Dukes by the Dozen

by Grace Burrowes

  “Oh.” With exaggerated disappointment, he dropped his hand away. “That, too.” His eyes shined mischievously as he stole a sideways glance at her. “But I prefer being approachable.”

  Based on the way her pulse raced, he was very good at it, even if he’d meant it only as a tease. She should have been relieved to know that he was simply bamming her, yet inexplicable disappointment panged hollowly in her chest. “Then why won’t you listen to my concerns about the mill?”

  He didn’t answer. He couldn’t argue that she was wrong because he was doing exactly that. He’d refused to discuss the mill and the lock during the past three days, despite having hours together to work through their issues and perhaps find a solution. Every time she attempted to bring it up, he changed the subject. So she hadn’t tried to bring it up at all today. Until now, when he’d given her the opening.

  “Why ruin a perfectly good mill, John?” The use of his name came easier than she expected, given both that he was a duke and that he shared the name of her secret correspondent. But half the men in England were named John, and Monmouth certainly wasn’t her John. She would know him instantly, even without his mask.

  “Why ruin a perfectly nice day by talking about it?” He dismissed her concerns with a flick of the ribbons and a turn of the horse toward the village.

  She sat back on the seat with a heavy sigh, once more thwarted in her attempt to discuss the mill.

  It had been a perfectly nice day, although she’d never admit that aloud. She’d even looked forward to it, especially the luncheon when the two of them sparred over literature and philosophy, discussed art and all the wonderful places to explore in the world. He’d been self-educated, as was she, and she found him to be as intelligent as anyone who was graduated from university. Moreover, he didn’t hold her in disdain the way she thought he would. He’d surprised her when he’d asked for her input regarding the estate and the village, then downright stunned her when he listened carefully to her opinions and actually gave them worth.

  Already she missed their luncheons, knowing after today that there would not be others.

  Just as she missed the letters that had stopped coming.

  “I know a man named John,” she ventured quietly, spurred on by the ache that flared in her belly at the memory of the masquerade.

  He tensed, his shoulders stiffening, but kept his gaze fixed on the horse’s ears. “Lots of men are named John.”

  “I suppose.”

  When she fell into contemplative silence, he nudged her with his shoulder. “And this John you mentioned, he lives in the village?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But he’s one of my tenants, surely.”

  “I don’t know that, either.”

  “Well, what’s his surname?”

  She shook her head.

  “But you said you know him.”

  “I do,” she shot back defensively. “I know that he’s good and kind, hard working, and intelligent. That he loves his family and has the heart of a poet. He’s sympathetic, considerate, caring—” Dashing, alluring, enthralling…with a gaze that could see into her soul and a touch that had her yearning to surrender.

  Until the night of the masquerade, when her mask came off and the magic vanished. When the reality of her father’s mill came crashing back.

  “Well, he sounds like a remarkable man,” he mused.

  “He is.”

  “And nothing like me.”

  Far too similar, in fact. But she’d never tell him that. “Not in the least. You’re both two very different men.”

  His mouth twisted at that, as if he knew she’d just lied to him. But he let the subject drop and said instead, “We’ve got two more baskets to deliver today, to two cottages on the way back to the village.” He paused as the large wheel dipped into a depression on the dirt road. “Would you be willing to come out with me again tomorrow?”

  Oh yes! She shrugged a shoulder as nonchalantly as possible. “I suppose, if you need help with the baskets.”

  “I won’t need help with the baskets.” He nudged her again, but this time by touching his thigh to hers. “I just want to spend time with you.”

  That quiet confession sparked a faint thrill inside her. She knew not to become infatuated with him. For heaven’s sake, he was a duke, and she was a miller’s daughter. They had no honest future together, and she wasn’t the kind of woman who let men bed her. Not even dukes. Not even ones as handsome and interesting as Monmouth.

  But she simply couldn’t resist. The only other man who had made her feel as beautiful and intelligent as Monmouth had during the past few days was no longer part of her life, and she simply wasn’t strong enough to deny herself this small happiness. No matter how fleeting.

