by Cheryl Bolen
If the duke truly would dismiss her after Penelope arrived, then perhaps she ought to take one more risk, perhaps tonight after dinner, or tomorrow…
She went down the row of goblets trying to make each one sing.
It was madness to think such thoughts, and wicked to boot. But heavens, when she left Kinmarty and him, she might carry away a sweet memory of being loved by a man she desired.
The sound ebbed and died, and she picked up a damp towel from the wash basin and polished each goblet.
It was a fool’s dream, of course. Perhaps she might take a cottage near Kinmarty, near the children, and Penelope, and Mr. Forbes, who’d been awfully kind to her, and so efficient. Forbes would keep Kinmarty running, and Andrews would learn much from the old butler, and needed to.
His skills as a factor might need improvement, but if the duke required a gentleman with looks and affability, one who could move smoothly among the quality, Mr. Andrews was the man.
How had he fallen in with the duke? Perhaps they’d banged about town together, Mr. Andrews pinching his pennies and enjoying his friend’s benevolence, another genteel near-charity case, just like herself.
“Why, Mrs. Marlowe. Fancy encountering you again.”
The oily tone slithered along her spine and her breath tightened. The only way out of this nook was the one doorway—she glanced over her shoulder—now blocked by the duke.
Chapter 13
She grudgingly turned and curtsied and wished him a good morning.
It had been mere hours ago that he’d kissed her under the mistletoe. Had he slept? His starched and brushed handsome looks distinguished him from Mr. Andrews’ usually rumpled ones, but the new duke was utterly lacking in the warmth and good humor his factor exuded.
And right now, the predatory look in his eyes sent chills through her.
“Mr. Forbes…er…asked me to join him here.” She crossed her fingers behind her skirts. “He’ll be along in a moment.”
He swept a gaze over the pile of silver. “Odd, isn’t it, that Forbes reappears with the ducal silver?” His sharp gaze pierced her. “Perhaps I should call in the magistrate.”
Good heavens. He was threatening Forbes now?
“I should say not.” She drew herself up taller. He was shorter than Mr. Andrews, and she could almost send his neckcloth a level glare. She had no idea how the old butler had laid hands on the duke’s valuables, but she could surmise. “I imagine Mr. Forbes more likely rescued your silver and safeguarded it. You should be grateful to him.”
The blue eyes glinted. “I should be grateful, Mrs. Marlowe? Yes, I suppose so.” He took a step toward her. “I’d like to be grateful to you, as well. Will you let me show you my gratitude? This is a cozy chamber, and we don’t need mistletoe for what I have in mind.”
Heat flamed in her cheeks. Loathing—and no small amount of fear—swept through her. Scanning the room, she spotted a great carving knife. She reached for it, then drew her hand back, a lurid newspaper headline flashing in her imagination—Duke slain by vicar’s widow posing as housekeeper.
Not keen on a hanging, she clutched her trembling hands together. Servants were bustling about everywhere today. With one scream, someone would come running from the kitchen.
“Or perhaps my bedchamber will be a better locale. I hear it is a tradition of the Duke of Kinmarty to keep his housekeeper as more than just—”
“You think to ask me to be your…your…?” Her breath caught as hot anger pounded through her. “That is quite enough nonsense, duke.”
Humor twitched on the man’s lips. She opened her mouth to berate him again when a hand gripped his shoulder and spun him into the corridor.
“The lady is right.”
Oh, thank God. Andrews shoved the duke against the corridor wall. “You’ll leave off with your insults.”
“Remove your hands, Andrews.” The duke, if he was nonplussed, didn’t show it. His lips still twitched as if he were squelching a grin.
Chest heaving, Mr. Andrews gave the duke one last shake and complied, stepping back. “You’d best leave.”
“And you’d best consider your position in this household.” Smiling, the duke glanced her way. “And that of Mrs. Marlowe.” He strode down the corridor, laughing.
Andrews glared after him.
