Chapter 11
Letitia knew that she should likely put this at the very top of the list of stupid things she’d done in her life, but as she felt the warm, wet press of the Duke of Rutley’s mouth against hers, she could not think that this was anything but a brilliant idea.
“This is a mistake,” she said aloud, mostly to try to convince herself, even as she wound her arms around the duke’s neck.
“Yes,” he agreed, bringing an arm around her waist, pulling her up and toward him until her breasts were crushed against his chest. “We said we wouldn’t do this again.”
“It’s a bad idea,” she said, running her fingers through his hair.
“Completely terrible,” he agreed, leading them backward until he could sit in his chair again. Their lips never parted as he guided her to climb atop his legs, her knees on either side of his hips.
“We should stop,” she breathed as this new angle made it easier for him to kiss his way across her jaw, down the column of her throat, then back up to the place where her pulse thrummed. He sucked lightly there, nipped at her skin, then soothed the bite with a hot swipe of his tongue.
“Stop then,” he whispered into her skin. His hands were at his sides now; he wasn’t holding her there. The choice was entirely hers. She could walk away—she trusted that he would let her.
Instead, she pressed herself closer, dropping her weight so that her center pressed against his lap—against the hardness that was rapidly forming there.
“Fuck,” he groaned, his head tipping back against the chair. “Letitia. Hell...”
Letitia had grown up as a relatively unprotected girl, then spent years working as a member of staff in aristocratic households. She had heard her name associated with all manners of filth before. Usually, it made her skin crawl.
But, for some reason, hearing the duke—hearing Ezra—say her name like this, like it was a sort of prayer, in that tormented, carnal tone…
It made her feel hot and slick between her thighs.
She’d always been wary of men, so she had not been tempted to take one to her bed, even when other maids had gossiped gleefully about their dalliances with this footman or that butcher’s apprentice.
She had explored what they’d meant when they giggled about the kind of pleasure that a woman could seek on her own.
After all, she was a full thirty years old.
That was probably the only kind of pleasure she was likely to find.
Her body knew what it wanted as she ground her center against his hardness, her lips, tongue, and teeth tangling with his. They held on to each other as if this moment might slip away if they weren’t careful, as if they were stealing this time from eternity and dared not let it go.
“Oh, fuck, yes, Letitia,” he moaned into her mouth. “Yes. Take what you need from me.”
“I am no gentle-bred lady,” she reminded him, gasping and arching as one of his hands came up to clutch her breast through the fabric of her dress. “Nobody kept me pure and sheltered for an aristocratic husband.”
He made a low, growling sound in the back of his throat. Her pleasure was building inside her as she moved, aided by the way one of his hands came down to her arse to give the motions a bit more force.
“You are bloody divine, is what you are,” he breathed into her. “The most goddamned bloody gorgeous thing—”
She let out a sharp cry as, suddenly and unexpectedly, her pleasure peaked, crashing over her and pulling her into its grip so strongly that, for a moment, she could not see or hear anything. When she came back to herself, the duke—Ezra, Ezra—was looking at her like she was wondrous.
For three perfect seconds, she felt wondrous.
And then she remembered herself. She remembered that she needed this position, that Sarah needed this position.
She remembered that letting gentlemen see her as a woman was always a mistake, even if they didn’t seek to take advantage.
She remembered that she cared for Iris, even after so little time, and didn’t want to do anything that would take her away from the girl.
She scrambled off Ezra’s lap.
He was still hard beneath his trousers; she could see it plain as day.
Even without that, he would have looked utterly debauched.
His hair was a disaster, his clothes rumpled.
She thanked every star in the sky that at least her clothing was still all intact—rumpled, she could explain, but not unlaced or unbuttoned.
“I am so sorry,” she breathed, sounding almost hysterical as he blinked at her. He didn’t seem to understand what had happened, right up until he did, and then his look of wonder closed off, replaced with a flat, blank nothingness.
“You have no reason to apologize,” he said.
“I do,” she said. She pressed her hands to her face, which flamed, both from her mortification and from the places that he’d pressed those hot, sucking kisses. “I really do. I should not... I apologize.”
“If anyone should apologize,” he began, but she shook her head hard enough to cut him off, though sadly not hard enough to erase her memories from her mind.
She could not bear to hear another comment about gentlemanly duty and noblesse oblige, not when she had climbed him like a bloody ladder.
“Don’t,” she said. “Please. I am... I am just going to go.”
She went, feeling like the most irredeemable coward.
Saints above, what was wrong with her? She had not always been stupid, had she? Wasn’t there a time when she’d been considered quite clever, actually?
What was it about this man that she found so impossible to resist?
Yes, he was handsome. Anyone with eyes knew that.
And goodness, he was charming too. But she had known plenty of handsome, charming men before, and she’d always ignored them.
She’d kept as much distance from them as she could manage.
And that was when the handsome charmer in question was a local groom!
This man was a duke, and while that might be considered a point in his favor for a well-bred lady looking to make an advantageous marriage, it was certainly not something that Letty wanted to let herself get involved with.
By the time she made it back to her room, she had called herself just about every bad word she had ever heard. It didn’t help, of course.
There was a small table that she used for a writing desk. Letty didn’t have many correspondents—aside from Clio Warson—Letitia mostly used the table to prepare lessons for Iris.
Now, though, she spotted a neatly folded letter waiting for her, sealed with an unmarked daub of blue wax.
Letitia frowned. Clio did write frequently, as she was practically feral with boredom during her confinement out in the countryside, but Letty had only sent her response to the last missive a day or so prior.
And Clio would have used her own special signet to seal the letter, as she always did.
And, aside from Sarah, who had no reason to write to her, nobody else even knew Letitia was here.
Still, she needed the distraction with a desperation she’d never before experienced, so she grabbed the letter and flicked open the seal.
It only took a few words for her blood to run cold.
My darling Letitia,
So long we have been parted! It was very naughty of you to spend a whole year hiding out in the country, cowering behind the Lightholder name.
And were you really so frightened of me that you gave up your position rather than return to our beloved Belgium?
You have always been a foolish, headstrong girl who needs a strong hand like mine to bring you to heel. I know you know it as well as I do.
Fear not, my pet. I know you are back in London now, and I am making arrangements for us to be reunited soon.
There is nothing more you need to do. I will come for you, as I always promised I would.
There will be consequences for your disobedience, of course, but after that, everything will be as wonderful between us as I always promised.
You will be mine, forevermore, and nothing will ever part us again.
Await me, my precious girl. Soon, I shall have you all to myself.
-P
Letty laid down the letter with shaking hands, staring at it as though it might literally explode. She took one step back, then another.
Then she spun around and vomited her lunch directly into her chamber pot.