Blame It on the Duke

by Lenora Bell

  “I’m worried,” Alice whispered.

  Aunt Sarah made a motion with her hand and the shopgirl busied herself folding fabrics a short distance away.

  “What are you worried about?” Aunt Sarah asked.

  “I don’t want to fall in love with Lord Hatherly,” Alice admitted. “It’s not part of my plan. My friends told me that he’s a rake, and incapable of love, so I must maintain the upper hand. Is it possible to give one’s body without surrendering one’s heart?”

  Aunt Sarah gave a rich, melodious laugh. “I’m living proof, my darling. I may be scandalous and shunned by polite society, but some of the world’s most powerful men have knelt at my French-heeled slippers.”

  “And you never fell in love with any of your . . . protectors?”

  “I fell in and out of love, I suppose, but I never lost a moment of sleep over it. I was always in complete control.” Aunt Sarah winked. “It’s been loads of fun being a Lady Rake.”

  A Lady Rake.

  Alice liked the sound of it. “But I’m not as sophisticated as you are.”

  “That’s what the corset is for, darling. And you’re my niece, are you not? I rather think you and I have more in common than you imagine.”

  “Do you really think I can manage it?”

  “Of course you can.” Aunt Sarah chucked Alice under the chin, her rings cold against Alice’s skin. “Now then, what do you say?” She gestured toward the corset.

  The shopgirl returned, looking expectant.

  Alice exhaled sharply. “Wrap it up, please.”

  “That’s my niece,” Aunt Sarah said approvingly. “We’ll make a seductress of you yet. First the corset . . . and then the soup.”

  Now she’d lost Alice. “The . . . soup?”

  “You must keep him guessing. Always maintain control. Stay one step ahead,” explained Aunt Sarah as the shopgirl wrapped up their purchases. “Think, darling. You’re clearly an intelligent lady. How does he gain control over you?”

  “He kisses me and my knees go weak.”

  “Precisely. And how do you regain control?”

  “Um . . . find a way to make his knees turn weak?”

  “That’s right. Knock him off balance. And I’ve always found a hearty chicken soup does the trick. Men don’t even know they crave it—warm, fragrant, simple, comforting—but a few spoonfuls and voilá! They fall at your feet. Think of this as a game of cards. Hatherly won the first hand by staying out all night. You will win the second hand with my two-part strategy. I promise.”

  Alice was still attempting to wrap her mind around the soup strategy. Why was she supposed to cook for him? But Aunt Sarah was undoubtedly an expert.

  “I’ll give it a try,” Alice said. “Though I prefer not to cook with animal flesh.”

  “It’s only poultry. Pluck that chicken, Alice. Bring him to his knees. He’ll be your devoted love servant within days.”

  Alice frowned. “I don’t want him to fall in love with me.”

  “Oh, of course not, darling,” Aunt Sarah reassured her. “Of course not. We wouldn’t want that. My strategy will merely assist you with maintaining control of the situation.”

  Alice studied her aunt’s face for a moment.

  Aunt Sarah spread her bejeweled hands. “Trust me, darling. I’ve never known it to fail.”

  The waiting footman gathered their parcels and they began the journey home.

  “Now then, I’ll return you straight to Lord Hatherly so your mother won’t have anything to say about my methods.” She winked. “It will be our little secret.”

  “I wish I’d defied my father and mother and come to visit you before now, Aunt Sarah,” said Alice.

  “Aren’t I fun, dear?” Aunt Sarah said with a naughty smile. “You’re a grand lady now. You may do as you please. Why should you listen to your pompous old father anymore? I never listened to my brother a day in my life. Why don’t you come and see me again soon? I expect a full report.”

  Alice smiled. “I’d like that.”

  Before Aunt Sarah’s carriage left Alice outside of Sunderland House, she stuck her head out the window. “Oh, and one more thing, darling. You must compliment his tool. Whether it’s long or short, squat or thin as a taper, a man believes his prick to be womankind’s greatest gift, and you must never disillusion him of his fragile convictions . . .”

