Page 9 of Mistletoe Minx

Tentatively, Frances arched her back further so her breasts thrust forward. “Dashford?”

Her husband made a guttural sound, perhaps more flattering than any words. Then he began tracing her left nipple with a fingertip, continually circling the rigid peak until she wanted to scream. “Such an enchanting pale pink. It is a crime I have not yet tasted them.”

With that, his head swooped down. At first, he went back and forth, lapping at each nipple with a diabolically measured gentleness when she craved so much more. But when at last his mouth fastened around one tip, sucking hard with ruthless, exquisite precision, a gasp tore from her throat.

How could anything feel so good?

Strangely, the sensations weren’t restricted to her breasts as he moved between them, his lips tormenting, his teeth lightly scoring the tender flesh. Every single suck caused an arrow of pleasure to shoot directly between Frances’ legs, and her feverish need to be touched there was swiftly becoming unbearable. Surely Dashford would be merciful?

It seemed he might be, for his hand trailed down her body before delving under her clothing to caress the side of her knee and slowly, agonizingly slowly, sliding up her inner thigh.

Frances whimpered, every part of her urging his fingers higher so they might ease the terrible ache. Close. So close…

“Please,” she choked out. “Dashford.”

“Dalton,” he growled, his knuckles brushing her bush. “If you want to come, to have my fingers deep in your greedy pussy, use my given name.”

At the filthy, rakish words, her body burned even hotter. All she could do was grip his shoulders and hope the maelstrom didn’t sweep her away.

Don’t stop. Don’t stop!

“Please,” Frances begged, almost insensible with need. “Don’t…don’t…”

He froze. Then, to her horror, Dashford jerked back as though he’d been slapped. “I sincerely apologize, Frances. Obviously I’ve had too much to drink, although that is no excuse for my appalling behavior. You’ll not endure a moment longer of my presence.”

With a curt bow, her husband strode from the library.

All at once confused, outraged, and mortified, Frances sat up on the desk and awkwardly attempted to right her torn bodice. At least her dressing gown remained undamaged, even if she would be forever changed by that taste of pure ecstasy.

Why the blasted bloody hell had he stopped?

“Your Grace? Your Grace! Are you ill? Shall I send for a physician?”

Dalton very, very gingerly lifted his pounding head from the embroidered quilt to peer at his valet, Gower, but even that action sent several anvils crashing into his skull. His mouth felt like the bottom of a goddamned birdcage, his skin absolutely reeked of sweat and brandy, and he wasn’t even in bed but sprawled across the top. Ugh.

“Gower, I beg of you…please cease your caterwauling.”

The older man sniffed. “I shall fetch hot water and a tonic. Do not move.”

“Don’t worry,” mumbled Dalton, barely suppressing a pitiful groan. “I won’t.”

As the valet bustled away, Dalton tried to clear his blurry gaze with several blinks, but even that was a struggle. Had he ever consumed so much brandy in a single night? It was perhaps fortunate he had made it to bed rather than tumbling face-first into the fireplace or down the stairs, although Frances might not agree.

And she would be correct.

Dalton shuddered as self-loathing surged and roiled his gut. What he’d done was far, far beyond the pale. Utterly unacceptable. Bad enough to behave like a jealous fool at the ball, but once his beautiful, innocent wife tiptoed into his library complete with a modest plait, voluminous dressing gown and bare feet, he’d reacted like some sort of ravenous beast! Losing control to the point where he’d torn her clothing and handled her roughly atop a bloody desk! Only Frances pressing on his shoulders, her pleas of “don’t” had cut through the mindless lust fog that had taken over.

What if he’d hurt his duchess?

He was exactly the depraved monster his mother had thought. Of course a lady should never be subjected to such indignities; it was jaw dropping he’d actually considered himself a gentleman. His arrangement with Frances was a coronet for an heir, not companionship and certainly not the kind of raw, dark pleasures one might share with a hot-blooded mistress. The only remedy was making amends, to assure his wife such madness would never happen again.

A banging door and clinking of cutlery and crockery on its tray made Dalton wince in pain. Bloody Gower was doing this deliberately.

“Here you are, Your Grace,” said the valet, as he thumped the tray down on a side table. “A ginger tonic to gulp, followed by hot tea and buttered toast. Buckets of steaming water are on their way for that bath.”

Dalton almost smiled as he forced himself to sit up despite the anvils. Gower believed that dukes should contort themselves into a copper tub and slosh water onto the floor, like every one of their forefathers. His valet had been nothing short of aghast when the marble rectangle was installed next to the south wall, large enough to stretch out in and complete with pipes to drain the used water down into barrels for the gardens.

“Thank you, my good man,” he replied, before nearly casting up his accounts as the most disgusting orangey-brown concoction in the history of mankind assaulted his tongue. “What the bloody hell…Christ…”