Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)

The words pushed a wave of doubt through her. He couldn’t mean that. Just exaggeration, surely.

“I could have found you broken or bleeding, or—” His voice broke. “Or worse. Don’t tell me I care about polished rocks on a chain. I want to believe you know me better than that.”

“I do.”

“And yet you believe I’d be so upset about a necklace that I’d send you away?”

She gestured uselessly. “You’d just said you didn’t want me at all.”

“I said no such thing. You ran off before I could finish.” He ran a hand down her body. “I said I didn’t need ‘someone.’ Because you’re not just someone to me. You’re remarkable and stubborn and lovely and too damn brave for your own good.” His hand fisted in the fabric of her gown. “You’re you. I want you. From the moment you stumbled through that tavern door, I wanted you.”

She pressed a hand to her mouth, stifling her emotion.

“Don’t.” He pulled her hand from her mouth. “Don’t hide. Don’t ever run from me again.”

He kissed her hungrily, desperately, and she opened herself to his sensual invasion, welcoming his tongue with her own and aching to hold him tight.

With labored breaths of effort, he pulled away. His eyes burned into hers. “If I asked you to stay with me . . .”

“I couldn’t.” Stunned, she went still in his arms. “You know I couldn’t. I must go home to Daniela. I promised her, and you gave us your word.”

“If I offered you a home. A house in the country, with everything you and your sister could ever need.”

“I couldn’t be a kept mistress. Not even yours. I’d lose respect for myself, and for you.”

His gaze clouded. “I can’t marry you.”

“I know.” Sadness pressed down on her heart. “There’s no way this can last beyond week’s end.”

He cupped her face with one hand and stroked his thumb over her cheek. “Well, know this. I am damned well going to make love to you tonight.”

Excitement jolted through her.

Yes.

“Yes, Griff. Please.”

He gathered her skirts, tugging them upward. His fingers curved around her thigh, stroking up and down. “Are you sure you’re well enough? You’re not too bruised or hurting under all this silk?”

His concern for her well-being touched her heart. “I promise. I’m fine.”

“I’ll judge for myself.” He turned her on her belly and began to tug at her hooks and laces. “Off with these things. I’ve been wild to see you naked again.”

Again? “When did you see me naked before?”

“That first night in the library.”

“But . . . I was wearing my shift the whole time.”

“I know.” He pulled the gown down over her hips, then set about untying her petticoats. “But your shift was gloriously thin. When you stepped in front of the lamp, the light shone right through it. I could see everything.”

“Everything?”

“Everything.”

Pauline didn’t know how to take that. She merely went limp as he unlaced her corset and flung it aside. Then, pulling her to a half-sitting position, he lifted the chemise up and over her head. She flopped back on the bed linens, completely nude except for her stockings.

He sat up and began to remove his own clothing. Waistcoat, cravat, shirt. She watched him as he stripped off layer after layer of elegance, down to the man beneath it all.

“Cor,” she breathed.

He was perfect. Broad in the shoulders, lean at the waist. Muscled everywhere. A sprinkling of dark hair on his chest.

He turned away, sitting on the edge of the bed to remove his boots and unbutton his breeches, giving her ample time to admire the sculpted planes of his bared back.

“There,” he said, tossing the last bit of clothing aside.

He stretched out beside her, and she suddenly felt abashed. He was so perfect, everywhere. The ideal form of a man. And she wasn’t the ideal form of woman. Not at all.

For the first time, she felt truly unequal to him.

His gaze swept her body first, but his caress soon followed suit. He cupped her breast in his hand. She began to hope, foolishly, that he might say he liked what he saw. She didn’t need to hear “Beautiful” or “Lovely” or “Perfect.” Something like his terse “Good” earlier that evening would do.

When his thumb found her hardened nipple, he did something much better. He gave a low growl of satisfaction, deep in his throat. The sound was so primal and unambiguous. So utterly male. It called to everything feminine in her, and the response that welled from deep inside was a faint, sighing moan of relief.

“Just as arousing as I remember,” he muttered. “More. You wouldn’t believe how hard you made me that first night. Every night since.”

A self-conscious laugh escaped her. “I’m built like a fourteen-year-old boy.”

“Bollocks. I’ve been a fourteen-year-old boy. I tell you, my br**sts were nowhere near this enticing.” He traced her areola, then the curve beneath her breast.