by Diana Quincy
“Thank you. As you can see, I am fine.”
The old man returned with a teacup for Hunt and filled it from the pot on the table. Once he’d withdrawn, Leela asked Hunt, “Are you hungry?”
“The bread certainly smells good.” He couldn’t quite identify what the other items on the table were. Possibly oil on a plate, and another dark green powder that appeared to have sesame seeds in it.
“This is what Victoria sent with you. That’s olive oil from a grove outside of Al-Bireh in Palestine, where my mother’s people are from.”
“It’s very green.”
“It’s fresh early-harvest olive oil.” She tore off a morsel of bread and dipped it into the oil. “Try it.”
He took it from her. It was pungent and slightly fruity with a hint of bitterness. “It’s delicious.”
“I thought you might appreciate it.” She dipped a piece of bread in olive oil and then in the dark green powderlike substance before slipping it into her mouth. He copied her actions and did the same. The aromatic tangy flavor exploded on his tongue. “What is that?”
“It’s called za’atar.”
“What’s in it?” He reached for more bread and dabbed the morsel with olive oil before trying the powder again.
“A mixture of herbs and spices, primarily wild thyme and sesame. The tartness you taste comes from the crushed seeds of the sumac plant, which is a kind of shrub.”
“It’s wonderful.” He drank from his tea. There were leaves at the bottom of his cup. Mint, he realized, mixed with black tea to flavorful effect.
“Why are you here, Your Grace?” she asked.
“Must you address me so formally? Will you at least consent to call me Hunt?”
“Hunt,” she said. “Why are you here?”
“For two reasons. First, I owe you an apology.”
“For what?”
“For the way I left you at the inn. I shouldn’t have departed while you were sleeping, without properly taking my leave of you. You deserved better.”
“Yes, I did,” she said mildly. “Why did you leave like that?”
“Because I wanted so badly to stay with you. I worried about losing my heart to you.”
Her eyes softened. “Apology accepted. It really doesn’t matter now anyway. And your second reason for coming?”
“I wanted to assure myself that you are well.”
“As you can see, I am perfectly fine.”
“I feel as though I have forced you from your home.”
“No one forced anything upon me. I made the choice to remove myself. Besides, Lambert Hall is not my home. It never was.”
“You were once mistress here.” Although she acted more like a guest.
“It’s Edgar’s home now. And he thinks there’s no place for me in it.”
“Why?”
“Because I am the spawn of the social-climbing daughter of a foreign merchant.”
“You’re also the daughter of a marquess.”
“The Mad Marquess.” She held up her porcelain cup in mock salute. “Let us not forget.”
“They treat you abominably. Devon and that old aunt of his.”
“I don’t wish to reside at Lambert Hall. My only attachment was to Douglas, who was kind to me. And, of course, Victoria.” She had a faraway look in her eyes. “I’ve loved her since the moment I first dropped to my hands and knees to coax her out from under the dining room table.”
That sounded like Lady Victoria. “When was that?”
“When I first arrived, she was so bashful.” She smiled softly at the memory. “But I joined her under the table and we had a tea party.”
“Right there on the floor? An imaginary one?”
“Not at all. Douglas ordered tea for us, with apple tarts and apricot cakes. And once we emerged from our party under the table, we were bonded for life.”
His chest felt as if a heavy brick with sharp edges was lodged inside of it. “You love her very much.”
“Except for my brother, there is no living person who is as dear to me. I could never do anything to hurt her.”
If Hunt hadn’t comprehended how hopeless matters were between him and Leela, he did now. He could feel her love for Lady Victoria. It was a palpable thing. As was the undertone of emotion that ran between her and the earl. “What about Devon?”
“What about him?”
“What was he doing here?” Devon might detest Leela, but Hunt detected something more troubling about the man’s interactions with his stepmother—a masculine hunger edged all of that contempt. Hunt understood that desire all too well. “Why was he alone with you?”
