Dark Duke Page 3

  He must be crazed, truly crazed, to even think on it.

  The gripping sketch of his wounded countenance lingered in his brain. If she could do that, if she could see through to his soul and bring it to life on paper—

  “And then he got stuck. In the tree. So I had to rescue him.”

  Lord. She’d been talking. He’d missed the entire explanation. No matter. The question had been purely rhetorical.

  “How long have you been drawing?”

  She winced, clutched the book to her breast. He recalled what fine breasts they were. “I… What?”

  “How long have you been drawing? You’re quite good.”

  “You looked at my book?” She squawked as though he’d just admitted to peering up her skirts. The lemony face returned. A beetled brow and pursed lips. It was, upon reflection, rather adorable.

  “It was lying here.”

  “You shouldn’t look at someone’s sketchbook.”

  “You shouldn’t leave it where it can be found.” He crossed his arms over his chest and grinned at her. Damn, he loved her accent.

  She sputtered. “I told you. Hamish and Tay—”

  “Tay?”

  “Taylor. Hamish and Taylor were building a fort in a tree—”

  “Yes. Yes. I know. You had to rescue him. Tell me, have they always been this much trouble?”

  She blew out a breath. “You have no idea.”

  They both laughed. It was a nice moment, because it seemed, for that brief flash of time, they were friends, bound in mutual misery.

  And then he went and ruined it by letting his lust intrude. “So tell me, what did you think of that book?”

  She tipped her head. “What book?”

  “The one I gave you last night.”

  She blinked several times, as though she had to try very hard to remember. “Oh. That book. I didn’t read it.”

  He stepped closer. “Ah. You like to look at the pictures, then?” He knew the sort.

  “Look at the… What? No, Your Grace—”

  “Edward.” He infused his voice with a low thrum.

  “Your Grace. I didn’t have a chance to open it.”

  Why petulance curled within him, he had no clue. “What do you mean you didn’t have a chance to open it?” She was supposed to have read it. Or at least looked at the pictures. She was supposed to be gazing at him, right now, with a dewy look.

  She brushed an invisible speck from her skirt. “There was…a distraction.”

  Well hell. “What kind of distraction?”

  Her lips pursed. The look she shot him was not dewy in the slightest.

  Still, he wanted to kiss her.

  He wasn’t sure why. She was certainly not the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. But her face had character and charm—especially when she smiled. Her figure was full—the way he liked them—but she didn’t show it off to its best effect. In fact, if he hadn’t known what lay beneath the thick layers of crinoline and bombazine, he would have been fooled. She was prickly as a hedgehog and smacked him down at every turn.

  So why did he want to pull her into his arms and smother her mouth with his?

  Perhaps because of all those things.

  Then again, perhaps just because.

  So he did.

  He took the girl—whose name he could not remember, whose face he could not forget—into his arms and kissed her. It was a gentle buss, as kisses went, but extremely sublime. Because he’d surprised her.

  Her lips were open, as though poised to speak. He took full advantage, sweeping in his tongue to dab at hers, nibbling and licking and tasting her sweet breath.

  The prick at his side was not a surprise. He’d expected it.

  He lifted his head and stared down into her eyes. Her expression was dazed and determined and perhaps a little dewy. “Not this time, darling,” he murmured. He took the knife from her hand and tossed it aside and then pulled her more fully against him.

  And ah. She was soft. Sweet. Her breasts pressed against his chest. Her hips molded the cradle of his groin. Of course, he was the one doing the molding, but she didn’t fight him.

  No. She sighed and tipped her head to the side so he could deepen the kiss. She tasted like ambrosia. A tantalizing flavor of cinnamon and woman and surrender. His ardor rose, and with it, his cock. He rubbed it against her belly.

  She stiffened and tried to push away, muttering something into his mouth that sounded like, “No.”

  He changed his tack, running his lips down her cheek and along the line of her jaw to nestle in the crook of her neck. She shuddered. Some groan-like sound emanated from her throat. She clutched at his hair.

