The Duke Goes Down Read online

  “Of course not,” she snapped indignantly at his indecent offer. She readjusted her arms around her bent legs and shifted nervously where she sat.

  Her mind drifted to Edgar’s attempt to show her pleasure. He had promised to make her feel good. Or some such enticement. A bold lie. It had not hurt precisely, but it had been uncomfortable, and it had certainly not been pleasurable.

  For some reason, unlike that time, she suspected there would be pleasure with Mr. Butler.

  His eyes narrowed on her thoughtfully. “Because you don’t believe in pleasure?”

  “I did not say that.” On the contrary. She believed he could deliver on the pleasure. His voice alone made her feel pleasantly flushed all over.

  “Tell me something,” he pressed, ignoring her weak denial. “Is it that you do not believe pleasure exists for a woman? Or that I cannot deliver it?”

  She sputtered, her mind a wild tangle. This was a wholly inappropriate conversation, and yet they were having it. It did not help that his proximity sent her pulse racing and her limbs shaking. He smelled of soap and sunshine and freshly pressed linen. Who knew any person could smell so intoxicating?

  Her hands clenched tighter in her skirts to keep them from trembling. She was looking at his mouth again, and she forced her gaze away, mentally upbraiding herself. Now that she knew the taste of his lips it was difficult to pretend otherwise.

  The former Duke of Penning sat with her in her favorite spot weaving seductive words and staring at her like he could see beneath her clothes—and he liked what he saw. She could not have imagined it.

  Him. With her. Like this.

  He would not be here with her, if he was still the duke. It was a glaring truth. She could not feign ignorance of that, but right now he was very . . . distracting.

  His index finger came to play with the hem of her skirts, ruffling the dirt-smudged fabric. Not touching but close enough to her ankle that her breath constricted in her throat. “I can make a wife very happy.”

  “In bed,” she retorted. “You can make a wife happy in bed. There is more to happiness than what happens in the marriage bed.”

  He inclined his head. “Perhaps. But it is a very good place to start. It cannot be discounted. You think I can bring nothing to a marriage?” He paused a beat and she felt that silence swell between them like a giant balloon, ready to pop at his first touch. “Let me show you otherwise.”

  He inched his body closer, encroaching without touching, and making her wholly aware of just how much larger he was. And warmer. Or was that her body that felt suddenly overly warm in the chilly afternoon?

  “Wh-what are you doing?” She could not believe she just asked that question, but as he was propositioning her she might as well be clear on the specifics of what the offer entailed.

  Not that she was entertaining the notion. She was not. She was simply curious.

  “I’m showing you. There are hundreds of ways to please a woman.”

  Hundreds?

  Her mind raced. She couldn’t get those words out of her ears. She moistened her lips, both tempted and overwhelmed at the notion of hundreds.

  No. She gave her head a small shake. He could not entice her. She would not be taken in so easily. She wouldn’t be duped. Not again.

  “‘Hundreds of ways’ is rather vague, I fear.” With an air of disinterest that impressed even herself, she moved to slide off the rock.

  He grasped her wrist, stalling her. “What if I said I would begin by slipping my hand under your skirt and placing it upon your leg like this?” His hand dipped beneath her hem, circling her ankle.

  She gave a little squeak and froze.

  “Is that properly specific for you?” he murmured.

  Oh. My. That was specific.

  She nodded jerkily, her voice trapped in her throat, strangling as she absorbed the simple sensation of his hand on her.

  Except there was nothing simple about it.

  His palm radiated heat through the fabric of her stocking. She could feel the imprint of each of his fingers like a brand. What would it be like if she tore off her stockings so they were skin-to-skin?

  If his hand didn’t stop at her ankle? If he touched her everywhere? She would likely go up in flame.

  “Is it? Imogen?” he whispered her name and it felt like a full body caress. “Specific enough?”

  This time she managed speech. “Y-yes.”

