Page 43 of The Devilish Pleasures of a Duke

“Will being fair win you?”

He bent his head, smiling, and kissed her again. His tongue slowly circled hers, sweetly tormenting, until she arched her throat in surrender. Sensual enticement burned in the air they breathed. “I like to think about you,” he whispered. “About those little groans you gave as I played with your quim. How wet you were.”

“Adrian.” Her lower body buckled. The inner walls of her body softened. A stinging surge of blood tingled throughout her veins. “You promised me.”

“What I promised,” he said thickly, “is that I would not tell. I never said I would not desire you nor try to coax you back into my bed.”

She shook her head. Yet he surely knew her body desired him. She could not hide the signs. A soft gasp escaped her lips as his erection jutted into her soft belly. Her pulse beat a wild betrayal at the base of her pale throat.

“Emma.” He breathed a groan into her delicate mouth. “Why not? I am a well-born man who lost his way.”

Why not? His hips shifted in restless sensuality at the plea. She trembled delicately, further arousing his hard, aching body. He needed to touch her, to feel her flesh. He clenched his hands, swearing he would master his lust for her, and prove his worth.

But in his mind he was undressing and possessing her in every sexual act under the sun. Blood thundered between his temples, in his groin. He ground his teeth, cursing the male instincts that reminded him of the sweet treasures under her skirt, her subtle perfume. Like vanilla and female heat. Comfort and sex with the same woman.

How could he convince her he was not past redemption when his past, his behavior toward her, proved otherwise?

He stared down at her. Her mouth looked damp, swollen, so delicious he would die to taste her again. Somehow he grasped the remnants of his sanity, remembered where they were.

“For the sake of fairness,” she whispered, her blue eyes steadily holding his, “I choose to believe that it is your head injury making you behave with impropriety.”

He snorted in amusement. Now he felt like twice a devil. Did she not understand what a desperate rogue he was and that for the first time since he could remember, he cared what someone thought?

“Emma, listen to me,” he said in a stark under-tone. “There is nothing wrong with my head. I’m perfectly fine.”

“What are you saying?” she asked him impatiently.

“I only wanted your attention,” he said with a sheepish grin. “I admit I took advantage.”

“And you expect me to believe that you got hit on the head to attract it?”

“Not exactly. The chair wasn’t part of my plan.” He sighed ruefully. “I did hope, however, to stay in bed as long as you were willing to take care of me. I could have walked out of this house anytime I chose. But I chose to play on your goodness and now I’m confessing and asking for your understanding. I deceived you, but only because I took pleasure in your care.”

“I see,” she murmured. And he thought that she did. “Well, the physician said you were to be kept under observation for several days.”

“I don’t need bed rest,” he protested, his eyes glinting down at her. “I need…you. Your personal attention.”

“Ah.” Her tempting mouth flattened. “I believe that there are any number of women in London who would be more than glad to answer your needs.”

“I’m not referring to my carnal needs,” he said swiftly. “I haven’t been in good society for over a decade, and I’ve forgotten how to behave. What I need is”—he grasped for inspiration, for the key to her sympathy—“instruction in deportment. I need someone to smooth my rough edges.”

“You’ll not get an argument from me there.”

“I can’t have a reunion with the old bugger of a duke unless I’m proper,” he elaborated. “He’s particular about appearances.”

“You should be more particular about your language,” Emma exclaimed.

He grinned unexpectedly. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. I didn’t even realize what I’d called him. The word just slipped out. How can I present myself to him in such an unpolished state?”

She drummed her fingers on the desk, her gaze frankly skeptical. “I’d be shocked by all this if I hadn’t grown up with five brothers of my own. And—” She shook her head in sudden realization. “Do you mean to tell me you’ve been in England for almost a year and you have not even visited your father?”

“Give or take a few months.”

She studied him in dismay. “Your dying father? An elderly person who is willing to overlook your past grievances and offer an olive branch of—Why are you looking up at the ceiling, my lord?” she asked annoyedly. “It is most unsettling.”

“I was just wondering when the heavenly chorus would break into a hymn.” He shrugged at the scolding frown that she gave him. “And, by the way, I’m the one who should be offering forgiveness, not him. He made my life miserable, Emma. He drove me away with his unfounded suspicions. I’ve lived almost half my life believing I was not his son.” He glanced down at her in cynical amusement. “He’s also not as old as you think, and he isn’t dying.”

“He’s recovered?” she asked in surprise. “Are you sure?”