by Lucy Ashford
She was shivering badly. ‘That’s ridiculous. Why should I want you to find me?’
‘Because you wanted me to...warm you up?’ he offered gently.
He rested his strong hands on her shoulders. Already backed against the wall, Deb began to shake her head. But his hands were warm and persuasive, and another far more dangerous kind of heat was spiralling through her body, stealing through her breasts and loins, curling inside her like a fire ready to burn everything in its path.
She was fighting for her very survival here. Deb tried to push past him, but he caught her and hauled her hard against him. Their bodies collided, and in that terrifying moment she realised that this man knew exactly what he was doing, knew exactly what she was feeling. He knew about the fire of longing that burned deep inside her, and had done ever since she’d seen him lying bound in the forest. He’d probably known it, she realised, even before she’d known it herself.
When his mouth came down on hers, she melted. She found it quite impossible to breathe or think. He was right; she was warm in his arms, her body yearned for his strength, and already his mouth was heating her cold lips with light but intense caresses...
‘No.’ She struggled to drag herself away. ‘No, this is wrong...’
He drew a ragged breath and his blue eyes still blazed with dark emotion. The front of his shirt had been soaked by its contact with her damp body, so the linen clung to and outlined the rippling sinews of his chest and abdomen. ‘You’re right.’ His voice sounded thick with desire. ‘Perhaps this is not a good idea.’
‘Then let me—’ Her lips burned from his kiss, her body trembled.
‘Let you go?’
‘Yes. No. I...’
She was in his arms again. Begging for his mouth again. She wanted him so much that she couldn’t help herself. Just this once, she kept telling herself. Just this once...
He kissed her again, lethally. His mouth swept once, twice over hers; his tongue was prising her lips apart with quick, sensuous strokes. Then their mouths were enmeshed, and without breaking the kiss, Beau, still holding her tightly, was easing her back to the couch in the corner where all her clothes lay, while tangling his fingers in her soaking wet hair so that he could drag her face closer and intensify the kiss.
Her fingers were gripping the folds of his shirt, otherwise she would have fallen—oh, no, now she was falling, back against the couch, colliding softly with the heaps of cushions there. He was arched over her instantly, one knee planted between her thighs, and now his kiss was bone-melting and his tongue was plunging into her mouth, stoking the flames inside her that were already white-hot...
This is so wrong, she thought in despair, even as she dug her fingers deeper into the hard muscle of his shoulders. She shouldn’t be feeling like this. She should absolutely hate what he was doing to her—but all she wanted was more. Her damp hair was all around them both, and now he was running his hands through its soft mass; she let out a low moan and he took her mouth again hungrily, while his hands slid around her hips, pressing her against him so that she could feel his lean, hard body, could feel how very aroused he was.
One of his hands had slipped round to cup her breast, and for all the protection the muslin petticoat gave her, she might as well have been naked. Her nipple leaped at his touch, and then a bolt of pure, white-hot desire was shooting down to that tender place between her thighs...
‘Let me go. Please let me go.’ She pushed at him hard, and struggled to get away from under his weight, knocking her hip against the carved mahogany armrest of the chaise longue and wincing at the pain. Another bruise. Another damned bruise.
But that didn’t hurt as much as when he drew himself up from her, his eyes still ragged with desire, and said, ‘As you wish. But I do hope, Miss O’Hara, that you’re not going to make some ridiculous claim that I’ve insulted your—virtue.’
She gasped and heaved herself upright, aware of his eyes raking her slender form, taking in her breasts, the curve of her waist, the place between her thighs where the damp muslin clung.
The Dangerous Duke. Too dangerous for her to handle, that was for sure. Fighting for control of her voice, her breathing, her existence, she drew herself up to meet his hard blue gaze. ‘Whatever my past, your Grace, it doesn’t stop me from exerting some choice over my immediate future. Now, I’m cold, and wet, and I need to get dressed. So would you please just—leave me alone?’
