No Dukes Allowed

by Grace Burrowes

  Nor did she step away when his other hand came up, slipping over her shoulder and caressing the back of her neck. Instead, her fingers curled into the lapels of his coat, as if she were afraid that she might be lost if she let go. Very gently, he tipped her head back, and she could feel his breath against her skin as his lips grazed her forehead.

  And then his lips found hers, and she was utterly lost.

  He kissed her in a way she had never been kissed, in a way that set her entire being aflame. He held nothing back. This kiss wasn’t soft, and it wasn’t gentle. It was hard and a little desperate, and Diana felt the power of it, the power of him, flood through as the world dropped away. Distantly, she understood that this wasn’t a kiss at all. It was a claim.

  But then, she had always belonged to him.

  His hands moved over her back, pulling her to him, crushing her against the hard planes of his body. Which was good, because Diana was no longer sure her legs would hold her up. He deepened the kiss with a tortured groan, a sound that did dangerous things to her insides and made dampness gather at the juncture of her legs. She whimpered and kissed him back, her hands sliding up the front of his coat and around the nape of his neck, her fingers tangling in the inky thickness of his hair in the way she had dreamed of doing.

  His tongue teased hers, clever and hot, and his hands fell to the curve of her buttocks. Held against him, she could feel his arousal, which sent sparks showering through her belly. She wondered if, when he took her, it would be like this too. No tentative fumbling, no uncertain touches, only the raw surety of a desire suppressed for too long.

  His lips slid from hers and caught her earlobe before dropping to scorch a trail of flames down the side of her neck. Her head tipped back, sensation sizzling through her, making her feel drunk.

  His mouth was at the hollow of her throat, chasing fire over the skin beneath her collarbone and then down the slope of her breast. His hands moved up over her hips, exploring the curve of her waist and her ribs, to cup the weight of her breasts. His thumbs played over the sides, brushing her nipples through the confining fabric, and Diana gasped in pleasure, arching farther into his touch.

  He was everywhere, touching, tasting, filling her senses, and she couldn’t tell where she ended and he began. He was everything that she had ever wanted. Everything that was perfect and complete and right.

  And still wrong.

  She felt the moment he came back to himself. The moment when he surfaced from the vortex of impulse and need. He rested his forehead on hers, his breath coming in harsh gasps, his hands shaking where they caged her ribs.

  “What are we doing?” His voice was rough.

  She couldn’t answer.

  His hands dropped, and he stepped away from her. His heat was replaced by the cool night air, leaving her chilled. “I’m sorry.”

  Diana started walking back toward the lights of the town that had appeared in windows and on streets. Walking away from him so that he couldn’t see her face and the grief that she knew was carved upon it.

  “Dee?” he called, but she kept walking.

  She too was sorry. Sorry that he could never be hers. Sorry that there would be no happy ending to what had started on this beach.

  But she couldn’t bring herself to be sorry that he had kissed her.

  Chapter Seven

  * * *

  Oliver stared out the carriage window, watching the rolling countryside fall away, resisting the urge to glance at the woman who sat across from him.

  The night before, he’d followed Diana back to town, but at a distance, until he’d seen her slip safely back into Ainsworth House. And then he had walked the darkened beaches for hours, dazed and aroused and cursing himself alternatively for not stopping that kiss before it had ever started and ending it when he had. He wanted her. Wanted her with such single-minded desperation that it made him think he might simply be reduced to ash from the inferno of need that had razed his control and his inhibitions. That kiss had left him shaken. Left him completely adrift, every predictable and familiar anchor to which he’d thought he had his life moored obliterated in a single minute.

  Returning to his rented rooms, he’d discovered that Diana had sent him a concise message, stating that the dowager’s carriage would collect him at eight o’clock sharp. No mention of anything that might be construed as remotely personal. No clue as to what she might be thinking. Oliver had tossed and turned until dawn crept through the windows. He told himself over and over that that kiss had been a mistake. A mistake that tarnished whatever honor he still had left. No matter how much he wanted Diana, no matter how much his heart hurt with the thought of losing her, he couldn’t simply abandon Miss Burton. He couldn’t renege on a promise he made to their families a lifetime ago.

