Claiming the Duchess (Fitzhugh Trilogy Book 0.5)

by Sherry Thomas

In the solarium, Mr. Kingston stood near the fireplace, reading a horticultural guide Miss Kirkland had sent Clarissa. He looked up as he sensed her approach.

  Clarissa nearly came to a dead stop. She had believed that in her mind she must have exaggerated the degree and intensity of his beauty. But the clarity of his eyes, the angularity of his brow, the carved precision of his high cheekbones—if anything her memories had been but a pale imitation of the reality of him. And the day coat of deep green he had changed into only served to emphasize a physique of spectacularly perfect proportions.

  He bowed, still holding on to the book from Miss Kirkland.

  She took a seat and spent a few seconds assiduously rearranging the folds of her skirt, to give herself time to recover from his effect on her. It would not do, would it, to speak to him all breathless and moon-eyed?

  “Mr. Kingston, how do you do?” she said, perhaps a bit too severely.

  He took a deep breath. “I am well, thank you. And you, Your Grace?”

  Mesmerizing, the way his lips moved, beautifully sculpted, yet mobile and soft. And his voice, low and rich, was perfect for the whispering of sweet nothings.

  She swallowed, her tone turning even cooler. “I understand you wished to see me, sir?”

  His fingers tightened on the book. “I wanted…to thank you for your kind invitation.”

  “When I invited Miss Elphinstone I thought of you, since you had enjoyed her company when you were last here at Algernon House four years ago.”

  An outright lie, that; it had been quite the other way around.

  He rubbed a thumb against the spine of the book. “I’m sure I will find her company equally gratifying this time.”

  Neither of them said anything for some time, leading to an uneasy silence. Abruptly he set down the book and bowed again. “Thank you for seeing me, Your Grace. Please don’t let me take up any more of your time.”

  When he was gone, Clarissa rubbed her temples. It had been a strange encounter, to say the least, at once nerve-racking and deeply unsatisfying. But really, what had she expected?

  That he would come up to her, cup her face, and kiss her.

  She sighed. And that was why she didn’t think such thoughts outside her bedroom or in the light of day. That was why it was the one secret she had kept even from Miss Kirkland.

  It would be quite a hopeless business with Mr. Kingston. But at least soon Miss Kirkland would be here. Clarissa crossed the solarium and picked up the book she had sent. The horticultural guide had been a bit of a joke, as Miss Kirkland was self-acknowledged to be an execrable gardener, unable to keep anything alive except the lavender hydrangea she had obtained from Clarissa.

  But it had been inscribed in all sincerity. On the first page, in Miss Kirkland’s familiar hand: Some turn the soil and plant seedlings. We garden with words and nurture affinity.

  And how. From a dozen hydrangea cuttings, they had grown a beautiful friendship.

  And it was this friendship from which Clarissa would derive solace and pleasure when all her hopes about Mr. Kingston had proven to be made of mirages.

  After presiding over tea, Clarissa set out for the still little-used east wing, to check on the room she had asked to be made up for Miss Kirkland. She had decided to place her friend far from the rest of the guests so that the latter could enjoy a semblance of peace and quiet—seclusion, even—in the midst of a lively house party.

  Preoccupied, she didn’t realize until she was about to turn into the main upstairs passage of the east wing that someone was behind her.

  Mr. Kingston.

  Really, if he was not going to kiss her, he should not waste her time.

  And then, of course, she was ashamed of her uncharitable thought. He did not know of the countless hours she had spent turning him into a shorthand for all the excitement and passion missing in her life. Besides, he was a gentleman, and a gentleman did not simply grab a lady and kiss her.

  “You wouldn’t happen to be lost, would you, Mr. Kingston?” she said over her shoulder. “Your room is on the other side of the house.”

  “No, Your Grace,” he answered, drawing even with her. “I know where I am.”

  “But there is nothing of interest here, other than some of my stepson’s fossils.”

  “I beg to differ,” he said, his voice low but firm.

  Flustered, she stopped before the room she had assigned to Miss Kirkland. “Do please excuse me, Mr. Kingston. I need to inspect this room.”

  He opened the door for her. But when she had walked through, he followed her inside and closed the door. Her heart careened. Did this mean he wanted to be alone with her after all?

  And was this not altogether wrong? Had they spoken five sentences to each other in their entire acquaintance? How very arrogant and brazen of him to presume that she would welcome such—

  He settled a hand at her nape. She shivered with the sensation of his bare skin on hers, zigzags of electricity that shot deep into her spine. The searing heat spread. He was now touching the underside of her jaw, the tender skin just beneath her ear, and—

  She gasped aloud as he pressed his lips into the shell of her ear.

  “Clarissa,” he murmured.

  Was she dreaming? Was it likely, or even possible, for mirages to suddenly prove themselves true oases after all? Her lips moved, but no response emerged. His hands were on her arms, their warmth seeping through the fabric of her sleeves. Slowly, he turned her around. Then he cupped her face and kissed her.

  She couldn’t tell whether his lips were soft as rose petals or rough as sandpaper. She couldn’t seem to feel anything but this fire that scorched any and all nerve endings, as if she had grazed the corona of the sun.

  She moaned. Her hands plunged into his hair. She returned the kiss roughly—if he was made of flames then let her be a fire-eater. Lips, teeth, tongue, she wanted everything.

