A Most Unusual Duke

by Felicia Greene

  The gown wasn’t the problem. Neither was her manner; she had treated the majority of the guests with the airy elegance of the perfect hostess. She had played the part of a loving wife to perfection, happy but not too happy, attentive but not smothering… but when only Harrow’s eyes were on her, Diana’s gaze acquired the hard, ruthless gaze of a Valkyrie heading into battle.

  The real problem was Adamson. Henry Adamson, an exceptionally good-looking and exceptionally stupid captain of a nearby regiment, who had come to the ball with the gentle glow of a man assured of a delighted reception. Or perhaps, to be ruthless, the problem wasn’t Adamson—it was Diana and Adamson, and how they behaved together. How Diana behaved, to tell the complete truth, because Adamson was almost certainly too dim to know what was occurring.

  Harrow had followed them around the room like a dog. He couldn’t do otherwise; what Diana was doing was too insulting to ignore. Her smiling, syrupy flirtation with the hapless Adamson, the comments and whispers and sly looks in his direction, was a performance for him and him alone.

  It didn’t matter how staged it was. Harrow was more than sure that Diana would find a man like Adamson insufferably boring for a minute, let alone an evening; she would have been as irritated this evening as he had been. However false the whole thing was, however empty at the core of it, it filled Harrow with a jealous rage that threatened to crush him.

  All he could do was thank God that his friends hadn’t attended. Parr would have noticed the slyly disreputable conduct immediately, and Taunton would probably have made an off-colour comment concerning it. Merricott would have been gentle and sunny, not wishing to pry—and that would have been the very worst of it.

  He should go to bed. He should ignore Diana completely until Sunday, until November, until—until they were both old and grey, and incapable of feeling jealousy. Alas, with his rebellious heart making a fool of every finer feeling, Harrow found himself pacing the darkened corridors of Witford House until he found his wife.

  He opened the door to the library with a rush of satisfaction. Of course she would be here; she had been here on the sixth morning of their life together, dressed in the gown that had made him regret everything. Now Diana stood by the bookshelves, not even pretending that she was doing anything other than waiting for him to come to her.

  Lord, her gown looked even better when no other admiring eyes were on it. Just his own, treasuring every inch of her, coveting her. As angry as he was, as humiliated and excited as he felt in equal measure, Harrow couldn’t resist a moment of pure, silent admiration before he began to speak.

  ‘Hiding, I see? You should.’

  ‘I’ve never hidden in my life.’ Diana stroked her finger along the spine of a book; Harrow’s skin tingled as if she were touching him. ‘Even when it would benefit me.’

  ‘Hiding would have benefitted you this evening. Removing yourself from the evening entirely would have been the perfect solution.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Everyone had a wonderful evening.’

  ‘I’m not disputing that. I’m sure certain people enjoyed the evening far more than they were supposed to.’

  ‘If you’re going to bore me with baseless accusations, you may as well go to bed. I’ll find better company in the pages of these books.’

  ‘You know full well what you were doing with Adamson, and you should have damn well stopped.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone in the ballroom could have said with any great precision what I was doing with Adamson. I don’t think Adamson had any idea at all what was happening.’

  ‘That’s because the man is a potato.’

  ‘Oh, now, he’s no potato.’ Diana paused, her face flushed and impudent in the candlelight. Harrow watched her eyes sparkle, the rage in him hard enough to make him quiver. ‘A vegetable may be being kind of him. I’d describe him as a garden herb, at best.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what the ballroom thought of you two. I couldn’t give less of a damn about what they thought.’

  ‘Then why are you here to upbraid me?’

  ‘Because you were flirting with Adamson to anger me. Well, it worked—I’m angered.’

  ‘How very presumptuous of you, assuming that I’d do such a thing.’

  ‘You little…’ Harrow bit his tongue, letting out a harsh sigh despite himself. He didn’t want to insult Diana—she’d enjoy it, and he’d enjoy it, and before he knew it he’d be doing something he wanted desperately. Something that was becoming more and more difficult to avoid, the more he looked at her.

