Had she not been so desperate to know what he kept silent, she would have cheered the small win. Instead, she shivered.
“Forgive me.” He recovered. “I should have offered to take your cloak. You are soaking.”
He unclasped the hooks at her throat, lifted the cloak from her shoulders and then dropped it onto the wet stone floor.
She sighed. “You’ve ruined it, no doubt.”
“I will buy you another.” His gaze grew speculative. “A cloak lined with sable, perhaps.”
She lifted her brows. “Sable would be warm, certainly.”
“It could be yours. If...” His voice trailed.
She narrowed her eyes. “If?”
“If you are good.” He stepped close enough for her to feel his heat against the exposed skin above her fichu. He brought his lips next to her ear. “And you will be good, won’t you, love?”
“I am afraid I am at a loss, Your Grace.”
He cupped her cheek. “I’d be happy to be of help.”
“How does the Duke of Ashbey definegood? Because I suspect you are not referring to virtue.”
He smiled, dark and wolfish. “Just admit you are here of your own free will so we may proceed.”
His radiating heat made her dizzy. Her dependably sturdy legs quivered. “I thought I had.”
“Not quite.”
His face was blurred, his lips impossibly close. His scent was an invitation to the darkest of her needs. Again, she remembered the old wives’ tale: Demons could not be summoned without express request.
To hell with cloaks and banter.
“Yes,” she replied. “I am here of my own free will.”
His ragged sigh gave her chills. “Then let us leave questions of virtue.”
“Devil,” she whispered.
“I am,” he said, with all seriousness. “But I am also a devil you desire.”
What was the point of denial? “Yes.”
“The truth at last.” He stepped away. “There is a bath prepared. Warm yourself. And be ready.” He pulled the bell and within seconds the old butler appeared. “Kent, would you lead the lady to my chamber?”
She followed the servant up the stairs, feeling the duke’s gaze fixed upon her clinging skirts.
The Duke of Ashbey might have been Mr. John Smith of a London rookery for all the dignity he had just displayed. His most valued possessions had been consigned to flame, and now he’d relinquished one of the few remaining things that gave him worth—mastery of himself.
Resting his forehead against the smooth wooden door that led to the dressing room and then the bedchamber beyond, he listened. Her sigh throbbed in his weighted cock.
He gripped the doorframe, tensing his muscles as if he could physically resist his need. His desire taunted, urging him to stroke his cock until he spent on the floor like an eager lad.
He would not debase them both.
He would have his angel soon enough. They would come together in the messy ritual belonging not to Heaven, nor to Hades, but to earth—slow, deliberate, thorough, andreal. He would savor all her luscious curves, and then sink into her as if she were solace personified. And after they came together, he’d be cleansed of the past and its pain.
He closed his eyes, reliving the very first time he had laid eyes on Lady Stone.
