When a Duchess Says I Do - Grace Burrowes Page 0,68

Twelve

After Rachel’s death, Duncan had wandered for four years in the Yorkshire countryside, eking out an existence teaching the children of farmers and squires. Guilt and anger had obscured any longing for intimacies with a female, and common sense had saved him from casual entanglements while at university.

He wasn’t a virgin. Not by any means. As he’d recovered from his debacle with the church, the occasional willing widow had enlivened his young manhood considerably. Too many of those ladies had been inspecting him as a potential spouse, though, and he hadn’t any interest in reprising that role.

Then he’d become responsible for Stephen’s education, and opportunities for intimate congress with unattached women had become fewer just as his curiosity about the ladies had stirred back to life.

Women had a perspective that most man lacked. Women had courage most men overlooked. Women defeated most applications of simple logic, and they were surely interesting to look upon.

Women were not, in other words, boring.

Matilda was fascinating, all silky smooth skin, interesting angles and intriguing shadows. She was still slender—also warm and bold.

“From this day forward, I will have pleasant associations with damask roses,” he said, nuzzling her ear. “The fragrance isn’t the same on other women. On you, I can detect exotic spices. Perhaps that’s the scent of mischief.”

Her hand on his back stilled. “I smell of soap, you daft man. Kiss me.”

Duncan obliged, starting with a joining of his mouth to hers. He was daft, for the big, soft bed allowed him the luxury of draping himself over Matilda, chest to breast, belly to belly, sex to sex. The intimacy was at once intoxicating and soothing.

“That tickles,” Matilda whispered as Duncan nuzzled and tasted his way along her shoulder.

“Good.” He pushed his arousal against her heat. “Retaliate however you please. I’m willing to sacrifice my stoutest pieces in the interests of capturing a queen.”

“Not chess,” she panted, running a toe up his calf. “I can’t think if you speak to me in chess metaphors.”

This was lovely. To feel Matilda unraveling beneath him, to come undone himself, one sigh, one caress, one wicked, teasing undulation of Matilda’s hips at a time.

Duncan eased lower, taking a rosy, puckered nipple into his mouth. “You even taste of flowers.”

She locked her legs around him. “That’s the flavor of frustration, Duncan Wentworth. I want you—do that again.”

He used a free hand to cup her other breast, applying pressure with his hand and mouth in unison.

Next time, no bed. If he were bracing Matilda against a wall, trying to balance on the narrow bench of a sofa, making love with her standing up, her back to his front—oh, the possibilities!—then logistics and sore muscles would give his self-restraint a sensory anchor. Devouring Matilda amid clean sheets and soft quilts was bliss, a feast before a warm hearth in the midst of deepest winter.

“Duncan…” She used leg strength to lift herself against him. “I adore your patience, but if you’re waiting for me to send an engraved invitation—that is delightful.”

He’d started the joining, shallowly, slowly, because this was more than becoming lovers. This was the beginning of a commitment he’d never thought to make again. Then too, if he sought a future with Matilda—and he did—then her pleasure was not only his obligation but also his ally.

Pleasure. Not logic, not keen observations, not pretty sketches.

He set up a languid rhythm, distracting himself by easing pins from Matilda’s hair between kisses and caresses.

“What are you doing, Duncan?”

Advancing my knights. “Making love with my intended.”

She buried her face against his shoulder.

He didn’t know whether his admission pleased her, but she was certainly pleasing him. Matilda was a robust lover, meeting him thrust for thrust, and accelerating the tempo—or trying to. They wrestled for control, though in this arena Duncan had no intention of ceding the match.

“Duncan, why must you be so—oh, damn and blast you, you dratted, wonderful man.”

She’d learned to swear. He tucked that victory aside and rode out her pleasure as she bucked and thrashed beneath him. She made not a sound, but her body spoke volumes. Matilda of the measured strategies and hoarded secrets surrendered in his arms, to intimacy and to satisfaction.

Mindful that she had not surrendered to him, Duncan let her have a few minutes of panting stillness before he withdrew.

“Hold me, Matilda. Please.”

Her embrace was fierce as Duncan finished against her belly. The gratification was more in having exercised restraint than in sexual fulfillment, and the voice of conscience reminded Duncan that even withdrawing was not