Her Mystery Duke Page 4

  * * * *

  “You broke my heart.”

  She bolted to her feet and began to pace. It did no good. The words still echoed in her head, just as they had done every quiet moment and occasional sleepless night since Bernard had walked out. She closed her eyes and clamped her hands over her ears. “No, no, I never promised you anything but what was agreed upon! Your money and my willingness in bed. I never promised to love you!”

  “Thérèse?” The deep, hoarse voice carried a note of desperation. “Thérèse!”

  She rushed to lean over the bed. She laid a hand on David’s forehead.

  It was warm, but the fever had ebbed. Her energy drained, she dropped to sit on the bedside like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

  “Thérèse.” His voice cracked. It resounded in her chest like a vise closing over her heart.

  “Yes, I am here.” She heard the weariness in her voice.

  He opened his eyes and seemed to stare through her. He grasped her hand with a surprisingly tight grip. “You mustn’t run from me again.”

  His raspy tone carried such desperation. The vise in her chest tightened.

  “I won’t.” What else could she say?

  He squeezed her hand relentlessly, threatening to crush her bones. “You must promise.”

  His pain resonated in every part of her. Burning emotion pressed on her throat so hard, she could barely breathe. “Rest, David.”

  Her strangled voice sounded like a stranger’s.

  Still holding on as though his life depended on it, he gave her hand a shake. “Promise.”

  This time his tone held the steely determination of a command. And that, even more than before, seemed to speak of his desperation.

  It was so easy to say, “Of course I promise.”

  “It was my fault. All my fault.” The anguish in his voice resounded, savage and raw.

  Her eyes began to burn. His image grew a bit fuzzy. What foolishness. She didn’t even know this man. What were his sad little dramas to her?

  “It was all so damned, bloody useless.” He choked on the words and then coughed weakly.

  “No, no, it was both of our faults.” The words came tumbling out of her mouth before she could halt them.

  “I’ll be a more constant lover.”

  “Of course you will.”

  “I shall arrive early every night. Early enough to visit your bed.”

  “Of course you will,” she managed to say.

  “Will you welcome me?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were correct. I was being too…inflexible. We shall have children, as you wanted. You cannot leave me then…” As his voice drifted off his eyes closed and he seemed to fall limp against the pillow, though he’d been lying there the whole time. His mouth fell open and he gave a low groan then coughed as his hand slipped away, a heavy, horrible weight in her lap.

  Her body sagged with it. Wet sadness spilled on her cheeks. Her father’s frightened eyes were burned into her memory. That last day here at the garret. The day after he’d come at her with the knife. The orderlies were due to arrive any moment to take him. He’d known it. He’d been so afraid, gripping her hand. A sob tore up from the depths of her. Its very violence startled her out of her reverie.

  What the devil was the matter with her?

  What good did it ever do to dwell on that terrible day? She’d done what the doctors had recommended. For her safety. Papa’s madness had simply reached the point where she couldn’t attend to him on her own. Their relations had abandoned them and they couldn’t afford to hire any servants. She had done what she had to. Dr. Edmonton had been happy to help her find a suitable, affordable place for Papa in exchange for a little agreeableness in bed on her part.

  It didn’t bear dwelling on.

  She swiped at her face with the blanket’s edge. Then she pulled it up over David in one brisk tug.

  The past was in the past. Dead. What she needed to do was get something written for Mr. Ratherford while David was sleeping and she had time. Jeanne stood and pushed everything else from her mind.

  * * * *

  Jeanne sat at her desk, waiting for the words to come. Hours passed and she had nothing to show for it but wisps of unformed, meaningless vignettes. Just as they had been every day since Bernard had taken his leave of her.

  She let the quill drop from her hand. It fell to the page and rolled, leaving a feathery line upon the parchment. The lamp still burned brightly. She shouldn’t waste the oil. She should extinguish it and go to bed.

  A man was sleeping in her bed. A stranger.

  She went to his side once more.

