Four Nights With the Duke Page 21

  “Don’t you think I should get an advantage because I’m fatter?”

  “No,” Charlie said. “I also deserve more time because I have a bad leg.”

  “I have a bad body,” Chuffy countered ruthlessly. “I can’t drink nearly as much as I used to be able to. No advantage on that front.”

  “Well, then,” Charlie said triumphantly. “I’m an orphan!”

  “So am I!” Chuffy exclaimed, wagging his bushy eyebrows. “Oh go on, I’ll give you a bit of a lead, purely from the kindness of my heart.”

  Charlie grinned and took off, swinging as fast as he could. Dobbie followed, barking madly.

  “A fine lad!” Chuffy said, patting Mia’s arm. He waited until Charlie was halfway up the path, and then took out after him.

  “Did I correctly understand that you were escorting your nephew to the stables in order to introduce him to Jafeer, the most violent horse I own?”

  “Jafeer is not violent,” Mia said, trying not to think about how much she wanted Vander to drop her arm and kiss her. Kiss her the way he had last night.

  He glanced down at her, eyebrow raised. “He’s not the first horse I’d choose for Charlie to ride.”

  “Ride? Absolutely not! I must speak to you about that. I’ve never even put Charlie on Lancelot. He could never ride a proper horse: perhaps a pony, a very small pony.” She gestured to a level near her waist.

  “There are no ponies that size; you’re talking about a large dog.”

  She heard the amusement in his voice and frowned. “In that case he must learn to ride on Lancelot. I’m entirely serious.”

  “As am I. Charlie has to go to school, and I mean to ensure that he’ll be the best rider at Eton by the time he gets there. We’ll send a thoroughbred along with him, so all the boys can see his prowess.”

  Mia inhaled sharply. “That’s another thing. Charlie can’t go to school, certainly not boarding school!”

  “Of course he can.”

  Vander simply didn’t understand. He hadn’t watched as Charlie grew up, or seen how cruel other people—including the boy’s own mother—had been to him. She glanced ahead and saw that Chuffy and Charlie had disappeared around the bend leading to the stables.

  “Charlie cannot—” she began.

  But she broke off when she met Vander’s eyes. They were heavy-lidded, a devastating knowledge gleaming in their depths. A knowledge of her, of what they did the night before, of what she felt like, and tasted like, and sounded like.

  The cool control in his eyes was gone, swallowed by an erotic abandon that she had scarcely learned, although her body responded instantly.

  “Charlie will enjoy Eton.” He placed his hands on her arms and drew her to him. “You left my bedchamber without saying good morning.”

  “You were sleeping,” Mia said.

  “Next time, wake me.” His expression made her weak at the knees. “As I see it, this is still part of my night.”

  “Your night?”

  “My first night.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  NOTES ON NEAR-DEATH SCENE

  ~ Flora lies dying amongst the poppies, her yellow hair & etc. Trembling, pale, her tuneful voice reduced to a prayerful murmur. Has eaten naught but an egg in the last day. Raw? Ugh. Dove’s egg? It’s splattering rain, Angel’s Tears.

  ~ Frederic has searched every lane throughout England. Too much to say that he would not long survive her death? Probably.

  ~ he gives up only a few paces from her form. White and lean, sorrow concealed, his easy graceful movements reduced to—to something.

  ~ Sinks to his knees only a few steps from her prostrate form and prays that the Almighty will give him the Dearest Hope of his heart: his Flora. “I was made bewildered and impatient by the strength of my feelings. Like a base Indian fool, I threw away a pearl worth more than all my tribe possessions.” (Another touch of Shakespeare!)

  ~ “If you restore her to me, Lord, I will become a humble attendant to her daily Lesson of Love. No matter what affections Flora awakens in the breasts of her admirers, I will respect and honor her faithful love.”

  “You don’t understand,” Mia said, trying to ignore the coaxing honey in Vander’s voice. She desperately tried to remember the important issues she had thought to discuss with him.

