Seducing the Duchess

by Ashley March

  She stared at him solemnly, her hands fiddling with the sash tied at her waist.

  “Do you love me?” she asked.

  Philip’s heart clenched, a burning deep in his chest. They would never move past this doubt. She would never forgive him.

  He sighed. “Yes, of course—”

  “Say it,” she demanded, her eyes fierce. “Say you love me.”

  His fingers gripped the quill. “I love you.”

  Her chest fell sharply, as if she’d been holding her breath, and she looked away. Then, with a slow nod, she met his gaze again.

  Every muscle in Philip’s body tightened at the provocative smile she gave him. He couldn’t understand her. One minute the uncertain innocent, next the alluring siren—he couldn’t decipher which one was the mask. Perhaps she was both, and he was destined for eternal torment as he fought this desire to protect and ravish her at the same time.

  “Charlotte,” he repeated, “why are you here?” His breath stuttered to a halt at a sudden thought. “I assume you found that I removed my grandfather’s portrait? Your scarves and stockings—”

  “Yes, and I found your note.” Her eyes darkened to a devilish midnight gleam, her hands moving with a steady grace to untie the robe’s sash. The satin folds parted, and Philip flinched at the loud crack of his quill as it snapped in two. He glanced down, tried to focus on the pieces as they fell from his fingers, but couldn’t keep his gaze from seeking Charlotte.

  He felt as a beggar might as he stared at the lure of a shiny gold coin—bewildered, almost weak from desire.

  The matching red night rail’s neckline plunged to reveal the swells of her breasts. The hem skimmed the tops of her thighs, her skin gleaming smooth and ivory white in contrast to the darkness of the shadows behind her.

  Not far below the hem, two black garters held those glorious red lace stockings in place.

  Unbalanced, Philip gripped the edge of his desk as he half rose from his chair. “God, Charlotte—”

  She strolled forward and planted her hands on the opposite side, leaning in until their lips were scant inches apart. “I’ve come to give you the prize you lost, Philip. A kiss.”

  Chapter 17

  Nothing had ever made Charlotte feel as powerful, as beautiful, as the flare of desire in Philip’s eyes. The heat in their silver depths sent a flush of pleasure coursing along her skin. Although he hadn’t yet laid a finger on her, she felt as if he had branded her with his gaze alone.

  His stare followed her motions as she lifted a hand to his face. The curve of his jaw scraped her palm, and she gloried in its coarse texture, in the sudden need to feel the contrast of his stubble-roughened skin against the smoothness of her own.

  Against her shoulders, her breasts, her belly, her thighs . . .

  “A kiss,” she repeated in a whisper.

  Before the syllable could fade into silence, his mouth was upon hers, his lips firm and tender and wild. She met his touch eagerly, the desk pressing hard across her thighs as she balanced on her toes.

  He tasted like darkness, like red wine and something indefinable, something singularly Philip. A moan rose in her throat and her hand fell to clutch at the broad strength of his shoulder.

  A simple kiss, yet it made a mockery of all her rehearsed methods of enticement.

  She turned her head away, wondering at the sudden urge to weep. Perhaps because she knew, if she listened to her head and not her heart, she would never find anyone else who could elicit this same violence of feeling, this overwhelming sense of belonging.

  Only Philip.

  His breath came harshly at her ear, and she pulled back to look at him.

  She hadn’t noticed it before, but faint black streaks marred either temple, one trailing to the outer corner of his eye.

  He appeared mussed and boyish and oh so wonderful.

  Charlotte smiled and reached out to trace the crooked line. “You have something ...”

  He touched his hand to his face where she lingered, then scowled. “The damned ink. I suppose I didn’t get it all.”

  She pulled her finger back to show him the dark smudge staining its tip.“Not quite.” Glancing at the paper on the desk, she asked, “What were you writing?”

  Philip’s hand slapped over the parchment, covering it from her scrutiny. “Estate business, as I said.”

  She lifted a brow. “Estate business?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that’s why you’re hiding it from me?”

