The Worst Duke in the World

by Lisa Berne

  “I say, Jane.”

  “Yes?”

  “I was just wondering what your answer was going to be.”

  Jane tried to pull herself together, but as she didn’t truly wish to, because it felt quite marvelous to be warming up like this, she didn’t make much progress. “About what?”

  “About why I should be worrying about myself.”

  “Oh. Well, perhaps the danger has passed.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, possibly.”

  “You’re being rather cryptic, Jane.”

  “Am I?” she said dreamily, not really caring, and brought herself just a little bit closer to him.

  “Yes, but I’ll take you at your word. So,” the Duke went on, “I needn’t worry about myself anymore, you’re not angry with me, you don’t think the Viscount’s shoulders are better than mine, and you like the color of my eyes, and the way they sometimes darken. Have I got it all correctly?”

  He sounded so much like an earnest schoolboy wanting to be sure he’d learned a lesson well, Jane smiled up at him and inched yet closer. Her skirts were brushing up against his long legs. “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  Another silence fell between them. It was a comfortable silence, but to Jane it also felt as if it was simmering with motes of heat, invisible, magical, intoxicating. She loved the feel of her hand around his forearm. It was all bony and strong, with a satisfying hint of muscle, and without being disagreeably bulky. The only thing that would make it better would be if she could feel the warm bare skin of his arm. Was it nice and hairy?

  They veered, gently and unhurriedly, a few times. Then:

  “Jane.”

  “Yes?”

  “May I ask you something?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Did you happen to finish the box of conserves I gave you last week?”

  “Yes, I finished it the same day.”

  “Did you? You didn’t feel sick or anything from eating all that chocolate?”

  “Oh no, I felt wonderful.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Thank you again. They were delicious.”

  “You’ve very welcome. I—uh—I got another box of conserves for you.”

  “You did? How very, very kind of you.”

  “It was twice as big as the first one I gave you.”

  “Was?” She looked up at him curiously.

  “Yes, well—uh—the thing of it is, I was in such a bad mood that I—well, I—you see, I ate most of them myself. I’m most dreadfully sorry. Also, I’m not even sure why I’m telling you this. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s the thought that counts.”

  “Although maybe not with chocolate.”

  She smiled. “Maybe not.”

  “Would—would you mind if I got you another box?”

  “I wouldn’t mind at all.”

  “That’s very gracious of you.”

  “Not at all. It’s nice to have something to look forward to.”

  “Yes, it is. Jane, would it be all right if I asked you something else?”

  “By all means.”

  “Well, I don’t mean to sound self-centered, but I was just wondering when it was that you saw my eyes darkening. Nobody’s ever said that to me before, you see. Do you happen to remember?”

  “Oh yes,” Jane answered, more dreamily than ever. She was very warm and tingly everywhere and she felt very, very good. “It’s when you’ve been kissing me.”

  “Oh—ah—really?”

  “Yes.”

  The Duke stopped, and Jane did too. She stood looking up into his face, admiring it all over again. His deep-blue eyes, she was pleased to see, were darkening like anything. He said:

  “I wonder if—uh . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I was just wondering—if—if you wouldn’t mind if we did it again.”

  “Kissing?”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “No you do mind, or no you wouldn’t mind?”

  “I mean I think we should.”

  “Kiss?” he said earnestly.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re—you’re not going to deploy your knee on me?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Oh, that’s good.”

  “Yes, it is.” Jane smiled up at him, thinking how delightful it was to know that they were going to be kissing soon.

  As she herself had just said, it was nice to have something to look forward to.

