Page 31 of Duke with a Lie (Wicked Dukes Society #4)

A ubrey woke to late-morning sun spilling golden rays into the window, Rhiannon’s burnished tresses trailing across his bare chest, and the most acute sense of contentedness he’d ever known.

She was slumbering serenely, her head on his chest above his heart, and somehow she had come to be lying on his right arm, which was presently numb.

He didn’t give a damn, and neither was he possessed of even the slightest inclination to move it.

Hell, he thought he might saw it off just to give her a softer place to sleep.

It was almost impossible to believe the effect she had on him.

He didn’t care about anyone or anything else.

Not the house party, not the erotic distractions he’d been hoping to find at Wingfield Hall prior to his arrival.

Not his friendship with Whit or the Wicked Dukes Society itself.

She was all that mattered to him, this wild, wonderful, forbidden hellion who was stubborn and bold and wicked.

Who was everything that called to him in a way no woman before her had.

She shifted against him, emitting a soft, breathy sound that told him she was still soundly asleep.

He had a bit more time, then, to admire her uninterrupted, and he was going to take it.

After today, the house party would all too soon come to an end, which meant he needed to seize every second he could.

This paradise of theirs would soon be empty, the bed linens stripped and replaced by capable servants, the cottage closed up until a future house party and its guests made use of it.

A house party at which she would not be a guest. Because by then, she could well be a married woman. And even if she were a married woman who sought to join the club as a member, she was Whit’s sister. They would be forced to deny her.

No, this was his one chance. Their one chance.

With his free hand—the one that hadn’t been rendered numb beneath her—he gently stroked his fingers over her unbound hair.

The attraction they shared was damned rare.

They connected, as if they were two halves of the same coin.

Some part of him had always suspected that would be the way of it between them.

When she had made her debut in polite society, she had been just eighteen; he had scarcely taken note.

Girls had never interested him, even when he’d been a lad of eighteen himself.

But in the intervening years, she had become a woman.

He had first noticed her about a year ago at a ball Whit had held in her honor.

She had been wearing her favorite color—pink, of course.

He had seen her from behind and had begun plotting ways he could seduce her.

And then she had turned, and he had seen her face, and to his utter shock, he had realized that Whit’s younger sister was two-and-twenty and she was no longer a girl but a woman.

He hadn’t spent the last year largely avoiding her for any other reason, save that magnetic pull he felt for her and the fact that she was Whit’s beloved, innocent sister. Instead, he had watched her from afar, admiring her stubborn determination, her easy wit, her graceful beauty, her boldness.

Yes, he had known he wouldn’t be able to resist her.

But he had failed to realize just how far his obsession with her would go. He hadn’t been exaggerating when he had warned Rhiannon against him. And yet, he still wouldn’t have believed himself capable of such disloyalty, ruining his friend’s sister.

And for what reason?

Oh, he had told himself his cause was noble.

But in truth, he had wanted her for himself from the second he had spied her in the drawing room wearing that pink silk mask, and despite telling himself that he would send her safely home, he had selfishly wanted her to stay.

And stay she had, thank God. Because now he had her. She was his.

Whilst he could have her.

“Mmm,” she hummed, stretching and beginning to come awake.

Disappointment sliced through him. She would soon move. He would have to leave this bed. And her. He didn’t want to go back to the main house, by God. He wanted to stay here with her. Forever.

But that last thought was maudlin and foolish.

Impossible, too.

“Good morning,” he told her softly, brushing the hair from her face.

Rhiannon blinked her eyes open, regarding him in silence for a moment, their gazes locked.

“Good morning.” She stirred, taking in her surroundings. “Heavens, why did you not wake me? I’m lying on your poor arm.”

He retrieved his right limb at last, flexing his fingers with a wince as invisible pins and needles poked unmercifully at his skin from within and the feeling slowly returned. “I didn’t mind. You were sleeping soundly, and I hated to disturb you.”

Rhiannon gave him a small smile, looking suddenly shy. “I was having a wonderful dream.”

He wanted to kiss her. To roll her onto her back and make love to her again, and again, and again until neither of them could move. But he wasn’t a complete beast when it came to her, so he tamped down those unworthy yearnings.

