The Duke's Unexpected Bride

by Lara Temple

  ‘Sophie, damn it, I promised myself the next time would be in a bed,’ he groaned.

  ‘Fine...’ She gasped as his teeth closed gently on the lobe of her ear, spilling molten ecstasy through her body. ‘Next time, then...’

  She felt his laugh against the sensitive skin of her ear, followed by his tongue, dipping, testing, finding more sensation in that small space than she could have believed possible.

  ‘I want to take my time...touch you everywhere...taste you...’

  ‘Next time...’ she repeated, squirming against him in search of relief. She felt his fingers against the fastenings of his pantaloons and then his arousal against her thighs, hot and silky. She pressed against him, she didn’t care if it hurt again, she wanted to possess him, to force him to give himself to her. She might not be able to reach him on any other level, but here she felt almost equal, she wouldn’t let him keep her at bay.

  He didn’t argue any more, answering her urging by guiding her down over him very slowly. She had expected the pain again, but it was different, a stretching ache as he filled her, hot and hard, and now that she could feel it more fully she was overcome by how strange and frightening and exciting it was to be entered like that, to possess him inside her. She wrapped her arms around him, burying her head against his neck, breathing him, tasting him as his hands moved over her back.

  ‘Sophie...’ he called out her name as she sank down on him, his voice deep and tortured. ‘Sophie, don’t move, just let me feel you,’ he whispered, easing her back without breaking the bond of their bodies so that she half-leaned against the side of the chaise longue, and his fingers glided over her body, mapping her with feather soft touches before sliding down again to the urgent thudding between her legs where she was pressed against him, coaxing her, swinging her between joy and frustration. Each time the shudders of pleasure climbed, intensified, until she just couldn’t hold still any longer, her body moving against his, drawing him in deeper and deeper. She couldn’t separate between the shifting of his body under hers and what his fingers were doing to her. They became more rhythmic, insistent, dragging wave after wave of bittersweet agony out of her, and she twisted against them, trying to meet the waves or break them, anything to gain release. She sank her teeth into her lower lip, trying not to cry out her need and his body shuddered under her and then he pulled her against him with a broken groan, fusing their bodies together, kissing her, his hands moving over her back, her waist, her hips, grasping them as he moved inside her and she lost herself in the frenzy until the world cracked and he caught her cry with his mouth, holding her there as he stiffened under her and for a moment she ceased to feel anything but the flow and ebb of warmth and it was beautiful.

  When she opened her eyes she was stretched out on him, her cheek on his shoulder, and they were both balanced rather precariously on the chaise longue. The line of his collarbone was glistening with perspiration and she was just reaching up to touch it when he straightened abruptly and slid her off him with a groan.

  ‘Hell! The door, I didn’t lock it...’

  He strode over towards the parlour door, adjusting his pantaloons as he went. She laughed and turned over, lying stomach down on the chaise, too exhausted to contemplate moving and slightly annoyed that he could snap so quickly back into reality after that amazing experience.

  ‘That is definitely locking the stable door after the horse has bolted,’ she remarked dreamily and he turned with a mocking gleam in his eyes and surveyed her. She surveyed him back, wishing she could demand he stay where he was while she brought her sketch pad. Even without the rosy haze of urgent desire he was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She should have done a better job of undressing him. It was quite unfair that he had managed to keep his pants and boots on, mostly. She wished she could have him to herself, naked for a week. No, for ever. She knew she ought to be embarrassed or ashamed, but she still felt too wonderful and fuzzy and light and those unpleasant emotions were still wholly academic.

  He came back to the chaise and sat down beside her and ran his hand very gently down her back, from her nape to the curve of her backside. She sighed. His hand was warm and it felt so good.

  ‘Could you do that again? That’s nice...’ she purred.

  He laughed, a low, warm sound she loved, as caressing as his hand on her back. She began to drift pleasantly under the slow, soothing motion of his palm.

  ‘I feel like I’m floating in the ocean,’ she murmured. ‘Except it’s warm...lovely...’

