He came around the foot of the bed, his eyes stabbing into her own once more as he lifted her other ankle.
“Almost done,” he said, though he didn’t give her that rakish smile. His face looked like it would crack if it did. He tied her ankle, shifted, moved to the head of the bed, reaching for her free wrist. Did she see him hesitate just before he touched her? Yes, she was sure she did, for he almost seemed to flinch as their flesh made contact. He made short work of the last wrist, stepping back to observe his handiwork when he was finished.
“I never thought I’d see the day when an earl’s daughter lay prostrate before me.”
Was he trying to anger her? She didn’t know, didn’t care. A multitude of emotions filled her as he stared down at her. Shame. Embarrassment. Desire. ’Twas the last that coursed through her the most. The emotion shocked her, heightened her awareness of him standing over her.
“Do I please you, Lucien?” She didn’t know where the words came from, had probably read them in Lucy’s wicked book, but they had the right effect. He lost his composure then. She saw the mask slip, saw a layer of fierce desire become revealed.
“Oh, yes, Elizabeth,” he murmured in a way that seemed pried out of him. “You please me.”
She lay there, her nipples feeling odd. Her body dotting with goose pimples. More vulnerable and more fiercely excited than she could ever remember being in her life.
He eyed her up and down, his breathing no longer regulated. And then, almost as if he couldn’t stand the sight of her anymore, he wrenched around, crossing to the side table and placing his hands upon the edge of it for a moment before he picked up the feathers and the bag of sugar.
His hands trembled.
She could see it from where she lay. Her eyes closed in a moment of victory. When she opened them again, he stood over her. She expected him to sit on the edge of the bed, expected him to cover her body with his own, to do any number of things she’d read about. What was more, she wanted that. Mon dieu, how she wanted that.
But instead he moved to the foot of the bed, his eyes never leaving hers. And instead of being horrified that he could blatantly see the most intimate part of her, she felt even more aroused, the heat increasing to the point that it caused moisture to build, caused her woman’s mound to fill, to swell. She trembled, too, closed her eyes because of it, wanting him to touch her with a longing that made her feel embarrassed.
Was she so base?
Apparently so.
And then he was touching her—on the leg—his fingers suddenly tipped with velvet. Her body convulsed, her eyes sprang open. But he hadn’t really touched her, the feathers had. She watched as he dipped them in the bag, then lowered the feathers to her calf again.
“Lucien,” she moaned, helpless to act unaffected. She didn’t care what his intentions had been in tying her up like he had, she only wanted what his touch promised.
“What, Elizabeth?” she heard him ask, his voice unnaturally low and husky.
She didn’t answer, couldn’t for he was dusting her again. And then … Oh, Lord, he bent down, his tongue lapping at the sugar. She jerked in her bonds.
“Sweet,” he murmured, his hot breath all but scalding her. “So sweet.”
Her body spasmed. She felt that familiar pressure build, that wonderful pressure he’d raised within her.
She saw his eyes flicker, saw the mask slip again. Almost as if he had to prove to himself that he was the one in charge, he licked her calf. She threw back her head. His left hand moved to the inside of her thigh.
“Yes,” she murmured, as he moved ever closer to the place that burned for his caress. Uncaring that she begged for the pleasure she knew he could give her. “Yes,” she said again, writhing in her bonds.
He used the feathers on her inner thigh, followed the trail with his tongue, higher this time, then higher still. She trembled so fiercely now she felt ready to explode, every nerve straining, begging for his touch. She waited, body held poised. “Please, Lucien. Please.”
“Please what?” she heard him moan.
She opened her eyes then, met his gaze. He was poised over her, his body in between her thighs. “Touch me. Touch me like you’ve touched me before.”
She saw his eyes close, saw him tilt his head back. His whole body seemed to sag. “I can’t fight it,” she heard him groan. “God help me, I cannot fight it.”
“Don’t, Lucien,” she ordered. “Please don’t.”
