Would I Lie to the Duke

by Eva Leigh

  “I’ll give you everything. Everything you want.” He fucked her, his pace unhurried and steady.

  His tempo was almost too leisurely, yet pleasure built higher within her. In gradual waves, ecstasy rose up. She loved the way he fit, how her body had to stretch to accommodate him, and his determination to give her as much sensation as she could handle—to give her more than she could handle.

  “That’s it, Jess,” he crooned. “Let me fuck you like this.”

  She jolted when his fingers found her clitoris. “Oh, God.”

  He timed his strokes with his caresses on her bud, and in a rush, another orgasm took her. A long, keening sound tumbled from her lips as she drowned in pleasure, as if she was crying out for help, but didn’t truly want anyone to save her.

  He had stilled as she’d come, but just as the waves of ecstasy began to recede, his pace increased. “You’ve had slow and gentle. Now I’ll give it to you hard and rough.”

  The table beneath her shuddered with the force of his thrusts, and yet she didn’t care. She didn’t care if it collapsed beneath her, or if the bricks of Carriford crumbled to the earth. She didn’t care about anything except his exquisite brutal strokes. Something fell off the table, a plate or other piece of china, and shattered on the floor. He didn’t ease his thrusts, and they were both lost to the frenzy.

  She careened out into ecstasy. It was made all the better by his harsh, rasping breaths, and the quiet grunts that told her he was consumed in this moment and the wonder of their bodies together.

  “Please, Jess,” he growled. “Come for me. Show me I’m giving you what you want. I need you to come.”

  She did. Jess would have believed it impossible that she could have so many orgasms in one night, but he was in all things a marvel, and she came again in a final climax that scoured her clean of everything. Every thought, every sense of who she believed herself to be, of what she believed sex could be. All of it. Her orgasm eradicated everything except sensation.

  Her body seemed to liquify as she collapsed against the table. And she realized that, in all this time as he’d tasted her and pleasured her, not once had he any kind of release. Surely he suffered from enduring as long as he had.

  “Your turn,” she gasped. “I want you to come.”

  Sweat that filmed his forehead and torso gleamed in the candlelight. “Yes, Jess.”

  And then he pounded into her. Three hard, wild thrusts, before he pulled from her. He groaned as his seed shot from him, coating her belly. “Fucking. Holy. Hell.”

  They both stilled, panting. He rested on one elbow, bracing himself above her, and she felt his breath on her face. She still could not shape anything resembling thought, and so she drifted on amber-hued swells of fading pleasure. Her limbs seemed incapable of movement. This was where she belonged. Her eyes closed as peace settled over her.

  After many moments, he shifted and rose up. She didn’t open her eyes, but murmured her thanks when he wiped a piece of fabric over her stomach, cleaning her. With the same tender care, he tugged her nightgown down so she was covered.

  “Did I please you?” he whispered at her ear.

  “Please is too mild a word. I think . . . I think I’ve ascended to another level of existence.”

  He chuckled softly. “That makes me happy. But something does not make me happy.”

  She opened her eyes to see him standing, bare chested but his breeches fastened, with his hands on his hips. Frowning, she lifted herself up to sit on the table. “What is it?”

  “You came down here for something to eat, and I went ahead and fucked you before I fed you.”

  “Firstly,” she said, “you didn’t fuck. We fucked.”

  He inclined his head. “And secondly?”

  She smiled. “We’re still in the larder.”

  “Such wisdom.” He took a plate down from the wall.

  “When it comes to knowing where the food is, I’m most assuredly wise.” Her lips twitched when he laughed. But when she moved to assist him in collecting a few items to eat, he held up his hand. “At least let me clean up the mess we created.”

  She eyed the pieces of the fallen platter and potatoes that had scattered across the floor.

  “Very well,” he said with reluctance.

  As she collected the shattered china and bits of potato, he put food on the plate. The domestic scene felt quiet and comfortable—despite, or perhaps because of, the fact that they’d just had the most intense sex of her life not minutes before.

