One Dance with a Duke (22 page)

As she freed his shirt from his trousers with a swift yank, she bobbled a bit on her feet. His hands took her waist. Then they slid over her hips and down, cupping the twin curves of her firm, rounded bottom. He hadn’t bid them to do so, they just did of their own accord.

With a chiding arch of her brow, she took his hands in hers and removed them forcibly. “Not part of the wager.” Laying her hands flat against his chest, she pressed lightly and added, “Be seated.”

He obeyed, gladly.

Hiking the filmy gauze of her skirts, she straddled his lap, just as she had last night. The same as last night, except that much less fabric separated them. He could
already feel the heat of her skin burning through that meager excuse for a petticoat.

His erection throbbed against his trouser fall. Surely she could not fail to notice his aroused state, and virgin or no, she seemed too clever a woman not to understand what it meant. Instead of bringing her pelvis flush with his, however, she sat back toward his knees, denying his aching groin any direct contact. Her hands went to his waist and she gathered the fine lawn of his shirt in trembling fingers, drawing it slowly up.

As she exposed his bare torso, her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. “Lift your arms.” Her words were a husky whisper.

He obeyed in silence, and she stretched up on her haunches, pulling the shirt over his head. She didn’t fold it this time, but tossed it carelessly aside.

His flesh blazed as she surveyed his bare chest. Her breathing was shallow, her throat and bosom prettily flushed. However she’d felt about paying this forfeit a few minutes ago, she was a more than willing participant now. Her obvious desire only multiplied his own.

Still she sat there, hesitating.

“Whatever you wish,” he scraped out. “Do whatever you wish.”

Her hands went to cover his. She traced each finger individually and smiled, evidently amused by the way he was clutching the chair’s upholstered armrests. Good. Let her know what she did to him.
Yes, Amelia. I’m clinging to restraint by an ever-fraying thread. And if I don’t bed you soon, I may lose my grip on sanity forever
.

Her touch feathered over his wrists and up his forearms, tracing the prominent cords of muscle and sinew. She progressed to his upper arms, pressing her palms flat against the solid swells of his biceps. Just to tease her, he flexed. A little gasp was his reward. Women usually
enjoyed exploring the contours of his arms and chest—unlike most gentlemen of his station, he was strong and toned from working the horses.

She paused, hands balanced on his shoulders. A fresh wave of blood rushed to his groin. As if that part of him needed any further reinforcement.

Her fingertips swept to the back of his neck. A hot thrill shot to the base of his spine and simmered there. She was repaying him for last night, mimicking his attentions caress for caress—just as he’d hoped she would. It was torture to sit passively and take it, but his inaction was exactly what the situation required. He had to be patient, so patient … even if it killed him.

Her gaze dropped to his chest.

Yes. Yes. Touch me there. God, kiss me there
.

He fought the urge to grasp her fingers and direct them, the desire to tangle a hand in her upswept hair and drag her open-mouthed kiss everywhere he craved it. His lips, his neck, his chest, his—

She leaned in close to whisper in his ear. “You said last night, you’d been wanting to … to lick me. To bite me.”

“Yes.” Those carnal words, from her innocent lips … the image of her neat, delicate teeth closing over his earlobe, her tongue stroking over his skin … Oh, God. His hips bowed upward, seeking friction to soothe his rampant arousal. His erection brushed ever-so-slightly against her belly—but it wasn’t nearly enough. The light, teasing contact only increased his desperation.

“Well.” Warm, rhythmic breaths caressed his neck. “I’ve been wanting something, too.”

Sweet heaven. Was it too much to hope that what she’d been wanting required full nudity and a firm mattress? Because he was absolutely ready to oblige. When she
hesitated, he couldn’t keep silent any longer. “What?” he asked into her hair. “What is it you want?”

“You’ll laugh.”

“I won’t. I swear it.”

“I have your word?”

“Yes, of course.” Every muscle in his body tensed with the effort to keep still. His mind churned with depraved fantasies. What carnal act spun from a virgin’s imagination could possibly make her so abashed? Whatever it was, it was bound to be good. Very, very good.

