he had kissed him.
And it had been inexperienced. Not at all artful. No hint of seduction. No teasing. Daisy’s mouth had simply turned to his, seeking. But if anything, her approach had only made the beast raging inside him hunger for more. And so, he’d met her halfway, claiming, obliging her.
He’d thrust his tongue into her mouth, moaning his appreciation for her boldness, his hand fisting her skirts of its own volition and raising them higher. Up, past her knees, almost to her thighs. He found his way back into the inviting warmth of her bodice where the fullness of her breast made him long for more.
He’d caught her lower lip between his teeth and bit. He’d almost been to the sweet slit in her drawers, his tongue taking her mouth the way he longed to claim her cunny, his fingers skimming past stockings and satin ribbons, over soft thighs she parted just for him. And then another knock had come at the door. Giles again. Ever discreet. Ever circumspect.
It was a final warning. To postpone the servants yet again would set tongues belowstairs wagging more than they already had. He and Daisy were newly wed and allowed some latitude. But calling for a twenty-minute break followed by another, followed by only-the-Lord-knew-what was testing the bounds of propriety more than he ought to do, and even Sebastian knew that. There was also the concern, nipping at him, that Carlisle’s eyes and ears could be among his domestics.
With a final, thorough kiss and a tweak of the sweet, tight bud of her nipple, he had withdrawn. The willpower required to disengage himself from her had been proportionate to the size of his cock, both of which had rendered his sudden retreat back to his seat a decidedly painful endeavor.
They’d blithely moved on to the next course, feigning an unaffected air that was as honest as paste gems on an actress’s throat. Filet de bouef sauce Madère aux haricots verts, as it happened. It was the first time in Sebastian’s life that he’d had a perfectly cooked steak on his plate and hadn’t wanted to eat a goddamn bite.
Because all he wanted—the only bloody nourishment that would satisfy him—was the gorgeous, unpredictable, untrustworthy woman he’d been forced to marry. How the hell had Carlisle ever imagined he could marry a goddess like Daisy Vanreid off to a man, whether he be a loyal, oath-swearing member of the League or no, without her tempting him to ruination?
Sebastian had a glass of whisky in hand now as he stared at the door adjoining his chamber to hers, and he couldn’t fathom anyone not wanting to fuck Daisy to oblivion. She was that alluring, that sensual, that innately beautiful. She was also bold and daring, witty and brave, smart and warm and soft, slow to rile, easy to laugh.
Ordinarily, he didn’t imbibe often, and especially not during the course of a mission, but something about the situation in which he currently found himself made him want to drink an entire barrel of liquor if only it would quiet the demons eating away at him.
The demons that told him to throw open the door between them, go to the woman he’d married, and take her. To tear away every scrap of fabric keeping her body from him until she was completely nude. To throw her on the bed, spread her luscious thighs, and take her for his own.
He groaned. Beneath his dressing gown, his cock was harder than ever, raging and pulsing at the thought of burying himself in soft, wet, womanly flesh. But not just any woman’s. Daisy’s. Christ yes, there was something about that golden-haired American minx that fashioned him Odysseus and her one of the Sirens. A beautiful, undeniable lure leading him into the treacherous rocks of the shore.
His ship was bound to crash if he followed her. Yet somehow, he couldn’t seem to stay away. Didn’t want to. Her skin had been softer than silk where he’d tasted her, kissed her, felt the rapid drum of her heartbeat. Whatever it was that sizzled between them, it was undeniable, and she felt it every bit as much as he did.
Without even realizing he’d moved, he found himself across his chamber, hand on the doorknob separating him from her. Jesus. This was getting out of control. He tossed back the contents of his glass, relishing the burn that only fine whisky could provide, and then set it aside. There was nary a sound on the other side of the door as he took a few breaths and willed his raging arousal to subside.
Going to her chamber was foolish, and he recognized it. But he couldn’t seem to keep his distance from her. One breath, two breaths. His cock was harder than a marble bust. Three, four. Still not lessening. Christ, this propensity for counting was all her fault, and it needed to bloody well end.
