Seducing the Duchess

by Ashley March

  Then she flicked her tongue, and the next moment she was on her back and his body covered hers, his lips and hands raging over her every curve with fevered intent. He was helpless, mindless to everything except the hoarse cries issuing from her throat, the need to please her, to feel her writhe beneath him.

  Her legs wrapped around his waist. Her hands clutched at his hair, then lower, her nails scraping against his back. The biting pain awakened something fierce inside him, dark and heavy, and though he had meant to wait, to pleasure her with his mouth the same way she had done to him, he could not.

  Her head tossed from side to side, her eyes closed as she pleaded with him to stop, to continue.

  He braced his arms on either side of her head. “Look at me,” he demanded.

  Her eyes glowed brightly as she met his gaze, her mouth parted in soft, heaving gasps.

  She was beautiful. Glorious.

  His.

  He thrust into her, watched as she arched beneath him. He wasn’t gentle or considerate, driving into her over and over again, moving them inch by inch across the carpet.

  He ground his teeth at the heat of her flesh, a tight glove around him. Darkness tunneled his vision until all he could see was Charlotte, her hair tumbled around her face, the sweet dew of passion beaded across her forehead.

  He sank into her again, and she bowed beneath him, clinging to his shoulders.

  “I love you,” she cried. Then she buried her face in his neck, her moan muffled as her body convulsed in short, jerking shudders.

  Hearing those words, feeling her clenching tightly about him—it was too much. A harsh, guttural shout ripped from his throat as he poured himself into her, emptying not only his body but also his soul into her keeping.

  They were quiet afterward, the absence of sound almost deafening. He held himself above her, his fingers tangling idly in the softness of her hair as they lay joined together. Only their breathing broke the silence, labored gasps gradually easing to slower, steady inhalations.

  She’d turned her head to gaze at the fire, and he lowered his lips to follow the elegant line of her neck. Her skin was warm, damp, the flavor of salt and woman faint on his tongue.

  She sighed. She stroked his back lightly, then stilled.

  Philip lifted his head in question. A frown marred the smooth perfection of her forehead.

  “Did my fingernails hurt you?” she asked quietly.

  “No.”

  Nodding, she resumed her caress, but halted again when he asked, “Did you mean it?”

  His chest seemed too tight as he waited for her reply, his heart beating faster and faster at her prolonged silence, until he thought she would refuse to answer.

  Finally, with a whispered breath, she said, “Yes.”

  “You love me.”

  “I love you.”

  Her voice was hesitant, uncertain, and Philip wondered if she’d not meant to say it before, if her confession had been unintentional, a passionate declaration which had caught even her by surprise.

  Either way, he wouldn’t allow her to regret it.

  He pressed a fervent kiss to her lips. “You love me. Tell me, Charlotte. Say it, my love, my life, my darling.”

  “I love you.”

  He kissed her brow. “Again.”

  “I love you.”

  He kissed her cheeks, her chin, her nose. “Again.”

  She wrapped her arms around him, laughing. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

  He stared down at her. “And I love you.” He kissed her again, his lips plying hers with a tenderness that only she could evoke.

  She opened to him with a soft sigh, her arms and legs clutching him tightly. Philip hardened inside her again.

  This time he made love to her gently, slowly. He lingered over the slope of her breasts, the hollow of her navel, the curve of her waist. He treated her as though she were the finest porcelain beneath his hands, his hands and mouth reverent as he touched her, drawing out sweet keening moans from her lips with each careful caress.

  When he kissed the folds between her thighs, her moans turned to restless cries. He parted them, laving his tongue across the peaked bud of her flesh with light, flicking strokes until her hips writhed beneath him and he had to hold her in place with his hands. She was the angel that inspired him to be a man who could deserve her love, the demon that drove him to do whatever was necessary to keep her, and he worshiped her.

  Her fingers grabbed at his hair, pushing him closer, then trying to pull him away. He murmured soothing noises, meaningless words intended to calm even as his fingers stroked with ruthless determination.

