Dukes by the Dozen

by Grace Burrowes

Her face squinched adorably. “Also cumbersome. Not to mention undeserved.”

  “I disagree,” he said. “With the undeserved part, leastways. As for the other, I could call you Bodie for short.”

  She actually stuck her tongue out at him. He laughed aloud—mostly to cover the fact that her gesture now had him thinking of kissing her even more than he had been before, if that were possible.

  “And what would I call you?” she asked.

  That sobered him. He couldn’t very well give her his true name either.

  But she didn’t seem to notice his discomfort. “‘My-knight-in-shining-armor-and-my-little-dog’s-too’ is quite cumbersome as well, no matter how accurate.”

  Her words touched a place inside Max that he’d long closed off. Did she really see him thus?

  For years, he’d striven to be thought of as a man who helps those in need. It’s why he’d become a barrister in the first place, and why he now fought to change the law so that those accused of crimes could be represented fairly in court. But his views were unpopular, and had earned him the scorn of many who thought him too soft on those who didn’t deserve mercy. Many thought him disreputable at best for his stance.

  He preferred the way this woman looked at him.

  “I wouldn’t say shining armor exactly,” he jested, unused to such praise. “Not after the Serpentine anyway.”

  “True,” she agreed. “But ‘knight-in-reeking-armor’ doesn’t have the same ring.”

  He scowled in mock outrage.

  “I could call you Galahad, I suppose,” she mused. “After all, he was the purest of knights and renowned for his gallantry. I’m sure he saved a few dogs in his day, as well.”

  It was his turn to wince. He didn’t feel pure when he was with her. Not when he remembered the feel of his arms around her yesterday, however innocent. Not when the alluring feminine scent of her, all warm vanilla and something spicy (cinnamon, perhaps?) had been driving him mad all morning. Not when flashes of the two of them entwined in his dreams last night still seared through his memory. “That might be a bit much.”

  “I could call you Gal, for short,” she offered, oblivious to the prurient turn his thoughts had taken. She cocked a brow. “Or Haddie?”

  “I give,” he said, throwing his hands up in surrender. “Please. Not Haddie.”

  She grinned. “Then not Bodie, either.”

  They tossed out other options, teasing one another and laughing more than he had in weeks. By the time they parted, they hadn’t settled on a nom de guerre for either other them, but there’d been much fun in the attempt.

  And as Maxwell said his farewells—already anticipating seeing her again on the morrow—he thought of one thing he wished he could call her…

  Mine.

  Chapter 4

  Nearly a fortnight later, that little four letter word still dominated Maxwell’s thoughts.

  Mine. Mine. Mine.

  Perhaps it was the clandestine nature of their daily rendezvous—secret, forbidden encounters in broad daylight. Completely innocent, yet not.

  Perhaps it was still simply the allure of their mutual in-betweenness.

  But he didn’t think so.

  It was her.

  She.

  The girl who remained nameless.

  The Helen to his Paris? She’d just shaken her head when he’d declared that her face could launch a million ships, not merely a thousand.

  Needless to say, those names did not stick.

  Cleopatra to his Marc Antony, then? “Much too volatile a pair,” she’d protested. “Besides, I have no wish to die by poisonous snake bite.”

  Those names didn’t take, either.

  Perhaps Beatrice to his Dante? “That, at least, is closer to reality,” she’d said when she’d suggested it. “After all, they only ever met a few times. Strange, don’t you think, that he remained devoted to her for the rest of his life when he’d never even kissed her?”

  Once she’d pointed out that sad fact, he was the one who refused to adopt those monikers.

  He didn’t want this…whatever was growing between them…to be so fleeting. Or so tragic.

  Yet how could it be otherwise?

  Unless…

  Unless he became the duke.

  And convinced her to become his duchess.

  The idea whispered through his mind, enticing.

  He played a dangerous game with his heart. He had no control over whether or not he’d inherit, but as he’d suspected, the possibility of having her for his wife made it much more appealing.

  He couldn’t pursue her in earnest yet. It wouldn’t be fair to her. But he could determine whether she wished to be pursued…

  By him. By a duke? By both? By neither?

  It was all so confusing. The only thing he knew for certain was that the more time he spent with her, the more he needed to know.

  He wanted to know everything about her—which was deuced difficult when they conversationally danced upon the surface of their lives.

  Lovely dance though it was, he wanted more.

  More than knowing whether she preferred cats or dogs (“Cats, though Duke here may change my mind yet.”), tea or coffee, (“Coffee. I know! You’re asking yourself now if I’m even English.”), or Milton or Shakespeare (“Milton, of course. While Shakespeare was arguably the keenest observer of humanity we’ll ever see, Milton wrote about free will, and liberty and the threats to everything that makes us human.”).

  With every word from her delectable, intelligent, spirited lips, he’d fallen deeper under her spell.

  Yes, he definitely wanted more.

  Today, he was determined to discover if she wanted more, too.

  He rounded the corner near the bridge, his heart picking up in anticipation of seeing her, of laughing with her, of simply being together.

  His eyes sought her out on the bank where they’d rescued Duke—their spot.

  She wasn’t there.

