Page List


Font:  

She couldn’t entirely read his mood. She was familiar with how he looked when intent on sex. As the object of his desire for more than a year, she ought to.

That wasn’t how he looked tonight.

He supported one arm high against the doorframe, a picture of male power and beauty in his loose white shirt and tight dark breeches.

She’d always recognized the Duke of Kylemore as an unusually handsome man, but for many reasons, she’d never allowed herself to dwell on his attractions. Tonight, his physical splendor struck her with the force of a blow. She worried at her bottom lip before she realized it was a fatal admission of nervousness.

He straightened his lean body and sauntered toward her, kicking the door closed behind him. She flinched as it crashed shut.

“Don’t bother asking for mercy. You’ve had a week to prepare for this.”

She’d had a week to recall her loss of control the last time he’d kissed her. Which was just what the monster had intended. Whatever happened tonight, she swore she wouldn’t surrender to him as she had that stormy afternoon in Yorkshire.

He loomed above her at the side of the bed. The strongly marked black eyebrows lowered over his dark blue eyes.

“Where the hell did you get this?” He extended one long-fingered hand and flicked contemptuously at the neckline of her plain white nightdress. “I’m sure I never ordered such a rag from Madame Yvette.”

“One of the maids lent it to me,” she said sullenly.

She’d been surprised to find ready for her an armoire full of clothes from Soraya’s favorite modiste. Yet again she’d reflected on the planning the duke had put into bringing her here. She hadn’t stood a chance.

Included in the luxurious wardrobe were nightdresses so filmy as hardly to justify the name of clothing. She’d needed a flurry of sign language to convince the maids she much preferred to borrow something less revealing. She’d needed a good five minutes to divert the girls’ horrified attention from the diaphanous garments in the first place.

“Take it off,” he said, still frowning. “This game has gone on long enough. I’m your lover, madam. You’ve never evinced distaste for me before.”

He was right. And he was utterly wrong.

Kylemore might think he had her where he wanted her. Kylemore did have her where he wanted her, but she wasn’t going to deliver herself gift-wrapped for his delectation.

No, he’d find little enjoyment in her bed tonight. Or not if she could help it.

She looked away to where the fire blazed in the grate. “Things have changed. I’ve changed,” she whispered.

She heard the rustle of linen and turned her head to see him tugging off his shirt. The smooth skin of arms and shoulders gleamed golden as he dropped the garment carelessly to the floor.

“No one changes that much,” he said with such confidence that she curled her fingers into her palms to stop herself from attacking him.

Her one goal had been the chance to abandon her detestable career, yet here she was about to lie beneath a man in another loveless coupling.

She had a terrifying glimpse of a future where she’d never be free and she must play Soraya forever. Abruptly, unable to bear another moment of this torment, she flung the sheet aside and lay back.

“Go on,” she said stiffly, closing her eyes. She wouldn’t add to his triumph by begging for mercy. “Take me.”

Damn him, she should have known she couldn’t rattle him with such theatrics. His response was a softly derisive laugh.

“Oh, no, madam. That’s too easy.”

She clenched her fists at her sides and told herself she’d endure this, as she’d always endured before.

But the words had lost their power. She listened to the slide of fabric on skin as he shucked the rest of his clothing.

She didn’t look at him. She didn’t need to. She already knew what he looked like naked.

/> Tall. Slender, with the long, powerful muscles of a born swordsman. A light scattering of black hair on his chest. And the heavy, erect penis he’d soon thrust inside her.

For such a lean man, the duke was remarkably well endowed—yet another indication of how laughably inaccurate his cold nickname was. Kylemore’s body spoke of driven, even uncontrollable, passions. Although he’d never before lost control with her.

Until tonight.


Tags: Anna Campbell Historical