  Thusly encouraged, he sucked at the tender skin of her neck. Nipped.

  “Oh! Saints preserve us,” she whispered.

  “The saints don’t care,” he responded, switching to the other side of her neck. He found a spot that delighted her even more and feasted there. In her distraction, she didn’t stop the palm skimming over her ribs to cup a breast.

  He encased her. Ah. Exquisite. Full and round and pliable. He thumbed a nipple, testing its rigidity. She dipped as her knees gave way. He caught her. Swung her up in his arms and carried her to the bench.

  From long experience, he knew better than to give a woman a moment to think. So as soon as he had her settled across his lap and firmly braced against the wall of the folly, he kissed her again. With one hand, he stroked her nipples while with the other, he slowly drew up her skirts.

  Why there needed to be so many layers of petticoats, he could not fathom, but he managed to find his way through the morass. He set his palm on her thigh and redoubled his attack on that particular spot at her nape. She threw back her head and gasped and cooed as he tormented her. And as he did, as her passion rose—so did his palm.

  When he found her curls, they were wet.

  A great shudder passed through him at the discovery. He stroked them once, then twice, then slipped deeper. She wailed when he touched her pearl, that hard, slick button.

  God, she was responsive. He’d known. Somehow, he’d known she would be. He rubbed harder, alternating between hard strokes and tantalizing circles until she panted and wriggled on his lap. The pressure of her hip against his cock was excruciating, but he loved it. Because he knew soon, oh so soon, that cock would be sinking deep and receiving the benefit of all those delicious wriggles.

  But first, he had to make her come.

  And she was close. So close.

  As a man of experience, Edward could tell.

  He knew instinctively when she was ready to be broached. Her legs spread, only infinitesimally but enough for him to notice. Her muscles quivered, her grip on his scalp tightened. Her breath became short and shallow, her wails wild.

  He brushed his lips over hers, teasing, back and forth, until she grasped his ears and held him still and consumed him. Consumed him.

  He thrust two fingers inside.

  And froze.

  Two things caused his brain to seize. First was the incredible heat and tautness of her cunt. Hellish shivers took him at the thought of plunging his cock into that tight sheath. The second realization was the fact that there was no barrier. No hymen.

  She was not a virgin.

  He hadn’t even realized the possibility had been holding him back—he couldn’t recall having such a chivalrous instinct before—until all doubt was removed. He was not sure why, but didn’t bother to ponder on it.

  That she was a woman of the world changed everything.

  She was fair game.

  Ruthlessly, he went to work on her, exploring her silken walls, hunting for the bundle of nerves deep within. He found it—he knew when she lurched and flailed and cried out, when she affixed her mouth to his neck and feasted. He found that bundle and grazed it, scraped it, rubbed it.

  She came around him. Tightened until he couldn’t even move inside her.

  Good God.

  Her body contracted then loosened as
the swell of her orgasm rose and fell. He paced her, easing in and out, increasing her torment, ratcheting up the tension again and again.

  And holy hell. She came. Again and again.

  He pulled back and stared down at her face. She was exquisite in her bliss. Her eyes glowed, tiny tears glazed her lashes. Her face was soft, her muscles slack. Her lips were pursed, but not in a disapproving manner. Yes. She looked decidedly dewy.

  Decidedly delicious.

  He eased his fingers from her still quivering sheath and wiped them on her petticoats. His body thrummed. His cock ached. His balls were tight little nuts burning for release. He needed to be in her. He needed to be in her now. He fumbled with the buttons on the placket of his trousers.

  “Kaitlin! Kaitlin!”

  He winced as a young, high-pitched voice wafted toward them on the breeze. It came from not far away.

  Just in time, Edward yanked down her skirts and covered her bare legs.

  A small dark-headed boy with rampant curls and a raft of freckles burst around the side of the folly and flew up the steps. “Kait— Oh, there you are.” He stopped and stared. “What are you doing to Kaitlin?”

