The Duke of Paris (Tales from the Grand Tour Book 1) Page 3

  “How…astonishing,” Marshall said, unable to come up with anything better to say.

  His mind went completely blank and all interest in discussing Monsieur Lafarge or Les Ragots fled from his mind as they entered the conservatory and he spotted the beautiful blonde settling herself quietly in a corner. He couldn’t have the beauty turning into a wallflower.

  “Please excuse me, Hattie,” he said, letting go of Hattie’s arms with a friendly smile, then stepping away.

  Hattie didn’t seem to mind being dismissed in favor of someone else. The noise of conversations had already filled the room to the point where she would have her choice of topic and company. Evangeline moved straight to the grand piano in one corner of the room and sat to play. It was as noisy and lively as the lobby of any theater, which gave Marshall the perfect opportunity to set his plans for the evening into motion.

  The blonde noticed his approach and stood straight at once, her eyes glittering with interest. If that wasn’t a sign to move forward, Marshall didn’t know what was.

  “Have you recovered from the adventure with your parasol, Miss—” He raised an eyebrow, asking for the beautiful woman’s name.

  “Dorothy,” she answered, slipping her hand into Marshall’s offered one. He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “And yes,” she continued in a fluttery voice. “My parasol and I are doing quite well, thank you.”

  Her gaze slipped past Marshall with just a hint of desperation. Marshall turned to see if he could discern the object of her interest. He found the man who he hoped was her brother mouthing something and gesturing toward him with eagerness.

  “I do hope that is not your husband, Miss Dorothy,” he said, turning back to Dorothy with a smile meant to turn her insides to butter.

  She laughed nervously. “No, that is my brother, my lord.”

  “Please, call me Marshall,” he said, turning on as much charm as he could. “We all seem to be on a first-name basis in this party.”

  “Which is driving Miss Sewett to distraction, to be sure,” Dorothy said.

  She appeared to nod to her brother—who, Marshall noticed, Sebastian was approaching with a particularly interesting smile—before turning back to him. Her cheeks glowed pink and she seemed to be attempting to communicate some level of willingness with her eyes. Marshall’s groin tightened and his pulse sped. It looked as though he’d been dead right about her willingness after all.

  “Miss Dorothy, I wouldn’t normally leave a party just as it’s starting,” he said, “but would you care to take a stroll through the house? I hear there are many magnificent rooms with works of art that date back to the Ancien Régime and before.”

  She caught her breath, glanced past him—presumably to her brother—then smiled warmly.

  “Thank you, my lord. I think I would enjoy that.”

  Chapter 3

  Dorothy’s heart pounded against her ribs as Lord Reith—or rather, Marshall, as he’d given her leave to call him—escorted her out of the conservatory. She sent one final glance over her shoulder to Damien as they left. When her brother gave her an encouraging smile and a wink, she wasn’t certain if she should laugh at him or nod in return, like a soldier who had received her orders and was headed off to battle.

  “We only just arrived the day before yesterday,” she said to Marshall, dutifully opening the conversation in a way that would make Damien proud. “I haven’t seen much of the palace as of yet.”

  “I’ve been staying in the heart of Paris up until today myself,” Marshall said, standing a bit closer as they ambled down the long, ornate central hall of the palace’s central wing. He smelled like fine, woodsy cologne and radiated a delicious sort of heat. A great deal of that was generated by the enticing grin he wore as he looked at her. “I’ve been here before, though.”

  “Oh?” Dorothy asked, glancing up at him with her best effort to flirt.

  “When I was just Lord Hengrove, before I inherited,” he said.

  Dorothy’s heart flipped in her chest, both because of the reminder of his lofty title and from the hint of sorrow that infiltrated his otherwise impish grin. There was more to Marshall than a rake out to impress every pretty lady in Paris.

  That thought kept her steps light and her interest piqued as Marshall gestured for her to head toward a closed door on one side of the hall.

