For Love of the Duke(28)
He should have expected more of the vixen who’d survived an icy plunge into the Thames.
Katherine leaned up on tiptoes and angled her head, allowing him a better vantage of her mouth. She moaned, and he slipped his tongue inside, exploring the hot cavern.
She tasted of tea and mint leaves, and he wanted to drown in the sweetness of her. She tangled her hands in the strands of his hair and gave a faint tug. He groaned, his shaft hardened. He’d been too long without a woman. His body merely sought the surcease to be found only in the honeyed depths of a woman’s hot center.
He told himself that.
Over and over.
The words a chant. A litany.
Liar.
His hand worked its way inside the front of her emerald green cloak, and he sought out the lush curve of her generous breast. Through the fabric of her wool gown he teased the sensitive flesh of her nipple. His body ached to lay her down upon the blanket of snow, like the Ice Princess he’d once believed her to be, tug the cloak free, and expose the bountiful breasts to his worshipful gaze.
She moaned and leaned into his touch.
Encouraged, Jasper’s mouth left hers. She cried out, in protest, her strong fingers made a desperate bid to guide him back to her.
But Jasper craved the satiny smoothness of her long neck. He placed his lips to the rapidly fluttering pulse there. She cried out, her legs buckled out from under her.
Jasper caught her to him, and continued his ministrations.
“Jasper,” she whimpered into his mouth.
Oh God, the sound of his name, a breathy entreaty threatened to drive him beyond the point of control.
His lips nipped at the sensitive flesh of her neck, and her whimper turned into a husky, primitive moan. He worked his hands down her back, to the gentle swell of her hips, and then tugged her against him. His shaft surged against the softness of her belly.
Her head fell back.
A blast of cool winter air whipped around them. It tugged several long strands of dark brown locks free of the bonnet atop her head. The locks tumbled down past her shoulders. He took the lock and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, inhaling the spring lavender scent of the strand, so at odds with the Christmastide season.
Passion blazed within her eyes…and jerked him from the moment.
Jasper released the strand of hair, and took a step backwards. The horror of his actions, his absolute betrayal of Lydia’s memory, stole through him; it sucked the breath from his lungs.
Katherine closed her eyes a moment, snow swirled and danced about her flushed cheeks.
He spun away and battled the urge to pull her into his arms once again and continue exploring the warm, moist cavern of her mouth until she shook with desire.
Jasper raked his gloved hand through his hair. The abrupt movement sent snowflakes falling from his head. He stared out at the river. Since Lydia’s death, he’d lived the past three years, three-hundred and…his mind spun…
Was it fifty-three days?
Or fifty-four?
Panic built in his chest; it pounded away at his insides as he confronted the nauseating truth—he’d lost count of the days since Lydia had been gone.
His gut clenched. How, in a matter of days, had this happened?
Gentle fingers touched his shoulder. “Jasper?”
He closed his eyes. What had possessed him to give her leave to use his name? Nay, not leave…he’d all but commanded it of her. Sheer madness. His lips twisted. Then, he was the Mad Duke.
The sound of his name on her lips; spoken in her husky timbre served as a punishing lash upon his conscience.
Jasper opened his eyes, and stared blankly across the river. “My wife is dead.”
Katherine moved ever closer. She stepped in front of him, silent. The fabric of her cloak brushed against his legs.
He stared past the top of her velvet-trimmed bonnet, which was still askew from their embrace.
“I’m so sorry,” she said softly. A gust of wind caught those words and carried them to his ears.
“I do not want your pity.” His words sounded hollow to his own ears. He no longer knew what he wanted.
“I don’t pity you, Jasper.”
He glanced down. A faint smile played about her lips.
“You are not the kind of man that one pities.”
His jaw tightened, and he glanced away. No, he was a heartless, soulless bastard.
What was it about this small, yet spirited woman that unearthed the parts of himself he’d tried desperately to bury?
“I hate water.”
Jasper blinked. His gaze moved back to hers.
“I hate water,” she said again. “As a child, we’d spend most of our days in my family’s cottage in Leeds. When I was a girl of seven years, my sister and I would often go off on our own. We traipsed all over the countryside. It exasperated my mother to no end.”