Ignoring the heady scent of flowers and citrus that wafted from her skin, he set about untying the sodden cotton strands, his fingers painstakingly unraveling the set of knots at the top of her corset. “If I were a betting man, I’d say your maid was concerned for your virtue. Her knot-tying skills are to be commended.”
“I would relay your praise of her accomplishment, but I fear your knowledge of the effectiveness of her work would somehow discredit the achievement.”
Edward glanced upward to see the slight lift at the corners of her mouth as she continued to divert her gaze. Was that humor dancing across her lips? Or a tremor of humiliation slipping through a weak façade?
“But of course,” he replied, as he inserted his fingertip into the tangle of swollen cords. Attempting to remove his appendage from its confines, he flicked his wrist ever so slightly to the right—and smacked the large pale mound of her breast.
It was, quite possibly, the most embarrassing moment of the entire day.
He was certain that in such circumstances, a cry of outrage, accompanied by a swift slap across the face, was the proper retribution for his blunder. He clamped his eyes shut to ready himself against the sure sting, but instead of the ringing sound of a hand meeting flesh, his ears were filled with laughter.
It was the damnedest thing.
Opening his eyes, he watched as Miss Farrington shook with mirth, her hand ineffectively muting the amusement pouring from her lips. “I”—she gasped, her shoulders heaving—“I…just, oh, Your Grace. You should have seen the look on your face!”
She erupted into another gale of laughter, as she near fell backward with amusement.
Edward was not inclined toward vanity. But at the present, he sorely wished for a mirror. Had his face truly displayed something deserving of such a comical response? Horror and complete humiliation had most assuredly animated his features, but to evoke amusement? At present, the only thing he found mildly humorous was how badly he wished to not only untangle the cords on her stays, but remove them entirely.
“My apologies,” he began, but was silenced by her shaking head and waving hand.
“No.” She giggled. “Please. There is no need.” She clutched her chest before erupting into another fit of delightful, albeit confusing, laughter. Had the girl completely lost her senses?
“Miss Farrington? Are you quite well?”
“Quite well?” she asked, her eyes twinkling. “If having one’s ankle hurt like the devil while sitting soaking wet in my most intimate of garments, after having an attractive and endearing man brush his hand across my bosom is quite well…then yes, I suppose I am.”
He felt the tickle in his throat only seconds before his own laughter erupted. She thought him attractive? And endearing? Not the horrible English duke with polluted bloodlines?
His success made him giddy. He had pierced the rigid box she had created for him, had broken down its walls and triumphed despite his aristocratic birth and the poor examples of English character represented through Burnham and Westbrook. He stood victorious in his achievements, and yet, all of it would be worth nothing when she learned of his past and the ties that bound him to the Seraphina and the death of her beloved brother.
He wrapped an arm around his middle and ceased his laughter. “As much I enjoy our revelry, Miss Farrington, I fear my body can no longer stand the chill. I am in desperate need of the fire and I imagine that you are as well.”
She nodded. “Indeed, I am. Though, I wish for you to call me Daphne. Miss Farrington seems so formal after, well…” Her cheeks burned red. “After what has transpired. Now, would you like to remove your clothing first, or should I?”
Chapter Thirteen
Flushing, Daphne waited for the duke’s reply. It had been a simple and innocent enough question, especially given their present circumstances. But somehow her voice had gone all breathy and the question had sounded more seductive than it had light-hearted.
And yet, given the way the duke’s breeches clung to his muscular thighs and tight rounded buttocks, her breathy tone may have been more appropriate than she originally thought.
His Grace spun toward the fire, giving her full view of his distracting and well-proportioned backside. Clearing his throat, he croaked, “Ladies, first. And Daphne, please call me Edward.”
Her heart warmed at the sound of her name on his lips, the organ near pounding out of her chest. “Yes, right,” she replied, working her fingers into the cord he had so easily unknotted. Her cheeks burned at the memory of his hands in so intimate an area. How would it have felt if his hand had not slipped in its task, but had intentionally touched her breast? Had gently cupped her with the palm of his large hand?
She shook her head and began to wiggle out of the stiff and wet confines of the short stay she had worn to complement her butter yellow gown. She glanced down at the floorboards to where the dress, now more brown than yellow, lay in a sodden heap, the delicate lace trim on the sleeves tattered. Setting her stay beside her on the bed, she reached for the white linen shirt the duke had scavenged from the trunk. “Almost finished,” she called, pulling the soft, dry cloth over her head.
The shirt smelled of him. Of cloves, spice, and a manly musk scent that reminded her of the duke and the duke alone. Glancing over at the fire where he still stood motionless, his back facing the room, she couldn’t help but smile. He was a man of his word. Honest. Sincere. And one she could trust.
He also held her heart. Daphne inhaled, her breath catching at the revelation. As silly as the sentiment seemed, she knew it to be true. She had fallen in love with an Englishman, in particular, one very handsome and patient duke.
“There is no need to rush,” he replied, his hands at his sides. “Standing by the fire has helped immensely.”