  Her instructions faded away as the carriage wheels jolted into motion, leaving Alice blushing on the front steps. Gracious. What had she agreed to?

  Instead of running away, she’d purchased armor. But even though her mother and Aunt Sarah had the wrong idea about Hatherly’s absence last evening, Alice could use their methods to maintain dominion over her heart and continue with her love lessons as planned.

  Mr. March eyed her parcels with displeasure when he finally appeared to assist her. “Moving in to stay, are we? We’ll see about that.”

  “Where’s Kali?” she asked, ignoring his surly greeting.

  “With Gertrude. I told her she should pester someone her own size, but she does love terrorizing that old lion.”

  Alice grinned. Despite his perpetually dismal humor, she rather thought March had a soft spot for Kali.

  “Put those parcels in my room, March, and then meet me in the kitchens.”

  “The kitchens?” March gaped at her.

  “That’s right. And bring Bill with you. And wash your hands first, if you please.”

  It was time to prepare phase two of Aunt Sarah’s plan.

  Nick rarely slept alone, so where were the warm, womanly curves nestled by his side?

  He lifted the velvet counterpane.

  No upside-down-heart-shaped bum, either. No half ellipse of a waist.

  Everything came flooding back.

  He was sleeping alone right now because he’d made his wife angry.

  Badly done, that. Why hadn’t he simply told her the truth earlier?

  They must share Sunderland for the next weeks, and he’d been hoping she’d share his bed as well.

  Nick rubbed sleep from his eyes.

  Felt like there was moss growing in his brain and cotton wool in his mouth. What time was it anyway? He thudded out of bed and pushed aside a curtain, wincing in the sudden slash of sunshine.

  Already afternoon. He’d slumbered the whole day away.

  He splashed cold water on his face and dressed hastily.

  Alice’s cat pranced into the room and rubbed against his boot, shamelessly angling for a scratching.

  Nick knelt down. “Hello there, what’s your name again? Kali? You like me, even if your mother thinks I’m a stubborn, heartless fool.” He had to go and find Alice and apologize.

  The noise of clattering crockery sounded from the direction of the kitchens and Nick noticed there was a tempting odor curling in the air.

  More clanging from below stairs and the sound of muffled curses and feminine laughter. What was happening down there? Was Alice in the kitchens?

  The sound of her laughter rippled cool and clear like lake water touched by a stone.

  His stomach growled. It did smell good, whatever was happening in the kitchens.

  The cat quirked her small, pointy chin, listening to the racket, and decided to investigate, bolting away as swiftly as she’d come.

  His boots started carrying him out the door before his mind realized he was moving.

  A bright flash of color in the corner of his eyes made him pause outside the kitchens.

  Flowers.

  Yellow daisies in vases on the tables.

  A window open somewhere, carrying the scent of garden loam inside the walls.

  It was jarring, the daisies and the fresh air. Out of place in his dark, decadent world.

  When he reached the kitchens, the scene unfolding before his eyes was nothing Nick would have ever expected to find at Sunderland.

  Alice had enlisted his men to her devious purposes. Bill peeled potatoes while Pigeon stoked the hearth fire.

&nb
sp; And March, even March, was chopping carrots. Sullenly chopping . . . but still.

  Consorting with his wife. The destroyer of his equilibrium.

  Turncoats.

  The cat watched everything with great interest from a position near the warm hearth.

  Alice had her sleeves rolled up and was stirring the bubbling contents of a large black pot.

  Nick hovered in the doorway, not wanting to disturb the scene, feeling that he would be out of place in the cozy room.

  She smiled as she stirred, humming a happy song.

  “’Ere’s your carrots,” March said, shoving a handful at Alice.

  “Why thank you, Mr. March.” She beamed at the footman. “Throw them in the pot, if you please.”

  March let the carrots slide from his hands into the soup.

  Had he washed his hands? His wrists were suspiciously white and freshly scrubbed-looking.

  “You know, Mr. March,” Alice said. “Bill tells me you like marmalade, and I will receive a jar this month from my friend Thea who is traveling this summer to her estate in Ireland. The most marvelous orange marmalade in the world. I’m willing to part with a jar . . . for the price of a smile.”