  She should keep moving away, sliding off the rock and putting distance between them, but his deep voice lulled her. To say nothing of his touch. He was scarcely making contact with her, but she was held in place, pinned to the rock.

  The palm of his hand gently cupped the outside of her anklebone, fingers circling, gripping her there for a moment, radiating heat up her leg from that one point of contact.

  He was not eager or greedy or hurried. There were no fumbling hands beneath her skirts, poking and prodding at her.

  This was no ambush.

  He stretched his body out beside her like a cat lazing in the afternoon sun, his fingers grazing slow circles around the bump of her anklebone. As though they had all the time in the world.

  As though they had eternity on this rock.

  The tips of his fingers began walking inward, starting a slow ascent up her stocking-covered leg. “And then I would proceed like this over your stockings, detesting that they’re here to bar me, wishing for skin . . . looking for your skin, hungering for that first contact.”

  His voice was its own form of seduction, wrapping around her like silken chains, gently imprisoning her. He looked back and forth between her face and his ministrations as though gauging her willingness.

  The air ceased to flow in and out from her lips, but she remained, loath to break free from her intoxicating bonds.

  She went perfectly limp as he traveled up, reaching her knee, stopping when he arrived at her garters. He played with the ribbons holding up her stockings, murmuring, “Then I would touch you above your stockings. My fingers right here . . . on this delicate skin.”

  Her limp legs parted wider at this first touch on the inside of her thigh, at the pads of his fingers on her flesh.

  She went from not breathing at all to breathing too much, too fast, too hard.

  She pressed a hand over her galloping heart as he stroked the inside of her thighs.

  “Then you would finally have my fingers on your soft . . . warm . . . skin,” he breathed, trailing up the inside of one thigh, slipping through the loose legs of her drawers, and then back down and around to the fleshier outside of her thigh, giving her a firm squeeze that she felt right between her legs—a deep swell of pressure at her core that made her gasp.

  Her skirts were rucked up to her hips. The afternoon sun beat down on her in her state of dishabille even as the chill air turned her skin to gooseflesh. It was indecent and decadent and she couldn’t find the will to care.

  There was no awkwardness. No shame. No discomfort.

  Only shivers. Delightful shivers.

  The pace of his caresses became agonizing and almost too slow, too gentle, and she wished he would move faster, wished his hands would grasp her . . . fondle her a bit harder. She wasn’t glass. She wanted him to squeeze her flesh again as he just had done on her thigh.

  She wanted more of that.

  More of him and his magical hands.

  “Next I might free you of these.” There was no might about it. He quickly untied the waistband of her drawers, tugging them down her legs in one smooth move and tossing them aside. They landed above her head on her bed of stone. “And then I’ll have you spread gloriously in front of me, so I can touch you and feast on you . . .”

  Her entire body was humming and vibrating like it was possessed. It did not even belong to her anymore. It belonged to him. And she didn’t even care about that—she was too overcome with the onslaught of his attentions to worry about that.

  She flinched as his hand grazed the folds of her womanhood and he stilled, his e
yes quickly scanning her face, reading her quick wave of tension. He retreated, moving his hand back to her thigh, stroking and kneading her flesh, winding her up again until she was panting. Until a gnawing ache pulsed between her legs.

  His velvety voice continued near her ear, spiking fresh chills down her neck. “I would lavish kisses on all this sweet skin. Like this.”

  He dropped down, and she sighed in pleasure at the lingering kiss he bestowed on the inside of one knee, and then the other.

  Yes. Pleasure. She felt it. Just as he had promised.

  Just as he said he could deliver.

  She continued to feel that pleasure as he settled between her legs and began raining kisses all over her thighs. Everywhere. The insides. The outsides. The undersides. He rolled her over and kissed the back of her knees—openmouthed kisses where his tongue licked her sensitive skin. Skin she never knew was so sensitive.

  She was a wreck, discomposed and panting, flattening her palms against the cool stone.

