He frowned at her, his teasing air vanishing. “There is nothing meager about your talent. I’ve never eaten anything as refined and delicious as your cornets and cream.”
His praise sailed past her ire and tickled her pride. But she would not allow him to scale her walls of defense so easily.
“I thank you for your compliment,” she managed, her voice trembling from the force of the emotions coursing through her. “However, it does nothing to assuage my fury for your selfish recklessness with my reputation and my school.”
Whitby stared at her, silence descending after her outraged pronouncement.
“I promise that no harm will come to your reputation by your presence here,” he said softly.
His countenance was so earnest, his stare holding hers, that she wanted to believe him. But she was also a practical-minded woman. One who had scrabbled and clawed to regain her freedom, despite the tremendous cost.
“That is something you cannot promise me,” she countered. “Tongues wag. I am not unknown amongst polite society. All I need is one person to see me and carry the tale.”
“No one will recognize you because most guests in attendance for the next week will be masked,” he said. “I can see that several are delivered to your chamber for your use as well.”
His assertion quelled some of the fear roiling within her, though not all. “You have ladies’ masks lying about?”
The notion of him collecting masks from his various paramours made her stomach tighten into a jealous knot, and she didn’t know why. She had no claims upon him. Heavens, she could not dally with him even if she wished to, which she decidedly did not.
“I always make certain to bring extra sundries to our revelries.” He took a sip of his coffee, and she couldn’t help but to watch the movement of his lips, the dip of his Adam’s apple. “It is the host’s duty to make certain that all his guests are well entertained and provided for.”
There was something about his assertion she didn’t like any more than his previous admission.
“And how do you entertain and provide for your guests, Your Grace?” she asked with just a trace too much bitterness.
“I’ll not lie to you, Miranda. In the past, I have enjoyed partaking in any number of revelries.” He settled his demitasse back upon the table linens.
Of course he had enjoyed participating in his orgies, she thought grimly. Why else would he host them?
She stood abruptly, the notion of remaining here whilst he cavorted with any number of ladies who would be in attendance making her stomach twist violently. She didn’t think she could bear it.
He was on his feet, his long legs taking him around the table before she could flee. Strong hands grasped her waist and he spun her about, pinning her against the breakfast table with his lean, muscled strength.
“Not this time, however,” he rasped, his gaze hot and hard on hers. “This time, all I want is you.”
The charm had been stripped from his voice, his face. Here was the cunning seducer in the raw, the practiced rake free of his smooth drawls and effortlessly unaffected mien. It was as if a wall had fallen away, and she was seeing him—the true Duke of Whitby—for the first time.
Her breath caught in her throat. “I didn’t come here for a dalliance.”
He tightened his fingers on her waist and dipped his head. “You may tell yourself so, but deep inside, you know the truth.”
She stared at him, shock making her go completely still, making her incapable of doing anything. She could not even move. Because in this wild moment, all pretenses were gone. They were man and woman, their heated bodies pressed together, their breaths melding. And she recognized the veracityof his words to her very marrow. She had told herself that she had accepted his offer because she needed the funds. That was not wrong. But there was another reason as well. A reason that was glaring and dangerous.
The wickedest part of her wanted the Duke of Whitby as her lover.
Wanted to strip him of his tweed, to feed her hands the sensation of his broad shoulders bereft of fabric, to explore the taut bands of his abdomen, to rake her nails along the strong plane of his back. And then to move lower. To find the waistband of his trousers. To undo the tempting buttons at his falls. To reach inside the slit of his drawers and pull his big, hard cock free of all polite restraints.
The animal in her wanted to lie on the breakfast table and lift her skirts. To urge him between her spread thighs and to beg him, just as he had warned her she would do. She wanted him to mount her, to thrust himself inside her so deep that it felt as if he would never leave. She wanted the taste of him on her tongue, the pounding of his heart against her bare breast.
“You know it,” he repeated softly, almost triumphantly, one of the hands at her waist lifting to cup her cheek. “Go on and say that you don’t. Lie to me.”
His thumb stroked lightly along her jaw as he spoke, the touch so exquisite she almost moaned aloud. His hand opened, his other fingers splaying hot and possessive against her throat, curling around to her nape.
Try as she might, she couldn’t say it. Couldn’t mean it. Couldn’t feel it.
“Whitby,” she protested weakly instead, her voice annoyingly breathless.
“You can’t, can you?” He smiled slowly. Not a practiced smile and not a rakish grin, but something else entirely.
