What Would a Duke Do?

by Collette Cameron

  “Why?” Sorrow and disbelief riddled the clipped word. “I’ve made no enemies.”

  Save the Penningtons, it would seem. Neither had he made friends, and that knowledge saddened her.

  The night had grown brisk, and a frigid shudder stole down her spine. Shivering, she rubbed her arms in a vain attempt to warm herself. “I don’t know why,” she admitted in a hushed tone.

  He swung an accusing gaze at the duke. “I’ll be bound it was no mere coincidence. No, by God, this smacks of Pennington deviousness.”

  “Grandpapa!” Pennington might mean to reclaim his familial home, but until today, there’d not been a single instance of nefarious behavior. Nothing suspicious directed at the Breckensoles. “If the duke hadn’t come upon Jackson and me and lent us his assistance, we’d both be stranded right now.”

  Well, she wouldn’t have been, because she’d have walked home.

  Her defense of the duke earned her a furious glare from her grandfather and an enigmatic half-smile from the man himself. Unexpected pleasure burgeoned behind her ribs. The duke was pleased she’d defended him. How absurd, and how unlike her. Still, she wasn’t so churlish as to refuse to give credit where it was due. They did owe him a debt of gratitude.

  “I’ll ride to Colechester to fetch the doctor,” Pennington offered after handing Gabriella into the carriage.

  His touch burned through her gloves, and continued to heat her palm after she’d claimed a spot on the seat.

  Pale and drawn, his injured leg thrust out before him, Jackson rested his head upon the squab.

  Grandpapa gave the duke a dark scowl. “I already told you, we don’t need help from the likes of you.”

  Pennington closed the door and dipped his head. He’d unfastened his coat and lost his hat. A shock of raven hair hung boyishly over his brow. She’d never seen him other than immaculately groomed and found his partial dishabille rather appealing. It made him less intimidating. More her equal. Which, of course, he was not.

  There was a lot about the Duke of Pennington she found appealing—or had found appealing before she discovered the fine trappings and impeccable manners hid a completely different man. An unethical sod bent on her family’s destruction. That knowledge filled her with an aching sadness, caused by more than disappointment.

  There was no denying the secret thrill that had zipped from her hips to shoulders as his solid muscled thighs bunched against her bum or the welcoming hard-planed wall of his chest she’d sagged into as she rode before him. What woman wouldn’t find such blatant maleness tempting?

  Dangerous musings I’d best put an end to at once.

  Any benevolent thoughts toward the Duke of Pennington were misplaced. He meant to put them out of their home. Don’t forget that, no matter how solicitous and pleasant he might be at this moment.

  Besides, something dark, intense, and secret simmered between him and her grandfather. And it was powerful and eerie enough to make her nape tingle. It also stirred her curiosity, and she meant to find out what it was. Instinct told her it had something to do with the duke’s plan to claim Hartfordshire Court.

  With a concerned glance toward Jackson, Gabriella said, “Grandpapa, please be reasonable. We do need Pennington’s help. None of us is capable of driving into town tonight, and if Jackson’s leg is truly broken, he cannot wait until tomorrow to have it set.” She scooted to the edge of the seat mindful of her grandfather’s mulish silence. “Your Grace, we’d be most grateful for your assistance.”

  “Always a pleasure, Miss Breckensole.” From his genial low-timbred tone, she could almost believe he meant it.

  One hand on the vehicle’s side, she said softly, “Thank you…for everything.”

  Giving his head the merest inclination, his mouth slid upward a jot, but it was a far cry from a sincere smile. “You never answered my question,” he murmured for her ears alone, giving the tips of her fingers a little squeeze.

  What have I done to offend you?

  His probing, confused gaze made the inquiry again, and if she didn’t know better, if the shadows weren’t playing with her senses, she might’ve detected the merest thread of hurt. Surely, he didn’t expect her to answer now? Especially here? Particularly when Grandpapa looked as if he’d like to take the crop to him, duke or not?