  When her husband looked at her with that expression, all she wanted to do was answer his craving with a kiss. Hurl herself into his arms and pull his face down to hers.

  Last night, she had felt sensuous, desirable . . . almost beautiful—and she hadn’t felt that way since she was labeled a “charity case” at fifteen years old.

  “We mustn’t do this,” she whispered, but he pulled her close.

  “A mere kiss,” he whispered back. At first he didn’t even touch his lips to hers. Instead he opened his mouth against her neck, licking her in a way that sent her mind reeling.

  She meant to turn away. She meant to say no, to break free.

  Instead she wrapped her arms around his neck and tipped her head back, delighting in the way he held her up, as if she weighed nothing, as if she were as delicate as a flower.

  Suddenly panic bloomed in her stomach. She was behaving like a wanton in front of the house, where anyone could see. The servants. Gaunt. “Stop,” she gasped. “I must go to the stables. Charlie will be waiting.”

  “Very well,” Vander said easily, his hands slipping away. “If you must go to the stables, I’ll go with you.” He took her arm and they began to walk. “And if you come,” he added, “I’ll come.”

  It took a moment, but when she grasped his double entendre Mia felt color flood into her face. “You can’t mean what you just said!”

  “Perhaps not in the front drive.” His smile acknowledged the desire between them with a frankness she could never have imagined.

  Just looking at his lips made her want another kiss. She craved more than a kiss. She wanted the bliss of last night, the way their limbs had slid over each other like water, the way his fingers had stroked her into a mindlessness where she needn’t worry about her figure or her breasts. Or anything else.

  She could just be.

  They reached the first of the stables, but rather than enter, Vander steered her around the back. “Where are you taking me?” Mia asked.

  When they were around the corner, out of sight of the house, he picked her up, braced her against the wall, and took her mouth. A craving, toe-curling hunger vibrated between them.

  Vander pulled back just enough to lick her lips, his tongue flickering against hers, driving her into a low moan.

  The sound startled her into sanity. “No!”

  “No one can hear,” he said thickly. “This building is not used as it’s too old and unsafe.”

  She succumbed. They spoke without words, just murmurs of hunger, an emotion as primitive as greed.

  As love.

  Mia scarcely noticed that Vander was hauling up her skirts; all she could hear was her own harsh breath and the way her body felt empty, waiting for him. Every touch of his hands on her legs kindled the fire in her higher until she couldn’t think straight.

  The flimsy skirts of her morning gown were no barrier. Vander pulled back, just enough to meet her eyes. One hand was curled under her bottom, but he had jerked her legs wide, around his hips.

  Mia was stunned into silence by the scalding ache between her legs. Vander was fumbling at his breeches with his other hand, but it didn’t occur to her to demur. Instead she waited, her heart beating quickly, yearning for him.

  His eyes were fixed on her mouth. “I must have you,” he said, his voice low and hoarse. “I need you again.”

  His face wasn’t beautiful now; it was savage, demanding, almost cruel. His fingers stroked her and Mia gave a little cry.

  And then he was there.

  What had been discomfort the night before was pain now . . . but exquisite pain. She gave a little gasp, her hands closing on his shoulders. He stopped instantly, his breath h
arsh, forehead against hers.

  “I’m sorry,” he growled. “Is it too soon?”

  Irrationally, the only thing Mia thought was that she didn’t want him in control so that he could think, could talk, could leave her. She leaned forward and let her tongue slide between his lips as if she’d done it a hundred times.

  At the same time, she curled her legs around his hips and forced his rigid thick length into her body. A cry burst from her throat and was swallowed by him . . . he was kissing her, but she hardly knew it. His weight pushed her legs so wide that as he pressed forward and withdrew, it sent exquisite sensations through her thighs, a fiery sensation gathering in her limbs.

  She broke the kiss when she threw back her head.

  “That’s right.” His words were more a groan than a growl, the bass note to the pumping of his hips against her. He was sliding easily now, driving her higher and higher into incoherence.