  Chapter 14

  For a fleeting moment Anthony thought about the incredibly handsome Viscount Whitton and his perfect hair and his enormously broad shoulders and all those muscles of his and he felt horribly inferior, but in the very next moment he remembered that Jane had said how nice his shoulders were, and also he remembered how the Viscount had walked around on Saturday, which briefly made him want to snicker again, but as he looked down into Jane’s face and noticed how she was smiling at him, looking very much like the most beautiful daisy that had ever existed, everything else in the world seemed to fade away into a wonderful nothingness and if anybody were to wander by and ask him how he was feeling he would have said, truthfully, that he felt marvelous and excited and full of joy and lust, although at the same time he hoped with all his being that nobody would wander by, because it would be a grievous interruption of this magical time with Jane.

  Anthony smiled back at her.

  He was remembering how, after that time they had kissed before, he had thought about trying to have his mouth be just above hers, teasing them both in the most terrible and wonderful way, until they couldn’t stand it for another single second.

  And he had wanted to trail his tongue along the side of her neck, and maybe nip at the soft, sensitive skin there. If that was something she would like, of course.

  Also, he remembered thinking that he would like it very much if she did the same to him.

  Too, he had wanted to touch her with his hands. Everywhere.

  Now he wanted all those things, and as soon as possible.

  He was aware that he longed to plunge eagerly at her. Into her. Without calmness or restraint.

  But would that display a dreadful lack of finesse?

  She had said that it was all right for them to kiss again, and suddenly he had no idea how to go about it.

  Especially when he was nearly shaking with his desire for her.

  Should he slowly take one of her hands, and take just a small step closer?

  Or maybe he should reach for both of her hands?

  Alternatively, would it be better if they weren’t holding hands, and if he simply drew near to her?

  He could put his hands on Jane’s shoulders, not in a domineering possessive way, naturally, but lightly and caressingly. Besides, he would love to touch her anywhere he could. The round knob of her shoulder, the sweet protuberant bone on her delicate wrist, the warm nape of her neck, the curve of her breast, the flare of her hip, the length of her leg . . .

  All of this rushed through his mind in a rapturous kaleidoscopic sort of way, then Anthony suddenly realized that he was staring at her lovely, tender, rose-pink mouth. He swallowed, hard.

  “I say, Jane.”

  “Yes?”

  “I really do want to kiss you in the worst way.”

  Her eyes danced. “I doubt it will be in the worst way. Based on how it was before.”

  “Oh, really? Well, that’s reassuring. The thing of it is, Jane, I’m—I’m—uh—it’s just that I—well, I—that is—”

  “Do stop blithering,” she said, but kindly, and took a firm, sure step forward so that their bodies met, and lifted herself up a bit on her toes while at the same time she slid her arms about his neck, and then without hesitation she brought her mouth against his own, plunging against him and into him with her warm, soft, wet tongue.

  Kissing him without calmness or restraint.

  And yet, somehow, with finesse.

  By Jove, Jane was an amazing ki
sser.

  One must, Anthony thought, a little dazedly, rise to the occasion.

  So he wrapped his arms tightly around her, noticing at once that there was more to her than he had observed upon first meeting her, she had in fact the most delicious soft yielding breasts, and some flesh to gently pad her ribs, and after that interesting discovery he met her tongue with his own, as would a thirsty traveler in the desert find a spring of lifesaving water, and when in a little while hers gracefully and invitingly gave way, he plunged eagerly into her mouth.

  Jane gave a low hum of what distinctly sounded like pleasure, which made Anthony yet more joyful and lustful.

  They kissed and kissed and kissed.

  Was it a single long kiss, or a lot of individual ones, demarcated, as it were, by how they slanted their heads, by how they deepened into each other and teasingly withdrew, over and over, like a sweet carnal dance?

  He didn’t know and he didn’t care.

  Except, as a side note, that maybe, just maybe, this was a kind of dance he could do.

  A heady thought indeed.

  At some point Anthony nipped at Jane’s upper lip with his teeth, which felt marvelous, and at some other point she did the same to him, which felt equally marvelous, and when it got to the stage where they were both quite breathless from being mouth to mouth for an extended period of time, he lifted his head and drew a great deal of air into his lungs and after that he slid his tongue down and along the soft skin of her neck.

  Jane hummed again.

