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CHAPTER THREE

Beatrice accepted yet another honeyed sweet from the duke. She’d already enjoyed three, but he wouldn’t allow her to demure when she experienced such obvious delight from them.

“I can read in your eyes how badly you want it, now take it.” The low purr of his voice had charmed her like a spell she was helpless to resist. Into her mouth went another deliciously sticky-sweet morsel topped with the faintest dusting of finely chopped nuts.

It was divine—better than any confection she’d sampled at a ton event.

Clara emitted an obscene noise beside her as she, too, enjoyed another treat.

Foxton had generously insisted upon purchasing the girls anything and everything they desired.

Bratrice had only to allow her eyes to linger two seconds too long on an item and he would swoop in after her and pay the asking price without so much as batting an eye.

In fact, it had happened so often that they’d been forced to purchase baskets for all their goods.

For appearance’s sake, the girls then carried the baskets themselves—it was odd enough that a duke wandered the market with two maids, speaking and laughing with them as he did; it would be entirely inappropriate if he were seen carrying their purchases.

For her part, Beatrice found herself contriving ways to make the outing last longer.

The duke was a witty, amusing conversationalist, not to mention he indulged in her every whim.

He was also surprisingly good-natured as she and Clara dragged him from stall to stall, and his handsome profile was no chore to gaze upon.

He’d been attractive in a regal and imposing way the night before; in the light of day, however, he was glorious.

High cheekbones and a mouth prone to a rakish tilt accentuated a sculpted jaw and a well-proportioned nose.

Intelligent, bright green eyes were framed by faint lines when he smiled—lines she found ridiculously, unexpectedly charming and endearing.

Each time she caught him watching her, as he smiled at something she said, whenever his eyes locked onto her lips while she sampled a treat he’d purchased for her, Beatrice’s heart melted a little bit more.

He offered kind grins to children, paid more than fair prices for everything he purchased, and spoke to each person as if they were no less human than he.

The same could not be said for most people in his social class, and she found it all as refreshing as she did delightful.

Why didn’t more people see this side of him?

Her mother ensured Beatrice knew how utterly unsuitable the duke was, spending the entirety of the carriage ride home the prior evening listing his ills and describing how no amount of money or lofty title could overcome the stain of his reputation.

The Debauched Duke was regularly seen in the company of infamous courtesans, flaunted his mistresses, and made it supremely clear that he had no intention of ever marrying.

In response, Beatrice had sat silently, closing her eyes and pondering things her mother had ignored: the duke had been so caring with her after her faint—more caring even than her mother had been.

He’d also never been known to speak to a debutante unless under strict obligation to do so, nor had he ever called upon one…and he’d stated he intended to call upon her .

And now he’d brought her flowers.

It mattered not that she never had the opportunity to enjoy them; the gesture had been there.

Even more, he’d made a small girl smile with a gesture she’d never forget.

She knew that was the moment her heart decided to disregard all the words of cautionary slander and take the duke as the man who stood before her, indulged her, and charmed her with his easy smile and the earnest way he listened to her.

She longed with surprising desperation for him to hold her again so she might fully appreciate the hard heat of his body.

Even as untried as she was, she recognized that he wanted the same.

For a notorious rake, he was remarkably poor at masking his desire; she could read it in his every glance.

It was more amusing than it should have been, and it made her want him all the more.

Several hours later, Arthur escorted Miss Poole to the garden entrance of her brother’s home and then turned to face Miss Beatrice where she stood in the shadows, still clutching her basket of goods they’d procured on their outing.

“Come,” he said, knowing full well his plan was poorly formed, but his home was closer and he’d have done just about anything to speak with her alone—not knowing when or if the opportunity would arise again.

She followed him silently, trustingly, down the street and across the square where Foxton House occupied an entire block of space.

She didn’t question him as he showed her in through the back gate and led her up the veranda stairs and into the library.

