by Erica Ridley
It was his new billiard room, looking exactly as it did now, with two exceptions. In the illustration, a magnificent John Thurston billiard table dominated the center of the room. And the lady figure—oh, very well, let’s call her “Carole”—stood to one side with a billiard cue in her hand.
Alone.
“I wanted to draw you next to me,” she admitted. “I just didn’t know how.”
“I’ll help.” He plucked the sketchbook from her fingers and took it over to his special shelf. As he drew directly on the page with a pencil, he kept his back to her—then turned around to present his modification with a flourish. “Voila!”
A giggle burst from her throat. Azureford’s illustrative ability was on par with the Skeffington twins’ chalk drawings on the street outside. He’d drawn a circle with a smiling face and a top hat. The boxy torso and equally boxy limbs were completely out of proportion, but a billiard cue protruded from one rectangular hand. Instead of a lonely girl with no one to play with, the room now contained two friends likely to fill their evening with teasing and laughter.
“You can redo it when you figure out how to draw people,” Azureford whispered.
She closed the book and pressed it to her heart. “It’s perfect.”
He grinned back at her impishly, looking perfectly kissable.
Carole fumbled the sketchbook back into her reticule, more to break her gaze from his than out of concern for her drawings.
“Now all we need is a billiard table, and you’ll be on your way to winning hearts all over the land,” she said lightly.
His muscles twitched.
She frowned. “What’s wrong? Isn’t that your plan?”
“It’s the final step of a plan that’s missing all the middle steps.” He held up his fingers to count them out. “Step one, billiard table. Step three, marriage.”
“That’s not true,” she reminded him. “You said this village—and this party—was your practice ground. If you can make friends with the people who don’t matter, you’ll have the confidence to flirt with the ladies who do.”
He stared at her for a long moment. “I sounded like a prig.”
“You sound like a lord,” she corrected. “Not just any lord—a duke. We all know what that means. Your future bride is limited to the upper thousand. The rest of us choose from everybody else. It’s not your fault. It’s how the beau monde is.”
“It gets worse.” He sighed. “Both the bachelors and the hopeful brides are meant to accept the most selfish, coldblooded offer available. Who has the best blood? The highest connections? The oldest title? The most land? The biggest dowry? It’s not marriage. It’s expanding one’s empire.”
Each word made her feel emptier inside. “Is that what you’re going to do?”
“It’s what my parents did.” He scrubbed his face with his hands. “It’s what is expected of me. My sacred duty. A duke’s responsibility to the title.”
“I’ll assume that means ‘yes.’” She swallowed hard. He was looking for the perfect woman… who was her exact opposite. Her fingers went cold. If she’d been looking for proof that they were wrong for each other in every way, well, there it was. She’d known they could never be more than friends. The least she could do was act like one. “I’ll help.”
His gaze jerked up in surprise. “You’ll help? How?”
“We’ll playact until it becomes second nature. You be the Duke of Azureford, and I’ll be… Debbie Debutante.” Carole fanned her face with an invisible fan and affected a nasal voice and bored expression. “Ugh, if I have to dance with one more viscount or earl, when everyone knows my dowry is fit for a duchy… Why, good evening, Your Grace. I’m sure you know your very large estate abuts my even larger one. My mother is cousin to the king. Is that a waltz I hear?”
“Stop it.” He knocked her pretend fan out of her hands. “That’s more or less the conversation that led to my parents’ union.”
“How did that work out?”
“It didn’t.” His dark gaze was distant and angry. “Everything they wanted from each other they got with the wedding contract. Other than the night they conceived me, I’m not certain they were ever in the same room again.” His eyes snapped to hers. “That is not the marriage I want.”
She tilted her head. “What do you want?”
“To comply with my ducal duties with a woman I like.” His expression was beseeching. “Wouldn’t you?”
“I have no ducal duties and I’m never getting married,” she replied evenly. “But we’re not talking about me. Let’s get you sorted first. How are you currently searching for a bride?”
“I visit Almack’s.” He gave a self-deprecating scoff. “And then stand there like a marble column.”
She winced. “That might be the problem.”
“I’ll probably do the same thing at the party.” He glared over her shoulder at the empty space in the middle of the room. “No matter how fancy my billiard table might be.”
“All right.” Carole rolled back her shoulders. She could do this. They could do this. “Let’s make a plan. Bride-hunting can’t be harder than the Excise Officers Allowance Act of 1812.”
His eyes widened comically. “You were listening to me?”
She nodded. “Now listen to me. This is what we’ll do. When the table arrives, I’ll teach you how to play billiards… and in the meantime, I’ll show you how to flirt with the ladies.”
“In return,” he said slowly, his expressive eyes not leaving hers, “I will do the same for you.”
She blinked. “I already know how to play billiards.”
“But do you have much experience with men?” The expression in his dark eyes was stormy. As though he would fulfill his ducal duties as required, even if part of him desired a woman who could never be a duchess.
A woman like… Carole.
“I’m not looking for a husband,” she said carefully.
“Who said anything about marriage?” His brown eyes were serious. “Just because I must select a Society wife doesn’t mean you have to give up your freedom.”
