The Perks of being a Duchess (Middleton Novel Book 2)

by Tanya Wilde

  “You expect me to believe you are being charming because I suggested it?”

  His careless smile widened. “So you do think me charming.”

  “Calculating, more like it—devious, even.”

  He laughed. “Well, they do say there is nothing more honest than a man and a woman in bed.”

  Heat pooled at her core at the sudden intensity of his eyes.

  “But we are not in bed,” Willow pointed out.

  “But we could be.”

  Oh dear lord.

  No matter how hard she tried to draw air into her lungs, to reply with a witticism, she only remained breathless in response.

  “You cannot possibly be propositioning me?”

  “I promise you, Willow: there is so much more honesty for you to discover in my bed.” This time roguish mischief did sparkle in his gaze.

  “What about my sister?” she said, at last finding her voice. “Will you agree to let this grievance of yours go?”

  Since he brought it up, she might as well ask. Before she did something as wanton as jump into his bed. He had a way to slay her wits. And that was just with a kiss.

  He stared at her for so long, Willow thought he wouldn’t answer. The fire in his eyes cooled and a different kind of intensity filled them.

  She hardly took note of the food the footman placed before them, her gaze held captive by his, attempting to decipher every subtle change in his face.

  Finally, he answered with, “I am open to discussing my initial intentions on one condition.”

  “Which is?” She could hardly believe her ears.

  “Any discussion on the matter will remain separate from our marriage.”

  Her heart skipped a beat before galloping forward. She gathered his meaning. He didn’t want their marriage to depend solely on the situation with Holly—not its success or its failure—but he was willing to discuss the matter. He was willing to listen.

  Ambrose had just bent his stance—given an inch—a large one.

  Her lips parted to say something, anything, or to just breathe. She wanted to dance on the table from relief and could not help the wide smile that spread across her face. “I agree that any negotiation on my sister’s part is separate from our marriage.”

  When he returned her smile, nearly bashful in its presentation, her joy was suddenly replaced by a burning need to kiss him, to roll around the sheets, tangled limbs and all—in his bed. His earlier words had put a question in her mind, one which now refused to leave: Was there really more to discover in his bed?

  As if he read her mind, he said, “And that negotiation is separate from the bedroom, as well.”

  Willow couldn’t speak, but she managed a single solitary nod. When she did, his eyes filled with heat. Immediately, a mirroring heat bloomed inside her, beckoning, enticing.

  For a moment, they merely stared at one another as the temperature of the room increased.

  “Honesty is always a good start, don’t you think?” she finally managed in a shaky voice.

  “I agree.” His lips stretched and stretched. He held her gaze for a long moment, and then murmured, “Are you going to admit, then, that there is the mutual attraction between us?”

  Drawing in a breath, she slowly exhaled. “Yes, I shall admit that there is.”

  It took every ounce of Willow’s nerve not to expire into a puddle as she made that statement, but the ravenous hunger on Ambrose’s face was worth the courage.

  His voice dropped an octave. “I’m particularly fond of your lips.”

  Willow felt herself flush in response. “I . . . I enjoy kissing you, too.”

  The moment was unbearably intimate. There would be no hiding from him, no escaping his presence from this night forward.

  “But what of your pledge to withhold pleasure from me?” Willow asked. It was the whole experience or none of it. She no longer wanted to enter his bed only for the sake of becoming with child. She wanted to enter his bed for the sheer pleasure she could find there.

  “That? Already forgotten.” His look turned sheepish. “Not one of my proudest moments.”

  You can say that again, husband.

  “Then it’s purged from my mind, as well.”

  He gave her an unrepentant grin. “Shall we move on to desert?”

  Chapter 18

  Outside, the sky lit up as lightning crackled. Rain beat against the window and the loud roar of thunder broke through the sky. The tremors that shook the night were inside Ambrose, too. He could feel their vibrations, warning him that the taut, tenuous grip on his control was about to shatter in so many pieces it would be impossible to assemble them again.

  To hell with it.

  Ambrose didn’t know what had compelled him to the concession that allowed his wife to change his mind about the fate of her sister, but he bloody well did not regret it—it had brought a smile to her face that had reached all the way to her eyes. In fact, it was odd, but he no longer felt as if a bog was swallowing him up whole.

  He watched as his wife’s gaze drifted to his bed. It was large, designed for a large man. He smirked. He couldn’t help himself. He wasn’t about to let her out of that bed for a very long time.

  “This is your chamber now, too.”

  “You think I should sleep here . . .” She circled back to him, her tongue darting out to moisten her lips, sending a wave of lust to his cock. “Every night?”

  “Yes.” He couldn’t say more than that, not with her looking at him the way she was. Innocent. Intrigued.

  She had married him because she wanted a child. He’d never thought of children—he never thought he’d marry. But the moment she had confessed her desire, something warm had spread through his chest. Something that had felt like joy.

  “And if I wish to sleep in my chamber?”

  He took the two steps that closed the distance between them and slid his hands into her hair, tangling the golden strands between his fingers and tilted her head back. “This is your chamber,” he brushed his thumb over her lower lip.

  Her face brightened with a smile.