  Her movement barely discernable, she shifted her head and eyes to indicate she wouldn’t answer. She hadn’t a doubt he’d ask her again, and she was sorely tempted to tell him the truth of it just to see what he’d say.

  Would he lie, deny it, or make an excuse? Or would he own his words and explain himself? She so wanted it to be the latter, no matter how irrational. Disgust at her traitorous inclinations brought her up short, retangling the confused knot in her empty belly.

  Maxwell, the frustratingly attractive and enigmatic Duke of Pennington was the enemy. Was her enemy. She’d be an utter fool to believe any of the smooth words he put forth. Wasn’t that what the serpent in the Garden of Eden had done? Used his whiles to trick and deceive Eve?

  But… Would a man bent on causing harm to her family have been so helpful? Or, what if his assistance had all been a guise to win them over? To put her off the scent? Her musings circled around and around like a dog chasing its tail.

  Bah. She was too tired, cold, and hungry to cobble more than two coherent thoughts together. Besides, Pennington wasn’t aware she was onto his game. That gave her an advantage, albeit only a slight one, but one she meant full well to use.

  With another polite angling of his dark head and a ghost of a bow, the duke presented his back, and a moment later, leapt into the saddle and rode away.

  As improbable, illogical, and yes, utterly ridiculous as it was, an odd bereftness encompassed Gabriella. Fool. Ninny. Goose cap. She loathed the man. Despised him for what he intended to do to Grandpapa. To all of the Breckensoles.

  But she’d spent time in his arms, and it hadn’t been awful at all. In fact, if she were completely honest with herself—and she always strived to be so—the experience had been wickedly wonderful, and she’d enjoyed it. Enjoyed it far too much. Enjoyed it so much, she wouldn’t mind experiencing more of that particular wickedness.

  Another wave of self-loathing battered her. How could she even entertain such treacherous thoughts?

  After a sleepless night of tossing, turning, and the erotic reliving of Gabriella’s lush bum pressed to his loins, Max arose with a cockstand to rival Eros’s and Pothos’s. Deciding an early morning ride before breaking his fast would clear his head and hopefully reduce his state of arousal, he wasted no time in dressing, quite putting Filby out that he’d dared to do so without the valet’s assistance.

  Thirty minutes later, he slowed Balor, and patting the horse’s withers, breathed in the fresh, crisp air. Song birds trilled cheerfully, and a slight breeze rustled the leaves and sent the tall grass to dancing. This was his preferred time of day, when everything was fresh and new, before his responsibilities and duties consumed his hours and thoughts.

  As he had last night and continued to do today, he pondered Gabriella’s reaction to him. If he didn’t know better, he’d suspect she was as attracted to him as he was to her and fought the magnetism just as vehemently. He dared to consider what there could have been between them if the ugly truth of her grandfather’s blackmail hadn’t caused a permanent wedge.

  He turned the stallion toward a favorite copse of oaks growing along the river where he often saw deer early in the morning. There the embankment narrowed to a few feet. As he approached, he canted his head. Someone was singing. More accurately, a female with a lovely alto voice sang Lavender’s Blue.

  He grinned at his good fortune.

  Gabriella.

  There she sat on the opposite side of the waterway, beyond where the fencing began. Bright as sunshine in a lovely yellow morning gown, her hair tied back with a jonquil ribbon and her straw bonnet beside her. She rested a sketch pad on her knees as she trilled away.

  “You must love m
e diddle diddle,

  ’Cause I love you…”

  She was the most relaxed and unselfconscious he’d ever seen her. And utterly enchanting. With a cluck of his tongue, he urged Balor faster, and the steed soared over the river, landing on the other side.

  Unaware of him as yet, with adorable flourish, she swept her pencil across the paper, and neck bent, continued to sing beneath her breath. “Diddle, diddle.”

  He’d like to diddle diddle something. Someone.

  “Good morning, Gabriella.”

  She started, dropped her pencil, and jerked her gaze upward, her mouth forming a delightful little “O” of surprise as she glanced past him. “I didn’t hear you approach.”

