Four Nights With the Duke Page 19

  Not for just any woman.

  For her.

  “Mia?” He leaned forward and kissed her, swift and hard. “Can we agree about your hair and move to points farther south?”

  “I thought you hated my hair.”

  “Why on earth would you think that?”

  “You said it was like my father’s. Actually, you referred to him as my ‘blasted father,’” she clarified.

  Vander brought a handful of her hair forward, his strong brown fingers entangled in it. “I will never be fond of your father. But . . . Chuffy revealed a few things tonight that I—at any rate, I must give it some thought. Your hair is like sunshine. And your breasts are truly stupendous.”

  She stiffened. “I don’t wish to talk about them.” Back when Oakenrott had labeled them cabbages, they had been large for her age, but now they were larger still. Stupendous was one word for them.

  But he persisted, asking again, “Why not?”

  “I just don’t. I think we should wait,” she said, babbling a bit. “A bride should . . . A bride should look entirely different when . . . when intimacies . . .” Her voice died away because Vander’s lips were sliding across her cheek, coming ever closer to her mouth.

  “Go on,” he said, “tell me more about what you think should happen.” Rather than wait for a reply, though, he kissed her again. His kiss was rough and sweet, and his urgency made her melt against him helplessly.

  Sometime later she opened her eyes. They were lying down again, and Vander’s hands were sliding up her legs. His eyes were on hers, waiting to see if she approved. “You make me so fucking hungry,” he growled.

  Mia had overheard that word shouted by street sweepers and once, memorably, growled by her father, but no one had ever said it to her. “Did you say that word?”

  “I did.”

  “You—you can’t say things like that!”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re a duke and I’m—”

  “You’re my duchess.” His hand went higher, skimming over her thigh. She shivered under his touch. Her legs fell open because that part of her was burning.

  He made a groaning noise. “I’m not much of a duke, Mia. You should know that by now. My mother was known as a whore the length and breadth of England by the time I got to Eton. I had to fight my way through school. My only friend was a bastard.”

  Mia froze, horrified. “The boys spoke to you about your mother’s behavior?”

  He grinned as if she had asked the silliest question imaginable. “They generally didn’t speak; they just called me names. And I answered them with my fists.”

  “Oakenrott,” she said with disgust. “That loathsome little toad.”

  “How did you—” He stopped. “I forgot that you know precisely what Rotter is like.”

  His hand had reached the roundest part of Mia’s thighs and she was fighting an impulse to moan. Anything that would encourage him to move his hand higher, to the place between her legs that was waiting for his touch.

  He smiled as if he knew what she was thinking, and his fingers slid right between her legs. Mia squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated on the aching darkness behind her eyelids, and the fact that her hands clutched arms hard with muscles.

  She wondered for a second if this touch was permissible between a lady and gentleman, and pushed the thought away. She had no one to ask. And she didn’t want him to stop.

  In fact, she thought of allowing her legs to fall open and pulling his large body on top of her. That image was so shocking that she stayed absolutely still, not moving a muscle.

  “I love touching you, Mia,” Vander growled, his voice low, guttural but sweet. “I intend to kiss you there too.”

  Her eyes flew open. “No, you will not!”

  He laughed, and his fingers swirled and pressed. Mia’s head fell back again and she let out a sound that no lady would allow to pass her lips.

  Vander rolled on top of her, all his delicious weight holding her down. He began kissing her so fiercely that his hunger soaked into her body, taking all her restraints, taking away her claim to be a lady.

  Before she knew it, she was shuddering all over, her hands clenched tight around his forearms, begging without words.

  And then begging with words, because she was bursting into flames and he was the only person who could help her.

  But he stopped. Why had he stopped? She whimpered, looking at him through eyes dazed with desire. She was wound tighter than a spool of wire, vibrating like a note so high that it barely struck the ear. “Mia,” he growled, “ask me for one of your four nights.”

  “Wh—what?”

