Her Night with the Duke

by Diana Quincy

  “Where have you traveled?”

  “I spent most of my time visiting my mother’s people in a town called Al-Bireh, which is a few miles outside of Jerusalem.”

  “Jerusalem?” That explained the extraordinary tawny tone of her skin. “Your mother is a Levantine?”

  “An Arab, yes. But she came to England at the age of thirteen and was raised in Manchester, which is where I was born. My grandfather was a cotton merchant. My cousins still manage the business. Although I do not know them very well.”

  Hunt had never visited Manchester, but he knew exports from the Lancashire cotton industry went out into the world market through the port city. “And your father?”

  “As blue-blooded an Englishman as they come. And a titled one at that. Their union caused quite a scandal.”

  Hunt almost spit out his beer. “He married her?”

  She shot him a look of pure disdain. “You needn’t sound so surprised.”

  “It is just so unusual.” Given her Levantine merchant origins, Hunt naturally assumed that Leela’s mother was her father’s mistress.

  “It shocks you that a marquess would wed the foreign-born daughter of a merchant?”

  His mouth dropped open. Her father’s title was second only to his own. “Your father is a marquess?”

  “He was,” she said coolly. “My brother has since inherited the title.”

  He could feel her closing off, pulling away from him, which was the last thing he wanted. Hunt was desperate to bed her again. His body, eager and attuned to her proximity, hummed with the need to feel her warmth at least once more. To experience the delicious slide of skin on skin, and the muscles of her mons tightening around his prick, inviting him to go deeper.

  So he changed the subject, hoping to distract her in order to get back into her good graces. And her bed, of course. “Given your recent travels, I have just read a fascinating travelogue that you might enjoy. It’s all the rage in the metropolis at the moment. Perhaps you have heard of it. The first volume is called Travels in Arabia.”

  A strange look came over her face. “Yes, that does sound vaguely familiar. You enjoyed it?”

  “Very much. The author’s writing is very descriptive. He talks in depth of a significant archeological dig in Gaza. It almost makes me want to take the journey myself.”

  Her rosy lips curved upward. “Is that so?”

  “Yes, indeed.” Not that he would ever venture to foreign lands so far afield. His ducal responsibilities prevented him from being able to flit about the world on a whim. That was something his brother would have done without a thought. “How did you come to travel abroad?”

  “I was restless after my husband died. Growing up, my mother rarely spoke to us of her homeland. For the most part, she kept that part of who she was, the Arab part, to herself. She was determined to raise my brother and me to be proper English children.

  “But on very rare occasions, she would speak wistfully of the country of her birth. Of the sweet clean breezes that swept over the veranda. And the succulent fresh figs they gathered from their orchards. She left Al-Bireh when she was thirteen. I will never forget the yearning in her voice. I was overcome with a desire to know my mother better. To understand where she had come from.”

  He frowned. “Was it not dangerous to undertake a journey to such a faraway land?”

  “No more dangerous than stopping at a shabby inn in the English countryside.”

  “Touché.” He sipped his beer. “I cannot say I am truly surprised that your father was highborn.”

  “Why do you say so?”

  “That much is obvious from your speech and gentlewoman’s bearing.” He grinned. “Your knife-wielding habit notwithstanding.”

  She laughed out loud. “I supposed you are wondering how a gentleman as highborn as Papa came to be acquainted with the lowly foreign-born daughter of a merchant?”

  He was indeed. In London, the classes rarely mixed. “Where did your father meet your mother?”

  “In Manchester. Papa and his friend quietly went into business with Mama’s father, who exported English cotton to the Levant,” she continued. “Papa and his friend were in need of funds. Their estates were no longer as prosperous as they’d once been, so they became business partners with Cidi . . . erm . . . my grandfather.”

  “See-dee?” Hunt sounded out the word.

  “It means grandfather in Arabic. In any case,” she continued, “Papa fell desperately in love with my mother, his business partner’s daughter, and married her despite almost everyone’s objections.”

  That sounded like a rather messy affair to Hunt. “How did they get on?”

