by Sharon Page
If he were to kiss Miss Gifford, he might be able to forget the pain—
No, he had no right to do that. Not to her. Not to Rupert, who deserved to be grieved. He arranged to meet her in an hour. He had his valet pack a small valise, met with his secretary to leave instructions for Brideswell.
He met Miss Gifford outside the garage. She waited for him behind the wheel, scarf fluttering behind her. She drove down the drive to the highway at breakneck speed. He was accustomed to her driving now, and he was glad of the speed. He wanted to get to Rupert’s side as quickly as he could.
She pulled in at the station in the village. Plumes of smoke streamed over the roof of the depot, and the train to London puffed into the station as he said, “Thank you.”
“What is wrong with your friend?” she asked, direct as always.
“Nothing should be wrong with him,” he said bitterly. “He should have been healthy, happy, married, a father. But he was a tank commander on the Somme, in the first tank battle. A direct hit crippled his tank, killing all of the men inside except Rupert. He was so badly injured, surgeons had to put him back together as if they were assembling a jigsaw puzzle—” He broke off. “I am sorry—I should not have let you know about all of that.”
“Don’t be sorry.”
“I don’t do this with anyone but you. Talk of the War. I should not do it.”
“Your friend survived, at least. For a while,” she said softly.
“He’s been bedridden, in continual pain. He’s struggled for years to stay alive. Now his body is giving out.”
“Is he in a hospital?”
He fought not to start shaking. “He has a married sister, but the family has no money. She wanted to look after him, but she couldn’t take on such a task. To care for an invalid is backbreaking work, and he needed the care of efficient, competent nurses. After the War, I had him kept in a convalescent home and had the best physicians in London treat him. But that was four years ago, and as Brideswell’s money ran out, I couldn’t do that for him anymore. He’s now in a London charity hospital.”
“You are a very good man, Langford.”
His heart was tight with pain. “No. No, I assure you I am not.”
She didn’t ask him any more questions and he exited the car silently. He felt empty and cold as he took the train into town, then took a taxi to the hospital in London. One of the nursing sisters opened the door to him, led him through the hushed hallways to Rupert Willington’s room. The place smelled of antiseptic, but also a stale, shut-in smell.
The sister said brightly but gently, “Mr. Willington, you have an esteemed visitor. The Duke of Langford has come to see you today.”
Nigel’s heart lurched. Rupert didn’t move in the bed. His face was turned to the side and pale where it wasn’t scarred. He had lain in this bed since Nigel had him brought here from the home. Despite his condition, Rupert normally managed to smile, to talk. Today, he lay with his eyes closed.
The nurse approached, then turned to him. Nigel’s heart tightened. Was he too late? She walked into the corner and Nigel followed. Her face was placid but serious.
“He is not asleep, Your Grace, but he is failing now. His sister, Lady Eveshire, has been with him day and night, but she was so exhausted, we prepared a room in which she could rest.”
Nigel nodded. Rupert’s younger sister, Madeline, had been beside herself when Rupert returned so badly injured. He had helped the family as long as he could after Eveshire had gone bankrupt and they’d sold the estates.
Nigel took a chair and put it beside the bed. He held Rupert’s hand.
For hours, he stayed there. Once Rupert’s eyes opened. He murmured, “Nigel.”
He’d thought Rupert would slip away quietly, sleeping. It was nothing like that. Rupert began to convulse. His frail body shook.
“Nurse!” Nigel grasped Rupert’s shoulders, then remembered how frail his friend was and held him gently. Rupert was having a seizure. His eyes rolled back. Blood frothed at his mouth. “Nurse, come at once!” Nigel bellowed.
Hurried footsteps sounded and a panting woman reached his side. “I must fetch the doctors.” She raced away, looking frantic.
“Fight, Rupert. Fight to live,” he begged. Why? This was a hell of a life. But he could not bear the thought of losing Rupert. Not one more friend dead. Not one more person he cared about.
Doctors rushed in and Nigel retreated to a corner. Rupert died, but it was a vicious fight.
Nigel looked up at the door. Rupert’s sister, Madeline, stood there, white with shock. She pushed past him and looked down at Rupert. His eyes had been shut by one of the doctors, but he didn’t look at peace. She broke down and sobbed.
Nigel went to Madeline, held her in his arms. “I’m so sorry. But he was a hero.”
Her fists hammered against his chest. “I wish he hadn’t been!”
He let her hit him and cry and sob. “Maddy, shh. He had to go. We all had to.”
She collapsed against him. “I wish I could have kept him home and safe. Look at us all—we’ve lost so much. Rupert held on for me. He knew he was not going to get well. He never cried in front of me, but I know, at night, when he thought I had gone, he cried for his lost life.”
Nigel embraced Madeline and he kept thinking of what Miss Gifford said—that if you were left alive, didn’t you have an obligation to live the lives they were cheated out of?
Her husband walked in then. Eveshire caught his eyes. “I am so sorry, Langford.”
Nigel turned Madeline over to her husband’s arms. “I will give any assistance you need with arrangements,” he said, then discreetly left to see his lawyer and man of affairs in London, Charles Fortescue, to see what could be done for them.
