Page 43 of In Service to the Duke

Fear pricks my heart as I look down, unsure of what I’m feeling. It’s a constant burn that doesn’t go away. It’s not painful exactly, but it’s quite uncomfortable. Unfortunately, my body twists the sensation until it rides that fine line between discomfort and pleasure.

Whimpering, I look up at him, noting the smile on his face. “Does it hurt?” he teases. “Poor thing. I can only imagine what you’re feeling. How badly does it burn? Ready to beg me to take it out?”

The rational part screams at me to beg him, but the curious part, the part which will surely be my downfall, wants to see just how bad it can get. Right now, it’s manageable.

“No, Your Grace. If this is to be a punishment, then I shall endeavor to suffer until I can no longer stand it. Besides,” I admit, ducking my head. “It’s not so painful that I need you to stop it. In fact, I find I quite like it. That is, unless it’s going to get worse.”

“Damnation,” he curses under this breath, his eyes once more turning black. “I’ve never known a girl to want to keep ginger inside them when they have the opportunity for me to extract it. What manner of creature are you?”

I bite my lower lip to keep a moan from flitting past my lips. The longer it’s in me, the more enjoyable it becomes. Rocking back and forth, I grind against the base, sending more heat curling through me.

“I’m merely a human,” I eventually wail, my voice a touch louder than intended.

“You’re no mere human,” he breathes out, shaking his head. “You’re either an angel or a devil. I’ve yet to decide which.” With a wicked grin, he cups my head and draws me closer to the front of his breeches, where the jam glistens in the sunlight. “Now then, let’s finish your punishment by having you clean me up. Lick me, Miss Gillet.”

His fingers fist in my hair, holding me in such a way that I can’t break free from him. But I don’t want to. I wish to be like this for eternity, serving him in this depraved way.

Arching my neck forward, I take a tentative lick. The taste of fresh cranberries bursts on my tongue, igniting a hunger deep inside. With wild abandon, I apply myself to my task, licking his breeches as commanded.

The entire affair is humiliating, and yet, my body clenches with need with each swipe of my tongue. Beneath the buckskin, a bulge presses outward. Such a curious thing.

I’ve observed as such with various statues, but it’s one of those things which remains hidden to me. I want so desperately to know what lies behind the jam-coated fabric. Reaching up, I touch the button of his flap, but he jerks me away.

“Not until we’re married.”

I freeze, unsure of what I just heard. “Pardon?” The burn from the ginger no longer registers, as my mind has far more important things to digest.

“I’m asking you to marry me.”

“Your Grace. I- You can’t be serious.” Elation flows through me as he descends to one knee.

This is what I’ve wanted. And he’s asking me without being forced down the aisle. I can satisfy my mother and go into matrimony with a clear conscience.

“I must have you as my wife. There is no one else for me than you. Besides, duty demands I take you in and make you a proper woman. After everything which has passed between us, and with everything your body compels me to do, it’s only right.”

My heart sinks as his words pierce the happy veil clouding my mind. It’s not because he loves me, after all. It’s because I’ll trap him if we continue this way. Sorrow lances through me, the pain causing me to shake. If I do this, if I give in, Mother will win.

All I wanted was to be loved and not married out of duty. I wanted it with every aching fiber of my being. This should be a moment of celebration, and yet not once did he mention love.

Duty.

That’s all I am to him. That’s all I’ll ever be.

“No, Your Grace,” I croak out, my voice thick with unshed tears. “I cannot.”

CHAPTER 19

ROBERT

I stare down at the governess, my ears and heart in disagreement over what she said. There’s no way I heard her correctly. Stepping back, I watch as she sways forward, as she’s no longer able to lean against me.

“Pardon me, madam,” I bite out. “I don’t believe I heard your answer. Pray repeat it. Possibly a little louder, so I can be sure.”

“I cannot marry you.” This time, her voice is a touch strained, nearly hysterical.

What vexes her so? None of this makes any sense. Any maiden would be thrilled for a proposal from a Duke. Is it me she takes umbrage with then? Leaving her side, I walk over to the nearby basin and busy myself with cleaning the bulk of food from my breeches.

Off to the side, Miss Gillet squirms, her expression one of abject misery. I’d like to think it’s because she rejected me, but I know better. The ginger is still zinging her with its punishing effect.