Never Desire a Duke oss-1

by Lily Dalton

  Chapter Eleven

  I found four in the basement from which to choose,” the duke announced, lining the bottles up beside one another. “Each very old, but I think this one may best suit our purposes. May I have your opinion?”

  Sophia approached, standing on the other side of the table. She felt safer doing that, placing some piece of furniture or fixture between them. Not that he would reach out and grab her, but she had started against all good sense to wish that he would. They were having altogether too much fun together.

  Accepting the bottle he offered, she held the opening below her nose and sniffed. The strong scent of spirits momentarily dizzied her.

  “Oh, come now,” he chided with a grin that made her heart jump in her chest. “You’ve got to taste it.”

  She stole another glance at him. The light from the stove painted his features in contrasting strokes of gold and shadow, defining his imperfect warrior’s nose and broad cheeks framed by three days’ worth of unshaved whiskers. For the hundredth time in the past hour, she noted how handsome he was.

  “You know that I don’t make a habit of drinking brandy,” she answered playfully.

  Yes, of course, he would know from before. They’d known each other so well. But then in the end—they hadn’t. She tried to remind herself of that.

  “But is it because you don’t like spirits?” He smiled at her, a flash of white teeth. She’d become quite obsessed with his lips, the one on the top being rather thin, but the bottom one, full and sensual in contrast, a rather perfect pair. She’d always found him attractive, but somehow now that they were estranged, he had become even more so.

  The more fascinated she felt by him, the more irritated she became.

  “As a mannered lady, I’ve little exposure to spirits,” she retorted. “No doubt the ladies with whom you are familiar make a regular practice of—”

  “Shush, goose.” He reached to press a fingertip to her mouth.

  She blushed and pulled away, embarrassed by the unexpected touch and his use of an endearment. He’d never had a special name for her before. Just Sophia and darling and dearest. Why now?

  He splashed a bit into the first of four little beveled liquor glasses. “Neither of us will feel any effect from this inconsequential bit, if that is your concern.”

  “Of course not,” she scoffed, staring at his lips. Heavens. To think she’d kissed them just yesterday, and with such passion. “I wasn’t saying so.”

  She sipped carefully from the first cup. Though she did her best to do so without any reaction, her throat tightened against the liquor’s fiery path. She cleared her throat and softly wheezed her next breath. He did the same with the next three brandies, pouring a sample from each and setting the bottles down behind their representative glass. Soon, they had sampled all four. Or so he believed. She had dumped the last two samples into the refuse bucket beside her feet.

  “Which one do you believe is the best quality?” he asked.

  “Clearly I am no connoisseur,” she said, smiling widely. “It’s my opinion that one tastes just as fine as the next.” At imbibing just that spare amount, everything inside her went warm and relaxed. Licking her bottom lip, she impatiently shrugged off her spencer. “As long as we are baking, I don’t think it matters which one we use.”

  “I disagree,” he said rather earnestly, picking up the second bottle in the row. “Sample this one again.”

  Sophia stared at Claxton, keeping all evidence of emotion from her face.

  How stupid did her husband think she was? Now he was trying to get her drunk, all to win a child’s game? Did he truly believe she was so unobservant as to not realize he’d removed four eggs from her bowl?

  But she was more observant than he, apparently, because the moment he’d turned his back she had dumped a cupful of salt into his bowl. Unaware, when he’d turned back to the task he kept right on stirring. She giggled.

  Claxton smiled across the table. “What are you laughing about?”

  “Nothing.” She giggled again. “Just a little thought here inside my head that I don’t intend to share with you.”

  His eyes widened. “Now I really want to know.”

  “I don’t think you do,” she assured.

  Really, how many dukes ever used the words whisk or sift in conversation? She’d been instantly suspicious upon hearing such domesticated words from his lips. Thankfully she’d had the sense of mind not to voice her accusations. If he knew she was keen to him, she would not be able to beat him at his own dastardly game.

