The Duchess Deal (Girl Meets Duke #1) Read online

  She swept a gaze over him, biting her bottom lip. “It’s not being used if I want it, too.”

  He gave up. It was over. Brute lust overruled his every emotion, intention, and thought. She’d made her bed, and he meant to take her six different ways on it. Tomorrow the servants could collect what pieces remained.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Emma scarcely had time to draw breath before he’d caught her up, backing her against a bedpost. His hands went straight to her bottom, lifting her so that her pelvis was level with his. His eyes locked with hers, too.

  Would he kiss her?

  She closed her eyes, hopeful. She’d been yearning to feel his kiss on her lips again, and to return it with passion.

  She did feel his mouth—not on her lips, but on her neck. He dipped his head, running his tongue downward, tracing a path to her breasts.

  The bedpost at her back was uncomfortable, its carved embellishments digging into her flesh, and his hands had her bottom in a fierce grip . . . but she didn’t care. The pain only sweetened the pleasure as he nuzzled and kissed. He grazed her nipples with his teeth, drawing from her a startled gasp of delight.

  Emboldened, she worked her arm between them, delving into his trousers to find the thick, hard length within. Oh, she’d been dying to touch him there. To explore his maleness and understand how it worked. How it gave her so much pleasure, and how she could give him pleasure in return.

  She let her fingertips wander the full length and breadth of his arousal, tracing each ridge and vein. Caressing, teasing. She circled her thumb around the velvety tip, spreading the drop of moisture that welled there.

  He groaned with pleasure. “Take it in your hand.”

  She curled her fingers, grasping his rigid shaft at the root. He was so thick and hard, the circle formed by her thumb and second finger didn’t quite meet. She dragged her grip slowly upward, sliding his soft, pliant skin over the steely column beneath. As she began the downstroke, he thrust into her hand.

  His eyes closed. “God.”

  He swelled even harder in her hand, and she licked her lips. Her mind was fuzzy. Her skin flushed with roving patches of heat.

  He jerked free of her grip and spun her away from him, positioning her to face the bedpost. He bent her forward at the waist and placed her hands on the tall column of carved wood.

  “Hold it,” he said.

  She gripped the post tight.

  That accomplished, he nudged her legs further apart. Emma felt exposed, almost on display—and apparently that was his aim. He spread her intimate places with his fingers, opening her to his view. Her embarrassment was mollified—somewhat—with the sound of satisfaction he made. His thumb slid over her creases and folds, making them soften and swell.

  “Please,” she said. “Please. I want . . . You know what I want.”

  “If you want my cock, then tell me so.” His length teased her as he rocked back and forth on his heels. “I want to hear you say it.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You can. After all, it’s in Hamlet.”

  It wasn’t Shakespeare’s permission Emma needed. She didn’t know how to explain it, but she felt more comfortable having his male organ inside her than speaking its crude name with her lips. In lovemaking, she could pretend her actions belonged to someone else. Someone bolder, more seductive. Words, however . . . they were inescapably hers.

  That was the source of her reluctance to say it. Now she wondered if it was also the reason he wanted to hear it. To know the desire was sincere, and wholly hers. She supposed he deserved that much.

  “I . . .” She closed her eyes. “I want your cock.”

  He grunted with approval. “Then you shall have it. All of it.”

  He lifted her by the hips and slid into her, filling her with one blissful inch after another. She gripped the bedpost, pushing back against him until her thighs met his. He began to move in a slow, steady rhythm.

  “Do you feel that?” His thrusts gained pace. “That’s what you do to me. How hard you make me. I’ve been wanting this. Every time you’ve teased me, defied me, given me that arch little smile, I’ve wanted to bend you over and teach you a lesson.”

  She clutched the bedpost for balance as he drove into her, making her breasts sway with each thrust.

  “I lived in the grip of laudanum. I know what it is to crave. To tremble with wanting, be ruled by need. It nearly destroyed me. This is worse. There’s no respite. As soon as I leave your bed, I’m counting the hours until the next night.”

