* * *
Loretta had knownthere was more.
So much more.
When Prescott had come to her during those first few years of their marriage, he’d been performing his duty. He’d been dedicated to securing the succession.
She’d always felt like something of a chore.
He’d snuff the candles, push up her gown, spread her legs, and work himself inside her. “You are a good wife,” he’d told her on more than one occasion.
Thomas Findlay had proven her theory to be correct, oh, so very thoroughly. Although much larger than her husband had been, there had been no pain.
He’d prepared her for his entrance. And there had been more.
So much more.
Upon releasing his seed, Prescott would hold himself over her for a moment, withdraw and then leave the room.
It had never been about the two of them. It had always been about the dukedom. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“Talk to me, Duchess.” Thomas lay atop her. “You’ve gone awfully quiet on me.”
Loretta opened her eyes and found him watching her intently.
“Thank you.” She didn’t know what else to say. She didn’t understand what they were doing, other than finding physical pleasure together.
He didn’t seem to appreciate her gratitude. “Thank you?” He raised both brows. “You are the most aggravating woman I’ve ever known.”
He would say these words to her with his member yet between her thighs. Blasted man!
“What would you have me say, Mr. Findlay.” Upon which his lips covered hers as though to stifle her speech so much as to express desire and affection.
“You’ll not ‘Mr. Findlay’ me now,” he growled, causing a girlish giggle to take over her affronted indignation.
“Mister Findlay,”she repeated when her mouth was finally free.
But then he grew serious. “I would thank you, but I think we both found pleasure.” Blue eyes gave her nowhere to hide. At moments like this, she recognized his insecurity with her.
She nodded. Yes. She’d found great pleasure with him. “It’s why I thanked you.” And then she added. “Thomas.”
Even with his hair mussed and sweat drying on his brow, this man’s looks affected her. So ruggedly masculine. A man who had labored. A man who was proud of his labors.
He possessed a self-esteem, the thought came to her from nowhere. She would never have discovered in her husband. Before she could stop herself, she’d reached out and was tracing the strong jaw hovering above her.
“You don’t talk to me enough, Duchess. Damned if I ever knew a woman who talked as little as you.”
“I don’t know that you would wish to hear my thoughts.” For in her mind she constantly found herself comparing him to her husband.
“I’m curious as to what goes on behind those serious eyes of yours. Of what a duchess contemplates after being thoroughly swived by the great industrialist, Thomas Findlay.” Although his words were boastful, she recognized humility behind them.
Her title, her station in life, intimidated him.
“She thinks,” Loretta began, “She thinks she might possibly be sore tomorrow. She thinks she’s never known such exquisite pleasure. She thinks she might want to know such pleasure again…”
And she fears the self-recriminations she will surely experience tomorrow.
“What,” she asked, turning the tables on him, “does the great industrialist, Thomas Findlay think upon swiving the aging Duchess of Prescott?” She’d meant the question as a jest, but suddenly felt vulnerable lying beneath him.
