Ten Days with a Duke

by Erica Ridley

  Thus far, Eli’s grand plans for the Harper farm lived exclusively in his head and his notebook. He had not yet thought of an appropriately persuasive argument to convince them to put their greatest enemy’s heir in charge of their precious pastures.

  And now...

  “The castle will compensate you for your time and expertise, of course.” Mr. Thompson gave a jovial laugh. “Even in a village called Christmas, we don’t expect everything for free.”

  Paid.

  For his expertise.

  “Yes,” Eli said quickly. “Absolutely. I would be happy to help. Delighted to help.”

  He was happy. Unreasonably happy. He felt as improbably jolly as the solicitor looked.

  “I’ll just... I have notes in here.” Eli held up his notebook. “I’ll create a report and sketch out a map and timetables for watering and—”

  “Brilliant. Make sure to include your fee and I’ll write a check at once.”

  “Er...” said Eli. “Shouldn’t we negotiate the price?”

  “What do I know about such things? If we were remotely knowledgeable on the subject, we wouldn’t need your expertise. More importantly, I trust Miss Harper, and Miss Harper trusts you.” The solicitor clapped Eli on the shoulder. “The castle’s coffers are nearly bottomless, my boy. Charge what you deserve.”

  What was happening?

  To say this was not at all how business was conducted in London would be a gross understatement.

  Eli was... Eli. And he’d just been handed carte blanche not just on the castle conservatory, but on his own recompense.

  He’d never been paid for the work he did for his father. It was his duty as heir, and future owner.

  That his allowance in the meantime was a pittance was due to his father’s displeasure with Eli’s scholarly ambitions. The marquess couldn’t understand why his son would waste time trying to improve the lives of others, when he could concentrate on lining his own pockets instead.

  Being valued for something he was passionate about was a heady prospect indeed.

  “I could help with your pastures,” he blurted out. “I’ve seen where you stable the horses that pull the sleighs. I have several recommendations.”

  Now he’d done it. If helping the Harpers would turn his father livid, helping the Harpers’ entire village...

  “Put it in your report and price accordingly,” said Mr. Thompson. “Miss Harper wouldn’t accept payment on those horses, so the money might as well go somewhere.”

  “The Harper family provided all of the hacks for free?”

  Of course they did.

  Not only because they lived in a village of eternal Christmastide. The Harpers Eli had come to know bore no resemblance to the manipulative, vengeance-deserving monsters Father had always claimed them to be.

  “The Harpers are wonderful,” Mr. Thompson confirmed. “The arrangement Miss Harper brokered was to provide the horses for free, on the condition that the castle provide sleigh hackney rides for free. She rightly pointed out that although our tourists have plenty of money, not all of our neighbors do. The castle’s guest quarters are quite dear, but we’re famous for offering services to the community free of charge.”

  That was... really lovely.

  The Harpers were incredible. Castle Marlowe was incredible. The Christmas village of Cressmouth was incredible... It was no wonder people flocked here year after year, and so many chose to stay.

  Eli tucked his notebook back into his pocket. “I’ll send over preliminary recommendations in the morning.”

  “Splendid. Happy Christmas!”

  He walked back to the Harper farm in a daze, barely registering the colorful sky as the sun set behind the castle. All he could think of was Olive.

  It was a good thing that the Harpers’ servants had returned from their holiday earlier that day. Otherwise, Eli might not have been able to prevent himself from sweeping her into his embrace and kissing her until they were both panting for air.

  Or naked.

  When he entered the house, Olive was in the parlor, dressed in a gown of ivy-colored muslin, decorated with red rosebuds and an intricate pattern of embroidered leaves about the wrists and hems.

  There were no maids in sight.

  She grabbed his lapels and kissed him, ruining any pretense of control Eli had been hoping to maintain.

  He kissed her as deeply and as thoroughly as he’d been yearning to do all day.

