When the Duchess Said Yes (23 page)

“You needn’t.” She scuttled backward. “I almost have the knot.”

“No, you don’t.” Impatiently he yanked his shirt free from his breeches and pulled it over his head, dropping it to the floor.

She gasped, stunned by the sight of him. His chest and shoulders were broader and more muscular than she’d realized, narrowing to lean hips. She should have known he’d be this strong, considering how easily he carried her about, but still it surprised her, and made her heart beat faster, too. How could it not? More dark hair whorled over the broad planes of his chest, narrowing to a trail that disappeared into his low-slung breeches. Preserve her, his
breeches
: they were all that covered him now, and there was no mistaking the degree of his arousal—an arousal that she had inspired. Behind that neatly buttoned fall, the shape of his hard cock was undeniable.

And suddenly this flirtatious game of theirs seemed a great deal more urgent.

“I’ll have this undone in a moment,” he said, coming
to stand behind her. He flipped her hair forward, out of his way, and bent over the knot. He was as good as his word: almost at once the knot gave way and the tension released on her stays.

“How did you do that?” she asked breathlessly. “I thought only lady’s maids and stay makers knew the secret of that knot.”

“And me,” he said, snapping the lace through the eyelets. “You’d be astonished by the secrets I know.”

She wouldn’t, not at all, and as the silver aglet popped through the last eyelet, the weight of the now-free stays made them slip forward. She caught them, holding them close to her breasts, and as she did, she felt his lips brush over the nape of her neck. She caught her breath and tipped her head back, never knowing that could be such a wonderfully sensitive spot.

“I have wanted you since I first saw you,” he whispered, each word hot on her already feverish skin as he slipped his hands inside the now-loose stays to find her breasts, now covered only with the thinnest of linen. He filled his hands with the tender flesh, gently tugging and drawing on her nipples with his thumbs. “At the playhouse, across from me.”

“You—you didn’t even know who I was,” she stammered, amazed she could speak. Her legs swayed weakly beneath her, letting him support her, and that place between her legs felt full and wet, yearning for him.

“That didn’t matter,” he said, his voice no more than a growl as his hands on her breasts became more insistent, more demanding. “I wanted you then, and damnation, I want you now.”

“I want you, too, Hawke,” she whispered, shocking herself with her own boldness. She dropped the stays and instinctively pushed back against him, pressing her bottom against his cock, still barely covered by his breeches. “I want you, and—and—everything else.”

He grunted and turned her around toward him, every muscle on his face taut.

“You can’t do that to me, sweeting,” he said, “else I’ll be finished before we start.”

She wasn’t sure what that meant, but she figured kissing him—which was what she’d rather do than talk anyway—would be as good a reply as any. She looped her arms around his shoulders and arched up toward him, offering her lips to him, the same as they’d often done before.

But this time he wanted more than her lips. He slipped lower and tucked his arm beneath her knees, effortlessly gathering her up and carrying her across the room to the bed. With his free hand he tore back the coverlet and dropped her crossways on the bed with her legs dangling over the edge. She started to pull herself backward over the featherbed, but before she could, he’d shoved her shift up to her waist. He hooked her knees over his crooked arms, drawing her back to the edge as he knelt beside the bed.

“What are you doing?” she asked frantically—no, begged, for she truly had no explanation. No one, not even Charlotte, had mentioned this possibility. She propped herself on her elbows to look at him, crouching there wickedly between her spread thighs. She felt exposed and ashamed, fearing that he’d see how wet and swollen she must be. “Hawke, please, don’t—”

“Hush,” he said softly, his dark hair tousled and his dark eyes glinting like the devil himself. “You must trust me, my Lizzie. You nearly unmanned me, so it seems only fair that I do the same to you.”

