Never A Duke (Dukes' Club Book 11)

by Eva Devon

  But she and Lock had both been awake when the blue light of morning crept in, and that’s when he’d found her to take her to the library.

  She loved that they were both alive and awake and ready to take on the day before anyone else.

  So, when he slid her skirts up farther and farther, she happily helped, leaning back.

  “What do you fancy?” she teased, barely able to speak. “Against the bookcase, upon the floor, on a couch?”

  He laughed roughly then. “Whatever the captain commands.”

  “Oh, I quite like that,” she returned saucily. “Captain to captain.”

  He gave her a look so wicked, she almost could not form a thought.

  “My captain, my lady,” he murmured as he skimmed her garter with his teeth.

  “Oh, I am no lady. Remember that,” she managed to say. “Even by your English standards, I am only a miss.”

  He stopped then and palmed her cheek in his strong hand. “You are,” he said. “You are the most marvelous lady of my acquaintance, and you are a lady in the fullness of the word. You’re not some foolish thing who has hidden behind titles and ribbons her whole life.”

  He tilted her head back even as he slid his other hand up her thigh. “No. You’ve seen life, and you’ve seen its difficulties, and it has not broken or bent you.”

  “Make no mistake,” she said, her heart all but skipping beats at his admiration. “I simply hide my angles.”

  “Your curves,” he said. “Your glorious, lush curves, and I love every single one of them.”

  “Love?” she whispered.

  He stilled.

  A turn of phrase, she was certain. . . But it was a word she had not expected him to use even in passing.

  When he made no reply, she found herself wondering. Was it to be just lust between them?

  As he leaned down and kissed the nape of her neck, she wondered anew. For her heart was doing things it had never done before. And that was the most terrifying thing she’d ever known.

  Love.

  It was a word she had not ever thought to use.

  He traced his mouth over her neck, lowering his kisses to the swells of her breast while he dragged his hand up her leg.

  His fingers lingered over the apex of her thighs, then slid between them.

  Already, she was ready for him. She did not need to feel his fingers sliding into her slick heat to know it.

  His mere presence drove her wild.

  But his fingers. . . His fingers were working as a master’s did.

  They traced over her folds, finding the perfect spot of her pleasure, and then teasing it relentlessly.

  She bit down on her lower lip, desperate not to make a sound.

  There was something terribly erotic about making love in the library, where she could not give their presence away.

  Still, it was hard to fight back the small, growing sounds of her desire.

  And as the knot of hunger grew tighter and tighter within her as he circled her clitoris, he lifted his lips from her breasts and gazed down on her with half-lidded eyes.

  He wanted to watch her climax.

  That knowledge tossed her over the edge, and he growled as he seized her mouth, swallowing her cries of pleasure as wave after crashing wave pulsed through her.

  Quickly, he undid his breeches, and then as she panted for breath, he lifted her, locking her thighs about his waist.

  Lock drove deep into her core.

  The perfection of it, the rough need of it, nearly undid her.

  He thrust hard against her, completely wild. It was as if he had abandoned reason and had become pure sin.

  The brush of their bodies drove her half-mad. He tangled one of his hands into her hair and devoured her mouth.

  Their tongues tangled as well, and their teeth met in their passion. It was fierce and wonderful and full of emotion.

  A rocking breath stole through her, and just as she thought she could bear no more, he arched her back and positioned himself deep within her body, filling her entirely.

  The angle pressed her clitoris to his hot skin, and she cried out as her world shattered apart with pleasure again.

  He cried out her name as he too joined her in ecstasy.

  Slowly, he leaned her back against the bookshelf.

  She did not care that it was awkward.

  For what had happened between them was pure and immediate.

  It had been sheer bliss with nothing calculated between them.

  He lifted his forehead from her shoulder and looked down upon her, vulnerable. “My God, woman, you have undone me.”

  “And you, me, Lock,” she whispered back.

  He kissed her gently then. Sealing this moment with passion and tenderness.

  Calliope kissed him right back, her heart suddenly open as it had never been before. . .

  Chapter 17

  They cantered about the countryside like children gathering in the last of the summer days before winter drew in.

  It was a wonderful thing the two of them had discovered.

  The short house party had finished, and yet they stayed.

  She and Lock savored the fields and the mountains of the countryside, absolutely adoring it. Adoring each other too. They’d made love again and again as if their pleasure could never end.

  They took in every aspect of his homeland that they could.

  She delighted in him showing her the caves and crannies and secret hiding places of his youth.

  They avoided the lake.

  She understood why, and she did not ask or press to go.

  Instead, she was quite happy to go wherever he suggested, and more often than not, that was far into the fields.

  They rode horses.

  It was not her particular strong point though she was good enough at it.

  Generously and without superiority, he showed her the finer points so that, perhaps one day, she would be as excellent a rider as he.

  And then, much to his clear astonishment, she suggested that they practice with rapiers.

  “Rapiers?” he replied. “You know how to fence?” He waggled his brows playfully. “You are a pirate.”

  “No!” she scoffed, batting her hand at him. “Not a pirate, just someone who needs to defend herself should the need arise. There are still marauders out there, you know?”

