by Stacy Reid
Her heart leaped, the pieces of the board imprinting perfectly in her thoughts. “Bishop takes e4 knight,” she murmured thoroughly thrilled with the dratted man.
“Smart,” he praised, slipping his hand around her waist, and fitting her hand atop his shoulder before urging her to sway sensually to the waltz playing in the distance.
“Dancing and playing chess, Your Grace?” Yet she adored it all. Oh, what am I doing?
“I’m a man of numerous talents, Miss Cavanaugh.”
She smiled briefly, ridiculously tempted to move closer to him. As if he sensed her scandalous thoughts, he tugged her closer, swaying her onto the softly padded grass. Her heart tripped with alarming pleasure. “And what else do you enjoy? Aside from playing chess…and dancing of course.” And ruining innocents. Except that reminder felt hollow as if she did not really believe it.
“I like to draw.”
She faltered in his arms completely, recalling the wicked erotic images. “You were the one who did the scandalous drawings?”
“Ah, I’d forgotten you’d peeked at those. How brave and naughty of you to ask, Miss Cavanaugh. Did you by chance think of them often my little thief?”
Her entire body blushed, and it was his turn to falter into astonishing stillness. She considered berating him for his improper remark but decided that it would be wiser to ignore his impertinence. “You are entirely wicked,” she said, recalling the explicit nature of the pictures.
“Will you allow me to kiss you, Miss Cavanaugh?”
She gasped and stared up at him. Yes! But her logical heart said, “I cannot.”
“A pity,” he said with a rueful smile. “It would have been delightful.”
It was then she recalled his promise that he would not take, only if she offered. She stared at him mutely, her heart a wonderful, beating mess. I’ve never been kissed before, she wanted to say. Miranda had laughed gaily while regaling her with tales of how many charming beaux had stolen a few kisses. At those lonely times, Pippa had felt a burst of envy. And now here was this man, a duke no less, staring at her with a naked hunger, as if he was not at all perturbed by desiring to kiss her. With a sigh, she leaned into him, and that was all the motivation he needed. A rough sound slipped from him, and he released her waist to frame her face with his hands, then took possession of her mouth.
It was a simple kiss, a brief exchange of breath, a brush of lips against hers, without demand. It was as if the duke waited for something and when Pippa did not respond, simply because she did not know what he waited for, he licked along the seam of her closed lips. Her lips parted on a soft gasp, and he kissed her with deeper intimacy. The first wicked taste of him was a shock against her senses. An inarticulate murmur slipped from her, and she glided her hand around his neck, thrusting her fingers through his hair.
He groaned his approval while wrapping his arms around her in a tight and possessive embrace.
He kissed her with gentle bites and nips, coaxing a wanton response, and she surrendered to his ravishing assault. It felt as if Pippa’s world caught fire. Everything was heated…shockingly, carnal heat. The stroke of his tongue against hers jolted through her body, set her heart pounding, and heated the blood in her veins. He tasted of whisky and berries, and something heated and delicious. He tasted like sin…and passion…and adventure. He also tasted of ruin and pain. A whimper of denial passed from her mouth to his, and he swallowed the small soft noise.
The duke glided the tips of his fingers over her hips, and now to the curves of her thighs. A violent shock of heat tore through her when he gripped her buttocks. Pippa trembled.
She broke their kiss, breathing raggedly. “Your Gr…grace!” Her voice shook. Hunger, fear of the unknown, need and uncertainty, all rushed through her as he stroked his fingers over the swell of her backside. It was all so improper and wicked!
“Christopher,” he murmured. “It would please me to hear my name on your lips…Pippa.”
Was this how he’d been with Miranda, sweet, tender, and seductive? Pippa stiffened, and immediately he released her from his embrace and stepped back.
“What is it?”
She pressed a trembling hand to her lips. She paused, and after considering for a moment, asked frankly, “Why did you kiss me?”
He created a wider space between them. “Forgive me, I acted in haste.”
