And then, then when she felt like she might be going cross-eyed from staring so closely at his mouth, he leaned forward and pressed those lips against hers.
His fingers moved to behind her ear, holding her gently in place. His mouth felt warm and delicious, and she imagined she could feel the contact of his lips all over his body, even though they were only touching in—one, two, three places. Their mouths, his fingers behind her ear, his thigh pressed against hers.
How was one supposed to breathe? She didn’t want to exhale from her nostrils onto his face, since that seemed like it would be unpleasant, and she couldn’t exactly breathe with her mouth, since it was otherwise occupied.
Thankfully, it seemed that he had to breathe as well, since he disengaged and drew back for just a moment, giving her enough time to draw a deep breath, before returning his mouth to hers.
Only now—now it felt as though his lips were parting, and she could feel his breath in her mouth, only it didn’t seem odd at all. It felt as though they were joined together in just that one spot, breathing the same air, almost the same person.
Except that he was a very tall, very charming, apparently-very-conversant-with-such-matters duke, while she was a not as tall, very polished, but not-very-aware-of-anything-that-might-happen-between-a-man-and-a-woman duchess.
He drew back again, but only just barely. She felt her insides flutter as his eyes met hers. “You haven’t been kissed before.”
It wasn’t a question, but instead of the sharp, irked feeling she got when her mother said such things, she felt as though he’d spotted something about her no one else ever had. That no one else had ever gotten close enough to know.
That no one had been privileged to know before.
“No,” she said, shaking her head a tiny fraction.
An almost arrogant smile came across that mouth, and she felt her own mouth start to curl up in response.
“Is that some sort of thing men like? To be the first one a lady has kissed?” she asked, startled by her own boldness. Not to mention her own ability to form a sentence, given how fluttery she felt.
“Not usually.” It sounded as though he was actually pondering her question rather than giving her the expected answer. “But with you—you’re different. Somehow it feels different,” he said in a wondering tone of voice.
But before she could respond to that, he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her again, this time using his lips to coax her mouth open as well.
Now where was this going? she thought, before she felt something besides a lip. It was—oh, it was his tongue, and it was moving gently along the seam of her lips, licking them, making sparks fly throughout her entire body, her mouth open beneath his, her heart beating fast in her chest.
She somehow had grabbed hold of his shoulders and was holding on, as though she might spiral off and fall without him as an anchor. Only he wasn’t an anchor—he was the one making her dizzy, making her heart race, making every part of her body feel as though it had never been alive like this before.
And then his tongue entered her mouth, of all things, and she gasped as she felt the warmth of his tongue, licking inside, finding her tongue, which seemed to know just what to do without any help from her.
Well, this felt just intoxicating, and for a moment, she was annoyed it had taken them this long—three days?—to get to this place. But then she forgot how to think as he continued to kiss her, long, slow kisses, pausing every so often to take a much-needed breath, the only sound in the room, in fact, that of their breathing and the occasional rustle of fabric.
She couldn’t say how long they kissed—a few minutes, a few hours, perhaps a week—but when he finally drew back, his eyes heavy again, his expression that of just pure wanting—it wasn’t enough. Would it ever be enough?
“I think we should stop there,” he said, in such a low rumble she felt it through her whole body.
She wanted to ask why, but wasn’t sure she should. What was the etiquette? Although— Although he was her husband, and she was his wife, and they should be able to dispense somewhat with etiquette when they were alone together.
Not to mention that as far as she knew there was no established etiquette for such a situation anyway. Perhaps she should start compiling one, for future brides and bridegrooms.
So she asked. It would be research for the book, after all. “Why?”
He grimaced, and looked away from her, off into the distance. But she didn’t think he was actually looking at anything—he just wasn’t looking at her.
A minute, which felt like a lifetime, until he returned his gaze to her face. “I don’t think we should continue until we know each other better.”
His voice, which before had sounded low and pleasant and incredibly alluring, now held a repressed tone to it that made Isabella straighten instinctively—not easy when one was sitting on a bed.
“Ah,” she said, biting her lip.
His eyes tracked the movement, and he looked pained. Which was an odd response, but then again, everything about this was odd—did he really not wish to kiss her? But even though this was her first kiss, she rather thought he’d been as enthusiastic about the activity as she was.
Then why? He still hadn’t answered her question. Might not, given how he wasn’t speaking.
“Do you have any thoughts as to when you might like us to throw a ball?”
The question was completely unexpected, and made Isabella wonder, still, just what she might have done wrong.
But she really couldn’t ask that, because what if he actually answered? And it was something she couldn’t change, or was an untenable situation, or something that would be devastating?
Yes, she was cowardly not to want to know, but better to be cowardly than to risk possible misery for the rest of her life.
She’d been trained to respond politely. She could do this. “Two or three weeks? I will need time to review what other affairs might be occurring that evening, and work with your staff. Our staff,” she corrected herself, before he could. “All of that will take time.” Most ladies needed at least a month or more to plan something so enormous, but thanks to her training, she could do it better in less time. She wished she could do other things better in less time as well.
