When You Give a Duke a Diamond

by Shana Galen

  He took her into his arms. “Of that I’m not so certain.”

  His mouth descended on hers in a slow kiss that left her absolutely breathless. When he pulled away, she took a long moment to compose herself before opening her eyes. “You should do that more often.”

  “I will.” He reached up and began pulling pins from her hair. When it tumbled down, he brought it to his nose and inhaled. “Your hair smells like… something. I can’t place it.”

  “Lavender,” she whispered, loving the feel of his hands in her hair.

  “Is that it?” He leaned down and brushed his lips across the skin of her neck. “It suits you.” He slid the sleeve off her shoulder, and she sighed in anticipation. He had such a tender mouth, and it was so skilled. He nipped and licked and kissed her until her skin burned with need for more.

  “Will?”

  “Hmm?” His mouth traced her shoulder as he slid her sleeve lower.

  “You’re not going to…” She had to think for a moment, because his mouth was driving her to distraction. And now his hands were on her breasts, and she didn’t want to speak so much as feel. “You’re not going to shut me out again, are you?”

  He paused, and she wanted to cry out in frustration. His dark eyes met hers. “No. I won’t shut you out again. I’ve given up.”

  “Given up?”

  “I can’t resist you. I’ve tried. In vain, I have tried. It’s no use.”

  Her lungs tightened, and she found she could not draw a breath. “It’s not?” What did that mean, precisely? Did he feel about her the way she did about him? Did he think he could love her?

  “I want you. I want you naked and writhing beneath me. I want you on your hands and knees in my bed. I want you above me, your hair spilling over your breasts.” He stroked one as he spoke, and she felt her nipple harden. “I want you here.” He pushed her gown and undergarments down, baring her. “I want you now.”

  “I want you, too.” And when his mouth closed on her nipple, desire was all she could think of and all she knew. Need like she’d never known possessed her, drove her mad with a frenzy to take him, have him inside her, touch him until he begged for release.

  She pushed him back against the squabs, freed him, and stroked him until he was all but panting. And then she raised her skirts and taunted him, taking him so slowly he was cursing her before she finally thrust her hips and engulfed him fully.

  She moaned, thrilled at the way he filled her so completely. His hands were on her waist, but he allowed her free rein. He allowed her to set the pace, and she did so until she finally raced to an exquisite, blinding pleasure. She felt him swell, and then he cried out a moment later.

  Finally, she laid her head on his shoulder and tried to breathe. He put his arms about her and held her tight, and she thought, This is enough. This should be enough.

  But it wasn’t.

  ***

  It was late by the time Pelham recognized the markers indicating they were close to Rothingham Manor. The country house had been built by the first Duke of Pelham when the man was still the Marquess of Rothingham. He’d left the house named for his marquisate and proceeded to outfit it in a style fit for a duke. He’d been a wealthy man, had married an heiress, and left his eldest son a fortune. The second duke had increased that fortune, married well, and so on.

  Until now. Until me, Pelham thought.

  Juliette was curled against him, her hand on his chest, her head on his shoulder. She hadn’t complained when he told her he did not want to stop for the night. She hadn’t complained when he gave her only ten minutes every four hours to stretch her legs and use the privy.

  Come to think of it, she rarely complained.

  She hadn’t even complained about his treatment of her the night before. She’d simply tried to understand why he’d acted as he had, and to his shock, he’d found himself telling her.

  He supposed this was why she was a good courtesan. Men liked to talk with her. And men liked to bed her. There was no mystery as to why there. She was beautiful, uninhibited, and clearly knew what gave a man pleasure.

  He couldn’t seem to get enough of her. How had he thought he’d be able to resist her? But this was a temporary indulgence. He would enjoy her until this business with the diamonds was over, and then he would get back to the business of finding a duchess from among the eligible young ladies of the ton.