  “Well, then,” he swept a bow of acquiescence. “We must keep up your skill.”

  She smiled at that. “Blade to blade?”

  “Blade to blade,” he agreed. “Do you wish me to go easy on you?”

  She tsked. “I should loathe it very much if you attempted to do any such thing.”

  He gave a nod. “You know that I’m second to none in London? Only my brother is perhaps better than I.”

  She gave him a cheeky smile. “We shall see. I think I might surprise you.”

  “That would prove nothing new,” he replied.

  “Shall we go and find me a blade?” she challenged.

  He took her hand in his and nodded.

  And so, they went to the armory, where his brother kept a good deal of weaponry.

  Being an army man, Lock already had his rapier, but finding the perfect one for Calliope, who did not take one about with her since she was not a member of the military, was necessary.

  As they entered the vast hall of arms, they studied the array of swords and rapiers and cutlasses adorning the wall.

  “This is a great many weapons for such an establishment,” she observed.

  “Well, you know my brother does run a dueling club.”

  “He does not?” she said, disbelief coloring her tone.

  Lock nodded, eyeing a particular blade which might suit her. “Oh, yes, he does.”

  She blinked. “Are ladies allowed to join? Lady captains, that is.”

  “I’ve never asked Charles,” he replied honestly.

  “Would you nominate me for the club?”

  Lock hesitated, but then he said, “Yes,
by God, I would. I bet you’re an able swordswoman. You’re certainly able at everything else.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment, Lock.”

  “You should,” he said. “I think very highly of you, Calliope.”

  She gazed up at him, lost in his warm words. “As I do you.”

  *

  They both enjoyed this sort of repartee, teasing each other, complimenting each other. . . All the while dancing about the other.

  Both were careful not to prick the pain that lay beneath the surface.

  So, she picked a simple rapier from the wall, the sort that one might use when forced into close combat on a battlefield.

  He studied her warily. “From the way you’re looking at that thing, it’s as if you love it.”

  “Well, I do think it’s quite lovely,” she murmured, lightly stroking the polished steel. “I’m not sure one can love a blade, though. They’re cold and don’t have a particular life of their own, but I can always feel the life of the person who made it within it.”

  “Truly?” he queried. He’d never considered such a thing, though for him, his blade felt like an extension of himself.

  “Oh, yes. Every sword has a soul in its way.”

  “Do we need seconds?” he asked. “I’m beginning to feel a little bit afraid that you’re going to skewer me, what with your clear dedication to the art of swordplay.”

  “My goodness,” she countered. “You? Afraid of dueling with me? If you’d like to have a second, of course we can.”

  And at that particular moment, the Duke of Aston managed to saunter by.

  “Did I hear someone call for a second?” the duke asked, clapping his hands together. “I’d love to be a second. I adore watching people make idiots of themselves upon a dueling field.”

  “Well, we’re not actually dueling, Your Grace,” Calliope pointed out.

  Lock nodded happily. “She and I have nothing to fight over.”

  “Not yet,” warned the Duke of Aston merrily. “But it shall come.”

  “Why would you say such a thing?” Calliope asked, a frown pulling at her lips. “We are making very merry together.”

  “Of course,” Aston said. “But at some point in amour, there is always. . .”

  “We are not having an amour,” Lock cut in. Why the devil was Aston making trouble?

  “Are you not?” asked the Duke of Aston, his brow furrowing with mock confusion.

  “No.” Calliope tested the weight of her blade. “We are having a lovely time together, and that is enough.”

  “Of course. Of course,” said the Duke of Aston with a nod of his tawny mane. “I shan’t challenge you upon that point lest I be challenged to a duel by your fierce self, and I have no wish to become a pincushion.” He gave a wicked grin. “Though, I doubt either of you might land a mark.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Lock said. “I’d wager Calliope is most skilled.”

  Aston beamed with approval. “Oh, if she’s anything like her mother, I’m sure she could skewer us both in a moment. Lower source of gravity, old boy, lower source of gravity.”

  That gave Lock pause.

  He stared at Calliope, who was not particularly tall and didn’t have nearly as long of reach as he did, but she was strong.

  Oh, how he knew the strength of her body, and he loved every bit of it.

  Love.

  It was such a dangerous word. He didn’t use it often, and he certainly shouldn’t use it with her. Not in any way.

  But with every passing day, he found himself drawn closer and closer to her with no desire to go away.

  It was a shocking thing. For generally, in his past, he’d found that once he’d had a woman, he soon grew tired of her. His interest waned. It was no insult to the person; it was just simply the way it was. Once he sampled, he had no desire to continue to renew his interest, but with Calliope, it was as if every taste caused him to hunger for more, not less.

  So, as they went out into the field to practice in the beautiful late-summer sunshine, the crisp fall air beginning to come in, he shrugged off his coat and let it fall gently to the grass.

  She, much to his astonishment, tucked up her skirts into the band at her belt, and she too shrugged off her coat, her linen shirt loose.

  It was a delicious thing to see.

