Not the Duke's Darling

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  He turned to his left and listened without comprehension as Lady Holland prattled on about fashion.

  He felt as if he’d lost something important because he knew.

  Freya would never ask for his help.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Rowan came to the last girl in the circle and felt despair, for she looked like all the others.

  But this girl, unlike the ones before her, met Rowan’s eyes and smiled.

  Rowan’s heart swelled and she knew.

  She placed her hand on the girl’s shoulder and turned to the Fairy King. “This is she. This is my friend, Marigold.”…

  —From The Grey Court Changeling

  “Are you forbidding me from seeing him?”

  The words stopped Freya outside Lady Holland’s rooms that night.

  They were spoken in Arabella’s low contralto.

  Freya looked behind her. The hallway was empty. Most of the guests were already abed. She was awake only because she was returning Lady Holland’s shawl, which had somehow ended up in Freya’s room.

  “Bella,” Lady Holland said, sounding pained.

  Freya started to turn away—this was obviously not a conversation for a witness.

  The door opened and Arabella hurried from the bedroom, nearly running into Freya.

  Freya opened her mouth, but Arabella gave her one tearful glance before disappearing down the hall.

  “You might as well come in,” Lady Holland said wearily.

  Freya turned and saw her standing in the doorway.

  Lady Holland gave a rueful smile. “Never attempt to dissuade a young girl from what she considers love.”

  She turned back into her bedroom.

  Freya cleared her throat as she entered and shut the door behind her. “The earl?”

  Lady Holland nodded, pouring the last of her brandy into two glasses. “He’s asked leave to propose to her.”

  Freya took the proffered glass and slowly sat. “What? But they’ve known each other less than a fortnight.”

  “So have you and the duke.” Lady Holland gave her a sardonic look over the rim of her glass.

  Freya felt a pang as she remembered the argument with Harlowe at supper. At the time she’d been furious at the suggestion that she might need his help. After all, she’d been Macha for five years, and in all that time she’d never, ever needed the help of a man.

  Then again, she’d never had a lover during that time, either. She’d always assumed that an offer of help from a man could come only with concessions on her part. That in the very act of accepting help she’d lose her autonomy.

  But what Harlowe offered was without ties or caveats.

  Like a gift.

  She sighed softly. “I don’t think the duke likes me very much at the moment.”

  “Nonsense,” Lady Holland said. “I saw his face when Lord Stanhope made that ridiculous accusation. His Grace is worried about you. That’s the opposite of not liking you, in case you were wondering. What is more, you give away something of your feelings when you look at the duke. You are not unmoved by the man, I think.”

  Freya felt herself blushing unwillingly.

  “You’re a good match,” Lady Holland said softly.

  “Because he’s a duke?” Freya asked cynically.

  “A duke is nothing to scoff at.” The older woman smiled gently at her. “Money, land, and a title are things only spurned by those who already have them. But even if he had none of those, I’d still advocate a union between the two of you.”

  “Why?” Freya asked unwillingly.

  “Because you are equals in intellect, wit, and emotion, and that’s quite uncommon.” Lady Holland shook her head, strolling to glance at her toiletry items on the dressing table. “Arabella doesn’t have that with Lord Rookewoode, certainly.”

  Freya offered hesitantly, “They seem equally suited in temperament and mind.”

  “But not emotion.” Lady Holland glanced up at her. “That man doesn’t love my Bella.”

  Freya frowned. “But he must be at least taken with her. Why else would he offer for her if he doesn’t love her? He’s titled and presumably wealthy.”

  “Oh, he’s quite rich—his mother was an heiress and the dowry she brought to the marriage is legendary.” She stared into her glass. “Frankly, I’m not entirely sure why he means to offer for Arabella—and that makes me nervous.”

  Freya nodded. “Will you give the earl your permission?”

  “Yes.” Lady Holland threw back the rest of her brandy.

  Freya stared.

  Her employer saw her look. “I have no choice. If I decline Lord Rookewoode it won’t stop Bella from loving him.”