  Abandoning his promise to Miss Burton and her family would make him no better than the blackguard who had undoubtedly made promises to his sister and then left her because she was inconvenient. He was not that man. He could not be that man and live with himself.

  Yet, kissing Diana Thompson hadn’t felt like a mistake. Kissing Diana had felt like heaven. Kissing Diana had felt perfect and real and right.

  Except now he sat opposite her in a comfortable carriage feeling anything but right. Her greeting this morning had been polite, her demeanor distant, her subsequent conversation almost non-existent. Oliver had had no idea what to do from there. So he sat, looking out the window, until he couldn’t stand the silence any longer.

  “Why did you come today?” He pulled his eyes from the countryside and faced her.

  “Because I promised you I would.”

  “Are we going to talk about what happened last night?” he asked recklessly.

  “Should we?”

  Her voice was quiet, and he tried not to remember the way it had caressed him on that beach. Tried not recall the soft sounds she had made as he had explored her skin first with his hands and then with his mouth. Tried not to dwell on the way her body had felt against his—

  He ran his hands over his thighs, his palms damp, hating that his composure was slipping away from him despite his best efforts. “I kissed you.”

  “You did.”

  “I shouldn’t have done that.” Even though I want to do it again. Right now. Badly.

  “Perhaps.” Diana looked out the window. A muscle flexed near the underside of her jaw. “She’s in Brighton, you know.”

  “Who?”

  “Hannah. She’s staying with her aunt at their country home.”

  “What?” Oliver sat up straighter, the mention of Hannah Burton’s name slicing through his desire like an icy knife.

  “I thought you should know.”

  “I was told that the Burtons were in Bath.”

  “The rest of her family is. Hannah came to Brighton with her aunt.”

  Well, that would explain why none of his messages had been answered. “Why is she not with her family? Why did she come to Brighton?”

  Diana shrugged, the movement looking forced and stiff. “Maybe you should ask her.”

  Guilt chased away whatever lust lingered. Diana was right. This was a conversation he needed to be having with Miss Burton.

  Oliver frowned as another thought struck him. “Does she know that I am also staying in Brighton?”

  Diana kept her eyes averted. “Yes.”

  But avoiding him, it would seem. Oliver had no idea what to make of that, other than it was a reminder that since he’d been back, he’d allowed himself to become distracted. He needed to focus on the future and his duty to it. A future that did not and could not include kissing Diana Thompson.

  The carriage turned sharply and lurched to a halt.

  “We’re here,” Diana said, gathering her skirts.

  The door to the carriage swung open, and she allowed herself to be helped down by an ever-efficient servant in Ainsworth livery. Oliver followed, glancing up at a sky that was starting to darken ominously, bruised clouds heavy with rain approaching from t
he west. His eyes fell on the stone building in front of them, its crenellated tower jutting up from the end of the steeply pitched roof as if to challenge the elements.

  “A castle,” he mumbled, hope flickering.

  “But no destriers.”

  Whatever this was between them, it would have to keep for now. For now, he would concentrate on finding the family that had been lost to him. Concentrate on feeling nothing but gratitude toward the woman who had helped Madelene and was now helping him.

  Diana picked up her skirts. “Let’s go find your sister.”

  Oliver nodded, unable to answer. He led them up the crooked, uneven path toward the arched entrance that was tacked onto the base of the tower like an afterthought. They passed under the covered entrance and pushed open the iron-bound door.

  The hinges squealed as the door closed behind them, and they took a moment to let their eyes adjust to the dimness. Above their heads, the ceiling soared, unlit chandeliers hanging in neat intervals. To their right, at the far end, a long window reached toward the heavens, divided and framed, and putting Oliver in mind of a great cathedral. The air was thick with the scent of candle wax and wood polish.

