Project Duchess

by Jeffries, Sabrina

  “Does your brother know of this spot?”

  “No. I wouldn’t know of it if not for helping my uncle sort out the bills for the landscape fellow.” It began to dawn on her what had prompted the question. “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason.” The wariness in his eyes belied his words.

  “Tell the truth—you’re asking because you believe Joshua stood here,” she hissed. “That he lay in wait for Uncle Armie the night of his death.”

  Grey crossed his arms over his chest. “Why would I believe that?”

  She stared him down. “At least have the courtesy not to pretend ignorance to my face. I overheard you and Sheridan discussing my brother the day you and I danced privately together.”

  As Grey released a coarse oath, Beatrice drew in a long, ragged breath. “You believe that my brother murdered my uncle.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Damn it all to hell. She’d known all this time?

  To Grey’s relief, at that moment they heard Wolfe and Gwyn talking as they made their slow way down the path past the entrance to the clearing. So he and Beatrice were forced to keep quiet, which gave him time to gather his shattered thoughts.

  He should have seen this coming. Initially he’d been afraid that Beatrice might have heard him and Sheridan discussing her brother. But after days had passed and she hadn’t said or implied anything, he’d been lulled into believing his fears were unfounded. He’d simply assumed that her cool manner stemmed from his refusal to consider marrying her. Clearly, he’d been wrong.

  As the sound of Wolfe’s and Gwyn’s voices and footfalls receded, he murmured, “I’m sorry, Beatrice. I didn’t mean to—”

  “Blame my brother for someone’s accidental death?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Of course you did. Never mind that he served his country—and this estate—admirably. He was a decorated officer before he was wounded. Now he’s practically a hermit and snarls at everyone, so he’s the logical choice for a villain. If one is looking for a villain, which apparently you two are. Though I can’t imagine why.”

  “Can’t you? You certainly do your best to avoid talking about him, as well as your uncle.”

  She looked away. “I just . . . I don’t know what to say about him. Joshua is obviously unhappy. But that doesn’t mean he killed Uncle Armie!” Wrapping her arms about herself, she gazed at him. “And I don’t like talking about Uncle Armie because I don’t want to speak ill of the dead.”

  That again. “You didn’t mind speaking ill of the dead when you were telling me of your uncle’s lording it over you and your brother.”

  “Those were your words, not mine. It was an accident.” She sounded as if she was trying to convince herself. “I brought you in here to tell you that you’re wrong about Joshua. He isn’t guilty of anything but being a grump.” Her breath grew ragged, hoarse. “So you can stop your flirting and your compliments and your . . . your cozying up to me and all of that. It’s not going to make me c-confirm your suspicions. Because they’re not true.”

  “What the hell?” He stepped up close to her. “I didn’t ‘cozy’ up to you because of Sheridan’s suspicions. Good God, what kind of man do you think I am?”

  When she thrust her face up to his, he saw the hurt glittering in her eyes, and it fairly slayed him.

  “I think,” she choked out, “that you’re a man used to doing whatever he must to get what he wants, even if it means saying . . . lovely things to the ridiculous sister of . . . the man you suspect.” She bit her lower lip. “To your brother’s . . . ‘self-conscious, awkward cousin.’”

  Holy hell, this was worse than he’d thought—she’d actually heard Sheridan’s guesses about why Grey would never marry a woman like her.

  He grabbed her by the shoulders. “Those were Sheridan’s words, not mine. And I have never thought you awkward or ridiculous. You can’t really believe I pretended to desire you just to learn more about your brother.”

  That impertinent chin of hers came up again. “You were the one who told your brother: ‘How the devil do you expect me to find out about Wolfe’s involvement with the deaths if I can’t speak to Beatrice alone?’” She glowered at him. “Your so-called desire was all part of your scheme to help my cousin learn the truth. Although I daresay he wouldn’t approve of the tactics you used in trying to find it out.”

