What a Duke Wants

by Lavinia Kent

  “I can’t say I ever thought to hear it pass your lips either.” His words ground out as her hand continued to move. “And I do have on my smallclothes. Divers was ready to send me out bare assed, but I refused. I could only think of what might happen if a breeze arose. There are some secrets a duke must keep.”

  She knew he strove for humor, but that word, duke, stood between them. She did not need the reminder. Refusing to let it intrude, she licked at his neck again, bringing her mouth close enough to nip him slightly. Moving her second hand to join the first she slipped them both under his skirts, seeking the fastenings that held him concealed from her direct touch. The darkness pushed back inhibition, but it also made some things rather difficult.

  He pulled back from her touch. “You too.” His hand quickly rose to her left shoulder, his fingers pulling loose the single pin that fastened her costume. The pin dropped to the floor with a small clatter as her dress fell to her waist, held only by a thin gold belt of chain.

  Then his lips were on her, sucking, laving, devouring.

  She met him fully, no longer the meek miss he had first met.

  This would be their last time and she meant to make it a time to remember.

  The darkness of the room made her aware of each sensation, the rug beneath her toes, the gentle tickle of her gown at each shift in position, the roughness of the hair on his legs as they rubbed against her own—as they slipped between her own—the tightness of the chain at her waist as he pulled to free it, the night air cold against the moisture he’d left on her breasts. And those lips, his lips—hot, wet, plundering—leaving her no recourse. Her head fell back, her whole being focused on those inches where mouth met flesh. All faded from her world as he continued his attack. He caught a nipple between his teeth, pulling, nipping just hard enough to make her cry out.

  She brought her own hand to her mouth, biting down hard to silence the gasps that grew loud and heavy. Her other hand tangled in his hair, the waves silky beneath her touch, unsure whether to push him away and grant herself the chance to breathe or to pull him tighter and drown in the sensations that he caused.

  “You taste of honey. You’ve never tasted of honey before.” His voice was raspy. She could hear his arousal in it, gauge just how far he’d come and just how far he had to go. It was not nearly far enough. He was sending her on ahead of him.

  That would never do.

  She pulled back on his head, bending to bring her lips near to his own, tasting herself upon his breath. “I used a different lotion. Do you like it? It leaves behind a sheen, as if I’d dipped my breasts in gold. My nipples shone bright before I dressed.”

  “Let me open the curtain. I need to see you. I’ll do anything, just let me see you.”

  “No, you will have to imagine how I looked fresh from my bath, covered with gold, my hair damp about me, curling in every direction.”

  “You are killing me.”

  “I know—and you love it. Are your eyes closed, are you dreaming of me, of what I looked like? I promise you it was even better.” She kissed him gently on the mouth, but as he tried to capture her lips, she moved upward, raining kisses upon his bristly cheeks until she came upon his closed eyelids. She kissed each one soundly, tasting him as she went. “You did close your eyes. You are thinking of me.”

  “I am always thinking of you, even when I should not be.”

  “Well, right now you definitely should be.” She slid her hand down from his hair, caressing the hard sinews of his neck, the muscles of his shoulders, the curve of his back, his high firm buttocks—they deserved an extra squeeze. He moaned as she slipped her hand beneath his skirts again, into the tight linen of his undergarments. Her hand came forward, around him, encasing him. “I like it when you think of me. Would you like a reward?” She moved her lips back to his mouth, finding his tongue, sucking it deep into her own mouth, biting at its tip, squeezing, pulling back, releasing—imitating that other action he liked so well.

  His penis jerked hard beneath her hand. He understood her exactly.

  But then his own hands were on her back, on her waist, lower—slipping between her thighs. He sighed against her mouth as he felt her dampness, the stickiness that already marked her wants, her needs. She squirmed, unable to hold herself still as his fingers found the spot.

  Oh, and he knew it. He targeted it again and again, clearly enjoying her helplessness.

  But she was not that helpless. She moved her own hand, stroking with all the expertise that he had taught her. She knew just what he liked, the slight cupping over the top, the long pull, the extra pressure along the bottom. She knew and she used it, pushing him farther and farther along the road they both longed to travel.

  There was nothing but sensation, taste, touch, sound. With her eyes blinded by dark her whole world was he. The feel of him. The feel of him touching her.

  She’d never heard the sound of a day’s growth of beard moving against skin. She heard it now.

  Never felt the breeze as clothing brushed along her flesh. She did now.

  Never tasted the man beneath the smoke and leather and brandy. Now she thought she’d know him anywhere simply by the taste of him in her mouth.

  And she knew his forehead, his shoulder, the back of his knee—all by touch. Blindness took her to places that she’d never been.

  She moved her hand again, reveling in the velvet of his skin. His whole body jerked. He was getting close. She loosened her grasp, but just a bit, laid kisses upon his neck, wished she could touch his chest, feel his bare skin against her fully.

  “I need to be in you—now.” It was both a gasp and a prayer.