When he turned back to her his eyes still glowed in a way that took her breath away.
He swept her back into the butler’s pantry and into his arms, into a tight embrace, like she was precious, like she was dear, like he would never let her go. Under his coats, his heart beat a brisk tattoo, and each gulp of air raised and lowered his chest against hers. She melted into him for a long moment until her senses finally returned.
She’d bungled this, and Andrews would suffer the duke’s wrath, and he knew it. She choked in a breath. “That reprobate.”
She also would suffer. The duke would dismiss her immediately. Why he hadn’t done so already, she didn’t know. Perhaps he planned to renew his assault on her person before letting her go.
“I’m sorry. Surely he won’t dismiss you.”
Anger burned in his cheeks, sending guilt and regret tumbling through her. He would quarrel more with the duke and lose his position. This was her fault, except it wasn’t, not entirely.
“Andrew MacDonal is a beast,” she said. “I detest him.”
His eyes widened. “What?”
“He’s your friend, I know, but…how well do you truly know the man?”
He looked stunned. Of course, he did. The duke was his bosom friend, and he might lose this position he desperately needed.
Because of her. Her lies and secrets might even stir trouble for Penelope and the children.
He stepped back, taking her hands. “I must…must speak with you, Mrs. Marlowe.”
Oh, that had been heartfelt. He was kind. He would treat Penelope honorably, no matter how dastardly the duke behaved. He would see the children well-cared for. She felt it in her bones. She felt other things bone-deep as well.
His masculine touch. The pleasure he stirred by a simple touch. If only she might be able to stay.
When she left Kinmarty, surely his confrontation with the duke would blow over. But she must make sure he understood the duke’s dislike for Penelope, so he could intercede in her behalf.
She would tell him the truth about who she was, and let him reject her if he would. And if he didn’t, perhaps…perhaps someday they could meet again somewhere private. The thought made her want to weep. Oh, how she would miss him.
He cupped her face with his hand, his thumb sweeping over her cheek.
Or…the private meeting could be right now, and it wouldn’t matter if he rejected her after he learned the truth. She was used to men turning away.
The duke’s dinner was well in hand, and there was no telling whether the children would arrive before she herself was dismissed. She might risk losing the chance to know them.
Yet, the children weren’t here, and there was no way to know if Penelope would allow her the chance to know them.
And Mr. Andrews was right here, right now. She’d been brave enough to come to Kinmarty. She must take one more risk.
Footsteps resounded in the corridor, and they heard Forbes’s distant tones from the kitchens.
Heart racing, she covered his hand with her own. “You are right. We must speak, but not here.”
His nerves still pounding from his run-in with George, Andrew held onto Marlowe’s hand as she raced quickly and silently up the servants’ stairs and down the corridor that led to the study. She halted midway, cocking her head. The distant voices of the boy and the young maid chattering filtered their way. No one else was about.
She opened a door and pulled him in.
To her bedchamber.
“Marlowe—”
“Shhh.” Keeping a grip on his hand, she turned the key in the lock and put a finger to his lips.
As if he had any need to be more conscious of how clos
ely they stood, the warm pad of her finger slid over his cheek and her chest heaved against his.
She ripped the cap from her head. Thick locks of hair the color of dark mahogany tumbled from her loosely pinned bun.
“Thank you for rescuing me, Mr. Andrews. For certain I won’t be the duke’s lover.”
His heart lurched. George could bloody well keep his hands off her. She was his.
She drew in a frantic breath. “But his factor’s…” Her gaze sent his cock to full alert. “Your l-lover, that is another matter.”
Heat roared through him, pressing the air from his chest. He cleared his throat, as inarticulate as a lovesick schoolboy. He, Andrew MacDonal, with some claim as an accomplished lover. Other women, experienced women, professional women, had solicited his favors. Those women had stirred his, er, manhood. None had ever stolen his breath like Mrs. Marlowe, her with her visions of fairy tale castles.