Before she could answer, he’d lowered his head between her legs, and to her shock he began
kissing
her there. She cried out and again tried to pull away, but he held her fast. He was lapping and licking and teasing her, and to her even greater wonder, she began to like it.
Truly, she must have the soul of a slattern to enjoy such a practice, and yet the more she wriggled, the more delicious it felt, until she realized that she wasn’t fighting him so much as moving with him, digging her heels into the bed and arching her hips to meet him.

She clutched at the sheets, twisting them into knots, and made small cries of delight as the pleasurable tension grew within her. When he slipped a finger inside her, she scarcely noticed, and when he added another, gently stretching and stroking her from within, she truly thought it possible to expire with pleasure. One final swipe of his tongue, and she felt as if she’d burst, waves and waves of delight racking her body as she cried his name.

“You liked that,” he said, rising over her as she lay spent and panting on the bed.

“I did, my love,” she murmured, reaching up to touch his cheek. “How can I thank you?”

“You can’t, not yet.” He kissed her quickly, leaving the taste of her own honey-sweet juices on her lips. If she felt limp and sated, her bones turned to jelly, then his face was tense with concentration. “We’ve scarce begun to please ourselves.”

Languid, she watched him stand and tear away at the buttons on his breeches, shoving them quickly down his hips. She’d only the briefest glimpse of the cock she’d been teasing all evening—larger, longer, harder than she’d imagined, rising proudly from its nest of black curls. Then suddenly he was between her legs again, nudging her open, pressing into her, pushing that hard length of himself into her passage. His thrusts were quick and forceful, and the gasps she made now weren’t of pleasure. Finally he was buried in her as far as he could go, and he lay still, resting his head on her shoulder. She felt crushed and pressed down and full, too full, and all that lovely languid feeling had vanished.

But she was now his wife in every way. They’d—what was the word that Aunt Sophronia had always used?—they’d
consummated
their marriage. She only wished now that this were as pleasing as the first part had been.

He raised his head from her shoulder and kissed her lightly, brushing his lips over hers.

“My own dear Lizzie,” he said in a rough whisper. “I am sorry for that. But you only give up your maidenhead once, and I swear to you it will only improve.”

She did not believe him, and so she said nothing. Tentatively she rested her hands on his back, and shifted her legs to try to find a more comfortable way to bear his weight.

He groaned, breathing hard, as if he, too, were feeling the same discomfort. “Damnation, but you’re tight, even after you spent,” he said, his teeth gritted. “No doubt that you were a virgin.”

“Blast you, Hawke,” she shot back bitterly. “There should never have been any doubt.”

“Forgive me.” He sucked in his breath, collecting himself. He raised himself up a bit, drawing out a fraction to move back in, then changed the angle a bit, and slid into her again.

She gasped again, with surprise. Who would have guessed her body could accept him like this? She shifted her legs and tipped her hips, taking him deeper. It was as if he were caressing her from within, as if she’d turned outside in, or—or—blast, she couldn’t think.

He moved with grace and power and confidence, finding the rhythm that suited them both. Instinctively she raised her knees, then curled her legs around his waist. Oh, yes, it was better, much better, and she moved with him, meeting his thrusts to find her own pleasure. It was there again, the same pleasure he’d given her before, only now it was stronger, more intense. But what made
it infinitely better was that she shared it with Hawke, the two of them racing for release together.

“I cannot hold it back, Hawke!” she cried as her body twisted beneath his. “Please, please, oh, do not stop!”

“Let it go, Lizzie,” he urged hoarsely, driving hard. “Come with me, sweet.”

She couldn’t have stopped even if she’d wished it.

Her release burst within her and kept coming in waves, stunning her with the rippling, shimmering, exquisite pleasure that made her cry out and cling to him as she rode it out. He followed soon after, roaring with an animal intensity that thrilled her as he filled her with his seed.

She was hot, sticky, and sweaty, her heart pounding faster than if she’d run across the county, and she was so exhausted she thought she’d never be able to move again, half trapped beneath him as he gasped for breath.