She’d already started floundering at random through her clothes that had somehow slipped in a heap to the floor, pulling out the black gown and preparing to heave it over her head. Her chemise was still soaking wet. But how could she remove it, with the Duke still standing there? No, all she could do was cover herself up, as quickly as possible, or he’d get all excited again...
And he wasn’t the only one to be excited, she reminded herself in dismay. Her insides still churned, her pulse still raced from his kiss, from the feel of his hard, powerful male body pressing against hers. She’d thought she would be safe from him, if she let him think she was—used goods. She’d thought wrong. She pulled on the gown and began to search with clumsy fingers for the buttons. Go. Please just go.
He was watching her calmly from a couple of yards away, his arms folded across his broad chest. He said, ‘You shouldn’t be putting those clothes over your wet chemise. You’ll catch a chill.’
She stopped what she was doing and tilted her chin to meet his gaze. ‘Really? Now, let me see,’ she said with feigned wonder. ‘What mood are we in all of a sudden? Ah, yes—the lustful Duke has retreated. And instead, we have the proud, condescending Duke—pretending to care about my well-being. What a surprise that is.’
‘I’m not pretending to care,’ he stated. He was straightening the lapels of his exquisitely cut riding coat, though his eyes never left her face. ‘I hope you’ll remember that I have a vested interest in keeping you healthy.’
Deb was finding it difficult to breathe, such was the strength of her emotion. ‘Let me assure you,’ she answered at last, ‘that when all this is over, I shall leave you and all your wealth behind me with a sense of sheer relief, your Grace. I owe you a huge debt for showing me how shallow and obsessive a rich man’s life can be.’
‘I’ve told you before to save your melodramatics for the stage.’ He was adjusting his cravat now. ‘And rest assured, Miss O’Hara. As you’ve pointed out, I have many faults. But I do keep my promises.’
He strolled closer. He touched her cheek with the tip of one long, lean finger.
Oh, my goodness. She’d been trying to close her mind to the virile power of his body, to the masculine grace of his every gesture. But meeting his blue eyes like this, and seeing the sudden twist of his sensual lips, sent bolts of shock through her all over again. Just when she’d thought she was safe. He was all male. He was all animal strength, disturbing and dangerous. The faint burn marks she could see all too clearly now on his raised wrist were a dangerous reminder of their past, and an ominous warning as to their future.
She almost jumped away from him. ‘So you keep your promises—your Grace. But your motives for those promises consist solely of revenge and bitterness, it seems to me.’
His blue eyes raked her. ‘Perhaps I should tell you,’ he said quietly, ‘that my brother, Simon, almost drowned while swimming in this very lake several years ago.’
This time she almost staggered. ‘I didn’t know. How could I know?’
‘You couldn’t.’ His voice was quite calm. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised, though, if you should find that there are some towels in that chest in the corner—the housekeeper likes to keep them here in the usually misguided assumption that someone else might some day use the lake for recreation. Please get yourself properly dry. As I pointed out, you’re of no use to me sick. Oh, and I’d like you to join me for dinner at eight.’
He left without a ba
ckward glance, leaving Deb feeling as if he’d kicked her. She found the towels, just as he’d said, then peeled off her wet chemise, and after huddling up in the largest towel, she sat on the chaise-longue—hurting, hurting inside.
Never, ever had she felt as she did when he kissed her. She hadn’t been acting then, far from it. She wished it had all been staged. Most of all, she wished she was far far away with the Lambeth Players, amongst her friends.
The magic of the theatre had entranced her for as long as she could remember. She’d pestered her kind stepfather, Gerald, until she was allowed to act—the young prince in Richard III had been her very first part—but the opportunity to play a big role didn’t arrive until she was fifteen and the company was doing Twelfth Night. The actress who played Viola had suddenly fallen ill, and all of the actors were in despair.
Deb had stolen quietly up to Gerald. ‘I can do it,’ she’d told him.
