Page 9 of Wedded to the Duke of Seduction (Dukes of Passion #3)

CHAPTER 9

“ T hat bit with the bookshelf was particularly inspired. Though I wonder about the practicality—surely the shelf would wobble?”

Leo stared at Lord Haverton, scarcely believing the words coming from the elderly banker’s mouth. They were meant to be discussing a significant investment in Leo’s shipping venture not… whatever this was.

“I beg your pardon?” His voice had grown dangerously quiet, but Haverton seemed oblivious.

“The latest story of course.” The banker’s jowls quivered with barely suppressed mirth. “My wife read it to me last night. Couldn’t get through a page without dissolving into giggles. I must say, you cut a dashing figure in print.”

Leo’s fingers tightened around the investment papers. “Lord Haverton, I believe we were discussing business.”

“Ah yes, business.” The banker’s expression sobered though his eyes still twinkled. “I’m afraid I must decline your proposal, Your Grace. The investment committee feels that associating with such colorful figures might undermine confidence in our institution.”

“Colorful figures,” Leo repeated flatly.

“Indeed.” Haverton rose, already extending his hand in farewell. “Though if your literary alter ego ever tires of the book trade, perhaps he might consider banking? We could use that sort of, ahem, creativity.”

Leo barely maintained his composure as he showed the banker out.

The moment the door closed, he swept the papers from his desk with a violent oath. “Damn that woman and her blasted stories!”

“I take it the meeting didn’t go well,” Noah said from the doorway.

“Haverton declined the investment.” Leo paced the length of his study. “Because of those damnable stories.”

“Ah.” Noah settled into a chair. “The bookshop one. Quite imaginative, I thought. Though I hadn’t realized you had such a profound interest in literature.”

Leo shot him a withering look. “It’s not about me.”

“No? The tall, brooding nobleman with ‘eyes the color of autumn leaves’ who possesses a ‘particular talent for making ladies forget themselves among the classics’?”

“Half the lords in London have hazel eyes.”

“And how many have a distinctive scar across their left shoulder?” Noah countered. “From a duel in Naples as I recall—which your literary counterpart shares in rather exquisite detail.”

Leo stopped mid-pace. “How did she know about that?”

“The same way she knew about the conservatory, I imagine.” Noah shrugged. “London ladies talk, especially about men like you.”

Leo rubbed his temples. The story had spread faster than any previous one, consuming drawing room conversations and club gossip alike. He’d even overheard his own footman discussing it with the cook that morning.

“She’s gone too far this time,” he growled.

“What will you do?”

“End this, once and for all.”

“And how exactly do you plan to accomplish that?”

A dark smile curved Leo’s mouth. “By giving Lady Asquith exactly what she’s been asking for.”

The Ellinsworths’ ballroom glittered with candlelight and jewels, but Marina barely noticed the opulence.

Her nerves had been strung tight since arriving. She was constantly alert for a certain duke’s presence. She’d spent the week alternating between anticipation and dread. When she jumped at every knock on her door, Betty had insisted on brewing her chamomile tea to calm her.

“Cousin Marina!” Lady Ellinsworth swept forward to embrace her. “How delightful you could come. Everyone is talking about the latest story.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Between us, I thought the bookshop scene was brilliantly written. Though how anyone could maintain their balance on a library ladder is beyond me!”

Marina forced a smile, her cheeks burning. “Thank you, Sarah, but I’m afraid I haven’t read it.”

“Really?” Her cousin’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Well, enjoy yourself. I believe there’s someone I simply must meet over by the punch.”

As her cousin fluttered away, Marina caught sight of Caroline and Harold making their way through the crowd.

“There you are!” Caroline linked her arm through Marina’s. “The entire ton is abuzz with talk of this mysterious author. You’ve become quite the success, my dear, even if they don’t know it’s you.”

“The latest story has apparently scandalized half of London,” Harold added with an amused smile. “It was rather cleverly written. The scene where the hero quotes poetry while?—”

“Harold!” Caroline swatted his arm.

“What? It showed remarkable literary knowledge. I was merely appreciating the, ah, scholarship involved.”

Despite her anxiety, Marina laughed. “I’m glad it meets with your approval.”

“More than approval,” Caroline insisted. “It’s brilliant, Marina. But I wonder if perhaps you’ve drawn a bit too heavily from personal experience this time? That encounter outside the bookshop…”

“It is entirely fiction,” Marina insisted though her cheeks burned at the memory of Leo’s touch.

“Speaking of fiction becoming reality,” Harold said and nodded toward the entrance, “your muse has arrived.”

