Project Duchess

by Jeffries, Sabrina

  “You lost your brother and father in one fell swoop?” he asked, sympathy in his voice.

  “Pretty much.” She searched his face. “Rather like your losing your entire family in one fell swoop, only to have them supplanted by strangers.”

  He merely nodded, then quickened his pace. “So, how far is this bridge, anyway?”

  The man could be decidedly uncommunicative. Perhaps it was a characteristic of dukes. Uncle Armie had never spoken to her of anything except how he liked her gown, how it made her breasts look bigger and her behind smaller . . . intimate statements that had invariably embarrassed her.

  Somehow she couldn’t imagine Greycourt saying such rude things. Though he could be officious, that was a different sort of rude. It wasn’t vulgar.

  They’d walked a few more steps in silence when she felt something give way in her half-boot. One of her laces had broken.

  “Blast it all!” she cried. Recently she’d noticed it was fraying and had been meaning to replace it, but not soon enough.

  Then she realized she’d cursed aloud. In front of the duke.

  But instead of disapproving, he burst into laughter. “You have a very colorful vocabulary, madam.”

  She blushed to the roots of her hair. “That’s what happens when one spends all one’s time around men who don’t govern their language.”

  “Not my stepfather, I hope.”

  “No. Just Joshua and Uncle Armie.” She sighed. “When I said bad words as a child, Grandmama used to frown and say I was as naughty a saucebox as Papa had been. I do try to watch my language. I just don’t always succeed.”

  He chuckled. “What made you fail this time?”

  She pointed to her boot. “I’ve broken a lace.”

  “Ah.” He followed the direction of her finger. “So you have.”

  She gazed up at him hopefully. “I don’t suppose you have any extra laces or even string in those capacious pockets of yours?”

  “Sadly, no. But I do have a cravat.”

  “What good will that do?”

  “I’ll show you.”

  He led her to a fallen oak trunk, tugging the dogs along with him. Handing her the leashes, he removed his greatcoat and spread it over the massive log with the outside down. Then he began to unknot his cravat. “Sit here and remove your shoe with the broken lace.”

  “I can walk with it like this. I’ll merely have to go more slowly.”

  “Nonsense. You could easily turn your ankle if your boot is ill-laced, especially on this uneven ground.”

  She was used to always having to look after her own needs, to manage under difficult circumstances. It felt odd to have a gentleman being so solicitous of her. “Truly, there’s no need for you to sully your—”

  “Sit!” he said firmly.

  All three dogs dropped onto their haunches. The startled look on the duke’s face tickled her so much that she burst into laughter. After a second, Grey joined in, while the dogs sat patiently, waiting for the next command.

  “As I said,” Grey remarked once he stopped laughing, “the hounds are very well trained.”

  “They ought to be. I trained them.” When he blinked, she said, “Don’t look so astonished. We don’t have the luxury of hiring a man to do it. As it is, MacTilly’s hands are full with the feeding and breeding, and Joshua’s hands are full with managing the rest of the gamekeeper’s duties. So I help where I can.” She scratched Hector’s head. “I trained these three fellows myself.”

  “I see.” Grey waved his hand at the log. “If you would please take a seat . . .”

  “What, have you given up on commanding me like the dogs?” she quipped.

  “Beatrice, I beg of you to sit down,” he said, his tone a bit testy.

  That only made her want to tease him more, though she did at least perch on his coat before saying, “Whatever Your Grace wishes.”

  “Watch it, minx, or I will hold you to that one day. And given your recalcitrant nature, that won’t end well.”

  “Me! I’m no more recalcitrant than you.”

  “True.” He knelt on one knee to remove her boot, then took her stockinged foot and set it on his other knee.

  His hand lingered on her ankle, the warmth of his fingers practically searing her through the stockinet. Yet it could not have been more than a second before he moved his hand away to focus on unlacing the half-boot he now held in both hands.

  By propping her foot up, he was merely behaving as a gentleman who didn’t wish her to ruin her stockings on the leaf-littered ground. She was certain of that. Still, there was something very intimate about having her heel resting on his thigh. His very muscular thigh.

