Duke of Her Own, A

by Lorraine Heath

  “Release me now, or I shall be forced to slap you, Your Grace,” she said.

  He did release her, as though she’d suddenly become too hot, a fire that could scorch.

  “My apologies.” He leaned back slightly. “You are the way to Jenny, yet, I seem to insult and offend you at every turn.”

  “Perhaps because you do not truly wish to marry her,” she said quietly.

  “What a gentleman wishes and what a gentleman must do seldom coincide.”

  “The same holds true for a lady.”

  “An unfortunate state of affairs.”

  “Indeed.”

  “I think it would be best if I return to my chair.” He took her hand and this time, although he merely pressed his lips to her gloved knuckles, still she felt the moist heat of his mouth. “Pink becomes you.”

  She wondered if he’d say the same if he could see that she was pink from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, pink with embarrassment, flushed with pleasure.

  “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  She thought she heard him chuckle quietly as he returned to his seat, giving her the impression that he did know that more than her gown was pink. She glanced back over her shoulder, cursing Jenny for taking so long. It seemed her chaperone was in need of a chaperone.

  “I have to go,” Jenny whispered.

  “Another moment more,” he said quietly, nibbling on her ear, causing incredible sensations to travel the length of her body.

  “I’ll be missed, and what if they come looking for me?”

  “They won’t find you back here in the shadows.”

  They were in a hallway, ensconced in a dark corner, near an empty box that was reserved for royalty, who’d had the good graces not to attend that evening.

  “I can’t believe your chaperone let you come out alone,” he said.

  Laughing lightly, she leaned her head back, giving him easier access to her throat. “As most, she believes it is the gentleman who is the cause of mischief, not the lady.”

  “And you like to cause mischief.”

  “As I have told you. I require passion, and one cannot test the waters of passion with a chaperone looking on.”

  “You Americans are so bold.”

  Smiling wickedly, she pushed him away. “We know what we want, and we’re not afraid to go after what we want.” Reaching out, she touched his cheek. “Now I must go.” She kissed her gloved fingertips and pressed them to his lips. “I will send word when I can determine how to arrange another meeting.”

  “Even if it is for no more than a moment, it will be enough.”

  She felt her heart being crushed and shook her head. This was not love, it was passion: the manner in which he looked at her, touched her, kissed her. They’d not known each other long enough for it to be love. “It will be soon, I promise.”

  Before he could say anything to convince her that a few more moments wouldn’t put them at peril of being discovered, she lifted her skirts and hurried down the hallway until she reached the doorway that led into the duke’s box. She slipped inside and took her seat.

  Lady Louisa leaned close. “What kept you?”

  “I’m sorry. I had a bit of a headache brewing, and the performance wasn’t helping matters, so I sat for a while with my eyes closed.”

  “Should we leave?” Lady Louisa asked, the concern in her voice causing Jenny to feel guilty about her lie.

  “No, I’m fine now.” She sat back with a contented sigh. She was more than fine. Every lady needed a good ravishment now and then.

  Chapter 9

  After listening to opera for most of the evening, Louisa thought the coach seemed unnaturally quiet as it journeyed through the fog-shrouded streets of London, its passengers either too weary or too preoccupied to carry on any sort of meaningful conversation. She’d never traveled with a gentleman other than her brother or father. She didn’t know why she’d expected there to be ample discourse. The hushed and shadowed confines seemed to call for something other than the type of discussions she was accustomed to engaging in during dinners.

  She told herself that she was merely a deterrent to naughty behavior, that she was not supposed to engage Jenny or Hawkhurst in conversation, and yet…

  “Thank you for sharing your box with us this evening,” she heard herself say before she could think better of it.

  She saw his teeth flash as he smiled. “It was my pleasure.”

  He fairly purred pleasure like a contented cat—a very large cat—that has lapped up the last of the cream. Did he have to constantly make innuendos? Or did she simply interpret everything he said as though it had some scandalous meaning?

