Don't Tempt Me (Fallen Women 2)

She backed toward the table—their supper—and he thought she’d stumble over it, but she only paused and took up a glass of champagne. She drank, and laughed, and the champagne dribbled down her chin and onto her breast. The moisture spread outward and downward, making the thin cloth cling to the swelling curve of her breast. He watched the bud tighten, and his mind shut down.

He strode to the table, took the glass from her hand, and set it down.

She looked up at him, letting her head fall back. Her mouth curved into a slow, wicked smile.

“You devil,” he said. Then he lifted her up and carried her to the bed and tossed her onto it.

She didn’t bounce up or try to slip away.

She lay there, looking at him while she dragged her hands through her hair, scattering what remained of the pins and letting it fall in shimmering curls about her neck and shoulders. She untied the fastening band of the wrapper and let it fall open. The firelight and candlelight danced on her skin and flashed from the great diamond on her hand.

He threw off clothes. Dressing gown. Slippers.

She stretched out her arms, reaching for him, and he forgot about the rest of his garments. He climbed onto the bed and dragged her up and into his arms and kissed her. It was the first time he’d held her since her father had appeared in the nick of time in the library. Since then he’d thought of other things, yes, but always of her, of this, as well.

He’d meant to give her a proper wedding night, slow and romantic, to make up for their hasty coupling in the carriage, but the seductive dance, her wanton ways, put paid to that fantasy.

He gave her the hot kiss she deserved, deep and thoroughly lascivious. He dragged his hands over the thin muslin, down her back to the curve of her bottom. He broke the kiss and threw her back down onto the bed, and she laughed, her eyes as dark as midnight. He drew his hands down from her shoulders to her breasts, and he filled his hands with her, soft and so warm.

She put her hands over the sweet place between her thighs. “Here,” she said. “I want you here.”

“I know where it is,” he said.

She laughed again and he laughed, too, as he released her breasts. He unbuttoned the flap of his breeches. His cock sprang out, and that made her laugh, too.

“He wants me,” she said.

“How can you tell?” he said.

This time her laugh was deep in her throat as she reached for him. Her hand closed over him and traveled the length of his swollen rod. He gasped and pulled her hand away. “Not now,” he said. “I don’t need any help, thank you.”

She found this hilarious. “Oh, Lucien,” she said between giggles.

Lucien. Again. And again the sound of his own name, in that lilting, shadowy voice, reached deep, as deep as the secret places of his heart, places he’d hidden even from himself.

He stroked up her leg, and she stretched under his touch like a cat. He had meant to take all night, but her sensuous movement was another death blow to careful plans. Every motion of her body frayed the threads of his self-control.

He knelt between her legs and brought both hands to her knees. She moved, bringing herself closer to him, and planted her feet alongside his hips. He stroked her and she squirmed in pleasure, and he felt the pleasure—the damp heat of her, against his fingers—and then there was no thought of finesse or thought of any kind at all.

He plunged into her and watched her head rise from the bed, and fall back, and “Oh, Lucien,” she gasped.

“Duchess,” he said hoarsely on a thrust.

“Duke,” she answered and pushed against him.

“Your Grace.”

“Your Grace.”

On and on, silly words murmured amid laughter and cries of pleasure and kisses; and all the while they were joined in the simple, mad way of lovers, moving as desire and heat drove them.

And when they reached the peak and there was nowhere else to go, she flung her arms about him and held him tightly. He gave way then, and release came in a rush of happiness. He let himself sink onto her soft, warm body and into the scent of her, like summer, and the scent of their lovemaking, and it felt like heaven to him.

When at last they lay together, spent, he moved off her and settled onto his side. He drew her up against him and held her there, her back curved against the front of his body.

She was safe. Secure. And above all, she was his as, he now knew beyond any doubt, she’d always been meant to be.

Fourteen

Friday, 1 May

“I should like the table moved nearer to the window,” Zoe said, with a longing glance at that bright corner of the room. “The garden is beautiful, and the garden block makes a pretty backdrop. London is so green. I shall never grow tired of looking at the greenery. It’s a wonderful scene to watch while one breakfasts.”