He took the basket from her hands and set it aside before gently tugging her to sit beside him.

“Did you enjoy yourself this afternoon?” he asked, unable to tear his eyes from her.

She nodded. “Very much.”

“I must reiterate that you are never to sneak off like that without first requesting I be your accomplice.”

All the prickliness left her demeanor when he added the last bit, and he was enormously pleased by that. Even more so when she nodded, peering up at him from beneath her lashes and said, “As long as I need not promise never to do it again. It was quite fun venturing out and exploring.”

Arthur’s mouth lifted in a smile he couldn’t prevent.

“I am glad to hear that; if you had merely acquiesced, then I would have been sorely disappointed in my assessment of you, Beatrice.” Her eyelids fluttered at his familiar use of her name; her fingers tightened around his when he pressed their hands together.

Taking a gamble, he tipped her chin up, stared down into her chocolate eyes, and knew all was lost. This was not a woman with whom one trifled.

This was not a woman with whom a dalliance was acceptable.

This was a woman to whom a man offered his ring at the earliest opportunity.

This was a woman a man married. This was a woman who would be the most brilliant wife and mother of his children, who would keep all their lives exciting and full of laughter.

He couldn’t in good conscience let her go because he knew he’d never find another like her.

If the past twenty-four hours were any indication, she’d try his patience and sanity, she’d enchant every part of his being, and every second of it would be well worth it.

He leaned forward, giving Beatrice every opportunity to shy away.

Had she done so, he would have backed off and respected her wishes.

But she didn’t move. Brave little hellion she was, she tilted her head back to open herself to him with slightly parted lips.

She leaned in ever so slightly, and he was lost.

Slowly, Arthur’s head dropped to hers, savoring the fraction of a second before their lips met, knowing his life would be forever changed after that moment.

The spark as soon as their skin met confirmed that for him.

She was soft and sweet, pliant and delicious.

The best part? She was enthusiastic.

Her small hands twisted in the lapels of his coat, pulling them together until nearly every inch of their fronts collided in a melding of need. She was bold, exciting, and adventurous.

And he wanted all of it—all of her.

He also didn’t wish to frighten her.

To him, it would be nothing to toss up a woman’s skirts and spread her legs for a quick rut; it was nothing he hadn’t done many times before. Not long ago, he would have eagerly complied with a willing partner’s wishes, but now… Beatrice was different, and she made him want to be different.

Still. He was just a man who desired a woman.

He could no more turn down her tentative caresses and deliciously untutored kisses than a starving man would a feast. She was the first person in his four decades who allowed him to believe there might be more to him than a handsome face and a fortune, a silver tongue and a tarnished reputation.

In her unwittingly beguiling way, she made him hope for more.

She made him long for a future—one with her at its center.

In return, he would revolve around her like the Earth did the Sun.

He would gladly make her the very heart of his existence, devote the rest of his days to fulfilling her every desire.

He did his best to convey all of this through every point of contact.

He longed for her to know everything he did—everything he said—was the truth.

He could no more hide behind a facade with her than he could have stopped himself from falling for her in the first place.

It was terrifying. It was refreshing. It was invigorating.

Lips, tongues, and teeth met with increasing fervor.

He felt as if lightning flashed beneath his skin, making his entire body tingle with the potential.

His pulse pounded with it. His groin throbbed with it.

He burned with the need to press himself against her and grind until they were both insensible with it.

Even as she arched her back and pressed her small breasts and pebbled nipples into his chest, as she nipped his lower lip before suckling his invading tongue, a small, unfamiliar voice inside of his head cautioned him to calm his roiling blood.

But, by God, it was difficult to maintain any shred of control with her touching him like that…showing him she wanted him just the same.

His hands trailed lower to trace the curve of her spine, stopping just shy of the swell of her bottom. His fingers burned with the need to test and measure the exact shape of those globes, but he held himself in check moments before saying words he never thought he would: “We should stop.”