What a Duke Wants

by Lavinia Kent

  His fingers caught her chin and pulled her glance back up. “You thought to seduce me to marriage?”

  “I know—it does seem silly now.”

  Laying a kiss upon her nose he cuddled her closely. “No. It is not silly. I think—I think if life were different I could have seen that life—and liked it. I imagine us growing fat by the fire with our six children clustered about.”

  “Six?” she sputtered.

  “You want seven?”

  She reached up and slapped him lightly.

  Laughter filled the room and then stilled.

  “It was a nice dream,” he said.

  “Yes, but now we must live with what really is.” She rested her face against his shoulder and stared into the flames. The fire should have been ridiculous on this warm night, but it did bring comfort. “I guess it won’t be so bad.”

  Mark cleared his throat. “I have been assured that I am better than not so bad.”

  She was so sweet when she blushed. “I didn’t mean it like that,” she said, tilting her face up to his.

  Mark cuddled her tighter. He could not believe the warm lump that had risen in his throat when she talked of marriage this time, when he understood her dream. Normally such talk would have had him backtracking as quickly as possible. Perhaps, however, because of its true impossibility Isabella’s dreams had cast a spell over him as well. He truly could imagine a life with her at his side, see the two of them raising that impossible brood of children together. A household of redheads would not have been quiet—but it would have been wonderful.

  He cleared his throat. This was not what he had come here for.

  He did not have time for silly impossible dreams. When he married—and it would be far sooner than he liked—it would be to someone respectable from a good family. Someone who was definitely not Isabella.

  “I should go.” He moved to slip her off his lap.

  She placed her hands on his shoulder. “Don’t.”

  His lungs halted in the middle of a breath. Her fingers squeezed, gripping through the thin fabric of his shirt. He exhaled slowly. “You want me to stay?”

  “Yes.”

  He drew in another breath. “Why? I need to be clear. I want no more confusion between us.”

  It was her turn to swallow. The muscles in her neck tensed and relaxed. “I want—I want you to stay. I want you to spend the night with me.”

  “In your bed?”

  She laughed. What was there to laugh about?`

  “Can I just say I want you to spend the night with me?” she asked. “I have no wish to claim the bed. You’ll understand when you see it.”

  He placed his hand over hers. “I don’t care whose bed it is as long as you are in it.”

  Her cheeks turned pink again, but the corners of her eyes crinkled. “I think that can be arranged.”

  Slipping off his lap, she stood and, taking his hand, led him out of the room to the stairs.

  He could only smile as he followed. After the evening he’d had, he could only believe the gods were finally rewarding him.

  What did she do next? Isabella shut the door to the bedroom and went to light another candle. As the light spread across the room she heard him gasp.

  “It is quite something, isn’t it?” she said. At least the room provided a short distraction from what came next.

  “It’s purple.”

  “I think of it more as violet.”

  “There is certainly violet here, along with fuchsia, and I don’t know names for all these colors.”

  “I am not sure that there are enough names to describe every shade here.” She looked about the room. Purple did not even begin to describe it. The walls were pale lavender and the bed hanging the most royal of purples. That would not have been so strange. What made it odd was that there was not another color to be seen. The furniture had been painted, along with the doors and window frames. Even the china was purple.

  And the bed—the linens were purple, the pillows were purple, even the lace edging was a delicate light plum.

  “Plum—that’s another shade,” she said as she walked to the bed. At least the coverlet was soft. Reaching out, she brushed a hand across it, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle.

  She turned to face him, suddenly awkward. What did she do next?

  Her hands played with the tie of her robe, but did not unfasten it. Her teeth worried at her lower lip.

  Bare toes peeked from the hem of her gown and she tucked them back in.

  Finally she lifted her eyes back to Mark. She didn’t know why she was so worried; he was still glancing around the room, his face full of amazement.

  It took every ounce of control he had not to stare at Isabella. She was a goddess in the dim candlelight. Her hair curled about her with a life of its own, contrasting with the pale white of her skin. She was nervous, though. He could see it in every hesitant, shaking movement.

  She wanted him. He was sure of that. But somewhere in the long walk up the stairs her nerves had returned.

  She might want this, but she was unsure of how to go about it.

  The problem was that he felt the same way. Not since he was a boy in his teens had he felt this way. After all the practice he’d had in these matters in the past years, it should have been a simple thing.

  Only this was Isabella. From the moment he’d met her, nothing had been simple.

  “I never knew my uncle was fond of purple. My cousin wore a lavender waistcoat on at least one occasion, but the duke was the most dour of dressers. Even Divers has mentioned it and he never has anything negative to say about my uncle.”

  “Perhaps it was his mistress who was fond of the shade? It is only to be found in this one room from what I have seen. Everything else is quite regular, almost surprisingly so.” Her toes peeked from beneath the hem of her robe again.

  “I know nothing about his mistress. I did not even know for a certainty that he had one until I learned of this house after I inherited. I would have supposed he did. My aunt had been dead for many years and he undoubtedly thought that keeping a mistress was part of his position in society.”

  Her lips curved up very slightly. “Is that what I am—part of your position in society?”