  Yet the future of her father’s mill continued to hang over them, and she knew that he’d refuse to discuss it tomorrow, just as he’d done today. Unless…

  A perfectly devious idea struck.

  “We have two baskets left?” She turned in the seat to try to look behind at the wooden box beneath the seat of the dog-cart where they’d conveniently placed them. “Two baskets? But I’m certain there’s only one.”

  He darted a glance at her. “Are you sure?”

  She bit her lip. “Perhaps we should stop and check. How awful to arrive at the cottage without a basket.”

  He reined in the horse, then set the brake and tied off the ribbons. When he jumped to the ground and started to the rear of the dog-cart, she snatched up the ribbons, released the brake, and started the carriage forward.

  Surprised, Monmouth scrambled to catch up with the carriage as she drove it away at a slow pace. She certainly wasn’t used to driving, even an easily handled carriage like this, and her hands clenched around the ribbons so tightly that her fingers were white. But she was in no danger, not at this slow pace, and certainly not with this horse, whose plodding gait would have been fit for a child’s pony cart.

  “Just pull back slowly on the ribbons, and the horse will stop,” he explained, falling into a walking pace beside the carriage.

  She slid him a narrowed glance as if he’d gone daft. “I don’t plan on stopping and letting you back onto the cart. Not until you agree to discuss the mill.”

  “I don’t want to ruin an otherwise nice day by—”

  She flipped the ribbons, and the horse sped up, forcing him into a faster pace. He’d give up soon and relent. After all, his boots were not made for walking. “I want to discuss the mill.”

  “Terms of surrender, you mean,” he chided, now having to bounce along in a jog.

  “Terms of negotiation,” she corrected. “Surely a duke knows diplomacy when he sees it.”

  “Or at least blackmail,” he grumbled.

  Another determined flip of the ribbons, and the horse started into a fast trot.

  With a curse, he grabbed the dashboard with one hand and jumped up onto the mounting step on his left foot. He swung himself up onto the cart.

  When he slid onto the seat beside her, his hand covered hers to take the ribbons from her. But his other arm snaked around her waist and pulled her to him, bringing her so tightly against him that she could feel the hard muscles of his chest pressing against her bosom and the pounding of his heart, echoed in the rapid pulse of hers.

  When she tried to push herself away, the frustrating man refused to budge, except to bring the horse to a stop. His eyes never left hers even as he threw the brake and tied off the ribbons.

  Anger flared through her, but so did something else just as hot, just as consuming. “How dare you—”

  He kissed her, so unexpectedly that she gasped against his mouth. But beneath the caresses of his sensuous lips, the gasp turned into a low sigh, and her hands that had been pushing at his shoulders to shove him away now clutched at his coat sleeves to keep him right there, pressed tightly against her, kissing her.

  Her head swam. Not at the realization that Monmouth was kissing her, this same man who wanted t
o destroy her father’s mill. Not even because he was a duke.

  No, confusion rushed over her like a wave because of the heady sensations of pleasure and need he stirred inside her. She didn’t think any man except for her John could have this same effect on her, could kiss her so knowingly and with such affection. She tasted the same longing and need on his lips that she’d tasted on John’s the night of the masquerade, felt in his strong arms the same tenderness behind his need.

  But this wasn’t her John. This man was Monmouth. This man was—

  “My enemy,” she whispered breathlessly against his lips.

  He flinched as her words eviscerated him. “We’re not enemies, Cora,” he murmured as he slid his mouth back along her jaw to kiss at the tender flesh beneath her ear. She trembled in response, and his lips smiled against her. “How could we enjoy this so much if we were?”

  “I don’t—” she forced out between panting breaths, her hands still clutching at his shoulders. “I don’t know.”

  “But you do enjoy it…being kissed by me?” His hand slid up to her nape, to massage seductively at the base of her skull.

  “Yes,” she admitted and closed her eyes, although he couldn’t have said whether in shame or pleasure. But she didn’t pull away and instead slipped her arms around his neck.

