When a Duchess Says I Do - Grace Burrowes Page 0,60
have to leave Brightwell and its owner.
An itinerant peddler had warned her that fugitives must always cut a fresh trail. Never double back, never return to a particular town or inn. Matilda removed her own spectacles and laid them beside Duncan’s, then draped her shawl—one today—around his shoulders and settled herself in his lap.
“You must promise me something, Duncan.”
His arms came around her slowly, securely. “There’s little I could refuse you.”
“You will publish these treatises. They are not the casual scribblings of a privileged younger son with no purpose in life. They are keen and respectful observations from a student of humanity. You look upon the world with a tolerant eye and a need to understand rather than judge.”
His kindness, lurking beneath an enormous reserve and even greater intellect, had saved Matilda’s life. Soon it would break her heart.
“You do me too much honor. I’d like to kiss you.”
He would not so much as buss her cheek, not unless he was certain his kisses were welcome. Matilda loved that about him, loved the unbreakable self-restraint he wore like shining armor. He would no sooner raise his voice to a footman than he would castigate Stephen for the racket resulting from construction of a lift.
And yet, for a snared rabbit, Duncan Wentworth, unarmed, had taken on a felon wielding a knife.
Matilda closed her eyes. “I would adore for you to kiss me.”
Duncan sailed past preliminary moves, cradled the back of Matilda’s head in his palm, and settled his mouth over hers.
So warm. She sank her hands into his hair—how she loved to fuss and muss him—and kissed him back. A genteel brawl ensued, with tongues twining, bodies pressing close, and the occasional frustrated mutter when clothing became disobliging.
“I want you to teach me to curse,” Matilda panted, her forehead pressed to Duncan’s shoulder. “I want you to teach me the words nobody teaches a lady in English.”
She ended up straddling Duncan’s lap, his arousal pressing between her legs. Too many layers of skirts, breeches, shawls, and petticoats came between them, and yet, she could feel his desire.
He drew the shawl up around her shoulders. “The usual expletives include damn, damnation, and hell, with the predictable variations. Bloody is considered inexcusably vulgar, and Stephen occasionally uses shite and bollocks to good advantage. If I can’t get my hands under your bloody, bedamned, infernal skirts in the next ten seconds I will lose my damned mind and my bollocks will explode.”
“Oh, that is lovely, Duncan.”
“Also the perishing truth. Lean up.”
Matilda hoisted herself a few inches by bracing herself on his shoulder, and he sorted out her skirts.
“I am courting you, you will recall,” Duncan said. “If this variety of courting is not to your liking, you will please alert me to that fact.”
“I like this variety of courting so much I want to unfasten your falls.”
She’d made love in a moving coach (a hilarious undertaking), on a pile of straw (itchy), and once on a blanket beneath a venerable oak that had scattered acorns in all the wrong locations. Here, surrounded by years of Duncan’s journals, the fire crackling, the house otherwise quiet, the setting finally seemed right even if the timing was all wrong.
“The sofa,” Duncan said. “Let us at least afford ourselves the comfort of the sofa. Hold on to me.”
As long as I can. Matilda wrapped her arms about his shoulders as Duncan rose with her and crossed the room, her legs scissored around his middle.
He carried her as if hauling full-grown females about was no effort, and when he settled with her on the sofa, Matilda held on for a moment longer. Leaving him would kill her, though she’d do it. Treason tainted all who came within its ambit, and Matilda brought treason with her everywhere.
“Your falls,” she said, easing her grip. “Let me undo…”
He made no protest as she undid the buttons that held one side of his breeches closed. When she got her hands on him, his head fell back against the sofa, gaze hooded.
Duncan was not the classic English lord, with blond hair, blue eyes, and a gracious, flirtatious manner. He was serious, intelligent to a fault, and no longer young. Guilt stirred beneath the desire waking up every part of Matilda’s body. He deserved a woman who’d stay by his side, love him for his many strengths, and never betray his trust.
She could not be that woman, and she could not deny herself the intimacy he offered her now. He’d forgive her for abandoning him—he