The Last Duke

  “Teach me how to please you,” she urged, caressing his hot skin with feather-light strokes.

  That did it. “Later.” He swept her into his arms, crossed the sitting room in four long strides. “Much later. Right now, I can’t even make it to a bed.”

  He paused at the sofa, bending to seize the row of brocade cushions,” which he tossed, one by one, to the floor. Lowering Daphne to the makeshift bed, he followed her down, covering her with himself. “I’m going to make love to you until neither of us can breathe,” he vowed against her parted lips. Lifting her head, he spread her tawny tresses out like a golden fan beneath them, tracing his fingers down the sides of her neck, her shoulders, absorbing each delicate shiver with a fierce sense of satisfaction as new to him as the frenzy pounding through his veins. His mouth left hers, blazing a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses down her throat, the upper slope of her breasts. He slid his arm beneath her, lining her into his kisses and simultaneously tearing each hook of her gown from its casing until only her chemise stood between him and the treasure he craved.

  He made quick work of that, tugging down both gown and undergarment, freeing first one arm then the other, lifting them to clasp about his neck. “You’re beautiful,” he breathed, baring her breasts to his gaze, his touch. “So bloody, incomparably beautiful.” He watched her breath come faster, her nipples tightening beneath his heated gaze. Slowly, slowly, he lowered his head, surrounding one peak with his mouth, teasing it with his tongue.

  Daphne cried out, arching reflexively, her fingers gliding through the rough silk of his hair.

  Pierce deepened his caress, tugging and releasing until he was nearly wild, consumed by her taste and scent, her harsh pleas for more. He raised his head, panting, watching her flushed face, the look of wonder in her eyes.

  “Don’t stop.” Daphne shifted restlessly, unconsciously beckoning him forward, urging him toward her other breast.

  Instantly, he answered her plea, stroking the pad of his thumb over her sensitized nipple once, twice, finally bending to taste this breast as he had the other.

  Suddenly, unbearably, it wasn’t enough—not for either of them.

  Vaulting to his feet, Pierce kicked off his boots, shedding his coat, open shirt, and waistcoat with the same predatory grace that accompanied all his actions. He dropped to his knees, easing Daphne’s gown down and off, taking her chemise, stockings and petticoats with it.

  Seconds later, she was naked, lying before him like an exquisite, ethereal goddess.

  Nervously, Daphne stirred, watching his burning gaze lick over her, torn between the desire to cover herself and the equally powerful desire to launch herself into his arms.

  Pierce met her stare. “You’re flawless, Mrs. Thornton,” he whispered roughly. Sensing her uncertainty, he reached out, took her hands in his. “See how I’m shaking?” he murmured, letting her feel the tremors of desire quivering through him. “I’m like an untried schoolboy. That’s the effect you have on me.” He kissed her palms. “Don’t pull away, Snow flame. If I don’t have you, I’ll die.”

  “Oh, Pierce.” She freed her hands, glided them up his chest to his shoulders. “I feel as if I were dying now. I ache so.”

  “Do you?” He stretched out beside her, gathering her close, intentionally rubbing her sensitized breasts against his chest, reveling in her moan of pleasure, her hard shudder. “God, I love the way you respond to me.” He kissed her again, melding their tongues, their breath, beginning an intimate rhythm meant to drive them both out of their minds.

  He succeeded.

  Feeling Daphne undulate against him, Pierce devoured her with his hands, caressing her hips, her legs, the satiny skin of her inner thighs with strokes of fire, his control dangling precariously by a thread.

  Unaware she was doing so, Daphne shredded that thread into tatters, instinctively parting her thighs and offering him the very core of all he craved.

  His fingers found her, wet and warm and so breathtakingly ready for him it annihilated all reason from his mind. He entered her with one finger, groaning aloud at the clinging resistance. “So damned tight,” he rasped, easing another finger in, stretching her gently to accommodate his penetration. “So excruciatingly tight and hot and—” He broke off, unable to continue.

