“I do not want a man who surrenders,” she said. “Not completely. I want one who fights me, loses, and fights again. I want,” she paused, searching his face. “I want your passion and your partnership. Not your penitence.”
He reached for her, then hesitated, hands hovering at her shoulders. “I don’t know if I can balance it.”
She smiled, slow and challenging. “Then let us practice.”
The first kiss was a collision of purpose—her mouth firm against his, daring him to meet her intensity. He did. He brought both hands to her face, fingers weaving into her hair, tilting her head to deepen their connection. She sucked his lower lip, stating her intent.
He pressed her backward, careful but insistent, until her knees met the edge of the bed. She sat, pulling him down with her, the silk of her gown slipping at the shoulders. He followed, abandoning any pretense of restraint. His hands found her waist, then her hips, then the line of her thigh beneath the thin fabric.
She pushed him away enough to untangle his cravat. With precision, she worked it loose, then tossed it aside, the linen falling to the floor with a sound of triumph. She tugged at his shirt—two, three, four—until she could run her palm over his chest, feeling his racing heart.
He inhaled sharply, shaky. “You are merciless.”
She licked the hollow beneath his ear, teeth grazing his skin. “And you love it.”
He responded with a growl, the vibration resonating from his chest to hers. He lifted her then lay her back on the bed, his weight anchoring her. She arched against him, pressing her breasts to his mouth. He took the invitation, suckling and teasing her through the silk, then tugging it aside to taste her skin.
She clawed at his shirt, pulling it off his shoulders, leaving it tangled at his elbows. He moaned into her skin, the sound raw and unguarded.
“Helena,” he whispered, “tell me what you want.”
She looked up at him, eyes dark with desire. “Everything. All of it.”
He obliged, undressing her with a mix of reverence and urgency. The silk pooled at her hips, then lower, then was gone altogether. He knelt, kissing a path down her belly, pausing at the edge of her sex. He breathed her in, the scent of her intoxicating.
She parted her legs, foot pressing into his shoulder. He ran his tongue along her, tasting and memorizing her pleasure. She moaned, loud and unashamed, her hand fisted in his hair, holding him close.
He did not stop. He coaxed her to the edge, then over it, again and again, until she gasped his name, voice hoarse and unsteady. Only then did he climb up her body, kissing her—mouth, throat, breast, mouth—until she was ready to pull him down into the bed with her.
She rolled him onto his back, straddling him, then lowered herself, slow and deliberate, taking him inside her inch by inch, her eyes fixed on his. He groaned, the sound desperate enough to make her almost come apart. She rode him, hard and slow, then faster, the rhythm both a punishment and a reward.
He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, kissing her until neither could breathe.
When he came, it was with a force that surprised them both. He gasped her name, over and over, as if it alone could save him. She clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders, every muscle taut, every nerve ending alive.
They collapsed together, a tangle of limbs and sweat. She lay on his chest, breathing in his scent, listening as his heart slowed from a gallop to a canter to something almost peaceful.
After a moment, she spoke. “You know,” she said, “there is a certain satisfaction in being the ruin of a Duke.”
He laughed, full and unrestrained. “I am not ruined,” he said, “not yet.”
She smiled into his throat. “Give it time.”
He stroked her hair, the gesture tender in a way that made her chest ache. “Will you stay with me?” he asked. “Tonight. Tomorrow. After.”
She lifted herself up, meeting his gaze. “Is it my choice?”
“Always,” he said, and meant it.
She traced the line of his jaw with her thumb, then kissed him, softer this time, lips barely touching. “Then yes,” she said. “I will stay.”
The candles had nearly burnt out. The room was all shadow and heat, filled with the quiet satisfaction of two people who had found balance.
Chapter 12
The next fortnight passed in a frenzy of passionate nights. Helena and William settled into a comfortable pattern. By day their lives proceeded as notmal. By night, they indulged in each other making love, then talking into the wee morning hours before drifting off to sleep in one another’s arms.
Now the season's final masquerade unfolded across the marble expanse of Harrington House, a display of silk and intrigue. It was said that the lanterns alone, each a piece of Venetian glass strung high above, cost more than most landed families’ annual income. The result was a soft haze of scarlet and gold, with every surface burnished and every shadow reflecting its own light. Somewhere in the crowd, a string quartet played a waltz.
