Page 4 of Daring with a Duke (The Jennings Family #2)

4

Felicity

F elicity didn’t turn back, she didn’t let her shoulders drop, she didn’t let her chin dip. But beneath her damp, diaphanous skirts, her legs trembled like a newborn foal. Thank God for the storm that had soaked her to her bones, concealing her harried nerves beneath a guise of cold rain.

She couldn’t believe what she had just done, what she had just said. What had she said? Her mind seemed to have blanked out much of what transpired, because she wasn’t actually sure what she had said to the Duke. All she knew was she had relayed one of her most terrifyingly private moments to him. Something about imagining his hands when she was alone in her bed.

Holy mother of tits. Yes, she had said that, hadn’t she? If her legs weren’t as weak and feeble as a stork’s, she would jump and whoop. She was horrified and absolutely thrilled with herself.

There had been something empowering in trying to seduce the Duke. The way he’d backed away from her… She’d felt like a queen, and she had desperately wanted to force him to his knees before her. She wasn’t sure what that said about her as a person. But she had been on her best behavior her entire life. The minute she stepped beyond the sanctuary of her home, she became the demure, graceful image of a future duchess.

And what had that gotten her? Colborn’s pretty plaything? If she was going to play with anyone, she chose the Duke. A satisfied smile curved her lips.

Her gaze traversed the monstrous entry. Stone stairs were set against the towering walls, wrapping around three of them before they reached the second floor at least twenty feet above where she currently walked. How would she possibly climb all those stairs with her legs in their current state? With her heart threatening to burst straight through her ribcage? It beat against her bones with the same intensity of the drumming rain in the night’s storm.

She made her way through the decorative pointed archways, passed the stone columns thicker than her own waist, until she reached the threshold of the stairs. A soft, giddy giggle fled her lips, echoing against the fortified stones. Perhaps it was the medieval, grandiose castle, but she felt a bit like an enchantress, a manipulator of men. A slayer of men.

Maribeth had sat with Felicity and given her scores of advice on men as Felicity readied herself for The Plan , instructing Felicity on the art of seduction.

Men love hearing about you touching yourself, Fliss. They enjoy watching you touch yourself as a matter of fact. That had made Felicity blush, which was a rarity for her with her best friend. She and Maribeth didn’t hesitate to share personal information, but she couldn’t imagine someone watching her while she did something so…private. Though, if it were the Duke… Well, she could imagine that.

Perhaps tonight she would.

Especially to thoughts of them, Maribeth had continued. So, just tell the Duke, you touch yourself and pretend it’s him. Maribeth didn’t realize that was exactly what Felicity did when she was in the privacy of her own chamber.

She didn’t know why it was always the Duke when she closed her eyes. Besides the obvious fact that he was devastatingly handsome with his rough, sharp edges, his deep blue, black-rimmed eyes, and his broad-shouldered, lean form.

Oh, how she wanted to set her eyes on his body, sculpted from his passion for swimming in the English Channel, a stone’s throw from the castle. His strength had been visible through the gaping V of his shirt, evident with every flex of his corded forearms. She had been teased—tortured—with that firmness when she pressed up against him tonight. The man’s body was just as hard and rigid as the fortress he resided in.

It was more than that for her, though. It was the way his eyes held a hint of torment that she was desperate to dispose of with a tender touch. There were secrets hidden there. Secrets that taunted her. Secrets she longed to uncover.

Sometimes, when she would sneak a look at him during her various visits to the castle, she thought she saw a self-imposed prison surrounding him. An invisible barrier. Every time a glimmer of gaiety would escape—a smile, a slip of dry wit—he immediately doused it, thrust it back behind bars. He was entrancing. He was an enigma.

Felicity mounted the stairs and gripped the black, speckled granite railing for support, heaving herself upward in combination with her weak legs. She thought whatever she had just managed to spew back in the drawing room had some positive effect on her plan.

The Duke had been panicked, yes—but aroused. Her core pulsed its agreement. There was no hiding the Duke’s thick arousal against his trousers. She had nearly melted into a puddle of wanting when she had perused his person in an attempt at seduction—and found him hard. For her. A heady rush of power heated her from head to toe.

Her gaze caught on the hard granite beneath her palm, silver flecks sparkling underneath the light of the torches lining the gray stone walls. Hard beneath her palm. Just like he would be. Dear Lord, even the stone railing was affecting her. She had never wanted a man this badly. So badly that she was cracked in the head and stair railings were filling her with want.

Somehow, she eventually made it to her room, changed into a dry, warm nightdress, and settled under the covers of the mammoth, gilt-framed, rose-upholstered bed. Her limbs no longer trembled, but her heart hadn’t slowed, her core hadn’t calmed.

The Duke’s face swam before her eyes as she stared at the gold tassels hanging from the bed’s crown on the ceiling. She ran her fingers over her soft, smooth cheeks. Rough silver-streaked stubble had coated his face—days’ worth—making his rough edges rougher. She wanted to be marked by him. Her hands trailed down her skin, touching all the places she wanted to feel his abrasive edges. Her neck, her breasts, her thighs.

His hair—dark brown, short, but left a touch longer on the top with a slight curl to it—had been adorably mussed, as though he had run his hands through it countless times. She wanted to run her hands through it, fist it, as he settled between her thighs.

She had never experienced it—in truth, she hadn’t experienced anything except her quick joining with Colborn—but Maribeth had told her of what could be done with tongues and teeth— mouths . And the Duke had a lovely mouth. Her breath hitched as her fingers acted as a poor imitation. Of his mouth. Of his hands.

Oh, the feel of his hands. It had been minimal, just his gently over hers, helping her drink her brandy. But she had felt the heat. Hot and heady. She had instantly been back in the library, his hands on her waist, his fingers digging into her skin, like his body wanted hers, like he wanted her.

She wanted to believe he wanted her, that his body’s response tonight was a clear sign he’d cave for her. But he’d said he was sending her off first thing in the morning. A confusing desperation coursed through her veins like an uncontrollable current, one stemming from all the ways she was being denied. Denied the opportunity to take control of her future. Denied the opportunity to appease the lust rolling over her in dangerous waves.

Her time to execute the plan was slipping away before she’d truly had a chance to begin. Which meant she’d need to wake early and begin her seduction attempts again at breakfast, praying he’d have spent a night tormented by thoughts of her.

Her body trembled, her core throbbing and heavy. Revenge had never appeared more alluring. He knew of her plan, and she hoped he was lying in his bed, his mind consumed by the thoughts she had planted there. Lord, she hoped he was lying there, his hand wrapped around his cock, as helplessly lost in the fantasy as she was.

There was an odd satisfaction in his denial to cede to her seduction tonight. Perhaps it was the added anticipation, the slow, simmering thrill preceding the payoff. Or perhaps it was the relief she had felt, knowing the Duke was not like his son.

He never did come to her that night.

But true to her word, she came to thoughts of him.