“I don’t care where the table is and I don’t care which table it is,” said Marchmont as he came away from the sideboard. “All I want is a table—any horizontal surface will do—on which to set my plate and a chair on which to plant my carcass.”

He set down his plate and sat in his chair. He made a sweeping gesture, encompassing the breakfast room. “Arrange the house as you like. You’re mistress here.”

“As I like?” she said. “Anything?”

He nodded. “You’re welcome to trouble about furniture arrangements if it amuses you. I only ask that you keep me out of it.” He sliced into his beefsteak. “If Osgood becomes hysterical because you move his papers from one side of the desk to the other or Harrison drops into an apoplectic fit because you turn the China Room into a sitting room or Hoare faints because you change the curtains of my dressing room, I do not wish to hear about it.”

The speech surprised her not in the least. “I’ll deal with it,” she said. “I’ve dealt with eunuchs.”

“So you have.”

“They can be exceedingly temperamental.”

“I daresay.” He regarded her for a time. “Zoe, this is your house. Do as you wish with it. The place has done well enough for me, but I suppose it wants a woman’s touch. So my aunts declare—and that includes the not-mad ones. They say it lacks warmth or some such.” He resumed eating.

He was doing it again: He was being sweet.

But then he’d reason to be amiable, she reminded herself.

She knew she’d pleased him last night and this morning. He’d made her glad for all her years of training—and that was something she couldn’t have imagined only six months ago. Since her skills had been wasted on Karim, she’d expected them to remain unused forever. As his widow, she was unlikely to be able to employ them with other men. Widows were worthless, unwanted. Besides, she was old—past twenty—practically a crone.

Her skills were not wasted on Marchmont. She’d made him laugh and she’d set him on fire and he’d done the same to her. She told herself not to place too much importance on his sweetness. A man was usually more malleable immediately after a night and morning of passion.

Furthermore, she knew he truly didn’t care what she did to his house. He left most of his life to others. He was fortunate to have efficient and conscientious servants. Obnoxious, too, some of them, but efficient.

Harrison, for instance. He might be a bully, but for all she knew that was a result of his having to assume complete control. He had become overbearing, perhaps, because the master made no decisions and bore no responsibility at all.

“I shall want to look at the household records first,” said Zoe.

“To move a table? All that wants is a pair of footmen.”

“I want to understand how this household is run,” Zoe said.

“Harrison runs it,” said Marchmont. “He does a fine job. Have you noticed anything wrong or lacking? I mean, apart from the breakfast table being too far from the window.”

“A gentleman who lives alone does not have the same requirements as a gentleman with a wife and family,” Zoe said.

“Family,” Marchmont repeated.

He met her gaze, then his drifted downward. Though they had the table between them, she knew his mind had fixed on her belly, and he was wondering if his seed was sprouting there.

“One must make adjustments. One must accommodate the increase of the duke’s family,” she said.

Marchmont House was splendid, but, except for his bedroom, it was like a beautiful museum. It felt cold and anonymous. As stuffy and strict as the Queen was reputed to be, even Buckingham House had more personality.

“I’m sure Harrison will make all adjustments and accommodations necessary,” he said, returning to his meal. “You don’t need to trouble yourself about it. I can’t imagine why you’d want to spend time looking at numbers in ledgers instead of riding or driving or shopping or visiting friends.”

“I expect to be very busy with all of those activities in the coming weeks,” Zoe said. “These early days of our marriage, when I’m not so busy, would be the best time to learn the ways of this household.”

“I have no idea why you need to learn anything about it,” he said. “I can’t understand why you’d want to give yourself a headache looking at account books and such.”

“The books often explain more clearly than the servants can,” she said. “They show the patterns of the house, the ebb and flow.”

He shrugged. “As you wish. But you are not to give yourself a brain fever. I was hoping to show off the new Duchess of Marchmont in Hyde Park later today.”

“And I shall be honored to be shown off,” she said. “Any day you wish. I promise not to rave or froth at the mouth in public.”

“Afterwards, what is your preference? The theater? Or shall we spend the night quietly at home?” He glanced across at her, and heat sparked in his sleepy eyes. “But not too quietly.”

She slipped off her slipper and stretched her leg out under the table. She brushed her foot against his leg, then higher, and higher still.