She took his face in her hands.
“Archer,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “What coward?”
“I asked you to trust me, and you did. You put everything dearest to you in my hands and took me at my word that I would treat them as if they were my own. But when you asked the same of me, I flinched. I couldn’t bear to reveal myself.”
He wound one of her curls around his finger and traced her cheek with his knuckle. “Cavendish, here is the truth. What you saw on Charlotte Street was not a chance occurrence. I’m an investor in the club and I have gone there for years. I enjoy being at another’s mercy. So much that I sometimes feel I will buckle or go mad without it. I told myself that I was justified in hiding it—that if you knew how I longed to be on my knees in the dark, you might not see me the same way. That you’d think me weak. Or like my father.”
She clenched his hand in hers. “Archer, you are not weak. And you are nothing like your father.”
The sentiment was sweet. He wished he could believe her.
She squeezed his hand. “The man I see before me had his family ripped away and replaced with debt and responsibility and grief. And he rose to the occasion anyway. He took care of the people around him despite the damage that he shouldered. He tries so hard to be a good and decent man. And it is the trying that makes him so. It is the effort that is the mark of character. Not your parentage. And certainly not what you desire in the dark.”
He did not know what to say.
Her eyes glowed. She picked up her wedding ring from the desk and held it to the light. “Do you wish for me to wear this ring again?”
He could not hold back a ravaged sigh. “I love you. But I can’t ask you to risk your reputation over tastes you do not share. Perhaps we could work out some arrangement—”
“Teach me,” she said softly.
His thoughts went still and silent.
“Teach you?” he repeated.
“Yes. You see, I’m afraid I’m not done negotiating, Your Grace. If you want me back, you will have to show me exactly what it is that you enjoy on your knees.”
She traced his thumb with her finger and smiled demurely, but with a glint of something avaricious in her eyes.
Every hair on his body suddenly stood at attention.
“You want—”
“Yes. Every day since I found you in that blasted town house, I have thought about the way you looked that night and wanted you that way. For myself. Every single day.”
“Fuck, Cavendish.” God help him, but those were the most arousing words he had ever heard.
He took the ring and slid it down over her finger. “Then you shall have me. Any way you wish.”
He bent and kissed her. She was so soft. So feminine and sweet-smelling and gentle.
She bit his lower lip.
“Teach me how to leave you ravished.”
Chapter 32
Poppy had grown nervous, waiting for her husband to settle his equipage in the stables for the night. In his absence she had belatedly recalled she was not, in fact, a fearsome broker of men’s most intimate desires. She was a gardener from Wiltshire.
One who was very possibly going to humiliate herself.
“What’s wrong?” Archer asked when at last he reappeared, his hair wet with snowflakes. He was carrying a length of rope and, dear God, a riding crop.
“Are those for me?”
He winked at her. The scoundrel winked at her.
She buried her face in her hands. “Archer, I feel so foolish. I haven’t the slightest idea what to do.”
He took her in his arms and pressed her against his body, smelling deliciously of blizzards. “You needn’t do anything but stand here. I’m mad for you exactly as you are.”
“What if I make myself absurd?”
He took her hand and ran it down to his breeches where, even through the thick wool of his coat, she could feel the distinct hardness of arousal. “You won’t.”
She took a deep breath and let her fingers linger. Right. She had always had this effect on him. All she needed to do was be the mistress of how she used it.
Had she not studied the final, curious plates in her stolen book, imagining just such an opportunity?
She picked up the riding crop. She liked the anticipation that flamed in his eyes when she held it in her hand and studied it. But she didn’t wish to injure him.
“I want to please you. But I’m worried I will hurt you.”
“You needn’t. Pain is not precisely the point, at least not for me. But it heightens the pleasure of being overmastered. And I can take a lot of it.”
The pleasure of being overmastered. The idea of giving that to him was enough to make her look at the crop with renewed interest.
“Will you show me what you like?”
He took the crop and gave a slight switch against the air. “A little flick. See? Just take care not to bruise my hands or face. And don’t draw blood.”
“How will I know if it’s too much?”
“May I show you?” he asked, turning her hand palm up.
She gulped. “Yes.”
He lightly switched the delicate inch of bare skin between her sleeve and her hand.
“Ye gods!” she yelped, snatching it away. His eyes were full of laughter as he put her smarting wrist to his lips.
“Do you see? It’s not much worse than a bee sting. You won’t kill me.”
She hid her smile with her hand. This was rather funny. She was like a kitten being taught the gestures of the hunt by the very mouse she wished to eat for dinner.
“And what would you have me do with the rope?”
Her husband blushed. Actually blushed.
“Whatever you want to do, I hope,” he said, laughing a bit at himself. “That’s what I want. To be at your disposal. To surrender to your will.”
“And what if I do too much?”
He smiled wolfishly. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Cavendish.”
She rolled her eyes at him, though she had to admit, his mix of shyness and obvious excitement was putting her at ease.
