Page 17 of Wedded to the Duke of Sin (Dukes of Passion #2)

CHAPTER 17

“ I thought I might return to London soon,” Alice said over their evening meal, breaking the silence.

The dining room felt too large for just the two of them, the distance between the opposite ends of the polished mahogany table a constant reminder of their carefully drawn boundaries.

Dorian glanced up from his plate, his eyebrow raised. “Missing Society already?”

“Missing my brother.” She pushed her barely touched fish around her plate. “I’d like to see how he’s managing by himself.”

“There’s no need for concern. I’ve had my man of business sort out the Keswick accounts.” Dorian’s voice held that dismissive note that never failed to stoke her temper. “The estate is stable now.”

“That’s very generous of you.” Alice set down her fork with careful precision. “But Thomas needs more than financial stability. He needs guidance, structure. Evelyn provides that, but?—”

“Ah yes.” Dorian’s smile held a mocking edge that made her want to throw something at him. “The reformed rake narrative. Tell me, sweetheart, do you really believe that love changes a man so completely?”

“Stop calling me that.” But the term of endearment sent the usual shivers down her spine. “And yes, I actually do. When the right person comes along?—”

“The right person?” Dorian leaned forward, his voice dropping to that dangerous purr that made her pulse flutter. “Like a proper young lady who makes him want to be a better man?”

“Exactly.” She lifted her chin. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“Quite.” His eyes held hers from across the endless expanse of the table. “Some of us prefer not to change.”

“Some of us fear it,” she countered. “There’s a difference.”

That got his attention.

His fingers stilled on the stem of his wine glass. “Careful, Duchess.”

“Or what?” She rose from her chair, needing to move. “You’ll remind me again how you acquired a wife unwillingly?”

“You know why I married you.”

“Do I?” She turned to face him. “Because you seem to delight in pointing out how much of an obligation I am. How noble you were to save my reputation.”

“Is that what you think?” He was on his feet now, moving toward her with that predatory grace that made her breath catch in her throat. “That I am some noble sacrifice?”

“I don’t know what to think.” She held her ground as he approached. “You run hot and cold. One moment you’re looking at me like… like…”

“Like what?” His finger traced her jaw, making her shiver. “Like I want to kiss you until you forget your name? Like I’ve thought of nothing else since that night on the terrace?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Then perhaps,” his mouth hovered just above hers, “you should stop thinking altogether.”

This kiss was different from the others. It was slower, deeper, and deliberate in a way that made her knees weak. His hands tangled in her hair, tilting her head to deepen the kiss. She clutched his shoulders, wanting to press closer, needing more.

“Dangerous game, sweetheart,” he muttered against her lips.

“Is it a game?” She pulled back enough to meet his eyes. “Because I am not playing.”

Something dark and hungry flashed in his gaze. “No?”

“No.” She traced his lower lip with her thumb. “Games imply rules. Boundaries. Control.” Her fingers moved to his cravat. “And I do not want any of those things. Not tonight.”

His growl was pure masculine frustration as he backed her up against the wall, one hand tightening in her hair while the other gripped her waist. This kiss held nothing of duty or obligation—it was pure hunger, dark and demanding. She met him with equal fervor, her fingers finally working his cravat loose, needing to touch bare skin.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he muttered against her throat.

“You do not seem terribly concerned.” She arched as his teeth grazed her pulse point. “In fact, you seem quite… invested in your demise.”

Instead of answering, he caught her hands, pinning them above her head as his mouth reclaimed hers. The kiss deepened, turned molten.

Everything else fell away—propriety, pretense, the distance they tried to maintain. There was only this—his mouth on hers, the solid heat of his body pressing her against the wall, the way her blood sang at his touch.

His mouth trailed fire down her neck. “Still want to argue about reform, sweetheart?”

“Don’t… don’t call me that.” But her protest turned into a gasp as his teeth grazed her collarbone.

“No?” His chuckle vibrated against her skin. “Would you prefer ‘Your Grace’? ‘Duchess’?” Each title was punctuated with a kiss. “‘Wife’?”

“I’d prefer you to stop talking altogether.” She meant to sound sharp, but her voice came out breathless.

“Now that,” his fingers traced her spine, making her arch into him, “would be a terrible waste. Especially when you react so beautifully to my voice.”

“I do not—” she broke off as his lips found that sensitive spot behind her ear.

“No?” His breath was warm against her skin. “So if I were to tell you how magnificent you look right now, all flushed and wanton…” His hand slid lower. “That wouldn’t affect you at all?”

“You are…” She struggled to maintain her composure as his fingers skimmed her waist. “Impossibly arrogant.”

“And you…” He nipped her shoulder, before soothing the sting with his tongue. “… are impossibly stubborn. Fighting this even now.”

“I am not fighting anything.”

But her hands had found their way into his hair, pulling him closer even as she protested.

“No?” He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, his own dark with desire. “Then why are you trembling?”

“Because I am angry with you.”

His smile was pure sin. “Is that what this is? Anger?”

“Yes.” But she was already lifting her face for another kiss. “Fury. Absolute rage.”

“How fortunate…” His mouth hovered just out of reach. “… that I know exactly how to handle a woman’s anger.”

“Do you?” She tried to close the distance, but his hand in her hair held her still. “And how exactly do you plan to handle mine?”