“Of course, of course,” he replied, sounding as though he weren’t thinking at all about what she was saying.
“This will be our first public event. We want it to be the highlight of the Season.”
“Mmph,” he replied.
“I am so glad you agree,” she said in a dry tone. “I will hire workers to paint the entire house black, the paint will need time to dry. Plus we will need time to roast the goats.”
“Of course,” he repeated, still sounding absent.
She tapped him on the arm. “I am tired, Nicholas. If you wouldn’t mind—?” she said, gesturing to the door. If he wasn’t going to listen to her, he should at least leave her alone.
“Certainly.” He slid off the bed quickly, as though eager to leave her company, and she felt the sting of tears in her eyes. Did he not wish to be with her that much? And if so, why was he trying so hard to get to know her, to ensure they had things in common?
Although now it seemed as though they did not have a mutual enjoyment of kissing in common. A fact that made her heart hurt, but she couldn’t allow herself to think about any of that now, not until he was safely back in his room and she was on her own. Without even Margaret to talk to.
“Good night,” he said, leaning over to kiss her on the forehead, as though she were a child. She nodded, staring off into the distance, willing herself not to cry.
“I hope you sleep well,” she said to his back as he walked out of the room. He froze, then turned back to look at her. Something odd was in his expression, something she couldn’t figure out. Just like the rest of him—something she couldn’t figure out, not at all, but would have to—or else her marriage would be as unfulfilling as her unmarried life had been.
&
nbsp; “You too, princess.” He opened the door and left, closing it softly behind him.
Leaving her alone with her thoughts, her bruised and tender mouth, and even more unanswered questions.
Epigraph
From the unedited version of A Lady of Mystery’s serial:
“Where could he have gone to?”
Jane was pacing the castle’s entryway, the only place the guards had allowed her to go. Someone had been sent to her rooms to gather a few things, and the palace cook was packing her something to eat as well.
But now she had no home and no husband.
She could just return home and tell her family it had all been a mistake, her leaving.
But she knew she wouldn’t do that.
“I will find him,” she muttered to herself, hoping no one was around to hear her talking to herself. “How far could he have gone? Or did he leave because he no longer wanted me? Once he thought I didn’t want him?
“What have I done?” she asked, feeling a wave of hopelessness desperation crash over her.
—THE PRINCESS AND THE SCOUNDREL
Chapter 17
If Nicholas were to list the hardest things he’d ever done in his life, telling his wife they had to stop kissing would be first on the list. Even harder than when he’d been ten years old and Griff had challenged him to eat an entire cake, and he’d done it, even though he’d been sick for a week after.
She was far more delicious than cake.
He walked as quickly as he could to his bedroom, counting off the paces—again—so he wouldn’t just turn right around and resume kissing her.
Kissing her. He’d gotten the chance to kiss his wife, and it was even more spectacular than he’d imagined, and he’d thought it would be tremendous.
Griff was right when he’d said Nicholas didn’t have enough imagination. How could he have imagined the reality of her soft mouth, how her lips felt under his, how she’d grabbed hold of his shoulders and kept him pressed to her?
How much he’d wanted to continue kissing her, moving from her mouth to her neck to her breasts, all the way down to her toes.
But while she’d been responsive—so responsive, in fact, it surprised him—he didn’t want to rush things. He truly meant what he’d said when he told her he thought they should get to know each other better. Even though if he were to say that to any other man who had the chance to get under Isabella’s skirts, they’d laugh at him and tell him not to be so soft.
Finally he reached his door and entered, Miller springing up as he shut the door.
“Your Grace,” Miller said, smoothing his coat. “I trust you had a pleasant evening?”
Nicholas felt himself grimace, but smoothed his expression quickly. “Yes, thank you.”
If you could call leaving the most gorgeous woman he’d ever seen alone in her bedroom wishing for more kissing from him a pleasant evening, then yes, he’d had a pleasant evening.
Speaking of which, he needed to douse himself with cold water or something before allowing Miller to help him undress. Likely Miller would be as enthusiastic about seeing Nicholas in a state of excitement as he was about watching him bathe.
“Do you wish to change into your nightclothes now, Your Grace?”
“Uh,” Nicholas said nonsensically, trying to gauge the state of his erection without actually looking down. “Yes, only first could you rustle up a cup of tea?”
That would give him enough time to review some of his dukely accounts or count from one hundred backward or something else to take his mind off her, her softness, and her mouth.
“Yes, Your Grace.” Miller left, and Nicholas let out a great sigh of relief.
Now to just keep his mind on anything but her, but that would be difficult, since she was all he seemed to be able to think about.
How about if he pondered what her reaction might be if he’d just gone ahead and fucked her as mercilessly as his body was begging him to do?
That thought made him wince, and yes, made his excitement diminish a little.
When Miller returned about ten minutes later, Nicholas had gotten himself back to relative sanity, and was sitting reading the paper, catching up on the serial he’d neglected while he was telling his own stories to his wife.