  She was so soft, and wet. His muscles quivered with the urge to rise up and sink himself deeply inside.

  Her scent, sweet and salty, was heavy in his nostrils, a tart blend on his tongue. As he languidly licked from her core to the stiff bud of her pleasure, her body began to shudder and low whimpers escaped her lips in short, gasping breaths.

  At last, when her hands fell away from his hair to land limply on the floor, he rose over her. Cradling her in the shelter of his arms, he knelt between her thighs.

  She lifted her head to kiss him.

  “Charlotte,” he whispered, and entered her with a fierce stroke.

  As he possessed her in a slow, deliberately measured cadence, she seduced him with her mouth. Her lips invited him in, her velvet tongue a teasing contrast to the silken heat of her flesh below.

  He was lost again, driven to the brink of madness. She surrounded him—silk, velvet, sweetness, salt. Hot, supple flesh and the darkness of pleasure spiraling higher and higher.

  With a loud cry, he came inside her, his thrusts lifting her hips off the ground.

  And through it all, she held on to him. She never let go.

  She had come to him.

  It was the first thought in Philip’s mind once he was coherent again.

  They lay tumbled together on the floor, her back warm against his chest, her legs tangled with his. His coat and her robe served as blankets—actually fairly useless as far as covers went, since his entire backside had become quite chilled.

  But he dared not move for fear of disturbing Charlotte, fast asleep within his embrace. If he propped himself up on his elbow and turned his head just so, he could see the softness of her profile, outlined in firelight and shadows. He was unable to look away, transfixed by the lush crescents of her lashes, the slight parting of her lips, even the tiny birthmark low on her left cheek.

  She had come to him, offering herself. She’d said she loved him, though she knew who he was, what he had done.

  Did she suspect what he was still capable of doing? Deceiving her, manipulating her, using her own desires against her in a plot to keep her as his duchess?

  She must not, or she would never have trusted him enough to allow him to make love to her.

  But it no longer mattered.

  She was his. He would never again give her reason to speak of leaving him. He would continue to change, to earn the trust she had given him.

  And, he vowed, pressing a kiss to her temple, she would never again regret loving him.

  Chapter 18

  Charlotte awoke with a start.

  Instead of waking in a cold, empty bed, she awoke to find a large male body draped over her.

  Philip’s large, naked male body.

  She turned her head to study him, offering a silent prayer of thanks when she saw he was still asleep. The meager gray light that ushered in the dawn filtered through the curtains, softening the planes of his face, the angle of his stubble-darkened jaw.

  He breathed deeply, his face composed even in sleep. Only the rise and fall of his chest indicated he was still alive.

  That, and the wall of heat he seemed to give off like a furnace. It scorched her as she lay tucked beneath him, his arm laid across her stomach, his leg pinning hers to the floor.

  It was cozy, and comforting, and all too wonderful.

  She had to leave
.

  She’d known as soon as she donned those red lace stockings that there would be no turning back. She’d planned the seduction, had come to him with every intention of making love. It was what she’d wanted.

  But she hadn’t planned to give him more than her body. She’d never meant to say the words out loud. Even now, they taunted her, echoing in the back of her mind.

  She stared at Philip, adoring the carved stubbornness of his lips, the aristocratic slope of his nose, the haughty line of his brow.

  I love you.

  Her fingers itched to touch him, a nearly uncontrollable desire which caused her hand to shake.

  She began to reach out, then closed her eyes and turned away, hating herself for this uncertainty. If she stayed, she would be giving up the freedom she’d waited for. But it would mean nothing if all she thought about was Philip—wishing she could be with him, wondering if he was terrorizing the servants or sulking in his study.

  A warm rush of air stirred the hair near her temple, and she tensed.

  “Good morning,” he drawled.

  Apparently he had no compunction in touching her, for his hand soon found her breast, his palm molding and shaping the fullness as he trailed a line of kisses down her cheek to the corner of her lips.

