What the Duke Wants

by Amy Quinton

“Are you all right? Ambrose?”

  “Yes, sweet, I’m fine. I just need. A moment. Or it will be over before I begin.”

  A moment more passed as she waited expectantly. Yes. It wasn’t over. His cock was still turgid and long. Dark purple and swollen. A mighty tool designed for her pleasure. She could tell by the look on his face that he was unsatisfied and needing more.

  He opened his eyes and unerringly sought out her own. His own softened for just a moment. “This might hurt, darling. But I will endeavor to be gentle.”

  He caressed her face. Soothed her. And she nodded her head in acceptance. He kissed her once on the tip of her nose, then he reached down, grabbed his cock with his hand, and pushed in to her still pulsing sheath. He pushed on and on and on. Until he was entirely seated, thick and full in her.

  She stiffened for just a moment at the intrusion. The pain wasn’t bad, only a light pinch. She looked at Ambrose. He was laboriously still, his eyes clinched and she wondered at his pause.

  “Are we finished?”

  Ambrose let loose a burst of laughter. “Oh God, Grace, hardly. I was just giving you…and me…a moment to adjust.”

  She laughed in return, though with undisguised relief, before leaning up to whisper in his ear, “If you don’t move now, I will not be responsible for my actions.”

  That was all it took. He pulled back and thrust forward, deep. She watched his cock moving in and out, the sight erogenous to behold. Then, she could hold herself up no longer, and she fell back to the rug with a moan.

  He grabbed her hips and pounded into her. He gave her everything he had. She took it all.

  “Grace. Oh, hell, Grace!” He roared her name. Thrusting. Thrusting. Thrusting. She felt his shaft harden even further as he pistoned in and out. Out and in. On and on and on.

  She gripped his waist with her legs and held on, powerless to do anything else but let him ride. The pleasure was intense, and she felt that energy building inside again, but now, she knew what was coming and she reached for it. It was upon her without warning, and the pause just before release seemed to last an eternity before she detonated and cried out in ecstasy.

  Ambrose stiffened above her, and with one final thrust, the head of his cock brushed her womb as his seed exploded from his cock.

  “Grace, I’m coming. Oh, God, I’m coming. Grace.” He roared her name again and again as he pumped on while he bathed her insides with his seed. She felt the heat of it scorch her. Brand her. Claim her. She held on and cherished his gift.

  Later, he rested his head against hers, as she wrapped her arms around his. They were both slick with perspiration, and for the moment, content in each other’s arms.

  They might have dozed. Who knew? It was Grace who finally broke the silence.

  “That was wonderful. Tha…”

  He interrupted her when he stood and carefully lifted her from the floor. His face was intent upon his course. He set her down and turned her toward the foot of the bed. She followed his unspoken lead, trusting him completely.

  He pushed down on her back and bent her forward at the waist before he leaned over and whispered, “Grace, my sweet. You speak too soon. I’m not nearly finished with you, love.”

  He placed both her hands on the foot board and squeezed them to indicate she retain her grip before he slid his hands down her arms, down her sides, and gripped her hips.

  “Now, love, you had better hold on.” And he plowed into her from behind.

  Chapter 23

  Grace burrowed deep into her covers. She was in her room at Lady Harriett’s. Ambrose had driven her home before dawn. She grinned from ear to ear as she remembered how they had lingered at the rear garden gate for several minutes, groping and kissing playfully, each loath to part.

  Now, the sun was shining brightly through the plain cotton curtains in her room, beckoning her to awaken from her dreams…and such delicious dreams they were, too. She grinned widely, eyes still closed, as she recalled one or two touching memories from last night. She wasn’t quite ready to awaken and let them go.

  Beatryce had always referred to Ambrose as somewhat aloof, stuffy, and boring—HA! Ambrose had loved her thoroughly all night long. He was a wild, virile man beneath his polished exterior—someone, she realized, few people had ever been privileged to meet.

