The Matchmaker and the Duke Read online

  She wound her arms around his neck and swept her tongue inside his mouth, tasting tooth powder and inhaling his spicy cologne that reminded her of dark forests and misty mornings.

  A groan rumbled up from his chest, striking an unexpected answering chord of pleasure deep within her body. She stroked her hands down his back while tasting and tangling her tongue with his. Delicious.

  The feel of his broad shoulders and strong back beneath her hands was tantalising. She could not help but wonder how he looked beneath his perfect tailoring.

  He lifted his head and gazed down at her. ‘Without question you entice me, Mrs Durant. Do you mean to do so, I wonder?’

  His directness made her smile. There was an honesty about him that was refreshing. He deserved an honest answer. After all, what was the point of beating about the bush at her time of life. ‘I most certainly do. Please call me Amelia.’

  He sucked in a breath, as if her words affected him physically. It seemed the attraction did indeed go both ways.

  ‘Your reputation—’

  ‘Is mine to care for, Your Grace.’

  He stroked a stray hair back from her face with a touch so light she scarcely felt it. ‘Jasper.’

  She smiled. ‘Jasper it is. In private, of course.’

  The heat in his gaze seemed to sear her face. ‘Well, Amelia, just how private are we?’

  ‘Completely. My maid left for home the moment she delivered our tea.’

  ‘She does not live in?’

  He sounded relieved as well as surprised. Was it her reputation or his that gave him concern? And did she really care.

  Seduction had not been on her mind when she invited him for tea, but it now seemed inevitable.

  ‘She goes home to her family every night. She stayed a little later this evening so as to be here when I arrived home.’

  ‘To help prepare you for bed.’

  ‘Indeed. But I told her to go.’

  ‘Then you must permit me to oblige you since I have deprived you of her services.’

  Yes, she would like that. She touched the tip of his nose with the tip of her forefinger. ‘I am quite capable of readying myself for bed, Jasper.’

  ‘Of that I have not the slightest doubt, my dear. You strike me as a most competent woman. But it would be my very great pleasure to assist.’

  ‘Of that I have no doubt,’ she said drily.

  He chuckled and she joined him in his laughter.

  ‘Speaking of servants, you ought to send your coachman home.’

  He gave her a droll look. ‘You are not dealing with a flat, Amelia. When a lady invites me into her home, I know better than to leave my carriage hanging about outside her door. I told him not to wait when we stepped down.’

  That he would care about her reputation surprised and pleased her. Although, perhaps it was really his own reputation that he cared for. After all, she was not the sort of lady he would normally pursue. His name had been linked with only diamonds of the first water, or high-flying bits of muslin heretofore.

  ‘I certainly do not consider you a flat, Jasper. But my intentions were only tea and conversation. Nothing else.’

  ‘Until now.’

  ‘Until now.’

  He beamed and kissed her hard, leaving her breathless with the heat of it, before saying, ‘I do so love your honesty. Shall we retire to your chamber, so I can complete my appointed task?’

  She took his hand. ‘My bedchamber is at the back of the house. I warn you, it is exceedingly small.’

  Chapter Seven

  Jasper felt as excited as a lad on his first intimate adventure, instead of a world-weary man about town, as Amelia led him out of the parlour. He had not been entirely surprised at her invitation or the reason for it. But he had been shocked by his response to her anger. He couldn’t quite believe that his usual calm had deserted him in the face of her passion. He’d been equally shocked and delighted when she had kissed him back.

  At the end of the small hallway a door opened into a kitchen on the right. She opened the door on the left. The bedroom was indeed very small. As was the bed. The curtains of light blue brocade, matching the counterpane, were closed against the night. A night stand, an escritoire and a straight-backed wooden chair were the only other furnishings.

  He eyed the bed with misgiving. Clearly designed for one person, the carved frame looked too dainty and fragile to bear his weight. The idea that he might end up on the floor in a tangle of broken wood and bedlinens did not appeal to his sense of dignity.

  She was gazing up at him with a frown of concern. Why was he hesitating? Had he become so enamoured with his image of himself as Duke that he was not prepared to take the risk of looking like a mere man?

  He swung her around to face him and kissed her, wooing her lips with his. She tasted of honey and exotic spices and her body seemed to fit comfortably with his, her breasts pressing against his chest and her arms snaking around his neck. His heart pounded in his ears as he plundered the depths of her mouth.

  She moaned softly, tangling her tongue with his, stirring his body to life and heating his blood. This was why he had accepted her invitation. This sense of recklessness flowing through his veins. He could not recall a time when he had let go of all reason this way.

  As Duke he was mindful that every action had a consequence that could bode good or ill and each must be carefully weighed and measured against honour and duty. Right now, honour and duty could go hang.

  The kiss ran its course, leaving them both panting, and he raised his head to gaze down into those remarkable eyes of hers. Her lips curved in a naughty smile he had no trouble reading. An invitation to enjoy. His groin tightened.

