At the foot of his bed, he turned her to face him. Her wide amber eyes gazed up at him and his gut twisted. A single gold-streaked lock of russet hair fell over her forehead. He brushed it back, allowing his thumb to trail her cheek. She tilted her face into his touch.

“What you do to me,” he whispered.

Slowly, he began to undress her, taking care to kiss her warm flesh as he exposed every delectable inch. She quivered beneath his mouth, his hands. Naked, he eased her back on the bed.

Sprawled on the counterpane, her skin was a pale peach against the stark white—the most enticing display of womanhood his eyes ever feasted upon. All long lines and gentle curves. He could scarcely tear his gaze away as he moved to the basin. Returning, he parted her thighs. She sighed as he pressed the wet cloth between her legs, cleaning her with leisurely swipes, unable to stop himself from caressing the creamy skin as he did.

Moaning, she arched her spine off the bed. Dropping the cloth, he stroked her with his fingers until she grew frenzied beneath his touch. Standing over her, he hastily shucked off his clothes and joined her on his bed.

He roamed hands over her legs. “I’ve dreamed of these,” he muttered between nibbling kisses along her calves and thighs.

She released a sharp giggle when his lips brushed the side of her knee. His chest swelled at the sweet sound. He curved a hand around one knee, then the other, tickling the backs, enjoying the sound of her laughter. His chest tightened and he vowed to hear it more often. Twisting, she snatched hold of his hand, ending his tickling.

She held his hand closely to her br**sts, her laughter fading as she looked steadily into his eyes.

Her thumb roved small circles inside his palm, caressing the raised ridge of his scar, sliding over the bumpy line. He tensed. She dropped her gaze to his palm. His throat constricted as she studied the evidence of his _privileged _ childhood.

Tracing the puckered scar, she arched a reddish brow. “How did you get this?”

“It’s nothing. A scar from childhood.”

Her brow winged higher, the question still clear in her expressive eyes.

Sighing, he found himself confessing, “My grandfather assigned me to the tender mercies of an overly zealous nanny. This is punishment for playing cards with Hunt and a few of the stable lads.” His lips twisted at the memory, wondering what inspired him to confide in her. He’d never shared that particular incident of his twisted childhood with anyone. He fought too hard to forget it all to lend it a voice. And yet he had done just that.

“He let her do this?”

Dominic could still see his grandfather’s cold expression in his mind as he assessed Mrs.

Pearce’s handiwork. While he perhaps did not wholly approve, he had done nothing to remove the woman from Wayfield Park. “Grandfather disapproves of gambling. He might have thought the hot poker to my hand excessive, but he saw Mrs. Pearce’s intentions as pure.” He smiled grimly. “Neither wanted me to fall victim to the evils of gambling as my father did.”

She sucked in a sharp breath. “How old were you?”

“Nine.”

“And did you ever play cards again?”

He smiled grimly. “Every chance I get.”

With utter tenderness, she pressed her mouth to his palm, tracing the scar with her lips. The gentle gesture undid him.

He cupped the back of her head and brought her to him, sealing her lips with his own in a savage kiss. Rolling her beneath him, he readily fell between her parted legs, entering her in one slick thrust.

He moved inside her, past tenderness, past gentleness. His need for her in that moment put him far beyond the slow, easy lovemaking he had planned for her—what he knew she deserved.

She didn’t seem to mind. Her nails scored his back, and she took him in, greedily clenching around him, the perfect glove, milking him as he moved faster, harder, determined to forget the past she had revived, determined to forget everything save her and the perfect fit of their bodies locked together.

Fallon carefully removed the heavy arm from around her waist. Setting it down on the bed beside her, she climbed from what had to be the most comfortable bed she ever slept upon and stood looking down at Dominic. Because it was over. This perfect night, the perfect madness, had come to an end. As she had known it would. As she knew it must.

The night peeked between the drapes an indigo blue, hinting at the approaching dawn.

From the moment he first put his lips to hers, she knew that she would succumb and surrender to the infernal need that burned through her whenever he was near. But no more. Tonight was the last time she would ever permit herself to forget who she was. And who he was.

Doubtlessly, he would lose interest in her now, and she could go about her life, saving her wages for the day she would leave servitude forever behind. The prospect, however true, made her chest tighten almost painfully. She could return to her duties with no fear of losing her way again. Or perhaps he would now grant her that reference. Now that he was finished with her. Now that he’d had his fill.

She quickly dressed, her gaze feasting on the long length of him, hungrily memorizing every detail, memories that would keep her company in the future. Sighing, she finished her last button and turned away, hurrying from his room and hastening to her own before any of the other servants roused.

The night was over.

And a full day’s work loomed ahead.

Chapter 25

Dominic dressed quickly, sending several lingering glances to the bed as early morning crept through the small part in the drapery. He had thought to wake with Fallon’s warm body snug against him, the first of many mornings to come he had decided some time during the night. He had never entertained the notion of keeping a mistress before, but with Fallon, it seemed a natural solution. The only solution. He wouldn’t stand for her continuing on as a maid. Nor would he tolerate her sneaking from his bed every morning.