  “I don’t need to sample the brandy again. I trust your judgment.” She smiled brightly. “Let’s use that one.”

  Disappointment momentarily soured his countenance. With a sigh, he lifted the glass and downed the contents himself. The urge to laugh overcame Sophia and she snorted into her apron.

  “What was that?” he asked sullenly.

  “A sneeze. I’m sorry. A bit of flour must have got up my nose.”

  He licked the damp residue of the brandy from his lips, something she would have liked to do herself, if they were on kissing terms.

  Had she really just thought that? Two little splashes of brandy had affected her mind, which was why she never drank it. She ought to have known better. She needed all her wits about her so she’d know when her wicked husband attempted another trick.

  They each measured a cup of brandy into their respective bowls of batter, and after stirring the batter one last time, they filled the individual cake tins. Sophia’s cakes would be shaped like hearts, and his, fluted spheres. When at last the tins had been conveyed into the oven, they looked at each other.

  “Not long now,” said Claxton, rubbing his hands together.

  He washed the bowls and pans and assorted other whatnot and Sophia dried. When they’d finished, she moved about the kitchen, returning spices and utensils to their places. With a broom, he swept clean the oilcloth that covered the floor.

  “I’m too tired to do any more,” said Sophia, collapsing, exhausted, into a chair.

  “Then let’s sit.” Claxton dragged a chair to the space beside hers and sat so close his thigh brushed her skirts. “We can tidy the rest later.”

  Sophia sighed, her cheeks flushed, feeling languid.

  “One benefit of brandy, it certainly warms one from the inside out.”

  He looked back at her, heavy lidded and intent. “Indeed, it does.”

  With just that look, a sensation of heat and excitement formed in her lower belly. She stared at his lips, remembering a time when she’d kissed them whenever she liked.

  As if he read her thoughts, he lifted his hand and touched her face, tracing a fingertip along the outline of her cheek and jaw. “I want to kiss you.”

  He’d spoken her thoughts aloud, which pleased her more than it ought to. Yet she had to keep her head because she had so much to lose. “You and I kissing would be ill-advised, considering everything.”

  “I know things aren’t perfect between us.” The smile fell from his face. Leaning forward, all sudden seriousness, he brushed his knuckles along her lower lip. “But there’s no rule that says we can’t be fond of one another, goose.”

  “Fond,” she repeated. Such a nice word, and yet it implied a certain contentment and peace of mind. No, fond did not describe her feelings toward Claxton. Her feelings were very much tumultuous and confused. And passionate.

  “Why have you been calling me goose?” she asked, hopelessly flustered, thinking to lighten the subject and cool the dangerous heat building between them.

  “I’ve always called you goose inside my head.” He drew his fingertip down the center of her throat, a path toward her heart. “It’s because you have such a lovely…long neck.”

  She’d been wound as tight as a spring all day. For nearly a year, there had been only the sweet embraces of her family, the affectionate pats of friends on her hand or back. Her body recognized the difference and reacted as if starved.

  A small so
und burst from her lips. The duke’s eyes fixed on hers, glazed over.

  “Sophia—”

  Needing space, if only to breathe, she stood and crossed to the window. Lifting the curtain, she stared out at the falling snow. “How much longer do you think we will be trapped here?”

  Anything more than a half hour and she feared she’d be lost. Claxton, in close quarters, had proved too magnetic to resist. If only they were in London, she could secure herself behind the protective wall of her family, of her own private rooms, until she was ready.

  He came to stand behind her, a mere inch away, so that his heat warmed the skin of her back. Little prickles of desire danced across the lowermost part of her spine, weakening her legs.

  “Impossible to say.” His voice, low in his throat, vibrated through her, and she shivered as if from the sensuous brush of a feather. “Right now, I can’t bring myself to care. I can’t think of anyplace I’d rather be than here with you.”

  He rested his hands on her shoulders and smoothed them down over her arms before sweeping her hair aside at her nape. She exhaled, unwilling to move or twist away. “You have such beautiful hair. For so long I’ve imagined touching it again.” He inhaled, his mouth and nose pressed against her bare skin. “I’ve imagined smelling it, remembered the slide of it across my skin.”