  But he didn’t seem to notice the impropriety of it, even when the dogs began whining, as if to chide him. He merely knelt there and worked on her boot without appearing to be remotely concerned that his cravat hung loose, exposing part of his neck and throat.

  Both of which fascinated her. She wished she could reach out and touch his prominent Adam’s apple. Or perhaps the hollow below it, which seemed wonderfully formed for placing one’s lips—

  She dragged her gaze away. Lord, but it was suddenly warm in the woods. She forced herself to focus on how he was now re-lacing her boot with the shortened lace.

  “That’s not going to work,” she said. “The lace broke too low.”

  “I know.”

  He pulled his cravat from about his neck, drawing her attention back to that lovely expanse of bared male flesh. Then he slid her boot on and began to wrap his cravat tightly—but not too tightly—about her ankle, starting at the bottom near her foot and working his way up to beneath the leather cuff, where he tied it off.

  Dear Lord. Lifting her gaze to his face, she colored as she saw him watching her.

  “See something you like?” he asked in a low rumble.

  And as usual when she was taken off guard, she blurted out the first thing that came to her mind. “Why? Do you?”

  She’d intended it to come out as cold and sarcastic, but instead it sounded like a throaty invitation, even to her ears.

  And she knew he’d heard it when his eyes darkened, then dropped to fix on her lips. “Yes. Definitely yes.”

  Devil take it, she should never have said such a thing. What must he think of her? What would he—

  Her thoughts shattered as he leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers.

  Lord save her, he was kissing her. The Duke of blasted Greycourt himself was kissing her! And it wasn’t like anything she’d have expected. His kiss was light, tentative, as if he waited for her to push him away.

  But she was incapable of that. Oh, heavens, the feel of his mouth covering hers, tasting and testing as if to determine how soft were her lips, was a heady sensation unlike any other.

  And who could have known that a kiss one actually desired could be so . . . intoxicating? That smelling his spicy cologne would make her heart flip over? That feeling his hand slide behind her neck to hold her still would not only not alarm her but spur a wild need to rise through her body and clamor for more?

  Half in a trance, she let the dogs’ leashes slip from her fingers so she could place her hand on Grey’s shoulder, accidentally knocking off his hat. He didn’t seem to notice. With a guttural moan, he pulled her forward a little, forcing her foot to fall off his knee. Then his lips were coaxing hers open, and his tongue was sliding into her mouth.

  This joining of lips and mouths and tongues was amazing—unfamiliar and a bit unusual, but enjoyable nonetheless. Her hand slipped down to his chest, and the feel of his heart pounding through the fabric beneath her fingers incited her to be bold, to twirl her tongue with his and throw herself into the conflagration he’d ignited in her body.

  So this was what it was like to be kissed, truly kissed.

  Suddenly, she felt something tugging her arm away. At first, she thought it was Grey, but when she then felt another something snuffling her hand, she realized what it was.

  T
he dogs. They were jealous or bored or wanted attention.

  Whatever the case, it meant this delicious interval was over. And judging from how the duke pulled away and muttered a curse under his breath, it was over for good.

  He rose and took a step back, raking his fingers through his hair. “Forgive me, Miss Wolfe. That was most rude of me, and I swear it will never happen again.”

  The way he loomed over her made her self-conscious—that, and the fact that he was calling her Miss Wolfe again and behaving as if the kiss was a mistake. It hadn’t felt like a mistake. Perhaps if she’d thought of it as a prelude to something else, she would realize how unwise it had been, but she’d been thinking of it more as a delightful experiment. One she wouldn’t mind repeating.

  Which apparently was never going to happen.

  With a word to the dogs to stop their grousing, she grabbed their leashes and stood, smoothing her skirts as she struggled to keep her thoughts to herself. “I thought you and I agreed never to apologize to each other, Your Grace.”

  “For what we say, not what we do,” he bit out. “I’m not the sort of man to kiss a woman I’ve only known for two days.”

