A Duke Never Yields (32 page)

“Oh.” Abigail’s pulse crashed in her throat. Her middle seemed to be turning disgracefully into jelly.

“I have also learned the twenty-six different copulatory positions in which it is best stimulated.” His finger ran along the slope of her jaw.

“How . . . alphabetical,” she gasped out.

“And finally, Abigail, I have learned the most important technique of all. The one element guaranteed to enhance all others, to deliver the most profound ecstasy experienced by mortal man. Do you know what it is, my very dear love?”

His mouth stopped a hairsbreadth away from hers. She parted her lips and took in his breath, took in his scent and his crackling heat, until her every nerve throbbed with him.

“Bergamot?” she asked breathlessly.

He laid the tip of his finger against her open lips.

“Anticipation.”

He stepped away, and she sagged forward, only just catching herself on the back of the chair. “Wallingford, wait!” she called, but he had already turned for the door.

At that instant, the knob rattled.

“Abigail! Abigail, darling!” Alexandra’s voice floated through the wooden door. “I seem to have forgotten my key.”

Wallingford went still.

“Abigail, are you there?” Another rattle. “Oh, there it is, dash it. My other pocket. How silly.”

Wallingford dove under the bed.

The knob turned, and Alexandra burst into the room. “Oh, there you are! Why didn’t you answer?”

“I was . . . I was . . . I was on the telephone, ringing for the hotel maid to help me undress.”

“Never mind that. Abigail, I’ve the most tremendous news. I’m going to be married!” Alexandra threw her arms around Abigail’s waist and twirled her in a circle. “Isn’t it marvelous?”

“Oh, marvelous! To Mr. Burke, I hope?”

“Yes, of course to Mr. Burke! Oh, I’m so happy, I’m positively delirious.” She threw herself backward onto the bed and laughed. “Just think! Mrs. Phineas Burke! Doesn’t it sound splendid?”

Abigail stared at Alexandra, whose shoes dangled inches from Wallingford’s nose. “Splendid!” she choked.

Alexandra sat up. “You shall be my bridesmaid, of course. We’ll have the wedding as soon as possible, days if we can manage it, a small affair of course. What, are you getting ready for bed?”

“No! I mean yes, of course.” Abigail paused. “Are you?”

“I can’t decide. I’ve half a mind to speak to the hotel manager at once, to see about the details. Whether we can obtain a private room for the ceremony on such short notice.”

“Yes, do that! No time like the present,” said Abigail.

“Though I’m dreadfully tired.” Alexandra put her hand to her mouth. “It’s been an enormously stimulating day. Perhaps we should simply ring for the maid after all.”

“No, no. Really, I’m in such transports! I don’t think I could sleep. Let’s go downstairs and share a bottle of champagne, shall we?”

Alexandra looked shocked. “Really, Abigail! In a public hotel! What the devil are you thinking? We’ll have one sent up, that’s all. We can strip down to our chemises and dance about the room, just like when we were little.”

“I think,” said Abigail, a little faintly, “I may be a trifle more fatigued than I thought.”

“I’m not surprised. I daresay it’s been a long day for you as well. Did Wallingford see you back, as I asked him to?”

“Yes, he did. Just in the nick of time, too. I was about to be abducted by Mr. Hartley.”

“Such a gentleman, that Wallingford!”

“Yes, he was. A thorough gentleman. Though the entire episode was really devastating for my nerves. I don’t suppose you could see if they have any sort of . . . of elixir downstairs, could you?”

“Your nerves!” Alexandra laughed. “And when did you acquire these
nerves
, Abigail?”

She put a hand to her heart. “I’m quite serious, Alexandra!”

Alexandra was still laughing. “Why don’t you use the telephone and ask yourself?”

“It . . .” Abigail glanced at the telephone. “It isn’t working.”

“Nonsense. Weren’t you just using it to ring the hotel maid?” Alexandra rose and walked toward the wooden box on the desk.

“No, don’t touch it! It’s . . . it gave me an electric . . . a charge of some sort . . . there must be a faulty wire.” Abigail cast a desperate glance at the bed.

Alexandra jumped back. “Good heavens!”

“Yes! It’s quite dangerous! You should go straightaway and ask for someone to repair it, before we’re burnt to a crisp in our beds.” Abigail rested her forearm against her brow. “I’d go myself, but my teeth are still buzzing.”