Or perhaps it was his heart that had gone missing.
The duke would not dismiss Marlowe. He would not allow it…but…
Blast it, he was the duke.
He was the duke, and he could have any woman in Kinmarty he wanted, if he wanted to sacrifice all honor, and he didn’t. Filomena Marlowe deserved better.
She blinked and bit her lip.
When he reached for her, she backed up, her bottom hitting the door.
“No,” he said and “I’m s-sorry,” she stuttered at the same time.
He couldn’t allow her to feel shame for the honor she offered. He drew her into his arms, meaning to comfort her, and instead soothing himself with the lavender scent of her tangled hair.
He’d sought her out for the truth, he reminded himself. Why was he being such a bloody coward?
Because you care for her. Because you don’t want to hurt her or worse, lose her.
“It…it wouldn’t be fair to you.” Marlowe deserved her own home, her own nursery filled with children.
She took a trembling breath and raised her chin. “Have I misunderstood? Are you truly unaffected? I should like you to be honest.”
He should lie and tell her he had no desire at all for her. Or tell the truth that he was the duke she despised.
The words wouldn’t come. He would lose her. He’d lost everyone who mattered. Please, not her also.
He smoothed his hands down her sides. If he pulled her hips tight against his own, she would know how much he wanted her. That part of his body could say what his lips couldn’t and shouldn’t, and that part of his body wouldn’t be lying. Lust was the most honest emotion.
She felt it as well. Her eyes had darkened to glistening midnight and pink tinged her cheeks. She wasn’t acting, and he couldn’t resist.
He kissed her, first gently, and then with more warmth, easing her lips apart. She fell into him, and his tongue slipped between her lips, searching and tangling.
She was equally honest, answering in kind, growing bolder, more heated, her passion unschooled. He whipped her around, and put his back to the door, pulling her to him the length of their bodies, to the length of his privy counsellor.
When her eyes widened, he froze.
He traced a finger over her silky cheek, silently counting to ten, and then twenty. That had been a great deal of surprise for a woman married ten years and widowed.
Ten years wedded didn’t mean ten years bedded.
Might she still be a virgin? If that were the case, would it be wrong to take her now?
Virgin or not, of course it’s wrong. She’s your housekeeper.
Marlowe apparently couldn’t hear his conscience shouting at him. She pulled him down into a kiss until all the voices were silenced and his only cogent thought was how to undo her bodice and find his way to her breasts.
Soft footsteps resounded down the corridor and they paused, exchanging hot breaths until the danger moved past.
He gazed into the dark pools of her eyes. She was so lovely, so vulnerable.
His housekeeper. He couldn’t do it.
“I won’t ruin you.”
“I’m a widow.”
“A clergyman’s widow, and as housekeeper, you still have a reputation to maintain.”
“The duke only has to hint that I came to his bed. Anyone might have heard his speech to me. You did. My reputation is already destroyed. You know that as well.”
His insides quaked, knowing it was true. A word dropped here or there, and everyone would believe she’d slept with the duke.
With him.
Dear God. He set her back and swiped a hand through his hair.
“I am not who you think I am,” he said.
Her chin shot up. “Nor am I. And I don’t care. Today, we are only a man and a woman.” She reached for his hand. “The truth? As I told you, I’m a clergyman’s widow. I have a small income. I’ve never been in service, and I don’t need to be. When I leave here, I have means to live quietly and simply.”
Her lips were plump from their kissing, her eyes shiny with unshed tears, slowing his brain as he picked through her words.
“You’re a gentlewoman?
“Yes.”
“Not one fallen on difficult times?”
“I was a gentleman’s daughter. As a young girl, I had a season in London. When I leave here, I plan to live quietly, perhaps on the outskirts of Edinburgh.”
While his mind raced, the male part of him argued that she was his for the taking, now, and perhaps later if they found her a cottage nearby.
