The Lost Duke of Wyndham (Two Dukes of Wyndham, #1)(75)

It was difficult to keep it contained. Especially when he was trying so hard to complete such a simple task and failing so miserably.

"Are you sure?" His face was almost comical in its frustration. "Because I am fairly certain that I do a service to all mankind by destroying this."

She tried not to laugh. "It's my only nightgown."

This, he appeared to find interesting. "Are you saying that if I tear it off, you will have to sleep naked for the duration of our journey?"

She quickly moved his hand from her bodice. "Don't," she warned him.

"But it's so tempting."

"Jack..."

He sat back on his heels, gazing down at her with a mixture of hunger and amusement that made her shiver. "Very well," he said, "you do it."

She had been intending to do just that, but now, with him watching her so intently, his eyes heavy-lidded with desire, she felt almost frozen in place. How could she be so brazen as to strip before him? To peel her clothing from her body - to do it herself. There was a difference, she realized, in taking off her own clothing and allowing herself to be seduced.

Slowly, fingers trembling, she reached for the top button of her nightgown. She couldn't see it; it was far too high, almost to her chin. But her fingers knew the motions, knew the buttons, and almost without thinking, she slipped one free.

Jack sucked in his breath. "Another."

She obeyed.

"Another."

And again. And again, until she reached the one that lay between her breasts. He reached down then, his large hands slowly spreading the two sides of her gown open. It did not reveal her to him; she'd not unbuttoned enough for that. But she felt the cool air on her skin, felt the soft tickle of his breath as he leaned down to place one kiss on the flat plane of her chest.

"You are beautiful," he whispered. And when his fingers moved this time to the buttons on her nightgown, he mastered them with no difficulty at all. He took her hand and gave it a gentle tug, indicating for her to sit up. She did, closing her eyes as the nightgown fell away.

With her vision dark, she felt more keenly, and the fabric - nothing but a plain, serviceable cotton - raised shivers of sensation as it slid along her skin.

Or maybe it was just that she knew he was looking at her.

Was this what it had felt like for that woman? The one in the painting? She must have been a woman of some experience by the time she'd posed for Monsieur Boucher, but surely there had to be a first time for her, as well. Had she, too, closed her eyes so she could feel a man's gaze upon her body?

She felt Jack's hand touching her face, the tips of his fingers softly trailing along the line of her neck to the hollow of her shoulder. He paused there, but only for a moment, and Grace sucked in her breath, waiting for the intimacy that awaited her.

"Why are your eyes closed?" he murmured.

"I don't know."

"Are you afraid?"

"No."

She waited. She gasped. She even jumped, just a little, when his fingers slid along the outer curve of her breast.

She felt herself arching. It was strange. She'd never thought about this, never even wondered what it might be like to have a man's hands stroking her in this way, but now that the moment was upon her, she knew exactly what she wanted him to do.

She wanted to feel him cupping her, holding her entirely in his palm.

She wanted to feel his hand brushing against her nipples.

She wanted him to touch her...dear God, she wanted him to touch her so badly, and it was spreading. It had moved from her breasts to her belly, to the hidden spot between her legs. She felt hot, and tingly, and searingly hungry.

Hungry... there.

It was without a doubt the strangest and most compelling sensation. She could not ignore it. She didn't want to ignore it. She wanted to feed it, indulge it, let him teach her how to quench it.

"Jack," she moaned, and his hands moved until he was cradling both of her breasts. And then he kissed her.

Her eyes flew open.

His mouth was on her now, on the very tip, and she actually clasped one of her hands to her mouth, lest she scream with the pleasure of it. She hadn't imagined...She'd thought she'd known what she wanted, but this...

She hadn't known.

She clutched at his head, using him for support. It was torture, and it was bliss, and she was barely able to breathe by the time he dragged his mouth back up to hers.

"Grace...Grace..." he murmured, over and over, his voice sliding into her skin. It felt as if he was kissing her everywhere, and maybe he was - one moment it was her mouth, and next her ear, and then her neck.

And his hands - they were wicked. And relentless.

He never stopped moving, never stopped touching her. His hands were on her shoulders, and then her hips, and then one of them started sliding down her leg, tugging at her nightgown until it slipped off her entirely.

She should have been embarrassed. She should have felt awkward. But she didn't. Not with him. Not when he was gazing down at her with such love and devotion.

He loved her. He'd said he did, and she believed him, but now she felt it. The heat, the warmth. It shone from his eyes. And she understood now how a woman might find herself ruined. How could anyone resist this? How could she resist him?

He stood then, breathing hard, working at the fastenings of his breeches with frantic fingers. His chest was already bare, and all she could think was -  He's beautiful. How could a man be so beautiful? He'd not led a life of leisure; this, she could see. His body was lean and firm, his skin marred here and there with scars and calluses.