The Dangerous Duke

by Christine Wells

  Thighs she should not think about at all.

  Kate tore her gaze away, hoping he hadn’t noticed her scrutiny. This carriage was far too small. How had she never noticed the lack of room inside these vehicles before?

  The duke seemed to take up every spare inch of space. She was obliged to sit up very straight, keep her knees rigidly together, hand clenching the strap to avoid brushing any part of him with any part of her as the badly sprung carriage lurched and swayed on its way.

  The strain of keeping so rigidly upright made her limbs burn. After a while, her body began to tremble. Eventually, she lost feeling in her left foot, but she allowed nothing of her physical discomfort to show in her demeanor. Then he would win this round. He’d won far too much from her already.

  Though she carefully avoided physical contact with the duke, she felt his heat. She could smell him—the masculine scent of horses and leather unadulterated by the expensive pomade or scent that most gentlemen of her acquaintance used. Of course, he didn’t have his kit with him to freshen whatever cologne he might wear ordinarily. He’d sent all of it ahead to the hunting box.

  She thought of her own luggage strapped to the roof of the carriage. At least she had a change of clothes—several of them, though perhaps they might be too formal for life in exile. It was fortunate she didn’t have to make do with what she stood up in. She was covered in mud and grass stains from head to toe.

  Oh, confound it! Her unwise actions had put her in danger—she accepted that. But why did her rescuer have to be Lyle?

  “I can’t make out where we are,” she said, peering through the travel-grimed window at the scenery. Deep green fields bordered by lush hedgerows undulated down to scattered wooded copses, then swelled to gentle hills in the distance. A cottage dotted the landscape here and there. She didn’t recognize the country or any of the landmarks that might identify it. She didn’t think she’d been here before.

  They’d stopped at an inn, but the duke hadn’t allowed her to alight for more than the time it took to use the necessary. He hadn’t granted her the opportunity to ask where she was or even deduce her whereabouts from her surroundings.

  “We’re in Leicestershire. It’s probably best you don’t know exactly where,” said the duke indifferently.

  How she wanted to hit him! She turned her head to look at his straight-nosed profile. “Best for whom?”

  “For me, of course. Your ignorance will hinder you if you try again to escape.”

  “There’s plain speaking! I mean to wait until my ankle heals before I attempt another mad dash for freedom. So for the moment, we may both rest easy.”

  A gleam stole into his eyes. “Somehow, I doubt I shall rest easy tonight.”

  “Oh?” She raised her brows, pretending innocence. “I would have thought you’d be fatigued from the journey. I know I shall sleep like the dead.”

  Before she knew what he was about, he took her chin in hand, tilting her face to the light. “Almost, I am convinced,” he said. “And yet, you’ve behaved like a cat on hot bricks since we left the cottage.” He smiled. “Tell me—” He smoothed a stray curl behind her ear. “Do you think I’m going to ravish you in a moving vehicle?”

  Most of the air left her lungs. She forced out, “On past experience, I should say it’s very likely.” Her skin tingled where his fingers brushed it. Why wasn’t he wearing gloves?

  “But so uncomfortable,” he replied, withdrawing his hand with a faint smile at the reaction she hadn’t been able to hide. “Unnecessary, too, when all the delights of a soft bed and a cozy fire await us. Perhaps even some decent coffee. A hot bath . . .”

  She shivered. The prosaic setting for seduction he painted was far more enticing than a promise of silk sheets and fine wine.

  Mr. and Mrs. Wetherby. Oh, yes, he knew what he was about.

  The duke’s character couldn’t be further from that of the considerate lover who pleasured her so sweetly between the pages of her journal. What Lyle wanted, he took. Would he even care how much pleasure he gave?

  No. She would not speculate about how adept a lover Lyle might be. She’d no ambition to become his mistress.

  “I beg your pardon?” The duke’s deep voice interrupted her thoughts.

  She blinked. “Nothing. I didn’t say anything.”

  “On the contrary. You snorted.”