  “Good morning, friends.” An elderly clergyman was approaching them. He wore the collar of a priest, and a heavy crucifix hung from his neck. “May I offer you assistance?”

  “I hope so,” Diana answered. She was dressed in a blue so pale it was nearly white, and with her beautiful eyes and golden curls, she looked rather like an angel. By the slightly transfixed expression on the priest’s face, it seemed he thought so too.

  “We’re looking for a woman,” she said in a soft, musical voice. “We think she lives here.”

  “In Beddingham?” the priest asked, his eyes drifting over Diana’s shoulder to where Oliver stood.

  “Yes.”

  “Does she have a name?”

  “Madelene.” Oliver spoke up for the first time. “Madelene Graham.” Belatedly, Oliver realized that if Madelene had started a new life, she might not be using her real name any longer.

  “Indeed.” The old priest folded his hands in front of him, his bushy gray brows furrowing. “And who is this woman to you?”

  Oliver nearly came out of his skin. The priest hadn’t said, I don’t know her, or, I can’t help you. As in the bookseller’s shop, Oliver was struck again by the feeling that this was all dreamlike. That finding Madelene after all these years couldn’t be this simple. “She’s my sister,” he croaked.

  “Yes, I can see the resemblance.” The priest nodded slowly.

  It was all Oliver could do not to grab the priest and shake Madelene’s whereabouts out of him.

  “Where is she?” Diana asked in a much more civilized fashion, as if sensing his unrest. “May we see her?”

  The priest tipped his head. “I think that those are questions best put to Madelene.” He paused. “I will send her a message and leave those answers to her.”

  He should be grateful to the priest, Oliver knew. He should be thanking him for taking such care with Madelene’s well-being. If he wasn’t wound tighter than a clock, he would be.

  “That’s fair,” Diana said. As if all this subterfuge was expected.

  “What message would you like to pass along?”

  “Tell Madelene that Oliver is here,” he said hoarsely. “And that I’m not leaving without seeing my little sister.”

  The priest glanced back at Diana, who only nodded.

  “Very good,” the old man said. “I’ll see it done. Wait here.”

  The man shuffled away through a door off to their left.

  “Wait here?” Oliver ran his hands through his hair in agitation. “What does that mean? Wait here for how long? A minute? A day? A week?”

  “I don’t know.” Diana looked at him helplessly, her blue eyes wide and almost violet in the hazy light.

  Outside, thunder rumbled menacingly.

  “I’ll direct the driver to the nearest inn,” she said, glancing out the thick-walled window nearest them. “There’s no point in subjecting him or the team to the elements when we don’t know how long we’ll be.”

  “I can do that.”

  “No,” she assured him. “You wait here in case the priest comes back. I’ll be but a minute.” She slipped from the church before he could answer.

  Oliver heard the door close, and he paced through the nave, stopping in front of a thick, wide arch that loomed above his head. On the surface, in an ancient, dark paint almost the color of dried blood, a robed figure was drawn, his hands clasped in silent prayer. A savior, no doubt, meant to—

  “Who are you?”

  Oliver started and turned to find a girl of no more than four years standing in the center of the aisle, gazing up at him. In a blinding flash, he was whisked back in time, a four-year-old Madelene gazing up at him, begging to be allowed to come along with him as he and Diana had set out on one of their adventures in the dales. He blinked, and the present reasserted itself.

  “Oliver,” he said, unable to tear his eyes away from the brown eyes and dark hair so like his own. So like Madelene’s.

  “My mama knows a man named Oliver. But she says he lives in a country far away.”

  Oliver put a hand out to steady himself against the side of the arch. “Do you and your mama live here?”

  “No one lives in a church.” She giggled, making a face. “Except mice. And Father Hubert.”

  “Father Hubert is the priest?”