  Anticipation rocketed through him. But he knew better than to rush things. He grinned. ‘I had best be about my duty, then, madam. Hmm, where shall I start? Hair first, I think.’ He realised he had been longing to see the true beauty of those shining dark locks she kept so neatly ordered. Would they be straight or would they fall in a riot of curls about her shoulders? With fingers that shook with the intensity of his desire, he felt around amid the heavy tresses for the pins that held them fast. A great many pins, he discovered.

  ‘There is a forest of them,’ he grumbled.

  She laughed. ‘Not that bad, surely?’

  ‘You have the Forest of Dean in here.’

  The pile of pins on the escritoire mounted. Finally, he arrived at the heart of the concoction. One pull and a long coil of hair the colour of a blackbird’s wing untwined and snaked to her shoulders. It reached the middle of her back. Two more pins extracted and the last two twists came down. He sifted his fingers through the heavy locks until they hung in soft waves. Lovely ripples of black hair. Soft and silky against his skin. And desperately sensual as hell.

  A memory of long brown hair came to mind, from when he was a child, watching his mother’s toilette. ‘Do you have a brush?’

  He pushed the memory aside. He did not like to think of his parents. Their loss still hurt.

  She opened a drawer in the night table and took out a silver-backed hairbrush and comb. She set them on the escritoire and sat down. ‘It doubles as my dressing table.’

  A lady of her consequence should be housed in better conditions than this. Perhaps he owned something better. He froze. What was he thinking? He was not in the market for a mistress. He had decided to look for a wife.

  Indeed, he should not be entering into any sort of dalliance, now that he had set his feet on the matrimonial path. The Duke in him did not approve at all.

  What of the mere mortal man? Was he more likely to succumb to temptation? Dash it all, why should he not have one night for himself and leave ducal duty at the door?

  When she was comfortably seated on the little wooden chair, he gathered her hair so it all fell down her back, then began the task of brushing.
Long, slow, smooth strokes from the top of her head to the bottom. She made a low soft sound of appreciation and tipped her head back like a cat seeking pleasure. Or a sensual woman.

  Desire rode him hard. His pulse quickened. His body demanded. And all he’d done was brush her hair. He took a swift inward breath. Calming his impatience. Wrestling for control. And winning. Barely.

  He leaned forward, swept the hair at her nape aside and touched his lips below her ear.

  She gasped and shivered.

  ‘If milady would care to rise,’ he murmured softly, ‘I will help her undress.’

  He was intrigued to see how she flattened a hand on the writing surface for support when she rose unsteadily.

  Apparently, he wasn’t the only one struggling for control. His desire notched higher. He quelled his impatience. Good things were worth waiting for.

  He pushed her hair over one shoulder and unknotted the lace at the neck of her gown. Gently he eased the strings through the top two holes, revealing the expanse of smooth skin across her shoulders. A dark mole resided beside the second notch of her spine. A beauty spot indeed. He pressed his lips against it. She gave a little moan and tipped her head back, her cheek brushing against his in a whisper of skin against skin.

  Once more, he pushed her hair aside and tackled the tapes on her gown, gradually moving downwards, revealing the top of her delicate shift and the sturdy linen of her stays, also laced tightly. It was like unwrapping a particularly precious gift. He resisted the temptation to hurry to the prize. Instead, he lingered over the task, touching and kissing his way down her back inch by inch until both gown and stays were completely open. He eased the gown off her shoulders, down her arms and over her hands. It slid to the floor and puddled at her feet. The stays dropped away, leaving her standing in a veil of sheer muslin, dipping slightly at the waist and clinging to the curves of her lovely derrière.

  He shaped her with his hands, learning those delicious curves and hollows. ‘Lovely,’ he murmured.

  She turned in his arms and buried her blushing face against his shoulder. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘You make me feel beautiful.’

  Surprised, he grasped her upper arms and eased her back so he could see her face. ‘You are lovely, which is why I do not understand my lack of recollection of our first meeting. Your beauty struck me the moment I saw you at Sally Jersey’s ball.’

  ‘We were introduced at Almack’s and met again a few days later at a ball.’ She stroked his cheek with her fingertips. ‘In those days, I was painfully shy and thin, all awkward elbows and frilly dresses that suited me not at all.’

  ‘And no doubt I was a pompous ass. I apologise.’

  She rose up on her tiptoes and pressed a swift kiss to his lips. ‘There, you are forgiven.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She cast her gaze downwards as if she did not believe him, but a little smile of pleasure curved her lips.

  He wanted to assure her that his gratitude was heartfelt, but he did not have the words to do it. But he would show her with his lips and his body and touch. He knelt at her feet.

  A little gasp said he had surprised her. He lifted the hem of her chemise with his teeth and untied each little white garter with its blue rosette. He rolled each stocking down to her ankles, while she supported herself with her hands on his shoulders. Her fingers trembled where they gripped him. She lifted a foot and he eased the silky stocking off her long slender foot. He kissed the arch and massaged the sole. She made a sound of pleasure in her throat.

  ‘That is so good,’ she murmured. ‘My maid certainly does not do that.’

  He glanced upwards and grinned. ‘So I should hope.’ What a delight she was. Her obvious enjoyment of his attentions made him feel extraordinarily pleased with himself. He hadn’t felt this way since he was a lad. Before he had picked up the burden of his title.

