She opened her mouth—no doubt to fire another verbal barb at him—but instead released a soft moan of pleasure. He continued to circle her tight bundle of nerves until her spine relaxed and her eyes darkened.
“Such fire you have, Felicia. I’ve always seen it in you. It made looking away quite challenging.” He dipped his finger inside her tight channel as he spoke. “I never dared think that you could be mine, but it turns out that Loxley walking in on us was the perfect solution.”
Her brows furrowed, and she shook her head, trying to pull herself out of his arms. “No, that is not—”
So Charles did what any man with half a brain would do, he kissed her. Her lips, already parted, gave him the perfect opportunity to dip his tongue inside her mouth. She made a noise, then her nails dug into his shoulders. She swiped her tongue against his, and fire spread through his veins.
Damnation, how he wanted this woman. Craved her in a way he’d never allowed himself to admit. But now, she was to be his. She might not be happy about that fact, but he would ply her with orgasms until his heir was in her belly. He would show her how good they could be together. His fingers continued to work her. She made mewling noises as she rocked on his hand. Then she pulled back from their kiss and cried out his name.
“So damned beautiful when you fall apart for me.”
She stared at him. “That does not change the fact that you made this decision without first consulting me.”
It occurred to Charles then that perhaps she was cross because he had not wooed her and not because she did not want to marry him. He would have to remedy that after they were married. The carriage rocked to a stop.
Charles slid his fingers into his mouth, cleaning her essence from his digits. Then he withdrew a handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped off his hand. “It won’t do me good to meet HisExcellency with the smell of your cunny on my fingers. Do you wish to go inside with me, or shall you wait out here planning my demise?”
“I will wait here. But do tell me, do you think you would prefer to be run through with a blade or poisoned from some tainted potatoes?”
The laugh that surged from Charles was honest and real and a reminder that marrying Felicia Montclair was most assuredly the right thing to do.
Chapter 7
By Kathleen Ayers
I’m about to become a duchess.
There wasn’t a woman in all of England who would shy away from such a role, especially when the duke in question was Charles Harrington, the Duke of Kenbrook.
The marriage license had been secured almost as quickly as the loss of her virginity. The archbishop, a round-faced man with red cheeks, was most accommodating, given that Charles was a duke and a distant relation. Now Felicia stood, trembling hands hidden in her skirts, beside the only man she’d ever wanted, a vicar droning on about the benefits of marriage.
She glanced at her soon-to-be husband, heart fluttering as she took in his chiseled profile. The memory of the utter devastation he’d wreaked upon her only a short time ago in the carriage made her knees weak. Not to mention the seduction of her person, accomplished with little complaint. Felicia had willingly given herself over to the enemy more than once. There wasn’t any doubt she’d do so again.
Good lord. What am I doing? Bewitched by a clever pair of fingers and a handsome face.
“Felicia,” Charles nudged her, nodding at the vicar.
She blinked at the sound of her name, thoughts a jumble, thinking of twisted naked limbs and the feel of his mouth. “What?”
“Your vows,” he murmured. “You must say them.”
“I—” Her lips clamped shut, throat closing.
“A moment,” Charles said to the vicar, a smile pasted on his handsome face. He took hold of Felicia’s arm and tugged her gently away.
Vicar Mason shut his bible with a beleaguered look. He’d been enjoying his tea and a plate of fresh-baked scones when she and Charles had arrived, license in hand, and he was obviously not pleased to be disturbed.
“Felicia?”
This was all happening far too fast. She hadn’t had time to think. Or discuss anything at all with her father, but perhaps he already knew, given Loxley had seen them. Did it matter? One night in a hayloft, and she was about to become the Duchessof Kenbrook. A wife. Better than being branded a harlot, she supposed.
“You didn’t… ask me,” she finally stuttered. “Merely assumed that since I allowed your seduction of my person—”
“You didn’t object,” Charles reminded her. “Voiced no complaint.”
He didn’t understand. Couldn’t possibly appreciate her position. Yesterday, she’d been Felicia Monclair, proud daughter. Determined to settle matters over a piece of land for her family. Prove to Father that she was capable. Astute in business.
And now… Well, she’d been reduced to nothing more than a wife.
