Chapter 1 #2
Because he’d never considered that his duty wife might become his obsession.
The way Frances’ eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled.
That she always bit her lip when pondering something and possessed an unabashed love for vanilla custard, the color silver, and dancing.
That she rocked on her heels when nervous, and turned modest night rails and sensible plaits into the most alluring combination imaginable.
Now, he didn’t want a mistress for erotic play. As the devil his mother believed him to be, he burned to debauch his innocent, wellborn, proper duchess, who would no doubt be frightened and disgusted by his hedonistic side.
God damn it.
“I am quite well,” Dalton said abruptly. “And the carriage has pulled up. Let us depart.”
Another woman might have taken grave affront to his curt tone and slapped his face.
Perhaps invited him to go straight to hell.
His duchess merely smiled brightly and murmured, “As you wish,” because daughters of the ton understood the aristocratic transaction as old as time: title and allowance and fripperies for legitimate heirs.
After which, naturally, they would live separate lives and pursue their own interests and passions.
Dalton grimaced inwardly at the reminder.
Indeed, this was no love match, or meeting of like-minded souls.
Frances had accepted his proposal for the same reason he’d made it: duty.
And although it was becoming nigh-on impossible to bed her as a gentleman, to not succumb to his dark, baser urges, he had to cling to control just long enough for a son, then leave her be.
Surely he could manage that.
Moments later, they were ensconced in the luxurious Dashford town carriage and making their way to the Kyle residence in Grosvenor Square. Thankfully the journey was just over a mile; he could behave rationally for such a short distance.
As the carriage gently swayed and rocked, Dalton cleared his throat, a sudden, strange compulsion to atone for his earlier brusqueness overcoming him. “It should be a crush tonight. Dare I hope you might save me a dance?”
A very becoming blush swept across his wife’s cheekbones. Damnation, but Frances was a beautiful woman. Easily the most beautiful in London.
Now she fiddled with her reticule clasp. “You are well aware a husband dancing with his wife is against ton rules, Your Grace.”
Amusement warred with irritableness at her formality.
Why would Frances call you anything other than Dashford or Your Grace? Have you ever invited her to use your given name?
Somehow, Dalton suppressed a scowl at the unwanted burst of conscience. Instead, he winked. “A ton rule made to be broken, is it not?”
Her blush deepened. “Perhaps.”
“And so?” he continued, unclear why he was even pressing the point.
“If you wish it, of course I will dance with you,” said Frances quickly, before biting her full lower lip.
Pure masculine satisfaction roared through him, and he leaned forward and took her chin in the lightest of grips, before rubbing his thumb against the abused flesh. “So obedient. For a moment there I thought you might be a provocative little minx and require discipline.”
His wife’s indrawn breath was louder than a thunderclap, her eyes wide pools of liquid sapphire in the carriage lamplight.
WHAT THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU DOING?
Stunned at his shocking lapse, Dalton could only blink.
And yet in a timely rescue for Frances that could only be called divine intervention, the carriage stopped outside Elliott House, the Marquess and Marchioness of Kyle’s town residence.
It gave him a moment to collect himself, and he pulled back, pretending to dust a non-existent speck from the knee of his formal gray breeches.
Seconds later, the carriage door was opened by a footman and the steps folded down.
Dalton stepped out, the frigid sting of December night air on his face a welcome relief for his overheated body. Then he turned and offered his hand to Frances.
As she climbed out of the carriage and looked around, Frances took a deep breath. “Look at the decorations! All that greenery around the door—why, it looks like holly and mistletoe. And there are wassailers inside. Can you hear them? How wonderful!”
He hesitated. From someone else, that might have been nervous babble. However, Frances was calm and dignified in all situations; she was probably just eager to see her friends. “Indeed. But we must not linger out here, lest we turn into icicles ourselves.”
“Of course,” she replied, curling her hand around his arm.
As Dalton and Frances walked toward the wide double doors they immediately opened, and the Kyle butler bowed. “Good evening, Your Graces. Please do come this way to join the receiving line.”
Dalton sighed in relief. A crush of a party and hundreds of people to distract Frances from his foolish misstep. Hopefully after several glasses of excellent wine, dancing, and time with her friends, she wouldn’t even remember it.
Hopefully.
* * *
After six months of marriage, she had finally glimpsed Dashford the Rake’s lethal wicked charm. Now she understood why women from all corners of the kingdom had fought like barn cats for the chance to leap into his bed, scandal and propriety be damned.
Dashford was indeed dangerous.
Her mind still spinning, her lip and chin still tingling from his touch, Frances tried desperately to regather her composure as they joined the end of the receiving line. But his words kept shrieking through her head.
So obedient. For a moment there I thought you might be a provocative little minx and require discipline.
The way Dashford had near-purred the words, like being a provocative little minx was a very, very good thing.
He’d also made discipline sound…enticing.
Something sensual. As for that teasing caress of her lip…
no, more than teasing. Possessive. Like he wanted to restrain and arrange her for his pleasure.
For heaven’s sake, she had almost lost her senses and opened her mouth for his thumb!
But did it mean anything? Anything at all? Or would the Duke of Dashford’s wife merely be another notch in his bedpost before he grew bored and moved on?
“Your Grace, how wonderful to see you. I know Lady Kyle has been greatly anticipating your arrival.”
The words startled Frances from her jumbled thoughts, but she managed to smile warmly at Arran Elliott, Marquess of Kyle, as he bowed over her hand.
No rake here, just a stern, serious, ebony-haired man who loved his wife Rachel and doted on their baby daughter, Cassandra.
From what Rachel had mentioned, he was most ardent in the bedchamber.
“Good evening, my lord. I have been counting the hours.”
A small twinkle lit his gray eyes. “Go on, then. I hereby release my wife from receiving line duty. I’m sure you’ve much to discuss.”
“Dearest Frances,” said Rachel, the brown-haired, petite and lusciously curved Marchioness of Kyle, her exotic hazel eyes gleaming like golden guineas. “It seems your gown hem needs a little repair. Would you like to accompany me to the powder room?”