“This,” she whispered finally. “Just this.”

Her hands slid over his shoulders and linked behind his neck. She bent her head, and her soft breasts flattened against his chest. Excitement rushed over his skin. Every inch of him anticipated the imminent, exquisite sensation of her kiss.

But she didn’t kiss him. Instead, she rested her cheek against his collarbone, tucking her face into the curve of his neck. And then she released a deep, full-body sigh and went still.

Spencer was confused. Had she changed her mind? Perhaps embarrassment had conquered her desire. Damn.

“Won’t you hold me?” she murmured, nuzzling further into his neck. “Please? I’m homesick and tired, and it’s been a wretched day.”

Oh.

Oh, sweet holy infant. What a lust-addled fool he was. She hadn’t shied away from some lascivious fantasy. This
was
what she wanted. A chaste, comforting embrace. A hug.

“It’s not so very difficult,” she said. “Just put your arms about me. Husbands do it all the time.”

Damned if he knew how to refuse.

His arms went around her waist, gathering her close. She was so soft, and so warm, and she all but melted
against his bare chest. As some consolation to his frustrated lust, the embrace brought them closer, until her thigh wedged snug against the hard ridge of his arousal. She didn’t startle or squirm away. For his part, Spencer resisted the urge to grind his hips. And so there they sat, hugging. Him in the chair, her on his lap, and the world’s most insistent erection between them. If he’d wanted sweet torture—by the devil, he had it. In trumps.

The longer he held her, however, the more he became aware of sensations that didn’t originate in his lap. The soft contours of her breasts soothed his pounding heart. Her eyelashes fluttered sweetly against his neck. And she smelled so good. Her enticing perfume blended her usual lavender scent with hints of vanilla and some kind of spice … was it clove? Perhaps she’d visited the kitchens today.

He stroked her back, once. Purring, she nestled closer in his lap. An unfamiliar tenderness swelled in his heart. Encouraged, he repeated the touch, skimming his fingers up the delicate ridge of her spine. Up, then down. Slipping the pads of his fingers over each vertebra, as if counting pearls on a string. The slow, steady tempo calmed them both. Their lungs seemed to arrive at some instinctive agreement, and their chests ceased struggling against one another. Instead, they breathed in a rhythm, trading the air back and forth between them. Warm. Fragrant. Intimate.

More deeply arousing than anything he’d ever known.

“Your parents,” she murmured. “Did they love each other?”

“I … I’m not certain.”

What a question. He couldn’t recall his mother much, but he remembered his father had wept when she died. They’d wept together, the confused young boy and the
hardened soldier. And then they’d never spoken of it again. When he’d learned of his father’s death years later, Spencer hadn’t shed a tear. He’d lashed out with fists instead, because he’d found it too devastating to contemplate weeping alone.

She said, “Mine did. They were devoted to one another. I always thought myself fortunate to have grown up with their example.” She shivered in his arms. “Now I’m not sure. Perhaps it only prepared me for disappointment.”

He brought her closer, until the heat of her skin seared his chest. That breath they kept trading back and forth—it came more quickly now, and hot. Places inside him were softening, thawing. He recalled her words to him in the corridor:
You have no idea what more I could offer you
. Oh, he did. He most definitely did. He’d watch his innards removed through his navel before admitting it, but on some fundamental level, he knew why he hadn’t been able to let her go that night. Why he’d bodily removed her from that ballroom; why he’d proposed to her scant hours after that. Because this woman displayed such loyalty to a no-account wastrel of a brother, and he just one of five. Surely somewhere in that boundless reserve, she could find a spare bit of devotion for him. He didn’t deserve it, but he wanted it just the same.

“Amelia, look at me.”

Keeping her hands clasped behind his neck, she lifted her head. She went perfectly, absolutely still in his arms. She seemed to have ceased to breathe.