  Yes, the Morning Chronicle and its ilk would make the most of his romantic liaison with the Duchess of Dalliance, but there was always someone else doing something more scandalous—one could count on Darlington to scandalize, for example—and the papers would soon forget about Pelham once he forgot about Juliette.

  The niggling feeling that he might not ever be able to forget Juliette—the softness of her hair, the fullness of her breasts, the sweetness of her lips—rose within him, but he pushed it down. Of course he would forget her. She was a woman and a courtesan, and courtesans existed because men tired of women all the time.

  His primary task now was to search for information about the diamonds. Had Lady Elizabeth hidden them somewhere in Nowlund Park? And if so, could he ascertain why? Why had she felt the need to steal diamonds from a man like Lucifer? Why had she been involved with such a man at all?

  Pelham glanced down at Juliette as they turned into the long drive of Rothingham Manor, and the carriage ride smoothed as the wheels crunched over gravel long worn down by decades of carriage processions. She was stirring now, and he would have liked nothing better than to carry her to bed and make love to her for the rest of the night.

  But he was a duke. And he must act as befitted his station.

  He hated to wake her, but she would have to be presentable for the servants. His one solace was that she could relax here at his home and not fear Lucifer. She might spend the day idly while he made inquiries about Lady Elizabeth’s last visit to Yorkshire and these diamonds.

  And then the nights they would spend together. He expected to conclude his business in Yorkshire quickly, so he and Juliette might have no more than a handful of nights together, but he would make the most of them.

  He shook her gently. “Juliette.”

  She smiled. “I was having the most wonderful dream.” She wrapped her hands around his neck and pulled him in for a kiss. “Come here and make it a reality.”

  She had the ability to make him desire her instantly, but now was not the time. He untangled her arms from his neck and righted her. She opened her icy blue eyes, now considerably warmer when she looked at him. “What is it?”

  “We’re almost to Rothingham Manor.”

  “Oh.” She parted the curtains farther and peered outside. “It’s still dark.”

  “I don’t have my pocket watch, but I think it must be close to three in the morning.”

  She began coiling her hair and feeling around the squabs for pins with which to secure it. He admired the way she could do this without even the use of a mirror. Her fluid, graceful movements entranced him.

  And he must be besotted to be marveling at the way a woman styled her hair. Pathetic.

  He straightened his cravat and attempted to brush the wrinkles from his coat. “My staff will greet us at the front drive.”

  She lifted her all-but-forgotten hat from the squabs and positioned it. “At this hour?”

  “Of course. Is there anything you require? Anything I should request for you?”

  She watched him as her hands arranged the hat so it framed her face. “What will you tell them about me?”

  “They are my staff. I need not explain myself.”

  The carriage was slowing, and he could see the footmen’s torches burning bright as the staff lined up to greet him. The gold piping on the scarlet livery gleamed in the firelight.

  “But they will talk. Servants always do. You reali
ze word of our… involvement will travel back to London, if it hasn’t already.”

  He thought of the men at the inn they had stopped at the night before. News had definitely traveled back to Town.

  “Let London think what it will. We have more important matters to attend to.”

  “The diamonds?”

  “What else?”

  “Yes, what else?” she murmured, staring out the window as Rothingham Manor finally came fully into view. Her gasp of surprise pleased him. He couldn’t say why. He didn’t want or need her approval.

  “It’s magnificent. I can only imagine how it appears in the sunlight.”

  The house was magnificent, especially lit as it was by lamps and torches. The servants always had word when he would arrive and made sure every window facing the drive beamed bright with light. Pelham preferred this view of the house. It was graceful and noble in the daylight, but at night its grey stone façade seemed to turn to alabaster and float ethereally on an overlook facing the wild moors of Yorkshire.

  The carriage slowed and turned in the gently curved drive, stopping in front of a line of servants fanning out from the top to the bottom of the stone steps leading to the door.