  “It would keep them apart,” Freya pointed out. “And eventually Lord Rookewoode would marry someone else. Perhaps Arabella would forget him.”

  Lady Holland nodded. “Perhaps. But I don’t think so. She’s not a girl who imagines herself in love every second month. She wants him—loves him—and I can’t hurt her.” She sighed. “I can only hope that he will come to love her.”

  Freya sipped her brandy, wishing there was something she could say. She couldn’t help but think that it would be better for Arabella if her mother didn’t love her so.

  A more indifferent mother might simply say no to the earl. Then again, a more indifferent mother would probably be so thrilled by the prospect of an earl for a son-in-law that she’d never think about her daughter’s feelings.

  “I’m sorry,” Freya said.

  “As am I,” Lady Holland replied. “Now tell me. What were you arguing about with the duke at supper?”

  Freya pressed her lips together. “He says that I should need him. I told him that I didn’t need him and he seemed quite put out.”

  Actually more than put out. She remembered the hurt on Harlowe’s face—and shied away from the memory. She’d never meant to hurt him.

  “I don’t see how I can blame him,” Lady Holland replied.

  “Don’t you?” Freya looked at her. “Why should I have to rely on anyone? Why must I need him in order for him to be happy?”

  “How would you feel if he didn’t need you?” Lady Holland asked.

  Freya scoffed. “I wouldn’t care.”

  “Even if he found he needed another woman?”

  “Does need mean something else I don’t understand?” Freya asked suspiciously. “I wouldn’t be happy if he found another woman, but frankly, I’m not sure I want to give up my independence.”

  “Don’t be a fool.” Lady Holland narrowed her eyes. “That man respects your intellect. Do you know how few men do? The majority of English gentlemen regard their wives as little more intelligent than their hounds.”

  “And that’s so very important?” Freya asked.

  “To most ladies? Perhaps not. To you? Yes.” Lady Holland pinned her with a stern look. “The Duke of Harlowe listens to you, Miss Stewart. While most ladies might not care very much what their husband thinks of their intellects, you, my dear, will find it very important indeed. You’ll need to search far and wide and for many years before you find a gentleman like the duke again. Don’t be a fool. Seize him while you can.”

  * * *

  Late that night Christopher strode down the hallway with Tess trotting by his side. He wasn’t at all sure of the reception he would get when he reached Freya’s bedroom, but he was going to do his damnedest to stay and protect her.

  Even if she didn’t think she needed him.

  Stanhope had been summarily escorted from the house by Lovejoy’s footmen after supper—a move Christopher had heartily approved of. He rather thought it was Lady Lovejoy who had persuaded her husband to throw Stanhope from the house, but Christopher didn’t care as long as the man was gone.

  The problem was, Would he stay gone?

  As far as Christopher could see Stanhope was a fanatical madman. One couldn’t expect rational action from him. For all they knew the viscount might try to sneak back into the house and kill Freya
in her sleep.

  He made her room and tapped at the door.

  She opened it, wearing only that damnable chemise.

  He tried—rather hard, in fact—to keep his eyes on her face, but apparently he’d lost all control when it came to her.

  His gaze swept over her generous curves, and his cock, stupid thing, sprang erect as if ready to engage.

  Not tonight.

  He pushed past her with Tess and shut the door.

  “There’s no need for you to be here every night,” she said rather tartly.

  “Perhaps no need, but I assure you there’s quite a lot of want.” He picked up a stuffed chair that had been standing by the bed and placed it in front of the fire. Tess trotted over, circled before the fireplace, and heaved a sigh as she flopped down.

  “What are you doing?” Freya asked.

  He sat in the chair and glanced up at her scowling face. “I think that evident. I’m sleeping here tonight.”

  “But—”

  What an odd expression she wore. He was almost amused. “Yes?”

  “Well…” She waved one hand as if that explained the rest of her sentence.

  He cocked his head, spreading his hands in the common gesture for What?