  “No,” Grey bit out, “he wouldn’t approve. And neither would I. I’d never use a woman in such a fashion. Which is why I tried to resist my worst impulses with you.” His gaze dropped to her trembling lips. “But I failed. Even now, I want only to kiss you until you see exactly what nonsense your assumption is.”

  Jerking free of him, she strode across the clearing to stand next to the stone bench. When she turned her back to him, her shoulders shook. “That would hardly prove anything. You’ve already demonstrated you’re perfectly capable of feigning desire when it suits you.”

  “Damn it, I was not fei—” He dragged one hand down his face. Stalking up to her, he slipped an arm about her waist from behind and lowered his voice. “I know you felt the same things I did when we were dancing.”

  Her body trembled in his arms. “Yes, you’re a master at seduction, so good that you get caught up in the illusion. But if you had a choice, a man with . . . with your experience would not—”

  “My experience is what has taught me how rare a woman you are.”

  Damn, he couldn’t believe he was spouting these things. How his brothers would laugh! Yet the thought that she believed herself incapable of tempting a man beyond reason, that he could have wounded her so deeply . . .

  He tightened his hold on her, aware she didn’t resist as he wrapped his other arm about her waist to pull her against him.

  Her voice fell to a ragged murmur. “I’m a nobody to you.”

  “Clearly not.” He untied her bonnet, then stripped it from her head and dropped it onto the bench so he could nuzzle her hair. “Do you think I tramp about the woods every day with nobodies? Or spend hours teaching them how to dance?”

  “When it suits you,” she whispered.

  “Initially, Sheridan wanted to be the one to help with your come-out lessons, so he asked me to spy on your brother. I persuaded him to let me help teach you instead of him. Do you wish to hear why?”

  “Not particularly,” she said with a sniff.

  “Because you’d already made me want to know you better, with your teasing and tart remarks and impudence.” And later, her sympathy for his feelings. “How could I not be intrigued by a woman with so many talents?”

  She uttered a self-mocking laugh. “What talents? The ability to train dogs? I daresay you have twenty such men in your employ. And I’ve already shown that I’m woefully inexperienced in social etiquette.”

  “Anyone can learn such niceties.” He bent his head to kiss her ear, then her cheek, reveling in the stuttering breath that escaped her. God, she made him harder than stone. How could she not see that his desire for her was genuine? “But your other talents are part of your character. Like your loyalty to family, your deft ability to manage tradesmen, and your knowledge of how an estate works. You’ve kept this household going ever since our family came here and without antagonizing any of them. Given the fractious nature of my relations, that’s quite a feat.”

  As she softened against him, he gave in to the urge to cover one of her breasts with his hand. He rubbed it, then lowered his other hand to rub her between her thighs.

  When she moaned, he caressed her more eagerly through her clothes. If only he could strip them from her, urge her onto that bench, and seduce her like the heedless rakehell some thought him to be. “I desire you with a maddening intensity.”

  She laid her hand over his as if to move it aside, but instead urged him to stroke harder, her body undulating against him. “If you desire me . . . it’s only because you wish . . . to make me your . . . mistress.”

  “God forbid.”

  She pivoted in his arms to glare at
him. “So I’m not even good enough for that.”

  He caught her head in his hands. “You’re too good, more like. You deserve better than ruination.”

  “How can you say that when you can’t even bring yourself to offer marriage?”

  The pain in her voice tore through him. “Won’t bring myself. There’s a profound difference. It’s a choice I’m making because . . . because . . .”

  “Of Joshua,” she whispered, her expression shadowed.

  “That has naught to do with it. I just know I can’t be the husband you want and need. No matter how much I might wish to.”

  Temper flared in her wide, soulful eyes. “Then why do you keep touching and kissing me, knowing it will come to naught? I can see only one reason—you’re hoping to get me to betray my bro—”

  “It’s because I can’t keep my hands off you, damn it!” he cried, then cursed himself for admitting so much. “Do you think I’m proud of that? I assure you I am not. I’m known for my self-control. It’s the reason the gossips spin tales about me—because they’re hoping to see me squirm.”

