Because he loved her. He had to acknowledge it, if only to himself. The feeling was still there, not at all faded now that they had made love and slept. If anything, it had taken root and was growing already, quite akin to a shoot in a garden.
“The chair,” she said, jolting him from his maudlin thoughts.
He blinked at her, bemused, wondering what the devil she was talking about. “What chair?”
“Surely you’re aware of the rumor circling concerning a certain chair you had fashioned specifically to facilitate…sexual congress.”
Ah.
Heat licked up the back of his neck, making his ears prickle. “That chair.”
Her eyebrows rose. “So thereisa chair, then?”
“There is indeed a chair, but it isn’t mine.”
“Iknewthere was a chair,” she pronounced, as if she had just solved some grand mystery of the ages. “But whose is it, then, if not yours?”
“Kingham’s, I suppose. It was a crude joke he orchestrated. King is quite a genius when it comes to inventing things, whether it be elixirs or chairs or God knows what. It was meant to be used for…er, pleasuring two women at once.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh.”
He swallowed hard. “Now, it’s at Wingfield Hall. I’ve never personally made use of it, though I suppose some Society revelers may have.”
“I didn’t realize that Kingham was so talented,” she said idly. “I don’t know him very well, of course.”
“He’s a genius. More often than not, an evil one.” He kissed the tip of her nose, an odd sensation welling up inside his chest. “But enough about that devil. I’d prefer for him to stay out of our bed, if you don’t mind.”
A teasing grin curved her lush mouth, her blue eyes dancing with laughter. “Never say the great Duke of Brandon is jealous of the Duke of Kingham.”
“Of course not,” he scoffed.
Her lips twitched. “Methinks you doth protest too much.”
Maybe he had been hasty in his reply. And he couldn’t deny that the mere thought of King touching Lottie or kissing her or—God forbid—more made him want to throw her over his shoulder and carry her away like some marauding Viking of old.
“Guilty,” he allowed with a rueful smile, kissing her cheek, her jaw. “I must admit, I want you all to myself.”
He lifted his head, and the levity fled both of them as their gazes held.
She cupped his jaw. “You do have me all to yourself for tonight.”
“For tonight,” he repeated, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.
He wanted more from her than stolen moments. Wanted more than secret meetings and shagging in the shadows against a door. He wanted to be her husband. Wanted to be at her side.
“When I said I didn’t know Kingham well, I meant it,” she said softly, perhaps sensing his tumultuous mood. “He and I have never been intimately acquainted.”
He had no right to feel the primitive rush of relief coursing over him. It was certainly no business of his to know whom she had taken as a lover in the past. Christ knew he had more than his fair share of lovers in his own murky history.
“You needn’t tell me that,” he said gruffly. “It wouldn’t matter to me if you had. Our pasts bear no hold over our present or our future.”
Future—a dangerous word. He knew it the moment that she stiffened at its utterance. She was so determined there could be none for them. Lovemaking was all she would countenance.
And so he distracted her in the best way he knew how.
He took her mouth with his, kissing her slowly. Tenderly. Patiently. Showing her with deeds rather than words that he would woo her, take care of her. That he would allow her to takecontrol and choose what she wanted from him, whether it be pleasure or something infinitely more.
She softened, the tension easing from her as she wrapped her arms around his neck and rolled against him, her pebbled nipples and rounded breasts crushed against his chest. He gave her his tongue, and she made a low sound of surrender. His cock rose to attention, prodding her belly. He wanted her again. Couldn’t get his fill of her.