  “No, silly.” She laughed again. “Father Hubert is the cat. He eats mice.”

  “Ah.” Oliver was having a hard time thinking. This girl wasn’t old enough to be the child Madelene had been carrying when she fled London. But the coincidences were stacking up in neat, orderly rows, and all Oliver could think was—

  “My mama says I can have a cat when I’m older. Do you have a cat?” she asked, her face solemn now.

  “No,” he managed to answer. “I don’t.”

  “I’m going to call my cat Queen Eleanor. My mama says she was a good queen.”

  “Your mama is right. What if your cat’s a boy?”

  “Then I’ll call him King Eleanor.”

  “Sounds reasonable. What’s your name?”

  “Diana,” she said proudly. “Diana Seymour.”

  “Diana,” he repeated faintly.

  “My mama says she named me after a beautiful, kind lady,” the little girl continued. “She says she hopes I grow up to be just as kind. That’s why I came to talk to you, even though I’m supposed to be helping my mama clean the church,” she confided. “You looked sad.”

  Oliver crouched, afraid his legs were going to betray him if he didn’t. “I think you’re already very kind. And I think your mama is very wise.”

  She smiled at him, and Oliver’s heart melted into a messy puddle. “Do you know my mama?”

  “He does.”

  Oliver staggered to his feet and whirled. A woman, clad in a plain brown dress, a dusty apron tied over the front, her dark hair pulled back into a simple braid, and tears in her warm brown eyes, stood before him.

  “Welcome home, big brother.”

  Chapter Eight

  * * *

  They didn’t bother to collect the carriage or the driver from the inn.

  Instead, they walked the half mile to Madelene’s farm, Oliver’s sister tucked against his side, the little girl skipping ahead of them. Diana followed at a discreet distance, her cheeks aching from smiling and her heart full to bursting. When she’d returned to the church, she hadn’t expected to find another woman in Oliver’s arms. She hadn’t expected to be drawn into the embrace amidst laughter and happy tears. She hadn’t expected to look into the beautiful eyes of a beautiful little girl and be introduced to her namesake. Which had brought her to tears all over again.

  They beat the storm, closing the door of the small cottage just as the rain came down in sheets. Within minutes, the door crashed open again, and a man and a young boy tumbled i
n, both laughing and drenched to the skin. And Diana and Oliver were introduced to Madelene’s husband, Jack, and her son, Miles.

  Diana hadn’t been sure how their sudden appearance would be met. Years had passed since Diana had embraced a tearful but determined Madelene in the yards of a coaching inn, a single trunk at Madelene’s feet and a small fortune sewn into her skirts.

  It had been even longer since Oliver had seen her, and the girl he would remember was nothing like the woman he had found. She and Oliver had barged into her life uninvited and with no warning. But now, watching Madelene and Oliver tease each other, hearing the buoyant flow of conversation and the laughter that echoed throughout the cottage, Diana wondered why she had ever been worried.

  The day seemed to pass in a heartbeat. The time wasn’t enough to make up for the years that they had been away from each other, but it was a start. The promise of more days like this one made it easier to face the lengthening shadows and the knowledge that Diana’s time with Madelene’s family was almost at an end tonight.

  “How did you find us?” Madelene asked as she and Diana cleaned up after dinner.

  Diana stacked a plate on the sideboard and came back to the table. “The castle church you mentioned. As it turns out, more than a few young imaginations have been captured by those ramparts.”

  Madelene smiled.

  “You didn’t, however, mention in any of your letters that you had married,” Diana said, wiping the crumbs from the table.

  Madelene ducked her head. “I meant to. It seemed an awkward thing to blurt out in a letter.”

  “Like the birth of your daughter?” Diana teased.

  “That too.” Madelene’s cheeks were pink. “Perhaps I knew deep down that you would find me.” She folded and refolded the cloth in her hands. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you where I was. Seems rather foolish now.”