How to Tempt a Duke

by Madeline Martin

  Dear Lord.

  He was helpless against the lure of lust. His arms came around her, pulling her even tighter to him. Her hips pressed to his, against the impossible hardness aching here, and she gasped. Her hands slid up his back as she brought them closer still.

  They kissed with lips and tongues and the careful grazing of teeth, until their panting breaths tangled with one another. He ran his hands over her body, gliding over the silk as he caressed her narrow waist and cupped the delicious curve of her bottom. She arched her pelvis against his and sent waves of pleasure through him from the hot friction.

  She kissed his jaw, then his neck, and ever so delicately nipped the skin just below his ear. Prickles raked down him with an intense thrill. She writhed against him, her dance one of eager desperation.

  Charles knew all too well the ravenous need plaguing her. He nudged his knee between hers and she parted her legs. Her skirts rode up to her shapely stocking-clad calves.

  She held tight to his shoulders and rolled her hips in the natural rhythm of lovemaking, riding his thigh in a way that made him want her to ride him. Her right leg was between his own, and her movements ground against his shaft. He drew down the neckline of her dress with a tug and her breasts popped free, full and firm.

  Eleanor’s hand moved up to the back of his head. “Yes. Please, Charles.”

  He bent his head to flick his tongue over her nipple, circling it several times before pulling it between his lips and into his mouth. She gave a quiet cry of pleasure and arched her back.

  He moved to the other nipple while he cupped the weight of her silken breast. “Please what?” he ground out.

  His mind whirled in a maelstrom of lust and burning hot need. He could barely think to breathe, let alone piece together what it was she asked for.

  “Pleasure me.” Her voice came out in a whimper.

  Hell.

  What man could say no to such a request?

  * * *

  Eleanor was so very near to exploding—as though she’d gone too close to the sun and all of her had been set aflame. Heat blazed through her veins and pulsed with such longing it was as if a pounding drum reverberated through her entire body. Her world focused on Charles—on those brilliant blue eyes and the wild passion he aroused in her.

  He went still at her request. Would he deny her?

  She put her hands to his chest and slid her fingers down his flat stomach, the way the woman in the journal’s entry had done, down to where the thick column of his desire rose within his breeches. He choked in a breath.

  She grazed the swell rising beneath the placket, tentatively at first. He gave a shuddered exhalation and tensed against her. She fixed her regard on his face and curled her fingers over the bulge. His brows flinched and drew together, as if the pain of his need was as intense as her own. He was hard under her touch, like iron or bone. This was the shaft the journal had referred to, engorged and heavy. It was the device from which a man drew his pleasure and gave it in return.

  Charles cursed and pulled her touch from his body. Disappointment charged her at the thought of being forever without satiation from such powerful, painful longing. That was until he leaned her back onto the chaise and his hand swept up her calf.

  Her breath caught.

  She lay back on the smooth velvet as his fingers continued to move higher up her leg, inching up her gown and chemise. Her breath came faster as his touch proceeded, until his fingertips whispered past the edge of her stockings and caressed the nakedness of her thigh. Her core trembled in anticipation.

  Yes. Higher. Closer. Almost...

  Finally, at long last, he made his way up her entire leg. He eased her hem higher, over her hips, baring her most intimate place to him. She ought to have been embarrassed, but the lust hammering through her was too great. She could scarcely think, let alone feel shame.

  He paused, gazed down at her, and brushed the juncture between her legs. A jolt of pleasure shot through her and she gasped at its intensity.

  Charles closed his eyes like a man in prayer. “Good God, Eleanor. You are so very wet.”

  His words were appreciative, which must mean being wet was good. She rubbed her thighs together in anticipation for more.

  His chest rose up and down with his ragged breathing and he opened his eyes to watch her again as he drew his finger over her once more. Pleasure, marvelous and perfect, rippled through her.

  “More,” she whispered. “Please.”

  He did not disappoint. His finger moved with careful skill, up and down over her, before coming to a stop on a particularly sensitive spot. His stare burned into her as he rolled his digit in slow circles.

  Heat spiraled through her. Eleanor covered her mouth to stifle a cry of pleasure and her head fell back. She was unable to focus on anything save the bliss of his stroke between her legs. Right when she felt as though she might explode, he drew his finger away and made the lazy path up and down, up and down over her once more.

  Her hips strained toward him and she opened her eyes. “Please, Charles. Please.”

  He leaned over her and captured her mouth in his, while his fingers found their way back to that delightful spot. His shirt teased against her nipples, his tongue tangled with hers, and his fingers moved and moved and moved, until Eleanor’s entire body drew tighter, like a clock being wound to the point of breaking.

  And break she did. Into splinters of color and light and heat and everything wonderful. She cried out with the overwhelming euphoria of it and her hips bucked upward. The sounds of her pleasure were muted against Charles’s mouth as he continued to kiss her while his fingers worked, until she was too sensitive to stand another moment.

  Charles pulled back slightly, his eyes intent on her. “That was beautiful, Eleanor.”

  This time a blush did heat her cheeks. “That was...incredible.” Her voice trembled slightly. “I never knew...”

