It's In The Duke's Kiss: A Danby Regency Novella

by Julie Johnstone

  He leaned close to her, as if to whisper a secret. “You’re a bouquet of wild daffodils. Bright yellow, I think.”

  “Do you like daffodils?” Her voice had gone from breathless to a throaty whisper, and her heart skipped a dozen beats.

  “I’ve always preferred orderly rosebushes until tonight. I find I’m now intrigued by the beauty an unrestrained flower presents.” He pulled back, putting a proper amount of space between them and sweeping his hand to two chairs angled toward each other in a corner. “Shall we sit and get to know each other?”

  She looked toward Nathan, but he was still speaking with his great-uncle, and looking rather irritated about it by the scowl on his face. She glanced back at the duke, who appeared amused.

  “I suppose no harm could come of that,” she replied. Once they were seated, she went on. “May I ask you a question, Your Grace?”

  “But of course,” he responded, his voice friendly.

  She knew she should probably not ask what she was about to ask, but she could not seem to help herself. “Are you and your brother not getting along because of my accident?”

  The duke inhaled sharply before exhaling slowly. “Yes and no. It’s more than that. Nathaniel has been having a bit of trouble in school—”

  “What sort of trouble?”

  “Er, problems staying in school.”

  The duke shifted in his seat, as if her question made him distinctly uncomfortable. She should probably leave it be, but leaving things be had never been her forte. “Perhaps school is simply not for him,” she said, thinking of the way her mother constantly tried to force her to study things in which she had no interest.

  “Perhaps,” Blackbourne agreed, surprising her. She’d expected him to argue the point. “I never considered that.” He appeared contemplative and paused a few seconds before continuing. “I have to admit, I’ve always assumed it was his lack of sound judgment, but maybe it’s been purposeful.” He glanced across the room at his brother for a long moment and then brought his gaze back to her. “Maybe he’s been trying to tell me something without coming out and saying it.”

  She nodded. “I can relate to that.”

  He hitched an eyebrow. “Can you?”

  Her gaze darted to her mother, then back to His Grace. “I can. I’ve spent my life trying to show my mother that I’m not who she wants me to be, but she simply doesn’t want to see it.”

  “Who does she want you to be?” he asked, sounding genuinely curious.

  Emma ran a smoothing hand over the nonexistent wrinkles in her gown. She’d revealed far more than was proper, however, it was too late to turn back the revelations. It would be rude. “She’d like very much for me to make a grand match, and I don’t care about that at all.”

  “Don’t you?”

  The surprise in his voice made her chuckle. She shook her head. “Truly, I don’t. I’ve watched my mother nitpick and complain about my papa for years, moaning about how he has not been attentive enough to his finances and, therefore, has not provided well enough for her. But he provides her with love, and to me, that is the greatest treasure. He tries so very hard to make her happy, and she makes herself miserable always wanting for more. I want a husband who will make me happy and not be as serious as my mother. I want a husband who loves me just as I am and has no intention of trying to change me as my mother is constantly trying to change my papa and me.”

  “What would she care to change about you?”

  Emma snorted, and then she slapped a hand over her mouth as a nervous giggle escaped her. Then another and another. Oh dear. It was happening again. She watched in growing horror as the duke’s eyes softened and he raised his hand to her mouth and peeled her fingers away. She bit down on her lip, afraid of what might happen.

  “You’ve no need to be nervous,” he said soothingly.

  She gulped in a deep breath and felt a sudden calmness. She took another, shorter breath and spoke. “How did you know I was nervous?”

  “I remember you laughing much the same way the day you came to my Mayfair home, and I realized it’s because you were nervous.”

  “How embarrassing,” she muttered.

  “No.” He shook his head. “I find it endearing.”

  Her eyes widened. “You do?”

  “Yes. Now, tell me, what would your mother like to change about you?”

  She couldn’t have resisted telling him, even if she wanted to. She felt languid and warm staring into his eyes, as if someone had given her a dose of laudanum. “For one thing, she’d much prefer I not speak my mind so freely. And she’d love for me to be more accomplished in feminine endeavors.”

