A Duchess in Name Page 15

  “There was no stationery in my room. I came in search of some.”

  “You’re writing a letter now?”

  Her mouth screwed up in a wry smile. “I’m always writing letters.”

  His blurred mind sensed a joke there, one made at her own expense, but he couldn’t quite grasp it. Did she write to others the way she wrote to him? The very idea was exhausting. Her letters to him were filled with the minutiae of running the estate, mundane details of her life in the country. What did she write about to her friends? How could she be so loquacious to everyone she knew and still stay so unreadable to him? Luciana’s voice echoed in his mind. “Would it be the worst idea in the world to write back to her?” He never had, of course.

  Victoria moved out of the doorway and walked to the desk to find her stationery. Andrew found himself moving with her, even though he had no reason to. Stopping behind the desk, she bent slightly to open the drawers. Her hair fell forward in a heavy curtain, shielding her face. The fire was behind her now, and the dull glow outlined her shape through her gown. He could see the curve of the underside of her breast, the bend of her knee.

  “Who are you writing to at this hour? Have you taken a lover in my absence?” He hadn’t intended to ask that. He hadn’t even been thinking it. But apparently his brandy-addled brain had its own ideas.

  Her head snapped up. “Excuse me?”

  The offense was plain on her face, but he couldn’t seem to keep from goading her further, compelled by a burning need to prod beneath her perfect surface and spark some reaction from her, even if it was only anger. “Sending missives at this late hour. Who else could you be writing to but a lover?”

  Her eyes flashed with rage as she squared off against him. “What if I am? It’s not as if I’ve got a proper husband to see to at home.”

  If she meant to wound him, her aim was true. For a moment, all he could see was his mother, throwing one lover after another in his father’s face. Fury rose up in him, and along with it, lust. They always seemed to go hand in hand with Victoria. He didn’t even know if she was telling the truth, but just the thought of it made his vision go red. Was he to be forever battling not only his mother, but his wife, as well?

  “Are you saying you’ve missed me, Victoria?” His voice came out low and menacing, but she didn’t back down. In her fury, she was fearless.

  He watched her throat move as she swallowed, breathing heavily, her breasts rising with each inhale. She was close enough he could smell her and feel the heat of her body. Good Lord, why did she have to be so lovely? His hand gripped the edge of the desk near her hip. She leaned back, but the desk stopped her retreat. Her eyes, which had been fixed somewhere near his left shoulder, skated up to his. All he was aware of was the small space between their bodies, a space he wanted to obliterate. He tried to remind himself of all the reasons he kept his distance from her. But right now, there were her breasts straining against her thin silk robe, her wide eyes, fixed on his, her mouth, lips sheened and parted. He forgot all the reasons he didn’t want her and didn’t like her. His body wanted hers, and nothing else existed in this heated moment.

  “I don’t know you well enough to miss you, Your Grace,” she rasped. Her voice gave her away, more desire than anger. That voice haunted his memories. Andrew. He wanted to hear her say it. She never had. He wanted to hear her moan it. He wanted to drive her to such heights that she couldn’t remember her own name, never mind her potential lovers.

  He tsked and shook his head. “‘Your Grace.’ Such a formal address for the man who is your husband.”

  “An absent husband is hardly a husband at all.”

  He leaned in closer; his mouth was now mere inches from hers. “You doubt my ability to be a proper husband to you?”

  Her fingers curled around the edge of the desk, but she could lean back no farther. Perhaps she didn’t want to. He was drunk, but still, he sensed something in her, a kind of anxious anticipation. And in the long moments he’d had her trapped against the desk, she’d made no move to push him away or escape. Her eyes dropped briefly to his mouth and back up, and his cock hardened. They’d been so good together. God, he wanted it again.

  “I have no evidence of your abilities as a husband,” she breathed. “Proper or no.”

  Her words ghosted across his lips, promising warmth and the slick, sweet taste of her. His eyes met hers and he smirked wickedly. “Oh, yes, you do.”

