In the moonlight, she could see his face clearly. His features were impassive, but his eyes told another story. Along with the remains of his earlier warmth and fondness, desire blazed.
Without hesitation, she touched his lips with hers again. In response, he cupped her cheeks, and a slight moan escaped him. He returned her kiss with one that grew bolder and sweeter in its intensity. She needed more of him, so it was only natural that she open her lips. Without hesitation, he accepted her invitation. As his tongue mated with hers, she reached inside his evening coat and unbuttoned his waistcoat. In response, he deepened their kiss. Emboldened, she slid her hands up his chest. The soft linen of his shirt didn’t stop the radiant heat of his body from surrounding her. Desperate for more, she melted against him.
She ran her palms slowly inch by inch across the cloth that covered his hot skin. The contours of his upper body were more magnificent than she could have ever imagined, and the sinewy cords of muscles fascinated her. As she traced each solid rib and the breadth of his chest, Daphne felt like a cartographer, an explorer discovering each sensual swell and rise beneath her fingers.
When she rubbed her palms over his small, firm nipples, he moaned again. He suckled her bottom lip before playfully taking a nip. With little warning, he took possession of her mouth again, and in a matching move, one of his hands crept to the lowered bodice of her gown.
As his tongue stroked hers, he gently tugged the edge of her bodice downward, forcing the stays to lower as well. Her groan was swallowed by his continuing kiss. She ached for him to touch her breasts—so tender from desire.
“Touch me,” she whispered, practically begging.
When the cool air hit her nipples, they tightened into hard pebbles. Desperate to find relief, she arched into his hand where his clever fingers found one breast. He cupped it in his hand, and she whimpered, the pleasure so acute.
“Is this what you meant by ‘everything,’ Moonbeam?” he whispered as he tugged her gown and stays lower. In the back of her desire-muddled mind, Daphne remembered where they were and who was outside, so she resisted the urge to cry out for more. With his hand, he explored the sensitive skin until he reached her nipple.
Powerless to hold it in, she gasped.
“I feel it, too, Daphne,” he whispered before he lowered his head and gently sucked her nipple into his mouth. The agony of the pleasure was almost too much. Somehow, she swallowed the need to cry out, but let out a low whimper. In answer, he continued to attend to her swollen nipple by sucking until she thought she couldn’t bear the exquisite torture anymore. As if he realized her breaking point, he gentled his kiss, then teased it with his tongue. He repeated the pattern as he pulled her waist tighter against him. The hard, swollen length of his erection pressed against her.
Unable to resist, she moved against him. It wasn’t enough. Her senses were whipped into a frenzy of longing—of wanting to touch him. Every part of her seemed charged waiting for an explosion. Wanting relief, she pushed harder.
But she had no idea what relief. Every kiss, every touch, every taste made her want more and more.
“Moonbeam”—his lips trailed up her neck leaving heat and desire behind—“what do you want?”
“I told you. Everything.” She leaned her head back as far as it would go to give him more access to the sensitive skin.
“Do you trust me?” His lips teased as they tasted.
She drew away, and the intensity of his gaze made her feel as if she were on fire. “For tonight,” she answered.
He chuckled. “I’m happy one of us does, because I’m not certain I trust myself. Not with you here in this moment.”
They stared at each other until they reached a silent accord. She reached behind and untied her mask. She didn’t need it with him. She’d shed her invisibility and show him everything about herself. Drawing close, she took his hand in hers. With infinite care, she raised her skirt with their entwined fingers.
Once the skirt was past her knees, he brought her close as he pushed his leg between hers, spreading them apart. Without breaking contact, Daphne pushed against his thigh. She relaxed slightly, then repeated the motion again. There was a promise of something deeper, some sort of resolution. Driven and almost frantic, she continued to push. Tingles of pleasure burst free, then ricocheted through her body.
But that only made her want him more, and only he could provide her with the key that would unlock this obsession.
