And if it was a man, he wanted you to feel bad about yourself for some unfathomable reason.”

  “It was a woman.”

  “Then she was jealous, plain and simple. You have a light shining from you, Mari. It draws everyone’s eyes to you. Your smile is incandescent. When you’re in a room, everything gravitates toward you, haven’t you noticed? The way you were able to charm the children in such short order. The way you charm me. Disarm me.”

  He was still kneeling at her feet.

  “You’re the most beautiful woman here.”

  She smiled. “I’m the only woman here.”

  “I meant here.” He brushed the air as if he held a paintbrush. “In England. On this earth.”

  That was taking things too far. “You know that’s not true,” she said.

  “I know nothing of the sort.” He rose, staggering slightly on his bad knee but quickly righting himself. He held out his hand. “Come, have a look in the glass.”

  She put her hand in his, mesmerized by the tender light in his eyes. The counterpane slid to the floor as he led her to the tall oval glass in the corner and tilted it forward, toward the lamp.

  He stood behind her. “You have golden freckles, more interesting than flawless skin. Lively blue eyes like a sky turning to night. A small straight nose, the slightest bit stern and uncompromising, but the luscious curve of this upper lip, the extravagant swoop.”

  He touched each place he mentioned, ending with his thumb in the indentation of her upper lip.

  She rested her head back against his chest.

  “A slender, elegant throat.” His hand closed around her throat. She shivered, feeling the immense power he wielded over her.

  “A frame that combines delicacy and strength.” Both of his hands on her shoulders now, kneading away the tension.

  His hands slid down her arms, clasped her hands. “Capable hands, doing hands, hands that teach, and soothe hurt away, and calm terrors.”

  The rough texture of his fingers reminded her that he had capable hands as well. That despite his privileged status as a duke, he built steam engines . . . shaping his dreams into existence.

  He rested his chin in the crook of her shoulder and brought both of her hands round to her belly.

  “Slender waist.” With his hands over hers, he guided her hands over her waist. “Softly flaring hips.”

  Her hands, covered by his hands, grasping her hips.

  Her hands, his hands, inching slowly up her torso, over her breasts, stopping at her heart’s center. “A heart that beats strong and true and brave. Undaunted by the likes of me.”

  Their reflection in the mirror a study in contrasts.

  The strong, uncompromising lines of his jaw sharply delineated in the lamplight.

  The soft curve of her cheek.

  Beautiful, she thought. And in that moment of discovery she relinquished the entrenched belief that she was plain and unpleasing. Unworthy.

  Whatever the future held, she would face it as a new woman.

  Bold and free.

  She saw herself through his eyes. Slight, small curves, but a symmetry there, a simplicity of line like the curve of a porcelain vase.

  A vase that was going to shatter from the tension if he didn’t touch her soon, if he didn’t calm the butterflies stampeding in her belly.

  She turned her head, nestled into his neck. Kissed his warm skin.

  She slid her hands, with his still covering them, over her breasts.

  She squeezed the tips of her breasts between her fingers, and his fingers tightened over hers.

  It felt right. As if the pleasure of his touch was a reward for all of the hardship she’d endured.

  He cupped her hands, moving with her, covering her. Lower. Over her belly, beneath the edges of her wrap.

  Lower. Between her thighs.

  Only thin muslin obstructing his access to the place that ached for his touch.

  “You’re the most exquisite thing I’ve ever seen.” His eyes were hooded, his breathing shallow. “Do you believe me?”

  The surge of elation she’d felt on stage returned, only now there was a difference. She didn’t have to wear the costume of a Pharaoh to feel powerful and bold.

  She only needed to believe him. Believe in herself.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I believe you.”

  “Then I’ve achieved my aim.” He straightened, dropping his hands from her body.

  He would leave her now.

  She didn’t want him to leave.

  She turned toward him. “Why don’t you stay for a little while? We can . . . talk.”

  “That’s not a good idea. You’ve already been hurt tonight.” He brushed his finger over her lip. “I don’t want to cause more damage. Mark you in any other way.”

  “Edgar, please stop thinking of me as some fragile female who can’t make her own decisions. I’m resilient. Life has thrown slings and arrows at me and I’ve survived and been the stronger for it.”

  “I employ you to care for my children. I don’t expect or want anything else from you. I respect you, Mari.”

