Duke Darcy's Castle

by Syrie James

  Kathryn crossed to him and studied the photograph in his hand. It was a picture of two young men, perhaps thirty years of age, dressed in their formal best and artfully posed in a relaxed and affectionate embrace. She recognized one of the men, from his portraits in the study, as Hayward Granville.

  The other man was his valet.

  “Dear God,” Lance muttered, aghast. “Can it be? My brother? And . . . Woodston?” He slapped the photograph facedown on the bedside table and sank onto the edge of the bed, momentarily speechless.

  “Your brother preferred the company of men,” Kathryn realized, nodding in comprehension. The notion, although surprising, didn’t shock or appall her.

  Lance, however, did seem shocked—not so much by the truth her statement contained, but more by her having made it. “I am astonished that you are even acquainted with such things, Kathryn.”

  “I’m not a naïve ingénue,” Kathryn shot back. “I have a cousin in New York with similar inclinations. I have known about it and loved him all my life. And don’t forget, I spent two years at architectural school in the company of a great many men, some of whom had the same proclivities.”

  “And you knew about it . . . how?”

  “You would be amazed at the confidences men share over a glass of whiskey, with anyone who is handy and willing to listen,” she told him.

  Lance nodded grimly. “I, too, have been privy to confidences from my shipmates over a glass of whiskey or ale. But never on this subject. This,” he said, taking in the room around them with a sweep of his hand, “is a crime in this country, Kathryn. Just thirty years ago it was a hanging offense. It is still punishable by imprisonment.”

  “Sadly, it is not much different in America,” Kathryn acknowledged.

  Lance heaved a sigh and closed his eyes briefly, as if hoping that could somehow make their discovery go away. “No wonder Hayward never married. Life must have been hell for him. And I never knew . . .”

  He looked so distraught it made Kathryn’s heart ache. Setting down the drawings she’d been carrying, she sat beside him on the edge of the bed, wishing she could comfort him somehow. “His life must have been difficult, that’s true. But if you think about it, your brother was fortunate.”

  “Fortunate? How so? To be forced to keep such a secret all his days?” His blue eyes were filled with pain and sympathy. “To be so miserable and ashamed of his love that he had to hide it from the world?”

  “Even if he had to hide it, because he lived here and could afford to build this room, at least he was able to experience love. Or so I would like to assume. That was a gift.”

  Lance took that in. “I suppose you are right.”

  “I’d like to think your brother wasn’t entirely miserable. That he did find happiness, if not every minute of every day, at least during the hours he spent here.”

  Lance turned to her, his anguish fading. “Thank you for that insight. You have been a great help. I will try to remember him that way.”

  “I’m glad.” They were seated side by side on the edge of the bed. As Kathryn gazed into the blue depths of Lance’s eyes, her heart seized with a rush of overpowering affection. “We cannot help who we love,” she heard herself say.

  Time seemed to stand still as her words hung in the air between them.

  Kathryn felt a blush heat her cheeks. It was an innocent comment, but she’d said it with such a depth of emotion it almost sounded as if she were admitting that she loved him. Which was not the case. Was it?

  “No,” he murmured. “We cannot help who we love.” He was looking at her with such undisguised affection and desire it made Kathryn’s blood race.

  “I made a promise a while back,” he added huskily, leaning in so close that their noses were almost touching, “that I would very much like to break.”

  “Oh?” Kathryn’s reply was more a rush of air than a word. “What promise . . . was that?”

  “I promised I wouldn’t kiss you or touch you again . . .” Belying his words, he lifted one hand to gently cup her face. “Unless you wanted it.” His voice was as soft and deep as a promise.

  Kathryn swallowed hard. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember why she had insisted upon that promise. All she could think about was his nearness, and the drumbeat of her heart in her ears, and the fact that his lips were just inches from her own.

  It had been so long since she’d felt his mouth on hers. She’d been thinking about this, dreaming about this, for weeks now. She’d told herself it was wrong. But was it really wrong?

