The Duke Meets His Match (The Infamous Somertons #3)(30)
“Chloe!” With a hoarse groan, he threw his head back and withdrew from her body. He shook, his face softening with an unexpected vulnerability, as he reached his own climax and his seed spurt across the linens.
He rolled to the side and pulled her into his arms. Chloe lay pressed against him, breathing heavily. She wanted to close her eyes and rest her head on his chest. He was a man who made her feel deliciously ravished, yet protected and safe at the same time.
Then he rose on an elbow and glared down at her. “Why didn’t you tell me you were a virgin?”
Chapter Twelve
At the harshness of Michael’s tone, Chloe’s lashes fluttered open. “You assumed I was experienced. I just never corrected you.”
“Why the hell not?”
She blinked at the face of his anger. “Would you have believed me? You know I’ve lied about my past for years. You’ve reminded me of it on more than once occasion.”
He had the good sense to look apologetic. “Forgive me. Clearly, I was wrong. But you should have told me. I don’t ruin innocents, and I never proposition them to be my mistress. God, the way I took you. I should have been gentler.”
She reached up to stroke his jaw. “It was perfect and I wouldn’t change anything about it.”
He looked at her curiously. “You’re amazing. I’ll never forget the shared passion between us. But I must warn you that I still cannot offer marriage.”
Her heart hammered at his admission. She knew the reason. Her past ensured she’d never be duchess material, but the question came out regardless. “Why? Because I am a thief?”
“No. I won’t marry anyone. Ever.”
She eyed him speculatively. “You’re a duke. You must marry and produce the next heir.”
“No, I don’t. I don’t give a damn about the title. It can go to a distant relative for all I care.”
She didn’t fully understand. All titled men knew of their duty to marry and produce an heir. Did he believe his episodes prevented him from having a wife? It was a foolish thought. Plenty of young ladies would be willing to marry a duke—regardless of sanity, age, hair, or even teeth, for the chance to be a duchess. And Michael’s striking looks turned ladies’ heads when he walked into a room.
“Even though I cannot marry, you must know that Henry isn’t for you.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. She’d known this, of course. She would never have been with Michael if she intended to continue to encourage Henry’s pursuit. But the fact that Michael had even brought it up made her angry. Was his opinion of her so low?
Apparently so. A man did not have to a like a woman to bed one.
Sourness settled in her gut.
He rose and went to a basin and returned with a clean cloth. Sitting at her hip, his hands were infinitely gentle as he skimmed her skin and cleansed her and the linens of the evidence of their lovemaking. When he finished, he brushed his lips against hers with tenderness that melted her misgivings.
“If I had known, I would have taken you slowly and leisurely and with infinite care.”
Her heart was a slippery slope, and he was playing havoc with her emotions. He stood and returned the cloth to the basin, and she leaned up on elbows and watched the play of muscles on his back and buttocks. Without a stitch of clothing, he was a magnificent sight.
She sat up as he returned to the bed. She was still in her dress. She smoothed the skirts and righted her bodice. Her satin shoes had fallen off and dropped to the floor. Her hair was disheveled, and she righted the blond tresses as best as she could. “I must look a mess.”
He sat beside her on the bed. “You look lovely.”
She felt her face heat at the intensity of his look, and she felt suddenly shy. The emotion made no sense after what they’d just shared in his bed, but nonetheless, it was there. She wanted to reach up and brush the silky, dark hair that fell across his forehead, but her fingers clenched in her lap. He was a complex man, a powerful duke who could be confident and arrogant, yet a remarkably gentle and considerate lover. She found herself fascinated.
The need to learn more about him arose. What could cause this strong man to have nightmares? “You said a name while you slept. Who’s Gavin?”
He stiffened and remained silent for a while. She thought he wouldn’t tell her, but then he finally spoke. “Gavin was Henry’s father, the former Lord Sefton. He was a childhood friend from Eton and then Oxford. He died saving my life in battle.”
“I’m sorry.” She couldn’t imagine the trauma of watching your friend die…a friend who’d sacrificed his life to save hers. She’d struggle with the guilt for the rest of her life. Perhaps that was what was behind his fits…a deep-seated guilt that he’d survived rather than Henry’s father.
“We had sustained heavy casualties from the French soldiers and artillery. We finally thought the worst was over, then I glimpsed an enemy solider stealthily approach from behind. Before I could act, Gavin pushed me aside and took a bullet in his chest. I pursued and killed the Frenchman, but it was too late. Gavin died. He’d carried a letter asking for me to look after his only son.”
Chloe’s heart ached for him. He’d always feel protective of Henry. The promise he’d made to a dying friend who’d taken a bullet for him wasn’t something a soldier could ignore. And knowing the Duke of Cameron, he felt the responsibility even more than the average military officer. “Last night at Vauxhall Gardens when the fireworks exploded, you were reminded of the war?”