The Duke's Captive

by Adele Ashworth

  “I won’t be your mistress,” she said shakily, defensively.

  He sighed. “I would never bring a mistress to my private bed, Viola.”

  “Then why am I here?”

  Very slowly, he began to pull at the fingers of her glove. “I wanted to begin by apologizing for taking you to my cabin against your will.”

  “You didn’t have to apologize for that in your home, much less your bedroom.”

  He read skepticism in her voice, but she didn’t pull her hand away when he managed to slip the glove off and reach for the other.

  “True,” he said, concentrating on removing lace from her fingers. “But this is a very intimate setting, and what I have to say, and do, requires intimacy.”

  She said nothing to that, but he could feel her gaze on his face, studying his expression. When he finally had her gloves removed, he tossed them onto the nightstand with her reticule, then lifted both hands so he could place his lips on first one wrist, then the other.

  She shivered. “What are you doing, Ian?”

  He looked into her eyes and whispered against her soft skin, “I’m kissing you.”

  Her brows creased in a frown. “I know that, but I mean—what intimate thing could you possibly want to say?”

  Although she tried to sound matter-of-fact, he noticed her breath quickening as her guard lowered. Gently, he pulled her toward him, close enough that her skirts blanketed his thighs. “I want to thank you,” he said huskily, his mouth still brushing her wrist, “for helping me all those years ago.”

  She swallowed hard, mesmerized of a sudden. “You needed help.”

  He pulled back a little and smiled into her eyes, then wrapped an arm around her waist to draw her even closer. “I want to show you what it meant to me.”

  With a shaky exhale, she murmured, “You want to make love to me. . . .”

  “I do.”

  For a timeless moment she gazed into his eyes, her own troubled, searching. He felt his heart beating hard in his chest, knowing that as he’d laid bare his desire for her, she could very well step back and walk out on him. If she did, he realized, it would be one of the greatest disappointments of his life.

  And then, as if accepting the destiny that brought them together, she lowered her lashes, leaned forward, and placed her lips on his.

  It took him several long seconds to realize she was giving herself to him without reservation or argument, if only this one time, and with a sudden urgency that staggered him, his body came alive.

  He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her forcefully against him, relishing in the softness of her lips, the sweet, flowery scent of her skin. She lifted her hands to lightly grasp his cheeks as his mouth lingered on hers, tasting, caressing, taking the time to savor. His tongue flicked across her top lip and she opened for him, giving him access as she pressed her body into his with her own growing need. He restrained his eagerness, afraid to move too quickly—until she moaned softly and pushed her hips forward in her demand for more.

  Quickly, he broke their kiss and lifted his head, gazing down at her flushed face.

  “Turn around,” he whispered, his voice gruff. “I’m going to undress you.”

  Her lashes fluttered open and she looked at him, her eyes conveying a hint of hesitation. He lowered his hand to the ruffled neckline of her gown, then closed his palm over her satin-covered breast.

  She gasped lightly when he started caressing her. He watched her closely as her desire intensified, and then in one swift move, he grasped her upper arm with his free hand and turned her himself, his palm never leaving her breast as he pulled her back against his chest.

  He leaned over to leave gentle kisses on the nape of her neck, her bare shoulder, while he began to expertly pry each button apart with nimble fingers.

  Eagerly, she began to help him, slipping her gown over her arms as it loosened. He nipped her earlobe, flicked it with his tongue, then drew his lips down her neck to the top of her shoulder. Within seconds, her evening dress pooled at her feet, and to his great surprise, she unfastened her white lace corset in the front and dropped it to her side.

  Ian pulled back a little and once again turned her to face him. She stood unashamed, her breasts exposed but the remainder of her body covered from the waist down in lacy fabric. With nimble fingers he unbuttoned his own shirt and slipped it off, all the while staring into her eyes, a witness to her uncertainty even as she boldly held his gaze.

  He glanced down to her lovely, exposed breasts, each nipple hard from the chill in the room, and carefully closed his hands over both to warm, caress, tease each peak with the pads of his thumbs.

  She moaned softly and closed her eyes, leaning her head back as she gave in to the moment.

  “Tell me what you like,” he said in a husky timbre.

  Without lifting her lashes, she whispered, “With you I like everything. Kiss me, Ian. . . .”

  He needed no other urging. Lowering his head, he captured her mouth again, playing with her lips, her tongue, relishing in her softness, her quick breaths, her warm palms gently framing his cheeks as their mutual passion grew in intensity. Then in a sweeping fashion, he reached down and lifted her into his arms, carrying her to his bed and easing her onto the coverlet before releasing her luscious lips in an effort to draw a string of feather-soft kisses down her jaw and throat, her chest and the valley between her breasts.

  She arched her back in response, raking her fingers through his hair as he took one nipple into his mouth and began to lightly suck, to tease it to a taut peak with his tongue and then trace it with his lips.

  She began to whimper, to push her hips toward him in abandonment. In one quick action, he raised himself just enough to pull at the top of her petticoats, loosen them and draw them and her stockings down her hips and legs to expose the length of her beautiful body to his view.