  “And when I caress you?” He slowly stroked his hand down her elegant neck, to rest his thumb in the hollow at the base of her throat. Her pulse beat wildly there. “Do you enjoy that, too?”

  She arched herself into him. “You know…I do…drat you.”

  He laughed as he captured her mouth beneath his again, this time to ease her lips apart and slip his tongue inside to plunder all of her kiss. Her breath hitched when he slid his tongue over the length of hers. But he cajolingly teased until her hesitation fled, and she dared to stroke back in a silky soft glide that shivered heat straight through him.

  He seized her mouth in a blistering kiss that left her panting and boneless in his arms. The kiss he’d wanted to give her the night of the masquerade but couldn’t for fear of being seen. The kiss he’d fantasized about since he first tasted her lips on his. But this was so much better than he’d imagined, with a sweetness beneath the arousal that left him slightly dazed and yearning for more.

  Not releasing her, he slipped his arms around her and drew her up onto his lap. Then, behind her back, he tugged off his gloves and let them fall to the floor of the carriage. He wanted nothing between them when he caressed her.

  “And this?” His hand rested on her side, his fingers tracing over each rib through her corset as he slowly worked his way upward. When she trembled, he had his answer. “If I dared to caress higher, would you let me?”

  His thumb stroked teasingly against the side of her breast, daring her to accept the caress he so desperately wanted to give her.

  “Say yes, and let me give you this pleasure, too.” This one and so many, many more that he wanted to share with her. Never before had he cared about giving a woman pleasure; intimacies had only been about his own needs. But with Cora, bringing her pleasure pleased him. Immensely.

  “Yes,” she whispered against his lips, and her fingers curled into his hair at his collar, in a soft entreaty not to stop.

  He caressed her breast against his palm and gently massaged her fullness. Her nipple drew up taut in eager response, but there were too many layers of material for her to truly feel how glorious a man’s touch on her breasts could be. So he gently tugged down at her dress and all the layers beneath, until he freed a single breast to the afternoon sunlight.

  “Dear God, you’re beautiful,” he rasped out as he traced a fingertip over her dusky nipple. It drew up impossibly tighter, like a dark pink rosebud, and when he plucked at it with his fingers, a plaintive whimper fell from her. He kissed her reassuringly, to convey that he knew exactly what her body needed, and gave her a gentle pinch that shot pleasure into her with a gasp.

  When she tore her mouth away from his, he thought she might have changed her mind and would stop him. Instead, she buried her face against his neck and shyly whispered, “Yes…Oh please, yes…”

  His foolish cock flexed at the arousal in her, so intense that she shook from it. Sweet Lucifer, how much he wanted her! And he meant to have her, too.

  But not yet. There were still too many barriers between them. Now, he’d have to settle for this small taste of her.

  He lowered his head and took her nipple into his mouth. When he began to suckle lightly, she pressed herself harder against him, and her fingers clutched at his hair to keep his mouth tightly against her. He swirled the tip of his tongue over her, then lapped at her between greedy suckles, the combination of licks and sucks and nips of his teeth making her writhe on his lap. If she kept that up, she’d discover exactly what having his mouth on her did to him.

  If fondling her breast brought her this much pleasure, then he could only imagine her reaction if he took a more intimate touch.

  “I want to caress you,” he murmured against her hot flesh. “Right where you’re aching to be touched.”

  She tensed with surprise, and when he looked up into her eyes, he saw her bewilderment that he could know what sensations bloomed inside her. But of course he knew. Through her letters and the night of the masquerade, he knew all of her desires. Just as he knew that no other man had ever touched her before.

  He slipped his hand beneath her skirt and brushed it up her leg, pausing when he reached the top of her stocking. When she didn’t tell him to stop, he dared to let it drift higher, until he teased his fingers at the feminine curls guarding her sex. Each of her breaths came labored with nervous anticipation, and he could feel the damp heat of her just below his fingertips.