  He pulled her hips higher, forcing her to balance on her toes.

  “Sometimes,” he panted, “even in the middle of the day, I have to lock the library door and stroke my own cock, spending into a handkerchief like a randy youth. And it’s still not enough. It’s never enough.”

  There was an angry edge to his words, and a brutish quality to his rhythm—as though he wanted her to be sorry for driving him mad with lust. Well, Emma had no intention of apologizing. His growled confessions were the best things she’d ever heard. She only hoped she could remember them long enough to write them all down in her diary tomorrow.

  She felt his forehead rest against her shoulder, feverish and damp with sweat. He put one hand over hers on the bedpost, bracing his weight, and then reached with the other to touch her between her thighs. Circling his fingertips just where she needed it, just where he knew it would break her apart.

  All the while, he took her in forceful thrusts. It was animal and uncivilized and she was wild with arousal. Her body quivered as he drove her toward the most devastating orgasm of her life. She couldn’t hide from it, couldn’t hold back. When the pleasure caught her, she came in racking, tearless sobs. She forgot where she was, who she was.

  But he hadn’t kept his promise to tup her senseless. Not quite. Her awareness of him only heightened. She sensed the heat of his body, heard the harsh rasps of his breath, breathed the earthy musk of his skin, felt the iron length of his cock at the center of her.

  “God,” he choked out. “God. Emma.”

  A thrill shot through her as he called her name. Even in the mindless fury of joining, he hadn’t forgotten her, either.

  A ragged groan signaled his crisis. Then it was only stillness and quiet and dark and labored breath.

  After several moments, he kissed the top of her head. His arm tightened around her middle, drawing her close. “Tell me you’re not too scandalized.”

  She smiled to herself. “I’m scandalized the perfect amount, thank you. But my thighs are jelly.”

  He helped her onto the bed, and they collapsed in a tangle of sweaty limbs.

  “Well,” he said, “that was a delightful first course.”

  “First course? Of how many?”

  “Depends on how hungry I am.”

  She buffeted him with a nearby pillow. He took it from her, and tucked it under his head.

  As he drew her close, he jolted in surprise.

  “What is it?” she asked, alarmed.

  “By God, woman. Your feet are ice.”

  “I told you, I seem to be one of those people who’s always cold.”

  He rose to a sitting position and caught one of her ankles, drawing it into his lap. He rubbed briskly with both hands, warming her chilled foot. When he was done with the first, he reached for the other.

  Emma resisted. “Truly, you don’t need to do that.”

  “I need to do it if you’re going to stay in my bed. And you are going to stay in my bed. I’m nowhere near finished with you tonight.” He reached for her ankle. “Give it here.”

  She didn’t know how to refuse. She let him take her foot in his hands. “Don’t mock me, please. I know it’s unsightly.”

  “Unsightly?” He stroked her bare leg from her ankle to her knee. “Nothing about you could be unsightly.”

  “It’s my toe. Or rather, my lack of one.”

  He finally dragged his g
aze down to the end of her foot, to the empty space where she was missing the small toe. “Were you born without it?”

  “No, I . . . It froze in the snow.”

  He ran his thumb over the stub of flesh.

  “I tried to warn you.” She tugged her leg from his grip. “Lord, it’s so embarrassing.”

  He broke into laughter. “You are the most ridiculous woman. Of all people, you’d worry that I would give a damn that you’re missing a tiny scrap of a toe?” He waved at the scarred side of his face. “Have you looked at me?”

  “As much as you’ll allow me to, yes. But that’s different. You have war injuries. They’re marks of valor. I have a mark of foolishness.”

  “The only foolishness here is the fact that you’d hide it.”

  She tilted her head. “Hm. Shall I point out the hypocrisy in that statement?”

  “No.”

  “You did walk right into it.”