Gerald had scratched his head. ‘How, lass? We’re due to put the play on tonight! You’ll never have time to learn it.’
‘I don’t have to learn it. I know it all. Please let me, please!’
Gerald had looked at his stepdaughter with growing wonder. ‘You know it all?’
Staunchly she began to recite the lines.
‘Well,’ said Gerald. ‘Well. Button my boots...’ He’d swung round to the rest of the Players, who had also been listening in amazement. ‘The play goes on, ladies and gentlemen—thanks to Deb here!’
It had been a night of triumph. A night when they—and she—realised not only that she had a huge gift for acting, but also that she could remember her lines by just listening to the rehearsals. Though sometimes, remembering everything was not a good idea. She wished she could forget, for example, the spring day that a young actor had come strolling into their midst as they were setting up their makeshift stage on the green outside Reading a little over five years ago. ‘Any chance of a job?’ he’d asked casually.
Before anyone could reply, he’d leaped nimbly on to the stage and recited Henry V’s famous speech before the battle of Agincourt. After he’d finished, everyone sighed with pleasure and turned expectantly towards Gerald, who said to the newcomer, ‘We can’t pay you a great deal. But if you want to join us you’re more than welcome.’
The new actor—Jack Bentall—had joined the Lambeth Players and caused not a few mutterings amongst the men, but the women had been delighted because he was so very handsome. Gerald had always been wary of him. ‘He thinks too much of himself,’ Deb heard Gerald say once to Francis. ‘Our Jack won’t give a fig for whomever he tramples on, if they get in his way.’
But Jack brought in the audiences all right, and day by day Deb—seventeen years old by then—had grown more entranced by his charm. For the first time ever she wished she was prettier and adept at bewitching men, like Peggy. She began to wear frocks, instead of her usual breeches; she started to tie ribbons in her long curly hair. And during one week of that sun-filled summer, when Gerald was away in London negotiating winter contracts for the Players, Jack suggested to the infatuated Deb that they practise their lines together.
Afterwards, he asked her to take a stroll with him along a country lane in the evening sunshine, and when Jack stopped to kiss her, the innocent Deb responded with artless passion. By the time she’d realised what he intended and tried to break away from him, he grew angry and forced her into intimacy.
It was over very quickly. ‘Don’t try complaining to anyone that you didn’t want this,’ he told her afterwards. ‘You’ve been leading me on for days.’
Deb had been devastated. ‘Leading you on?’ she’d whispered. ‘I didn’t mean to.’
‘With your shy looks and simpering smiles?’ he scoffed. ‘With those kisses you just offered me? You’ve only yourself to blame.’
Jack left the Lambeth Players that very night, and Deb never told anyone what happened; she was far too ashamed. Jack was still an actor—she heard his name mentioned from time to time. But her stomach always lurched sickly at the memory of his clumsy, hasty assault.
Thanks to Jack, she’d fiercely resisted any man’s approaches ever since. She didn’t doubt that true love did exist—look at her mother, Emily, and Gerald O’Hara—but she knew that few people were lucky enough to find happiness like theirs. As for the aristocracy, she was aware that emotions played little part in their marriage arrangements. People of wealth were obliged to produce heirs, and their nuptials were usually a carefully planned alliance of status, wealth and title. She wondered if the Duke had a wife in mind and found the thought disturbing, so she turned her sudden agitation into anger and whispered aloud, I feel sorry for her if he does. But dear God, he was very hard to resist. She shivered a little.
So his brother, Simon, had almost drowned while swimming in the lake. She was terribly sorry for that, of course, but why should he take out his grief on her? And then, his kiss... The colour rushed to her cheeks. He’d kissed her to prove he was right in his assessment of her, that was all. Just as well she’d not tried to deny to him that she was a whore, because she was, at heart—Jack Bentall had told her so, and now the Duke. You’ve only yourself to blame, Jack had scoffed.