One of her dark brows shot up. “What concern is that of yours?”
“He seemed upset. As did you.”
“It was a personal matter.”
Jealousy lightninged through him. “How personal?” Devon might be Leela’s stepson, but the man was likely older than her. And not unhandsome.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “What are you asking, and why?”
He dipped his bread in the za’atar. “Because it matters to me. Even though it should not.” He noted the sharp intake of her breath.
“You think I am bedding my stepson.”
“I do not.” He stared down at the floating leaves of mint in his cup.
There was a sharp edge to her voice. “Perhaps you think a woman who would bed her stepdaughter’s betrothed is capable of anything.”
“I don’t think that.” Hunt reached for her hand and held it. He couldn’t help himself. To his surprise, she allowed it. “I am preoccupied with thoughts of you when I know I should not be.”
“Please,” she begged him. “Please stop talking. I cannot speak of it.”
“I know you are afraid. But so am I.” He stroked the delicate skin at the back of her hand. “I fear losing control of my emotions. I fear I am willing to risk everything, to welcome disaster, to be with you. I fear becoming my brother.”
“Your brother?” she echoed.
“Every day I strive to be nothing like him. Phillip was a wastrel. He gambled, he drank, he took liberties with women that he should not have. He was inconsiderate, reckless. He thought of no one but himself and his own selfish needs.”
“Devon told me,” she said softly. “He also said that family lore suggests the profligate gene skips a generation in your family.”
“That’s just it. Phillip and I are of the same generation,” he said grimly. “Because of that, society waits for me to falter. There are some who believe it is inevitable that I will succumb to the pull of history.”
“But Devon says you have a sterling reputation. You’ve done nothing to suggest you are destined for a life of debauchery.”
“What if this capacity for self-ruination is in my blood? They wait for me to become a prodigal son, to leave a trail of scandals in my wake.”
“That’s ghastly.”
“There is even a wager on the books at White’s gentlemen’s club. Bets that suggest it is only a matter of time before my so-called ‘true nature’ emerges.”
“You don’t believe any of that, do you?” Her fingers curled around his and squeezed. “You are your own man. Only you can determine your destiny.”
“I have always thought that. But then I met you.” Emotion obstructed his throat. “And for the first time in my life I am tempted to risk everything—scandal, outrage, societal scorn—everything I have feared and fought against for my entire life, for a woman. For you.”
Her eyes glistened. “Then perhaps you should leave.” She gently withdrew her hand, upending her cup. Neither of them paid attention to the brown liquid bleeding over the white linen tablecloth. “We must agree to never again be alone together.” She rose. “You should see yourself out.”
And then she walked away from him yet again.
Leela went up to her bedchamber.
She closed and locked the door before stripping out of her wet dress. When she saw that the liquid had bled through to
her chemise, she drew that off as well. The slight breeze from the open window drifted over her bare skin.
She paused, replaying Elliot’s words in her mind. The vulnerability in his eyes had taken her aback. He had shared his deepest fears with her. He’d honored her with his deepest truths.
She opened the wardrobe to retrieve a new dress, then paused, before reaching for the garment hidden deep within the closet. The one she’d tried to forget about but couldn’t.
Bringing Elliot’s cloak to her nose, she inhaled deeply. It still smelled faintly of him, of exertion and leather and masculinity.
On impulse, she wrapped it around her bare body, breathing his fading scent into her lungs. The feel of the wool and silk against her skin made her body flush. Her nipples hardened. She floated the silk over them and moaned at the sensation; the tips of her breasts were unbearably sensitive.
Falling back on the bed, she felt moisture between her thighs. She contracted into a fetal position, trying to contain the intensity of the sensations coursing through her body. She stroked the place between her legs, felt herself tighten. Her body rode the sensations. She felt needy and desperate.
