Page 26

Eleanor’s heart rate quickened, as he did not lower his hand. He kept it there, his fingers curled near her hair. Every ounce of courage left her, even her teasing. She couldn’t compose herself, not when he looked at her like that.

As if he was enamored by her.

As if she was ridiculous to declare that their marriage was only for Charlotte’s safety.

As if he was angry with her for not acknowledging what had already begun growing between them.

“I-I… That is what we agreed on.”

“Do you truly think I do not care about you? Not just your safety, but you , Eleanor.”

Eleanor didn’t know what to say. For all their teasing and pretending to be a doting couple, she had lost herself in the confusion of where they stood with one another.

“There…” Her voice was tight, so she tried again. “There is nobody here. We do not need to pretend.”

“I am not pretending any longer,” Spencer countered.

“I do not need to pretend. You… you make me wish to be bolder. Perhaps the wall between us is the flimsy excuse of my sister’s safety, of my way of watching over you.

But that does not explain why I think of you when I am alone.

Why the mere thought of you stirs something within me I cannot control.

Why I cannot stop—” He swallowed hard, leaning in, his voice rough with longing.

“Cannot stop wanting to feel you pressed against me. Wanting to hear the sounds of your pleasure. Let me claim that, Eleanor. Let me—Heavens, let me touch you.”

She had barely whispered a yes , before his mouth was on hers, before her breath was stolen by her husband, who she had ached to kiss again ever since that kiss in the drawing room.

His lips were soft and warm against hers, knowing in their rhythm. He kissed her steadily yet deeply, angling his head for more access.

The hand he had untied her mask with sank into her hair, cupping her head as he moved closer to her. Her back hit the glass wall behind her, and she gasped as the cold seeped through her layers.

“More,” Spencer murmured against the corner of her lips, the soft fullness of her cheek, the tip of her chin.

His teeth nipped her skin, and she stifled a moan.

“We’re far enough from the ballroom. No one will hear you.

” His voice dropped, low and commanding.

“So let me hear you, Eleanor. Let me hear your pleasure.”

His hand dropped to her hip, his thumb drawing circles above her dress, and she inhaled sharply as he pulled up her skirts. He did it slowly, as if giving her a chance to say no. And even though she knew she should have said that, insisted that it was not proper to do there, she did not stop him.

In fact, she craved him.

She craved his touch.

For that hole in the wall they spoke to, allowing each other a glimpse into something more between them, was growing. And Eleanor wondered if her husband’s confession may have very well blown the wall to pieces.

“You have not been touched here,” he purred, his hand brushing the back of her thigh.

Briefly, he skimmed over her knees, and she shivered at the phantom ache there.

“Or here.” His hand moved higher, grazing the inside of her thigh this time.

Eleanor tensed, awaiting the moment he finally touched her where pressure bloomed pleasurably and yet unbearably between her legs.

“Answer me,” he urged, stilling his fingers long enough to stir her impatience.

“You—you did not ask a question,” she pointed out, catching his gaze for a moment.

But her wit failed her when she saw the look in his eyes.

If he had been angry at her when he first came in, there was no trace of it now. All that was left was desire. Need . And it seemed as though it had overtaken him.

Eleanor’s breath caught at the sight. That he would desire her body even though his own remained untouched.

“Then allow me to ask you one,” he all but growled. “ Can I touch you here?”

His fingertips grazed the very place Eleanor herself had never touched, too ashamed in the convent, and too proper before that to even think of exploring, dutifully saving her body for her husband.

“Y-Yes,” she stammered.

Spencer made a rough noise in the back of his throat. She recalled how gently he had tended to her wounds in the inn the night he had saved her.

And then all thoughts fled, like a blanket of calm as Spencer’s hand cupped her between her legs, gentle and slow, letting her adjust to the feeling.

“Breathe,” he murmured. “Relax. Let me take care of you.”

She bit back a moan before she stopped silencing herself, stopped holding herself back.

Hesitantly, Eleanor forced herself to relax, but when she struggled, his lips captured hers in a way that felt comforting, safe , and familiar. He shifted his hand beneath her skirt, and the ache there only grew, her hips bucking against him.

“See how you react?” he murmured.

She wondered at this man, who spoke so authoritatively yet was so tender, so patient.

“See how you crave my touch? Do you, Eleanor? I can bring you earth-shattering pleasure that will have your knees trembling, that will have your legs unsteady when I take you back to the ballroom.”

“Please,” she whispered, pulling back long enough to meet his gaze.

“Tell me you want it,” he urged. “I need to hear you.”

“I want it,” she admitted, her face burning. But she did not feel humiliated, only uncertain. She did not know how to feel unashamed to feel such desire. “Beneath your touch, I feel safe. I want more of it. I want you.”

“And you will have me,” he promised.

And then he took her lips in another searing kiss. Eleanor went still as she felt something slide inside her, pressing in a seeking way into her core.

Her fingers gripped his biceps, feeling the thick, strong muscles beneath. She gasped as he slid deeper into her.

