Waking Up With the Duke

by Lorraine Heath

  “I know, but while you’ve known many, I’ve only known one. Well, two, I suppose now. But last night was so brief. Tonight is a bit unnerving.”

  “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t trust me.” He placed his hand over hers. “Trust me completely.”

  He waited a heartbeat, then two, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles until he felt her fingers unfurl. He slipped his hand beneath hers and brought it up for a kiss, the heat of his mouth coating her skin with dew. Her fingertips skimmed his jaw, reached up to his cheek. Small steps, but steps nonetheless.

  He held still while she explored his features, threaded her fingers through his hair. He didn’t want to think of Walfort at a moment like this, but he had to wonder what sort of fool would deny her even a hint of pleasure, simply because he was incapable of reaching the summit.

  Her palm came to rest against his chest, signaling the end of her exploration. His turn.

  He eased her nightdress down past her full breasts, her flat stomach, her narrow hips, along the length of her coltishly long legs. Perhaps this time she’d wrap them around him. Even though she was ensconced in shadows, he had a good idea of what he’d only been able to imagine existed beneath the silk, satin, and lace. She was perfection.

  He trailed his hands up her legs, along her sides. “You’re perfect.”

  “I didn’t think you could see me clearly.”

  Not with his eyes, but with his heart. He’d never been much in the way of a poet, but for her he wanted to be. He wanted no false flattery between them. In this impossible situation he wanted whatever honesty they could eke out.

  Shoving himself off the bed, before his feet hit the floor, he had his trousers unbuttoned. Quickly, he discarded them and rejoined her on the bed. His patience had reached its limit. It was time to devour her.

  With unerring accuracy he cupped her breast, relished the weight of it against his palm. He slid his thumb over the tip, felt it pucker and harden. So quick to respond. She turned her body into him, and he pressed her closer. Heated silk. He licked at her flesh, drawing the taut nipple into his mouth, circling it with his tongue. She released a moan that set his own body on fire with desire.

  Her hands took a leisurely sojourn over his shoulders. Her fingers combed through his hair. Her legs became entangled with his, opening her silken haven to him. The fragrance of raw sex teased his nostrils. She was ready for him. Before he ever slid his hand downward and slipped his finger inside her, he knew she was more than prepared to receive him.

  His body screamed for him to take her now. To have her. To ride her. But he didn’t want a quick coupling. He wanted to explore every inch of her. And he did so. With his hands and his mouth. She writhed and groaned, igniting the tinder of passion. It flared as it never had, burning brightly.

  She was unlike any other woman he’d ever known. She possessed an innocence and a wildness. Contradictory and yet complementary. She dug her fingers into his buttocks, urging him closer. Trailing his mouth across the valley between her breasts, he gave the same attention to the other as he had to the first.

  He loved the taste of her. Earthy and rich.

  “Ainsley, you are driving me to madness,” she uttered.

  “Then you are where I want you to be.” He kissed her shoulder, her throat, her chin. He desperately wanted to blanket her mouth with his, swallow her moans and cries. But it was forbidden. Her damned rule, and he was stubborn enough not to break it.

  He would show restraint in that one area, but nowhere else.

  He tormented her until she was fevered, crying out for him, urging him to take her. A strangled sob. A tiny squeal.

  Positioning himself, he lifted her hips and buried himself in the molten velvet of her core. Heat closed around him as snug as a glove.

  Desperately, she clutched him, moved beneath him. She wrapped her legs around his waist and he sank more deeply into her. His groan echoed between them. She was tight, so tight. Snug. She held him as though she would never release him.

  Rising up, he pounded into her, feeling her muscles undulating around him. Their breathing became harsh, ragged. Her moans were music to his ears; her writhing was poetry to his soul. She matched his thrusts with a power and an eagerness that surprised and pleased him beyond measure. She was no docile woman, only receiving. She gave all, her body and soul. Perhaps a little of her heart. He would have to content himself with that.

  He hovered at the edge of the cliff where passion reigned and pleasure triumphed. When her screams echoed around him, through him, he flung himself into the realm of satiation. Sensations more intense than he’d ever experienced consumed him in a conflagration of fiery release.

  When he returned to awareness, her body was limp beneath his, her breathing rapid, her skin slick with dew. He buried his face in the curve of her neck. Kissed her there.

  He’d never before felt anything quite this intense. He didn’t want to leave her, but he wasn’t convinced that she was ready for him to stay.

  As gently as possible he eased off her. He pulled the sheets and blankets over her to protect her from the chill that would settle in now that their flesh was no longer joined. He rolled out of the bed, walked to the fireplace, and added more logs to bring warmth into the room for her.

  He wanted to tell her that tonight she had devastated him. Instead, he simply snatched up his clothes and strode from the room.

  Chapter 11

  She awoke tender, sore, and feeling remarkably lovely. Like a woman who had been well and truly loved. A small part of her pricked with guilt, but she shoved it away. Walfort had encouraged her to come here, to revel in the pleasure that Ainsley could deliver. She couldn’t go back now, couldn’t return to what had transpired the first night—the cold, calculated callousness of it.

  She didn’t want to consider what this month would cost her, would cost them all.

