What a Duke Dares

Chapter Nineteen

Cam’s body crushed Pen into the mattress. Shock receded, but every breath reminded her that he hadn’t been gentle. She still couldn’t believe that the wild crescendo ended in such awkward intimacy.

Astonishment kept all other emotions at bay. Although resentment, regret, frustration, wretchedness, confusion all hovered.

She tried to make sense of what had happened. She’d always imagined that Cam would please her as a lover. She’d feared that he’d please her too much. His hold over her was already terrifyingly powerful.

The overture to Cam’s horrible invasion had been extraordinary. Better than being in his arms on the yacht. Better than anything in her life.

If the prelude was so breathtaking, surely the act itself must be even better. Then he’d thrust inside her. The union had given her no joy. Which seemed so unfair when she’d edged beyond discomfort and toward satisfaction before he brought everything to an abrupt end.

She made herself look at Cam, then wished to heaven that she hadn’t. Now the worst ache resided in her soul. He looked completely devastated and self-loathing clouded his green eyes.

“Pen, I’m so sorry,” he whispered brokenly, and kissed her forehead with a grieving tenderness that slashed her heart into tattered shreds. His tenderness was much more painful than his possession. She had no defenses against it.

He eased out, setting off twinges through her body. Stupidly she missed him the moment he withdrew to collapse beside her with an unhappy grunt.

“It was my duty,” she said dully. Now that the pain faded, she was aware of a heavy restlessness, like Cam had held her high in the air and couldn’t decide whether to drag her to safety or drop her to destruction.

“It should have been more.” Regret deepened his voice. “I was a clumsy oaf.”

“I’ll live.” With every minute, her aches subsided. The physical ones at least.

“Pen, don’t be gallant. I can’t bear it.” Then in a shaking voice, he asked, “Why the hell didn’t you tell me you were a virgin?”

She started. “Why would you think I wasn’t?” Then shame filled her. “It’s because I let you touch me on the yacht, isn’t it?”

Shocked denial made him grimace. “No!”

She stared into Cam’s face and wondered just what he’d imagined she’d been up to. The possibilities made her sick. She looked away and mumbled, “I don’t want to talk about this now.”

“We’ll have to talk about it sometime,” he said implacably.

“Just… not now.” Through her misery and exhaustion, anger stirred as she recalled him asking her to be his mistress. He’d obviously spent the last weeks convinced that he traveled with a woman who rivaled Jezebel for wickedness.

While nothing had matched the pleasure she’d found in his kisses and caresses, she hadn’t absolutely hated the act. She wished desperately she knew more about what men and women did together. After all those racy conversations in Continental salons, she’d considered herself worldly. None of those sly, witty exchanges had hinted at the raw, earthy reality of a man’s body pushing into a tight female passage.

She stared up at the tester. She’d never see the Rothermere unicorns without remembering how Cam had thundered into her. Given she’d just signed up to a lifetime as the Duchess of Sedgemoor, those unicorns would remind her over and over.

“You should go back to your room.” She rose against the pillows and dragged the sheet up. Lying naked beside him, she felt too much like a ritual sacrifice. She winced. Changing her position launched a barrage of new twinges. Between her legs, she felt sore and sticky.

He’d flung one arm over his eyes, so she had no idea whether he’d drifted off or whether he merely avoided his dissatisfied bride. Except the dissatisfied bride couldn’t help stealing this opportunity to study the superb masculine form beside her. Long, lean, powerful. Intriguingly hairy on his chest and… down there.

Surreptitious interest stirred in places that she thought could never react again. The heaviness between her legs turned hot and insistent, instead of purely uncomfortable.

One question beat at her over and over. Was the act always like that?

“Do you really want to be alone?” Cam sounded weary and reasonable, a different man from the passionate seducer. “I’ll go if you like, but I need to make amends and I can’t manage that from behind a closed door.”

“As long as we don’t have to do it again,” she said stiffly, sidling toward the edge of the bed.

“You’re safe,” he said grimly. Without taking his arm from his eyes, he caught her wrist with his other hand.

She tensed, but as his hold was loose enough to break, she didn’t shake him off. “I don’t feel safe.”

His expressive mouth, visible beneath his forearm, thinned. “You used to.”

“That was… before.”

Sighing, he lowered his arm and released her. She’d seen his expression after he’d taken her. He’d looked ready to slit his throat to save the world the trouble of shooting him. He still looked like he’d forsaken his last hope for happiness. Her heart twisted with a stupid female need to assuage his cares.

She battered down the impulse to take him in her arms. What comfort had he offered when he’d so ruthlessly used her? Then left her incomplete at the end.

“I can apologize again, Pen,” he said bleakly.

She avoided his desolate jade gaze and stared down to where her fingers folded and unfolded the sheet with idiot compulsion. “Don’t.”

A silence fell, then she felt the mattress move as he rolled away. She should be glad he went, but something in her was disappointed that he didn’t stay to persuade her. Not into doing… that. But she’d appreciate him making an effort.

Oh, devil take her, she was a complete mess. She wanted this. She wanted that. None of it made any sense. After what Cam had done, she shouldn’t want to see him again. However impractical that might be, given today’s marriage ceremony.

She was almost as annoyed with herself as she was with Cam.

Which didn’t prevent her watching as he walked away. The back view was just as spectacular as the front. The proud set of the head, even now when his pride smarted because he’d failed to satisfy his bride. The wide powerful shoulders. The straight, well-muscled back. The firm globes of his buttocks.

Like her, he still bore the shipwreck’s marks. Healing bruises and abrasions, including a slash of dark purple across his ribs. Anger ebbed out of reach, although disappointment remained. Whatever tonight’s disaster, he’d nearly died saving her.