  His hand took up that rough caress again.

  “Don’t stop,” she whispered.

  “Is this to be one of your four nights?”

  Something unraveled in her heart, destroying the last of her defenses, the final shard of sanity she possessed. “Yes! It is, it is.”

  What he said in response . . . what he did . . . was blasphemous. Miraculous. She felt like a river, liquid, rushing to a destination outside her control. She clung to him, crying out, her body clenching around his probing fingers as his thumb dragged over her soft flesh, setting it on fire.

  The only thing that mattered was the stark lust that shimmered in the air around both of them. Vander was driving her to a pleasure greater than she could have imagined.

  She hadn’t quite got there when he bundled her skirts around her waist and, as if he were her maid preparing her for bed, began swiftly undressing her. As she would to her maid, Mia mindlessly obeyed his requests, her breath coming in little pants, her brain muddled by desire. Raise your arms, Turn on your side, Twist the other way.

  Her corset was tossed to the floor. It was only when he tried to remove her chemise that she came back to herself and clamped her arms across her chest.

  “No.” She’d used the word thousands of times, but never under these circumstances. It came out with a kind of sultry intimacy that she’d never heard from her own lips. Or anyone else’s, either.

  In response, Vander stood and pulled his shirt over his head. She pushed up on her elbows, openly staring. When she was a girl, she used to sit on the fence and watch him working with horses, surreptitiously feasting her eyes on his chest. He hadn’t even been fifteen years old.

  It was all different now.

  What had been a youth’s sinewy leanness had filled out into a grown-up male beauty that made her tremble. His face was set in ferocious lines of need and his eyes roamed over her body without the slightest distaste. He bent down and pulled off his breeches, standing squarely before her, flaunting himself.

  Her eyes widened. This was entirely different than seeing him in his smalls, when she proposed marriage.

  Vander grinned at her with a purely male pride. “Is it the first time you’ve seen a man in the flesh?” he purred. He came down on all fours over her. This was truly happening.

  Vander was about to make love to her.

  She had the vague sense that she was expected to exhibit virginal apprehension, but she felt none. She wanted to touch him all over, wind his thick hair around her fingers, pull his mouth down to hers.

  Of course she couldn’t behave like that. She had to rein in this unfamiliar wantonness. So she reached up to him, but in a ladylike way, putting her hands delicately, loosely around his neck, sliding them to his shoulders with the hope that caress was appropriate. “Shouldn’t we douse the lamp?”

  Warm muscles slid beneath her fingers as he shrugged. “Why?”

  Because darkness was more modest, she thought. But what part did modesty play in bedding, when a man put his fingers in such private places, and teased those pleading sounds from a woman’s mouth?

  Who could be modest after that?

  It was too late.

  Mia abruptly decided to abandon her plans for ladylike restraint. She surrendered to curiosity and slid her hand down his chest to reach the part of him that strained toward her.


  He stifled a groan as she ran a finger down his length and, with a quick glance at him for approval, curved her hand around him. He was thick, hot and silky.

  A curse, dark and guttural, wrenched from his throat. Likely every man thought he possessed the largest tool a woman had ever seen. And because society demanded that a lady never admit to intimacies of any sort, these delusions of grandeur were never dispelled.

  Still, she could hardly imagine anyone larger than Vander. It would be impossible. It was impossible now.

  The thought brought a chill down her spine and she felt a pang of fear. “What do we do now?” she asked, bringing her hands back to his shoulders. She was on her back, legs together, and he had a knee on either side of her hips.

  The whole situation was embarrassing, and the lovely warmth she had in her stomach began to drain away.

  “Is the rule about not touching your breasts still in place?”

  Mia withdrew her arms from around his neck and crossed them over her breasts. Maybe she would start to wear her corset under her chemise to hold them in a bit. Glancing down showed that her breasts looked even larger from this perspective. She felt a lurch of disgust in her stomach.

