She Tempts the Duke

by Lorraine Heath

  “We did. We took a trip from London to here.”

  She scowled at him, then realized he was not being deliberately obtuse. “No, they go somewhere that they can be alone.”

  “We’re alone here.”

  She bit back a growl. “Without responsibilities, so they can concentrate on each other.”

  He leaned back in his chair, one corner of his mouth curving up ever so slightly. “Have an itch for me to take you again?”

  She did, but not when he put it like that. She scoffed. “You’re impossible.”

  He patted his thigh. “Come here. I can take you here.”

  She set aside her secretary and rose. “That’s exactly what I desire. An uncomfortable tumble behind your desk.”

  “It won’t be uncomfortable.”

  “I’m going to take a bath.” She’d taken two steps—

  “Mary?”

  She stopped when everything inside her urged her to trudge on. His footsteps echoed toward her. They halted and his arms came around her, drawing her near. He kissed the back of her neck. “I need only a little while longer and I’ll come to your bed.”

  “And have me?”

  “Yes, unless you’d rather I not.”

  At least he was giving her the choice. There was something to be said for that, she supposed. Not all men would. “I’d rather you make love to me.”

  “All right,” he said quietly and touched his lips to her nape again.

  “Say it,” she urged softly.

  “I can’t.”

  “Because you don’t love me?”

  “No, because it’s too damned poetic and I loathe poetry.”

  She turned in his arms. “Do you love me?”

  “Do you me?”

  She studied him as understanding dawned. “You can’t say the word. You can’t say love.”

  “I care for you,” he said irritably. “You must know that.”

  “Would you have asked for my hand in marriage if not for the scandal?”

  “No, I’d have never subjected you to a life with me.”

  “Why do you think a life with you would be so horrid?”

  Moving away from her, he began to pace. “Because I know what I am. Harsh. Determined. Focused on one thing: Pembrook. You want poetry, and gentle words, and softness. There is no softness in my life. Except for the bed. And you in it makes it softer.” He stopped pacing and scowled at her. “Why the deuce are you smiling?”

  “For someone who claims not to like poetry, you can be quite poetic. I’ll be waiting for you to come have me.”

  She turned on her heel and marched from the room. For the life of her, she didn’t know why her spirits were suddenly lifted. Perhaps because while he may not say it, she knew that she did mean a great deal to him.

  Sebastian stepped into his wife’s bedchamber to find her still bathing. She’d not seen him enter because she was hidden behind a screen, a fire blazing on the other side of her casting her in silhouette. She obviously hadn’t heard the door because she was singing … no, humming … no, singing. She didn’t know all the words, he realized. She sung the ones she did, hummed the ones she didn’t.

  “ ‘Be it ever so humble …’ ”

  She had the voice of a lark at break of day. He glanced over to find her maid sitting in a nearby chair, staring at him, her embroidery abandoned on her lap. He placed his finger to his lips and, with a nod of his head toward the door, signaled for her to leave. She rose, dipped a quick curtsy, and quietly quit the room.

  On bare feet, Sebastian padded over and carefully eased down to the edge of the foot of the bed. Mesmerized, he watched as Mary raised her arms. Through her humming, which was softer than her singing, he heard droplets dripping into the water, envisioned them rolling along her flesh, dampening it as they went. He’d considered having one of the rooms transformed into a bathing chamber, but he decided he much preferred the view offered by a bath before the fire. Strange how he found even her shadow alluring.

  Perhaps part of it was because she didn’t realize she was being watched. He’d never realized that a voyeur lurked inside him, but it was having a jolly good time, appreciating everything before him.

  He hated the thought that he might have denied her—no matter how unintentional—something she wanted: a wedding trip. He’d spent so much time away from Pembrook, from England, that it had never occurred to him not to hasten here as soon as he could. Had Fitzwilliam planned to take her somewhere? He despised the thought of that man giving her something that Sebastian hadn’t. He’d been so concerned with saving her reputation that he’d given no thoughts to her heart’s desires. She had some. That he knew. After she’d left the library he’d glanced at the paper she’d left on her secretary. It was a boring list of tasks to be done but sprinkled throughout were small hearts. Whimsical. She wanted love and, regretfully, he didn’t know if he could give it to her.

  She lifted an elegant leg out of the water, pointed her toes toward the ceiling, and his mouth went dry as all previous thoughts scattered. Good Lord, she was limber. He could take her with her legs braced on his shoulders. He watched the sensuous movements as she skimmed her hands from heel to thigh. Perhaps even to hip. Or maybe she stopped someplace in between, a haven he was anticipating visiting once again.

  He became aware of her no longer singing, simply humming a soft provocative tune that caused his breath to come in labored pants. Did she go through these rituals every time she bathed?

  She dropped back her head, released a deep sigh. “Colleen, I’m ready to leave the bath.”

  He swallowed hard. He was ready as well, but not to leave a bath—rather to leave his wife well and truly sated.

  “Colleen? The towel? Don’t tarry. My husband will be here any moment and I wish to be prepared.”

