Page 57 of Five Nights to Claim His Duchess

After a moment her arms came up around his back.

They stood there a while, neither of them speaking.

Then she drew back just far enough to look up at him — and reached up, and took his face in both her hands, and kissed him.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

He drew back only far enough to speak, his breath warm against her lips.

“Diana,” he said, “is this a thank you?”

She looked up at him through the firelight.

His fingers stroked her cheek, then the soft curve of her mouth, lingering there with a tenderness that made her eyes sting. “You are tired. I have so little self-command.”

“I have none either.”

The words left her before she could call them back. Something flared in his gaze. He caught the nape of her neck, gentle, yet firm. He kissed her, deeply, with a hunger that stole the breath from her lungs. His tongue swept into her mouth and she met it with a hesitance that quickly became a need. Her knees weakened.

It was only when his tongue was stroking against hers that she forced herself to pull away, the words rising unbidden.

“Your Grace—the woman of whom you spoke in your study. Who is she?”

He looked bewildered. “What woman?”

“The woman you said you fancied.”

Before he could answer she swallowed the last of her pride, the pride that had kept her silent through years of being overlooked, unwanted, inconvenient, and forced the question out. “Can you forget her?”

He lifted her face with both hands until their eyes met. The firelight caught the dark intensity of his gaze. “There is no other woman.”

He lifted her then, still kissing her. He carried her the few steps to the bed. He braced himself above her, the weight of him a reassuring presence. He looked into her eyes with a gravity that made her breath hitch.

“You are the only woman, duchess. Do you believe me?”

She looked into his eyes and she nodded. She believed him.

“It will be painful the first time,” he whispered.

“I trust you.” She was frightened; her pulse raced, her hands trembled where they rested against his shoulders; the trust was absolute.

“I shall be gentle.”

“Do not be. I want all of you.”

He rose from the bed, found a soft length of cloth upon the dressing table, and returned. He bound it carefully about her eyes, plunging her into darkness. The loss of sight made every other sense sharper, the crackle of the fire, the faint scent of his skin, the sound of his breathing.

“Trust me.”

“I do, Your Grace.”

“Valentine.” He said it against the shell of her ear. “Tonight, you will call me by my name.”

“Valentine.” It felt strange in her mouth, and thrilling, like something stolen.

Her hands found him in the dark, hard against her palm through the fine lawn of his shirt, and she felt him go still at her touch before he bent to kiss the column of her throat. His mouth moved lower, tracing the slope of her shoulder, and she tipped her head back to give him more of her, shivering at the drag of his lips against her skin.

“Turn,” he murmured.