The Duke's Stolen Bride

by Sophie Jordan

  “I was actually coming to find you.”

  She blinked. “You know where I live?”

  “I made inquiries.”

  “Oh.” She brushed the tendrils back from her face with a gloved hand. “How can I be of service?”

  “I changed my mind.”

  She stared.

  He continued, speaking carefully as though he was only just now arriving at a realization. “I’ve given matters more thought and changed my mind regarding your proposition. I will tutor you.”

  She worked her lips for a moment before finding the right words. Her pulse thrummed faster at her throat. “You will? You will tutor me in the art of seduction?”

  He gave her a bemused look. “Yes. For whatever it’s worth.”

  Oh, it was worth a great deal. A great deal indeed.

  He went on, “As discussed, I won’t take your maidenhead, so there’s no harm in it. As long as we keep our meetings private, no one need ever know.”

  She nodded. “Of course.”

  “That way, you’re free to change your mind and forget about becoming a courtesan once you’ve regained your senses.”

  “I won’t,” she quickly retorted.

  He sighed and gave her an exasperated look.

  Marian ignored the look. “And you will help me find clients in the aftermath of these lessons?” That was perhaps the most important piece to all of this. Between him and Mrs. Ramsey, she trusted she would have the necessary connections. Without a client—and without a client soon—she would simply be compromising herself for no reason.

  His expression clouded. “I meant what I said. I am no pimp.”

  “Of course. And how could you be? You gain nothing by doing this. There is no exchange of goods or services. No benefit of money. Isn’t that the main criterion of being a . . . pimp? I confess I had to do a little research to make certain my understanding was accurate, but my late father had a very extensive library. I eventually confirmed the definition was as I thought it.”

  He looked exasperated with her. “Do you always talk this much?”

  She sniffed. “I don’t think I talk too much. This is a very serious undertaking, Your Grace. I want us to be clear on all the details—”

  “I have a friend that could help you.” He sighed. “If, at the end of this, it is your wish, I will put you in contact with her.”

  “Ah.” She nodded in understanding. “A former mistress.”

  “She was no mistress of mine. She has, however, been mistress to a few very prominent men. I’m sure she can give you some direction.” He stroked his horse’s muzzle as he considered her. “She is precisely the kind of independent woman you wish to be.”

  “Excellent. When can we begin with the lessons?” Before he could answer, she rushed on to say, “I hope we can begin with all haste. My situation is becoming increasingly urgent,” she admitted with a brusque nod even as she loathed giving voice to such a thing.

  “Come to me tomorrow night.”

  The words dropped between them, heavy and resounding.

  The late afternoon suddenly felt thicker, warmer, cloying despite the gloom of the day. It took everything in her not to fling her cloak back off her shoulders in an attempt to enjoy a chill breeze.

  “Very well.” She nodded once. “Thank you.”

  He turned and swung back atop his saddle.

  She retreated a pace and stared up at him, high above her, trying not to feel intimidated with those words ringing in her ears and his dark eyes fixed so intently on her.

  Come to me tomorrow night.

  It felt intimate . . . lover-like. Except that was far from the case. They weren’t friends. They weren’t lovers. They weren’t that.

  This wasn’t that. This was business.

  And she would do well never to forget it.

  He inclined his head. “Until tomorrow night.” Giving a final nod, he turned and rode away, leaving her looking after him with her stomach in a twist of knots.

  Chapter 10

  The room smelled of leather and books and burning logs. It reminded Marian of her father’s small study at home, especially the way it was when he had been alive and they had prospered. She’d spent hours in there, poring over the pages of his books. Once she ran through his collection of novels—he never had enough of those as far as she was concerned—she moved on to his anatomy and surgical texts.

  And yet she experienced none of the ease and comfort she had felt in her father’s study. Indeed not.

  “Have a seat, Miss Langley.”

  The depraved duke (she really needed to stop thinking of him in such a fashion) gestured to a well-padded sofa in the center of the dimly lit room with an elegant wave of his hand.

  She happily sank down on the thick cushion. It was away from him at least. Blessed distance. Immediately, she knew that was the wrong thought. She had come here for schooling on matters of intimacy. Obviously there would be touching and she’d best brace for it.

  Moments passed. The clock on the mantel ticked in the silence. He still hadn’t budged from where he was ensconced in the wingback chair near the fire, presiding over the room like some king over his domain.

  The warmth was luxurious. She winced at the thought of her sisters alone at home, cuddled up in layers of garments to stay warm. Nora had been draped in blankets and wearing a hat and muffler when Marian last saw her.

  Marian had feigned an aching head and retired to her room early.

  She’d felt guilty deceiving the girls, but she couldn’t tell them what she was really doing. They would be scandalized and disillusioned. They still possessed hope. They had not fully absorbed how dire their circumstances were. They still looked to Marian as though she could save them in a manner that would not involve some level of ruin or sacrifice.

  She didn’t want to shatter that reality, however false it might be.

  Lying to them was a small price to pay in order to drag them from the brink of penury. They need never know how she performed that miracle. Those sordid details she would keep to herself.