  Now was the time to leave. To leave Witford, if necessary. He would need leagues of sea between him and Diana before he could master himself, but leaving the library would be a good start.

  He turned to go, biting back blasphemy. Before he could reach the door, a sudden grip on the back of his coat had him wheeling around in surprise.

  ‘You’re not going anywhere.’ He had never seen Diana like this, her face glowing with passionate anger. She stood before him, hands at her sides, practically shaking with the strength of her sentiments. ‘Not until you speak to me as a husband should.’

  ‘A husband would never stoop to these indignities.’

  ‘You dare to speak to me of indignities? After I parade myself in front of you in a gown that would make a whore blush, after I let you spy on me as I bathe—’

  ‘I had no intention of spying on you as you bathed—’

  ‘But you did, and you enjoyed it, and you’re a—you’re a damned liar if you say you didn’t.’ Diana blinked, biting her lip; Wesley knew he could never admit how much he loved hearing blasphemous words escape her. She was beautiful when she was furious—when she was unladylike. ‘And I enjoyed it too. And I won’t apologise for saying it.’

  ‘I don’t expect you to.’

  ‘You expect me to apologise for how I came to be here. I know you’ll deny it, but you want me to say sorry. You want me to plead with you—to beg.’ Diana moved closer, her hair slipping from its pins as she tossed her head. ‘You want me on my knees.’

  On my knees.

  It was enough. The straw that broke the camel’s back, and the rest of the desert into the bargain. One unguarded comment, without any of the carefully-constructed artifice that had accompanied Diana’s other attempts, had broken down the wall that Harrow had so assiduously built.

  With a growl, he stepped forward. Diana’s soft gasp of surprise brushed against his lips as he kissed her, covering her mouth with his, gripping her skirts with barely concealed hunger as he took possession of her.

  How many kisses had they shared in their younger days? Many, he had no doubt—but none of them were like this. None of them had hummed with pain, with years of self-denial—none of them had the edge of punishing cruelty that only increased the lust that moved through the both of them. He hoped Diana kissed him hard enough to bruise his lips, to mark him as he wished to mark her.

  ‘Of course I want you on your knees.’ He pulled away from her, her skirts clenched tight in his fingers as he murmured in her ear. He couldn’t hold back anymore—couldn’t repress the things he wanted from her, depraved as they were. ‘I want you on your back, as well—and on all fours, like a beast. I want you against the wall, beneath me, astride me… do you know how I want you on your knees? What I want you to do there? Do you want me to show you?’

  ‘Yes.’ She spoke breathlessly, her face full of a tension so exquisite that it took his breath away. Harrow gripped the skirts of her gown tighter, the fragile material threatening to break in his fists. ‘Please.’

  ‘Then no. You don’t get what you want.’

  ‘You beast.’

  ‘Quiet.’ Harrow kissed the soft skin of her neck, sinking his teeth into her flesh just enough to send a shiver through her. ‘You’ve been taunting me for weeks. Now I’ll taunt you as I like.’

  ‘Kiss me again.’

  The damned minx kept thinking she could order him, even as he gripped her tight. Al
as, her order was exactly what he wanted to do to her anyway.

  ‘One kiss.’ He pulled Diana to him again, her lips hot and flushed against his. She tasted so sweet, so ready, that he couldn’t resist a grunt of pleasure. ‘Just one more kiss.’

  She had imagined this encounter a thousand times, in the tranquil darkness of her bedroom. A thousand ways he could seize hold of her, touch her—make her submit to him as she so desperately wanted to. But this rush of passion, this explosion of lust-fuelled hunger to possess, was far greater than anything Diana had dared to dream.

  The rough wood of the bookshelf scraped against her back as Wesley slammed her against it. Even the pain was welcome, the small moment of discomfort, if it meant him touching her as he did now. The tight, punishing grip on her waist, moving down to her thighs as he hoisted her upward.