  So he did it two more times.

  She hummed, and Anthony thought of daisies, and bees, and some lines from the Cavalier poet Thomas Carew: But the warm sun thaws the benumbed earth / And makes it tender; gives a sacred birth / To the dead swallow; wakes in hollow tree / The drowsy cuckoo, and the humble-bee.

  “Jane,” he said, “I’d like to bite you just a little right now. Where I’ve been—uh—licking you.”

  “Oh, would you?” Her voice was slow and dreamy, and she was still rather breathless. “That sounds nice.”

  “Yes, but it might leave a mark, wouldn’t it? A conspicuous one. Would you want that?”

  She lifted shining gray eyes to his. “How thoughtful of you to ask. I could cover it with a fichu, or a shawl, but then I’d probably feel like you did with the toga, and worry about it slipping off.”

  “Well then, I won’t bite you,” he said gallantly but regretfully. “Good Lord, I sound just like a vampire, don’t I?”

  Jane laughed. “If you are one, my great-grandfather Kent has a wonderful remedy to cure you.”

  “Does it involve vinegar? Or household dust? Cobwebs, perhaps?”

  “No, you would need to go outside in the dead of night, and bury your best shoes underneath an elderberry tree.”

  “Would it have to be my best shoes?”

  “Oh yes, because anything less than that might turn you into an actual bat.”

  “I see. How did that pamphlet sell?”

  “Very well, Great-grandmother said. Several of the neighborhood cobblers carried it in their shops.”

  Anthony laughed. “Jane, your great-grandfather sounds like a dreadful rogue.”

  “Yes, I think he was,” she agreed. “Great-grandmother said he always wanted to write novels, but there was no money in it. By the way, I have an idea.”

  With this last sentence her voice had gone all soft and honeyed again, and Anthony immediately forgot about vampires, bats, pamphlets, failed novelists, and enterprising London cobblers.

  “Do tell,” he said, his own voice getting rather husky.

  Jane reached up to the bodice of her pink gown, to where it covered her heart, and without hurry she pulled down the fabric to reveal a swell of breast, white skin, a delicate constellation of freckles.

  “Try biting me here.”

  Lust surged through him with such vehemence and joy that Anthony had to take a moment to steady himself. Forget smoldering eyes, he thought, his whole self was smoldering. On fire. Alight.

  “Jane,” he said, “that’s a splendid idea.”

  She smiled. “Thank you. Are you going to do it?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as I get a little self-control back.”

  “Oh, do you feel out of control?”

  “I rather do.”

  “Well, that’s nice.”

  “Is it?”

  “Oh yes. You’re not worrying about my knee, are you?”

  “No. I’m worried that I’m going to pounce on you too ravenously.”

  “That’s nice, too.”

  “Really, Jane?”

  “Yes.”

  Thus encouraged, but nonetheless exerting himself to be slow, slow and deliberate, to savor every delicious moment as it came and went, Anthony put his hands on Jane’s ribcage with a kind of awe, his fingers sensitive to every rise and fall of bone and flesh. He could still hardly believe she was letting him touch her. Hold her like this. As if she actually enjoyed it. Then—slow, slow—he leaned down, and kissed the soft little swell of her breast.

  He heard her sharply indrawn breath, and glanced up into her face.

  “All well, Jane?”

  “Oh yes. Can you do that again?”

  “You liked it?”

  “My God, yes.”

  “I say, I’m glad. Yes, I can do that again. Of course.” And so he did. He could feel the strong quick thump of her heart. Was it really possible that he, with his mouth and his hands, had made it beat faster? If so, how absolutely tremendous. “Again?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He kissed that sweet swell, then, trying hard not to rush in his driving eagerness, he dipped his tongue beneath the embroidered neckline of her bodice and heard—felt—that indrawn breath again. A wild jolt of hopeful pleasure shot through him, and Anthony felt so fiery hot that somewhere in the back of his mind, he was surprised not to smell smoke issuing from his person.