  She was stunning by lamplight, and he caressed each curve and shadow with his gaze, then lowered his head and dropped a kiss on the mound of dark curls between her legs.

  She inhaled a sharp breath and shivered.

  “Are you cold?”

  “A little,” she replied in a silky whisper.

  He reached up and yanked down the coverlet. “Get under the blankets.”

  Without looking at him, she did as ordered, and just as quickly he unfastened the buttons of his trousers, slipped off the remainder of his clothing, and snuggled in beside her, covering them both to their necks.

  They lay side by side on his pillows, facing each other, though she kept her eyes closed. He stared at her for several seconds, still not quite touching, his mind a sudden jumble of mixed emotions, all of them both troubling and wonderful. Then, as if sensing his gaze on her face, she lifted her lashes and looked into his eyes.

  He smiled, and she did the same, making his heart lurch in his chest.

  “Warmer?” he whispered.

  “Much.”

  His smile fading, he asked, “What are you thinking?”

  For seconds she said nothing, just studied the features of his face. And then she reached up and very gingerly placed her splayed palm on his bare chest so close to her own.

  “I’m thinking,” she whispered, “that although it’s dangerous for me to be here, I trust it because I’ve never felt safer in my life than in your arms.”

  His throat constricted as a rush of tenderness swept over him. He wasn’t expecting anything so intimate, so thoroughly honest, and he had no idea what to say.

  Offering him a hesitant smile, she added shyly, “And I don’t want to disappoint you.”

  Something deep inside of him melted at that moment. He couldn’t begin to understand it, or put words to it, but it took his breath away.

  “Viola . . .”

  She leaned forward and placed her
lips on his. He responded with a lingering kiss, heightening the passion slowly, reveling in her desire to give herself to him fully despite the risks. She caressed his chest with her fingertips as he moved his own hands, one to her breast, the other to the back of her head, his fingers threading through her silky hair.

  He teased her nipple once more to a peak and squeezed it gently, listening to the sound of her quickening breaths and soft moans of pleasure as his own heart began beating fast and hard again.

  He stretched his leg out a little to cover hers, pulling them toward him to bring her closer. She flicked her tongue across her top lip, and in answer he plunged deep to grasp hers and suck it. She whimpered and raised her hand from his chest to his cheek, then moved it behind his head to hold him tightly.

  He caressed, tasted, teased as she did, and finally, when he could take the wait no longer, he reached down, grabbed the back of her knee, and lifted it while pulling her against him so her thigh covered his hip and his thick erection nestled into her soft, feminine curls. With a gasp, she drew her lips from his, raised her lashes, and looked into his eyes.

  At that second, a spark of a memory flickered, captured him. And in it, a whisper from a fragment in time long ago—

  I love you, Ian. . . .

  He sucked in a sharp breath as disbelief and wonder, confusion and a sense of belonging pierced his mind, his heart.

  So beautiful . . .

  She watched him intently, face flushed, eyes dark with desire, her brows creased minutely as she sensed the strange and glorious turn in him. Then she brought her hand forward and touched his lips with her fingers.

  He kissed them, brushed his lips along the pads, held her vivid gaze as he drew her ring finger just slightly into his mouth to gently suck. She inhaled shakily when he began tracing small circles over her nipple with the pad of his thumb, then grazed it with his knuckles before cupping the soft flesh with his palm.

  She moaned again, absorbing every sensation to its fullest. Blood rushed through his veins, his heart raced at the sound of her voice, the sight of her pleasure, and suddenly, urgently, he needed to be inside her.

  Reaching down, he took hold of the base of his erection, adjusted his hips so that her knee lifted a little, and pushed himself between her legs.

  She cradled him instinctively within the warm, wet walls of her cleft. For several long seconds he held himself steady, afraid to move, to breathe, lest he lose himself too quickly. He’d never made love side by side before, yet everything about their closeness—her face inches from his, eyes able to behold, hands and fingers able to freely touch and give and accept—managed to intensify his need.

  As if sensing his thoughts, she licked her lips, and either from instinct or pure arousal, began to stroke him by gingerly rocking her hips into his, smothering him with slick, wet heat. He clenched his jaw and groaned low in his chest as she purposely baited him, silently begged for him to enter her. And then, with the delicate lift of her thigh to give him access, he did as she wanted, as he desperately craved, and pressed upward, finding the center of her, and very slowly glided inside her sweet, warm walls.

  She whimpered, briefly tensed. He reached for her knee and raised it toward his chest, allowing him to fill her deeply. For seconds neither of them moved, though she kept her gaze locked with his, as if she needed to see his every reaction to such exquisite torture. With one hand still caressing her breast, he moved the other from her leg to her cheek, cupping her face, brushing his thumb along her lips.

  “I could stay like this forever,” she murmured softly against his sensitive skin.

  He swallowed hard, unable to put his feelings into words. Never in his life had he experienced a moment of closeness more perfect than this one.

  “Viola . . . ,” he said in a far-off whisper, “so beautiful . . .”

  A trace of confusion flickered in her eyes. And then they filled with tears.

