Never Desire a Duke

giggled.

Claxton smiled across the table. “What are you laughing about?”

“Nothing.” She giggled again. “Just a little thought here inside my head that I don’t intend to share with you.”

His eyes widened. “Now I really want to know.”

“I don’t think you do,” she assured.

Really, how many dukes ever used the words whisk or sift in conversation? She’d been instantly suspicious upon hearing such domesticated words from his lips. Thankfully she’d had the sense of mind not to voice her accusations. If he knew she was keen to him, she would not be able to beat him at his own dastardly game.

“I don’t need to sample the brandy again. I trust your judgment.” She smiled brightly. “Let’s use that one.”

Disappointment momentarily soured his countenance. With a sigh, he lifted the glass and downed the contents himself. The urge to laugh overcame Sophia and she snorted into her apron.

“What was that?” he asked sullenly.

“A sneeze. I’m sorry. A bit of flour must have got up my nose.”

He licked the damp residue of the brandy from his lips, something she would have liked to do herself, if they were on kissing terms.

Had she really just thought that? Two little splashes of brandy had affected her mind, which was why she never drank it. She ought to have known better. She needed all her wits about her so she’d know when her wicked husband attempted another trick.

They each measured a cup of brandy into their respective bowls of batter, and after stirring the batter one last time, they filled the individual cake tins. Sophia’s cakes would be shaped like hearts, and his, fluted spheres. When at last the tins had been conveyed into the oven, they looked at each other.

“Not long now,” said Claxton, rubbing his hands together.

He washed the bowls and pans and assorted other whatnot and Sophia dried. When they’d finished, she moved about the kitchen, returning spices and utensils to their places. With a broom, he swept clean the oilcloth that covered the floor.

“I’m too tired to do any more,” said Sophia, collapsing, exhausted, into a chair.

“Then let’s sit.” Claxton dragged a chair to the space beside hers and sat so close his thigh brushed her skirts. “We can tidy the rest later.”

Sophia sighed, her cheeks flushed, feeling languid.

“One benefit of brandy, it certainly warms one from the inside out.”

He looked back at her, heavy lidded and intent. “Indeed, it does.”

With just that look, a sensation of heat and excitement formed in her lower belly. She stared at his lips, remembering a time when she’d kissed them whenever she liked.

As if he read her thoughts, he lifted his hand and touched her face, tracing a fingertip along the outline of her cheek and jaw. “I want to kiss you.”

He’d spoken her thoughts aloud, which pleased her more than it ought to. Yet she had to keep her head because she had so much to lose. “You and I kissing would be ill-advised, considering everything.”

“I know things aren’t perfect between us.” The smile fell from his face. Leaning forward, all sudden seriousness, he brushed his knuckles along her lower lip. “But there’s no rule that says we can’t be fond of one another, goose.”

“Fond,” she repeated. Such a nice word, and yet it implied a certain contentment and peace of mind. No, fond did not describe her feelings toward Claxton. Her feelings were very much tumultuous and confused. And passionate.

“Why have you been calling me goose?” she asked, hopelessly flustered, thinking to lighten the subject and cool the dangerous heat building between them.

“I’ve always called you goose inside my head.” He drew his fingertip down the center of her throat, a path toward her heart. “It’s because you have such a lovely…long neck.”

She’d been wound as tight as a spring all day. For nearly a year, there had been only the sweet embraces of her family, the affectionate pats of friends on her hand or back. Her body recognized the difference and reacted as if starved.

A small sound burst from her lips. The duke’s eyes fixed on hers, glazed over.

“Sophia—”

Needing space, if only to breathe, she stood and crossed to the window. Lifting the curtain, she stared out at the falling snow. “How much longer do you think we will be trapped here?”

Anything more than a half hour and she feared she’d be lost. Claxton, in close quarters, had proved too magnetic to resist. If only they were in London, she could secure herself behind the protective wall of her family, of her own private rooms, until she was ready.

He came to stand behind her, a mere inch away, so that his heat warmed the skin of her back. Little prickles of desire danced across the lowermost part of her spine, weakening her legs.

“Impossible to say.” His voice, low in his throat, vibrated through her, and she shivered as if from the sensuous brush of a feather. “Right now, I can’t bring myself to care. I can’t think of anyplace I’d rather be than here with you.”

He rested his hands on her shoulders and smoothed them down over her arms before sweeping her hair aside at her nape. She exhaled, unwilling to move or twist away. “You have such beautiful hair. For so long I’ve imagined touching it again.” He inhaled, his mouth and nose pressed against her bare skin. “I’ve imagined smelling it, remembered the slide of it across my skin.”

This was Claxton. Vane. The old desires were there. They had never gone away.

Her heart ached from wanting him for so long, and now that he touched her like this and talked to her so sweetly, she found it nearly impossible to remember why she ought to say no. He pressed his lips to the side of her neck. The sensation of his lips, his warm breath, and the friction of his whiskers on her skin sent jolts of pleasure into her breasts and deep into her belly. A sensation much like being tickled, so delicious her toes curled.

Unsteady, she leaned back against his chest and gripped the window frame. The room had filled with the scent of baking cakes. Snow fell outside the window. Everything seemed so right.

“Sophia,” he whispered, as with his hand he lifted her chin back to rest her head against his shoulder. The same hand descended again, lightly stroking the exposed column of her neck and collarbone. “Dearest goose. I’ve missed you.”

“I wish you…wouldn’t say things like that.”

With a low growl, he wrapped his arms about her waist, enveloping her body in sinew and heat. “Why not?”

She melded against him, like a drowsy cat seeking warmth. “I like them too much.”

“I like you too much.”

He placed one kiss on the side of her neck, then another on her cheek…and her temple, her hair falling over them both. With each press of his lips against her skin and each stroke of his hand, desire coiled up inside her, tightening with each kiss, so much so she had to clench her teeth not to gasp or cry out.

“Your skin is so soft,” he murmured.

His warm breath on her skin tantalized and made her squirm. His hands moved over her clothes, touching her everywhere, sweeping up her torso to cup and squeeze her breasts—

“Ah,” she gasped, seizing them in her own, intending to stop him.

“Shhhh,” he soothed.

She did not stop him. She did not want to. Her hands slid up his neck into his hair, while his descended in a pleasurable downward sweep to the indention between her legs, where with the heel of his palm he massaged her until in a sudden rush of need she twisted in his arms, meeting his devouring lips with her own. They did a slow little dance across the floor until her bottom bumped the table.

“Just kissing,” she whispered against his lips, seizing him tight. He was so much larger than she, a