Page 10 of His Tempting Duchess (Regency Wedding Crashers #4)

CHAPTER 10

“W ell,” Emily remarked, after the silence had sat heavily between them for a moment or two, “if you’re attempting to try and compromise my honor and therefore force me to marry you, you’re wasting your time.”

The duke chuckled. “Heavens, no. That would be cheating.”

She pressed her lips together. “Cheating? Do you think this is a game?”

He shrugged. “All of life is a game.”

“No, it is not.”

“As you wish. I shan’t argue with you. It’s bad manners to contradict a lady. I merely came to ensure that you were safe and well, Miss Belmont. You disappeared rather abruptly. And I am not sure that it is entirely proper to delve so very deeply into one’s hosts’ home.”

Emily flinched a little at his not-so-gentle remark. Of course, it wasn’t appropriate to go wandering in a house that wasn’t her own. In some homes, footmen would be posted outside various rooms and passageways that were meant to be left alone.

“Beatrice is a family friend,” Emily responded sharply. “I’ve been here more times than I can recall. I know she won’t be upset. You , however, have no such excuse.”

He grinned, unrepentant.

The duke showed no signs of taking his leave. Instead, he strolled around the room, scanning the spines of the books just as she had, running one long finger along the shelves.

To her annoyance, Emily found her gaze following the infuriating man around the room.

There was a sort of easy elegance in everything he did. Emily, for her part, always considered herself to be rather clumsy. She dropped things, she trod on the hem of her skirt, she tripped coming up or down the stairs, and so on. It was hard not to admire the duke’s easy deportment.

No! No, it is not easy! I don’t admire him. At all. At the end of these five nights, I’ll have decided not to marry him. Yes, that’s the easiest choice, and the most obvious one. He will simply find somebody else, and I will just resign myself to a life of spinsterhood.

“What book are you reading?” the duke asked abruptly.

She flinched, jolted out of her reverie. “Hm? What?”

He smiled faintly. “Your book. Which is it?”

“Oh, it is Frankenstein. I don’t imagine you’ve read it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And why would I not have read it?”

She flushed, feeling a little foolish. “Well, I never thought you were the type of man to enjoy novels.”

“You are wrong, Miss Belmont. Mrs. Radcliffe is one of my favorite authors. And I have read Frankenstein . What is more, I subscribe to the theory that the author is, in fact, a woman.”

Now, that was interesting.

Emily leaned forward. The duke was not looking at her. He was half turned away, still scanning the bookshelves, but she had a curious sensation that he was aware of her, even so.

“Oh? Well, that is interesting. I haven’t begun the book yet, so I couldn’t say either way. What makes you think a woman wrote Frankenstein ?”

The duke grinned absently. “Several things, but there is one line in particular that I have committed to memory. ‘I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine, and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other.’ ”

Emily blinked, a little taken aback. “You make the story sound like a tragedy.”

“It is a tragedy, Miss Belmont, make no mistake. I think you will enjoy the book very much. I look forward to your thoughts.”

He strolled forward to where she still sat on the low sofa. He circled her, walking behind the seat so that she itched to turn around and face him. Idle fingers drifted over the back of the sofa, not quite touching her shoulders but close. The back of her neck, exposed since her hair was pinned up on her head, tingled almost as if a breath were ghosting over it.

Curious, she glanced down at the book, opening the cover. She had picked up the first volume, which seemed to be a letter from the narrator to a relative. A strange beginning.

“You’re here to convince me to marry you,” Emily murmured, half to herself. The duke had crossed in front of her and was now walking behind the sofa once again, circling her like a wolf circling its prey. “It is not working. You and I ought not to court, Your Grace. We could hardly survive a second scandal. I am not entirely sure that I have survived the first.”

He chuckled, the sound seeming almost disembodied from behind her. With the low, flickering light of the candles, the man seemed to pass in and out of the shadows like a wraith.

The hairs on Emily’s arms stood on end. She could feel that tightening in her stomach again, that unmistakable rise of desire. It would not be dispelled, no matter how hard she tried. It was not fair . Why could she not be attracted to a pleasant, ordinary man? A man who would not blackmail her.

Because an ordinary man would be shocked by you and your paintings, foolish girl.

She ought to leave, of course. It was not proper to be alone with a man under any circumstances, and certainly not in a distant, lonely library in a large house.

“The God of War and Aphrodite would give no thought to scandals,” the duke remarked, as if the thought had just occurred to him.