  “Is that bad?” Daphne gasped, inadvertently gripping his fingers inside her. “Because I can’t help—”

  “Christ.” Pierce pulled away only long enough to shed the rest of his clothes. “No, it’s not bad. It’s perfect. You’re perfect.” He was already settling himself in the cradle of her thighs. “You need more time, more preparation. I can’t give them to you.” He braced himself on his forearms, easing into her beckoning warmth. “Daphne, I’ve got to be inside you. I’m going to—” He threw back his head, groaning as he felt her inner muscles expand, stretch to accommodate him. “I’m going to hurt you, Snow flame. And I swore I wouldn’t.” He went deeper, his hips moving rhythmically with a will all their own. “Take me—now. God I’m sorry. Daphne—” In one inexorable thrust, he entered her, feeling her maidenhead give beneath the onslaught, burying himself deep, deep inside her.

  Daphne cried out, a brief instant of sharp pain vanishing into a sense of fullness, converging with the overwhelming realization that Pierce was inside her.

  Emotion, vast and fervent, surged to life, annihilating all traces of discomfort, transforming to wonder as Pierce began to move within her. Hard and fast, his powerful body drove forward, again and again, the taut muscles of his back contracting with each plunging thrust.

  “Move with me,” he rasped, lifting her legs about his waist. “Christ, Daphne, I can’t stop.”

  Immersed in her husband’s passion, impaled by his power, Daphne rose to meet him, clutching him to her, pulling him deeper, deeper each time, physical pleasure coiling so tight inside her she thought she’d die.

  “Yes,” Pierce growled in her ear, gripping her bottom and hauling her up, hard, until she cried out his name. “Just like that. Again. Yes, like that. Ah, God, Daphne.”

  A red haze exploded inside his head, toppling all his self-protective walls, stripping away any semblance of control he ever had. Driven by compulsion and yearning, he buried himself in his wife, groaning her name as he drove them closer and closer to the shattering brink of sensation.

  “Pierce.” Daphne dug her nails in his back, overwhelmed by the unknown pressure escalating inside her, threatening to tear her apart. “I—”

  “Yes.” Feeling the coiled tension take over Daphne’s body, the frantic clenching of her slick passage around him, Pierce knew far better than his wife where she hovered, how close she was to the raging vortex they sought. He moved up higher, intentionally angling his body to stroke her, inside and out, on his next downward thrust. Watching her fevered expression, he drove forward, relentlessly opening her, stretching her, caressing his full length against her most sensitive, throbbing core.

  The world came apart.

  Daphne screamed, unraveling in a series of pulsing spasms that wrenched at her, tossing her into euphoric sensations too acute to withstand—and gripping Pierce with fingers of fire too lethal to endure.

  Withdrawal was unthinkable.

  With a feral roar, Pierce erupted, plunging, deep, his seed exploding from his body into hers in an endless torrent. Crushing Daphne into him, he surrendered totally, meeting each of her contractions with a scalding burst of fire, pouring his very soul into the mouth of her womb.

  Then all was still, their harsh breathing the only audible sound in the room.

  Pierce recovered first.

  “Damn it,” he breathed, stunned by his unprecedented total lack of control. With what little strength he had left, he raised his head. “Snow flame—are you all right?”

  Her eyes closed, Daphne smiled. “You tell me. Am I?”

  Contentment, as unique as his passion, washed over Pierce in great, wondrous waves, and he rolled over on the cushions, taking Daphne with him. “No,”
he murmured, cradling her in his arms, “you’re not all right. You’re magnificent.”

  “I return the compliment.” She nuzzled his throat. “Just as I suspected—heaven.”

  Tenderness spawned guilt. “I intended to leave you before—”

  “I didn’t intend to let you,” she interrupted, smiling against his damp skin. “It was too beautiful to experience alone. I wanted you with me.”

  “I’ve never lost control like that,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “Hell, I couldn’t have left you if there had been a gun to my head.”

  “You can lose control with me, Pierce,” she whispered. “I know it’s a risk you’ve never taken. But with me, there’s no risk at all. I’ll never hurt you.”

  Pierce didn’t answer. The tensing of his muscles was Daphne’s only indication that he’d heard her.

  “We should get some sleep,” he said at last. “Tomorrow we’ll go to Tragmore and collect your things.”

