Temptation In Regency Society: Unmasking the Duke's Mistress. Margaret McPhee
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Her touch was gentle, her movements reassuring. She worked methodically and with a calmness that seemed to stroke away his tension despite the pain. With strip by patient strip of brandy-soaked linen she cleansed the blood away until all that remained was a thin red line against the paleness of his skin.
‘We should send for the doctor. He may wish to stitch the wound.’ She had not looked at him, not once, since she had taken control of the situation.
‘No doctor,’ he said. ‘The cut is shallow. A week of binding and the skin will knit together well enough.’
‘Dominic—’
‘No doctor,’ he said again.
‘Very well.’ She laid a pad of linen against the wound, then bound it in place. And then she got to her feet, passed the tray of bloodied rags to James.
‘Thank you, James, Anne. You may leave us now.’
She waited until the door closed behind the servants before she sat back down. Side by side they sat on the sofa. Not looking at one another. Not speaking a word. The tension was still between them. But it was different somehow, as if some barrier that had been there before had given way.
The silence seemed to stretch between them.
He slipped his hand to cover hers.
‘Are you going to tell me what happened tonight?’ she asked.
‘A small disagreement with two gentlemen from a gaming den.’
‘I did not know you frequented such places.’
‘There is a lot you do not know about me, Arabella.’
‘And too much that I do know,’ she said quietly. ‘I cannot forget …’
‘Nor can I.’
The clock’s ticking seemed too loud. It seemed to match the beat of his heart.
‘It was not supposed to be like this, Arabella.’
‘None of it was supposed to be like this,’ she said and he heard the huskiness in her voice.
‘Arabella.’ He looked at her, willing her to look round at him.
She shook her head at first, but he could hear the slight sob in her breath. He stroked his thumb against her fingers where his hand covered hers.
She turned her face to his, then met his gaze, and the emotions he saw there were as raw and aching as those that beat in his own heart.
‘Dominic,’ she whispered and the tears spilled from her eyes. He took her in his arms and he kissed each one away and then he held her.
He held her and the minutes passed.
He held her. And then as if by some silent communion they both rose. He blew out all save one branch of candles, then he took her hand in his and together they walked out of the drawing room.
Within her bedchamber they spoke not one word. Dominic stripped off his pantaloons, while Arabella unfastened the ties of her nightdress and loosened it so that it slid down her body to lie in a white pool around her feet.
The candles flickered upon the nightstand, so that she could see him standing there naked. His body as tall and strong and well muscled as she remembered. A sprinkling of dark hair covered his chest and narrowed to a line that led down to his manhood. His skin glowed a honey gold in the candles’ light, the whiteness of the linen bandage stark against the rest of him.
There was no need for words. She sensed his feelings as keenly as her own. She wanted him. And needed him. Not out of lust. Not even out of desire. The need ran at a much deeper level than that, in a place that touched both her heart and her soul. She did not analyse the feeling. Nor did she think about the past.
Arabella knew only this moment. Dominic was alive. And that, had a blade pressed a little harder this night, he would not be.
She placed her palm upon his chest over his heart and felt its strong steady beat. Beneath her fingers she could feel the roughness of his chest hair and in her nose was the scent of brandy and cigar smoke mingled with Dominic’s cologne.
He threaded a hand through her hair at the scalp, angling her head so that he could look into her eyes.
She did not look away. She did not try to hide anything. They looked at each other with an honesty that belonged only to that moment. His eyes were deep and dark and sensuous and in them was a vulnerability that she had never ever thought to see.
Slowly he lowered his mouth to hers. Their lips touched, the kiss small and gentle. And touched again, before stilling so that their lips rested together, not kissing, but sharing their breath. She slid her hands up from his chest, to dip her fingers into the hollow between his collar bones, before spreading out to slide across the tense hard muscle of his shoulders. Their faces were so close she could feel the brush of his eyelashes every time he blinked.
His free hand followed down the line of her arm to capture her hand in his, hooking both their hands against the small of her back to arch her body all the closer into his. His chest was hard as a rock, the hair that covered it rough against her nipples. Her breasts felt heavy and sensitive, and deep in her belly was a heat that had never expired. She could feel the call of his body and the answer of her own. Just as it ever was, except this time it was different. She could feel the difference. And she knew that he could feel it too.
He bit gently at her lower lip, then salved the nip with his tongue. She tasted him, opened to him, felt his tongue accept the invitation as his lips slid against her own. They kissed. A deep sensual coupling of their mouths. A sharing of such intimacy and tenderness. They kissed and his every breath, every stroke of his tongue, every touch of his lips was a caress of her soul.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, drawing her in so that she was standing straddling his thigh. He kissed her again, then trailed his mouth down over her neck, his breath hot, his tongue tasting her. His hands caressed her breasts, weighing them, stroking skin that was sensitive to his touch, teasing at peaks that were already beaded hard. His hands stilled, his thumbs resting lightly on her nipples, as his gaze slid up to hers. And then, keeping his eyes locked on hers, he shifted one thumb aside and leaned his mouth down to take her nipple into his mouth.
He did not suckle. He did not even move his lips, but his breath was hot and moist against her. He was still watching her when his tongue began to flick against the tender swollen bud. A low soft moan escaped Arabella. She arched her back, driving her breast harder against his mouth. He began to kiss her nipple, to suck it, while his thumb and fingers worked upon the other. When she felt the gentle scrape of his teeth, she clutched that dark head to her, watching his mouth work thoroughly against first one breast and then the other.
His hands found her hips and drew them lower so that she felt the tease of the hairs on his broad muscular thigh against the hot wet centre of her womanhood. Her grip shifted to his shoulders and tightened as he rubbed his thigh gently against her. Arabella moaned again and slid higher up his thigh, until she could feel the probe of his manhood against her hip.
They stilled, his mouth coming back to find hers. And when he rolled her on to the bed their bodies clung together. He lay on his uninjured side, clutching her to him. And she could feel the raggedness of his breathing and the race of his heart as they positioned their legs to minimise the strain on his wound. And when at last she welcomed him into her body it had never felt so right. There was no dominant, no submissive. Nothing of taking, only of sharing. They moved together in a partnership, both rejoicing in their union and striving to the same end.
They loved, for there could be no other word for it. And Arabella was only aware of the moment and the man. Dominic filled her senses. Dominic filled her body.
‘Dominic,’ she