  It was a good feeling. He rose to his feet and lifted her on to the bed, feasting his eyes on the beauty sprawled before him languid and inviting.

  At her smile of invitation, he hastily stripped off his clothes. A button off his shirt pinged against the window. She giggled.

  He beamed as he pulled it over his head. Her giggle charmed him. He felt like giggling himself.

  He toed off his shoes, ripped off his stockings, hesitating for a moment while he glanced at her face. She licked her lips.

  He almost groaned out loud. He whipped off his pantaloons and lay close beside her, brushing the hair back from her face. She rolled on her side and wriggled one hand under his neck. The other she placed on his behind and pulled him close.

  He kissed her and brought her body flush with his. The heat at her centre almost undid him. He slid a hand down between them and slipped one finger inside her wet heat. She sighed. That sigh went straight to something deep in his heart. A sweet painful welling of some emotion that left him feeling weak. Humbled. This woman undid him on so many levels.

  When she urged him to roll on top of her, he complied instantly, gazing down into her face. With her hands about his neck she raised herself up and kissed his lips briefly. ‘I want you,’ she murmured.

  He entered her swiftly, his shaft hardening as he thrust into her and his ballocks drawing up tight. It took all his control not to fall apart in an instant, but to pleasure her as she deserved to be pleasured. He watched her face, the tension, the sound of her sighs and moans urging him on, yet he held back until he saw her eyes open wide, felt her shudder around him.

  Hastily he withdrew from her and fell into bliss.

  His last conscious thought was to use the corner of the sheet to wipe the mess from her lovely belly.

  * * *

  Amelia, bolstered by pillows and feeling an unusual sense of well-being, sipped at the hot chocolate her maid had brought in a few moments before. It was always her favourite part of the day. A time for quiet reflection.

  Last night had been the most exciting, delicious experience of her life. That she had not expected.

  What a fool she had been to think that bedding the Duke would deal with her unwanted infatuation. He had been a wonderfully tender and skilled lover. Now she wanted him more than ever.

  And he wanted to see her again.

  Her heart gave an odd little jolt, painful and sweet at one and the same time. This was wrong.

  She was supposed to be arranging a match between him and Charity. She stared down into her cup. On the other hand, Charity would be perfectly happy with Lord Sherbourn. More than happy.

  Even Jasper, a man she had thought so full of his own consequence he expected all to worship at his feet, had noticed Charity was more interested in her young suitor than she was in a duke. Amelia could not understand Charity’s thinking when Jasper was not only the most sought-after bachelor in the country, but also a much better man than the sulky, moody Lord Sherbourn. Still, if Charity could not see it, why try to make her see sense?

  Pain stabbed at her heart. Amelia sat upright and put her cup aside. What on earth was she thinking? That Jasper would marry her instead of Charity? Last night was not the behaviour of a prospective suitor. The Duke wasn’t courting her. He had made her his lover. He’d crept out of her bed and her house at three in the morning because he didn’t want anyone linking their names—any more than she did.

  When he chose a bride, it would either be the beautiful Miss Mitchell or it would be someone from the upper echelons of the ton. She could think of at least three young ladies making their debut this Season who would fit the bill.

  A widow who needed to make her living by making matches among the members of the ton was fair game as a mistress, but not marriage material.

  Besides, she did not want to be married. Her first experience as a wife had been completely unsatisfactory. Her husband had resented being trapped into marrying her, even though he had been the one to steal an illicit kiss. Once they were
wed he had refused to listen to any of her opinions, never heeded her advice on any issue. He’d done exactly as he pleased because men could and there was nothing any wife could do about it.

  She sighed and shook her head at herself. She’d made it easy for Durant. She’d behaved like a fool, dancing and flirting with the first man to show her any attention, proving to herself she did not care that the Duke had as good as given her the cut direct.

  Recalling her youthful misbehaviour made her go hot and cold all over. Without doubt, her bold manner had given Durant the wrong impression of her character.

  How naive she had been when he offered to show her the orangery. At the start, there had been four of them trekking across the lawn to the glasshouse at one side of the house. In hindsight, she had realised that he had planned for his friend to leave them alone among the trees to explore more than the plants.

  Unfortunately for him, her aunt had spotted them leaving the ballroom and, along with her cousin and his wife, had followed them, intending to bring her back. Her family had arrived to find Durant pressing her against a wall and with his tongue in her mouth and one hand on her breast.

  It didn’t matter that she was trying to fight him off. She was ruined.

  If it had been only her family who had witnessed the shocking kiss, she might have escaped unscathed, but the mass exodus of the Linden party had attracted the notice of the biggest scandalmonger in London who had tagged along. The news of her shocking behaviour had travelled among the rest of the assembled company like wild fire.

  Durant had found himself leg-shackled within the week. Something he had made her regret for the rest of their married life, which had not been that long, a mere two years, though it had seemed like an eternity at the time. When Durant died, she had sworn she would never let herself be fooled by any man again.

  And now she was treading the same path with Jasper, only this time she had become what she had always scorned, a wanton widow.

  And it had been wonderful.