Never Kiss a Duke

by Megan Frampton

  “You’re quite vain, Your Grace,” she said, slapping his arse playfully.

  He drew the neckcloth over her belly, tenderly wiping away the evidence of their coupling. “I’m not vain, it is all true. I am the best lover you’ve ever had—”

  “You’re the only one I’ve ever had,” she interrupted in an amused tone.

  “And I am handsome and witty and charming. You cannot deny it. Why else would you be lying naked with me on this somewhat uncomfortable table?”

  “And I am famished. Who knew the activity would render one starving?”

  “Starving for more of my kisses?” he teased.

  She rolled her eyes. “Yes, of course, but you’re going to have to hear my stomach rumbling if we go much longer without food.”

  She wriggled off the table as he kept his gaze on her. Lush, luscious, and utterly naked. He never wanted her to put clothing on again, not now that he knew what she looked like underneath.

  He felt his cock stir. Already? He’d just finished, and here he was, wanting to go again, to bury himself in her plush softness. Perhaps bring her to climax when he was inside her this time.

  “Let’s see what Mac has in the kitchen,” she said. She had picked up his shirt, and was pulling it over her head, her delighted face grinning at him as the shirt dropped to midthigh.

  He arched a brow at her, then took her shift, which was hanging off the other end of the table, and put it on. The armholes were tight, but otherwise, it fit like one of his nightshirts. It hung to his knees, and he smoothed the fabric down, glancing up to meet her appreciative gaze.

  “That is—well, I never realized how sheer that is,” she commented, her expression one of frank appraisal.

  He looked down, noting the bump in the fabric where his semierect cock was. “Or we could just remove all this and do it again,” he said in what he hoped was a persuasive tone.

  She shook her head. “Too hungry.”

  So much for his much-vaunted charm.

  “Lead the way,” he replied, holding his arm out toward the kitchen at the back. She walked ahead, and he kept his eyes on her round arse as it swayed from side to side under his shirt.

  They reached the kitchen, Ivy peering around the room before beckoning him inside. “Nobody’s here.”

  “It’s a bit late to worry about that, isn’t it, given what we just—?” he asked.

  She swatted him on the arm. “Hush.” Her cheeks were flushed. From passion or embarrassment?

  “Now that you mention it, I am hungry, as well.” The sooner they were fed, the sooner they might be able to return to fucking.

  And one always needed nourishment for important tasks.

  “Mac usually keeps some supplies over here.” She examined the cupboards, catching her lip with her teeth as she looked.

  She was adorable. And eminently fuckable. Sebastian began to conduct his own examination, trying to figure out the most forgiving surface for his knees.

  “Bread!” She held up a loaf in triumph. “And he should have some cheese and butter in the larder.” She put the bread down on the large table in the middle of the room, walking over to the small room at the side of the kitchen, reappearing within minutes holding a plate in each hand. One plate held a block of butter, and the other held cheese. She deposited the plates on the table next to the bread.

  “We just need a knife,” she said, looking thoughtful. “I believe he keeps his—oh, here,” she said, opening a drawer and withdrawing a knife. She looked at him with an amused expression. “I don’t suppose you would care for some tea?”

  He grimaced exaggeratedly. “I am thirsty,” he admitted.

  “Set the kettle on,” she ordered, beginning to slice the bread.

  He approached the stove gingerly, spotting the kettle on top of one of the burners. And paused. He had no idea how—

  “You don’t know how to light the stove, do you, Your Grace?” she asked. She sounded far too amused.

  “I am certain it is not that difficult,” he replied. “A stove requires fire and . . . something.” He glanced around, spotting a jar of matches to the right. “This!” he exclaimed, plucking one out.

  “And then what, Your Grace?”

  He was going to figure this out if it killed him. “Uh . . .” He bent down and opened the door to the oven, spotting some charred wood. “Wood. I need wood.”

  “Over there,” she replied, pointing to a box filled with logs. He walked over and pulled one from the pile, then thrust it into the stove in triumph.

  “And then it’s a simple matter of lighting it, you see.”

  “I do see.” She was laughing at him. But he couldn’t blame her, given that he was wearing nothing but her shift and attempting to light a fire to make tea, his most loathed beverage.

  The wood caught after a few tenuous moments, and he squatted back from the stove feeling inordinately proud of himself.

  “Not bad, Your Grace. Here, I’ve cut some bread and cheese.”

  She sat on a stool, her knees raised up, her elbows on the table as though she were a mannerless heathen. He grinned and joined her, mirroring her posture. The bread and cheese were cut in neat slices, arranged on a platter between them.

  “You serve an excellent postcoital meal, my lady,” he said as he picked up a slice of bread and topped it with two slices of the cheese.

  “I will take your praise, given that it is the first postcoital meal I’ve ever served,” she replied in a wicked tone of voice.

  Would there be others? he wondered. He knew he wanted to do it again, next time preferably in a proper bed. Would she want to do it again? And what would it mean for their working relationship?

  “What are you thinking about?” she asked, taking a bite of her own bread and cheese.

