When the Duke Found Love (26 page)

She felt her hairpins snag on the cushion as her hair came undone, and she did not care. She felt her skirts slide high over her knees and higher, and then his hand trailing along the inside of her bare thigh. Instinctively she tried to squeeze her legs closed, but he was between them, holding them apart.

“Let me please you,” he said, his words warm against the shell of her ear. “Let me love you.”

Love, love: that was the magic word for her, the word that only he could offer, and with a shuddering sigh she relaxed and gave herself over to the love he promised, and her body desired.

And she did desire it. His touch on her thigh was gentle but insistent, coaxing little circles that swiftly inched higher and higher. She gasped with surprise when his hand covered her most private place, and gasped again as he gently parted her to caress her more intimately. She clung to his shoulders as he kissed her again. No one had ever touched her here, pressed her here—oh, heavens, stroked her
there
.

“My own love.” His voice was rough with a fresh urgency, his gaze intent upon her. “Love me, sweet, and let me love you.”

He eased a finger into her, then a second, finding deliciously sensitive places within her that she’d never known were there. Charlotte had told her that March’s lovemaking could make her lose her wits, and now, at last, Diana understood what her sister had meant. The more Sheffield touched her, the more the sensations seemed to coil through her whole body, making her writhe shamelessly against him. She didn’t care that her skirts were around her waist, or that she’d looped one leg over the back of the settee, or that her garter had come untied and her stocking drooped around her ankle.

Nothing mattered but him. Her whole being now centered on his caresses like a maddening sweet torture, and she felt herself grow shamelessly wet, as if to ease the way for his fingers. She was pushing against him now, her breath coming in sharp little cries as she struggled for the great prize he was offering, just out of her grasp.

“Sheffield, oh, please,” she cried, begging. “Please!”

She clung to him, reaching, reaching, then suddenly the sensations crashed within her, wave after glorious wave of pleasure. It was beyond imagining, beyond everything, and all because of him. Her eyes closed, she sank back against the settee’s cushions, boneless and dazzled and gasping for breath, and let the last delicious shudders fade through her.

“Oh, Sheffield, how you love me,” she murmured, too blissfully sated to manage more. “How you love me!”

She was only vaguely aware of the settee creaking beneath her as Sheffield repositioned himself, of him saying more endearments, more reassurances, more promises of love, all of it jumbled in her pleasure-sodden brain. She knew there would be more to love-making, and that he was right to say they’d only begun. But oh, if it were all as wondrous as this, then she’d eagerly follow wherever he led. He was touching her again, and with languid anticipation she raised her hips a fraction to meet him. He was pushing into her swollen, sensitized again, but this time it wasn’t his fingers. This was larger, much larger, and much hotter and more demanding, and her eyes flew open just in time to see it all: Sheffield with his breeches undone and his shirt shoved aside, kneeling between her outstretched legs to thrust his very sizable member into the core of her innocence.

Or what had been her innocence. She gasped and tried to scuttle backward, but struck against the arm of the settee. By then it was too late, anyway. He was already in her, thrusting once, twice, and then he was buried deep within her. That lovely, spangled pleasure had disappeared, and in its place she felt stretched and filled and pinned to the settee with all the graceless futility of a flopping, broken butterfly.

“Damnation, I’m sorry if I hurt you, Diana,” he whispered, his breath ragged as he lightly brushed kisses across her cheek. “I’ll make it better now, I swear.”

“How, Sheffield?” she asked, her voice squeaking with her rising panic and the surprising sting of discomfort scattering the haze of her first pleasure. “How can it ever be better?”

“Because I love you,” he said hoarsely, “and you love me.”

There was more he planned to tell her, much more, not that Sheffield saw the point of further conversation now. In their present situation –and with the need pounding through his body–demonstration would accomplish far more than any mere words. He was accomplished at pleasing women, and he would make sure that he pleased her, the one woman he loved beyond all others. He regretted the fear he saw in her eyes, the tears that were even now sliding sideways down her cheeks and into her hair. Only a few moments before, she’d been so blissfully beautiful, lost in the pleasure of her spending. Now he’d have to do his best to take her back to that, and join her, too. Yes, he’d make it better, infinitely better.

