A Whisper of Desire Read online

  He looked at her thoughtfully, as if assessing her person. She ran a hand over her hair, checking to see if anything was out of place. He continued to gaze down at her with a peculiar look upon his face. “If a woman is as beautiful as you, I don’t mind her falling into my arms.”

  Marisa only just stopped her mouth from gaping open. Never had Maitland ever openly flirted with her; the other Libertine Scholars, her brother’s friends, of course had playfully bantered with her, but never Maitland. They were all exceedingly handsome men, and all that attention could go to a girl’s head.

  Maitland Spencer, the Duke of Lyttleton, had always simply been her older brother’s somewhat handsome yet standoffish friend. He’d never shown an ounce of interest in her, or her in him. She looked him over. “Are you ill?”

  Perfectly arched eyebrows lowered into a frown. “I’m very well, and you?”

  “I’m stunned, actually. You’re flirting with me.”

  “I wasn’t flirting. I was merely stating a fact.”

  Of course he was. Literal was his middle name. “Then perhaps you can unhand me, sir,” she said, looking pointedly at his large hands still firmly holding her waist, “unless you do have intentions of flirting with me.”

  To her dismay, he did not take his hands from her; instead, they tightened and pulled her close, and he gently moved her into an alcove, away from prying eyes.

  “What if I decided I did want to flirt with you? Perhaps even declare my suit? Don’t look surprised—you are one of the most sought-after debutantes this season.”

  “Has Sebastian put you up to this? There is no need for him to pester me. I know who I will marry; I’m simply waiting for him to ask.”

  Maitland’s eyes roamed her face, stopping at her lips. “A beauty such as you should not have to wait. I would decline him on principle. What would you do if I got down on bended knee here and now?”

  Heat flared over her skin. Flustered, she didn’t know how to reply. What had come over His Grace tonight?

  “I suspect I would think you in your cups, Your Grace. In all the years I have known you, you’ve never looked at me twice.”

  He pressed closer. “That’s not true, little one. It would have been inappropriate for me to notice you until I knew my mind. I find that tonight I know exactly what I want.”

  His eyes flared with something she’d swear was heat. Perhaps their dance earlier had affected him as much as it had affected her.

  “I’m not for the wanting, so you can stop this silly flirtation.”

  “I have no need to flirt, little one. When I want a woman she is left in no doubt as to my intentions.” His mouth trailed up her neck until he reached her ear. He softly added, “And they rarely deny me.”

  This wasn’t the Maitland she knew and usually ignored. Normally they traded—actually nothing—he was not one to engage in banter, nor tender touches and breathless entreaties. However, this Maitland, this man who held her captive with his presence, was all fire and ice and had her undivided attention.

  His seductive words, coupled with the hard body she found herself pressed against, twisted something in her stomach. Her body heated and her pulse raced like a feather tossed by a hurricane. She licked her lips. For one crazy second she wanted to press closer, wanted those velvet lips on hers.

  Then sanity returned. She hated how he referred to her as “little one.” He’d called her that since her fifteenth birthday. She’d grown tall, taller than most men. She hated her height, and that was why Rutherford was so perfect: He was taller by several inches. She noted His Grace was taller still. Why did that thought enter her head?

  Goodness, if Rutherford found her like this, if anyone found her like this…

  “Maitland”—she must be flustered; she never referred to His Grace by his first name—“Maitland,” she repeated more firmly, “stop this game at once. You are toying with me and I won’t have it. What would Sebastian think?”

  He drew back and she looked into his eyes, and another shiver passed over her at what she saw there. Heat and fire flared, nothing like the iceberg she thought him to be.

  “That’s what I am trying to tell you. I’m not toying.” He stroked the upper swell of her breasts with his finger and she gasped. “You are very beautiful. You are a woman fit to become my duchess.”

