“You taste divine, my Duchess,” he said, pulling his hand away with a mournful expression as if he’d been barred from dessert. She would have laughed if she’d had the strength to.
For a long moment, they simply breathed together, her face pressed against his chest as the aftershocks faded. She felt his heart racing beneath her cheek, felt the rigid tension in his body that spoke of his unsatisfied desire, felt the tremor in the hand that stroked her hair with unexpected tenderness.
Reality crept back slowly. The muffled sounds of the ball filtered through the walls—music, laughter, the hum of society continuing its elaborate dance mere corridors away. She had just come undone in her husband’s arms while hundreds of London’s finest waltzed and gossiped below.
The scandal of it should have mortified her. Instead, she felt powerful. Claimed.His.
She pushed herself up on shaking arms and reached for the fastenings of his trousers with fingers that trembled from pleasure and determination. “Your turn.”
Theodore caught her wrist, his grip gentle but unyielding. “No.”
“But you’re…” She could feel the evidence of his arousal pressing against her hip, could see the strain in his expression. “Surely you want?—”
“More than my next breath.” His smile was pained. “But that’s enough for one evening.”
Cressida frowned, confusion and frustration warring in her chest. “That hardly seems fair.”
“Fair?” He pressed a reverent kiss to her forehead, then her nose, then her lips—soft, lingering, achinglytender. “You just came apart in my arms, in my aunt’s parlor, while society’s finest dance mere corridors away. I’d say we’ve tempted fate quite sufficiently for tonight.”
“Theodore…” she tried again.
“No.” He drew her chemise and bodice back into place with gentle hands, his fingers working the buttons with the same skill that had undone them. Each fastening felt like a door closing, like distance being carefully reconstructed between them. “We’ll have time, Cressida. But not here. Not like this.”
Cressida watched him smooth her skirts and adjust the emerald silk until she looked almost presentable, his expression unreadable in the moonlight. His own dishevelment remained—hair thoroughly mussed from her fingers, cravat askew, coat wrinkled from her grip. Visible evidence of what had transpired.
When he finished, Theodore lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles that felt like a vow, like a promise, like everything he couldn’t yet say aloud. His mouth lingered on her skin, warm and reverent.
“You’re mine,” he said quietly, his eyes burning with possessive intensity. “Make no mistake about that. Every breath, every smile, every moment—mine. But I won’t dishonor you further by taking you in a borrowed parlor during a ball.”
“Even though we’re married?” The question emerged smaller than she’d intended, vulnerable in a way that made her feel exposed.
“Especiallybecause we’re married.” He stood, offering his hand to help her up. “You deserve better than a rushed romp in the dark. You deserve silk sheets and candlelight and all the time in the world. You deserve to be worshiped properly.”
The words sent heat flooding through her again, her imagination conjuring images of what that worship might entail.
Cressida took his hand, letting him pull her to her feet. Her legs felt unsteady, her body still humming from what had just happened, every nerve ending alive and sensitized.
She should probably be mortified—the Duchess of Ashmere, debauched in Lady Seymore’s townhouse while guests waltzed downstairs. Her reputation balanced on a knife’s edge already; discovery would mean complete ruin.
Instead, she felt powerful. Desired. Claimed in a way that transcended social contracts and marriage settlements.
Theodore unlocked the door with quiet efficiency, checked the corridor with the careful attention of a man accustomed to strategic thinking, then drew her out into the shadows. They moved quickly back toward the ballroom, his hand warm and steady on the small of her back—proprietary, possessive, and protective all at once.
At the threshold where light and music spilled from the open doorway, he stopped, turning her to face him. In the shadows, his expression remained partially hidden, but his eyes blazed with barely banked fire.
“Go back to the ball. Find Harriet. Act as though nothing happened.” His thumb brushed across her lower lip, still swollen from his kisses. “Can you do that for me, my Duchess?”
Cressida nodded, not trusting her voice.
“Good.” His smile turned wicked, dangerous, full of dark promise. “Because after this ball, we return to Ashmere. And once we’re home…” He leaned close, his breath hot against her ear. “I intend to finish what we started.”
The words sent a shiver down her spine.
Before she could respond, he stepped back, his expression shifting into the blank courtesy he wore like armor in public.
“And what will you do?” Cressida managed, proud that her voice emerged steady despite the chaos rioting through her.
His smile was pure sin. “I’m going to find the strongest brandy available and try to convince myself that I have an ounce of restraint left where you’re concerned.”
