Page 8 of Secrets of a Duke’s Heart (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #25)

CHAPTER EIGHT

C larissa tried not to stare but it was no use. Mr. Montague was devastatingly handsome when fully dressed. In his banyan with damp hair, he was painfully attractive.

He doesn’t want you, she reminded herself, trying to quell the flutters in her stomach.

“How did you arrive at this conclusion?”

She didn’t really want to explain her reasoning. What if she was wrong? The prospect of losing face with this man, of all possible men, was too horrifying to contemplate. I wouldn’t have told him if he hadn’t surprised me. Again.

“The Prescott family fortunes, as you may not be aware, have been historically precarious. When Nathaniel took over from the previous viscount, his great-great-uncle, he inherited an estate drowning in debts. The traditional way to manage such unfortunate circumstances is to marry an heiress.”

“Yet your cousin remains unmarried.”

“Indeed. I explained earlier that he has restored the family’s fortunes, but I haven’t said how. I don’t wish to get him into trouble, you understand. I trust that you won’t be revealing any secrets to your new friends in the Waterguard.”

“Upon closer acquaintance I find their company rather grating. Leacham’s in particular.”

Clarissa edged away, peering at the shelves. “Was there any progress today?”

“We have narrowed our search down to the stretch of road and sea between Polperro and Falmouth.”

“That isn’t very narrow.”

The hope flickering in his weary eyes dimmed. Guilt ate at her. She hadn’t intended to crush a man who had worked tirelessly to bring home his niece.

“Do you have a map of the area?”

“There is an atlas over…” Clarissa sauntered along the bookshelves, bending to find a large volume on a low shelf and flipping to the page. “Here. This is the area you’ll need to search.”

“At least we know where she was last spotted.”

“How long ago?”

He shrugged tiredly. “Our source wasn’t specific. Last night, I believe.”

“Then your smuggler could be anywhere. A ship can move quickly.”

“But not without being seen by the Waterguard. His Majesty’s boats might not be fast, but they are numerous. Leacham assured me he had enough men to cover the area and connect with boats patrolling the shore. He is determined to capture this smuggler.”

Clarissa studied the map, keenly aware of Montague’s presence. He loomed over her, yet maintained a respectful distance.

“It is possible.” She placed one index finger over the names of each town and slid them toward one another, forming a triangle with her thumbs pointing out to sea. “Might work.”

He raised one hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Clarissa flinched and stared at him.

“I…apologize. For the way I spoke to you at the inn. I made it sound like marrying you would be an obligation, not a joy.”

“You don’t know that it would be a joy,” she said quickly. “I am far too accustomed to my independence for marriage. Too sharp-tongued. Downright shrewish, when I am not being pathetic.”

He winced. “I’m sorry I said that. It is unfathomable to me that anyone would want to change you. In any way.”

The flutters in Clarissa’s stomach came swooping back.

“If my proposal was churlish?—”

“It was.”

He chuckled. “I realize that. All my life I have regarded marriage as an unavoidable duty. Harriet’s kidnapping, and then compromising you, brought to the fore feelings about the institution that have nothing to do with you, Clarissa.” His throat worked. He had a very nice throat, muscular and defined. Seeing it without his cravat felt like seeing him naked. “If I may be so bold as to use your forename.”

“You may.” She could hardly breathe. Her tongue darted out to dampen her lips. His eyes darkened as they dropped to her mouth and then slowly dragged back up. She felt that gaze like a touch. “What is your given name, Montague?”

“Jude.”

“I like it.”

“It’s unusual. I have never much liked my name.”

“Better than ordinary, in my view. What if I were to shout a name like ‘Charles’ or ‘James’ across the ballroom? Half the men’s conversations would be interrupted.”

He laughed, a low rumbling sound that made her insides hot and slippery.

Oh, no. This was a terrible development. She genuinely liked him. His reluctant proposal had burned, for she had believed her growing feelings weren’t reciprocated. But if they were, she would be forced to confront all the ways in which her boring, comfortable life could change. For better or for worse.

“Not that I would be so ill-mannered, but if there w a fire, for example, it would be much more effective to shout ‘Jude.’”