  With one hand still concealing the contents, he pulled out a drawer with the other, then quickly placed the paper inside and shut the drawer.

  “It’s confidential,” he explained as he moved around the desk.

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  She waited until he was almost to her side, then sprinted in the other direction.

  He was right behind her, but too slow. She yanked the paper out and danced away.

  He stalked her around the sofa.

  “Charlotte,” he ground out.

  She grinned. It truly was delightful when he used his deep warning voice.

  Holding the paper aloft, she meandered backward through a cluster of chairs. “Tell me why you don’t want me to read it, and I may oblige you.”

  “It’s private.”

  “Is it truly estate business?”

  He paused in the middle of the chairs and scowled at her. “No.”

  She lowered the paper, then shrieked as he lunged toward her. He caught her around the waist, but she extended her arm away from his grasp and read quickly.

  “She walks in beauty, like the night, of cloudless climes and starry skies. And all that’s best of dark and ...” She frowned and looked over her shoulder at Philip. “A Byron poem? Why have you—?”

  “I only used the first few lines,” he retorted, his arms stiffening around her. “As inspiration.”

  “Inspiration? But I don’t ...” She lowered her eyes again to the paper and scanned the next lines, her breath quickening. “Philip, I—”

  “May I have it back now?” he asked in a flat tone.

  “You wrote a poem for me.” Somehow it came out sounding more accusatory than she intended.

  He released her abruptly and strode to stand in front of the fire, his back to her. “It’s not finished. The ending is still rough, and I’ve been reworking some of the other lines. I asked you not to read it, but you—”

  “It’s wonderful.”

  She watched as his shoulders tensed, his hands clasping tightly behind his back.

  Clutching the paper to her chest, she walked toward him. “I never thought—no one has ever—”

  His laughter cut her off, a low chuckle that reverberated harshly around the room. He’d never looked more like the devil as he turned to face her, the flames behind him casting his features deep in shadow—all except the unholy gleam of his silver eyes.

  Charlotte flinched, taking an involuntary step backward.

  A corner of his mouth curled at her movement. He advanced toward her, his voice a velvet caress as he spoke. “Were you going to say that none of your lovers had ever written poetry for you?”

  Her feet were rooted in place, unable to retreat.

  Yes, she’d received poetry, but none of it had ever mattered. None of it had been from Philip.

  His hand lifted to her cheek. She closed her eyes, shivering as he trailed a finger along the edge of her jaw, down her throat.

  “Of course they did,” he murmured, his thumb stroking along her collarbone. “How could they not? How could I not? We are all fools for you, Charlotte.”

  She hated how her breath came in short, shallow gasps. She sounded weak, when she wanted to be strong. But his touch and his nearness and his scent overwhelmed her, filled her lungs until there was no room for air, for nothing but him. “I don’t think you’re a fool.”

  “Oh, but I am, my darling. How else could I have hurt you, have let you go?”

  He swept her hair back over her shou
lder. She shuddered at the warm press of his lips against her neck.

  “Let me love you now, Charlotte. Let me show you how much I love you.”

  Now was the time to leave, her chance to escape. Or she could stay, and follow through with the decision she’d made in her bedchamber.

  Hesitation seized her for only a moment. Opening her eyes, she stepped aside to place the poem on one of the chairs, then faced him.

  He stood rigid, dark, and imposing, his features once again arranged into that stoic mask he favored. Yet this time she was achingly aware of the way it could not conceal the hunger in his eyes, the burning intensity of his gaze.

  Her body reacted as if it were his hands which trailed over her skin, his mouth which lingered at the edge of her bodice. The sound of her own heartbeat filled her ears, and when his eyes lowered further, she knew he could see the aroused peaks of her nipples as they pressed against her night rail.

  “Philip.” In two syllables she yielded to him. Silently, she told him of her love, asked him to be gentle with her heart. She gave him the power to destroy her once again.

  Wrapping her arms around his neck, she leaned into him.