  ‘Only one more kiss?’ It felt so good to tease him, to provoke the beast that she’d seen surge in him. She gasped as Wesley’s mouth moved to her neck again, his teeth grazing her to the perfect point of pleasure-tempered pain. ‘You were never so miserly in the past.’

  ‘Kissing’s too sweet a word for what I want to do to you.’ Wesley’s palms were hot on her bare skin as he pushed her skirts upward, leaving her bare thighs wrapped around him. Diana’s eyes lingered on the bulge in his breeches as he pressed his body to hers, every muscle in his body rigid. ‘We’re not adolescents anymore.’

  He was right. They weren’t the shy, exploratory creatures they had once been, clumsy in their own tenderness. She knew her own body as Wesley knew his, and what would give them both pleasure. With a sigh of assent, full of trembling anticipation, Diana reached up to pull at the bodice of her gown. Wesley’s restrained growl of pleasure as her breasts fell free, her nipples hard and flushed, sent a quiver of lust straight to her core.

  ‘Please.’ She could perform wanton actions, but she couldn’t say wanton words. Wesley would understand, he always did, even if he pushed such understanding away. When he bent his head to her breasts, his tongue hot as he pulled a nipple to his mouth, the pleasure that came was so strong as to be embarrassing.

  Where had he learned to give such expert pleasure? The long slow tugs at one breast, then the other—the feel of his tongue on her nipples, coaxing deep jolts of sensation from her swollen flesh. It was the most exquisite form of torture, endless, perfect. All Diana could do was arch her back, offering herself to him with a breathless moan of assent, as he left her tingling skin rose-flushed under his lips.

  ‘Ah!’ Another cry came as one of Wesley’s hands left her thighs, moving between their two bodies. She would never have been able to ask for this, not in a million years, but how she craved it, his fingers parting her hot, slick flesh to find the seat of her pleasure. She thrust her hips forward, eagerly welcoming his invasion, writhing as one finger curled provocatively at her entrance.

  Why was he keeping his hand there, resting lightly, his touch wicked in its gentleness? She needed him in her—needed two fingers. Diana bucked her hips, desperate, only to be rewarded with a long, ruthless tug to her nipple. ‘Oh, Lord, please!’

  ‘Please, what?’ His dark stare was intoxicating.

  ‘You know what I want.’ Her core was a tight, delicious knot, begging to be untied. Without his fingers, his tongue, she’d be trapped in this delirium forever.‘Please let me. Please.’

  ‘I should leave you here. I should keep you on the point of finishing—right here, with me.’ Wesley’s mouth moved to her ear, his tone low and uncompromising. ‘God knows you need humbling.’

  ‘Don’t pretend you can humble me.’ How dizzying it was, this game they played—how strange, and dark, and right. Something in her needed this conflict to continue, for this tension to keep building unless they were truly joined. Only when he was deep in her, fingers and tongues forgotten, would they find true resolution. ‘I can never be humbled.’

  Wesley’s eyes flashed. Was it admiration, anger, or both? ‘No. You can’t be.’

  A high moan of surrender left Diana’s throat as his fingers moved inside her. One, then two, filling her slowly, his palm curved against her mound as his thumb gently circled the seat of her pleasure. Not rushed, not brutal, not hasty—oh, Lord, it was exquisite, exquisite beyond measure, and she would come undone in a matter of moments. Especially if Wesley kept kissing her breasts as he was now, more gently than before, as if he were worshipping something precious.

  Humble me. The knot in her was tightening, her thighs trembling as she lost control. Oh, God, humble me.

  Diana’s cry washed over Harrow like rain. His own bliss, his building climax, was only fuelled by her abandonment. He gritted his teeth, pushing the thought of finishing out of his mind,

  In the afterglow of such immense pleasure, all his former certainties were gone. Everything he thought he knew, or thought he wanted—all had faded away, weak against the onslaught of bliss. Harrow slumped to the floor, resting against the bookshelf, tugging Diana down to sit astride him as he buried his face in her skin.

  He shouldn’t hold her now, shouldn’t want to guide her through recovering from what had just happened between them… but my God, he’d never wanted anything more.

