Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Tristan’s mansion on the opposite side of Grosvenor Square came into view, and he wondered if he’d rambled about London long enough to cool his blood.
He’d left the Marchioness of Sutton’s ball without a fixed destination and wandered about for nearly an hour before finding himself back where he’d started the night, at Brooks’s club.
But he’d lacked the appetite for booze, gambling, or company, so he’d taken himself off on another ramble and now found himself arriving home.
He’d nearly tupped Amelia against a wall.
That was the long and short of what would be haunting his dreams—and his nightmares—on this and many more nights to follow.
Certainly, he was known as the Dissolute Duke, but in truth, there was nothing all that dissolute about him. Back in Italy, she’d been correct on that score. He was no reprobate who gambled away the family’s fortune on a single toss of the dice. He was no despoiler of virgins. Except…
He was.
And he wanted nothing more than to despoil her again.
Against a wall, if necessary.
Yet it wasn’t only physical desire. In his experience, that typically cooled within days or weeks.
Not so with Amelia. It was as if the woman had entered his bloodstream, and the only cure for her was more of her.
Which only confirmed the obvious: she’d snuck past his defenses.
She’d snuck past his fear of adoring another—of loving.
He wasn’t simply smitten like a green youth.
He was in love with that blasted, frustrating woman.
As he stepped onto the front landing of his house, the door swung wide. Thomas, his valet, had been waiting up for him. “Was it a good evening, sir?”
Tristan grunted and handed Thomas his hat and evening coat. Ready to be done with this night, he made straight for the staircase. Thomas cleared his throat, pointedly.
Tristan turned. “Is there something else?”
“Your,” the valet began and appeared to have become stuck.
“Yes?” Tristan felt himself losing patience.
“Your, erm, companion awaits you in your studio.”
Tristan’s brow crinkled. “My companion?”
“She refused to give her name, but said you should be expecting her.”
“You let an unknown woman inside my studio on the basis that she said I should be expecting her?” Had the world gone topsy-turvy?
Thomas splayed his hands wide in a gesture of helplessness. “The lady was quite determined.”
And Tristan knew. This was no random woman, but…Amelia. Few could withstand her will. He shouldn’t go too hard on Thomas. “In my studio?”
“Yes, sir.”
Tristan’s mind made up in a snap. “That will be all for the night, Thomas.”
The valet gave a shallow bow and disappeared to his room.
Tristan only slowed his stride when he noticed the strip of orange light showing beneath the cracked door of his studio.
Just beyond that door she waited for him.
He tried to summon a healthy dose of pique to get him through whatever came next.
She’d refused him, then kissed him blind in the Marchioness of Sutton’s garden, giving him every indication she wanted more, tempting him to give her as much… And now she was here.
He wasn’t sure how much more of Lady Amelia Windermere he could take.
He pushed the door open on silent hinges and stepped inside the studio lit by a scattering of candles.
Like a magnet, his gaze found her standing before a collection of statuettes he’d sculpted in his teen years.
He observed her in profile, the straight nose, the stubborn chin.
The way she took something in—fully, with the entirety of her attention.
When one was the recipient of her gaze, one felt seen.
It was a rare gift. Yes, one could be made uncomfortable when one didn’t particularly want to be seen in a particular way, but on the other hand, it could make one feel special. He liked that about her.
He adored that about her.
He loved that about her.
He cleared his throat, and her head whipped around. She straightened and faced him, her gaze glinting with determination, but with something else, too, something he’d seen before…in Italy…in a fountain.
Recklessness.
He should brace himself.
“Have you been drinking prosecco?” He had to ask.
A smile curled about her mouth, and she shook her head. “No.”
“Any other spirits?”
She laughed. “No.”
He liked her laugh. He might adore it, too. Was there no end to his adoration for this woman? Now that he’d gotten the knack of it, he couldn’t seem to stop.
He moved to his favorite armchair and sat down, his legs sprawled wide, indolent, as if her presence were an everyday occurrence.
In truth, he’d done it to prevent himself from crossing the room and kissing her silly.
Her lips were still lusciously kiss-crushed from earlier.
“Would you like to tell me why you’re here? ” he asked, gruff.