  This was Claxton. Vane. The old desires were there. They had never gone away.

  Her heart ached from wanting him for so long, and now that he touched her like this and talked to her so sweetly, she found it nearly impossible to remember why she ought to say no. He pressed his lips to the side of her neck. The sensation of his lips, his warm breath, and the friction of his whiskers on her skin sent jolts of pleasure into her breasts and deep into her belly. A sensation much like being tickled, so delicious her toes curled.

  Unsteady, she leaned back against his chest and gripped the window frame. The room had filled with the scent of baking cakes. Snow fell outside the window. Everything seemed so right.

  “Sophia,” he whispered, as with his hand he lifted her chin back to rest her head against his shoulder. The same hand descended again, lightly stroking the exposed column of her neck and collarbone. “Dearest goose. I’ve missed you.”

  “I wish you…wouldn’t say things like that.”

  With a low growl, he wrapped his arms about her waist, enveloping her body in sinew and heat. “Why not?”

  She melded against him, like a drowsy cat seeking warmth. “I like them too much.”

  “I like you too much.”

  He placed one kiss on the side of her neck, then another on her cheek…and her temple, her hair falling over them both. With each press of his lips against her skin and each stroke of his hand, desire coiled up inside her, tightening with each kiss, so much so she had to clench her teeth not to gasp or cry out.

  “Your skin is so soft,” he murmured.

  His warm breath on her skin tantalized and made her squirm. His hands moved over her clothes, touching her everywhere, sweeping up her torso to cup and squeeze her breasts—

  “Ah,” she gasped, seizing them in her own, intending to stop him.

  “Shhhh,” he soothed.

  She did not stop him. She did not want to. Her hands slid up his neck into his hair, while his descended in a pleasurable downward sweep to the indention between her legs, where with the heel of his palm he massaged her until in a sudden rush of need she twisted in his arms, meeting his devouring lips with her own. They did a slow little dance across the floor until her bottom bumped the table.

  “Just kissing,” she whispered against his lips, seizing him tight. He was so much larger than she, a difference that had always pleased her. “Nothing more.”

  “Kissing. Is that what this is?” Vane’s breath filled her mouth in warm, brandy-sweet bursts. He thrust his fingers into the hair on either side of her face and cradled her skull, trailing kisses along her jaw, her chin, her nose, her mouth, and eyelids. “Very well. It’s enough. For now.”

  There was a place against his neck that always intrigued her whenever he talked or turned his head. Sophia’s mouth found that place now, where his skin tasted of salt and citron and sugar. In the back of her mind, a faint voice, perhaps that of her sensible self, told her she really ought to stop this now because all this kissing and touching and teasing would only lead to—

  “Stop thinking,” he murmured, coaxing her mouth open with pressure from his tongue. Her legs ajar just enough, he eased between them, his hands planted on the tabletop at either side of her hips. Gently, with only the pressure of his face and lips, he urged her head back and left a trail of kisses along the same path down the center of her neck as his fingertip had taken moments before. She arched backward, lost to sensation.

  Taking full advantage, he again cupped her breasts and squeezed them together. She moaned, and her hands clenched his torso, a response that only aroused him further. What had he been thinking when he’d claimed to hate women’s fashions? Everything about her was more than he remembered. More alluring. More fragrant and intoxicating. And her breasts, so soft and round and plump. He slid her gown from her shoulders.

  “That is not kissing.” She pushed his hands away and jerked the garment back up. But she did not push him away. Instead, she lay halfway across the table, her eyes sleepy, her lips swollen and parted. An alluring pagan offering in want of more kissing.

  “But it would be.” He smiled. His fingertips traced the edge of her neckline downward, daring to slip to the plush flesh beneath, grazing over her nipple. “I want to kiss you there.”