  He couldn’t tell her. Not now, not when it was all so fresh. Not when he knew that if she told him never again that he would immediately try to seduce her, which wouldn’t be fair. But it would be him living up to his previous role as an unrepentant rake, something he didn’t think he was anymore, even if his cock would disagree.

  “About how I might actually enjoy tea in this context.”

  They both looked at the kettle, which was emitting a slim stream of steam.

  “How do you—?” he began.

  “When it whistles,” she answered, anticipating his question.

  “I’ve learned so many useful things in my position,” he mused, putting his food down on the platter. “How to gauge when a customer is in need of another beverage—or not. How to decorate a room quickly and inexpensively. What to say to persuade someone to try their luck again, even if their luck seems to have run out.”

  “You would never have learned any of that as a duke,” she pointed out.

  The kettle began to whistle. She stayed him with her hand, getting up and making the tea far more efficiently than he thought he could ever do, regardless of how much practice he’d had.

  Which, at this point in his tea-making career, was none.

  “There’s no whiskey here,” she said as she placed the steaming cup in front of him.

  He glared down at the clear brown liquid in the cup, then glanced up to meet her laughing eyes.

  “This might be the most difficult thing I’ve had to adjust to,” he said.

  She frowned. “What?”

  He gestured toward the cup. “Not being able to wave my hand and have whatever I want brought to me. Because I certainly never asked for tea when I was a duke.”

  “What did you ask for?”

  Sebastian’s expression froze at her question, and she wondered what it was that was making him react so strongly. Should she not have posed the question? But no, that was ridiculous; they’d just engaged in a carnal act, or a few of them—she wasn’t certain how carnal acts were totaled up—so her asking a question shouldn’t be out of line. Because if it was, she was going to have to reevaluate the relative importance of what they’d just done.

  “I didn’t u
sually have to ask. Things just . . . arrived.”

  She arched her brow as she took a sip of her tea. “So at any given moment your door would open to reveal a phalanx of servants bearing whiskey, and deviled eggs, and cakes?”

  “Is that your idea of what the nobility longs for? Whiskey and cake?” He tilted his head in thought. “I suppose that is not all that terrible a life.”

  “I suppose it wasn’t.” She paused. “You miss being a duke, you said before. Because you’re a reasonable person,” she added with a snort. “But does it bother you, what you’re missing?”

  He looked conflicted, and again she resisted the immediate impulse to apologize for her probing questions. Again, naked high jinks, so she was likely fine. She just had to remind herself of that. As though she would forget. She would never forget, for as long as she lived.

  “I’ve tried not to think about it, honestly. Mostly, I miss living with Ana Maria and not having to walk my dogs. Though then I would miss my conversations with your sister.”

  She smiled.

  “And I never realized just how privileged a position I had—it was just who I was, and then when I wasn’t, I realized there was so much I had taken for granted. If I were to return to that life, I wouldn’t take any of it for granted.”

  “Though you might have a servant walk your dogs,” she replied in a teasing voice.

  “Very possibly.”

  He took a sip of tea, grimacing as he set down the cup. “I will need to think about it eventually.” He shrugged as he ran his hands through his hair. Leaving it looking perfectly disheveled, although his appearance was definitely at odds with what he was wearing.

  “When it first happened, when I first arrived here, I was determined not to think about it so I wouldn’t long for it. It’s over and done, and there’s no point in bemoaning that. Or moping,” he added, his mouth curling up into a wry grin. “But with some distance, it is easier. My cousin and sister very much wish me to consider finding a place in their lives so we can be a family again.”

  “Are you not a family because you’re not a duke? Surely your cousin isn’t so haughty.” And if he was, then maybe he would stay forever, after all?

  She couldn’t think like that. She knew the reality of it.

  He laughed as he shook his head. “No, Thaddeus is a firm believer in achieving your greatness through merit. He was in the army before having to—to take over.”

  “So what is the impediment?” She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands. The sleeves of his shirt fell down her arm, nearly landing in the butter. She jumped and rolled the sleeves up over her elbows.

  He grinned at her. “My shirt is most delightful on you.” He reached forward, putting his index finger in between the fabric and her skin, drawing the shirt out from her body and looking brazenly at her breasts.

  She felt her breath catch at his expression. Of hunger, of desire, of admiration.

  She’d never been looked at like that.

  Of course, she’d never worn a gentleman’s shirt—and only a gentleman’s shirt—while cavorting with said gentleman.

  “And my shift is—well,” she said, scrutinizing him, “it’s not the most flattering attire. But you look quite fetching.”

  He rose, holding his arms out perpendicular to the floor, turning slowly around. The fabric fluttered around his back, around his hard, round arse. His legs were strong, the muscles shifting under his skin as he turned.

  She wanted to lick him everywhere.

  “What are you thinking about?” he said when he had turned in a complete circle and was facing her. One wicked eyebrow was raised, as though he knew perfectly well what she was thinking about.

  “I like your body,” she replied.

  He licked his lips, his eyelids drooping as he raked his gaze over her. “I can return the compliment.”

  Her skin began to heat all over.

  “You didn’t answer the question.” This was all too much, too intense. If she wasn’t careful, she would end up doing irreparable harm. To herself. She wasn’t naive enough to believe he would feel anything more than a passing fancy.