  If only for one night, she would forsake her fears. In the morning . . .

  She wouldn’t think of the morning, or the day after, or any other time in the future.

  All that mattered was this, the sigh of his breath against her cheek, the fierce meeting of his lips to hers. For one night, she would lose herself in his arms.

  He whispered her name while he drew her robe over her shoulders and down her arms. No other words were spoken as they undressed each other, their movements feverish, sometimes fumbling, in their haste.

  She couldn’t keep from touching nearly every inch of skin she uncovered, determined to see if her memory had been accurate.

  It hadn’t.

  His skin was hotter, his muscles harder. They quivered as she skimmed her fingers over his stomach and back up to his chest, unable to yet venture lower.

  It was almost laughable, how someone as sophisticated as she, someone rumored to have dozens of lovers, could still be hesitant about touching him so intimately. Even their past lovemaking and the sight of him nude earlier couldn’t give her courage. Instead, some enduring sense of modesty, buried so deep that she hadn’t been aware it even existed any longer, caused heat to rush to her cheeks at the thought of caressing him there.

  He captured her hands and drew them to his lips, his mouth warm and firm as he kissed the back of each finger. She watched, her chest heaving, as he turned her hands and scorched the pulse point at either wrist with the hot press of his lips and tongue.

  Somehow their roles had reversed. No longer the seducer, she had become his willing prey.

  “You have beautiful hands,” he murmured, stroking her palms with his thumbs. “Slender, elegant.” His gaze fixed to hers, he kissed her wedding ring. “Thank you,” he said.

  Her eyes, heavy with desire, followed his movements as he knelt on the floor. “For what?”

  “For not removing it,” he explained, and tugged her down beside him.

  If he only knew of the number of times she’d actually tried to dislodge it over the years, how she’d tried to pull it off, suck it off, how she’d used water, butter, and oil, all to no avail. She didn’t tell him how she’d even gone to a jeweler, nearly crying with frustration and anger, convinced that Philip had somehow put a curse on her. She’d balked when the jeweler pulled out a vicious-looking file. But even then she was tempted, so desperate was she to remove the symbol of his ownership, the dream of a marriage that had turned into a nightmare.

  But that was the past, and she didn’t need to disturb the moment by correcting his assumption. Besides, she hadn’t tried to remove it in a long time—several days, at least.

  Instead, she gave him a saucy grin. “A proper duchess would never remove her wedding ring.”

  His answering smile, slow and wicked, set a fever racing through her veins. “Ah. But we both know you aren’t very proper, do we not?”

  As if to demonstrate the point, he bent his head and captured her nipple in his mouth. She moaned, threading her fingers through his hair. She urged him closer, arching her back to press more fully against the pain-pleasure of his suckling, the pull of his teeth and tongue all at once too much and not enough.

  He pushed her backward onto the carpet and moved over her, his knee between her thighs. All the while, still his mouth laved her breast, his hand roaming to caress her other nipple to a peak. She writhed beneath him, the feeling of the lush carpet a decadent contrast to the warmth of his skin, the rough sensation of his stubbled jaw against her flesh.

  Sighing his name, she placed her hands on either side of his face and pulled him up. She needed to kiss him, needed the intimacy of his lips on hers. Perhaps to remind him—and herself—that this was not merely a mindless meeting of bodies, but something more meaningful.

  Though she wouldn’t speak it, she wanted him to know her heart.

  And perhaps he did know, for when his mouth covered hers, his touch turned gentle. Delicate. He slid his lips along hers from corner to corner, pausing to nibble at her lower lip, then kissing it as if in apology before moving on.

  Never had Charlotte felt more cherished as he continued to tenderly ravage her mouth. Yet even that could not describe the feeling well enough.

  She felt . . . loved.

  Strange to realize it was Philip who was finally able to ease the loneliness which had consumed her for so long. Each press of his lips seemed to fill the emptiness in her soul, more and more until it overwhelmed her and she broke the kiss.

