Put Up Your Duke

by Megan Frampton

  And she was all he wanted to think about. How she was sucking on his tongue so gently, her fingers reaching up to his shoulders, her body moving up against his, her breasts pressed into him. He had hold of her elbows, but that wasn’t enough, he didn’t think anything would ever be enough, and he slid his hands onto her waist, then reached around to the small of her back, pulling her entirely into him.

  Her body was soft and warm and curved in all the right places, and he heard himself groan as his erection pressed against her. If she hadn’t known what she did to him before, she certainly did now.

  She broke the kiss, gasping, her mouth so moist and red, her eyes heavy-lidded, a spark of desire within the chocolate-brown depths. “We should stop.”

  He barely restrained himself from telling her that was the worst idea she had ever had. Not that he knew all of her ideas, but he already knew that this was the worst one. Ever.

  But he’d promised himself he wouldn’t push her, or rush her, or seduce her with his tongue and his hands until she was ablaze with sensual passion—damn. He’d promised, he had to remind himself of that.

  But he could talk to her, because they’d said that they would. “Why?”

  She bit her lip, and that action made Nicholas almost forget he’d asked a question in the first place. He wanted to be the one biting her lip, damn it.

  “When this happens”—thank God she said “when,” not “if”—“I want to be fully engaged in it. Right now there’s a part of my mind that is worrying about Margaret, and that isn’t fair to you.”

  He admired his own restraint in not telling her that he was absolutely fine with her not being fair to him if it got them supine and naked sooner.

  “Ah,” he said, putting his hands back on her arms. She had somehow gotten her hands onto his waist, and was sliding her hands up and down his side, the sensations of pleasure posing a serious threat to his peace of mind.

  “You have to stop as well, princess,” he said in a ragged voice, putting his hands on hers. He moved her hands so they were now in front of her, not anywhere near him, then stepped back so he wouldn’t just resume everything.

  She had said they should stop, she was his wife, and he was going to respect her wishes.

  And thank goodness she had said “when,” because if she had said “if,” he might have just sat down in the middle of the inn bedroom and howled in frustration.

  “So,” he said, moving back one more step, “we should think about getting some sleep. We have to find your sister,” he added through gritted teeth. The sooner they found her, the sooner the marriage would be consummated.

  He’d never wanted to see someone as much in his entire life as he did Margaret.

  It was another hour before he returned to the room. He’d muttered something and had left, barely allowing himself to look at her. And even though it had been an hour, it felt like there wouldn’t be time enough to ever stop wanting her.

  “You’re back,” she said, looking up at him from the bed. In the bed. Tousled, delicious, and still wearing her chemise.

  “Yes, I am,” Nicholas replied. At this point, he was just glad he could put words together, even though he sounded ridiculous.

  “Did you have a pleasant time?” she asked, shooting him a grin that indicated she knew just what she was saying.

  He sat down on the chair by the door and began to remove his boots. For once, he wished Miller were here. They were damn hard to get off.

  Thump went one, then the other, after he’d yanked and stomped for a few minutes. It didn’t help he heard her giggling.

  “Oh, I was about to help you,” she said after the second boot dropped to the floor.

  He raised his head and looked at her. She had a mischievous look on her face, as though they were sharing a joke. Well, in fact, they were, weren’t they?

  He’d certainly laughed with women before, but had never felt this kind of warm camaraderie. Was this what love and marriage was, as well as all the stuff he knew about?

  The thought made his throat thicken. If they—if he and she—could find a place to be with each other where this was how they interacted, how they behaved with one another, that would be a rarity, he knew enough about marriage to know that was true. And yet it seemed like they might make it happen.

  “Why did you go out, anyway?” she asked in a curious voice. Not accusingly, as another woman might have done.

  “I told you. I wanted to check on the horses.”

  “The truth, Nicholas,” she said in a soft voice.

  Ah, the truth. He stood up and began to unknot his cravat, nearly tossing it to the floor before recalling that no, Miller was not here. He folded it and placed it on the chair. His shirt followed, then he sat on the edge of the bed and began to remove his trousers, his back to her.

  “The truth. The truth is that I went out and exhausted myself so I wouldn’t think too much about how you and I are about to sleep in a bed together and yet not—” He gestured vaguely in the air, hoping she would comprehend his meaning without his having to say it.

  “Ah, I see!” She had a musing tone in her voice. “So your leaving my bed every night and then going to the boxing saloon every day was somewhat of a preventive measure?”

  “Precisely.” He looked over his shoulder at her. “Not that it worked all that well, mind you. I still want you, princess, I want you so much it hurts.” He uttered a snort. “Hurts more than the punching, that is for certain.” He leaned back on the bed, his head near her waist. She put her hand on his head and smoothed his hair back. “But that first night, remember? You were terrified. Shaking.” He shook his head, her fingers still on him. “I couldn’t force you to do anything.”

  “You could have. Most men would have.” She spoke in a soft voice.

