Page 21 of Stolen By the Rakish Duke

“It’s not?—”

“Not what, Duchess?” His voice dropped to a whisper, each word tantalizing. “Not true that a single touch, a single glance, can make you forget all propriety?”

Her pulse spiked, hammering in her ears. Instinctively, she pressed her hands against his chest, intending to push him back. But the warmth and solid strength beneath her fingers stole her resolve.

Goodness, he is impossibly strong.

Her breath caught, shallow and uneven, as his thumbs slid over her wrists, tracing down to her sides with a teasing lightness that made her shiver.

“Your Grace—” she started.

“Shh,” he murmured, his lips curving with mischief. “A proper wife must learn restraint, no?”

She swallowed hard, caught between indignation and an irresistible curiosity that made her chest tighten. His eyes roamed over her face, and she felt like he saw every flicker of hesitation, heard every treacherous breath.

“There is no shame in being curious,” he murmured, tilting his head, “I see it in your eyes. A part of you longs to see what happens when rules are ignored.”

Her pulse thrummed in her ears while her body leaned imperceptibly closer despite every protest in her mind.

She did not speak. She could not.

“Mm, that’s what I thought,” he mumbled.

And then he claimed her lips.

Unlike the chaste kiss that had sealed their vows in the chapel, this was a kiss designed to initiate, awaken, anddemandaresponse. And respond she did, with an immediacy that shocked her even as it seemed to delight him.

Her lips parted beneath his, and he released her hands, which rose instinctively to steady her against the solid planes of his chest. She felt rather than heard his low sound of approval, a vibration that seemed to travel from his body to hers, leaving heat in its wake.

His fingers threaded through the hair at the nape of her neck, holding her as though she might slip away, while his mouth pressed against hers with a demanding, unyielding heat that stole her breath.

Then, with equal suddenness, clarity reasserted itself.

What was she doing, succumbing to the practiced seduction of a man who viewed their marriage as a business deal? Who had made it abundantly clear that once Philip was found, they would revert to being perfect strangers?

She pulled back abruptly, sidestepping until she was free of his towering presence, no longer pressed against the wall. Her breath came in shallow gasps, her lips still tingling from his kiss, her entire body alive with a heat and awareness she had never known.

“This is…” She faltered, searching for the right words. “This is unnecessary.”

“Unnecessary,” he echoed, the word carrying a weight of irony. “An interesting choice of descriptor.”

“Our arrangement requires public performance only,” Beatrice insisted, gathering the scattered remnants of her composure. “What purpose does this serve beyond momentary gratification?”

A shadow passed across his features, so quickly she might have imagined it. “It vexes me to see my Duchess chasing passion in pages rather than in my arms.”

“You don’t get to be vexed just because you caught me reading a novel,” Beatrice replied, her voice steadier now as logic took over. “Nor does our deal entitle you to dictate how I spend my time.”

The Duke’s mouth curved in a smile that held equal measures of amusement and predatory interest that raised the hairs on the nape of her neck. “And if I suggested a more… interactive form of diversion?”

The question hung between them, charged with implications that sent a fresh wave of heat through Beatrice’s body despite her determination to remain unmoved.

“Such diversions lie outside the boundaries we established,” she managed, though her voice betrayed a breathlessness that undermined her attempted detachment. “And consistency of purpose serves us both better than the impulse of the moment.”

The Duke’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling briefly before he loosened them. His gaze lingered on her a beat longer than necessary, the faint quirk of his eyebrow and his slow exhale betraying his irritation—and something else she couldn’t name.

Before he could respond and scatter her wits even further, Beatrice moved toward the door with as much dignity as her trembling legs could muster.

“If you’ll excuse me, Your Grace, the hour grows late. We depart for London tomorrow, and I’d prefer to be well-rested for the journey.” She paused at the threshold, not quite daring to meet his eyes again lest her resolution falter. “Goodnight.”