  Who would ever know?

  “I want it,” she whispered.

  So saying, she slipped her hands up around his neck and pressed her lips to his.

  Lance ignited, her mouth on his like a torch setting flame to dry embers. He returned the kiss with all the passion that had been building, unsatisfied, inside him for weeks.

  Holding her head with one hand, he slid his tongue between her lips, melting into the heat of her mouth.

  As the kiss intensified, his arms possessed her, molding her against his body. He felt her own hands roaming his back and shoulders, returning the embrace.

  In one swift motion he turned, propelling them back onto the bed, rolling with her in his arms until they landed on their sides, the kiss unbroken and still steaming hot.

  With one hand, he cupped her breast, massaging it through her clothing. Far too much clothing. Even sans jacket, her blouse and corset were in the way. He was too impatient to remove them, though.

  Every time they had been together, his fingers had yearned to touch her most private of places, the spot he knew would make her come apart at the seams. Nothing was going to stop him this time.

  Still kissing her, he gathered up her skirt to her waist, sliding one hand up the soft, smooth fabric of the bloomers that covered the slope of her thigh, inching toward the apex of her legs. Every pair of bloomers he had contended with, in ports across the Mediterranean, had a slit there.

  He reached his goal, only to find a solid seam of fabric. Lance paused, breaking the kiss. “What the hell?”

  “What’s wrong?” she asked breathlessly.

  “I want to touch you here,” he said gruffly, running his fingers over the cleft of her sex through the thin layer of cotton.

  “You . . . are . . . touching me,” she managed.

  “I want to feel you. All of you. With nothing in between.” He felt and saw her thighs quiver at his touch. “I was expecting an opening in your drawers.”

  “This is the . . . new fashion,” she replied in between gasps. “They aren’t making drawers . . . open there . . . anymore.”

  “Damn the British garment industry and their advancements,” Lance drawled. “And leave it to you to have the newest fashions.” His gaze lit on the drawstring at her waist. Yanking on the ties, he unfastened the garment, then grabbed hold of it and pulled it down.

  She lifted her hips, helping him, until her bloomers reached her knees.

  Greedily, he took in the sight laid out before him like a feast. His cock, already as hard as a rock, grew even harder. He wanted to plow into her, to feel the moist heat of her wrapping around him, to ride her until they both came in a white-hot wave.

  But his own needs would have to wait. He wanted to pleasure her first.

  Lance’s hand resumed its former activity, this time with flesh against flesh. He began gently. Teasing her with his fingertips. Like plucking at the strings of a violin. Feeling for the nub at the core of her.

  She moaned and writhed beneath his touch. “Lance . . .”

  “You like that?” he asked softly.

  “Yesssss.”

  He slipped a finger inside her, crooking it at just the right angle, moving it the way he knew would evoke the most pleasure.

  “Please . . .” she murmured. “Don’t stop.”

  “I won’t stop. I promise. Not until you come apart beneath my hand.” That was a promise he didn’t mind making. And keeping.

&n
bsp; His hand moved back to that nub as he increased the pace of his ministrations. He was playing a concerto now that rose and swelled as he worked her, a sweet rhythm that was accompanied and punctuated by the vibration of her thighs.

  Lance watched her face as she rode his hand. She was a thing of beauty. Willingly giving herself up to him. Possessed by a power beyond herself. It thrilled him to see her this way. To see what she was like when she allowed herself to succumb to her carnal urges, to lose control.

  She was breathing hard now. Making little sounds low in her throat that were a cross between a chirp, a gasp, and a moan. It was like music to his ears. He knew she was close. Leaning down, he captured her mouth with his again, kissing her deeply. Her hands wrapped up around his neck and held on tight.

  She cried out into his mouth as the wave took her. He felt her body tense and her thighs started quaking even more fiercely, an eruption that went on for what felt like minutes.