He thought of the queen. Thought of his maternal grandmother’s funeral. Five, six. Attempted to recall some Shakespeare, but the only lines that came to mind had her name in them.
When daisies pied and violets blue.
Damn it all to hell. More words returned to him, mocking. The cuckoo, then, on every tree, mocks married men, for thus sings he…
Bloody, bloody hell. Leave it to Shakespeare to taunt him as well, with a well-placed barb. She wasn’t his. Not to keep, no matter how much he desired her. This was all foolishness. Ridiculous. Unutterably stupid. And yet, he couldn’t excise her from his mind.
The scent of her—bergamot, vanilla, ambergris—still filled his senses as if she stood before him. His fingers burned with remembrance of the feeling of those hard little buds of her nipples.
Distraction wasn’t working. Neither was tarrying. Or breathing. He needed to see her. Needed to touch her. He rapped sharply on the door. Waited for her to respond. Hoped she would tell him to go to hell.
Instead, he heard her dulcet voice, so calming and pleasant to the ears. “You may enter.”
And enter he did. Damn if hearing her issue such an invitation didn’t make the blood pound harder through his veins as he thought of another sort of invitation. Another form of entry he might make into her territory. He was an unconscionable bastard, but he strode across her chamber just the same.
She stood near her bed, clad in only a silken dressing gown trimmed with ruffles and belted at the waist. It was cream, and the pallid color didn’t do her a bit of justice, but it looked like the sort of thing a young lady might have commissioned for her wedding trousseau. He couldn’t squelch the deep-seated satisfaction that took root within him at the realization that he was the one to see her in that robe and not anyone else.
The full effect of her beauty hit him then, visceral and raw. Left him reeling. He took her in, the woman he’d married, the vixen who was meant to be his dupe but somehow always seemed to hold him in the palm of her dainty hand. Christ, she was lovely.
Her hair was unbound, sending long, burnished waves cascading down her back. He longed to bury his face in those locks, to grab a fistful of golden skeins, wrap them around his hand, drag her head back, and hold her tight while he ravaged her mouth with his kiss. Her waist was small even without her corset, her breasts full and high, hips as lush as he’d imagined they would be. Her bare feet and trim ankles peeped out below the hem of her gown to tease him.
This was how he should have seen her last night. How he wanted to see her every night for the rest of his life. The thought struck him before he could tamp it down.
One word echoed in his mind. Triumphant. Blistering. Wrong.
Mine.
Horribly wrong, and yet somehow also right. She was his. Maybe not forever, but right now, in this moment, she was his wife. He was her husband. His body wanted hers, and her body… her body sang for him. It was as if she was made for his touch. He’d never before shared desire of this magnitude with another woman.
But there was a reason she was his, a reason he had married her, and duty wouldn’t allow him to forget, regardless of how badly he needed her. He’d been ordered to use her for information. Glean any bits of knowledge about her father from her. Unravel what, if anything, she knew about Fenians, plots, and bombs. Possibly see her sent to gaol, and the mere notion was enough to make him feel the sting of shame to his bones. How could he know the truth, deceive her, yet want her so?
“Good evening,” he forced himself to say, playing the part of gentleman when all he longed to do was tear her dressing gown away, take her in his arms, and pin her to the bed where he could leisurely kiss, lick, bite, and fuck every part of her all night long.
He stopped with a safe distance between them. And the distance felt somehow unimpeachable and cavernous all at once.
Daisy appeared nervous. Her fingers caught the knot of her belt, plucking at it as if she sought to learn every tactile sensation from it she could. “Good evening, Sebastian,” she returned, a shy smile curling her generous lips.
She had used his name without his prompting, and he took it as a good sign. He stepped even closer, which proved a mistake the moment that her scent hit him like a punch to the jaw.
He swallowed, tamping down his arousal with an inner, iron fist. “I’m sorry for yesterday,” he apologized again, and he didn’t know why. The words left his tongue before he could recall them. He should leave. Buss her on the cheek and go back to his chamber where he belonged.