  He gave her a lazy half grin and her heart flipped. “And now you do.”

  She couldn’t help but smile. “And now I do.”

  The hardness of his manhood rested against her thigh, and called further attention to her curiosity. If his fingers could procure such delight, what might the organ made for pleasure accomplish?

  She released her hold on his shirt, where she had apparently crumpled the fine cloth in her fist during the mindlessness of her climax, and let her touch wander toward his shaft.

  “No.” He spoke through gritted teeth. “Eleanor, do not tempt me.”

  Oh, but she wanted to tempt him. She wanted him to be as hopelessly lost in her as she’d been in him only moments before.

  “I want to do for you as you’ve done for me.” She continued her path downward. The bulge was hot to the touch.

  “Eleanor.” He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and pulled her hand away. “I cannot—”

  Steps sounded outside the door. Footsteps muted by carpet until they were upon the wooden flooring in their last step before the door.

  Eleanor and Charles stiffened as one in surprise, but both were too late even to attempt to move. The doors flew open and Lottie filled the doorway, witness to the full extent of their incredibly compromised position.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Charles had the presence of mind to shield Eleanor—at least as much as was possible in their precarious position.

  Lottie stared in shock, her hand still poised on the door she’d thrown open. Her mouth hung agape, and her eyes were wide enough to indicate that she’d seen it all.

  With a gasp, she jerked back from the room and slammed the door shut. The echo of the impact rang out for a solid second before either of them could move again.

  Charles immediately turned to Eleanor and found her face as red as her brilliant hair. Her eyes caught his, sharp with guilt, before sliding away. He eased off her and reached to help her adj
ust her gown, but she brushed him aside. She quickly put herself to rights and stared regretfully toward the door. He didn’t blame her. He wished to be gone from the room as well.

  “Forgive me, Eleanor. I should never—”

  He should never have what? Kissed her? Touched her? Wanted her? Were such things even possible to avoid?

  “I should never have compromised you,” he said at last.

  Though she faced him, she kept her emotions masked beneath the sweep of lowered lashes. Her right eyebrow twitched upward. “I encouraged you.” She pulled in a shaky breath. “I wanted you to do everything you did. So, you see, there’s no transgression to forgive—except perhaps on my account. Forgive me for pressing you so firmly to...” She gave a shuddering exhalation.

  He caught her under the chin with the tip of his forefinger. “Eleanor...” He hated seeing her like this, her pride bruised, her face colored high with shame.

  “What’s worse is that I do not regret what we’ve done, but only...” When she finally did look up at him, her eyes were wet with a sheen of tears. “Only fear the result of our being caught might mean Lottie will not allow you to meet with me again.”

  “Eleanor—” Damn, but words were hard to get out.

  She lifted her brows.

  “You should marry Devonington.” He ground the words out as though they were glass splinters passing over his tongue. It was what he should say, he knew. For her sake.

  A look of confusion puckered her brow, followed by a veil of emotionless apathy—the shield firmly lodged back in place. The knife in his heart twisted.

  “I see.” She lifted her chin in the haughty tilt she’d worn when he’d first met her. “You may keep the journals. You’ve earned them. Farewell, Your Grace.”

  She nodded her head politely, as was due his station, and opened the door, leaving the room.

  Charles watched her departure, as he had most nights, and felt his heart twist under the duress of his shame.

  Lottie appeared in the doorway and pushed shut the door behind her. “How dare you?”

  Her voice shook and her glare skewered into his soul. She marched toward him and her silken skirt kicked out in angry thrusts.

  “How dare you, Charles Pemberton?”

  Before he could even open his mouth to speak, she pulled back her arm and her fist connected with his cheek.

  He swallowed down the assault. It was deserved. His cheek stung.

  “That was quite a hit, Lottie. Have you taken up boxing?”

  “Do not jest with me.” Her eyes flashed with a murderous rage. “How dare you do this to her? I care for her and you’ve left her ruined.”

  He reached for her. “You don’t understand. I didn’t—”

  “You don’t understand,” Lottie hissed. “You’ve made her like me, Charles. You’ve ruined her life. Such a promising young woman...” She turned away and a sob choked out of her. “You’ve made her damaged...like me.” Her slender back rounded and she cried with all the force of a broken heart.

  But her heart was not the only one to break, for Charles’s had surely shattered into a thousand pieces at witnessing such hurt in his childhood friend.

  One step had him at her side. He put his arms around her and held her, even when she tried to tug away. “She was not compromised,” he said insistently. “Our actions were certainly improper, but I assure you her innocence is thoroughly intact.”

  “Oh, Charles.” Lottie turned into him and sobbed against his chest.

  He held her in place and patiently waited for her tears to ebb. At last they did, and she accepted the handkerchief he offered.

  She dabbed her cheeks and regarded him with tear-spiked lashes. “It’s for the best this way...letting her go. You could never marry her.”

  Charles gritted his teeth, hating how very correct Lottie’s cutting words were. If he married Eleanor it would be a destined failure. If she remained in London while he traveled she would be miserable, and if he were made to forgo his travels he would be miserable.