She waited for him to enter the duke’s apartments, but instead he veered off into the luxurious bathing room. Disgruntled, Pen straightened against the pillows. If he wanted to wash, couldn’t he do it in his own rooms?

He emerged carrying a bowl and towel, and with another towel slung low around his narrow hips. He set a small mahogany table beside the bed and placed the bowl upon it. He turned and with one hand, hooked up the heavy red robe, covering himself.

“Lie down,” he said softly.

“Why?” she asked suspiciously.

“I’m going to make you feel better.”

She bit back a sniping response that his absence would achieve that most effectively. Anyway, it wasn’t true. As her discomfort faded, she felt lonely and teary and desperately in need of kindness. Even if the kindness came from the man who had hurt her.

Very gently he pried the covers from her clinging hands and drew them down, revealing her nakedness. Tonight she’d cursed her stupidity more than once. She cursed it again when she realized that she should have gone in search of a fresh nightdress while he was in the other room.

She acted a complete ninny. A brazen ninny at that.

“Leave me alone,” she said, grabbing uselessly after the covers.

“Pen, a wash will help.” He paused, and she knew he hated having to reiterate his good intentions. “I promise, only a wash.”

The urge to curl into herself and hide from those probing eyes was strong, but something in his face told her that if she did, she’d hurt him, as she’d hurt him when she’d claimed that she no longer felt safe. Yet again she derided her soft heart.

“Very well,” she said reluctantly, stretching out.

She watched him wring out the cloth and lift it over her stomach. Before he touched her, she grabbed his hand. “This doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you.”

His gaze darted up to meet hers and she read his profound remorse. Unfortunately, remorse didn’t strike her as a particularly strong foundation for marriage.

“Pen, let me do this.” He made no attempt to break away. “Please.”

Pen wasn’t proof against Cam’s uncharacteristic humility. Reluctantly she released him. He took the gesture as permission to continue. Very carefully, he began to wash her. Starting with what should have been unexceptional places like arms and neck. He winced every time he touched one of the yellowing bruises from her ordeal after the Windhover went down.

She should be immune to Cam’s touch, but her skin tingled as the warm, damp flannel wiped away the night’s sweat and, she had to confess, much of the bitterness.

When he trailed the cloth over her midriff, every muscle clenched. By the time he reached her breasts, she breathed unsteadily. He didn’t linger, but the soft friction had her nipples hardening as if he kissed them. She mistrusted the wayward responses that left her lightheaded as though she’d had too much claret.

Methodically, he moved to her legs, washing thighs and knees and shins and feet. This felt like slow seduction, although she caught his flinch when he saw the blood on her thighs.

He dipped the cloth in the water and gently parted her legs. She made a soft sound of distress.

Slowly he raised his head as if emerging from a daze. He’d concentrated so hard on what he did, he’d barely looked beyond the area of skin he washed. His eyes were as lifeless as malachite in his dark, intense face. “Trust me, Pen.”

She bit her lip. She’d trusted him earlier and had come to grief. But she couldn’t deny a lifetime of love. She let her legs fall open, although no man had seen the private hollows of her body. He thoroughly washed each fold and valley, soothing every sting. His gentleness squeezed her heart into a tiny ball.

She bit back another whimper, not this time of discomfort. Although this intimacy made her more embarrassed than she’d ever been in her life. How could her body respond like this? After years of imagining a man in her bed, of imagining this man in her bed, she knew now what happened. Pain. Shame. Regret. Powerlessness.

Yet with every stroke, he smoothed the disagreeable memories and replaced “never again” with “perhaps.”

With trepidation, she watched him wring the cloth. She’d been afraid that his passion might have left her a bloody mess. She was reassured to see only a trace of pink in the water.

Finally the torture that had transformed into dangerous allure ended. He dropped the cloth into the now cool water, dried her one last time, and lifted his hands away.

The silence preyed on her nerves, but she couldn’t force words through a throat jammed with tears. Not from pain this time, but because whatever pain he caused her, she loved him. She’d always love him. His care only proved that never having him love her in return would eat at her until her dying day.

The slow washing, like a ritual, had calmed him. Just as it had calmed her. His jaw no longer looked chiseled from stone and the lines around his mouth and eyes had relaxed.

He bent toward her. She thought he bowed to say good night. The atmosphere between them had become strangely courtly.

But his head lowered and lowered.

Before she could think to move, he placed his lips on her pale stomach, just above the navel. She felt the warm, damp brush of his kiss. Her skin tightened, although the kiss felt more an act of homage than a sensual invitation.

Questions flooded to her lips but died unspoken when he lifted the bowl and turned toward the door. Pride and confusion kept her from asking him to stay. She felt piercingly alone watching Cam walk away. But not so alone that she was ready to endure his use of her body.

Cam went through the door, leaving it ajar. A gesture of reassurance, the way one left a candle burning for a child in the dark. He must guess that she found this cathedral of a bedroom intimidating.

Awkwardly, still sore despite Cam’s ministrations, she struggled to stand. She needed a nightdress.

When she emerged from the dressing room wearing another of the late duchess’s seductive peignoirs, Cam leaned against one of the carved oak posts at the base of the bed. He still wore his robe and his expression was calm.

Perhaps he came to say good night. Then she noticed the decanter of red wine on the dressing table near the empty glasses. Given how he’d arrived with brandy, the wine struck an ominous note.

She stopped so abruptly that the blue silk nightdress slipped from one shoulder. “What do you want, Cam?”

He prowled across to pour the wine. He passed her a glass. “I think we’ve done things completely the wrong way around.”

She frowned in confusion. “You mean you should have got me intoxicated before you joined me in that bed rather than after?”

Despite the tense atmosphere, his lips twitched. “No.”

Warily she studied him. “Then what do you mean?”

He gestured toward two chairs beside the hearth. “I mean, my wife, that we need to talk.”