Four Nights With the Duke(48)

In the last two days, she had done her best to ignore Vander at dinner,  because every time she met his eyes, she felt herself turning pink. She  stayed up late reading, but he never knocked on her door.

Only the raw lust in his eyes when they encountered each other about the  house kept her from despair. She wasn't feeling these ground-swells of  desire all on her own.

Now she kissed him with all the longing she'd kept in check, coming back  to herself only when she realized that her husband was nudging her  backward toward the enormous bed on which Queen Elizabeth herself had  slept.

"We mustn't," Mia said, pulling away. "Not that . . . Not here."

"Why not?" His urgent, hungry look sent a throbbing pulse down her legs.

"We should restrict intimacies to appropriate times and places, to wit, our bedchamber at night."

"This room is not a stable. It's arguably the nicest bedchamber in the house."

"It's my study, and besides, it's daytime."

Vander's only response was to topple both of them onto the bed.

"I mean it," she protested. "This just isn't proper!"                       
       
           



       

Vander planted his hands on either side of her and dipped his head, running his tongue along her lips. "I don't give a damn."

She pushed at his shoulder. "Well, I do, because I don't want to be  called ‘greedy' again. Just to be clear, I am not asking you for  intimacies, which are supposed to happen only at night."

He scowled down at her, with a frown that he likely thought would shake  her resolve since it had terrified horse thieves in the past.

"I don't want you to say any more unkind things to me," she told him.  "If I don't behave like a doxy, I can't be labeled one. Please, Vander,  let me sit up. I'm going to the stables to see Charlie."

"I will never say another unkind word to you," Vander said huskily, brushing his lips across hers once more.

She must have looked dubious, because he continued, "I said those things  out of fear. I want you more than is good for my self-esteem. Hell,  Mia, I'm turning into a man who would walk to London for one of your  kisses."

"My self-esteem matters as well," she pointed out. "I have no wish to  become the type of woman whose husband feels he can-can tup her whenever  and wherever he wants."

"You're the type of woman whose husband wants to tup her in a bed made for Queen Elizabeth. For a queen, Mia!"

He slowly lowered his weight onto her, and it was so delicious that she  let out a little moan. His eyes sparked in response, and a callused hand  ran up her legs.

"I don't think-"

"Hush," Vander said, kissing her. His fingers were teasing their way up  her inner thigh. When his lips wandered to her cheekbone, Mia discovered  that she had relinquished control. Again.

His fingers slipped upward, and she instinctively rolled her hips toward  his caress. Despite herself, her voice came out breathily, like a silly  debutante being introduced to the queen. "It's not right. Might be  seen. Not . . . Not married. I mean, it's still daytime."

"We are married," Vander corrected her, as his fingers sank into her  slick warmth and took on a rhythm that made her body shake, bliss  hovering just outside her reach. "Perhaps you truly don't wish to  continue?" His fingers stilled.

"Don't stop." Her nails dug into his forearm.

"It's still daytime," Vander pointed out, his eyes devilish. He slipped a broad finger inside her.

She let out a gasp and arched against him, trying to force his finger deeper inside her.

"Mia," he said, voice rasping in her ear, "I want to make love to you."

"Yes," she gasped.

"I want to see you naked."

She froze.

"All of you," he clarified.

"No." Mia's head cleared. She would never enjoy herself under those  circumstances. Especially in the daylight. She pushed his hand away and  began to inch toward the edge of the bed.

"Where do you think you're going?" he growled.

"We can't behave like this."

He let her go and she sat up and rearranged her skirts. But her heart  sank, looking at his face. His eyes were steady on hers and there was no  mistaking his expression.

His wasn't the face of a man who had ever heard the word "no." Well,  except when he was trying to refuse her marriage proposal. That was  probably the first time in his life that he had been thwarted.

This would be the second. The idea of undressing in the broad daylight  filled her with horror: Vander would see every curve and dimple.

If she had married an average-looking man, she might consider it, but given the difference between them, it was inconceivable.

He was the embodiment of one of her fictional heroes-excepting the fact  that he wasn't madly in love with her, nor was he quiet, gentle, or even  civilized.

Mia raised her chin and told him the absolute truth. "I am not the sort of woman who likes to be unclothed."

"Why not?"

"Ladies are very private. Chaste," she added.

"You are not chaste."

She flinched, and he said hastily, "I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

"Stop. Just stop. I shall not change my mind."

"Duchess."

"Yes?"

His face was about as malleable as a block of marble. "I intend to see  you without your clothes. And I intend to touch you without your  clothes. I'm tired of pushing your skirts out of the way."

"You are far too accustomed to getting your own way," she blurted out. "Has no one ever denied you in the whole of your life?"

He didn't answer that, just stood up and announced, "I'm going to remove my clothing. Brace yourself."                       
       
           



       

"It would ruin everything for me if I had to get undressed," she explained awkwardly. "I am not at ease."

Vander frowned. "Do you have a scar, Duchess? I don't give a damn."

"No, I haven't. Might you postpone your plan to remove your clothes until tonight, in the privacy of your chamber?"

Vander wrenched off his coat, which was its own answer. Mia's heartbeat  quickened. Next to go was his waistcoat. The performance reminded her of  the day that he had demanded she inspect him carefully before she  purchased him. How was it possible that it was less than a fortnight  ago?

Late-afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows, casting shadows  the color of dark copper across his skin. His shirt flew across the  room. Bands of muscle corded his body, making her fingers itch to caress  his hard stomach.

When he bent over to pull off his boots, panic welled up in Mia's  stomach. If Vander forced her to unclothe, she would faint from pure  humiliation. Taking advantage of the fact he was busy with his boots,  she headed for the door.

He made it there before her.

"This is not a good idea," she said, panicked. "It is deeply improper  and no one . . . no lady would tolerate it." She could smell a mixture  of saddle leather and spice.

It weakened her knees, so she made her expression even more ferocious.

Vander leaned back against the door and grinned at her. He hitched his thumbs into the waistband of his breeches.

"No!" she cried.

Of course he ignored her. His breeches and smalls slid down over the  thighs of a man used to leaping on a restless horse. Mia let out a shaky  sigh. His taut abdomen had a little line of hair that led . . .

Well, down there.

No wonder she'd been sore.

His shaft was far too large.

He kicked away his breeches and smalls and simply stood there, relaxed, as if he often stood naked in a shaft of sunlight.

"Do my looks please you, Mia?" he asked, looking at her from under long  eyelashes, as if he didn't know perfectly well that desire was pounding  through her like a drum beat. Directing her to touch him, to squirm  against him, to lure him to the bed . . .

She had to clear her throat. "You are presentable, as I'm sure you've been told every day since you were a boy."

"Does my moonbeam meet your expectations?" The grin on his face said that he knew perfectly well that he was magnificent.

"Aren't you ever going to forget about my stupid poem?"

"I doubt it," he said, his smile deepening. "I'm the only one of my friends who's had an ode written to his cock."

Mia groaned silently. There was no point in trying to school him in the art of literary metaphor.

"I can't wait to read your novels," he added.

"There is nothing about moonbeams in my work!"

He shrugged. "It's your turn to disrobe."

"As I made clear, I am not at ease undressing in the daylight." She  stepped closer, her hand drifting down his chest to his waist. "Isn't  this enough?"