Darling Duke (Heart's Temptation Book 6)

by Scarlett Scott

  Even if his lips were firm and well-sculpted.

  She drank in his breath, and it was sweet, with a hint of port. She couldn’t deny the unwelcome heat sliding through her and settling low in her belly. Undeniable, and thoroughly foolish. She was attracted to the Duke of Bainbridge.

  The brother of her suitor.

  A man she privately referred to as the Duke of Disdain.

  The man who had just called her a wanton tart.

  Before she could think better of it, she settled her upper lip into the seam of his, catching his full lower lip between her teeth. She nipped him. The breath hissed from between his parted lips, hot decadence to her senses.

  A shock jolted through her like a current of electricity, sudden and dangerous. What was she thinking, biting the Duke of Bainbridge, regardless of how supple and sulky that lower lip of his was? Little wonder her mother and father despaired she’d ever make a decent match. But there was something about his arrogance that made her long to ruffle his feathers. He was so perfect. So dispassionate. So icy and rigid in his bearing and manner.

  Before a further, coherent thought could form, his mouth moved, insistent, demanding. He kissed her as she’d never been kissed. As if he meant to consume her. As if he couldn’t get enough of her, his lips firming and claiming hers.

  A growl tore from his throat. The hands on her waist tightened, and he yanked her into his chest so that her skirts crushed between them. The hard wall of his chest pressed against her breasts. His palm slid to her lower back as if it belonged there, forcing her closer. Another low sound of desire sounded between them, masculine and dark.

  His tongue swept past her lips, smooth as wet velvet. This too seemed at once familiar and right. As though there was no act more natural than for her to stand in an Oxfordshire library and have her world as she knew it forever altered by his masterful kiss and knowing touch.

  Her fingers slipped into his hair, those thick strands rich as chocolate and softer than any man’s ought to be. She raked her nails over his scalp, learning the curve of his head, relishing the intimacy and freedom. What was it about him that made her yearn to mark him as hers?

  It didn’t matter. The kiss deepened. Her tongue touched his. He tasted as sweet and forbidden as she’d imagined he would. She sighed into his mouth, opened for him as he fed her kisses, owned her with his lips and tongue. Worshipped her. His hand splayed open, sweeping up her back, skimming the boning and laces of her corset, following her spine all the way to her bare neck. Here, he stopped.

  The pads of his fingers brushed against her, drawing lazy, delicious circles that tantalized before tunneling into the elegant twists of braids her lady’s maid had fashioned earlier. Pins rained to the carpet. Plaits fell from her crown. More pins scattered. Bo didn’t care. Her every good intention fled, taking with it her common sense, intuition, and all her defenses.

  She forgot about her book.

  Forgot that she didn’t like this supercilious ice block of a man.

  And she certainly forgot all about her promises to her sister Cleo that she’d endeavor to behave for the duration of the house party.

  How could she think of anything but him? It seemed suddenly as if fate had led her to this moment. To this merciless onslaught of unexpected passion from Bainbridge. To his complete and utter dismantling of everything she’d thought she’d known. For she had never been properly kissed by any man before him, and she knew it now. This was no mere joining of mouths.

  This was…

  It was…

  Transcendent.

  Yes, that was the word her whirling mind wanted, a name for this wild burst of desire unfurling through her veins like honey on a summer’s day. Scorching, sweet, languorous. Her breath came in shallow bursts, and she was acutely aware of the kittenish noises emerging from her throat, of his scent and the way his chest rose and fell against hers, the way he hummed before tearing his lips from hers to drag them down her neck. The way he breathed her in, his fierce and hungry mouth on her skin as though he couldn’t possibly fill himself with enough of her.

  “Witch,” he muttered as he found his way to the hollow behind her ear and licked.

  Oh.

  No one had ever done such a thing to her before, and now she wondered why. It made a frisson of something warm and potent shoot through her, settling between her thighs. She’d read enough illicit literature to know what it meant. She wanted the Duke of Bainbridge.