  Her body was traitorous, immediately responding with a delicious, pulsing ache between her thighs.

  But then, she’d always done as he wanted, hadn’t she?

  He’d asked her to climb out the window of her bedchamber, to meet him behind her parents’ house. He’d asked her to lie with him on the grass and gaze at the stars while he held her hand and told her of his dreams for their future. He’d told her he loved her and asked her to marry him.

  “Don’t.” She shoved his hand away and surged to her feet.

  “Charlotte?”

  Snatching her robe from the floor, she turned her back and belted it tightly. Her fingers trembled as she tried to tie the ends.

  He touched her shoulder. “Charlotte—”

  She whirled, taking a step back. “I need to leave.”

  He attempted to follow her, his brow creased in a frown, but stilled when she held up her hand. “I don’t understand.”

  “I need to think.”

  “What is there to think about? I love you. You love me—”

  “I’m sorry. I ...” She hurried to the door.

  His voice halted her. “You said you would stay. We still have nine days.”

  She turned around. Her chest ached at the sight of him standing in the middle of the room. She could almost see the mask slowly sliding into place. One moment his eyes glittered with pain, the next they were flat gray mirrors, showing nothing of the emotion within.

  “I can’t,” she whispered. She shook her head, unable to explain, unable to give him any more of herself. Perhaps in a few days, when she returned, she would be able to tell him. How she needed to be alone for just a little while, so she could—

  “I won’t let you go.” His syllables were clipped. Harsh.

  Her breath caught. “What?”

  He began to dress, his movements abrupt as he fastened his trousers. “There will be no divorce.”

  The cold crept into her blood, traveled to her chest, and seized her heart with dread. The sound of her pulse filled her ears, the pounding so loud she could barely hear her own voice. He stared at her while he pulled on his coat. Perhaps she hadn’t spoken, only thought she had. She cleared her throat and tried again. “The petition,” she began. “You agreed—”

  “I lied.” He shrugged, then laughed hollowly. “I thought if I could make you love me again, then you wouldn’t want the divorce any longer.”

  She shook all over. Her arms. Her legs. Even her teeth chattered inside her head. She tried wrapping her arms around her waist to get warm, but it didn’t work.

  Nothing had changed. Everything he’d said—they were just words.

  She had known better, but she had let herself believe him. And now she was twice the fool.

  She heard herself speak as if from far away, the tone devoid of emotion, empty. Exactly like her. “I love you, Philip. I loved you when I was a little girl. I loved you when you took revenge on Ethan by marrying me. I loved you all these years when you ignored me. And I love you still. But, God—”

  Her voice broke, and a tear splashed onto her cheek. She dashed it away. Straightening, she looked him in the eye. So familiar, and yet a stranger. “I love you. But I hate you so much more.”

  She glanced past his shoulder, at the sunlight beginning to stream through the curtains. Somehow it seemed fitting that the world should continue merrily along while her heart was breaking.

  “Good-bye, Your Grace.”

  Letting Charlotte walk out the door should have been the most difficult thing he’d ever done.

  Instead, it was frighteningly easy.

  After all, he was a duke. A duke did not create scenes. A duke did not behave improperly or act on the will of his emotions.

  Philip had forgotten this before. He would do well not to do so again.

  All he had to do was act according to the standards to which he was raised, as if nothing could affect him. It was the perfect solution to any situation.

  And so Philip stood in his study for a long while after Charlotte left, unmoving. Statue still.

  He forced himself to breathe, to inhale the faint scent of jasmine, a lingering impression of her presence. If he stared at the carved-wood door long enough, he imagined he could see her again, standing there. Dark hair tousled, eyes wide with hurt, then disbelief, anger, and finally . . . nothing.

  No, that wasn’t quite true. He’d seen plenty of loathing in her eyes. She’d never become as adept as he at hiding her emotions.

  Unfortunately for him.