  “Such as?”

  “Oh, pianoforte and embroidery, to begin with.”

  He nodded. “But you don’t care for those things?”

  “I like gardening, racing horses, and painting. But Mother says a lady isn’t supposed to get her hands dirty, nor should a lady care to compete. Unless it’s for a gentleman, of course.” She rolled her eyes.

  The duke roared with laugher. It was a deep belly laugh, and she found she could not help but join him. Soon, they were laughing so hard they both had tears in their eyes, and when she finally got herself under control, she realized her sister’s singing had stopped and Lady Francine had ceased playing the pianoforte. A quick survey of the room confirmed her worry that everyone was looking at them.

  Emma tried to discretely nudge the duke’s leg to get him to stop laughing. When he didn’t respond, she hissed, “Your Grace!”

  He swiped at his eyes as his laughter died, and when she tilted her head toward the room at large, his gaze darted around at the faces turned in their direction. All traces of merriment slipped away, replaced by a blank facade.

  “Do you care to tell us all what’s so amusing?” Nathan asked from across the room, his tone churlish.

  “Not particularly,” Blackbourne replied and abruptly stood. “Why don’t we stroll in the gardens?” he suggested, as if to everyone but turned his gaze to her once more. And this time a shiver of anticipation stole through her. So far, he was not at all as she had thought, and the idea of walking with him thrilled her.

  When he proffered his arm to her, she stood and started to take it, but his great-uncle spoke. “Blackbourne, let your brother stroll with the ladies. I need to speak with you for a moment in the library.”

  The duke looked as if he was going to refute his great-uncle, but he finally nodded and offered her a quick bow. “Perhaps another time,” he said, and she could have sworn she heard regret in his voice.

  She nodded. “I hope so.”

  “Then we shall make it so,” he said, a smile tugging at his lips before he followed his great-uncle from the room.

  Six

  Lucian followed his great-uncle into the study and shut the door behind him. “What is it you need, Uncle?” he asked without bothering to sit. Perhaps he could return quickly enough to finish the stroll in the garden with Lady Emmaline.

  He didn’t care for how eager he felt to get back to her. Of course, it was only because he wanted to watch out for her and keep her safe from his brother. Yes, that had to be it. No matter how intriguing she was, Lady Emmaline was not at all the sort of lady he’d ever truly consider for his future duchess. He was going to marry a woman who brought calmness to his life, not more chaos. He had enough of that watching over his brother, and to a much lesser extent, his mother. Her penchant for inappropriate flirting and impetuous acts had come to an almost-abrupt halt with the death of his father. But Lucian could never forget that it had been her flirting that had sent his father to an early grave. No, Lucian wanted no part of that sort of life. He’d marry a woman like Lady Francine, though certainly not her. She didn’t interest him at all. The problem with his marrying at all, however, was that no woman had interested him enough to pursue, or really even to bother with conversation.

  Yet talking with Lady Emmaline had been highly entertaining. He frowned. He’d meant to distra
ct her from his brother, but he’d been drawn in by his own ploy. Or rather, he’d been distracted from his purpose by her wit and revelations.

  Good God! He needed to return to her right away. His brother was far less capable of restraining himself. If he were to somehow get Lady Emmaline alone…

  “Uncle, I have to return my guests now,” Lucian blurted, relinquishing the prized control that normally ruled his life.

  “Is there a particular emergency?” Danby inquired.

  “Yes,” Lucian rushed out. “Nathaniel.”

  Lucian was already turned around and opening the door when his great-uncle grabbed hold of his arm. Lucian swung around, barely containing his impatience. “Whatever it is you need will simply have to wait.”

  “Blackbourne, I’ve never seen you like this.”

  “Like what?” Lucian almost growled as he released himself from his great-uncle’s grip.

  “So animated. You’re normally so restrained. Is everything all right?”