  She opened her eyes, gasping. His gaze bored into her, as if he could see her every secret, her every fear and hope and desire.

  “Don’t cry,” he admonished gently, and bent his head to brush his mouth across her cheek.

  Only then did she feel the wetness on her lashes and on her face, where a tear had already traced its way to the curve of her jaw.

  He stroked the hair at her temple. “Why—”

  She kissed him again.

  She wouldn’t allow any questions when even she didn’t know the answers. She didn’t know why she cried, only that it was the first time she’d let the tears fall in front of him in three years.

  Needing to distract him from her weakness, she pushed on his shoulders until he rose to his knees.

  When he opened his mouth, she pressed a finger to his lips. “Shh. On your back.”

  He leaned back on his elbows and stretched his legs out alongside her hips, drawing her attention to the sleek muscles of his shoulders and biceps, his chest and stomach. A half smirk played at the corner of his lips when she lifted her eyes to his face, the knowing gleam in his silver eyes causing her throat to go dry.

  “All the way,” she ordered hoarsely.

  How she wanted to make him beg, to lose control the way he made her lose all sense of time and reasoning.

  Inhaling deeply, she moved to kneel beside him. She placed a kiss at the base of his throat, her hair swinging forward to cast a veil around them.

  His hands came up to stroke her shoulder, her back, the length of her arm.

  “No.” She placed her palm over his hand as it trailed along her collarbone. “Let me seduce you.”

  He gave a low laugh. “Everything you do seduces me. All you need do is to breathe, and I would do anything for you.”

  Her chest ached at his words, but she somehow managed to send him a provocative glance through her lashes, her lips carefully arranged in a sultry pout. “Then be still, and let me do as I like.”

  “As you wish,” he agreed. Then, folding his arms beneath his head, he whispered, so quietly she almost didn’t hear it, “Charlotte.”

  Heart pounding, she leaned across him. The flickering shadows of the fire dared her to follow their path over every ridge and hollow of his body. With one hand on the carpet and one balanced on his chest, she took the lobe of his ear
between her teeth.

  He stiffened beneath her touch, and she drew her fingertips over his chest in figure eights, the pads of her fingers whispering across his skin.

  Though she could feel him drawn tight like a bow beneath her, he gave no other indication that what she did pleased him.

  She traced her way from his ear to his jawline, then continued on, replacing the teasing circles of her hand with her mouth. From the corner of her eye, she saw his arms jerk in response, then relax again. Beneath her, his chest rose and fell heavily.

  A flush of arousal heated her skin at the evidence of his pleasure. It was a heady feeling, to be able to affect him so.

  Once again, she used her hand to make the next bold foray, caressing the sculpted planes of his abdomen. She trailed back and forth from side to side, over the arrow of hair tempting her to go lower.

  As her fingers grazed his navel, they brushed against his shaft, hot and smooth. She froze, then lifted her head to see his reaction. He stared back at her, hooded eyes glittering, his nostrils flaring with each breath.

  It was that same sense of carefully leashed control he always had, the hint that beneath his polished exterior lay a man desperate to be released from his own model of propriety and civility.

  How she wanted to make him uncivilized. To hear him groan and cry out, to feel him tremble beneath her touch, unable to contain his response.

  For once, to surrender to her.

  Philip began to sit up, reaching for her arm. “I believe,” he rasped, “I have been well and thoroughly seduced.”

  Before she could convince herself otherwise, she wrapped her hand around the hard length of him, his flesh pulsing against her palm.

  “Not quite yet,” she murmured, and lowered her head.

  “Oh, God.”

  Philip clenched his hand into a fist as he watched Charlotte take him into her mouth. He hovered over her hair for a long moment before finally sinking his fingers into the carpet behind him, digging and twisting the fibers viciously.

  The pleasure was nearly unbearable, the lush velvet of her mouth tight around him, moving up and down in slow, exquisite torture.

  He called out her name, called upon God and the devil and all the saints he could remember as he fought to keep control.