Page 8 of Duke with a Debt (Wicked Dukes Society #2)

CHAPTER 8

R osamund was frowning over her watercolors when a servant informed her that she had an unexpected caller—His Grace, the Duke of Camden.

Her betrothed , she thought for a breathless moment as her paintbrush hovered over her canvas before she settled it in the glass water basin on her writing desk. Because it was official now. The notice in The Times had stared back at Rosamund when she had opened the paper earlier that morning.

“See him in, if you please,” she said, trying to tamp down the frenzied rush of excitement that lit within her, rather like a flame igniting into a roaring fire.

If only she could stop thinking about what had happened in the Duke of Brandon’s carriage. Her cheeks were flushed, and the same, aching hunger that had refused to abate since their wild ride through Mayfair pulsed deep within her. Even her nipples were hard and pebbled beneath her corset. She squeezed her thighs together to stave off the yearning, but the action only seemed to heighten her affliction.

He strode into her sitting room unannounced, jolting her from her musings, which was just as well. She rose from her seat.

“Your Grace.”

“We agreed that you would call me Stuart,” he reminded her, stopping within reach and executing an elegant bow.

His scent wafted over her, and for a heady moment, she longed to throw herself into his arms. A most unexpected reaction, even given what had happened between them before they had parted last.

“Stuart,” she murmured, feeling suddenly, unaccountably shy.

This man was to be her husband. Now was decidedly not the time to allow the memory of all the shocking intimacies they had shared in Brandon’s carriage to resurface. No, she had to maintain her composure.

He took her hand in his, bringing it to his lips for a chaste kiss that sent a frisson down her spine before he examined her fingers, smiling. “Purple lake, vermilion, and chrome yellow.”

Rosamund smiled. “You forgot gamboge.”

He gave her a sinful grin that made something low in her belly flutter. “I hope I’m to be forgiven. The shades of chrome yellow and gamboge are so similar, I find. You were painting again. Have I interrupted?”

Good heavens , he was a handsome man. She had known this, of course, in the sense that one knows the sun is in the sky above. However, she had not admired him, for he was a force she had not dared to stare at overly long, also like the sun. He had been forbidden to her. Beyond her reach. But he was within reach now, and the contact of his bare skin on hers was enough to make her melt inside. A sudden longing to paint him rose. The lines of his face—striking jaw, high cheekbones, proud nose, and high forehead—were made for being captured on canvas. If only she were talented enough to paint him. She would preserve his image forever as he looked now, his lips curved upward, his eyes shining, his wavy, dark hair perfectly tousled, the sunlight filtering in the windows casting him in a gilded air.

Belatedly, she realized she was staring at him. What was wrong with her? She had seen handsome men before, even if none of them had kissed her so passionately. Or in such intriguing places.

“Your call is welcome,” she said, realizing it was the truth and not merely a forced polite response.

She… liked the Duke of Camden. Indeed, she enjoyed his company, even beyond his searing kisses and skilled caresses. It was a sobering revelation.

“Thank you.” He released her hand, still regarding her warmly, his gaze never leaving hers. “What are you working on today? I’m guessing it is no longer my feathered nemesis’s portrait?”

“I’m having a dreadful time with it, but you may look if you like,” she said, thinking of how she had been struggling to capture a vase of fresh flowers she had arranged on a table by the window. “The shadow cast on the rosebuds is giving me difficulty. I may just surrender and begin a new piece.”

“I would love to see your painting,” he told her easily. “If it pleases you, of course.”

“You truly wish to see it?” She raised a brow. “I must warn you that flowers are not exactly my forte.”

“I’m sure you’re being modest.” His smile gentled, becoming intimate, just for her.

She swallowed hard against an unexpected rush of longing. No man had ever looked at her thus, with such tenderness. As if she were of the utmost importance to him and everything she said and all she did were sources of immense fascination to him. Which was surely a skill he had acquired during his tenure as a rake.