  Reaching up, she tugged on the bellpull. She clambered out of bed and went to the window. The rain had stopped. She would join Ainsley for breakfast this morning. Perhaps they’d return to the fair. Perhaps they’d stay until nightfall and dance. So many possibilities loomed. For the first time in three years she wanted to embrace the potential of the day.

  She recognized the soft rap on the door as belonging to Lily before her servant walked into the room. She was wearing a shawl that Jayne had seen the day before—at a booth at the fair. Ainsley had purchased it and several others.

  “How did you come to have that shawl?” she asked.

  Stopping, Lily ran her fingers over the lace. “Isn’t it lovely? Someone from the village delivered several things this morning. Mr. Manning said the duke told him that I was to have first selection. Apparently it’s not uncommon for him to purchase items for his servants. They all love him, you know. Is it all right if I keep it?”

  How could they not love him? She was beginning to think he was the most generous man she’d ever known. He gave nothing in half measures, seemed to delight in giving gifts wherever he could.

  “Of course you may keep it if that was the duke’s wish. See that my red gown is pressed for this evening.”

  “Yes, m’lady. And for today?”

  “The blue, I think.”

  She was halfway tempted to pen a letter to Walfort, assuring him she was well, but he had specifically forbidden it: “Don’t write to me. I don’t want you to think about me for a single moment while you’re away.”

  She had expected to think of him every moment. Instead each passing hour brought fewer reflections of him.

  If she did write him, what would she say? That last night the duke had awoken portions of her that she’d not even realized had been sleeping? Not just physically, but emotionally as well. The first night she’d wept because sensations sweeping through her body had brought such welcome release and abhorrent guilt. But last night he’d caressed her soul and brought forth a devastating awareness of how cold she had become. She’d built a wall to protect herself so she could never be hurt aga
in, but with hope came the possibility of pain. She was terrified and yet remarkably expectant. A little too much, perhaps, as anticipation thrummed through her when she was dressed and opened the door. It only increased when she spotted him sitting lazily on a bench in the hallway.

  She thought that seeing him would quell her excitement, but it only increased as her nervousness asserted itself. Whatever would the day bring and how might it lead them into the night?

  He rose in that smooth, confident way he had.

  “I expected you to already be at breakfast,” she told him.

  Smiling, he approached her. “I heard you moving around so I decided to wait.” He leaned in, took her hand, pressed a kiss to the place where her cheek met her chin, and she found herself waiting breathlessly for him to slide his mouth over and begin nibbling on her ear. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

  The words were said in a low, seductive, secretive voice, as though he were asking much more, but she was thrown off by her disappointment that he’d ignored her ear and the sensitive skin below it. Still, she couldn’t deny him the truth. “Marvelously, actually. And you?”

  He began leading her down the stairs. “Well enough.”

  She didn’t quite know what to make of that, didn’t want to consider that perhaps she’d failed him in some way, that he’d not found as much pleasure as she, although his actions the night before certainly indicated that he enjoyed their encounter. “Will we go to the fair again, today?”

  “I have something else in mind, if you’re up for it.”

  As they strolled toward the lake, he pondered how earlier he’d thought she’d never get out of that blasted bed. A strange thought considering all his effort to get her into the damned thing. But he’d been anxious to be with her again this morning, contemplated returning to her bed at dawn but decided she wasn’t quite ready to spend every hour of every day with him in the boudoir. And so he’d contented himself with prowling through his bedchamber until he finally heard movement on the other side of his wall.

  In spite of the fact that he’d been well and truly sated, he had not slept well. His arms felt incredibly empty after holding her. He was chilled lying in his bed without the press of her skin against his. The silence was so disturbing when not filled with her soft breathing.

  She’d given him so much more than her body. She’d given him a taste of something he’d never before savored: being with a woman who had the ability to touch his soul. Oddly, he knew she wasn’t reaching beyond the physical. And yet there it was. Invisible threads, twining them together, a goal that would create a common bond that he wondered if they’d be able to extricate themselves from when the time came.

  It was of no consequence. Her loyalty was to Walfort. As was his own. Duty, love, and honor would see that they parted ways, but he damned well intended to have memories to see him through.

  They’d spoken of mundane things during breakfast. The weather. Would the sunshine hold? The fair. The shawl her maid had chosen. Jayne made him confess to purchasing items he didn’t need simply to ensure the villagers had a few coins in their pockets. She grew silent for a time after that. As had he. He’d not planned to reveal much of himself to her while she was here, and yet he seemed to be doing exactly that.

  He’d never realized what a deep well of emptiness he possessed, and each moment with her worked toward filling it.

  “I imagine it’s lovely here in the spring and summer,” she said softly now.

  “Quite. Although I rather enjoy it in winter.”

  “I suppose I can see the appeal.”

  He imagined she looked around and saw the bleakness, but all it did was emphasize her beauty. She was the promise of spring, the kiss of summer. As much as he’d wanted to kiss her properly—or improperly in his case—last night and this morning, he’d refrained, allowing her to hold on to one last unbroken rule. If it was to be broken, like all the ones that came before it, she would have to be the one to break it. He was experiencing enough guilt without adding that final straw.