  “Thérèse…”

  She laid a hand on his forehead. He felt warm but no worse. Yet how would she really know? The hand was not a very accurate gauge. She chewed her lip.

  He was shivering so hard now that it pained her to watch. She had been sleeping on the trundle bed these past nights. But tonight perhaps she should share her warmth with him. She untied her robe, pushed it off her shoulders, and then crawled under the coverlet in her nightgown.

  Facing his body, she touched his shoulder, feeling the rock hard resistance to her grasp. How fascinating. She’d never been with a man possessed of the like. How did a gentleman gain such fitness and for what purpose? If he awoke and fancied it, he could overpower her easily. Force her to his will.

  As if the thought gave birth to action, he rolled toward her. Her body tingled and the hairs on her nape stood up in pure apprehension.

  “Thérèse.” He slid his arm about her waist and buried his face into her hair. “You’re so warm. Always warm.”

  Jeanne embraced him, pressing herself to him, and willed her warmth to him.

  He slid his hands down to her bottom. “I adore your new curves. You were always too thin.

  She couldn’t help a wry smile. “Too thin, eh?”

  “No matter. You knew I adored you in any case.”

  His voice held a mocking humor, as though he were laughing at himself. Parts of him were not affected by the fever. His erection swelled against her belly, huge and hot. She gasped and tried to back away. But he held her in place with surprising strength, given his feverish state.

  A prickle of fear passed through her. He could overpower her if he wished. What had she been thinking to get into bed with him? He leaned closer until his breath tickled her face. A definite thrill chased down her spine.

  “Have you been a good girl?”

  Had she? Well, she hadn’t written a useful word in weeks.

  “No touching yourself in your bed?”

  The question made her want to laugh. What would a man care what a woman did in her private moments so long as she gave herself to him with regularity?

  “Thérèse.” He feathered his fingertips over her cheek. “Is he solicitous of your needs?”

  He brushed her hair back and then traced her ear. Strange heated chills shot like winter’s lightning along all her nerve ends. Dr. Edmonton had been her gentlest, most considerate lover. But David’s very touch, just the right amount of teasing pressure, spoke of a skill she had never before experienced. Never dreamed had existed.

  What must it be like to be made love to by such a man?

  His body relaxed. His breathing grew heavier. Wheezing again. A soft snore issued. Having taken heat from her body, he slept again.

  Yet his cock still throbbed against her. A hollow, hungry ache built in her loins.

  “You like to fuck as much as a man does.” Bernard’s accusing words echoed in her mind.

  All right, so it was true: she liked bedding with a man. She might have remained chaste as a nun. But she’d been forced by circumstances to share her body. To unbutton her bodice and allow men to fondle her breasts. To let their hands up her skirts, let them touch her private places. And when men did these things, they hadn’t been cruel. She’d found that she liked being touched, fondled, caressed—very much. She liked watching their erections grow and knowi
ng that they found her attractive. The too-plump girl with the shabby clothes and the raving, insane father finally had something to offer. A way to make it in the cold, uncaring world.

  Was it such a sin to find her pleasures where she could? To have lain beneath those men and taken pleasure in their rising arousal, the thrill of their cocks filling her, thrusting within her, sharing in the exhilaration of the moment of their crisis?

  Yet she’d always remained somehow cold, unable to feel more than a vicarious joy. She’d learnt to pretend a crisis of her own. Later, when she next found herself alone, she would take her release at the behest of her own hand whilst she’d recounted every moment of her carnal encounters. Her conquests.

  Wetness seeped through the thin muslin of her nightdress. David’s cock leaking against her. The feel of the heated, pulsing erection against her made all her pulses pound. Answering wetness trickled between the thickening lips of her cunt.

  Damn, of all the things. Now she would never sleep.

  He was already disturbing her peace and he wasn’t even conscious. As soon as he remembered where he belonged, then he needed to leave. She didn’t need this sort of disruption in her life.

  He simply had to go.