  Sometimes, their bodies came together furiously with heated passion, while at others, they met hesitantly, lovingly, slowly…By the end of the night, Ambrose had called her many precious names: love, sweeting, darling…and it was clear from the many times she looked into his eyes, that he cared for her on some deeper level than either of them had previously thought possible. He had even suggested, quite clearly to her mind, that he had never before experienced passion such as they had shared.

  Grace stretched in her bed, her arms extended above her head, her feet pointed toward the footboard. She arched her back—she felt like a woman, strong and powerful. Finally, she relaxed her stretch and opened her eyes. She had to get up and face the new day.

  Today was her 21st birthday, and it felt like a positive beginning of a new chapter in life. She had much to do, a meeting with her solicitor being the priority. She had told Ambrose she was not going to attend the Lyndhurst Ball tonight with Lady Harriett, and it was the truth, though secretly, she hoped to make it in the end. It depended greatly on getting her affairs in order today, therefore, there was no hope to it—she must get going and save her remembrances for later.

  An hour later, Grace bounced merrily down the stairs feeling more carefree than she had in over a year. As she reached the last several stairs, she was surprised to see Dansbury in the foyer handing his hat, gloves, and overcoat to the butler.

  “Ah, Grace,” he said upon noticing her on the stairs, “you’re just the woman I was coming to see. How are you?”

  Dansbury approached, his arms outstretched in greeting, and she blushed with guilt. It was unexpected and irrational, yet she couldn’t help but fear that Dansbury would be able to guess immediately what had happened last night, as if the word “wanton” was branded across her forehead as clearly as the nose on her face. And she remembered that he held some small amount of affection for her. She felt like she had betrayed him, though they had no understanding.

  She shook off the sensation, for it was absurd.

  “I am fine, Cliff. How are you?”

  “Excellent—now. Might I have a word?” And he gestured with his arm toward the ground floor drawing room where they might have a few words in private.

  She preceded him into the well lit room—for it had a grand bay window facing the street, and the curtains were pulled fully back to allow in the maximum amount of sunlight.

  They crossed the room and sat together on a settee facing the window. He took her hands in his.

  “I’ve come to ask an important favor of you.”

  “Of course, go on.”

  “Remember our conversation a week and a half ago, about your uncle?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, I have it on good authority that the family will be out for the morning at Lady Jersey’s garden party and breakfast. I also understand that one of your friends on the staff, Janet, traveled here with the Becketts from Sussex.”

  “Probably.”

  “Good. I was wondering if you would like to visit Janet, and see how she is doing—perhaps have her introduce you to the staff.”

  “I see. And where will you be while all this is going on?”

  He just looked at her, baffled, as if she said something utterly nonsensical.

  “So what you are really saying, is that you want me to distract the staff while you search the house.”

  Dansbury’s, surprisingly, looked chagrined, but only for a moment.

  “You must understand, Grace. I realize this is highly irregular, but the situation is grave and time is of the essence.”

  He was serious. All traces of his normal good humor vanished. His face was grim, and she became nervous in res
ponse. She knew he was keeping something from her, but she didn’t know what. All she knew was that this was important—perhaps, though it seemed crazy to think so, important to her own future.

  “Of course, I’ll do it. Anything to help.”

  Dansbury relaxed, relief evident upon his face.

  “Excellent. We leave now.”

  * * * *

  The Earl of Swindon’s Study…

  Earlier that morning…

  “Your Grace, welcome to my home. Thank you for attending so promptly.”

  Stonebridge studied him from the doorway for a moment before he strode across the room. Confident and sure.

  “Swindon.”

  Swindon was about to offer the duke a drink, but stopped short as he took note of the duke’s concentrated demeanor.

  Stonebridge took a seat in a chair facing his desk, not bothering to wait for the standard courtesies or an invitation to do so. He crossed his legs and rested both his arms on the sides of the chair. Clearly, he was ready to get on with it. Fine. All right. Sure.