  Once she’d tidied up and set the pieces of the platter on a shelf, she turned to find Noel waiting with a food-laden plate. There were pieces of meat, and a hunk of cheese, some bread, an orange, and, blissfully, a whole fruit tart.

  In companionable silence, they ate from the same plate.

  “Do you . . .” She swallowed. “Have you done that often?”

  “A man shouldn’t boast of the number of his sexual encounters.” His lips quirked, a touch of self-deprecation in his smile. “I did, however, have a relatively early start to the practice.”

  “I was the lucky recipient of all that practice. But what I meant was, do you often act submissively with your lovers?”

  “Ah.” He glanced away, and she wondered if she’d gone too far, pushed him in a way that made him uncomfortable. Yet before she could apologize, he looked back at her and said in a low voice, “Never. Not before you.”

  She lost her breath. That he’d given her such trust humbled and overwhelmed her. Only with her had he been so vulnerable. He—who held the nation’s power in his very hands, whose words shaped destinies large and small—gave her the gift of his submission. Because he trusted her.

  She didn’t deserve his trust. Not by a league.

  “Thank you,” she said softly. She cupped his jaw with her hand. His morning shave had been long ago, and his stubble lightly abraded her palm. He was so potently masculine. She loved the contrast between them, but they were also alike, because she had strength, too. They complemented each other in ways she never would have anticipated.

  How unexpected he had been, and how incredible that she became herself so fully when they were together. This was what she’d desired without knowing it, who she wanted to be, and who she needed at her side. Fearlessly, he showed her the way to the powerful woman within her, celebrating that woman and permitting her to do the same.

  An invisible bond anchored them to each other, something she’d never felt before, not with anyone, not even Oliver. The rightness of it stole her breath.

  Oh, God. No.

  Chapter 20

  “You’ve got no goddamned business looking so cheerful at this hour,” McCameron grumbled from the sideboard as Noel sauntered into the dining room for breakfast.

  Noel heaped crisp streaky bacon on his plate. He was ravenous. “It’s my sodding house, so I may look as cheerful as I please.”

  “Sleep well?” McCameron spat.

  “I did, thank you very much.” In fact, he’d had the best sleep of his life.

  His slumber had been deep, likely born from the utter exhaustion that came from bringing a woman to orgasm many times while denying himself release, and when that release had been permitted, he’d nearly torn the centuries-old house apart with the force of it. He’d never had a climax so devastating. He’d loved it, but it left him a shaking husk, so after kissing Jess one last time and escorting her back to her room, he’d collapsed in his bed.

  When he had dreamt, his dreams had all been of Jess. Not frustrating images of what he wanted and could not have, but memories of them together, heaving and panting and lost in pleasure.

  He’d been aloft on clouds of contentment, though awakening this morning without her beside him had been somewhat lowering. He wanted her in his bed. He wanted to wake with her in his arms and ask about her dreams, if they had been restful or unsettling or silly.

  He wanted that—every morning.

  The thought made him pause. “Damn.”

  �
��Now what?” McCameron demanded. “You came in here whistling like a ruddy ship’s bosun and now you’re keeping me from the ham.”

  “Choke on it.” Noel handed his friend the serving fork. “Cantankerous bastard.”

  “You’d be chewing iron, too, if your room had been right next to Lady Farris’s.” McCameron and Noel made their way to the table, where several other guests, including Mr. Walditch, Lady Haighe, and Baron Mentmore, already sat, quietly eating their breakfasts.

  “Let me guess, she read poetry aloud into the small hours.” Noel took a bite of toast. “Practicing and failing at juggling marble busts.”

  “Nothing like that,” his friend said sourly. “But I could hear her. Moving around. Doing . . .” He waved his hand.

  “For a tactician, you’re being remarkably vague.”

  “She went in and out of her room all night. God only knows what she was doing. Nothing orderly or appropriate.” McCameron poked his fork moodily into his eggs. “There’s a proper way of doing things, a rightness and order. Not her.”