  Chapter Three

  David was very aware of the girl lying beside him. Beneath the scent of lavender that permeated the bedding, the stench of aged wood and paint bloomed, like mildew flourishing in the dark. But stronger yet, the scent of sleep-warmed feminine flesh.

  He couldn’t see her, but her large blue eyes and sweet, round face, and masses of golden, loosely curling, shoulder-length hair that fell from its pins as she had bent over him were burned into his mind. Nothing else resided in his memory. Just the girl.

  He didn’t know how he’d come to be here or what he was doing here. Something lingered around the periphery of his thoughts, wispy, like cobwebs. He couldn’t pull it up clearly enough to grasp it. Had he possibly drunk too much?

  He searched for his last clear recollection. He had been in his chambers at the Inns of Court. Since the open of Parliament, he’d been driving himself, trying to get enough promises for votes. Weeks where he was never without some pamphlet in his hand, frantically reading, while riding to a string of endless meetings and dinner parties. Staying up at nights, feverishly writing.

  He’d been debating all morning, one last chance to sway one or two votes. He finally had the time to steal a brief nap in his private chamber. But he couldn’t sleep. Two cups of black tea on a stomach gone empty for hours proved to have been a dreadful idea. It hadn’t settled well at all. The chamber became hot, so hot, and his cravat seemed to tighten and strangle him. Air. He had to have air. He had stood and become instantly dizzy and disorientated, and staggering outside where he had chucked his guts into the gutter like a common drunkard.

  Someone had come to aid him. Helped him into his carriage. But there the memory died.

  The bed shifted and rather ancient-sounding ropes creaked. He opened his eyes and, in the dim light, saw the girl moving in her slumber. She turned on her side to face him. The deep shadow in the valley between two very generous breasts drew his attention. Yes, he had felt their softness brushing against him as she moved to reach across his whole body when she had bathed him.

  Her face was gently rounded through the cheeks and tapered to a little pointed chin. A country girl’s face. Her skin appeared velvet smooth, dewy, like rose petals after an early morning rain. Was it possible for skin to be that soft?

  He extended his hand with the intent to touch her cheek to find out, but froze as she moaned, a sound full of such tension. Such angst. He could feel it within his own bones.

  He felt a disquieting sense of connection. But was it any wonder that he should feel connected to her? This girl had spoon-fed him and lain beside him, sharing her warmth. Good Lord, she had bathed him. Had lingered over the act, her soft, small hands grazing him as she applied the wet cloth. The cooling effect had been pure bliss. All that time he had felt her desire as though it had been a force, vibrating on the air, carrying to him.

  She had to be a harlot. How else would he find himself alone with her here in this depressing little hovel if he hadn’t picked her up someplace equally squalid? He must have been feeling adventurous indeed.

  However, he knew two kinds of harlot. They were either hardened and cold or overly bold and lascivious. But this girl’s air reminded him of a frustrated wife. Sexually repressed yet still dreaming of someone who would come and release her. Which all sounded like a lot of fanciful drivel. He must be foxed. And he was too much in need of a really vigorous fuck.

  Jeanne–yes, correct, she’d told him her name— shifted again. The coverlet fell off her shoulder. He couldn’t resist reaching out and stroking her arm with his fingertips. Puckers of gooseflesh greeted his touch. She moaned again, a low, lingering, sensual sound that teased his sleepy senses and sent lust flooding into his cock.

  He was so tired, so weak, that his arousal seemed somehow distant. His spirit floated, detached from his body and yet he was aware of every sensation, every pulse of his loins. The dichotomy of his experience left him bemused. He moved his hand up and brushed against heated softness. He cupped his hand and gently pressed. It was a magnificent breast, full, lush yet still youthfully firm for all its bountiful development.

  Thinking was definitely overrated. He somehow found himself tucked abed with an alluring young woman. What else could possibly matter? Reality would likely intrude soon enough. He was probably sleeping on that narrow, too short divan in his office.