  “I understand,” she said, desperate to halt the insulting flow of his words before the wounds he was casually inflicting succeeded in reaching her heart.

  “No, I don’t think you do. I’d never intentionally take advantage of—”

  “Was it that awful?” she snapped, unable to contain herself any longer. “Am I that incapable of pleasing a man like you?”

  He blinked at her, then swore under his breath. “It wasn’t remotely awful. You far exceeded my expectations in that respect, trust me.”

  Well. That eased the pressure in her chest. A little.

  “Then why are you apologizing?” she asked, though she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. “I don’t regret it. Why should you?”

  He blew out a breath. “Because I had no right.”

  A sudden thought came into her head that was so awful she of course blurted it right out. “You’re engaged to another.”

  “No! No, I’m not betrothed to anyone.”

  She stared at him, trying to make sense of his behavior. Then she forced a light smile to her lips. “It was merely a kiss, not a profession of undying love. Rest assured I would never expect a man of your wealth and rank to consider marrying the orphaned daughter of a scandalous scapegrace—the impoverished sister of a gamekeeper—merely because we have relations in common.”

  “We are not remotely related,” he growled.

  He would point that out, if only to torment her further. “Not by blood, no. But we have mutual connections who might wish . . . who would prefer . . .” Lord, she was babbling. “My point is, I’m not that much of a fool. It’s as I told you at dinner two nights ago: I’m not looking to make a splash in society. I merely hope to find some vicar or physician in need of a circumspect wife.”

  His features darkened. “Because you are nothing if not ‘circumspect,’” he said acidly.

  Her blood ran cold. How dared the man get angry at her? He was the one who’d just fallen all over himself trying to explain why he hadn’t meant anything by their kiss.

  She was gearing up to give him a piece of her mind when the dogs fortunately began tugging on the leashes.

  “You’re welcome to think what you want,” she said, tossing off the words with what she thought was admirable nonchalance, “but do it while we walk. The rascals are growing restless, and I assume you still wish to see the bridge. So unless you want Mr. MacTilly wondering what the devil has happened to me, we should go on.”

  He caught her by the arm before she could leave. “Beatrice, I didn’t mean to insult you.”

  Oh, Lord, if he kept talking one more minute she was going to cry, and she never cried. “There was no insult, Grey. Honestly, you’re placing far more significance on one kiss than is warranted.”

  He searched her face as if trying to ascertain her true feelings. And that would not do. Pasting a falsely pleasant smile to her lips, she tugged her arm from his grip so she could gesture toward the path. “Shall we?”

  After picking up his hat and dusting it off, he murmured, “Ladies—and dogs—first.”

  Great. Now, he wanted to play the gentleman.

  Holding her head high, she stalked up the trail ahead of him. Let him play the gentleman if he pleased. But next time he gave her his melting look and lowered his mouth to hers, she wouldn’t be so complacent. Clearly, he wasn’t a gentleman, but another version of her uncle, or for that matter, her dogs. Grey might be more polite and his attentions might be more subtle and inviting, but in the end, she was still just the object of his illicit desires and naught else.

  She’d had enough of that to last her a lifetime.

  Chapter Eight

  Grey followed Beatrice with his blood in high riot. Holy hell, he’d made a hash of that. What had he been thinking, to kiss a woman like her? He’d let his worst impulses get the best of him.

  Now, instead of coaxing her into feeling easy with him so he could learn enough to show Sheridan how mad his suspicions were, Grey had put her on her guard. But he hadn’t planned to find her so refreshing. Entertaining. Damn-it-to-hell desirable. His good intentions had flown out the window the minute his mouth had met hers.

  It was merely a kiss.

  God help him, not a mere kiss. What they’d done had been dancing and delight, fireworks and fantasy. Yet even as he’d plundered her mouth, he’d felt a perverse pain running through his pleasure.