“Or you could yell, ‘fire.’”

She ducked her chin, giggling. “True.”

He cupped her cheek, stroking the curve. “I compromised you once.”

“Accidentally.”

“Clearly, I didn’t do a thorough enough job. Might I try again, Miss Penfirth?”

Her pulse scrambled, her thoughts scattered and her eyes fluttered closed. Through her lashes she watched his lips descend, her view shuttering the second before his mouth touched hers. Soft. Firm. Promising everything and nothing. She tasted his hope and his caution. He was full of secrets, but she was getting closer to the truths at his core.

She therefore allowed herself to hope, too.

There was no one to catch them this time. Her cousin had gone to bed hours ago. The servants were all asleep, and if any stirred, they would not dare to intrude upon this part of the house at near midnight.

She was safe to explore the breadth of his shoulders with unsteady hands.

Safe to devour his kiss with her own.

She had never felt more sheltered than she did in his arms, for she knew that however far this went tonight, he would keep her secret. Jude was very good at that.

The syllables of his given name were a treat she could savor silently whenever she wished, long after their paths had diverged. They barely knew one another.

Where does he hail from? Clarissa’s mind piped up. What else don’t you know about him?

Jude must have sensed reason trying to assert itself, for he tugged her hard against his chest and slid his hand down her backside with a groan.

“You are perfect,” he murmured against her lips. “Every inch of you.”

His hand came back up, searing a molten path along her spine. At the apex they tangled in the hair at her nape. His other arm was tight around her waist. A needy throb pulsed low in her core.

It had been so long since she kissed anyone. Four years, or was it five now? At least that long, and the experience hardly rated anyway.

For all his flaws, Jude Montague was an expert kisser. He teased and took, finding the little spot beneath her ear that sent an electric current zinging through her body straight to her center.

“I would marry you tomorrow, Clarissa.”

“You’d be a fool,” she said. A wooden panel wedged into a crevice was a ridiculous reason to marry anyone. They were both old enough to know better than to care what village wag-tongues said. Neither of them lived in Cavalier Cove. By next month, their visit would be nothing but scandalous story embellished and distorted with each retelling until the details were unrecognizable.

“You’re right. I’d be your fool any day of the week, and thrice on Sundays.”

She chuckled at that. Daringly, he slipped his finger inside the collar of her wrapper and slid it down until his hand hovered over her breast. With a moan, she arched into his touch. He shoved the fabric aside and squeezed her through the thin cambic nightdress.

“Goodness,” he breathed. “I would give anything to see you bare.”

He pressed forward. She edged back a step, then another, until her bottom hit the bookshelf she’d been browsing. Jude made her feel, if not quite dainty, then delicate in comparison to his towering brawn. She moved one leg up the back of his muscular thigh and reveled in the feral sound he made, a low growl that could have been menacing but was more like a lion’s purr. Even though lions couldn’t purr, that was what he sounded like to her ears. The sound vibrated through her, viciously tearing away her inhibitions.

Their mouths met and clashed in a tangle of tongue and lips and teeth. He nipped her earlobe and fought the belt on her robe open. Cool air breezed along her exposed skin. His lips trailed heated kisses over her collarbone, stopped only by the edge of her high-necked nightgown.

“Unwrap me, Jude.”

His eyes darkened. He slipped one finger beneath the collar of her wrapper and tugged slowly until it slithered down her arms to puddle at her feet. He dropped to one knee and squeezed her breast until the nipple stood on end, sucking it deep into his mouth through the cotton. Clarissa’s mind blanked. She arched into the wood. Pure sensation flooded her system. Cool air, barely warmed by the banked coals in the fire grate, kissed her calves. The chill skimmed up her thighs to her molten center, which ached for his touch.

For now, her breasts had his complete attention. He squeezed and sucked as she writhed and clutched his hair. He tugged the fabric down and oh— his warm lips on her bare skin were even better.

Blindly she rubbed against his thigh like a cat in heat. A long, thick protuberance jutted into her stomach. Wild excitement leaped within her.

“Do you like touching me there?”

“Yes,” she whimpered.

