When the Duke Returns
Page 52

“Why aren’t you available?”
A flash of rage had her off her knees. “Why? What did you think I was available for?”
There was silence. He was a gentleman. It wasn’t his fault that she had listened to Jemma and thought that all men were at the mercy of their loins. Obviously, she had the remarkable bad luck to be married to the one man who was in control of his body. Wonderful.
Though, of course, it was likely that men controlled their bodies best when they didn’t feel true desire. A tear slipped over her clenched fists.
“Isidore, I’m coming in.”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” she snapped. “This was all a misunderstanding, and may we please just forget it ever happened?”
“No.”
She swallowed. “Just go away, please.”
There was a muffled thump. But it wasn’t the door. He was probably leaving. Isidore sat down on the bed, her back to the door. He could go to blazes, for all she cared. Any number of men in London would look faint when she took off a glove, never mind dropping a petticoat.
“Isidore, will you open the door?”
“For God’s sake,” she shouted back, losing her temper. “Will you leave me alone? Haven’t you embarrassed me enough?”
“How much revenge do you intend to take?”
What a stupid question. “You are quite safe. Now if you would just please leave!”
“I can’t. I took my clothes off.”
“You—”
“I’m quite naked. And while it’s not very chilly today, there is a good likelihood that Honeydew will enter at any moment.”
Isidore’s hands fell from her mouth. Being Simeon, he sounded entirely practical. “I think I hear voices on the garden path,” he added.
“No, you don’t,” Isidore said, but her voice was weak. She was consumed by a blaze of curiosity. “You’re really naked? Naked?”
“I’ve never stood naked in a sitting room before,” he said.
“Well, enjoy it,” she said weakly.
There was a moment’s silence while she thought about the fact that Simeon was out there without clothes. He had taken his clothing off?
“Isidore,” he said quietly, “Honeydew is walking toward the Dower House. I can see him through the window.”
She threw the bedchamber door open, grabbed his arm, and jerked him forward.
There he was.
Afternoon sun was slanting onto the wide planks, stained dark with years. At first Isidore just saw his feet. They looked just as large and male as they had after his bath. He dropped the clothing he held on the floor.
Her own toes curled. Of course she should meet his eyes. She should look higher than his knees. But—
She was staring at his thighs when they suddenly moved in her direction. “I suggest,” came a voice somewhere above her ear, a rather strained voice, she thought, “that we retire to your bed.”
His voice had no semblance of control. It was rough like velvet and his eyes were half closed, but not slumbering. It was as if the beast inside him had woken up. “I never meant to embarrass you,” he said.
She smiled, a bit tightly.
“I don’t think very quickly,” he said. “No, listen to me, Isidore.”
She raised her eyes. Truly, it was rather fascinating—
“When things happen quickly, as when you took off your clothes, I can’t think what to say. It wasn’t that I didn’t—”
“It’s all right,” she said.
“I want you. Desperately.”
“Oh.” He was making her feel embarrassed now.
“I’m not good at talking.” When he moved it was so sudden that she didn’t even know what was happening until she felt the bedcover at her back, and he reared over her, gently pulling her bodice apart.
It occurred to her that she was supposed to squeal with fright but instead she arched her back so that he could pull off her sleeves. The muscles in his shoulder bunched as he gently untied her chemise and pulled it over her head.
“What should we do next?” she asked. He seemed to know. He lowered his long body on top of her, balanced on his elbows.
Isidore gulped. “Aren’t you going to—”
But he was kissing her, deep boneless kisses, the kind that made her wind her arms around his neck, and pull his body down onto hers.
Her hands slid down his back and onto his bottom, curved over warm muscles, slipped between his legs. “You—” His voice was pained. He arched his back. “Oh God, Isidore, that feels so good.”
She started laughing and his mouth came down on hers with desperation. And then he pressed against her. It was extremely odd. Like a door opening, Isidore thought. First there was only herself, and then somehow there was room enough for him as well.
He made a rough sound, low in his throat and pressed deeper. Isidore waited for the pain that was supposed to come, but nothing happened.
Well, that was good.
He pulled back and then thrust forward again.
It felt good. It did. Well, perhaps it didn’t feel that good. There was a little pulling feeling that she didn’t care for all that much. Isidore tried to push away that disloyal thought. He was supposed to do whatever, and she could just do what she wished. And what she wished was to touch him.
Stroking his back felt like nothing she’d experienced before. It was all rippling muscle, ridges and curves that moved under her fingers as he—
He did that thrusting thing.
The truth was, she didn’t really care for it all that much.
But he did. That was the wonderful thing about it—there wasn’t an ounce of composure about Simeon now, nothing of the controlled man. His face was alive with pleasure. She ran her hands over his cheekbones and he thrust forward so hard that she actually gasped and raised her knees.
Which felt better, for some reason.
He made another sound in his throat, as if he were dying, and that made her smile. “Isidore,” he said. “Are you—are you—”
“Yes?” she said helpfully.
“I can’t control myself much longer.” His voice sound dark and anguished.
No wonder women love bedroom activities. “That’s just as it ought to be,” she cooed. Every time she moved, he gasped, so she arched her back again. It felt better that way for her as well. If she moved, he lost control. Which was exactly what she wanted, Isidore thought. He pulled back and gripped her hips so hard that it was going to leave bruises, pulled her up and toward him. He was definitely out of control.
Simeon’s head was roaring, his body rejoicing in a rhythm that he felt as if he’d known for years. It was like a glorious race. It was pure physical joy. Isidore’s body was soft, warm, wet—
He couldn’t wait much longer. And yet it was like seeing the finish line and not wanting to reach it. He didn’t want to come.
He didn’t want—
Pleasure was roaring in his legs, and Isidore was meeting him now, raising her hips in a way that made him want to bite her on the collarbone, act like a rampaging beast.
His vision was almost black by the time he let himself go, wild and fierce. He thrust forward, dimly hearing the bed frame pound the cottage wall, dimly sensing Isidore’s little laugh, dimly—