How to Tame Your Duke(33)

"I don't believe you."

He sighed again, his only movement. Even the stump-oh, what an awful  name for a part of him she loved, as she loved every part of him-even  the stump lay like a weight in her hand. "There is a phantom effect," he  said. "Well documented in medical literature. The hand feels as if it's  still there."

"How extraordinary." She went on caressing him, exploring him.

He went on, in a distant voice. "In Eastern countries, the left hand is  considered profane, because it's used for cleaning oneself after  evacuation. That was why they maimed the right one. A rather subtle  touch."

She lifted the stump to her lips and kissed it.

"Forgive me," he said. "I ought to have realized, or at least to have asked. I ought to have stopped, when I knew."

"I wouldn't have let you stop."

He raised himself suddenly, eased his organ from her body, and rolled away. "The fault was mine."

"Don't go!"

The cool air engulfed her skin in his absence. She felt the mattress dip  and sway as he left. She pulled her eviscerated body up on her elbows.  "Where are you going?"

"One moment," he said.

She heard his footsteps on the carpet, the creak of a door, the hiss of  the faucet. A rush of wetness trickled between her legs. Panic seized  her. She reached down and was shocked by the copiousness of it, by the  abundant physical evidence of what had just occurred. Ashland's warm  seed: She was brimming with it.

What had she done?

He returned, with a hand to her shoulder. "Lie back," he said gently,  and she was too stunned to do anything but obey. Of course his semen was  inside her. That was the point of everything, wasn't it? The  transcendent pleasures of carnal union      were no more than nature's  method of ensuring that animals reproduced themselves.

Something warm and damp touched the soreness between her legs. Ashland  was cleaning her silently, in tender movements, wiping her with a cloth  of some kind. A wave of acute embarrassment washed over her. A moment  ago, they were impossibly intimate, joined together, sharing breath;  now, a kind of clinical detachment separated them as he washed away the  remnants of their private act.

"Are you in pain?" he asked.

"I . . . No. Not of any consequence." She tried to smile, to reestablish  the closeness. "It was rather wonderful, if you must know."

The mattress released him once more, and he went away, presumably back  to the bathroom to return the cloth. Emilie sat up. The blood rushed  away from her head, leaving her slightly dizzy. She put her hand to her  head and found her false chignon nearly hanging from its pins. In hasty  movements she repaired the damage, adjusted the blindfold to cover the  untidiness. Her chemise must be on the floor somewhere. She slid off the  bed onto shaky legs.

"Careful!" Ashland's hand came down on her arm.                       
       
           



       

"I was looking for my chemise."

"Right here." The hand went away, and then the material was sliding over  her head and Ashland was helping her arms into the sleeves.

"Thank you," she said.

"Of course." A pause. "You're quite all right?"

"Yes."

Oh God, the awkwardness! She was flushing again. What was he thinking?  Did she disgust him now? In her abandonment, had she passed the bounds  of respectable behavior? Had she done it all wrong?

He had not moved away. Though he wasn't touching her, his warmth  irradiated her. His voice, however, was cold and matter-of-fact. "I'm  afraid you've missed your train. The room is yours, of course. I shall  send Mrs. Scruton with everything you need."

"I don't require anything."

"Don't be a martyr," he said sharply.

She recoiled. "A martyr!"

"You don't have to refuse everything."

"Obviously, I haven't refused everything," she said bitterly.

Ashland made some movement next to her, and his warmth abruptly withdrew  from the nearby air. "I see," he said. "As I said, the fault is mine. I  take full responsibility for what occurred tonight. I ought to have  restrained myself. I did not, however, and having . . . having committed  the wrong, I assure you I . . ."

"Wrong!" She gestured to the bed. "This was wrong to you? I thought it was beautiful. I thought it was precious!"

"Emilie . . ."

"Go," she said. "Just go."

"I will not leave like this . . ."

"You will go. You can't have everything your own way. I meet you when  you ask, I follow your rules, I discard all modesty, I give myself to  you in shameless abandon without even seeing you. Allow me a little  pride. Allow me this one dignity, at least." She was panting, her hands  fisting at her sides. She couldn't even direct her rage. She was  shouting into open space, unable to locate him in the darkness.

Ashland said nothing. Outside the window, the wind made a strange  whistling sound, piercing the still bedroom like Miss Dingleby's finely  honed stiletto.

The floorboards creaked beneath the carpet.

"Very well, then, madam." Ashland's low voice counterpointed the high  pitch of the Yorkshire wind, unexpectedly close. "Remove the blindfold,  if it offends your dignity. If you want to see what creature has taken  your innocence tonight."

Emilie froze.

"Go ahead," he said softly. "Or do you wish me to take it off for you?"

The windows rattled sharply. A tiny draft reached Emilie's cheek, too  warm to have slipped in from outside. Ashland's breath? In the darkness  around her, she felt his shimmering heat, his power just out of reach,  perhaps inches away.

"I . . . I cannot." She lowered her head. "I cannot."

"Ah. Well, there it is."

A wave of hopelessness washed over her. Their perfect, sacred moment had  been only that, after all-a moment. Someone's voice echoed in her head,  some half-drunk stepmother or another: Don't you know, all the little  beasts want is a good poke, and they're off. Give that up, and you've  given everything.

She turned away. "Go."

Ashland's hand seized her chin. "Don't turn away from me, Emilie. I've told you I'm sorry; what the devil do you want from me?"

"Nothing! Nothing at all! Only to be left in peace."

"By God, you won't have that! A moment ago you were spending beneath me.  You're mine now, Emilie. You're under my protection, and I'll be damned  if . . ."

"I am not yours!"

"You are, and by God, I take care of my own!" His mouth came down on  hers, hard, possessive, and Emilie wanted to pull back. She wanted to  put her hands on his chest and push him away, to sweep off with a  haughty and well-delivered line.

But her principled objections stopped at the stem of her brain. Her  lips, unaware of any insult, opened up and absorbed the force of his  kiss. Her arm flung up around his neck and drew him closer. His clean  scent, his rich taste were too good to refuse. Her body recognized his,  remembered the pleasure of him, and wanted more.

At the instant of her acquiescence, Ashland's kiss softened. His tongue  ran along her lips, scorching her blood; he searched her out, teased and  stroked her without mercy. She pressed her hips against his massive  thighs, pressed her tingling breasts against the hard buttons of his  waistcoat. His hand slid downward to cover the curve of her bottom with  his hot palm.

"God forgive me, I want you again." His lips crept along her jaw to her  ear. "I shall take care of you, Emilie. You will let me take care of  you."                       
       
           



       

"I don't need that. I only need this."

"This is not enough." He kissed her again and pulled away. "I cannot  stay the night this time, Emilie, but I will make this right."

"I don't require . . ."

"I won't insult you by offering money," he said, "because you have done me an honor without price."

"Oh, very well put."

He said nothing. Emilie wrapped her arms under her breasts, creating a  protective barrier against the chill of his absence. "I beg your pardon.  That was bitterly said. I only mean that . . . that you have no  obligation to me. I have come to you as an independent woman of free  will. You owe me nothing for this. We are lovers, nothing more."

Still, he said nothing, did nothing. She felt him gazing at her, boiling  with emotion, laying down his hard iron bands of self-control.

"I am not practiced at this, Emilie," he said at last, so quietly the  words seemed to dissolve in the air as he said them. "I have no adroit  phrases ready. But let me make something quite clear: I am not a man who  takes lovers."