  “Really, Ambrose?” She moved even closer to him, her breasts pressing up against his body. “You know how I despise commands.”

  The teasing note in her voice drew his gaze to her lips, and his self-discipline dissolved. He bent his head and lowered his mouth to hers in a deep, hard kiss of total possession. It wasn’t enough. Would it ever be enough? Would he ever get enough? He didn’t think so.

  He drew back to stare at her. “You drive me bloody crazy.”

  He heard his own desperation in the words but didn’t care. Hell, he wasn’t certain what he was desperate for, except that in that moment, it was unthinkable not to possess his wife in every way. His tongue danced with hers, seeking more. She didn’t protest his lack of constraint, and instead, entwined her arms around his neck and returned his kiss with equal fervor.

  Wild with want and consumed by desire, he began pushing her back, guiding them both to the bed. Control was no longer an option for him, he understood now, so he just let go. There was no point in holding onto something that was shot to hell anyway.

  “Undress me,” he said, his voice low and commanding against her lips.

  “Must you always be so bossy?” she murmured, but there was no hesitation in her movements as her fingers instantly appeared to shove his jacket off his shoulders.

  “Yes.”

  He thought he heard her laugh under her breath as the buttons of his shirt came undone, and Ambrose wasted no time in ridding her of all her clothing. He tugged at her gown, and then at her chemise, until all of her garments were scattered at her feet.

  One day he would undress her slowly and with all the sensuality she deserved. Just not tonight. Not after he had longed for this moment ever since the morning after their wedding night.

  And Willow didn’t waste any time either. As soon as his shirt hit the floor, her fingers were on the waistband of his breeches.

  Ambrose
couldn’t stop a groan from escaping when she leaned forward and kissed the ridges of his abdomen.

  The moment his breeches were unfastened, he tugged off his boots and stepped out of the confining material, sweeping her up into his arms.

  He laid her down on the bed, the mattress dipping with their weight. He took a breath, his eyes searching her face. She was beautiful, her face flushed and eyes glazed with burning hunger. The tightness in his chest deepened and spread. Christ, what this woman did to him.

  “Ambrose.”

  He smiled at the pleading note in her voice. Even the simple act of her saying his name sent a tingle along his spine. Dropping his head, he trailed kisses along her neck, down to the curve of her breast. He took a nipple into his mouth, his teeth scraping against the tiny bud. Warm and delicious, that was how she tasted. His tongue licked and flicked, and then he sucked harder. She gasped and the sound was sweeter than honey.

  He paused, breathing in the scent of her skin—always sweet, always flowery—and tasted some more. He loved her scent. He loved her taste.

  “You intoxicate me.”

  “More,” she whispered, even as her hand reached down to circle his erection. Ambrose almost went up in flames. His body shuddered, and fire raced up his cock.

  “May I touch you there?”

  “You ask me that now?” He groaned into her creamy skin. He thought he heard her chuckle. “Don’t ever bloody stop.”

  “What happens if I kiss it?”

  “You don’t.”

  Or I will bloody die.

  “I want to kiss you there.”

  “No.” He barely managed that one word.

  “Please.”

  He looked up from lavishing her breasts, planning on kissing her to distraction and away from her current train of thought, but he made the mistake of meeting her gaze.

  Her eyes sparkled at him. With mischief. With humor. With bloody determination.

  He never stood a chance. He rolled onto his back and took her with him. She giggled in response. Shutting his eyes, he knew he should have just shoved into her right at the start because this, this was pure torture. He could feel her breath on his cock, hovering, looking, and not kissing him.

  When it came, the touch of soft lips delicately brushing against the tip of his erection, he swore. It was unlike anything he had ever felt before.

  “Have you ever been kissed here before?”

  A strangled “no” lodged in his throat.

  She kissed him again, and this time her tongue left a trail of blazing heat. Blood surged through his body. The breath slammed out of him. He was dying.

  “I’ve never kissed anyone before you,” he admitted.

  She stilled. The loss of her was almost too much to bear. Why had he opened his bloody mouth?

  He was about to reach for her, eyes fixed on her mouth, when she lowered her lips again, this time more boldly. And she did not stop. She drove him wild, her tongue dragging up the length of him, and her soft lips covering him with kisses. He was wrong. He wasn’t dying before. This is what dying felt like. He could take no more.

  Lifting her beneath her arms, he rolled her over and nudged her legs apart with his knee.

  She protested, laughing. “I wasn’t done!”

  “No more,” he growled.

  “Did you not like it?” she asked sweetly.

  “I bloody loved it, but I want to be inside you, and if you hadn’t stopped, I’d have shamed us both.”

  She wrapped her arms around him. He kissed her throat, her lips, her shoulder; his mouth was everywhere as he pushed inside of her. She pulled him closer still, running her hands up and down his back.

  He began to thrust into her then, slowly at first, until his body was no longer his own and his hips rocked at an unrelenting pace. It wasn’t long before she arched beneath him and cried out his name. His own release followed seconds after.