  Kaitlin. Her name was Kaitlin.

  It was good to know the name of the woman one had just brought to ecstasy.

  It was better to not be interrupted.

  She wrenched from his lap—damn, he hated the cold plaguing him in her absence—and brushed down her skirts. “Hamish. There you are. We were looking for you.”

  Hamish was not one to be cozened. Or deterred. He propped his fists on his hips and put out a lip. “No you weren’t. I was at the tree waiting for you.” He glared at Edward. “What were you doing to Kaitlin?”

  Edward stood and straightened his waistcoat, though it hardly needed straightening. He propped his fists on his hips and put out a lip and fixed the urchin with a very ducal perusal. And said the only thing that came to mind. “Tickling her.”

  Kaitlin gave a delicate snort. He didn’t glance at her because he was busy being ducal. He needed to get rid of this little scamp, and now, so he could continue what nature so adamantly insisted he finish. He glared at the boy, willing him to vacate the folly.

  A dark brow wrinkled. As did a ridiculous button nose. “Tickling her? That’s stupid.”

  “Quite so.” He tugged on his waistcoat again. Glared some more. “Isn’t there somewhere you should be, boy?” His ardor was diminishing by the second.

  Hamish glared right back. “No.” He turned to Kaitlin. “You’re not ticklish.” An accusation.

  Her mouth opened. And closed. And opened again. Nothing came out but a tiny “eep”. She met Edward’s gaze, a help me look on her face.

  She was, in a word, adorable. He found he was unable to maintain his officious mien, and chuckled.

  Her lips twitched, then curled. A strangled peep escaped. Then a snort. And then a laugh.

  Then they both doubled over and howled with glee as Hamish looked on, a befuddled look on his little face.

  When he stomped his foot and growled, “I fail to see what is so amusing,” they collapsed together on the bench, Edward holding his sides and Kaitlin with tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “H-Hamish, darling,” she finally sputtered, when she regained some semblance of control. “Did you want something?”

  His face puddled up as he thought, and then he remembered. “Yes. Tay is stuck in the tree now. You need to come and help him down.”

  “Oh Hamish,” she sighed. “Again? Perhaps you should find a smaller tree.”

  The boy grabbed her hand and tugged. “Come along, Kaitlin.”

  In the end they all went, and Edward climbed up through the thick branches and found Tay, clinging to a bough, and carried him down. They all traipsed to the house together, but Kaitlin slipped away while Edward was tending to a scraped knee. He watched her disappear with only a tiny flash of regret.

  The moment had passed, scuttled by riotous guffaws.

  He couldn’t think of a better way to lose an opportunity. There would be other moments. Other opportunities.

  She was here beneath his roof.

  She was extraordinarily sensuous.

  She was not a virgin.

  That was all that mattered.

  Chapter Four

  Mercy.

  Kaitlin collapsed on her bed and stared up at the ceiling.

  What had he done?

  It had started as a kiss, a small, meaningless kiss—although she suspected it had never been meaningless—and went so quickly to something else. The duke—Edward—had stroked and plucked and molded her breasts and delight had shot through her. Her sanity had fled.

  She’d lost her mind.

  Yes.

  That was it. She’d lost her mind.

  It was the only explanation.

  Dougal had kissed her, and many boys before him. She’d never once felt like that.

  And then, when Edward had slipped his hand between her legs and fondled her, heavens, it had been wonderful and warm and—wet.

  She couldn’t even think on the sensations that had rocked her when he pushed his fingers inside. Even now it made her tremble, made her temperature rise.

  Pleasure. Pure, unadulterated, scalding pleasure.

  What had he done?

  It hadn’t been like that with Dougal. It hadn’t been anything like that with Dougal. Oh, it had been pleasant enough, the kisses, the caresses. But then Dougal had pressed her down in the moss and raised her skirts and pushed himself inside her. The pain had been excruciating; he’d made her bleed.

  Fortunately, the torture hadn’t lasted long. A few seconds. Then he’d collapsed on her, wheezing and drooling a little.

