Nobody's Duke (League of Dukes Book 1) Page 9

  “Hush, love, it will pass.” His fingers moved with nimble skill over the line of buttons down the back of her gown, opening them.

  Her bodice gaped as he made more progress, but she did not protest. Could not protest if she wished. Her every focus was upon inhaling and exhaling, getting her galloping heart to calm, and making her mind and body cease conducting war against each other. She clung to him, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in his throat. Her nose pressed into his flesh. He was so very warm and alive. His skin calmed her, the scent so familiar, the thrum of his pulse reassuring.

  Once, she had loved to lay her head over his heart when there had been nothing separating them. She had drawn the shape on his chest with her index finger, a doodled heart that meant he was hers. But he was not hers. He had never been hers at all, had he?

  Tremors shook her as he found the laces of her corset and plucked the knot. She ought to be appalled at the liberty he had taken with her. She ought to push away from him, shake this spell of weakness that had attacked her. She should never have allowed him to take her in his arms in the first place, or to remain in her chamber when it was disastrous for him to be here.

  It did not matter that she was a widow or that he was charged with her protection. No good could come of his presence in her chamber. In her bed. Dear God, they were on her bed. Her heart had slowed now. She was better able to think. To breathe. In, out, slow and deep.

  “That’s the way of it, love. Steady now. Breathe in and out,” he rasped, his hand traveling up and down her spine in a steady, soothing caress. The other hand had found its way into her hair, cupping the base of her skull and gently massaging her scalp with his long, expert fingers.

  How did he know just how to hold her? Just how to calm her? She did not want to move. She never wanted to move. His arms were so warm and strong, his touch so much gentler than she would have imagined.

  “Protect my son, Clay,” she whispered into his throat. It was not a request but a demand. And she did not know why, but her instinct told her if there was anyone who could keep Edward safe, it was Clayton Ludlow. He may have broken her heart, but everything about him—from his immense size and strength to his undeniable intelligence—promised he was the best protector she could ask for.

  “Your son will remain safe, Ara,” he said softly, still stroking her. “You have my word I will do everything in my power to see that nothing happens to either of you.”

  She believed him. Perhaps she was the biggest fool in all London, but she believed this man when he made that promise. If only he had kept another promise. The one from long ago. If only he had never stopped loving her.

  If, indeed, he had ever loved her.

  “Do you hear me?” His fingers tensed on her skull, urging her head back so she had no choice but to look up into his face and meet his gaze. “While I am here, you need not fear anything.”

  Oh, but how wrong he was. Her eyes devoured his face, her traitorous body rejoicing at his nearness, and she knew she had everything to fear in his presence. She had to fear her reaction to him. Had to fear her ability to resist him. Had to fear he would ruin her all over again, just as he had eight years before, and she would let him.

  I should tell him Edward is his son, she thought suddenly. He deserves to know. Edward deserves to know his father.

  She opened her mouth, the confession ready on her tongue. But she could not force herself to do it. Not now. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. “Promise me something,” she said instead.

  He raised a brow, his knowing fingers still working her scalp and skimming her spine with only the barrier of loosened laces and her chemise beneath separating them. “What do you want from me, Ara?”

  Ara. There it was again, her name in his mellifluous voice. She ought to correct him, but something had changed between them, their walls briefly lowering, and she was loath to erect hers just yet. This closeness felt too good. Too right.

  And she needed this promise from him. Needed it more than anything she had ever needed in her life. For even if there was not a threat that had been directly made against Edward, it did not mean he was not in danger. “Promise me if something should happen, and if you are faced with the choice of either protecting my son or protecting me, you will choose my son.”

  He frowned. “I will protect you both equally, however I must.”

  She shook her head. “No. It must be him first. Always him.”

  His lips tightened. “You are a good mother, Ara. Just as I always knew you would be.”

  The praise took her by surprise. “It is a selfish wish, for my son to be protected. I have already lived my life. He has yet to live his. Whatever danger faces us, he is an innocent. I could not bear it if anything happened to him.”