“Oh, my poor dear! Of course I shall run down at once. I shall simply
demand
another room. Would you like a damp cloth?”

“No! No, thank you. Just, if you please . . .” Abigail made a waggling motion with her fingers.

“Very well. I’ll be straight back.” Alexandra made for the door in a swish of white skirts.

“Don’t forget your key!” called Abigail.

“In my pocket!” sang back Alexandra, drawing the door shut behind her. Just before the latch clicked, she poked her head back through. “Oh, and Abigail, my love?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Do tell Wallingford not to forget his hat and gloves when he leaves.”

EIGHTEEN

Three days later

W
allingford found her at last in the hotel café, arguing with her bookmaker. She was still dressed for the wedding breakfast, which had not really been breakfast at all, having started at five o’clock in the evening. Her shoulders were almost bare, glowing under the lamps, and her hair was gathered up high on her head with an artful little feather. If he’d been the bookmaker, he’d have given her whatever she asked for.

“What the devil’s going on here?” He arrived at her side and touched the small of her back.

Abigail turned to him. “I can’t make this fellow give me back my twenty lire for the motor-race, which was clearly fixed. He claims that since Alexandra’s motor didn’t finish, the rest of it doesn’t matter, the rascal.”

“Oh, is that all?” Wallingford turned to the man, who sat insolently at his table with a tiny cup of strong black coffee before him. “Give the lady back her twenty lire, sir, or I shall be obliged to haul you outside and drag you before the nearest magistrate.” He skewered his fingers into the top of the table, leaned forward, and spoke softly. “By the lobes of your ears.”

“That was splendid,” said Abigail, a few minutes later, tucking the banknotes into her bodice. “How do you manage it?”

“It’s my birthright. Everything squared away upstairs?”

“Oh yes. I helped the maid move Alexandra’s things into Burke’s suite whilst everyone was eating cake, and we put flowers everywhere, and laid out a bottle of champagne. Do you think he carried her over the threshold?”

“Burke? I daresay he did. Hideous romantic, that one.”

“Well, lovely! That’s that, then.”

“That’s that.”

Abigail looked down at the marble floor. They were standing in the hall, just outside the magnificent hotel ballroom, where a party of some sort was in full swing. Laughter spilled through the door, and raised gay voices, and an expert orchestra playing a waltz.

Wallingford held out his arms. “Dance?”

“Here? In the hall?”

“Wherever you like.”

She smiled and took his hand, and he waltzed her gently along the grand corridor, surrounded by pale marble and vaulted ceiling and intricate moldings. Her body was light and strong beneath his fingertips. She moved intuitively with him, gave herself up wholly to his lead, smiling at him as they swayed and spun. A couple walked by, giggling, not noticing them at all.

“Married,” she said. “I can’t believe it. And yet they looked so very happy. I’ve never seen Alexandra so happy.”

“Nor I Burke. The chap absolutely beamed as I walked her down. There’s no accounting for taste, it seems.”

She slapped his arm. “
I
think he’s a very lucky man.”

The orchestra wound up the waltz with a grand flourish. Wallingford pulled back and took both of Abigail’s hands. They were warm and firm beneath her gloves; her delicate face was overspread by a fine pink blush. He didn’t dare look farther down, where her breasts curved voluptuously from the low lace-edged neckline of her dress.

“Come with me,” he said.

“Wallingford, I . . .”

He kissed her hands and led her down the corridor to the staircase. She said nothing, but he could feel the tremors of her body through her hand, which he kept in his. They climbed the silent staircase, floor after floor, meeting no one, until at last she began to flag under the weight of her dress and petticoats, and he lifted and carried her up the final curving flight.

“But Wallingford, my room . . . my things . . .”

“Hush.” He maneuvered his key from his jacket pocket and opened the door.

“You’re going to ravish me, aren’t you?” She sighed dreamily.

“If I must.” He kissed her neck and closed the door with his foot. “Anticipation cuts both ways, after all.”

He eased her to the floor and turned her around, until her back rested against his chest, and the heave of her gasp sent waves throughout his body.

“What’s this?”

“For you.”