Paul lifted one of her legs to his hip. Instinctively, she wrapped it tightly around his backside. The position allowed her to grind herself harder to pursue her pleasure, and she moaned in gratitude.
“Slowly, sweetheart,” he whispered in her ear. “It’s not a race. Enjoy the journey.” His tongue traced the curl of her outer ear.
By now, she was panting and hot. Forget the ricocheting. Wild need careened through her. Paul pulled her closer as she ground herself against him. Pleasure twined itself through every limb. She slowed her movements and allowed herself to experience every nuance of the exquisite sensation.
Paul took possession of her mouth, and she was sure he’d discover her every secret. If he continued pleasuring her this way, she’d gladly give him every single one. When she gasped for air, he kissed his way up to her ear again.
“If we were in my carriage or at my home, you could use something else besides my knee to find your release.” As they moved together, he cupped her bottom tight. He nestled his nose right beside her ear. “You could use my finger, my mouth, then perhaps you’d let me use my tongue.”
With a vision of him kissing that place on her body, she pushed her center harder against him, then surrendered to the waves of pleasure that pounded through her, congregating and combining into a vortex. Her whole body felt weightless and suspended a thousand feet in the air, then dropped. But instead of breaking, she dissolved into sensations that exploded through every inch of her as she whispered his name.
Unable to hold herself up, she collapsed against him, struggling to catch her breath. Her heartbeat still raced but slowly started to return to its natural rhythm. Paul held her close, placing light kisses on her cheeks, the tip of her nose, and, finally, her tender mouth.
“That was an amazing sight, Moonbeam.” The smooth richness of his voice caressed her as he gently rubbed the back of her neck. “You shattering into a million pieces while I held you in my arms. I don’t think I’ll ever forget this night.”
Daphne might have fantasized about making love to him, but truthfully, she knew very little of the act. Though she was a little bashful, she summoned the courage to glance at his face. “Is it always like that? I thought people screamed and howled in passion?”
“It’s always delightful if you’re treated well and with respect.” His expression was almost tender. There certainly wasn’t any judgment in his eyes. “To answer your last question, I never scream and howl.” He lifted one brow as if determining the suitability of a table wine. “I’ve never seen the need. Besides, it’s gauche.”
If anyone saw him now, they’d perceive him as the most arrogant duke in all of England. But through his haughty veneer she recognized he was protecting himself.
Perhaps he thought she’d demand an offer of marriage because of the intimacy they’d just shared. He needn’t fear. With Paul’s history with her brother, it was highly doubtful both men would ever grow comfortable or come to an agreement if she married Paul. Alex was too protective of her. However, she’d do everything in her power to help the men find their way back to some sort of friendship.
Was she actually thinking of marrying him? She gently shook her head. Her mask must possess some special power that made people forget reality.
“It’s late. We should leave.” She carefully placed some distance between them and swept her gaze downward. There was enough light from the moon that she could clearly see his pantaloons.
Bloody hell. Mortified, she clamped her eyes shut.
Where she’d rubbed her
self against his leg, a huge wet spot the size of a hothouse rose in full bloom appeared. Heat spread like wildfire from her chest to her face. Quickly, she adjusted her stays and gown to hide her breasts. She bent her head and placed her hand on her forehead as she struggled to come up with an apology.
Excuse me, but your pantaloons are ruined because I acted like a harlot in your arms.
If only she were a moonbeam. When a cloud covered the moon, she could disappear like a puff of air.
There were no other options at this point. She’d just apologize and be done with it.
She caught his gaze, and the effect caused her to battle another round of heated cheeks. “I ruined your garment,” she whispered. “I’ll have Tait order you a new pair.”
He bent his head in the direction she pointed, and the despicable oaf had the audacity to laugh. And it just wasn’t a chuckle. It turned into an uncontrollable fit of mirth. To make matters worse, it was the truly wicked type—silent bouts of laughter. Unable to take any more humiliation, she donned her mask and made her way for the door.