  A footman opened the carriage door, another lowered the steps, and a third offered his white-gloved hand. Juliette paused before taking the footman’s hand, and a gust of frigid Yorkshire wind blew about her skirts and fluttered the ribbons in her hat. Pelham had thought she would seem out of place here. She was so obviously a woman of London and the city, but when she took the footman’s hand and descended the carriage steps, he would have sworn she had always lived here.

  He exited next and, offering his arm to Juliette, led her to the housekeeper. If she had been his duchess, he would have introduced her to the staff. But she was not his duchess. Though his servants were unfailingly formal and not one moved even minutely to glance his way, he knew they noted the absence of Juliette’s introduction.

  “Your Grace.” Mrs. Waite made a deep curtsey. “How wonderful to have you back again.” She didn’t add so soon, but Pelham thought it in his head.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Waite. I will be here for a few days on business. This is Mrs.—” He wasn’t certain what to call her. He knew she would not want to be referred to as Mrs. Clifton. He certainly couldn’t introduce her as the Duchess of Dalliance. And he didn’t want his staff going about calling her Duchess as she was referred to in London. That would lead to rumors of their marriage.

  As usual, Juliette stepped in. She held out her hand. “I’m Miss Juliette. I’m a friend of the duke’s.”

  “Miss Juliette.” Mrs. Waite nodded, and Pelham thought he detected the slightest twist at the corner of her mouth to indicate disapproval.

  “Put her in one of our best rooms,” Pelham instructed.

  “Yes, Your Grace.” He started up the stairs, and Mrs. Waite followed. “I’ll make certain everything is done to your satisfaction.”

  Pelham stopped at the door and turned to face her. “I don’t think I shall break my fast at eight, Mrs. Waite.”

  Her jaw dropped open. He had rarely, exceedingly rarely, deviated from his routine.

  “That is too early for Miss Juliette.” He turned to her. “Would ten be agreeable?”

  She smiled, not looking surprised in the least. “Most agreeable.”

  “O… of course, Your Grace,” Mrs. Waite stammered. “Breakfast shall be ready at… ten. Anything else, Your Grace?”

  “Yes. I don’t have my pocket watch. What time is it?”

  If one of the blustery Yorkshire gales had chosen that moment to whip through the courtyard, it would have surely blown Mrs. Waite over. “I… I… I—” She fumbled in her apron. “It is quarter past three, Your Grace.”

  “Thank you.” With a smile, he escorted Juliette inside.

  Sixteen

  Juliette had expected the residence of a duke to be grand. She had often visited Somerset, the ancestral home of the Earls of Sinclair, and it never failed to impress. But Somerset was a cottage compared to Rothingham Manor. She supposed she might have given Rothingham the advantage because of its location. The moors of Yorkshire, covered with cotton grass and bilberries, were a stunning backdrop for any house, especially one that stood out so starkly against the ravaged landscape. She could imagine the landscape was breathtaking when the heather was in bloom.

  Rothingham was a perfect rectangle—long and sleek with more windows than she could count. The grounds were meticulously maintained and as lovely as any in London. Somerset also had lovely gardens, but it was situated in Hampshire. It was not difficult to cultivate a lovely garden in Hampshire.

  And yet even with so impressive an exterior, it was Rothingham’s interior that caused her to gasp with pleasure. The corridors were endless with painting after painting of illustrious personages exquisitely framed along every wall. The rooms were wide, and their ceilings soared. Every item, from the smallest figurine to the molding on the ceiling, was tasteful and elegant. She had never been in so beautiful a home, and she doubted she ever would be again.

  She’d been so intrigued by her quick tour the night before, she actually could have joined Pelham for breakfast at eight. She was awake and exploring before that dreaded hour.

  But she had not seen Will. He had left her in the capable hands of his housekeeper before retiring to bed. She had thought he might come to her room, but he did not. She tried not to let that bother her. In fact, she rather hoped it would extinguish some of the feelings she had for him. But no. She was still falling in love with him—and his beautiful home. Her explorations this morning had turned up three parlors, a drawing room, a ballroom, a dining room, a music room, a billiards room, and a map room. But it had not turned up Will.