  He was too honorable to give her what she craved. But the wanton side she’d discovered wouldn’t remain silent.

  She was through with pretending to be meek; pretending that her needs and wants didn’t matter.

  “What if I want more from you? You’ve
awakened something in me. I want . . . I want you to satisfy this craving.” She pressed her fists against her belly. “This wanting. I’m the one with expectations.” She closed her eyes.

  “I expect you to kiss me again,” she whispered.

  “I can never kiss you again,” Edgar said, the words echoing dully like a blade struck against stone. “But I can satisfy your craving.”

  Her eyes flew open, the blue vivid against the copper of her freckles.

  She didn’t know what he meant. He hardly knew what he meant. All he knew was that if he kissed her he would lose everything.

  Every scrap of control and every tenet he’d built his life upon these last ten years.

  He couldn’t kiss her, but if he only bent the rules slightly . . . if he pleasured her and not himself . . . that would be acceptable.

  As long as he didn’t take his pleasure, he could give her what she desired.

  He trailed his fingers along her inner thigh, over the fabric of her shift.

  Her soft moan was musical.

  How would she sound when she came? Would she burst into song like a bird?

  Grasping her braid in one hand, he worked the ribbon free and began untwining until her hair was free. The fragrant waves of hair slid down her back, slid over his hands.

  Slight feminine curves. Warm, floral scent.

  Everything he’d denied himself.

  He ran a finger down her dressing gown. Slipped inside the sash to loosen the knot.

  He opened the dressing gown.

  A plain muslin shift like thousands of garments worn by thousands of virgins and this one set him aflame. Had his cock hard and his balls heavy.

  His last mistress, years ago now, had imported the finest silk lingerie from Paris. She knew it had set her off to advantage.

  Mari in her plain white shift was far more arousing.

  “Do you want me to touch you?” he asked, holding his breath. Say no. Tell me to leave.

  “More than anything.”

  He shaped her waist with his hands, marveling at the perfect, scrolling indentation that led to the curvature of her hips. He reached behind her and traced the pronounced valley dipping down her back, taking his time, prolonging the pleasure of discovery.

  When he cupped her bottom, squeezing gently, her eyes widened and she made a small noise, half-moan, half-protest.

  He jerked his hands away. She was an innocent.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Why did you stop? It was just becoming interesting. Touch me again.”

  He smiled, remembering his thoughts during the tableau. She was a goddess. He was hers to command.

  He unbuttoned the top buttons of her shift and slipped his hands inside.

  Her breasts were small, yet plump, and fit his palms in a new way. A perfect way.

  She gasped, melting into his arms.

  She weighed hardly anything but he wasn’t going to be able to give her pleasure standing like this. His knee was beginning to go numb.

  He lifted her into his arms and brought her to a chair.

  No beds. No gazing into her eyes.

  No kissing.

  Her pleasure, not yours.

  Those were the new rules. And he would follow them, clinging to his tenuous grasp on sanity.

  Mari felt his caress through her whole body. To her toes. Through the ends of her hair.

  She was bewitched by the new sensations.

  In the wavering firelight she could see his darker hands covering her pale, freckled breasts.

  She shook her head and her hair swished sensuously over the tips of her breasts where he had them surrounded, as if he were making an offering.

  He positioned her on his lap, facing away from him.

  Like a kettle letting out a little bit of steam, the sighs that escaped her lips told a story to any listener. She was about to boil over.

  About to be turned to steam and dissolve into the air.

  He was so hard behind her, so strong and commanding.

  She tried to slide back against him but his hands trapped her, not letting her move backward.

  He pressed his thumb into the depression in her belly.

  “You should tell me to stop,” he said, low and hot in her ear.

  “Don’t you dare stop,” she commanded breathily.

  He laughed. And then she wasn’t capable of speech. Because he lifted her shift and slid his fingers between her thighs. She wore no drawers. She was completely naked and exposed to him.

  He spread her with his fingers, nudging her thighs open with his legs.

  He paused, his fingers opening her, and she waited, needing him to continue.

  “Edgar,” she said, laying her head back against his shoulder.

  “Mari,” he whispered in her ear, kissing and biting her earlobe. He slid a finger over the sensitive flesh between her thighs, slick with moisture.

  His finger slid inside her body.

  The shock of it should have brought her back to her senses, made her stop him, but instead she wanted more. She squirmed against his finger.