  When the house had quieted, and she heard only the occasional whispering coming from the chamber her younger sisters shared, she’d slipped from her room and crept out of the house, riding Bessie across the countryside to the Duke of Warrington’s mausoleum. She knew the area well. Moonlight was enough to reveal her way.

  Being at Haverston Hall, late at night, unchaperoned, would have felt wrong if not for the fact that being here was the very thing that was going to save them.

  Remember that. Cling to that.

  The duke remained seated where he was, a dark shadow with glittering, predatory eyes—watching her.

  She swallowed against the perpetual lump in her throat. “Are we to . . . are we to begin?”

  “We have.”

  “Have we? We’ve begun?”

  “Indeed, we have.”

  They weren’t touching. They were hardly even speaking. She didn’t know much about seduction, but she didn’t think this was how it was done.

  How was this teaching her anything?

  He didn’t even appear to blink as he watched her beneath his heavy-lidded eyes.

  She let out an impatient breath. “I don’t see how.”

  His features were relaxed, his arms resting on the chair arms, fingers hanging loosely. “If you want to rouse a man’s desires, anticipation must be built.”

  “And what we’re doing now is building anticipation?”

  “Don’t you feel it?”

  She considered that. All day she’d felt anxious for what was to come. She’d scarcely eaten their meager dinner of cabbage and ham, much to her shame. Food was not to be wasted. Now that she was here, she felt a sparking energy on the air. Her pulse thrummed madly against her neck and her chest ached as though a great weight pressed upon it. She chalked it up to nerves . . . to her continued anxiety of being here alone with this man and their forthcoming intimacy. It could hardly be called . . . anticipation. Could it
?

  “You mean you do?” She cleared her throat. “You feel something?” She motioned to where he sat. “Simply sitting there? You feel anticipation?”

  “You’re a lovely woman. I’m certain you know that. Undoubtedly you’ve had admirers.” This he uttered so matter-of-factly, with no inflection. As though it mattered not at all to him. “Even if you aren’t to my personal taste, you’re fresh-faced and young. Any man would feel something.”

  It would seem he grudgingly counted himself among those men.

  “Well, that’s . . . heartening.” Certainly it should make her feel safe with him. He wasn’t likely to become overcome with animal passion for her and disregard her wish to keep her virtue.

  He ignored the edge of derision to her voice. “You want to be the best, yes? Isn’t that what you said?”

  She nodded, feeling a little foolish to have her words tossed back at her. She needed to be the best.

  She was not oblivious. Gentlemen had responded to her before in a way that suggested she was attractive. And yet it felt arrogant to believe herself so beautiful, so enticing, she could enthrall men. She was handsome enough, but there was nothing extraordinary about her. Not like the Lady Graciela or her daughter, Clara, with their sultry, exotic beauty.

  Hopefully her evenings with this man would change that. She could learn to be extraordinary. He would show her how to be so extraordinary she could name her price.

  “Have you kissed a man before?”

  She blinked, startled from her thoughts at this bold question.

  She’d have to get accustomed to his bold questions—and the even bolder actions that would inevitably come.

  She shifted on the sofa, focusing on his question again. She’d certainly flirted with her share of handsome footmen, but she’d dodged most of their lips.

  “Come now,” he pressed. “For this undertaking, we must be honest and forthcoming. No prevaricating and no avoidance. That shall be our first rule.”

  “Rules?” she cut in, disliking that word. It must be her temperament. Papa always claimed she had a fair amount of hoyden to her.

  “Oh, yes.” His dark eyes glinted. “We need rules, Miss Langley, if this is to go smoothly.”

  She nodded. That was fair. They should have a mutual understanding of how this was going to work, and rules would achieve that.

  “I’ll ask again,” he said. “Have you kissed a man before?”

  She let out a breath. “I can’t say that I have been properly kissed, no, Your Grace. A few kisses on the cheek only.”

  “Kissing is the most natural place to begin. A well-executed kiss can rouse passions.”

  She nodded. Sound advice.

  He patted his knee. “Have a seat.”

  On his lap?

  Her face caught fire all the way to the tips of her ears. She couldn’t! She had never imagined such a thing, but she had come here for this. For lessons in seduction.

  Her pulse was galloping now. Nerves, for certain. She was about to settle her body upon this very haughty and handsome nobleman’s knee and share a kiss with him.

  She rose to her feet.

  “Slowly. Remember . . . anticipation is everything.”

  No worries there. She couldn’t move with haste even if a pistol was held to her head. Her feet felt leaden as she lifted them, one after the other, toward him.

  She stopped in front of him, unsure how to proceed. Her fingers fiddled with the edges of her cloak. She hadn’t bothered to remove it, clinging to the layer of protection it offered.

  “Remove your cloak,” his deep voice intoned.

  It was only a cloak. She was still perfectly attired beneath it. The room was warm, too. Almost stifling. And yet she hesitated.

  She thought she read amusement in his gaze. He was enjoying her discomfort. “Scared?” he asked.