  The river and the breeze rustling through the trees could be blamed for that.

  He slid to the ground then looped Balor’s reins over the pummel. The horse wouldn’t wander far. Without waiting for an invitation, Max sank beside her and retrieved her pencil.

  “May I see?” He indicated the sketch pad as he handed the pencil to her.

  With a little shrug, she passed it over. She’d drawn her grandfather’s cattle milling about the meadow, including three newborn calves resting beneath the trees. A robin red breast stood atop a fence post, its head raised in song.

  “You have talent,” he said returning the pad to her. He wasn’t surprised. “You’ve a lovely singing voice too.”

  She angled her head at his compliment. “I find drawing relaxes me and is a welcome distraction from things weighing on my mind.”

  “Like the exchange between your grandfather and me last night?” He gathered her hand in his, fully expecting her to yank it away and renounce him for a bounder and an opportunistic rake.

  Instead, she stared at their entwined fingers, hers charcoal-stained. “Yes, that and other things.” She slanted her head, contemplatively. “Do you ever wonder what life would have been like if you’d been born a different person?”

  Such a serious conversation for so early in the morning. She’d probably fretted all night as well.

  “I do on occasion. I’d have much more freedom. There are obligations required of a duke that I don’t always relish.” Like restoring stolen lands to the duchy and ruining pretty young women’s lives in the process. He released her hand before removing his hat and setting it beside his thigh then leaned back on one elbow.

  She turned that expressive hazel gaze on him, searching his face. Wistfulness and yearning shone there, and he recognized a kindred spirit. He’d sensed that about her from their initial meeting. Neither would hesitate to do anything for their family. The difference was, his family was dead, whilst her grandparents and her sister lived.

  “Honestly, I’ve never considered there are aspects to being a duke that are difficult or that you disliked.” She skewed her mouth in the manner he’d come to recognize meant she was in deep thought. “I’ve always only thought of the privileges and opportunities your position brings.” Gabriella took up her pencil again, but didn’t put it to the paper. She seemed lost in ruminations once more.

  Today, there was a melancholy air about her, and he yearned to take her in his arms and promise everything would be all right. But he couldn’t, because he was going to make her life hell, and part of him wished he’d never found that damned journal.

  “I wish that I had been born someone else at times.” She pushed a stray tendril of almond-brown hair off her face, leaving a charcoal smudge on her cheek. “Not because I’ve been unhappy, though I do wish my parents had lived and I’d have known them. But because I’d like to have traveled and seen something of the world. Instead, I expect I’ll take care of my grandparents until they pass, and then…?”

  “And then?” he probed when she didn’t finish.

  She hitched a dainty shoulder again, indicating she didn’t know what the future would bring.

  It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her if she’d never thought of marrying. He checked the question. It wouldn’t matter, for he knew her future even if she did not as yet.

  “How fares Jackson and your grandmother?” He curled his hand into the grass to keep from grasping her silken locks teasing the mound of her derriere.

  “Grandmama is determined to leave her bed today.” She frowned at her drawing as she added a bit of shadowing. “And Jackson is resting as well as can be expected. He’s in a lot of pain, poor man.”

  “I arranged to have your grandfather’s coach repaired at my expense.” Max hadn’t intended to mention that. He’d wanted to surprise her. She’d blamed herself for the mishap, though in all honesty, the advanced age of the conveyance was to blame.

  One hand half-raised to the wisp of hair flitting about her ear, she glanced at him in open-mouthed astonishment. “Why? He was utterly hateful to you last night. I still burn from mortification at his behavior. I cannot understand it.”

  “I did it for you, chérie.”

  Gabriella laid her drawing materials aside then adjusted her position so that she faced him. “Why? You’ve no reason I can think of to be kind and generous, and to take such actions on my behalf.”

  So like her. Direct and to the point. Max would seldom have to wonder what went on in her head. She’d wasn’t exactly reticent about telling him, even when it wasn’t what he wanted to hear.

  I also must ask you, once again, to direct your attentions elsewhere. I am not now nor will I ever be receptive to them.

