Chapter Twenty-Two
Roxboro’s eyes had gone stormy. Murky. The streaks of gray nearly blotting out the shimmering green. He didn’t release her hand, though his tongue was no longer wrapped around her finger.
What a strangely sensual experience, having your finger bitten and sucked by a handsome duke. The ache that had started as no more than a trickle of warmth, had now taken up residence between her thighs. The sensation teased along her calves, making her toes curl inside her slippers.
“You don’t even like me,” she whispered, struggling to maintain some control over the situation.
“I’ve changed my mind. And not because you’ve been fussing over me. Well,” he shrugged. “Partially. But I liked you before, probably because you didn’t like me. That rarely happens. Everyone likes me.”
Sophia swallowed. She’d no idea that her lack of respect and ability to hurl insults would produce such an unexpected response in Roxboro. It certainly hadn’t inspired any other gentleman. She tried to pull her finger away once more but was held fast.
“You are…terrible,” Sophia breathed.
Also witty. Clever. Possessed of a teasing personality which kept Sophia…
off balance. And judging by the books in the library downstairs, all of which Barstow claimed the duke had ordered himself and read when he came to The Pillory, Roxboro also possessed intelligence.
One well-worn tome was on Roman aqueducts.
His looks and the ability to consume vast amounts of spirits were the least of Roxboro’s talents.
“I am,” he agreed. “Be awful and terrible with me.” Roxboro tugged her closer, until Sophia was sprawled partially across his lap. He moved and took her hand, pressing the palm to his chest. “Please.”
Sophia stretched her hand, feeling the play of muscles just beneath her fingertips. The lawn of his shirt failed to hide all those lovely hollows of sinew. Trailing her fingers down the expanse of his chest, her breathing quickened, because she knew what was beneath the shirt. And the sheet.
She’d bathed Roxboro when he was ill. But at the time, Sophia had been more concerned that he would die and she’d never be able to tell him—
“Your Grace.” Her fingers reluctantly curled away. “You are…recovering.” Sophia’s heart refused to stop fluttering about in her chest, like some crazed bird beating its wings. The ache became need and insistent, spreading down between her thighs.
“Alexander.” He caught her wrist.
“Alexander,” she repeated, shivering when her breasts brushed along his arm, nipples peaking as they strained and begged to be touched. “What is happening?”
“I’m attempting to seduce you, and I would appreciate your cooperation.
Don’t worry; I haven’t the strength to do too much.
Regrettably.” The tip of his nose pushed along the edge of her collarbone.
“But I want to.” His tongue flicked out, catching the lobe of her ear.
“Taste you a bit.” Teeth grazed her skin.
“Perhaps nibble.” His mouth sucked and licked down the slope of her neck.
“This is rather unexpected.”
“Isn’t it? No one is more surprised than I.” One big hand cupped Sophia’s breast, gently testing the weight before his thumb rubbed carefully along the fabric of her dress, searching and finally finding her nipple. “But I find you…pull at me, Sophia.”
“I pull at you?” The words came out in a soft moan. “Are you comparing me,” she panted. “To a hook of some sort?”
“More like a tether. Annoying but I cannot fail to follow.” A rumble of male appreciation came from his chest. “I’ll wager these are lovely.” He took hold of the small peak between his thumb and forefinger. “Pink and dewy.”
Sophia arched slightly as a furious hum traveled from her nipple, straight down the length of her body. “That feels…”
“Good. Now, lift up your skirts,” he growled, lips pressed to the corner of her mouth. “I realize I can be clumsy at times, but I’m rather good at this.”
Given his reputation, he should be.
Shaking, Sophia obeyed, moving aside the skirts of her dress until her stockinged legs came into view. “Alexander,” she gasped as those long, elegant fingers stroked the inside of her thigh.
“I’m not a Turkish lover, that’s true. But you’ll enjoy yourself.” He sucked her bottom lip between his teeth. “I promise.”