He lifted up her chin. “I’m giving you permission to do what you like. You can be merciful or make me suffer. Withhold pleasures or give them in such abundance it’s a torture. I want you to use me in any way you can imagine. But, Poppy—if you don’t want to, then you needn’t do anything at all. You can stop whenever you like. And if something is too much for me, I’ll say the word …” He paused to think, then winked at her. “… greenhouse. And we’ll stop.”
It was strange to discuss such acts so frankly. And yet, she rather liked it. She liked the dreamy expression that cast about his eyes as he told her what he wanted. She wanted to give him exactly that.
“There’s one more thing,” he said. “Afterwards, I might be shaky. It can be quite intense. Be … tender with me. If you would.” He coughed, and his cheeks went red again.
In that moment she loved him so much she thought she might drip like a puddle though the floorboards. She pulled him toward her and kissed his brow.
“I shall take excellent care of you.”
He laughed, raggedly, and the expression in his eyes once again went lusty. “Not too excellent, I hope.”
She leaned back against the sideboard and placed her finger to her lips, thinking. “Very well. Enough of your lessons, Westmead.”
He watched her, a slight smile still playing on his lips. “You look adorable like that.”
She glared at him. He was provoking her. He knew that condescension irritated her and he was using it to his advantage.
She crossed her arms. “Stop smiling or I shall have to abuse you.”
He straightened out his face, gentle amusement still flickering in his eyes. “I hope so.”
“Remove your cravat,” she said sternly.
He shrugged off his overcoat and laid it over a chair, then unknotted his neckcloth, taking ample time to unwrap it from around his neck and fold it into a cris
p rectangle. Ever fastidious, her husband. She picked up the riding crop and used it to upend the tidy bundle, smiling as it tumbled to the floor.
A flicker of annoyance crossed his face.
“Pick it up and bring it here.”
He did as she instructed. That was better.
“Be still.” She smoothed down his hair and wound the fabric over his eyes by several lengths, blindfolding him.
Yes, much better. He could not mock her fumbling attempts at mastery if he wasn’t allowed to see them.
She took her time sliding his breeches from his legs, teasing at the soft skin between his thighs. Goose bumps rose where her hands traveled. He was not immune to her. Not even close.
She slid his shirt over his head and let it graze his hip bones as it fell to the floor.
She placed both of her hands on his chest and ran her nails lightly down his skin until she reached his navel. She breathed in warmth and sandalwood.
His mouth fell open a bit as her fingers swirled into the hair leading to his groin. So did hers. Her instinct was to kiss him, but instead she moved her hand to his male parts and closed her grip around his cock. He was aroused, but not urgently so. She ran her finger from his bollocks to the cleft between his arse. He widened his thighs in invitation. She dropped to her knees and took the head of his sex in her mouth. She wanted to make him very, very hard. He let out a groan as she took him deeper, and he ran his hands through her hair.
She waited until he was frantic, bucking to give her more of his length, then released him. “None of that. You are not to touch me unless I tell you to. Come.”
She led him to the edge of her desk, knocking all the books and papers to the floor.
“Lie down.”
She moved his arms over his head and tied them to the legs of the desk with the rope. He gasped at the chafing of the fibers along his wrists. He was fully, resplendently aroused now. She smiled at the sight.
“I hope the servants don’t come in and find you like this,” she said, her fingers landing on his nipples.
At this idea, he practically whimpered.
She twisted.
“Oh, you might like that? Wicked man.” He hissed at the pain and the muscles of his abdomen contracted as his cock jumped in the air.
Intriguing.
She took the riding crop and ran it up and down the inside of his leg, allowing the ridge of it to dig into his skin. He sucked in his breath. She flicked it down on his inner thigh, where its imprint left a pink half-moon.
This produced an enthusiastic response from his loins. She teased his erection delicately with the end of her crop.
“What shall we do with this?”
He lifted his hips off the table.
“Naughty man.”
She trailed the crop away from his groin and back up to his chest, pausing to flick several times over his shoulders. He gasped in pain, and for a moment she wondered if she had gone too far. But he was smiling.
So that was the alchemy. Pain increased his pleasure, just as he’d said. Mingling the two was the way to draw him to the dazed, erotic place she had witnessed in the town house.
God, how she wanted to see him in that place again. To take him there herself.
If he could still smile, it was time to raise the stakes.
“Enough rest for you.” She untied his wrists and led him to stand before the armoire against the wall, leaning forward with his back to her. “Put your hands above you. Don’t make a sound.”
She ran the crop between his legs, letting it graze the cleft of his buttocks. He moaned. She flicked his arse painfully with the flat of her hand as punishment. “Silence.”
He obeyed, but she felt him tense with arousal. She hit him again with her palm, harder, until his backside was bright red and his knees were shaking.
He let her. He no longer provoked her, only took what she meted out. He disappeared into her control, putting his most vulnerable self fully in her power.
The harder she hit him, the more he abandoned himself.