  Her words from yesterday hurt, and they ought not to.

  He turned her hand over and drew his finger across her palm. “Because I want to be your friend. Possibly, something more.”

  She stared at him for the longest stretch. It dragged on and on, emotions flitting across her face in rapid succession. At last, she turned her pink mouth down, sighed, and withdrew her hand. “That’s not possible, and I think you must know it.”

  Gabriella averted her gaze, afraid Maxwell would see the tears pooling in her eyes. She preferred it when he was his usual abominable cocky self, not this tender man. It made her wish for things that could never be.

  He rubbed his thumb over her cheek, and she raised her wary gaze to collide with his. “You had a bit of charcoal, just there.”

  The queerest longing to turn her face into his hand assailed her. Why did he have this power over her? Her head told her he was dangerous. No good. A man not to be trusted. She knew that to be true of him as well.

  Nevertheless, her fickle heart had taken to him months ago. Gabriella couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment she suspected she was more than smitten with his charm and undeniably striking looks. With his smile, his droll wit, and the way his eyes lit up when he was with his friends.

  Yes, she did wish she’d been born a different person and that he had been too. Then maybe there would’ve been a chance for them. As things were now…

  “Chérie. You’re crying.”

  His awed whisper tumbled her back to the present, but before she could swipe away the evidence of her upset, he sat up and gathered her into his arms. “What has you distraught?” He murmured into her hair while stroking her back. “Tell me. Mayhap I can help.”

  No, you cannot.

  She should pull away. Slap his face. However, the plain truth was, she didn’t want to. Being held in his arms felt the most natural thing in the world, and she’d dreamed of it so often before she’d overheard him that day last December.

  He tilted her chin up. “Gabby?” His gaze sank to her mouth, and she was lost.

  Leaning in, she grasped his lapel and lifted her mouth in silent invitation. With a strangled groan, he crushed his lips to hers. Lights and flashes exploded behind her eyes, as he nibbled and explored the recesses of her mouth. She looped her arms around his neck, desperate to draw him nearer.

  To have this moment, no matter how wrong or how much she’d regret it later.

  She breathed Max in, memorizing his scent, the shape of his mouth, the taste of him, the feel of his sculpted form beneath her palms.

&n
bsp; He splayed a hand on the small of her back and framed her face with the other. “You are so beautiful.” He nuzzled her neck, and she allowed her head to fall back to give him greater access. He skimmed her ribs, his fingers mere inches from her breasts. “Let me call on you, Gabby, and speak to your grandfather about paying my addresses. We could be so good together.”

  Those words doused her passion as surely as if he’d tossed her into the river sweeping past them a few feet from them. What game did he play?

  Jerking away, she pressed her fingers to her throbbing mouth and shook her head so hard her hair ribbon came loose. What was she doing? Had she lost her mind? God, how could she kiss him when she knew what he intended. What kind of a wanton was she? Equally mortified and furious that he’d so easily duped her, she swiftly gathered her drawing materials.

  A perplexed frown furrowed his brow. “Gabby…? What’s wrong?”

  She plopped her bonnet upon her head and scrambled to her feet, standing unsteadily. Shaking, angry at herself for being weak and stupid, and at him for kissing so wonderfully that she’d forgotten who he was, she jutted her chin out.

  “I’ve tried delicacy due to your station being so much more elevated than mine, but at every turn, you continue to press your suit and now have dared to go beyond the mark and kiss me.”

  “Hold on there.” He held up a hand, his tone and expression guarded. “You offered your mouth, and you wanted that kiss as much as I did. Don’t you dare deny it.”

  Scorching heat swept from her breasts to her forehead. “Yes. Yes, I did. My curiosity overcame my common sense, but this was a huge mistake and shan’t happen again.”

  “Are you suggesting you only kissed me out of virginal curiosity?” Curse his noble eyebrow flying high up his forehead in disbelief.

  “Of course. What other reason could there be?” Indeed, Gabriella Fern Miriam Breckensole. What possible reason?