She was certain that the fire’s heat was, indeed, beneficial but she still fumbled with the buttons in her haste to make herself decent. It was only fair that he, too, find comfort outside of his clothing as quickly as possible. Taking care with her ankle, she pulled on a pair of breeches, and wiggled under a pile of blankets the duke had placed on top of the bed.
“Finished,” she cried, her voice muffled by a layer of cotton. “My eyes are closed should you wish to undress.”
She was a horrible liar, but with the quick removal of his breeches, His Grace didn’t appear to know that. Had he not continued to face the glowing embers and dying flames of the fire, he would have seen two very open and very wide eyes peering over the edge of a quilted blanket, contradicting her words, and making them very false, indeed.
She really ought not to breach his trust. After all, Daphne would have been furious had he snuck a peek while she was disrobing. But she had never seen a man undress, let alone the anatomy revealed by his lack of clothing. Though she had been raised by three men, all had taken great lengths to maintain modesty while in her presence.
Perhaps if she had been exposed to such things, her curiosity of the male form would have been sated and she would not be so entranced by the example before her. With lean legs, muscular arms, and a taut backside, the duke appeared the flesh and blood counterpart of the marble statues placed throughout the estate, as if the Italian or Greek masters had used him as their model for masculine perfection. He was, without question, a breathtaking example of the male sex.
And with a sudden flick of his eyes and twist of his body, he was also very aware of her appreciative observation.
Surprise flitted across his features before amusement wrinkled his face and colored his voice. “Might I trouble you for a blanket?”
He stood without shame, his hands at his hips, his male anatomy fully exposed.
And all Daphne could do was stare.
It was as if the connection between her head and limbs had stopped working. She had heard his question, had even processed his request, and yet, she could not will her eyes to close or her hands to move.
“Daphne?” A wide grin split his face. “Is there something amiss?”
If her mouth were able to shape around the words swirling in her head, she might have been able to snap off some indignant or witty retort. Or even blush at her unabashed gawking. But all she could muster was, “No.”
“Then I don’t suppose you could hand me something to cover myself? While the fire is warm, I believe it won’t last much longer. There is no more wood left in the box.”
She closed her eyes and shook her head in an effort to reclaim her thoughts. Willing her mouth to open and her hands to move, she felt around for the nearest edge of the blanket. “Yes, yes, of course.”
His cool fingers brushed against hers as he lifted the cloth from her outstretched hand. “If you are not warm enough on the bed, you are more than welcome to join me by what is left of the fire.”
Daphne swallowed. Hard.
He was nude, for heaven’s sake, save for the soft layer of cotton that was surely wrapped around him. And she—well, she might have been naked herself for all that she wore. Sitting in front of glowing embers while huddling together for body warmth would test the self-restraint of even the holiest of saints.
And with the image of his naked body fresh in her memory, she was most definitely not a saint.
With her eyes still clenched shut, she mumbled, “The blankets are quite sufficient.” And they were. At least to a degree. Their warmth, along with the change of dry clothing, had helped ease the deep chill that had begun to settle into her bones. The sort of chill that still chattered her teeth at the most inopportune moments. Such as now.
Silence filled the room before strong arms wrapped around her stomach and under her bottom, lifting her with relative ease. “I do believe you are telling me a falsehood, Daphne Farrington.”
“I am not!” she gasped, her eyes fluttering open. “What in heaven are you doing?” He had her tight against his chest and at least four feet above the ground.
“Making use of what is left of our poor excuse of a fire.”
“I told you,” she insisted, clutching his neck as he moved a little too swiftly toward the hearth. “The blankets are quite sufficient. They simply need a moment to warm.”
“Which they can do more effectively in front of the grate.”
Daphne rolled her eyes as he gently lowered her to the warm panels of floorboard just outside the reach of the flickering flames. The fire might be dying, but the heat emanating from both him and the hearth was instant, and she was immediately grateful for his stubborn persistence.
Not that she would ever admit to it.
He sat down beside her, his own blanket wrapped around his waist. “Our clothes will likely not dry before the flames burn out. I fear you will have to ride back to Thornhaven in a wet gown.”
Daphne shrugged and angled her bottom a bit closer to the fire. “It will be in keeping with the truth. I will not deny that I went for a walk and was caught out in the rain. Or that I sought shelter during the brunt of the storm.” She huddled under the blanket and smiled. “I will simply not elaborate on the details. They needn’t know that you…assisted me to such lengths.”
The duke glanced toward the small window where rain still slapped against the panes. “The best lies carry an element of truth.”
“That would be true if I were, indeed, telling a falsehood. But my explanation is truth. I am simply omitting key details.”
He brought his eyes to hers. “I was referring to myself.”
Daphne lifted her chin. “Were you planning to lie about our encounter?”
His face sobered. “No. You have my full protection, Daphne. Should any questions arise, I would not hesitate to offer for you.”
But only then. Not before.
The words were unspoken, but loud enough for her to hear them. One needn’t read minds to see the conflict in his eyes or the discomfort in his voice.
She was, after all, a nobody from the former colonies. An American girl who had, prior to yesterday’s outing, never been kissed, much less courted by a man, especially one of such high standing. Who was she to think, with her impetuous nature, and off-putting manners, that she was worthy enough to garner the attentions of a duke?
