Page 2 of Mistletoe Minx

Why don’t you want me?

He was a duke on the verge of losing his goddamned mind.

Dalton deliberately kept his eyes forward, concentrating fiercely on each step of the wide, sweeping staircase as he escorted Frances down to the entrance hall. It didn’t help, though. Even through his linen shirt and black jacket and her silver satin glove, her hand provoked a jolt of arousal. An infuriating reminder that within the past six months, entirely without permission, his wife had moved from her allocated position of Necessary Duty to the leading lady of all his fevered, filthy dreams.

Knowing he would be escorting Frances to the Kyle soiree tonight, Dalton had already made himself come. Twice. A logical plan to cool in advance the raging lust that now consumed him whenever she was near. But it seemed twice wasn’t sufficient; not when he was close enough to inhale the citrusy scent of her soap, feel the warmth of her touch, and see the way her gown’s square bodice tantalizingly displayed the upper swell of her small breasts. They would be a perfect mouthful, he was sure of it. And he would suck those pale pink nipples raw as he teased her swollen clitoris, until she sobbed and writhed against her silken restraints, pleading so prettily to be allowed an orgasm…

Much to his dismay, a strangled groan escaped his lips, loud enough to turn his wife’s head.

“Dashford?” said Frances, her brow furrowing and wide blue eyes shadowing with concern. “Are you unwell?”

Yes. And the only cure is⁠—

The thought shriveled into nothingness as his gaze landed on the one thing guaranteed to kill any lust stone dead: the portrait of his aloof and formidably glacial late mother on the entrance hall wall. The previous Duchess of Dashford had never concerned herself with words of affection or regret, even on her deathbed. She’d merely handed him a shakily written list of three names—including Lady Frances Vernon—of young women she deemed acceptable to be her successor. Then had come the rasping edict etched in his soul:

“You are thirty-five years old. It is unacceptable that you remain a bachelor. Rather than wasting your time on foolish modernizations and those disgraceful house parties, you must wed and sire an heir. Any of my three choices will do. But do not besmirch her with your depraved desires. A wife is not a mistress and should never be subjected to grotesque indignities, only brief and courteous inconvenience for the purpose of a son. A lady must be treated as such. Swear it.”

And ay, there’s the rub, as the Bard would say.

Because he’d never considered that his duty wife might become his obsession. The way Frances’ eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled. That she always bit her lip when pondering something and possessed an unabashed love for vanilla custard, the color silver, and dancing. That she rocked on her heels when nervous, and turned modest night rails and sensible plaits into the most alluring combination imaginable.

Now, he didn’t want a mistress for erotic play. As the devil his mother believed him to be, he burned to debauch his innocent, wellborn, proper duchess, who would no doubt be frightened and disgusted by his hedonistic side.

God damn it.

“I am quite well,” Dalton said abruptly. “And the carriage has pulled up. Let us depart.”

Another woman might have taken grave affront to his curt tone and slapped his face. Perhaps invited him to go straight to hell. His duchess merely smiled brightly and murmured, “As you wish,” because daughters of the ton understood the aristocratic transaction as old as time: title and allowance and fripperies for legitimate heirs. After which, naturally, they would live separate lives and pursue their own interests and passions.

Dalton grimaced inwardly at the reminder. Indeed, this was no love match, or meeting of like-minded souls. Frances had accepted his proposal for the same reason he’d made it: duty. And although it was becoming nigh-on impossible to bed her as a gentleman, to not succumb to his dark, baser urges, he had to cling to control just long enough for a son, then leave her be.

Surely he could manage that.

Moments later, they were ensconced in the luxurious Dashford town carriage and making their way to the Kyle residence in Grosvenor Square. Thankfully the journey was just over a mile; he could behave rationally for such a short distance.

As the carriage gently swayed and rocked, Dalton cleared his throat, a sudden, strange compulsion to atone for his earlier brusqueness overcoming him. “It should be a crush tonight. Dare I hope you might save me a dance?”

A very becoming blush swept across his wife’s cheekbones. Damnation, but Frances was a beautiful woman. Easily the most beautiful in London.

Now she fiddled with her reticule clasp. “You are well aware a husband dancing with his wife is against ton rules, Your Grace.”

Amusement warred with irritableness at her formality.

Why would Frances call you anything other than Dashford or Your Grace? Have you ever invited her to use your given name?

Somehow, Dalton suppressed a scowl at the unwanted burst of conscience. Instead, he winked. “A ton rule made to be broken, is it not?”

Her blush deepened. “Perhaps.”

“And so?” he continued, unclear why he was even pressing the point.

“If you wish it, of course I will dance with you,” said Frances quickly, before biting her full lower lip.

Pure masculine satisfaction roared through him, and he leaned forward and took her chin in the lightest of grips, before rubbing his thumb against the abused flesh. “So obedient. For a moment there I thought you might be a provocative little minx and require discipline.”

His wife’s indrawn breath was louder than a thunderclap, her eyes wide pools of liquid sapphire in the carriage lamplight.

WHAT THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU DOING?