  If she were any more prepared, he might ignite. He came to his feet, wandered toward her, and snatched up a towel in passing. He came around the screen, and decided that in the flesh, she was exceedingly more delectable. With her eyes closed, she rested her head against the lip of the tub. All of her skin was dampened with dew. Her hair was piled in a haphazard manner on top of her head. Several strands had gained their freedom and they curled in wild abandon. Her limp hands draped over the sides. Her thighs were spread wide. The water lapped around her breasts, creating two lovely islands.

  She moaned low, opened her eyes slowly—

  Shrieking, she sank beneath the surface of the water until the islands were in danger of drowning. Pity.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  “Why the surprise? I told you that I was going to visit and I heard you tell your maid you were expecting me. At any moment.”

  She scowled. “How long have you been in here?”

  “When I entered you knew the words to the song, then you seemed to forget them.”

  Horror crossed her features. “You heard me singing? Oh, dear God.”

  “You have a lovely voice.”

  “It’s atrocious. I sound like a warbler.”

  “And here I likened you to a lark.”

  “Why did you not let me know you were here?”

  “I was rather enjoying the shadow show.”

  She looked at the screen, then jerked her gaze to the fire, and he saw the reality of her situation dawn, as she muttered, “Entertaining silhouettes.”

  “Extremely entertaining.”

  She gave him an impish smile. “I think you’re rather enjoying yourself now.”

  “I rather am, yes.”

  “I might have to teach you a lesson about spying on me and withhold my favors.”

  “I won’t allow it.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “And how, Your Grace, do you expect to carry out that threat?”

  “I will kiss every inch of your skin until you are as close to falling to your knees with aching need as I am now.”

  She grinned wickedly, and he thought he might burst. “I can see your aching need even with your
trousers on. Hand me the towel that I might dry off and see to that need.”

  “I want to dry you and then I intend to make you wet again.”

  She gasped. “Such bawdy talk!”

  “Bedchamber poetry.”

  “And here you claimed earlier not to like poetry.” She studied him for a moment through half-lowered eyelids. Sultry wench made him feel as though he were the one unclothed. Her tongue appeared between her parted lips and captured an errant drop of water. Then she rose up out of the water like a brazen goddess, completely comfortable with her body, not a hint of shyness to be seen.

  She would no doubt be the death of him.

  She gave him a pouty look. “So carry out your promise, Your Grace. Dry me, then make me wet.”

  Mary wasn’t certain where she found the courage to be so bold. She only knew that once he’d confessed to being close to dropping to his knees that she’d felt powerful, in control of the situation, regardless of his threat not to allow her to withhold her favors. She knew he’d not force her.

  As it was he feared she’d not welcome his touch. Strange. She’d always assumed it was the man who made the woman feel comfortable with what passed between them, but it was her husband who required the reassurance that she was not put off by his scars. She loved it when passion overcame him, and he forgot they existed. She wanted them not to matter. She wanted the scandal that had forced them to marry not to matter.

  She wanted love between them, so deep and abiding, that nothing mattered beyond them.

  The chill of the air caused her nipples to pearl and pucker. His gaze dropped to her chest, smoldered. She watched his throat work as he swallowed. Indeed, she held the power.

  “I’m growing chilled, Your Grace.” She held out an arm and tried to present an innocent expression, a slight pouting of her lips.

  She’d expected him to whip her out of the tub and dry her off quickly. Instead, he went down to one knee before her and draped the towel over his raised thigh. She lifted a foot and placed it on the perch he offered. He began at her toes and blotted the water slowly, gently, his attention focused on his task. Even though her hands were wet, she ran one through his hair. “I shall return the favor someday,” she said quietly.

  “What favor is that?” he asked distractedly.

  “Intrude upon your bath.”

  “I did not intrude. I allowed you to enjoy it.”

  “You enjoyed it as well.”

  He lifted his gaze to her. “Immensely.”

  He finished patting her leg, then indicated the other. He dried her with touches as gentle as any she’d ever known, as though he feared the cotton in the weave would scratch her skin if he did not take care. When he finished with her leg, he set her foot on the floor and stood, looming over her. His size had never frightened her. While she was tall for a woman, he was taller than most men.

  He patted dry her face, her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. Then he took one in his mouth, suckled. Moaning, she craned back her head, stared at the ceiling with its intricate scrollwork.

  “Turn around,” he ordered in a rough voice, and she realized that the task he’d set himself was as much torment for him as it was for her. Lovely torment.

  She did as he bade, relished the cotton absorbing what little dampness remained. For a moment she did what she’d promised she’d never do: she thought of Fitzwilliam and realized that she could have never envisioned allowing him to take such liberties. She would have welcomed darkness accompanying their encounters. She couldn’t have been playful, teasing, or sensuous. What seemed so natural with Sebastian would not have seemed so with anyone else.

  The towel skimmed along her skin as it cascaded to the floor and pooled at her feet. She felt a tug on her hair, heard the clink of a pin hitting the floor. Another tug, another clink. Three more followed before her hair tumbled around her shoulders.

  Gathering it up with one hand he moved it aside and kissed her neck. “All dry,” he whispered.

  “Hardly.” She was acutely aware of the dampness between her thighs.

  He released a low laugh, slid his hand around her, and cupped her intimately. “Too easy.”

