Put Up Your Duke

by Megan Frampton

  Because, for example, instead of just leaving after he’d had his own pleasure, he’d tucked her up in his arms again, after making sure she was comfortable, and was now stroking her side, just under her breast.

  His mouth was positioned just above her ear, and she straightened up so his lips were actually right at her ear, hoping he would say something. Or kiss her. Or something.

  “Do you trust me?” he asked, at last, after a few moments of touching and silence and her feeling an urgency in that area that she’d been told was just for his pleasure, not hers.

  She was beginning to wonder if her mother had been seriously mistaken about all of this. And then chided herself—of course her mother was mistaken.

  “I do,” she murmured, then put her palm on top of his hand where it lay on her, and moved it to her breast. She couldn’t think about how bold she was being, because if she did she’d stop, and that was the last thing she wanted, what with all the tingling sensations down there, and how his soft, warm breath sent shivers down her spine.

  “Good. Then allow me to demonstrate what an orgasm is,” he said, thumbing her nipple so it rose into a stiff peak. God, she wanted his mouth on her again, wanted his whole weight on her, in fact, and wanted to find out just what would happen next.

  She thought it likely wouldn’t happen quickly enough. But instead of being impatient—well, she was impatient, but in a deliciously anticipatory way—she was savoring the moments even as her mind was wondering what was next.

  And it seemed she might not have long to wait. He undid himself from behind her, then slid alongside her, running his fingers along her jaw and turning her face to his. “Kiss me,” he said in that low, luscious voice, and she sighed, raising her mouth to his.

  He didn’t put his tongue into her mouth, as he had before, he just held himself still as she pressed her lips to his. Frustrated, she let out a little growl in her throat, a sound she barely recognized as coming from her, and licked his lips, then slid her tongue between them. His hand was on her breast again, and he was caressing it, rubbing his palm over the nipple, holding the weight of her in his hand.

  She reached around to his back and pressed herself closer to him, the part that was aching and needy now pushed up against his hip. She wanted more.

  Her tongue danced and licked inside his mouth, and he responded, but didn’t take the lead. She understood, without his saying it, which would have been difficult, given that they were kissing anyway, that everything was up to her pace. She knew, somehow, he didn’t want to frighten her, and, oh God, he wasn’t. If anything, she was frightened of all the passion that seemed to be lurking inside her, hidden from her for all this time, until right now.

  He broke the kiss first, gasping as he pressed his forehead to hers. His hand moved from her breast to her waist to her hip. “You might be the death of me,” he said in a low rasp, and she felt oddly proud that she’d brought him to this place, this pleasurable place where they weren’t the duke or duchess, or even really Nicholas and Isabella, but instead were just man and woman.

  “There has to be something more,” she murmured, realizing she was pushing that spot into his returned erection. It made for an exquisite ache, but it wasn’t enough. It might never be enough.

  “As long as you trust me,” he said, gripping her hip tighter.

  “Yes,” she said, wondering if now was the time he would enter her. “Unpleasant and awkward,” her mother had said, but she felt the opposite. Maybe that would all change when they were joined?

  But it didn’t seem as though that was in his plan, because he moved lower down her body, sliding his palm from her hip to her leg, then putting his fingers between her thighs and moving her leg so it was over his shoulder.

  Which put his mouth right—“Ah,” she yelped as his mouth closed on her. Now he was kissing her there, causing tremors of sensation throughout her entire body, that delicious ache now intensified so it was almost painful, but she would die if he stopped. His fingers were holding her legs apart, her instinct to close herself up against him, even as she exulted in what he was doing.

  “Mm, so sweet,” he said as he licked, one long, slow lick she felt all the way to her toes. “Do you like this?” he asked before he did something that made her unable to answer except in a moan that he seemed to understand.

  He chuckled against her, and she found her hands were in his hair, holding him to her, even though he showed no signs of wishing to leave.