  Tears threatened to return.

  But he would not allow them to fall. He shocked her by cupping her cheeks, his thumbs tracing her cheekbones in broad strokes that sent a surge of warmth between her thighs. “I promise I will protect your son above all else, Ara,” he said solemnly.

  Your son, she wanted to say.

  But she did not. Instead, she closed her eyes and lifted her face, her mouth finding his cheek. She kissed him there, against logic and reason and most assuredly against self-preservation. Against common sense and past knowledge and her conscience and her pride and…

  She kissed him again. Just a gentle press of her lips to his skin. “Thank you,” she murmured.

  Another kiss. Then another until somehow, she had found her way to his jaw. He was so familiar, and suddenly it was as if the time between them had never been. She was one-and-twenty again, in the arms of the man she loved. Her body took control, and she was helpless. Mindless. It was a bittersweet homecoming.

  The rasp of his whiskers thrilled her. His scent invaded her senses. She became aware of everything in that moment. Aware of his hands caressing her face, of his big body burning into hers, of the fact they sat upon her bed, and she was in his lap.

  Aware of the thick, hard jut of his arousal surging beneath her.

  An answering pang of desire blossomed in her core, a shameful gush of wetness bathing her flesh. She wanted him inside her so much she ached with the need. She pulsed and hungered and longed. More kisses. She moved down his throat. She could not stop kissing him, it seemed.

  And then, she was flying. Just for a moment. Just until she landed in a discarded, half-disrobed heap in the center of her bed.

  Clay stood over her, his expression dark, fury making his angular jaw go rigid. “I will protect your son, Duchess.” His tone was biting. “Save your wiles for a man more inclined to fall victim to them.”

  He offered her a mocking bow, and without waiting for her response, he stalked from the chamber, slamming the door at his back. Ara flinched at the sound, such finality resonating within it. She had never been more ashamed of herself in all her life.

  What had she been thinking?

  Why had she kissed him?

  She stared unseeing at the intricate plasterwork on the ceiling above her. It did not matter how much time had passed, damn it all. She was still just as much a fool for Clayton Ludlow as she had been eight years past.

  If only she could shake him.

  Chapter Nine

  Stripped to the waist and covered in sweat, his body aching from the blows he had received, Clay stood in the center of the Burghly House ballroom, facing his next sparring partner. Beauchamps was the fourth man he had faced and defeated this afternoon. Here now was Farleigh, who at least matched Clay in height and brawn, if not in agility. He doubted the fellow would produce much of a challenge, but if it meant more of the distraction he craved, he was willing to give it a bloody try.

  He and Farleigh squared off, facing each other, fists raised.

  “Are you not growing weary, sir?” Farleigh asked, grinning.

  “I never tire,” he lied, feinting to his left, fists at the ready. Brilliant attempt at diversion, but his senses were honed upon one thing.
“I need to make certain my men are always at the ready.”

  He often sparred for the rush it gave him and for the manner in which it kept his instincts honed. Today’s spate of bouts had less to do with training his men than his own need for a productive manner to occupy his day. Something to keep him from hunting down the Duchess of Burghly and taking what she had been offering that morning.

  Damn it, he could still feel the soft warmth of her lips on his skin as if she had branded him.

  Farleigh landed a blow to his shoulder. Clay grunted, doubled back, and attacked, knocking him in the jaw. Just a glancing blow. Not enough to do harm. Sparring with his men was of no use to him if any of them were actually injured. It was more for the sport, for the excuse to unleash their bloodlust, to keep them sharp and hungry.

  Farleigh gritted his teeth. “Is that all you have to give me, sir?”

  No, it damn well was not. He had rage in him that was clawing and fighting to be unleashed. Years’ worth of anger for the same woman who had just all but seduced him in her chamber. In the bed she had shared with her husband.