  “My parents? They were very devoted to each other. My mother did everything she could to fit into her new role as Papa’s marchioness. She never spoke Arabic again and even shortened her given name from Maryam to Mary.”

  “How did you learn the language?” He’d heard her speaking to that male servant of hers.

  “On my travels.”

  “Was your parents’ union a happy one?”

  “Oh yes. They adored each other. I do not think either of them ever regretted their choice.”

  “That is a surprise. In my experience, venturing too far beyond the bounds of societal expectations rarely ends well.”

  “Following society’s rules can be so boring.”

  “There is a reason for rules—they keep the necessary order for a society to flourish.” He noted that her plate was empty. “Are you finished eating?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” He came to his feet so suddenly that his chair tipped backward and hit the stone floor with a clatter.

  “Why?”

  “I should like to search you for that dagger now.”

  They made love again just before dawn.

  It was slow and sweet, but just as intense as their earlier couplings. With Hunt sitting and Leela facing him, her full breasts bouncing as she took him in and rocked her pelvis against his. Her magnificent hair, a random mix of thick waves and wayward curls, streamed over her shoulders and down her smooth back.

  Lovemaking in this way seemed new to her; it had taken Leela time to catch the rhythm of the movements. Clearly her husband had been as useless as a barrel. Yet, despite an obvious dearth of experience, Leela was an enthusiastic and sensual lover. The best Hunt had ever had.

  Which perplexed him. She wasn’t the most skilled woman he’d bedded. Nor the most traditionally beautiful. Yet, there was an authenticity between them when they made love, a unique chemistry.

  She was in his lap, cuddled against his chest. Sometime during the evening, his cloak had slipped to the floor. She shivered so he rose to retrieve it. She watched him unabashedly, which he did not mind. He even covertly sucked in his stomach and flexed his muscles to improve the view. Yet he couldn’t resist teasing her. “You are staring again.”

  “I cannot help myself. I have never seen an unclothed man before.”

  He rejoined her, pulling her into his arms and covering them both with his outer garment. “Truly?”

  “Douglas was very proper. He never saw me disrobed either.”

  “I’ll never understand how a man could have you in his bed and not take full advantage of the fact.”

  “I won’t hear a word against Douglas,” she said firmly. “He was good to me. I couldn’t give him children and he never once reproached me for it.”

  “That suits me very well.” He pinched her breast lightly. “Your late husband is the last subject I care to discuss while I have you naked in my arms.”

  She made a sound of satisfaction. So he pinched the other as well. He nipples were unlike the rosy-hued breasts of women he’d bedded in the past. These pert tips were a beautiful light caramel. He found the difference intriguing . . . And arousing. He delighted in the sweet taste of her nipples against his tongue.

  But, exhausted after making love thrice over the course of the evening, Hunt settled for touching her—the round bre
asts that almost filled his hand, the nicely curved waist and plush hips.

  A sliver of golden light intruded from behind the curtain. Dawn. His stomach dropped. Soon this interlude would be over. But he wasn’t ready to let go of Leela. He stroked a hand down her velvety arm; she had the softest skin of any woman he’d ever touched. Now that their time together was coming to an end, his chest felt hollow. Everything about this chance encounter felt like a missed opportunity.

  Hunt smothered those thoughts, shoving the sentimental treacle out of his head. He silently cursed himself for thinking with his prick, just as Phillip had done. His brother had indulged all of his most decadent urges, putting his own selfish interests ahead of duty to their parents or the dukedom. And that had led to disaster. All of his adult life, Hunt had sworn never to be like his brother and he wouldn’t begin now.

  Leela seemed to sense his altered mood. She shifted in his arms to peer into his face. “Is something amiss?”

  He brushed a kiss again her forehead. “No, nothing.”

  She settled back against his chest. “Elliot?” she said softly. “Ya umar.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Ya umar? It is a term of endearment. Literally, it means ‘my moon’ but the translation would be ‘my most beautiful.’”

  He was surprised. And moved. His throat hurt. “I should be the one extolling the virtues of your very considerable beauty.”