  “Oh, oh,” she said, flinging her head back against the pillow, her body feeling as though it were on fire, as though something was lighting her from within. And she knew the source of the burn—his mouth, his tongue, doing amazing things to her as she felt herself spiral up toward some heretofore unknown destination.

  She fell into the feeling, losing herself entirely, not thinking, not conscious of anything but how it felt, how good it felt, how she had never felt so entirely good in her life. And she knew there was still more.

  “Nicholas,” she breathed, and looked down at him, at his head which was between her legs, his strong hands holding her thighs, his back which was just as muscular and intriguing as his front, of course.

  He increased his rhythm, and she was lost, feeling herself crest on a wave of pleasure that made her shake with its intensity.

  “Oh,” she said, finally, when she had fallen down enough from the feeling to speak again.

  He was watching her, a knowing, satisfied look in his eyes. His mouth moist from her, from where he’d been—“Oh!” she repeated, turning her head to bury it in her arm.

  She felt his fingers nudging her chin up. “Don’t be embarrassed, princess,” he said, his voice husky. “It was amazing watching you have your first orgasm—that was your first, was it not?” She nodded, keeping her eyes focused anywhere but his face. “And I look forward to giving you many more.”

  She finally felt brave enough to meet his gaze again, and she felt like melting all over again when she saw his expression—so proudly male and smug she nearly laughed.

  “Thank you,” she said, finally releasing the death grip on his hair.

  He grinned at her and raised himself up on his arms over her body, as though he were going to—

  But he didn’t. Instead he kissed her on the forehead. “Let’s go to sleep, shall we? We have our ball the day after next, and we both need to get some rest.”

  Isabella barely suppressed an irritated hmph, but allowed him to curl up behind her, his hardness pressing into her backside. “Doesn’t that hurt?” she mumbled, suddenly feeling very sleepy.

  “I’m fine,” he said into her neck. “Sleep, princess.”

  Epigraph

  From the unedited version of A Lady of Mystery’s serial:

  “We have misplaced him,” Jane replied.

  The farmer looked askance, as he might. The prince was not an item of clothing to be mislaid, after all.

  “Or he has misplaced himself,” Catherine added, not helpfully at all.

  The farmer put his hands on his hips and leaned his head back. “He hasn’t been here. But you might be able to find out where he might have gotten to. We’ve got our own witch, she can answer questions. For a price.”

  Jane nodded firmly. “Where will we find this witch, then?”

  —THE PRINCESS AND THE SCOUNDREL

  Chapter 22

  Nicholas felt the punch throughout his entire body. He’d thought, mistakenly, that perhaps he wouldn’t need to go to the boxing saloon this morning, because of what they’d done the night before, but if anything, his need for her had increased.

  Eventually, he was able to wear his opponent down, but not without taking quite a few hits himself. Which Griff noticed.

  “What in God’s name were you thinking?” Griff snarled, unwrapping Nicholas’s hand. “Because you sure as hell didn’t have your mind on the boxing.”

  The way she shuddered under his mouth, how her hand felt as she grasped him, not to mention how smooth and bea
utiful her skin was, even though he had yet to see her entirely naked.

  “This and that,” Nicholas replied, shrugging. He knew he’d feel the effect of the punches later, but right now all he felt was euphoria. That he’d gotten her to trust him enough, that he’d finally tasted her, that there was even more to come—so to speak—between the two of them.

  That marriage was, thus far, more than he’d dreamed of.

  “You’re an idiot,” Griff replied through gritted teeth. He reached into a tub of some sort of unguent, then began to smooth it over the places Nicholas had gotten hit.

  “Ouch, that smarts,” Nicholas said, flinching at the contact. His brother just shook his head and kept rubbing it in, ignoring Nicholas’s increasingly virulent cursing.

  “Heard you’re throwing a ball.” The voice was instantly recognizable, even though he’d only heard it the once. The duke, or former duke, that is, standing in front of him, fists planted on his hips, a disdainful look on his face.

