Free How to Deceive a Duke by Lecia Cornwall Page B

he’d be bedding her in just a few hours caught him in the gut with an unexpected rush of lust.
    “You’re hardly what I expected,” he said. “How old are you?”
    “Twenty,” she said, her eyes returning to his. Crisp, intelligent, beautiful eyes. “And you?”
    “Thirty-one in years. Far older by experience,” he quipped, and was rewarded with another blush, though she didn’t seem to know how to reply, and they lapsed back into silence.
    He watched her eyes wander the room, taking in the furnishings, the art, the wallpaper, everything but him.
    “No, you’re not what I expected at all,” he said again to make her look at him. Her brows rose toward the edge of the lace.
    “And just what did you expect, Your Grace?”
    “A woman short on looks and wit, wide of hip.”
    Her lips twitched, and she lowered her eyes again. What was she thinking?
    “Rose,” he tested her name on his lips. She didn’t answer. “Rose,” he said again, and she looked up with wide-eyed surprise. “Are you truly as innocent as I’ve heard?”
    Her lips pinched, and she raised her chin to a stubborn little point. “Are you as sinful as they say you are?”
    He smiled at her daring. “Probably more so, since most of my sinning is done behind closed doors.” She blushed again, and his grin deepened. Not so daring after all. “Yes, you are definitely innocent. Far too innocent for my taste.” He sipped the whisky, let it burn, but the desire to touch her, to see if her cheek was as warm as it looked, didn’t go away.
    “Don’t men expect the ladies they marry to be innocent? Even the women you share your bed with now were innocent once.”
    Touché. “True enough, Duchess. But I’m not like most men. Have you ever kissed a man? A boy, even?”
    She kept her expression flat, her eyes locked on his.
    “I kissed you,” she said tartly, and he barked a laugh. He got up from his chair, crossed the room, and sat beside her. She held his gaze like a doe before a hungry wolf, but held her ground.
    “No, Duchess, that miserable peck in the church was no kiss at all. I shall have to teach you better than that.”
    He slid his knuckles over her cheek, his touch light, teasing. Her skin was indeed hot, and soft as silk. She lowered her gaze, and her lips parted. She didn’t pull away, though he could feel her trembling.
    His mouth descended on hers, and she made a small noise that might have been fear or desire and raised her hands to his chest. The sweet sound shot straight to his groin. She didn’t push him away, and he brushed his lips over hers and hovered over her mouth, waiting until her eyes drifted shut, and her lips parted. Her fingers curled against his chest.
    He kissed her again, firmly this time, his lips mobile, insistent. She tasted of roses—or perhaps it was the scent of her bouquet—and honey, and innocence. He drew her lower lip into his mouth and she stayed still, allowing it. He moved his lips to her cheek, then over her jaw to the pulse point at the base of her neck and kissed her there too. Her heart was beating like a trapped bird. When he found her lips again, she sighed and kissed him back, tentatively, inexpertly, and he realized that innocence appealed to him after all.
    He drew back in surprise, read the same emotion in her misty gaze. He got up and returned to his distant seat, and she raised shaking fingertips to her lips.
    He forced himself to look bored. He crossed his legs and sipped his whisky, trying to eliminate the taste of her, to calm the desire to seduce her right here in the salon. What would Granddame say to that when she arrived home to congratulate the happy couple? She’d cackle in victory, urge him on, since nothing mattered but getting a bloody heir.
    “Did you like it?” he asked.
    M eg ran her tongue over her lips, tasted whisky. Yes, she’d liked it. She didn’t dare reply. A request for more hovered on the tip of her tongue.
    “You’re trembling,” he said. “I must