  Color flared in her cheeks and her eyes flashed with anger. “That? It was nearly a year ago. You can hardly blame me for forgetting it entirely.”

  Once again, he was furious, although for a different reason this time. Either way, it was anger that had him reaching for her, gripping her face in his hands, anger fueling the retort he hissed into her face. “Well, let me remind you.”

  His mouth came down hard on hers. She gasped in shock, but she let him press her body back into the desk. His hand found her hip and pulled her close, wanting his hard, aching cock pressed against her. When he opened his mouth over hers, it took only a moment for her to respond in kind. In an instant, he’d found her tongue, stroking it with his own. A low moan vibrated through his body, and she sighed in his arms. For a long moment, he ravished her mouth—nipping at her lips, tasting her tongue, drinking her in, every flushed, intoxicating bit of her. He wanted more. He wanted to haul her up on this desk, drag her nightgown up over her thighs and bury himself in her warm heat. He wanted to feel her tremble and come apart around him. He wanted to lose himself in her, forgetting everything but the way she made him feel. He’d been drunk the night of their wedding—he was drunk now—but he wanted her with a desperation that left him shaking.

  Sliding a hand up her side, he cupped her breast through the delicate layers of silk and lace, her nipple pebbling under his thumb instantly. God, her responsiveness. How he remembered. The hand gripping her thigh began to slide up, too, dragging her nightgown with it, finding bare skin, warm beneath his fingers. Pressing closer, he forced her back, until she sat on the edge of the desk, until her thighs had parted for him, until he stood between them, in the perfect spot to take her. She whimpered and pulled herself closer, her hands curling into his shoulders, her fingers clutching at him.

  Her eager response finally pierced the haze of his intoxication. Nausea welled up in his stomach. What sort of man was he? Unlike their wedding night, he couldn’t fool himself that this was about duty or securing an heir. Neither thing had so much as crossed his mind tonight. He was filled with rage and about to fuck Victoria senseless. Again. He’d let himself do it on their wedding night, but had begun to regret it immediately and each day since. He couldn’t do it again, not like this.

  She slipped off the edge of the desk and stumbled as he shoved himself away from her.

  “What—” she began, her expression baffled.

  “My apologies, Madame. I’ve been unconscionably rude.” He staggered back, welcoming the chill of the room to cool his overheated skin.

  “But—”

  He kept backing away, keeping his eyes on the floor. His drunken, heavy feet stumbled as he retreated, but he didn’t stop. “I’ll leave you to your letters.”

  Then he turned and fled, not stopping until he’d reached his room and the bottle of brandy waiting for him there.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Shall I braid your hair for you, Your Grace?” Molly asked. As Victoria brushed her hair, she watched Molly bustling around the room, putting away gowns and turning back the bedclothes, and willing her—ungenerously—to finish and leave her in peace. She needed time alone to brace herself for what she was about to do.

  Because tonight, she was going to make love to her husband again.

  In the mirror, her face looked back at her, eyes bright with nerves. Her hair fell in a rippling cascade down over her shoulders and arms. Was it better braided or do
wn? She had no idea what her husband might prefer, or if he cared at all.

  “No, that’s all right, Molly. I’ll do it. Go on to bed.”

  “Are you sure? Would you like another cup of tea?”

  “No, I’m set for the night.”

  “All right, Your Grace.” Molly dipped into a tiny curtsy and finally left her alone.

  The moment the door shut, she rose and crossed to the side table, pouring herself a drink of another sort. Tea would be useless tonight. She needed brandy for what lay ahead. The liquid burned all the way down, making her cough and wheeze. When her breath came back, she took another swallow. That one didn’t burn so bad, instead sparking a warm glow throughout her chest. Ten minutes and a second snifter of brandy later, her head felt slightly unmoored from her body. She set the glass down. She needed bravery, but she also needed enough wherewithal to carry through.

  Everything about last night confused her, from the accusations he’d thrown at her, to the unexpected heat flaring up between them, to her own startling response to him. The thing that confused her most, however, was his departure. Perhaps the nuances of marital relations were still a bit fuzzy to her, but she knew enough to know he’d been on the verge of taking her, right there on the desk in the library. It didn’t bear thinking about how arousing she’d found that.