He was in pain, grieving, and Fortescue looked as bloody morose as he did. Fortescue had just informed him of how badly his investments were doing.
“So much for my bloody plan,” Nigel muttered. In his gut, he knew he was facing his family’s ruin. “Look, Fortescue, this is why I said it was a bad idea to invest so heavily in American companies that did not have solid grounding.” There were companies who had indeed made a fortune with new developments in railroads, television, motorcars. But there were far more companies with high hopes and dreams and no real business acumen.
“British companies are not faring much better,” Fortescue pointed out.
“True. But with British ones, I got a whiff of disaster early enough to get out the capital. Damn it, man.”
Fortescue winced.
“I presume you are telling me,” Nigel went on, “that Brideswell has to go?”
“Not yet, Your Grace. And it would be possible to save the estate, if you were to sell off some of the property.”
This time Nigel winced. He’d said to Miss Gifford that war had created change, but it had been coming for a long time. He’d known Brideswell was going through financial crises in his grandfather’s time and his father’s time. He knew the old ways were struggling, but he’d thought they could survive. War had precipitated the change so fast no one could stop it.
“You mean if I turn Brideswell into nothing but a large house with a lawn, I can potentially save it. If I turn my back on the estate’s tenants. I won’t do that.”
“You may not have a choice,” Fortescue said.
“Brideswell has to survive.”
“These large estates are no longer viable, Your Grace. Money is made elsewhere now—”
“I’m a duke. This is my job, Fortescue. To protect Brideswell and its people. I might fail in that job, but I won’t give up on it.”
* * *
A telegram came for Zoe the next morning.
Zoe took it with her heart pounding. What if it was from her uncle Hiram about Mother’s forged check? Maybe he’d returned
to New York early....
Thank God, it wasn’t that. But she read it in Brideswell’s foyer and reeled backward, gripping one of the Queen Anne tables.
Her brother, Billy—before he’d been killed—had been in love with a young woman named Daisy, the daughter of a steel magnate. Zoe had last seen Daisy at Billy’s memorial, where the girl had been practically inconsolable. Now Daisy was gone, too. She had taken a bunch of pills, had washed them down with bourbon, and she was now dead.
Daisy would have been twenty-three. And she had given up on living.
Numb, Zoe walked through Brideswell’s salon, the vast space overlooked by the gallery. She went blindly through the library onto the terrace. Why had Daisy done it?
Zoe started running. She ran down the gravel path that cut across the lawns. Ran until she reached the edge of the meadow where her airplane was parked, among bluebells and violets.
Zoe wiped away tears. And saw another solitary figure standing in front of her airplane.
Langford. His head was bowed. His hand gripped a strut as if to hold himself up. She hadn’t realized he’d returned. He must have taken a late-afternoon train.
If he was back, his friend must be gone.
Right now, her insides felt as if they’d been all twisted up. She should be alone—but she went toward him, running away from her emotions.
* * *
Nigel looked up as Miss Gifford walked over to him. “I am sorry. I will not be good company now,” he said. “Rupert is passed away this morning.”
She wore her flying costume—the snug-fitting trousers and leather jacket. But her face was stricken. She was in deep pain, and it wasn’t from his words.
“I’ve just lost someone, too,” she said hoarsely.
“Who?” It came out more abruptly than he’d wanted.
Her story spilled out. Of her brother, Billy, and the girl he loved named Daisy. The girl had taken her own life.
“I wish I could have done something—something to help her,” Miss Gifford whispered.
“There was nothing to do,” he said. “Some people can take the loss and the grief and bear up to its weight. Some cannot. You can.”
“I don’t know if I can,” she said desperately. “I thought the end of the War would be the end of loss. I remember dancing and drinking champagne at an extravagant party in New York on the night after peace was announced. I did it so I didn’t have to think about Billy. I was so naive.”
She knew—as he did—that the end of the War was not truly the end.
“I don’t know what to do anymore, Langford. I don’t want to be crushed by pain. I don’t.”
God, neither did he. He didn’t know if he kissed her first or if she kissed him. All he knew was he had her up against the side of her aeroplane and his mouth was on hers.
He pulled back, breathing hard. “I have no right to do this. You’ve lost someone you cared about. I lost a man that I couldn’t save. If I’d had enough money for a home for him... Damn, I should have done more—”
“You tried. How many men did you save in the War?”
“I don’t know. Not enough.”
Miss Gifford lifted her gloved hand and touched his face. He was wrapped in her subtle, rich flowered scent.
She touched his scars. Her fingers skimmed over the ridges, the long deep gouge and the puckered skin.
He flinched, drew back and put up his hand to stop her. “Don’t touch me there.”
Hell, even he didn’t like to touch his scars.
“Why not?” She pursed her full lips, and his heart beat faster. He remembered the warmth of her body against his in the front seat of her car. The way she kissed him had made him forget he was a scarred man just for a little while.
“You won’t believe me, but I think they’re beautiful,” she said. “They are like medals—a testament to your bravery, your goodness. I’m an American. I never believed in the idea of nobility. Now I understand what being noble truly means. It has nothing to do with a title. It’s not even about sacrifice or duty. It’s about a passion for your world, one that runs through your blood. It’s about loving something so deeply you would never put yourself first.”