  Because he’d known she wasn’t for him. He’d heard her tell her brother she wanted a love match, which Grey wouldn’t give her. Not for nothing had he stood up to his uncle’s bullying year after year to save what was rightfully his. Years of schooling himself to nonchalance had instilled in him an inability to care.

  But a woman like Beatrice would never allow him to keep his feelings private. She’d dig until she knew all his secrets and emotions, until she left him no choice but to split himself open to let her inside.

  The hell she would.

  It was just as well she assumed he wouldn’t marry her because she was penniless and beneath him. Better that than for her to guess the truth—that his heart had atrophied. If he could keep her regarding him as a pompous, arrogant arse, he’d be safe from her probing.

  Unfortunately, his damned cock ignored his sound arguments. It followed after her like those bloody mindless dogs. Even now, the sight of her hips swaying down the path ahead of him made him harden in his drawers.

  Clearly, he’d been too long without a woman in his bed.

  She halted on the path to look back at him. “We’re almost there,” she said, pointing ahead to where the woods opened out into a field. “It’s not far now.”

  The sound of rushing water reached his ears. He was about to see the place where Maurice had died. The thought sent the same chill through him that witnessing Maurice’s body had done.

  But as they reached the riverbank and Grey viewed the infamous spot, he felt nothing. No ghostly presence. Not even a sense of Maurice. Some part of him had almost hoped he might. Instead, it was just an old wooden bridge with a section of missing rails where his stepfather had fallen through.

  Yes, an old bridge. That gave him pause. When Sheridan had said the bridge was sturdy, he’d exaggerated. From where Grey stood on the bank, the planks looked rough and worn, and the railings seemed flimsy.

  And there was one other curious feature. “Where does that lead?” He pointed to where their path merged into a dirt track coming in from beyond the woods.

  “It’s the carriage road to Armitage Hall. It’s more circuitous than the shortcut through the woods, and joins up with the drive leading out to the main road.”

  “So someone could drive to the bridge without ever being seen.”

  “Yes, but they couldn’t cross it.”

  “Ah. Not sturdy enough for that, I suppose.”

  “Actually,” B
eatrice said, “the bridge is plenty sturdy. It’s just not wide enough for any equipage to pass comfortably. But if you want to go out on it, you can. It’s only the railing that’s gone in that one spot.”

  Thankfully, she had misinterpreted his interest in the soundness of the bridge.

  She went on. “And I need to cross and walk up to my house anyway so I can change my boot lace and return your cravat to you. If you’d like to wait here—”

  “I would, thank you.”

  She nodded. “I’ll take the dogs with me.”

  No doubt she wanted to give him privacy and quiet for communing with his late stepfather. That was just as well. It would allow him to examine the site of the accident without her prying eyes.

  Her behavior did tell him one thing—Sheridan had been right about Beatrice not being complicit in anything. Because if she had been part of some scheme, she wouldn’t have wanted to bring Grey here, and she certainly wouldn’t have suggested leaving him alone.

  He walked with her and the dogs onto the bridge, then waited until they’d disappeared up the bank on the other side before he started poking about. As she’d said, the bridge seemed perfectly capable of holding a man’s weight, despite its ragged appearance. The railings, however, were questionable. When he pulled on one, he felt a bit of give. So Maurice could have fallen through into the river.

  Grey would have preferred to examine the broken rails themselves, but they’d apparently gone into the water with Maurice, leaving only a gaping hole. He did examine the posts, but saw no evidence of cuts. The rails were broken off on either end. Strange that such a sizeable section had gone into the river. But then, Maurice had been a large fellow.

  Next, Grey went down to the water. It looked deep enough to drown in, especially at night, with the current rushing. The rivers had supposedly been swollen from recent rains, and sadly Maurice had never learned to swim.

  Grey gazed up at the bridge from underneath, but could see no obvious structural problems—no holes, no missing planks. So what would make Maurice trip while walking along a perfectly level bridge with a lantern?

  Perhaps something had startled him. There were wild boars hereabouts. If one had run onto the bridge, Maurice might have backed into the rails or even fallen against them. Unlikely, but possible.