Marina’s heart skipped a beat as she spotted Leo across the ballroom.

Even at this distance, his presence commanded attention—tall and imposing in his perfectly tailored evening clothes, and his auburn hair gleaming in the candlelight.

Several gentlemen immediately approached him, their expressions far too amused for proper society.

“Poor man,” Caroline whispered. “They’re absolutely tormenting him about the story.”

For the first time, Marina felt a twinge of guilt. She’d been so focused on her own precarious situation that she hadn’t fully considered how the stories might affect Leo beyond his immediate anger. The ton could be merciless in its mockery.

“Perhaps I should stop,” she murmured.

“Too late for that,” Harold said quietly. “He’s coming this way.”

Leo approached their small group with measured steps, his expression carefully neutral. If not for the tightness around his eyes, one might believe he was perfectly at ease.

“Lord Clarkshire.” He offered a precise bow. “I understand congratulations are in order. The Manchester investment has proven quite profitable.”

Harold appeared momentarily surprised but recovered quickly. “Thank you, Your Grace. Indeed, the cotton mills have exceeded expectations.”

“Perhaps we might discuss the details sometime? I’ve been considering a similar venture.”

“Of course. I’d be happy to discuss what I know.”

As the men talked about business matters, Marina exchanged a bewildered glance with Caroline. The Duke had barely acknowledged her presence and offered only the barest nod before turning his full attention to Harold. It was as though their heated encounter outside the bookshop had never happened.

Marina wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed. She’d spent the past week imagining his fury and prepared herself for another confrontation, but here he was, discussing profit margins and labor costs as though she were nothing more than a casual acquaintance.

Perhaps he’d finally decided to ignore the stories. Perhaps he’d realized ? —

“Well, I shouldn’t monopolize your evening,” Leo said, bringing her thoughts to an abrupt halt. “Lady Clarkshire, always a pleasure. Lady Asquith.” His gaze slid over her briefly before he turned to leave.

As he passed, his hand brushed against hers, the touch so brief she might have imagined it—except for the folded paper now pressed against her palm.

“What a remarkably civilized encounter,” Caroline said when he had disappeared into the crowd. “I was expecting at least some veiled threats.”

“Yes,” Marina murmured, discreetly tucking the note into her reticule.

“He seemed almost indifferent,” Caroline said.

“Business always was the Duke’s preferred method of avoiding unpleasant topics,” Harold remarked, oblivious to the women’s exchange. “The cotton mill’s financial returns are actually quite extraordinary.”

As Harold launched into details of his investment, Marina’s fingers itched to open Leo’s note. She waited until Caroline was drawn into conversation with a passing acquaintance before slipping it out.

The message, written in a bold, slashing hand, was brief.

Library. Ten minutes. Do not test me.

Her pulse quickened. The library—just like in her story. Was he mocking her? Setting a trap? Or was it simply the only private location available in a house full of guests?

Marina glanced at the ornate clock across the ballroom. Nine minutes.

The next few minutes passed in a blur of mechanical conversation and excuses. When she finally slipped away from her friends, pleading a need to refresh herself, her heart was thundering so loudly she was certain the entire ballroom could hear it.

The Ellinsworths’ library was in the east wing, away from the music and laughter.

Marina hesitated outside the heavy oak door, suddenly uncertain.

Perhaps this was foolish. Maybe she should return to the ballroom and pretend she’d never read his message.

Before she could decide, the door opened, and a large hand closed around her wrist and pulled her into the room.

“You’re late.” Leo’s voice was low.

The room was illuminated by a single lamp and the moonlight streaming through the tall windows.

Marina’s heart raced with a mixture of indignation and something far more dangerous. “I came, didn’t I?” She pulled her wrist free and moved to put distance between them. “I can’t imagine what was so urgent it couldn’t wait for a proper call.”

“A proper call.” His laugh held no humor. “Would you prefer I announce to all of society that I have come to discuss your latest scribblings? The one featuring a dark-haired duke ravishing an innocent widow between Chaucer and Shakespeare?”

Marina lifted her chin. “I told you, my stories are fiction.”

“Fiction.” He moved closer, and she backed away until she met the solid weight of a bookshelf. “With remarkably accurate details about a scar on my shoulder that few people have seen.”

“You may not be as discreet as you think.”

His eyes narrowed. “Why are you doing this? You said you have no choice, yet you seem to take pleasure in humiliating me.”

“I’m not trying to humiliate you.”

“No?” He braced his arms on either side of her head, trapping her against the books. “Then what exactly are you trying to do, Marina?”