He was speechless.
“That is who you are, Langford. The way you help Mrs. Billings and care about the farmers and the way you stood up for Isobel and were there for your friend at the end.” Miss Gifford reached up and put her hands on his shoulders.
Desire forked through him like a streak of lightning. Admittedly, that happened every time she touched him. It shouldn’t damn well happen today.
“I’ve realized,” she went on, “that you are the most passionate man I’ve ever known.”
“Miss Gifford, any one of my acquaintances would say I’m the least passionate man—”
“Shows you how little they know,” she interrupted. “I bet you want to kiss me again right now.”
“Yes.” God, he wanted to grasp some of her warmth and hold it against his heart.
“I want to kiss you, Nigel.”
He jerked back. He was always called Langford and before that by his courtesy title. But when she said his Christian name, it made him ache.
“I can’t kiss you right now, Miss Gifford. My friend has just died.”
“You’re in pain. I can’t think of a better reason to give you a kiss.”
Her hand skimmed up the side of his face, and he felt it everywhere. It tugged at his heart, punched him in the gut, sent a pulse to his groin that left his knees weak and his head reeling.
“Do it. Kiss me. I want this. Please. Make me forget.”
He lowered his mouth toward hers, his lips soft, on fire, ready to melt in a kiss. He gripped the struts of the aeroplane’s wing, leaned in the last inch and took her mouth with his.
8
SOARING IN AN AEROPLANE
Nigel deepened the kiss, tilting his head, parting his lips, teasing her with his tongue.
Miss Gifford kissed him back, did it hungrily, making him feel as though he was melting slowly from his mouth down. He was burning hot, wanting to lift her up against the plane and make love to her until she screamed in pleasure.
He leaned her back against the side of her aeroplane, and she lay along the curve of the metal body. Bracing his arms on either side of her, he pressed his body to hers. His hips wedged between her legs; his chest crushed her breasts.
He’d fought this for too long.
What would she do? Slap him? Say this was far enough?
No, she lifted one leg and wrapped it around his hip.
She was so beautiful, so filled with life. And more than that—he’d never felt so close to anyone else in his life, not even Mary.
He nuzzled her neck, tasting her delectable skin, breathing in her sensual perfume. She wriggled as he gently nipped her earlobe.
She ran her hands all over his chest and whispered in a throaty voice, “More.”
He kissed to her collarbone, bared because her leather jacket was open and her man’s shirt had the first two buttons undone.
She made him forget he was a duke. She made him forget he was supposed to be as hard as steel, as unyielding as rock, as emotionless as a block of lead.
She made him feel alive.
He admired her bravery, her kindness, and he was dazzled by her sensuality. But he should not do this. He tried to pull back, but her arm was looped around his neck.
He gazed into her violet eyes, unusual and precious, fringed by painted lashes. As a boy, before he’d taken on the responsibility of being a duke, before he’d gone to war, he’d dreamed of traveling the world. Zoe Gifford was like climbing the Himalayas, exploring deepest Africa, charting India. She was a treasure—beautiful, exotic, intriguing, sensual. Making love to her would be an adv
enture.
But foremost he was a gentleman. He couldn’t forget that. “Miss Gifford, I can’t—”
“Shh...” She put her leather-clad finger to his lips. “Let’s make each other forget.”
She guided his hand to her breast, and he flicked open the next button of her shirt. And encountered straps, cups of a stiff white fabric and the band that ran around her chest below her breasts...along with nothing else but a stretch of smooth, ivory skin to the waistband of her trousers.
How did he get into a brassiere? He had no idea. His heart was slamming in his chest.
Then she broke away from him, and he meant to stop, but she shrugged off her leather aviator jacket and let it fall to the grass by the plane.
She unbuttoned her shirt and let the soft, green cambric fall open. Her lashes fell over her violet eyes in a look that was clearly a dare.
* * *
Zoe caught her breath as Nigel’s clear blue eyes held hers. Would he stay? When he kissed her, she couldn’t think.
She didn’t want to think.
So she surged up and locked her mouth to his.
He bent his head, and she smelled the fresh, clean scent of his hair as it brushed her cheeks. He kissed her neck and she slumped back against the airplane and moaned in real desire. “Beautiful.” His voice was a rough growl. It made her feel tingly and dizzy as if she’d tossed a cocktail back too fast.
His mouth went lower and she held his shoulders—broad, strong shoulders.
His lips lifted in a smile.
His lashes dropped over his eyes, a thick fringe of black. Cupping her bottom, his hand between her and the side of her plane, he drew her to him. She looked up into his eyes. Caught her breath.
Fire burned in his eyes. There was no iciness in him now. She hadn’t melted him. She’d turned him right into steam.
Now she knew. The Duke of Langford, the archly correct gentleman who had been so annoying and disapproving...
Was completely naughty at heart.
She ached so much between her legs. But once she did this, there was no going back. She was supposed to be wild. But she had never been this kind of wild.