  Especially as he hadn’t been able to bring himself to do it, even when he seemed to want to. And she very much needed him to do it. Children would be difficult to achieve with a husband living in Italy. While they were under the same roof, she needed him to act as a husband to her.

  One door was all that separated their chambers, and she’d heard him come upstairs over an hour ago. No doubt he’d been drinking plenty of brandy of his own in the interim. Maybe that would help. Last night when he’d been drunk, he’d forgotten how much he didn’t like her and he’d kissed her. Tonight she needed him to do much more.

  Untying the sash on her robe with trembling fingers, she slid it off and draped it over a nearby chair, ready for her to find later. All she wore now was her thinnest silk nightgown. It had been bought as part of her trousseau but had never made it out of her trunks at Briarwood when she realized how impractical such delicate garments would be.

  Pressing her palms to the door, she laid her ear to the wood. No sound came from within. What if he’d fallen asleep? Well, she would wake him up. Gently turning the doorknob, she peered inside his almost-dark room. The fire had burned low and was nothing more than a dull glow in the hearth. He was in bed, eyes closed, but not exactly retired for the night. He wore his brocade robe over his white shirt and dark trousers, although his boots were off. His head was propped up on the pillows, and a cut crystal glass of some amber liquor was clutched loosely in his hand.

  One more deep breath for courage and she pushed inside. Soundlessly, she crossed the room, her bare feet sinking into the thick Aubusson carpet. He didn’t move as she approached the bed. She reached out and plucked the glass from his grasp. When his fingers twitched, she froze, but he didn’t stir again and she exhaled. Setting the glass on the bedside table, she steeled herself for what came next. He might still reject her, but considering his heated touch last night, there seemed a fair chance he might not. At least not if she made it easy enough for him.

  Her fingers reached for the satin ribbon holding the neck of her nightgown closed. With a tug, the ties slid open and the gown gaped. It took no more than a shrug to send it slithering down her arms to pool at her feet. She wore nothing underneath. The fire in the hearth did little to warm her this far away. Her nipples pebbled and her skin broke out in gooseflesh, although that might have been nerves. As she took a shaky step closer to the bed, her heart was beating fast enough to make her light-headed.

  His thick, dark lashes cast heavy shadows on his cheekbones. His perfect lips were slightly parted and the light glinted off a tiny slick of moisture on the bottom one. Victoria imagined touching—or tasting—that small spot of dampness on his lip, and her stomach clenched in some combination of anxiety and excitement.

  Her eyes skimmed down his body. Their wedding night had taken place in the dark, so although she’d felt a great deal of him, she hadn’t seen much. She took in the smooth, tanned skin of his chest where his shirt gaped open. A sprinkling of dark, wiry hair disappeared beneath the fabric. His trousers stretched taut over his thighs as his legs splayed open, one hanging half off the bed. Her eyes moved to the bulge at the center. It had been pressed against her, inside of her in the most intimate way imaginable, but she’d never seen it—his or any other man’s.

  Enough looking. Time for action. Still moving slowly, silently, she leaned over him, bracing one knee on the mattress by his hip and swinging the other over his body until she was on her hands and knees, hovering over him. With her hands on either side of his head and her hair hanging in a curtain around their faces, she gathered her courage, leaned in and pressed her mouth to his. For a moment, nothing happened, and she feared she’d waited too long. He’d gone past drunk and into unconsciousness. Then his lips stirred beneath hers. He jerked to alertness, his hands coming up to clutch at her reflexively. When all they found was warm, bare skin, he drew in a sharp breath through his nose. Taking her cue from what he’d done to her, she slid her tongue forward, running it first over his bottom lip and into his mouth. When she found his tongue and stroked it with her own, a low, ragged groan ripped through him.