The reminder of his past served as a tart rebuke. What was she thinking? She was a rational, reasonable, intelligent woman. One who’d had her heart broken by a cad before. She must not, above all, read too much into Camden’s concern for her. He needed her fortune, and she wanted a family, and those were the only two reasons they were marrying. The reasons they stood together now in this very room. She would do well to remember it.

Rosamund stiffened her spine and renewed her determination to remain thoroughly immune to this man’s charms. “I am only modest where it is due,” she said, moving toward her writing desk, where she kept her watercolor set in its polished mahogany box.

The drawers were presently open in disarray, her brush where she had abandoned it in a sea of purple-red water. Her porcelain palette was already drying. She would need fresh water to bring the paints back to life.

She gestured to her painting, which was only partially completed, frowning at the rosebuds. “The intricacy of the furled petals always escapes me as well, as you can see.”

He had trailed closely in her wake and stood at her side, gazing down at her effort with what appeared to be genuine interest. “This is fine work, Rosamund. When you finish it, we shall have it framed and hang it on the wall in the salon in my town house.”

The mentioning of his town house jolted her from her musings. “Why would you wish to hang one of my watercolors in your salon?”

“Because it is yours and because you are immensely talented, even if you insist otherwise.” He turned the full force of his unusual gaze back upon her. “And because the salon shall be yours after we wed.”

Her lips parted, her mind hanging upon his mentioning of the salon at his town house rather than his praise for her talent. “That won’t be necessary. I have my sitting room here, which I have decorated to my liking.”

He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way she couldn’t help but to find appealing. “Yes, but you’ll not be living here any longer after we marry, my dear.”

The pronouncement left her gaping at him.

“Don’t be silly. Of course I shall live here. This town house is my home. It is where all my father’s antiquities are. It is where I have always lived.”

He cocked his head at her, his smile fading. “But you are to be my duchess. Your place will be at my side, in my home, in my bed.”

Somehow, in all her logical, extensive plans for what a marriage between them would require, she had not thought of this. Nor was it spelled out in any of the conditions he had agreed to as part of their marriage contract. She reeled with the implications, feeling dizzied. Surely she could dissuade him from this course.

“I cannot live in your town house with you, Camden,” she said. “You must know that.”

For many reasons. She was an independent woman of means. She liked the carefully crafted world she had built around herself.

“I know nothing of the sort,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back and regarding her in a censorious fashion.

“Don’t look at me that way,” she snapped.

“What way, my dear?” He was calm, unsmiling, so very patient.

Rosamund did not like it, because her heart had been fairly galloping ever since he had crossed her threshold. She did not like the effect he had upon her. She did not like how handsome he was. And she did not like the idea of living in his town house.

“As if I am a costermonger with the absolute daring to knock upon your front door.”

He frowned. “Poor as I am, I still never answer my own door, especially not to costermongers.”

“You’re being obtuse.” She was wringing her hands before her whilst he remained the picture of serenity, and yet she could not collect herself. “I cannot live with you. I will not live with you. This is where I live.”

“Am I to schedule appointments with you to do my marital duties? Do you truly intend me to pay a call upon you so that I may shag my own wife?”

Her cheeks went hot at his vulgar words. “You mustn’t speak that way.”

“Mustn’t I?” At last, he had lost his polished veneer, his hands no longer clasped behind his back as he reached for her, pulling her against his hard form. “Tell me, sweetheart, how should I speak? Should I remind you of how much you liked my tongue on your?—”

“Stop,” she gasped, hands fluttering wildly before they landed on the lapels of his coat. “Are you trying to shame me?”

But it wasn’t shame she felt just now, making her drawers go damp and her sex pulse with yearning. Rather, it was the opposite. He made her want to be wanton, and therein lay the danger.

“I would never seek to shame you.” He dipped his head and pressed a fervent kiss to the corner of her jaw, near her ear, his breath falling like hot silk over her skin. “I’m merely trying to make you remember that there is passion between us, that I’ve more than proven how compatible we are as man and woman.” He kissed the shell of her ear, his lips grazing her as he continued. “That there is no bloody way I am going to agree to your living in a different house as if we are polite strangers when I fully intend to spend every night pleasuring you senseless.”