  A tremor of fear shot through her. “We?”

  “We.”

  “But Father—”

  “I’ll deal with your father.” He reached over, seizing his coat and draping its woolen warmth around them. “But I won’t leave you here as ready prey for his venom. At least at Tragmore, I’ll be beside you, should he attack. And trust me, Daphne,” Pierce’s mouth thinned into a grim line, “the marquis won’t overstep his bounds with me.”

  “He’s terrified of you.”

  “He should be. I own him.”

  Daphne blinked. “What does that mean?”

  “It means that his outstanding notes far exceed his wealth. It means that every asset he owns belongs to the holder of those notes, which, as luck would have it, happens to be me.” Pierce’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “It means that I’m the spider and he the fly.”

  “Of course.” Daphne nodded, realization illuminating her face. “That would explain everything: Father’s monetary worries, his rigidity with the staff, and his utter dread and hatred of you. Do you plan to ruin him?” She sounded more curious than concerned.

  “Would you care?”

  “That depends on how you do it. And why.”

  “Witnessing his mistreatment of you today—that in itself would have been reason enough.”

  That look of wonder returned to Daphne’s eyes. “I never imagined I could feel so safe, or that anyone would care enough about me to ensure that I was.”

  Pierce tangled his hands in her hair, brushing her lips tenderly with his. “As I said, Snow flame, no one will ever hurt you again.” He looked away, his laugh self-deprecating. “That’s a ludicrous statement, coming from me, isn’t it? Considering I myself just hurt you not ten minutes past.”

  “No, you didn’t. You evoked sensations within me too glorious to describe. If a split second of pain was the prelude to that splendor, it was a small price to pay.”

  The tenderness reappeared on Pierce’s face. “Next time, I’ll prolong your pleasure, make it better for you. I promise.”

  “It couldn’t be any better.” She wrapped her arms about his neck. “But, speaking of promises, I distinctly recall your vowing to teach me how to please you. Also something about making love to me until neither of us could breathe.” Her smile was radiant. “Well, so far as I can see, we’re both still breathing, are we not?”

  With a half laugh, half groan, Pierce pulled her over him, covering her teasing mouth with his. “Not for long, Snow flame. Not for long.”

  14

  DAPHNE SLEPT LIKE A contented child, curled trustingly in her husband’s arms.

  Pierce sifted his fingers through her hair, staring at the ceiling, lost in thought.

  Today had been a monumental day, a series of events exploding one after the other, leaving no time for assessment.

  He’d begun the day determined to make Daphne his betrothed. Instead, he’d made her his wife.

  Overall, the outcome was a vast relief. He’d, removed her from Tragmore’s poisonous hands, legally taken over responsibility for her protection and safety, and ensured that she was his, in body and fact, for the rest of their lives.

  The problem was that, in effecting the unplanned immediacy of their wedding, he’d allowed himself no time for preparation in certain critical areas. For example, how was he going to deal with Daphne’s questions about his plans for her father? How much was he going to relate of the part Tragmore had played in his past?

  And last, but most important, was the delicate matter of his other life. How was he going to incorporate the nocturnal activities of the Tin Cup Bandit with marriage to a very bright, very curious young woman?

  Pondering Daphne’s heroic view of the bandit, Pierce had to grin. Doubtless, she’d be thrilled to learn she was wed to the masked marauder of the rich, that the two men she was drawn to were, in fact, one and the same. No, Pierce was quite certain he needn’t fear his wife’s condemnation, should she discover the truth. Nor had he any reservations as to her loyalty. She would keep his secret unconditionally and proudly, applauding him each time the bandit embarked on a nightly excursion.

  Nevertheless, he couldn’t—wouldn’t—tell her. The danger was too great. He, better than anyone, recognized the risk he took each time he invaded a nobleman’s home. But, for him, it was a risk well worth taking, assumed with the absolute fearlessness spawned by having lived in hell and survived. Now he was coldly unthreatened by anything life might dole out.

  No, it was one thing for him to defy the law, challenge the odds, and, someday inevitably lose. But not Daphne. Never Daphne.

