The night before, on a blanket laid out in front of the fire, she’d crouched on her knees, round arse up in the air, while his hands glided over her back and between her legs as he moved in her. He’d watched her fingers curl into the blanket to withstand the pleasure, her little muffled moans of amazement at the sheer magnitude of pleasure the two of them could conjure together.
And conversation meandered, lazily and idyllically as a spring, between lovemaking. Profound and utterly mundane. Laughter and lulls. Those moments were the easiest his life had ever been.
Now, behind them the pendulum on the clock swung toward one o’clock in the morning. Gently, softly, he stroked her shoulder, her arm, her hip, her thigh and back again.
“Lovely as velvet,” he murmured. “Velluto.” He would love to dress her in velvet. Shower her in shiny things.
“Velluto,” she murmured. He could feel her smile. Feel her body begin to melt into surrender again.
He slipped his fingers softly, softly between her thighs. Drew delicate patterns with his fingertips.
“Like satin,” he murmured. “Raso.” She would glow in satin.
“Raso.” Her voice lulled. Her breath was swifter now.
“Wet,” he predicted on a whisper into her ear, as his fingers delved to stroke. She was hot and slick again, and he caressed until he heard that sweet sound, that little whimper in her throat.
“Luscious,” he whispered, as he moved his other hand to her breast. He did not know the word for “luscious”; he could not think of words at all anymore.
His hands traveled this path, teasing, languorously arousing, until she was rippling against him.
“James . . .” His name on a frantic breath. As though some cyclone threatened to pull her away and only he could save her. It made him wild.
He had never felt more valorous than when he made her come, her body borne upward on a silent scream.
“Yes?” he whispered to her. “Once more?”
“Yes. Again, yes.”
He guided his cock into her, and once again they moved together, languidly, entwined, toward that bliss that seemed to have no end.
And as they lay quiet, recovering their breath and their senses, the clock hand made its inexorable journey toward the time she would return to her room.
“Mariana . . .” he said softly.
He drew her long, long rose-gold hair out between his fingers. Soon she would have to bundle and pin it up again. “Sei bella sotto ogni tipo di luce.”
She waited for him to translate.
“You are beautiful in every kind of light.”
Valkirk had drawn a small picture of a horse with a fluffy tail and had written three paragraphs that thrilled him and, unfortunately, that had nothing to do with his book he was supposed to be writing, when there was a tap on his door.
He glanced at the clock.
Mariana had just departed. She’d brought with her today ten sentences involving the words “velvet,” “suck,” “the duke,” “naked,” and “hairy,” among others. Even Primrose and Phillip made love in exciting ways.
As a result, he was semiaroused, and he suspected he would remain in that condition for the rest of the afternoon.
And then would come the night. He lived for nights now.
He got up, regretfully threw the filthy little sentences on the fire, and answered the door to find Dot.
“Your Grace,” Dot whispered, and curtsied. “I’m so sorry to disturb your concentration.”
“You don’t need to whisper, Dot. It’s broad daylight, and my writing is not so easily addled by interruption.”
How he wished that was true.
“You’ve a visitor in the parlor down below,” she said loudly. “He says his name is Arthur. Your son.”
Christ.
“He looks just like you!” she added, quite pleased. “Thinner, perhaps.”
“How in the bloody hell did he . . .”
He trailed off at Dot’s wide eyes.
“There’s no jar here, Your Grace.” She was back to whispering. “And I won’t tell.”
“But I’ve to set a good example at all times, Dot,” he said gravely.
“Oh, right, of course,” she said quickly. “I forgot.”
“Will you please tell my offspring I’ll be down in about five minutes? Thank you.”
“I’ll bring tea!” she said, and dashed off.
He could not deny that, exasperated or not, his heart gave a leap when he saw his tall son standing in the center of the little reception room. It was admittedly good to see him. He was as lanky as James, and better-looking, and probably a nicer person. He had his mother to thank for that.
“Arthur. How did you . . .”
Arthur spun around to greet him, grinning. “I pestered your Man of Affairs to tell me where you were staying. You haven’t answered my letter.”
“My Man of Affairs is a bit of a tough nut to crack, given that he both worships and is frightened of me. Well done on the pestering, I suppose.”
“I learned conquering from the best. What are you doing here, Father?”
“I’ve promised my publisher I’d have my book finished by the end of the month. It was a bit difficult with all the hammering going on at the townhouse, and too many other distractions.”
“Ah! So you’ve taken a room in this little plain place . . . a bit like . . . like a monk’s cell?”
If only he knew how far, far from the truth this really was.
James snorted. “No. Not at all like a cell. Good God, I think perhaps I’ve allowed you to live too sheltered a life if you think this place is anything like a cell.”
“But . . . the furniture doesn’t even match, does it?” Arthur looked more puzzled than censorious.
“Of course it does. It all has legs and backs and seats. What more does it need?”
James was being deliberately perverse.
“It’s . . .” His son, unbeknownst to either of them, was looking curiously around the little room as every guest who’d seen it had previously done, with its worn but pretty furniture that didn’t quite match, and the carved pilasters fashionable last century, and wondering at the source of its charm.
Because it was charming and welcoming immediately.
“It is actually rather nice,” Arthur said finally, sounding surprised. “For a little building by the docks.”
“It’s very comfortable and pleasant, it came highly recommended by a friend I hold in high esteem, and it was peaceful up until five minutes ago. I have a feeling you’re going to say something to change that,” the duke said dryly.
“I’m just . . . well, I came about one thing, originally. But on my way here, I saw this in a shop on Bond Street.”
From inside his coat he produced a handbill for the Night of the Nightingale.
James took it.
Mariana Wylde. One Night Only. The Grand Palace on the Thames.
It was instantly, oddly disorienting.
He’d been so nearly cloistered here that he’d forgotten the name of the woman with whom he’d spent mad, endlessly sensual nights was currently distributed around London. Because she was an entertainer. Not only that, a notorious one.