  “In point of fact, it crashed into me.” He reclined onto his side, his head propped on one elbow. “A Congreve rocket at Waterloo. Powerful impact, nearly impossible to aim. One happened to turn back on our ranks, and I was its lucky target.”

  Emma lay on her side, facing him. She didn’t dare say anything, for fear he would shutter himself again.

  “After my injury, when I woke up in blinding pain and missing parts of myself, I looked down to see if my cock was still there. When I saw that it was, I said—fine, I suppose I want to live.”

  She smiled. “I’m glad you did. Tonight was . . . I’ve never felt anything like it.”

  “I’m tempted to take that as a compliment, but considering your limited experience I’m not certain I can.”

  “My experience might not be as limited as you’re assuming. I . . .” Emma gathered her courage. “I’m not a virgin. Or, I mean, I wasn’t when we wed.”

  Silence fell over the room, heavy as an anvil. She found it difficult to breathe under the weight.

  “You’re very quiet,” she finally ventured. “Won’t you say something?”

  “Let me guess. The boy back home?”

  “Yes. I knew it was imprudent, but that was what made it exciting. My father was uncompromising, and I have a rebellious streak.”

  “So I’ve noted.”

  Emma had never been a good vicar’s daughter, no matter how she’d tried to be. Her father’s expectations were too elusive. If she made the slightest progress toward his approval, the line only moved further away. At some point, she gave up on trying and went looking for approval and affection in other places.

  That, of course, was what had landed her in trouble.

  “He was the local squire’s son,” she said. “Three years older than I. Sometimes we would meet by chance during walks, and I was flattered by his interest. A kiss became two, and so forth. I fancied myself to be wildly in love with him. There was a ball at his sister’s house, and he asked her to invite me. Said it would be a special evening for us both.”

  “I can guess the sort of ‘special evening’ he had in mind.”

  She looked over his shoulder, her gaze unfocused. “I made myself a new gown for the occasion. Rose-red silk with gold ribbon at the sleeves and waist. I spent hours fussing with curling papers and tongs to make my ringlets just right. Fool that I was, I thought he meant to propose. And even when he tugged at my bodice and reached up my skirt, I still thought he meant to propose—afterward. I thought he was carried away with passion, that was all. It felt dizzyingly romantic.”

  She skipped over the details of the encounter. “We were caught together, which was humiliating enough. Then he refused to marry me—which was devastating. Apparently there’d been some family understanding that he would wed a distant cousin.”

  “To the Devil with any cousin. Someone should have brought the knave up to scratch.”

  “There was no one to try it. I hadn’t any brothers to defend my honor, and my father . . . My father didn’t even attempt to force his hand. He blamed me for everything. What treatment did I expect, he asked, going about in a harlot-red dress. He called me a strumpet, a jezebel, said he didn’t blame the young man for refusing. He told me no decent man would ever want me, and that I was to leave his house at once and not bother coming back.”

  Even six years later, the pain felt as fresh as if it were yesterday. She’d known society would judge her harshly for her mistake, but her own father . . . ? Giles had disappointed and misused her, but Father was the man who’d broken her heart.

  This was why she had to help Davina Palmer. She would never allow another young woman to face that sort of rejection and abandonment. Not if she could help it.

  She swallowed back the bitter lump in her throat. “It was winter and snowing. I hadn’t much money. So I walked to London.”

  “And you arrived with nine toes.”

  She nodded.

  “And every so often, you still shiver.”

  She nodded again.

  He was silent for several moments, and when he spoke his voice was low and stern. “Emma, you should have told me this.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  You should have told me this.

  Emma’s heartbeat faltered. Guilt moved through her like a cold wind. She reached for one of the quilts. “You didn’t ask about my virtue. But you’re right, I should have told you anyway.”

  Not every man would condemn her for such an indiscretion, perhaps—but a titled gentleman would have genuine, understandable concern. Laws of primogeniture and all. If he was angry with her, she couldn’t blame him.

  Perhaps her father was right, and he’d believe he’d been sold a bill of damaged goods.