  Stonebridge did not look relaxed by any means, but rather, he appeared forcibly composed. Yet beneath the surface, Swindon could sense the duke humming with a fierce, predatory energy.

  Swindon knew he had to proceed with caution, but at the same time, he had to be firm, for his life was in danger. Fortunately, society and the law were on his side. He mopped his brow with his handkerchief, cleared his throat, clasped his hands behind his back to hide their shaking, and began to pace behind his desk.

  “With all due respect, Your Grace, I must be frank this afternoon. It has been four months since you requested permission to court my daughter.”

  He paused and peeked at the duke to determine if there was any change in his demeanor at the audacity of his words. Stonebridge had his jaw clenched, judging by the muscle ticking in his cheek, and his hands were balled into fists over the arms of the chair, but his gaze was focused on one of the windows behind the desk, and he uttered not a word in response. Concluding it was still safe to continue…

  “We…” He paused to mop his head again. His gaze caught on the sliced leather of his desktop left from the knife embedded there previously. He mopped his profusely sweating brow again; fear for his life emboldened him to continue.

  “We had reached a mutual agreement as to the terms and both our solicitors have approved the stipulations of the contract. Further, society is aware of and has tacitly approved the match.”

  Again, he paused to gauge the duke’s reaction and to catch his breath. This time he waited a few more minutes. Stonebridge tore his gaze from the window and looked directly at him, but did nothing more than raise one brow, encouraging him to get to the point.

  His point came out in a rush. “So, in light of that, I asked you here to tell you I expect an announcement at the Lyndhurst Ball tonight.”

  * * * *

  Bold move, Swindon.

  “Indeed,” was all he said out loud.

  Stonebridge returned his attention to the window; he watched as droplets of water pelted the glass then joined seemingly random trails of water running down the panes. He was caught for the moment, in his own watery trail, of his own making no less, unable to do anything but go along with the flow, for the moment.

  “Excellent. I’ve already taken the liberty of sending the betrothal announcement to the papers; it shall appear in the morning edition. I presume you would like to see Beatryce now?”

  * * * *

  Beckett House…

  Later…

  Grace sat in the drawing room of the Becketts’ town house and calmly drank her tea. It was all a façade. In reality, she was a nervous wreck. Every carriage that sounded on the street outside made her jump, thinking the family had returned. She half expected her uncle to barge into the room at any minute and accuse her of some crime. Of which she was guilty.

  Janet seemed to be aware of the situation…or something. Hence the unusual sight of the staff chatting it up in the drawing room. Grace had fully expected to greet everyone in the kitchen, but Janet had insisted they do it here. Two footmen stood on either side of the window—each taking turns to glance outside—probably watching for the Becketts’ return.

  She wondered what Dansbury was doing now. Searching the library? The study? She wondered if he had planned to search the drawing room—for what she wasn’t sure, but that would be impossible now with the staff gathered here. Perhaps she could do it, look for anything out of place.

  Junk littered every available surface—knickknacks and the like. It was quite surprisingly cluttered—probably an attempt to show off their wealth. She set her tea cup down on the low coffee table and looked about.

  Hmmm…Where to start?

  She was exhilarated to be helping Dansbury and Stonebridge.

  Just thinking the duke’s name heated her cheeks as memories from their evening together threatened to flood her mind. She shook off her recollections and forced herself to look carefully about the room—choosing to begin with a curio cabinet on the far wall.

  She maneuvered her way across the room and laughed when she realized that apart from meeting everyone initially, the staff were content to talk excitedly amongst themselves. No one paid her any mind. Having a break from their duties by tacit approval from a relative—at least that’s what Janet had told them—seemed to raise their spirits, and they were happy to take advantage of the break.

  Twenty minutes later, Grace reseated herself on the settee. She was frustrated. She had found nothing suggesting even a hint of scandal—not a single clue. Not that she really expected to find anything, but for a moment, she daydreamt of finding the key that solved the investigation for her duke. Oh—how exciting that would be.