  “You deserve a wife who will move your heart. Life is too short to live without love.”

  Jealousy burned in his belly. “Did you have that kind of love with your husband?”

  “No. And I might never find it. But my parents knew what it was to truly love and be loved. My mother left almost everything behind for my father. Papa used to stare at Mama as if he could not quite believe his good fortune. Because of their example, I always knew what my marriage was missing. It saddened me. I do not want you to experience the same sense of loss. You have a choice. I did not.”

  “Maybe I am not made to love like that.”

  “Oh, I think you are.” She pressed her lips against his chest. “You should wed a woman who looks at you as if you are the moon. Promise me you will at least consider what I have said.”

  “I promise.” Hunt knew he’d never forget this night. He wondered if he’d ever again experience this strangely wonderful feeling with another woman. “I will think about what you’ve said. You have my word.”

  “Thank you.” She paused. “It’s silly. I hardly know you, but I think I shall miss you, Mr. Elliot Townsend.”

  “And I will miss you, Leela.” His voice was hoarse. “More than I can say.”

  She yawned and snuggled against him. “You have quite tired me out.”

  “Then rest,” he said quietly, tightening his arms around her.

  As her breaths deepened, Hunt continued to hold her, relishing the feel of her feminine warmth in his arms. But his thoughts churned. As much as he regretted leaving this remarkable woman, it was time to return to his life as the Duke of Huntington. And to all of the commitments and responsibilities that entailed.

  Once Leela was asleep, he slipped away.

  Chapter Five

  “Delilah? Wake up, Lady Lazy.” Tori’s laughing voice punctured Leela’s deep slumber. “You have been asleep all afternoon.”

  For a moment, Leela was back at the Black Swan. But then she stretched and yawned, becoming aware of the fine feather mattress cushioning her body. The clean linens snuggled around her smelled of starch and lavender, rather than the tang of warm male skin. Or notes of leather, shaving soap and hard-ridden horses embedded in a well-worn cloak.

  Her eyelids fluttered open. Leela squinted up at the Pomona green floral silk canopy overhead. As her soporific fog melted away, her muddled thoughts took on a more distinct shape and the events of the past twenty-four hours—some of which she preferred not to remember—came into focus.

  She’d awakened alone at the inn that morning, still wrapped in Elliot’s cloak, only to discover that he’d departed without a word of farewell. Disappointment and a sense of loss swept through her. It’s not that she’d expected proclamations of undying love from Elliot, but to skulk away without a parting word?

  In the light of day, the shabby inn parlor lost all of the previous evening’s cozy charm. In reality, it was simply a worn, bare space with tattered furniture. Eager to be gone from the inn, Leela rose despite her exhaustion. Dressing quickly, she summoned Hashem and prepared for a rapid departure. The moment she arrived at Lambert Hall late this morning, she’d retreated to her assigned bedchamber and fallen into a deep sleep.

  “I have brought you some tea and rout cakes.” Tori came over with the tray as Leela hoisted herself into a seated position. “And if you do not eat them, I will, so you had better get to work or soon I shan’t be able to fit into my gowns.”

  Leela eyed her stepdaughter’s sylphlike figure. “As if that could happen.” She’d always felt like a giant next to Tori’s ethereal presence.

  “Now drink,” Tori instructed. “I assume you are still partial to tea. I had Cook add mint just as you like.”

  Leela gratefully accepted the offering. “One can never have enough tea.” She took a fortifying sip, the sweet hot liquid soothing her dry throat. “This has the perfect amount of mint.”

  Her Arab relatives customarily took their tea with either fresh mint or sage. Indulging in deliciously flavored shay was one of the few rituals from her past that Mama hadn’t discarded once she’d become Lady Brandon. And her daughter carried on the tradition. One of Leela’s first directives as mistress of Lambert Hall was to instruct the gardener to add spearmint and sage to the kitchen herb garden.

  “I picked the mint fresh from the garden myself,” Tori informed her with a saucy smile, “so naturally that will make the tea even more delicious.”