Shock jolted through her. An apology was the last thing she expected. “Your Grace?”
“You have no father or brother to defend your honor. I should not have allowed this…to traverse this path without an understanding.”
The proper, saintly duke stood before her, his expression hooded. Yet a few moments ago he had kissed her with a burning passion. Those explicit touches without the benefit of courtship had been from the depraved duke, and it was he she wanted in front of her, speaking with only honesty. But what did she want him to admit? That the feelings crawling through her body were the same he’d felt, and that he hungered for her with similar ferocity?
“I will visit your mother in the morning,” he said stiffly as his eyes darkened with unnamed emotions.
“To do what?” she asked all astonished. Then awareness dawned. “To declare yourself…because you kissed me?”
He tilted his head.
Incredulity filled her. “I am two and twenty, and this was my very first kiss. I’ve had no stolen moments most other young ladies giggle about, for no gentleman saw or desired me. Only the scandal of my past mattered. Only my lack of connections and dowry mattered in determining my worth. So I thank you for the experience, Your Grace. I was surprised…by how wonderful it felt. I was appalled at myself for wanting to kiss you…forever. But I daresay I will not run screaming into the night that you had compromised me and demand that you marry me. Also, I wanted your kiss, or I assure you, Your Grace, I would never have allowed it.” A very bold and honest speech except she had ruined all her worldly assurances with her furious blushing. Pippa wanted to crawl under the garden bench and hide from her silly and girlish reaction.
And then inexplicably she knew this man had not seduced her friend. What happened, Miranda?
“Then I bid you good evening, Miss Cavanaugh. We must finish our game some other time, if at all,” he said with reserved indifference. “I cannot leave you out here alone, so if you will precede me inside?” Then he waved along the path behind her.
Pippa smoothed down her dress and patted the chignon, ensuring all was in place. “Good evening, Your Grace,” she said softly, hating the ache in her chest. She wanted nothing from him or any man. So why did she feel so wretched?
It was because he sounded as if he had said goodbye, as if he saw the kiss as a ruinous mistake, as if he was no longer interested in their chess game, as if she were no longer interesting. Turning around, she hurried inside, hoping to leave the desperate ache for more behind her in the darkened gardens. Having any hopes in regard to the duke was silly.
It would be beyond foolish to allow her heart to become entangled with a man so above her in circumstances and expectations. A man whom her dear friend had set her cap at. But the terrible ache in her heart followed her all the way to the countess’s townhouse, and into bed. And even when she hugged the pillow and prayed to stop thinking of the duke, she dreamt of him—doing far more wicked deeds than kissing.
Chapter 10
The Duke of C titillatingly danced only with one Miss C at last night's ball. Is this a blossoming romance in the air? Or is the duke taking pity on a particular lady no young bucks have asked to dance all season? This author declares…
Christopher lowered the newssheet with a small smile. Clever, Miss Cavanaugh. And he understood why she had done it, even though the article brought unneeded attention to her. Lady W had been diligent in reporting all the latest tidbit. It would have been inflammatory and suspicious if she had failed to report on the duke of C dancing with Miss P. Christopher found the ton and their insatiable appetite for gossip simply ludicrous, even
if amusing at times.
Dismissing the scandal sheet and vexed with the amount of time he had given those newspapers this week, he went back to the reports detailing the performance of the railways as an effective means of transportation in the cities of Birmingham, Liverpool, and Bristol. The idea to lay tracks across the entire country was innovatively ambitious, and he supported the movement wholeheartedly and contributed significantly to the private capital funding that built the rails. More funds were needed, and it would take some time to assess how precisely the spending committee planned to utilize the thousands of pounds he would invest.