  He was going to die. Here and now, surrounded by black, he was going to die. Die of pleasure. His mind was still filled with the vision of her polished in gold, her nipples gleaming. The tighter he closed his eyes the stronger the image grew. She was his queen and he wanted only to adore her.

  And the taste. The taste of honey. He’d been fond of the sweet before, but now, now he wanted it with every meal until the end of his days. There could be nothing better than this. Sweetness. Woman. He wanted more. He was tempted to pull her to the floor, to bury his face between her legs, to bring her all the pleasure she was bringing him, to taste her honey, to— He couldn’t wait another moment.

  It had to be now.

  He slid his hands up, pulling her gown with them. Settling them firmly, he lifted her, pulling her against him until he felt her core. He shifted his hips forward, until he was poised just where he wanted to be.

  “Now.” He wasn’t sure which one of them had spoken, but in the black it didn’t matter.

  He thrust up, pulling her down and entering her in a single move.

  He stopped then, caught in the pleasure of that second, that moment.

  He felt her weight, the strain on his legs, and cared not at all. Only one thing mattered, the warmth, the homecoming, the ultimate perfection.

  “I need to move.” This time he knew it was she who spoke.

  He lifted her again, settled her back down.

  “No, I want to move. That’s you moving,” she said.

  “Demanding, aren’t you?”

  “Of course. I learned from you.”

  He chuckled. Even now he could laugh at the joy she brought him.

  How to set her down? He refused to be separated for even a moment.

  Was there really a harpsichord in the room? If the cover was down it would be perfect. If it wasn’t—well, that could be disaster. He could only imagine the noise—and the aftermath.

  He stood still, shifting his hips only enough to keep her gasping.

  He debated. “How about against the wall? I should be able to find a wall.”

  “It will still be you moving. I want my turn.”

  “How about you have your turn next time?”

  She stiffened slightly, her muscles tensing about him. “No. It must be now.”

  He managed to bend one knee, lowering her feet to the flo
or. Her arms wrapped tight about him, she buried her face against his chest.

  He would never be quite sure how, but they made it to the floor still connected. He held himself above her, glad he could feel soft carpet below. He would have hated to lay her on hard wood, or icy marble.

  Her feet pushed hard against the rug, lifting her hips, grinding against him. She’d wanted to move and it was evident that she was not going to wait. Setting the pace, she lifted and settled, working for her own pleasure, but also for his.

  If there had been any light to see it would not have mattered. He was beyond sight, caught only in feeling, the feeling of her. He heard her gasps, felt her tightening, her flexing. Her breasts were damp beneath his chest, the nipples teasing him to taste again.

  He found her lips again instead, drawing her into a deep, soulful kiss, a kiss that spoke to all that could not be said.

  She squeezed tight, her mouth opening beneath him, allowing him freedom to plunder as her body arched up, squeezing him tighter than ever.

  She was so close, but so was he.

  And then there was only swirly color, prisms of light that shone even in the darkness, filling his senses.

  He cried out once, and then again. Her name. Bella. His Bella.

  He felt her come apart beneath him.

  And then it was done.

  He held himself a moment more before collapsing, twisting to pull her atop him, before allowing his body to relax.

  It was over. She’d given herself this one last time and now it was done. His heart beat steady against her ear. The sound of comfort—even if the leather breastplate was not. Stirring, she rearranged herself so her head was cradled in his arm. They were lucky no one had heard them. Neither of them had been careful or silent at the end.

  She kissed his shoulder, soft, gentle, wishing there were words to portray the way she felt, full of joy and sadness, bittersweet in a way she could not remember.

  “You never answered,” he kept his voice soft. “Was it all a plan to make me realize how much I needed you? You pretend to leave and then come back in this delicious fashion.”

  She wanted to ask if he had realized he needed her. If she knew she was needed it would make leaving both harder and easier. It would mean something to know that she was valued, that she had not just been a conquest for him.

  But it was time for truth, at least as much as she could tell. “No. It was no game. I really did leave. It never occurred to me that I would see you here, that we would meet up here.”

  “Then why did you not avoid me during the dancing? You could have lost yourself in the crowd.”

  “I should have, but I could not. At first I did not believe that you did not recognize me. I knew instantly that it was you.”

  “I should be ashamed of that. It sounds false now if I say that on some level I did recognize you—but in truth I must have. Nothing else could explain what happened. It is not the way I behave.”

  “Strangely I believe you. Whatever it is between us, it is strong, uncontrollable. I could no more have not come with you than I could have stopped breathing.”

  “Then we are together? You will come home with me? We will go back to the way things were—or start again if you like.”

  She could not impose upon him the trust she’d have to demand, the protection, the compromise of his position in society. She could not believe he would—or even necessarily should—hide what she’d done.

  “No. This is the end,” she answered. “It is why I could not resist. When you came to me across the dance floor, it felt as if the fates were offering me a gift, a gift I could not refuse.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “I am not made for the life you offer me.” She shifted up and laid a kiss upon his mouth. His tender lips softened beneath hers, and then pulled away.

  “I offer you everything.”