  “Let’s see what’s in here,” he said with a sparkle in his eyes that reminded her of a naughty schoolboy.

  “Are we on a mission to discover the secrets of the palace?” Dorothy asked with a giddy laugh.

  “Palaces are full of secrets,” Marshall answered, reaching for the handle of the grand door. “The more scandalous the better.”

  “And you would know this from experience?” she asked as he turned the handle and pushed the door open.

  He wasn’t able to answer right away. The door opened into a massive and extravagant ballroom that took her breath away. No lamps were lit in the room and the fireplaces were empty, but moonlight poured in through a row of French doors at the far end, giving the usually public room an air of mystery.

  “Stunning,” Dorothy said, pressing her free hand to her chest.

  Marshall glanced once around the room then turned to her. His smile grew. “I was thinking the same thing.”

  Heat swirled through Dorothy. A duke was flirting with her and giving her scintillating compliments. A duke! A handsome and personable one at that. She couldn’t believe her luck. Beyond that, she wanted more. She wanted to know who this duke was, not just the title he bore and the image he presented.

  “Are you fond of dancing?” she asked as Marshall glanced around.

  “Sometimes,” he answered, slightly distracted. He was silent for a beat, then shook his head and said, “Let’s move on.”

  They headed back to the hall, shutting the ballroom door behind them and continuing on. Dorothy fought the hint of disappointment she felt because he wasn’t directly answering her questions or engaging in conversation.

  “So you’ve been to Paris before?” she asked, not about to give up.

  Marshall glanced into the rooms they passed as though looking for something. “A few times in the last four years,” he answered. “Ever since my brother moved here.”

  Dorothy’s eyebrows lifted. “Such a close connection.”

  “Yes, I am excessively fond of my brother,” Marshall said, moving toward a smaller, closed door as they neared the end of the hall. “I will always stand by him, no matter what others say.”

  “I know precisely how you feel,” she said, her heart warming even more toward him. “I feel exactly the same about my own brother, regardless of what society says.”

  Marshall had reached for the handle of the closed door, but paused to smile at her with a different sort of light in his eyes. “Perhaps we understand each other more than we think,” he said before pushing the door open.

  “Perhaps we do.” Dorothy’s chest squeezed tighter.

  The conversation was halted as they stepped into what appeared to be a small, feminine parlor. It contained a pair of sofas arranged facing each other and a few other, comfortable-looking chairs near the edges of the room that could have been pulled into the center, depending on the size of the party. No lamps were lit, but a fire still burned in the grate and a feeling of warmth pervaded the room, as though it had been in use not long ago. Dorothy grinned as she glanced around at the Rococo cherubs painted around the ceiling and the scenes of happy shepherdesses and their suitors hanging on the wall.

  “Ancien Régime indeed,” she laughed, letting go of Marshall’s arm so that she could spin slowly to take in the full scene above them.

  “Can you imagine the sorts of illicit trysts that have taken place in this room?” Marshall asked, stepping back toward the door and closing it.

  A shiver passed through Dorothy, coalescing in places that she probably shouldn’t have found so exciting. In fact, the moment the door clicked shut, an energy that was anythin
g but safe and proper filled the room. She pulled her eyes down from the ceiling and glanced to Marshall.

  She saw it in his eyes in an instant. His smile had turned wolfish, and the sparkle in his eyes had switched to smoldering.

  Good Lord, he’s going to seduce me. The thought made the hair on the back of her neck stand up and her blood race through her veins, but not with fear. It should have been fear, to be sure, but instead, all she could think about was how big he was, how broad his shoulders and how powerful his legs were as he walked slowly toward her.

  “Palaces like this were made for revels of all sorts,” he said, his voice a low purr as he came to within inches of her. “We should make the most of it, uphold the tradition, as it were.”

  Her mouth dropped open, but before she could think of a thing to say, he swept her into his arms, bringing his lips to hers in a soft, tempting kiss, then closing his mouth over hers with breathtaking insistence.

