The most wanton part of her failed to see the problem with such a plan.
“Perhaps you should,” she blurted.
His smile turned wicked. “I knew I married you for good reason.”
Married.It still felt like a dream. As if she would wake in her bed at Greycote Abbey and realize her whirlwind time with the most seductive rogue in London had all been the wild imaginings of her slumbering mind. But no, this was all too real. She was the Duchess of Ridgely, standing alone with her new husband in his chamber. Longing for him.
She must guard her heart, she thought. Ridgely was a rake, after all. Even Lady Deering had warned her away from him. He had vowed he would be faithful to her, but promises could be so easily broken. Their relationship was grounded firmly in the carnal, and it must remain that way.
A pang of uncertainty hit her.
“You don’t regret marrying me?” she asked.
He was still holding her hand, and he gave her fingers a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “No, darling. I don’t regret it for a moment.”
“It has only been hours. Of course you don’t regret it now, but what if you do as time goes on? You are accustomed to having all the women in London at your feet.”
“Yes, but all the women in London are not you.” His expression was laden with tenderness as he pulled her toward him, into the sturdy warmth of his chest. “And you are the only woman I want in all the bloody world.”
“Since when?” Her hands settled on his shoulders. “Your reputation is quite wicked, you know.”
“Reputations change,” he said simply, cupping her nape. “So do people.”
Here she was, complicating matters and thinking far too much when she’d intended to give herself over to sensation. But how could it be that this handsome, worldly duke who could have his pick of anyone would choose her, a bookish lady who had spent most of her life in the countryside, when her own father had not even wanted her?
She bit her lip, a new wave of uncertainty striking her. “In my experience, people don’t change at all, regardless of how very much we want them to.”
His thumb was stroking the patch of skin at her nape, his fingertips pressing into her with gentle insistence. “I’m not Pemberton. I’ll not abandon you, and nor will I regret being your husband. I promise it, Virtue.”
“I want to believe you.” How she did.
“Then do.” He kissed her brow, her cheek. “You can trust me. I am yours now, and you are mine. Forever.”
The rasp of his whiskers on her cheek rescued her, bringing her back to life and plucking her from the abyss of doubt. His skin was hot, electrifying, their nearness making her body go heavy with need. The musky, citrus scent of him teased her. Here was something tangible, something she could cling to and forget the rest. He had shaved that morning, and already, the strong blade of his jaw was shadowed. She rubbed against him, seeking something she couldn’t define. Not just comfort, but more.
She turned her head, and their lips met. He kissed her with such sweet reverence at first, his mouth soft and hot on hers. And then deeper, with need and fiery, claiming possession.
She gave herself over to the sensual spell he wove, her hairpins falling to the carpet in an echo of the lash of rains on the windowpanes. Her hair was coming undone, and so was she. His tongue swirled into her mouth, and she tasted the tea they’d shared earlier. He found the tapes on her gown and her bodice began to loosen.
Still kissing him, she trailed her hands down his chest, her fingers stopping at the buttons to his waistcoat, which she worked to free from their moorings. He was hers, just as he had said, and she wanted to touch him as she had before, bare skin on skin. They could take their time, savor each other without fear of interruption or scandal, and yet they were both equally frantic, not wanting to waste time.
He broke the kiss and sucked on her neck, helping her to divest him of the waistcoat. And then, he was stripping her out of her gown and petticoats, and he pulled his shirt over his head.
Her nipples protruded from her chemise, hard and aching. He took note, palming her breasts, rubbing over the stiff peaks until a noise of breathless need slipped from her. She touched him too then, her fingers glancing over the bands of muscle on his taut abdomen and chest, the effect of all his sessions at Angelo’s.
He was so powerful, so broad and strong and alive. How could anyone wish to do this beautiful man harm? She wondered what, if anything, he had discovered about the intruder on the stairs, but then pushed the troubling thought from her mind. She would ask him later. For now, she would not allow anything or anyone else to interfere. He was here, he was hers, and there were guards in Hunt House to keep him safe.
“I have imagined this moment hundreds of times,” he said, his voice low and quiet, steeped in reverence.
His words filled her with a renewed sense of urgency. Need was pulsing between her thighs, making her ache. She wanted him there. Yearned to be his in every way.
She fumbled with the fall of his trousers, her fingers clumsy with the pent-up need to touch and explore him. She grazed the thick ridge of his cock, pressing against the placket.
He groaned. “Saint’s teeth, Virtue. I want you so badly.”
She knew the feeling, because she felt the same way. Their bodies seemed to understand each other even if their minds were still growing accustomed to the newness of their circumstances. She grew bolder, cupping him for the first time, testing the length and firmness of him through his trousers in the same manner he fondled her breasts through her chemise.
He inhaled sharply at her touch, and she stilled, wondering if she had gone too far. But then he lightly pinched her nipples, his gaze hot and dark on hers. “Go on, darling. Do whatever you like to me. As I said, I’m yours.”