He kissed her again, moving slowly within her to let her accustom herself to the feel of him. Damnation, she was tight and sleek, and it took every fiber of his willpower to hold back. He had to make this good for her. He had to be gentle, no matter how much he longed to ram himself into her.

He moved slowly, wanting her to discover the pleasure as his cock stroked her from within. Her scent was the headiest perfume he could imagine, the purest scent of sex and desire. He plunged deeply, then withdrew, letting her learn that sweet agony for herself. He knew the exact moment she did from the catch in her breath and the wondering look in her eyes. He kissed her again, nibbling at her lower lip as he drove her a fraction harder, and this time she curled her hands around him. Another stroke, and she rewarded him with a gasp of startled but unmistakable pleasure.

That was what he wanted, what he sought. He wanted this to be for her. He shifted his angle, seeking to intensify the sensation. She gasped, her fingers clutching restlessly at his waist, and he knew he’d succeeded. He dragged his tongue along her throat, there on her pulse, and felt her shiver and twist beneath her. She’d begun to move with him now, unable to resist the rhythm, and her first gasps had changed to a sound that was halfway between a moan and a sigh, the most wanton little sound any man could ever hope to hear. She wanted more. No, she wanted
him
, and as he gazed down at her, her cheeks flushed and her breasts bare and quivering with each of his thrusts, her nipples red and taut from his kisses and her long, lithe legs curled around his waist—ah, what more could he ever want in return?

His ballocks told him quickly enough. She was so tight, so slick, so hot, that no matter how he might wish to make this last forever, he couldn’t. Bracing himself against the back of the settee, he slipped his hand between their bodies and caressed her there, where they were joined, and where she was most swollen and sensitive. At once she cried out, arching against him, signaling that her crisis was nearing as well.

He needed no more than that. He forgot gentleness, forgot everything but carrying her with him to the end. He drove relentlessly, his own groans mixed with hers, as he pushed her harder, and harder still. Her body tightened beneath his, around his cock, and then with a wordless cry she tumbled over the top, pleasure spinning out from her. That was the last spark he needed, that inner caress of hers. With a roar, he surged forward one final time, burying himself as deeply as he could to come within her. She truly was his now; there could never be any further question of that.

Panting with exertion, he bowed his head over hers and wearily kissed her, a gentling sort of kiss that barely grazed her lips. His hair hung damply around his face, and his shirt clung to his sweat-soaked shoulders. Diana was breathing hard with him, her breasts rising and falling against his chest and her lips sweetly parted. But her eyes were still closed, her lashes feathered across her cheeks, making it impossible to tell her mood.

It should be fine, he reasoned with himself. More than fine. Even in his usual post-sex haze, he could understand that. She’d just given her maidenhead to a man who loved her, and by his reckoning she’d spent twice, and quite pleasurably at that. Many women could never make either of those claims, not once in their entire lives.

None of this, however, was what he’d planned. He’d intended merely to show her paintings, as she’d asked, and then, as they discussed the pictures, he’d find a way to tell her he loved her. In a measured and respectful manner, he would have explained why he believed he’d be a far better husband for her than Crump could ever be, and then he’d ask her to become both his wife and his duchess. He’d even planned to kneel before her to do it, the way the swains in poetry did it, here in the Sultana Room before the painted versions of his parents.

But things hadn’t exactly gone that way. She had that effect on him. He really shouldn’t be surprised, since nothing ever did seem to proceed as planned where Diana was concerned. It was only one of her many charms, and he could quite safely predict that she would never, ever bore him.

He smiled down at her now, imagining their life together, and thinking how much more agreeable it would be to make love to her on the generous acreage of his ducal bed, instead of on this infernally narrow settee.

“My own Diana,” he said softly, and kissed her again, not on her lips, but on her forehead. “I love you, sweet.”

He’d never meant the words more than he did now, and he never intended to say them to any other woman. Given the circumstances, he expected she’d say the same in return to him.

She didn’t, leading him to try again. “I love you, Diana.”

But instead of replying, she pressed her hand over her mouth, and squeezed her eyes more tightly shut.