She felt him shift, and then—oh, gracious heaven—his mouth covered her woman’s mound. She screamed, her whole body tensing, then expanding into ripples of pleasure. “Lucien,” she cried and then moaned, and moaned.
He sucked at her, nibbled at her, and she died a sweet death as her body flooded his mouth. And when he was done, he drew back. She could see the heat in his eyes as he knelt between her legs. Could see the evidence of his arousal jutting out before him.
He must have known what she looked at, for she saw his eyes fill with heat. “Did you enjoy that, my dear?”
He’d gotten control of himself again. She knew he had. And yet, she also knew that losing control lay a heartbeat away. And she wanted, oh how she wanted him to lose it.
“Did you enjoy the taste of me?” she asked right back.
She saw his eyes narrow, saw his body twitch.
“Let me taste you,” she said.
His eyes flamed. She waited, breath held, to see what he would do.
“Is this what you want?” he asked, throwing back his purple robe to reveal his erection … and more. For the first time she spied the utter masculinity of his chest. Ridges of muscles rippled down his bronze chest. Perfectly carved, those muscles flexed as he rose above her. He was no soft gentleman. Lucien St. Abyn was all hard, sinewy man.
“Yes,” she said, refusing to let him intimidate her.
“Where?” he asked.
She lifted her hips. “Here,” she said, spreading her legs.
He threw back his head then, groaned as if in pain, the muscles along his shoulders tightening.
“No,” he said, though the word seemed to be uttered for himself. “No,” he repeated.
“Take me, Lucien,” she said, sensing her victory. “Take me,” she repeated, spreading herself as far as she could.
His eyes opened. And she knew she’d won.
“Curse you, Elizabeth. Curse you for what you’ve done.” He pressed into her, his body covering her own. She could feel the hairs of his chest brush her nipples. They hardened almost painfully, but it was an erotic pain, one that made her press into him. And then he began to kiss her, his body slowly pushing into her even as his tongue entered her mouth. She gave back to him, sucking at him frantically, tasting what could only be herself on his lips. He pushed farther. There was pain, brief pain, and then the pressure of his body inside of her own, a tight fullness that made her begin to spasm all over again.
“Elizabeth,” he murmured against her mouth. “Damn you, Elizabeth.”
She lifted her head to capture his lips, jerked her hips as she sought to recapture the friction. He pulled out. She moaned in protest. He pushed into her again, harder this time. Her nipples grew more and more taut. And despite her body’s innocence, she met him thrust for thrust, cursing her bonds, exulting in his domination of her.
Yes, her mind screamed. Yes.
And then they both cried out, Elizabeth’s moans matching his thrusts. Once, twice, he pumped into her. And then, almost as if he were jerked off of her, he pushed away. Her eyes sprang open. He climbed off the bed, stood over her, the evidence of his pleasure glistening on his maleness. His chest heaved. His hand lifted to wipe at his mouth. “What have you done?”
Elizabeth strained at her bonds, her body still undulating.
“Damn you, Elizabeth, what have you done?” He turned away from her.
“Lucien,” she called. She thought he would leave her here like this, panicked for a moment at the thought, even as her body still hummed from the pl
easure he’d given her. Over and over again. But he stopped, suddenly turned back to her. She looked into his eyes, waited for him to do the same, but he didn’t. Instead he crossed to her, undoing her right wrist. She waited for him to untie her legs, too, but he didn’t. Instead he turned, heading back to the dressing room.
“Lucien?” she called.
He didn’t answer.
“Lucien,” she called again. But he was gone.
Chapter Eighteen
It took Elizabeth almost five minutes to untie herself, but by the time she raced to the dressing room, it was already empty. She clung to the doorframe, stared into the empty room, her body burning in secret places.
Where had he gone?
But she knew. Knew it with a certainty that belied the shortness of their time together. Rushing back to the bedroom, she ignored the evidence of what had transpired—the silk ties still hanging from the bedposts, the mussed sheets—and hurriedly cleaned herself up before pulling on her chemise, then her gown, uncaring that she wore no corset, nor even her petticoats beneath.