Her knees threatened to give out. She’d thought she was more resilient, that she could remain impervious to all rakish attempts at seduction. But he had proven her wrong.

What was she to say to such an outrageous, sinful proclamation?

She wetted her lips, trying to gather her wits. “You can do that here.”

He kissed along her throat. “This isn’t my home.”

“And yours is not mine.”

His hands swept over the small of her back, pressing her more firmly against him. “This is a battle you’ll not win, sweetheart.” He kissed the hollow at the base of her throat, his tongue flitting out, as if he were tasting her madly thumping pulse.

“You’re being unnecessarily stubborn,” she managed. “We can each remain in our homes and meet where we wish, when it suits us.”

He lifted his head, his gaze searing hers. “There is only one place where it suits me to have you, and that is my bed.”

He meant it. And she couldn’t deny that the effect those words and the sensual promise in his expression had upon her was tremendous.

“I’m not selling this house,” she said, feeling her resistance crumbling.

“Nor do I expect you to. It is your mother’s home as well as yours. What other objections can you have? Tell me.”

“I am accustomed to the running of this household.”

“I’m sure your mother will run it as smoothly in your absence,” he reassured her easily.

But Rosamund wasn’t as confident of that. Mother was getting on in years, and since Father’s death, she had come to rely upon Rosamund so much.

“She needs me.”

He cupped her cheek. “Of course she does, but as your husband, I will need you more.”

He was speaking of the physical. Of sexual congress. Sharing a bed. Perhaps even thinking of his masculine pride, which likely could not bear for society to know that he and his duchess were keeping separate residences. But the way he was touching her now, the way he looked at her, was clouding her judgment. Making her weak.

“Yes, but I am all she has left,” she protested softly.

His thumb stroked gently over her skin. “You may visit whenever you wish. Meet with the housekeeper. Polish the bloody silver whilst you’re here. All I ask is that you come back home to me, that you live with me, as you are meant to do, as my wife.”

“I don’t know what to say. This is most unexpected.”

“Unexpected?” His lips quirked into a half smile, as if he were amused. “Did you not think about what would happen after we wed?”

She bit her lip, not wanting to admit the depths of her foolishness. “What about your brother?” she asked instead of answering his question directly.

He stiffened at the mentioning of Lord Wesley, his jaw hardening. “What of Wesley? He has nothing to do with us.”

Us. Was it wrong of her to like the way that sounded so much, for it to glide over her like warm honey? Likely, yes, it was. Wrong for her ability to resist him, certainly.

“Of course not,” she said, trying not to stare at his lips. “But I’m not sure I should like to see him every day or share the same roof.”

He frowned, his thumb stilling on her cheek. “Do you still have feelings for him?”

“No,” she answered instantly.

Truthfully.

He held her gaze, unrelenting. “You’re sure?”

“Certain.”

Camden—Stuart, as she must think of him now—stared at her another long moment. And then slowly, giving her time to object should she wish it, he lowered his head. She didn’t object. Instead, Rosamund slid her hands up his coat to his shoulders, drawing him nearer as she rose on her toes. Their mouths met in a whisper-soft kiss. A tender collision followed by the tantalizing brush of his lips over hers. It was too soft. Too teasing. Not enough.

Making a sound of frustrated desire, she twined her arms around his neck, pressing herself shamelessly to his strong, lean form, increasing the pressure of their kiss. With a growl, he angled his mouth over hers, his tongue seeking entry as he took command. She surrendered willingly, lips parting for the slick, hot invasion. He ravished her with potent, drugging kisses and possessive thrusts of his tongue.

He tasted unusual, like anise with a hint of sweetness, and she never wanted their kisses to end. The longer he kissed her, the more need flowed through her, leaving her aching. She moved against him, seeking relief and finding none. As if he sensed what she wanted, Stuart guided her backward until the hard surface of her writing desk met her bottom through the layers of her gown and petticoats.

