Maribel was breathing heavily by the time she reached the haven of her room. Was it due to her quick steps or the maddening company of the duke? The emotions he had stirred in her were almost unnatural—urges she had never felt before, only heard of. His voice had caressed her as if his hand had been stroking her. His gaze had made her pulse quicken, his broody grey eyes seeing straight through her soul. The desire that had pooled in her belly was as exciting as it was alarming, and the compulsion to place her hand between her legs was almost too hard to ignore. Even the tips of her breasts were enraged, her nipples hardened pebbles. Shaking her head and arms, Maribel tried to rid herself of these sensations. Focus on how angry he made you, she scolded herself!
The way he watched me like I was some succulent dish. The superior tone that constantly reminds me of our difference in class, no matter how well-mannered and cultured I may be. She shook her head, knowing it was not all quite true. He was genuinely attentive and curious about her. And she could not help but see his own indecision when responding to her. They were caught in a dance that had no choreography, no sheet music. Each step was on instinct, baited with emotion and reaction.
Slipping off her shoes, she began to pull at her skirts when there was a very faint knock at her door. She could not bring herself to ask who it was—she knew it was him.
“Maribel.” The quiet demand was clear through the wooden barricade separating them.
She opened the door and looked up at him, attempting to keep composed, not wanting to give him any satisfaction.
“Did you forget to tell me something, Your Grace?”
He rested his hand on the doorway, shifting his weight as he looked down to meet her gaze.
“I did, Miss Lewisham. This.”
He bent his head and captured her mouth hotly. No person had ever pressed their mouth against her own, and the duke’s full lips covered hers like a well-fitted glove. Instinctively, she closed her eyes. and flashing lights sparked against her eyelids as he let her lips go before taking them again, more roughly this time.
He placed his hands at her waist and pulled her close, so her curves now pressed against the hard expanse of his body. His mouth captured and released her own with a skill that was controlled and reckless all at once.
“We mustn’t, Your Grace,” she murmured, but made no attempt to move away.
The space between her legs was now throbbing, and it was not her own hand she had the urge to place there, but his. Without realising, she had begun to grind her pelvis against his. He moaned and swore against her mouth, lifting her up slightly so she could feel the hardness between his legs. Her hands, which had been limp at her side, now held his arms for balance as his kiss deepened. His tongue was in her mouth, again duelling with her—this time not with words, but with deft strokes that were setting her body aflame. Abruptly, she felt him pull away, holding her at arm’s length as they both panted wildly, trying to regain their breath.
“Miss Lewisham, I am so very sorry.” He may have said the words, but he did not look sorry. He looked frenzied, his grey eyes a raging tempest as he gripped her arms tightly.
“I think I should retire, Your Grace.” Her voice was faint, all that she could muster amid the confusion of this unexpected and fierce exchange. He let go of her arms but did not speak, still staring at her with a wild look in his eyes, and while it excited her more than scared her, common sense made her spin on her heel and close the door. Quickly changing, she got into bed and pulled the blankets over her head so she could relive what had just happened. She found she was trembling as the effervescence slowly left her body. She had oft wondered what it would be like to be kissed. Never in a thousand years would she have thought her first kiss would be with a duke—a man that was equal parts infuriating and enticing. His kiss had left a burning imprint on her still tingling lips. His tongue had been inside her mouth, and her own inside his. She sucked on one of her own fingers. The sensations that had erupted deep in her loins were the most pleasant of all surprises, and she cupped herself with her other hand, feeling the pulsing of her femininity. Her heartbeat was slowing down to a normal pace, and she laid her hands on the bed. Sleep was eluding her, but she knew it would come as she allowed the replay of what had transpired to wash over her again. She would fall asleep, yes, but her last thoughts before sleep took her would certainly be of Thomas’s lips.
Chapter Ten
Thomas stocked back and forth in his rooms, nude and frustrated. That innocent exchange with Maribel had been one of the most erotic encounters he had experienced. No courtesan had ever elicited such raw passion. Perhaps what had made it so delicious was that it was so wrong. She was young and innocent and should be completely out of reach as his child’s governess. Unless…he employed her instead as his mistress? He was disgusted at the depraved idea. Miss Lewisham was a fine governess and what his child needed.
Tomorrow, I will go to London. Put distance between myself and her siren song, because that’s what it is. I am drawn to her like a mariner passing his ship in the night, tempted by the call of an ethereal being that would only mean my destruction.
“Mr Jones,” he bellowed, “have my trunks packed. I head to London tomorrow.”
He was rock-hard, and he knew it would not go away, not without release. A release he would now need to give himself, he thought with a scowl. He could not and should not lie with Maribel. Their kiss had been bad enough. He moved to his bathing room, where a freshly-drawn tub beckoned him to sink into its warm depths. If only I was sinking into the warm depth between Maribel’s legs. He released all his lewd thoughts as the hot water eased his tension. Thomas did not care to tend to his own releases, and it had rarely been an issue as he spent his time with many women who would. What happened tonight would not rest until he allowed himself to sink into it. The warm water sluiced off his body as he tried to find a comfortable position from which to hang his head over the edge. His erection had not gone down, and he was powerless to make it do so. Only his hand would be of use to him, like a green boy who cannot find a woman to touch him. Taking himself in hand, he began to stroke himself firmly as he replayed the lust Maribel had exhibited. Her siren call that had made him kiss her like a man starving. The feel of her hips pressed against him, needing something that she had no idea of. He started to stroke himself faster and more firmly. Her innocence proved to be a heady aphrodisiac as he pictured those doe eyes wide in surprise as he made her feel new pleasure after pleasure. He moved his hand more quickly, the water splashing about as he strained to finish. He roared his release, letting the sexual tension she had wound up in him erupt into a moment of bliss.
“Damn her!” he yelled to the empty room, the moment soon gone as he began to fixate on her. He needed distance, distraction. He needed to be away from her.
Thomas tapped his foot impatiently as his postillions prepared to mount their horses. He had chosen his chariot for the trip to London because he wanted the room to loll about and brood. And drink. He had made sure the chariot was stocked with bottles of claret ready to be drunk. Thomas had elected to not say goodbye to Clara lest he encounter that damnable Miss Lewisham, and he felt a slight pang of guilt towards his daughter. This thought seemingly conjured the child as shouts of ”Father, Father!” moved towards him. Turning, he noted that Maribel walked behind her. Her face was devoid of smile and her eyes were slightly narrowed, so it seemed she had also planned on avoiding him today.
“Father, how could you leave me and not say goodbye?” Clara cried.
“I am sorry, darling, I simply did not want to make a fuss. I will not be gone long.”
“Gone where?” Her bottom lip dropped dangerously low.
“London, and I promise I will bring you back some marzipan.”
“And a new dress and bonnet.” The smile was back on her face—the act of negotiation in her favour always defused an oncoming tantrum.
“I shall, my darling.” He bent down to kiss her cheek.
Satisfied, Clara ran back towards the manor, leaving Maribel standing there with strong disapproval etched on her face.
“Is there something the matter, Miss Lewisham?” he asked, trying to keep his tone bored.
“Yes, there is. I do not think it is wise to reward outbursts or bargaining with promises of gifts. This leads to disobedience.”