“Thoroughly.” The word was a dark promise that made her shiver. “Completely.” His lips brushed hers, feather-light. “Until you forget why you were angry in the first place.”

“That’s your solution?” She meant to sound scornful, but it came out more like a plea. “To kiss away my legitimate concerns?”

“Among other things.” His fingers traced patterns on her skin that made her gasp. “I have quite an extensive arsenal of… distractions.”

“I do not want to be distracted.” But her hands were already unfastening the buttons on his waistcoat. “I want?—”

“What do you want?” His voice had dropped to that dangerous purr that made her knees tremble. “Tell me, sweetheart. What does my proper Duchess desire?”

“I am not proper.” She bit his lower lip in retaliation. “And I am not yours.”

His growl was pure possession as he pulled her from the wall and laid her down on the chaise.

“Everything about you is mine. Your sharp tongue.” He kissed her deeply. “Your clever mind.” His hands tightened on her waist. “This fire that burns beneath your careful control.”

“You do not own me.” But she was melting into him, helpless against the onslaught of sensation. “This doesn’t change anything.”

“No?” His mouth traced the column of her throat. “Then why are you clinging to me like you never want me to stop?”

Her protest died in her throat as he bent down to kiss the mound of white flesh that peeked above the neckline of her robe.

His mouth moved from the swell of her breasts to her collarbone, and she let out a moan of protest, which he stifled by capturing her lips with his.

Dorian cupped one breast in his hand, and he felt her nipples stiffen at his touch. His manhood hardened, straining against his trousers.

His other hand moved down to the hem of her robe. Without hesitation, he trailed it up her bare thigh until he found her feminine folds. She gasped. His thumb teased the little nub at the apex of her sex, and she let out a groan.

Alice wanted to move away, but her body refused to obey her.

“Spread your legs, sweetheart.”

“I am not your?—”

Two fingers slid inside her, quelling any further protest.

Alice moaned and grabbed his shoulders as his fingers glided in and out of her. She pushed against him, clearly wanting more.

His fingers were slick with her arousal, and she rocked against his hand. She moaned, and he knew she was reaching her peak. He felt her walls clench and flutter around his fingers as she bucked wildly against him, and he continued pumping into her until she fell back on the chaise, her breath coming in short gasps.

A knock shattered the moment.

“Your Grace?” Phillips’ voice carried through the door. “Mr. Blackwood has arrived. He says it’s most urgent.”

Dorian pressed his forehead against Alice’s, both of them breathing hard. “A moment, Phillips.”

Alice’s fingers trembled as she tried to right her clothing. The sight of her—thoroughly flushed, hair disheveled, lips swollen—almost made him dismiss the solicitor entirely.

“You should go.” His voice was still rough. “I’ll have Mrs. Harrison prepare the townhouse for an extended season, rather than retiring to the country estate as planned.”

“Remain in London?” Alice blinked up at him, clearly struggling to focus. “But you said?—”

“Things have changed.” He stepped back before temptation could overwhelm his better judgment. “Phillips!”

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“Inform Mrs. Harrison to have our belongings packed. We leave for London tomorrow.”

“Very good, Your Grace.”

Alice was watching him with those too-perceptive eyes. “What’s changed?”

“Everything.” Dorian straightened his cravat, rebuilding his ducal facade piece by piece. “And nothing.”

She opened her mouth as though to argue, then seemed to think better of it. With a final look that scorched him to his bones, she slipped out of the room.

Dorian waited until her footsteps faded before calling Phillips back. “Show Mr. Blackwood to the study.” He strode down the hall and moved to the window, needing to feel the cool glass against his heated skin. “And bring brandy. A lot of it.”

Something in his tone must have warned Phillips not to comment on his disheveled state.

The butler merely bowed and withdrew.

Dorian stared out at the gathering dusk, still feeling the ghost of Alice’s touch on his skin. He had responsibilities, promises to keep, and a possible murderer to unmask.

He crossed to the sideboard, bracing his hands against the polished wood as he waited for Phillips to return.

His reflection in the mirror showed a man barely holding on to his control—cravat askew, hair mussed from Alice’s fingers, a mark darkening on his throat where her teeth had nipped him.

Christ.

He pulled at his cravat, trying to restore some semblance of propriety.

The brandy decanter caught his eye, but he forced himself to step back. He needed a clear head tonight. Blackwood would undoubtedly bring news of Sarah’s situation, and he couldn’t afford to let his growing desire for his wife cloud his judgment. Not when Lawrence’s last request still echoed in his mind.

“Promise me, Dorian. Promise me you’ll protect them.”

But those promises had been made before Alice burst into his life with her sharp wit and fierce loyalty. Before he discovered how perfectly she fit in his arms, how her gasps of pleasure haunted his dreams. Before he began to suspect that this marriage of convenience was becoming anything but convenient.

He moved back to the window and pressed his forehead against the cool glass. Outside, the gardens lay silvered in moonlight, peaceful and still. So different from the turmoil in his chest.

If Treyfield was indeed watching his movements as closely as he suspected, how long before the man’s attention turned to Alice?

The thought of his wife in danger made his hands clench into fists.

The soft rap at his study door nearly made him jump. “Enter.”