  “You smell like... exotic flowers,” she murmured against his lips, her eyes playful. “It’s oddly seductive. Shall we move this kiss to my bedchamber?”

  “Er...” said Eli.

  It was as much objection as he could muster. There was nothing he wanted more than to be alone with Olive in her bedchamber. He’d dreamt about it from the day they first met.

  He hung up his hat and coat and followed her down the corridor.

  Olive’s room was draped with dark blue silk and warmed by a low fire. A dozen tapers stood on silver candelabra, highlighting the plush softness of her carpets and the seductive nearness of her four-poster bed.

  “Why, Miss Harper...” He narrowed his gaze. “Is this a seduction?”

  She widened her eyes. “You are clever, Mr. Weston.”

  “You do realize,” he pointed out, “that it is four o’clock in the afternoon.”

  She nodded. “Father and his friends are attending this evening’s play in the amphitheatre. No one will look for me until breakfast.”

  Eli blinked. “This is an all-night seduction? What about your maid?”

  “We have house maids, but I’ve no lady’s maid. Not that it matters. Our servants don’t carry tales, and even if they did...” She shrugged. “Half the village has already seen me in breeches. I lost any hope of being ‘reputable’ long before you paid a visit.”

  He locked the door just to be safe.

  “Can you be more specific on what exactly you’re proposing?” he enquired politely. “Just so I’m clear on the parameters.”

  “More specific...” She tapped the side of her chin. “Unlimited kisses in unlimited places, accompanied by unlimited lovemaking...”

  He choked. “Unlimited lovemaking?”

  “Within the constraints of our ten-day agreement, of course.” She motioned to the clock on the mantel. “Unlimited lovemaking is for the next forty-eight hours. Well, the next forty, most likely. I imagine you’ll want to be on your way back to London with as much daylight as possible.”

  “On my way,” he repeated. “To London.”

  “I’m not proposing marriage,” she reminded him. “I’m proposing a tryst. Temporary lovers. No ties to one another, and no contact once you leave.”

  This was... not the arrangement Eli wanted.

  It was also the best arrangement he was likely to get.

  He had proposed twice. Once, under duress, and not very elegantly. A “Here I am on your doorstep, and what’s this? A marriage license in my pocket!” sort of gambit.

  His proposal at the pavilion had been in earnest, not that it mattered. She had turned him down then, and was preemptively curtailing any future thoughts of marriage now. Her only expectation was that he would leave when their time ran out.

  The terms were clear.

  It was up to Eli to decide which was better: a memory of having it all or not knowing what he was missing.

  “Well, botanist?” She gave him an arch look. “Keen for a little deflowering?”

  “There’ll be nothing ‘little’ about it,” he growled, and covered her mouth with a kiss.

  She was right to keep the clock ticking. Perhaps the best thing for both of them was not to marry. If Eli defied his father, he’d suffer untold revenge, but would eventually inherit his father’s fortune.

  Olive would keep her farm and own it outright without any potential ugliness.

  Meanwhile, Eli’s medical funding… would not happen. All the people he could have helped would go unsaved. But at least Eli would be in London surrou
nded by the best apothecaries and physic gardens. He wouldn’t have a cure, but he could do something good.

  He could not hurt Olive at any cost.

  “Remember,” she murmured as they bumped against the bed. “This means nothing.”

  It meant nothing to her.

  For Eli, ten days wasn’t nearly long enough. But it was all they had.

  If she could manage, so could he.

  “This means nothing,” he echoed. “Don’t worry. I’m definitely not emotionally entangled.”

  A blatant falsehood, but it seemed the one she wanted to hear.

  Eli would lock away the part of him that had pined for her for years. The part of him that had fallen even harder once he came to know her, and discovered the real woman was far better than any boyhood fantasy. It was just his heart. Not required of him at all.

  All Olive wanted was a memory.

  It would have to be enough for Eli, too.

  Chapter 12

  Olive’s heart gave a leap of victory.