  Although his innocent wife had demonstrated herself to be quite resourceful for an amateur, Pierce reflected. He stifled a chuckle as he relived the scene in Thompson’s store. Daphne had managed to locate just the right man: a somewhat shady though reputedly high-paying jeweler. Then, she’d determinedly held out for the best price she could get for her brooch.

  And all so the parish children could eat.

  Pierce’s smile vanished, a tidal wave of emotion engulfing his heart. Until Daphne, he’d never witnessed such selflessness, never even believed it existed. But exist it did. He was holding the proof of it in his arms.

  Christ, these feelings were more than he’d anticipated, Pierce admitted to himself, gazing down at his sleeping wife. He’d perceived the wealth of spirit and passion burning within her from the moment they’d met, but he hadn’t perceived how profoundly their emergence would affect him, especially in bed.

  Bed? That was a laugh. They’d never even made it past the sitting room.

  From dusk till dawn he’d made love to her, drowning in the relentless passion that welled up between them when they touched, devouring her, again and again, until exhaustion compelled them to sleep. Even then, he’d drifted off for but an hour, awakening to the scent and feel of her, his body achingly aroused before he’d even opened his eyes.

  It was damned disconcerting.

  Never in his wildest dreams had Pierce imagined either the staggering intensity of their lovemaking or his own decimated self-control. A control, he reminded himself grimly, that he’d never regained throughout their long, torrid hours together. In truth, he’d abandoned all thought of withdrawal. Pouring himself into Daphne was both celebration and compulsion, as natural and necessary to him as breathing.

  He buried his lips in her hair, watching narrow slices of dawn peak through the drapes. In a short while he’d have to awaken her to talk. They had much to accomplish today: moving Daphne to Markham, providing safe living arrangements for her mother, facing Tragmore, and establishing ground rules the bastard wouldn’t violate.

  Devising those rules and resolving how much of the past to tell Daphne were Pierce’s current dilemmas.

  Dilemmas he needed to resolve posthaste.

  Daphne stirred, frowning at the abrasiveness of her bedcovers. She shifted, seeking a softer spot, and was startled into wakefulness by the fervent protest of her aching muscles.

  Memory exploded l
ike fireworks.

  Pushing herself up on one elbow, Daphne tossed her hair back and surveyed the room with sleepy disorientation, searching for Pierce.

  She spotted him not ten feet away, clad only in his trousers, staring intently out the window.

  “Pierce?”

  He turned, a tender look in his eyes. “Good morning, Snow flame. I was just about to awaken you.”

  “How long have you been up?” Daphne asked, attempting to wrap his coat about her.

  “A while.” Pierce stooped to retrieve his shirt. “I believe you’ll find this more comfortable.”

  “Thank you.” Daphne shrugged into it and rose, buttoning the shirt as she came to stand beside her husband. “Are you all right?”

  A corner of Pierce’s mouth lifted, and he feathered his fingers through her disheveled mane. “I believe that question belongs to me.”

  Daphne blushed. “I’m fine. A bit tender, but fine.” Her smile was shy. “More than that, actually.”

  “I’m glad.” He cupped her face, brushed his mouth gently across hers. “Although I fear our wedding night was as unconventional as our wedding. I apologize. The least I could have done was carried you to my bed.”

  “I rather liked our makeshift bed—and the urgency that precluded us from leaving it,” Daphne confessed.

  Pierce’s eyes darkened. “I wanted you again. The moment I awoke, in fact.”

  “Then why didn’t you—?”

  “You needed your rest. As it is, I overtaxed your poor body beyond its endurance.”

  “I have no complaints. Neither does my body.”

  Pierce chuckled, stroking her cheek bones. “There will be other nights, Snow flame. Countless ones. I promise.”

  “But for today there is reality,” Daphne concluded, sobering as she interpreted his unspoken words.

  “Yes,” he agreed solemnly. “For today there is reality.”

  “Pierce,” Daphne took a deep breath, plunging right in, “we have much to discuss. To begin with, I’m concerned about going to Tragmore. Father is brutally angry. I’m afraid of what he might do.”