  “Snorted? I? I would never do anything so vulgar.”

  His lips twitched. “No? Oh, my mistake. Perhaps it was merely a sniff, then.”

  With dignity, she acknowledged, “It might have been a sniff. I could very well have sniffed. In a purely disdainful manner, you understand.”

  “And what, may I ask, has merited such disdain on your part?” Lyle seemed to enjoy idle conversations.

  She smiled sweetly. “I was thinking about men and their overweening conceit. One man in particular.”

  The duke’s lips twitched. “Anyone I know?”

  She took a deep breath and blew it out. Ordinarily, she could spar with the best of them, but the duke unsettled her, kept her perpetually off balance. She risked saying something that might give him a clue to how she felt.

  She needed to change the subject. “How long will you keep me in that place?”

  “At my hunting box? Until one of two things happen. Either you convince me you will not publish your diary or your memoirs—a difficult thing to do because I’m not easy to convince and I never trust anyone’s word—or until your brother tells the authorities where to find those rebels. You will never be safe until we can convince the authorities you are no longer a threat.” His gaze dropped to her lips. “And I can’t immediately think of any other eventuality that would induce me to release you.”

  “So you are prepared to commit some considerable time to this venture, then,” Kate said in a constricted voice, aware that he watched her mouth with intense concentration she found quite unnerving. “I might warn you, Lyle, that one thing—perhaps the only thing—my brother and I have in common is that we are both excessively stubborn.”

  The duke smiled, his head drifting closer. “Ah, but then neither of you have experienced my unique powers of persuasion. Shall I give you a taste? Yes, I think I shall . . .”

  She braced for an assault on her lips, but his mouth bypassed hers, to settle in that vulnerable place on her neck. All power of speech melted away. In a heated reminder of his promise that night of the ball, the promise to bite, he let his teeth graze her skin, ever so gently. Just once. Then his lips turned soft, tantalizing, as they drifted over her throat, trailing heat in his wake.

  Beyond words, Kate tried to keep still, tried not to react, though she longed to fling back her head to allow him better access. She didn’t want to be bitten—her dark lover had never attempted such a thing—but somehow, the wordless threat of that bite seemed to heighten her pleasure.

  She almost wished he would . . .

  “No. Stop!” she whispered. But he already had.

  He smiled and sat back and the carriage rolled on.

  “THIS is the hunting box?” Kate stared out the carriage window. She’d never been to Melton country before, but she couldn’t believe many hunting boxes were as grand as this.

  The Jacobean house was substantially larger than the pied-à-terre she’d imagined, though certainly not as large as the country estate where she’d been raised. Still, the warm redbrick contrived to make it appear cozy and the park in which it stood was immaculately kept.

  Kate let relief overwhelm her jittery reaction to the duke. She wasn’t certain whether this house was a haven or a prison, but at least the neat exterior augured well for what lay inside.

  A comfortable bed and clean sheets beckoned. Not to mention a hot meal. Sukey always told her it was indecent for such a slight woman to have such a healthy appetite. Certainly, her hunger had assumed indecent proportions since she’d been confined in a carriage with the duke all day.

  But first, a long, hot bath. After the tumble out of th
at carriage and her long ride inside it today, she ached everywhere, though at least her ankle seemed to have mended.

  She glanced at the duke as he joined her. She wouldn’t mention her discomfort to him, or he might suggest quite another way of tending to her hurts.

  The memory of his skilled, gentle touch when she’d suffered the headache the day before made her insides melt in reminiscence.

  But she couldn’t afford to let him get that close to her here. She no longer had the excuse of indisposition to save her from seduction. And her resolution was not as strong as she would have liked.

  “A tidy little place, isn’t it?” Lyle nodded, preparing to alight. “I’ve never stayed here, but anyone who hunts knows it well.”

  He turned to hand her out of the carriage, and even that prosaic act nearly brought a flush to her cheeks. She needed to take hold of herself.

  “Mrs. Wetherby, welcome to Quenton Hall,” he said softly, for her ears alone.

