The Duke Goes Down (The Duke Hunt #1) by Sophie Jordan

“Of course not,” she snapped indignantly at his indecent offer. She readjusted her arms around her bent legs and shifted nervously where she sat.

Her mind drifted to Edgar’s attempt to show her pleasure. He had promised to make her feel good. Or some such enticement. A bold lie. It had not hurt precisely, but it had been uncomfortable, and it had certainly not been pleasurable.

For some reason, unlike that time, she suspected there would be pleasure with Mr. Butler.

His eyes narrowed on her thoughtfully. “Because you don’t believe in pleasure?”

“I did not say that.” On the contrary. She believed he could deliver on the pleasure. His voice alone made her feel pleasantly flushed all over.

“Tell me something,” he pressed, ignoring her weak denial. “Is it that you do not believe pleasure exists for a woman? Or that I cannot deliver it?”

She sputtered, her mind a wild tangle. This was a wholly inappropriate conversation, and yet they were having it. It did not help that his proximity sent her pulse racing and her limbs shaking. He smelled of soap and sunshine and freshly pressed linen. Who knew any person could smell so intoxicating?

Her hands clenched tighter in her skirts to keep them from trembling. She was looking at his mouth again, and she forced her gaze away, mentally upbraiding herself. Now that she knew the taste of his lips it was difficult to pretend otherwise.

The former Duke of Penning sat with her in her favorite spot weaving seductive words and staring at her like he could see beneath her clothes—and he liked what he saw. She could not have imagined it.

Him. With her. Like this.

He would not be here with her, if he was still the duke. It was a glaring truth. She could not feign ignorance of that, but right now he was very . . . distracting.

His index finger came to play with the hem of her skirts, ruffling the dirt-smudged fabric. Not touching but close enough to her ankle that her breath constricted in her throat. “I can make a wife very happy.”

“In bed,” she retorted. “You can make a wife happy in bed. There is more to happiness than what happens in the marriage bed.”

He inclined his head. “Perhaps. But it is a very good place to start. It cannot be discounted. You think I can bring nothing to a marriage?” He paused a beat and she felt that silence swell between them like a giant balloon, ready to pop at his first touch. “Let me show you otherwise.”

He inched his body closer, encroaching without touching, and making her wholly aware of just how much larger he was. And warmer. Or was that her body that felt suddenly overly warm in the chilly afternoon?

“Wh-what are you doing?” She could not believe she just asked that question, but as he was propositioning her she might as well be clear on the specifics of what the offer entailed.

Not that she was entertaining the notion. She was not. She was simply curious.

“I’m showing you. There are hundreds of ways to please a woman.”

Hundreds?

Her mind raced. She couldn’t get those words out of her ears. She moistened her lips, both tempted and overwhelmed at the notion of hundreds.

No. She gave her head a small shake. He could not entice her. She would not be taken in so easily. She wouldn’t be duped. Not again.

“‘Hundreds of ways’ is rather vague, I fear.” With an air of disinterest that impressed even herself, she moved to slide off the rock.

He grasped her wrist, stalling her. “What if I said I would begin by slipping my hand under your skirt and placing it upon your leg like this?” His hand dipped beneath her hem, circling her ankle.

She gave a little squeak and froze.

“Is that properly specific for you?” he murmured.

Oh. My. That was specific.

She nodded jerkily, her voice trapped in her throat, strangling as she absorbed the simple sensation of his hand on her.

Except there was nothing simple about it.

His palm radiated heat through the fabric of her stocking. She could feel the imprint of each of his fingers like a brand. What would it be like if she tore off her stockings so they were skin-to-skin?

If his hand didn’t stop at her ankle? If he touched her everywhere? She would likely go up in flame.

“Is it? Imogen?” he whispered her name and it felt like a full body caress. “Specific enough?”

This time she managed speech. “Y-yes.”

She should keep moving away, sliding off the rock and putting distance between them, but his deep voice lulled her. To say nothing of his touch. He was scarcely making contact with her, but she was held in place, pinned to the rock.

The palm of his hand gently cupped the outside of her anklebone, fingers circling, gripping her there for a moment, radiating heat up her leg from that one point of contact.

He was not eager or greedy or hurried. There were no fumbling hands beneath her skirts, poking and prodding at her.

This was no ambush.

He stretched his body out beside her like a cat lazing in the afternoon sun, his fingers grazing slow circles around the bump of her anklebone. As though they had all the time in the world.

As though they had eternity on this rock.

The tips of his fingers began walking inward, starting a slow ascent up her stocking-covered leg. “And then I would proceed like this over your stockings, detesting that they’re here to bar me, wishing for skin . . . looking for your skin, hungering for that first contact.”