If they didn’t take care, they would upend her water and paints and send all cascading to the floor in a jumbled sea of color and paintbrushes. But then he slid a long leg between her parted thighs, and she forgot to fret over spilled watercolors. Instead, the most delicious sensation radiated from her center as he pressed his leg between hers. Instinctively, she writhed on him, seeking and finding more pressure. More of what she wanted. She was swollen and wet below, the sensuous glide of his tongue in her mouth mirroring the rhythm of his thigh thrusting between hers.

But it wasn’t sufficient. There were too many layers separating them. She ground herself mercilessly against his thigh, and yet she couldn’t achieve the stimulation she craved, like when his tongue had flicked over her sensitive bud in the carriage. Curse her skirts. Pleasure was building within her, her breath coming faster, everything within her heightened to the point of acute awareness.

Her senses were intense—the rasp of his coat against her hands as she gripped him to her, the bristle of his shaved whiskers against her cheeks as he kissed her, his decadent scent of sandalwood and musk, his tongue gliding into her mouth, his lips firm and hot as they coaxed her response, their breaths mingling, each thrust of his thigh dragging her cotton undergarments over her sex. It was there, so close, her release, taunting her, and yet she couldn’t find it.

Stuart knew.

He fisted one of his hands in her skirts, dragging her hems upward. The sound of paintbrushes rolling to the floor and landing in soft thumps on the Axminster didn’t serve as a deterrent for either of them. Even if her replacement water bowl went next, she wouldn’t care. His hand found her inner thigh, the cotton of her drawers impeding the contact of bare skin on bare skin. Still kissing her, he slid his hand higher at the same moment as she arched her back and scooted her bottom toward him. He dipped his fingers into her folds, his touch sending an electric pulse of desire radiating outward from her core.

He stroked her, gently at first, and then when she moaned and sucked on his tongue, he circled her pearl. Once, twice. It was agony and ecstasy. He strummed around where she wanted him most, teasing, tempting. Breaking down all her resistance. If he asked her to move to the moon with him in the next breath, she would gratefully agree to it.

But still, he would not give her what she wanted. Not quite. Frustrated, she broke the kiss, her head falling back.

“Stuart,” she breathed. “Please.”

He drew another tantalizing circle around her swollen bud. “It’s not enough, is it?”

“No,” she ground out, thrusting her hips toward him shamelessly, beyond caring now.

He had driven her to the edge of reason. Lust clouded her mind. She was an aching bundle of need, seeking what only he could give her.

“This is what it would be like if you lived here instead of with me, where you belong,” he murmured. “You would be all alone in your bed at night, longing for me to bring you to completion.”

Oh, the wicked man. He was tormenting her with sensual pleasure and all so he could emphasize his point.

“Are you…” Her words trailed off, her mind going blank as a new page when he grazed the sensitive underside of her pearl. “Are you trying to seduce me into agreeing to live with you, Camden?”

“Perhaps.” His smile turned sinful as he drew another circle around her flesh beneath her skirts. “Is it working?”

It was, but she was too stubborn to admit it. So instead, she released her grip on his shoulder and slid her own hand beneath the layers of petticoats and silk. “I can bring myself to completion as well, you know.”

“You beautiful, naughty thing.” He cupped her mound, keeping her from pleasuring herself as she had been intent upon doing. “What do you think about when you touch yourself? Do you think about what happened in the carriage between us?”

Heat crept over her cheeks as she pressed his hand over her, seeking friction. “Perhaps. Move your hand, you rogue. I’ll not be persuaded to live in your town house under duress.”

“Your cunny doesn’t feel like it’s under duress to me,” he said, his voice low and dark. “It feels hot and wet and desperate for more.”

The air whooshed from her lungs. “No one has ever said something so bold to me before.”

He rotated his palm, and she gasped, her hips jumping to do his bidding. “And you like it, don’t you? Just think of all the pleasure I can give you when you’re in my bed every night.”

