Chapter 3
The clock sitting atop her mantelpiece was faintly chiming midnight, yet Dashford still hadn’t retired to his bedchamber.
Frances tapped her fingers as she sat curled up on a leather armchair, staring at the flames flickering in the well-stoked hearth.
It was a truly foolish habit, but on the nights her husband didn’t attend her, she’d started listening through the wall to his routine: the dull thud of shoes dropping onto thick rug, faint splashes of a brisk sponge bath, and last of all, the soft creaks as he climbed into the enormous carved oak four-poster bed passed down from duke to duke for several hundred years.
When she timed it correctly they got into bed simultaneously, then like an utter twit, she would whisper, “Goodnight, my love” before extinguishing the candelabra on the bedside table and dream of him doing unspeakably wicked things to her.
GAH.
Scrambling to her feet, Frances began pacing.
How could he still be in his library? Surely Dashford had finished reading his documents. Unless…he truly was unwell? Perhaps, even now, he lay slumped over his stately desk or unconscious on the floor because no one dared disturb his hallowed sanctuary.
A duchess could.
Surely no one would criticize a wife’s concern. And if Dashford was hale and hearty, she would simply return to bed.
Glad her wine-wings were still feathered and ready to fly, Frances swiftly re-plaited her hair and smoothed her dressing gown, before tiptoeing on bare feet out of her chamber and down the hallway.
The sporadic chill of polished wood without carpet or rug made her wince, and the creaks of the grand staircase seemed loud enough to wake the dead, but somehow she made it downstairs to Dashford’s library without crossing paths with servants.
The door was shut but not locked, so she lifted the latch and pushed it open, before darting inside and closing it behind her.
Goodness, it was warm in here. Wonderfully so. But the candles were burning low, and the distinctly sharp scent of brandy perfumed the room.
Where was Dashford?
More than a little alarmed, Frances hurried forward. But she couldn’t stifle a soft wail when her toe caught the edge of a card table and she stumbled.
Her husband bolted upright from where he’d clearly been dozing on a chaise in front of the smoldering fire. “Frances? What the hell are you doing in here?”
She stilled. With rumpled hair, jacket and cravat discarded, shirtsleeves rolled up, and his usual crisp diction just slightly slurred…never had Dashford appeared so rakish. Like he’d bedded half of London and once that nearly empty brandy bottle was finished, would bed the rest.
“I…ah…” Frances replied, floundering for words as he stood and marched over to her. The man was devilishly masculine and far, far too attractive. “You’ve been drinking.”
Dashford ignored her statement, instead frowning as he stared at the floor. “You aren’t wearing slippers. Your feet must be blocks of ice.”
A startled yelp escaped as she was abruptly tossed over his shoulder like she weighed nothing at all, and carried to the sturdy mahogany desk.
“Foolish woman,” Dashford muttered, as he sat her atop it, unceremoniously yanked her dressing gown and night rail up to her knees, then began chafing her feet in his hands. “It’s bloody winter.”
Frances shivered. There was nothing sensual in his touch or tone, but her body didn’t care.
Tingles raced up her legs, urging her to spread them wide.
At her core, a slow, throbbing pulse had begun, and further up, her nipples had hardened so much that the soft lace of her bodice scraped rather than skimmed.
How embarrassing. A mere foot rub and she yearned to have those big hands on her, touching her everywhere…
The sound she made was no more than a tiny whimper, yet Dashford stilled. Then a slow, sinful smile curled his lips.
“Your feet are warmed, but I wonder if other parts of you are chilled and requiring treatment, madam wife. Your sweet little breasts, perhaps? Show me.”
Some previously unearthed instinct told her to be coy, to offer a token protest and see what happened. “I can’t…I mean…”
In response, he took her plait and wound it around his left fist, before tugging it firmly enough to make her scalp prickle and back arch slightly. The hint of pain from the dominant action thrilled her to the core and made the throbbing between her legs even stronger.
Oh God. Dashford the Rake at last!
“Immediately, Frances,” Dashford commanded, his eyes glittering.
Excited beyond measure, Frances attempted to unfasten her night rail’s small pearl buttons. Except her fingers were trembling and it seemed that wasn’t fast enough for her husband, for he grasped the fabric and pulled, tearing the bodice in two and fully exposing her breasts to his avid gaze.