  “Oh!” Her face was pink—and growing pinker—and now she was beginning to scowl. He was growing rather fond of her scowl. “You know very well.”

  “I’m afraid that I’ve never been very good at reading the minds of females, and yours is particularly complex,” he said.

  “You don’t have to spend all night in that chair!” She gritted her teeth as if bracing herself. “Come to bed with me.”

  “No.” He turned his head to gaze into the flames.

  “No?” Now she sounded bewildered—and a little hurt. Which was just rich, frankly. “You’ve grown tired of me.”

  In any other circumstance, he might laugh. “Quite the opposite. I don’t trust myself to sleep platonically with you in that bed.”

  “Oh.”

  He waited for argument, but none came. And then of course he had to deal with his own feelings of hurt. Why he thought she would want him enough to try to persuade him, he didn’t know. Obviously she did not.

  And that was just fine. He would—

  She walked around him.

  Naked.

  She’d taken off her chemise and she stood before him, wearing only that damned chain with the signet ring on it.

  For a moment he wished he could take it off her and fling it into the fire. The last thing he wanted to think about tonight was their past.

  And then she climbed onto the chair, straddling him.

  “Come to bed, Kester,” she whispered huskily, and kissed him.

  All his resolutions flew out the window. He surged up, grasping her waist, angling his head to thrust his tongue in her sweet mouth. She was a siren, a demon, his one weakness.

  He’d rise for her.

  He’d fall for her.

  Christopher stood, lifting her with him, never breaking that soul-shattering kiss. This woman was everything to him: the hope of family, the despair of solitude. He wanted her more than he wanted the next beat of his heart.

  And he was very much afraid that he was going to lose her. That he’d wake tomorrow and she’d be gone.

  Tonight, though, she was in his arms.

  He strode to the bed as she writhed against him like the wanton she was.

  “Freya,” he breathed as he came down on top of her, his hand clutched in her glorious hair. “Freya, Freya, Freya.”

  He sounded delirious even to his own ears.

  She chuckled wickedly as she arched against him. Perhaps Stanhope and his filthy comrades had it right. Perhaps she was a witch, lovely and relentless, bent on ensorcelling him.

  She needn’t bother. He was already bespelled, his heart, head, hands, and cock tied to her and her will.

  He would die for her.

  If only she would let him.

  He palmed her breast, all sweet softness, and pinched her nipple gently. His prick strained the buttons on his falls, and if he didn’t act soon he’d spill in his breeches like a stripling youth.

  She moaned beneath him, her thighs parted wide, her calves hooked over his legs.

  He pushed his hand between them and tore his falls open, uncaring at the sound of ripping fabric. His cock throbbed with pent fury and he trailed his fingers down her soft belly, rejoicing when he reached her curls and found them soaked with her desire.

  He lifted his hips even as she whimpered in protest and tried to pull his shoulders back down.

  His cock slid against her thigh, the touch almost enough to undo him, then prodded at her opening.

  So wet.

  So hot.

  He nudged against her, flexed his hips, and thrust hard.

  Sliding, sliding in.

  He flung back his head, his eyes squeezed shut, gritting his teeth. She squeezed him in living silk, almost agonizingly good.

  He breathed out, controlling himself, waiting a beat until he was certain he could move without spilling.

  But she, wicked creature that she was, bit his lip and ground against him, almost unmanning him at once.

  He growled and opened his eyes. “Lie still.”

  Her gold-green eyes glowed like something devilish. “No.” She undulated against him.

  He pulled almost all the way from her and shoved his length back into her. Roughly. Without grace or finesse.

  She tilted back her head and sighed blissfully.

  Damn her.

  He bent his head and licked her arched neck as he began thrusting. He wasn’t going to last long, but while he did he meant to fuck her into the damned mattress.

  His sweet vixen.

  But his crisis caught him unawares only moments later, making him convulse above her. In her. Spilling his seed and making him shake.

