Page 49 of The Duke’s Suspicion

“Ah.” The almost imperceptible rise and fall of the bed linens attested his breathing. For a long moment, he made no other sound. “And I take it you would not welcome another.”

She would have shaken her head if she did not fear it would dislodge his hand. “You’ve read my journal. You know what I am. I cannot be what the Duke of Raynham needs.”

“I see.” Another hesitation. “You do not wish to marry me. But if I understand things correctly, you do, however, wish to—”

“Yes.” The word swooped in before he could place some terrible name on her desire.

The arm at her hip tightened almost convulsively. With gentle pressure, he lifted her chin. Still, it required every bit of her strength to meet his gaze, dark and raw. “You’re a young lady of good family, Erica.” She parted her lips, but his fingers curled against her scalp. “You may save your protests on that matter for another day.” Reluctantly, she kept her silence. “And I’m no rake,” he added.

She’d known as much, instinctively. “A bit of a rogue, perhaps?” she asked, hopeful.

Another almost-smile flickered across his lips and into his eyes, the suggestion of light in the dark pools of his irises. “Perhaps. But on the whole, a gentleman, as I seem to remember telling you once before. And any gentleman who knows that a lady is prone to impulsive behavior ought not to—”

“Impulsive?” she broke in. “I’ve been waiting for you in your sitting room, in total darkness, for hours.” Every time the mantel clock had announced the quarter hour, a bit of her resolve had slipped away, it was true. But it was back in full force now.

One dark brow arced. “Is that right? Then you must be chilled.”

She had not imagined, with the high frame of the bed pressed against the front of her legs, that he could somehow pull her closer still. But when the arm around her waist shifted, her spine willingly bent forward beneath its urging. One of her hands caught the edge of the mattress in an instinctive attempt to break her fall. The other settled against his bare chest. Her journal slipped to the floor, forgotten.

She wanted, needed, a moment to absorb the sublime sensations: the hard curve of his muscles, the tickle of silky dark hair between her spread fingers, the searing heat of his skin against her palm. But his voice once more commanded her attention.

“You’re in my bedchamber, Erica. Almost my bed. What is it you want? Because if it’s only a few more chaste kisses, I would be only too happy to oblige you.” Chaste? Oh, dear God… The memory of those moments in the conservatory rushed through her veins like heady liquor. “But something tells me you’re after something more.”

“Yes, more,” she murmured, bringing her lips to his. “Everything.”

“Promise me,” he demanded when she let him have his breath. “Promise me you didn’t come here tonight to punish yourself further. To be ruined in earnest simply because a few gossips imagined the worst.”

She drew back just enough to allow him to see the puzzlement on her face. “What has punishment to do with pleasure?”

His answering expression…well, she hadn’t words to describe it. He might insist he wasn’t a rake, but there was something decidedly wicked about the smolder in his eyes. “Ah, love, what an innocent you are…” His next kiss caught her lower lip between his teeth. A nip. A flash of…not of pain, exactly, but of pure sensation that called every cell in her body to attention. “Still, I’ll have that promise.”

“I give you my word.” Anything, anything, if he’d only go on kissing her that way.

“Then turn around.”

Her disappointment at his growled command lasted only as long as it took for her to follow it. She heard him shift behind her, then his deft fingers went immediately to the row of buttons running up her spine and undid them at a leisurely pace. When she could at last slip free of her gown, he went to work on the strings of her corset. The duchess’ maid had been hard pressed to persuade her to wear it, but the unexpected eroticism of allowing Tristan to remove the dreaded garment dissolved any regret Erica felt. With torturous slowness, he drew the cord through the eyelets, first left, then right, then left again. With each hiss of fabric against metal, another inch of her flesh was bared to his gaze. When he reached the end, he paused to wrap the cord around his hand. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him slide it over his knuckles and lay it on the table beside the base of the candlestick, a silken snake, coiled and waiting.

Waiting for what? The question fluttered through her mind and was gone, chased away by the warm invasion of his hands as they slipped between her corset and shift, first shaping her waist, then rising higher. The corset fell away to join her dress on the floor.

His hands swept lower then, working in tandem, learning the flare of her hips and the curve of her bottom before ascending once more, his thumbs lightly tracing that forbidden cleft before mapping the valley of her spine, climbing to the sharp angles of her shoulder blades. Just another few inches and there would be nothing between his hands and her skin…

She was worrying her lower lip with her teeth. In anticipation, yes. But the little sting of discomfort also made everything else more real. A pinch to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. At last, his fingertips reached the gathered edge of her cambric shift and brushed across her bare skin. She couldn’t contain the eager quaver that passed through her.

But his voice could. “Settle,” he said.

And her body heeded his command.

Despite her obedience, he made her wait. Or perhaps he was weighing his options. At long last his fingers swept around the neckline of her shift to the bow in front and tugged it loose. She longed for him to run his hands over the front of her body as he had her back, unabashedly craving his touch on the aching peaks of her breasts, the curve of her belly, the secrets places below. Instead he brought his hands to her shoulders and slipped her shift down over her arms, over her hips, until the only barrier between them was an old pair of woolen stockings held in place by limp garters. Her toes curled in embarrassment, but the memory of his voice kept her otherwise rooted to the spot.

His right hand stroked up her arm, raising gooseflesh as he passed, then over the sharp peak of her shoulder, along her collarbone, to pause at her throat. His strength, his power—in check now, but undeniable. Saliva pooled in her mouth, and she swallowed hard, knowing he would feel the movement. How could she be so hungry for something she had never tasted? Three fingers crept to the left side of her jaw and urged her to turn her head.

Her body followed. At first, not knowing where to look, her eyes once more took refuge in the patterned coverlet, although he’d cast it aside. But in another moment, instinct—fascination—took over and her gaze roamed at will over his naked body.

In order to undress her, he’d risen from his recumbent position into a sort of half crouch, legs spread. There was something almost feral about the rangy pose, the way his golden brown hair gleamed like a lion’s mane in the candlelight. She had no doubt he could devour her, if his control ever snapped. But oddly, the thought produced no fear. He had the tautly sinewed legs of an expert horseman, and between them, his manhood jutted from a nest of dark curls. When it bobbed beneath her appreciative stare, her throat worked up and down again.

For all she knew, he was studying her with similarly lascivious intent. Her eyes only dragged themselves back to his face when the pressure of his hand along her jaw could no longer be denied, and even then, she could not entirely stifle a whimper of disappointment.

He…smiled at the sound. Or maybe not. For if that was a smile, then she’d never seen its like before, except perhaps on a cat. His thumb came up to tug her lower lip free of her teeth, then brushed across its tender fullness.