“How far would you let me go tonight?”

He skimmed his broad hand down her thigh, inching her nightgown up until he found bare skin, making circles on her hip. Flesh on flesh. She was drunk on it.

“Anything,” she promised recklessly. “Whatever we do together tonight stays in this room. Our secret.”

A man who kept as many secrets as he did would surely keep one more.

He pinned her with a fierce gaze and found her center. She shuffled her legs into a wider stance, leaning heavily against the bookshelves with the edges biting stripes into her back and shoulders. She didn’t care. She wanted this. She wanted him.

“I want more than one furtive night with you, Clarissa. I want your forever.”

Bertram, who had come so close to proposing to her before deciding upon another woman, had whispered similar sweet words into her ear. She had allowed herself to be foolish with him, believing his honeyed lies about a future together. But she was not reckless enough to promise her future to Jude, a man so secretive he could hardly bring himself to share his given name.

Promises whispered in the dark carried no more weight than shadows. They fled at the smallest intrusion of light. Morning would reveal the harsh truth that Montague desired her in private but was ashamed of her in public. He’d shown her that he was no different from Bertram at the tavern earlier today.

She would allow herself a taste of passion tonight. Nothing more.

“Please,” she moaned. He found her center and reverently traced the soft nest at the apex of her thighs. Snaking her hand down between their bodies, she found his engorged cock and groped her way past the hem of his banyan to the loose pajama pants he wore beneath it. He was remarkably long and hard, filling her palm. She wanted to taste him. But before she could, he parted her folds and slipped his fingers inside her.

Clarissa made a desperate sound. He groaned into the crook of her neck.

“You’re so wet,” he growled. Strangely, this made her feel powerful—that she, a pathetic spinster, could bring this strong, handsome man to his knees with nothing more than her own wantonness. He thrust deeper inside her, pumping in short bursts, twisting his wrist to hit— that — spot ?—

Stars burst behind her eyes. She clutched whatever she could grab onto, his hair, his banyan, losing her grip on both as she rode the wave of pleasure.

“Good,” Jude crooned. “You come so prettily, Clarissa, with your cheeks flushed and dark eyes peeking through the fringe of your lashes. Lips parted and panting for me.” He withdrew his fingers from her core and sucked them. She gaped at him in shock. What a gloriously filthy thing to do.

His darkened eyes blazed with desire. “I could make you come over and over again for hours. Days. I would adore every part of you with every part of me.”

The prospect of giving her body to this man as his carnal plaything tempted her greatly.

With a pang of sorrow, she realized that the pitiful experience she’d wasted her virginity on had been a pale shadow of what was possible. Here was a man who could magnify her pleasure tenfold, given the opportunity. He could make her forget her own name, if she allowed it.

She shouldn’t.

Torn, she buried her face in his collar and gently squeezed his cock. She was tempted to drop to her knees and kiss him there, but she had once flown too close to the flame of lust and had her wings singed. She didn’t dare take things further with him now.

There was no hope for a future with as many secrets as this man held. She demanded honesty above all else and he was incapable of it.

He smelled deliciously of bay rum soap and a hint of the sea, undergirded with a spicy scent all his own. She breathed in his scent, memorizing it for future use.

“I must go.”

“So soon?” He pinched her chin between his thumb and forefinger, bringing her gaze up to meet his. “No one has to know.”

“That is the problem,” she said, pulling away, grabbing her wrapper and thrusting her arms into the sleeves. She gathered her hair to pull it out of the collar and yanked the belt into a knot she would regret once upstairs. “I don’t want to be your shameful secret, Jude. I deserve to be loved openly, without shame. If you cannot give me that much, then this is hopeless and we should stop.”

Seconds stretched into eons. The giddiness of pleasure gave way and cold reality crashed through her like a physical blow.

She had miscalculated again. He had proposed reluctantly at the Cock and Bull because while kissing the curvy spinster in private might be enjoyable enough, she wasn’t the kind of woman any man willingly chose for a wife. The knowledge that she had let herself care again, despite knowing better, stung like a knife cut. Sharp and deep.

Turning on her heel, Clarissa fled.