Page 77 of The Duke Undone

“You want to know.” There was a new timbre to his voice. “I wanted to know too. It crazed me, not knowing.”

“What would you have done?” Her face was an inch from his. There was only so much more she could discover, looking.

He smiled faintly, shook his head. For a long moment, she thought he wouldn’t answer; then . . .

“I would have started with your hair,” he said. Slowly, he lifted his hand, drifted his fingers through her hair, tugging the curls apart. A few tangled strands snapped. She could never get the knots out. A bird’s nest was what Aunt Marian called it. The Stirling women were all abundantly endowed with tangles and twists, hair that wouldn’t lie flat, that repulsed combs and brushes.

He found a pin and freed it. With both hands, he swept her curls forward so they framed her face, spilled across her shoulders. She could see the fascination in his eyes, a fascination that amazed her. How could her ordinary face, her inelegant snarl of hair, fascinate a man of such perfect beauty? She was common as a wren. And he . . . he was a Pegasus.

For a moment, he stared; then he laid his forehead on hers. She felt the sweep of his lashes, felt them tangle hers.

“I would have kissed you,” he said against her mouth; then abruptly he pulled back. His dimples were dark and deep, his smile wicked. “Or would you have kissed me?”

She kissed him. He was here in the flesh, solid and hot and huge, filling her bed where she’d lain at night and dreamed of him, desires beating within her, amorphous, vague. Shapeless.

She was kissing him, and then there came the precise moment when he was kissing her. The bed was narrow, and he was broad, but he managed to twist until he was beneath her, her breasts tingling as they grazed his coat, her hair curtaining their faces. Another twist, and he was above her, bracing himself. She couldn’t tell any longer who was kissing whom, the kisses mingled flesh and breath. They were wet, hot, carnal, a play of tongues and teeth. He dragged her lower lip into his mouth, sucked hard, then swallowed her gasp. She pushed up his jaw, hand wrapping his chin, and nipped his throat, a strange hungry impulse that startled her. She wanted to taste him, to fill her mouth with his flesh. She bit again, harder, and felt his moan against her fingertips.

He lowered onto her, his chest pressing the air from her lungs, his lips on her eyelids, on her cheeks, on her throat. She twined her arms around the breadth of him, slid a hand up the back of his neck, grabbing a fistful of silky hair. His lower body was angled away from her and she tried to pull him toward her, the whole of him, but he was immovable.

He lifted his head, mouth shining. His chest crushed closer, his heart pounding into hers.

“I would have unbuttoned your dress, unlaced it, slid it down your body, baring you.”

His finger drew a line from her clavicle, between her breasts, down to her belly. She shivered. Vague desires were taking shape, locating themselves, beginning to beat. The one heart wasn’t enough. She was sprouting new hearts, throbbing everywhere he touched.

“But I confess,” he said, planting kisses along her jaw, “I have no idea how to operate this particular garment.”

At her push, he rolled off her and sat up, leaning back against the wall, folding his arms behind his head. Watching her as she stood, backing away from the bed.

“It’s one of a kind,” she said, breathless, giddied by his devouring stare. That day in his study, she’d claimed she’d allow him to draw her nude, had unfastened her dress, to shock him. If he hadn’t stopped her . . .

But she’d gambled that he would, and she’d won.

What she was about to do . . . It felt different. She swallowed, brushing her fingers down her sides.

“These pleats are a state secret.” She spoke lightly but her breath caught. “And it comes off . . . over the head.”

She began to shimmy the dress up over her hips. She’d spoken so boldly that day. It’s a fine figure, she’d said of her own body, with all the coolness and remove she could muster. But she’d never shown so much of her body to anyone, until now.

She’d taken in the naked sight of him, unasked. Now that she offered him the sight of herself, the dress inching up her thighs, her detachment deserted her. Heaven help her, she hadn’t fully grasped it—that exposure involved such risk.

What if he didn’t like what he saw? She had to steel herself to look at him.

His face held that fascination she’d detected earlier, amazement, and something else, something that made his eyes hood, his lips part.

Fear fled. Ah yes, exposure could exhilarate as well. Her vision went crimson, the silk bunching over her eyes. Then the dress was off, and she was dropping it in a puddle on the chair.

“You can’t wear much under it,” she explained, glancing down at herself, the uncertainty returning. Light chemise, thin cotton drawers. She couldn’t meet his eyes until he spoke.

“Come here,” he commanded. He had shrugged out of his jacket and was sitting on the edge of the bed. His tousled hair waved across his brow. His gaze was greedy.

She obeyed. When she reached him, he spread his legs so she could fit herself between them, her bare knees against the bed. He slid his hand beneath her chemise.

“Shut your eyes,” he said.

“I like to see,” she began, but as his hand slid higher, over her ribs, up the curve of her breast, she felt her eyes roll up, the lids come down.

“I know,” he said. “I want you to feel.”