She flipped over on her belly, her leg over a pillow. The glancing sensation of the pillow brushing against her private area was like an electric zing. She ground into it, rocking into the pillow, feeling a perfect friction against the place between her legs where all sensation seemed focused. Adjusting the pillow, she moved her hips against it in slow circular motions until she found the perfect spot to answer her need. It felt sensational.
Her breaths came faster as she rhythmically moved against the pillow. Involuntary moans escaped her throat. Her heart raced. She moved faster and faster, enveloped in Elliot’s scent, remembering the taste of him, the feel of him inside of her. The muscles in her lower back convulsed, her muscles spasmed and then released. She rode the sublime sensation, wringing every bit of pleasure out of it, calling out Elliot’s name over and over again until she was spent, her body replete, the place between her legs pulsating.
Euphoria physically flooded her. She lay still for several minutes, absorbing the sensations coursing through her body. As her muscles relaxed, her breathing became more even. She stretched, feeling deliciously languorous. Her body felt alive and deeply sensitive.
There was no denying the truth any longer. She felt more than just a physical attraction for the Duke of Huntington. Elliot was the lingering ache in her heart. He was every happy thing she could imagine. The intense connection they’d discovered at the Black Swan had never gone away. It was possible that it never would. Leela gathered Elliot’s cloak closer, snuggling into it, a commotion of feeling rioting through her, from the tips of her fingers, to deep in her belly and down to her toes.
She was in terrible, terrible trouble.
Chapter Thirteen
One day after his fellow guests departed, Hunt accompanied Leela and Lady Victoria to the nearby village.
He’d suggested the outing in order to become better acquainted with Lady Victoria. She, in turn, enlisted Leela to serve as chaperone. The day was cool and overcast, a harbinger of the damp and wintry days that lay ahead. A medieval stone church came into view, its spirelet towering over the surrounding thatched roof cottages and timber-framed buildings.
Leela remained quiet, walking on the opposite side of Victoria, out of Hunt’s line of sight, yet he remained profoundly aware of her presence. Lady Victoria was almost chatty, stammering only occasionally, as she conversed with him about books and places she longed to visit. Hunt hadn’t thought to take a marriage trip, but perhaps he should consider it as a gift to his future bride.
His conversation with Leela had clarified that there was only one path forward. A dull but intense pain lacerated his chest. There could be no future for him and Leela. An affair or liaison was completely out of the question. And obviously beyond the pale.
Hunt had no choice but to go forward with his initial intention to wed Lady Victoria. Crying off now would create a scandal. He’d made a vow to himself to focus all of his energy on his future wife. His consuming passion for Leela would fade with time. It had to.
Along the way to the village, Lady Victoria asked him thoughtful and intelligent questions about Eaton Park, his country seat in Oxfordshire. Pleased that the young woman appeared more at ease in his company, Hunt took his time telling her all about her future home.
“My estate is not so far from here,” he said. “It is about a ten-hour ride in the carriage. If I care to, I could make the trip in just one day as long as I only stopped to change horses along the way.”
“Oh!” She appeared delighted. “That is not so far away.”
They went past grazing cattle on the village green. Ahead, a stir of excitement caught their attention. People hurried past them toward a young bull on his way to market.
“What is the fuss?” Lady Victoria asked. “May we stop and see?”
“As you like,” he said.
They paused to watch. The animal was attached to a post that was level to the ground. The metal chain that tethered the bull to the post was a few yards long. The animal immediately dashed about trying to free itself. The crowd rushed to get out of the way, bumping into each other while laughing, shouting and jeering at the animal. Some spectators toppled to the ground.
“Oh my,” Lady Victoria said as she deftly stepped out of the way of one tumbling body.
Leela was not as quick. Some cretin bumped into her and she almost went over. Hunt’s arm darted out to grab her before she fell. His fingers burned the moment he touched Leela’s wrist, a current sizzling through his arm like rapturous lightning.
“Oh!” Leela made a sound of surprise before reflexively seizing his forearm to steady herself. Heat flashed through Hunt’s body the moment her fingers closed around his arm, squeezing hard.