The sound of her given name on his lips sent a shiver down her spine. “I told you. Mr. Lupton insists on these stories. Without them, I lose my income, my independence?—”

“And you couldn’t possibly write about anyone else?” His voice dropped dangerously. “Or is there something about me specifically that inspires such vivid scenarios?”

Heat flooded her cheeks. “The ton finds you interesting.”

“And you?” His gaze burned into hers. “Do you find me interesting, my persistent author?”

“The stories aren’t real. They are fiction.” Marina’s throat felt dry.

“Aren’t they?” One hand moved to trace the curve of her jaw. His hand was as light as a feather. “You write about a man who takes what he wants. Someone who knows exactly how to touch a woman to make her surrender.” His thumb brushed her lower lip. “Tell me, has anyone ever touched you like that, Marina? Has anyone ever made you feel what your heroines feel?”

Her breath caught. “That’s not your concern.”

Something shifted in his expression—a flash of understanding.

“I see.” His voice softened to velvet. “Your husband was a fool in more ways than one, wasn’t he?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do.” His hand slid to her neck and found her racing pulse. “I think you write what you wish to know, not what you know. I think you’ve never been properly kissed, properly touched. Properly claimed.”

Marina’s knees threatened to buckle beneath her. “You’re being absurd.”

“Am I?” He leaned closer until she could feel his breath against her lips. “Perhaps it’s time someone showed you the difference between fiction and reality.”

Before she could respond, his mouth claimed hers.

The kiss was nothing like Marina had imagined—and she had imagined it, over and over, in the week since their last encounter. It was heat and demand and possession. His lips demanded a response she couldn’t deny.

Her hands clutched at his shoulders as the world tilted beneath her, his body pressing her firmly against the bookshelf.

One of his hands tangled in her hair, angling her head to deepen the kiss, while the other slid to her waist, drawing her closer. A soft sound escaped her throat as his tongue traced her lips, seeking entry.

Marina surrendered, opening to him with a sigh that turned into a trembling moan as his tongue swept into her mouth.

The taste of him—brandy and desire and something uniquely him —made her dizzy with want.

The hand at her waist slipped lower, tracing the curve of her hip through the layers of silk and muslin, his fingers pressing with just enough force to make her acutely aware of every inch where their bodies met.

The bookshelf behind her creaked as Leo pressed closer and eliminated what little space remained between them. A leather-bound volume dug into her shoulder blade, but Marina barely noticed the discomfort. Her senses were overwhelmed by him—the heat of his body, the subtle scent of sandalwood and cologne, the way his muscles shifted beneath her hands as she ran them across his shoulders.

His mouth left hers to trail kisses along her jaw, sending shivers cascading through her body. When his teeth grazed the sensitive spot just below her ear, Marina gasped, her head falling back to give him better access. The faint scrape of his beard against her throat was exquisite torment, a delicious friction that sent heat pooling low in her belly.

“Is this what you write about, Marina?” he breathed against her skin, his voice rough with desire. “Is this what your heroines feel when your duke claims them?”

Before she could form a coherent reply, his mouth captured hers again, more demanding than before. Marina’s fingers slid into his hair, the silken strands cool against her heated skin. When he caught her bottom lip between his teeth, a shudder of pure pleasure raced through her, drawing forth another sound she scarcely recognized as her own.

Marina had been kissed before by her husband. Perfunctory, passionless kisses that had left her wondering why novels made such a fuss about the act. But this—this was what the poets wrote about, what her own stories had tried to capture.

This was fire and need and hunger.

His hand moved from her hip to the small of her back, pressing her impossibly closer until she could feel the hard evidence of his desire against her abdomen.

The realization of how much he wanted her sent a thrill of feminine power through Marina, even as it awakened an answering need within her. Her body seemed to know instinctively how to respond, arching into his touch, silently begging for more.

Leo groaned against her mouth, the sound vibrating through her like a physical caress. His fingers tightened in her hair, and for a wild moment, Marina wondered if he might take her right there, pressed against the Ellinsworths’ library shelves.

The scandalous thought only heightened her arousal and made her bold enough to run her tongue along his, mimicking the intimate dance he had performed moments before.

A crash outside the library door jolted them apart. Voices echoed in the hallway, dangerously close.

“—swear I saw her come this way?—”

“—not proper for a lady to wander alone?—”

Leo moved with startling speed and pressed Marina deeper into the shadows. His hand covered her mouth.

She froze against him, suddenly aware of their compromising position.

If they were discovered like this, her reputation would be beyond salvaging.