Page 47 of How to Capture a Duke

“Tristan,” she moaned.

“Then I’d kiss the tops of your luscious breasts.” His hot breath hovered above her bodice, and it took great effort not to resume squirming on his lap. He pressed his lips to the swell of her breasts above her gown, and she nearly swooned.

His mouth returned to hers, and she was lost. He’d said he didn’t want to bed her. She couldn’t think about that now, not with the way he was kissing her, like a man who couldn’t get enough. She needed to retain some control, but with a flick of his tongue along her bottom lip, all thought fled.

She clutched his shoulders and held on for dear life. He was like the summer sun as she galloped across the fields—exhilarating and intoxicating. He moved now. His hands roamed her shoulders, her lower back, and pressed her closer. Her breasts ached beneath the silk, and she arched closer to the hardness of his chest. He groaned.

If she was wanton—if the whisky made her speak and act more brazenly—she didn’t care. Wouldn’t care. Adventure was in her nature, and the Duke of Keswick brought forth all her emotions. Nothing mattered in this protected, isolated space. They weren’t husband and wife, duke and duchess, and they weren’t at odds. They met in an equal abandon of tongues and lips, and the carriage echoed with longing sighs and the desperation of want.

His fingers traveled from the swell of her bodice to graze her nipple through her gown. She gasped beneath his kiss and arched into his hand. If it was this wondrous, what would it feel like through the layers of silk and on her naked skin?

“Tristan,” she said in wonder.

“Yes, yes. If I could, I’d undo your gown and expose your luscious breasts. Lick your stiff nipples, then suck each one into my mouth until you begged for more.”

Goodness. Never had she imagined how much words could arouse and tease.

He possessed her mouth then turned more savage as he plundered her. She whimpered, desperate for what he offered. She wished they could stretch the moment out forever.

The carriage slowed and came to a halt. He lifted his head, and she touched her lips, swollen and wet.

He looked into her eyes and said a single devastating word. “Home.”

Chapter Sixteen

Olivia reached for the door handle, but Tristan was there first. He jumped out, waved away the coachman, and lowered the step himself.

“I can walk,” Olivia said.

He ignored her protests and reached for her hand as she stepped down then teetered up the mansion’s front steps. Gordon opened the door as soon as soon they reached the top step. One glance from Tristan and the butler shrank away.

Clutching the gilt balustrade, she stumbled on the third step of the winding staircase. Tristan was beside her in a flash, placing a hand around her waist to steady her. She tried not to focus on the strength of his hold or how every inch of her flesh responded to him.

“Easy up the stairs,” he said.

She gave him a sidelong glance. “You should know that I never drink to excess.”

“Why did you then?”

She bit her bottom lip. “What Lord Jeffries told me was upsetting.”

His lack of protest confirmed his beliefs about not fathering children. They reached her door. He eased it open and helped her inside. She loved the soft pink hues and the inviting shell-pink coverlet she’d chosen. She turned back to him. He looked entirely masculine standing in the center of the feminine room.

She hadn’t given up all hope. What they’d shared in the carriage was special and told her they had a chance. Could she follow the dictates of her heart? Would he be willing to as well? Could she change his mind?

Never one to miss an opportunity, she stepped close. “I need help with my dress. I’d rather not wait to summon my maid. Can you manage?” She turned and pulled her hair to the side and waited expectantly.

He hesitated. She sneaked a glance back, and the look of desire on his face was plain to see. It made her legs feel weak and her heart pound. He wanted her. It was clear. A battle raged within him. Need versus determination. Which would win?

He turned away slowly, almost painfully, and reached for the door handle. “I’ll summon your maid.”

…

Early the following morning, Tristan pounded on the door of the Piccadilly house with more force than necessary. Lord Jeffries’s butler opened the door on the third knock.

“Lord Jeffries is still abed, Your Grace,” the butler said, recognizing Tristan on sight.

“It does not matter to me.” Tristan pushed his way inside and took the stairs two at a time up to the second floor of the fashionable London town home. Spencer’s butler didn’t bother to voice an objection.