  “It seems your invitation was lost in the post,” Griff said. Nicholas was startled to hear his brother speak so disdainfully—maybe being a duke’s secretary had made him more assured? Or perhaps Griff was feeling more confident in general.

  Not that he could think about anybody but himself now.

  The man shrugged. Nicholas would have to get his name in one of these encounters. Especially if they were to be meeting in the House of Lords. He couldn’t very well address him as “the former duke” or “the duke that was.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” the man sneered. “Soon enough I’ll be back where I belong, and you’ll have nothing but your memories of being important for a few weeks. I wonder if your duchess will stay by your side when you lose your title?”

  Nicholas’s chest squeezed at the mention of Isabella. “Leave my wife out of this,” he said, feeling his fists clench. Griff stepped to the side, as though making room should Nicholas wish to stand up and punch the bastard. That was what he should just refer to him as—the bastard.

  And he did want to punch the bastard, of course, but there were at least ten other gentlemen in the room, all of them watching the conversation. If any of them happened to be sympathetic to the former duke’s cause, Nicholas might find himself not a duke, with Isabella not a duchess. He didn’t care much himself, except as it affected her, his holdings, his entire staff, and—

  Well, it seemed he did care. Damn it.

  “Your wife only married you because of the title. That’s why her parents made the bargain with me, after all. What will happen when the title, the land, and the money are all gone? Because I will see to it, Mr. Smithfield, rest assured.” He bent down to get right in Nicholas’s face, his words coming fast and sharp. “And you won’t be able to do a thing. Maybe I’ll let her stay as my whore.”

  Nicholas snapped then, leaping up, fists cocked. Only to find that Griff was holding his arms in back of him, kneeing him in the leg to make him buckle at the same time.

  “Don’t do it, Nick,” Griff said. “That’s what he wants.”

  “No, that’s not what I want,” the former duke replied. “I want my title back. I want what is mine. And I will get it,” he said, punctuating his words with a poke to one of the sore spots on Nicholas’s chest.

  “What is your name, anyway?” Nicholas asked, causing both the bastard and Griff to start.

  “My name? The Duke of Gage, of course,” he replied.

  “No, not that name. You have to have another name, don’t you?” Nicholas strove to keep his tone as polite as possible. As polite, that is, as he could be, given that Griff was still holding him back from punching the bastard who, as yet, had no name that Nicholas knew.

  “Lord Collingwood.” The man sounded as though he wished he were in a position to punch Nicholas as well. At least they had their mutual desire to pummel each other in common.

  “Not pleased to make your acquaintance, Lord Collingwood. I will be glad to meet you in the ring at any time of your choosing.”

  “I will prefer, Mr. Smithfield, to see you in a more formal setting. Parliament will do.”

  He punctuated his words with one final poke to Nicholas’s chest, then spun on his heel and walked out of the saloon.

  “I don’t believe holding one’s employer back from making an ass of himself is within a secretary’s purview,” Griff said, releasing Nicholas.

  “No, but it is damn well within a brother’s right,” Nicholas said. “Thank you.”

  Griff put his hand up to his ear. “What was that? Did my brother actually thank me for something?”

  Nicholas scowled and punched Griff none too gently on the arm. “Don’t get used to it, from either employer or sibling.”

  “Unless it happens again,” Griff said in a sly tone of voice.

  “Watch yourself, or I won’t teach you all I know about a certain subject.” Although he now was only going to teach the subject himself, not practice it. At least not on any woman but Isabella, and he wasn’t going to share any of his experiences with his wife with his brother. That would be—well, it would be wrong. And distasteful. He’d never felt as though his allegiance lay with anyone but his brother before, but now, now that he’d felt her tremble under his touch, and heard her soft moans, and shared what he liked with her in a way he hadn’t with anybody, ever before, it felt entirely different. As though his heart had been doubled in size, with one part remaining tied to his brother, and the other part sworn to her.