She turned her head slowly, taking in the vases bursting with flowers, the champagne in its bucket, the little table laid out with fruit and sweets. The low glow of lights beckoned from the doorway into the bedroom.

“Much more comfortable than a boathouse, don’t you think?” he whispered into her hair.

“Oh, Wallingford.” She turned and clasped his face. Her eyes were wet. “I had no idea. When did you do this?”

“When everyone was eating cake. When you were busy upstairs in Burke’s room.”

“Oh.” Her hands slipped down and went around his waist. She tucked her face into his chest. “What am I to do with you?”

“Whatever you like, Abigail. I’m at your mercy.” He kissed her hair. “There’s only one rule.”

“What’s that?”

He cupped the back of her head and turned her face upward. The pale skin below her eyes shone with dampness. “No one leaves this room until morning. No more running from me, Abigail. You can rail away, tell me I’m a brute, insist on whatever conditions you like, but you’re not to
leave
me.”

She laughed through her tears. “I won’t. I promise.”

Her lips were so round and pink, parting just slightly to reveal the white tips of her teeth. Wallingford bent his head and kissed her, as softly as he could, relaxing his mouth and his eager impulses in order to take in every sensation of her, to relish every movement and every detail of her. She tasted of champagne from the wedding breakfast, sweet and golden, effervescent in his arms, and he simply opened himself and drank her up, this endless, life-giving glass of Abigail.

*   *   *

I
t was the champagne, Abigail thought. She should never have swilled back that final toast. On the other hand, what could one do, when the minister kept calling for more bottles?

Or perhaps it was simply Wallingford himself, who kissed her with irresistible patience, as if he were savoring every drop of her; a marvelously sensual Wallingford, all warm slow skin and stroking tongue. He stood so tall and so close, she had to bend her neck to meet him, but his two hands were right there to support her: one caressing her back, and the other encompassing the curve of her head. He held her firmly, and under his kind lips and his strong arms, her body loosened and accepted him, leaned back and allowed him to take her weight.

What a delicious sensation, to be held so securely, without fear of falling.

She couldn’t refuse him. She didn’t want to. She had been tamping down her desire for him for days, as they toured about Rome with Alexandra and Finn; for weeks, really, as she’d moped about the Castel sant’Agata, missing him in every fiber. Did it matter if she experienced the earth-shattering rapture of her dreams? Somehow, it didn’t seem important any longer; she only wanted
him
, his skin against hers, his weight and substance, connection with Wallingford, union with Wallingford, and afterward, his voice in her ear and his kisses on her breast.

That was what mattered now.

She slid her hands up the sleek black wool of Wallingford’s chest and thanked God for him.

His lips pulled away. “
Yes
, Abigail?”

“Yes.”

He bent, picked her up, and carried her into the bedroom with that effortless movement of his, as if he’d been slinging women about since the dawn of time. The champagne bubbled up in her veins and she laughed.

“What is it?”

“You. Your flowers and your kisses. Carrying me about. You’re a romantic, aren’t you?”

He set her down and began to work the fastenings of her dress. “Bite your tongue.”

She laughed again and closed her eyes, because the brush of his fingers down her back lightened her blood and made her unsteady. The dress sagged downward, aided by Wallingford’s hands, and she stepped out of it and kicked it aside.

His hands came up around her middle, over her stays. “Do you know how beautiful you are?” he murmured in her ear. “How your skin glows in the light, like gold?” He brushed the lace of her chemise, just above the firm clasp of her corset, raising tiny goose bumps across her chest.

She leaned her head against his chest. His gaze traveled across the curve of her bosom; she felt its weight, its admiring thoroughness. His fingers went once again to her back, drawing down her petticoats, unlacing her stays, removing each layer that separated him from her bare skin, until she stood before him in her chemise and drawers.

“You’re shivering,” he said.

“I can’t seem to stop.”

He wrapped his arms around her and brought her against his big body. His hand moved in her hair, taking out the pins one by one, pulling the feather away, until it tumbled down her back. “Shy, Abigail? You?”

“Astonishing, isn’t it?”

“Why are you afraid of me now? You never were before.”

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t; she had no answer for him. All she knew was that she wanted him, his hands on her skin, and yet at the same time she wanted to stay safe inside her chemise, where he couldn’t see her fully, couldn’t see every mark and shadow of her body.