The prince couldn’t be as much of a scoundrel as the heroine thought, could he?
And what did the prince think about her?
Funny, he’d never thought much about what the characters in these stories actually felt before now. Perhaps Griff was wrong, and he was just developing an imagination late in his life.
Or he was just a married man desperate to know what his wife really thought.
The next morning, Nicholas decided perhaps it would be more prudent not to go to the boxing saloon, since in his current state of frustration he might just ask his opponent to kill him and end his agony.
Plus he knew Griff would likely be arriving soon to start officially being his secretary.
So he lay in bed, rereading the serial he’d caught up on the night before until he felt thoroughly bored and almost willing to take care of his business affairs. He rang the bell and Miller entered, only a few minutes later.
“Your Grace?”
“Yes, I need to get dressed, my new secretary is arriving shortly, and I wish to breakfast with the duchess. Is she up yet, do you know?”
“She is not, as far as I know, Your Grace.”
Ah. Had she lain awake as he had, thinking about them? Those kisses? Or was she just naturally inclined to sleep for lengthy periods?
He knew so little about her; he wanted, no, he needed to know more. To know everything about her.
“Good morning, Your Grace.” Renning stood at attention just outside the breakfast room. “Her Grace has just arrived.”
Nicholas was almost embarrassed at how pleased that made him, then reminded himself she was his wife, the only woman he would be with for the rest of his life, so if he wasn’t pleased at the outset of their marriage he was going to have a difficult time of it in the future. “I wish to breakfast with my wife alone, so I can handle things from here, Renning.”
His butler looked startled—at least as startled as a butler allowed himself to look—but merely offered a “Of course, Your Grace,” and held the door open for Nicholas, then shut it behind them.
“Isabella, you are—” Well, she wasn’t looking her best, so he couldn’t necessarily say that. Although he’d lied to women before, many times, he did not wish to make it a habit with her. “You are . . . here,” he finished lamely.
She smiled that brilliant Society smile and nodded. “I am, as you see, Nicholas.” Her tone was brittle.
Had he done something wrong? Besides not ravishing her, that is?
Why hadn’t anyone told him marriage would be so hard? Oh, likely because he’d never imagined—given his now self-admittedly poor imagination—that he would be married at all.
He spoke as though he hadn’t noticed her tone. Perhaps that was what typical husbands did. “I am glad you are here this morning, I wanted to tell you that my brother will be joining my staff as my secretary. So he can assist with the planning of the ball, should you wish it.”
She nodded. “If you wish it, I will utilize him.”
Nicholas paused in the act of pouring himself coffee. He turned to look at her, a feeling of annoyance mingling with the distinct feeling that he was making an absolute hash of dealing with her. He apparently wasn’t a typical husband. “I don’t wish it, if I had wished it, I would have said so. It is that I want you to know that should you need assistance, Griff is at your disposal. That is all,” he finished, waving his half-full cup in the air in an aggrieved way.
“Thank you,” she replied, still with that distant tone, only not quite as cold as before, thank goodness.
“What are your plans for today?” He sat down at the head of the table, next to her. She was wearing a gown made of the same pink that her bed coverings were made of, and he congratulated hims
elf on figuring out her favorite color.
“Is there something you require of me?”
Nicholas repressed another great sigh and placed his coffee cup firmly down on its saucer, causing both to rattle. He was not the hero of one of his serials, he should not behave like one. “No, I am merely asking. As I mentioned, Griff will be arriving shortly, and I expect our business to take at least a few hours”—God help him—“and so if there was something you wished to do, you would be free at least until teatime.”
“Oh.” She was looking down at her plate, not at him. Why wouldn’t she look at him? It annoyed him, how she didn’t seem to focus on him when he was in the room. And now he sounded like a petty child, insistent on having all the attention.
He would have to be content with sharing her attention with the piece of half-eaten toast and the three strawberries currently on her breakfast plate.
“Well, perhaps I will go to my parents’ house and see Margaret. I need to start shopping for a gown for our ball—I have many nice gowns, of course, but nothing anybody hasn’t seen before, and I want to do you justice.”
She met his gaze then, and he took in the lovely, warm brown depths of her eyes, her full, intensely kissable mouth, that porcelain skin, and her figure, which he’d seen enough to know was spectacular. And seen enough to wish he could see all of it, preferably underneath his body.
“You would do me justice wearing a sack, princess,” he said, hearing his voice get just a bit husky.
A stain flooded her cheeks and she looked back down at her other object of scrutiny, the toast. “Thank you.”
“But if you wish to ensure that every single person there sees how stunning you are, and what an asset you are to me as my wife, then you might want a new gown. Just so that no one will say your new husband is a skinflint.”
“I will start working on the guest list this afternoon also. And consult with Renning and Cook as to what to serve.”
Nicholas waved his hand. “Whatever you want, I will go along with your wishes. I haven’t ever thrown a party”—at least not a respectable one—“and wouldn’t have the faintest idea how to go about it.”
Put Up Your Duke Page 13