  It was working. Triumph flared, quickly supplanted by a sharp spike of arousal as he began to kiss her back. His hand slipped up to her shoulder and into her hair, fisting almost hard enough to hurt. The other slid down her side to her hip. Finding no clothing along the way, only her bare skin under his fingertips, he groaned again.

  She might have initiated the kiss, but once his fingers knotted into her hair, she ceased to control it. He ravaged her mouth. His tongue found hers, his teeth scraped her lips. He hauled her closer, the rough fabric of his shirt brushing her nipples.

  Then the world flipped, and in the space of a breath, she found herself flat on her back and her husband looming over her. Only inches separated their faces, but in the dark, she couldn’t see his expression. He could see hers, though, and whatever he read there must have been enough to convince him. It was either that or her naked body laid out underneath him. His robe had slipped down his arms and now he threw it off. Something dark and exciting curled low in her belly.

  Letting out another low groan, he lowered his head and kissed her again, hard, deep, thorough and endless. She writhed underneath him, not needing a breath, but feeling breathless just the same. Tentatively, she raised her hands to his shoulders and then a further intimacy, up into his hair, raking her fingers through it, letting her nails scrape along his scalp and the nape of his neck. His breathing grew heavy and he shifted his weight until his knees were between hers and her thighs were forced open for him. For a moment, nerves seized her, but his mouth never left hers, giving her no time to draw breath or second-guess what they were about to do. When his hand found her breast, worry for what came next faded to nothing.

  Oh, it felt good, his fingers on her nipple. He pinched her, and the pressure with an edge of pain made her arch up off the bed and into his hand.

  “Damn it.” Tearing his mouth away from hers, he left a hot trail down her neck with his tongue, bringing her body to tingling life. She cried out when he drew her nipple into his mouth and sucked hard, clutching at his hair and twisting. His other hand was on her hip, then her thigh, and then between her legs. A momentary flare of panic made her almost resist the intrusion. Giving in to him meant making herself vulnerable. But he shifted his weight, his hip pinning her leg open, baring her to the maddening, intoxicating feel of his fingers over her slick skin, and she stopped fighting it. His fingers stroked, pressed and rubbed until she was driven mad with it. Half-formed words and helpless sounds of pleasure fell from her lips as the se
nsation built inexorably within her.

  “Oh...”

  “Andrew,” he muttered against her breast. “It’s Andrew. Say it.”

  “Andrew...” His name was dragged out of her, a low rasping sound. He drew her nipple back into his mouth and sucked again, his tongue flicking the tip as his fingers kept dancing between her legs. When she thought she couldn’t bear another moment, there was still more. Two fingers pushed inside her while his thumb kept pressure outside. Her body arched in response, half-desperate, half-terrified. She wanted to stop, she couldn’t get enough and he wouldn’t relent. Then the release, which had stayed tantalizingly out of reach, exploded over her. She sobbed out his name again as her body set flight without her mind.

  As she floated back down to earth, he moved over her, shrugging out of his shirt and flicking open the buttons on his trousers. Even in the aftermath of what she’d experienced, she needed more. What he’d done to her had been good, but there was more to come, and it was even better.

  As if reading her thoughts, Andrew shoved at his trousers, sliding them down his legs and away. She could only glory for a moment at the sensation of his naked body pressed skin-to-skin along the length of hers before he nudged at her opening. His hand curled around her bottom and tilted her hips to a better angle before he slid in. The stretch was nothing like the pain of the first time. He kept coming until his hips pressed fully to hers.

  “Good God,” he muttered into her hair. His mouth found hers as he drew back and rammed home again. The heat came flooding back, her body responding to him immediately as their lips and tongues tangled. With each long, powerful stroke, he shook her apart, until she was clinging to him, arms wrapped around his shoulders, the only solid thing in this storm. The building began again, her body spiraling tighter toward its explosive conclusion. This time it was darker, deeper—not a bright, sharp explosion, but a deep, rumbling quake under the surface of the earth. His tempo increased, his breathing growing shallow. Her fingernails curled into his shoulders as he growled harshly in her ear. She could feel him explode inside of her as her own body followed suit, the pleasure obliterating all thought once again.