  “I’m always amazed by how quiet it gets when the fog rolls in,” she said, anything to fill the silence.

  “I find it a good time to be reflective,” he said.

  Jenny laughed. “Then you must be reflective quite a bit, because it seems there is always fog.”

  Louisa heard Hawkhurst chuckle. “Perhaps too reflective. What sort of weather do you enjoy?”

  “Sunshine,” she answered without hesitation. “Why would anyone like any other sort of weather?”

  “I enjoy when it rains,” he said. “What of you, Lady Louisa?”

  She was suddenly very self-conscious and wished she’d kept quiet. “I like cold days when I can snuggle before a fire, which is a good thing as the manor at our estate is quite drafty.”

  “I’ve heard most are,” Jenny said. “From what I’ve been told, it can be quite a shock to an heiress to discover that the manor house has not been kept up as well as the London residence. Is your manor home drafty, Your Grace?”

  “There are spots where one can catch a chill, but I have tried to keep it well maintained for the sake of my mother.”

  “You care for her a great deal,” Jenny said.

  “My father, upon his deathbed, charged me with seeing that she was always happy. A drafty home that makes one frequently ill doesn’t lead to happiness.”

  “My mother once told me that I should pay attention to the manner in which a man treats his mother, that it is often a foreshadowing of the way that he will treat his wife.”

  “I’m not familiar with that philosophy,” he said.

  “Is that a polite way of saying that my mother utters nonsense?”

  Again, he flashed a smile. Louisa wished she could look away, wished she could ignore the conversation, wished she wasn’t intrigued by the glimpse she’d been given into his relationship with his mother. It was much easier to dislike a man who showed no kindness toward the woman who’d given birth to him.

  “I promise you,” Hawkhurst said, “that I shall not look upon my wife as I look upon my mother.”

  “But if you are kind to your mother, it stands to reason that you will be kind to your wife,” Jenny said. “So it is simply a point in your favor.”

  Louisa did look away then. She didn’t want to see that speculative gleam in Hawkhurst’s eyes as he looked at Jenny, the challenging smile that she was giving him, as though daring him to come up with ways to earn more points.

  Louisa wondered if she should sit down with Jenny and tell her all the things she knew about Hawkhurst that would take the points away. She shouldn’t be favoring him, she shouldn’t be enjoying his company or looking at him with speculation and a hint of promise.

  But Louisa was having a difficult time standing behind the conviction of her beliefs. He was not suitable…and yet she was no longer entirely certain that she could proclaim him unsuitable. What had he really done to fall out of favor with her?

  “That would be lovely,” she heard Jenny say. Jenny touched her arm. “Wouldn’t it?”

  “I’m sorry. I really wasn’t paying attention.”

  “His Grace wants to take us rowing on the Thames tomorrow afternoon. Won’t that be great fun?”

  “Of course,” Louisa managed to say. “Great fun, indeed.”

  It had seemed like the perfect plan. Remove Miss Rose
from her home during the afternoon when gentlemen were most likely to call. Make her unavailable for their attentions and flirtations. What Hawk had not counted on was the closeness of her chaperone within the small rowboat he’d rented.

  Holding a parasol at the perfect angle so that it cast shade over both ladies, Louisa sat behind Jenny. She wore a light blue dress with a high collar, buttons in the front, every one snug and secure in its place. Nowhere on the material could he see signs of fraying or fading, and he wondered if this dress had also once belonged to one of the Rose sisters. Like Jenny, Louisa wore a wide-brimmed straw hat decorated with satin ribbon and dried flowers. It shaded her face and made the parasol seem superfluous.

  Hawk had removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and set himself to the task of rowing with a great deal of enthusiasm, making his muscles burn in order to distract himself from the fact that Louisa sat so damnably near, a portrait of perfection, gazing off to the side, absorbed in the scenery. He could only be grateful that her attention wasn’t focused on him, and yet even as he thought it, he was somewhat irritated that she could dismiss him so easily when he was having a hell of a difficult time ignoring her.