  Lucian opened the door. “It’s Nathaniel. He is up to his usual troublesome behavior.” He was already halfway down the corridor when Danby fell into step beside him.

  “In all the years I’ve watched you extract Nathaniel from the complications he’s gotten into, I’ve never seen you so anxious. What makes this time different?”

  The answer was clear yet puzzling: Lady Emmaline.

  “Emmaline, will you please fetch my shawl?” her mother asked as the group strolled through the extensive garden maze under the twinkling stars.

  Emma wanted to say no, but she knew she couldn’t. She looked from Mary to Nathan, who had been talking animatedly about the poet Byron since entering the gardens. She ground her teeth. Of all the subjects they all could have chosen, Emma was positive her mother had started a conversation on Byron because she knew Emma cared little for him and, therefore, would not have much to contribute.

  “Yes, Mother. Is it in the parlor?”

  “I think so,” her mother said, her voice gay.

  “No need for Emmaline to go,” Papa said. “I’ll fetch it.”

  “No,” Mother snapped, causing the duchess’s, eyebrows to shoot up in surprise. “It must be Emmaline.”

  “Why must it be?” Papa demanded, surprising Emma. He usually never argued with Mother, especially not in public. He almost always acted as if he didn’t know there was strife ever going on around him.

  Emma knew exactly why it had to be her. Mother had apparently decided in the little time they’d been at the Duke of Blackbourne’s home that there was a chance his head was not going to be turned by Mary, so Mother wanted Nathan and Mary to spend time together in case Mother couldn’t bring the Duke of Blackbourne around. Emma stilled, waiting for jealousy to slice through her. She felt mildly irritated that her mother didn’t give a wit about what Emma might want, but she didn’t feel as jealous as she’d expect. Perhaps it was because she’d not had enough time to truly get to know Nathan yet.

  “It must be me,” Emma replied, “because you, dearest Papa, would never be able to figure out whose shawl was whose.”

  Her father chuckled. “That’s true. Shall I walk with you?”

  Emma shook her head. “I’ll be perfectly all right. I remember clearly how to get back to the house through the maze.” Clearly was a slight stretch of the truth, but she had every confidence she could figure it out.

  Half an hour later, after a dozen maddeningly wrong turns, Emma’s confidence had taken a resounding beating. She shivered as the wind blew through the maze. Wrapping her arms around her waist, she stared at the two turns in front of her. Had she already tried the right path? She was almost sure she had. She’d go left, then.

  She strode through the maze and let out a yelp of victory when she saw ahead that the maze appeared to be ending. Glancing at the bright, moonlit sky, she said a little prayer of thanks, which died on her lips as she came to the end of the path. The left turn certainly was one she’d not taken, but as she stared at a long tunnel, canopied by overhanging, freshly blooming trees, she sighed. This was certainly not where they had come into the garden from the house. Where in the heavens was she?

  She yanked up her skirts in order to lengthen her stride, and she marched with determined steps toward the passageway. She refused to sit around waiting to be found like a ninny. She entered the tunnel, and gooseflesh immediately covered her arms as the moonlight disappeared and shadows surrounded her. Fallen leaves crunched beneath her feet as she walked toward the moonlight she could see shining at the other end of the tunnel and half out of it. Her every step echoed in her ears, and she began to hum to calm her nerves, which tingled throughout her body. She had advanced four more steps when her slipper got caught underneath something, and she flew forward, her knees hitting the ground hard, landing half in the tunnel and half out.

  She knew precisely three very unladylike curse words, which she’d overheard her father say when she’d been hiding in his study many years before. She said each one now, relishing how much better it made her feel. She looked back at her foot and wiggled it back and forth to dislodge it from what she could now see was a thick, gnarled root sticking up out of the ground. Just as her foot released and she glanced forward once again, her heart skipped several beats as she stared at the tips of a pair of hessians.

  She’d give up sweets forever if whoever was standing there was her papa and most definitely not the Duke of Blackbourne. She could only imagine what such a collected, proper man would think of this embarrassing display of clumsiness. Steeling herself, she tilted her head back just as Blackbourne kneeled down. Their eyes met, and she groaned.