  He sighed. “I’ve never made love to a woman wearing clothing before.”

  Her turn to raise an eyebrow. “Really? I thought that gentlemen were always taking women into back alleys and tupping them against the wall?” She meant her tone to be sardonic, but somehow it came out a little intrigued.

  “I have not had that particular pleasure,” he said, after a telling moment of silence. “But I’d be delighted to experiment, Duchess.”

  “No!” she spluttered.

  He lowered his head and his lips drifted across hers. “Fair warning: in lieu of a back alley, I propose to make you scream my name. I’m tired of being Your Grace’d.”

  Mia felt another chilly bolt of panic as Vander pulled her legs apart. He lowered his head, and dropped a kiss on her inner thigh. “That’s inappropriate!” she whispered urgently.

  He lifted his head, eyes devilish. “How do you know?”

  “I . . .” His lips caressed skin, closer to the heart of her.

  This was too intimate. It was one thing if he put that part of himself inside her. She could turn her head, or—or something. But she had a terrible feeling that if he kissed her there, she would lose what remained of her self-control.

  It would be worse than when he touched her. She wouldn’t be herself; she would be turned inside out by desire, ravished, begging him . . .

  She was not wrong.

  Without warning, he lapped at her and she screamed. His mouth was wet and ravenous, and set Mia on fire like a spark landing on a pile of dry kindling.

  She couldn’t think. She could do nothing but twine her fingers in his hair. Even his warm breath against her flesh made her shudder. She let go of Vander’s hair because her fingers curled, and her toes curled. Everything in her was tightening, launching her like a boat to some distant shore.

  And then it was happening; she slammed out into deep water, sensation rushing over her. Vander was urging her on, his voice smoky. She heard him dimly, realizing only later what he was saying.

  And she . . . that wave brought her back to where she’d been years ago: in love. In love with Evander Septimus Brody.

  So mad with love that she had written him a poem, had dreamt of him entering her moonlit room.

  He was rising over her, pushing her legs further apart, whispering something . . . an apology? Pushing into her.

  It was a possession her body welcomed, even though it was uncomfortable. Perhaps more than uncomfortable. Abruptly her mind slammed back into clarity and she stopped him with both hands to his chest. “No!”

  Alarm had replaced every other emotion. Something was wrong. He was too large, like a cork that didn’t fit a bottle.

  His words were strangled. “Duchess, you can’t stop me now.”

  “It doesn’t fit,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “We are not compatible. You’ll have to—” She shoved at his shoulders. “Take yourself off. It’s not working.”

  He took a breath, didn’t move.

  Mia felt a primitive surge of fear: “Get off me,” she cried. “Didn’t you hear me? It doesn’t fit.”

  To her utter fury, a flash of amusement went through his eyes. “Are you certain?” he asked silkily. “Because it feels damned perfect to me.”

  “Don’t swear!” she cried, beside herself. Then she realized what he was doing, rocking slightly as he spoke, slipping in further. And further. “Stop that,” she said, between clenched teeth.

  He was braced on his arms, over her. She smelled something heady: a man’s sweat, combined with an elusive touch of leather and fresh air. Vander’s eyes were intense blue slits, and she grasped that he was exerting tremendous self-control not to push forward.

  Mia cleared her throat. “Let’s try again at a later date,” she suggested. Such as never, her mind supplied.

  He nudged forward again. “Is it painful?” he asked, his eyes intent on hers.

  It felt intrusive. Too much. Too wide. Too fast. “It isn’t painful, exactly, but it’s just not right. We’re not compatible. You’re too large and too close.”

  “May I move a bit more?” he whispered back. “You’re driving me mad, Mia. I’ve never felt anything like it.” He nudged forward again and as she watched, his pupils dilated and his head dipped so that strands of hair brushed her face.

  Just like that all the heat bubbled up in her again. And just like that, he no longer seemed intrusive and too large, but like a part of her body that had been missing until now. He was both foreign and intrinsic to her.