  He slid an arm around her waist, gazing down at her with open adoration. What a magnificent actor. If she hadn’t known him better, she might have wilted on the spot.

  But the pointed reminder of her new identity left her in no doubt that this sudden burst of tenderness was feigned. Well, she could act a part, too.

  She resisted the urge to kick him in the shins. They were supposed to be man and wife, but that didn’t mean he had to be so provokingly demonstrative. He was behaving more like a lover with his mistress than a gentleman with his wife.

  But what was sauce for the goose . . .

  Instead of pulling away, Kate sent the duke a melting look under her lashes, her lips curved into a sultry smile. Just because she’d been celibate all these years didn’t mean she’d forgotten how to make a man turn a little hot under the collar.

  His false smile faded and his arm tightened around her. He swung her to face him, his head bending to hers as if for a kiss.

  So much for taking him at a disadvantage! He didn’t seem to notice the servants who had come out to bid them welcome.

  She managed the breath of a laugh. “You forget yourself, sir! You will shock these good people.” She glanced meaningfully towards the retainers who awaited them.

  He stopped, but the gray eyes retained their heat. She stood there, heart pounding, her mind an inconvenient blank. He held her gaze, and it was moments before he turned his head. Seeing the servants, he slackened his hold, and she slipped from him, hurrying across the drive to the front steps.

  A middle-aged man and woman, both smiling calmly, waited for them at the door. They showed none of the trepidation one might have expected when meeting a new master—a ducal one at that—but then Kate remembered: They were not Lady Kate and the Duke of Lyle here. They were Mr. and Mrs. Wetherby.

  She jerked out of her thoughts when she caught the word “honeymoon” pass Lyle’s lips. He’d caught her arm through his once more and now he pressed her closer to his side.

  She held on to her smile, though she longed to yank her arm free. Would she have to pretend to be in love with the duke the entire time she was incarcerated here? Couldn’t she simply have married him for his money?

  He seemed to have no trouble with the charade. As the butler and housekeeper showed them to an oak-paneled hall, Lyle kissed her hand with easy grace, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “My love, you must be fatigued from the drive. Go upstairs. I’ll be with you shortly.”

  His gray eyes held menace mixed with sensual promise, and she didn’t know which frightened her more. Kate repressed a shiver and turned to follow the housekeeper to her quarters.

  Eight

  He loves me with unrelenting gentleness. Sweet, tender pleasure, murmured endearments. Such wonders of heat and touch.

  FINISHED. Louisa dusted sand over the final page of her translation and shook it off, blowing the excess grains away.

  She closed her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath.

  Thank God!

  Incredible that a mere book could affect her so profoundly. She’d be glad to see it leave her hands.

  Yet some wicked, rebellious part of her would mourn its loss.

  She drew Max’s letter out of the secret compartment of her desk and read the significant passage. “I shall visit our cousins at Hove next week. Give the package into Romney’s keeping until then.”

  Romney and Fanny planned to leave London for the country in the next couple of days, citing Fanny’s imminent confinement.

  Louisa smiled and shook her head. Romney was, indeed, a changed man if he’d agreed to leave the pleasure haunts of London at the height of the Season for rural domesticity and the squalling of a newborn babe.

  Romney. Her cousin had about as much sensibility as an elephant. She couldn’t bear him to read the journal. Supposing he could read, which was a thing she’d always doubted.

  No, she would not give the journal to her cousin, as Max directed. She’d keep the journal and the translation with her. She would accompany Fanny and Romney home and hand the documents to Max herself.

  A stay in the country would be good for her. It would get her away from him.

  Louisa frowned, banishing the thought immediately. She’d stopped running from Jardine years ago. He would always find her. The man was a natural predator. And she’d learned, to her cost, that the hunt only excited him more.

  Strangely, he hadn’t lingered on the night of his most recent visit. As soon as he’d rung for her maid and given the poor woman a bitingly sarcastic lecture for not taking better care of her mistress, he’d left the house. As far as she knew, his gaze hadn’t turned in the direction of her desk and the sensitive material on it again.