She sighed impatiently. “Must I explain the difference between reality and fiction to you, Your Grace? You may weather this storm of scandal, but I cannot. For now, we are both in disgrace, and I for one may never climb out of it.”

Abruptly, he appeared in her field of vision, leaning over the back of the sofa so that they were almost cheek to cheek. She could smell the spicy scent of his cologne once again and feel the warmth of his skin. Her fingers tightened around the book.

“ ‘It is true, we shall be monsters, cut off from the world. But on that account, we shall be more attached to one another.’ ”

He straightened up, disappearing from her field of vision. This time, Emily twisted around to look up at him. He was still standing behind the sofa, his hands resting easily on the back, grinning down at her like some sort of debauched cherub.

No, not a cherub. There was not, and never could be, anything cherubic about him . He really was the God of War, through and through. She could almost imagine a Grecian shield on his back, a sword at his hip, and blood streaking his face and limbs.

Emily swallowed thickly, bouncing to her feet. She’d had enough of being circled. She left Frankenstein on the cushion.

“Heavens, you must have read that book a great deal,” she muttered. “Enough of these games, Your Grace. Tell me once and for all why you are so determined to marry me. I am under no illusions. I am not very pretty, and while I have an influential family, I daresay we also bring more scandal than the whole of London put together. I have embarrassed you once already—for which I am very sorry—and I am clearly reluctant to marry you. Half of the women in that ballroom would marry you at the drop of a hat, disgraced or not. So, why me?”

He folded his arms. “And what makes you think I want any of those other women? The ones which, according to you, are so very easy to catch.”

She flushed. “Well, I imagine that the Baroness Rawdon would be most keen to receive your attention.”

She could tell at once that she’d said the wrong thing.

The duke stiffened, unfolding his arms. “The baroness would never consider my attention,” he said shortly. “And I would never consider giving it. Whatever relationship you imagine I have with the woman, you are wrong. Let us leave it there.”

Hm. I struck a nerve, it seems.

She changed tack. “What is it you want from me, Your Grace?”

The duke stepped neatly around the sofa, and Emily began to wish she’d remained seated. He advanced towards her, his gaze shadowed and heavy, and the tightening in her gut began to pulse , her skin somehow shivering with awareness.

Oh dear. I’m in a great deal of trouble.

She’d heard from her sisters, in whispered giggles, that women could feel just as strongly for a man as a man might feel for a woman. Emily wasn’t sure she’d ever believed it. Not until now, at least.

“I want a duchess with no expectations,” the duke murmured, his gaze still fixed unblinkingly on her.

She snorted before she could stop herself. “Oh, but I’d wager that you have expectations of your duchess, haven’t you? How is that fair?”

Far from being angry, he only grinned, his teeth gleaming in the candlelight. “Why, how sharp you are, Miss Belmont. May I call you Emily?”

He took another step forward, and the ridge of the table knocked against the back of Emily’s hips.

She bristled. “I think Miss Belmont will do quite nicely for now,” she muttered, unable to tear her gaze away from his face.

He was less than a foot away from her, close enough for her to reach out and touch his bare skin, the thin fabric of his costume sagging from his broad shoulders.

He tilted his head, grinning wider. “Aren’t you going to ask what my expectations of you will be, dear?”

She tilted up her chin, trying to ignore the hammering in her chest. “I really do not care.”

“Well, let me reassure you. All I shall expect is for you to be a good, little wife.”

She barked out a surprised laugh. “I do not think so! I’m quite fed up with being a good girl, Your Grace .”

That was quite clearly the wrong thing to say.

The duke’s gaze darkened. Not with anger, but with something equally dangerous.

“Why? Do you intend to be a bad one?” he murmured, his breath catching in his throat.

For her part, Emily was entirely sure that the air had been sucked out of her lungs altogether.

Abruptly, the duke surged forward, wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing her against him. She barely had time to gasp in outrage before his long, cool fingers wrapped around her chin, tilting her face up to his roughly.

He leaned down in one fluid motion and pressed his lips to hers.

Of course, Emily had never been kissed before. Ladies weren’t, not until their wedding night. Wedding nights in general were spoken of in hushed, nervous tones, even the very words capable of ruining a lady’s good reputation.

The kiss was a searing thing, setting her skin on fire and making her mind reel. The duke’s lips were soft and firm at the same time, the scent of his cologne deliciously overwhelming, his hands unyielding on her waist. His teeth scraped ever so gently across her lower lip, which for some reason sent prickles of desire down her spine. Her hands had found their way to his shoulders, one hand sliding down bare skin to the planes of his chest. She could feel his heart beating under her palm, almost as furiously as her own.

