A Duke but No Gentleman (28 page)

Tristan stood, and her gaze lingered below his waist. In fact, his manhood seemed to swell under her frank perusal. He grimaced and turned away. His hand went to the buttons at his waist. She imagined his current state of arousal must have been quite uncomfortable in its tight confines.

Imogene held her breath as she waited for him to remove his breeches. Would he? Her nipples puckered in anticipation. A part of her was surprised by her reaction. After Norgrave's attack, she had felt nothing but anger. Even Tristan's kisses had not awakened her body. She had worried that such feelings were beyond her.

Her discovery was wondrous!

Her eyes moistened with joy, but she was done with tears. Even though he was unaware of it, Tristan had helped her rediscover a part of her that she thought she had lost. Or maybe he was. The duke was a clever man. She would not put it past him to have manipulated her unexpected visit to his own benefit.

And hers, as well.

“I wanted to give you a chance to miss me.” His shoulders rippled as he soaped the small towel in his hands. He wrung out the excess water and commenced to casually wash himself.

“I have,” she said, her throat threatening to close up on her as she became overcome with emotion. “I wanted to thank you for all of your gifts. I love each one of them.”

Imogene held up her right hand, even though he had his back to her. “I wear the ring. It fits perfectly.”

Just like him,
she thought sadly.

Whether he sensed her distress or merely wished to see his ring on her hand, Tristan glanced over his shoulder. His playful expression sobered when he saw the tension in her face. He tossed the wet cloth back into the basin and walked toward her.

Dropping to his knees, he clasped her hands. The soap with which he had scrubbed his chest, arms, and armpits smelled of sweet almonds. “Imogene. What is it? You did not come to simply thank me for the gifts, did you? You have already conveyed your pleasure and thanks in your notes.”

Imogene stared at his strong hands covering hers and trembled. Although she had not spoken about her fears to anyone, he was correct. She had come to him for another reason.

“You are safe in my care, Imogene,” he said, using the sincerity in his voice and eyes to ensnare her wary gaze. “I want nothing but truth spoken between us.”

His admission coaxed a breathy laugh from her. “Then you do not know women as well as you claim, Your Grace.”

Her smile had him grinning in response. “You may be right, my lady.” His forehead furrowed as he tried to deduce on his own what troubled her thoughts. “Am I rushing you into your marriage bed, Imogene? Do you have doubts about me … about us? Of what we can be together?”

She turned her face to his hand when he caressed her cheek, and leaned into his touch. “If only our troubles were so simple.”

Tristan stilled, his entire body filling with sudden tension. “Have you come to persuade me to not announce our betrothal at the ball?”

“Not precisely,” she said, knowing she was being evasive when he deserved honesty from her. “I will leave the final decision up to you.”

The relief blossoming across his face was a dagger in her heart.

“Then I shall give you my answer. I want us—”

She silenced his words by touching her fingers to his lips. “Not until I give you the truth you wish to hear.” Imogene sighed. “Tristan, I believe I am with child.”

His expression became guarded. “Are you certain?”

“No,” she said, feeling defensive. For all of his promises, she could not guess his feelings on the subject. “I am no expert in these matters, and I refuse to approach my mother. You are the only one I have shared my suspicions with.”

“You think this child is Norgrave's,” he said flatly.

“It is a possibility,” she said, her voice sounding hoarse even to her ears. “He was the last man to—”

Tristan held up a hand to stop her from finishing her thoughts. He swiftly stood and began to pace in front of her. There was a wild look in his eyes, but she knew his anger was not directed at her.

He stopped and glared down at her. “When was the last time you bled?”

Imogene winced at his bluntness. “I do not know.” She gasped when his fingers caught her wrists and she was pulled onto her feet. “M-maybe the week we arrived in London. With everything that happened, I was not as attentive as I should have been.”

He nodded, almost absently. “Then the child is mine.”