  And if he wasn’t sleeping, well, daybreak would be as good a time as any for questions and answers. It was strange how easily he accepted that logic, but the cobwebs still hampered his mind and he was so damned weak.

  Yes, this must be a dream. Some peculiar fancy he’d not even been aware of. A desire to bed a cheap little alehouse tart in her sordid quarters. The wholly pedestrian whimsy of a gentleman who found himself closer to forty than thirty and had been jaded by luxury. How strange when he’d thought himself immune to such nonsense.

  Her nipple became firm, poking against the thin muslin like a little pebble. He longed to feel it in his mouth and he pulled himself up, his head spinning. It added to the piquancy of the moment. Then he leaned down and put his lips around the straining peak. He laved the sheer cloth until he fancied he could taste her bare nipple, like roses and honey.

  * * * *

  Sensation crept into Jeanne’s slumber. Wet warmth circled her nipple. Fire shot from that hard little point to all parts of her, especially into her lower belly. A caress on her thigh urged Jeanne to shift onto her back and part her legs. The touch glided along the inside of her thigh.

  A skilled, teasing touch.

  David.

  She didn’t want to awaken. Not fully. If she did, then she’d have to take responsibility. She’d have to think and right now she wanted only to feel.

  As she lay on her side, facing him, he stroked her mons in a feathery motion, traced the line where her mons met her thighs. A stubble-roughened cheek scarped hers. Wetness trickled from her, her folds swelled. She opened her legs, arched her hips, and pressed against his hand.

  He didn’t alter the speed of his motions but continued lightly stroking, exploring over her outer lips.

  The bed ropes creaked. A log in the hearth popped. Carriage wheels rattled by on the street outside. Long moments passed and yet he continued. Teasing her.

  Wetness flowed from her core and slid over her inner lips. Of their own accord, her hips began to dance, up and down. A long moan escaped her. A sound full of longing. Of impatience. It startled her.

  A whimper escaped past her lips.

  “Shh…” His deep voice reverberated into her bones. He stroked his finger over her slit, lightly, three times.

  “Please, please.” A shudder of self-disgust consumed her. Never, ever beg a man for anything. It only gives him power over you. The selfish jackanapes have enoug
h power as it is.

  “Don’t be so impatient.” She could hear the smile in his voice.

  She bristled all over with indignation and pulled back from his embrace then fisted her hands and beat at his chest. “You pompous arse.”

  The words came out before she could edit them.

  He stopped stroking her and laid his hand over her mons. “I know, sweeting, I know.”

  What did he know? What could he know about lying with men over and over, watching their intense pleasure, and yet never experiencing that same release with them? Only alone. Leaving her empty. Leaving her aching.

  She beat at him harder as part of herself stood back, watching, appalled. This man was ill in her bed. She was supposed to be nursing him back to health, not demanding pleasure. But she couldn’t stop.

  He shifted then grasped her wrists with each hand. “Darling, darling, don’t.”

  He held her immobilized. She could hear the faint rasp still in his breathing. Dear God, even sick, he was strong.

  “Let me go!”

  “Shh…” He leaned close and pressed his lips to her cheek. “Let me drive you to the destination. You are only to enjoy the journey.”

  Frustration rose and wild energy surged in her. She moaned and thrashed in his hold. “Let me go.”

  “Jeanne.”

  The deep, silken, sensual sound of her name on his tongue stilled her. Stunned her.

  He knew it was her. Not his Thérèse.

  She held her breath and stared at him but in the darkness she could only make out the white of his eyes, the midnight-black forelock falling over his brow, and the shadowed contours of his cheekbones and jaw line.

  She struggled against his restraint but he held her firmly. She’d never faced the situation where a man sought to actually control her bodily. It should have frightened her. But her limbs seemed to weaken and her belly fluttered with the most interesting thrills.

  He seemed to notice the lessening of her resistance for he released one of his hands and shifted to clasp her wrists in one large hand. “Let me have my way in this.”