“You’re…recovering.”
“You keep reminding me,” his voice lowered to a husky purr. A finger deftly found the opening to her underthings, which was no great surprise. He could probably have her completely undressed in under a minute.
“I think this improper,” she struggled to take a breath.
The finger drew along her slit in a light, exploratory touch, teasing at the dampness there. Mama hadn’t mentioned this part of physical relations. Only instructing Sophia to lie on her back.
“I’m your husband,” his lips ghosted over hers. “Nothing at all improper about me touching you.”
“The book was quite descriptive.” Sophia let out a sigh as he caressed a particularly sensitive spot. A place that ached so desperately for his touch. “Roxboro.”
“All in due time.” Roxboro gave a wicked, deep-throated chuckle. “Patience, wife.”
“Oh,” she panted as he stroked the spot repeatedly, firm but gentle, drawing out an endless stream of sensation. Her thighs trembled, his forefinger circled her opening before slowly pushing inside.
Sophia’s eyes slid shut.
Goodness that felt…as if it might be earthshattering at some point.
Another finger joined the first, stretching along her inner walls as his thumb…
Oh yes. His thumb.
Teased at that small, excited bit of flesh hidden in her folds.
Ann called it a button, but I don’t think that’s the anatomical term.
“Sophia,” Roxboro murmured. “The next time, I’ll use my mouth here.” He tweaked the small bud. “And you’ll scream the house down.”
The very idea of Roxboro’s dark head nestled between her thighs, his mouth on her quim—lady parts—sent another trickle of wetness. She squeezed her legs together, trapping his hand.
“Alexander,” Sophia choked as her eyes flew open to see him watching her, stormy eyes focused completely on her and filled with…every thought in her head shattered.
Oh. Goodness.
Sophia broke apart, her hand covering his as pleasure, dear lord, but this was magnificent, flowed over her with sharp, brilliant intensity. The air seemed too thick to breathe, or possibly her lungs weren’t working. This was so much more than Ann had described to her. More—
Roxboro let out a soft moan into her hair. “So wild, my terrible duchess.”
Clever fingers pulled forth from Sophia another wave of pleasure, stroking a spot inside her that had Sophia shouting his name as Roxboro milked every bit of bliss from her body.
When his fingers withdrew with one final caress, the fluttering pulse of her release beginning to ease, Roxboro pulled her close to the warmth of his body.
His lips formed words along her neck, but Sophia couldn’t make out the words.
Her heart skipped once or twice before beating once more in a steady rhythm.
Roxboro’s hand possessively covered her mound.
Sated but confused, Sophia sat up, pushing away from the smell of bergamot and duke.
She attempted to regain her composure, difficult with Roxboro twisting his fingers through the hair covering her…lady parts. His cock pulsed in his lap, just beneath the sheet, poking at Sophia with insistence.
“I’m ill, Sophia. Not dead.”
She wiggled until her bottom was once more on the bed, not Roxboro. Drew her skirts down her legs. Her skin rippled with tiny pulses. This was supposed to be a marriage in name only. One forged by being compromised.
Except he didn’t compromise me.
Guilt made her legs unsteady as she came to her feet.
“I should—
Roxboro’s fingers circled her wrist, surprisingly strong for a man who’d spent the last fortnight bedridden. “You should not.” There was a somberness to him now, a sincerity Sophia wasn’t sure what to do with.
“You’ve been ill and… well, any port in a storm, isn’t that right, Your Grace.”
Sophia wasn’t sure what made her say those words, ones that reduced the last few intimate, beautiful moments to nothing but a physical release. When that wasn’t what her heart thought at all.
“Alexander,” he hissed back at her. “I want you to use my bloody name.”
“Why? You rarely use mine.”
“Untrue. Besides, I’m nearly out of names.” He shut his eyes for a moment. “Sophie,” his voice was soft, as he opened them once more, the shortened form of her name an endearment. “Come here.”
