This Duchess of Mine

“Jemma,” he said hoarsely.



She raised her arms and began pulling pins from her hair. It fell around her shoulders and below, the shining sleek color of old gold. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his life. She would have made Apollo cry with desire.



Lust slammed into him along with an urgent, male, possessive claim. She was his, damn it. She was his wife, and he hadn’t had her, hadn’t been with her, hadn’t taken her—



He tossed off his wig. He wrenched off his coat and threw it on the bench behind him, pulling his shirt over his head—



Caught sight of her fascinated eyes through his lifted arms. He stayed there for a moment, arms crossed over his head, one hand holding his shirt.



“I truly have to stay on my side of the baths?” he asked. Elijah looked down at himself. Taking vigorous exercise at the boxing salon made him feel better after long nights of useless talk. So he supposed that his chest was more muscled than those of many gentlemen.



And…it seemed she liked that. Jemma’s mouth was a perfect ruby circle. He bent over, slowly, and pulled off his boots.



“I should take everything off?”



She nodded.



“Everything?”



She cleared her throat. Damn, but he was enjoying this. “Everything,” she said firmly.



“But you haven’t.”



She looked down at herself as if she’d forgotten that her body existed. “I thought I’d wear my chemise,” she said, and then looked at him again.



“Then I suppose I could wear my breeches.”



He unbuttoned the top button of his waistband, watched her eyes. There were some wonderful things about having been married so long. One was that neither of them was a virgin.



“You’ve changed!” she blurted out.



He unbuttoned another button, lazily. “How so?”



She sketched a shape in the air. “I know the shape of your body. I know you, Elijah. I could—for years I could feel the shape of your shoulder, and your hip, in my fingertips.



His desire cooled for a moment, iced by regret. “God, I’m—”



But she overrode him. “But now you’re so much—so much larger. Your shoulders…your height. You must be—”



The stab of guilt in his heart was gone and he was laughing, laughing at the surprise in her voice, at the potent thread of desire in her eyes, at the way she was staring at him.



He undid the fourth and last button. “Aren’t you curious about the rest of me?”



“You may undress,” she said regally. A wave of steam rose from the pool and turned her into a nymph, glimmering in her white chemise.



He waited until the air was clear, until she could see every movement of his hands. Then he pulled off his stockings and turned his back.



She made a little muffled sound, and he turned around again, hands still on his breeches. “Did you say something?”



“No…” She was laughing too, but the laughter rode on a wrenching wave of desire. He turned his back again. “Yes! Don’t do that!”



This time he turned with his pantaloons wrenched down just a bit. He knew the front was tented. And he knew that when it came to male equipment, his was larger than most.



“How long were we together, all those years ago?” he asked her.



She dragged her gaze from his front. “Two weeks? Three?” One shoulder rose.



“I think it was more. A month, perhaps.”



“I’m sure there’s one part of your body that hasn’t changed,” she said, one corner of her mouth quirking up in a wicked smile.



But he felt as if he had. As if the very sight of her turned him mad with lust. And he’d never been mad with lust. Not for his young wife whom he hardly knew. Not for Sarah Cobbett, his unimaginative, if reliable, mistress.



“Don’t stop now,” Jemma called, and there was something in that throaty call that shook loose a different Elijah than the man he knew.



He let his eyes range over her, linger on her breasts. Then he hitched down his pantaloons again, pulling his smalls with them. He knew she was watching, so he put his hand down his front and gave himself a slow caress.



He heard a gasp of laughter from the other side of the pool and met the eyes of his wife, felt that roaring, purring rage of lust through his body again. He had waited a long time to feel that, and perhaps its strength was ten times greater for the wait. He kicked off his pantaloons and stood there, letting her see what his side of the marriage brought her. Wondering, if the truth be told, about those famed affaires she had had while living in Paris. Two, he had heard, or perhaps three.



He thought, at the time, that it was her revenge, and her right. He had destroyed her dignity and her faith. She had the right to do the same. But she’d chosen puny fellows to have affaires with, men who would never challenge her on any front.



Jemma pulled her gaze away without saying anything and began testing the water with her foot, one slender toe poking into the warm water.



“Not in your chemise, I would hope?”



She didn’t listen, of course. Jemma was unlikely ever to listen if the advice went against what she wanted to do. He waited while she walked down the steps into the bath, enjoying the curve of her hips, the pink glow of her skin, the way he could dimly see cloth clinging to her legs as she went deeper.



To his disappointment, she sat down on a middle step, the water swirling around her waist. The tips of her hair, thrown back over her shoulders, trailed in the water.



He moved down his flight of stairs. The water was as warm as a baby’s bath. It was unfortunate that in his state of lust even the gentle lap of the water drove him into more of a fever.



“Jemma,” he said hoarsely.



“Yes?” She was leaning back against the steps now. Her white shift was turning transparent as the wavelets touched it. He could see her long slender legs sprawled on the steps, slightly askew. It was enough to make his blood pound in his chest.



Now the water was lapping at her breasts.



“So I stay on my side of the pool, and you stay on yours,” he said.



“Yes.”



“But I came here to know you better.”



She opened her eyes, and the look in them should have been outlawed, just for the better good of all mankind. “We can talk,” she suggested.



“Jesus,” he muttered.



“You go ahead,” she said.



“What?” He felt drugged, as if the air was disappearing from the pool.



“Teach me something about yourself,” she said. Her voice was soft but her gaze scorched him, lingering, admiring.



“Jesus,” he said. But his hand moved toward himself.



Fascinated, she lost her position for a moment and slid deeper into the water, just enough so her breasts were submerged. She pulled herself out, but the cloth had turned transparent, painted onto her body.



Elijah didn’t want to be touching himself. He wanted to be touching her. He couldn’t stop looking under the water, at the shadow between her long graceful legs. His hands slid down his body.



“Can we come back here whenever we please?” he asked.



She seemed so fascinated by his hands that it took her a moment to respond. Then she lifted her eyes to his, and he nearly grinned to see that they’d turned smoky. His polished, sophisticated duchess was gone, leaving a woman whose cheeks were stained rosy and her eyes dark with desire, rather than by cosmetic art.