  “Of course, what else would I want you for? It has nothing to do with this hair that curls about you like liquid flames.”

  He reached out and stroked a curl, pulling it straight and then letting it bounce back.

  “And,” he continued, “it has nothing to do with having lips so full and lush a pink that they look like I’ve been kissing them for hours, like I want to be kissing them for hours.” He ran his thumb over her lower lip, enjoying its quiver beneath his touch.

  “Your eyes have grown so dark.” Leaning toward her, he stared straight into them. “Normally they are the soft blue of a summer sky, but now the centers have grown large and black like a cloudless night. They have nothing to do with my desire either.”

  Her breaths grew rapid, one merging into the next. He ran his fingers down from her lips, across the silky skin of her chin, down the long length of her neck. Her pulse was speeding. He pressed his lips to it, to that soft spot between neck and shoulder. “And my wants are entirely unrelated to this spot, this magic spot just made for kissing, this spot where I can feel the life flowing through you, feel how my words affect you.”

  He nibbled on her neck, enjoying her every little gasp. Sliding his fingers farther down, he enjoyed the smoothness of her skin until he ran into the neckline of her gown. He trailed his finger back and forth just above the tie that held the gown up. It was tempting, oh so very tempting, to give the tie a tug and move things along, but instead he let his hands move sideways, skimming down her arms, past the swell of her breasts. He stopped as he reached her waist, grabbing the belt of the robe.

  She swallowed, her neck quivering.

  He hesitated, but she did not stop him as he opened her robe and let it hang loose.

  He could only stare at her t
hin linen shift. He’d seen her breasts before, seen them naked, but they were more than worth a second look. He expected he would never get tired of looking at them. Their rosy tips were pressed against the worn fabric, and he watched them pucker beneath his gaze.

  Her chest rose and then fell as she pulled in a deep breath.

  He forced his gaze up to meet her eyes. Her pupils were even darker now, but he could see the uncertainty in them as well.

  “Yes, I am definitely only after you as a reflection of my position in society.” He let his gaze drop and then brought it back to her eyes.

  “I was going to seduce you, try to make everything the way it was.”

  “The way it was when I was just Mark Smythe and you were Isabella Smith?”

  “Yes. It was so much more—more comfortable then.”

  “It still can be. Although I must admit that this room makes it hard. I still can’t picture my uncle here—not that I want to at the moment. I will have to make finding you a new home a high priority.”

  “You don’t need to. This one is fine. I was being silly.”

  “You want this?” He gestured about the room.

  She smiled and stepped back, edging up on the bed to sit, her gown sliding up her legs. “I would admit that I’d like some fresh paint and perhaps some new linens. I was thinking yellow—a whole room full of yellow—lemon, mustard, butter, saffron—even perhaps a touch of canary. Maybe I could even get a real one. Would you buy me a bird in a gilded cage?”

  He moved to sit beside her on the bed and reached out to grab one of her hands, bringing it to his lips. Opening it with care, he laid a kiss upon the palm. “I think I would buy you anything you wished, Miss Isabella Smith, just to have you look at me like you are now.”

  “Like I am now? I don’t know what you mean.”

  Another kiss was laid upon her palm. “You look at me like a man and not a duke. In the time since I inherited I don’t think another person has done that. Even my mother and my sisters look at me differently now. God, even Douglas is not the same. I rather like being just a man. If I need to have the house painted to look like a giant buttercup to keep you looking at me in this way, then that is what I will do.”

  He could see her fight for seriousness, but bit by bit humor took her face until she was laughing. She fell back on the bed, tears wetting her eyes, she was laughing so hard. “I am sorry,” she said between giggles. “I know it’s not that funny, not really that funny at all, but can you imagine the great Duke of Strattington pulling up to a house painted like a giant buttercup?” She pushed up to her elbows and stared at him. “And can you imagine what anyone would say if this was how they knew the duke’s seduction went—or that the duke’s mistress was too busy laughing to take off her clothes? Not that she knows how to take them off in front of a man anyway.”

  He stopped laughing.

  Chapter 16

  Isabella couldn’t believe she had said that. Admitting one couldn’t even pull off a shift was not seductive.

  “I am happy to help you take it off,” Mark said. “Or if you’d rather, I could take off my clothing. I do declare this shirt is feeling rather tight.”

  Even with his jacket off she could see how the fine-woven fabric of his shirt might be uncomfortable. That would never do. “Yes, I do think you should remove your shirt. But”—she glanced over him—“I really think your shoes should go first.”

  They hit the floor with a thud.

  “Shirt or stockings?”

  She looked him over. “Stockings, then shirt.”

  The stockings followed the shoes. He shifted then, so that he knelt beside her on the bed, towering over her.

  His neck cloth fell beside her on the bed.

  The first button slid open.

  Then the second.

  The third.

  Had his skin been so tempting before? It was hard to remember. She tucked her fingers under the edge of her robe to keep from stroking. Right now she just wanted to watch.

  The fourth. There was a light dusting of dark hair on his chest, a small scar on one shoulder.

  The fifth. The skin on his chest was lighter than his face, but still darker than she had expected.