“I doubt such drastic measures will need to be taken,” Daphne replied, pulling the blanket tight across her shoulders. “We have both behaved decorously.” Well, at least he had. She doubted taking long and admiring views of a man’s naked body lay within the boundaries of proper manners.
The duke leaned over and tucked a wet strand of hair behind her ear. “But I don’t want to.”
“Don’t want to what?” she asked, sucking in her breath. Marry her? Invest in her family’s company? Be in the same room as her?
His thumb trailed along the curve of her jaw. “I don’t want to behave decorously.”
Her heart hammered. She was so close to him. Close enough to see the golden swirls of hair dusting his chest and feel the heat of his hands on her face. A torrent of curiosity, anger, and desire stirred within her, their forces a tempest of emotion she no longer had the strength to control.
“Then don’t.”
The words were hardly out of her mouth before his lips seized hers with greedy abandon. His tongue, hot and sweet, flicked across her mouth with a hunger that demanded entrance. And dear God, she gave it to him.
Shrugging off the warm confines of her blanket, she thrust her fingers into his hair and pulled his body against her. His bare chest rubbed the thin layer of her shirt, eliciting a deep growl from his throat.
“Daphne.” His mouth left hers to make a trail of feather light kisses down her neck. “You severely test a man’s limitations.”
A flood of yearning, of a deep and carnal desire, surged through her with every swipe of his tongue and nip of his teeth. Heat moistened the intimate place between her thighs, fueling a craving for more than just kisses and tender embraces.
She wanted him. Not the title, his riches, or the protection of his name.
Just him. Just Edward.
Daphne lifted his face, gently tugging on his hair, as she took one full lip between her teeth. His answering moan attested to her efforts.
“Daphne, I”—the duke swallowed, his heavy-lidded eyes dark with desire—“I—”
Whatever words he was about to utter, she silenced with her mouth over his, tasting him as his hands brushed over her exposed left shoulder, slipping the overly large shirt down and exposing her breast.
Her breath caught, her back arching her chest toward him and into his warm grasp. She wanted him to touch her, to hold her where no man had ventured before. “Edward,” she whispered, testing out the sound of his name. “Please.”
And God Almighty. He complied.
His thumb brushed over her nipple, the small motion bringing forth a new wave of heated desire that made her breath catch and her body tremble.
“God, Daphne, you make this so damn difficult.”
She ran her fingers over the corded muscles of his arm, pausing after they dipped over each ripple. “Then perhaps I should make it a tad easier for you.” She slipped her hand behind his head and pressed her lips against the cool flesh of his ear.
His sharp intake of breath and shuddering chest bolstered her confidence and sent her well of desire to overflowing. Flinging one of her legs over his lap, she straddled him, reveling in the freedom brought by the baggy set of breeches slipping off her hips. The hard length of his arousal throbbed against her thigh, emboldening her to rock her hips against it.
“Does this help?”
Edward’s entire body went rigid, his skin bristling against her touch. With firm hands, he grabbed her around the waist and detached her from his lap to set her squarely on the floor.
“No,” he grunted. “It doesn’t help at all.”
…
His knowledge of French, Greek, and Latin aside, Edward could not think of a language with which to better express his present frustrations than his preferred and native King’s English. So it was, with the very tongue that had only mere s
econds before been occupied in tracing the delightful curve of Daphne’s neck, he uttered his sentiments.
“Bloody hell.”
What the devil was wrong with him? He had a beautiful woman sitting half-undressed on the floor, ready and willing to offer herself, and his conscience chose now to assert itself?
Bloody hell.
“Have I done something wrong?” Her whispered words brought his eyes to hers. God, she was beautiful.
And young. And far too trusting.
“No,” he assured in a pathetic attempt to soothe the concern and vulnerability in her gaze. He rocked back onto his heels and shoved a hand through his hair. “I, however, have behaved indecorously and need to apologize for my transgression and the abuse of your trust.”
“Indecorously?” she repeated, staring at him as if he had not only spoken in French, but had lost his damn foul mind because of it.
Perhaps he had. Perhaps exploring her soft curves and tasting of their pleasures was not altogether wrong. He could make allowances for their desires, convince himself that he was simply giving her what she demanded. What he knew she yearned for.
But then, he would only be proving her earlier assumptions about ducal arrogance correct.
“Indecorously,” he affirmed, hoping the repetition of the word would somehow strengthen his resolve and make the whole damn mess of things a little less awkward. “I am sorry for my lapse of judgment.”
And he was. For even if every inch of his skin screamed for her touch, and his body demanded to be joined with hers, she deserved better than a quick romp on a dusty hard floor. She deserved what she had demanded from him since their first meeting in Burnham’s dank office—his respect.
Daphne pulled the frayed edge of the blanket to her chest. “You wish to apologize?” Disbelief clung to every syllable, confusion tainted every word.
It was no wonder. He was having a hard time making sense of all this himself. But if everything else was a little hazed and not quite focused, one ideal stood crystalline clear. He was a gentleman. And he would remain one. Even if a goddess incarnate sat before him with her lips slightly parted and her shirt pooled around her waist.
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