  Alas, it was not meant to be. She hoped Dansbury was having more success. Grace rested her arm on the settee—determined to relax as she gave up on her quest—when she inadvertently knocked her hand against a carved wooden box on the side table next to her. She picked it up, curious now, and looked it over, for it didn’t move far when she hit it, suggesting it was much heavier than it appeared.

  She brushed her fingers along the carvings and turned the box in the light coming from the windows in order to get a better look at the carvings all around it. It was while looking over the box’s top that she noticed that the center medallion on the lid had been burned with a symbol—one she had seen somewhere before, she just couldn’t place it.

  It might be nothing; it might be everything. To be sure, she looked about the room, then hastily stuffed the box in her reticule. She would give it to Dansbury later.

  * * * *

  The Lyndhurst Ball…

  That evening…

  The path to his future had never looked so bleak. Stonebridge leaned casually against a column on the balcony overlooking the ballroom; his calm demeanor was only a disguise, for inside, his mind was churning. He watched the dancing couples below; the swirling colors of the ladies' gowns seemed too fantastic to be real. He shook his head, but it was no use. He had felt outside himself since his meeting with Swindon this morning. He was still no further in uncovering the truth of the earl’s involvement in his father’s murder, and the clock was ticking. Tick. Tock.

  He needed to resolve the case before he married Beatryce. Or at least, absolve Swindon if he was innocent—which seemed less and less likely every day.

  Then, there was the marriage itself. He didn’t want to marry Beatryce any longer; she wasn’t a particularly nice person, and he was quickly finding out that a person’s character was more valuable than one’s blood lines or betrothal property. How could he have overlooked something so obvious? And what could he even do to change his course now? If he broke his betrothal without just cause, his honor and reputation would be compromised—hell, his entire livelihood would be compromised and many people depended upon his livelihood. His tenants at the Park; his staff.

  And what if Swindon was found guilty? Sure, the ton would consider that just caus
e to break the betrothal, but was it honorable to abandon Beatryce in her time of need? Sure, she did seem to be somewhat conniving, but he was quite positive she was innocent of her father’s wrongdoings. Should she suffer for her father’s actions? Should Adelaide, Lady Swindon, and the others? And they would suffer. They would lose everything, possibly even end up in a work house if he dropped Beatryce once the scandal hit.

  So no matter how he looked at it, marrying Beatryce was the only decent thing for him to do. But wouldn’t marrying Grace be noble too? Oh, what torment to see two rights, two paths, yet knowing that choosing one over the other would always be wrong, regardless of which path he chose.

  Aaaah, Grace.

  He had stopped by to see her after his meeting with Swindon, but she was out. After that, he tried to catch up with Cliff—to no avail either, though later in the day, his friend sent over a vague note about a box and the suggestion that he was being followed. That piece of news had thrown some recent accidents involving Cliff in a more sinister light. He was concerned for his friend, who said he’d fill him in later, yet still all he really wanted to do was gather Grace in his arms and take her away. Far away. Where society and liars and murderous earls couldn’t touch her. Or him.

  Damn. His future was out of control and his time was out.

  Swindon had been shockingly bold this afternoon, pushing the limits of rudeness and disrespect. He had allowed the man to get away with it. Perhaps it was his own feelings of guilt that stayed his tongue.

  For the past month, he felt he hadn’t been able to do anything right; everything he did, every decision he made or action he took, seemed destined to make a muck of his plans and his life. Of course, it never appeared so at the time.

  And then there was Grace…

  Ah—hell, he couldn’t go there. Not tonight of all nights. He couldn’t allow his memories of his time with her to be tainted by the reality happening today. And he couldn’t let her go. Thank God she wasn’t going to be here. He had had no chance to talk with her about anything…to prepare her…to explain why things must continue on the path laid before them—at least for now, possibly forever. What he wanted seemed to be irrelevant.