  He needed travel like air to his lungs. It pumped in his veins and brought light to his world. The first time he’d stepped off a ship...the first time he’d glimpsed what he had only read about before...the powerful force that made him feel that much closer to his father... It was an exhilaration he could never sacrifice.

  A marriage between them could never be right.

  Damn Lottie and her valid statement. And damn how much it piqued his ire.

  “And how will she be better off with Devonington?”

  “She will never love him.” Lottie sighed. “So at the very least our sweet Eleanor will not suffer a broken heart.”

  With that, she left the room, leaving Charles alone with the weight of his own guilt and the echo of the painful truth.

  * * *

  The wait for Eleanor’s hackney took the better part of what seemed like a lifetime. She stood stiffly, beneath the protection of her domino, wig and mask, hoping they were enough of a shield to blanket her mortification.

  This was the price of wantonness.

  Lottie had come to speak with her once Eleanor had disguised herself and begun waiting for her carriage. Their conversation had been brief, yet poignant enough to play out continually through Eleanor’s mind.

  She had tried to tell Lottie it had been her fault—which indeed it had been, shameful as it was to confess. Lottie had cast aside her admission with the counter that Charles had known well enough what he was doing and ought to have been in control of his person enough to decline her encouragement.

  But it was more than just their conversation—it was Lottie’s warning which resided in Eleanor’s chest with all the comfort of a sharp stone.

  Charles will never give up his travels...not even for you.

  Eleanor hadn’t expected him to give up anything for her, or to offer anything other than the pleasure she sought and a reprieve from the marriage mart. In truth, she hadn’t even intended him to have to make good on his promise to marry her. And yet Lottie’s words had pierced an area Eleanor had not realized was tender.

  You should marry Devonington.

  Charles’s blunt statement echoed in her mind. Her eyes tingled with the threat of emotion, but she pulled deep on the strength she’d always fallen back on. Murrays were strong, after all. They did not give in to hurt.

  Somehow the reminder failed to penetrate the haze of pain, where it glowed in her chest with a white-hot intensity.

  The footman appeared and led her to her hired coach. She followed numbly, listening and speaking with mindless action. A similar hackney sat parked across the street. Its very presence rankled her nerves with considerable irritation. Was Bloomsbury truly so popular as to have such traffic dawdling upon its rain-slicked streets?

  Eleanor turned her gaze from the offensive hackney and directed her attention back to Lottie’s town house, where it rose high and obstinate in the shadows. How would Lottie’s conversation with Charles go?

  The coach pulled away and Eleanor sat back in her seat. Worrying and wondering would do nothing. Considering how Lottie had spoken to her, Eleanor was sure she would not see Charles again—just as she’d feared. And it was her own fault.

  Charles was gone forever—the man she’d somehow let in more than she’d thought. She’d hoped to meet another who could instill her with the passion he did, and yet she had been so dazzled by him the rest of the world had fallen into the shadows. Potential suitors included. She had squandered what precious little time she had.

  It wasn’t until she was safely home and in her room that she gave way to the crush of disappointment. She put her face in her hands, where her palms were cool against the blazing heat of her face, ready to let free her tears.

  A knock sounded at the door—the gentle rap of her mother.

  Eleanor snapped her head upright and
sucked in a deep, calming breath before bidding her mother enter.

  The Countess strode in with a smile. “I come with the most exciting news.” Her mother clasped her hands together. “The Earl of Devonington has asked for my blessing.”

  Eleanor might have staggered under the news if she hadn’t been standing beside her dressing table. She put her hand to its flat, steady surface. “I beg your pardon? Your blessing?”

  “The Earl of Devonington. He is smitten with you, my dear.” Her mother brushed a lock of hair from Eleanor’s brow and frowned. “Are you ill? Your face is hot.”

  “Devonington?”

  Eleanor shook her head. The events of the night whirled themselves into a tangle of thoughts and emotions too great to sort out. Charles had told her to marry Devonington. Actually told her to. Her stomach churned.

  Frustrated desperation knotted at the back of her throat. “Mother, he is old and fat.”

  The Countess’s mouth fell open in horror. “Eleanor Murray, you are not ever to say such things. The Earl is exorbitantly wealthy and his family well-established. With Evander gone...”

  “I know.”

  Eleanor lowered her gaze from the starkness of her mother’s stare. The topic of Eleanor’s brother had always struck at a raw wound in them both. Her mother didn’t need to finish what she’d intended to say. With Evander gone there was no way to increase the remaining funds in her mother’s trust, nor to protect Eleanor from Leopold’s avarice. And Eleanor’s intention to find someone who made her feel like Charles had been terribly foolish and a shameful waste.

  “The Season will be over soon,” her mother said.

  “I know,” Eleanor said again, this time in a whisper.

  The Countess stared at her daughter and her eyes softened. “I know you don’t want to wed him, Eleanor. You’re right—he is old and fat. But he is the type of man who will spend his days hunting and his nights engaged in activities which will keep him from your side. You need only see him occasionally, and he will likely die long before you.”