  She bucked against him when she came, a cry wrenched from her chest and swallowed by Vander’s mouth on hers. Her fingers tightened until she was clinging to him as if he were a raft in the heart of a storm, her body jerking uncontrollably, guttural ecstasy escaping her lips.

  Vander gasped something in reply, a curse, a blessing, and he began thrusting even faster, grunting with as little elegance as she had shown.

  Mia could feel him deep and hard inside her, but more than that, she knew instinctively that he was lost to himself, lost to the pleasure she was giving him. He was holding her as if he would never let her go. The thought made her legs clamp around his hips and push back toward him.

  A word fell from his lips but she wasn’t listening. Their eyes met and like that, the fire burst up her legs again. She writhed against the wall, twisting in his fierce grip, her moans fracturing in the air. The only thing in the world was the fierce weight of his body.

  The hand Vander had braced on the wall over her head came down and he pulled her head toward him, taking her mouth with a hot, wet kiss, his body jerking so hard that her backbone struck the wall.

  She’d have a bruise, but she didn’t care.

  She cared about nothing but the heat searing her body, the mouth slammed down on hers, the grunt as he pressed home one last time.

  Mia opened her eyes, finally, to discover that she was staring up at the ancient eaves of the roof above her head. Her mind tried to put pieces of herself, her inner self, back together.

  She felt as if the two of them had cracked and flown apart, broken by pleasure. Last night had been wonderful, but in retrospect, it had been civilized. This was mating: sweaty, grunting, incomprehensible.

  At least she hadn’t been alone. She risked a look at Vander’s face and saw he was stunned as she was. He withdrew slowly and lowered her to the ground; her skirts fell over legs so weak that she clung to him for fear she’d crumple.

  Last night, he had been tender and desirous, soothing her when it stung, whispering reassurances in her ear.

  Today, he had uttered only one word, a word she had scarcely registered in the instant. What was it he’d said?

  Then it came to her: greedy.

  That’s what he’d said.

  That was the word.

  She glanced down, feeling as if she were in some sort of odd dream, and watched as he buttoned up his breeches.

  Greedy. The word grew and grew until it occupied all the space in her head.

  The tingling she felt now wasn’t the pleasurable kind. “What did you mean by that?” she whispered, and then cleared her throat and elaborated, “By that word?”

  His eyes moved slowly to hers. The good thing was that he looked as stupefied as she felt. Her hair had fallen down her back. His beard had scraped her face and her neck, and her legs ached because she had clung to him with all her strength. And other parts of her . . .

  Ached too.

  “What word?” Vander asked.

  He was staring down at his wife, trying to work out what had just taken place between them. He had been with many women before; he’d sampled women as if he were at a banquet.

  He regarded women the way he regarded food: necessary and sometimes delectable, but ultimately a distraction.

  He had spent hours upon hours training a single horse. He would never spend hours on a woman. Hell, he’d never even had a mistress who lasted more than a few months. Either they wanted more, or he became bored—whichever came first.

  But he had never had an experience like this one. A moment ago everything in him had turned inside out and poured into Mia. And he wasn’t done, either. Even though he was still shaking, all he wanted was to scoop her up and head back to the house to start all over again.

  A man could lose himself in a woman like this. He could find himself tied to her, so tightly that he would go mad if she strayed.

  If she left him.

  The way his father had broken.

  “You said ‘greedy.’” Mia’s voice was hoarse.

  Bloody hell, she was beautiful. All that bright hair had fallen around her shoulders, and her skin had turned rose where his stubble had scraped it. She had that perfect nose, and pointed chin, and her eyes were exquisite.

  How had he ever thought he preferred blue eyes? He liked green eyes, dark green eyes like water tumbling in a Highland stream, reflecting pine trees.

  There was nothing sunny and sweet about Mia. She was all hidden depths and passion. Her lips were plump and red, and looking at them made him start to harden, even though he’d just poured himself into her.

  This was unacceptable.

  The feeling lent itself to what he said, sharpened his voice though he didn’t mean it that way.