  “You’re out of uniform, Major,” Noel said gently. “Regulations and discipline don’t apply in peacetime.”

  “They should.”

  Noel regarded his friend. Something needed to be done for McCameron—he was too tense, too rudderless.

  Curtis and Rowe came into the dining room, and Noel called, “Good morning, gents.”

  “Morning,” Rowe mumbled, but Curtis said nothing. Both of them wore tight, distracted expressions, and they seemed determined to keep a distance of several feet between them. They wordlessly filled up plates, and Curtis took a seat a good four chairs down from where Rowe sat.

  Dear God, what had happened to everyone last night?

  Well, he knew what had happened to him. He’d had the most incredible sexual experience of his life. Hell, it had been the most incredible experience, regardless of whether or not it had been sexual. He’d allowed himself to be completely exposed—and she had kept him safe.

  He had never dreamt of the pleasure that could come from being sexually dominated. But it wouldn’t have felt right with anyone other than Jess. He’d felt her strength, and rather than fight against it or feel the need to be the one in charge, he’d ceded to that strength.

  It was like falling backward into the air, knowing that she would catch him.

  As if his mind had summoned her, Jess entered the dining room. She looked exquisite in a pale green gown trimmed with coral ribbon, as if she was the living embodiment of a summer day. The moment he saw her, his mouth flooded with her taste of sun-warmed honey.

  Like the other men, he rose when she came into the room. Hell, he would have floated up to the ceiling with the pleasure seeing her gave him.

  “Good morning,” she murmured.

  A few mumbled “Good mornings” answered her, but Noel said in a clear voice, “Good morning, Lady Whitfield.”

  Her gaze held his, and she smiled a full, genuine smile. That smile sank into his chest like a thrown knife, but instead of wounding, the blade invigorated him.

  Last night had exhausted him completely, and yet he never felt more energized. It was as though yielding to her and giving her everything had in turn nourished him in a way he’d never experienced before. It had been more than sex and physical pleasure. For the first time in his long history of making love, it had been a communion.

  She was right for him—in every way.

  “Hell.”

  “What?” McCameron demanded.

  Noel hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud. “Nothing. Remembered I’m due for a visit to the tailor.”

  His words hid a stunning revelation. Jess never asked him for anything; she didn’t have demands or agendas. If anything, she seemed uninterested in the fact that he was a duke. He wasn’t a means to an end for her, someone with whom she had to curry favor, or use. He simply was, and for her, that was enough.

  Sweat beaded along the back of his neck at the thought of confessing his feelings. He was only truly open with the Union. Yet last night, he’d been so raw and vulnerable with her and she hadn’t abused his vulnerability. She’d held it carefully, protectively.

  If there was anyone with whom he could trust his inner heart, it was her.

  “Where’s Lady Farris and the others?” Jess poured herself a cup of tea, then sat down next to Lady Haighe.

  “Apologies,” Lady Farris said as she sailed into the room. The men stood upon her entrance, but she motioned for everyone to take their seats. Her windswept hair was partially up, but several silvered locks had slipped their pins to flow over her shoulders. “There’s a tree that’s absolutely wonderful for climbing.”

  “A tree?” McCameron asked incredulously. “You climbed . . . ?”

  “It was the best way to watch the sunrise.” She said this as if it made perfect sense, and to question her logic was the height of folly.

  McCameron muttered and took a sip of coffee.

  “I told the McGales to expect our party in Honiton by noon,” Jess said. “We should start out now, so we aren’t late.”

  “Good point.” Noel threw back the last of his coffee and motioned for a footman. When the servant approached, Noel gave him instructions to have the carriages made ready to leave within a quarter of an hour.

  Once the footman had gone, Noel addressed the room. “We’ll be off shortly.”

  “Never seen soap made before, so this ought to be a novel experience.” Lady Farris rested her chin on her fist as she looked at McCameron. “Are you joining us, Major?”

