Page 97 of The Duke Undone

She turned, pulling the doorknob. He pushed the door closed with the palm of his hand. The look she slanted up at him made every muscle in his body clench.

“Oh,” she said. “And happy birthday.”

“Dammit.” He growled, bending toward her, elbows pressed to his sides to keep himself from gathering her into his arms.

“Lucy, I wasn’t with them, those women. I wasn’t drinking. I was . . .”

What? He didn’t want to say it.

“I was waiting.” He spoke the words unwillingly. “I was waiting until the clock struck. To drink. To get drunk. To drown out . . . everything.”

She was staring at him, lips parting. Her expression gave him courage. It seemed . . . open. She would listen.

“I don’t know why.” He shook his head, rueful. “Perhaps because I can. It’s funny: it used to be because I couldn’t. And it’s all because of him.”

He meant his father. He meant George.

“That’s what I tell myself. Told myself.”

She’d been standing rigid, back against the door. He could see her posture loosening.

“I want things to be different, not because of the will. Not because I’m obeying or disobeying my father. I want . . .”

The distance between them had closed. He moved aside locks of hair, stroking down to the gauzy edge of her robe.

“I want to find the self I’m proud to be,” he said hoarsely. “It’s not in this bottle.” He dropped it, a dull thud.

He wanted a different intoxication, less lonely. One that would please them both.

The door was thick, the walls paneled. The sounds of the party had faded, but they both heard a crash, a shout, then shrieks of laughter.

“It’s late,” she said. “I should go.” She didn’t reach again for the doorknob. His fingers ran lightly down her sleeve, closing on her wrist. The bones were so delicate. And yet her wrists were strong, her hands capable. More than capable. Gifted.

“Should?” he said. There was no more should. Not tonight.

“What do you want?” He breathed the question.

Her eyes betrayed her. They slanted down to his lips. He pulled her into his body and kissed her.

Their teeth grated together as her arms twined around his neck. Sensation sliced through him. He was already in ribbons, flayed by desire. She had done this to him, exposed him, forced him to bear witness to his own body, his own soul. He dipped down to kiss the hollow at the base of her throat, bending her backward, arm tightened around her waist. With one arm, he lifted her, hip nudging between her thighs. She straddled him, gauze bunching, air hissing out of her. One step, two steps, three. He tossed her onto the bed, stood over her, staring.

She lay on her back, wild-eyed, hair straggling down from her bun in Medusa locks, silver gown hitched up around her bare calves, sweetly rounded. Her breasts, divided by the pale blue yoke of the robe’s bodice, rose and fell with her rapid breaths, full, the peaked nipples visible through the thin layers of fabric. She lifted herself onto her elbow as he turned down the gaslight.

“Don’t turn off the lights,” she said with urgency.

His mouth crooked. She was mad to fear that he’d proceed in darkness. He’d dreamed of the blush that stained her breasts with seashell pink, dreamed of the freckles on her inner thighs. Fire was his accomplice.

He was already lighting candles. His hands were steady, movements precise. If he were drunk, he’d sacrifice this delicacy, which served for much more than striking matches. He held a candle aloft, studying the play of light and shadow across her face, wide across the freckled cheekbones. Her eyes shone. Their color was alchemical gold, mysterious, unstable. Shadows pooled at the corners of her mouth, beneath the plush of her bottom lip. Her beauty was a bewitchment. He set the candle back on the table, put a knee on the bed, and kissed her again, pushing the robe down from both shoulders, kissing the upper slopes of her breasts. He slid his hand into her chemise and forced her left breast up roughly, catching the nipple between his teeth. He sucked and she moaned, her hands pressing the back of his skull. Her nails dug into his scalp, tiny crescents of pain.

He lifted his head, rolling her nipple between his thumb and first finger.

“What do you want?” he asked with new purpose, meeting her eyes. They were wide-open. She wanted to see, yes, and she would see, but sight was no disembodied gift. Eyes were flesh. Matter. He planned to make her very eyes swell with desire. A blur over everything.

But not yet.

She pushed his chest hard and he stood back as she sat up. He couldn’t help but stare at the breast that thrust above the crumpled chemise, the rosy nipple taunting him. So impudent. He would teach that nipple a lesson. He would torment that nipple.

“Strip,” she said huskily. “I want to see . . . you.”