  He said yes. She would have this. They would have this. A moment of their own choosing, to share with each other.

  Not just one moment!

  All night, and tomorrow, and the next night, too. She held him tighter.

  Despite the sudden abundance of sensual playtime on their horizon, Eli’s kisses were every bit as hurried and hungry as her own. As though he, too, sensed no amount of time together would ever be enough. She pushed the thought away.

  Now was not the moment to think of goodbye.

  Now was the time to make the most of every second they still had.

  Somehow, she managed to wrest her lips from his and say breathlessly, “My laces, if you please?”

  “My pleasure.”

  She turned around on legs trembling with excitement and rested her fingertips atop the soft blanket covering her bed.

  Olive had worn this gown on purpose. It was her favorite. The slippery crimson sarsnet and gauzy white overdress had always made her feel almost pretty.

  Until Elijah.

  He made her feel ravishing.

  She didn’t need him to unlace her dress. Olive was in and out of breeches and gowns so often that she was likely faster at it herself than any lady’s maid would be.

  That wasn’t why she’d asked him for help. She wanted tonight to be something they did to each other, with each other. She wanted to feel his fingers on her spine and savor every tiny new sensation as the ribbon worked looser and looser.

  She wanted tonight to last. She wanted a thousand little memories to turn over in her mind, rubbing the edges smooth with time as she relived them again and again.

  When her gown gaped fully open, she turned back around to face him. She wanted to watch his face as she let her favorite evening dress tumble to the floor.

  His gaze devoured her.

  She still wore a ridiculous number of layers. Stays, shift. Olive didn’t mind at all. The more layers, the more there was to unwrap. To remember.

  “They’re front-tying stays,” she said.

  His eyes were hooded. “I see that.”

  “It’s so I can unlace it by myself.”

  His voice was low, husky. “May I help anyway?”

  “Please do.”

  Her short stays had barely six eyelets on each half, making them easy to loosen and toss quickly to one side.

  Elijah took his time, sliding the ribbon free ever so slowly, one eyelet at a time, until her bosom nearly spilled into his hands.

  Without the stays to bind her shift tight to her bodice, the soft linen billowed around her otherwise naked body. Beneath it, she wore nothing more than gooseflesh and silk stockings.

  She reached for his cravat. “May I?”

  “You’re certain?” His eyes were hot on hers. “Very, very certain?”

  She plucked the cravat pin from the starched linen and tossed it atop her dressing table.

  “I’m very, very certain,” she assured him.

  For all the teasing of her beguiling botanist, Olive gave “deflowering” little to no importance at all. No one could know for certain what a woman had or had not experienced unless she told him. And it was absolutely ridiculous that women were to stay pure whilst men could be as wild as they pleased.

  Who were they meant to be wild with, if not women who chose the same freedom?

  Besides, she was no debutante. Those years were long past. Like her, Elijah had been manipulated by Olive’s father. Refusing to play by their parents’ rules gave them the freedom to do what they really wanted.

  And what Olive wanted was Elijah.

  She unbuttoned his jacket and took her time pushing it off his broad shoulders, tugging the sleeves down over the thick muscles of his strong arms.

  How she had scoffed at women who claimed they could only fall for a specific type of man!

  Olive’s type, apparently, was burly botanist.

  Once she’d divested him of his jacket, she turned her attention to his waistcoat.

  “This apparel is astonishingly well made,” he said. “The fine materials, the exceptional craftsmanship...”

  “I’m throwing it all on the floor,” she assured him, and tossed the waistcoat to one side. “Boots, please.”

  “Ah, yes. Boots can be difficult.” He sat down on her dressing-stool and pulled off his Hessians one by one. “May I stand them upright, or must I toss them willy-nilly to one side?”

  “Only I can toss things.” She pulled him off the stool and to his feet.

  He was now standing before her in his shirtsleeves and trousers, both of them in their stocking feet, his hands holding hers. She’d expected it to feel breathtakingly lascivious.