  “I’ll kiss and touch you . . . all over.” His hands drifted up the backs of her thighs, his broad palms finding the bared cheeks of her bottom, smoothing over the plump flesh and squeezing. The pressure sent her over the edge. She moaned, tilting her hips, pushing up into his hands, brazen and shameless and not the least bit self-conscious because it felt too good.

  Even with her small bit of experience all those summers ago, she never knew that intimacy could be like this, that it could be so . . . intimate.

  He gripped both cheeks, kneading and massaging, sending sensation blasting through her. Her back arched and her fingers curled, nails digging into rock.

  Moisture rushed between her legs and her moans broke into a hoarse, rattled cry that did not sound like her. It did not even sound human. She was something else, another creature born of primeval need and fierce desire.

  He rolled her over. She fell limply onto her back, her bones reduced to pudding. She chased after her breath as little ripples of sensation eddied through her.

  His hands slid around her hips and dragged her closer, bringing her to him like a feast to be devoured.

  She lifted her head weakly, attempting to peer down at him.

  His face was there, between her thighs, his gray eyes as dark and feral as a beast intent on its next meal, and that meal was Imogen. It was as disconcerting as it was thrilling. Her hand lunged for his head, her fingers diving into his thick hair.

  “What are you . . .” She stopped abruptly, shivering as she felt his warm breath lightly blowing on her.

  She squirmed and fidgeted, aware of how very wet she was down there—and that he could see that for himself. Mortified, she opened her mouth and choked out, “You should not do this.” Men did not do this sort of thing. People did not do this. Did they?

  He stilled, the breeze of his breath halting as he spoke. “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “It’s . . .” She groped for the proper word and settled for the truth. “Embarrassing.”

  “Embarrassing?” he echoed, surprise lacing his voice. “There’s nothing embarrassing about this pretty quim.” He stroked a finger down her exposed flesh and she whimpered. “Or all the things I want to do to it.”

  She moistened her lips. Curious. Intrigued. Tempted.

  “Like what?” she heard herself ask, the question coming from some place deep inside herself where secrets and long-buried longings dwelled.

  What was she doing asking such a thing? It was practically an invitation.

  She was inviting him . . . this boy she once despised who was now a man that she . . . well. She did not know what she felt for him now. It was suddenly very complicated.

  “Like this,” he answered.

  Then his head went down, and his face was there, buried between her quivering thighs, his mouth directly on her, hot and ravenous, devouring her.

  “Oh. My!” She arched her spine, using the flat of her palm to push up off her rock bed.

  He flattened his hand on her abdomen, pinning her for his hungry mouth. The pressure of his lips and tongue on her was too much. His tongue was everywhere. Taking deep sliding licks on her sex, slow and savoring, before arrowing in on the little bud nestled at the top of her mound.

  She had noticed it was sensitive before—when washing herself, but she had never given herself to exploration before. Clearly she should have done so because it was a marvelous button of flesh.

  She cried out as his mouth landed on it, grazing with his teeth, flicking it with his tongue and then sucking deep until stars erupted behind her eyes and a fresh rush of moisture met his mouth.

  He moaned in approval as she cried out, incoherent words bubbling up from her throat as a climax ripped over her. She gripped his head, her fingers tight in his hair, her legs splayed indecently wide for his head and shoulders.

  He continued consuming her, his head bobbing relentlessly, pumping between her hands as his mouth devoured her.

  “Mr. Butler,” she pleaded.

  “Perry,” he growled, grinding his mouth deeper against her. The vibration of his name on her only sent her desire twisting higher.

  “Perry,” she gasped, her head lolling on hard granite. “Perry . . . Perry, Perry!”

  She could do nothing as another swell overtook her, bigger than the one before. Tears rolled from her eyes as his mouth continued to hum and suck against her sex.

  She writhed beneath him, seeking relief, an end to the delicious torment. It was elusive, but near. “I can’t—” Her words died on a shriek.

