Fans of Eloisa James & Julia Quinn discussion
Monday Puzzler
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An Offer She Can't Refuse...Or Can She?
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I did read this one. It caught me when she discovered a "whole new continent" during the kiss...
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It is none other than "One Dance With a Duke" by Tessa Dare!!I have to say this whole scene with the gloves and the kiss is probably one of my favorite scenes!!
She allowed herself one quiet, plaintive sigh for those gardens. “Have no doubt that I will provide for our every material comfort. In return, I ask only that you continue to receive my attentions until such time as a son is born. And of course, I will demand your fidelity.” She recalled his terse words last night, when he spoke of that blasted stallion: I am not interested in breeding privileges. I am interested in possession. I do not like to share. Such words, such a tone, such an attitude of absolute entitlement—they were repugnant in reference to a horse. They were perfectly debasing, when applied to a woman. Debasing and demeaning and . . . God help her, arousing. “I see,” she said, struggling for equanimity. “And may I expect your fidelity in kind?” “Curse that Wollstonecraft woman. Very well. Until you have birthed a son, you may be assured of my faithfulness. At that time, we can revisit our arrangement. If you wish, we need not even live on the same estate.” It only became worse. So she was not even to be possessed, but merely to he rented. When confronted with her stunned silence, he added, “Is that not egalitarian?” “Egalitarian, yes. Also cold, convenient, and heart less. “Well, you can hardly be expecting romantic declarations. They would be transparently false, and an insult to us both.” Amelia rose to her feet and said calmly “I do find myself sufficiently insulted for one morning.” “My patience is also at an end.” He met her in the center of the room. “I have made you an offer of marriage. I am certain it is the most generous and beneficial offer you will ever receive—likely the last such offer you will ever receive. I have answered all your impertinent questions and made you some extremely generous promises. Now, madam, may I have your answer?” Oh, yes. She would give him an answer. But she would take some satisfaction from him first. “One last question, Your Grace. You have said earlier, you would not find it a chore to bed me. How am I to be assured of the same? Perhaps I would find it a chore to bed you. He took a step backward, as though he needed the extra distance to properly glare at her. Or perhaps because he suspected her of carrying an infectious disease of the brain. She smiled, enjoying the triumph of setting him on edge. “Don’t look so alarmed, Your Grace, I do not intend to squeeze your thigh.” At this moment, she made the error of dropping her gaze to those thighs. Those very thick, very muscular thighs that looked as squeezable as granite. “Don’t you?” She wrenched her eyes hack tip to his face. “No. You see, when it comes to such matters, women appreciate a touch more finesse. He gave a derisive, but—she imagined—also defensive laugh. “I may be a virgin, Your Grace, but I am not ignorant.” “Don’t tell me. More subversive reading material?” She ignored his feeble attempt at taunting. “Before I give an answer to your proposal, I would like to perform an experiment of my own.” A wild panic flared in his eyes. Or perhaps that amber spark was desire? Don’t be ridiculous, she chided herself, ¡t was panic, surely panic. And she relished ¡t. “What sort of experiment did you have in mind?” “A kiss.” “Is that all?” He stepped forward, angling his head as though he would press a chaste kiss to her cheek. She held up a hand between them. “On the lips, if you please. And do it properly.” Properly.” Disbelief echoed in his tone. His gaze searched her face, and Amelia inwardly cringed as she pictured herself through his eyes. Plump cheeks, gone bright pink with a blush. Puffy eyes, certainly not improved by the purple circles under them this morning. Disheveled blond hair, hanging loose against one side of her neck. What had she been thinking, to bait him thus? Why not simply refuse his proposal and be done with it? Because she wanted this, she admitted. She wanted this kiss. She wanted to feel wanted. In all honesty, some depraved part of her wanted to go back to his carriage and do everything differently. To find out what would have happened if she hadn’t startled and moved away, but allowed him to keep caressing and kneading her thigh. Perhaps trail his fingers up and up, to the warm, damp place between her legs. The very thought made her weak. His gaze settled on her lips. She held her breath. Braced herself. Grew an inch out of sheer anticipation. And then he took two steps away. Oh, Lord. He’d rejected her. In a darkened carriage, she was good enough for a squeeze but one honest look at her in full daylight, and he’d decided she simply wasn’t worth the trouble. He cleared his throat. “If I’m to do this properly . . . “With his left hand, he began loosening his right glove. First, he undid the small closure at the wrist. Then he began at the little finger and worked inward, working the close-fitted black kid loose