How to Marry a Duke (A Cinderella Society 2)

Iphigenia’s hard expression softened as she grabbed her belongings. “Thank you, Meg. Truly.”

Meg felt only a little badly as Iphigenia darted down the path towards the side gardens. She went back to where Dougal was waiting, looking amused and impressed. “You’re a fair menace.”

She shrugged.

“Are we sure she’s not the same one you chased through the dining room?”

“That lady was much shorter.”

“Ah. You should consider working for the constable.” His smile flashed. “Why send her around back? Why not send her packing altogether?”

“Because the minute she gets anywhere near the guest bedrooms, Chartreuse will start barking like her tail is on fire. And Lady Beatrice does not sleep much. She does, however, like the view from that landing.”

“You are a clever one, aren’t you?”

She nearly preened before reminding herself she wasn’t the type to preen.

Dougal touched her hand. “I heard what you said.”

She made to jerk away but his fingers closed around her wrist, warm but strong. His thumb stroked her skin, and it was deliciously distracting. “I know why I have scars,” he murmured, lifting their joined hands. “Working at the mills isn’t easy. Machinery bites.” He turned his hold on her, sweeping his thumb over her knuckles. “But why does a viscount’s daughter have so many marks?”

She frowned, trying not to feel embarrassed. If Society gave her no options, then it had absolutely no right to judge her for her choices, for what she had to do to survive. Dougal had no right. She lifted her chin, incensed.

His eyes were warm, patient. Not at all judgmental.

She swallowed the hot retort she’d been prepared to fling his way. “I know I don’t have the hands of a lady.”

“Better,” he insisted. “You have the hands of a woman with stories to tell. With strength, determination.”

It wasn’t just his words that made her feel like her blood had turned to gold, all sparkling and glittering. It was his mouth, which he pressed to the inside of her wrist. His lips were soft, gentle.

But his teeth were hungry.

The scrape of them over her pulse pulled a noise from her throat which she’d never made before. It felt like he was kissing the inside of her knee, of her thigh. Her pulse turned to fiery sparks, ricocheting throughout her body. Her heart was a single coal, and she was suddenly terrified it would catch fire. That every kiss would feed it, a conflagration she both wanted to leap into and smother immediately.

There was no smothering this fire. Not when he stepped closer, the length of his body all along hers, touching her briefly, her right hip, her thighs, her collarbone. There was a tree at her back, holding her up. He didn’t press forward, only leaned ever so slightly until his mouth hovered in front of hers. So close, so tempting, and yet still not touching her.

He waited, breath ragged, but patient. He wouldn’t push her. He would let her walk away.

Like hell.

Like hell she would.

She kissed him lightly, so lightly it was less of a kiss and more of a brush of lips, tingling, promising. He waited a beat and then all that promise, all that potential, all that patience, exploded. He kissed her as though he’d been waiting to kiss her for days, months, years. She kissed him back with the same need, the same passion.

His hand splayed over her lower back, urging her closer against the warmth and steel of him. He was stealing her breath, filling her with fire instead. She felt it everywhere as his mouth nipped at hers, his tongue stroking, stoking. When his lips moved to her throat and that spot just under her ear, someone made a soft breathy sound, and she was very much afraid it was her. He chuckled tenderly, not mocking, but so well pleased with his discovery. It was rough in her ear, and soft as secrets. It moved down her spine and all the way down to her toes. Everything about it was delicious, anchoring her to the moment so securely that there was no spent dowry, no tenants to worry over, no uncle, no turnips to mash for her supper. She wasn’t hungry or tired or determined.

She was only here. In his arms. Being devoured. Devouring.

“You taste like sweets,” Dougal murmured, nipping at her throat. Her hands closed over his arms, all heat and muscles. His leg pressed between hers, teasing her, and she couldn’t help another moan. She wanted to stay here forever, just like this.

And then the dog barked.

A lot.

Insistently.

Dramatically.