“Ha.” She pulled a face. If only that was a luxury she possessed. “Freedom to what?”
“To enjoy yourself.” He stepped closer. “Like you said, I’m limited to future duchesses. You can do as you please.”
Her throat went dry. Perhaps he, too, despised the thought of her promising herself to someone else. Perhaps he, too, wished they could ignore their divergent futures, just for a moment. Even if it could never be more than make-believe.
She licked her lips. “What would you do if you could do anything you wished?”
His gaze fell to her parted lips. “Do you want me to tell you or show you?”
“Show me.” Her heart pounded defiantly but she didn’t glance away.
Satisfaction glinted in his eyes. “With pleasure.”
Then his hands cupped her cheeks and his lips covered hers.
Marble column? He was big and hard and strong, but there the comparison ended. His lips were warm on hers, gentle but firm. His thumb stroked her cheek so lightly she doubted he even realized he was doing so. Yet every caress sent flutters of desire through her belly.
When she opened her mouth to tell him so, to confess she was one mere kiss away from throwing all caution to the wind, his tongue swept inside to claim her. An electrifying bolt of desire shot through her. She felt every nudge, every lick, throughout her entire body.
She pressed herself against him to muffle the arousal tickling her skin, but the opposite occurred. With her bosom against his chest and his hands deep in her hair, their kiss was no longer tentative but a tidal wave of emotion that had just been waiting to be released.
All the times she’d glanced over at him beneath her eyelashes and wondered what it would be like to taste him? She was tasting him now. Gorging herself on his kisses. All the times his hand had brushed hers, all the brief “accidental” touches, all the times he had almost kissed her but held himself back? H
e wasn’t holding back now. He was taking, demanding, giving, pleading. Two souls caught in a tug-of-war between we shouldn’t be doing this and I never want to stop.
When she gasped for breath, his thumb stroked her cheek.
“Do you want me to stop?” His lips brushed hers.
She wrapped her hands about his neck. “Aren’t you supposed to disregard what I want, shove me against the closest wall, and have your wicked way?”
He nibbled her lip. “Why would that work? No one wants to slam into a wall.”
“You’re the one who reads gothic novels,” she reminded him between kisses. “Why would exposing my bosom by ripping open my bodice ever work? Stays are lined with whalebone.”
“Are you saying I wouldn’t win a fight against a whale?” He ran his hands down her back and splayed his fingers against her ribs.
She wished his fingers would keep exploring. “I’m saying no one has ever won a fight with a corset.”
“Then you should definitely stop wearing them.” He picked her up and swung her over to the sofa, tumbling backward so that she was the one on top. The one in control of whatever happened next.
She ran the pad of her thumb across the very beginnings of stubble along the edge of his jaw. “Azureford?”
“Adam,” he corrected, and touched her nose with his. “And you are?”
“Carole.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
He kissed her so well and for so long that she almost forgot what she’d been going to say.
“Were you going to ask me something?” he murmured.
“I was going to tell you something.” She pushed up on his chest in order to meet his eyes, and did her best to muster up a good glare. “You led me to believe you were bad at this.”
He grinned and kissed her again. “I’m enjoying this, too. It’s different with you. I can be me and you can be you and none of it matters, since no one has to know.”
For another woman, that last bit might have hit like a bucket of water. But the truth was, Carole had been thinking the same things. She had told him the truth. She wasn’t going to marry. He had been equally honest. He needed a bride and it couldn’t be her.
In the meantime, whatever happened between them, stayed between them. Resigning herself to the life of a spinster did not mean she had to turn down moments like these. Until he left for good, this room would be their playground.
Just as she was dipping her head for another kiss, she caught sight of the clock out of the corner of her eye. She sprang up as if galvanized.
“Damn and blast.” She shoved a fallen chunk of hair back into her bun and tried to shake the wrinkles from her skirt. At Adam’s startled expression, she explained, “My father exits his study one time a week, and that time is… approximately five minutes ago. I have to go.”
Without waiting for a response, she grabbed her reticule and dashed out the door.
“Blast blast blast,” she cursed as she raced toward her cottage.
There was no telling what might happen if Father walked into the billiard room and she wasn’t there. He wasn’t the sort to go looking for her. He might assume she was no longer interested and cease coming down from his study altogether. She would never see him again.
She skidded through the corridor, dodging questions from the housekeeper and the chambermaid and the—devil take it, why did everyone pick right now to become inexplicably incompetent at their jobs?
When she burst into the billiard room at last, her father was just chalking his cue.
She nearly collapsed in a puddle in relief.
“Father.” She took a deep breath. “I think you should know—”
“The le Ducs will be here at any moment,” he interrupted. “The butler forgot to iron the baize. Can you take care of it?”
She swallowed hard. “Yes, Father. Of course.”
So much for having a private father-daughter tete-a-tete. That had been a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Now she had work to do. The butler hadn’t ironed the baize because Carole hadn’t been here to tell him to. That was her responsibility. Everything in this household was. She sighed in resignation. This cottage would fall down around them if she wasn’t there to keep it propped up.