“Yesterday is already forgiven.” The smile on her full lips deepened, blossoming across her face in a way that struck him directly in the groin.
“Generous of you,” he gritted, irritated with himself for the way she affected him. How was it that the simple act of being in her chamber, within her charmed sphere, could reduce him to an untried youth about to drown in his own lust?
Daisy raised a brow. “Hardly. I count myself equally in need of forgiveness.”
Her confession stirred a dormant part of him. The spy came to life. In his experience, there was always a grain of truth to be found in everything. Was there some sin for which she needed forgiveness? Did a heavy conscience hide behind her beautiful, goddess-like façade? He could not dismiss her tangential associations with McGuire and Fenians no matter how much he longed to. Though sadly, not even suspicion diminished his rampant arousal.
He kept his tone smooth. “Forgiveness, buttercup?”
A becoming flush of pink tinged her cheekbones. Her gaze never wavered from his. “For my part in forcing this marriage upon you. I know you claim to have wanted me for yourself, but you’ve no notion of how much guilt I feel. I was so selfish, so desperate to escape what my father had planned for me, and I took your freedom of choice from you.”
Ah. The spy within him was suitably mollified. She still—naïf that she was—imagined she had been responsible for their hasty vows. If what she claimed was true, how appallingly little she knew of the world in which she lived. He could have swept their little scandal beneath the rug and moved on with his life. In such matters, a man didn’t shoulder the blame. But for a woman, ruination was thorough and forever. He had owed her—a beautiful and brazen American heiress with an already diminished reputation—nothing. No one could have forced him to make her his duchess save the Crown.
And, put to it, the Crown had done just that, albeit for none of the reasons Daisy would have supposed.
“Your guilt is misplaced,” he told her solemnly, his gaze traveling over every curve and hollow of her face. If he was searching for a flaw, he found none. “I’ve already told you that the fault lies with me alone.”
Another lie, but he had already told her so many. Even in this unguarded moment in her chamber, where they should be nothing more than man and woman, he was manipulating her. Forced by circumstance, his duty, and his mission to keep her in the dark.
Still, though he had his orders, they didn’t require him to seduce her. To use her. To slake his needs in her receptive, gorgeous body. His presence in her chamber was a sin that he alone could own. He’d thought himself a man of honor until Daisy had swept into his life. She brought him to the periphery of his limits.
Beyond them now, for the motivations driving him in this moment sure as hell weren’t borne of honor or duty or good. No, his impetus was base and deep, dark and damning. Lust. Need. Hunger. The physical ache to claim her, to possess her. Christ, he felt it all the way to his bloody bones.
“I think you are too generous,” she said then.
He squelched the bark of bitter laughter that threatened to emerge. Generous. Ha. He was nothing of the sort. He was greedy. Selfish. Sinful. His sometime conscience re-emerged, reminding him that there was a mission at hand. A mission of far greater importance than sinking his aching cock inside the cunny of the ethereal beauty before him.
No matter how much the need clawed him apart inside.
“Your father,” he pried, taking advantage of the opening in their dialogue. His sense of duty refused to allow him to miss this moment, regardless of how much he wanted her. “Were his intentions for your marriage always transparent? Did you come to London knowing what he expected of you?”
Her long lashes lowered over her brilliant eyes for a moment, fanning against her cheeks. “I knew that he wished for me to marry an aristocrat. I had foolishly believed that coming to London would grant me a modicum of freedom. And I had somehow imagined I’d be given a choice in who my husband would be. How foolish I was to think he would ever do anything but control me. I should have known.”
Her voice hushed to a near whisper at the last. Jesus, if she was an actress, then she was possessed of a far greater talent than any actress he’d ever witnessed treading the boards. He thought he saw her—the real Daisy Vanreid—for the first time. She had lived a life of terrifying oppression under her father’s brutality. Coming to England was to have been her escape. Instead, it had turned into her prison in more ways than she had yet to even realize.