  Slowly he slid his tongue down again, then up along the slope of soft flesh, to her fingers where they grasped the fabric of her bodice to open herself to him. He kissed them, too, dipping his tongue between the delicate web of flesh between her fingers while thinking of the tantalizing juncture between her legs, too, in a kind of allusive caress, and Jane started humming again, low and soft and deep in her throat. He wondered if she was having the same thought.

  He also noticed that his legs felt a little shaky with his hot, hot desire, and vehemently he wished they could lie down together, body to body and mouth to mouth, stripped of all their clothes and Jane’s glorious pale hair tumbling free.

  Anthony paused, so entirely taken by this vision of them that he had to remind himself to breathe.

  Jane said, softly, “All well?”

  Her voice brought him out of his dazzled trance and he said, “Oh yes,” against her breast and suddenly remembered that he was supposed to be biting her, just a little, here on this soft, sensitive part of her, leaving his mark, but secretly, a kind of erotic knowledge that only they two would share.

  So he did it.

  Jane gave a gasp and her fingers let go of her bodice and buried themselves in his hair.

  The little red marks disappeared beneath the pink fabric. Secret now, but imprinted, indelibly, in his mind. Anthony straightened and Jane’s hands slid from his hair and along the sides of his face and jaw, then to the lapels of his dark jacket which she gripped hard. He looked down into her face, which was rosy and flushed, and she looked up into his face which, he guessed, might also be flushed with the hot blood of lust and pleasure and hope and joy.

  He felt wonderful and also, at the same time, rather vulnerable. They had shown each other something quite intimate about themselves. And into his memory came the cynical, cautionary line from Alexander Pope: A little learning is a dangerous thing . . .

  With quick effort Anthony turned his mind away from it. Rather awkwardly he said to Jane, “Was—was my biting you all right?”
/>   “More than all right.” Those lovely gray eyes were shining up at him again.

  “That’s splendid.”

  “I want to bite you.”

  “You—you do?”

  “Yes indeed.”

  “Really, Jane?”

  “Yes. But only if you’d like it, too.”

  “I—I would.”

  So powerful a rush of desire rocked him that he was glad he didn’t topple over from it, as although that would have been a kind of compliment to Jane’s powers of enchantment it would also be incredibly mortifying, and in addition one sometimes fell unconscious when dropping to the floor, a scenario entirely to be avoided, especially since it would delay or even abrogate the opportunity to be bitten by her. “I—well—uh—I’d—yes, I would like that. Please. And thank you.”

  “Where?”

  “On—on my neck also. If you really don’t mind?”

  She smiled, and Anthony thought of Aphrodite. Not in shrub form, and of course he meant no disrespect to McTavish’s undoubted skill with those fearsome shears, but rather he was thinking of Aphrodite’s eternal and intangible essence: alluring, seductive, captivating.

  “I don’t mind in the least,” Jane said. “But there’s just one thing.”

  “Oh? What is it?”

  “Your neckcloth is in the way.”

  “Oh—ah—yes.”

  “May I?” Lightly she moved her hands between his lapels to the white linen cloth which, with his usual disinterest, he had earlier today tied in some kind of haphazard arrangement. Anthony swallowed.

  “Yes. Of course.”

  With swift dexterity Jane untied the neckcloth and slid it away from around his nape, letting it drop in a coil of fabric onto the floor. Anthony was startled by how electrifyingly exposed he felt. How—again—both wonderful and vulnerable. She ran her fingers inside the collar of his shirt and along the bare skin of his throat, and Anthony felt goose-bumps shiver up and down his arms.

  “Mmmmm,” Jane said softly, sounding exactly like a person who had just tasted something delicious. Like, say, an éclair, or a freshly baked apple puff smothered in whipped cream. Or a chocolate conserve. Then she trailed her fingers down and lower, to the open vee of his shirt, along the hard ridge of his collar-bone, and then to the whorl of springy hair beneath that.