  “Claxton.” She gasped and jerked in response. Her cheeks flushed a deeper shade of pink.

  His blood pulsed forward, like a team of horses hell-bent on one destination. Kissing most certainly was not enough.

  He dragged his palms upward over her knees and across the tops of her thighs, ruching her skirts at her hips, exposing her stockinged legs and their black garters. Reaching behind and beneath her buttocks, he seized her, dragging her bottom closer to the edge of the table so their bodies joined more closely.

  She stared up at him, eyes wide and expectant. Heat bathed the confines of the kitchen and a hazy golden glow from the stove. Behind her lay a sturdy table, the perfect height upon which to make love. The thought of her stretched beneath him on the aged wood, of rutting into her on a surface still strewn with flour and sugar, sent his already hard cock to twitching with impatience. Bloody hell, she was his wife and they ought to be—

  He bent to kiss her—

  “The cakes,” she exclaimed and twisted free of him. Her hands went to the place between her breasts, where she pinched and adjusted her corset. With a flutter of her hands, she cooled her cheeks. “How much time has passed?”

  “Let them burn.” The way he burned. He groaned, suffering a physical pain at her sudden absence from his arms. “I’d be more than happy to forget the game. I propose we occupy our time in other ways.”

  Wicked ways.

  “Your lack of competitive spirit disappoints me,” she called without looking at him.

  “Disappointed…you may be that,” he muttered, thinking how unhappy she was going to be once she saw the difference in their cakes.

  “Let yours burn if you like. I am more than happy to claim the prize.”

  Prize? His erection throbbed, dissatisfied. He’d almost won the prize. Primitive male rationale told him if he could only make love to her and pleasure her enough and get her with child, she wouldn’t ever leave him again.

  She prattled on, taking up two thick woolen pads and approaching the oven. But her eyes were glazed and her cheeks flushed, proof she’d been just as aroused as he.

  “I can’t wait to see them,” she declared shakily. “Don’t be envious when mine turn out better.”

  “I’ll try.”

  She bent and pulled her tins from inside the stove. He bit the side of his thumb. Certainly there would be no more kissing allowed after this. Hell, it might
be days or even weeks before she allowed him to touch her breasts again. For that reason, if no other, he now felt a staggering degree of remorse for what he’d done.

  “Hmmm.” Her cheek twitched, and she glared at him. “I expected them to rise more. But perhaps this is how they are intended to look?”

  “Let me pull out mine, and we can compare.” He took the rag from her and carefully removed his cake tins, which boasted twelve perfectly plump, rounded tops.

  Her mouth fell open. “Yours turned out completely different. I wonder why.”

  Of course they had. His flour had been dry and he’d used the proper number of eggs.

  Did he detect a note of suspicion in her voice? Too late for that. He tried not to appear smug. He’d also buttered his tins while she searched the cabinet for the missing twelfth heart-shaped tin, which he had strategically hidden behind the farthest row of pots.

  With ease he turned his cakes out of their metal forms and sifted powdered sugar on them. Their heat instantly glazed the sugar into a thin icing.

  Sophia, however, hadn’t managed to remove a single one of her cakes. Dismayed, she exclaimed, “They are hopelessly stuck.”

  Of course they were stuck. After drinking that brandy, she’d completely forgotten to butter her tins. She knew better! But at some point, in stealth, Claxton had buttered his.

  “Something stinks,” she muttered.

  He did not glance up from the plate, where he arranged his cakes with meticulous care. “Probably just some crumbs burning in the oven.”

  No, that’s not what she meant. That isn’t what she’d meant at all. With a knife, she at last chiseled one cake free. Or part of one. Half the heart remained in the tin.

  “Don’t worry about the ragged edges. They’ll look grand once you sift them over with icing,” he assured.

  “Yes, I am sure Mrs. Kettle’s decision will be determined on taste,” she said, eyes narrowing. Even without the proper number of eggs, hers would taste much better than his overly salted cakes.

  “I strategize,” he had said. Well, Claxton, so did she.