  The thought of the Duke of Burghly bedding Ara, claiming her, losing himself inside her body, made Clay want to smash his fists into something. Anything. Anyone. He watched his opponent, looking for a sign of weakness. With a lunge, he took Farleigh by surprise and jabbed him in the midsection.

  The breath left Farleigh in a rush, but he did not give in to defeat, instead catching his breath and regaining his stance before striking back. His fist would have smashed into Clay’s eye socket had he not been faster. With a lightning-swift blow, he deflected Farleigh’s wrist.

  “Is that all you have?” he returned mockingly.

  “What in heaven’s name is going on in here?” demanded a husky voice dipped in ice.

  A voice he knew too well. The one that haunted his thoughts, waking and sleeping. He glanced over his shoulder to find Ara standing at the threshold of the ballroom like an angry goddess. Her hair was a fiery riot in contrast to her prim black mourning weeds, her face pale, brow furrowed. How was she so damn alluring, even in her disapproval, even dressed as if she were an advertisement for the love she had shared with her dead husband?

  The thought made his lip curl. In the next breath, Farleigh took advantage of his distraction, his fist crashing into Clay’s jaw with a surprising amount of force.

  Pain exploded, radiating from his jaw to his molars. Black specks dotted his vision. Had he been a smaller man, Farleigh would have easily laid him low with such a punch. But it was good. He needed the reminder. Perhaps now his mind and his bloody foolish body would forever equate the sight of her with a blow so hard it rattled his teeth. Maybe he could train himself to be impervious to her.

  “Sorry, sir, was that a bit too hard?” Farleigh’s voice reached him through the haze clouding his mind in the wake of the initial shock of the blow. “I have never been able to land a blow to your face before. You are far too skilled, and I did not realize you were distracted by the lady.”

  Rubbing his jaw, he muttered the vilest, filthiest curse he knew, but it did no good, and his jaw still throbbed with an unmerciful intensity. “Her Grace,” he corrected Farleigh. After all, she had all but destroyed Clay so she could bear her title. May as well allow her to wallow in it now. She had wasted no time in throwing it before him like a gauntlet. “And no harm done, Farleigh. I think.”

  Wryly, he tested his teeth to make certain none had been knocked loose as she approached in a swirl of indignant midnight silk. She stood before him, eyes flashing. An errant tendril of hair had escaped her elegant coils and braids, brushing over her cheek.

  Blue-violet eyes scorched him. “What is the meaning of this outrage, Mr. Ludlow?”

  Odd choice of word in his opinion. An outrage was the woman he loved betraying him. An outrage was what had happened to his face. An outrage was the fact that he was now saddled with the unwanted burden of her.

  But they had an audience, and so he flicked a glance at Farleigh. “You may return to your post. We will continue this match again another day.”

  “Of course, sir.” Farleigh bowed and took his leave in a haste likely borne of the combination of the blow he had landed to his superior and the dudgeon the Duchess of Burghly was in.

  Clay could not blame the chap. Still rubbing his smarting jaw, he returned his attention to her after the door had fallen quietly closed. “What do you want, Duchess?”

  He was curt, but he did not give a damn. He had been in the devil of a mood ever since that morning. Ever since she had pressed her lips to his skin as if he was a sin she could not resist and had kissed him. If it had been one kiss, he could have been able to ascribe it to gratitude or confusion from the fit she had suffered. But it had been more than one. Eight to be precise. He had counted.

  She stared at him for a moment, chest heaving, and he swore he could see in her eyes—the large, dark pupils growing round—the memory of their last encounter. But then she stiffened her shoulders like a woman going into battle and sailed forth. “What I want is an explanation for my ballroom being turned into a pugilist club. You may be staying at Burghly House as a guest, but that does not give you leave to commandeer an entire chamber for your savagery.”

  His savagery, was it?

  The laugh that tore from his lips was bitter and dark. “Is that what I am to you, Your Grace? A savage? An animal?”

  “You were exchanging blows with another man, and you are positively indecent!” she hollered back at him so loudly her words echoed in the cavernous room.