  Instead, it felt intimate. Less like clandestine lovers meeting for a quick tup, and more like... the sort of moment shared between two people on their wedding night.

  She tugged the hem of his shirt up from the waistband of his trousers.

  “Shall I kiss your stomach, as you did to me?”

  “You can do anything you want.” His gaze was intense, his eyes serious. “I’m yours.”

  “For the night,” she reminded him.

  “For two nights and a day,” he corrected her.

  She smiled. He was savoring every moment just like she was.

  She lowered herself to one knee to press a kiss to the strip of bare skin she’d exposed between his shirt hem and waistband.

  A thick scar bisected one side of his firm abdomen. Two smaller scars crisscrossed the other side.

  Frowning, she kissed each one, then raised the shirt higher.

  A crosshatch of scars covered his chest and sides and back, some old and pale, others stiff and stark.

  “What happened?” she asked quietly, pressing a kiss to every patch of skin, scarred and unscarred.

  “Horses,” he said flatly. “Father was furious that his heir was a lesser rider than the daughter of his enemy. A girl! It could not stand. Hadn’t I seen the tricks you could perform?”

  “But...” She ran her fingertips over his ridged skin.

  He shrugged. “What’s a little blood, or a broken rib? I’ve been tossed onto fences, into trees, on rocks... After a while, you get used to being kicked when you’re down.” His voice grew harder. “And then one day, you’ve had enough.”

  She swallowed. “He stopped making you try?”

  “I was finally stronger than him.” He flexed one of the muscles she’d so admired. She hadn’t known they were armor to protect him from his own father. “He couldn’t make me anymore, and I was too big to be a jockey anyway. I swore never to ride a horse again. I was finally free.”

  Never to ride a horse again.

  Until she’d made him.

  “Elijah, I’m sorry. I didn’t know...”

  “How would you? You didn’t know anything about me.”

  Nothing except he was the son of the devil incarnate. When the marquess had caught them behind the stables, he publicly mocked a child. Then later, rui
ned a young girl’s chances of a season—and marriage—just for sport.

  As much as those two events had wounded her, she hadn’t been forced to live with the marquess day by day. Taming a fractious horse was dangerous enough when the rider was competent and confident. Attempting to ride one with limbs shaking of fear, bruised ribs making it impossible to maintain proper control of the reins...

  “You didn’t have a chance,” she whispered.

  “I made my chance. Just like you did.” He whipped his shirt over his head and tossed it aside. “Some scars are visible, and some are not. They all sting when the wound is fresh. These are old. So am I. I’ve covered them up with new memories.” He gently cupped her cheek. “Better memories.”

  Had she thought he lacked confidence around horses?

  It must have taken an infinite amount of courage to get back on, to try again, day after day, year after year. An infinite amount of courage to stand up to his father, who was not the sort of man to take defiance lightly.

  An infinite amount of courage to try again, here, for her, for no other reason than because he wanted to make her happy.

  “Forget about Duke,” she said. “That whole arrangement—”

  “I was never going to ride Duke,” he pointed out. “It was an impossible mission to start with. That’s why you gave it to me.”

  Yes. She’d assigned him a task at which she’d known he would fail spectacularly.

  Just like his father had.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry I was awful, and that your father was awful, and that your experiences with horses were awful, and that I’ve made it all the more awkward by going on and on about it. I’m sure you’re tired of explaining your scars to people who have no right to ask about them.”

  “I’ve taken care never to be fully naked in front of anyone else before.” He lifted a shoulder. His muscles rippled. “You’re the first one to see them.”

  She reached for him and kissed him hard.

  Had she thought the moment intimate before, as though they were a bride and groom in their nightrails?

  He was baring himself to her in every way that he could. Risking vulnerability. Either because he trusted her not to hurt him with this new ammunition, or because he hoped she was worth the risk.