“I’ve got you,” he said. “I won’t let you fall.”
Their eyes met. A conflagration of heat and desire arced between them. They both immediately dropped their arms and leaped apart. Her cheeks flushed, Leela looked away.
“Leela!” Lady Victoria cried out. “Are you hurt?”
“No. I am well. His Grace kept me from ending up in the mud.”
Lady Victoria’s grateful gaze fixed on Hunt. “Thank you.”
“Of course.” He cleared his throat. “I couldn’t very well allow Lady Devon to fall over. Pity she did not have her knife in hand to keep interlopers at bay.”
Lady Victoria tipped her head to the side. “Her knife?” She frowned. “Have you seen Leela’s knife?”
“Erm—” Hunt wasn’t certain how to respond.
“His Grace saw my janbiya when he came to Parkwood to deliver your package,” Leela interjected. “You remember you sent the olive oil and the za’atar.”
Lady Victoria’s brow cleared. “I do remember.” She looked to Hunt. “It is quite extraordinary, is it not?”
Not nearly as extraordinary as the woman who wielded it. Fortunately, a roar from the assembled crowd drew Lady Victoria’s attention away from Hunt and the subject of Leela’s knife.
“A lane! A lane!” someone called out. The crush moved in a mass, forming a narrow path leading up to the bull.
Hunt stiffened the moment he realized what was about to occur. “We should go. This is not a spectacle for ladies.”
“Why ever not?” Curiosity lit Lady Victoria’s face. “What are they doing?”
Her attention went to a young thin man with ginger hair and threadbare clothing. He restrained a restless, barking bulldog between his legs. Short brown fur covered the canine’s compact body, except for the patch of white at its chest. Its shortened muzzle was black and wrinkled. The handler abruptly released the dog, which tore down the lane toward the bull, moving with speed and agility.
“What is he doing?” Lady Victoria cried out in alarm. “His dog is going to be hurt.” Leela clutched the girl’s arm to keep her from dashing after the bulldog.
Eyeing the dog, the bull lowered its head, threateningly moving it from side to side. Hunching its shoulders, the massive beast pawed the ground. He caught the bulldog on his horns and tossed the yelping animal into the air. Leela’s expression was grim and pale as the crowd of people closed in to catch the dog.
Lady Victoria cried out in horror. “They’ve broken the poor dog’s neck.”
“He is all right,” Hunt reassured her. “That’s why the crowd catches the dogs.”
She stared at him, horrified. “Is this some sort of sport?”
“Unfortunately. They’re pinning the bull.”
“What does that entail?” Leela asked. “How is any dog supposed to best a bull?”
“The dogs are trained to catch hold of the bull’s nose and try to pin the animal down.”
Outrage shadowed Lady Victoria’s face. “Do you approve of this sort of thing?”
“No, but there are many who enjoy the sport. The dogs are specially bred to participate in pinning the bull.” A second bulldog was lined up, its shortened muzzle directed at the bull. The crowd cheered.
“It’s despicable.” Lady Victoria was almost in tears. “You have to make them stop. Please!”
Eager to spare the young woman any further distress, Hunt stepped forward. “Who owns these two dogs?”
The crowd quieted, staring at the well-dressed man who was clearly out of place in this working-class crowd.
“And who might you be?” asked the young handler, who was barely more than a boy. He held the second dog poised and ready between his knees.
“I am the Duke of Huntington.” His voice rang out through the air. Excited murmurs moved through the crowd.
“They’re my animals.” The handler’s bony chest inflated. “The best bull pinners in the county.”
“I’ll give you ten shillings for them.”
Both Leela and Lady Victoria gasped at the exorbitant number.
The boy gaped, but quickly recovered himself. “Double that and you have a deal.”
“Ten shillings and sixpence. That is my final offer.” Hunt knew he could easily pay less, but the scrawny boy looked as if he could use the extra coin.