  “Are we engaged in a race, Your Grace?” Jenny asked.

  Slowing his frantic movements, he shifted his gaze to her. Was she not the one who should be garnering all his attention? He gave her what he hoped was a seductive grin. “My apologies. I suppose I was simply…”

  Smiling, she angled her head thoughtfully. “Demonstrating your strength?”

  “I will admit to enjoying sports and competition.”

  “I don’t know how much competition truly exists if the others on the river don’t realize a contest is taking place.”

  Almost a dozen other boats were floating nearby. Hawk had planned to have a calm and relaxing outing. Instead, he’d fairly worn himself out.

  “What sort of sports do you enjoy? Other than rowing?” she asked. “Croquet perhaps?”

  He scowled; Jenny laughed lightly, and Hawk found himself wishing that he could say something that would bring Louisa’s laughter into the mix. Had he ever heard her laugh, truly laugh? Not scoff, or scorn, or berate with a harsh clearing of her throat? He’d heard her light laughter, but he wanted more. He wanted her holding her sides, her smile wide, her eyes bright.

  “I do not consider croquet a sport. It is merely a game, one that allows for flirtation more than anything else. I enjoy lawn tennis,” he admitted.

  “My brother is fond of that sport. I would enjoy it more if I were allowed to wear trousers.”

  That comment brought Louisa’s head around and a bit of satisfaction to Hawk. So she was listening to the conversation, not completely distracted by the fauna. He tried to imagine Louisa in trousers, shook his head. It was Jenny who was interested in wearing men’s clothing.

  “I daresay ladies wearing trousers is something that shall never come to pass,” Hawk said.

  “I disagree,” Jenny said. “At least in America. Years ago, Amelia Bloomer advocated women wearing baggy trousers like those worn by Turkish women. Even your Rational Dress Society approves of Miss Bloomer’s notions.”

  “It is not my Rational Dress Society,” he grumbled.

  That drew a light laugh from Louisa, and he welcomed the excuse to shift his attention to her. “I suppose you are a member of that ludicrous society.”

  She ducked her head. “I support Viscountess Haberton and Mrs. King’s notion that a lady should not have to wear more than seven pounds of clothing.”

  “If that is their stated philosophy, then I suppose I support them after all, because I prefer women with no clothing at all.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, as soon as Jenny—whom he’d forgotten was sitting right in front of him—gasped, as soon as Louisa stared at him openmouthed, he regretted that he’d felt a need to shock Louisa, to ensure she keep her distance. Which was a ludicrous action on his part when she obviously had no interest in him whatsoever. So instead of building a barrier that would keep him from even being tempted by Louisa, he had effectively ruined his chance of making a favorable impression with his intended lady.

  He shifted his attention to Jenny, where it should have remained all along. “My apologies. That was an entirely inappropriate comment for me to make in the presence of a lady as delicate as you.”

  “I have an older brother with whom I’m very close, Your Grace. I’m well aware that men prefer women without clothing.”

  “Still, it has been my experience that a man is better off not voicing his preference.”

  “It seems we are prone constantly to disagree, Your Grace. How is a woman to know what a man prefers if he is not confident enough to share his preferences—even if it is a mere whispering in her ear?”

  Her suggestive voice, her flirtatious smile should have had his body tightening in response. Instead, he found himself put off by her brashness, could not envision leaning near and whispering anything of a seductive nature to her. She was too easily conquered, not a challenge in the least.

  Louisa, however, looked properly appalled by the direction of the conversation. He met her gaze only to have her quickly avert it, once again seeming to find solace along the banks of the river. He wondered if she’d ever been kissed. If a gentleman had ever whispered his longings near her ear. And if he had, what exactly had he said? Had he whispered memorized poetry, or had the words come from his heart?

  “I believe you’ve made your chaperone uncomfortable,” he said.

  “Nonsense,” Louisa answered quickly. “I’m paying no heed at all to your conversation.”

  She grimaced just as Jenny said, “If that were true, you wouldn’t have known what he said.”