  She slapped his hand away while her body betrayed her—her nipples hardened against the silk of her chemise. His touch ignited a yearning she knew well. A yearning she normally associated with Rutherford. What was wrong with her? Why was the stuffy Maitland having this effect on her tonight, of all nights? “I cannot believe you just did that. My brother would skin alive any man who touched me so inappropriately.” She leaned forward to smell his breath. “If I didn’t know better, as I said before, I’d say you were in your cups, yet I cannot smell any liquor on your breath.”

  One of his long, elegant fingers touched her peaked nipple through her dress. “The woman does protest too much. Your body recognizes how it could be between us.” He pressed her against the pillar at her back. One hand stroked down her neck while the other continued to hold her waist. “Have you ever been kissed to the point you lose all sense of right and wrong and you can barely stand?”

  What a question! Rutherford had kissed her, but she suspected his kisses were tame in comparison to what Maitland was suggesting. Her knees had never buckled from Rutherford’s kisses. He respected her too much to push for more, unfortunately.

  “Of course I have been kissed,” she brazened.

  He leaned his inviting lips so close they were almost upon hers. “Liar.”

  “I do not lie. If I were a man I’d call you out.”

  “But you’re not a man, Marisa. You are very much a woman.”

  With that, he ran the tip of his tongue over her bottom lip. She drew in a deep breath, surprised at her body’s sudden, feminine reaction to his words. Her stomach clenched into a tight, silken fist. Never before had the sound of her name from Maitland’s lips evoked such overwhelming sensations. Her body hummed with desire. Maybe it was just the way his voice seemed to caress, deepening to a low, dark pitch that was almost dangerous. Maybe it was the sudden glint of need she caught in his eyes that made her wonder how a man with obvious fire in his soul could let the world think he was cold and aloof. How had this powerful man’s upbringing shaped his life, and why did she suddenly care?

  It was as if a strong ocean tide was pulling at her—she knew she wanted to swim, but she was scared she’d drown in the undertow.

  Her mistake was to look into his clear green eyes, for they trapped her with pure heat. Unable to resist, she leaned in and her tongue slipped out to touch his. At the small sigh that unintentionally escaped from her, the normally cool and contained duke disappeared, and with a groan so filled with longing he pulled her deep into an embrace and his lips firmly but gently took hers in a kiss that was—oh, goodness—so much more than anything she’d ever experienced in her life. It thrilled and frightened her. Frightened her because she was consumed with want and need and hunger…and this was Maitland Spencer, the Cold Duke.

  “Open, little one,” he commanded in a voice laden with desire, and she did. His tongue swept into her mouth and each relentless stroke was like heaven. She’d never tasted a man before. He tasted of brandy and cheroots, everything addictive to a woman who craved more.

  His hands were wrapped tightly in her hair, holding her head exactly right for his invasion. His body pressed her back against the pillar, and she welcomed the cold marble to combat the heat he generated. She felt something hard and long pressing against her stomach; she knew she should be appalled, but his mouth was creating such amazing sensations that she simply pressed closer, wrapping her arms around his neck and whimpering for more.

  He gave her more. His tongue thrust deep into her mouth in a dance that demanded she follow. She dueled for dominance, her tongue entering his mouth like a queen at the head of her army. He welcomed the invasion, and another
groan echoed deep in his throat as he ground his hardness against her.

  This was heaven. She never wanted the kiss to end, and, blast it all to Hades, he was right, for when his clever fingers found her hardened nipple, her knees gave out and she sagged in his arms.

  Only then did he break the kiss. There was no gloating in his gaze or upon his features, merely heat, want, and need, surely matching her own.

  They stood close together in the alcove, forehead to forehead, breathing heavily.

  She was stunned. Never in all the times he’d come to her brother’s house had Maitland shown the remotest interest in her. Last year she’d briefly considered him as a possible prospect. He was handsome in his way, a duke with considerable wealth, and for some reason her senses seemed to stir when he was present. She had no idea why, because he seldom seemed to notice her at all.

  She liked his more staid demeanor. He was not considered in her brother’s league as far as a man’s rakish ways, which she considered to be highly desirable in a husband. He was kind, considerate, and a true gentleman.

