Constantine watched her as she worked, her eyes on what she was doing, her lips slightly parted.

There was no hurry. Absolutely no hurry at all. They had all night, and there were no prizes for the number of times he would mount her. Once might well be enough on this first occasion.

“You look magnificent in a shirt,” she said. “Manly and virile. Take it off.”

She was not going to do it for him?

He looked into her face as he pulled his shirt free of his waistband, undid the buttons at his wrists, crossed his arms, and drew the garment off over his head. She watched what he was doing, and then her eyes roamed over his shoulders, his upper arms, his chest and down to the waistband of his pantaloons. She set her fingertips against his chest.

He nudged her hands aside with the backs of his, drew the satin of her gown to the edges of her shoulders, and then slid his thumbs into the décolletage of her gown at the center. He slid them outward, hooking the bodice under her breasts as he did so—something he had wanted to do every moment as they dined.

Her breasts were not particularly large. But they were firm and well shaped and uptilted—helped by her stays, it was true—and they fit, warm and soft, in his hands. Her skin was fair, almost translucent in comparison to his. Her nipples were rosy and pebbled with sexual desire. He lowered his head and sucked one into his mouth. He rubbed his tongue over the tip.

He felt, rather than heard, her deep inward breath.

He moved his mouth to the other breast.

“Mmm.” She made a sound of appreciation deep in her throat, threaded her fingers through his hair, and lifted his head. She tipped her own head back, hair streaming behind her, her eyes closed, and brought her breasts against his chest and then the rest of her body against his. She brought his face to her own, her mouth opening as it touched his.

He wrapped his arms about her, bringing her even closer, and abandoned himself for a long while to a kiss in which tongues thrust and parried and circled and stroked and teased and arms strained and breath quickened.

Then her arms moved down his back, her fingers pressing hard into his flesh. They kept on going when they reached his waist—beneath his pantaloons and his drawers. They spread over his buttocks.

“Take these off,” she said into his mouth, pressing the backs of her fingers against the fabric.

Again—she was not going to do it herself? But she had already proved to him tonight that she was mistress of the unexpected. She watched as he removed first his shoes and stockings, and then his pantaloons and drawers. And she held her gown beneath her bosom—until he was finished. Then she released her hold, and the emerald green satin slithered down to the floor, and she stood before him in her stays and her silk stockings and slippers.

He would surely have taken her there and then if he had not had a glimmering of an understanding of how confining stays must be for a woman—and if he had not promised a marathon. He unlaced her instead and dropped the stays on top of her gown.

A strange thing, fashion. She doubtless would not feel dressed without her stays, but she did not need them. She was slender and firm-muscled and shapely. Her breasts were firm and youthful. Her legs were long and slim. Sometimes she gave the illusion of being small in stature, but it was an illusion.

She sat on the side of his bed, her arms braced behind her, and lifted one of her legs toward him, her toes pointed. He drew off her stocking and then the other when she offered him that leg.

He leaned over her, bearing her back to the mattress, and kissed her deeply and open-mouthed, covering her breasts with his hands as he did so. He moved between her spread legs. Her arms were stretched out along the bed.

“How long does it take to run a marathon?” she asked when he lifted his head some time later. There was color in her cheeks, he could see.

“A whole night if necessary,” he said. “Of course, it is always possible to cheat a little, to take shortcuts when no one is looking, to reach the finish line in considerably less than the whole night.”

“I am all in favor of doing naughty things when no one is looking,” she said, her fingers tiptoeing over his shoulders.

“Very well, then,” he said.

It was a huge relief actually. He was already aroused to the point of discomfort.

He straightened up and slid his hands beneath her, lifting her fully onto the bed, and turning her so that she lay along it instead of across. He peeled back the covers to the foot of the bed and lay down on his side, half over her, his head propped on one hand.

Her hands lay palm-down on the mattress.

