Page 63 of Wedded to the Cruel Duke

His lips found her nipple, his tongue flicking over it before he took it into his mouth, drawing a sharp cry from her lips. Her own hands, trembling with desire, fumbled at the fastenings of his coat, desperate to feel more of him, to match his daring with her own.

“Charles…” she gasped, her voice catching in her throat as his hands roved lower, slipping beneath the waistband of her gown, resting just above the curve of her derriére. “What… what are we doing… oh!”

Before she could finish her sentence, his hand came down sharply on her bottom, the sound of the smack echoing through the room. Phoebe gasped, more in surprise than pain, her body jolting at the unexpected sting. But there was something else too, a thrill that shot through her, making her pulse quicken.

“Whatever we want,” he murmured, before pulling her closer until she was flush against him.

She could feel the hard length of him through his breeches, and the sensation sent a rush of heat through her body. Her own hands moved with a mind of their own, tugging at his shirt, desperate to feel the warmth of his skin against hers. But just as her fingers brushed the bare skin of his chest, a sharp rap came at the door and shattered the moment.

They both froze, breathless and wide-eyed. The knock came again, followed by the sound of a maid’s voice. “My lady, evening tea has been prepared. Shall I bring it in?”

Charles shot up as though he’d been burned, his hands fumbling wildly with his coat as he tried to step back from her in a tangle of limbs and fabric. “Eveningtea?” he sputtered, his voice low but a pitch higher than usual. “Yes, of course, tea! Tea is important.”

Phoebe could hardly keep from laughing, biting down on her lip as she quickly pulled her gown back into place, smoothing out the fabric with trembling hands. “Yes, tea is… vital,” she managed to say, though her voice was quivering with suppressed mirth.

Charles was desperately trying to button his coat, but his fingers seemed to have forgotten how to work. “I should… I should leave. Yes, that’s… that’s probably best.” He gave up on his coat entirely, his hands flapping awkwardly at his sides as he backed away from her, his face flushed redder than she had ever seen it.

“Yes, you really should,” Phoebe agreed, her voice wavering between seriousness and the urge to burst into laughter. “It would be terribly improper for you to be found here, would it not?”

“Terribly,” Charles echoed, nodding so vigorously that a lock of his hair fell over his forehead. He pushed it back with a hand. “I’m a marquess, after all. Must maintain appearances.”

“Of course,” she said, her lips twitching as she fought to keep a straight face. “And I, as your dutiful wife, must not be found in a… compromising position.”

“Compromising position. Of course,” he repeated, his eyes darting around the room as if he expected someone to burst in at any moment.

“Absolutely not,” Phoebe agreed, though she couldn’t help the playful glint in her eyes. “But if I had, I might have enjoyed it.”

Charles finally managed to get one button fastened and glanced at her, his expression somewhere between exasperation and amusement. “You are not helping, my dear.”

She grinned, unable to resist teasing him further. “And here I thought you liked a challenge.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Slumber was a wonderfully potent drug, weaving dreams and fantasies into a portrait of perfection. Phoebe smiled in her sleep as she buried her nose into her pillow.

Of late, she had been having the most wonderful dreams—mostly of Charles, of course. After all, there was hardly anything much better to dream of than her husband.

Unfortunately for Phoebe, the servants had interrupted their time together yesterday evening when they brought in the tea service into her bedchamber.

In her dreams, however, there were no such annoyances—except maybe for that chill suddenly sweeping over her heated body.

She grasped at the thick, downy blanket, only to find that it was stuck. She frowned in her sleep. Why was it stuck?

Slowly, her eyes fluttered open with the full intent of castigating whoever was at fault for depriving her of her blanket—and her delicious dream of a Charles who had already dispensed of his shirt and was in the process of dispensing with his breeches as well this time…

Only to find thathewas standing over her. Fully clothed.

She furrowed her brow. “Am I still dreaming?”

His lips quirked into a half-smile. “It depends. What are you dreaming about?”

That sounds much too real to be a dream…

Her eyes flew wide open, all traces of sleep suddenly wiped from her consciousness. Indeed, he was standing before her! In the inner sanctum of her very bedchamber!

And where is Amelia anyway?

“Charles!” She sat up. “What are you doing in here?”