Chapter 6

Three hundred and nineteen, three hundred and twenty, three hundred and twenty-one …

Between her legs pulsed and burned with shocking need. All elicited from the duke's closeness and the sounds the lovers made. Elizabeth knew she should move away from the duke, for it was terribly improper to be pressed so against his body. An intuitive feeling nagged at Elizabeth, warning her that any encounter with the Duke of Basil could carry ruinous consequences, perhaps even posing a risk to her virtue.

Common sense urged her to retreat, to return to the safety and familiarity of the ballroom, yet her feet refused to comply. Inside, the ball was a tableau of shattered hopes and stifled expectations; outside, in the presence of the duke, she found a surprising sense of freedom. More importantly, standing here was her choice.

"Miss Armstrong."

"Yes?"

When he did not reply, she glanced up. The clouds scuttled across the sky, and the smallest sliver of light from the crescent moon highlighted his face. The piercing silver of his eyes were like embers in the darkness and the duke regarded her with leisurely intensity, a faintly insolent smile on his lips. Yet she did not move, held by the pulsing ache between her thighs. Now entirely caused by him. Unexpectedly, Elizabeth felt breathless and uncertain. She had not imagined encountering a tryst when she escaped the ballroom and her aunt's machinations.

"Would you like a drink?"

"A drink?"

"Hmm, earlier, I pilfered a decanter from the library."

"Yes," she gasped almost desperately, hating that she felt so rattled. Especially as she wanted to turn around and watch the couple so badly.

More than five minutes had passed since the couple behind her started their coupling. Their groans and cries grew more muted, and that heat low in Elizabeth's belly bloomed and spread.

Four hundred and sixteen, four hundred and seventeen, four hundred and eighteen.

The duke gripped her shoulders and gently eased her from his body. He stepped away, and her eyes strained to make him out in the darkness of the alcove as the small moonglow vanished behind clouds. The duke pressed a decanter into her hands. Elizabeth did not ask about the contents, tipping it to her mouth and taking a healthy swallow. Fire exploded in her mouth, and the burning warmth traveled to her belly, warming her entire body.

"What is it?" she asked, keeping her voice low. Though she very well doubted even a sudden deluge of rain would part the tupping couple.

"Whisky."

"Quite odd, it tastes … woodsy." Elizabeth tipped it to her mouth and took a few more swallows.

"Hmm." He took the decanter, and she presumed he tilted it to his mouth.

"We should stop meeting in shadows," she whispered.

"When there are no expectations and pretentiousness, that is where the most extraordinary encounters happen."

Her eyes widened at that enigmatic reply. "I—" her words strangled in her throat as the lady moaned loudly.

Something hot and uncomfortable once again shivered low in Elizabeth's belly. A most provoking reaction whenever the lady moaned or whimpered her delight.

The lady did it again, and the gentleman snapped, "Darling, you will bring people down on our heads!"

The lady giggled and murmured something. Soon after, both parties gasped, and a muffled scream followed.

Elizabeth's entire body felt overheated. "Are … are they finished?" she asked when no more moaning came.

"Yes."

"Five hundred and two seconds." She cleared her throat. "They took a bit over eight minutes."

The duke's low chuckle rasped over her senses.

"You counted."

Elizabeth sniffed. "I have an affinity with numbers and did so without much thought."

There were a few rustles behind her, and then footsteps hastened away. While Elizabeth should have felt relieved the couple left, her senses remained peculiarly heightened, and her awareness that she was alone in the dark gardens with the duke swirled through her.

"Frightened?" His voice broke through the stillness, his tone lightly teasing yet undeniably provocative. "Do you want to leave?"

The question hung in the air, charged and waiting. Elizabeth felt the immediate instinct to say yes, to escape the scandalous intensity of the moment and the inherent risk. Yet the word that emerged was a surprise even to herself. "No. I am not afraid."

Fear did not define her feelings—instead, there was an exhilarating rush, a curious thrill in the shared secrecy of the night.

"Why were you crying?"

Elizabeth froze, the inquiry striking closer to her vulnerabilities than she was prepared to admit.

"I …" she began, her voice faltering as she searched for an explanation that would satisfy without revealing too much. Her emotions were a knotted web, not easily untangled for anyone's inspection, let alone for the duke's.

He did not pressure her to speak, and he relinquished the decanter when Elizabeth reached for it and took a few more healthy swallows. Warmth poured through her body, and she felt almost as if she floated when she stepped away from him. The silence stretched between them, filled only by the soft, nocturnal chorus of the garden. There was a part of her that wanted to share her thoughts and anxiety, and it felt absurd. She did not know this man. Elizabeth swallowed tightly, yet there was no one else she could confide in. Her brother would not understand, and certainly not her mother, who knew what her aunt had done.