  And the rigid length of him, prodding her stomach through his trousers and the layers of her corset and gown combined, told her that he wanted her too. Thanks to the book he’d thieved from her, she had a name for that particular marvel.

  Tumescence.

  He licked her again, drawing a moan from her. She wasn’t meant to be enjoying herself. She’d intended to distract him, fish her book from his jacket, and flee. That wicked tongue of his robbed her of thought. And the way he kissed. Lord in heaven, she never wanted to be kissed in any other fashion ever again.

  But she ought to protest. Surely. After all, he had maligned her. Attempted to bribe her. He still held her book firmly inside his coat.

  “Nodcock,” she whispered for good measure as he dragged his sinful mouth back down her throat. She couldn’t resist rubbing her cheek against his, relishing the scrape of his neatly trimmed beard. She inhaled deeply of his scent. How could one man, particularly a man as surly as the Duke of Bainbridge, smell so bloody good?

  How unfair.

  He didn’t seem to mind her insult. Quite the opposite, in fact, as he pressed into her with his tall, strong form. His hardness seemed more pronounced. Good. Heavens. Bo tried to squelch the fresh rush of desire her discovery created. She tried to recall the book she wanted to retrieve. He kissed along her décolletage, pausing at the swell of her left breast. This was madness, her conscience reminded her.

  The book.

  Ah, yes.

  She extracted her right hand from his hair, touched his shoulder. Dear Lord, his tongue flicked against her skin. Her nipples tightened, and she pictured him dragging her gown down, exposing her, sucking a rosy peak into his mouth as the wicked groom in her book had done to Lady Letitia.

  And then, her fingers—meant to glide over his jacket to better discover the little lump of her book and rescue it at last—went straight past his jacket. Curiosity had ever been the greatest weakness of Lady Boadicea Harrington. That, and handsome men, good wine, and depraved literature.

  What would be the harm in touching him? Investigating the part of him that currently intrigued her as much as his proficient lips and tongue? Her wanton hand went between her skirts and his body, and opened. Suddenly, there he was, warm and firm and large, burning into her palm.

  Oh.

  amn it all to hell. Her hand was on his cock.

  Never mind that no lady should ever imagine such a violation of propriety, let alone commit it. Never mind that she was an anathema to him. He didn’t like her. She was too bold, too brash, too beautiful. Her family was an assorted portmanteau of scandal and ruin. His brother was salivating over her, for the love of all that was holy, attempting to court the minx.

  Somehow, none of that mattered.

  Something primitive and unpolished, deep inside him, knew that the fiery woman in his arms was not meant for Harry. She wasn’t meant for anyone else. She was meant for him. Her body, her scent, her sweet lips, curved waist, the secret place behind her ear that drove her to distraction, the swell of her breasts, the pounding of her heart…it was all his.

  Surely.

  Or was this madness?

  He rocked against her again. So good. So bloody good.

  Yes, madness.

  The breath hissed from his lungs. His hips jerked. Three years without a woman. He had not wanted. Had not lusted. He had controlled himself. He had bloody well learned to tame the beast within. He could govern anything. No impulse could rule him ever again. Control and solitude were all he needed. All he craved.

 
Or so he’d thought.

  Because Lady Boadicea Harrington was cupping his straining length as if it were a baby bird—gentle and tentative—and his ballocks were tightening as though in preparation to spend.

  Fuck.

  His face was buried in her luscious bosom, a place that smelled and looked like heaven on earth, and he was about to spend in his trousers from nothing more than an untutored touch. Her fingers tightened then, clutching him.

  He snapped. Spencer Marlow, unimpeachable Duke of Bainbridge, wrangled the woman his brother was courting about the waist, lifted her from the floor, and carried her halfway across the haven of his library, hell-bent on debauching her. She was in his arms, her voluminous skirts billowing about them, and he didn’t give a damn. In six steps, he had her on a divan. In under three seconds, he caught her skirts in his fists, rucking them to her waist.

  She watched him, her vivid forget-me-not eyes taking him in with an intensity that gave him pause. His conscience pierced him, reminding him that his brother, who was beloved to him, fancied himself in love with her. And then his customary jadedness returned full-force, replacing all else.