She could never leave.
Chapter 10
As much as he might have wished to, Adam did not greet Carole at the door with a kiss. He waited the full ten seconds for her maid to disappear with his butler, and then swung her into his arms.
She kissed him back not as if they’d just seen each other yesterday, but as though the two weeks that remained should only be spent in each other’s arms.
He could not agree more.
When at last their lips parted, her hazel eyes gazed up at him from beneath her lashes. “I’m sorry I had to run off to meet my father.”
“Don’t be,” Adam said, and meant it. Last night, he’d already added
* * *
Thoughtful
Puts family first
* * *
to his list of required qualities in a future bride.
“Besides,” he added, “it gave me extra time to refine my flirting techniques.”
She lifted a brow. “It’s been one night, and already your technique is ‘refined?’”
He nodded. “I made a chart.”
“A chart of what?” she asked suspiciously.
“Opening lines.” He affected an innocent expression. “I’ll be the Duke of Azureford, you be Deborah Debutante. Ready?” He made an exquisite bow, then lowered his voice dramatically. “Why, Miss Deborah, your hand looks so heavy… Shall I hold it for you?”
Carole burst out laughing. “Do not incorporate that into your introductions.”
“Brr.” He hugged himself and gave an exaggerated shudder. “I must be a Christmas snowflake, because I’ve fallen for you.”
She covered her face with her hands. “No. Absolutely not.”
He pulled her hands from her face and gazed down at her soulfully. “May I borrow an atlas? I keep getting lost in your eyes.”
“If she has an atlas, she’ll hit you with it,” Carole said warningly.
He stroked his chin as if in deep thought. “Kiss me if I’m wrong, but… we’re betrothed, right?”
She was laughing too hard to kiss him, but she tried to anyway. “You’ll never be betrothed. You’ll lose your Almack’s voucher if the patronesses hear you. You’re going to be the first duke spinster.”
He pretended to be offended. “If you don’t want my kisses, just return them!”
She swatted his shoulder, then stepped past him toward the dining room. “When will Thurston’s crew arrive?”
Adam started to follow, then froze in place. Her long blond hair had been plaited to loop about her head in five golden rings. Because naturally it had. At this point, he was surprised she didn’t arrive with five gold rings on each finger.
Carole glanced over her shoulder as if she’d sensed him paused to stare. “Is it the hair? I told Judith it was too much. She loves braiding the way some women love chocolate.”
“Or pear tarts,” he added wisely.
“You’re right.” She tapped the side of her chin. “If a blizzard blew through the village and I could only rescue one thing from this cottage… it would have to be your chef.”
He clutched his chest. “You wound me! I am wounded!”
“Wait until your billiard table arrives,” she said with a wicked smile. “Then you’ll witness true destruction.”
Little did she know the devastation had already begun. Spending the past few weeks with her had cracked a hole in who he thought he was, and what he believed himself capable of. He’d just been bantering, for God’s sake. With her, he forgot to be shy.
“Adam!” she squealed as they entered the billiard room. “The table is here!”
He grinned at her. “Merry Christmas.”
She threw herself in his arms. He swung her in a circle as he kissed her. They both knew it wa
sn’t her table. They both also knew he wouldn’t even be here for most of the year to enjoy it. And yet its shining presence in his cottage made him feel like they’d fought a battle side-by-side and emerged victorious.
He deposited her next to the cabinet and handed her a mace. “Here. Turn me into a genius.”
“First lesson, genius…” She returned the mace to the cabinet and withdrew a cue instead. “Don’t assume all women only play with the mace.”
The back of his neck heated. “Duly noted.”
“Additionally note that if you invite a woman to play and she does choose a mace, you must do the same. Both weapons must match.”
He frowned. “Which is better?”
“That depends on the player. A billiards mace is a blunt object. Easy to wield, hard to control. Cues afford much greater precision—if one knows how to use them.” Her eyes shone with mischievousness. “A woman might choose the mace as a tactical advantage. The gentleman is unlikely to have practiced with one, making him clumsy and inaccurate. If she had practiced, she’ll win.”
Adam stared at the cues and maces in his cabinet. They hadn’t even started playing yet and already the first decision appeared to be between two items that were simultaneously better and worse than each other.
“Owning a billiard room will be no help if all you’re going to do is stand about glaring at your equipment.” She handed him a cue. “Some men ‘chalk’ the leather tip by smashing it overhead against the plaster. We are not barbarians. We use chalk.”
He accepted a piece and copied her movements.
“Don’t chalk over the baize. Dust will get everywhere. Don’t knock your cue against the table for the same reason.” She ran her fingers lightly over the edge of the billiard table, then grinned up at him. “I can scarcely credit that I’ll be the first person to play on this table. It feels like history being made.”
“It is history,” he assured her. “It’s the first time you’re playing on this table, and the first time I’m playing on any table. We should commission a plaque. Or some kind of statue.”
“I drew you a sketch. That’s good enough. We can talk about trophies when you start scoring points.” She arranged the two ivory balls and single red ball on the table. “Watch. It works like this.”
