The Wicked Ways of a Duke(40)

She tilted her head to one side, studying him. “They might question us when we get back to the inn, so we might have to lie a little.” She gave him a dubious look. “You can manage that, can’t you?”

He kept a straight face and leaned closer. “I shall endeavor to be convincing.”

Her concerned expression vanished. “Good. These rules about chaperones are so silly, and Aunt Edith is so punctilious about it, but we do need to steal a little time for ourselves on occasion.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” His gaze slid down over the pin tucks of her shirtfront, caught the shadowy profile of her breasts beneath the cotton. Just that was enough to arouse him, and he began to envision her pale pink aureoles and tiny, jutting nipples; pure imagination, of course. He knew Prudence well enough to know she had on layers and layers of underclothes. There would be yards of muslin he’d have to wade through to touch her bare skin, satin ribbons to untie, silver hooks and fabric-covered buttons to unfasten, lacy garters and silk stockings to pull off…. As he thought of removing those garments one by one, his body began to burn. He set aside his fishing rod, then moved closer, ducking his head beneath the brim of her straw boater to kiss her ear.

“Rhys,” she admonished, shrugging her shoulder with a glance around, “that isn’t what I had in mind.”

“No?” He took her fishing rod out of her hands. “All this privacy and you’re going to let it go to waste?”

She blushed, but was laughing as he leaned over her to set her fishing rod at her side. “You are a wicked man.”

“Yes,” he agreed, and pressed a quick kiss to her mouth. Then he lifted his hands to pull out her hat pin and remove her straw boater. “I warned you I was.”

He dropped the enameled pin into the crown and set the hat aside. As he kissed her again, he grasped her shoulders and began to push her backward into the grass. To his surprise, she resisted, and he was forced to pause. “What’s wrong?”

“We can’t,” she protested, her blush deepening, her body stiff. “It’s broad daylight.”

“That didn’t stop us before.” Those words did not seem to relax her, and he sensed that some slow, serious persuasion would be needed. He began pressing light kisses to her face. “Why let it stop us now?”

“But…before…at Winter Park…we had…we had shelter.” Her cheeks were scarlet now, but he wasn’t about to let maidenly modesty interfere with something as delightful as a tumble in the grass. He slid one hand into the knot of her hair and pulled gently, tilting her head back, then began to kiss her neck above the collar of her shirtwaist.

“Be-Besides,” she went on, flattening her palms against his chest as if to push him away, “that isn’t why I wanted us to have privacy. I wanted us to talk.”

“Talk?” With a feeling of dread, he stilled, his lips against the side of her throat. “What about?”

“Nothing in particular. I thought we could get to know each other a little better.”

He lifted his head, sure he couldn’t have heard correctly. “You mean we sent Fane into the village for rods and tackle, thought up elaborate alibis to give your aunt and uncle to account for our whereabouts, and came here by separate routes for the purpose of being alone, and you want to make conversation?”

“Yes. We’ve known each other such a short time, and we need to become better acquainted.”

Rhys had no intention of making conversation and every intention of making love, but it was clear that some talking as well as some persuasion was necessary before he could bring her around to his way of thinking.

He bent his head again to kiss her throat and lifted his free hand to give her prim little necktie a tug. “Why don’t you introduce a topic?” he suggested, beginning to unbutton her collar as he ran his tongue along the side of her neck.

She stirred a little, and when she spoke, her voice had a breathy catch to it he found quite encouraging. “Rhys, what is a duchess supposed to do, exactly?”

His fingers slid into the opening of her blouse just above the lacy top of her corset cover. Her skin felt like warm silk. “What do you mean?”

She pushed him back so she could look at him. “When I’m your wife, I shall be a duchess, and I want to do it properly. Only I don’t quite know how.” A tiny frown knit her dark brows. “I should so hate to make a blunder of it.”

