All I Want for Christmas Is a Duke by Delilah Marvelle, Máire Claremont Page B

bit back a startled laugh at hearing him say it. Now she didn’t feel quite so bashful.
    He glared again. “Are you laughing at me?”
    She tried to erase her amusement. “No. I’m not.”
    He pointed rigidly. “Yes, you are. And I don’t appreciate it. Unlike my brother and every man in London, I have a modesty to me. One I cannot erase, and I am not about to apologize for it. Especially to you. Because I have damn well been apologizing for myself to my father all my life. All my life! And I’m done with that. Do you understand? I’m done!”
    Her throat tightened. Her Martin, her beloved Martin, had at long last found respect for himself. A respect that neither she, nor anyone else, could have taught him. A respect he could have only taught himself. It meant that he was, indeed, a man. And she was proud of him. Incredibly proud of him.
    “Never apologize for who you are.” Trying to soften his annoyance, she pointed to the note he lingered by. “Read it.”
    “Read what?”
    “My missive.”
    “Your missive?” He paused at seeing it. He snatched it up and unfolded it. Whilst reading it, a breath escaped him. Holding her gaze for a long moment, he slowly brought it to his lips and kissed it. Not once, but twice.
    She tried to throttle the dizzying reality that he was kissing it as if it were her.
    Still watching her, he folded it and tucked it into his inner waistcoat pocket.
    She fingered her gown. “I take it you are pleased by my admission.”
    “Beyond.” Rounding the desk, he came to a halt before her chair and put his hand down toward her. “Stand for me, please.”
    She edged back into the seat, knowing if she stood, he would be kissing her next. And she wasn’t ready. Not yet. “I would rather sit.”
    He blew out a breath and leaned down, setting both hands on the armrests, blocking her in. “Jane.”
    She edged back even more, unable to breathe. His legs were buried in her bundled skirts and his face was a hand away. The opera singer in her crawled below stage.
    “Look at me and remember who it is you are looking at. It isn’t Philip, or Mister X, but me. Me. Martin. Your friend. First and foremost, always your friend. Lover last.”
    Tears pricked her eyes at those unexpected words. It was something she desperately needed to hear. Too many men had tried to make love to her. But none had ever tried to be a friend to her. The way he had always been. Her eyes lifted, tracing his ivory embroidered waistcoat and up to his throat. Her eyes drifted even farther up to his square jaw, which had already darkened with small black stubble. She met his gaze.
    He leaned in closer still, his face and the expanse of his body mere inches away.
    Her chest tightened and she could no longer breathe against his heated scent.
    He held her gaze and said, “I am going to kiss you. Then you can decide if we ought to pursue this. Will you agree to that?”
    He wasn’t telling her to kiss him—he was asking to kiss her. “Yes. I will agree to that.”
    His husky features softened as that rugged face drew closer and closer. “Are you ready?” he whispered, his hot breath caressing her cheek.
    She nodded but didn’t dare move. Not that she could, given she was pinned to the chair by him and his arms.
    His dark eyes lingered on her lips as his hand lifted and tenderly cupped her chin. His fingers skimmed the outline of her face.
    Her heartbeat throbbed in her ears.
    He leaned all the way in and covered her mouth with his.
    His hand slipped behind her neck, gripping it.
    Her mind blanked and her eyes fluttered closed against the sensation of knowing she was kissing Martin. Martin. Her Martin.
    His hot tongue gently traced her lips as she slipped into a hazy bliss. He parted her lips with his and softly pressed his mouth against hers.
    A moan she wanted to withhold escaped her. She couldn’t believe that he wanted her in the same way she wanted him.
    Taking the encouragement, his mouth pressed harder against hers