  She couldn’t tell whether Jardine had read the translation. Uneasily, she wondered if he was fluent in Italian. She didn’t think he’d ever mentioned it, but one could never tell what talents Jardine hid up his sleeve. He might well have read and understood the original diary.

  And if he had . . .

  She didn’t know which might be worse—that in one swift glance he’d assimilated the truth of the situation, or that he might think she was the author of those passionate chronicles.

  At times, she told herself he couldn’t have seen enough to draw any conclusion, but she knew his quickness, his finely honed instincts. She couldn’t make herself believe it.

  Carefully, Louisa stacked the pages of her translation. She tied them in a sheaf and locked them in her desk with a key she kept on a small chatelaine at her waist.

  She ought to tell Max what had happened. It might be important. But Max would kill her if he found out she’d had anything to do with Jardine.

  No, she decided. She’d avoid reviving that old animosity at all costs. It might end with one of the stupid oafs killing the other, and she couldn’t bear that. As long as no one knew the truth, she could hold on to her calm existence and to her self-respect.

  She wouldn’t wait for Jardine to make the next move. She’d leave quietly, beg a seat in Fanny’s carriage rather than taking her own.

  God willing, by the time Jardine knew she’d left, she’d be rid of the troublesome diary and the translation as well.

  FOR a mad instant, Max had believed the part he played. He’d believed she was his wife. A deep, savage, possessiveness had overwhelmed him. He’d wanted her too badly to wait.

  Then reality surfaced. The spell broke and he focused once more on the job at hand. Lady Kate was a job, delightful and intriguing though she might be.

  He’d never failed in a mission and he wouldn’t start now. But he could have his cake and eat it, too. As long as he shut out any foolish tenderness he might feel for Lady Kate, he could get the job done. And enjoy himself while he did it.

  He’d sent his own form of blackmail to the lady’s brother. If he didn’t care about his own freedom, Stephen Holt would certainly care about his sister’s.

  But despite Max’s anxiety to resolve this case, he hoped Stephen Holt wouldn’t succumb straightaway. A
few days with his counterfeit wife in this sylvan setting would be no hardship.

  He jogged up the stairs and strode along the corridor to the bedchamber the butler had assigned to Lady Kate. Knowing he couldn’t push matters too far all at once, Max had requested separate bedchambers.

  Bedchambers separated by a connecting door.

  He paused with his hand on the doorknob and briefly fantasized about what he might find if he were a very lucky man. Lady Kate, reclining on a day bed in dishabille, or better yet, gloriously nude, standing by the window with the sunlight glinting gold in her hair.

  He knocked and entered without waiting for her permission, as was a husband’s right. Lady Kate was standing at the window—fully dressed, devil take it—and clearly wanting him gone. Of course. He’d warned her he’d be up shortly, hadn’t he?

  He took off his gloves and laid them on an occasional table, very much at home. “I was serious about resting. You must be tired after all you’ve been through.”

  Her gaze flickered to his gloves and back to him. “If we are to share this room I shall sleep on the floor.”

  He smiled. “Oh, you needn’t do that. Mr. and Mrs. Wetherby are a sophisticated couple. My bedchamber is next door.”

  The relief that swamped her face told him she hadn’t yet discovered the discreet panel that connected the two chambers.

  She wouldn’t remain ignorant for long.

  “I’ve given orders for a bath to be drawn for you,” he said. “One of the manifold comforts of this house is that it boasts a separate bathroom.”

  He let his gaze drift over her body, knowing it was a liberty, an insolence he wouldn’t ordinarily offer to a lady. “Would you like me to help you undress?”

  The mention of the bath made her eyes fill with longing, but wariness swiftly succeeded it. She half turned away. “I am sure one of the maids will do that.”

  She placed her palm on the table beside her as if to steady herself. “You will grant me privacy, Lyle. Give me your word.”