  Bending his face to hers, he murmured, “Yet each time you and I are together, I want . . . I need . . . I have to have . . .” He took her mouth in a hard, hungry kiss before pulling back. “You. With me.”

  At his words, Beatrice felt a flutter in her chest, then despaired at her susceptibility. How could the man so easily melt her bones? She wanted his mouth on hers again, his hands stroking her, she wanted . . .

  The same things he wanted, apparently. If she dared believe him.

  He continued in a hard rasp, “And it has nothing to do with your brother or Sheridan’s theories about murder.” He slid a hand down the front of her, skimming her breast, then her ribs, then her hips before snaking it behind her derriere to tug her against him so she could feel the arousal in his trousers. “It has only to do with you and me. How much we desire each other.” Brushing her lips with his, he murmured, “How much we desire this, as unwise as it is.”

  This time when he kissed her, he took no quarter, drowning her in a need as forceful as a wave pounding the shore. His tongue claimed every inch of her mouth even as his hands roamed and stroked and explored.

  She grabbed at his shoulders, then his neck, going up on tiptoe to drug him with her own kisses. She didn’t care if she could never be his duchess. All she knew was he was taking her mouth with the desire of a man who had no rank, no expectations . . . except that she yield to him. And, Lord help her, she was.

  Through the fog of her pleasure, she felt him tug her scarf from around her neck and drop it on the bench next to her. Then he broke the kiss, only to drag his parted lips down her cheek to her neck, where he tongued the hollow of her throat, making her pulse jump and her blood run so hot that she didn’t at first notice him inching her redingote and petticoat up her thigh on one side.

  But she definitely noticed when he slipped his hand behind her knee and pulled her leg up so he could prop her foot on the bench. It opened her thighs in a most scandalous fashion, which he instantly took advantage of, settling her redingote and petticoat on her bent leg so he could get at the same place he’d been fondling earlier—her honeypot, as she knew men sometimes called it.

  Now she realized why, for when he ran one finger down the cleft, she realized she was slick as melted honey there, in the spot that ached for him. “Grey . . . I’m not sure this is . . . wise.”

  “No, not wise.” He nuzzled her throat. He dipped his finger inside her, and she gasped, which made the cursed fellow chuckle. “You like that, do you?”

  “Yes . . . oh yes . . . Grey, please . . . please . . .”

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he said, his voice deliciously husky. “I will show you delights beyond compare. If you’ll let me.”

  She clasped his shoulders. “Right now, I’ll let you do anything you want,” she admitted shamelessly.

  “Don’t say that,” he growled, though his mouth found hers, pausing a moment to hover there. “Because what I want would take hours, and your brother is bound to come looking for us eventually.”

  That should have been a warning to her, but his fingers caressing her blotted out anything except her need to have him fondle her down there. “Hours?” she asked, half-aware of pushing herself against the hand caressing her below.

  “Days,” he muttered. “Weeks, if I had the chance.”

  He covered her mouth with his again, and kissed her with a savagery that called to her own. She wanted him; he wanted her. What could be wrong about that?

  Oh, so much. Yet she rose to the kiss like some bitch in heat, needing him to take her, to show her those delights he hinted at. And show her, he did. His fingers plucked deftly at her, finding some hard, yearning spot that throbbed and ached beneath his touch.

  What a devil. Even now, he knew how to intoxicate her.

  “Touch me, too, sweetheart.” He urged her hand down to where he was rigid in his trousers. “Here. Please . . .”

  His voice sounded as needy as she felt. So as he rubbed her, she rubbed him through the fabric, reveling in the catch in his breathing, the way his fingers stroked harder than before, stoking a fire in her that she never knew existed. The glorious sensations inflaming her were almost unbearable.

  Before long, she was gripping his arm with her free hand, desperate for more . . . greater . . . fiercer, until she felt the flames leaping inside her, burning away every inhibition, turning her moans and sighs into loud groans and gasps.