  She sighed. “I can’t argue with the truth.”

  “I adore how responsive you are,” he whispered, so low that she wondered if the words were more for him than her.

  He swept her up into his arms and carried her to the bed. Only then did she realize that the light in the room came from the fireplace and much of it was blocked by the screen. The bed was mostly shadows as he laid her on it. He reached across her for the sash that held back the canopy drapes. She placed a hand on his shoulder. “No.”

  He stilled, looked down on her.

  “We had the sunlight this morning,” she reminded him.

  He cradled her face, bent down, and kissed her forehead. “Tonight I need the dark, Mary.”

  It was such a heartfelt plea. How could she deny it? He’d watched her bathe, teased her, and dried her. Anticipation had been building. She knew now was not the time to argue, not the time to try to convince him again that she was not put off by his scars. She pressed on his chest, pushing him back until she could sit up. Studying his face, she leaned in and gave him a quick kiss, before turning away and closing the draperies on her side of the bed.

  She stayed as she was, waiting while she felt him leave the bed. The other draperies closed until she was encased in darkness. A sprig of light, the bed dipping, darkness again.

  Turning back, she found him with unerring accuracy. She ran her hand up his chest, his throat, his jaw, his cheek until she felt the patch. He snatched her wrist.

  “Let me remove it,” she whispered softly. “You have the dark. You don’t need this. If I’m completely bare, so should you be.”

  His fingers loosened their grasp. Ever so slowly she moved the eyepatch away. Before he could stop her, she pressed a kiss to the scarred flesh, not even certain he would be able to feel it.

  “Mary,” he rasped.

  “I’m yours,” she whispered.

  Rolling her over, he proceeded to keep his promise. With hands, mouth, tongue he tormented her until she was certain steam rose from her flesh. She was ready for him long before he slid into her with a sureness that caused her to smile.

  He was a masterful lover. She greedily felt for what she could not see: his muscles bunching with his efforts, his slick body moving in and out of hers, his tightened jaw, his damp hair. Pleasure spiraled through her as his grunts echoed around her.

  When the cataclysm came, it hit them both at the same time. She held him close as his hot seed poured into her. His breathing harsh and heavy, he eased off her and brought her up against his side.

  There she fell into a contented sleep.

  Chapter 27

  The days ambled along, each bringing a wealth of discoveries. Mary began to understand her husband’s true devotion to Pembrook. He began each morning with a leisurely ride over his domain. She often joined him. He spoke with the tenants. He assessed the possibilities for future income. He noted areas where improvements were needed.

  He was much more comfortable here than in London.

  He’d even been relaxed when they’d visited her father. But more important, Sebastian had managed to put the earl at ease. Before they left, her father took her aside to inform her that she’d married a good man.

  Of that, she had no doubt.

  Mary stood in the garden, taking delight in the new gardener’s efforts. Her father had been more than willing to let the young man go. He had also offered her half a dozen other servants, children to his longtime staff members who he’d simply never found the heart to relieve of their positions. But he had no need of them. She found a good deal of work for them to do here.

  From her place near the hedgerow, she could see the stables, could see Sebastian talking with the head stableman and pointing out various horses. The recent arrivals—Tristan’s gift—had come thundering in this morning. Sebastian had removed
his jacket earlier and rolled up his sleeves to inspect each animal. He wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. She’d give him that. She couldn’t recall her father ever taking so much interest in the managing of his estate. He had overseers. They gave him reports. But Sebastian spoke with all the servants, issued orders, listened to their ideas. He wanted Pembrook returned to its former glory.

  Not nearly as many tenants still worked the land but they provided the estate with a comfortable income. His other estates fared much better. Unlike Fitzwilliam, he did not need her dowry.

  In spite of the tragic history that surrounded this place, he was at home here. She enjoyed watching him striding over his property. It was her true purpose in being outside when the gardener was perfectly capable of determining which type of flower should be planted in which spot. Sebastian loved Pembrook with all that he was, devoted himself to it. She tried not to resent that he wasn’t as devoted to her. She truly had no cause for complaint.

  He came to her every night. Usually he stayed with her until dawn. But some nights he was restless and would return to his bedchamber so as not to disturb her. Her assurances that she was not bothered did not sway him to stay. On those nights she would hear him call out. She wanted desperately to go to him, but she knew he wouldn’t welcome her witnessing his nightmares.

  “Your Grace.”

  She turned and smiled at the butler. “Thomas.”

  “The post has arrived. You and the duke each received a letter. I thought they might be important.”

  She took the envelopes he offered. He had already slit them open, but she didn’t question if he’d read them. She knew he wouldn’t dream of encroaching on his lord’s and lady’s privacy. “Thank you.”

  He glanced toward the stables. “It is good that His Grace is home.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “If I may be of further service regarding the letters, let me know.”

  He strode back toward the manor. Mary smiled as she saw the letter addressed to her was from Alicia. She slid the paper from the envelope and began to read.

  My dearest cousin,

  I hope my letter finds you well and extremely happy in your marriage. I have a bit of news. Lord Fitzwilliam has asked for my hand in marriage. I have said yes.