with firm, confident tugs. After separating his thumb from its leather sheath, he raised his hand to his mouth. A shiver ran through her as he caught the middle finger of the glove between his teeth . . . and pulled. Oh, his hand was lovely. Amelia couldn’t tear her gaze from his fingers as they worked. They were long and dexterous, graceful yet strong. Soon he had the second glove loosened, and when he stared her straight in the eye, took that nub of leather between his teeth, and slowly pulled his right hand free . . . she couldn’t help it. She sighed. Audibly, at once, she understood why men threw away so much money on opera dancers. She wondered why similar establishments did not exist for ladies. Perhaps they did, and she was simply innocent of them. There was a powerful, illicit thrill to watching a man bare himself—even these relatively innocent parts of himself—for her benefit. Tossing his gloves atop Laurent’s desk, the duke closed the distance between them. He raised his hands— not to her face, hut to her hair. Those long, deft fingers plucked the hairpins from her debilitated upsweep. He stood close to her as he worked, almost as though he held her in an embrace. The pose gave Amelia an intimate view of the strong line of his jaw, and the exposed curve of his throat beneath it, where the rough beginnings of whiskers dotted his skin. He smelled of brandy and leather and starch; and beneath all these common place scents simmered the unique musk of his skin. She inhaled deeply. As he freed the last pin, her hair tumbled around her shoulders. His fingers raked deliciously over her scalp as he arranged the locks to his satisfaction. “There,” he said. Strong, warm hands cupped her face and tilted it to his. “Now we can do this properly.” A surge of excitement flooded every inch of her body. And it didn’t come from the heat of his breath on her lips, or the firm pressure of his hands bracketing her face. Its origin was that tiny word: “we.” Now we can do this properly. It wasn’t that he would kiss her. They were going to kiss. His lips brushed hers, slowly, sensually. And in an abrupt, volcanic explosion, Amelia d’Orsay’s world gained a whole new continent. She’d suffered a number of Mr. Poste’s kisses, back when he’d courted her. Could it truly have been almost ten years ago? Those horrid kisses still lurked in her memory: wet, grabby embraces that had made her feel helpless and ashamed. But this was different. So different. The Duke of Morland had spent the past several hours assaulting her feelings with one rude, arrogant remark after the other. The man had no notion of polite discourse. But this kiss . . . now, this kiss was a conversation. Again and again, he pressed his lips to hers, then retreated, inviting her to reciprocate. And reciprocate she did, with unabashed pleasure. “Yes,” he murmured, as she gingerly placed her hands on his shoulders. “Yes, that’s the way.” Encouraged, she moved her hands higher, clutching his neck. His hands slid backward to fist in her hair, and she followed his example, at last twining her fingers in those dark, touchable curls. Oh why hadn’t she removed her own gloves? She would have given much at that moment to feel his hair sliding between the sensitive webs of her fingers. But she took heart in the little growl he gave when her gloved fingertips stroked his nape. Satin did have its advantages. He paused to draw breath. Oh, don‘t stop. Don‘t stop. She caressed his neck again, and he renewed the kiss with even greater vigor.
*this is where the two pages were missing since Google books does not show every page*
He drummed his fingers on the tops of hers, making it quite clear to them both that she was, indeed, stalling. “We don’t get along at all,” she said desperately. “That’s not true. We’ve been getting along quite well for several minutes now.” Yes, they had. They had. Knowing herself to be a very poor liar, Amelia opted for honesty. “I’m infatuated with you, I cannot deny it. Physically speaking, you’re a very attractive man. But I don’t like you, the vast majority of the time. So far as I can gather, you behave abominably in public and are only marginally better in private. I only find you remotely tolerable when you’re kissing me.” He gave her a chastening look. “Even from that stinting description, we’d have a better foundation for marriage than many couples.” “Yes, but it’s still nowhere near the marriage I’d dreamed of having.” “Well.” The duke released her hands and stepped hack. “It would seem you have a choice. Will it be the dreams. Or me?” “No woman should have to make such a choice.” But she knew that women did, all the time. Every moment of every day, somewhere a woman surrendered her blissful fantasies to the cruel reality of the world. Years ago, she’d managed to delay the inevitable, but now Amelia knew in her bones—her day, her moment had come. It was her turn to lay down those fantasies of romantic love and grab what she could: security, the opportunity to help her brothers, and something undeniably tempting—the chance to explore physical passion. As for love . . . well, there would he children. And Amelia would love those children as no mother had ever loved. No mother except her own, of course. She knew what she ought to do; what she would do. Still, she could not say the words.