A pair of light gray eyes darkened with passion crowded his thoughts. With a sigh, he released the sheaf of papers and leaned back in the chair. By God, I will excise the taste of your lips from my damn mind. A thing he had been vowing to do for the last few days. Except he genuinely did not want to. But he didn’t want Miss Cavanaugh to be such a distraction either. In the four days since he last saw her, memories of dancing, kissing, and playing chess with her teased him in the days, then taunted him mercilessly at nights. Do I haunt you as you’ve been haunting me, Miss Cavanaugh? Her lips had been so soft and yielding to his kisses. The feel of her lush backside had been the sweetest torture. He wanted to do such wicked things to her lips, and that pert rump. He wanted to see it blush a pretty red when he sensually spanked her, then nibbled. He hungered to see those curves arched lasciviously while he urged her to her knees and elbows and sank his cock into what he knew would be sublime tightness.
An odd recognition blossomed through his heart. He was a man of experience, but he'd never felt like this before…ever, and he doubted he could ever feel this way again. The desire befuddled him. He truly wanted Miss Cavanaugh, but the intensity of it unnerved him merely because he never imagined another could consume his thoughts and desires in such a manner.
He needed to make a firm decision in what capacity he would pursue Miss Cavanaugh. Christopher chuckled, wondering if she would be open to his advances. The manner in which she had returned his kiss said yes, but there had been a shadow in her eyes he’d not expected. She had been hurt before and was rightfully skittish. And he knew the two men who had gravely disappointed her. Had there been others?
A knock sounded on the door, and he pushed aside his musings of Miss Cavanaugh. The butler came into the room and bowed. "I beg Your Grace’s pardon; your grandmother has called. She awaits you in the gardens."
His family had apparently called in reinforcement. No doubt the latest mentions of the Duke of C had driven them into an apoplectic fit. She had been at his country estate in Dorset these last several months, not interested in visiting London for the season. His grandmother was even more proper and exacting than his mother, but it had always been easier speaking with her. What he would say to her was another matter? “I will be with her shortly. Have tea and cakes brought to us.”
The butler bowed again and withdrew.
A few moments later, he strolled toward his grandmother, his two wolfhounds—Astra and Samson—bounding playfully by his side. They had been gifts from his grandmother who would never admit her deep love for dogs. Even now she would barely pat their heads, for it was too unbecoming to lower to her haunches and greet them with hugs.
She stood as he approached, a woman not yet seventy who remarkably appeared several years younger, with barely a touch of gray in her rich dark mane of hair or wrinkles on her skin.
“Grandmother,” he greeted warmly, dipping to press a kiss to her cheek.
She eyed him critically, and he grinned. "Do I pass muster?"
A smile twitched at her lips, and she lowered herself to the stone bench. He sat beside her, ignoring her disdainful sniff when the dogs sprawled at their feet. They exchanged mild pleasantries before she got to the heart of what had driven her from the country.
“I’ve heard a most alarming rumor, and this news reached me in Dorset.”
“I am certain you exaggerate the importance of whatever you heard. Those country folks believe a lady smiling in the presence of a gentleman is news.”
“Do not act facetious with me, Carlyle.”
She insisted on calling him by his damn title, and nothing he said would deter her, for referring to him thus was proper. "And what shocking titbit have you heard?"
“You’ve danced only once this season…and it is with the most unsuitable girl.”
“Ah, it relates to Miss Pippa Cavanaugh. Important then.”
His grandmother shifted, glaring at him with silver eyes a perfect replica of his own. "This is true?"
As if his mother and sisters had not given her an earful. “It is,” he said with a slight dip of his head.
“Do you understand the speculations surrounding both of your names because you singled her out for your attention? My dear boy, the matter must be rectified immediately.”
"I will," he promised. "My intentions will become clear, and there will be no need for speculation by society."
She gasped before freezing in evident astonishment. “Your intentions?” she queried through bloodless lips as her eyes narrowed.
He smiled gently, wondering who in their right mind would want to marry into his overbearingly pompous family. “Yes,” he said fondly scratching behind Samson’s ear. “I plan to woo her…and make her my duchess if she will have me.”
His grandmother actually spluttered. “If she will have you? You, my dear boy, are Carlyle! If she will have you? What outrageousness is this? If I should ever condescend to approve the match, she will be a duchess, and you doubt she will have you? Who is this gel?"