  His words lit a spark within her. Dares had always been her weakness. Her siblings could always taunt her into reacting by calling out her fear, real or imagined. She should be above such behavior by the very adult age of four and twenty. She didn’t know how or where this tendency originated. Perhaps it came from being the eldest child and her years as a governess. She was accustomed to giving orders, not taking them. After Mama died, she’d had to compose herself, step into her role as lady of the house, and never reveal weakness or vulnerability.

  He tsked and continued, “You’re going to have to overcome that if we’re to get anywhere.”

  She defiantly yanked off her cloak and tossed it aside. “I’m not scared.” She sank down on his lap, settling her skirted legs between his splayed thighs.

  Some of his amusement faded then and that filled her with satisfaction—until it penetrated that she was sitting on his lap.

  She’d never been in so intimate a position before, but she fought for her poise. He was correct. She needed to overcome her fear if this was to work.

  “Like this?” she whispered, hands clasped in her skirts, her body straight and stiff as a board. She wasn’t certain what to do with her hands—where to put them. She didn’t feel comfortable placing them on his body.

  “You can come in closer,” he directed.

  She leaned in until his chest aligned with her arm. His thigh wasn’t exactly the best cushion. It felt too firm beneath her. “Am I too heavy?” she asked, her breath a shaky tremor as she fidgeted.

  He shook his head once, watching her with deep intensity. No amusement.

  “What now?” she asked, wondering why it was suddenly so hard to breathe.

  “Tell me what you’re feeling.”

  Her face burned. Reveal her thoughts?

  “Is that necessary for seduction? My lovers will need to know what I’m thinking?” She shook her head firmly. No. They would not have that of her. It didn’t seem wise for her self-preservation. Wasn’t that giving too much of herself? It was enough that they would have her body. Must they have her mind and soul, too?

  “No, they don’t need your thoughts. But I do.”

  “Is that another one of your rules?”

  “Yes. Honesty in thoughts and feelings. I’m instructing you in this matter. I need to know what you’re thinking, experiencing.”

  She moistened her lips, and his gaze tracked the movement of her tongue, his eyes darkening.

  Her belly dipped.

  “Well. Um.” She glanced away and back again. “To be truthful, I feel . . . sick.”

  His impassive expression cracked. “Sick?” Clearly it was not the answer he was expecting.

  She nodded and pressed a hand against her rolling stomach.

  “I might lose my accounts,” she confessed.

  He let loose a bark of laughter and it transformed his face, made him appear younger, less severe. Still handsome, but perhaps more approachable . . . were he not laughing at her as though she were the most ridiculous creature to draw breath.

  Her face burned even hotter. “Please don’t laugh at me. I’m certain the most artful courtesans don’t have men laughing at them.”

  “True. They likely do not. But you are not yet artful or experienced, are you?” His gaze pinned her.

  “No,” she mumbled. That’s why she was here.

  “No female has ever admitted to sickening from my nearness.”

  “Indeed, no one has admitted it before now,” she retorted.

  “You are a saucy chit.” He angled his head and adjusted slightly in his chair. The motion prompted her to move. She started to rise, but his hand shot out to grip her hip and hold her in place.

  She hissed out a breath. His hand singed her right through the fabric of her dress. She could feel each imprint of his fingers.

  “For someone who came to me for help, you’re proving a difficult pupil.”

  She was reminded again that there was nothing in this for him. He wasn’t getting anything from helping her. They would not even consummate this relationship, and she rather suspected that physical gratification appealed to most men. He could call a
halt to this at any time, and then she would be right back where she started.

  Marian sighed. “I’m very bad at this.”

  “You’re not a complete lost cause.”

  “No?”

  “It seems not.” He cleared his throat. Something flickered across his face then that she couldn’t decipher. “You know how I mentioned you weren’t to my tastes?”

  Yes, that was etched on the fabric of her memory.

  “I remember.” Perhaps this was it, then. When he would call off this entire business? What did he have to gain, after all, from spending his evenings training a woman he wasn’t even attracted to?

  “Your hand, please.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He held out his hand between them, palm up. “Your hand?”

  “Oh.” She placed her hand into his.

  He took it and turned it over, palm down.

  His touch was light. She could have pulled away, but she was here for this. Here to touch him and vice versa. That was the whole point.

  Don’t flinch. Don’t pull away.

  He lowered her hand, between his thighs, directly over the bulge of his manhood.

  The large, hard bulge.

  “Oh, my,” she breathed, her fingers resting on the shape of it. “Is that . . .”

  “My cock,” he supplied, the brackets on either side of his mouth drawing tight.

  She gasped at the unexpectedness of his coarse language . . . and the hot thrill it gave her. Certainly that made her wicked. His foul language shouldn’t excite her. And yet . . .

  He continued, “It’s reacting to you.”

  Reacting to her? So she wasn’t unattractive to him, after all.

  “Have you never heard that word?” he asked. “Cock?”

  “Y-yes. I have.” She might be a proper lady, but she wasn’t lacking worldliness. Her father had been a doctor, after all. Before she left home, she had often assisted Papa in his work. She knew what the male body looked like beneath garments. She also knew how to clean, stitch and bandage a wound. She could cool a fever and set a bone and prepare a tincture. Not as well as Nora, but she knew the fundamentals.