  The scent of roses clung to her flesh. Harrow stroked her back, her shivering shoulders, whispering soft, sweet nothings as her breathing slowed. Diana’s arms wrapped slowly around his neck, holding him as tightly as he held her.

  This was what he had always craved. Diana, in his arms, in their house. Diana, his wife, still quivering at the pleasure he had given her. The night was still young—he could carry her to his bedroom, housemaids be damned, and spend the rest of the dark hours buried deep in her.

  No. He tried to avoid the images that inevitably came to him when he thought of being with Diana. The vision of his wife on her wedding day, radiant, splendid… smiling at his father.

  It all felt wrong. Horribly wrong.

  ‘Where have you gone?’ Diana’s soft murmur only worsened the pain.

  ‘Nowhere.’

  ‘You haven’t… you should.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But—but we could. It’s quiet here, we’re unseen.’ The faint air of pleading in Diana’s voice shattered his heart. ‘Or you can take me to your bedroom. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen it.’

  If only the passion would fade. His body still wanted it, even if his mind didn’t. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘What do you mean, you—’

  ‘I can’t.’ Harrow moved away from her, looking away. ‘I can’t, and I won’t.’

  There was a short, horrified moment of silence. When Diana spoke again, her voice rang with pain.

  ‘You can’t look at me. You can’t—you can’t do what you wish to do, because you imagine me with him.’

  ‘I don’t want to speak about this.’

  ‘If we do not speak of this, then it can never be resolved.’ The hurt in Diana’s voice was agonising. ‘We can never heal.’

  ‘It can’t be resolved even if we speak of it.’

  ‘Because you won’t believe me when I say that I only wanted your father for his money.’

  ‘No. Not that. I believe you, when you say that.’ Anger rose in him, anger that he could barely control. ‘But I can’t believe that my father wanted to marry you out of charity. And while the memory of his moral decay still lives in me, I can’t—I can’t—’

  ‘You can’t treat me as your wife? You can’t be my husband, as I desperately wish you to be?’

  ‘I can’t be happy.’ The truth sounded so much more brutal when he said it aloud. Diana was silent; Harrow looked back at her, sick at heart. ‘I can’t be.’

  He expected tears. When a slap came instead, a vicious thwack against his jaw, he rocked back in pure surprise.

  ‘You shame both me and yourself with these thoughts.’ Diana rose to her feet, moving away from Harrow before he could reach for her. He held his hand to his smarting jaw, staring up at her as she rearranged her dress. The quiet mi
sery in her face was a thousand times worse than anger. ‘I thought I could discuss them with you, but I can’t. No reasonable person could.’

  ‘Diana, I—’

  ‘I wish to be your wife, in every way I can.’ Diana moved to the door, staring back at him with eyes that still shone with tears. ‘Until you are brave enough to be my husband, Wesley—don’t try.’

  The door slammed. Wesley stood in the cold silence that followed, hands on his hips, forcing himself not to crumple to the floor.

  All he wanted to do was forget the past. Whatever thorn lived in him, clinging to what came before, needed to be pulled free.

  Only then could he be the man that Diana needed him to be.

  The sun of the following day shone brightly over Merricott’s house. The property, more modest than Witford’s splendour but attractive in a modest way, always existed in a kind of genteel chaos. Harrow sat awkwardly on a badly-repaired armchair, cold cup of tea in hand, looking aghast at a red-faced maid as she struggled with a large tabby cat.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. She keeps trying to catch the ducklings and give them to the kittens.’ She looked with barely-concealed annoyance at Merricott, who was listening with the pleasant smile of someone who hadn’t quite understood the problem. ‘I assume you don’t wish her to catch them.’

  ‘Goodness, no. But isn’t she a splendid hunter? The maternal instinct has made her so much more of a killer. Quite frightening, really.’ Merricott looked admiringly at the cat, who hissed at him with the distinct air of someone who didn’t wish to be complimented. ‘I would suggest confining her and the kittens to the house, for now.’