  “A pity, but no,” McCameron said stonily.

  “I shall weep disconsolately for the duration of my journey.” She gave him a bland smile before turning to Jess. “Are you as eager as I am to learn about the manufacture of soap, Lady Whitfield?”

  “My early years were spent in the country,” Jess replied, “so I know a small amount about how soap’s made.” She popped a hulled strawberry into her mouth, and her moan went straight to Noel’s cock. “My God, these strawberries should be fed to anyone on their deathbed. It will be a sweet journey to Eternity.” After sipping at her tea, she continued. “From what I remember, making soap’s an arduous task. And certain parts of the process can be”—she wrinkled her nose—“pungent.”

  Then she laughed. He leaned into the musical, husky sound, wishing he might hear it every day for the rest of his life.

  He’d had an informal relationship with his past lovers, as they did with him. No expectations, no grasping for anything the other wasn’t willing to give. If a woman he’d bedded wanted to move on to another paramour, he had made no objection. Not once had he ever believed he could want more from a lover beyond a few nights of pleasure.

  It was different with Jess. He couldn’t slake his thirst for her—and he didn’t want to. But he could not forget that soon she would go to the Continent for an unknown amount of time. She would go on with her life. Take other lovers.

  And he would be here in England, wanting her.

  Jess watched as familiar landmarks rolled past the windows of Noel’s beautifully sprung carriage. It had taken the entirety of the morning and into the early afternoon to reach Honiton. She resisted the impulse to point out the river that wended its way beside the road—that selfsame river flowed past her family’s farm.

  With each mile closer, her excitement and trepidation grew. She’d never played cricket, but she imagined this was what a batsman felt on the pitch at the close of a match, confident in their ability whilst also understanding that their bat could either secure the win or lose it all.

  Never had the stakes been so high—yet with the possibility of failure also came the prospect of victory.

  She felt Noel’s gaze on her, hot and intense, as he sat opposite her in the carriage. Everything had changed between them, and yet it could not. She still had to ensure that her family’s business survived. Focus was essential, but throughout the morning, she’d accidentally poke a bruise left behind from their d
elicious, torrid lovemaking and be transported back to the larder. Back to his kisses, his exquisite tongue, and his glorious thrusts.

  God how she adored him. And she couldn’t have him.

  Now is not the time to start pining, she mentally snapped. Pay. Attention.

  “We’re almost there,” she said, nodding out the window.

  “How can you tell?” Noel asked.

  Yes, right. She’d never been here before. “The cottages are closer to each other, and I think I hear the tolling of a church bell.”

  Noel, Lady Farris, and Mr. Walditch all nodded. Jess nearly told them that the village truly showed itself to its best advantage at Christmas, when fir garlands were hung on gates and Mrs. Osterby tied red ribbons on everyone’s front door.

  Soon, the carriage reached the village green. It was bound on all four sides by shops and a taproom, with a stone cairn erected to the memorial of the men lost in the war in the center of the square itself.

  “Someone is supposed to meet us in the village,” Jess said, “and then they will guide us to the establishment itself.”

  Noel rapped on the roof of the carriage, and it came to a stop outside Lucy Devin’s mercer shop. Jess heard the carriage behind them also stop, and within short order, everyone stood on the high street.

  Jess glanced up and down the road. Where the deuce was Cynthia? “They are supposed to be here,” she offered by way of explanation. “We can wait.”

  She recognized every passerby, from Emma Ferring, the vicar’s wife, to John Lennox, who often wandered about in his bare feet, even in the depths of winter. Nearly everyone stared at her—and why shouldn’t they, since she’d arrived in an expensive, glossy carriage and stood with people far more elegant than had ever graced the homely little village.

  Thankfully, however, it seemed that Fred and Cynthia had briefed everyone that for today she was Lady Whitfield, an outsider. So the pedestrians’ gazes never lingered on her for too long. Besides, if anyone did stare, she had the convenient excuse that they were simply staring at a wealthy stranger.