  However, she’d crossed him off her list of potential husbands, thinking him too cold to rouse her passions. Plus, when she decided she’d marry only for love like her brother, she realized it was likely a man so contained would not be easy to love. She needed passion, desire, and a man willing to open his heart. She’d wondered if he had a warm heart under his cold exterior. Apparently he did.

  It would appear she’d read Maitland wrong. He simply kept his passions well in check. She would never have guessed the roaring fire banked inside the formal peer.

  Yet here she stood, ready to dissolve in a puddle of delicious desire. One kiss had changed her world, and she stared at Maitland. The mask of indifference he usually wore was back in place. If she couldn’t still feel his erection hard against her belly, she would never have thought he desired her at all.

  The Cold Duke was like a volcano covered in ice; he had a molten core he kept hidden from the world.

  She needed air, needed to clear her head of his scent and taste. More than anything, she needed to think of Rutherford. Rutherford!

  She made to move around him, saying, “This is ridiculous. I am almost engaged.” She walked quickly out of the alcove, her fingers flying to repair the damage to her hair.

  He took one large stride and was by her side. “Almost means you are still free. I think you should consider my suit seriously.”

  She ground her teeth and kept smiling, given the number of people looking their way. “Suit? You have not once called on me this season.”

  “In all fairness, I have been busy hunting a madwoman.”

  She remained silent. That was, in fact, true, and one of the reasons she felt Rutherford had not proposed. She was almost being kept under lock and key and had had little opportunity to progress her relationship with Lord Rutherford. Sebastian, as always, was being overprotective.

  A servant approached with a tray of glasses filled with champagne. He stopped and offered her a glass, and she took the opportunity to turn from His Grace and take one for something to do with her hands, which she noticed were fidgeting with her gown. She never fidgeted. Maitland took a glass, drank it down, and reached for another. Once the servant left she glared up at him. “I realize my brother asked you to see to my safety tonight”—she searched the room for Sebastian—“but I hardly think he required you to pursue me in such a scandalously romantic fashion.”

  Maitland’s face went from severe to breathtaking, as the first smile she’d ever seen on him suddenly broke over his features. “I may be pursuing you as you say, but certainly not in a romantic way. I merely find you a very attractive woman from a good family. You would make an exceptional duchess. You’re intelligent, strong, kind, and did I mention beautiful—oh, I believe I have.”

  Her mouth dropped open. She struggled to find the words.

  “Don’t be so surprised. With a madwoman out to do me harm, it is expedient I find a wife and have a son. You, little one, would be perfect in the role.”

  Marisa realized she had been insulted and praised simultaneously. “Let me understand your intentions. Just because you need a child, you think I should be flattered by a proposal that is simply you wanting a brood mare.” She swept her hand, indicating the full ballroom behind her. “Do you realize I could have my pick of unattached men here?” She poked him in his admittedly very hard and muscular chest, her finger lingering longer than necessary to deliver her derisive reply. “Why would I accept a proposal from a man so arrogant he feels he doesn’t have to court me? It’s as if I’m supposed to fall at your feet in gratitude. Let me tell you, sir, that will never happen.”

  “Never is a long time, my lady.” He didn’t even apologize for his behavior. “If I went to Sebastian, he would look favorably on my suit.”

  She almost choked on her drink, with bubbles going up her nose. The behavior was so unladylike it drew several of the tons’ gossip-filled eyes their way. “You are deluded. You may be his friend, one of his best friends, but my brother would never force me into a marriage I did not want.”

  He leaned closer, regardless of the audience that was gathering. “Then I shall have to ensure you want to marry me.” What the crowd could not see was the fingers of his right hand trailing down the curves of her side and over her hip. She couldn’t squirm or slap his hand away without alerting everyone to his disgraceful behavior.

  She simply smiled sweetly and gritted her teeth. “I doubt you will achieve that goal, Your Grace. I’m expecting a proposal from a man who loves me, and I shall be accepting.”

  She watched his jaw go taut, and his hand dropped from where it stroked her side. “We shall see, little one.” With that, he bowed low and lifted her hand to his lips. Ignoring their audience, he pressed his lips to her fingers and lingered longer than appropriate.