  If only she knew how unnecessary it was; he possessed enough self-loathing to compensate for any lack on her part.

  He listened to the floor creak above him, the sound of swift footsteps pattering across—Charlotte’s maid, no doubt, hurrying to do her bidding.

  He might have half an hour before she departed, back to London and her throng of admirers. How they would welcome her, inviting her to their debauched gatherings, spouting praise for her beauty, daring to touch her hand, her shoulder—

  Philip strode from the room and marched up the stairs, smiling grimly as he imagined smashing his fist into the face of every man who had ever made the mistake of being seen with Charlotte. She was still his. And she mattered more than a litany of phrases about what dukes should or should not do.

  He would begin with Denby. He had enjoyed having Charlotte sit in his lap far too much. The portly sod.

  Philip rapped on the door of Charlotte’s bedchamber. When no answer was forthcoming, he pressed his ear to the wood. He heard her clipped tones, then the soft response of a servant.

  “Charlotte,” he called.

  The voices grew silent, then began again as loud as before.

  So she thought to ignore him, did she?

  He turned the knob. It was his house, after all, and he would enter as he pleased. The knock had been a mere courtesy.

  Except that the door was locked.

  Grumbling, he walked through his own bedchamber and headed for the door between their rooms. When he twisted the knob and found that it, too, was locked, Denby earned another blackened eye in his imagination.

  He retrieved the door’s key, remembering with acute clarity how the man’s gaze had been firmly attached to the expanse of Charlotte’s bosom.

  The key clicked loudly, and although it was probably entirely unnecessary to announce his presence, Philip still sent the door crashing into the wall.

  She had dressed quickly. It was one of her old dresses—had she hidden it away?—a buttery yellow color which accented the smooth white gleam of her skin. A great amount of which was exposed by the low neckline and short sleeves.

  At Charlotte’s startled curse, he arched a brow and dangled the key from
his fingertips. Her lips pursed, but all she did was turn back to her maid and the open valise before her.

  “Leave us,” he ordered.

  The maid didn’t hesitate before scurrying away through the open door.

  Charlotte rounded on him, her hands on her hips, her eyes flashing. “Can you not leave me be?”

  “I should think that answer would be obvious.” Scowling, she marched to the armoire and yanked it open.

  “You will have no other lovers,” he announced.

  She paused in the middle of pulling out a dark blue gown. Then she began to laugh, a low chuckle that continued on and on, the sound almost maniacal.

  “Why are you laughing?” he demanded.

  Still she continued, the gown falling to pool on the floor by her feet.

  Philip closed the distance between them, put his hand on her shoulder, and turned her around. “Charlotte—”

  His hand dropped away at the cold scorn in her eyes.

  She stopped laughing and lifted her chin. “Do not worry, Your Grace. There will be no other lovers. There has never been anyone but you. You see, unlike some, I understand faithfulness.”

  His stomach clenched. “I saw you. I saw you enter Lord Chalmsey’s house. I watched from my carriage. You didn’t leave until late the next morning.”

  She tilted her head and tapped her finger to her mouth. “Oh, yes, dear Chalmsey. He let me sleep on the sofa in the library when I claimed to be too ill from spirits to return home. Or to accompany him to his bed. He even threatened to call for a physician. Chalmsey’s actually one of the more honorable ones. Lord Mayfield, however, once tried to force himself upon me when I pretended to be too drunk.”

  Denby was immediately lowered on Philip’s mental list, replaced by Mayfield. No, that wouldn’t do. Another list was needed, specifically for those he intended to disembowel.

  “I trust he didn’t succeed,” Philip growled.

  “Indeed not. I kneed him in the groin.”

  He growled again.

  “It wasn’t as difficult as you might think,” she continued. “I merely confirmed a few rumors, and then any man who wanted others to think he had made a conquest of me began his own rumor. I simply never contradicted them. And I continued to act like a harlot, as if it were all true. So you would agree to a divorce.”