  “Except what I want, what I need.”

  He pushed to sitting, and then stood. He walked slowly across the room. She heard the light scratch of a finger as he ran it against the wall, seeking the curtains. Suddenly there was light, not much, but enough. The pale moonlight shone through the window, filling the room, driving their isolation away.

  He turned back to her, his costume fallen into place. Only the mask was missing. It lay scowling on the ground beside her.

  She traced its brow line with a finger. “I wish I could take what you offer—or explain to you why it could never work.”

  “Why don’t you try?” He walked back to her, standing above her like a conquering king. Her mind formed the image of them, the proud Roman warrior and the half-dressed maiden supine at his feet.

  She sat up, pulling her knees to her chest, but not trying to restore her gown. “What if I had a child? I know some mistresses do, but I cannot imagine such a life. I would want more for my baby.”

  “There are steps we can take to prevent that.”

  “But they are not reliable—they help, but nothing prevents a child that wants to be born. And even if it did work, do you want to leave me without the chance to hold my own baby, to never know the joys of motherhood?”

  “We discussed this in the carriage, before you agreed to be my mistress.” He shoulders pulled back. He had returned to being the duke.

  “Yes, and we did not resolve it then. You merely said you would take care of everything. And now I ask how? I gave in to you because I felt I had no choice—and I will admit it was what I wanted, the chance to lie in your arms, to know all the pleasure I would find there. I just never imagined how all the rest of it would feel. How it would feel to see how the other servants look at me, to know what your valet thinks, to have him drop a purse to pay me for my services.”

  “I realize now I did not handle that well. I can do better.” A bit of Mark peeked through; she could hear the man beneath the façade.

  She pushed to standing, imagined herself a brave goddess queen with her mortal lover. Her breasts stood bare and she made no move to cover them, let him look—and remember. “I do believe you. I believe you would try, but there are too many problems. What will happen when you marry? I know you want to believe it will not make a difference, but how can it not? How can it be fair to me—or to her? How will I feel when you hold your child—yours and hers—in your arms and I will know that it can never be me?”

  “I will let you go when I marry. I will see you well settled. But that will not be for years yet.”

  She filled her chest, watching his eyes follow the rise of her breasts. His desire fed her strength. “So I shall be discarded later? Besides, I do not believe it will be years. Do you think I do not hear the whispers? They are not always quiet. There is pressure on you to wed. There is no heir to the duchy. If you die then it will revert to the Crown. Nobody wants that, not even the king, I daresay.”

  “You are right about that—but I can delay them. You are what I want.”

  “But not enough to marry.”

  “You know that is impossible.”

  She did know it, knew it better than he did—it was just not for the reasons he thought. He could not marry a nursery maid, but Miss Isabella Hermione Masters would have been a suitable bride—not a good match by any means, but an acceptable one. “Yes, I know. But I do not feel your regret, as you will feel mine every time we are together. And over time that regret may grow to resentment, anger, even hatred. Neither of us wants that, I am sure.”

  He did not answer. Not a flicker of emotion showed upon his face.

  She turned from him then, picking up his sword and mask and placing them on the harpsichord’s bench. She retrieved her own mask, debating whether she would wear it again. She only needed to slip upstairs—while letting Mark believe she had departed. The servants had seen her face already and had not realized her identity. She should be as safe as ever.

  She glanced about. The pin to hold her dress was nowhere to be seen.

  Chapter 25

  She was going to leave him—again. Mark felt as
if a small piece were being ripped from his chest, a piece he could not live without. He could function, but not live.

  He was not sure why this was so much worse than believing her gone earlier, but it was. This was final. If she left now he would never see her again.

  He had to say something. “Of course I regret, but what good does it do to talk about it? I do not make a habit of considering the impossible. Can you not take what is possible?”

  “I wish I could.” She held her dress up, peering down at the floor. “Damn it. I cannot find the pin. I can’t leave with my dress about my waist. And you have me swearing. I never swear.”

  “Come here. Maybe I can tie it.” The last thing he wanted was to enable her to leave, not to mention that he could happily have kept her near naked forever, but it was the gentlemanly thing to do. Unfortunately the silk did not agree. It twisted from his fingers, unknotting itself and sliding loose again. The fine weave refused to stay tied.

  “Do you have a pin? You must have something,” she asked, her voice laden with worry.

  “No, normally I’d have a pin in my cravat, but obviously on this occasion I don’t. What about an ear bob? I am sure you were wearing some earlier.”

  “They’re attached to the wig.”

  He considered for a moment and then pulled the heavy ruby ring from his pinky finger. “Here. I’ll see if I can loop it through this and make it stay.”

  It was done. A few twists through the ring and it held. Perhaps not for long, but hopefully for long enough. He might regret covering her, but he did not wish to share her glory with any other man.

  Her hand rose and touched the ring, caressed the knot. The ring had been his father’s, the ruby brought from India decades ago, but he would not regret it. It would be one last gift he could give her. She might not appreciate its value now, but hopefully if she ever did need money again, she would use it.