The Duke's Daring Debutante. Ann Lethbridge

he held her so firmly, so powerfully within one arm. She could not resist the hard, strong feel of his chest against her breasts or the pressure of his thigh between her legs. Such a sweet, painful ache.

      She parted her lips to the flick of his tongue and revelled in the way he stroked the inside of her mouth. So stirring, so exciting. So achingly perfect.

      He released her wrist and held her close while his mouth and tongue worked their magic. His hand went to her breast, his thumb seeking the hardened peak. A groan rumbled up from his chest.

      She made a small sound of longing, knowing the pleasures he could bring with his touch. Her head spun with the sensation of the kiss, the sensation of his hand languorously learning the shape of her breast and teasing at her nipple through the thin layers of fabric. Her insides became all liquid fire and exquisite tension.

      She wanted...him. His hardness, inside her. She wanted the vast pleasure a man could bring to a woman, not the pale imitation she achieved in her lonely bed.

      As if he knew her inner thoughts and needs, he backed her up until she was pressed against the book shelves. The hand at her back slipped down over her buttocks, his fingers rucking up her skirts, while his other hand continued to caress her breasts, attending to each in turn.

      She trembled at the promise of delight. Shook with need as the cool air in the room hit her naked flesh above her stockings. The gown now bunched high behind her back, his fingers, those long clever fingers dipped into the crevasse between her buttocks, tickling and teasing and promising. He withdrew his tongue from her mouth, and she followed it, licking and tasting, tangling with his tongue. And then he sucked.

      Her knees gave way at the salacious sensation rippling through her body. Her inner muscles clenched, squeezing and begging for the bliss his body could bring.

      She wanted all he could give her and he knew it.

      He widened his stance. Unable to resist, she reached between them, cupped him between the legs, found the hard ridge of his arousal and the softness beneath. She caressed him with all her skill, squeezing and rubbing until he groaned into her mouth.

      Heady triumph shot through her as he broke free, his breathing as loud and uneven as hers.

      He pushed one hand deep into the neckline of her low gown, his warm palm meeting bare, hot flesh, grazing across her thrusting nipple.

      His other hand brushed her questing fingers away and cupped the hot flesh between her thighs. She rocked into his palm, increasing the pleasure of his touch tenfold.

      So delicious. So unutterably, exquisitely pleasurable. Yet not nearly enough. She wanted him as she hadn’t wanted any other man since Pierre’s betrayal, perhaps even more. ‘S’il vous plaît,’ she whispered in his ear, and felt him shudder at the whisper of her breath across his skin. And the words. The words had such meaning. They spoke of mutual pleasure. Of pleasing. Of wanting.

      And how she did want. It had been so long.

      His hand left her body to tear at the buttons on his falls. ‘I want your breasts,’ he said thickly, as if he, too, warred with a hunger so great it could not be denied.

      ‘Ties at the back,’ she gasped, longing to feel his mouth and tongue hot and wet on her nipples.

      He spun her around, his arousal now pressed against the dip in her buttocks, rocking into her, making her moan with each forward push of his hips, while his hands dealt with the laces of her bodice and then her stays. She reached behind her and cupped him, making him draw in a hiss of breath that caused her insides to quiver with blissful anticipation.

      Bodice undone, he brought her around to face him, stepping aside to let the subdued light of the candle play over her breasts. Full and proud, the nipples, dark rose and hard with excitement, jutted towards him, seeking his touch. His gaze travelled to the juncture of her thighs. She knew he must see the evidence of her desire, even as she gazed in longing at his own readiness.

      ‘Lovely,’ he said, hoarsely.

      She licked her lips.

      He covered her with his body and kissed her full and hard, while he took himself in hand in preparation for entry.

      ‘Oh,’ a female voice cried.

      Freddy cursed, froze, looking down into her face. His eyes widened as if with realisation. He shook his head in disbelief and horror. ‘You little fool,’ he whispered. ‘What in the devil’s name have you done?’

       Chapter Three

      Why the hell hadn’t he locked the door? He should have guessed she’d do something to force his hand. A typical female trick. Freddy fastened his buttons and turned to face the intruder, shielding Minette from view as much as was possible. Behind him, he heard the rustle of the adjustment of clothing.

      He glared at the young woman in white hovering on the threshold, light spilling in a wide arc into the room. A woman he didn’t know, of pale complexion and mousy brown hair. Fortunately the light from the corridor did not reach fully across the room, though the candle gave enough light to reveal their embrace, if not the details. ‘You required something?’

      The girl, whose pallid face was clearly visible, gulped, her eyes round. ‘Oh, no. I was looking for someone. Miss Rideau. She had torn her gown and I thought to offer my pins. Someone said they saw her enter the library. Please, excuse me.’

      She started to close the door. God. They were going to get away with it. He moved towards the door to lock it.

      ‘What are you doing here, Priscilla?’ A male voice. ‘The ballroom is at the other end of this corridor.’

      The young woman turned to look at whoever had spoken. ‘I was looking for the withdrawing room, Papa. I missed my way.’

      ‘Not meeting someone, are you, my girl?’ The door swung back.

      Freddy swallowed a curse as he faced an irate-faced gentleman. Lord Sparshott, if he recalled correctly.

      ‘Good God,’ the other man said, his face turning turkey red. ‘Priscilla—’ He halted, and Freddy knew the man had no illusions about what he was seeing.

      Sparshott grabbed his daughter’s hand. ‘Come away. This is no place for a decent gel.’

      ‘I don’t see why not,’ Freddy said, hoping like hell Minette had herself decently covered. ‘I am sure you and your daughter would like to be the first to congratulate Mademoiselle Rideau and me on our betrothal.’

      The other man snorted and bowed stiffly. ‘My commiserations, mademoiselle. Come, child.’ He stalked off with his daughter in tow. Just before she disappeared she glanced back over her shoulder. Freddy had the distinct impression there was regret in her eyes.

      He closed the door. Hell and damnation, there was no key. Had she planned that, too? He swung around to face her, to assess the full extent of the damage. Thank God she was decently covered, if a bit dishevelled. At a quick glance one could assume it was no more than a kiss they had been sharing in the dark. The dull throb of an arousal denied served to increase his fury.

      ‘You did it on purpose.’ He kept his expression cool, his emotions under guard. Now was not the time to express his anger.

      ‘I did not,’ she snapped back, her eyes flashing fire.

      A fire he would like to have put to better use than an argument, but it was far too late. He was dished. Done up. Betrothed, when he had planned never to marry.

      ‘Turn around.’

      Her jaw dropped. ‘Are you going to—?’

      ‘No, I’m bloody well not. I’m going to see you properly laced and back into the ballroom. We have to break the good news to Gabe and Nicky before the gossip gets out of hand.’

      ‘Oh.’

      Damn it, had that been disappointment