  He was so aroused by the taste and the feel and the sound of her, he felt as though he might explode at the same moment. But he held himself in check. Better things were yet in store.

  Lance smoothed the golden hair off her forehead, kissing her there, then gazing down at her. Her cheeks were rosy and a lazy smile played at her mouth.

  “Did my lady enjoy that?”

  “You know I did.” Her languid tone and the sated look in her eyes told him just how much she had enjoyed it.

  “You make the most delightful chirping sounds when you get excited,” he teased.

  That made her blush. “I don’t chirp.”

  “You do,” he said, grinning.

  She gazed down at his crotch. Covering his aching member with her hand, she began massaging it. “Let’s see if I can make you chirp now.”

  Lance couldn’t prevent a gasp. “Wait.” Once again, he didn’t have a sheath on him. Maybe I ought to start carrying one in my pocket. But he wasn’t about to turn down her offer. First, though, he wanted to know what he was dealing with.

  Gazing into her lovely aquamarine eyes, he asked softly, “Have you ever done this before?”

  “Once.”

  She didn’t seem to want to divulge more, and he didn’t want to ask. “All right.” His heart pounded like a drum as her hand continued its attentions. He wasn’t sure how long he’d last if she kept that up. “But first, what do you say we get rid of all these clothes?”

  Kathryn’s skirts were up around her waist. Her bloomers were below her knees. Her hand was on the duke’s private parts. It was the most unladylike position in which she’d ever found herself, and she didn’t care one whit.

  A wanton frenzy seemed to have come over. She had enjoyed every millisecond of what they’d just done. She could hardly wait for what they were going to do next. When she had pleasured herself in the past, it had been satisfying, but it hadn’t come close to the intensity of what she’d just experienced beneath the hand of this man.

  Feeling his intense gaze on her as he’d worked that magic with his fingers had heightened her sense of arousal to the nth degree. Now, seeing the evidence of his own arousal straining for attention just served to renew her feelings of want.

  She wanted him to fill the void that suddenly existed inside her, in a place she hadn’t known could have a void.

  “Aye-aye, Captain,” Kathryn said, smiling. As she reached for the buttons on the duke’s pants, a sound filtered in at the edge of her mind.

  She paused. Was it footsteps approaching? If so, it didn’t matter. They were in a secret room. Behind a secret door.

  Looking up, however, she realized they had left the bookcase door standing wide open.

  “Dear God.” The duke froze beside her. “Someone is coming.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  In a panic, Kathryn pulled up her bloomers and retied them. Lance slid off the bed and helped her to her feet.

  She quickly settled her skirts back in place and tried to smooth her hair. Lance darted across the room, grabbed the roll of architectural drawings, and flicked them open, casually holding them up to hide his . . . mid-section.

  Just then, Woodston walked in with a bucket, a mop, and a basket of cleaning supplies.

  Catching sight of the two of them, he screeched in surprise and lost his grip on everything he was carrying. The basket flipped upside down, scattering towels, sponges, and rags in all directions. The mop and bucket landed with a clatter, gushing soapy water across the floor.

  “Dear me, Woodston,” Lance stated with abject calm, as if finding them in this room were an everyday occurrence, “pray forgive us if we startled you.”

  “Your . . . Your Grace,” Woodston stammered, his face turning beet red as he stared at each of them in turn, then at the mess on the floor.

  “I admit, it is quite a shock to me to see you carrying a bucket and mop,” Lance went on. “Surely that is a maid’s duty?”

  “Um . . . yes, Your Grace . . . But, well . . . I . . . I . . .” Woodston began uncertainly.

  “Never mind, I think I understand,” Lance said with a wave of his hand. “I take it this rather remarkable room belonged to Hayward. My brother’s secret study, if you will. He liked to steal away and read here on his own, I suppose. Clearly you were in his confidence, my good man, since you have come to clean it?”

