If I Only Had a Duke(37)

Fragment of lush, full lower lip.

The convex glass of the mirror gathered the last red caresses of the sun and painted them across her cheeks.

She removed the last of her pins and fluffed buttery curls over her shoulders, where they twisted to the small of her back.

Dalton squeezed his eyes shut.

"Is your shoulder troubling you again?" she asked softly.

He threw his left elbow over his eyes so she wouldn't see the pain. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not. Your mouth's all twisted."

The bed moved as she sat on the edge.

Her hands brushed a lock of hair from his brow. "What can I do?"

Hell, he'd been hurt before. Beaten to within an inch of his life. Injuries were nothing new. He threw his body around recklessly, feeling invincible even though he knew death lurked around every dark corner and in every footpad's knife.

"I'm fine," he repeated.

"What does Olofsson do for you, exactly?"

"Sometimes the shoulder freezes. Olofsson manipulates the muscles so I can move again. I've an old boxing injury I sustained when I was going a few rounds with my friend Hatherly."

"Oh yes. Boxing."

Dalton paused. There was a new note in her voice.

"That's right."   





 

"Turn over," she commanded.

He thought about refusing for a moment, but the promise of her hands on his bruised and aching flesh was too enticing.

He rolled onto his stomach, lifting his arms and cradling his head on his forearm.

"I'll need to remove this shirt," she said briskly.

"That won't be necessary."

"Suit yourself."

She kneaded his right shoulder through the linen of his shirt.

Her small hands weren't doing much but it felt so incredibly good just to have her touching him. She pushed a little bit harder, digging into his shoulder blade, and he released a long sigh.

"Is that the place?" she asked.

"Aye."

"You flattened those three brutes in the blink of an eye. Impressive, I must say. A far cry from your performance . . . or lack thereof . . . in Bath."

"Albertson grabbed your arm. I saw red. I struck."

She spread something crinkling and flat onto the bed next to his face. He cracked an eye open. Trent's drawing of the Hellhound, with the scar in exactly the right place along the jaw.

He crumpled the paper in his fist.

She brushed a finger down his jaw. "Is there anything you want to tell me?"

So dangerous this impulse to share, to reveal himself. What would happen if he told her the truth?

"Dalton. Look at me."

He lifted his head.

Silken waves of hair fell around his face as she bent her head closer to his. "You trusted my instincts in the tavern. And you allowed Molly to make her own decisions. Now I'm asking you to trust me again. Tell me the truth. I'm strong enough to bear it."

He wanted to tell her . . . he wanted to unburden himself, but if he did, she would be in even more danger than she was now.

He buried his face back in his arm. "Nothing to tell. I defended you. Any man would have done the same."

"You're lying."

"Thea," he groaned. "Leave off. It's been a long day. Why don't you lie down."

"Tell me the truth," she persisted.

"I can't."

"Then at least admit that you want to."

The longing to bare his soul to Thea had built and built and now it was nearly unbearable.

"Thea . . . I . . ." I'm out on the wide sea with no compass.

She made him realize that he was completely and utterly lost. Her insistence on truth was a rope tossed into the stormy seas. He could grab hold of that rope and pull himself to safety.

Grab hold of her.

He reached for her hand and pulled her down next to him on the bed. He buried his head in her neck.

She stroked his hair. "You don't have to bear this alone."

He folded his arms tighter, inhaling the sweet scent of her hair and the calm resolve in her voice.

He didn't want the waves to close over his head.

She lifted his head and held his jaw in both her hands. "I know the truth, Dalton."

He closed his eyes.

"You're honorable and noble," she whispered. "And I want you. Desperately. I need you."

She knew.

He hadn't been able to save Alec or stop his mother from descending into madness, but maybe Thea would be able to save him, and open his heart. Maybe he could be the man she needed him to be.

He was weak with the wanting of it.

So he reached for her and he held on tight.

And she twined her arms around him. "I want to know what my body is capable of experiencing." She climbed on top of him and settled her legs to either side of him. "I want to drown in pleasure."

She wound her hands around his neck and pressed her soft breasts into his chest. "I choose you, Dalton."