  He eased a finger inside her wet channel. Her inner muscles welcomed him, clenching around him as though welcoming him home. He curled his finger inward, stroking at some invisible patch of flesh while his tongue simultaneously laved and drew that little nub of pleasure into his mouth.

  That was all it took.

  She flew over the edge. A great wave crashed and broke free inside her and she was sobbing, shaking as she floated back down. Lethargy stole over her body. She melted into a puddle on the slab of rock.

  He withdrew from between her legs, pulling her skirts back down.

  He joined her on the rock, lying on his back beside her. “I told you.”

  Her blissful euphoria dissipated. She turned her head to look at him.

  His countenance was one of supreme satisfaction and she felt a twinge of disquiet at that expression on his too-handsome face.

  “You told me?” she queried.

  “Yes. I know about the giving of pleasure.”

  His words dropped like rocks in her stomach. “So this was merely a . . . lesson?”

  Mortifying heat rushed into her face. Well, he had done a splendid job making his point. She felt like a fool and had to resist the sudden urge to slap him. She curled her fingers into a fist, her nails cutting into her palms. Violence was never right.

  He frowned, reading her expression and suddenly looking uncertain. “I . . .”

  She did not wait for him to make up his mind about what to say next. She sat up abruptly, snatched her discarded drawers and scooted away from him, dropping down off the slab of stone with a slight oomft.

  He said her name sharply. “Imogen.”

  She looked up at him, resentment riding high in her chest. “Thank you for the lesson. You are quite right. You do have something to offer. You proved your point quite skillfully. So much so, in fact, that I will make amends and put an end to all rumors at once.”

  He blinked. “You will?”

  She nodded jerkily. Anything to put a stop to these interactions. Anything to send you on your way, back to sniffing at debutantes and paying me no mind.

  “I will.” Somehow. “Your bride-to-be is indeed lucky.” She said that last bit with a heavy dose of scathing mockery . . . and a gnawing ache forming at the center of her chest.

  His mouth opened and closed. Clearly he was at a loss for words.

  Good.

  She turned and left him like that. A haddock groping for words.

  She star
ted for home with a heavy sense of satisfaction at having the last word. There was that at least.

  It was too soon to return to her house, but perhaps she could slip in through the back door and sneak into her bedchamber. Mrs. Garry would cover for her if necessary. Although coming face-to-face with Winifred and her husband no longer struck her as that horrible anymore. After what just transpired, it hardly seemed significant. Who cared what happened years ago? She had greater concerns in her life.

  Shaking her head, she found a discreet place to stop and slip her drawers back on beneath her skirts. She tied the drawstrings with angry movements, telling herself this would never happen again.

  First a kiss. Now this? It was beyond scandalous.

  Clearly she needed to give Perry—no, Mr. Butler—a wide berth. He was looking for a wife and . . . well, she was not on the market.

  Even if she was on the market, she would never meet his criteria. She blinked suddenly burning eyes and took a moment to rub at the center of her chest, wondering at the spreading discomfort there.

  She would do as she promised and set matters right, clearing the path for him so that he could court all the blasted heiresses of Shropshire to his heart’s content. He would have what he wanted. Somehow she would restore his reputation and then she could continue with her life as though none of this had ever happened.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I will make it right.

  Imogen repeated this mantra over and over in her mind as she marched from her house into the village with purposeful strides the following day.

  She had promised Perry—Mr. Butler—and she intended to keep her word.

  She had permitted herself to get carried away. She fully realized that now. Her hurt feelings in the past and overzealous need to protect the women of Shropshire had overruled her good sense and morals. She winced. She was no great arbiter of justice, and yet she had told herself she was right and he deserved all of her judgment and every bit of misfortune to befall him. That was its own form of transgression. One would think a vicar’s daughter would know better and be more generous in spirit. Apparently no one was immune from turpitude.

  Undoing what she had done was the correct thing to do. Not only for him, but for herself. Her conscience longed for that relief.