There it was again, that goddamn conscience he’d sworn he didn’t have, tearing into him with the precision of a well-sharpened dagger. She had been kept beneath her tyrant father’s thumb. She thought she’d somehow managed her independence. Thought she was married to a good man, a man deserving of her apology, a man who could be a real husband to her.
He was not that man.
And he had used her already—intended to use her far worse—than her father ever had. In the name of Crown, country, the League, and his own bloody desires. He was a bastard, a sinner, a liar, and a spy.
Walk away, the voice inside him, a voice that still contained a shred of honor, warned. Bid her good night and walk away before you do something you will regret. And yet, he couldn’t. Couldn’t force himself to spin on his heel. Couldn’t make himself utter polite pleasantries before wishing her an agreeable sleep and retreating to his chamber.
Instead of leaving, he stepped closer. One steps, two steps, three. There it was once more, the goddamn counting. And he couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t stop what he wanted to do. Couldn’t stop the way she made him feel. His hands clamped on her waist, hauling her against him.
She fell into him with the rightness of a homecoming after a long journey. Vivid green eyes widened, lush lips falling open in surprise at the abruptness of his action. Her hands fluttered to his chest, and he was glad he wore a robe only, for it meant there was one fine layer of cloth between her skin and his.
He should press her for more information about her father, but he couldn’t. Couldn’t go another second without crushing her mouth beneath his. He took her lips with all of the turmoil churning through him and none of the finesse she deserved. His tongue traced the seam of her lips once before pushing inside to plunder. She tasted decadent, like the raspberry sauce that had been served over the biscuit pudding at dinner, and like something dark and delicious that was innately Daisy.
Her body was lush and warm beneath the silken splendor of her dressing gown. Tempting him. He wanted to tear the impediment away, to fill himself with her. To fill her with his cock. Instead, he slid his hands down her waist to cup the round swells of her pert derriere. Without a thought for her innocence, he ground her against him, his cock straining between them, hard and ready.
You cannot have her. Carlisle’s words came back to his mind suddenly, slamming through him along with the lust. A pointed reminder, taunting him. He had a duty to the League and his country, oaths to uphold. What the hell was he doing, kissing Daisy, about to tear off her robe and sink himself inside her? Fuck, this was foolishness. He risked so much. She’s poison to you.
Yes, she was, just like a buttercup. His buttercup. Beautiful, bold, alluring, and poisonous. But Daisy’s was the sort of poison that would kill him slowly. Leave him euphoric until he finally succumbed. And he wanted that poison. Wanted her so much the need of her threatened to split him apart.
He couldn’t trust her. She was the daughter of one of England’s most dangerous enemies, the former betrothed of a vile bastard hell-bent on death and destruction. Carlisle believed he had enough evidence against her to eventually see her in prison.
And none of that mattered one bloody whit when she was in his arms.
He kissed her harder, seeking to punish her for making him want her so much that he was willing to forsake everything he’d spent his life building just to have her. But he also wanted to mark her, brand her. To make certain she knew that whatever came to pass between them, some part of her would always be his, would always long to return to this night when they were wild and wicked together.
She moaned, straining against him, the hard peaks of her breasts digging into his chest. She had such sweet, responsive nipples. Her hands caressed over his chest, higher, linking around his neck as she kissed him back with abandon. Tongues dueled. Blood thundered straight to his cock, his balls tightening as if having her like this was enough to make him spend like some callow youth. His heart pounded.
Bed.
He needed her on the bed. Now. Needed her stripped of every scrap of fabric keeping her from him, the beauty of her body laid bare, legs splayed. He wanted to taste the essence of her, give her a crashing, body-shaking release with his tongue alone. Hell, yes.
One, two, three. He led her backward without breaking the kiss. Jesus, there it was. Counting again. Not many steps keeping him from what he wanted. His tongue in her mouth. His teeth biting her lower lip. Delicious. She was so bloody delicious.
And he was mad, his head swimming with lust, body drenched in unquenched desire, conscience in turmoil. Wrong, being with her like this was wrong. Unfair to Daisy. A betrayal of his oath. She could be dangerous. She could be deceiving him. Christ knew he was deceiving her.