“You do not know for certain—” His hot, furious gaze had her swallowing the rest of her argument. “You asked for truth between us, Tristan. Do not ask me to dissemble about what took place in your mother's house. You know there is a chance the child could be Norgrave's.”

“I have not forgotten,” he shouted at her. Tristan refused to release her hands when she attempted to pull away. His fingers tightened over her wrists, but he was not hurting her. “Listen to me. Since you collided into my life, you have bewitched and maddened me. I have done reckless things, and have not always been careful when it comes to you. Not when I claimed your maidenhead, or the other times when I bedded you. If you are with child, it is my babe sleeping in your womb. I would wager my estates and title on it.”

“Can you understand how difficult this is for me? I want this child to be yours,” she yelled back at him, matching his temper. “I would give anything …
anything
 … for there to be no doubt.”

Tristan cupped her face, and lightly touched his forehead to hers. “Oh, darling, how long have you carried this burden by yourself?”

“Since the night it happened,” she said, his tenderness almost her undoing. “He taunted me about the possibility and it took root in my brain. He said other things—” She could barely look him in the eye.

“Let me guess,” he said, practically spitting out the words. “Norgrave told you that I would abandon you once I learned that you carried his child.”

“Yes.”

“Imogene, the bastard lied. Norgrave told you what
he
would have done if he learned his lover carried another man's child. He does not speak for me, and he never will again.” Tristan cuddled her against his chest. “You should have told me about the baby sooner.”

“I am not positive, but there are signs,” she murmured against his bare chest.

“Then it is good that I am already planning to marry you.” He rubbed her back in a soothing fashion. “I am looking forward to watching you get as fat as a hen with my child.”

Imogene sensed Tristan was still furious at the marquess, but he somehow managed to keep his darker emotions from her because she needed to be comforted. “What if you are wrong?”

“I am not. You still do not understand,” Tristan said, impatience flashing in his gaze. He placed his hand on her belly. “I claim this child as mine. Anyone who hints otherwise will become my enemy who will face ruin by my hand. Our son will never doubt even for a moment that I am his sire.”

“So you have decided that I am carrying your heir?” she asked, her heart lightening at the conviction ringing in his vow.

“Of course,” was his arrogant response. Tristan's eyes took on a sensual cast as he reached for the buttons on her dress. “And if you are not with child, you soon will be.”

“You are not—we cannot—not with all of the servants strolling about,” she protested, but the duke was no longer listening.

“I am—we can,” he countered firmly.

It seemed Tristan had decided the only way to wipe out her lingering doubts was to coax her back into his bed. She wondered if that had been his plan all along when he had escorted her upstairs to his bedchamber.

In silence, he undressed her. His touch was light but confident, as if the duke spent his days undressing women, which was probably closer to the truth than she preferred. Imogene glanced down at her legs, and was grateful the bruises on her body had faded. When he had finished, she felt vulnerable and a little foolish standing naked in front of him, but the front of his unfastened breeches revealed that he was aroused. If she had any doubts, he swiftly allayed them by stripping down until he was as naked as she was.

Imogene reached out and touched the light yellow bruising on his ribs that had not completely faded. He had been injured worse than he had let on when he had gone after—no, she thought, that odious man had no place in the room with them.

The rising desire in Tristan's heavy-lidded gaze showed that he was wholly focused on her. On all the things he wanted to do to her.

“My love,” she said, sighing.

“Say it again,” he entreated, standing so close she could feel the heat rolling off his body. He was fully aroused, his majestic staff jutting forward. The thick crown brushed against her hip bone, causing her to shiver.

She cleared her throat. “My love.”

“Aye, that is what you are to me,” he said as he leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the lips. His face darkened with intensity. “My heart. My love. I should have spoken the words more often instead of just showing you with my body, assuming it was enough. If I had, maybe—”

Both of them had made mistakes.

“Hush,” she said, deliberately rubbing her hip against his manhood and enjoying how he sharply inhaled as if the movement wavered between ecstasy and pain. “Leave it in the past.”

“You are right,” he muttered, annoyed at himself for allowing his regrets to intrude. “No more talking.”