  Vaguely she felt herself lifted. She didn’t care. As long as she could continue to kiss him, nothing else mattered. Even when her back touched the softness of a mattress, it didn’t matter. Of course he must carry her to bed; she couldn’t be expected to remain on her feet forever while she kissed him.

  Now there came the warmth of his fingers at her throat—he was unbuttoning her bodice. Yes, she wanted this, his weight pressed upon her, the feel of it as solid and sinewy as she’d always imagined. More, if anything. And he smelled wonderful, of cedar and cypress, and—

  All of a sudden it dawned on her what she was doing: allowing a virtual stranger to make love to her. She might have fantasized about him for years, but she did not know him. Not at all.

  “Mr. Kingston, please, please stop.”

  He grunted and kissed her again. “Clarissa—”

  “Mr. Kingston, no! Please listen to—”

  The door burst open. Before she could quite comprehend what was going on, Christian, his face grim, wrenched Mr. Kingston off her and shoved him aside.

  She struggled to her feet, stunned by this development. Christian yanked the counterpane from the bed and wrapped it around her, though she was hardly indecent—she had evening gowns that exposed more of her bosom and back.

  Briefly her stepson embraced her. Then he punched Mr. Kingston in the face, as she cried out in alarm.

  “How dare you?” Christian spat out. “How dare you come into this house and abuse Her Grace’s hospitality. Get out. Or next time I’ll use a pickax on you.”

  She rushed to stand between the two men. “No, Christian, you are wrong! Mr. Kingston wasn’t doing anything that…that I didn’t gladly permit him to do.”

  “Then why were you beseeching him to stop?”

  “Because…” She groped for an answer. “Because I remembered that we are in Miss Kirkland’s room and she might arrive any minute. If we were to…proceed any further, obviously we must stop and engage in a change of location.”

  Christian looked from her to Mr. Kingston and back again, blushing visibly. “So…my intrusion was unwelcom
e.”

  “Hardly,” said Mr. Kingston with great dignity—cheer, even, considering that he had just been interrupted in his lovemaking and given a cut on the cheek. “I’m quite delighted that Her Grace has such a fierce champion.”

  Christian inclined his head. “If I do not hear from you twenty minutes before dinner, Stepmama, I will take your place as host. And I’m sure I can come up with an acceptable reason for Mr. Kingston’s absence.”

  As soon as he had left, Clarissa rushed to Mr. Kingston and peered at him. “Are you all right?”

  He looked at her the way she had always wanted him to look at her—and even smiled a little. “Yes, I’m fine.”

  She flushed, remembering what they had been doing. She walked to the pitcher by the washstand, dipped her handkerchief in the cool water, and wrung it out. But it was a few seconds before she could turn around and go back to him.

  He hissed slightly as she dabbed the handkerchief on his cheek. “This is probably as good a time as any to tell you that Miss Kirkland won’t be arriving to interrupt anything.”

  She stilled. “What do you mean?”

  He exhaled slowly. “You were married, you were lonely, and you were proud. I thought…I thought perhaps I could be a friend to you, even if I could be nothing else. So I invented Miss Kirkland.”

  She stumbled back a step. She had never noticed it before, but that first letter from Miss Kirkland had arrived the day after his departure from Algernon House. And Miss Kirkland’s initials, J.M.K., could just as easily stand for James Maitland Kingston.

  All these years, all those letters…it had been his words—and warmth and camaraderie—that she had cherished. Her head spun a little, unable to take it all in. “You never said anything.”

  She could understand why he had chosen not to reveal himself while her husband yet lived, but the latter had been dead for two years.

  He looked down briefly. “I was afraid to lose your friendship. It is difficult, as such, for me to speak to others. When it’s you, it becomes…almost insurmountable. I thought you would find me a terrible substitute for Miss Kirkland.”

  “Then why now?” But even as she asked the question, the answer came to her: He believed her blithe declaration that she was going to make one of the gentlemen in attendance her next husband. “Ah, I see.”

  “I wanted to tell you the truth when I asked to see you, but I turned into a coward. So I decided that this time I must not fail.”

  She remembered how coolly she had conducted herself during their meeting. He must have thought that she did not care for him—when that couldn’t be further from the truth.

  Her hand raised of its own accord. Her thumb grazed along his bottom lip—yes, it was wonderfully soft. “The path to success, of course, was via kisses.”

  He took her hand and kissed her on the center of her palm, sending a jolt of heat into her arm. “Easier to kiss than to speak.”

  She had stopped his kisses because she had believed there to be something missing in their interactions: that lovely approach of two souls toward a point of communion. But it wasn’t lacking at all. He was already her stalwart companion and trusted confidant; he had already known her in every season and every mood.

  She was, all at once, very close to tears.

  He held both of her hands in his. “Please believe me when I say there was never any malice or mischief on my part. I only wished to do something for you—and be closer to you. Because…because I love you. I have loved you from the moment I first saw you.”

  Of course she believed him. Of course she believed her best friend in the entire world. She kissed him, her heart full of wonder and gratitude.

  “You are sure you are not angry with me?” he said between kisses.

  “Angry? You were my lifeline.” She ran her fingers through his hair, loving that he was no mirage, but a true oasis. “I only wish you had told me sooner, so I didn’t have to spend so many nights, long after I became a widow, wondering what your lips felt like.”

  His gaze dipped to her mouth. “Now you know.”

  She traced his lips again. They were delectable to the touch—everything she had ever dreamed of and more. “Not well enough—never well enough.”

  Chapter 4