Page 16 of Dukes All Night Long

S he forced cheer into her voice. “Don’t worry about me. I’m…having a moment. That’s all.”

Nearly twelve years’ worth, but who was counting?

The duke was adorably concerned. It was a nice change from his forceful bluster.

The man acted as if he’d pry his way into her soul and find out what bedeviled her.

His big hands covered the scraps of silk dressmakers called sleeves.

She’d altered them herself. Taken a dress several years out-of-fashion and tried to imitate what the ladies who shopped on Bond Street wore.

Breathing in stifling night air, she reaffirmed her decision that not Whitehall, nor her father, nor her unshakable sense of duty would rule her.

And that left her with…what?

A rampart of a man, apparently. The duke towered over her, his face ruled by concern.

His hands fell away, but he stood close. “What if I told you I know of a comfortable spot with a casket of chilled cider?”

“You have won my interest, Your Grace, but, my hack? I can’t miss it.”

Hack drivers did eventually check wealthy areas like Berkley Square for late night riders. Patience was required. One never knew when they’d roll by.

With a nod at the front door, the duke said, “I’ll tell the footmen there to be on alert. A shilling in their pocket, and I’m sure they’ll find us.”

She licked her lips. “Chilled cider sounds tempting.”

“Excellent.” A reassuring squeeze to her shoulders, and he trotted off to the front door.

He was an imposing figure. The footmen snapped to attention when the duke approached.

His commanding voice carried, and she witnessed coins dropped into the servants’ hands.

It was a small thing, his payment. A fair number of gentlemen wouldn’t do it.

But then a fair number of gentlemen never had to fend for their lives at fifteen.

The duke trotted back, his head dark blond and lion-esque in lamplight. He looked free, his arms pumping and his stride long, as though he might break into a sprint for the joy of it. Coachmen raised their flasks and cheered him on.

When he reached the end of the carriage line, he grabbed her hand. “Come with me.”

He led her down a set of stairs at the side of the house. Ivy grew, bush-like over the rail. At the bottom, a weathered door was ajar, a candle lamp beside it. The duke lifted it off the wall and pushed the door fully open.

“In here,” he said with a boyish grin.

She followed him down three stairs, and coolness went up her body with each downward step. “We’re in the cellar.”

“Part of it.” He set the lamp on a barrel and used the candle to light other lamps. She could hear their glass doors open and shut, as one by one, candlelight flickered in a friendly way, lighting a cramped room.

“Here. Have a seat.” He patted what appeared to be a bench. She went to it and was about to spread out her pelisse, when the duke stopped her.

“Allow me.” He spread his silk coat over the bench and waited, hands on hips. “I heard a privateer did that for a queen.”

His thoughtful act and endearing grin charmed her. “It might’ve been a puddle to spare the queen’s hems, but this is…wonderful.” The words out, she touched her mouth. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I should’ve enjoyed your chivalry and not corrected it.

” Some of her wonder faded. She averted her eyes, a lesson growing.

“I’ve spent too many years attending to details that don’t really matter.

” She looked at him and the duke was no different from hearing her admission.

“It’s just that I’ve realized being right and obedient to every little thing is not nearly as important as finding the good… right where I am.”

“Insightful of you.” He was sincere.

She sat on the bench, worn out. Twelve years of setting aside her wants—there was a cost to it. She lifted her hems some inches and let her ankles cool. Even her knees and thighs had grown hot from standing too long. While she fluttered her skirt for air flow, the duke was tipping a small cask.

Liquid splattered. There was no better sound on a hot night. She sighed and sat back.

“Your cider.” A cold metal cup was pressed into her hands.

The duke took a seat beside her, and they both drank. Cider splashed her tongue, tart apple sweetened by time in the cask. She gulped the rest like a thirsty sailor. It was ill-mannered and divine. She tasted dashes of expensive cinnamon. This was Aldsley House cider after all.

A warm, calloused hand covered hers. “Do you want more?”

“Give me a minute.” Her head lolled back on the wall. “It…”

The duke lolled beside her. “Defies words, doesn’t it?”

She giggled. “Immensely satisfying, but one must let the drink settle.” She smoothed her skirts, tension evaporating off her shoulders. “How did you hear about this?”

“Gladstone.”

“A resourceful man. I’ll have to thank him later.”

The duke reached over and dragged the cask to his lap. Balancing it on his thigh, he removed the lid and dipped her cup, then his. They guzzled cider until they were satisfied.

Her cup down, she started to play with a curl that had flopped onto her bodice.

“Is this what you and Mr. Gladstone did? Raid cellars and pilfer cider? Or do privateers pilfer brandy?”

“Rum, brandy, cider. Whatever we can get.” His indigo eyes were sending a message. “And sometimes, we take what we want.”