  Dorothy made a sound deep in her throat as he kissed her, sliding his arms around her waist and tugging her flush against him. There was nowhere for her arms to go but around him, and as she dug her fingertips into his back through the layers of his supper clothes, she shuddered. He was powerful and masculine, and the way he teased her lips and thrust his tongue along hers made her want to do shocking and wanton things.

  “I knew you would be game,” Marshall growled, just as Dorothy was losing the ability to think.

  “Did you?” she panted, blinking up at him.

  “Oh yes,” he said, stealing another quick kiss. “I could tell from the first moment I spotted you on the boat this afternoon. You had that light in your eyes.”

  An odd feeling swirled through Dorothy’s gut. She shouldn’t have been flattered by such a bold statement, but she was. No one ever recognized her as anything. She blended in with the wallpaper wherever she went, too well-born for comment by the middle classes and much too poor to be included in anything by the aristocracy. The fact that Marshall, a gorgeous duke, who could have any woman he wanted, had singled her out at first sight made her feel…special.

  “I found you to be the handsomest man I’ve ever seen at first sight as well,” she blurted, cursing herself for sounding like a ninny.

  “I know,” he said, arrogant, yet somehow charming. “Right from the start, I knew I had to find a way to get you alone.”

  “Oh.” The single, breathless syllable was in reaction both to his statement and the way he surged forward, forcing her to backpedal until her calves hit one of the sofas.

  “Yes,” he said, his voice deepening. “I knew right from the start that I would go mad if I didn’t have you.”

  “Have me?” Dorothy squeaked.

  Instead of answering with words, Marshall lifted her off her feet and laid her across the sofa in one, swift move. He sank to the cushions with her, devouring her with another kiss before she could come up with a better response. He was so ardent and commanding in the way his lips melded with hers and his tongue invaded her that she couldn’t have protested if she’d wanted to.

  Fortunately for her, she didn’t want to. Not even a tiny bit. Not even when he brushed a hand up her side to caress one of her breasts through the thin fabric of her evening gown. She’d never had a man touch her that way before, and she found it sweeter than the richest dessert. She wanted him. When he dragged his mouth away from hers to kiss a trail down her neck to her exposed shoulder, all she could do was sigh with pleasure and close her eyes, as though she were living in a dream.

  Her eyes flew open again when he pulled the edge of her bodice down her shoulder, then down even more, to the point where her breast spilled free over the top of her loosened neckline. “Ooh,” she gasped as he scooped her fully into the open, rubbing his thumb around her nipple to harden it to a tender point.

  “Do you like this?” he asked, glancing at her with fire in his eyes as he slowly lowered his head toward her breast.

  “I do,” she said in surprise.

  She found she liked it even more when he closed his mouth over her nipple and raked it with his tongue. She arched at the sensual feeling of heat and wetness and pleasure, closing her eyes again as she tilted her head back. Over and over, she told herself she should not be enjoying the things he was doing so much. Never mind the fact that he was a duke, he was a virtual stranger, a man she’d barely spoken to and had only met that afternoon. But the way he teased and suckled her sent fire shooting straight to her sex in a way she had only ever dreamed of.

  She was momentarily disappointed when he lifted away from her. At least, until she realized he was reaching for the hem of her skirt. He found her ankle and slowly slid his hand up her calf, moving her legs apart and bunching her skirt as he went. Her breath caught in her throat as he kept going past her knee, adjusting the way he perched over her so that he could part her legs farther and settle himself between them. As his hand reached her inner thigh, she began to tremble.

  She should ask him to stop. The thought pounded through her brain as fast as her heartbeat as his hand inched closer and closer to her sex. He skipped right past the lacy border of her silken drawers, delving his fingers between the split in the flimsy garment to brush the heart of her sex. An instant of hesitation made her tense before his fingers stroked intimately against her aching entrance.

  As she gasped, he let out a long, sensual hum. “I knew you would be wet,” he growled, kissing her neck and shoulder as his fingers worked magic along her sex. “You want it.”