  Tentatively, she tilted her hips, and though he hadn’t moved, the thick length of him came into her a bit more. Breath came harshly between his lips. “You,” he whispered. “It’s up to you, Mia.”

  A dark undertow of desire pulled her down, teasing her, taunting. She braced her knees, and slowly, slowly pressed upward. Her body shook, but it had nothing to do with pain.

  Her body and his . . .

  They were two halves of the same whole.

  Vander made that inarticulate noise again, and she caught sight of his face: beautiful, voracious, raw. It fired her blood, dragged her under. With a wild cry, she pushed up, pulling him down at the same moment, seating him fully in the softness of her body.

  His response was carnal, as his body surged into motion. Mia gasped, trying to learn the rhythm of the dance, an urgent, hard, pounding dance. She barely mastered it and she was shooting down that same river again, clinging to him, arms around his neck, legs curving around his hips, head back, being pulled faster and faster . . .

  She finally let go with a scream, surrendering to the deep pleasure that washed over her, her fingernails digging into the thick muscles of his shoulders.

  Dimly, she heard a harsh noise come from his lips and he pumped again, once, twice more, pressed into her so far that there was no place where he stopped and she started.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  From Miss Lucibella Delicosa to Mrs. Petunia Stubbs

  September 11, 1800

  Dear Mrs. Stubbs,

  I write in response to your letter of June 17, informing me that you plan to name your unborn daughter—if she is a daughter—after one of my heroines. I am truly honored to think that you have read Esmeralda, or Memoirs of an Heiress over twenty times. And I am deeply moved to know that my books helped you overcome the tragedy of your mother’s death.

  I generally hesitate to offer advice, but since you express the fervent wish that your future daughter resemble my heroine in every particular, I do want to point out that Esmeralda’s appearance might lead one to think that the hero loves her for that reason. It is not so: he loves Esmeralda for her loving spirit, kind heart, and courageous disposition.

  It is my hope that your daughter will have those attributes of Esmeralda, as they will give her a much hap
pier life than if she resembles my heroine’s appearance.

  I wish you and Esmeralda all the best in life,

  Miss Lucibella Delicosa

  Mia woke suddenly, the way she used to jerk awake when Charlie was a baby and she heard a wail from the nursery.

  Vander lay on his back, his face turned away from her, the sheet barely covering his hips. Dawn was creeping into the room, just enough that it clung to the contours of his body, as if the glow originated within him. Bands of muscle marched across his belly in perfect order.

  If she dared, she would have traced each band with her fingers, investigating how they knit to his back and shoulders, linking to burly arms stained brown by the sun.

  His body was the opposite of hers. There wasn’t a bit of fat on him; his body was like stored motion, shaped to conquer men and pleasure women. Her fingers itched to caress him, feel all that untamed strength under her hands . . . lying still at her command. She imagined him quivering as she drove him to make the unguarded, rough sound that had come from his throat the night before.

  She snatched her hand back just in time. She had already made a fool of herself. It would be different if they were better matched.

  The dissimilarities between them couldn’t be more obvious. It was unnecessary to glance down: Her knees were plump and her thighs were plumper. There must be muscle somewhere in her legs, because she managed to stand and sit and walk, but they certainly weren’t visible to the naked eye.

  Thank goodness, he hadn’t argued with her about her chemise, though it didn’t hide very much in the growing light of morning. She could see her nipples and the curve of her belly through the cloth.

  Lower, where her chemise was still hitched up around her hips, she saw rusty stains on her leg. And on the sheets, she saw with some dismay. Susan—and the rest of the household—would have no doubts about what had happened the night before.

  She wiggled backward cautiously, reaching her toe down to touch the floor, eyes on Vander. He breathed slowly, his arms flung out, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He slept like a man who owned the world, a duke whom everyone desired. It was another dissimilarity between them: she always slept in a ball, tightly coiled.