“I agree. It’s the way they designed the ceiling above the stage. It curves up and away from the floor, carrying the sound out to the audience instead of keeping it trapped over the actors.” And wasn’t it rather pleasant, to discuss a topic other than the weather, or the Prince Regent’s wardrobe, or the myriad of other boring subjects that seemed to fascinate most women of theton?
Against his will, Ambrose had found himself looking at Mara’s freckles again... and then lower to her lips, where the top curved over the bottom in the shape of a cupid’s bow.
What would that full, slightly uneven mouth feel like pressed flush against his?
What would it taste like?
What sound would she make when he nipped that plump upper lip, then soothed the bite with his tongue before it turned into a bruise?
The rush of arousal had come upon him unexpectedly; a hard punch to the gut when he hadn’t even seen the fist coming, and a reminder that since parting ways with his mistress some four months past, he’d sated his more basic desires with nothing more than a flacon of olive oil and his own hand.
Purposefully averting his gaze in an attempt to cool his ardor, he’d focused on the passing scenery for the remainder of the carriage ride, his conversation clipped and noncommittal. When they’d arrived in front of the Holden residence, a townhouse overlaid in brick tucked between two nearly identical homes, he’d departed first, discreetly adjusting the front of his trousers as he went. The downpour had slowed to a misting drizzle. It was precipitation of a sort that was so common in London it might as well have been sunshine and prompted Ambrose to remove his hat and place it under his arm before he assisted Kitty to the ground.
She had fluttered her lashes at him while he helped her navigate the narrow carriage steps, much as she’d done for the entirety of the evening. And, much ashe’ddone for the entirety of the evening, he ignored her.
At first glance, Lady Katherine Holden was precisely the type of debutante that thetonassumed a duke such as himself would fancy. She was fashionable, flirtatious, and stunningly gorgeous, her hair the perfect shade of blonde and her eyes as blue as the sky. But while he might have considered her for a mistress if she weren’t directly related to the woman he had decided to marry, she wasn’t the kind of duchess he wanted.
“Lady Marabelle, might I steal a word in private?” he had said, and at her shy, hesitant nod, Kitty flounced off to the house in a huff of poorly veiled disappointment.
“What is it, Your Grace?” she’d asked, her nerves evident as she twined her fingers together. Like him, she’d also removed her hat, and the mist was dewing her hair, forming a shimmering veil that worked rapidly to dissolve the thick layers of lacquer.
“I prefer your hair like this. Soft and damp, with the ends turning into curls,” he’d said gruffly, the admission spilling forth without calculation or plan, causing his brow to furrow. A furrow that turned into a tense line when he reached out and caught a tendril, rubbing it between the pad of his thumb and index finger. A gentle pull and she stepped toward him automatically, a wide-eyed filly just introduced to the halter. And he held the lead.
“Your Grace?” She bit her bottom lip then, and it was all he could do not to groan. “What—what are you doing?”
What the devilwashe doing? Besides imagining pressing Mara up against the iron gate behind her, pinning her slender wrists above her head, and using his tongue to—
“Nothing,” he’d snapped, dropping her hair as if it suddenly turned to fire in his fingers. “I’m not doing anything.”
Certainly I’m not picturing you naked, your nipples taut and pointed to the sky as I hold your hips against cold metal and lick my way up one of your warm, silken thighs.
“Oh.” She released her lip with a littlepopof suction. “Could I... could I go inside, then?”
“Yes. Wait.” He had run an agitated hand through his hair. “Before I speak with your father, I should like to ensure that you would like to further pursue a courtship. I don’t intend to waste my time if your interests lie elsewhere.”
“A courtship.” Her cheeks paled, causing her freckles to stand out in stark contrast. He’d counted eleven before he wrenched his gaze away. “With... withyou?”
“No, with the man standing beside me.” Women had attempted to woo him with feigned innocence before, but it was Mara’s beguiling naivety that had summoned an exceedingly scarce smile, the fit of it tight across his mouth, like a muscle that hadn’t been stretched in some time. “Yes, Lady Marabelle, a courtship with me. Is that something you would find pleasing?”
“I’m not sure.” She’d looked over his shoulder, at the ground, around the carriage—anywhere and everywhere but directly at him. “I did enjoy the theater, but...”
“But?” He captured her chin, applying just enough pressure so that she’dhadto look at him, her lashes as dark and thick as spilled ink above watchful, wary eyes.
“But you’re a duke,” she had whispered, as if it were some great secret. “I’m not sure if I’m meant to be a duchess.”
“Why don’t we practice,” he said huskily, “and find out?”
Tilting her face back, he kissed her then as a rose petal would rest upon the water. Lightly. Softly. With nary a ripple to disturb what swam beneath.
A brush of lips. An exchange of breaths.
His, long and steady.
Hers, quick and shallow.
That was to be the end of it. A hint of what was to come, nothing more. But while his head told him to stop, his heart—that frozen ball of ice wedged in the pit of his chest—urged him to continue with a wildthumpthat caught him off guard.
Raising his other hand, he cupped her delicate jawline as he took the kiss further, tasting her gasp of surprise on the tip of his tongue. It was sweet.Shewas sweet—fresh strawberries covered in cream—and he wanted to lick the bowl clean.