  He was so confident in his statement that Dorothy could only purr in response. She’d touched herself any number of times before, but the sensation of a man stroking and arousing her was a thousand times better. The last shred of her good sense flew out the window, and she nudged her hips open to him as best she could in her awkward position on the sofa.

  He responded with a rough breath, stroking her faster. She tilted her head back again, giving in to the dream of his illicit touch and arching toward him. He made a sound of desperate approval and slipped a finger inside of her.

  The voice in the back of her head warning her to stop before it was too late faded to a distant whisper as carnal need spread through her and the first hints of impending orgasm flushed through her. She just wanted to feel good, to feel desired, as wild and unexpected as it was. That need superseded all else, even the fact that he pulled away for a brief moment, fumbling with his trousers. The deliciousness of pleasure encompassed her, sending her hurling toward orgasm whether he was still touching her or not.

  A heartbeat later, he surged toward her. She felt the iron-hard heat of his spear against her thigh. Her eyes popped open. And then he was thrusting inside of her. The shock of it and the moment of pain scattered every thought she had. She gasped, but the sound that came from her lungs was far more like a moan of pleasure than a shout of protest. She damn well should protest, should finally tell him to stop. But the way he filled and stretched her, the nearly incomprehensible friction of him jerking inside of her felt astoundingly good. It became even better when he paused to grasp her backside, lifting her to a different angle, and resuming his thrusts at a faster pace.

  Within seconds, she was speeding toward orgasm again. God help her, but she wanted every inch of him, every wicked, aggressive thrust of his cock inside of her. It was wrong in so many ways, but right in a thousand more. She cried out in time to each of his thrusts, her sounds wilder and freer as orgasm built inside of her. It finally crashed over her in a wave of such splendor that her vision blurred and all there was for a moment was the two of them, joined in the most intimate way possible.

  As the throbbing began to subside, he pulled out of her, reached between the two of them, and after a few, frantic moments, something warm spilled across her thigh. He moaned as he found his release, then sagged to the side, halfway on top of her.

  “Good heavens, that was glorious,” he panted.

  Dorothy was inclined to agree, but the voice in the back of her head that had whispe
red warnings through the entire encounter was growing louder again.

  Marshall reached for a pocket square in his dinner jacket—which he still wore, along with every other bit of his suit—and reached between Dorothy’s legs, cleaning what he’d left behind. “Thank you,” he said with a satisfied grin as he finished his work. “I knew you’d be a delight, and you did not disappoint. Not at all.”

  He kissed her briefly, then moved to sit straight. As he did, he removed his handkerchief, which was tinged with blood as well as other things. His expression instantly dropped from sly and sated to shock. He stared at the handkerchief for a moment, then at her with wide eyes.

  Embarrassment swooped in along with the voice of her conscience. She struggled to sit up, adjusting her bodice so that her breast was covered and she looked more or less presentable again. Her face felt as hot as the fire in the grate.

  “You look surprised,” she said, no idea what the polite thing to say at a moment like that was.

  “I didn’t…did I hurt you?” Marshall stammered, still staring at her.

  Dorothy righted herself even more, tugging her skirts out from under him then straightening them across her legs as she sat as demurely as possible. “Don’t gentlemen know when the woman they are—” She cleared her throat. “When they are inexperienced?”

  Marshall’s face lost all of its color. He sat frozen for a moment, gaping, before closing his mouth and swallowing hard. He folded the handkerchief so that the evidence of his misdeed was hidden, set it to one side, and frantically tucked himself into his trousers and buttoned everything up so that he, too, looked presentable once more.

  “I didn’t know,” he said, practically leaping off the sofa in his haste to take the handkerchief to the fireplace. He threw it onto the logs and watched it burn for a moment before twisting back to Dorothy. “I’m so sorry. I thought you knew what I was about. I thought you, perhaps, did this sort of thing regularly.”