  In fact, he was nowhere in the house at all. He might have been one of those personages painted in the endless corridors, but she had yet to come across the painting. His father she had seen. His likeness had been present in several rooms, including the bedroom to which she’d been shown the night before.

  When she’d asked her maid about the man in the painting over the large fireplace, the maid had said he was the duke. Juliette had squinted at the portrait. The man certainly bore a likeness to Pelham, but his eyes were brown and cold. Will’s were warm blue. And this man’s hair had streaks of gray in it. Will’s was still richly brown, and certainly any artist worth his or her salt would have painted the auburn and gold glints of Will’s hair, given the opportunity.

  “You mean that is the duke’s father,” Juliette said.

  “Yes,” the maid answered, looking rather thoughtful. “I suppose after knowing His Grace’s father, it is hard to think of anyone else as the duke.”

  But Will was the duke now, and as far as Juliette could tell, he had done nothing whatsoever to put his mark on his home.

  Oh, everything was tasteful and beautifully maintained. Not a scrap of carpet appeared faded, not a section of upholstery looked even remotely worn. But the selections reminded her of those of the Countess of Sinclair. And while she was also a woman of taste, she preferred the fashions she had grown up with, which meant Somerset always looked a little old-fashioned.

  Juliette was standing in one of the corridors, staring at one of Will’s ancestors, when a clock somewhere chimed ten. She supposed she had better make her way to the dining room or face Will’s wrath. The house, though large, was easy to navigate, and she found the room quickly.

  But when she arrived, Will was not there. Two footmen stood to either side of the door, but they offered no explanations as to the duke’s whereabouts. With a shrug, Juliette poured herself tea and sat at one end of the table. She stirred sugar into her tea and looked at the empty chair at the other end. It was not an exceedingly long table, perhaps long enough to seat eight. This was obviously more of a breakfast room than the formal dining roo
m she had peeked at earlier. Will’s place was set, his paper in its usual position. But Will was not there.

  Juliette sipped her tea and glanced at the sideboard, trying to decide what to eat and wondering who else was expected to dine, because the cook had prepared mountains of food.

  She was about to rise when Mrs. Waite poked her head in. She glanced at Pelham’s empty chair, her eyes went wide, and she ducked back out again. Juliette sipped her tea again, decided she wanted a scone, and was about to rise again when the housekeeper poked her head in the door a second time.

  “Mrs. Waite,” Juliette said.

  The housekeeper, in the process of ducking back out, paused. “Yes, Miss Juliette?”

  “It appears I am all alone for breakfast this morning. Won’t you join me?”

  The housekeeper gaped. “That would be most inappropriate, madam.”

  “Very well.” Juliette rose. “Then join me for a brief walk.”

  The housekeeper shook her head. “I am very busy this morning—”

  “Then I shall accompany you on your errands.”

  Mrs. Waite pursed her lips, obviously realizing Juliette was prepared to be persistent. “I will join you for a walk.”

  Juliette rose. “I would adore a tour, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course.” When they had left the dining room, Mrs. Waite began to point out the various rooms, all of which Juliette had seen. When they reached the music room, Juliette paused, arm on the pianoforte. “Does His Grace play?”

  “I believe he had instruction as a child, madam.”

  Juliette circled the pianoforte, lifting the lid and running her hands over the keys. “Have you been at Rothingham house that long?”

  “For thirty-seven years, madam.”

  Juliette played a few bars of Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No. 3. “Then you must know all there is to know about the duke and his father.”

  “Yes.” The housekeeper looked decidedly uncomfortable now. She glanced at the door. “Shall we continue the tour, madam?”

  “Of course.” Juliette played a little of Mozart’s Variations on Sonata K331. “In all the time you have known Pelham—thirty—?”