He frowned, fearing she felt ill. Damnation, he’d never done
that
to a woman. His sated cock slipped free of her body, and with a sigh he sat back from her, wiping himself with the tails of his shirt. With a shuddering sigh, she swiftly sat upright, too, shoving her petticoats down over her bare legs and nether regions, then pulling her bodice back over her breasts. He was sorry for that; he’d been enjoying looking at her, yes, but he’d also enjoyed the intimacy that had come with it.

“Diana, my love,” he began again. “If I have hurt you, by all that’s holy, I—”

“No, Sheffield,” she said, looking everyplace except at him. “No.”

She was buttoning her bodice with furiously swift fingers, putting herself back together with a haste that women rarely possessed. He buttoned the fall on his breeches and retrieved his waistcoat and coat from the floor. He pulled his handkerchief from his coat’s pocket and handed it to her.

“If you would like to, ah, tidy yourself,” he said. “There’s no washstand in here, I know, but let me send for—”

“No servants,” she said quickly. “We haven’t time. The others will be waiting for us.”

She found her hat from where it had fallen on the floor, and pinned it back onto her head, pushing stray locks of hair back under the brim. She stood, briskly shaking out her skirts and smoothing them down before she headed toward the door. It wasn’t that she was angry with him. She’d been angry before, but this—this was different.

“Diana, look at me,” he said.
“Look at me.”

She stopped but did not turn.

He took her arm, pulling her back, and at last she looked up at him, her face enough to break his heart.

“Listen to me, Diana, I beg you,” he said gruffly. “You can’t pretend this hasn’t happened. I love you, and you love me, and that’s enough –“

“Please don’t, Sheffield,” she said, and though her eyes were dry, he heard the tears in her voice. “I can’t listen to you, not now, not after I – after we – oh, a pox on it all!”

“Everything will be fine and right, Diana,” he said firmly, bending over to kiss her, and prove to her it was. “You’ll see. I’ll make it so.”

But instead she twisted free, stepping backwards away from him, her arms crossed over her chest as if to comfort herself.

“You can’t, Sheffield,” she said, shaking her head. “No matter what you wish, you can’t change what has happened. I do not blame you, for I was most willing, but –.”

“And where is the sin in that?” he demanded, following her. “Diana, listen to me, and –“

“It’s all my fault,” she said, her voice breaking. “Everything, and – and – oh, if only I did not love you so!”

She threw open the door and hurried into the hall, her steps so fast she was nearly running.

Running from
him
. No one did that.

“Diana,” he said, matching her strides. “If you love me, then there is no problem, because I love you, too. Diana, please. You must hear me.”

“No,” she said, staring straight ahead and quickening her pace even more as she ran down the stairs. “I must sort this out for myself. I have listened far too much to you, Sheffield, and no more, not now. No
more
.”

They were at the library now, and a waiting footman instantly opened the door for them. At once Lady Enid and Dr. Pullings rose, turning to face them. Sheffield couldn’t help but notice how Pullings had his arm protectively around Lady Enid’s shoulder, and how she pressed against his side, trusting him completely.

The way Diana should be with him.

“Pray forgive us for keeping you so long,” Diana said, forcing herself to smile for their sake, not his. “But Sheffield was showing me his family’s paintings, and we lost all sense of the hour.”

Automatically Sheffield glanced at the gold clock on the mantle. Hell, it was nearly six: they had lost sense of the hour, and everything else, too. Now he’d have to contend with an angry Lattimore, and likely March, too, for keeping the ladies out so long.

“I’ll have the carriage brought,” he said curtly, nodding to the footman who remained at the door.

“Thank you, Sheffield,” she murmured, finally glancing his way, and pleading in silence to keep the truth their secret.

Secret, hah,
he thought glumly. Anyone who looked at her would know what she’d been doing, and it wasn’t looking at pictures, either. Beneath her hat, her gold-streaked hair was a tangled mess that no decent lady’s maid would claim. Her skirts were crushed into telltale creases, her mouth was ruddy from his kisses, and despite her inexplicable misery, she had the sated glow of a woman who’d recently been well pleasured. She’d never looked more achingly lovely to him, nor more desirable, plaguing both his heart and his cock.