  “Humph.” March scowled.

  Good luck with that, Alice, Nick thought. You’ll never force a smile out of Harold March. I’ve been trying for years.

  “Don’t you like marmalade?” she asked.

  “He does,” said Bill. “It’s his favorite. He ate three whole jars last month alone. I calculate he’s eaten ten jars already this year.”

  “Then give us a smile,” Alice wheedled.

  “Might crack his face. He never smiles. He’s smiled a total of . . . never,” Bill finished with a surprised look. “He’s never smiled.”

  Alice laughed. “Then he shall have no marmalade.”

  March stalked away, pausing when he noticed Nick watching from beyond the door.

  At Nick’s gesture he walked over.

  “What’s happening here, Mr. March?” Nick asked sternly.

  “A bunch of utter nonsense. She”—he jerked his thumb at Alice’s back as she bent over the pot—“is making the duke some chicken soup.”

  “Were you chopping vegetables, March?”

  March hung his shaggy head. “May ’ave been.”

  Alice turned around at the sound of their voices, and Nick’s heart stopped beating.

  The steam had curled her hair in tendrils around her face and painted her cheeks with roses.

  Too beautiful.

  Too wholesome.

  Not mine.

  His lovers would never soil their hands with soup ladles. They’d be too afraid of the scent clinging to their clothing. They were far too fine for peeling garlic.

  They’d rather die than make their own soup.

  He scowled at the cat, who smirked back. She’d led him here knowingly, to this den of temptation and turncoat-ery.

  When Nick entered the kitchen, his men took one look at his face and found hasty excuses to leave.

  Alice stirred the pot, avoiding his eyes.

  With every pass of the ladle through the rich, golden broth, the heavenly fragrance teased his nostrils and made his stomach clench with hunger.

  “Now don’t go thinking I’m cooking this for you, my lord,” Alice said in a saucy tone of voice.

  She scattered a handful of chopped fresh herbs into the soup and the aroma rose, fresh and clean.

  “It’s for the duke, and for Jane,” she said. “She’s doing much better today but she could use a restorative meal, and your cook only seems to know how to make unhealthful meals smothered in cream sauce and butter.”

  “Where is my cook?”

  “I gave him the day off.”

  Nick blinked. The lady was taking charge of the household, it seemed. “I won’t have you superimposing order here. I like the chaos.”

  “A few rules make life less uncertain. I don’t usually cook with animal flesh,” Alice continued. “But chicken bones, boiled for hours to release their marrow, will feed the soul as well as the body. Jane needs nourishment in order to regain her strength.”

  “Alice, about this morning. I know I should have told you the truth earlier.”

  “Stir this, will you?” She handed him the ladle she was using to stir the soup. His stomach clenched. He was ravenous.

  Taking the ladle from her hand and setting it down, Nick caught her wrist. “Alice,” he said softly. “You know you can’t change me, right? Not with daisies. Or rules. I’m long gone. What’s left of me is what you see.” He held both her hands in his and brought them to his chest. “Not worth saving.”

  “I’m not trying to change you or save you, Nick. I’m only making soup.”

  She retrieved the ladle and dipped it into the broth. “What do you think, more salt?”

  It smelled so good. His lips opened of their own accord, slurping the broth greedily.

  At his entertainments he served expensive imported foods. Port wine from Portugal. Platters of cured beef and heavy cheeses from France. This was only a hearty chicken stock. The same soup served in every countryside tavern across England.

  Rich with fat and flavored with a basic mixture of onions, carrots, and celery.

  Only a simple chicken soup.

  Only some woman, some warm, fragrant woman with hair curling around her face and clear, turquoise eyes.

  “Do you want to know the secret ingredient?” Alice asked.

  He squeezed his eyes shut. “No.”

  “I haven’t added it yet.”

  He opened one eye.

