Page 89 of The Duke
She could only shake her head. Her resistance, even in some sense her grip on reality, was in pieces, and she couldn’t reassemble it.
The first time she’d laid eyes on the duke, they had been in a private room like this, a noisy party continuing elsewhere in the house. The duke sliding one hand to the back of her head, determined to have her. Then, Kate had not been quite real to Celine. She had been a fantasy come to life, an archetype, of which Celine had been in awe.
Now the woman she loved stood before her, completely human, completely known. Asking to have her.
A future with the duke was impossible, yes. But life wasn’t made up of absolutes: love forever, happiness forever. Life didn’t stop like that, only death. Celine had used what harmed the duke to try to buy herself a dream, and now she had to pay the price for it.
But she would take one night with the duke first. Just one night.
She had done all she could to mitigate harm. She had paid the printers handsomely. Louise had the letter, and she would take it to Wroth House in a matter of hours before going to Lords to give her testimony. Markham had seen Celine go to speak privately with Lord Burnley and would think the engagement settled. The only real harm left was to her own heart.
No, that was disingenuous. The duke would be hurt by it as well.
The duke released her suddenly, turning away, and began pacing, her manner agitated. “I cannot bear it,” she said. “For God’s sake, have mercy on me!Did you accept Lord Burnley?”
“No,” Celine said, reckless and wretched and in love. “I didn’t accept him.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Even as the duke strode to her, she ran to the duke.
Their bodies met, and it wasn’t enough. Her hands on the duke’s chest, the duke’s gloved hands on her bare upper arms. The duke pushed one of Celine’s long gloves down and desperately kissed the inside of her elbow. She curled her arm around the duke’s head.
The duke began kissing her chest—passionate, gasping kisses down to the edge of her bodice, as though seeking the soft dream of her breasts. The duke gave a tug and she stepped away.
“If you take any part of me out of this dress it’s not going back in,” she said. “Let me—”
She pushed the duke back against the door and then sank slowly to her knees, all the mirrors and silver on her skirt tinkling as it settled around her. Like a princess curtseying before her sovereign: profane and needy.
“My love,” the duke breathed. “My own.” Behind a fall of hair her eyes were blown, the sharp, devastating angles of her face flushed. The god of Celine’s universe, undone. The duke cupped Celine’s face and brushed a gentle thumb over her cheek.
Celine closed her eyes and shuddered. The ecstasy of being touched by this woman.
The duke swore and began to unbutton her breeches, but Celine batted her hand away and took over. The truth was, she would let the duke strip her naked and carry her through the ballroom afterwards so everyone could see her ruined, let the consequences be what they may. The truth was, she wanted this; she needed to get her mouth on the duke again more than she needed to breathe.
She fumbled the buttons, her hands trembling. She had left resistance behind, and desire overwhelmed her.
When at last the fall of the breeches gave way, she pressed greedily forward, and when her mouth met fat, slick flesh, she groaned long and low through her chest. She took the duke into her mouth. At last, at last.
Hands closed around her head, warm and strong.
Her mouth was full and her tongue—that cocksure sensualist—met wet with wet, slick with slick, caressing and caressed. She moaned and pushed in closer, opening her mouth wider, taking more.
The duke’s hands moved insistently up her neck, around her head, holding Celine to her. The duke sank back against the door, her legs falling wider apart. Cursing, crooning, shaking.
The duke’s heavy arousal covered Celine’s tongue, her mouth. Even as she had the duke in her mouth, she wanted it again, and again, and again, an unrelenting physical ache that wouldn’t be satisfied by anything but this.
“Celine,” the duke said. “Celine.”
It scraped over her skin, the duke’s unarmed voice. Surprise, and pain, and a lifetime of unanswered desire.
Saying her name.
Saying it over and over like she was summoning her. Binding her.
Like she would never, ever let her go.
She kept her mouth on the duke even after the duke came—Celine, Celine—giving deep, possessive kisses. The duke had to push her head aside to dislodge her.