  His hand stuttered on her back and then regained its rhythm.

  ‘I’ll take you swimming,’ he promised, bending to kiss her shoulder and she smiled without opening her eyes.

  ‘That sounds very improper,’ she murmured.

  ‘Very. And cold.’

  ‘Thus, the ever-practical Duke. I’ll keep you warm.’

  His hand stilled again and she heard his indrawn breath and then he stood up and she knew it was over. She never knew when she would cross a line, but somehow she always managed to go too far. She sighed again and closed her eyes, holding on to the sensations, securing them in her mind like a miser hoarding his coins.

  ‘Come, heads up, time to dress.’

  She sighed again and sat up. As he lowered the slip over her she wondered what on earth had happened to her embarrassment. She knew it would come back soon, but for the moment she just revelled in the fleeting touch of his hands as he helped her dress and this freedom to look at him.

  ‘Cravats are very impractical. Someone should conceive of something that is easier to re-tie,’ she said and his eyes met hers, lightening again with laughter.

  ‘They aren’t usually supposed to be subject to such abuse, you know.’

  ‘Still—’ She broke off at a low growl and they both turned with surprise. Marmaduke was still asleep on the floor, but growling faintly, his stubby legs scrabbling in pursuit of some imagined prey.

  Max burst out laughing. ‘I forgot the blasted dog was here. Thank God he can’t talk.’

  ‘He wouldn’t tattle on you even if he could. You’re his idol.’

  ‘And you’re a menace. I told myself I wouldn’t—’ He broke off, shaking his head ruefully as he headed towards the door.

  ‘Wouldn’t what? Nothing at all happened here,’ she said demurely, moving towards the easel. ‘Good day, Your Grace. It was kind of you to call.’

  Max stopped at the door. His face was serious again and the pleasant heat that enveloped her began to dissipate.

  ‘Sophie, we can’t keep...it is too risky on too many levels. Believe me, I’m glad you enjoy this, but we have to be more prudent until the wedding.’ He hesitated and came back to her, raising her chin. ‘Do you understand?’

  His voice was gentle and she tried not to let him see it stung.

  ‘Of course.’

  For a moment he remained where he was, looking down at her, and then he took a deliberate step back and with a nod he turned and left. Sophie remained standing long after she heard the click of the front door closing.

  * * *

  Max stood by the window of his study, watching the clouds gather over the houses beyond the gardens. The wind was rising and whipping at the treetops. He shifted restlessly. He was getting no work done, his mind shifting back with annoying insistence to the morning’s events.

  He was still struggling with the way she had dealt with his guilt. The more her words sank in, the harder it was to recapture the stench of self-disgust that had plagued him all these years. Not that he wanted to recapture it, but that he could so easily be divested of it simply because she read him a lecture on practicality and hubris seemed...weak. He might be ‘just Max’, but she was just Sophie and he should not depend on her, or anyone to be the arbiters of his conscience. He never had and it was ridiculous to start now just because she kept him at such
a pitch of desire and confusion that made him lose track of himself and act completely out of character.

  And when he did try to get back to himself he just felt like a fool. His attempt to impose some sense of decorum after his latest transgression had been more pathetic than convincing and had only upset her. She had been so wonderfully relaxed and appealing and he had had to go ruin it by talking propriety and discretion. He had seen the withdrawal in her eyes, but he hadn’t been strong enough to face it head on. To admit he no longer had any idea what he was doing or why. Or to admit that her open, honest warmth was becoming as necessary to him as...he couldn’t even think of anything at the moment that could finish the thought, which was a form of madness in itself. He had a childish urge to head back to her just so he could coax a smile out of her, light the amusement in her eyes. He wished they were by the sea right now, so they could slide into the licking waves, the heat of her skin against him and the cool water carrying them. It was fitting that she could swim, she was as elemental as the sea and he was as drawn to her and threatened and fascinated by her as a man as he had ever been by the ocean as a boy.