He mopped his face with his hands. No. He wouldn’t do it. Not like this, not without honesty.
“We’ll soon part ways.” Her eyes pooled again and she ducked her head. “I won’t jeopardize your position. Give me this one hour of yourself, Mr. Andrews. Forbes has the staff well in hand, and the duke will only know what we’ve done if you tell him.”
His conscience reared. “Marlowe, I…I’m not who you think I am. I’m not—”
“The knight?”
“What?”
“The knight in shining armor riding his destrier to rescue the maiden in the fairy tale castle?”
What in blazes was she talking about?
More footsteps trod down the corridor.
Tears brimmed in her eyes. “You can be my knight, today, this moment. Tell me your secrets later.” She touched the back of his head and pulled him to her.
Tell her later…he could do that. He would do that. His hands found their way to her bottom.
She was a widow, one who’d claimed to have had a season which made her at least well-to-do gentry.
He was a duke. Dukes married as they pleased. He could marry her.
Dukes with money marry as they please, not poor sods like you.
Shut up, he shouted back in his head, and then he swept her up into his arms, his heart soaring.
Chapter 14
Andrew carried her to the bed where she settled onto the mattress with a startled gasp.
“Shhh,” He sat next to her, cradling her cheek, studying her.
Wide-eyed, her breath coming in short gasps, she looked…frightened.
No—she was terrified.
Hot blood rose in her cheeks while he sorted through the problem.
Marlowe had been a faithful wife. “You’ve never done this before, have you?”
“What?” That came on a tight breath with another frightened look.
“Dallying. Having an affair. Having a tumble.”
She struggled up, bracing herself on her elbows.
“It’s true.” An edge of defiance sharpened the words. “But I learn quickly.” She reached for his neckcloth and loosened the knot.
Color swept up her neck again, to her cheeks and all the while she chewed her lower lip.
She hadn’t done this before. She learned quickly. She was in high color and worried, even while her hands trembled with need and desire and…
She glanced at him from under long dark lashes. There it was again: fear.
Marlowe’s husband had some
how broken this part of her.
What would it take to repair that? Because he wanted to. He wanted to make her whole again.
That couldn’t be done in a quick afternoon tumble. That would require a long night, many long nights.
He eased her chin up and dropped a kiss on her mouth, urging his numbed brain to take control from his baser self.
He couldn’t dishonor her. And yet, and yet…
On its own accord, his hand strayed to her bodice and began working the fastenings. She would be angry when she learned he was the duke. Not a friend of the duke, not his factor, not a bloody fairy tale knight. The duke.
She might want to leave, but she needed to stay. He needed her to stay.
He nibbled a path down her cheek to her neck, making her wriggle. Her bodice dropped open and her chest heaved with a startled breath.
Full breasts swelled against the top of her stays, begging to be touched. Andrew ripped at the stays and pulled out the knot in her chemise, easing the lace edging down, laying her bare. The silk of her skin was warm on his lips.
Need raged through him, hard, desperate. He raised his head and gazed into her glazed eyes.
“Yes,” she said.
NO, his conscience shouted.
He was a man, only a bloody man, and she was a woman, the woman he wanted, now and forever.
He would marry her. He would find a way.
Dark and hooded, his gaze burned into her, stoking the pleasure his lips and fingers had kindled, wave after wave of pleasure.
How had she allowed herself to miss this? How had she settled for a marriage utterly lacking in carnal desire?
When she fingered his jaw, his gaze softened.
Tears clouded her vision. Her heart lurched and swelled and pounded.
She’d missed this with Mr. Marlowe. She’d have missed it with Mr. Swinton as well. Because she hadn’t loved either man.
She loved Mr. Andrews.
Andrews was kind, and mostly responsible, and a good friend to the miserable duke.
He didn’t love her, but he wanted her, he truly did. She had this one moment and it must be enough for the rest of her life, because this…this desire, this had bloomed in her heart, rare and beautiful. This might never come again.