I choose you.

The words took his breath away. Oh, how he wanted it to be that simple.

"I may not be exactly the temptation you love the best." Her lips curved. "I'm not at all statuesque. And my figure is less than ample."

He cupped her breasts with his palms, squeezing gently. "You're perfect, Thea."

"I don't have flashing emerald eyes. My eyes can't decide if they want to be cloudy or blue." She leaned forward and pressed her soft lips to his cheek. "But if I had you, Duke, you'd change your preferences."

He kissed her then with all the pent-up longing he'd been denying. He kissed her because he wanted to believe life could be simple. All this pain and strife, the games men played to keep death from knocking too loudly.

Life could be the scent of roses when she drew near, and the lingering heat of her body on his palm.

Take her into his arms.

Build a bridge to another world.

A bright window, instead of a dark alley.

He could be a man. Not a force of vengeance.   





 

Just a man.

A man who wanted to bed this woman. This complex, clever, beautiful woman.

He gave up fighting. She knew his secret. He didn't have to admit it aloud.

And he wasn't strong enough to push her away again.

She moved above him, supple and yielding. He filled his hands with her rounded breasts, her small waist, her flaring hips.

He kissed her.

And he grabbed hold of the rope.





Chapter 20





Thea pressed down, seeking relief from the sweet ache between her thighs.

When he moaned and settled her more firmly against him, guiding her hips with his large hands, a surge of triumph flooded her breast.

Forced into a mold by her mother. By society. By every single one of the people who'd laughed at her and whispered about her and christened her Disastrous Dorothea.

She brushed the tips of her breasts against his solid chest and the motion swayed down through her belly and to the hidden place she'd touched in the bath this morning.

The rule follower, the perfect duchess candidate . . . she was long gone.

Sloughed off like the skin of a molting snake.

Here she was, naked and real.

Simply here with him.

One night of pleasure to change her forever.

Propriety. Elegance. Refinement. Drown it all!

"Are you sure you want this?" he asked, his voice low and suffused with tenderness and need.

She arched her back and rubbed her thighs against him. "Yes," she moaned.

"God, Thea. You're so goddamned lovely."

Her heart pounded and her skin was so sensitive to touch that when he skimmed the tip of his finger down her cheek she jumped and shivered.

"Kiss me again," she whispered.

And he did. Firm, demanding lips claiming her, teasing her lips apart. His bold tongue filling her mouth.

He flipped her over, settling on top of her, pressing her into the featherbed.

Their bodies meshed, arms around waists, fingers in hair, thigh to thigh.

The hard length of him jutted into Thea's belly and she knew that soon he would be inside her and she would welcome him there, would wantonly spread her legs.

Lost at sea. Racing toward something new.

She wanted him. All of him. The rake and the rogue.

Man and myth.

Maybe she could make him believe that with her body, if not her words.

She'd do her best.

Her body knew what it wanted. It instructed her to rip his clothes off because her skin needed to be touching his skin.

She reached for the buttons on his shirt.

Too many buttons. Too difficult, her fingers too fumbling. She took his shirt in both her hands and tore the buttons off.

Well, only one button came off but it hit the floor with an impressive popping sound.

He lifted his shirt the rest of the way off his head.

That's what she wanted. All that smooth, scarred, bruised flesh above her.

He lifted her leg and unlaced one boot, then the other, sliding them off and placing them by the bed.

He tugged his boots off next.

He made short work of her gown and undergarments and, finally, her shift.

Suddenly shy, she crossed her arms over her chest, but he grasped them and brought them to her sides.

"Let me look at you." He made a noise low in his throat, a feral growl. "This is for me? All this beauty? These delicate, enticing curves . . ."

He ran his hands from her shoulders down the edges of her breasts, over her waist and hips.

Her entire body hummed with the awareness of what was to come. She held out her arms. "Kiss me more."

"Greedy," he chided. But he gathered her into his strong arms and kissed her until she couldn't breathe.

When he lifted over her, the fossil on the leather cord around his neck swung near and she caught it in her hand, the small jagged edges pressing into her palm.