He cupped her chin with one hand and kissed her as his hand moved downward, between her breasts, over her flat stomach, over the mound below, and between her legs. She was warm and moist there. He found her opening and pressed two fingers a little way inside her.

“Mmm.” That deep sound in her throat again.

He rolled on top of her, spread her legs wide with his own, slid his hands beneath her to hold her firm, found the opening again, and thrust his full length deep into her.

There was the shock of heat, wetness, tight muscles, soft woman.

He imposed control on his breathing, on his bodily reactions. The time of greatest enjoyment had come—at last—and he would not rush its conclusion, even with the encouragement she had given and his own driving need. He held still and noticed the almost rigid tension of her body only gradually relaxing. He waited for her.

The Duchess of Dunbarton.

Hannah.

He had a sudden mental image of her as he had seen her in the park that afternoon when he had been with Stephen and Monty.

Her arms wrapped loosely about his waist. Her legs lifted from the bed one at a time to twine about his. Heat radiated from her.

He lifted his head and looked down into her face.

Her eyes were in shadow. Her lower lip was caught between her teeth.

“The finish line is in sight,” he murmured, “though it is still some distance off.”

She had nothing to say. Her eyes closed, and he felt her clench hard about him.

He withdrew from her, heard her wordless murmur of protest, and pressed inward hard and deep again. And he repeated the motion until the rhythm matched his heartbeat and his whole being seemed immersed in the wet heat at the heart of her.

She was exquisite.

It was exquisite.

But it—the sex—could not be enjoyed without the awareness of who was giving him such pleasure. And she was clever to the end. Instead of the skilled moves he had expected—and had thought he wanted—she lay open and receptive and almost passive.

He had steeled himself for long endurance during foreplay and had been reprieved—though he would have enjoyed every moment of it if she had not reprieved him. He used the unexpended energy and control on the real play, the intercourse, the sex with the woman who would be his mistress for the next few months.

He played long and hard and deep in her until thought was gone and only the pounding pleasure-pain of thrust and withdrawal remained, and the woman’s open receptiveness.

Hannah’s receptiveness.

She was hot and slick with sweat and the juices of sex. Her breathing was labored.

And then even endurance went, and the ache of physical need broke the bonds of his control. His hands went beneath her again and held her while he plunged faster and harder and then pressed deeper than deep and held and … released into her. Spilled into her.

He felt all the tension drain from his body as he relaxed down onto her. She had her head turned on his shoulder, her face away from him. She held him with her arms and legs—and he felt her gradually relax with him.

He drew free of her, felt the coolness of the air against his damp body, and reached down to pull the bedcovers up over them. He turned his head to look at her. Her hair was damp and in a riot of curls. Her eyes were blue again in the candlelight and were gazing back into his.

“I was quite right about you,” she said.

“Is that good?” he asked her. “Or is it bad?”

“To be perfectly honest,” she said, “I was not right. You are far better than I expected, Mr. Huxtable.”

“Constantine,” he said. “Con to most people.”

“I shall always call you Constantine,” she said. “Why shorten a perfectly wonderful name? And you have passed the audition with flying colors. You have the part for a lengthy spell.”

Lengthy?

“Until the summer, that is,” she said. “Until I go home to Kent to stay and you go to wherever it is you live in Gloucestershire.”

“How do you know,” he said, “that you have passed the audition?”

She raised her eyebrows.

“Don’t be foolish, Constantine,” she said.

And it struck him that he was not certain she had climaxed with him. She certainly had not done so before or after him.

Had she? Climaxed, that was?

And what did it mean if she had not? That he had failed her? Her words indicated quite the contrary. That for her even sex was a matter of power and control, then? Oh, and some enjoyment too. She had certainly enjoyed herself.

He would prefer to know, though, that she had enjoyed herself to completion. He would not ask her, however.

“I shall put you to the test again later,” he said. “For now you have exhausted me, Duchess, and I need to recoup my strength.”

“Hannah,” she said. “My name is Hannah.”