  It made him feel oddly vulnerable. He’d never felt vulnerable, not in terms of a woman before. Or ever, actually. Griff was his younger brother, Nicholas had always been the one to lead.

  Now, he realized, he wanted her to lead. He wanted her to tell him what she wanted, and he wanted to do it. For her. For them, eventually, but mostly for her. Since it seemed as though no one had ever wanted her to choose what she wanted. They wanted her to choose what they wanted so it would be more convenient for them.

  He wouldn’t ever do that to her, even if it meant it was less convenient for him. He just hoped he would never have to face that eventuality.

  “The duke is out again, isn’t he?” Did the man ever get a full night’s sleep? Was getting himself hit, and presumably hitting another person as well, worth losing sleep over?

  “He is, Your Grace.” Renning held Isabella’s chair out as she settled herself into it, sniffing at the pleasant smells of breakfast. She hadn’t expected to be so hungry today—perhaps her hunger today was due to what had happened the night before. In which case, no wonder so many men were able to eat so much more than she was. From what she’d heard, men were always having such occurrences. That they were able to function normally and not wander about in search of their next orgasm was a marv— Oh, she thought, nearly giggling. Many men did seem to do that, she just hadn’t known what they were about before.

  “Sausage, Your Grace?” Renning held out a salver piled high with sausages, which resembled— Stop it, Isabella, she chided herself. Really, how did people function with part of one’s brain constantly thinking about those types of things?

  “No, thank you.” She couldn’t actually bear to eat one of the sausages. Even though she absolutely was not going to think such salacious thoughts. “Just tea and toast, please.”

  She’d be surprised if she could actually taste any food today. Maybe she wouldn’t taste ever again. She felt as though she’d fractured last night, and had been put back together even stronger. As though all that—she still couldn’t name it even in her own mind—had opened a door that she just had to step through.

  And she would. Or at least she would try. He wanted her to say what she wanted, didn’t he? She just had to open her mind to the possibilities of whatever those things might be. And not just those things, but all sorts of things.

  It was exciting, and terrifying, and absolutely what she wanted.

  She heard the door open as Renning was putting a plate in front of her, and within a few moments Nicholas himself had arr
ived, looking—as usual—as though he’d been planting his face into the side of somebody’s fist.

  She would not share that thought with him, however. He kissed her brow, grabbed a sausage and bit it in half, making Isabella wince.

  “Sorry, awful table manners,” he replied, noticing her expression, then took the napkin Renning was holding out and wiped his mouth. He sat in the chair adjacent to hers, nodding as Renning approached with coffee and a plate.

  Isabella waited until Renning had finished, then spoke to him. “If you’ll excuse us?”

  “Of course, Your Grace, Your Grace.” Renning bowed his way out of the room, leaving Isabella, Nicholas, and a half-eaten sausage.

  “How are you this morning, Isabella?” Nicholas’s face had a smug expression as though he knew precisely how she was.

  And he was right, damn him.

  “I am fine, Nicholas. And you?” She gestured to his face. “How was your daily thrashing?”

  “I beg your pardon,” he replied, sitting up straight. “I was not thrashed. I was boxing.”

  She waved her hand dismissively, her tone almost flirtatiously light. “Whatever you call it.” And then paused as the thought occurred to her. Like a door opening, showing her something she’d never imagined before. It made her catch her breath, but in a good way. And what was to prevent her from asking? “I was wondering—would you be able to teach me some of the sport?”

  He gaped at her, the expression on his face so comical she nearly burst out laughing. Although that would not be at all duchesslike, would it? Or even ladylike. It definitely would not be Isabella-like, that was for certain.

  In which case, perhaps she should burst out laughing once in a while. Just to see how it felt.

  But the moment had passed.

  “Teach you how to box?” His voice held an incredulous note she’d never heard. And she felt herself stiffen, as though he’d criticized her. Had found her less than perfect.