In the event he should ever tire of her—a circumstance hard to imagine with last night still so fresh on his mind—he would bestow a beyond-comfortable settlement upon her. She need never work again. A satisfactory arrangement for both of them. He smiled, suddenly…happy. Buoyant.

Emotions he could not quite recall feeling before.

Who would ever have thought the demon duke would take a mistress? It was the closest to domesticity he had ever come. Or ever would.

Eager to find her, he pulled open the door and set off at a hasty clip. Servants gawked as he stormed through the halls of the servants’ corridors. Maids squeaked and flattened themselves along the walls at his sudden appearance. No doubt the early morning hour attributed to some of their surprise. He rarely roused before noon.

Suddenly, he saw her, turning the corridor, her arms full of fresh linens. She froze at the sight of him. She wore a fresh uniform—the gray skirts peeking around the starched white pinafore not the same rumpled dress balled upon his floor only hours ago. That infernal white cap covered her hair again. He longed to rip the offensive scrap of linen from her head.

Her fiery gaze flicked to the servants cowering in deference. Spine snapping straight, her gaze flew back to him, her amber eyes flaming with ire, the warning there bright and clear for him to read. He scowled, rejecting the message. He was lord and master here. And as of last night, they were lovers. He would not stay away.

“Fallon.”

Color stained her cheeks at his familiar use of her name.

Servants snickered. He swept a withering glare along the corridor at them. “I am certain you all have duties to perform that requires your presence elsewhere.”

In a flurry of movement, everyone disappeared from the corridor like so many ants fleeing the storm.

Square chin lifting, Fallon attempted to pass him in the corridor as if she were simply another servant and not the woman whose virginity he had taken upon the kitchen table. He grasped her arm and whirled her around to face him.

Her dark brows nearly came together as she glared at him over the neat stack of linens and hissed beneath her breath, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“The question better asked is what in the blazes are _you _ doing?”

Even though they were alone now, she spoke at a rushed, furious whisper. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m going about my duties.”

“Duties?”

“Yes. I am a maid. I work for my livelihood.” Her lashes flickered, the faintest tremble, the only indication that she was perhaps something else, someone else…that more existed between them than that of an employer and employee relationship.

Her lips quivered as she spoke. Her voice, if possible, even quieter than before as she added,

“Despite last night. That’s all I am.”

“You don’t have to be,” he returned, fingers flexing around her arm, the linen fabric of her uniform soft beneath his fingers but no less loathsome. He wanted her out of it. Wanted her in silks and satins. Or better yet, garbed in nothing at all and flat on her back beneath him. “You are more than that to me.”

Some of the anger faded from her eyes, replaced with a sort of grim resignation. “I can’t be.”

“Yes. You can.” He moistened his lips, feeling like a green lad as he stated in a hot rush of air.

“Be my mistress.”

“Mistress?” Her head pulled back, her eyes widening into luminous pools. “Is that how little you think of me?”

“Little? ” He straightened to his full height, squaring his shoulders. “I think a great deal of you.

Otherwise I would not have made such an offer.”

Her lips pressed into a single line. “Indeed. Then as _honored _ as I am, I shall have to decline.”

Pulling her arm free, she stepped around him.

He blocked her. “I’ve never asked another woman to be my mistress, and yet you behave as though I’ve delivered a grave affront.”

She snorted and tried to step around him again, shaking her head fiercely.

“I should think a girl in your position would—” He stopped cold at the stricken expression on her face.

“What?” she bit out. “Drop at your feet in proper gratitude?” She nodded fiercely. “I suppose a _girl like me _ should count herself lucky. A girl like me should gladly say yes.”

“Don’t—”

“No— _you _ don’t,” she cut in. “Don’t expect me to feel honored. It’s not a respectable proposition, it’s not m—” Her voice died, but he caught her meaning. Perfectly.

“Marriage,” he finished, nodding grimly, his throat tightening as though he swallowed something harsh and acerbic. “Is that your price?”

“I haven’t a price,” she hissed.

He shook his head. “I would not offer _that _ to _any _ woman, no matter how much I think…I care for her.” He couldn’t. He hadn’t a heart to give. It had been killed long ago.

“And I would not expect such an offer from you.”

He gazed at her in mute frustration. Stark hunger clawed through him.

His boyhood had left him a deadened shell. Whatever warmth he felt now, whatever warmth she breathed into the cold cavern of his soul, would not last. And he would not force her to spend a lifetime with him knowing one day the cold dead would return. A temporary arrangement was all he could promise.

He flung his arms wide. “Then what do you want?”

“From you?” her voice rang shrilly, color suffusing her cheeks. “Nothing. Merely an honest wage for honest work.”

“You think to resume your duties as a maid? Here?” His gaze flicked to the linens stacked in her arms, then back to her face. “By God, you do.”

She nodded, her face still flushed. “If you would be so good as to put last night behind us, and let me proceed—”

With all the fury of a child caught in a tantrum, he knocked the linens from her hands and pulled her into his arms. His mouth rasped her cheek as he growled, her skin trembling beneath his lips.