  Woodston glanced around wildly, his eyes coming to rest on the bedside table. Noticing that the incriminating photograph was lying facedown, his features relaxed a notch. “I . . . er . . . Yes. His Grace did tell me about his . . . about this room. It is just as you said, his secret study. He didn’t want anyone else on the staff to know about it, so I agreed to clean it for him. After his death, I’ve been keeping it up as a sort of a . . . tribute to him.”

  “Just as I thought. I cannot think of anything more worthy, Woodston.” The duke clapped the valet on the back. “Please keep up the practice. A secret is a secret, Woodston. I will say nothing of this to anyone. I think we were finished here in any case. Miss Atherton has scads of work on her plate.” Turning to Kathryn, he gestured to the door. “Shall we?”

  “That was a close call,” Lance said when he and Kathryn had reached the relative privacy of the parlor where she worked. Closing the door behind them, he added with amusement, “We seem to have a habit of being interrupted whenever we find ourselves in flagrante delicto.”

  “And it always seems to culminate with water being spilled all over the floor.”

  They shared a laugh. Lance crossed to where she stood and slid his arms around her waist. “What do you say, if later tonight we continue what we started . . . but this time do it properly, in my bed?”

  Kathryn stiffened slightly in his arms. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “It felt like an excellent idea a few minutes ago,” he replied softly, leaning in to kiss her neck.

  But before he could plant the kiss, she drew back, gently removing herself from his embrace. “Lance. I know that I . . . initiated what just happened. I know I said I wanted it. And I did. It was wonderful. You were wonderful.”

  “The pleasure was mutual, believe me.”

  “Well, I don’t know how mutual it was. I mean, you didn’t . . .” She blushed, and seemed unable to complete the statement. “The thing is,” she rushed on, “what I’m trying to say is . . . I’ll be returning to London soon. And you’ll be here, running your dukedom and looking for your ducal bride.”

  “Yes, about that.” Lance moved in close again, until their bodies were almost touching. He gazed down at her. Was this the time? Should he ask her now? He weighed the words in his mind. How would you feel about becoming my ducal bride? “Kathryn,” he began.

  She touched a finger to his lips, silencing him. “Let’s not spoil it, Lance.” She kissed him sweetly. “What happened just now doesn’t change anything. I have work to do. And I had better get back to it.”

  Three days crawled by. Three days in which Lance only caught glimpses of Kathryn in the hallways or whenever he stopp
ed in to take a look at whatever she was working on.

  Three days in which she remained holed up in that damned parlor of hers, refusing to come down to dinner, and politely declining every invitation Lance issued in her direction.

  Lance paced back and forth in the drawing room, brooding. Morning sunlight filled the room, but his mood was as dark as night. He had done everything he could think of to win the woman’s heart. He’d walked with her. He’d talked with her. He’d played the violin for her. He’d told her things about himself that he’d never shared with anyone.

  Their search for and discovery of his brother’s secret room had brought them even closer together, forging a connection so strong he had almost popped the question again moments later. What more could he do? Was he the only one who felt something in this relationship?

  For the past three days, he’d felt so ostracized he’d worried that he had only imagined her regard for him, that her fevered responses to his sexual advances had never happened. But they had happened. And he knew as surely as he knew the sun would rise tomorrow that whatever this was between them, she felt it, too. She wanted him as much as he wanted her.

  She was just too attached to her damned career to allow herself to even imagine a future without it.

  What was he going to do about that?

  Lance heaved a sigh as he marched toward the wall of windows and then turned, striding back in the opposite direction. He’d been telling himself that the only way they could marry was if she gave up her career. It was what society demanded. It was only thing that had made sense to him at the time.

  But maybe it was time to rethink that. Did he really care what society thought? Lance hadn’t ever expected to take over this dukedom. But dukes were supposed to be able to do whatever they wanted, weren’t they?

  Maybe his grandmother was right. Maybe he would have to compromise.

  Lance mulled that over as he paced, wondering just how much compromise he was willing to make. And what kind of compromise she might be willing to make.