  The sixth. His shirt slid open revealing his puckered dark nipples. They were so much smaller than her own.

  The seventh. The last. He let his shirt fall completely open, but made no move to push it from his shoulders. His eyes met hers. He waited.

  Pushing up to her own knees, she knelt beside him. A swarm of butterflies beat in her belly as she reached forward and slid her hands across his tight stomach. The few dark curls rubbed against her palm.

  Her own breathing was fast. It felt as if her heart would burst within her chest. And those butterflies—they were ready to beat their wings until they burst free. She slid her hands up, over his hard nipples, and back down, then up again. She swallowed as she pushed the shirt over his shoulders and ran it down his arms. It caught at his wrists. She should have made him undo the cuff links first.

  Although she rather liked how he looked with his arms trapped behind him. It was tempting to leave him that way.

  She leaned forward and blew, watching the hairs shiver on his chest.

  Should she taste?

  He was salty. The smell of his soap and a light musky cologne filled her nose. She turned her face, feeling the texture of his skin against her cheek.

  He shifted a little and her weight overbalanced, sending them both sprawling on the bed.

  He began to laugh again. “I always have so much fun with you.”

  She tilted her head up to look at him. “Isn’t this always fun? Isn’t that the point?”

  “Not like this. I don’t know why, but it’s different with you. I can be laughing and playing and be delightfully happy. Oh, don’t get me wrong—I am eager for things to move along. But still, this is perfect.”

  He reached out a bare foot and stroked it along her calf. It was her turn to laugh. She hadn’t realized her legs were ticklish.

  His foot brushed higher up and she gasped. He smiled, devilishly, and moved in for further attack.

  With a quick jerk she slithered sideways, running her hands across his bare ribs. His laughter increased.

  And then it was all-out warfare.

  Tickle. Rub. Nip.

  Her ribs hurt from laughing and her eyes watered with joy—not, she was sure, in an attractive way.

  She fell back on the bed, chest heaving as she tried to pull in a full breath. “This isn’t at all what I imagined.”

  “Haven’t you ever had a tickle fight before? You must have as a child.”

  That stilled her. A tickle fight? She couldn’t remember anything even close. Her siblings had both been older, and Violet had left home when Isabella was still very young. It was impossible to even think of Masters in a tickle fight. She thought he’d hugged her once or twice, but even that was hard to be sure of. Her family had never been one for physical closeness.

  She changed the subject. “That’s not what I meant. I was referring to my planned seduction. I think the only part that has gone as planned is that we are both in my bed.”

  “I thought you refused to claim it as yours—the bed of purple passion, that is.”

  “Can’t you be serious for a moment? Seduction is supposed to be serious.” She rolled over and leaned up on her elbow.

  He stared up at her. “Why?”

  “Because this is my whole life. I am changing everything. It should not be a joke. This might be fun, but I cannot forget everything in my life will change because of this.”

  The smile dropped from his face. “You are right. This is serious, but it is also fun. It should always be fun. Don’t forget that, Isabella. We can be as serious as you like, but we should both have a good time.” He brushed a hand over the thin fabric covering her breasts.

  She swallowed at the look in eyes. How could sheer silliness change to passion so quickly?

  His gaze focu
sed on her mouth and her face was drawn toward his.

  It started with a simple brush of lips on lips. Soft and dry. Almost the kiss she would have given a friend after a long absence. But only almost.

  No friend would have tempted her to open her mouth, to let her tongue slip out, to taste, to sample—

  —and then to devour.

  It happened in the blink of an eye. One moment there was curiosity and innocence, and the next, flames.

  Lips ground against lips. His hands swept through her hair, holding her head captive. His tongue ran around her lips and she opened them to him, wanting to taste him, to feel him, to drive him on.

  His hands slid down over her shoulders, down to her breasts. He pulled back a moment, looking deep into her eyes, and then with a simple twist of hips he was over her, on top of her, his hips grinding into hers as he fitted them together. His breeches and her gown were still between them, but her body only knew what it wanted—and wanted now.

  Her hands locked around his head, his hair was silk, thick and alive, but still silk. She could have spent hours running her fingers through it, but that would have kept her from feeling the rough nap of his beard, the sweet fullness of his lips. She didn’t know where to touch next, where to taste next.

  Her whole being was caught on the wonder of skin on skin, on the glory of touch.

  She felt him glide her gown and robe down her shoulders, over her arms. She replied by rubbing herself against him. He felt like warm velvet. And smelled like . . . leather, musk, a hint of cigar—and something else, something she could only define as him, as Mark.

  And then there was no thought, only touch and sensation.

  There was fire, and light, and glory—oh yes, there was glory. Isabella had never realized that all these sensations could exist at once, that her whole body could be nothing but feeling.

  Her head fell back against the pillows as she sucked in a great breath. The other afternoon had been wonderful—at least until the interruption—but it had been nothing compared to this.

  Mark stared down at her, his gaze firmly locked upon her breasts. His eyes were black with desire and she could feel the movement of each deep breath filling her chest. Reaching out, he ran a single finger down the side of her breast, following the full curve. Each inch of flesh he traced quivered. She had not known she was so sensitive there.