In two seconds, she was whisked around and found herself in his arms again. He buried his face against her neck, where his irritating laughter slowly dissolved. “I’m sorry.” Making a last stand, a renegade snort of laughter escaped. He pulled away, biting his lip to keep from dissolving into laughter again. “Sweetheart, if you could have seen how flushed your face was.”
Another assault of heat bludgeoned every inch of her. Under no circumstances would she tolerate his mocking. She’d not allow anyone to treat her this way—not now. Not after she’d found the courage to look deep inside and discovered that she—Daphne Hallworth—deserved to find happiness.
Without warning, she pushed him away and glared. He stumbled backward but elegantly caught his balance. He stood frozen before her. An immediate somberness descended between them. He drew a deep breath and regarded her with a seriousness she’d never seen from him.
She’d not back down. Even if she lost his regard, she’d not withdraw within herself again. Livid at his behavior and her response, she allowed her thoughts to spill into the room. “You’re not a gentleman. My inexperience isn’t for your amusement.”
“You know my reputation.” Though he whispered, the curtness in his voice was unmistakable. “I’m not a gentleman and never claimed to be.”
“That’s an excuse.” She practically spit the words.
Neither of them would break eye contact.
After a moment, he bent his head and rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re right. I apologize. I’m at a loss here as to how to act or what to say, so bear with me. I want to learn. I want to be a gentleman.”
The earnestness in the words caused her heart to trip in her chest.
He cleared his throat and looked out the window. She waited for his inevitable glib retort that would change the subject.
After a long silence, he surprised her when he captured her gaze. “As a child, I developed this nasty habit, one which served me well until now. It’d helped defuse my fear of retribution and made my embarrassment manageable when my father would summon me to deliver a punishment, normally a blistering, then a lecture. I’d laugh silently just to infuriate him all over again.”
“Your father hit you?” She tried to keep her voice calm, but nothing infuriated her more than an adult hitting a defenseless child. “That’s horrible.”
“He stopped after Robbie intervened once.” He cleared his throat. “But if I laughed, my father would become so livid that he’d forget why he wanted to punish me in the first place. He’d throw me out of the room just to get me out of his sight.” He shrugged his shoulders. “It’d saved countless confrontations. It was a stupid reaction, and I’m sorry.”
The pain in his eyes tore a hole in her wall of defense.
“I thought perhaps—” He exhaled. “I thought you might have become disgusted with what we’d done or disgusted with me.”
She shook her head. “I found it remarkable. I’m sorry, too.”
“You have nothing to apologize for. I responded poorly, proving I’m a lout, but, hopefully, a trainable one.” His voice deepened. “May I hold you?” The words so low she didn’t know if she’d heard them correctly. He moved closer. “Please.”
She nodded.
Gently, as if she were fragile treasure, he took her in his arms. “What we shared was extraordinary. When I sensed your arousal, it made me burn.” He held her closer and his engorged length pressed against her stomach. “I still burn for you, Moonbeam. You’re like an affliction, and I’m not certain I want to be cured.”
The tenderness in his words extinguished her earlier indignation. She blinked slowly, struggling to understand what had just happened. He brushed his lips against hers, the touch slow and infinitely gentle. Immediately, she felt cherished—wanted.
Slowly, his endearing roguish smile appeared. “Regarding my clothing, don’t worry. These will be saved and on permanent display for my enjoyment. They’ll always remind me of our night together.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she protested and pulled away.
As only a duke was wont to do, he ignored her outburst and held out his arm for her to take. “It’s time to go. No one is out in the hallway. Let’s gather your cloak and my coat, then be on our way. After you, my darling Lady Moonbeam.”