She sounded so worried, he couldn’t help laughing. “Darling, most duchesses are like most dukes. And marquesses and earls, etcetera, etcetera. We don’t do anything. We lead terribly lazy lives in which we give and attend fabulous parties, gamble away our fortunes—if we have them—eat outrageously rich food, drink excessive amounts of champagne and port, travel the world, accumulate massive amounts of debt, and engage in outrageous exploits. All because the lot of us suffer from terminal ennui.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He kissed her as he brushed the fingers of one hand back and forth across her collarbone and caressed the nape of her neck with the other. “Peers are the lilies of the field, my sweet,” he said against her mouth. “We toil not, neither do we spin.”

She leaned back a little, her weight on her arms, looking at him with a troubled expression. “Is that what we are going to do, Rhys? Be lilies of the field?”

That was what he’d had in mind, but he could see from her expression that that idea did not appeal to her. And there was all the ducal responsibility drivel he’d stuffed her head with that day in Little Russell Street. “Of course we shan’t be idle,” he assured her solemnly. “We shall…um…do good works.”

“What good works?”

“Charities, of course.” He pulled her shirtwaist wide open and returned his attention to the delectable task of kissing her neck. “We have heaps of money,” he went on, tasting his way down to the satin and lace just above her breasts. “I promise we shall give plenty away to those less fortunate.”

He opened his hand over her breast, shaping it against his palm. Her fingers curled around his forearm but she didn’t try to stop him as he cupped and shaped it through the stiff fabric of her corset. “What charities did you have in mind?” she asked, her breathing uneven and quick.

“Any you like. Hospitals, Salvation Army, military widows…” He paused and lifted his head to press a quick kiss to her nose. “Affordable living quarters for girl-bachelor seamstresses.”

“I’d like to do something for my friends at the lodging house in Little Russell Street.”

Her voice had a breathless catch to it he found very promising. “Anything for your friends,” he said, and lowered his head, nuzzling the shadowy cleft between her breasts.

She stirred with a little moan. “I thought…umm…I thought, perhaps, we could help them somehow.” She gasped as he kissed the luscious swell of her breast just above the edge of her corset. “But they are so proud, they won’t take money.”

“We’ll find another way,” he promised, and turned his head to place a kiss just above her other breast. “So they won’t think it’s charity.”

This time when he pushed her down into the grass, she sank beneath him without resistance. “Can we help orphaned children, too?”

“Absolutely.” He opened his mouth over hers and slid his hand beneath her skirt. Through a thin layer of muslin he could feel the underlying heat of her body, and his desire burned even hotter in response. He deepened the kiss, savoring the lush taste of her mouth as he worked his hand beneath one leg of her drawers. When he slipped two fingers beneath the edge of her stocking above her garter and touched her there, the feel of her warm, silken skin nearly drove him mad.

He broke the kiss with a groan and once again began to kiss his way downward to her breasts, tasting her in small nibbles. At the same time, he caressed the sensitive skin at the back of her knee in lazy little circles.

She lifted her hands, raking her fingers through his hair, her body stirring restlessly beneath him, soft little moans issuing from her throat.

He savored the erotic sounds of her agitation, knowing she was as aroused as he. But he also remembered how he’d hurt her the first time, and he was determined that this time she would feel only pleasure. He withdrew his hand from beneath her skirts and finished unbuttoning her shirtwaist. He wanted to remove the garment altogether, but she protested so much that he left it on. When it came to her corset, however, he ignored her protests and some bit of nonsense she said about being too chubby without it.

“You’re perfect,” he told her firmly, and kissed her. “Luscious. Dancers at the Moulin Rouge would be as green as in that painting we saw—green with jealousy—if they saw you. And besides,” he added, rolling her onto her side to loosen her stays, “a woman can’t make love properly in one of these.” With the stays loosened, he was able to unfasten the front hooks and remove the satin and lace contraption altogether, tossing it aside into the grass as he once again rolled her onto her back. He leaned over her, his weight on his forearm, and dipped his head to kiss her neck.