She stifled a moan. Perhaps it was just the brandy, but Dashford looked so…
so hungry. Like she wasn’t just duty, but a woman he actually wished to bed.
How should she proceed? Silently submit?
Encourage him with loud enthusiasm? This evening could possibly change everything and if she ruined it, she would never forgive herself.
Tentatively, Frances arched her back further so her breasts thrust forward. “Dashford?”
Her husband made a guttural sound, perhaps more flattering than any words. Then he began tracing her left nipple with a fingertip, continually circling the rigid peak until she wanted to scream. “Such an enchanting pale pink. It is a crime I have not yet tasted them.”
With that, his head swooped down. At first, he went back and forth, lapping at each nipple with a diabolically measured gentleness when she craved so much more. But when at last his mouth fastened around one tip, sucking hard with ruthless, exquisite precision, a gasp tore from her throat.
How could anything feel so good?
Strangely, the sensations weren’t restricted to her breasts as he moved between them, his lips tormenting, his teeth lightly scoring the tender flesh.
Every single suck caused an arrow of pleasure to shoot directly between Frances’ legs, and her feverish need to be touched there was swiftly becoming unbearable. Surely Dashford would be merciful?
It seemed he might be, for his hand trailed down her body before delving under her clothing to caress the side of her knee and slowly, agonizingly slowly, sliding up her inner thigh.
Frances whimpered, every part of her urging his fingers higher so they might ease the terrible ache. Close. So close…
“Please,” she choked out. “Dashford.”
“Dalton,” he growled, his knuckles brushing her bush. “If you want to come, to have my fingers deep in your greedy pussy, use my given name.”
At the filthy, rakish words, her body burned even hotter. All she could do was grip his shoulders and hope the maelstrom didn’t sweep her away.
Don’t stop. Don’t stop!
“Please,” Frances begged, almost insensible with need. “Don’t…don’t…”
He froze. Then, to her horror, Dashford jerked back as though he’d been slapped. “I sincerely apologize, Frances. Obviously I’ve had too much to drink, although that is no excuse for my appalling behavior. You’ll not endure a moment longer of my presence.”
With a curt bow, her husband strode from the library.
All at once confused, outraged, and mortified, Frances sat up on the desk and awkwardly attempted to right her torn bodice. At least her dressing gown remained undamaged, even if she would be forever changed by that taste of pure ecstasy.
Why the blasted bloody hell had he stopped?
* * *
“Your Grace? Your Grace! Are you ill? Shall I send for a physician?”
Dalton very, very gingerly lifted his pounding head from the embroidered quilt to peer at his valet, Gower, but even that action sent several anvils crashing into his skull.
His mouth felt like the bottom of a goddamned birdcage, his skin absolutely reeked of sweat and brandy, and he wasn’t even in bed but sprawled across the top. Ugh.
“Gower, I beg of you…please cease your caterwauling.”
The older man sniffed. “I shall fetch hot water and a tonic. Do not move.”
“Don’t worry,” mumbled Dalton, barely suppressing a pitiful groan. “I won’t.”
As the valet bustled away, Dalton tried to clear his blurry gaze with several blinks, but even that was a struggle.
Had he ever consumed so much brandy in a single night?
It was perhaps fortunate he had made it to bed rather than tumbling face-first into the fireplace or down the stairs, although Frances might not agree.
And she would be correct.
Dalton shuddered as self-loathing surged and roiled his gut.
What he’d done was far, far beyond the pale.
Utterly unacceptable. Bad enough to behave like a jealous fool at the ball, but once his beautiful, innocent wife tiptoed into his library complete with a modest plait, voluminous dressing gown and bare feet, he’d reacted like some sort of ravenous beast!
Losing control to the point where he’d torn her clothing and handled her roughly atop a bloody desk!
Only Frances pressing on his shoulders, her pleas of “don’t” had cut through the mindless lust fog that had taken over.
What if he’d hurt his duchess?
He was exactly the depraved monster his mother had thought.
Of course a lady should never be subjected to such indignities; it was jaw dropping he’d actually considered himself a gentleman.
His arrangement with Frances was a coronet for an heir, not companionship and certainly not the kind of raw, dark pleasures one might share with a hot-blooded mistress.
The only remedy was making amends, to assure his wife such madness would never happen again.
A banging door and clinking of cutlery and crockery on its tray made Dalton wince in pain. Bloody Gower was doing this deliberately.