  As if his thoughts had conjured her up, he saw her hooded figure hurry across the road to the park, Marmaduke in tow. Instinctively he turned to head downstairs, but stopped and went back to the window. She was just taking the dog for a walk, for heaven’s sake. He should have sufficient self-respect to manage a few hours without seeking out her company, no matter how unsettled he felt. The wind grabbed at her cloak, tossing back the hood from her hair and the rush of nature around her echoed through him. He was right, there was something elemental about her, vibrant and real. And foreign to him. And necessary.

  It took him a moment to even notice the man striding after her into the garden. And by the time he had realised it was Wivenhoe, the bastard had raised her hand to his lips and moved away.

  He stayed by the window, his hand on the curtain, watching her as she stood for a moment longer before heading back out of the gardens.

  * * *

  ‘Miss Trevelyan.’

  Sophie froze and then tightened her hold on Marmaduke’s leash and the dog abandoned his attempt to snap at a little swirl of leaves the wind had kicked up.

  ‘I won’t do anything. Please wait a moment.’

  Surprised by the entreating note in Wivenhoe’s voice, she stopped. He didn’t come any closer, but he reached out towards her and she saw he was holding a sealed letter. Marmaduke came to stand by her legs, but other than eyeing Wivenhoe warily, he didn’t react.

  ‘I will do this quickly before your other guardian appears. I was about to deliver this letter at your house, but I saw you crossing the road and I thought perhaps I should be man enough to apologise in person. I would very much like to blame Harcourt for my abysmal conduct, but since blaming him has become something of a theme in my life, I should probably make an effort to get out of that comfortable rut. Somehow that bastard always manages to come out without a stain on his impeccable armour while I am mired in mud. But what I wanted to say is that I shouldn’t have taken out this...resentment on you. You’re a decent sort. Too decent for someone like Harcourt. Surprisingly I wouldn’t like to see you hurt.’

  Sophie considered him. He looked different without that cynical gleam, but she could not tell if this was a new ploy or had they actually reached a bedrock of sincerity.

  ‘I appreciate your sincerity, Lord Wivenhoe, and I would like to take you up on this gesture of goodwill, if that is what it is. Let’s just forget everything that happened since that day at the Exhibition, if possible.’

  ‘I don’t think I can quite go as far as forgetting it. Regrets and grudges cling to me. But I would be glad if you could. I wish you happiness. I suspect you deserve it.’

  He tucked the letter back in his coat and held out his hand and Sophie instinctively held out hers and he bowed over it, raising it to his lips in a manner long out of fashion. As he walked off Sophie remained immobile. She was still suspicious, but she could not help that side of her that wanted to believe everyone had redeeming features. And mostly she wanted to end the enmity between him and Max. If that meant being civil to Wivenhoe, then so be it. She tightened her hold on the leash and headed back to Aunt Minnie’s, thankful the wind had emptied the gardens of strollers and there was no one to witness her meeting with Wivenhoe.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sophie’s heart thudded as she stepped out on to the pavement, excited to see Max again after the dramatic start to the day. He stood by the carriage and in the dark he looked even more intimidating than usual. She clasped her thin satin cloak about her against a tug of wind. She was wearing a very daring pale yellow crêpe gown with delicate gold lace sleeves and she hoped Max would disapprove again for all the right reasons. It wasn’t until he helped her into the carriage that she realised he was angry. She didn’t know how she knew, except that he had withdrawn behind his stony façade, watchful and unemotional. What on earth had she done now? Her anticipation dimmed and she felt a kick of resentment that she was letting this man’s incalculable moods dictate her own.

  ‘This cloak is thinner than paper. I should have worn a warm pelisse. It’s chilly in here,’ she said defiantly after a moment of silence.

  ‘One doesn’t wear a pelisse to the theatre or to a ball, no matter what the weather,’ Max stated without even bothering to turn from his contemplation of the passing streets and she felt her hackles rise at his bored tones.

  ‘I see. Are goose bumps in fashion, then?’

  ‘Don’t be flippant. Well-bred young women don’t admit to suffering from something so mundane.’

