There was no question of control now. Frances only wanted more – more of all that Ambrose could give her. His fingers had found her slit and were exploring there as he kissed her gasping mouth. The flesh of her womanhood was in an unfamiliar state, feeling swollen and slippery under his touch.
“So beautiful,” he whispered to her again. “How perfect. Let it happen.”
Let what happen? The duke’s thumb gently pressed on the firm nub of flesh within her womanhood and another wave of powerful pleasure rolled over her. Then his fingers found her opening and slid inside, heightening this new sensation further.
Frances could not speak as Ambrose proceeded with his skillful fingering, slow at first and then increasingly rhythmic. She could only cling to him and moan, lost to the wildness of her feelings and the mounting pleasure in her belly. Whatever was happening to her was unnerving but utterly compelling and there was no question at all of resistance now.
She had the sense of reaching the edge of a great drop, fearful of the fall. Ambrose seemed to hold her there deliberately for long moments, his voice whispering her name and welcoming all the responses she could no longer control.
“Now, Frances,” he urged, lowering his head to suckle her breasts again. “Give in to the pleasure, let it happen now.”
At his words, a first spasm of ecstasy took her and threw her over the edge, followed by two more in quick succession and then many smaller thrills. Eventually, the ecstatic madness began to subside into warmth and confusion.
“Oh God!” Frances moaned, coming to herself and grasping her disarray, although unable to move while Ambrose was still holding her so intimately. “Oh God, what was that?”
“That was only the start,” he told her, his face flushed and hungry but also pleased. “Did you like it?”
Like it? Such ordinary words were inadequate to the experience Frances had just undergone. Exquisitely conscious of the nakedness of her breasts and the fingers still buried within her slit, another little rill of pleasure shot through her and she shifted her hips with little involuntary moan.
If Frances had not already been as flushed as a woman could be, the blood would have run to her cheeks. She knew that if Ambrose wished to claim her fully at this moment, she would not object, even here in the library, with the risk of being observed by the staff.
“I did not know,” Frances managed to say and then gave another soft cry as Ambrose withdrew his hand and brought it to his own lips.
Her eyes opened wide as he put his fingers to his own mouth and sucked them with evident pleasure in tasting her excitement.
“Now, you know, and there is still more to learn,” he told her.
The loud sounding of the dinner gong in the hallway made Frances jump with fright.
“Oh, what will we do?” she exclaimed, fearful of being found in such a state.
Although he seemed amused for a moment by this reaction, Ambrose then drew the blanket more closely around Frances and spoke soothingly to her.
“We both need some minutes to cool our blood. Then, we will straighten our clothes, eat dinner and sleep in our own beds,” he told her. “That was only a first taste. You must tell me when you are ready for more.”
Chapter Sixteen
Frances paused on the stairs before turning the final corner to descend into the hallway. She could hear voices below and did not wish to encounter the Duke of Westall unexpectedly. Not yet. Instead, she stood still and peered over the bannister.
“I am glad to finally tidy this nonsense away, Mr. Vennels. It has been hanging over me for too long. Thank you for your time.”
“As we discussed, everything is now in order, Your Grace,” confirmed the portly grey-haired man in old-fashioned but formal frock coat and breeches, carrying the kind of leather document bag that marked his profession. “With this copy of the marriage certificate, I will immediately make arrangements with your bank for transfer of the trust.”
“Very good, Vennels,” said the Duke of Westall genially as he showed the man to the front door. “I can be sure that my family’s legal affairs are always in good hands with Vennels and Bristow.”
The conversation meant little to Frances and did not sound particularly important or urgent from the tones of the two men’s voices or their few words. Mr. Vennels was clearly one of the duke’s lawyers, and he was going to sort out something with the bank. What specific trust they might be discussing, or why a marriage certificate might be needed, were beyond her, but also of limited interest.
Frances herself was far more focused on avoiding unexpected encounters with the Duke of Westall, and keeping herself under control when they did meet. Her pleasure at his hands in the library two days ago had been one of the most earth-shattering experiences of her life. Trying to understand it had occupied almost every waking moment since it occurred, apart from the time she spent with Winnie.
Where did such an experience fit into her life? At the moment, it was still like a glimpse of a new country through a door rather than any great shift. Frances could not yet walk freely in that strange land, both nerve-wracking and seductive as it was.
After that peaking of ecstasy in his arms, they had done exactly as Ambrose had suggested, straightening their clothes, eating dinner and retiring to their own bedrooms as though nothing whatsoever had occurred between them.
Their conversation over dinner had been only of Westall Park and of Winnie. Yet all the time, Frances’ heart had been beating madly and strange spikes of longing had surged in her blood, as though left over from his earlier caresses.
In sleep, Frances had dreamt of their encounter all over again, although her imagination made the scene even wilder by removing all their clothes so that she buried her face in the warm skin of his bare chest and writhed her hips directly against the firm male organ that she knew he possessed.
When she awoke, her womanhood was throbbing and its folds in the same slippery condition that the real-life Duke of Westall had induced. Waking in such a state, it took all Frances’ self-control on two consecutive mornings not to go to his room and throw herself into his arms.