His smoke-soft baritone could seduce a nun.

She was sure of it. The duke was a fortress beside her.

By turns, comforting and awe-inspiring. His frame filled his clothes nicely.

Muscle and sinew on arms and legs, the silk and cotton revealing him.

If she pressed his thigh, there’d be no give.

The man was like a marble statue. Rock-hard flesh.

When she looked up, he was holding a faded red cloth. They were terribly close. She could see the color of his lashes. Light brown with gold tips. His brows were a darker shade, if not two shades darker. Possibly a chestnut brown. It muddled her that she noticed.

“You have a drop of cider here.” He spoke thoughtfully while dabbing the corner of her mouth.

She stilled, her curl-twirling hand suddenly very heavy. “Your Grace…”

“Gregory.” He smelled like cider, touching the cloth to her lip.

This was what she wanted. A man, not a duke. Or a privateer. Not position, or wealth.

Just a man. A very, very good man.

“I want you to know something.” Eye to eye with her, he was grave. “I know you’ve never had a season, and you deserve one.”

A tiny huff, and she reached for him. He caught her hand mid-air and gently steered it to her lap.

“You ran away at fifteen. If anyone deserves something, it’s you,” she said, gently.

“Thank you for that.” His mouth curved upward. He had so many different smiles. She wanted to know them all.

“It bothers you, all the sudden attention.” She swallowed hard. She wanted to understand him. To know him in every sense of the word. His face was inches from hers. The bench was small. Their bodies angled, close. Their knees rubbed and her foot tangled with his.

“I didn’t want it. But one day at Whitehall, I changed my mind.” He set the cloth in her lap and cupped her face. “Because I saw you.”

She shuddered. His palm on her cheek astonished her. Lines rayed at the corners of his eyes. When he smiled deeply, she could share in his joy, revel in it.

His thumb caressed her cheek. “You walked in, a ray of sunshine with a basket of sweetbread. I watched you go, and then, I heard your name.”

“My name?” She was nuzzling him like a cat.

“Miss Susan Pryce.” Their foreheads touched. “The very same woman the chief clerk at Whitehall had assured me would transform a gruff privateer into a duke. I had my doubts, but I decided to give it a try.”

Her eyes popped wide. “You saw me and thought, Why don’t I try being a duke ? To—to win her?”

“I knew that I wanted to meet you in the best of circumstances. So, I weighed my options. First mate privateer, or become a duke.” He tucked a curl behind her ear. “How’s it working?”

Gentle laughter bubbled up. “I can’t fathom this. Or…you…” she said, softly.

“The more time we spent together…I just knew.” His voice was ragged, his smile halting.

Stunned, she couldn’t tear her gaze from his.

She needed to absorb this. To grasp every part.

He was tracing the shape of her lips. Her slender nose.

Her breath grew increasingly labored. His bold confession was enough.

Yet, he kept taking her apart each time he touched her. She made the softest, neediest sounds.

It was humbling to be undone by him.

Her lips parted. “I need you to kiss me… now ,” she moaned.

A growl came from the back of his throat, and she let go. Their kiss exploded like tender fireworks. Gregory’s mouth was sinfully soft and persuasive. His lips moved over hers. She tasted cinnamon. She tasted him. He was a craving that would never end.

She yielded, her body pressing into his. They fit. It was beauty and alchemy and mystery.

The way of a man with a woman…

Her lungs constricted. She was desperate and hungry. Gregory filled her with his kisses alone. They multiplied gorgeously, her lips exploring his. Tiny nips, his burgeoning whiskers brushing her cheek and her mouth. They were insatiable. This was freeing.

She laughed, scooting onto his lap and arching her neck. His mouth found intriguing places. Under her ear, behind it. Testing her ear lobe. She gasped, desperate for air when he used his teeth to untie her velvet choker.

She pressed into him and explored the texture of his hair. His nape. Nothing alarmed her.

Not even his hand sliding under her skirt. Expert fingers untied her garter. She burrowed into him. The closer she pressed, the harder he breathed. She tried to control it. To control him, but their kisses were ardent and melting. Theirs was a passion out of control.

Gregory held her. One hand on her knee, the other at her back, his fingers exploring her curls.

He promised her things. A life. A future.

A family, if she wanted it. His promises kept going as though he’d give her the world.

Like his kisses, they went on and on. He offered happiness.

Contentment. Understanding. And fun. His deep, seductive voice vibrated through her.

He kissed her deeply, his attention unwavering. Only for a moment did they split apart.

She bent to kiss the well of skin at the base of his neck. Something small and chaste.

Gregory shuddered. “Susan…”

He held her tight, and she knew. This was better than love.

This was a true and real thing—her with him. Forever with a pirate duke.

The End