Chapter Twelve
Dancing with only one heeled shoe would have been less awkward than the ride back to Pembrooke House. Neither Daphne nor Paul said a word. Both were obviously lost in thought. She ought to tell him there was no harm done this evening. Yet she found it difficult to start the conversation that she expected nothing from him except his friendship. Even if she wanted more, it was a waste of time to dwell on circumstances that couldn’t be changed.
She straightened her shoulders when the Southart carriage pulled to a stop in front of her house. Apart from them and the few patrons that haunted the gambling hells, London appeared completely deserted. No one would know Paul had escorted her home without a chaperone except for the ever-present Tait, who currently sat in the driving box.
Daphne swallowed her trepidation and pushed forward. She wanted to discuss the logistics of their next meeting at the Reynolds. By then, her family would have returned to town. By her calculations, her mother would arrive at Alex and Claire’s estate, Pemhill, by noon tomorrow, Christmas Day. Within that hour, Alex would ride ahead of the rest of the family to find his missing sister. If Daphne had possessed a little more forethought, she should have sent a note to arrive at noon with instructions not to spoil his holiday, as she was perfectly happy and quite content on her own. Of course, Alex didn’t need to be privy to the fact that Paul had kept her in excellent company.
Staring down at the carriage floor and clearly pensive, Paul rested his elbows on his strong legs with a grimace marking his handsome face. The stillness of the night was broken by the jangling of the horses’ bridles as the beasts shook their heads—the sound reminiscent of Christmas bells.
She never wanted the nights to end when she was with Paul. He was fast turning into a favorite habit, one that would eventually lead to heartache when they parted company for good. It couldn’t be helped. She needed him, and she needed all her wits about her if she wanted to convince Paul to take her to the Reynolds the day after tomorrow if they didn’t find the journal before then. Whatever happened, she had to find Garland and retrieve her diary.
“Paul?” Her gentle query had the intended effect. When he lifted his head, it forced him to leave his thoughts. “Would you care to come in? I believe it best if we discuss our return to the Reynolds.”
He nodded once. “It’s best if we have this discussion inside. You’re not going to approve of what I’m going to share.”
With those cryptic words, he tapped a knuckle on the door. Almost instantaneously, a handsome liveried footman opened the door.
Well, there was one thing she could always count on. The Duke of Southart was never p
redictable—in either his actions or behavior.
* * *
Paul’s acceptance to spend additional time with Daphne was a bad idea—of the worst kind.
Why in the devil did he agree to come inside? Pure torture, her swollen red lips resembled the color of early summer strawberries.
Strawberries were his absolute weakness. Within the halls of Southart House, his ducal estate, he was notorious for eating every single one in sight. He took a deep breath to tame the raging passion that still coursed through his veins. His cock throbbed from the constant need to find a release from his desire. When was the last time he’d suffered this type of misery? He had no memory of aching this way, not since he was an adolescent.
Indeed, this had been a terrible mistake.
Across the salon, Daphne walked toward him, holding two glasses of brandy. Without saying a word, he memorized every graceful step. She resembled a dancer whose every nuanced move enchanted those lucky enough to witness such perfection.
How pathetic was he? He was turning into a romantic fool.
She’d chosen the rotgut brandy that his father had worshiped. Devil take him. However, Paul was the Duke of Southart now, and whatever he damned well wanted to drink he would. The blurry image of his father’s fury disappeared like dying embers in a fireplace. It was Christmas Eve, and Paul relished the idea of spending it in the lovely company of a beautiful lady—his Moonbeam.
Daphne handed him a glass, then settled beside him. The movement caused her memorable lavender scent to waft gently over him. He inhaled deeply, and immediately, the memory of holding her in his arms as she reached her climax pounded through him with the force of an explosion that could rearrange the universe.
Completely unaware of her effect on his sanity, she studied the brandy as she swirled the liquid around the glass. “The day after tomorrow, if your groomsmen don’t find Garland, I’ll meet you outside the Reynolds. Then we’ll go in together and find the boy.”
The Good, the Bad, and the Duke Page 13