He didn’t give a damn about anything other than Daisy as he took another step, then another until his leg wedged between her soft thighs. Her dressing gown parted. Sebastian released her bottom with one hand and caught his robe, dragging it to the side. Nothing but naked skin would do. He pressed into her farther. Silken inner thighs slid against him, setting him aflame. Farther again, slowly. The kiss deepened. He didn’t stop until she rode his thigh, trapped between him and the bed at her back.
Nothing could have prepared him for the first touch of her slippery heat. Wet, so wet. And on fire. Bloody hell, she scorched him. On a shocked gasp, she arched, dragging herself over him, leaving a trail of her dew.
Sweet Christ.
Madness. Sheer, unadulterated madness was what made him catch her up in his arms and deposit her on the bed’s edge, her legs still spread, dressing gown open. His thigh was wet, and he felt the loss of her heat in a pang that tore through him. Breaking the kiss, he stood to his full height, allowing himself the pleasure of seeing her so thoroughly undone.
Lord was she a sight to behold.
Her mouth was swollen from his kiss, lips red and succulent as raspberry syrup. Her robe gaped, the knot at her sash gone loose in their frenzied lovemaking, leaving her breasts partially freed as well. His gazed traveled lower, to the vee of her dressing gown. Twin slices of the creamy flesh of her inner thighs beckoned, her cunny nearly exposed.
He’d never seen a more beautiful woman.
Or a woman he wanted more.
Jesus, she unmanned him.
“Sebastian?” Daisy was breathless, her eyes searching his. She appeared dazed, flushed. Consumed by the same torrent of desire coursing through him like a bloody flood.
He didn’t know what her question was, but the answer was yes. Absolutely. Undeniably. Yes. To everything. To anything. To whatever she wished. For Daisy, the answer would always be yes.
He recognized the truth of it as she sprawled across the bed, waiting for him to lay his claim. So much hung in the balance, so many words unspoken, so many falsehoods and blockades between them, seemingly unsurmountable. But he was seizing this moment because he was a bloody selfish bastard, and he was going to give her what she wanted. What he needed so badly to give her.
Release.
He swore to himself that he wouldn’t take her, no matter how much he longed to. It wasn’t right or fair to her, not when she didn’t know the truth behind their union. Not when he intended to procure an annulment. But he could give her pleasure. Just this once, even if doing so ended him in the process.
“Take off your dressing gown.” The command was torn from him.
She swallowed, gaze searching his, a pretty pink flush tingeing her high cheekbones. “You wish to consummate the marriage after all?”
Yes, cried out every bloody part of him.
“Not tonight,” he reassured her instead, leaning forward and catching her waist. Slowly, he lifted her onto the center of the bed and lowered her until her head nestled in pillows, a bounty of golden curls spilling everywhere. “Tonight we will get more acquainted with each other.”
Acquainted. Such a mild, silly verb for what he intended to do. He nearly smiled at the absurdity of it as he joined her on the bed, readjusting to keep the barrier of his own robe intact. Stretching his body alongside hers, he lay on his side, an elbow propped on one pillow to give him purchase. Sebastian couldn’t resist sinking his fingers into the lush strands of her hair. Like burnished silk, it fell back to the pillow, teasing his senses with a fresh wave of bergamot and ambergris.
“Can you not acquaint yourself with me while I’m wearing my robe?” Daisy asked, finding her starch amidst a renewed sense of modesty.
He did grin then, skimming a slight caress over her cheek. She was still flushed, and damn it if she didn’t look utterly delectable lying there, shy and beautiful as sin. “I can, but it won’t be as enjoyable for either of us, buttercup.”
Her fingers remained on the knot securing her robe in place, gripping tightly. “Enjoyable, Your Grace?”
He winced at her reversal, the habit of using his title as though they were strangers in a drawing room exchanging pleasantries. She seemed to revert to formality whenever she grew nervous.
“Sebastian,” he prompted her for what was surely the hundredth time, cupping her cheek in his palm and brushing his thumb over that irresistible lower lip of hers.