And the Duke—the Duke had kissed her to complete his humiliation of her. He’d certainly done that to perfection, because she’d virtually begged him for more.
Slowly picking up her widow’s garb, she began to put on the hateful garments one by one. After pulling on the black veiled cap, she went to open the pavilion door and breathed in great lungfuls of fresh air. Once this was over she would have her theatre. And the Duke of Cirencester would be out of her life for good...
Suddenly she remembered that someone was coming to cut and style her hair—so that she would look more like Paulette, for the Duke. I hate him, she vowed aloud. He is autocratic, and domineering, and... She shivered suddenly, remembering the delicious feel of his hard body next to hers, his mouth moving lazily over hers.
A water nymph was laughing down at her. Never again, Deb vowed. I swear to God that I won’t let him touch me ever again.
Chapter Twelve
Instead of riding straight on to the house, Beau took a track that led up to open pastureland, where he set his strong horse at a gallop until he’d succeeded—to a point—in getting under control the mixture of heated emotions that seethed in his chest.
When he’d seen that lone figure in the lake, the years had vanished and one of his blackest ever memories had emerged—Simon close to drowning, and Beau plunging in to save him, and Simon fighting him off, whispering, You always have to be there for me, don’t you, big brother? Do I have to be for ever in your debt? Isn’t it enough that you’re going to inherit a dukedom, and I’ll have nothing?
It was eleven years ago, and Beau had been home from Oxford—clever, ruthless, ambitious, and well placed to succeed his cold-hearted father some day as heir to one of the country’s richest titles. Simon had already begun to resent him bitterly. ‘Damn you, Beau. Damn you,’ he’d whispered as he lay choking on the lake side.
This time the person in the water had been the girl. She, clearly, had been in no danger—except from him. He had been shocked at how swiftly his anger had turned to equally powerful lust.
Had he really tried to blame her for the kiss? Who was he trying to fool? His own physical need had all but consumed him—good God, his loins still ached from his fierce arousal—but he had to remember that lust must have no part in his relationship with the girl.
He was the fifth Duke of Cirencester, and he had many wrongs to put right. His brother had been lured into marriage with a slut, and Paulette’s cousin Deborah must be of the same breed—look at those books of erotic pictures, for heaven’s sake. But—and Beau dragged his hand through his hair—why, then, had her kiss been so damned sweet?
Why was it that she’d looked somehow so lost and alon
e for a brief moment that she’d aroused in him a series of long-buried feelings—tenderness...pity, even—that Beau was hardly aware he still possessed?
Emotion is weakness, he reminded himself fiercely. He reminded himself also she hadn’t looked at all lost when she was giving orders in the forest to the pair of vagabonds who’d knocked him from his horse, and trussed him up. Neither had she looked lost when she’d pretended moments later to melt to his kiss, in order to cleverly distract him from the fact that her men were creeping up behind him.
But he’d been watching her these past few days. He’d seen how Miss Deborah O’Hara had taken to slowly walking through the great rooms of the house by herself, often choosing to linger in the sculpture room and gaze at the classical statues that Beau’s father had collected. Sometimes, if Beau was passing along the mezzanine gallery to his own rooms, he would pause in the shadows and look down on her, because he found himself thinking in the oddest way that when she was on her own, she became a different person.
Normally she carried herself proudly—defiantly, almost—to the extent that her unusual golden eyes positively flashed fire whenever she caught him studying her. But he’d realised that she looked more vulnerable when she thought that she wasn’t being observed. She looked younger than her twenty-two years. Her expression became wistful, her eyes became troubled—more than troubled, she would look almost afraid.
He was having to fight the feeling that she was becoming more and more beautiful every time he saw her. With most women, those widow’s weeds would have drained their complexions of vitality, but with her, the sombre clothing seemed to give an extra vibrancy to her extraordinary chestnut hair, and to make her dark-lashed eyes even more stunning, her skin creamier and her rose-red lips fuller.