  Jenny then proceeded to laugh as though she thought everything were great fun, while Louisa looked over at her charge apologetically, and even with the lacy parasol casting a shadow over her face, Hawk could tell that she was blushing profusely. He wondered if the blush ran the length of her body.

  “I’m sorry,” Louisa said. “It is a bit difficult not to hear when the boat is so small.”

  “No need to apologize,” Jenny said. “Honestly, I suspect it must be rather uncomfortable for you to watch us skirt around the mating rituals. And I suppose you know all the ways to evade one’s chaperone so one can test the depths of a man’s passions.”

  Hawk watched in fascination as Lady Louisa’s blush darkened.

  “I can’t say that I’ve spent any time evading a chaperone,” Louisa said.

  “You can’t say or you won’t say?” Jenny challenged.

  “Allow me to be clearer. I have spent no time evading chaperones.”

  “I believe quite strongly that every woman should evade a chaperone at least once in her youth. How else is she to experience a kiss?”

  Louisa’s gaze slammed into his. Her blush deepened even more as her gaze dipped, and he wondered if she was studying his mouth, curious as to what his kiss might be like. Then he cursed himself for giving a care about her thoughts. How was it that she managed so easily to distract him from his purpose?

  Suddenly she looked away, and said on a sigh as soft as a summer breeze, “I’m amazed by the lovely weather we’re having this afternoon. We could not be more fortunate.”

  Jenny laughed. “Are you attempting to change the subject?”

  “Quite.”

  Jenny laughed again. Louisa gave her an impish smile that made Hawk feel as though he’d taken a swift kick to the gut and almost caused him to release his hold on the oars. He imagined Louisa nestled up against his body, curled against his side as they lay beneath silk sheets that would serve to cool the heat of their fevered skin.

  Once, if he could have her but once, this fascination with her would desert him. It was because she was unobtainable and untouchable that his attention kept shifting to her.

  “Is there anything in these waters that will snap at my fingers?” Jenny asked.

  He shifted his gaze to her. They seemed e
ffectively to have moved off the topic of kisses and evading chaperones. Thank goodness. “No, your fingers will be quite safe.”

  An image of nibbling on Louisa’s fingers popped into his head. He thought of her holding the book in the library, how slender her fingers were, how rounded her nails. He thought of them digging into his backside as she squirmed beneath him—

  Shifting on the bench, he began rowing in earnest while Jenny slowly, seductively removed a glove. If Louisa wasn’t here, he would have taken that bared hand, pressed it to his lips, circled his tongue over her knuckles…

  He would have trailed his mouth across her wrist, along her forearm. He would have kissed the inside of her elbow, inhaled the perfume she would have placed there. He would have slowly journeyed along the inside of her arm, stopping only when he reached her shoulder. He would have nibbled on the sensitive skin at the base of her neck, heard her sharp intake of breath, shifted his gaze up to meet hers, stared into her cornflower blue eyes…

  Damnation. Louisa again, worming her way into his fantasies. It was Jenny dangling her bare hand over the side of the boat. It was Jenny’s fingers tripping over the current. Jenny’s green eyes that he should envision gazing into.

  Why could Jenny Rose not have a hideous, old, and unsightly chaperone? Why did she have a chaperone who was playing havoc with his fantasies, his desires, his yearnings? Why did her chaperone continually distract him?

  Louisa was aware of each stroke of the oars, each bunching and relaxing of the muscles in Hawkhurst’s forearms. The man’s form had been sculpted as though by the gods—simply to torment women with his perfection. Even turning her head and focusing on the greenery along the banks did her little good, because her peripheral vision was exceptionally irritating, taking note of Hawkhurst almost as though she were facing him. She’d actually considered turning completing around, presenting him with her back—but she feared the rudeness of that gesture. After all, he was a duke.

  Not to mention a friend of her brother’s.

  And it appeared he had Jenny’s complete interest. Why else would the young woman be hinting at escaping her chaperone for a moment of privacy in order to have an illicit kiss?