“That’s what you do to me.”
Blushing hotly, Sarani reached for him, palm curving around his nape. For a moment, she looked uncertain, unsure, gnawing that plump lower lip between her teeth and making him want to kiss her again. “Should I? You need to…”
His smile was wolfish. “Oh, I’ll have my turn, don’t worry. When we get to my residence, I plan to take you to bed and ravage you until you can’t speak your own name.”
* * *
Rhystan’s filthy promises only made her want him more. She loved seeing the aloof, put-together duke stripped down to this raw, fundamental version of himself. He was savagery swathed in velvet, the jagged edge of danger tempered by decorum. A puzzling enigma that she was powerless to resist. She wanted him bare.
Sarani flushed. Did that make her a brazen hussy? She was a lady, but this man had always incited the devil in her. Twice now, he’d brought her to completion—first with his fingers at the ball and then with his mouth.
Oh, sweet heavenly stars, that mouth.
Even now, her body still quaked with tingling aftershocks. The fact that he had kissed her there had been utterly wicked. She’d opened her mouth to protest, but the only thing that had emerged when his hot, wet tongue had touched her body had been an unbecoming moan. And then her brain had ceased to function.
A part of her wanted to feel ashamed, mortified even, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. For the first time in months, she felt alive. Sarani had no doubt that what she was doing was what no lady in her right, decent mind would do with a man, much less a duke. But happiness wasn’t guaranteed. Life could be taken at the blink of an eye, with the slash of a blade. She’d already lost so much, and now she had a chance to keep one thing for herself.
She was aware of the absurdity. She would be losing the only thing she had left to lose—her precious virginity. Her calling card to respectability. A woman’s innocence…so valued and yet a commodity to be traded to the highest, most titled bidder, even if it was against her wishes.
She wasn’t naive. She knew that if she did this, if she let Rhystan into her body without the sanctity of marriage, in the eyes of society, she would be ruined. She did not care. If they had any inkling of who she was, this society would not welcome her anyway. Not truly. What did she need their approval for? And besides, Rhystan would be gone back to the sea soon, the agreement between them fulfilled.
This was for her.
Her choice, even if the consequences would see her fall entirely from grace.
The coach stopped and she met Rhystan’s burning eyes. Goodness, he was so incredibly handsome. He made her want to leap across the carriage like a hussy and demand that he take her to the stars again. And again.
Something of her thoughts must have been evident in her eyes because a growling rumble broke from his chest. Sarani hadn’t even taken a breath before she was swept into his powerful arms and ferried up the steps into his residence. He paused, letting her down to throw off his hat and coat, left her cloak in place for modesty’s sake in light of what she wore beneath, and then she was scooped up once more.
Sarani didn’t take in a full breath until they’d bypassed another flight of stairs and she heard the soft snick of a door closing. She had no time to push to her feet before she was tumbled gently onto a soft mattress. Rhystan stepped back to speak to someone at the door, presumably his valet, and dismissed him for the evening. Sarani blushed. She was sure the man would know that his master had a woman in his chamber. Despite surely turning a closed eye to their arrival, in her experience, there was very little that servants did not know.
She turned her attention back to the chamber. Several lamps lit the space and the counterpane on the bed had been turned down. A small fire burned in the grate to ward off the evening’s slight chill. She’d met Harlowe briefly, and the man was efficient to a fault. No wonder he’d been on their heels ready to enter just before.
Her gaze took in the details of the tastefully appointed room—the huge bed she sat upon, the plush armchairs near the window, the intricately carved wardrobe and matching furniture. It was a handsome bedchamber. Rhystan’s bedchamber. She hadn’t seen it in the handful of hours she’d been at this residence when they’d first arrived in London, but she recognized the decor that matched the adjoining room.
For the lady of the house. The woman who would one day be his wife.
The one who wouldn’t be her.
Her heart stuttered against her rib cage, and Sarani tamped down the emotion. She had known from the start that this was a pretense, and she’d tried to keep her heart guarded as well as she could. But this was Rhystan. In truth, she’d given her heart to him five years ago and she’d never gotten it back. Her body, in comparison, was inconsequential. Secondary.
“What are you thinking?” he asked, watching her. “Do you wish to return to Huntley House?”
He would do that, no questions asked, she knew.
“No, quite the contrary.” She let her gaze wander over his face, from his disheveled hair to his glittering steel-blue eyes and that wicked masculine mouth that had pleasured her so skillfully. Her breath caught on a wave of molten desire and she let it show. Boldly, Sarani licked her lips, letting her stare drop. He’d discarded his boots and waistcoat, and the sight of him in shirtsleeves, untucked from his trousers and all rumpled with desire, did delicious things to her insides. “What I wish for is for you to take off the rest of those clothes.”
His full lips parted. “Do you now?”
Sarani unfastened the ties of her cloak, seeing his eyes darken as the light in the bedroom revealed what the dim lamp in the carriage had not. The design of the night rail was truly outrageous. It wasn’t anything she would ever choose for herself but had been included in the order for the full wardrobe she’d placed with a celebrated local modiste. Panels of sheer silk and organza, edged with lace, were held together with scraps of ivory ribbon. The thing was scandalous, barely covering her intimate parts.
And by barely covering, she meant not at all.
Rhystan stared, his throat working, hands arrested over the knot of his necktie. Sarani didn’t dare glance down, knowing she would see the tops of her pale-brown nipples peeking through the lace. Fighting the heat that shot up her neck and into her cheeks, she jutted her chin. If she didn’t faint from apprehension, soon he would see her in much less.
“You’re staring,” she whispered.
“I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in all my life.”
The duke prowled toward her, the cravat dangling from one finger and falling carelessly to the floor. His shirt went next, over his head, joining its fallen comrade. Sarani gulped. Great goddess of fertility, he was pure, sinful, masculine perfection. He was a man who led by example, which meant he pulled his weight with his crew, hauling cargo and hoisting sails.