  Wild and seductive, for she wore no corset underneath, just a light pair of stays. She tied her hair back behind her head too. It had been falling in golden curls about her face. Now it lay in a tail down her back.

  She lifted up her rapier and took her stance with amazing ease.

  He tried not to gape at her gracefulness.

  She looked like a cat balanced lightly on its paws, ready to pounce, and at that moment, he knew he was in for a fight.

  A damned good fight, and he was going to enjoy every moment of it.

  Aston stood between them.

  He lifted up his feathered tricorn, and then he flourished it through the air.

  “Commence,” Aston commanded.

  Calliope and Lock sized each other up.

  Each balancing on the balls of their feet, readjusting their weight, taking each other in, something they’d already done a great deal of in the last few days in bed. But this was different.

  They were playing now. Playing at fighting.

  As Lock took a step forward, she easily stepped back.

  As she stepped forward, he easily went back, and then to the side.

  They began to parry and thrust, testing each other blade to blade.

  They clanged, and the metal reverberated, sending shocks up his arm.

  He wondered how she developed the strength to take such forceful blows, for when he’d been a boy and begun, the pain was intense when feeling those first immense blows. Then, his arm had been weak for days.

  She must have worked very hard to become so proficient, and he admired her for it as they parried and thrust up and down the way.

  She spun and dipped, easily missing his strikes, and then, before he knew what was happening, she had dipped in low and suddenly come up above. He struck down to block her blow, but the tip of her rapier touched his linen shirt.

  He leapt back before it could make any real mark.

  He struck with an arching blow, and her blade met his. The rapiers sang as they touched each other.

  They both leaned in, their blades pressed to each other, their breaths coming in fast gasps. Their eyes met at that particular moment as they were caught in the fray.

  The Duke of Aston suddenly bellowed, “Kill or kiss. Kill or kiss.”

  Calliope, still fully engaged, her blade braced against Lock’s, grinned. “I do not think we shall fight to the death, shall we?”

  “Not today,” said Lock, meeting her gaze.

  She winked. “So let us kiss, then.”

  And he and Calliope simultaneously dropped their blades.

  Despite Aston’s audience, their mouths met in a quick passion.

  *

  “My innocent eyes!” declared the Duke of Aston. “Can’t be seeing this. You know, all that scandal.”

  They broke their kiss, laughing, and the Duke of Aston actually looked quite pleased.

  “No, no,” Aston urged. “Do go on. Do go on. I was only teasing.”

  Lock shook his head. “No, I think we shall continue on alone if you don’t mind overmuch, Your Grace.”

  “Shall I take the blades back to the house for you?” Aston asked. “Wouldn’t want you to prick yourselves.”

  Calliope grinned, her cheeks flushed with exercise and passion as she handed her blade to Aston. “Very kind of you, Your Grace.”

  “Well, that is what I am. The source and soul of kindness,” said the Duke of Aston.

  She rolled her eyes.

  She had a funny feeling that he was indeed kind, but she also knew fairly well that he had a soul of iron too.

  Aston took Lock’s blade and gave them a grand bow. “Off you go, then, children. Off you go.�
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  It was rather ridiculous to hear the Duke of Aston refer to them as children, for he was perhaps only fifteen years older than Lock, but there was something about him as if he’d seen so much that he was as old as Methuselah, and rather jollier.

  So Calliope and Lock gave him a grand bow back, and then much to her astonishment, Lock linked arms with her and began to guide her away from the path.

  They headed past the golden field and then went down towards a burbling stream. Its playful dance was the most beautiful musical sound, and soon, they saw its silver, tracing, cutting through the ground, and they bounded over it.

  Lock hesitated on the other side of the bank, staring at the vast edge of a great forest. But then he lifted his chin and strode forward as if something was drawing him in.

  They entered a beautiful old copse of oaks, the trees gnarled and ancient.

  Each tree seemed to have its own personality, its own voice. Its leaves whispered in the wind. The branches waved and bowed, despite the strength of them.

  “This is such a beautiful place,” she whispered, feeling as though reverence was needed in such a place.

  “It is,” he confirmed, though he seemed less touched by awe than she.

  She stared up at the long, finger-like branches, enjoying the sound of old leaves crunching underfoot. “It’s almost as if I can hear the voices of the trees.”

  “Yes, and here they’re protected,” he said. “They have not been cut for years, only for thinning out, so some of them are almost as old as England itself.”

  “Truly remarkable,” she murmured, trailing her finger over the gnarled bark of one of the oaks.

  “When you look at them, do you see ships?” he asked suddenly.

  She blinked, feeling almost yanked from her reverie. “I beg your pardon?”

  “When you look at these trees. . .” He paused, his demeanor strange. “Do you see ships? The great bellies of ships?”

  Studying him and then the trees, she replied, “It’s almost as if I can hear the whisper and echo of things that could come from them, the places they could go, the adventures they could have. But here, they are still part of the earth, their roots so deeply entwined into the ground that, no, I cannot imagine them as anything but what they are.”

  He turned slowly, taking in his surroundings. But there was no wonder in his gaze. “As I go into this place, I feel a vast melancholy.”