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“But, madam, how then would our equine friends acquire their mates?” Alfred inquired. “Do the studs apply to the fathers of the mares for the hands, or rather the hooves, of their intended?” He snuck a breath, inhaling her dudgeon, her ardency, her ferocity, and his wolf was like to howling at the full moon.
“Do not be ridiculous.”
“Or do they see, and scent, and take?” He leaned in, all but whispering in her ear. “Do they follow instincts unknown to anyone but the stallion and mare involved? Is it the stallion’s pursuit that inspires the mare or the mare’s willingness to be covered that inflames the stallion?”
“You seek to discompose me.” She blushed but held his gaze. “You are mocking my beliefs. You are mocking me.” She turned to leave, and he stopped her with a hand on the slice of bare arm below her puffed sleeve and above her glove. “You mock me by keeping me here, as if the whole world would believe that you wanted me above all others. I will find a way to leave here and put this sham behind me.”
He gripped her arm. “You will not leave me.” Thedominatumrushed through him and once again had no effect on her whatsoever. “We will marry, and not only because it is what society will demand.”
“You may force me to the altar.” Miss Templeton stuck out her chin in defiance. “But you cannot make me respond to the vows.”
“What might you respond to?” He leaned in and ran his nose down her cheek, around her jaw. “This?” She shivered. “Ah, I do know something about you, after all—that a stroke on the cheek makes you tremble.” He breathed in her scent and breathed out, gently, against her neck. “I was merely playing devil’s advocate,” he crooned as he let his lips touch her earlobe. “It was not my intention to mock you. I find your passion quite…stimulating.” He felt her quiver, said, “Do pardon me,” and kissed her.
* * *
Here was The Kiss Felicity thought was in store on the terrace last night, but to call it a kiss would be to call the Himalayas a hillock. The few she had received previously had been of the stolen variety whilst the thief was in his cups; even someone as untried as she comprehended the gulf between that pathetic past and his present prowess.
Lips that were firm yet inexplicably soft brushed hers, once, twice, then hovered, a mere breath between them. With an inhalation of expectation, she swayed, arrested, waiting. A hard, strong hand cupped her jaw, and she followed its direction to tilt her head just so. Those lips returned, brushing hers with greater intent, stroking them, beguiling them, coaxing her toward a great unknown. As Felicity parted her lips to take a needed breath, his tongue stroked hers and withdrew. Far from freezing in shock—well, in fairness, she was shocked, but it was the stimulating sort—Felicity discovered that the loss of his touch was insupportable.
When her tongue lightly touched his lower lip, a rumble rolled through That Chest—how had she gotten so close to it? Her bosom was crushed against it, and she could not recall experiencing a headier sensation. She also became aware that one of his hands was caressing her hair at the back of head, and the other was gripping her hip, his fingers stroking it, stroking the side of it, directly over her backside, very nearly stroking her bum.
He had answered her audacious sally and was now plying her mouth with his tongue, teasing it, and she somehow knew how to respond, to riposte, and as impossible as it seemed, she sank even further against his body. She shifted her hips and heard him groan, so she did it again and then slid a thigh in between his. Her mind reeled at the hardness she found there; in fact, her entire body reeled. Her arms—which she discovered had wound themselves around his neck—tightened, and she sank her fingers into his lustrous hair, then scraped her nails on his scalp, doing it again when he growled.
Gently, gently, he explored her mouth and encouraged her own explorations through moans and growls. As their breath became ragged, as his hand slipped to curve around her bottom, his other hand slipped down her back, slid up her ribs, ventured forward, and curved around her breast. It hovered, as though waiting for permission, which she granted by leaning into his grasp.
The arm around her waist was as though fashioned from steel, and she dangled on tiptoe as he ran his fingers over the skin above her gown’s neckline, skin that was hot and flushed and needy. His fingers delved and caressed the top of her breast and edged closer to…closer to a part of her that had never felt a man’s touch. She held her breath, her teeth biting his lower lip, and he plumped her breast, his thumb stroking her nipple, and the sound she made—she nearly sobbed from the effect it had upon her. A telltale dampness surged between her thighs, and she trembled, wanting, fearful, lustful. She trembled again and moved away from his touch.