To emphasize his words, he released his hold on her and gave her what she’d been seeking these last few torturous minutes—a delicious stroke over her pearl, then another. She grasped his wrist but made no move to replace his fingers with hers. His touch felt ever so much better than hers in that moment.

“I thought the intention was to… oh …” He swirled the pads of two fingers over her, sending hot sparks skittering in his wake. “To have relations with each other so that you… ah …” More firm, knowing strokes interrupted her words as she gasped before corralling her thoughts again. “So that you could have your heirs and I… uh .” His fingers were moving faster now, firmly rubbing over her aching bud.

She gave up on finishing her sentences. Words? What were words anyway? She was mindless. Hips chasing his fingers, heart racing in a steady thrum, closer, closer, closer. She was almost there, ready for the wave of bliss to break over her. Just a little bit more. His lips found hers again and he kissed her passionately, and she was nearly there…

“Rosamund? What in heaven’s name is going on?”

They broke apart as one at the shocked voice of her mother echoing through the room. But his hand was still beneath her skirts, and so was hers. Their ragged breaths coasted over each other’s kiss-swollen mouths. They’d been caught.

Thank heavens for Stuart’s tall frame before her, blocking what was happening under her dress from her mother’s view. But she couldn’t hide the stockinged leg that was wrapped around his hip, the heel of her embroidered boot digging into Stuart’s right buttock.

Rosamund slowly peered over his shoulder, all too aware of his stilled hand, yet pressed against her most intimate place. Her mother stood near the door to the sitting room, which was thankfully closed. Dressed in her preferred gray silk, her eyes were wide, mouth agape as she stared at the undoubtedly shocking vignette before her.

“Mother,” she said faintly, unhooking her leg from Stuart’s hip and discreetly disentangling herself from him, shaking out her skirts. “It isn’t what you think. Camden and I were discussing our plans for the wedding.”

That was rather a nonsensical explanation, and she knew it.

“It looks to me as if you were discussing your plans for after the wedding,” Mother said pointedly.

Stuart turned and offered her mother an elegant bow. “Mrs. Payne, I must humbly beg your forgiveness for my lack of control where my betrothed is concerned. I promise it shan’t happen again.”

“I shall see that it doesn’t,” her mother returned, frowning. “I know the two of you are eager for your marriage, but you must cling to your restraint. I am sorry I was so belated in joining the two of you—I had been out visiting friends myself. I came as soon as I returned home and learned that you were paying a call, Your Grace. It would seem that I arrived just in time.”

Rosamund was too mortified to speak, her cheeks scalding.

“Indeed you did, madam,” Stuart said, his countenance serious. “The fault is all mine. I am but a weak and sinful man.”

“I will take you at your word that such a lapse in propriety won’t happen again,” Mother said sternly before slanting a meaningful look in Rosamund’s direction. “It is more than clear that you ought not to be alone together before you are married, and that further, we must have this wedding happen as imminently as possible.”

Mother had never cared much for society’s edicts. Even during Rosamund’s betrothal with Wesley, she had often allowed the two of them unprecedented time alone together. Now with her father gone, Rosamund had rather become the ruler of the household, with her mother happy to follow her lead. But it would seem she had finally pushed her mother too far.

“Of course, Mother,” she said humbly. “We will make certain to marry as quickly as we are able.”

“I will obtain a registrar’s license today,” Stuart said politely, nary a hint of the deeply passionate man who had seduced her on her writing desk to be found. “We will be married in two days’ time.”

“That is best, Your Grace,” Mother agreed, nodding.

But his smooth response had Rosamund’s suspicion rising. Had he intended for them to be caught? She couldn’t help but to wonder. Mother’s intrusion and her having spied them in a torrid embrace left them with no alternative other than to marry in haste. Not that they ran the risk of scandal if they did not, but Rosamund would sooner throw herself from a window than be the cause of her mother’s disappointment or embarrassment.

It would seem he had not only cozened her into marriage, but into living beneath his roof and wedding him in haste. No doubt about it, the Duke of Camden was a clever man, a seasoned seducer, and a worthy opponent.

And in just a matter of days, he would also be her husband.