  “The secret is . . .” Alice reached into her apron pocket and brought out half of a lemon. “Lemons. From your father’s lemon tree, the one in his conservatory. But you can’t add it during cooking, or it may turn bitter. You have to add it right at the end, right before you’re ready to eat. It’s like a little squeeze of sunshine to brighten up the soup.”

  Alice squeezed the lemon over the soup.

  Nick knew what the secret ingredient to brightening life was, and it wasn’t lemon.

  It was Alice.

  His mouth watered for more soup and his hands itched to hold her, touch her, savor her warmth. He stopped fighting and wrapped his arms around her, nuzzling her neck. “You smell good.”

  “I smell like onions.”

  He captured her finger and licked it. “And lemons. And sunshine.”

  He had to taste her. Now. This moment.

  Three things happened then: He crushed her into his arms and kissed her, which caused the soup ladle to crash to the floor, which startled the cat, who ran away and then returned immediately to lap up the spilled broth.

  But Nick didn’t notice anything but the warm, feminine curves in his arms and the sweet, soft lips beneath his mouth.

  He lifted her into his arms, never breaking the kiss, and carried her to a kitchen counter, where he swept away a pile of onion peels and herbs and made sure there were no knives before setting her down.

  He wrapped her long limbs around his hips, needing her to be closer, and she wound her arms around his neck.

  She tasted far better than the soup. Sweet, wholesome woman, heated with steam and flavored with the tang of the basil she’d been crushing.

  Moaning his desire, he deepened the kiss, using his tongue in the same rhythm his cock found against the layers of fabric between them.

  She drove him completely wild with need.

  He couldn’t be in the same room with her without wanting to kiss her. Claim her.

  Kissing his way from her lips down her neck, he pushed her bodice down greedily and tasted her nipples again, flicking them with his tongue until they were firm.

  Alice wrapped her limbs more tightly around him, pressing her heels into his buttocks to draw him nearer.

  A few buttons to unfasten and he could be inside her heat.

  “Alice,” he groaned against the smooth flesh of her soft breasts.

  “I gather y
ou . . . like my . . . soup,” she gasped, as he sucked her nipples.

  He wanted to tease her breasts while he slid inside her, slow and gentle at first, and then hard and fast.

  Teach her that first lesson in love.

  Make her come for him. Come around him. Her flesh clenching his . . .

  Her cat stared with wide, alert yellow eyes.

  Kitchen . . . counter.

  Afternoon sunlight.

  What’s wrong with you? Can’t you find a bed to seduce your new wife upon? And what happened to the roses and champagne?

  He never lost control like this.

  He broke the embrace and smoothed her skirts down. He lifted her off the counter, avoiding her eyes.

  This was completely uncharacteristic, and he had to regain at least a modicum of control.

  “We’ll continue this tonight. In my bed. We’re going to make history, Dimples,” he growled.

  She smiled, pleasure still hazing her eyes like a cloudy summer sky. “I’ll hold you to that, my lord.”

  He helped her assemble a tray of soup, bread, and tea for Jane. She stuck some yellow daisies into a vase and placed it beside the bowl of soup.

  The simple, fresh-cut flowers glowed vibrant and bold.

  Just like Alice.

  Nick left her in the kitchens and sent March to help her carry the tray.

  He needed to go out. He’d find Lear and they’d do manly things.

  Drink in a pub.

  Hunt down Stubbs.

  Lear and he had made some progress, and Nick was increasingly left with the idea that the person who’d hired Stubbs to impoverish him was someone skilled at hiding his trail.

  Probably someone he knew and interacted with.

  He couldn’t let Alice’s intoxicating kisses and tempting soup distract him into losing his edge.

  Chapter 16

  She should be born of a highly respectable family, possessed of wealth, well connected, and with many relations and friends. She should also be beautiful, of a good disposition, with lucky marks on her body.

  The Kama Sutra of Vātsyāyana

  Aunt Sarah had been right. The soup had been highly effective.

  Nick had lost control, gathering her into his strong arms and lifting her to the counter. He’d been overcome with carnal longings and they’d nearly . . . well, all of her questions had nearly been answered in the kitchens.