This was what Charlotte had tried to explain to her, but how could mere shallow words describe this? It was the most perfect, uncontrolled madness, and she loved it.

Because she loved him.

She knew that now, without doubt. She loved her husband, and her heart fairly overflowed with it, so much that she felt tears of foolish joy sting her eyes. But did she dare tell him? She knew from novels that men could be skittish about such declarations and were leery of love in general. Was it proper to make such a confession at such a moment?

With a weary groan he rolled onto his back, throwing his arms over his head. She quickly joined him, leaning across his chest. She had a vague recollection of Aunt Sophronia warning her to remain on her back so as to preserve her precious drop of what might be the next duke, but she didn’t care. With her splendidly virile new husband, she was certain there’d be more, much more.
She glanced down his length, wryly noting how his cock now seemed as sleepy as the rest of him. He lay now with his eyes closed, his long, dark lashes fluttering over his broad cheekbones, his lips parted as his breathing gradually slowed. Unable to resist, she lightly traced the bow of his lips with her fingertip.

His eyes flew open. “You little minx,” he said, his smile slow and lazy beneath her touch. “Come here.”

He began to circle one arm around her to draw her close, but she shook him off. She sat up and pulled the tangled, crumpled shift over her head and tossed it aside. “It was strangling me,” she explained, sitting back on her heels with her breasts bare for him.

“I approve, you brazen creature,” he said, his voice reduced to a well-satisfied drawl. “But leave the stockings and the garters. They amuse me.”

She grinned, shoving back her hair and making her breasts bob. She didn’t care how brazen this made her; she liked having him look at her the way he was now, his admiration and approval and desire, too, all plain across his face. When he looked at her like this, she forgot she’d ever been the overlooked middle sister. She forgot everything, really, except for him.

Now when he held his arm up for her to join him, she went to him immediately, curling neatly at his side as if she was always meant to be there.

“I’m happy,” she whispered, the simplest of truths, and the purest.

“So am I,” he agreed. “I told you we’d suit as lovers. Who would have guessed my dry old father would find a lady who suited me so?”

“Yes,” she said softly, longing to confess the rest. “Yes.”

“Yes, yes, hah.” He pulled her up to kiss her. “I’ll go farther than that. I love you, sweeting.”

She couldn’t keep back the tears now. “Oh, Hawke, I love you, too. Oh, could I ever be any happier?”

He grinned down at her, purposefully running his hand down the sweeping curve of her waist to her hip. “I’ll do my best to try, ma’am. If I love you and you love me, I’d say we’ve made a most excellent start.”

Speechless with joy, all Lizzie could do was kiss him in return. He was absolutely right. They’d made a most excellent, splendid, rapturous start, indeed.

In Hawke’s estimation, the night could not have gone any better. Now that it was over, he realized how much he’d been dreading it, and with plenty of good reason, too. He’d never been with a virgin before, but he had heard enough tales of hideous wedding nights to make any man quake and any cock wilt, tales that included sobbing, screaming, fainting, general hysteria, and torrential amounts of blood. He had steeled himself for the very worst.

Instead, he’d been blessed with pure heaven. He’d already been intensely attracted to Lizzie, but now, after last night, he was absolutely enchanted. She’d shown no virginal reluctance or squeamishness, and her maidenhead seemed to have vanished without much suffering or blood.

She’d been eager, adventuresome, and responsive, with a body that was an absolute delight, pale and plump where it should be, yet lithe and acrobatic in the most pleasing ways possible. She’d balked at nothing he’d suggested, and embraced every new possibility with enthusiasm. Only her wide-eyed surprise had betrayed her innocence, and that very inexperience had made him love her all the more for it.

He did love her, too. He wasn’t ashamed to admit it,
and for as long as that love lasted, he intended to enjoy every moment of it. The way he understood their marriage, the only real obligation they had before him was to conceive an heir with her, and he couldn’t imagine how pleasurable the next weeks would be for him. Surely he had to be the most fortunate gentleman in Britain.