Imogene felt the palm of his hand on the small of her back, and in a fluid, almost dancelike move, he guided her backward until her legs bumped against the bed, and then she felt her backside sinking into the mattress.

Tristan caged her with his arms, his knee positioned between her legs keeping him on his feet. “Beautiful,” he said, staring at her with so much heat and love in his eyes that she believed him.

Trusted him.

Perhaps she always had on an instinctive level. If she hadn't, she would have never encouraged him or allowed him to coax her into exploring her undiscovered passions. He had been a temptation she could not resist. Her tutor in the carnal arts and her lover. He would soon be her husband and the father of her children.

Had they already created a child together?

Her womb clenched at the heady thought.

Laid out on the mattress like his personal banquet, Imogene gazed at Tristan as he stared down at her with hungry anticipation. Straightening so he could gain use of his hands, he combed his fingers through her hair. He plucked out every hairpin and wasn't satisfied until her hair was splayed out like a golden sun on the mattress.

It was just the beginning, and she was not certain she could withstand the torment. He seemed oblivious to his arousal, but she was keenly aware of the hot rigid length. As he touched her hair and teased her mouth with his lips, the heavy length brushed against her flesh, and burned her like a brand. She would have squeezed her thighs together to ease the warm tingles building deep within the core of her. His fingers had not touched those sensitive folds, and still she was already wet. Her body was readying itself for the union that they both were craving.

Tristan appeared content to take his time, and it was driving her half mad. Excitement and longing were entangled with a healthy dose of lust.

“My lovely duke,” she murmured dreamily. “Have I told you how pretty you are?”

“A few times,” he said. His fingers and mouth had moved on to her collarbone and shoulders. “However, I never grow weary of hearing how much I please you. Vanity is a hungry beast, and it must be fed often. Will you feed me and our son with these?”

He posed the question so casually, she had not deduced his intent until his mouth closed over her breast. Imogene tensed and arched her back slightly to meet the demands of his mouth. Pleasure shot through her as straight as an arrow, its target the very heart of her intimate heat. She squirmed against this sensual onslaught; the demand that he cease his teasing and take her was a persistent tickle in her throat.

“Will you?” he pressed, roughly suckling on her nipple. The exquisite pain was almost her undoing. Her breasts had been sensitive for weeks, and under Tristan's calculated ministrations, they were inflamed.

“Yes,” she hissed.

“Of course you will. You have always been generous, and have never denied my whims,” he said, his breath coming out in hot puffs.

Tristan had tethered his own needs to give her pleasure, but he was chafing against his self-imposed restraints. Imogene silently wondered what she could do to send him over the edge.

It seemed only fair.

He nibbled his way down her flat stomach, and teased her navel with his tongue. “I cannot wait to see you swell with my child,” he said, inhaling deeply to take in the subtle fragrance of her desire for him.

He pressed a firm, loving kiss to her belly. A kiss meant for their child.

Imogene's face crumpled as she struggled not to cry. She was overwhelmed by his acceptance and love.

As if sensing her distress, Tristan was determined to distract her. He shifted lower until the backs of her legs rested on his shoulders. Parting the feminine folds, his mouth was pure magic as he kissed the inner sweetness of her vulva.

Imogene could not muffle her cry of surprise, and her shoulders lifted off the mattress. Her beautiful lover's mouth was skilled and thorough as he teased the small fleshy knot and was rewarded with another raw moan of pleasure. Her thighs tightened as he used his fingers and tongue to send her body spiraling toward the blinding gratification she had only found in his arms.

“Again,” he rasped, nipping her inner thigh. “The taste of you is as intoxicating as a mulled wine. I want to drink deep, and keep drinking until I'm drunk on the taste of you.”

To prove it, his mouth descended again. Imogene glimpsed a mischievous grin on his lips as he anticipated her response. She found her release—a second and third time. Someone screamed, and to her embarrassment, she realized as she trembled from the lingering quakes that it was her.