"I would not betray your confidence by repeating whatever you say, Miss Armstrong"

Surprised, Elizabeth peered up at him. "After our dance," she said, "Lord Jenson asked me to the floor."

"That is a good thing."

Elizabeth lifted the whisky to her mouth once more, enjoying the heat expanding through her body. "At first, I was thrilled. My second dance partner of the season and a gentleman my aunt declared very suitable. As we danced, the earl delicately queried if I was an heiress. I was so alarmed I stumbled."

"Lord Jenson has several thousand owed in gambling debts, a mistress in Cornwall who has two illegitimate daughters," the duke said, his tone chilling. "Why would your aunt believe him suitable."

Elizabeth laughed, the sound without mirth. A terrible ache pushed from her chest to her throat. "I daresay my aunt has no notions of these things. She spoke about his good nature and the prestige of Lord Jenson's title. My aunt knew I wanted the matter of my inheritance to be private. I expressed more than once that if the ton were to know that I am an heiress with greater wealth than many of their debutantes, men who were previously indifferent would now flatter me with their attention, false words, and gifts. I do not wish for such a marriage."

Those wretched tears once more pooled and spilled over. Annoyed, Elizabeth swiped them away. "It seems that she took great care to drop tidbits here and there. When I confronted my aunt, she was apologetic and said if she knew you would ask me to dance, she would not have employed her tactic. I feel so angry and betrayed. I cannot accept any gentleman now who would pay their address to me. How could I ever trust they are interested to know who I am?"

There was a thoughtful silence. "There are many such marriages in the ton. People align with each other to strengthen their wealth and connections. These people are not unhappy. You could consider that marrying for other reasons is not as terrible as you would allow. If others find contentment in such an arrangement, you could, too."

"Perhaps," she said softly, feeling for the decanter, taking it and tipping the whisky to her mouth. "Would you marry someone who only wants you because of your wealth and title?"

His low law was decidedly mocking. "No."

After several swallows, she handed it back to the duke. "Then you understand, Your Grace. I know what I want, and I cannot imagine compromising my wants. My aunt says I eventually will, but why should I?"

Elizabeth whirled to face him, gasping and then laughing when she stumbled against the duke. Oh drat. Everything felt light and wonderful. Her heart beat a frantic tattoo against her breastbone. The duke held her by her hips, and her flesh burned beneath her ball gown.

"How is it that whenever I am close to you my heart races with this intensity?" she softly asked.

"You are foxed." His fingers imperceptibly tightened on her hips.

Affronted, Elizabeth sniffed. "I feel languorous and completely in charge of all my senses, Your Grace. I daresay it is my good fortune that I encountered you here."

"Is that so?" he murmured enigmatically.

There was something in his tone that kissed over her skin like a sharpened blade. Oh, Bette, he is a rake, she silently warned herself. The duke is dangerous.

Refusing to heed the part of her that urged her to flee, she glided her hands up his shoulders, teasingly stroking her fingers through the hair curling on his nape. "I know what I want … and I daresay mean to take it."

"I gather we are no longer talking about your aunt and marriages."

"No, Your Grace."

"What is it that you want?"

There it was again, that dark flash of need in his eyes. Unable to understand the devil that drove her, but knowing something inside of her had been unlocked, Elizabeth curled her hands insistently around his neck, tugging him down to her uplifted face.

"A kiss, Your Grace. Only this morning, I thought I would finally indulge in kisses with the man who woos me. That will no longer happen."

A rigid, breathless silence filled the space between them. The duke shifted, and he brushed his lips against the corner of her mouth.

Oh, sweet heaven above. That soft touch roused her senses, sending a hot ache of pleasure down to her breasts, belly, and legs. How could a simple touch … one that barely coasted over her skin … be so persuasive? So tempting to reach for more, perhaps touch his skin to feel its texture.

She was tempted to deliberately brush her body against his once more. Instead of suppressing the desire, Elizabeth stepped closer to his body, feeling the impression of him through her ball gown. She could feel every hard inch of him, including the hardness against her thighs. A rather intriguing hardness, for she suspected it meant he desired her. She acted, curving her body against his.

"Little minx," he mocked, the silver in his eyes a brilliant hue in the shadows. "You play with fire."

"I am feeling rather curious, and I daresay you are the perfect man to assuage it."

His low chuckle was too sensual. "Am I?"