  He glanced down at his bare chest. Somehow, he had forgotten he no longer wore his shirtsleeves and waistcoat. No help for it now. She could claim maidenly modesty all she liked, but she had seen far more than his chest before, and she had been a married woman.

  The urge to spar with her instead rose up, fierce and undeniable.

  He looked back to her. “You did not seem to think me indecent a few hours ago, madam. In your chamber. Remember? You sat upon my lap in your bed, and I unfastened your gown and corset. Then you put your mouth on me. Here.” He slowly trailed a bruised finger over the patch of skin she had kissed first.

  Color rose to her cheeks. “How dare you speak of such a thing?”

  Oh, he bloody well dared. And he was not yet finished. “Are you ashamed of your actions, Your Grace? Ashamed you touched a savage like me?”

  Her lips tightened, but she said nothing.

  He stepped closer to her, so near his boots slipped beneath the heavy fall of her skirts. Her scent enveloped him, floral and musk and everything he longed for but could never truly have. He wanted to hate her. Wished he had never loved her. “Or perhaps you are ashamed because before you were the Duchess of Burghly, you were mine.”

  “I was never yours,” she denied then, sudden and sharp. “I was a foolish girl, easily led astray by a man I wrongly believed loved me.”

  “Is that the fiction you have crafted for yourself, darling?” he asked, touching her at last with the tip of his finger only. Just one callused pad beneath her chin, tilting her head gently back. Taunting her. Taunting him. “Is that what has made sleeping at night easier for you? Poor Ara. Such a victim.”

  Her nostrils flared. “You disgust me. Clothe yourself and never again dare to use the ballroom of Burghly House as your sparring chamber.”

  How he longed to melt her ice. To take her in his arms and prove to the both of them that she would melt for him. That her body would still respond to his in the same way his did to hers. But he too had his pride, and so he remained rigid, scowling down at her, his finger still upon her chin. “I will not make such a ludicrous promise regarding the use of this or any other chamber within Burghly House, madam. My men need to remain agile and strong. Daily training is an important part of their ability to protect you.”

  Albeit not in the extreme he had allowed it to progress today. That had been his own doing, a way to attempt to rid his body of the poison she infected him wit
h.

  “You call engaging in bouts of fisticuffs training? I fail to see how pummeling your men and allowing them to pummel you will be beneficial.”

  “You may be the Duchess of Burghly, but I am the man who has been entrusted with your protection,” he bit out, her disdain nettling him though he had tried his damnedest not to allow her beneath his skin once more. “Therefore, I will commandeer the use of any chamber as I see fit.”

  But she did not relent or wilt beneath his blistering scorn. “This is my home, Mr. Ludlow. You will ask permission before conducting your training in future. And you will do it decently, wearing the proper attire of a gentleman, which you most assuredly are not.”

  No, he was not a gentleman. He never would be one. If he had been born the duke instead of the bastard, would she have loved him? Would she have become his wife instead of betraying him and leaving him with a scarred heart and face to remember her by?

  He cast the unwanted questions aside. They were a moot point.

  “Do I offend you, madam?” He withdrew his finger from her chin at last, severing the connection that seemed to singe him and throwing his arms wide.

  “Everything about you offends me.” And yet, her gaze trailed down his bare chest and arms, and lower still, belying her words.

  She had kissed him earlier. For that brief moment, it had been as if no time had ever intervened between them. As if she had never been gone from his arms or his heart at all. For the sake of his sanity, he needed to retreat. To step away and ignore the raging tide of lust for her rising inside him. For that was surely all he felt for her now—the quickening of his breaths, the tightening in his ballocks, the twitching of his cock, the all-consuming ache to be one with her, to drive himself inside her body again—pure, animalistic desire.

  “Liar,” he charged softly.

  Her gaze shot back to his. “Pardon me?”

  She could kill him with her icy duchess hauteur all she liked. He would not bend, not with this driving force guiding him onward. Whatever it was. Foolishness? Stupidity? Pride? Need?