  It hadn’t lasted long, but it had been enough to ruin her chances at marriage—because then Dougal had gone and shared the news of his conquest with all and sundry.

  No, the pleasure had definitely not been worth the cost. She’d made a bad bargain there.

  But this—Holy Mother.

  This had been worth any cost. And more.

  What on earth had he done?

  Her encounter with Dougal had left her dreading any further entanglements with men.

  Edward left her panting for more.

  She was sure there was more. She couldn’t imagine what would have happened if Hamish had not interrupted their tryst.

  Well. Perhaps she could.

  Oh. What would that have been like? She shuddered.

  A thought speared her and she sat bolt upright. She grabbed the book on the nightstand. The book he’d given her.

  What kind of book could it be? “Read it when you’re alone,” he’d said. “Think of me,” he’d said.

  She tipped the slim volume on its side and read the title. The Instruction by Lord Hedon. An odd title.

  She leaned back against the headboard and opened the book and began to read.

  It did not take long for her to realize this was no ordinary book.

  It was also not for decent eyes. Thank heaven she was a fallen woman—twice now, or nearly so—because the book was stimulating. It was very well written. Amusing and clever and it drew her in. She was well into the first chapter before the penny dropped. And when it did, she couldn’t stop reading. She was mesmerized.

  The Instruction was the tale of a young harem girl, Asha, who had been sold to a wealthy sheik. Kaitlin could certainly identify with that plot. The sheik had very particular tastes, the girl was told, and she must be trained to please him.

  Kaitlin turned a page and found a plate. Her breath hitched. Oh heavens. It was an illustrated book.

  The picture showed Asha standing in a large chamber, surrounded by robed men. She wore only a short jacket that barely covered her breasts and a pair of blowsy pants riding low on her hips. The caption read, Sold!

  The story went on, telling of Asha’s journey to her new home, her grooming—which made Kaitlin’s brows rise—and introduced the sultana, who ruled the harem, the eunuchs
who guarded it and the kadin, the sheik’s third wife, who was in charge of training the slaves. First, Asha was taught how to prepare her body for his use. At this detailed description, Kaitlin’s eyes went very wide, her body restless.

  Halfway through, she set the book on the bed and got up to lock the door. Licking her lips, she found the beginning of the section and read it again.

  “Touch yourself,” the kadin ordered.

  Asha winced. Embarrassed. Unsure.

  “Go on. Do it.” The kadin guided her hand across her naked belly and down to her freshly shorn curls. Deeper, into her slit. Oh, how slick and wet she was. “That’s it,” the kadin murmured. “Rub that little pearl.”

  Wrenching up her skirts, Kaitlin read the section again, this time, mimicking the action in the book.

  “Good. Good. Little circles.”

  Kaitlin gasped as she followed suit.

  “Now, stroke your breasts. Yes. How does that feel?”

  Asha sighed. It was wonderful. Her nipples were swollen and fat and tender. The kadin scraped a nail over one and she winced with pleasure.

  “Faster. Faster. Yes. Now pinch your nipples. Tug on them.”

  Shards of delight shot through Kaitlin as she did as the harem trainer commanded of the slave. Saint’s have mercy, she’d never imagined—

  “Now, ease your fingers inside.”

  Asha stilled. Surely she couldn’t do that.

  At her hesitation, the whip fell on her hip. Not a harsh lash, like the one she’d received when she arrived, but a warning. Still, it sent a thrill slicing through her body.

  Kaitlin paused, thrown out of the story for a moment. How could the lash of a whip be thrilling? She decided to pass over that bit and continue on, because now Asha had refused to obey and the kadin wrenched her to her feet and led her to a small bench with a long, thin obelisk on the seat.

  “You shall be punished for your refusal, slave.”

  A shudder walked through Kaitlin. She blinked in surprise. Why would the prospect of a punishment cause that reaction? Oh, this was a naughty, naughty book indeed.