Oh, how she wanted to set her eyes on his body, sculpted from his passion for swimming in the English Channel, a stone’s throw from the castle. His strength had been visible through the gaping V of his shirt, evident with every flex of his corded forearms. She had been teased—tortured—with that firmness when she pressed up against him tonight. The man’s body was just as hard and rigid as the fortress he resided in.
It was more than that for her, though. It was the way his eyes held a hint of torment that she was desperate to dispose of with a tender touch. There were secrets hidden there. Secrets that taunted her. Secrets she longed to uncover.
Sometimes, when she would sneak a look at him during her various visits to the castle, she thought she saw a self-imposed prison surrounding him. An invisible barrier. Every time a glimmer of gaiety would escape—a smile, a slip of dry wit—he immediately doused it, thrust it back behind bars. He was entrancing. He was an enigma.
Felicity mounted the stairs and gripped the black, speckled granite railing for support, heaving herself upward in combination with her weak legs. She thought whatever she had just managed to spew back in the drawing room had some positive effect on her plan.
The Duke had been panicked, yes—but aroused. Her core pulsed its agreement. There was no hiding the Duke’s thick arousal against his trousers. She had nearly melted into a puddle of wanting when she had perused his person in an attempt at seduction—and found him hard. For her. A heady rush of power heated her from head to toe.
Her gaze caught on the hard granite beneath her palm, silver flecks sparkling underneath the light of the torches lining the gray stone walls. Hard beneath her palm. Just like he would be. Dear Lord, even the stone railing was affecting her. She had never wanted a man this badly. So badly that she was cracked in the head and stair railings were filling her with want.
Somehow, she eventually made it to her room, changed into a dry, warm nightdress, and settled under the covers of the mammoth, gilt-framed, rose-upholstered bed. Her limbs no longer trembled, but her heart hadn’t slowed, her core hadn’t calmed.
The Duke’s face swam before her eyes as she stared at the gold tassels hanging from the bed’s crown on the ceiling. She ran her fingers over her soft, smooth cheeks. Rough silver-streaked stubble had coated his face—days’ worth—making his rough edges rougher. She wanted to be marked by him. Her hands trailed down her skin, touching all the places she wanted to feel his abrasive edges. Her neck, her breasts, her thighs.
His hair—dark brown, short, but left a touch longer on the top with a slight curl to it—had been adorably mussed, as though he had run his hands through it countless times. She wanted to run her hands through it, fist it, as he settled between her thighs.
She had never experienced it—in truth, she hadn’t experienced anything except her quick joining with Colborn—but Maribeth had told her of what could be done with tongues and teeth—mouths. And the Duke had a lovely mouth. Her breath hitched as her fingers acted as a poor imitation. Of his mouth. Of his hands.
Oh, the feel of his hands. It had been minimal, just his gently over hers, helping her drink her brandy. But she had felt the heat. Hot and heady. She had instantly been back in the library, his hands on her waist, his fingers digging into her skin, like his body wanted hers, like he wanted her.
She wanted to believe he wanted her, that his body’s response tonight was a clear sign he’d cave for her. But he’d said he was sending her off first thing in the morning. A confusing desperation coursed through her veins like an uncontrollable current, one stemming from all the ways she was being denied. Denied the opportunity to take control of her future. Denied the opportunity to appease the lust rolling over her in dangerous waves.
Her time to execute the plan was slipping away before she’d truly had a chance to begin. Which meant she’d need to wake early and begin her seduction attempts again at breakfast, praying he’d have spent a night tormented by thoughts of her.
Her body trembled, her core throbbing and heavy. Revenge had never appeared more alluring. He knew of her plan, and she hoped he was lying in his bed, his mind consumed by the thoughts she had planted there. Lord, she hoped he was lying there, his hand wrapped around his cock, as helplessly lost in the fantasy as she was.
There was an odd satisfaction in his denial to cede to her seduction tonight. Perhaps it was the added anticipation, the slow, simmering thrill preceding the payoff. Or perhaps it was the relief she had felt, knowing the Duke was not like his son.
He never did come to her that night.
But true to her word, she came to thoughts of him.
5
Ash
Hecametothoughtsof her.
And once again in the morning. Because he couldn’t head to the breakfast room with a cockstand. It would allow himself more control, appease the lust so he could focus. Or at least that’s what he told himself. Excuses, excuses.
Guilt and self-disgust had quickly followed, hitting him like a punch to the kidney. Ash had promptly jotted off a note to Lord Bentley informing him of his sister’s presence here and Ash’s plans to send her back to London forthwith.
Ash discreetly studied the woman—chatting with his exuberant daughter—over the rim of his mug of coffee. He drank it black: no milk, no sugar. Lightness, sweetness—those were not things for him. He closed his eyes as the bitter, dark flavor flowed over his tongue.
He was a lecherous, lustful, sick man, and he needed to get Lady Felicity out of his sight and off his estate immediately. Last night when he had lain in bed, his mind had latched onto the events in the drawing room and ran wild with them. Instead of acting the gentleman and warming her with brandy and towels, he had stripped her down before the fire and warmed her with his body, with his skin, his hands, his mouth.
God, when she had given her little speech before she left the drawing room, he had almost expired on the spot. Ready, warm, willing. And the word she left unspoken.Wet. Ash’s cock had been so angry at its denial, he was surprised it hadn’t detached from his person and left with Lady Felicity to her rooms, leaving him a poor, cockless excuse for a man.
Pandora’s bold laughter interrupted his thoughts. Thoughts he should not be having when his daughter was in the same room as him. Thoughts he should not be having, regardless. Sick, sick man.
His daughter was supposed to be the perfect buffer, but Lady Felicity had a very bad effect on him. It was worse than he had initially thought. His thoughts and his eyes kept wandering back to all things Lady Felicity, no matter how hard he tried to prevent them.
Like when she had glided into the breakfast room in her wrapper, her hair tumbling down her back in amber waves. Unbound. Her hair wasunbound.
She looked as though she had come straight from bed, and he found himself deathly curious to know if she wore a morning gown under her wrapper. Or perhaps she still wore her nightdress. Or better yet, nothing at all.
Fucking hell. Not better yet.Snap out of it, Ash.