“Oh, my darling,” she whispered, running her hand over the hot red marks on his skin. He leaned back into the pressure, wanting her affection as much as he wanted her aggression.
Trusting her.
He trusted her.
All at once she felt as if she held something very precious and very, very delicate in her hands. Like she controlled the universe, and she must be very, very gentle with it.
He leaned his head against the wardrobe limply, his shoulders trembling.
She felt his desire, and his powerlessness, like a caress of her own loins. She felt herself grow liquid, the room disappearing, nothing in it but him and her and the connection that ran between them.
She rested her cheek against his back. It was hot to the touch from her blows.
“What will I do with you?” she asked shakily.
His voice was like that of a man in a trance. “Hit me harder.”
She moved her face to his neck and kissed him, tenderly, instead. When he leaned in to her mouth, she sank her teeth into the hollow between his neck and shoulder. He gasped. She placed her hands on his shoulders and urged him down, until he was kneeling.
He was crouched before the armoire, his knees spread, his powerful thighs flexed. The pose was at once servile and athletic. Gorgeous to behold. All hers.
She hit him as hard as she could square across the cheeks of his buttocks with her crop. He wrenched back in mingled pain and pleasure. She did it until her arm throbbed and he had fallen to his forearms. He looked just as he had the night she had discovered him in the darkened town house. All broken and bereft and aroused and strong and wanting.
“Turn around and show yourself to me,” she ordered.
He was flushed and swollen with arousal. His cock pulsed in the air, wet at the tip, wanting attention.
“Touch yourself.”
He put a hand around his erection and gripped it.
“Surely you want more than that,” she said. “Surely you must be dying to stroke it. Would you like to?”
“Yes,” he groaned, moving his hand up and down along the shaft.
She loved it, watching him in this private act. Seeing him aroused as he was only by himself. She wanted to see his face.
She untied the blindfold. His wrist paused.
She kissed his shoulder.
Panting, he looked down at her, with a gaze that spoke of ecstasy and torture all at once. He shuddered. His eyes met hers intently. And then she realized what he was waiting for.
Her permission.
She ran her hand to the tip of him and smeared his essence across the head of his cock with her thumb.
He let out a sob. She shivered.
“You want to come so badly, don’t you?”
“Yes. Christ, yes. Please.”
“Please what? What is it you want?”
He shuddered. “To spend. For you to watch me.”
Her breath caught.
“Bring yourself to satisfaction.”
He ran his tongue against his palm, then lowered it around himself, moistening his cock before he fucked his fist in long, intent strokes.
“Now. Spill for me,” she ordered.
His eyes shot open and for a split second they met hers, and what she saw in them was naked, unguarded confession—a soul announcing itself. A cry came from deep inside of him. He yelled as a thick arc spurted from his loins. He kept his eyes open as he came. Staring right into hers.
She felt molten to her core, watching him watch her.
She fell to her knees and pressed her head to his hot, slickened skin.
“Oh, my darling,” she whispered.
He buried his face in her skirts, tears falling from his eyes.
She held him as he recovered, stroking his hair, kissing each smarted mark left on his skin.
When his breath returned to normal, she retrieved a cloth and a pitcher of cool water from the table and dabbed away the mess he’d ma
de.
“Thank you,” he said, looking up at her. “It’s never been quite so … I’ve never … thank you.”
She bent down and kissed away the last traces of his tears.
“Was it all right?” he asked, looking up at her from below his lashes. “For you?”
In answer she took his hands and put them on her breasts. “Touch me.”
He drew her to his lap and kissed her slowly, passionately. His hands were suddenly everywhere that she was. She put her own on top of his and led them down between her thighs.
What she had done to him had driven her half-mad. If he didn’t touch her between her legs, she would faint.
His eyes lit with recognition. She was his now, the mantle of control returned. He gave her soothing little kisses on her neck and breasts as he tucked her against his side and lifted her skirts. She opened her legs for him and his fingers quickly found her most urgent, needy parts. He put a finger inside her as his thumb worked intently along the edges of her womanhood and his teeth gave her nipples dancing little licks and bites through her dress, like a physician who knew exactly how to tend her. Stars lit behind her eyes and she collapsed on him with a cry, shaking and boneless, her body like a fever dream.
He wrapped his arms around her and tucked her between his legs. They were silent as they held each other and minutes passed filled only with their panting. The very portrait of an utterly spent and wicked duke and his improper, debauched duchess.
Archer dressed slowly, taking the time to feel the soreness of his skin. To let himself savor it, the proof that it was real. Poppy had seen the part of him that desired to be commanded. And it had only made her want him more.
It had made her want him more.
“Thank you,” he said to her, sitting back down beside her on the floor.
She looked unsteady, and so he smiled at her, and she smiled back. And then she burst into tears.
Oh, Christ. He had been so lust-addled he had not seen he had thoroughly horrified her, and now that she had had time to reflect, she had come to her senses. He’d been doddering with his waistcoat buttons and given her time to change her mind about him.
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