His Inherited Duchess by Bronwyn Scott

Author:Bronwyn Scott
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2022-11-02T14:24:17+00:00

Chapter Twelve

Dear heavens, she’d kissed the duke and it had been divine. No, not it, him. He had been divine. Now it was all she could think about, had been all she could think about since she’d come back to the house, dressed for supper, gone down to the drawing room and into dinner. How had she managed all that when she could remember none of it—not what had been served for the first course or the second, not how her maid had done her hair, or if she’d had sherry for her preprandial drink.

All she knew was that kiss. It had become the sum of her world, every aspect of it etched into her memory with the finest care for detail. And what details they were! Shocking in their intimacy. He’d touched her, tasted her, nipped her, caressed her, drank from her, all with his mouth, his fingertips, and she’d done the same of him. Never had she experienced such a kiss. She’d not known there were such kisses, kisses that obliterated reality and reason. Even now, hours later, looking at Logan at the head of the table was enough to conjure the feel of his hand at the back of her neck, his fingers in her hair. His touch had felt... Well, it had just felt. She’d felt. Alive. For the first time in years. At his touch she’d become a person again, not merely a disappointment or a duchess, not a vessel in which a seed had failed to grow or the embodiment of a title—a placeholder in Darlington history.

And then he’d stopped. Because you deserve more. She understood what he meant, both in his reasons for starting and for stopping the interlude on the daybed. He’d wanted to show her her worth, to show her what Adolphus had not, to show her she was a woman worthy of passion, of reverence. And she’d burned at the first stroke of that reverence. But to what end? They both knew the answer to that. There was no future in burning. Burning consumed and then it was over, leaving nothing but ash. He’d played the gentleman and she ought to thank him for it. Perhaps later—much later—she would. But for now, stopping had only fanned the flames of her curiosity. He’d shown her a glimpse of what could be, of what real passion tasted like, felt like. How could he not expect her to want more?

Moresby served the third course and she glanced to where Logan sat, groomed and immaculate in his dark evening clothes and onyx stick pin winking in the perfect folds of his neckcloth. He looked cool, calm. She envied him that calm. How did a person learn to separate themselves from such emotion, such passion, so that they could rejoin reality and appear unaffected? Unchanged? Was he indeed unaffected by the interlude? Lost for a moment only, as if he had not even been the least bit singed by what had occurred on the daybed;

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