  Cradling her head, he captured her mouth once more, tasted the sweetness of her lips, felt her quick, warm breaths on his face, sensed the presence of longing within her. She pressed her hips into his, then began to move them as desire returned anew.

  He lowered his hand from her head to her bottom, pulling her as close to him as possible, allowing her to set the pace. He caressed her breast, thumbed her nipple, traced his tongue across her lips, then plunged deeply as she whimpered again in abandonment. He felt his own passion growing with each slight thrust of her hips, each soft moan to his ears, and knew that within moments she’d bring him to the edge.

  Suddenly she tore her mouth from his and gasped. She looked into his eyes, held his gaze, rocked her hips faster.

  “Ian . . .”

  He bit down hard to hold himself back, watching her climb to the brink of her release.

  She moaned, opened her eyes wider, squeezed the muscles of his chest.

  “Yes,” he breathed.

  “Ian—”

  And with that she cried out in pleasure, clinging to him, staring into his eyes.

  He witnessed the emotion, felt each pulse of her orgasm within, gripping him, pulling him along with her.

  “Oh, yes, sweetheart . . .” He tensed. “Oh, yes—”

  He exploded inside, squeezing his eyes shut, groaning through each wave of ecstasy, holding her tightly as he thrust into her again and again with total abandonment. His breath mingled with hers, the moans from his throat matched her own, and they clung to each other through each rock of her hips, with each movement of legs and hands, each brushing of lips and fingertips, until at last their bodies, together, grew still.

  Ian allowed his heartbeat to slow, then wrapped his arms around her and pulled her head into the crook of his neck, turning just enough to make them comfortable but not enough to slip out of her. Then resting his head on hers, he cupped her face with his palm and stroked her cheek, listening to the soft sound of her breathing until sleep overcame him.

  The softness of her lips on his stirred his senses.

  “Wake up, Ian,” she whispered from above.

  He opened his eyes, blinked quickly, and then remembered everything as he looked into Viola’s beautiful face illuminated by lamplight.

  “What time is it?” he asked groggily, noting of a sudden that not only was she standing beside his bed but she’d also managed to do an adequate job of dressing herself without his help.

  “It’s nearly dawn, I think,” she said, straightening.

  He sat up and wiped a palm down his face. “You don’t have to leave.”

  Casting him a wry smile, she reached for her gloves and reticule on the nightstand. “Of course I have to leave. I should have left hours ago.”

  “No,” he countered, “you should be in this bed and ready for another round of lovemaking.”

  Her smile faded as she gazed at him squarely. “It was wonderful, but one night in your bed doesn’t change anything. You should know that. And I have to get home before the staff wakes. My hair is a mess and—”

  “Your hair is a beautiful mess. Come back to bed.”

  She bit her bottom lip in hesitation, then murmured, “I can’t.”

  Her desire to leave so quickly after the intimacy they’d shared bothered him more than he wanted to admit. He didn’t give a damn about her hair, her staff or his. He wanted her back in bed with him now, naked and willing.

  Tossing the blankets aside, he swung his legs over the edge and stood to face her.

  “Yes, it was wonderful,” he agreed huskily, “and it’s sure to be wonderful the next time. I need you, Viola.”

  Frowning negligibly, she reached up and delicately touched his face. “I have to leave.”

  He placed his hands on his hips, exhaled a fast breath. “Why are you so nonchalant about what happened last night?”

  Her eyes widened and sh
e pulled her hand away, thoroughly surprised. “Nonchalant? I’m not being nonchalant, I’m being practical. It’s nearly morning and I have a child, a studio, a social schedule and household to run.”

  Groaning, he rubbed his eyes with his fingertips. “Then I’ll bring you back tonight.”

  She gave a soft laugh as she donned her gloves. “Now that’s impractical. I’m not your mistress to order around, Ian, and I can’t wander in here at your whim night after night. Even if I had no other engagements, think of the trouble, the inconvenience for both of us, not to mention the scandal it might create for me should we be discovered, or worse.”

  Or worse. He knew what she meant. Getting her with child again, even as she still refused to acknowledge her son as his.

  They’d come to a stalemate, obviously, and the fact that she seemed so reluctant to throw caution to the wind and become his ready lover irrationally irked him. She wanted—needed—him as much as he did her. He was sure of it. Yet he couldn’t possibly seduce her again and again; she would have to come to him willingly.

  “What of desire?” he murmured.

  Her light humor faded. “Desire is a fleeting thing. Commitments and practicalities are not. You know that as well as I.”

  That statement’s harsh truth gnawed at his gut. “You could marry me.”

  The air between them electrified at once. She blinked, then shook her head minutely, as if she couldn’t comprehend what he’d said.

  He swallowed; his heart began to pound. The words had slipped from him as smoothly as the flow of silk, and yet as he boldly stared into her large, stunned eyes, he couldn’t regret them. Everything had changed between them since he’d begun his absurd quest for revenge, since he’d learned of and then met their son. And if she married him, she wouldn’t be able to just leave the city, or country, at will. Yes, he decided, marriage between them made very practical sense.

  “Viola?”

  “I’m not— Is that a proposal?” she asked, bewildered.

  Nervously, he massaged the back of his neck. “Yes. I suppose.”