Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)(71)

“Ah. Yes.”

Her grip was gentle, but strong. Her thumb rubbed perfectly along the sensitive underside of his shaft, and with each tug, his crown grazed the silky slope of her belly. He threw his head back in surrender, clutching at the twisted sheets. Within moments she had him gasping, growling—and spilling over her fingers in hot, forceful jets.

She smiled, looking very pleased with herself.

He was pleased with her, too. So damned pleased, there seemed no room for any other emotion in his heart. In his life.

And it couldn’t last. It couldn’t last.

God, he didn’t know how he’d ever let her go.

So he kissed her instead, wrapping his arms about her torso to haul her close. Using their closeness to conceal his weakness.

After lazy, lovely minutes of deep, languid kissing, she sighed against his lips. “I should leave.”

“No.” He gripped her tight. “No, no, no. Not yet.”

“I can’t risk falling asleep. You know I must go to my room. We can’t be found here together. The servants . . .”

He shook his head. “The servants are servants. Who cares what they think?”

She pulled back and blinked at him.

He winced. “I beg you. Pretend I didn’t say that. Or at least pretend you didn’t hear it.”

“Never mind.” Moving off his lap, she reached for her discarded chemise. After untangling the shift, she slipped it over her head and pushed her arms through the cap sleeves. “I don’t want to quarrel.”

“Well, that’s a new development.” He tugged at his ear.

“I just don’t want to waste what we have.”

“What is it we have?”

She held his gaze. “A few days,” she said quietly. “And a few more nights together. That’s assuming we’re not discovered tonight.”

He would have liked to argue the point, but in the end he couldn’t. “I’ll see you back to your bedchamber.”

“No, stay. Rest.” She pushed him back against the bed with a hand to his shoulder and a firm kiss to his brow. “I won’t get lost in the corridors this time.”

She gathered her discarded gown and stockings into a bundle, then made her way toward the side door—the one that opened onto his dressing room.

“Are these rooms all connected?” she asked. “If I slip from one to the next, I won’t have to travel so much of the corridor. I’ll be much less likely to be seen.”

He nodded, suddenly drowsy. She’d sapped him of everything. “Yes, they’re connected.”

She plucked a candlestick from the night table, then headed through the dressing room.

He lay back, listening. He heard her opening the door that led from the dressing room to his personal sitting room. From there, she could slip out into the corridor or cross into—

Oh, Christ.

“Wait.” He launched from the bed, stumbling into his trousers in pursuit. As he dashed through the dressing room, he snagged a fresh shirt from a hook. “Wait, Pauline. Don’t—”

Too late.

“I didn’t mean to,” she said, standing in the center of the room.

The room.

“I’m sorry. I truly didn’t mean to invade your . . .” She swallowed hard. “ . . . your privacy.”

He rubbed his neck with one hand. No getting around it now. He’d have to face this at last. He was seized by the terrible lightness of inevitability. The sense of just having jumped off a cliff.

“Did you paint all these?” she asked, holding the candlestick aloft. “They’re, uh . . . they’re lovely.”

“No, I didn’t paint them.”

“Oh. Good. I mean, not that there’s something wrong with a grown man painting a room with rainbows and ponies. They are quite nice rainbows and ponies.”

“Do you truly think so?” He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.

“Oh. Yes. How could I not? They’re . . . why, on this wall they’re frolicking, aren’t they? Just look at them, frolicking and—” She swallowed hard. “—prancing.”

Good Lord. She was utterly flummoxed, trying to find some way not to give offense. For no particular reason, she was valiantly striving to spare his feelings. Making a hash of it, but the thought was sweet.

“I so admire the way this one’s mane is rippling in the breeze. Quite majestic.” Her head tilted to the side. “In the meadow, are those buttercups?”

He couldn’t hold back any longer. He laughed. It felt good to laugh in this room. It was a place he’d planned to fill with smiles and laughter, but God had taken all his careful plans and torn them to shreds.

“The ponies are ridiculous,” he admitted. “The artist who painted them specialized in portraits of Arabian racehorses. His patron owed me a gambling debt, so I engaged his services for this room. He got rather carried away.”

“And what do you do in here?” she asked.

“Not much of anything. It was never finished, as you see.” He waved toward the blank southern wall. “The decor wasn’t intended to please me. It was meant to appeal to feminine tastes.”

Her expression battened. “Oh. I see. So you planned to move a woman into your house. Into your suite. A woman who likes rainbows and ponies.”