  She pointed toward a white gazebo a short distance from the water’s edge. “Is that yours?”

  “Yes, it came with the cottage. I believe the previous owner’s daughter was married there.”

  “Not in a church?”

  “Scandalous, isn’t it?”

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing. Are we going to go fishing?”

  He smiled at the abrupt change in topic. “You are impatient, aren’t you?”

  She peered up at him slyly. “Simply curious.”

  “Well, then, let’s get on with it. Not fishing. Boating.”

  One of the servants had prepared the rowboat earlier. Ainsley enjoyed the burn in his muscles as he rowed them from shore, but more enjoyed watching her. The tranquility that settled over her upturned face as she sought the sun’s warmth. The wind was brisk and chilled as it blew across the water. She’d wrapped her cloak more securely around her, and he regretted that it was not his arms and body warming her. It was no doubt reckless on his part to come out onto the lake when the sky was darkening at the horizon and storms scented the air, but he’d wanted the isolation—to be with her when no one was around to disturb them. Not that his servants had bothered them, but the knowledge was there that they were always present.

  Even in her bed he had the sense that they weren’t completely alone. Of course, Walfort was no doubt haunting them there. Although Ainsley did think he’d succeeded in erasing the man from her mind for a short time last night. But he’d seen his cousin creeping back into her thoughts during breakfast, so he was grateful he’d planned this little excursion.

  She’d not bothered with gloves, and now she trailed her fingers in the frigid waters. “Do you swim?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  She glanced over at him. “I don’t.”

  “The water’s not that deep.” A lie. But no sense in alarming her when he would ensure that she not drown. He was a strong swimmer, obsessed with the sensation of slicing through the water. Had swum the lake. Had even considered having an artificial pool—like the ones in London—built at his ancestral estate, Grantwood Manor.

  He stopped rowing, brought in the oars and planted his forearms on his thighs. Inhaling deeply, he absorbed the peacefulness of their surroundings—the trees, mountains, and sky so majestic. The silence heavy.

  “I believe this to be the most serene place in all of England,” he said quietly, loath to disturb the calm.

  She sat up. “I feel as though I should be doing something.”

  “That’s the beauty of this place. When I’m here, my troubles do not seem to follow.”

  She placed an elbow on her knee, her chin on her palm. “What troubles plague you?”

  “If I told you, that would be to invite them here.”

  “You are quite the mysterious one, Ainsley.”

  She was perturbed but smiling, teasing him, perhaps. Then, as if knowing she’d get nothing from him, she sighed, glanced around, and again dipped her hand in the water. “May I ask you something?”

  “You may ask; I might not answer.”

  She peered over at him. “You mentioned your mother not being able to separate Westcliffe from his father, and yet she seemed to have no trouble where Stephen is concerned. I have seen them together, and there can be no doubt she adores him.”

  He cursed his loose tongue. When he’d made his stipulation, he should have been content to make it without explanation. He certainly couldn’t reveal a dark family secret that had only just become known to the brothers: Stephen and Westcliffe didn’t share the same father. Yet neither did he want to lie to her. “Westcliffe very much favors the previous earl—in both looks and temperament. Stephen was spared both attributes, so Mother was able to gaze upon him more favorably.”

  “Your mother never seemed cruel. I can’t imagine her not loving Westcliffe.”

  “I don’t think she didn’t love him. She simply wasn’t good at showing it.” He lean
ed toward her, skimming his thumb over her cold cheek. “I apologize. I never should have questioned your ability to love any child to whom you gave birth.”

  She averted her gaze. “I know some ladies who married simply to gain a title. But a title does not warm a woman’s heart. You deserve a woman who will love you, Ainsley.”

  His laughter echoed around them. “I assure you that I will settle for no less.”

  She gave him an impish grin. “Confess. Is there any woman who has caught your fancy?”

  You.

  “I do not talk of other ladies when I’m with a woman.”

  “But you’re blushing. There is someone.”

  He rubbed his cheeks and jaw briskly. “If my face is red, it is because of the cold. If there were someone, I’d not be here with you now. It would be unfair to her.”

  “I’m glad. Will you be faithful to your wife, then?”

  “As long as she is faithful to me.”

  “If you treat her in bed as you treat me . . . she will be faithful.”

  “My mother always told me that it was the manner in which a man treated a woman when she was not in his bed that determined how she responded when in his bed.”

  Her blue eyes widened. “Your mother spoke to you of such things?”

  “She is scandalous for a reason, Jayne. Her first husband did not treat her well, and she threatened my brothers and me to within an inch of our lives if she ever learned that we mistreated a woman.”

  “Westcliffe exiled his wife to his country estate.”

  He shrugged. She didn’t know the entire story and he wasn’t about to tell her. “There was a bit of misbehavior going on there, but all is well now.”

  “Your mother always frightened me, you know.”

  “Why ever would you fear her?”

  “She is so bold and brash. She does not suffer fools or silly girls lightly.”

  “You’ve never been a silly girl.”

  “You didn’t know me when I was younger.”

  “Tell me one thing you did that was silly.” She took on a mulish expression. “Just as I thought. You exhibited no silliness.”