As she did so, the duke did something altogether unexpected. He dropped his forehead to hers and stood there, both arms around her now, holding her, breathing as rapidly as she. She took a leaf from his tome and inhaled, scenting fresh linen, vetiver, the elder wine, and something else, something raw, something primeval and intoxicating.
“How I yearn to see this glory unclothed,” he murmured. Any retort was lost in a sensual haze; while an appropriate rejoinder might run along the lines of,How dare you, you shall never regard my unclothed self, instead she thought,Does he think me glorious? Glorious, not “substantial,” not in need of outdated gowns that require letting out?The hand that should slap his face was in fact cradling it while the other had moved to hang on to the Cravat of Perfection for dear life. The eyes that should have been shooting outraged glares fluttered closed as he reached up and traced a finger around her ear.
“There is no glory,” she whispered.
“You are wrong.” He squeezed her waist and wrapped his arm around it, lifting her off the floor. “I must beg your forgiveness if I have given you the impression I am not utterly intoxicated by your figure.”
“Oh.” Intoxicated? “Well, that’s fine, then. But I must insist that you unhand me,” she said, not even convincing herself that it was what she wanted.
He inhaled and set her down. His gaze, once more, burned like blue ice. “I will not lie to you by saying this won’t happen again, but I concede that I was too hasty—”
“You will do nothing I do not wish to do, regardless of speed.” Felicity found her outrage. She swept toward the door. “If anything is to happen, which it won’t, you won’t be in charge or at least not the only one setting the pace.” With that incoherent rant, she swept from the room, past Mr. Coburn and at least seven footmen, and made it to the first landing before it became necessary to ask for directions.
Nine
The image in the glass made Felicity beam with euphoric defiance. She had taken breakfast in her rooms, not out of cowardice but with the view of giving Mary Mossett time to work her magic on yet more garments. Felicity’s comment over last night’s meal had been taken to heart, and the little maid had altered a suit of clothes for her quite literally overnight. A white, muslin shirt had been tailored to fit her bosom without being too tight, and its collar had been lightly starched to complement her feminine neck and jaw, and a waistcoat framed her breasts in a most spectacular way. Over the top of it all sat a jacket that emphasized and flattered her hourglass figure. The fabric was warm without being heavy, a luxurious wool that hugged Felicity’s shoulders and draped into shortened tails that suited the shape of her bum, which looked voluptuous and rather enticing. She hopped up and down in the half boots Mrs. Birks had unearthed; they were the only ladylike accoutrement on her entire person, and yet she’d never felt more womanly in all her life, even if she was garbed in trousers.
The trousers! The falls were strange against her most sensitive parts, as were the smalls: ladies of refinement did not wear undergarments apart from their chemises. Her legs did not lack for muscle, having ridden since she took her first steps, but seeing them out in the open gave her perspective as to the rest of her figure. In contrast, her bosom no longer looked unwieldy, and her waist created such a dainty distinction between breasts and hips, it was astonishing. All her parts looked to be in balance, making her figure appear healthy and alluring.
Nevertheless, she was only willing to go so far in defiance of the duke.
“Do try the cravat, Your Grace, do,” Mary begged. “It’s nothing but a scrap o’ lace, why, it’s only a ladies’ cravat, so it is.”
“Let us compromise,” Felicity said. “We will plait my hair and secure it with the lace.”
She sat at the vanity—how easy it was to sit in trousers—and Mary applied a brush to her unruly locks. “Oh, Your Grace, what a head of hair you have. Your lovely mum must have had the dyspepsia, that’s what the biddies do say. ‘Keep nothin’ down, a feathery crown,’ they do be saying that.” Her methodical strokes almost sent Felicity off into a snooze, as she’d gotten little sleep the night before.
Small wonder, because she could not stop reliving That Kiss.
Not just the touch of lip to lip and tongue to tongue, but the stroke of hands, the variety of textures, the roughness of his jaw, the softness of his hair, the solidity of That Chest, the heat of his person, the…firmness against her thigh. She knew whatthatwas due to secondhand information via several of Jemima’s novels, and, naturally, from her own animal husbandry experience, but she couldn’t—how would she look him in the eye? It was too personal, and yet she yearned to feel it, all of it, again.