  For a woman who was being courted by another man, she was awfully responsive. Not a hint of protest had fallen from her facile tongue. Perhaps she was the wanton tart he’d accused her of being. But what did that make him? Far, far worse. For what manner of man would take such daring liberties with the woman his brother wanted as his own? No gentleman, certainly.

  But then again, no gentleman would be responsible for his wife’s death.

  The reminder dampened his ardor. Millicent had died because of him. He couldn’t forget. Wouldn’t forget. Penitence. That was how he lived day by day, in the attempt to forgive himself. By denial, by sinking himself into the abyss of the duchy and his myriad duties. And by feeling nothing, neither passion nor gratification, and never this shameless, unsettled yearning that threatened to upend his carefully crafted life.

  He willed his arousal to abate, reminding himself that he didn’t deserve the pleasures of the flesh. That Lady Boadicea Harrington was unsuitable and fast. That he had made a vow over Millicent’s cold, ashen form. Years could not dim the hells he’d endured.

  Time provided distance but not a panacea.

  Nothing could heal what ailed him.

  Why then, did his hands span Lady Boadicea’s waist? Her legs, clad in silk stockings and adorned in tempting scarlet garters, claimed his attention. Trim ankles, shapely calves, feminine thighs hidden beneath her frilled and embroidered drawers. By God, he swore he could smell her musk, fragrant and heady, sweet and alluring as all the rest of her. His eyes settled on the vee of her limbs, her hidden center, and his mouth went dry.

  Right or wrong, he longed to have this woman.

  He would give his bloody soul over to slide home inside her now.

  Would she be wet for him? Slick and hot? His body thrummed with pent-up need. Three years of living a monastic life had taken its toll. He felt like a drunkard who’d just been given his first dram of whisky after giving his life over to the temperance movement for a decade. He shouldn’t want her. Everything about her was wrong. He’d never forgive himself.

  He sank to his knees, body wrangling control of his mind. He’d lost all ability to resist. Their gazes met, level to level, and she framed his face in her small, fine-boned hands, and she closed the scant distance between them. Her mouth, lush and full, landed on his, demanding, open.

  Madness. Stupidity.

  Wrong.

  So bloody good. He palmed her hip as they kissed with the sort of hunger he’d never experienced with another woman. His hand traveled higher, skimming to her inner thigh. He found the slit of her drawers. Ah, yes. His fingers swiped down her seam and then back up. Smooth, wet skin, warm and divine, greeted him.

  Wetter than he’d imagined.

  Better than he’d dared hope.

  She whimpered into his kiss, and he hummed his approval. He found her pearl next, dancing his index and middle finger over the sensitive bundle. Her hips worked against him, lifting from the cushion of the divan, demanding more.

  He would give her more.

  In that moment, he would bloody well give her everything and anything she required of him: a fleet of ships, a railroad, the dowager’s jewels, anything. She’d brought him to life for the first time in years, and he was seizing the aberration. The bud of her sex fascinated him. She seemed almost more sensitive than other women as she bucked, whimpered into his mouth, sucked his tongue. She was made for this. Made for him.

  And he…

  Twin gasps pierced the surreal fog of lust mucking up his brain.

  A familiar voice rang into the sudden silence of the library, making him tear his lips from Lady Boadicea’s enthusiastic kiss.

  “Bainbridge? Sweet heavens above.”

  His bloody mother.

  A grim sense of propriety overtook him, and he moved without even being aware of what actions he took, withdrawing his hand, flipping down her skirts.

  Another, much less cherished voice followed the first. “This is an abomination, Eloise. I thought you said he’d changed.”

  The contemptuous voice belonged to the Duchess of Cartwright, his mother’s bosom bow and society’s most notorious stickler for propriety.

  “Fuck.” The word escaped him, low and feral, torn from the deepest recesses of his conscience. He said it softly enough that the interlopers at his back wouldn’t hear, but Lady Boadicea did, for her perfectly formed auburn brows went aloft. Her pink cheeks shouldn’t enamor him. Nor should her swollen mouth or that bewitching beauty mark. He had shocked her, but he didn’t give a damn. He had, in fact, shocked them both.

