Chapter Twenty #2
Candles glowed from crystal chandeliers overhead while servants moved silently through the dining room carrying silver platters and crystal decanters.
Anthony's mood had not improved. If anything, it had deteriorated.
Pembroke had been seated opposite Evangeline, and Anthony considered this an act of personal hostility on Lady Whitmore's part.
The widower spent most of the meal directing conversation toward Evangeline, who seemed entirely unaware of the dangerous territory she was treading and responded with enthusiasm.
At one point Pembroke remarked upon a recent improvement to a local village school.
"I heard that was your idea, Your Grace."
Evangeline smiled. "It was a joint effort."
"A modest answer."
Pembroke lifted his glass. "From everything I've heard, Blackwood is fortunate indeed."
Anthony set down his fork perhaps slightly harder than necessary, and several guests glanced his way. Sebastian, seated farther down the table, looked positively delighted.
Pembroke either failed to notice or chose to ignore it.
"A remarkable duchess is not easily found."
Evangeline laughed softly. "You greatly overestimate me, my lord."
"Not at all."
Anthony had heard enough. The conversation ended abruptly when he rose from his seat.
Every nearby guest looked up, including Evangeline.
Anthony met her gaze. "The next dance is forming."
A brief silence followed.
"If you are ready, Duchess," he added.
Evangeline rose gracefully. "Of course, Your Grace."
Behind her, Sebastian nearly choked on his wine.
The ballroom had been prepared after dinner, and music soon filled the house as couples assembled upon the polished floor.
Anthony guided Evangeline into position, and the dance began. For several moments neither spoke, but the tension between them felt almost tangible.
Finally Evangeline glanced up at him. "You seem unusually eager to dance this evening."
Anthony's hand tightened slightly against hers. "Do I?"
Her smile deepened. "Just a little."
She was teasing him, and with the mood he was in, it was a dangerous activity.
"I was unaware dancing with my wife required justification."
"It does not." She paused. "Though rescuing me from Lord Pembroke was perhaps unnecessary."
Anthony looked down at her. "Rescuing you?"
"I believe that was the word I used."
Evangeline's eyes sparkled and Anthony found himself struggling to maintain his irritation.
Particularly when she looked so pleased.
"You are jealous."
"I am not."
"You are."
The certainty in her voice was infuriating.
Just then the song ended and the last notes of the violin hung in the air, a perfect, shimmering thing, before being swallowed by the general hum of conversation and the scuff of dancing slippers on the polished marble.
Anthony did not let go of Evangeline’s gloved hand, his other resting firmly at the small of her back, the silk of her gown a cool, smooth barrier against his palm.
As his gaze swept over the room, he found Adrian Pembroke leaning against a fluted marble pillar near the far entrance, a glass of claret held loosely in one hand. The man wasn’t looking at the dancers or the musicians. His gaze, dark and unnervingly direct, was fixed on Evangeline.
A muscle jumped in Anthony’s jaw, a tight, furious beat. The warm coal in his belly ignited, flaring into a hot, possessive fire.
He saw the way Pembroke's eyes tracked the line of Evangeline’s throat, the swell of her breasts where they rose from the low cut of her gown. Every glance was a challenge.
Anthony’s fingers on her back curled, the fabric of her gown bunching in his fist. He pulled her closer, abruptly shortening the space between their bodies until there was none left.
Evangeline made a small sound of surprise, her head lifting to look at him.
He lowered his head, his lips brushing against the delicate shell of her ear. He felt the fine tremor that ran through her.
“Come with me,” he breathed, the words a command disguised as a request. “Now.”
He didn’t wait for her assent, his grip on her hand tightening as he began to steer her from the dance floor as the music began again, cutting through the swirling couples with a single-minded purpose.
Murmurs followed in their wake, but he paid them no mind.
The corridors of the sprawling estate were a blur of dimly lit portraits and thick, sound-absorbing carpets.
His strides were long, Evangeline having to hurry to keep pace, her hand still in his.
The rational part of his brain, the part that understood propriety and consequence, suggested he lead her to their appointed guest chambers.
But the thought of the long walk down the east wing, of unlocking a door, of crossing a room, was an eternity.
The fire that had been lit in him demanded immediate quenching. He wanted her now.
Anthony's gaze darted to a heavy oak door standing slightly ajar down a lesser-used hall. He pushed it open without hesitation.
The scent that greeted them was not of perfume or wine, but of old paper, leather, and the quiet dust of time.
A library.
Moonlight streamed through a tall, arched window, illuminating rows and rows of books that stood like silent soldiers.
He kicked the door shut behind them, the heavy thud echoing in the silence. He did not give Evangeline a moment to acclimate.
Spinning her around, he pressed her back against the spine of a large, leather-bound tome.
"Anthony," she gasped softly.
He did not answer as he tugged at the delicate ribbons of her bodice, his mouth and tongue moving down her neck.
He fumbled with the fall of his breeches, his fingers clumsy with urgency.
There was no time for gentle undressing, for whispered words. This was about need, raw and primal.
He shoved the layers of her skirts and petticoats up to her waist, his hands finding the bare skin of her thighs. She was already wet, wet for him.
Anthony hooked one of her legs around his hip, opening her to him. With one hand braced on the bookshelf beside her head, he guided his hard, aching cock to her entrance.
He didn’t wait and didn’t tease. He drove into her in one deep, powerful thrust, burying himself to the hilt in her tight, wet cunt.
A guttural sound tore from his throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated possession.
He began to fuck her against the books. Each thrust drove her back against the shelf, the old wood groaning in protest.
Her nails dug into his shoulders through the fabric of his coat, her breath coming in ragged, helpless pants that mingled with his own.
“Tell me.” He angled his hips, grinding into her, seeking that place inside her that would make her shatter. “Tell me you’re mine.”
He cunt clenched around him, a desperate, involuntary flutter that was her answer.
He reached between them, his thumb finding the sensitive nub of her clit and rubbing it in tight circles.
The combination of his thick cock pounding into her and the direct stimulation on her clit was too much. Evangline's body went rigid and a choked cry escaped her lips as her orgasm ripped through her.
The feeling of her cumming, of her cunt spasming around his cock, was his undoing.
With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself deep and let go, his own release flooding her in a hot, possessive rush.
He stayed there for a long moment, his forehead pressed against the cool leather of the book, his body pinning hers to the shelf, the only sounds in the library their ragged breaths and the rapid beating of their hearts.