  “That explains why it’s perfect.” Affectionate contentment washed over Leela. Her intense bond with Tori—big sister combined with best friend in the world—remained as intact as ever despite the time they’d spent apart.

  Everything was better when Tori was present. She possessed a sunny countenance, practically emitting beams of light whenever she smiled. Leela had been all of seventeen when she’d arrived at Lambert Hall as a young bride. Only eight years separated the two women. She and Tori had practically grown up together.

  “You have been sleeping all day when I have been dying to hear all about your journey.” Tori shook the linen napkin open and laid it across Leela’s lap. “And to make matters worse, you arrived a day late.”

  “The rainstorm forced me to take shelter at an inn last evening.” Leela’s face warmed at the memory of Elliot’s lips delving into the most intimate parts of her body. “I did not sleep much.”

  “You poor dear.” Tori laid a cool hand against Leela’s cheek. “Have you taken ill? You are flushed.”

  “I am fine. Truly.” She reached for a cake, avoiding Tori’s seeking gaze. “It’s just the heat of the tea.”

  “I hate that your chamber is so far from mine.” Tori went to open the curtains. The sunlight slanted across the young woman’s white-gold hair. If angels were real, Leela imagined they must look like Tori, with her gleaming light hair and soft blue gaze. “I am going to insist that Edgar move you back into the family wing where you belong.”

  Leela surveyed the space she’d been assigned, an overtly feminine room with dainty hand-painted green furniture and complementary floral silks. Two generous sash windows overlooked the gardens at the back of the hall. It was a perfectly respectable accommodation, although not the best guest chamber at Lambert Hall.

  “No need. Honestly, this is fine.” She knew her husband’s heir had deliberately placed her in the guest wing to signal that he no longer considered her family.

  Naturally, this was not where she’d slept as Douglas’s countess and mistress of Lambert Hall. As the Earl of Devon’s wife, Leela had occupied the sizable chamber connected to Do
uglas’s generous rooms in the family wing. But now that her stepson was the earl, she was relegated to a chamber for visitors. “It does not matter where I sleep. As long as you and I can be together, I am content.”

  “At least you’re not staying at the dower house.” Tori climbed onto the bed to sit opposite Leela. “That would be entirely too far away.”

  “Edgar might suffer an apoplexy if I dared to settle at Parkwood.” As Douglas’s widow, Leela was entitled to live at Parkwood, a cozy home on the estate historically reserved for widows of the estate’s previous masters. But after Douglas’s death she’d retreated to Highfield, her childhood home, before embarking on her travels. “The very last thing Edgar desires is to have me living full-time on the estate.”

  “I think you judge my brother too harshly. The last time I rode by Parkwood, workers hired from the village were repairing the roof. Perhaps Edgar is readying the dower house for you.”

  “I highly doubt it.”

  “It would be glorious to have you living on the estate permanently. I could walk over every morning and have breakfast with you.”

  Leela decided to let the topic of Edgar rest. Tori adored her older brother, and as far as Leela could tell, Edgar held his sister deep in his affections and treated her well. He reserved all of his ire for his late father’s second wife.

  Tori reached for Leela’s hand. “I missed you so.”

  “And I you.” Leela squeezed Tori’s hand, the girl’s fingers looking even paler in contrast to Leela’s tawny skin.

  “You were gone so long I feared you’d met a handsome Arab man and forsaken me and England.”

  Elliot’s sculpted face flashed in Leela’s mind. She’d met a man all right. But he’d slunk away the moment she’d fallen asleep.

  “You must tell me about your travels,” Tori continued. “Did you meet your mother’s relations?”

  “Many of them, yes. I became acquainted with cousins I did not even know I possessed.” Being surrounded by her mother’s family was a novel experience. Lady Brandon’s wholehearted embrace of Papa’s noble world meant that Leela and her brother, Alexander, saw nothing of Mama’s family while they were growing up, except for Citi, Lady Brandon’s mother, who spent summers with them at Highfield. But Citi never joined the guests when Leela’s parents entertained.