  He opened her further, two fingers now, inside her.

  She could see everything he was doing to her but she couldn’t see his face. It was maddening, and arousing at the same time.

  She wanted to taste him. She tried to twist in his arms, tried to turn so that she could kiss him, but he wouldn’t let her.

  He held her trapped, his fingers moving inside her in a soft, steady rhythm. His thumb flicking over the swollen place where all the sensations emanated from.

  “I want to kiss you,” she protested.

  “You can’t. Your lip is split, remember?”

  “But I don’t care,” she gasped, as his fingers rocked inside her, faster now. “I want to kiss you.”

  “You can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re the one being pleasured, not me.”

  “Not . . . I,” she gasped.

  “Always the teacher, eh? Well—” he squeezed her nipple with his free hand, while his fingers undulated inside her “—I’m the one giving the lesson now. And you’d better behave.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She stopped talking. He added another finger. There was more of him now, more filling her, moving in a shallow, fluttering movement that started a tremor in her belly.

  He settled her more firmly against him. His hard thigh pressing up between her thighs, fingers buried inside her. His lips on her neck, biting her, teasing her. Blowing softly in her ear. His other hand on her breast, gently pinching her nipple.

  So many sensations at once.

  “That’s the way of it,” he encouraged, as she relaxed back against him, all thoughts of kissing him flying from her mind.

  This was enough for now. Time enough to pleasure him later, to learn how to make him moan.

  “I’m not going to stop until you’ve reached your pleasure,” he whispered. “Multiple times.”

  “M-multiple?” she gasped.

  “At least three. Possibly four.”

  Good lord. The man was overconfident.

  “With my fingers.” He moved his fingers inside her. “And then with my tongue.”

  His . . . tongue?

  He stroked her softly. “I’ll taste you here, I’ll lick you until you beg me to stop because you’re exhausted from all the pleasure.”

  She’d never even imagined the depraved things he was whispering.

  “I want you to do something for me, Mari.”

  Anything. I’ll do anything for you.

  “Breathe. Deep and steady.”

  She breathed deeply, the breath flowing from her toes to the tingling, throbbing place where his fingers moved softly, ever so softly, over her.

  Something shifted into focus. The possibility of pleasure.

  “Oh,” she breathed. “Yes.”

  He increased the speed of his fingers, sweeping across the swollen center of her body while his other hand moved from her breast to her sex,
spreading her for him, positioning her body in the way he wanted it.

  Her head fell back against his shoulder with an audible thud.

  He cradled her, swept her along. He whispered something in her ear but she no longer heard the words, only felt the sensation of his fingers inside her, over her.

  She moaned, marveling at the music he coaxed from her body . . . her lips.

  It was like the chorus of a song she didn’t know very well.

  Right now she was in the unfamiliar verses, and she didn’t know the words.

  But the chorus would come soon, and she’d be able to lift her voice with confidence, and abandon, and sing along.

  “That’s right,” he whispered, kissing her neck. “Just let it happen.”

  The chorus came.

  She came.

  A tremor. A quake. A moment of gasping pleasure. He stroked her, prolonging the sensation. It was indescribably sweet.

  The sweetness spread over her belly, her breasts, into her heart, suffusing her thoughts with tenderness and gratitude.

  She knew this song.

  And she would remember it for the rest of her life, hoping to hear it again.

  He resettled her against him, spreading her thighs. “Sometimes a woman can have another crisis right after the first one. If enough pressure is applied, with a swift and sure hand.”

  “Impossible. I couldn’t possibly . . . I . . .”

  She arched against his hand as he worked her hard and quick.

  Apparently she was going to hear the song again. Right now.

  “Ah,” she said, her voice high and breathy. “Oh . . . God. Edgar.”

  Chapter 22

  Her soft, musical moans of pleasure gave Edgar a rush of pride and joy.

  She came again, gripping his fingers with her inner muscles.

  His cock throbbed and jumped beneath her rounded bottom, but he’d achieved his objective. Made her cry his name in passion. Twice.

  He knew the logic was flawed, knew that there was a very fine line between pleasuring a girl and ruining her, but he wasn’t going to think about that yet.

  He would remember her sighs and moans forever.

  A memory when he was old and gray and the children had married and produced grandchildren.

  “Now do you believe that you’re desirable?” he asked her.