  A duke, an unmarried handsome duke, likely knew perfectly well how to navigate a sexual relationship with a person he had no intention of marrying.

  She should learn to do the same.

  “Question?” he asked.

  “Yes, what you were talking about,” she explained hastily. “The impediment to returning to your family.” The more she understood, the better prepared she’d be.

  He sat back down on the stool, but not before giving her a glance full of regret. As though saying, We could have been doing something much more delightful than talking, although she could be speaking for herself.

  “I didn’t want to be like my mother, compromising myself in order to stay in my preferred way of life. And then there is the pride, I suppose.” He snorted. “I wanted to prove that I could be on my own without anything, without any help. And to do that, I had to cut myself off from my family, or at least cut myself off from them providing substantive assistance. Ridiculous,” he added, after a moment.

  “It’s not ridiculous,” she said softly. “It’s admirable.” She paused, not wanting to ask the next obvious question, but knowing she’d be a coward if she didn’t. “Have you proved it to your own satisfaction?” she asked.

  Instead of replying, he stood up and held his hand out to her. She took it, allowing him to assist her off the stool.

  “I think we should stop talking,” he murmured, pulling her into his arms, then bending down to sweep her up under her knees, raising her against his chest.

  She glanced up at him, at the hungry, intense expression in his gaze, at how it felt to be in his arms.

  “I suppose,” she said in a wry tone, “that this is a reasonable option if you don’t intend to answer my question.”

  He chuckled as he carried her back into the gaming room.

  Chapter Twenty

  “No, not here,” she said in a stern whisper.

  It was the day after their tryst, and Sebastian was trying—unsuccessfully—to steal a kiss.

  They had spent the whole night together, talking and caressing and kissing. He’d never been naked and supine with a woman for so long before. He certainly had never shared secrets, nor laughed as hard.

  They’d implemented his idea for the ribbons, and the image of her wrapped up in all that color was something that would be imprinted on his brain for the rest of his life.

  When they’d finally reluctantly parted, he could smell her scent on his shirt.

  They’d crept back to their respective rooms in the early dawn, and Sebastian had stolen a few hours of sleep, his shirt tucked against his nose, before Byron and Keats had woken him up insisting their needs be met.

  And now it was midday, and Ana Maria’s party was this evening. There was a lot of work to do before then, however, which was why they were both in her office reviewing the staff schedule. She wouldn’t be on the floor to deal with any potential issues, and she was understandably nervous. So nervous, in fact, that he was trying to distract her—with kissing first, since that was something he would very much like to do, as well.

  It wasn’t working.

  In fact, he needed a distraction from thinking about kissing her.

  “Mr. Silver?” The maid, Carter, stood at the door to the office.

  “Yes?” He’d given up trying to correct his name.

  “There’s a gentleman here, he says—”

  Nash’s broad form appeared behind Carter. “Sebastian.”

  Ivy glanced between them, a tiny frown between her brows.

  “What is it, Nash? I’m working.”

  “If the duke wishes to speak to you, Mr. de Silva, I am certain I can spare you.”

  He didn’t like it when she used his proper name. Nor did he like it when she spoke so formally.

  “Come on, then.”

  Nash didn’t wait, he just turned around and walk
ed back down the hall, likely assuming Sebastian would follow.

  “A duke! That is a duke?” Carter said, her eyes wide.

  “Go,” Ivy commanded, shooing him away. “I don’t want a duke to feel ill-treated by Miss Ivy’s.” Carter nodded her head in agreement.

  Sebastian opened his mouth to retort—I don’t want to go with him, I want to stay here and kiss you senseless, perhaps persuade you to join me in an actual bed. The last caveat because his back and knees were sore from last night’s activities.

  “Go,” she repeated in a sterner voice.

  He liked it when she used her bossy tone, but not when she was telling him to leave.

  He shrugged, stepping past Carter to Nash, who stood at the end of the hall.

  “What do you want?” he said, glaring at his friend. Not that Nash knew he had interrupted what might have ended up being a pleasant afternoon before heading to Ana Maria’s party.

  But still.

  Nash glared back. As Sebastian knew he would.

  “Thad asked if we could meet at my house. Now, so we have time to dress for tonight.” And then he grimaced, as if he was pained by the thought of tonight’s festivities. “So I said I’d come collect you.”

  Sebastian waited for Nash to say more. Of course he didn’t have any more to say, since Nash was nothing if not taciturn. Still, he could have said something.

  “Did Thaddeus say what this was about? Why we have to meet now, when we’ve all got Ana Maria’s party to prepare for?”

  Nash shrugged. “No.”

  Sebastian exhaled in exasperation. “Fine. Let’s go.”

  It would take just as long to get Nash to spill everything he might know as it would for Sebastian to travel there, hear what Thaddeus had to say, and return home. He knew that, and yet he had to ask anyway.

  “We’ll walk,” Nash said as they left Miss Ivy’s.

  Sebastian nodded, increasing his pace to match Nash’s long stride. He’d grown accustomed to walking with Octavia or Ivy, he hadn’t had to push himself for a few weeks now.