  She wanted to rip her hand from his possessive hold but knew they were already a topic of speculation and she didn’t wish for others to get the wrong impression. If Rutherford thought His Grace was a suitor he might bow out, thinking he could not compete.

  “There you are. I have been looking for you everywhere.” Beatrice, her sister-in-law, slipped her arm through Marisa’s and smiled up at His Grace. “Maitland, thank you for keeping an eye on Marisa. I hope she hasn’t been a nuisance.”

  Marisa wanted to scream. If anyone was being a nuisance, it was he.

  “It has been my pleasure,” he said with not a hint of irony. “If you’ll excuse me, I shall retire to the card room.”

  He placed a kiss on Beatrice’s cheek and left without another word to Marisa.

  “Ooh, that man. He’s so, he’s so, so infuriating.”

  Beatrice laughed at her outburst. “His Grace is a nice man, even though he sometimes makes me wonder if he knows how to be happy.”

  Marisa looked at his departing back, trying to ignore the curve of his buttocks and his long, powerful legs. “He’s a duke, very wealthy and quite handsome. Why would he not be happy?”

  Beatrice sighed and looped her arm with Marisa’s, leading them back to the refreshment table. Marisa drank the rest of her champagne before accepting another glass.

  “His upbringing was not a happy one. His mother died in childbirth, and his father—I’m not sure if it was his wife’s death or if he was always that way, but he turned into a drunken, debauched, bitter man. I doubt Maitland ever received a kind word, let alone a hug. I’m sure it’s affected him. Maitland is just not demonstrative.”

  Marisa’s face heated. He’d been plenty demonstrative earlier. Suddenly she felt a tad light-headed. “Excuse me, Beatrice, I need the retiring room.” Beatrice was about to say she’d come too, when Sebastian arrived, wishing to dance with his wife. She watched Beatrice and her brother as they waltzed and wondered where Lord Rutherford was. She frowned and steadied herself against the table. She put down her glass and decided she needed to sit for a moment. She’d hardly drunk anything this evening, but for so
me reason the champagne she’d sipped had gone straight to her head.

  Chapter 2

  Marisa woke from what she thought must have been a very deep sleep. Her head was a deadweight on her pillow. She’d obviously drunk too much champagne at Lord Dunmire’s ball, and she had a serious headache. If she moved, pounding drums began at her temples and moved to the back of her head. She didn’t want to open her eyes and face the day, but the thought that Rutherford might call, and that this could be the day he proposed, saw her brave any discomfort the sunlight might deliver. Her lady’s maid, Susan, always pulled back the blinds in the morning, so she pried one eye open and was surprised and relieved to find it was still dark, with only soft dawn light visible where the curtains met.

  Joy! She could sleep for a few more hours and get rid of this throbbing head. She closed her eyes and let out a sigh, snuggling down in the bedclothes.

  She was just drifting off, her breathing in time with the drums playing in her head, when a large snore sounded close to her ear. For a minute she thought she had dreamt the sound, but then a large, hard body curled round her, dragging her back against a very male front. She swallowed her panic and nausea. Someone had invaded her room and was in bed with her, and they were naked.

  She should scream; her brother would be here in a flash and he would kill whoever was trying…But her bedmate wasn’t trying to do anything. He was doing nothing but holding her gently in his arms.

  Oh, dear. She knew she’d been light-headed at the ball but she’d swear she had not drunk much. She blamed her moment of madness with Maitland for her giddiness. She remembered dancing the second waltz with Rutherford. Had she grown too bold and invited him to sneak into her bedchamber?

  Why couldn’t she remember?

  She looked over her shoulder without disturbing her bedmate. Her heart sped up. It wasn’t Rutherford, for the man’s hair was dark.

  With headache forgotten, she eased back the covers so as not to alert her captor, and viciously dug her nails into the arm wrapped around her waist, until with a loud curse the hairy arm disappeared and she could jump free.