  With the crazed choke of lust abruptly banished from his body, he stood and turned to face his mother and the Duchess of Cartwright. They hovered at the threshold of the library, hands pressed to their hearts. His mother’s mouth was drawn, her skin tinged with an unhealthy pallor. He had failed her again.

  Dismay settled on his chest like a weight, along with disgust and self-loathing. What the hell had he done? He swallowed down the bile that threatened to choke him and gave the two stunned, august ladies before him an abbreviated bow. “Your Graces, pray forgive me for the familiarity with Lady Boadicea. I’m afraid that she overturned her ankle, and I was attempting to assess how badly she’d injured herself.”

  It was a lie, a blatant one, and he knew it didn’t fool either sharp-minded duchess before him. He had undone Lady Boadicea’s hair, had been on his knees. But what could he say? Forgive me for almost fucking Lady Boadicea on the library divan? Forgive me for sliding my fingers along her wet, delicious seam, and intending to lick her until she spent before I slid my cock inside her so deep and so hard that neither of us would be able to move afterwards?

  Good God. Undoubtedly, that was the influence of the god-awful book. His trousers were once again uncomfortably snug.

  “Bainbridge,” his mother bit out, her high cheekbones flushing a mottled, angry red. “This is a disgrace.”

  Yes. It was. Most importantly, he was.

  He schooled his features into an icy mask. “I regret that Lady Boadicea’s injury necessitated a lapse of propriety, and I will make amends as expediently as possible.”

  The Duchess of Cartwright’s lined visage brightened, her hawk’s eyes pouncing on him with unerring efficiency. “I daresay your amends shall be of the most formal variety, Your Grace?”

  There was only one way to rectify his stupidity.

  Only one option if he meant to save his mother from further embarrassment, to spare his family name from additional scandal and whispers. Lord knew they’d all borne more than enough in the last few years, and he had been culpable for that as well. He could not ask his proud, aging mother or his brother to endure another moment of shame because of his sins.

  He swallowed hard, forcing the knot in his throat to sink all the way to his stomach like a brick. “Lady Boadicea and I will be marr
ied as soon as can be arranged.”

  “Married!” His mother looked positively bilious. “To a Harrington girl? Bainbridge, I cannot countenance such a misbegotten misalliance, particularly after…”

  Particularly after the debacle of his last marriage. Her words went unspoken, but he knew as well as she what she’d been about to utter. It weighed the air of their godforsaken vignette with loaded stillness.

  Spencer’s ears hummed, and the familiar heft of blame curdled in his stomach. His jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides. By God, his mother ought to know better than to allude to Millicent. No one had dared breathe her name to him after the last shovel of dirt had been laid on her grave.

  And this day was not the one to begin resurrecting old ghosts. Indeed, there was never a day on which he cared to revisit that particular brand of perdition.

  “Madam,” he warned, biting out the word as though it tasted as bitter as poison.

  The sound of shifting silk reached his ears, and his entire body went on edge. How odd that he should be attuned to Lady Boadicea after one ill-conceived folly in his library. But he was. Some perverse part of him imagined he could sense the tenor of her thoughts as well.

  She appeared at his elbow, dipping into a formal curtsy, playing her role to the hilt. He didn’t look at her, for fear that her beauty would once again undo him. She was a siren. An unwanted complication in his life after he had only just rediscovered a notion of purpose.

  “Your Graces,” she soothed in that dulcet voice of hers, smooth as freshly whipped cream and just as sweet, “please do not fault the duke for my appalling lack of balance. I’m afraid my eagerness to reach the library resulted in my injury. His Grace was only too kind to assist.”

  Wise girl for avoiding the insult his mother had delivered. He shot her a cautious look. If they played this properly, perhaps they wouldn’t be required to marry after all. Say the words, feign an apology, meet the hypocritical and sanctimonious demands of two elderly duchesses, and no one need spread this gossip any further.