She set down the small statuette she’d been inspecting and made her way to the charcoal-gray settee placed before the wide bow window dark with deep night.
She perched on the plush velvet surface and flicked one, then the other, of her satin slippers off her feet before resting them to the side of her half-reclined body.
Anticipation quickened the beat of Tristan’s heart. It couldn’t help itself. She looked like a woman poised to be ravished.
“It occurred to me tonight,” she said as if they were picking up in the middle of a conversation.
“What is that?”
“You and I never completed our bargain.”
That blasted bargain. It should’ve never been agreed to in the first place. Yet he couldn’t quite bring himself to regret it. In fact, he might make it again, given the chance. “You left Italy first, if you’ll recall.”
“Well, we’re both in London now.” Her mouth curved into the smile of a seductress. “We could finish what we started.”
He crossed one ankle over a thigh. His half-staff cockstand was threatening to put on quite a show. “I should think you received all the material you need.”
She lifted the hem of her dress, exposing the long, slender length of her legs up to her thighs. “Define need.”
Twin shots of alarm and lust arrowed through him. “What are you—”
“I think it’s only fair that I fulfill my side of the bargain.” She slid one, then the other, stocking off her legs, allowing both to drift to the floor.
“Do not strip,” he said with all the ducal authority he could muster, even as he understood this had nothing to do with anything as useless as a title. What lay between them had naught to do with their status as lord and lady, but as man and woman.
She swung her legs off the settee and came to her feet, now flicking open the mother-of-pearl buttons at the front of her dress, unhurried, one after the other, leaving him no choice but to watch, his mouth gone dry, a thin sheen of sweat pinpricking his skin.
“What will happen if I do?” she asked, disingenuous. One shoulder, then the other, shrugged and her dress fell to the floor, leaving her clad in naught but stays and chemise, its hem only just hiding her mons pubis from view.
Not so easily hidden? The cockstand demanding to be freed from his trousers.
He only just realized she’d asked a question, and he hadn’t yet answered. Of course, there was but one answer. The truth. “I shall ravish you.”
She took a few more steps as she reached behind her. The stays fell to the floor. “And what if I want to be ravished?”
He didn’t have an answer. Not a proper one, anyway. Not one that held a shred of regard for the rules of society.
She lifted her chemise over her head and flung it away. She now stood naked—gloriously, unabashedly naked—before him, golden curls tumbling about her shoulders, hiding her sex from view, utterly tantalizing.
He dare not move.
All the moves were hers, anyway.
She closed the distance between them, shoving away the ankle that rested on his thigh, and stepped between his legs. His hands gripped the arms of the chair. They had no choice. They were either there or upon her.
She placed her hands upon his shoulders and leaned over him, her naked body only inches from his fully-clothed one. Yet he felt he was the exposed one. Her blonde curls tumbled about them. He breathed in her crisp lavender scent and another scent, too. Woman. He might burst from desire.
Soft lips feathered against the whorl of his ear. “What if I demand to be ravished?”
She brought her leg up so her shin stroked the length of his cock. As if to illustrate precisely with what she was demanding to be ravished.
How much more could a man take?
The answer was none.
On a low growl, he swept her into his arms and came to his feet. He caught her eye and held it. “Bloody hell, woman, if I’m to ravish you, then let’s do it properly in a bed for once.”
The sense of accomplishment she’d expected to feel at the Marchioness of Sutton’s ball soared through Amelia now. Having convinced Tristan to ravish her felt more satisfying than a thousand invitations to a thousand balls.
As he carried her up a set of servant’s stairs hidden behind the walls, she grabbed his face and kissed his mouth, breathing him in, reveling in the anticipation of what came next.
She was exactly where she should be—wrapped in his arms, about to make love with him.
She made quick work of his cravat and tossed it aside as they stepped inside a large room lit only by a low fire, sumptuously bedecked in dark, rich hues of saffron and mahogany.
A massive four-poster bed stood in the middle.
His bedroom.
He deposited her on the plush, downy surface and stepped back, making short work of his clothing while she propped herself on her elbows and watched.
With each article discarded her desire notched higher—waistcoat, boots, shirt, and trousers last, peeling them down those thick, rock-hard thighs of his.
Of course, his thighs weren’t the only rock-hard part of his body.