  His breathing slowed long before the rapid pace of his heart. The knowledge that his wife would forever be his obsession beat hard against the wall of his chest.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  Willow leaned over her husband, drawing soft circles over the rope of muscle on his abdomen. His eyes were closed, and a hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. From what she could see, a pink blush suffused her entire body, likely right up to her untidy mess of hair, which she was certain resembled a pigeon’s nest.

  He had never kissed another woman before her.

  The admission had been softly spoken, but it had hit her straight in the heart. And she would keep it there, locked tightly within, forever.

  “You’re so bloody beautiful.”

  Her eyes lifted to his, finding him watching her. She had to swallow to find her voice. “That is only because I’m naked.”

  “You are always naked when I’m looking at you.”

  Oh.

  The thought of him imagining her naked all the time stole the breath from her lungs.

  “That sounds rather exhausting.”

  A devilish smile curved his lips. “I have quite an active mind.” He traced a finger over her calf. “Your skin is so delicate. So soft.”

  Willow moaned, barely recognizing the soft purring sound that emerged from her throat. “You’re so wicked.”

  This man, her husband, had in a mere week stirred her more than anyone she had ever known. God help her, her mind and body ached for him. It was impossible to shake away the images of all the wicked things she wanted him to do to her. Even knowing he was a controlling, rule-obsessed man. Even knowing he was stubborn to a fault and that it would take a small miracle to get him to change his mind about her sister, about the rules, about how she should live her life. Even knowing all that, she still craved him fiercely. And if that made her wicked, then so be it.

  He was once again on top of her, one large hand cupping her breast, his hard sex nestled against her core. He teased her nipples to tight arousal.

  “We cannot possibly do it again,” she murmured as his tongue circled the sensitive bud, sucking gently.

  The way his eyes darkened at her declaration caused awareness to sizzle along her every nerve ending. “I beg to disagree.”

  She squirmed beneath him, and he entered her in one smooth stroke. A soft gasp pushed through her lips at the pleasure that tightened low in her belly.

  Willow sifted her fingers through the thick, silky strands of his hair. And she knew then, wrapped in his arms, that she could be content forever there. The challenges they faced, the disagreements they held, paled in comparison to the glory of this moment. She sketched the image of them, just like this, in her mind and tucked it away into her heart. Perhaps this could be a beginning.

  Tension coiled deep as he rocked inside her, thrusting harder, and harder, until she soared over the edge.

  Later, when the damp sweat on their bodies dried and the air had once again turned cool, a wandering hand traced her calf yet again. A slow smile curved her lips, mischief on its edges. “Again?”

  “And again and again and again.”

  Chapter 19

  Willow wanted to be elsewhere. Say, beneath the sheets of her husband’s bed. Like she had been the entire night. And morning. And afternoon. At this particular moment, even the library seemed like a splendid idea for a change of location. The cloakroom would also do. Even the linen closet was not entirely off limits. In truth, anywhere in Ambrose’s arms would do.

  Instead, they were attending a masked ball. Whose she had failed to notice. Her mind was all misty and fuzzy, and Willow had breezed past their host and hostess almost as if in a dream. An airy nod had been her response when Ambrose had excused himself to converse with Lord Avanley, leaving her with Poppy, who moments after accepted a dance from a masked gentleman.

  Willow snatched a glass of champagne from a passing footman, aware a silly grin featured on her face. The bubbly texture and sweetness of the drink was just the thing to accompany her delighted mood. In fact, she hardly glanced at
the tall young man who approached her, a wolfish smile planted on his mostly obscured face.

  When she continued to feel the weight of his gaze on her, Willow looked up from her champagne flute, her gaze flicking over his silver mask. It covered everything from his hairline to his upper lip. He wore a black top hat over his hair. Did she know him?

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  “That depends.”

  “On?”

  “Are you the Duchess of St. Ives?”

  The corners of her lips lifted. “That depends.”

  His smile spread. “On?”

  “What precisely do you want with the duchess?”

  “To better our acquaintance, of course.”

  His voice. It was familiar.

  “You must not have met the duchess’s husband then,” Willow murmured. For then he would know Ambrose would not tolerate a gentleman bettering anything with his wife. Her eyes traveled back to where Poppy was dancing with a nameless lord.

  “Oh, I’ve met the scurrilous beast.”

  “Oh?” Willow turned to him, suspicion blossoming. “Then surely you would not be so wicked as to approach his wife without a proper introduction?”

  He held a hand over his heart. “Ah, but we have been introduced, my lady.”

  Recognition dawned.

  “Lord Jonathan?”

  He laughed. “Do you not just love masked balls? They are so fun.” He offered his arm. “Would you care to take a turn about the room?”

  “Happily,” she replied, placing the tip of her fingers on his sleeve. Willow’s mind worked furiously. Now was the perfect time to bridge the subject of Holly and Lord Jonathan’s intentions towards Ambrose’s decree. If she could dissuade him from the marriage, it would be much easier to convince Ambrose to let the matter go.

  “I must admit,” he began. “I am beyond pleased my brother married a woman equally as stubborn. I do believe you are good for him.”

  A shiver shot down Willow’s spine.

  “I’m thrilled you think so. I’m also quite amazed you’re not more concerned with your brother’s plans to auction you off. That does not bother you?”