  ‘What else has been bred out of them? They don’t perspire, so extreme heat is clearly no enemy either. And naturally they don’t suffer from excessive emotion, despite possessing exquisite sensibilities. In fact, they are strangers to all emotional or physical extremes. If we could only produce enough of them we could end all wars and most human suffering. Of course, the world might be a trifle boring, but that is surely a reasonable price to pay for universal equanimity. What a pity I am such a sad specimen of the breed.’

  Max finally turned to look at her, his eyes inscrutable.

  ‘Is there a point to this?’

  She debated answering in kind, but she didn’t really want to. She wanted the other Max back. He might be as stony as he liked but she knew he was still there.

  ‘Yes, Your Grace. I am getting all my social solecisms out of the way before we arrive. I used to make my brother George run three times around the village before guests arrived and then he would be as good as gold.’

  A fugitive smile appeared in his eyes, but then it faded and his mouth tightened and he turned to face her more fully.

  ‘Would you mind telling me why you met Wivenhoe in the gardens this afternoon? Why he was holding your hand? And why you haven’t said a word about this so far?’

  She froze. She hadn’t been prepared and for one second she debated denying it, which was sheer foolishness.

  ‘He came to deliver a letter of apology for his behaviour. That’s all. I didn’t mention it because... I knew it would make you angry and I didn’t want to ruin...tonight. And that’s it. There wasn’t really anything to tell, so...’

  ‘He gave you a letter?’

  ‘No... I mean, he brought one, but he decided to apologise in person when he saw me walking with Marmaduke, so he didn’t actually give it to me in the end.’

  Stop talking, she moaned internally. She had done nothing wrong—why did she feel so guilty? It wasn’t as if he was even saying anything, just looking at her with the same cool disinterest as always. She would have preferred his anger. She could react to that.

  ‘You really don’t trust me, do you?’ she blurted out.

  A charged silence descended on the carriage and Sophie pressed her lips firmly together
, wishing she had done so before she had spoken. Everything she said and did was just heaping proof upon proof of her unsuitability. She turned towards the window, but he caught her chin in his hand and turned her back to him. She wasn’t prepared for the simmering heat in his eyes and in a second she was breathless and lost.

  ‘You’re wrong,’ he said quietly. ‘I trust you to always try to do what you think is right. It’s just that sometimes our versions of what is right aren’t aligned.’

  ‘Must they be?’

  ‘No. But I wouldn’t mind other aspects being aligned at the moment...’

  * * *

  Even in the dark Max could see the flush of colour rush over her cheeks and he relaxed further, sliding his fingers lightly along her jawline, into the hollow below her ear, resting there to feel the flutter of her pulse. He had no idea how she did it, but he had entered that carriage tense with confusion and jealousy and now he was subject to a completely different and a much more pleasurable tension and Wivenhoe had been relegated to more a nuisance than a threat.

  Her guilt had been so palpable it had contrarily kicked some sense into him. He kept seeing her through the prism formed by Serena’s betrayal, but she was nothing like Serena. He might not like that she had so obviously forgiven Wivenhoe, but that was his problem, not hers. The fact that she couldn’t hold a grudge was a blessing.

  Her pulse beat against his fingers and he was so tempted to replace them with his mouth, pull off the satin cloak, take her back to her little parlour and this time he would lock the door before undressing her. The memory of her stretched out on her stomach, arching slightly under the slide of his hand over her backside, was annoyingly persistent. As was the thought of exploring every inch of those slopes and dips with every inch of his body. He was getting tired of snatching these embraces with her and feeling guilty before and after about breaking the rules. It was sacrilege to sully these moments of sheer glorious lust with something as negative as guilt. He wished they were married already so he could have her naked, in his bed, without barriers and without rules, and with no other person within a mile of them. For a week. At least. He wanted her to himself and away from everyone and everything that weighed them down. They would have to come back to the world eventually, but not before he did something about this unrelenting, aching need that had gone well beyond the physical.