A quick stop at her dressing room to pull on a cloak and she was off, hoping against hope that she could manage to find the stone that would open the door that led to his secret beach.
But as she gained the bottom of the stairwell, John was there.
“He’s left the castle,” he said, holding out a hand to stop her.
Elizabeth didn’t want to believe him. After all, the man had betrayed her to Lucien. But she couldn’t deny the truth in his eyes. She collapsed on the last step, her eyes watering suddenly as the aftereffects of what had just happened hit her with a suddenness that robbed her of breath.
“Where?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Likely to town, but I’ve no way of knowing for sure.”
She couldn’t meet his eyes, merely nodded in mute misery.
“Elizabeth,” he said, looking uncomfortable for a moment, “he does not want an heir.”
She jerked her head up.
“Thinks the dukedom is not his to pass on since he was never meant to hold the title.”
Didn’t want children? Her hand moved to her chest. But in a blinding flash she admitted it all made sense. The empty threats. The way he fought his desire for her. His anger when he’d lost control.
“I had no idea,” she said, realizing there were many things she hadn’t known about her husband.
“So you can understand why he’s so upset. You might be with child.”
Her gaze jerked to meet his. “What makes you say that?”
He smiled tightly. “Half the castle heard the two of you upstairs.”
She let out a small gasp of embarrassment, her body warming. “Oh?”
“Oh,” he said back.
She looked away, her chagrin fading in the face of her problems. “What do I do?”
“Have patience. I always thought his vow was a damn foolish one. Now that the beans have been spilled, so to speak, he’s going to have to rethink everything. Give him a day or two to acclimate himself to the notion.”
She nodded, realizing there was little else she could do. And yet as she waited for Lucien to return, she mulled over what she’d learned. The duke’s vow only reaffirmed her suspicion that he had loved his brother deeply. So much so that the guilt at playing a part in Henry’s death had nearly destroyed him. No pictures of that brother hung in the castle, Elizabeth realized as she found herself strolling the rooms yet again. Just the one portrait of his father, the look on the old duke’s face one of rebuke. Elizabeth wondered if it’d been placed in the castle to do exactly that: remind Lucien of what he’d done.
And what had he done? Elizabeth wondered. Her knowledge of the day’s events was sketchy at best. Just snippets of conversation she’d overheard. There’d been a duel. Lucien’s brother had been a second. That meant he’d been standing nearby, though certainly not within the duke’s pistol sights. So why was it assumed Lucien had been responsible for Henry’s death?
“Because it seemed very coincidental that Henry should be shot during Lucien’s duel with another person,” John explained. He was working on the castle walls outside, Elizabeth supposing she should be abashed by his shirtless body. Other workers hovered nearby, a pile of freshly carved stones to her left.
“But it was obviously an accident,” she observed. “Pistols are terribly inaccurate. He could well have been struck by a ball that went astray.”
John wiped at his brow. “Aye.”
“But no one believed that.”
John dropped the shirt he’d used as a rag, his body nearly as tan as Lucien’s. “When an old title and a large fortune are at stake, people think the worst. No one wanted to believe that Lucien was capable of such a thing, and yet in the end they did. It didn’t help matters that Lucien never defended himself.”
“Why, I wonder?”
“Because,” John said, his face grim, “at first grief made him too numb to care. Months passed, and by the time he returned to society, it was too late. The rumors had circulated for too long.” He met her gaze. “The damage had been done.”
Elizabeth looked at the ground, her mind mulling over what she’d just learned.
“Do you think he did it?” John asked.
“No,” Elizabeth said, instantly meeting his gaze. “I will admit, before I got to know him, I had my doubts. But not now.”
John held her gaze, an expression in his eyes she couldn’t quite catch. But then he looked past her, his shoulders stiffening. “Your husband returns.”