  “You’re greedy for me,” he said bluntly. “I had you pinned against the wall and you wanted more. Hell, if—”

  He stopped. What was he doing, talking to a lady like that? Not just a lady, but his wife?

  Mia’s cheeks first turned red, and then pale. She swallowed so hard that he saw her throat ripple. She bent her head and hair fell across her face; when she looked back up a second later, her eyes were calm and her face empty.

  She didn’t look angry. Or hurt.

  But she was.

  Vander felt another stab of irritation about that, because he didn’t like that he could read her face. He didn’t care to wonder whether a woman was angry.

  If she was angry, she was welcome to leave. If he disappointed her, she could leave. If he asked for too much, she could leave.

  Or he could leave.

  But he was married to Mia.

  Neither of them could leave.

  And even worse, he didn’t want to go anywhere. It was as if her wedding ring strung a chain between them, because even now, after insulting her, he was hard and he wanted more than anything to take her back into his bed and fill her up.

  That feeling sent a spasm of panic through him, and he didn’t care that her face was no longer flushed and pretty and open to him, her eyes soft.

  He didn’t want a woman with an open face. Or softness in all the right places, including her eyes.

  “Some women are greedy for a cock, and men love that,” he said, stepping back and rearranging his breeches because commanding his tool to go down wasn’t working. “It was a compliment.”

  “‘A compliment,’” Mia repeated.

  She gave her skirts a shake and pulled at her bodice, which stretched the fabric against her breasts.

  He had to force his eyes away, because another streak of madness went through him. He had never made love to a woman—gone mad with lust—without even touching her breasts.

  It had to be the novelty of marriage.

  No ring would tie him to a woman, not even a woman who looked at him as if he could give her bliss. As if he had the only thing in the world she wanted—without meaning his title or money.

  She looked at him as if he were a king.

  “So, Duchess,” he said. “Let’s count that as part of last night, shall we? It needn’t be the second of our four nights.
It’s morning, after all.”

  Her eyes weren’t blank now; they were growing enraged. He welcomed it, because he could not resist her if she looked at him with aching hunger. If she looked at him that way again, as if she were greedy for him, he would follow her anywhere. Probably on his knees.

  Shit.

  “My treat,” he added, and tapped her chin with his finger.

  Her hand came up so quickly that he saw only a blur. She caught him hard across the cheek with her open hand. His head jerked back, but he welcomed the sting.

  He deserved it, taking a lady against the stable wall with no more finesse than a man takes a cheap whore.

  Gentlemen didn’t treat their wives that way. They didn’t behave like sailors on shore after a nine-month-long voyage. She had driven him mad. If she would allow it, he would have her against the wall again, her lush body cradled in his.

  He’d never seen anything more erotic than the way Mia threw her head back, lips open, when she came. There was nothing feigned about it. She’d responded with her whole body.

  Vander caught a hint of something . . . a delicious, heated hint of Mia, sweat and desire and honeysuckle. All of a sudden he was caught up in an erotic haze and took a step closer to her. Yet his words came out haltingly. “I apologize for my remarks. They were deeply inappropriate.”

  “Stop looking at me like that,” she hissed.

  He couldn’t.

  “I am not a jam tart!” The words came out in a scream.

  What?

  She was gone. Vander fell back against the stable wall, his knees weak, staring after his wife. His duchess.

  A jam tart? Where in the hell had that come from? He’d no idea, though now he thought on it, she was like a jam tart. She was like sweet treacle and he’d like to eat her up.

  Slowly his mind cleared. A memory came to him: Rotter calling Mia a jam tart years ago.

  He had been appallingly rude, far more so than Rotter. He would likely have to grovel.

  Of course he would grovel. He would make their excuses to Charlie and Chuffy, and follow her to the house.

  Now Mia wasn’t in front of him, he remembered that there were things he hadn’t done with her . . . to her. Even though he’d just come, he was throbbing, damn it. Throbbing the way he had as a boy, on the verge of an unacceptable loss of control.