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Preston and she…could they be happy? She had noticed him a long time ago.

No, he should stop this train of thought. Imagining her happy smiles every day because he caused them. Her quivering with pleasure under his touch. Coming back home to her, warm and gorgeous, in his bed. This lightness in his chest, this burning and yearning for her, satisfied. Turning from delight to happiness.

A life with her, a happy marriage…

He shouldn’t think like this. This was sin. This was wishing Spencer’s death because it was only possible due to his death.

And yet, the words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. “Do you think you could be happy with me?”

She swallowed and looked at him. A century passed before she finally replied, “There was a time I didn’t think I could feel anything for you but hatred. I don’t feel that anymore.”

Neither did he.

Her words were his undoing. The yearning for her won.

He stood up, and in one step crossed the distance to her chair, pulled her up to stand, and kissed her.

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His lips brushed against hers—surprisingly soft and yet insistent, urgent. They asked her with their velvety touch, and there was just one answer she wanted to give.

Yes.

She parted her lips in reply, and a masculine groan of relief…of need…issued from back of his throat. He wrapped his strong arms around her, bringing her close to him, so close, every inch of their bodies was pressed against each other. He kept kissing her, his wicked tongue dipping into the depths of her mouth, coming to her like he was desperate and she was his only salvation.

He tasted like wine and like something sweet and pungent—like him. He was so hard and so warm and smelled so good, she wanted to rub herself all over him like a cat. Soon, she felt a warmth inside of her that had nothing to do with the burning coals in the grate.

He deepened the kiss, and she shuddered. Her breasts ached, and only the feel of his body would soothe them. She clutched her hands around his neck in a desperate need to bring herself closer to him, as close as humanly possible.

His hands dug into her hair, her perfect updo that her very skilled lady’s maid had done for her, and held her head, angling his face to kiss her even deeper. And she allowed him, opening up, arching into him, needing him to be hers.

She wanted him so completely, she couldn’t feel the ground under her feet. All she was aware of was him against her, and how strange and unnatural her clothes felt, digging into her expanding chest and her swelling breasts.

She knew he must feel that, too, based on something hard and long that was pressing against her lower belly from the vicinity of his trousers. She wanted to bring him as much pleasure as he had brought her the night of the soirée. She ran her hands down his waistcoat and undid his buttons, then slid her hands under its edges and pushed it towards his hard shoulders, and then down his arms.

He chuckled into her mouth. “How eager you are, Duchess. As eager as I am to look at you.”

“To look—”

“Oh, yes,” he said, his gaze dark and smoldering under his hooded eyelids. “Come here.”

He resumed kissing her, but this time, his hands worked at her back, opening the long row of hooks just as proficiently as any maid would. He pulled her dress down until it fell onto the soft carpet, pooling around her feet. Next went her petticoats in a stiffer heap around her ankles. Heat rushed through her. A man—not just any man but this man—would see her naked in a moment.

He stopped the kiss and stepped away and looked her over as she stood in only her chemise and her corset. Was she pleasing to him? His eyes dragged over her body slowly, taking in every inch of her.

“Turn around,” he said, his voice low and rough.

She obeyed, turning her back to him. She felt the pull of her corset when he began undoing the lacing. Soon, he dragged it over her head, and she was left in only her thin chemise. He took her by her hand, sending a jolt through her arm, and turned her around to face him.

“Take it off,” he said, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

She inhaled in a sharp breath. Her nipples tingled and puckered against the light fabric. She was the sole object of his attention; he looked at her as though nothing and no one else existed but her. He was the duke and her husband, and she belonged to him in front of God, the king, and the court. He could command her as he pleased—as he did. And yet, something about his voice, about the almost pained, intense expression of his face, made her feel powerful.

Without taking her eyes from his, she undid a small lace holding the front of her chemise together. His eyes dropped to her hands, his nostrils flared, and his chest rose and fell faster. As she pushed down the broad straps of her chemise, exposing one shoulder, his gaze darkened and became predatory. She pushed down the other strap, and then let the whole chemise drop to her waist. It hung on her hips.

“Heavens…” he cursed as he stared at her breasts like a starving man. “All the way down, Penelope.”

She obeyed. A cool whoosh of air brushed her whole body, and there she stood, naked except for her thin woolen stockings held to her legs by delicate lace garters and her shoes. She stepped over the pile of clothes at her feet and took another step to him. She was burning hot despite being naked.