  Max frowned, scanning about. Perhaps Duke had led her on a merry chase around the lake?

  But no. No sign of her, the pup, or the young maid who always trailed after them.

  Three quarters of an hour later, he still stood at the shoreline, alone. Anticipation had turned to disappointment, a sharp ache that hollowed his chest and left him feeling…empty.

  Unsettled.

  Unhappy.

  He didn’t like the sensation one bit. When had his daily dose of her become so vital to his well-being, damn it all?

  It couldn’t be possible for one person’s absence to affect his spirits so. And yet, the prospect of facing his day unbolstered by her smiles was unthinkable.

  As unthinkable as the reasons why she mightn’t have come.

  Potential excuses plagued Max, each one worse than the last: A distracted jarvey had crashed into her carriage on her way to the park. She’d fallen ill and lay in a feverish delirium in her sickbed. Or…or she’d grown bored of toying with the commoner and had gone back to the business of landing a duke.

  No. Not her. She wasn’t unkind. After thirteen magnificent mornings together, she wouldn’t disappear without a word of farewell.

  He tunneled a hand through his hair and blew out a breath that puffed white in the chilly November air. He couldn’t stand here all day. He’d come back tomorrow, and hope that she greeted him with a sheepish grin and a good explanation. If not tomorrow…well, he did like the park. Perhaps he’d come the day after, too.

  And if she never returned?

  Then if he didn’t inherit the dukedom, he’d never see her again.

  And if he did, it would make for an awkward reunion when she was paraded before him as a potential bride next season.

  He could never choose her then, as he would always wonder if it was him or ‘the duke’ she wanted.

  On that awful thought, he turned away from the lake and started off toward Knightsbridge.

  * * *

  The cold air burned in her lungs as Emmaline burst onto the main
footpath from the tributary she’d taken at the Grosvenor Gate.

  He was still here! Thank the Lord…

  But he was walking away, and she was on the wrong side of the lake. She ground her teeth in frustration. The footpath she was now on went entirely the opposite direction, and she could hardly jump in and swim across.

  She had to get his attention. If she didn’t, she might never see him again.

  Panic squeezed her chest.

  “Duke,” she cried to the pup who trotted along beside her. She pointed at the man, who’d almost reached Rotten Row. The pup could skirt the lake through the grass faster than she could. “There he is. See him? Now, fetch!”

  Duke cocked his head at her. All right, so she’d not taught him to fetch yet, and he likely didn’t understand any other word she’d said. But desperate times… She made a shooing motion toward the man, hoping the dog understood that. “Go get him, boy! Go get our knight!”

  But he just danced at her feet, his tail wagging in happy confusion.

  Drat it all! Emmaline looked back toward the man. A few more steps and he’d be on the far side of the King’s Private Road, and beyond her reach…perhaps forever.

  There was nothing for it.

  She hooked her pinkies in the corners of her mouth and blew the shrill whistle her male cousins had taught her years ago, much to the chagrin of her mother. The sharp sound set Duke to barking. His yips echoed off the surface of the water, too. Emmaline prayed the sounds carried.

  The man stopped.

  Her heart kicked in triumph.

  He turned and she barely restrained herself from throwing her arms up in the air and waving madly so that he saw her.

  Duke, bless him, must have finally picked up his friend’s scent, as the little dog bounded off toward him.

  Emmaline exhaled a long sigh of relief, then began picking her way around the far side of the lake.

  The whole while she watched him. He bent low to greet Duke, then rose more gracefully than a man ought to be able to. The morning sun limned his long frame, and Emmaline’s breath caught in her throat. Then he crossed Rotten Row and took the footpath that would eventually meet up with hers.

  As he advanced, Emmaline’s relief gave way to nervous excitement, and a strange angst settled in her chest. It felt vaguely like the anxiety she’d experienced this morning when she’d realized she’d never make it to the park in time—a scare that only now opened her eyes to how very much she looked forward to seeing him every day.

  And yet, it was different, too. Warmer and…and more achy. A desire to be with him that was unsettling and stirring and…imperative.

  His long legged strides were twice her own, so she’d barely made halfway to the bridge when he and Duke reached her.

  “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here—” she began.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked at the same moment.

  His handsome face creased with concern as his eyes searched her face and form.

  She brought her hands up to her flushed cheeks, only now imagining how she must look. A fright, she’d wager, having practically run across half of Mayfair. Her hair had likely slipped her coiffure and she’d be shocked if her skin hadn’t gone blotchy.

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  He gave her a doubtful look, and she tried to decide if he questioned her answer or her sanity. Then he glanced behind her. “Are you all alone? Where is your maid?”

  She flushed deeper. She was breaking the cardinal rule of marriageable young ladies: Thou shalt never find oneself unchaperoned with a gentleman—much less an unsuitable one.

  Should anyone come across them, particularly with her pink cheeks and her hair all askew, she’d be ruined.

  A thought she’d never considered before struck her: If she were to be compromised by a gentleman not of the aristocracy, would he still be honor-bound to marry her?

  She didn’t know.