He tipped his head to the bright sky squinting against the fiery ache of the sun, thinking through Miss Cavanaugh and her exciting complexities. "She does not see me as a duke, but as a man," he murmured. "I do not think she cares if I am wealthy or a pauper, but it does seem to matter to her that I am kind."
The memory of the admiration in her eyes when he’d given the boy the coat floated through him, along with the pain and condemnation when she thought he’d been dishonorable. “Her trust has been betrayed before, but it has not made her bitter or spiteful. She is refreshingly honest and seems to possess no skills for flirtation or artful flattery. Miss Cavanaugh is loyal to those she calls a friend even to her own detriment. A lifelong companion with such qualities is more precious than rubies. I will not allow our ships to sail past each other."
His grandmother gasped softly at his crudeness. “That bad business with that gypsy girl—”
He stroked along Samson’s back, allowing icy civility to creep into his tone. “I am no longer a boy of twenty. And that gypsy girl died trying to give birth to your grandchild. She had not been a mistake, but an experience I will never regret. I only wish her life had not been lost.”
“My dear boy—”
He leaned in and kissed her cheek before standing. “ I trust I can rely on you to convey your approval of my choice when I make it to mamma, Selina, and Amelia.”
She harrumphed, and he grinned. "Shall we retire inside so I may read Dickens’s latest masterpiece to you?"
With a sigh, she nodded, and he assisted her to her feet. The dogs bounded after them as they strolled along the cobbled path to the side entrance of the townhouse.
“Tell me more of this Miss Cavanaugh,” she invited.
And he did. Describing her lovely smile, the way she worried her bottom lips when she was anxious, and the fierceness with which her eyes sometimes flashed. Belatedly, he realized he spent an inordinate amount of time talking about her eyes. After a while, it occurred to him his grandmother meant for him to speak of Miss Cavanaugh’s family connections and her reputation. He fell in to silence quite perturbed by the poetry he'd been waxing. To feel so much for a lady who might not regard him even as a friend was distinctly uncomfortable.
They entered the house and made their way to the smaller sitting room.
“Take her to be your mistress and be discreet about it,” his grandmother mur
mured sitting on a well-padded high back chair and peering up at him. “I can tell you are smitten, maybe even more, and will not let go the idea of her. Set her up and never let your duchess find out and be careful not to foist any bastard on her.”
"Before I knew Miss Cavanaugh's identity her strength and dignity captivated me. Her ability to laugh despite wounds carelessly dealt to her heart revealed much about her character. Her adventurous and improper spirit bewitched me. And she is the only woman I can recall since I've inherited the dukedom to speak to me with honesty, whether it be in disdain or admiration."
With each softly placed word, his grandmother's eyes grew more rounded, and her fingers dug more into the armrest.
"The only position a woman such as Miss Cavanaugh deserves in my life is that of my duchess or a respected friend. I will not marry a lady for more power and connections. Never that. I take the time to explain this, Grandmother, not because I need your approval, but because I respect and love you. Do you understand?"
Oddly, the eyes peering up at him glowed with love and admiration. “I do.”
“Good.” And he finally felt at least someone in his family understood his position. His wife would be his choice. And right now his heart and mind leaned toward Miss Pippa Cavanaugh. Christopher simply had to determine now if she felt the same way.
A few days later, Christopher alighted from the carriage which had taken him to Croydon, to the estate of his good friend the Marquess of Bancroft, only an hour's drive from London. The man had planned a day party comprising of archery, blind man's bluff, cribbage, and a picnic. This was a yearly event hosted mid-season by the marquess, and it was well attended by the fashionable ladies and gentlemen of the season. The marquess's manor was a lovely sixty-room building which sat on several acres of land with the most beautiful lake.
Croydon was close enough to Town to ensure those who had been invited would have made the journey. And Christopher had prevailed upon his friend to invite the baroness and her delightful daughter.
