Her chin went up. “I willnevergive you what you want, Your Grace.” She held her forgotten snifter to him. “Here you are. Perhaps you will find the solace you need in spirits just as you have done every day and night to no avail.”
He pushed himself away from the shelving and accepted her mocking offer, tossing back the contents in one swift pull. “I have a different sort of solace in mind. If you will not oblige me, I have no doubt I can find two or three who will.”
Her face went pale. “I shall bid you good evening then, Your Grace, and wish you all prosperity in finding two or three such inclined persons.”
He watched her go, her bearing as regal as any queen.
After the door closed, he counted to fifteen before hurling her snifter into the fireplace to join the first.
Chapter Eleven
The Duke ofWhitley kissed her throat. His hands swept over her breasts as the stubble of his whiskers abraded her jaw. A pang of need surged between her thighs. His body was large and warm, dominating hers.
“I want you,” he whispered against her skin.
Her fingers threaded through his thick, soft hair. It seemed she could not get close enough. She wanted him deep inside her.
“I want you, too,” she confessed, the words leaving her on a sigh as one of his big hands swept the hem of her nightrail over her legs. Higher and higher he went, and she was on fire with ecstasy, unable to deny either of them what they so badly wanted.
Nothing else mattered. It was as if they were the only two people in the world, lost until they had found each other…
The feral cry of a wounded animal hauled Jacinda from the depths of a feverish dream. Heart pounding, she jolted upright, the bedclothes falling about her waist. Cool night air kissed her skin, wringing a shiver from her. Inhaling a deep, steadying breath, she willed her thudding heart to calm, and listened.
Angels in heaven, that depraved dream. Shame washed over her. Where had it come from? Why did it plague her now when she must be more steadfast than ever in her determination to resist the lures of the Duke of Whitley? For days following their encounter in the library, he had avoided her, and she had been glad of his absence. Relieved when he had sent terse missives to inform her she need not attend their daily briefings. Satisfied when he carved out time for his sisters and requested she spend that same time otherwise occupied.
For even if he was innocent of the crimes laid against him as she had begun to believe, there was no future for the two of them. If she became his mistress, she would become a pariah forever. And he would never, ever wed her, she reminded herself. As a duke, he remained well above her touch. She was Mrs. Jacinda Turnbow, daughter of Sir Robert Smythe, simple soldier’s widow, who lived in comfortable obscurity with her father. She preferred the company of books and ciphers to men. When the Duke of Whitley looked at her, he saw a woman he would make his mistress, not a lady he would take to wife.
And while Jacinda could not countenance the notion of becoming a wife again, neither would she even consider being any man’s mistress. Especially not his. No matter how much his touch undid her, or how much her body ached for him. Alone in the darkness, she was keenly aware of the throbbing between her legs, the longing to be claimed that had not visited her in years.
Of all men, why had her traitorous body chosen to react to the Duke of Whitley?
Perhaps she had imagined the disturbance. Something had wrenched her from her slumber, but it was entirely possible the noise she fancied she had heard was part of her nonsensical dream rather than reality.
She exhaled. Inhaled again long and slow and deep. The night was still, unusually quiet for a London evening, though she supposed she had no notion of what hour it was. In the absence of sunlight, every hour was night, after all.
She still heard nothing.There we are, then.She had surely imagined the sound. Or it had been a part of an awful dream she did not care to repeat.
Either way, the horrible sound—real or not—did not repeat itself.
Until it did.
Raw and painful, the cry sliced straight through her even though it was muffled by the barrier of plaster and doors and distance. Only this time, she was awake. This time, she realized it was not the cry of a wounded animal at all. Rather, the strangled sound of pain had emerged from a human.
A dark, low-voiced human.
A man.
The Duke of Whitley, to be precise. She would recognize the husky, arrogant timber of his voice anywhere. She threw back the bedclothes before she could think better of her actions. Surely there was any number of other tactics she might choose when faced with such a predicament. Surely, she ought to remain safely and chastely abed where she belonged, free of scandal and ruin and, Lord help her, even worse.
The cry sounded again, keening and low.
There was such raw, violent need redolent in that long, suffering cry, as if it had been torn from him. Such pain. It struck her heart with the proficiency of a hundred tiny little picks. Digging deeper and deeper and deeper.
Without another hesitation, she rose from the bed, donning her dressing gown and belting it snugly round her waist. Her bare feet padded to the door. She opened it to the sound of another violent cry. The hall was empty, the servants and rest of the household long since abed for the night.
If she had a modicum of sense, she would return to her chamber, bolt the door, and forget she had ever heard a sound.
Her feet carried her before her mind could defeat them. Deeper into the darkness of Whitley House she went. She knew where the ducal apartments were thanks to her several trips to search for additional papers. Darkness did not deter her. Nor did reason and common sense.
