Duke of Depravity by Scarlett Scott

Author:Scarlett Scott
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: 0
Published: 2018-12-14T08:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

THE DUKE OF Whitley kissed her throat. His hands swept over her breasts as the stubble of his whiskers abraded her jaw. A pang of need surged between her thighs. His body was large and warm, dominating hers.

“I want you,” he whispered against her skin.

Her fingers threaded through his thick, soft hair. It seemed she could not get close enough. She wanted him deep inside her.

“I want you, too,” she confessed, the words leaving her on a sigh as one of his big hands swept the hem of her nightrail over her legs. Higher and higher he went, and she was on fire with ecstasy, unable to deny either of them what they so badly wanted.

Nothing else mattered. It was as if they were the only two people in the world, lost until they had found each other…

The feral cry of a wounded animal hauled Jacinda from the depths of a feverish dream. Heart pounding, she jolted upright, the bedclothes falling about her waist. Cool night air kissed her skin, wringing a shiver from her. Inhaling a deep, steadying breath, she willed her thudding heart to calm, and listened.

Angels in heaven, that depraved dream. Shame washed over her. Where had it come from? Why did it plague her now when she must be more steadfast than ever in her determination to resist the lures of the Duke of Whitley? For days following their encounter in the library, he had avoided her, and she had been glad of his absence. Relieved when he had sent terse missives to inform her she need not attend their daily briefings. Satisfied when he carved out time for his sisters and requested she spend that same time otherwise occupied.

For even if he was innocent of the crimes laid against him as she had begun to believe, there was no future for the two of them. If she became his mistress, she would become a pariah forever. And he would never, ever wed her, she reminded herself. As a duke, he remained well above her touch. She was Mrs. Jacinda Turnbow, daughter of Sir Robert Smythe, simple soldier’s widow, who lived in comfortable obscurity with her father. She preferred the company of books and ciphers to men. When the Duke of Whitley looked at her, he saw a woman he would make his mistress, not a lady he would take to wife.

And while Jacinda could not countenance the notion of becoming a wife again, neither would she even consider being any man’s mistress. Especially not his. No matter how much his touch undid her, or how much her body ached for him. Alone in the darkness, she was keenly aware of the throbbing between her legs, the longing to be claimed that had not visited her in years.

Of all men, why had her traitorous body chosen to react to the Duke of Whitley?

Perhaps she had imagined the disturbance. Something had wrenched her from her slumber, but it was entirely possible the noise she fancied she had heard was part of her nonsensical dream rather than reality.

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