  “It was ages ago,” she assured him. “And I didn’t conceive, thank heaven. You needn’t worry. Your bloodline is secure.”

  He cursed. “Really, Emma. That thought hadn’t crossed my mind.”

  “Then . . . what thoughts are crossing it?”

  “A great many.” He rolled onto his back and folded his hands behind his head. “Primarily, I’m debating how best to kill both this squire’s son and your father. A pistol would be the most efficient method perhaps, but will it be too quick to be satisfying? And I’m wondering if I’ll have time to off both of them in one night, or if I’ll be forced to stop over in some miserable inn.”

  She couldn’t help but laugh a little.

  “I’m not joking,” he said.

  “Of course you are. You’re the Monster of Mayfair, not the Murderer.”

  “You are my wife. Some villain took advantage of you.”

  “I wasn’t your wife then, and he didn’t take advantage. I made my own choice. It may have been a poor choice, but it was mine. Besides, even if you desired to kill him, the war beat you to it.”

  He cursed under his breath. “There’s still your father. He treated you abominably. Pestilent codpiece.”

  Emma had to hide her face, lest he see how close she was to tears. She’d never been able to shake the feeling that perhaps her father had been right. That it was her fault—not entirely, but in part. Perhaps she had been a shameless hussy for seeking passion and love. At the least, she’d been a fool.

  For that reason, she’d long resolved to keep emotions out of any relationship. However, it was growing more and more difficult to keep that resolution—not merely by the day, but by the hour. She was feeling too much tenderness toward the man currently plotting murder at her side. No matter that he deflected any suggestion of decency with a jaded, biting humor and had determined to convince the world of his monstrous nature.

  Emma knew the truth. He wasn’t a saint, and he wasn’t easy to live with. But he did possess a heart—a large and loyal one—and some part of it was now committed to defending her. How could she fail to be moved?

  “Come.” He tucked her beneath a heap of bed linens. “Will four quilts do tonight? Or should I fetch another?”

  “Four quilts are fine, thank you. Can you . . . I’m feeling a bit fragile right now. It would mean a
great deal if you’d hold me. You know, with your arms.”

  Brilliant, Emma. As if he might have tried to hold her with his knees or eyelids without those instructions.

  After a brief hesitation, he slid beneath the four quilts and draped his arm about her shoulders. He was growing very good at these things. Just as she had in the dark at Swanlea, she felt secure and protected. Safe.

  She’d almost drifted into a warm, comforted sleep—

  When he slipped from the bed and left the room.

  It was well after midnight when Ash reached the village.

  He slowed his horse to a walk as he approached the borders of the sleepy hamlet, then roped it to a tree branch beside a stream. The gelding deserved a rest, along with water and a graze. And for his part, Ash needed to make a stealthy approach.

  It proved easy enough to find the right house—the smug cottage sitting next to the church. Just looking at it made him furious. The white boxes beneath the windows, stuffed with innocent red and pink geraniums. Botanical lies, every last one.

  He found a place where a stone fence bordered the house and used it to hoist himself up on the ledge, just below the largest window. The one that looked out on the church.

  He was prepared to put a wrapped fist through the window, but he found it was unnecessary. Apparently no one latched their windows in a goodly little village like this.

  He lifted the window sash, then thrust his lantern through the opening. Bending himself nearly double, he managed to work one leg through, and then the other. Not the most graceful of entrances, but then—suaveness wasn’t his purpose tonight.

  “Who are you?” An old man shot up in bed and pressed his back to the headboard. “What are you?”

  “What do you think?” Ashbury raised his lantern to the gnarled, scarred side of his face and took pleasure in the vicar’s anguished whimper. “A demon come to drag you to Hell, you miserable wretch.”

  “To Hell? M-me?”

  “Yes, you. You crusty botch of nature. You poisonous bunch-backed toad. Sitting in this weaselly little house full to reeking with betrayal and . . .” He waved at the nearest shelf. “And ghastly curtains.”