“What were you dreaming?” he asked, curious.

Her pink lips parted as if she were about to answer, but then she rolled the bottom lip inward, catching it in her teeth. “I don’t remember.”

He chuckled. She was bloody adorable.

“Then how did you know it was wonderful, minx?”

“It was a feeling I had.” She was at his side now, the bedclothes pulled nearly to her chin.

He tugged at the counterpane lightly. “Nonsense. It had to have been more than a mere feeling.”

“Why should you call a feeling mere , with the implication being that it is insufficient and ought not to be taken seriously?”

Poor lamb. What must it be like to be so utterly unspoiled by life and all its ugliness?

He’d been little more than a child when he had first realized the damage and destruction wreaked by feelings.

From then until the bitter end of his parents’ miserable union, he had vowed to never allow himself to fall prey to such weaknesses.

“Because a feeling is an illusion,” he told her. “Just as emotions are lies we tell ourselves so that we can attribute meaning to our paltry lives.”

She cocked her head at him, frowning. “That is a rather cynical view of the world.”

He had good reason for it, but he didn’t want to discuss the hideous past. Doing so wouldn’t change the outcome. In the aftermath of that wretched day, he had learned to live with what was. Death had a finality that superseded all else. He would not repeat the sins of his father.

Unbidden, an image of his hands, red with blood, rose in his mind before he ruthlessly banished it.

The blood had been everywhere that day, the metallic scent of it filling his nose, the slipperiness of it on his hands, the red seeping into clothing and carpets.

There was a good reason he had ordered the room where it happened dismantled and resurrected as something new.

It was the same reason he avoided supposed love.

He shook himself from his thoughts.

“I am older than you are,” he pointed out to Rhiannon. “I’ve experienced a great deal more of life’s inevitable disappointments. That does tend to make one jaded.”

Her brow furrowed. “Did someone break your heart?”

“Sweet girl, I’d have to own a heart in order for anyone to break it.

” He winked at her, trying to lighten the moment, because if there was anything he didn’t wish to discuss when he was naked and in bed with a woman, for Chrissakes, it was tender emotions and the bitter horrors of murder and death.

“I can assure you that there is nothing more than a desiccated husk where that organ ought to live.”

Rhiannon gave him a searching look. “I don’t think you are as unfeeling as you would have me believe.”

Not with the knight errant nonsense again. What did he have to do to disabuse her of the notion that he was redeemable?

“And I can assure you that I am. Heed my warnings if you know what is best for you.”

Her stubborn chin went up. “No. I don’t think that I shall.”

He wanted to kiss her, to fuck her, to wallow in her innocence and remember what it was like to believe in the goodness of others.

Damn her for being so bloody wonderful. It struck him with sudden, awful clarity that if he had been the kind of man who believed in marriage and love and such maudlin twaddle, he would have asked Rhiannon to marry him in a heartbeat.

How horrifying. He banished all such ridiculous thoughts at once.

“Then you’ll only have yourself to blame,” he warned her.

“You do have a heart,” the obstinate woman insisted.

There was only one way to make her see reason.

“If I had a heart, I would surely feel guilty for doing this.”

To prove his point, he tugged at the bedclothes she was presently using as a shield. They fell away with ease, revealing her gorgeous breasts. He lowered his head and sucked one hard, pink nipple into his mouth.

She made a soft sound of desire, arching her back, her fingers running through his hair, so he sucked harder. “Oh. My. That is…” He used his teeth, gently nipping at her. “You are trying to distract me, you wicked man.”

He moved to her other breast, running his tongue around the stiff, pouty peak. “Is it working?”

“Perhaps.”

“Then I shall have to be more diligent.” He whipped the bedclothes away and kissed down her body until he reached the prize he sought.

Gently guiding her legs apart, he parted her folds with his thumbs, revealing the swollen bud at the top of her slit.

He sucked her clitoris with lusty appreciation.

She tasted so good, her hips undulating beneath him as she surrendered to the pleasure he could give her.

She was already deliciously wet and ready.

With scarcely any coaxing, he had her legs over his shoulders and her bottom in his hands as he pulled her cunny to his face.