Confessions of a Duchess. Nicola Cornick
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that made the lust slam through him, tightening its grip on him even as he cautioned himself against it.
“Stop! No!” Laura seemed to wake from a trance. She thrust the pile of clothes down on the table and glared at him. “What are you doing?”
“I am removing my wet clothes,” Dexter said. He allowed his gaze to drift over her appraisingly. “You should do the same, your grace. You look—” his voice dropped “—most disheveled.”
He saw Laura swallow hard. Her hazel eyes darkened further and the unconscious desire in them sent another jolt of lust through him. The warmth of the room, the intimacy of the small space, the heady scent of lavender and his seminakedness were a powerful blend. Dexter took a step toward her.
He had not intended this when first they had met. He had certainly not meant to provoke Laura or tease her or make love to her. Such a course of action was completely irrational. But she was standing there with her hair tumbled about her shoulders and the damned gown still clinging to every curve and he wanted her with all the raw longing he had known four years before. And he wanted to prove that he could master that longing and take one kiss and that it would mean absolutely nothing.
He took another step toward Laura. She took a step back so that she was trapped between his body and the warming room door. She was clutching one of the shirts to her breast now like armor.
“Mr. Anstruther,” Laura said, her voice a thread of sound, “this is most improper.”
“You were swift enough to help me out of my clothes the last time we met,” Dexter said, “and we both know that your concessions to propriety are only for outward show.”
He took the shirt from her hands and tossed it carelessly aside, closing the space between them.
He saw the expression flare in Laura’s eyes, pain as well as heat. “I did not invite you here to—”
“To take up where we left off?”
Dexter was so close to her now that he could see the rapid rise and fall of her breasts beneath the damp muslin of her gown and the pulse that beat in the hollow of her throat. He wanted to rip the dress from neck to hem and expose her pale body to his sight and touch. The violence of his reaction shocked him, a man who prided himself on his self-control, even as the shock was swept away by the desire that ran through his blood in a ravening tide.
“Perhaps you did not intend this.” His words were a breath against her lips. “But now that I understand what it is that you want…”
Confusion flickered in the hazel eyes so close to his. “What I want?”
“Yes. An affair. No complications, no involvement. Four years ago you told me that sex was nothing more than sport to you. So that is what I am offering now—a love affair, nothing but pleasure.”
She put a hand against his chest and pushed him away from her. “I never said an affair was what I wanted!”
Anger and lust warred in Dexter. The feeling was utterly alien to him. He did not want to talk. His need for her had pushed him beyond that but still the bitterness in him could not be denied. His voice was harsh. “Four years ago I asked you to elope with me and instead you laughed at me and threw me from the house. It was clear that you did not wish for any emotional entanglement.”
“No, I did not…” Her voice caught. “But I did not intend you to interpret that as a desire for an affair.”
“No?” His anger increased by several notches. It seemed as uncontrollable as his need for her and his lack of restraint only served to inflame him further.
“So all you sought was one night of passion,” he said bitterly. “I realize that when your appetite was slaked you wanted nothing other than for me to leave.”
He did not give her the opportunity to reply. His delusion of self-restraint vanished and he bent his head and kissed her, determined now to prove that there was nothing unique or exceptional in his response to her and there never had been.
As soon as they touched he knew he had lost.
His mouth slanted over hers with the same precise perfection that he remembered. They matched as though they were made for one another. Their bodies came together gently, flawlessly, with the same exquisite sense of rightness as before.
The thought knocked the breath from Dexter’s body as powerfully as any physical reaction. There was no uncertainty between them. Their bodies recognized each other with an instinct older than time. The sense of belonging together was strong and dangerously seductive. Old feelings and emotions started to awaken.
“This is how it was always meant to be…”
Dexter knew that such thoughts and emotions were an illusion. They had to be. He might achieve physical bliss with Laura Cole but there was no more to it than that. There was no real sense of rightness, no belonging, no love. Love was a misnomer for infatuation anyway, and he was too old and experienced to feel that now. But in trying to banish the need he felt for her all he had managed to achieve was to awaken every last yearning, every last desire. He ached with the need for satisfaction. He wanted Laura so much it actually hurt. He closed his mind to complicated emotion and allowed himself simply to feel.
He deepened the kiss, coaxing her lips apart, his tongue sliding inside to search and caress and seduce. She tasted sweet as honey. He sensed a hesitation in her beneath the hot, helpless response that she could not deny, and he almost drew back, but a moment later her uncertainty had gone and she pressed closer against him, meeting his demands with a heated need of her own. Her hands slid across his bare chest, raising sensations in him that roused a firestorm of physical desire. This was the secret duchess that he remembered, the woman who responded to him without fear or modesty, who gave all of herself, in contradiction of her cool public persona, and aroused an answering ache of need in him. He had wondered if he had imagined their response to one another or if, in his innocence, he had made it more powerful and extraordinary than it really was. Yet now there was the same cascade of sensation and emotion, an explosion of feeling, sparks of fire in his blood. He was not a fanciful man but the force of it almost swept him away.
But as he reached for her to draw her closer still, she drew back with a gasp.
“No! I cannot do this.” She took a step back and raised one hand to her forehead. A frown dented the smooth skin between her brows as though she had a sudden headache. “I do not want this.”
Some of the white-hot fever eased within him and this time when Dexter made a determined effort to regain rational control, he succeeded. He too took a step back, his hands falling to his sides. So it seemed that what had felt so real, so right to him had been no more than an illusion. Once again it had meant nothing to her.
“Forgive me,” he said with biting sarcasm, “but I was under the impression that you kissed me back, your grace. Were you merely curious to see if all that whorehouse experience had changed me?”
She flinched. The color flooded her cheeks. Her lips were deep pink and slightly swollen from his kisses and she pressed a hand to them. “I have my reputation to consider,” she said steadily. “Fortune’s Folly is a small place and I cannot afford to lose my good name—”
Dexter laughed. “You were not so careful of it last time and I would swear you still want me.”
She bit her lip hard. “That is beside the point. There is more at stake now.”
“You are no more than a hypocrite,” Dexter said brutally. “You always were concerned for nothing but outward show.” The anger licked through his blood. He was in danger of making the same mistakes all over again and being carried away by his lust. His self-restraint where Laura Cole was concerned seemed as wafer-thin as before. He wondered bitterly why it took him so long to learn. Sanity was clearing his mind now and with it came a mixture of fury and perplexity that he had even thought of pursuing her again. He was in Fortune’s Folly for work and also to swallow his pride and find a rich, conformable