Page 13 of The Spinster and Her Rakish Duke (The Athena Society #3)

He’d wondered why she’d seemed so… familiar and he’d realized it not too long ago, in fact. They’d danced six years ago. That night… he’d thought to forget it, but every now and then, he’d recall wisps of dreams, memories of a woman with eyes that beguiled him.

Now, he said, “Our dance. Surely, you remember.” He studied her face, seeing the truth written there. “You’ve been thinking about that all this time, haven’t you?”

“I …” She swallowed hard. “I merely wondered what I had done wrong. What offense I had given to make a duke avoid me so completely.”

“You think I avoided you because of something you did?”

“Didn’t you?” The question came out smaller than she’d intended, more vulnerable.

Something twisted in his chest at the uncertainty in her voice. “My tigress …”

“No.” She straightened, her defenses snapping back into place. “I don’t want your pity or your explanations. I simply want to know why you disappeared after our dance. Why you avoided every social gathering for months, and why you made me feel like such a fool.”

“You were never a fool.”

“Then why?” The words burst from her, raw and painful.

He stared at her for a long moment, seeing the hurt she’d carried all these years. “I had my reasons.”

“What reasons?”

“Personal ones,” he said tersely, not enjoying this turn of the conversation very much.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I can give at this moment,” he replied.

She laughed bitterly. “Of course it is. How foolish of me to expect honesty from you.”

“Samantha—”

“No.” She stepped back, cutting him off from using her given name again. “You want to know why I avoid you? Because I learned long ago not to trust men who vanish without explanation. I learned not to wait for answers that never come.”

“You’ve been thinking about me,” he said quietly, his eyes bright with wonder. “All these years, you’ve been thinking about me.”

“Don’t.” Her voice was warning now. “Don’t turn this into something it’s not.”

“Into something that it is not?” He echoed, stepping closer, his voice dropping to that sultry whisper that made her knees weak. “You mean turning it into the truth? Into the admission that you’ve wondered about me just as I’ve wondered about you?”

“You haven’t wondered about me. You’ve bedded half the actresses in London.”

His smile was purely predatory now. “I am a married man now. And here I am, home before midnight, turning down perfectly willing women because I couldn’t stop thinking about my wife.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and he watched the slender line of her throat work, barely holding back a groan of desire at the sight.

“You’re lying.” She said.

“Am I?” He was close enough now that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. “You think I don’t feel this pull between us?”

She hissed, “There’s no pull. There’s nothing between us.”

Except a marriage, apparently. She reminded him of a wary stray cat, prickly and rather adorable.

“Is that right, my tigress?” He reached out, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw. “Then why are you trembling?”

She jerked away from his touch, but he caught her wrist, his thumb finding her pulse point. “Your heart is racing, Samantha. Your breathing is shallow. Admit it. You ache. You crave. You burn.”

But his wife was very stubborn. “I don’t?—”

“Do not lie to me.” His voice was rough now, barely controlled. “Do not lie to yourself.”

A flush climbed her throat. She opened her mouth to argue, but he was already speaking again—soft, dangerous.

“Tell me,” he said, lowering his voice, “do the women in your little book club blush like this when they read about stolen kisses and trembling thighs?”

Her eyes widened.

“Oh yes,” he said, a slow smile curving his lips. “You hide behind moral debate and literary merit, but we both know what you’re really looking for between those pages.”

“You arrogant?—”

“Truthful,” he cut in. “You want passion, Samantha. You want to be wanted. Touched. Taken. You want everything you’ve only dared read about—and you hate that it’s me who makes you feel it.”

She tried to pull back, but he let her go this time. She didn’t step away.

He leaned closer, voice a heated whisper. “You can deny it all you like, but I see it… every unspoken wish you try to hide.”

“I …” she faltered.

“Say it, Duchess. Tell me what you want.” He stepped closer, voice low and teasing, a spark of wickedness in his eyes.

His fingers grazed lightly over her wrist, gentle but certain.

“You’ve spent your life bound by duty, by expectations.

The ton , propriety, endless whispers of what a lady must be.

” He smiled, sharp and knowing. “But what if I told you I could give you something else? Pleasure so real, so fierce, it would make all that fade—the ton , the duty, the rules. Not just passion, Samantha. Freedom.” He lowered his voice until it was barely more than a breath against her ear.

“A touch that doesn’t ask for permission, a fire that won’t be tamed, and nights where nothing matters but what you want. ”

Her breath caught, her body shifting just slightly closer, her eyes fluttering shut for a heartbeat—no words, but permission enough.

He wasted no time.

His mouth claimed hers in a kiss with a hunger that had only intensified in the last ten days in which she’d kept running from him.

For a moment, she stood frozen in his arms, the book she’d been clutching falling forgotten to the floor with a dull thud.

Then she melted into him completely, her hands fisting in his jacket as she kissed him back with equal fervor, her body pressing against his as though she couldn’t bear even the whisper of space between them.

His hands framed her face, tilting her head back as he deepened the kiss, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips until she gasped, allowing him the access he craved.

She tasted of wine and something sweet… something intoxicating, that made his head spin.

He groaned against her mouth, one hand sliding down to span her waist, pulling her closer still until he could feel every curve of her body against his.

Her lips were soft and warm, yielding under his assault, and when she made a small, breathless sound of pleasure, he thought he might die from the sheer bliss of finally, finally having her in his arms.

His other hand tangled in her hair, loosening the pins that held it in place until the silken strands spilled over his fingers like liquid fire.

She arched into his touch, her own hands moving restlessly over his chest, his shoulders, as though she couldn’t decide where she wanted to touch him most.

He found that he thoroughly loved her touch. That he wanted more of it.

“Yes, that’s it, my tigress… Let go,” he whispered as he nipped gently at her lower lip and she gasped, allowing him to take advantage, his tongue sliding against hers in a dance as old as time itself.

She tasted like salvation and damnation all at once, and he knew with devastating certainty that he would never have enough of her, never be able to let her go.

Her response was everything he had dreamed of and more: passionate, uninhibited , as though years of careful control had shattered in an instant.

She kissed him back with a desperate hunger that matched his own beastly need, her fingers clutching at his jacket as though he might disappear if she didn’t hold on tight enough.

“Your Grace? Your Grace, is everything quite all right?”

They sprang apart at the sound of a servant’s voice in the corridor.

“Oh,” the servant flushed red, “I am sorry, I only… I heard a sudden noise and thought… Pardon me …” he mumbled.

Samantha’s eyes were wide with shock and horror.

Without a word, she fled the room. From the corridor came the sound of her footsteps on the stairs, running as though her very life depended on it.