  “Yes.” Her lips formed the silent word, but it was all the permission he needed. He stroked his hand over her feminine folds. Sweet heavens…she felt like liquid silk, so soft and smooth beneath his fingertips.

  “John,” she whispered achingly.

  He smiled against her shoulder. He loved to hear her say his name, when she knew exactly who the man was who was bringing her such pleasure. Almost. She didn’t know that the Duke of Monmouth and the John from her letters was the same man. Guilt pricked at him that he couldn’t tell her and reveal all, but it couldn’t be helped. Not just yet.

  “Soon, my love,” he promised with a kiss to her temple, and meant every word. “I’ll make love to you soon.”

  Her hand clamped down on his wrist, stilling his hand. “No.” Her eyes flared with a haunted look. “We cannot—I cannot…”

  “Because we’re not married.” He knew why she would keep herself from him and respected her even more because of it, yet that didn’t stop the disappointment from pouring through him.

  “No,” she whispered. “Because you want to destroy the mill.”

  They stared at each other, silent and still except for the pounding of his pulse in his ears and her gradually steadying breaths. Both of them were flush with desire and arousal, both aching and yearning for more. But there was more than just layers of clothing between them, and those problems couldn’t be solved with a few loose buttons and lifted skirts.

  “Because I’m still the man you think is your enemy,” he murmured.

  At that blatant truth, she lowered her face away, but not before he saw the glistening in her eyes. His chest clenched as he slowly drew his hand away from her and smoothed down her skirts.

  She slipped off his lap to return to her place beside him, putting even more distance between them than before. Except for lips swollen from kisses and cheeks flushed pink from desire, anyone looking at her would never realize how close he’d been to making love to her.

  “If things were different between us, if I wasn’t the man who wanted to put through a canal and you weren’t the miller’s daughter”—He couldn’t resist reaching up to tuck a stray curl behind her ear—“would you let me love you?”

  “But things aren’t different,” she dodged softly, her
shoulders falling.

  “Oh, I think things are very different now.” And if he had his way, they’d be even more different in the coming weeks.

  “You’re a duke and I’m a villager. I could never be anything more to you than a mistress.”

  No, you could be my entire world. “I’m just a man. One you know so much better than you think.”

  She lifted her face, and her watery eyes held his, in silent challenge to his assertion. “Do you still want to put through your canal?”

  “I want to bring jobs to the area, good jobs that will make certain that all families have enough food to eat and candles to chase away the darkness, rather than just those tenants who happen to have a kind lord of the manor. Why is that wrong?”

  “At what cost to my family and to our village?” She shook her head in frustration. “What good is being able to buy grain if there’s no one who can grind it into flour for them?”

  When a tear slipped free and fell down her cheek, he knew they were at an impasse. No amount of kisses or caresses—or letters pinned to trees—could soothe away her pain.

  Silently, he pulled on his gloves, then reached for the ribbons to drive them back to the mill.

  Chapter 6

  The butler bowed his head. “His Grace will see—”

  With a determined stride, Cora stormed out of the drawing room past him and through the house to the study. She clutched Monmouth’s latest proposal for the lock in her fist.

  The nerve of that man! To send this proposal now—oh, he deserved the tongue lashing she planned on unleashing. His Most Noble Dukeness could go rot for all she cared!

  Except that she did care, which was the worst part of it all.

  Since their embrace, Monmouth had been exceptionally gracious to her and her father, who had an amused glint in his eyes every time the duke paid a visit to the mill. As if Papa didn’t recognize the man as the enemy. Monmouth had gone out of his way to seek her out…to invite her on drives through the countryside and walks through the village. To invite her to sit in his pew during Sunday service. To help him deliver the bags of flour he’d purchased to give to the orphanage in Spalding and to the vicarage in Little London, where he’d spent time in both places playing with the children. He’d even asked for her help in paying visits to three widows who had managed to stay on in their small cottages after their husbands had died, all of whom had gone on repeatedly about what a kind man he was.