He pulled away just as she was sure her lungs were about to collapse from lack of air. Her lips felt oversensitive and swollen, and she could not have said how long the kiss lasted, for ten seconds or for ten minutes. The duke’s hands still rested on the dip of her waist. Holding her gaze, he moved them lower, slowly and deliberately, cupping the curve of her hips, his thumbs skimming her hip bones.

“I expect my wife to join me in bed,” he whispered, his eyes intent, the dancing candlelight making it impossible to read his expression. “Do you think you would like that, Emily? Or would you act the martyr? Do you think you would enjoy sharing a bed with me?”

“I… I… You cannot ask me these questions!”

He laughed throatily. “Why not? Please, my dear, let’s not pretend that you haven’t been staring at my chest all night. Do you think you would like to see the rest of me? I have it on good authority that I am rather impressive.”

Emily’s face was so red that she felt as though she were about to explode.

“You are a wretch,” she managed breathlessly, “and I would like to leave at once.”

She wasn’t sure what she had expected from the duke, but him releasing her at once and stepping back was not it. He held out his hands to either side.

“I shall not keep you here, my dear,” he said with a faint smile. “By all means, leave at once.”

Emily blinked, feeling dizzy and almost feverish. Without his hands on her hips and his firm, warm body pressed against hers, she felt cold and unsteady. At some point during their kiss, her legs had turned to jelly. She swallowed thickly, reaching behind her to steady herself on the table.

“I didn’t mean that I wanted to leave at once ,” she managed. A shameful, little mumble.

The wolfish smile spread across the duke’s face again, and he stepped forward. Resting his hands flat on the table on either side of her, he effectively fenced her in, the warmth radiating from him sweeping over her again. Emily would not allow herself to look away and blush like a nervy schoolgirl. She was a grown woman, for heaven’s sake, and was not about to be undone by a kiss.

Of course, it was too late to do anything about the blush.

“I think that you do not even know what you want, Miss Emily Belmont,” he murmured, his lips inches away from her forehead. “I think that you have been a very good girl, admirably well-behaved and chaste, but I do not believe that is who you really are. I think I ought to show you what you truly want, and you’d thank me for it. What do you think?”

Emily gulped audibly. “I… I want my book, Your Grace.”

He chuckled, lifting a hand. His knuckles ghosted along the side of her neck, such a thrillingly intimate thing that Emily’s knees almost buckled again. She expected him to kiss her again, and she was prepared to feel that intense, yearning heat once more.

Somewhere deep inside, Emily admitted that she wanted it more than anything else in the world.

“No,” the duke murmured, his eyes softening. “No, I think I know what you want.”

Emily tilted her chin up, her lips parting. His fingers slid over the line of her jaw, a tantalizing tickle.

Suddenly, they heard footsteps outside.

The duke sprang back, leaving Emily reeling and red-faced, feeling as flustered and unbuttoned as if she’d been caught undressed.

Don’t think about being undressed now, you fool!

The footsteps passed by, along with quiet voices engaged in conversation. They were not genteel accents, so the passers-by were most likely footmen—at least a pair of servants.

Emily suddenly felt very cold, her hands shaking. She glanced up to find the Duke standing before her again, the book held out in his hand. His face was impassive, unreadable. She knew that she was red as beets, the flush spreading down her neck and probably to other places, too, and yet he looked as cool and composed as if they’d done nothing more than discuss literature.

“You should not be in here with me,” he said shortly. “Our absence will soon be noticed. There’s no need to make the scandal worse. From tomorrow, you will have four nights to think over my proposition, Miss Belmont. Use the time wisely.”

Emily eyed the book in something of a daze. “I beg your pardon. Are you… are you dismissing me?”

The smile inched over his face again. “Would you like to stay?”

Yes. No! I don’t know.

She snatched the book, holding it to her chest. “Of course not,” she muttered, hopefully sounding outraged enough to convince him, and scurried off to the door.

Pausing with her hand on the doorknob, Emily glanced over her shoulder. To her shock, the duke had taken the seat she had vacated and had propped his feet up on a low footstool. He arched his eyebrows questioningly at her.

“This book,” she ventured. “I heard that it’s about a man who creates a monster. Is that true?”

The duke took a moment to consider. “The story is about a man and a monster, to be sure,” he answered slowly. “Whether the monster is the creator or the creation, I shall let you decide. Which is the monster and which is the man, Miss Belmont? Let us see if you can work it out.”