"Hmm." She brushed her nose at his throat, inhaling his scent. "What is this hardness I feel against my belly? Why does it feel so…large?"

A sound hissed from him, and his chest lifted on a deep inhalation. "If you were not so innocent, I would perhaps tell you."

She laughed, feeling oddly delighted. "I am not as innocent as you presume, Your Grace."

"Oh?"

"Hmm, a friend of mine told me about how wickedly delightful amorous congress is. Oh, I forgot … you call it tupping."

"And this friend forgot the salient details of telling you about the parts used in amorous congress, hmm?"

"She did say ‘husband's rod.' I am presuming this hardness … is your rod."

Another sound came from him, one that suspiciously sounded like a low choke. "Mine is my cock."

In the secret recesses of her heart, where a bit of wanton lurked, something uncoiled, and she murmured, "I want to touch it."

Elizabeth heard his swallow, and the fingers on her hips pressed harder into her flesh. She slipped a hand down between the tight press of their bodies, feeling the shockingly thick ridge of flesh.

The piercing tension in her stomach tightened. "Why is it so hard and so thick? Is this common?"

A soft shudder went through his body, and awe whispered through her. The duke's rod … ah no, his cock, throbbed beneath her palm, she squeezed in reaction, and he groaned. How could a sound pebble bump on the skin and pierce deep inside of her sex with a sensation never felt in all her years?

Alarmed by the feeling, she released him and stepped back. Elizabeth felt the desperate ache to rub her legs together to assuage the peculiar need blooming inside. She shifted, squeezing her thighs tightly together.

"That will not help," he drawled, brushing his mouth against the spot behind her ear.

"What?" she whispered, dazedly wondering why they were still keeping their voices low.

"Rubbing your legs together to stop the ache in your pussy. Only a few hours of hot fucking will relieve it."

Her sex grew wet. Elizabeth trembled. "My pussy? Do you mean my flower?"

One of the hands on her hips trailed around to her belly and down to her sex and cupped her through her gown. An awful weakness assailed when a long finger dragged over her flesh, striking a heated pleasure to her center. Her hips arched, and a moan trapped itself in her throat. "Your Grace," she gasped.

His breath seemed uneven for a moment. "James … call me, James, Elizabeth."

"James," she whispered.

"This is your pussy … your cunt … your sex and my cock is this hard because I want to split your legs wide open and sink deep inside you."

Those words drifted over her skin like a flame, unsettling her composure entirely. A world of sensual delight awaited her; Elizabeth only needed to be brave enough to step off the cliff. Something evocative lingered just beyond her reach; she could feel it. His mouth found hers unerringly in the dark, and a hot ache coursed through her when he licked the closed seam of her mouth and whispered at the corner, "Do you understand?"

"No."

"What do you not understand?"

Elizabeth tentatively squeezed his bulge. "I … my fingers cannot … cannot fully close around it …"

"If I should ever give in to the madness and fuck you, I promise, I'll make you so damn wet it fit," he murmured with sensual roughness.

Elizabeth moaned softly, closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of him. She was perversely delighted with his crudeness. A hot sensation writhed low in her belly, and she was alarmed by the wetness pooling where he touched. Something in the air felt far too perilous. She wrenched from his embrace, pressing the flat of her palm over her pounding heart. The duke did not allow her to go far, curving his hand around her waist and dragging her against his body.

"Ah," he murmured with cool mockery, yet the hand that caressed over her back was soothing. "Too much?"

A striking silence fell in the space between them, and she had no notion of what to say. Elizabeth peered up at him, her heart squeezing when a coolness descended on his face, obliterating the desire that had been there earlier. Oddly, she felt relieved that whatever madness had been brewing was stopped, but she also wanted back that spark of passion. She looked away, not understanding the duality of needs that writhed inside of her.

James stepped away. "It was indeed ungentlemanly of me, Elizabeth, to speak to you so," he said, bowing in that elegant way only men of the ton perfected to an art. "It will not happen again."

An ache rose in her throat, and she stared at the dark shape of his silhouette, feeling helpless and unmoored. "James?"

"Yes."

She felt herself slipping, sliding into something unexpected. "I want it to happen again."

"No."

If she possessed any wisp of rationality, she would turn around and leave, forgetting she had ever acted so improperly.

"I am three and twenty," Elizabeth said softly. "I am not a young debutante who should be afraid to be alone outside with a man or should be afraid to admit I have never been kissed and that I so badly want to feel your mouth against mine."

The duke inhaled sharply, and before she allowed her good senses to reassert themselves, Elizabeth stepped back into his arms and pressed her mouth against his.