  “Grey!” She erupted in a wild explosion that shattered her from the inside out. “Oh . . . my word!”

  In the next instant, he swept her hand away and clutched her to him. “Holy hell, sweetheart!” His eyes slid shut as he threw his head back. His body shuddered against hers. “Dear sweet . . . Beatrice . . . God help me but . . . you’ve made me . . . go too far.”

  She wasn’t sure what he meant until he fumbled for a handkerchief and shoved it inside his trousers as his breath came in the same urgent gasps as hers. She gazed up into his taut features and felt a surge of satisfaction that she could make this handsome, desirable man feel such things.

  He lowered his head and stared at her through heavy-lidded eyes for a long, tense moment. “Do you finally understand? This is what you do to me, just by being yourself. So never again say to me that my desire for you is feigned . . . for any reason. It is no more feigned than yours is for me.”

  They stared at each other a long moment, both caught up in the snare of their waning carnal urges. Then, to her horror, she heard the voice of her brother.

  “Beatrice! Damn it, where are you?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Grey hadn’t intended to make matters more difficult for Beatrice. Yet obviously he had, judging from how hastily she dropped her foot from the bench, then rushed to smooth her skirts and hunt for her bonnet and scarf.

  “Beatrice—” he began while hastily shoving the handkerchief in his pocket and buttoning up his greatcoat.

  “Hush now, Grey. I can’t let my brother find us here together. Not like this.”

  As if to punctuate her fears, Grey heard Wolfe calling, “Where are you?” from not far beyond their secluded space.

  “A pox on him,” Beatrice hissed as she frantically tied on her bonnet and wrapped her scarf about her lovely throat. “He didn’t give us enough time.”

  Damn it to hell—this was what came of wanting a woman beyond endurance.

  “Stay here,” she murmured as she headed for the entrance.

  “Wait,” Grey said in a voice low enough not to be heard by anyone on the path. Having already lost control of his body, he didn’t intend to lose control of his mind, too. He still hadn’t learned what he’d come out here to discover, after all.

  When she paused to stare at him, he said, “Tell the truth—Did your brother kill your uncle Armie?”

  She sighed. “I honestly don’t know.” Then she hurried out onto the path.

  Biting back
a curse, Grey heard her meet with her brother and Gwyn, heard the major demand to know where she had gone and where Grey was.

  Damn. She was a terrible liar. God only knew what she might blurt out if her brother pressed her too hard. Grey schooled his features into nonchalance and strode out onto the path.

  “Miss Wolfe, this is quite an amazing—” Grey pretended to be shocked to see her brother standing there. “Oh, there you are, Major Wolfe. I assume you know about this wonderful enclosure built by your uncle. Your sister was just showing it to me. It’s quite a feat of landscaping.”

  Wolfe’s dark eyes narrowed on him. “What the devil are you talking about?”

  Grey gestured to the hidden pathway. “The arbor back there. I thought you were aware of it.”

  “I damned well was not.” Wolfe glanced at his sister. “What is he babbling about?”

  Shooting Grey a grateful glance, Beatrice said, “Uncle Armie had a sweet little enclosure built in the woods. I was showing it to His Grace, since he’d already expressed an interest in the ruins and other landscape features.”

  “Oh, I want to see!” Gwyn cried. “Where is it?”

  “This way.” Beatrice led them all into the clearing. “It was my uncle’s first experiment in creating secret spots for . . . um . . . contemplation.”

  The major gazed about the clearing with obvious suspicion. “How did you know about this place, Beatrice?”

  “As I explained to His Grace, I saw all the bills for its creation. So I used to come here to get away from everyone. After Uncle Armie died, that is.”

  Gwyn cast Grey a veiled glance. “How kind of you to give my brother a look at it. He so enjoys secluded places.”

  Grey glared at his sister.

  “I daresay he does,” Wolfe gritted out as he swept the area with an eagle eye.

  Beatrice said quickly, “If you enter the arbor there and go to the end, you’ll find a well with whimsical creatures carved into its sides.”