She would need some coaxing, it seemed. The bravado that had led her to defiantly urge him to take his turn at the Beresford Ball had been precisely that. He was beginning to understand her a bit, this wild summer storm wrapped up in luscious female form. An inner layer hid beneath the fierce face she showed the world, one that was vulnerable.
“I’m not certain I’m in agreement with that statement.” She eyed him warily, her gaze dropping to his right cheek for a moment before settling once more on his.
His rogue dimple, he realized, and it occurred to him that he’d seen her staring at it on more than one occasion. Clearly he would need to make use of it more often. For some mad reason, he imagined her lips pressing to the groove in his skin. The mark of happiness, as his mother had once called it.
A blessing, she’d said, her sweet voice redolent with maternal love. Sebastian had always fancied it a curse, an imperfection that rendered his face asymmetrical. But the way Daisy’s gaze stole to it with such a rapt expression, he was beginning to think perhaps his mother had been right after all.
“Which statement don’t you agree with, darling?” he asked Daisy with cheeky intention. “That getting acquainted with each other without your dressing gown as an impediment will be enjoyable, or my name?”
“Your name,” replied the minx, surprising him with a teasing smile of her own. “I’m sure your name is something sensible and suitably haughty, something more along the lines of William or Alistair.”
A strange sensation, heavy and warm and altogether unfamiliar, slid through his chest as he shared a smile with her. What the hell was it? Some odd sensation of… rightness? Was that the proper word? No, he decided instantly. More than likely, it was something else, caused by frustrated lust.
“Is Sebastian not a sensible name?” He traced the bridge of her nose with his index finger.
Strange how even touching her there, in such a seemingly innocent location, made his ballocks tighten in anticipation. He hesitated at the tip, the two of them connected by such an infinitesimal touch and yet the torrent of need between them so deep and raging. She could feel it too, this inevitable attraction they shared, sparking and threatening to burn into a full-blown flame. He could see it in the way her eyes flared, her pupils dilated, her lush mouth dipped open and her raspberry-dessert breath ghosted over his lips.
Raspberry had never been so bloody intoxicating.
“I’ve never thought it a sensible name,” she said into the charged silence. “Though perhaps it does bring to mind the sort of man who gets churlish when his wife is late for dinner.”
The chuckle burst forth from him before he even knew it was there. He had been an utter boor to her, hadn’t he? And solely because he found it so goddamn difficult to keep her at arm’s length when all he wanted was to keep her here, like this: warm and smiling and beautiful, her eyes laughing into his, her decadent pink mouth just a dip of his head away from being kissed.
Bloody hell.
Before thoughts of duty and loyalty and doubt could stop him, he dropped his hand to its natural home on the nip of her waist and lowered his mouth to hers. Fitting his lips to hers, he kissed her, coaxing her to respond with gentle pressure. He took his time with that kiss, drinking her in, savoring her.
“I’m certain,” he added against her mouth before kissing her again. This time, his tongue teased the seam of her lips, requesting entrance. She opened to him, and he swept inside. Raspberry-sweet and all that was delicious. Their tongues dueled for a moment before he broke the kiss to drag his mouth down her throat.
As much as he loved kissing her, reveling in the unexpected closeness this night had brought upon them, he couldn’t deny that his self-restraint was growing thin. He needed to remember the promise he’d made to himself. He would not take her. Not, at least, until…
Jesus, until what? He pressed his mouth to the hollow at the base of her neck where her pulse pounded the strongest. And then he couldn’t resist tonguing the soft flesh. He had to still his wayward mind. There was no future in this, in the Duke of Trent and Daisy Vanreid. All there could be was tonight. This one night where he allowed himself to be a selfish bastard and forget about his oaths to the League for the span of an hour and no more.
Never again.
“I’m beginning to think you were correct,” Daisy said on a sigh.
He stilled, looking up at her and raising a brow. “Which statement, buttercup?”
The grin that curved her mouth was blinding. It took his breath. “Both.”