  He twisted so he was on his side, his head on his hand, looking at her. “I hope most men wouldn’t have. I know that man would have, the one your parents are trying to have your sister marry. But I’m not him, even though I have his title. Or he had mine.”

  She bit her lip and nodded. He could tell she was thinking about Margaret, and wishing they were rescuing her already rather than here talking. He needed to distract her. “Why do you want to learn to box, anyway?” He pulled himself up on the bed so he was lying face-to-face with her. It was remarkable that she remained as beautiful as she was so close—most people, when you looked at them so minutely, had something wrong with them. An oddly shaped eye, less than perfect teeth, a bit of hair that did something odd when it wasn’t controlled. Not her. Up close, she was still gorgeous.

  She glanced past him, clearly thinking about his question. She drew her lip into her mouth and chewed in what Nicholas was beginning to realize was her thinking mode. “I suppose it was first just to see what I would feel when I did it. But the more I thought about it, and thought about why you might be doing it, the more I realized it was about control, and power.” She met his gaze. “I’ve never had either. I wanted to see what it was like.”

  The simple statement—“I’ve never had either”—made his chest hurt. He’d never thought about it before. How young ladies of her class were bound first to their parents and their family, and then to their husbands. Later on, perhaps, to their children. Always to their duty. They never got to choose for themselves. And he’d done her the disservice of making the choice of her decorations for her, even, when that would be one area where she could have her freedom of choice.

  “And how did it feel?”

  She frowned in thought. Then her expression cleared, and she smiled, a delighted, joyful smile that made his chest open back up again.

  “It felt wonderful. It feels wonderful. I want to do it more. I might even want to try boxing someone who isn’t you at some point.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Punch someone who isn’t me? If I were a less confident man, I’d be jealous.”

  She laughed, and hit him—appropriately—on the shoulder. “I won’t hit anyone the same way I hit you, Nicholas
.”

  And then she smiled again, only this smile was far more seductive. As though she was thinking about the same things he had been trying not to think of since they stopped kissing.

  And he felt as though he might stop breathing. His chest must look like an accordion by now.

  “Uh, well, thank you.” He didn’t care that he sounded like an idiot; he was her idiot. Not that that should make it him feel better, but it did.

  “You’re welcome,” she said, leaning forward to kiss him.

  He’d expected a gentle kiss, which he got, but then she lingered, and her hand went onto his arm and her mouth was open, her tongue licking his mouth, and he drew back, clamping his fingers on her wrist. “You can’t do this, princess, I can only be so strong.”

  She looked at him from under her lashes. And his breath caught, his throat suddenly thick.

  “I have changed my mind. That is a lady’s prerogative, isn’t it? I mean,” and then she smiled wryly, as though at a private joke, “I’m not perfect. I’m allowed to change my mind.”

  “Yes, of course you are,” he began, only to realize what she’d said. She’d changed her mind. She wanted to—they were going to—and he forgot what else he was going to say, forgot his name, definitely forgot to breathe.

  Until she leaned forward and kissed him again, murmuring as she did so. “But if you’re not ready, we can wait.”

  At which point he pushed her arm onto the bed and lay his body on top of hers, planting his elbows on either side of her so he wouldn’t crush her. “I’m ready, princess.”

  “Good,” she said, reaching up to pull him down to her, lifting her mouth to his and kissing him, openmouthed, sensuous, and as unafraid as she should be.

  Dear Lord, he hoped he’d survive. Because if he didn’t, that would mean he wouldn’t get to do it again, and he already knew he wanted to do it many times this evening. And the rest of his life.

  Epigraph

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

  Jane felt anxious as they neared the castle. What if he wasn’t there? What if she was wrong?

  “It will be fine¸” Catherine said, as though she knew what Jane was thinking.

  Would it? What would happen if he wasn’t there? What would she do? Would she be all right?

  Who would she become?

  —THE PRINCESS AND THE SCOUNDREL

  Chapter 27

  Finally. She was finally going to find out what that was all about, in an obscure inn in the country without even an enormous bed to flounder around in together.

  And she’d never been more pleased.

  He kissed her with far more ferocity than he had before, even though before she’d thought their kisses had been spectacular. This, now—his mouth was devouring hers, and she responded in kind, thrusting her tongue into his mouth, pulling him as close as she could, even though he was already as close as he could possibly be, since he was lying on top of her.

  He was being careful of her still, though, resting his weight on his arms so he wouldn’t be entirely on her. His body was pushed up against her there, and it felt wonderful, and she wanted more. She wriggled underneath him, delighted to hear him utter a groan low and deep in his throat and feel his hardness against her.

  Why had she waited so long, anyway? Oh right, well, she hadn’t precisely waited. That is, he had brought her pleasure with his mouth, and she had done something with her hand to him, and there apparently was more to be done.

  For once, she was excited about learning things and getting new skills. This wasn’t pouring tea, or curtseying to the Queen, or even dancing, which she did enjoy. This was something far more important, the learning of another person’s wants and desires as you explored their own.

  And now she was about to find out just what it was all about, although she thought, perhaps, that this was only a small part of it—that what they’d been doing for the past few weeks was part of all of it, from playing card games to talking to riding in the park.

