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She had to get control of the situation. And there was one certain way she could do that.
Adelaide kissed across his cheek, over the rough stubble of his day-long beard, and whispered, “Are you sure?”
He stroked over her bare breast, his thumb circling her nipple until it tightened into a stiff bud. “Sure about what?”
“That you won’t take me tonight?”
He stilled, setting his hands to the bed and pushing himself up to look at her, searching her gaze, deep and searing. As though he could see it all—her uncertainty, her desire for control. As though he knew the request was about more than pleasure—about gaining power. “No, love. Not tonight.” She didn’t like what she saw there, in his blue eyes. Something that might have been disappointment but seemed more like understanding, as though he heard her thoughts and was already a dozen moves ahead in this game they played.
It made her want to hide.
She pushed at his chest, and he rolled to his back. Disappointment coursed through her. It was over—which should not have disappointed. It was expected, was it not? She knew there was nothing more for Adelaide Frampton and the Duke of Clayborn—nothing but this quiet room at the back of the Hungry Hen. Nothing but this night.
Was it wrong that she’d hoped the night would not end quite so quickly?
He interrupted her thoughts by pulling her to him, wrapping his long, sinewy arms around her, and tucking her against his side. And though she meant to resist—to pull away and wrap herself in fabric and hide from him until morning—she couldn’t find the will for it. Notwhen he was so warm and firm and welcome. Not when his fingertips stroked over her shoulder, painting it with his touch.
Not when he turned and pressed a kiss to her temple, holding her so close she could hear his heart beneath her ear.
They lay in silence for long moments, the tavern quiet below, the world forgotten outside. Adelaide wondered at the feel of him and the way she had come apart in his arms, and the way this place, this night, this man somehow felt out of time, as though they were not in competition to get to his brother, to save Lady Helene, to evade her father and his men. As though she were not Adelaide Frampton, girl from the streets, and he were not the Duke of Clayborn.
As though they had a future.
As though they had all the time in the world, when they didn’t.
When they only had that night.
Less than a night, when he whispered, “I should—”
He stopped, but she finished the sentence in a dozen ways.I should not have done that. I should never have kissed you. Should never have followed you. Should never have thrown my lot in with you.
I should leave.
“Henry,” she whispered to his chest at long last, her fingers playing over the dark hair there. She couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t risk the embarrassment of his refusal—embarrassment that already threatened. That had been there, at the edge of her consciousness all evening—the embarrassment that came of being a woman alone, taking up too much space. Asking for too much. “Sleep with me.”
When his fingers stilled on her shoulder, the embarrassment became a living thing, pacing its cage, licking its chops, as though it had been waiting for this exact moment to attack. Silly Adelaide, baseborn girl from the wrong side of the river, propositioning aduke.
He would refuse the request, of course, and return to his role as responsible, proper gentleman. Move back to the chair—the one where she had come apart for him—set it by the door, and contort himself uncomfortably into sleep. And she would be left to the bed—to be devoured whole.
But somehow, even in the face of that embarrassment, Adelaide could not resist adding to the request—a quiet, winsome, “I would like it.”
And he answered with a low, pained, “Adelaide.”
She squeezed her eyes shut.Awful. Absolute horror.
She should move. Leave him before he left her. Get in her carriage and head for Lady Helene, who was that very moment in bed with a man who wished never to leave her.
But before Adelaide could do just that, his palm went flat on her skin, warm and heavy, pulling her tight to him as he pulled the coverlet on the bed up over them. Answering her request.
They were silent for a long time, hearts slowing, breath coming less harshly, and Adelaide knew she should close her eyes and try to sleep. She absolutely should not speak to this man—this man who wielded pretty words like temptation. She shouldn’t get used to conversation with him.
She shouldn’t get used to anything about him.
“Tell me a story.”
She lifted her head. “What kind of story?”
He raised a brow. “A lewd one.”