  She moaned beneath him as his limbs turned to wet paper, but he knew she’d not come. He pulled himself from her and, while she was still grasping for him, slid down her body.

  He kissed her quim openmouthed, tasting himself and glad of it.

  She was his, his, his.

  He wrapped his hands about her legs, holding her open for him, and inhaled her musk, heady and wild. She was so tender here, trembling and wet. He licked and mouthed at her, enjoying the sound of her breath growing raspy. When he suckled her bud, her thighs clenched against his ears as she went rigid, gasping and shaking.

  He was glad. Near vicious with his victory.

  He’d given her this, this moment of blissful agony. If nothing else in the entire bloody world he could give her this.

  But even as he dragged his exhausted body up her, he knew:

  It wasn’t enough to keep her.

  * * *

  “Messalina.”

  The voice was whispered, which tied in nicely with the dream Messalina was having. A dark woods, a man who could not be trusted, and a monster somewhere behind her. She turned, her heart beating in her throat. Sleepy black eyes smiled at her, alluring and terrifying.

  “Messalina, please.”

  That, on the other hand, didn’t fit at all. She’d never known him to plead.

  She opened her eyes, which wasn’t a help, as the room was nearly pitch black. Only the embers on the hearth sent up a faint glow.

  “Jane?” Her voice emerged a bass croak, and she cleared her throat before speaking again. “What time is it?”

  “I don’t know. Almost dawn, I think?”

  Messalina blinked and sat up slowly. “What’s happened? Why are you here?”

  “James the footman woke me,” Jane said worriedly. “He says there’s something happening at Randolph House. The lights are on and the grooms are moving about. Oh, Messalina, he thinks they may be moving Eleanor.”

  Messalina was up in a flash, pulling on stays and a simple dress that hooked in the front. “Are you sure?”

  “No, of course not.” Jane’s words were sharp, but
her voice was worried. “Oh, why couldn’t Lord Randolph wait until after tonight? He accepted our invitation to supper. Everything was planned.”

  “Perhaps that’s why he couldn’t wait,” Messalina said. “Perhaps he suspected something.”

  Jane stared. “I don’t see how.”

  Messalina shook her head, trying to clear it so that she could think. Why Lord Randolph was acting now hardly mattered. What mattered was that if he moved Eleanor, she’d disappear again.

  They couldn’t allow that.

  “We need to find out what he’s doing,” she decided.

  “How will we do that?” Jane asked anxiously.

  “I don’t know,” Messalina replied, pulling on sturdy boots. “I’m going to ask Freya.”

  Five minutes later they were tiptoeing down the corridor to Freya’s room. Messalina scratched at the door and then wondered if she could risk waking others by knocking.

  She didn’t have to because the door was pulled open.

  Freya looked out.

  “Lord Randolph is up to something,” Messalina said, and explained the situation as concisely as she could.

  “Wait here,” Freya said, and then closed her bedroom door.

  Messalina raised her eyebrows, interested that the other woman wouldn’t let them into her room.

  A minute later Freya opened the door fully dressed and slipped out. She gestured for Messalina and Jane to follow her and talked as she strode to the stairs. “Now then. Messalina and I will go to Lord Randolph’s house with James. If he is indeed moving Eleanor, we’ll send James back to you, Jane, and then you’ll send reinforcements—specifically the duke. He knows about Eleanor and Lord Randolph. If this is all simply a false alarm, we’ll return with no harm done.”

  Messalina looked at Jane.

  Who nodded. “Yes, very well. That sounds as if it will work.”

  Freya’s eyes suddenly widened. “And…erm…if you do need to find the duke, Jane, you might want to look first in my bedchamber.”

  Messalina’s eyebrows shot up.

  Jane cleared her throat. “Naturally.”

  Messalina and Freya gathered James, who was waiting downstairs, still clutching a lit lantern, and set out.

  The night was cool and dark, the moon hiding behind clouds. The woods were unpleasantly silent, save for the eerie hoot of an owl.