“Spencer,” she choked out.

Her body opened for him, yet she could feel her walls clenching around him at the same time, as if they did not know how to react.

“Does it feel good, darling?”

“ You feel good,” she moaned, leaning into him.

The closer she got to him, the more she felt him. She knew enough about how the human body reacted in such moments, but learning and feeling were very different things.

And what she felt was… a lot better than she had expected.

Spencer continued sliding in and out of her, that single digit keeping a steady pace as she adjusted to the strange fullness.

She let out more moans as the pressure in her core grew further, as she felt his finger slide through her slickness.

“Heavens, you are soaked,” he rasped, his finger sliding faster, making her breathless.

She clung to him, her nails digging into his tailcoat.

“What is it that is making you so aroused? Is it the lack of privacy? The fact that anybody could come in here at any moment and find me opening you up like a rose?”

Eleanor’s breath stuttered.

“Or,” he continued, steadily working her. She was barely lucid, lost in pleasure. “Perhaps it is how I speak to you. You like to tease me, but I told you that I will always play your game tenfold. Tease me more, Duchess, and you will find that my tongue can be more wicked than my fingers.”

To drive his point home, he slid two fingers into her on his next thrust, and she cried out. The sensations were overwhelming, and she could feel how soaked she was. It coated the inside of her thighs.

Her hips bucked against him. Spencer’s palm pressed against the bundle of nerves at the apex of her sex, driving her pleasure higher.

“But my conclusion,” he said, his voice thick with desire, “is that it is everything. That you have wanted me as long as I have wanted you. That you have noticed me since the beginning. Since we lay together in that roadside inn. I noticed how you looked at me. Do you think of that often?”

A whine caught in her throat as she nodded.

“Tell me,” he demanded, still thrusting into her, faster now. Fast enough that she struggled to think.

A moan fell from her lips. Her dress was bunched around her hips, her breasts straining against her corset almost painfully with how hard she fought to breathe.

“Tell me what you think of.”

“I—” She swallowed as he curled his fingers inside her.

“I think of your chest. How… how broad it is. I think of how you stripped out of your clothes that night, practiced and bold. I think of how it felt to curl up against you, ever so warm. I think of your shoulders and arms, and how you look as though you could hold me against any wall, any surface, and not labor for it.”

“It is true,” Spencer purred as he kissed along her jaw to her ear.

He all but growled when she ran a hand up his chest, feeling the hard muscles beneath his shirt.

“Soon, perhaps I can bare myself to you. And be assured, Duchess, that when I strip you of your pretty gown—when I get that chance—I will take my time, and I will have you screaming my name and begging for mercy as I pleasure you.”

And it was that promise that undid her.

Eleanor scarcely understood how the pressure built and built, growing so strong that she felt as though she would spill over. It scared her for a moment, and she grabbed onto him, meeting his eyes again. But he only held her gaze, nodding, guiding her through it.

“It is your climax,” he explained. “Give in to it, Eleanor. Let me feel how you tighten around me.” His mouth grazed the shell of her ear, and she felt his erection pressing against her hip. “Let me know how you will feel around my cock when I sink into you fully.”

Eleanor’s mouth dropped open, and a loud moan tore from her throat as her body shuddered against him.

“That’s it,” he whispered, kissing her, sucking on her tongue. He pulled back, smirking. “You sound so pretty when you give me your release.”

Eleanor burned all over again even as she still trembled from the force of her climax.

She felt as though she had left her own body, floating above it, and she was grateful for Spencer holding her as he slowly lowered her skirts.

He fixed her dress as she came back to her senses, marveling at her first taste of pleasure.

And how she immediately wanted more.

“I imagine we are being missed.” That smirk was still playing on his lips even as he kissed her again.

The lingering affection surprised her, as if she hadn’t expected him to stay close. He kissed her languidly, as though they had all the time in the world.

Eleanor made a helpless noise in the back of her throat, her fingers sliding into his hair, moving down to scratch over his beard and brush over his mouth. He chased her hand with his lips, catching her wrist to hold her still while he kissed her palm.

“You have…” Her voice cracked when he nipped her wrist, her eyes flicking to his. “You have not been taken care of.”

He laughed quietly and stepped back, drawing her with him. “I am most fine, Duchess. I have plenty of images to keep me company later tonight. You may think about that when we return home.”

She understood the message as they gathered their masks and left the conservatory: he would not push her into full-on intimacy too soon.

“I will,” she promised.

She could not help pressing one more kiss to his cheek, right above his scar.

Spencer stiffened, but she asked anyway, “Will you ever tell me about this? About how it happened?”

And about the portrait of your sister?

His smile was tight, his demeanor shifting as they walked back into the ballroom. He avoided her question, instead muttering about finding Theodore, for they had meant to speak about an informant.

Eleanor tried to let it go. She felt a prickle on the back of her neck, as if she was being watched.

When she looked around the ballroom, she couldn’t see anybody looking at her, but she caught a flash of deep purple.

A mask caught the light, and a man who disappeared too easily in the crowd.