He kissed her. Without warning, without permission. Without even deciding to do it, but simply because he couldn’t have done anything else. He needed that breath she was holding. It belonged to him, and he wanted it back.

Her lips were warm and soft, her tongue cool and
slick against his. Bracketing her face in his hands, he angled her head to deepen the kiss. She squirmed in his lap, but he held her tight, taking more. And then more. Stroking deep with his tongue, clashing teeth against teeth. He had to have this taste, this softness, this heat, and devil take it, he knew he was going to ruin everything by scaring her away, but he couldn’t stop.

He slid one hand to her breast and squeezed hard, because part of him wanted to punish her. Inside him, things were cracking and shifting with the deep, bone-shivering howl of ice splintering off from a glacier. Old pockets of emptiness were filling in; new chasms of need split asunder. It hurt. He was being rearranged in deep, forgotten places, and this woman was to blame. He kneaded harder, pinching the tight knot of her nipple, because he wanted her aching, too. It was unforgivable, and so damned unfair. Somehow she’d managed to get inside him before he’d gotten inside of her.

She made a startled cry against his mouth, jerking him into consciousness. He froze, breaking the kiss.

“Ten minutes,” she said, panting. “You have to let me go.”

“I can’t.”

Struggling against him, she choked on a sob. “Spencer, please.”

“If I release you, will you come to me tonight?”

He felt her head shake before he heard her answer. “No.”

“Don’t tell me you’re still afraid.”

“I’m more frightened than ever.”

He swallowed a roar of frustration. Damn it, hadn’t he shown her inhuman amounts of restraint? Aside from that little slip just now? How could she sit in his arms like this if she thought him capable of murder?

Swearing softly, he slid his hands from her body. She
couldn’t even meet his gaze. Her eyelashes trembled against her cheeks.

“Go.” He closed his eyes and tried to master his breathing. Gripping the armrests so hard his knuckles went numb, he growled out,
“Go
. Damn it, get off my lap this instant, or I will not be responsible for my actions.”

She obeyed in haste, pressing her palms against his thighs for leverage as she rose. His chest sagged with relief as she left him. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and letting his head drop into his hands. His own labored breathing was a roar in his ears.

“Good night, Spencer,” she said quietly.

He heard a door latch click, but he didn’t look up. There were three doors leading from this room, and if he knew which one she’d exited through, there was an excellent chance he’d be breaking it down a second later.

After several moments spent wrestling his own lust into submission, Spencer raised his head. Scrubbing one palm over his face, he blinked at the card table, where their round of piquet remained played out before him. No matter how he stared at the cards, they didn’t make sense. Once he’d handicapped himself by discarding the ace, Amelia had a true chance to win. She’d neglected to reckon her points correctly and played the cards far below her skill level. On impulse, he reached for her discard pile and flipped it over.

A one-eyed knave winked up at him, and beneath it, two kings.

She couldn’t possibly have been so stupid as to discard those cards. There was only one way to explain it. She hadn’t even tried to win. All that talk about hosting a party, reaching out to Claudia—what she’d wanted, more than any of it, was simply to be held. By him. And of course, he’d sent her fleeing in fear.

Emotion caught in his throat, prickly and raw. His patience was exhausted, and he felt shabby as hell. One thing was certain—the next time he took Amelia in his arms …

He would not let her go.

The summer she was twelve years old, Amelia made the grave mistake of screeching at a speckled toad within her brothers’ hearing. Therefore, naturally, her brothers had spent the next month foisting toads upon her. They’d hidden them in her cupboards, her sewing kit, even under her pillow … Pharaoh was plagued by fewer toads than Amelia shooed from her room that summer. She detested the bulge-eyed animals, but could she do the expedient thing—pick up the toad lurking in her empty chamber pot and merely toss it out the window? No. She had to catch the loathsome lump in her hands, carry it outside in the dead of night, and turn it loose in the garden no worse for wear. Because that was what Amelia did. She was a nurturer. She couldn’t help but take care of creatures, even the vile, unwanted ones.