A Most Unusual Duke by Felicia Greene

Author:Felicia Greene
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2020-06-02T04:00:00+00:00

He should have known that the dress would be the least of it. Harrow didn’t know what seamstress Diana had started visiting when she made her trips to the centre of London, but the gowns she wore in the house had become… tighter. Or perhaps they were the same as they had always been, and the only difference was the lustful nature of his gaze. He found himself lingering on the swell of her breasts, the light but definite darkening he glimpsed at the meeting of her thighs, whenever he caught her unawares in any area of the house.

That was the other piece of intrigue. He remembered Diana being content to stay in one place, reading a novel or finishing a particularly tricky piece of embroidery. Now, wherever he happened to be in the enormous property, she would be there too—often in an attitude that displayed her body to the best of its ability. Harrow wasn’t sure when his wife had become enamoured with copying the classical poses of the statues in the sculpture gallery, or attempting to reach the books on the highest shelves of the library, but he found her doing both things frequently—and wearing the filmiest, gauziest gowns while doing so.

He had managed to avoid touching himself while thinking of her. It had taken hours of aggressive riding through rain and sleet, plenty of cold baths, and walking around the cold gardens at night instead of laying in bed and thinking of Diana. It had left him cold, irritated, and stiff in more ways than one—but he had conquered himself.

That is, until he saw her in the bath.

She had set it up in his study, the minx. He had been yawning as he walked towards the little room next to his bedroom, not willing to look through records before falling into bed… and then he had heard the sound of splashing.

Before he could stop himself, he was pushing the door open. Diana’s soft gasp stilled his hand; he stared at her for a long, silent moment, the image of her naked body burned into his brain, before he slammed the door shut.

How he had dreamed of seeing her like that. She was even more beautiful than he had pictured; her full breasts, damp with rose-scented water, her nipples hardening in the cool air. The brief, illicit glimpse of the dark curls that framed her mound, cushioned in the ripe swell of her thighs, as she had stared at him without an ounce of shame.

He couldn’t be weak. Weak enough to run back to the study, throw open the door and clamber into the bath with her, ripping his shirt off, pulling her body to his. Weak enough to give her all the pleasure he knew he could give. It was always a wrench, leaving her alone in a room, but this time Harrow felt physical pain as he walked away.

He had given in that night. He had tugged himself to climax with barely-concealed anger, thinking of Diana in her bedroom on the other side of the house.

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