Chapter 57 Stuck between two men: A reverse harem story
Miss Arabella Langley had never wished to be a duchess.
She had wished, once upon a girlhood summer, to ride bareback across the moors with her cousins, to read novels in the hayloft until the stars came out and marry a man she loves.
Instead, at one-and-twenty, she found herself standing at the altar of St George’s, Hanover Square, her gloved hand trembling upon the arm of the Duke of Ashford.
Sebastian de Montfort, His Grace, was everything the town declared perfect.
He was seven-and-twenty, tall with his hair black as charcoal and his eyes were cold.
He was rich, powerful, and according to every matchmaking mama in England, he was the most eligible bachelor alive.
He was also, Arabella had discovered in the six weeks of their icy engagement, utterly indifferent to her comfort.
She had refused him twice. Both refusals had been returned unopened, as though her wishes were so much waste paper.
Her father, drowning in debts from the Change, had wept with relief when the special licence arrived.
Her mother had clasped her hands and called it “a triumph.” Arabella had felt only the slow, sick closing of a trap.
Now the ring, an Ashford sapphire weighed upon her finger, and the wedding breakfast was done.
Carriages had borne them through twilight to Ashford House in Grosvenor Square, its windows blazing like a hundred watchful eyes.
The servants bowed low as the new duchess passed.
Arabella’s knees threatened to betray her with every step up the grand staircase.
The duke’s hand at the small of her back was warm, steady, impossible to escape.
Their apartments adjoined. A fire crackled in the duchess’s bedchamber, gilding the hangings and the vast four-poster that waited.
The door closed behind them, Sebastian removed his gloves with deliberate care, laying them upon a side table.
“You are trembling,” he observed, his voice low and almost gentle. It was the first softness she had ever heard from him.
“I am cold,” Arabella lied.
His smile was slow and wolfish. “We shall remedy that.”
He crossed the room in three strides and began, without ceremony, to unfasten the pearl buttons at her back.
The heavy silk of her wedding gown sighed as it loosened.
Arabella’s breath caught; she clutched the front to keep it from falling.
“Your Grace…”
“Sebastian,” he corrected, his mouth brushing the bare skin at her nape. “You are my wife now, Arabella. Say my name.”
She could not. The word stuck behind her teeth like a splinter.
The gown slipped from her shoulders and pooled at her feet, leaving her in stays, chemise, and stockings.
The firelight turned her skin to rose-gold. Sebastian’s gaze travelled over her slowly, possessively, as though he had purchased a painting and now intended to inspect every brushstroke.
“You are exquisite,” he said, and the raw hunger in his voice made her stomach twist in a way that was not entirely fearful.
He unlaced her stays with the same unhurried precision he had shown with his gloves.
When the stiff boning fell away, Arabella instinctively folded her arms across her breasts.
Sebastian caught her wrists and drew them gently but inexorably down to her sides.
“No,” he murmured. “Never hide from me.”
He cupped her face, his thumbs stroking the hot flush on her cheeks, and kissed her.
Not the chaste press she had endured at the altar, but a deep, deliberate claim.
His mouth was warm, tasting faintly of wedding-cake brandy; his tongue coaxed hers until she made a small, helpless sound against him.
When he drew back, her lips tingled and her breath came shallow.
Sebastian’s hands slid down her throat, over the frantic pulse at its base, to the ribbon between her breasts.
One tug and the chemise parted. Cool air kissed her skin; her nipples tightened instantly.
Arabella tried to step back, but the bed was already behind her knees.
“Lie down,” he said.
She obeyed because her legs would no longer hold her.
The counterpane was cool satin against her shoulders.
Sebastian followed, kneeling over her, still fully dressed except for his coat.
The contrast, his crisp linen and dark waistcoat above her nakedness, made her feel shockingly vulnerable, and yet a treacherous heat began to coil low in her belly.
He bent his head and took one aching nipple into his mouth.
Arabella gasped at the wet heat, the gentle scrape of teeth.
A bolt of pleasure shot straight between her thighs.
She had never imagined such a sensation; the novels she had secretly read spoke vaguely of “kisses” and “ardent embraces,” never this shocking intimacy.
Sebastian suckled firmly, rolling the peak against his tongue until she arched without meaning to, fingers clutching the bedclothes.
He moved to the other breast, and started sucking it like he did to the first one.
Each pull of his mouth sent liquid fire through her veins. Her breath fractured into soft cries she could not stifle.
When his hand settled on her bare thigh, pushing the chemise higher, she realised she was trembling not with fear now but with something far more dangerous.
“Sebastian,” she whispered his name, at last, torn from her on a broken exhale.
He lifted his head. His eyes had gone almost black. “Yes,” he said, voice rough. “Say it again.”
She could not. Words were beyond her. The ache between her legs had become unbearable; she shifted restlessly, thighs pressing together.
Sebastian’s smile was dark and tender at once. He slid one hand up the soft inside of her thigh, parting her gently.
When his fingers brushed the slick folds hidden there, Arabella jerked with shock at her own readiness.
“So wet for me already,” he murmured against her breast. “Your body knows its master, even if your heart is stubborn.”
She wanted to protest she was not his, would never be his but then his thumb found the small, secret bud at the apex of her sex and circled it slowly.
Pleasure crashed over her in a blinding wave. Her hips lifted of their own accord, seeking more.
He gave it to her. One finger eased inside her, then two, stretching her gently while his mouth returned to her breast, sucking hard.
The dual assault shattered every defence. Arabella’s head fell back; tears of overwhelming sensation pricked her eyes.
“Please,” she heard herself beg, though she scarcely knew what she pleaded for.
Sebastian withdrew his hand. She whimpered at the loss, but only long enough for him to strip away the cravat, waistcoat, shirt.
Firelight painted the hard planes of his chest, the ridged stomach, the powerful arms that lifted her as though she weighed nothing.
He settled between her thighs, the wool of his breeches rough against her sensitised skin.
“Look at me,” he commanded softly.