  But she needn’t worry. While she still didn’t know her knight’s name, she knew him to be honorable. They’d talked of everything and nothing in their short time together. Yet every word he’d spoken, every story he’d told of his youth or the lessons he’d learned in his life or the literature that had touched his heart, made her admire him more.

  Still, she imagined her father’s rage at the daughter he’d intended for a duke marrying a mere mister instead. The thought brought a bitter smile. If her father cared about what truly mattered, he’d be proud to have such a man as a son-in-law.

  If only.

  “I ran out of the house so quickly, I didn’t have time to wait for her,” she said, breathless now at the intensity of his hazel gaze. “I was afraid…”

  “Afraid?” he asked, his voice delving into a low rumble.

  She understood what he was asking. Understood, too, what his waiting in the cold for her for nearly an hour signified.

  Emmaline swallowed to wet her suddenly dry throat. All she had to do was have the nerve to say it aloud, and it would be out there. Between them.

  I find you quite brave, he’d said that first morning they’d met.

  His words gave her courage now.

  “That I would be too late and you would think I no longer cared. I was afraid you would leave and never come back,” she rushed out. “I wouldn’t know where to look for you and—” She licked her lips, bracing herself to say the rest. “I couldn’t bear not seeing you again. You are the best part of my day.”

  She wasn’t sure what response she’d expected, but this charged silence wasn’t it. Gradually, she became aware of the morning sounds of the park—of birds chirping, water lapping gently against the mud bank, even a goose honk in the distance. But not a word from him.

  His face, which she’d once likened to a master’s painting, now reminded her of sculpted marble instead—still a work of art, but less approachable.

  Nerves fluttered in her stomach. Had she misread him? Had she made a fool of herself?

  “Please,” she whispered. “Say something.”

  He reached for her hand instead, grasping it in both of his and bringing it to his lips. He pressed a kiss to her knuckles, his mouth gloriously warm and firm on her skin. His eyelids fluttered closed, as if he were savoring her, yet Emmaline couldn’t take her gaze from him. All of the tension of the morning, all her worries, fled as joy burst through her.

  A long moment later, he lifted his head, but didn’t relinquish his grasp. “Your hands are cold,” he said roughly.

  She laughed. “Yes, I was in such a rush to get to you, I didn’t think to grab my gloves.”

  He reached for her other hand then, and brought them together palm to palm, pressing hers between his own as if in dual supplication. Lending her his warmth. But she didn’t need it. Just knowing he might feel something of what she did for him heated her from within.

  “We should get you home, then,” he said.

  She shook her head. “No.”

  Emmaline didn’t care if she froze to death. This opportunity wouldn’t come again, to spend time with him alone—no one trailing along behind them, listening to every word.

  She wasn’t naive enough to believe that her father would ever let her marry as she wished. The Duchess of Albemarle was nearing the end of her confinement, and her father insisted that his influence—and Emmaline’s blasted beauty—would win her a coronet. This time next week, she was as likely to find herself engaged to a duke as not.

  This might be her only chance to be just a young lady, enjoying time with a gentleman of her choosing. Her only chance to be with him, her knight.

  “No,” she repeated, and pulled her hands free of his. “Duke and I are spending our morning in the park.”

  And if she was going to flout convention anyway…

  “In fact, we’re planning to walk along one of the forested footpaths today. Much more picturesque,” she said, turning that direction and patting her thigh to call the pup to her.

  When the dog reached her side, she turned her back on t
he man before tossing what she hoped was a mysterious smile over her shoulder. “And more private.”

  Then she walked off, willing him to follow.

  And thrilling when he did.

  Chapter 5

  Part of Maxwell’s question had been answered decisively. She certainly did wish to be pursued.

  Into the forest, at least.

  The ‘innocent, yet not’ nature of their mornings was heading more toward ‘not’ with every step they took.

  But what kind of man would he be if he didn’t follow? For her protection, of course.

  Neither spoke as they made their way around the lake. She set a brisk pace, and they quickly left the Serpentine behind, turning onto a path that disappeared into the tree line at the center of the park.

  Alone.

  Being November, there was less canopy to shield them from prying eyes than there might be in summer. However, a light fog rose up to lend a cloak of intimacy that set his nerves on edge.

  Damn, but he wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her senseless. That brief touch of lips to hand had only served to ignite his already simmering desire for her.

  You are the best part of my day.

  Had she truly said that? Max’s heart thumped in his chest, hard. Another question answered. She knew nothing of his possible dukedom, thought him no more than himself, and yet she’d all but said she wanted him.

  And oh, how he wanted her.

  He had to distract himself. Conversation. Conversation was safe.

  He asked the first question that came to him. “What did keep you today?”

  She glanced over at him, wariness flashing in the green depths of her eyes.

  Well, hell. Not so safe after all. His question came close to violating the unspoken barriers they’d been so careful to hide behind. But something had shifted between them this morning. Perhaps they would both divulge truths in these woods.

  He kept his gaze steady on her, encouraging.

  Just when he thought she wouldn’t answer, she gave a sharp nod and said, “My father. We had an awful row.”

  Her lips firmed, and she clasped her hands together across her middle as if she had to brace herself for this conversation.