Sophia shook her head and took another step towards the door. Straightened her shoulders. Buried her heart once more for protection. “Boredom, Your Grace. I understand and do not think less of you for it.” Sophia sounded so calm. Rational. Mature.
Not the lovesick creature I suspect I’m becoming.
“Is that supposed to reassure me somehow?” he growled. “You truly believe—Sophia, if I wanted another woman in my bed, I could have one. Any one.”
“How lovely for you.”
“Very well.” Roxboro sounded so…angry. “I agree with your low opinion of me.” He closed his eyes. “You wish to be like the other women I take to my bed? Then you are dismissed,” he said with an elegant wave of his fingers. “Your services are no longer required.”
Sophia winced, falling back as if he’d slapped her. “Don’t toy with me, Your Grace.” Her voice was firm with no sign of the regret starting to seep into her skin.
I’ve ruined it. I speak before clearly thinking matters through.
“Toying? Go away.”
Opening her mouth, Sophia considered whether now was the time to admit what she’d done. Offer to—have her father approach Parliament on Roxboro’s behalf. Admit to the fraud she’d committed. But those words wouldn’t come.
“I don’t care to be your amusement until you return to London,” she said instead, before marching out of the room, careful to hide her trembling hands in her skirts. “I’ll send Stone in to see to your needs.”
*
Well, that hadn’t gone as Alexander hoped.
He looked down at his cock tenting the coverlet, too tired to do much more than will it to go down.
Sophia’s assessment of his character wasn’t incorrect, which pained him.
He was a cad when it came to women. A bit of a sot, although his longing for spirits had abated a great deal.
His character was…questionable, but Alexander enjoyed being a libertine. Or at least, he had.
Nearly being murdered changes one’s perspective.
Alexander came close to telling Sophia he’d made the decision to water down his scotch and brandy well before they’d wed, with the exception of his wedding night. The fact that he’d ruined a girl he couldn’t remember had been the catalyst for his decision. He liked having his wits about him.
And yes, he missed brandy. Scotch. Good lord, even gin. Just the taste of it.
What he didn’t miss was Oakhurst. London. Or Uncle Damon, though Alexander was curious why his uncle wasn’t at The Pillory.
“Your Grace.” Barstow appeared in the doorway. “Would you care for something to eat? Cook has made Cornish hens.”
“Yes, I’m starving.” Not only for food, but Sophia. “Where’s Stone?”
“Gone to visit his mother. As you told him to do when he refused to bring you scotch, Your Grace.”
“I’d prefer a brandy.” The argument with Sophia had left Alexander unsettled. He didn’t want to go back to the emptiness that threatened whenever she wasn’t here.
“The duchess—”
“Is a dictator. Never mind.” Alexander waved him away. “I’ll wait and have a brandy with my uncle when he arrives. Has there been any word? I take it the duchess sent for him.”
Barstow’s lips rippled, pausing before he answered. “Yes, indeed. But Lord Damon is not in London at present, Your Grace.”
“Not in town? Well, that explains his absence. My uncle likes to go off to fish for trout.” When Damon was troubled, as he surely had been in the weeks leading up to Alexander’s marriage.
His uncle wasn’t to be blamed for wanting a bit of peace and quiet, though they rarely went so long without speaking.
“Try the hunting lodge in Hampshire. There is a stream nearby full of trout.”
“Your Grace.” Barstow bowed. “I’ll send word immediately.”
“And inform the duchess that I expect her to dine with me this evening. Read to me.” Alexander knew he sounded petulant like some spoiled lord, but he didn’t care.
Sophia’s parting words and her exit made him furious.
Accusing Alexander of using her merely for amusement.
Did she think she was the only bloody woman for miles?
He could snap his fingers, and a half-dozen would arrive from the nearby village, all eager to—
Alexander tossed The Lustful Turk across the room.
“You weren’t much help,” he said to the book as it fell to the floor. “After all.”