  He lifted his head, breaking the kiss, and gazed into her eyes. His eyes had darkened to an evening sky blue, and she felt as though she could see through to him, to his very essence, and there was nothing at all to fear there. Because it was he, and she trusted him. She wanted him. She desired him.

  She loved him.

  That thought made her eyes widen as she realized the truth of it, and he paused. “Is everything all right, princess?” He spoke in a low, rasping tone, as though it pained him to ask, but he had to.

  Which just made her love him more, if such a thing were possible in the space of just a few seconds.

  “Everything is wonderful,” she replied, sliding her hands from his shoulders, down his back, to his backside. Once there, she grasped the firm flesh and caressed it, which had the added benefit of pushing his body more into that place that needed it the most. There.

  “Good,” he said, lowering his mouth to her neck and kissing it, soft, openmouthed kisses that felt as though he were savoring her. He bit her gently, right on the neck, and she felt a shiver course through her.

  Meanwhile, his hands were stroking her arms, and then he raised his body up slightly so he could lower his mouth to her breast, kissing her less gently, moving his way to her nipple, which he found and drew into his mouth.

  “Ahh,” she sighed as he licked and sucked her nipple through the thin fabric of her chemise. It wasn’t enough. “I need to take this off,” she said, taking her hands away from his delicious backside to tug at her clothing. “Now,” she added, since if she didn’t take it off now she was going to explode from the sheer wanting of it. “And I want all this off, too,” she said, putting her hands back to tug on his smallclothes.

  He smiled, a knowing smile that sent a shiver of an anticipatory promise through her, and got off her to stand by the side of the bed, his eyes never leaving her face.

  His hands—God, those strong, wonderful, capable, knowing hands—went to the waistband of his clothing. His—his penis, she knew what it was called, she just hadn’t had an opportunity to mention it before—jutted out from the fabric, bold and proud and so intensely and thoroughly male it made her mouth water.

  Could she do the same thing to him that he’d done to her? Put her mouth on him there? Just thinking about it was enough to make her move closer to him, wondering what he would do if she did just that.

  He hooked his thumbs underneath the fabric and began to draw the smallclothes down his body, revealing the divots and cuts in his hipbones that she knew she didn’t have, the trail of hair leading down his belly to his—ahh! And there it was, his penis, large and erect, and even just seeing it did something to her insides.

  He dropped the smallclothes onto the ground and straightened, his hand going to touch himself as he gazed at her. “Your turn, princess,” he said, stroking his shaft as his eyes traveled down her body. “Slowly,” he added, a sensuous expression on his face.

  She nodded, her eyes on him, on what his hand was doing, stroking, pulling, his penis defying gravity as it thrust out from his body. And that, that thing would be inside her, and they would be joined, and she would finally get to know what it was like. And that it would be with her husband, Nicholas, the man she loved, was perfect. Even though—and she smiled as she thought about it—she was imperfect.

  But this wasn’t getting her own clothing off, and them closer to consummating their marriage, at last.

  She sat up on the bed and tugged at the bottom of her chemise, but frowned as she thought about the logistics. She got up on her knees, making sure the fabric wasn’t caught underneath her, and began to raise the hem. Up, past her knees, past her thighs, pausing as she came closer to revealing her sex, his eyes focused on her, on her hands, his own hand stroking himself, his other hand cupping underneath, holding the things that weren’t his penis.

  She raised the garment up past there, to her belly, then slowly, slowly, eased it up over her breasts, the press of the fabric against her erect
nipples an exquisite torture. Until, finally, she was able to pull it over her head and threw it to the floor.

  He was back on the bed within just a few seconds, on his hands and knees, prowling toward her with a predatory look in his eye. And she knew, if she were to look at herself, that same look—that same wanting, hungry look—would be on her own face.

  She lay back down on the bed and he lay down as well, on his side, his fingers on her breast, on her nipple, sliding his palm on her flesh, rubbing the hard nub of her until she didn’t think she could stand it any longer.

  She leaned forward and kissed him, putting her hand on his hip, touching the indent that defined his hipbones, moving her hand across his belly, down lower, feeling the prickly hair tickle her skin.

  Until she reached down and touched him there. He groaned when her hand made contact with him, and thrust his hips more into her hand. He was so hard, so throbbing, and she felt as though she were in control of this strong, proud man, felt as though she were the one leading them, even though he was the one who had all the knowledge of what they were doing.

  But none of that mattered, not now, not with him at her mercy, with him gasping and groaning, clearly wanting her touch on him.

  “Does that feel good?” she asked, even though of course she knew the answer. She wanted to hear him say it, to hear how his voice sounded now, now when he was so vulnerable and yet so powerful—because, after all, he was just as commanding in this as she was, and she knew, because she knew him, that he would bring her to that same gasping, breathless, wonderful place he’d done before. She couldn’t wait.

  “You know it does,” he said, his words coming out in a short burst, as though it was hard for him to speak at all.