  He let out the same deep belly laugh he had in the parlor. “Are you unwounded?”

  “Yes. Except for my pride.”

  He laughed again, much louder than he had seconds ago.

  She scowled at him. “It’s not proper to laugh at ladies who have ungracefully fallen to their knees.”

  “You’re most definitely correct,” he said, sobering. “I should be shocked at the words you know, not amused.”

  Heat seared her face. “You heard me?”

  “Oh yes,” he said, drawing out the last word teasingly. “Where did you learn such vocabulary?” he asked as he gripped her under her arms and pulled her gently to her feet.

  He immediately released her, yet did not step back to put proper distance between them. Her skin burned deliciously where his hands had touched her, and her heart skipped several racing beats as she tilted her head up to meet his gaze. His face was mere inches from hers, and in the blazing moonlight, she could see a smile curving his lips and a flash of white teeth.

  “I overheard my papa say them once,” she explained. “I don’t use them often.”

  “Only when you’re very angry?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I suppose you’re horrified.”

  “Not at all,” he responded, and as he did, his breath, tinged with whiskey, washed over her. She inhaled sharply as the tingles of earlier became dizzying pinpricks throughout her body. Her stomach tightened, and she no longer felt cold but incredibly warm. Her reaction to the duke was exactly the one she had wrongly thought she would have toward his brother.

  She inhaled a long breath. “I’m surprised. You seem like a man who prizes decorum.”

  “Not decorum, Lady Emmaline. Peace. I prize peace because I’ve had precious little of it.”

  Oh, how she wished she could properly see his eyes to read his emotions. His voice, carefully neutral, revealed little of what he truly felt.

  “I myself have a few favorite words I use when I’m angry,” he said. “I feel much better when I let them loose.”

  “I don’t believe you,” she said, plunking her hands on her hips.

  “I never lie, Lady Emmaline.” His voice had taken on a playful tone.

  “Then teach me,” she said, feeling bold and wanting to learn a secret part of this mysterious man.

  “I offer no lessons for free,” he s
aid. His voice had changed from playful to smooth and intoxicating.

  Heat swirled in her belly. “What’s your price?”

  “A kiss.”

  “A kiss?” She heard the disbelief and yearning in her own voice.

  He dragged a hand through his hair, then gave his cravat a vicious yank. “I’m sorry. That was unpardonable of me. I don’t know what overcame me. Please forget—”

  “I’ll pay your price,” she blurted. She’d never been kissed. She’d evaded quite a few attempts at stolen kisses before because she’d never felt the least bit of desire for any of the gentlemen who’d tried, but she wanted very much to be kissed by Blackbourne. Something within her responded to him, and she was beginning to question if he was cold like she’d thought or if it was a façade. She was questioning everything. She’d come here tonight hoping to confirm Nathan was the gentleman for her, but now she could not think beyond wanting Blackbourne’s lips on hers. She felt as if her thoughts and emotions were a jumbled spool of thread.

  She could hear a rush of air from his lungs as he exhaled sharply. “You’re certain?”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  He moved closer until they almost touched. Her body seemed to lean toward his, and then his fingers slid into her hair, cupping the back of her head, and he lowered his mouth to hers. Their lips brushed ever so gently, yet the power of their contact almost brought her to her knees. She groaned and clutched his arms for support, and he responded with a deep, guttural sound of satisfaction.

  The gentle kiss became more passionate as his mouth slanted over hers and his tongue demanded entry into her mouth. She parted her lips, eager to taste him and feel him. He tasted of liquor, and his tongue, velvety smooth, caressed hers. Her senses reeled as his hands moved from her head to her neck and then to the small of her back.

  “Lucian, have you found her?” Nathan called for the duke—no, Lucian, for he’d forever be Lucian in her heart from this moment forward—and broke the spell. What incredible bad timing. She ground her teeth.