The Inconvenient Duchess

was? Even she didn’t know that any more.
    She loosened the tie on her petticoat and let it fall.
    ‘Come here.’
    She walked towards the bed and stood in front of him. Maybe if she told him now, that she had never done this, thatshe was sorry, that it was all a mistake, he might be gentle. ‘Tonight, I—’
    ‘Don’t speak! Not another word. Lay on the bed beside me.’
    She climbed on to the bed and lay next to him on her back. She reached with one hand to pull the covers up and he pulled them out of her grasp and tossed them towards the foot of the bed, leaving her vulnerable.
    And then he was touching her.
    Her flesh had been tensed for a blow. When his touch came it hardly registered. He ran a hand up and down the length of her bare arm, and she felt the hairs stand and the flesh prickle. The stroking ended and he ran the hand over her shoulder and down to cup first one breast and then the other. Her nipples tightened and grew hard against his palm.
    She stared up at the ceiling, afraid to look at him. This was a trap to lull her to stillness before the harsh words, before the beating, before…
    His head dipped to where his hand had been and pulled a nipple into his mouth. And she forgot everything but the moment and the feel of his mouth on her breast and the blood pounding in her ears as the world spun under her.
    His hand slipped lower, caressing her abdomen. And lower to tug at the curls between her legs. Without meaning to, she relaxed and her legs opened and his hand slipped between. He stroked her and she could feel herself grow wet, feel the heat between her legs and a want inside that made her arch her hips to press against his hand. And when he slipped first one finger, and then two inside to stroke deeper, she knew what she wanted, and rocked against him, a moan escaping her lips.
    He raised his head, and his other hand touched her chin,turning her face until she looked into his eyes. And she lost herself in his gaze and his touch, on her and inside her, and felt the strangeness and need building within her body until she could stand it no more. And, when she thought she must scream that she was his, and could deny him nothing, he took her further until the passion broke her and she lay spent and trembling against hi
    Then his hand stilled and he shifted his weight, and lay on top of her. He entered her slowly at first and it seemed that there was no way that her body could hold him.
    And he withdrew. And pushed again, harder this time, and she gasped against the pain and turned her head into the pillow, gripping the sheet beside her in her balled fists.
    And he swore in surprise, burying his face in the curve of her neck as he pushed again, and again.
    It was over quickly. He shuddered against her, let his weight rest on her body and then rolled off to lie beside her. She felt his hand slide between her legs and she trembled, but he laid a steadying hand on her shoulder, rolling her to face him. He brushed his fingertips against her and examined the blood on his hand, wiping it in a red smear across the white sheet.
    Then he reached out and clutched her convulsively to him, his breath ragged against her ear and whispered, ‘Sleep.’

Chapter Twenty-Three
    H e was damned. He knew it in his bones. It wasn’t the misery that ate at him, or the loneliness. He’d grown used to it. It was the feeling that a change was coming. The sense that something wonderful lay just around the corner, only to see his hopes dashed and to find he’d given his heart to a woman who did not want hi
    ‘Good morning.’ She’d come into the breakfast room so quietly that he hadn’t heard. And her voice was hoarse, as though she’d cried herself to sleep after creeping back to her room in the night. Unable to rest, he had gone to the library in search of the brandy bottle and when he returned she was gone from his bed.
    ‘Good morning,’ he responded. What else could he say to her? What apology could he offer? What explanation could he give that would take the bitterness out of this morning?
    She’d come into his life, unwilling. He’d laughed to himself that his mother had chosen the perfect bride, a woman just as unhappy as he was. It would be a case of like drawing to like and they could live ever after in the gloom of this house, raising a pack of pitiable brats in stony silence.
    And he’d learned her story and been moved by it. And watched as she’d blossomed, changing the house and her surroundings