Elizabeth whirled. And, indeed, Lucien came at them. Not walked, not strolled. He stormed, his green eyes as cold as the Atlantic, his face tight.
“I need to speak to you,” he said, ignoring his friend as he reached for her arm without even so much as a by-your-leave.
Elizabeth looked at John, but the man just smiled tightly. “Offer him some fruit,” he said to her. “That might settle him down.”
Elizabeth almost choked on a burst of hysterical laughter, but her husband didn’t seem amused. He turned her away, his hand clasping her elbow as he all but dragged her back toward one of the archways that shielded the crumbling part of the castle from visitor’s eyes.
“Where are we going?” she asked, telling herself to be calm. Whatever he had to say, he would say. There was not much to do but wait. But he kept quiet until they’d nearly reached the courtyard, pausing just inside an archway. She shivered at the feel of his touch, helpless not to remember how his hands had felt against her flesh earlier.
“Your parents are here,” he clipped.
“Here?” she gasped.
He nodded.
She looked through the arch at the courtyard, trying to find evidence that what he said was true. A man led a black horse toward them.
“They rode?”
He followed her gaze, his eyes narrowing when he saw the horse. “Damnation,” he muttered under his breath, “Not now.”
“Here you are, Your Grace,” the groom called as he arrived near them, turning the horse for their inspection. “Got the gelding just a few moments ago. Thought her grace would want to ride straight away.”
Her grace.
Elizabeth stiffened.
It was hers.
“The duchess doesn’t feel like riding at this moment,” Lucien clipped.
She stiffened in protest. “No. I want to ride.”
“And keep your parents waiting?”
She’d forgotten. Her shoulders slumped. “I … No. You’re correct.” She searched his eyes as she struggled for something more to say. “Thank you. He is quite beautiful.”
For a moment she saw his anger fade, but just a brief moment. “You’re welcome.”
She bit her lip, turned toward the house again. “Where are they?”
“In the drawing room.”
“I see.” He’d bought her a horse. A horse. Of her very own. She didn’t know why, but the realization made a lump rise in her throat.
�
��Before we go in,” Lucien asked, his voice suddenly harsh again, “answer me this.”
She tensed.
He waited until the groom was far enough away before asking, “When were your last menses?”
She felt her jaw slacken.
He appeared to struggle with himself for a moment, the battle lines drawn again. “I spoke with a midwife today. She told me that a woman is more apt to get with child approximately ten days after her last menses. So when did you last bleed?”
She shook her head, her mind spinning. “Three weeks ago.” She lifted her chin. “So I doubt you have to worry.”
His relief was palpable, his shoulders losing their strain.
“Afraid you’ve gotten me with child?” she asked with a proud tilt to her chin.
His eyes swiveled back to hers. “Obviously.”
“I know why.”
His eyes moved past her to where the workers labored. “John.”
“Aye,” she agreed.
“ ’Twas not his knowledge to share.”
“Yes, it was, Lucien,” she said, losing her bravado and switching to reason. “You should be proud of your heritage, despite how you obtained it. The title has belonged to your family for generations. Can you not see past your guilt and realize that it needs to be carried on?”
“Guilt,” he spit, his voice raised until he lowered it to a hiss. “Guilt? What do you know of guilt?”
“I know you would never have killed your brother.”
“Do you? And how do you know that?”
“Because you’re not capable of it.”
He smiled mirthlessly. The grin sent chills down the nape of her neck. “But I did kill him, Elizabeth.”
He bluffed. She was sure he did. And yet …
She could see none of the usual signs. There was no teasing glint in his eyes. No devil-take-it glare. His eyes looked utterly serious for the first time since she’d met him, and she felt alarmed.
“You didn’t.”
“Oh, yes, Elizabeth. I did. Pointed the pistol at him and fired. What do you think of that?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head.
“No,” he mimicked. “Such a tedious word. ’Twas what I should have told myself when I first laid eyes upon you.”
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