Chapter Nine #2
Harbury made a low, growling noise in his throat.
Visibly, she swallowed. “I’m not sure if that constitutes an answer.”
Mercy yelped. Harbury turned his attention back to the bed. The pup ambled to the mattress’s edge and barked hopefully.
“No.” He pointed to the pillow. “Back.”
Mercy ambled back, made a full circle, huffed again, and sat down.
“Oh. My. Heavens.” Cassandra enunciated. “Does everything simply respond to your command?”
He ignored her. “Sleep.”
The dog curled into a tiny ball of white, brown, and tan.
“You’re very sure of yourself all of a sudden.”
“No, I’m not.”
He was unsure how to exercise his authority on the estate, and he was even more unsure how he should go about seducing his wife. He was sure, however, of his intention to seduce.
As he swiveled back, his banyan fanned out around him. “And, to answer your earlier question”—he stalked toward the door—“you’re the one I want. Right now.” He pointed to her chamber. “In that bed.”
Her eyes widened. Then, she turned away. Had she just dismissed him or had she invited him in. Invited, he decided.
He crossed the threshold and closed the door behind him.
*
“Duchess.”
Cassandra had swiveled and was heading into the sanctum of her too-pink bedchamber. But, as Harbury used Cassie’s title as a low command, a claim of possession, tiny hairs on the back of Cassie’s neck stood at prickly attention.
In fact, her whole body came alive in the manner of an animal gravely alert to the hushed presence of a predator. But she was not a puppy in need of training. Nor a dog to be ordered to come and go as he pleased.
She ignored him. Or, at least, ignoring him was what she’d intended to do.
Instead, some feral, excited part of her, oblivious both to the obvious danger and the need to take a stand, decided to turn and face her tormentor.
Harbury had come closer than she’d expected.
Close enough he didn’t need to fully extend his arm to cup one hot, bare palm against her cheek. His gentleness sharply contrasted his tone. His calluses brushed against her cheekbones. He was an oven alive with flame, warming her with his desire.
As if she needed much encouragement.
If not for her occasional, self-protective sparks of anger, she would follow Harbury around with a persistence even Mercy would find excessive. But before she relented, she needed him to know she would not be satisfied with carelessly scattered crumbs.
Slowly, he compelled her to lift her head. His eyes glittered, his lips appeared soft and inviting. The dimple in his chin just begged to be touched. She gazed into his face, feeling not just trapped, but hopelessly lost.
One should never, she decided, attempt a marriage of convenience with a man so inconveniently compelling. In a reflexive gesture, she placed her hands lightly against his chest. She had intended to push him away. But she didn’t push.
Instead, she became keenly aware of his muscles beneath her palms and the strength within those muscles. The rough protrusion of what must be his nipple scraped against the fleshy area just beneath her thumb, causing an increased heaviness in her breasts.
Her own nipples were already hard and aching.
Her forefinger twitched, and the fabric of his nightshirt bunched up between her fingers. Part of her hand landed on the exposed skin beneath his collar.
The jolt left her trembling.
She inhaled, an in vain attempt to steady her breathing that merely served to flatten her breasts against his ribs.
Then, pressure warmed the small of her back—his other hand, she realized, urging her ever closer, increasing the contact between them.
He gripped her waist, clasping her so tightly against him she could feel his male organ.
If she truly wished, she could break away, but her heart demanded she stay.
She arched, simultaneously raising her gaze and parting her lips. His face blurred as he tilted his head and claimed her mouth. The kiss was long and still, a brand, a deep impression, but for the way their bodies subtly rocked as they breathed.
Wanting to hold him closer, she fanned her hands away from his chest, up and over his mounded muscles. As her palms came to rest against his upper arms, his bicep flexed. She’d never been more aware of his power, and yet, she was no longer scared.
He withdrew. She wet her lips. His small, responsive smile embodied triumph.
“Why did you kiss me?” she asked, as though the pressure against her belly did not make the answer obvious.
“This time”—an amused light slowly dawned in his eyes, transforming his grin into a self-satisfied smirk—“we both required distraction.”
Distraction. She scowled.
Why had he turned such a lovely moment into a jest? Not only a jest, but a joke calling forth the most difficult of their encounters.
“I could throttle you,” she whispered.
“To throttle me”—he cocked a brow—“you’d have to put your arms around my neck.”
“Hands,” she corrected.
“Very well,” he acceded lightly, “hands. Though hands are implied, I would argue, by the word arms.” He paused, and for a long moment, the only sound was that of their comingling breath. “Show me.”
Her gaze dropped to the part of his neck completely male. His Adam’s apple. His throt-bolla, in Old English. There, he was vulnerable, too. What would he do if she had him at her complete mercy the same way she was always at his?
She could turn away. Give him a dose of his own medicine.
Tell him, for instance, she had letters to write.
But the drive to claim him was too strong.
So instead, she dragged her hands up his arms and onto his shoulders, staying fully connected to his heat.
She rested her thumbs on either side of his throat just above his collarbone and her fingers on the back of his neck.
There, she counted his heartbeats as they throbbed against her finger pads.
“Precarious,” he murmured.
She felt him swallow. “I know.” She raised her gaze. “If I pressed hard and long enough, just here…” Lightly, she demonstrated. “You would faint.”
“Interesting tidbit of knowledge.”
“A lady must know how to protect herself.” Her turn for a small smile.
“From her husband?”
“Especially from her husband.” And even more so when, like herself, the lady was in love with her husband’s oblivious self. She ventured another upward glance. “By the way, if your intent was to distract me, your plan has failed miserably. I’m not distracted at all.”
“Quite the opposite, in fact,” he agreed, with inexplicable cheer. “I’m fully aware, too.”
“Are you admitting another impulse of yours went awry?”
“I wouldn’t say awry…my impulse has led us here, no?”
“What’s here?”
“Whatever we make it.”
Her sense of triumph wavered. Was she ready? She glanced to the bed and back. Could her bruised heart survive another intimate encounter without placing her fully, irrevocably in his power?
Then again, who was she jesting?
She was already fully his. She had been, since she’d first laid eyes on him at Almack’s.
“I don’t know how to do this,” she admitted. “Not just this, but…be married. Married to someone I barely know.” And hopelessly, unrequitedly loved. “But…”
“But what?” he encouraged.
“But I want to know you.”
Her confession surprised them both.
“I want to know you, too.”
Craning her neck, she raised herself onto her toes and leaned in.
She’d intended, for the first time, to voluntarily kiss him, not the other way around.
But, as their mouths met, again he took control.
He advanced, with expert use of lips and tongue until her knees went weak.
Soon, she was pressed back into the crook of his arm, soft, surrendered, and fully dependent on him to stand.
He broke the kiss to gaze down at her through low-lidded eyes.
“I must be mad,” she whispered.
If she were sane, she would be daunted, or, at the very least, tense.
She was so small in his arms, and he loomed so large…
almost as large as he loomed in her mind and in her frequent, far too vivid dreams. But the heartbeat fluttering rapidly against her ribs was not beating in fear.
Nor did she feel caged. This time, she was secure.
This time, she was desired.
And, yes, she was certain his desire was specific to her.
His taut cheeks, his dilated eyes betrayed his complete absorption, leaving no room for thoughts of anyone else. For once, she was sure he wanted her as much as she wanted him.
Yes, she was already lost. Yes, she was at his mercy.
And, if she had her way, he’d never forget this night.