The Historical Collection 2018: The Duchess Deal / From Duke Till Dawn / His Sinful Touch / His Wicked Charm

Despite his stated resolve to be quick, and his professed displeasure at finding her naked, he seemed to have changed his mind about making this a hasty, dispassionate encounter. In fact, his entire demeanor transformed. Once again, his brusque touch became a caress. As he explored her body, he made quiet, growly sounds of approval that thrilled her to her toes.

His palm covered her breast. Racked by pleasure, she bit her lip to stifle a soft cry of joy. He kneaded and stroked the soft flesh, switching from one breast to the other and back again. Her nipples puckered, begging for attention. The lazy, teasing back-and-forth of his thumb was the sharpest, sweetest pleasure—but it wasn’t enough.

Her breath quickened. She wanted him to hurry, but he took his time. His palms skimmed along her every dip and curve, painting her body hot with desire.

Most arousing of all, he began to speak.

“How is it you’re here?” he murmured. Not to her, but seemingly to himself. “How the devil did I manage it?” He wove his fingers into her hair and pulled away gently, letting the locks glide through his fingers. He exhaled on a single, stirring word. “Lovely.”

She reached for him, longing to touch and explore in return. She placed her hands flat against his chest, skimming over the thin lawn of his shirt.

He stiffened. “Don’t.”

She let her hands fall to her sides. “I—I’m sorry, I—”

Emma didn’t know what to say. That brief, stolen caress was burned into her palms. In one of her hands, she balanced a memory of strong, sleek muscle beneath ironed-flat linen. On her other palm, however, a different sensation lingered. The firm ridges of scar tissue, stretching and tugging across his chest like a fiendish spider’s web.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated.

He turned aside, and Emma despaired. Had she discouraged him from continuing? Again?

Instead, he reached for a small vial of some kind. She heard the sound of it being uncorked. An exotic scent wafted in her direction, and she glimpsed him pouring a few drops into his hand. Some sort of oil, perhaps?

Her guess about the substance was proven correct. His fingers slicked over her sex without friction, stroking up and down her intimate folds. The sensations were as impossible to catch as running water, and they made her just as wet.

By the time he settled between her thighs, she was desperate for him, awash with a deep, sweet ache that she somehow knew only he could satisfy. She knew what it was to bring about her own pleasure, but she’d never been able to fill that hollowness. Not on her own.

The rigid column of his manhood connected with her belly, sliding downward on the thin sheen of oil. The feeling of his steely hardness against her aroused sex . . . it nearly undid her, there and then. She whimpered with frustrated desire, rolling her hips to seek more contact.

He froze again.

“Don’t stop,” she begged, breathless. “Please. I’m fine. I promise. I’m very, very, very fine.”

He hushed her. “Don’t make a move.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’re not alone.”

Chapter Ten (#ulink_84fa56c6-935f-56e6-ad26-780fd0c0f318)

Ash found himself staring into a pair of firelit eyes, glittering at him from the corner of the room. The base of his spine tingled. His heartbeat went from a gallop to a standstill.

An intruder.

How the devil had someone slipped in?

Never mind, he told himself. That question could wait. The more pressing inquiry at hand was this: How was he going to kill the bastard? He mentally ran through the available weapons in the room. The fireplace poker would be most effective, but it was out of reach. The sash of his dressing gown could make a decent garrote, in a pinch.

If needed, he’d fight hand-to-hand. His only concern was keeping Emma safe.

He rolled to the side and came to his knees, putting his body between her and the threat. “You have three seconds to leave the way you came,” he ordered. “Or I vow to you, I will snap your knavish neck.”

The intruder struck first, leaping forward with a fiendish yowl.

Something that felt like a dozen razor-sharp barbs pierced straight through his nightshirt, digging into his shoulder and arm. He gave a stunned shout of pain.

Emma flung back the bedclothes. “Breeches! Breeches, no!”

The cat?

Claws. Teeth. Hissing.

The cat.

Ash stumbled from the bed and whirled in a backward circle, whipping his arm to shake off the beast, all while guarding his breeding organs with the other hand. He could afford to lose a lot of bits, but not those.

From the bed, Emma shouted and pleaded with the hellish creature, to no avail. She heaved a pillow, which hit Ash in the face and did nothing to dislodge the demon she’d brought into his house. His next lashing attempt cleared the dressing table of anything that could break into tiny shards, as his bare feet quickly learned. He flung himself against the bedpost repeatedly, trying to startle the thing into letting go. Didn’t work. The cat only clung to his shirt—and flesh—like a burr. A yowling burr with teeth.

Ash was ready to plunge his arm, cat and all, into the fire—what were a few more burns, after all—but burning fur was a disgusting scent, and he was just decent enough to balk at the idea of murdering Emma’s pet before her very eyes.

No, he would take it out into the garden tomorrow and murder it there.

At the moment, however, he just needed the cursed thing off.

Leaving his groin unprotected, he reached around, grabbed the cat by its scruff, and shook both of his arms until he had it free. The little devil hit the ground running and disappeared into the shadows. Never to come back, if it knew what was good for it.

Ash checked the family heirlooms. All still present and apparently unscathed, but both bob and bits had pulled so far up into his body, there would be no coaxing them back out tonight. Not for all the tits in Covent Garden.

That was that. He would be taking another long, frustrated walk tonight.

“Are you bleeding?” Emma asked.

“Only in about twenty places.” He touched his shoulder, wincing. His fingers came away wet. “The fly-bitten measle.”

She fell back onto the bed with a pitiable sigh. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea he was even in the room.”

“Mark my words,” Ash said grimly. “Tomorrow night, he will not be.”

“Did you truly marry the Duke of Ashbury?” Davina Palmer laced her arm through Emma’s, drawing close enough to whisper as they strolled through the park. “If you don’t mind me asking . . . How did that happen?”

Emma laughed a bit. “I don’t mind at all. I’ve been asking myself the same question. Hourly.”

She drew Miss Palmer away from the crowded path. Too great a risk of being overheard. As they circled a pond flecked with ducks, Emma related a brief version of the tale. Miss Worthing’s gown. The duke’s pressing need for a wife. His strange proposal, now merely a week past, and their hasty wedding.

“As shocking as it was, I couldn’t refuse him.”

“Refuse a duke? Of course not. No woman in England would, I wager.”