Forbidden to the Duke

by Liz Tyner

  She reached out, putting her palm on his chest, cloth caressing her fingers. ‘You have been reading—too much of that man who writes about women walking softly at night. Byron.’

  ‘I would never say you walk softly in the night. “She walks in beauty like the night…”’ His eyes flicked back to her face. ‘Those words I do recall and they do apply. I’m sure there’s more after that, but when I look at you, I cannot even remember who I am.’

  She stood so close she could even see the way his pupils seemed to fade into a softer colour at the edge. But she could not see herself reflected. She shook her head. ‘I do not think Byron knows the true meaning of love either. Words. Perhaps that is why I have had so much trouble thinking of reading. It is bad enough when false words are spoken. To put them down on paper is even worse.’

  ‘I admit, words do not do you justice.’

  She stood immobile, and one edge of his mouth moved up. He took a step and reached up, and both his hands went to loosen her hair and she felt strands against her skin. Finally, her hair fell around her shoulders as he stepped away, but he wasn’t truly moving from her. He was using his eyes to remain close, looking at her lustrous hair.

  Taking her hand, holding it open, he dropped the pins into it. Then he closed his fingers over hers and pulled them up, dropping a kiss over her knuckles.

  She put the pins on the table and stood with her back to him. The mirror reflected from his shoulders to his waist.

  She took a breath, watching him worry the edge of his sleeve in his opposite hand. Then he straightened his fingers, flexed one hand, relaxed it and ran his forefinger along his opposing thumb, softly brushing back and forth.

  She couldn’t take her eyes from the mirror.

  ‘If I were to choose one minute in my life,’ he said, ‘to live over and over again, it would be this one.’

  ‘You say all the right words—almost…’

  ‘I know. I say the easy ones. How hard can it be to tell a woman she is beautiful?’ His fingers slowed, curling into a soft, unmoving clutch.

  ‘But you are honest to us both.’

  ‘A man must be more than his wishes, his dreams. He must set his path and follow it. He cannot let himself be swayed by what…he desires.’

  ‘Words of your father.’

  His reflection tensed, but his words held no emotion. ‘True words. Words I believe.’

  ‘I know. And I do not know if I hate you or love you.’

  ‘Perhaps it would be best if you hated me.’

  ‘I have seen how love withers when a man marries a woman who cannot follow him in his life,’ she said. ‘I know I am not your idea of a duchess and living that life is not what I see for myself. This simple room is how I wish to live. I am like my mother, except I know not to walk her path.’

  ‘What are you trying to say?’

  ‘Do not think if you lie with me, there will be a wedding to follow. I would not be compromised. I do not have to bow my spirit to anyone. The dowry I have has made that true for me. I do not have to listen to your society’s rules and I am not staying in London either. I will find a small place and have a simple life. I will plant my own flowers and cook my own meals. I will work side by side with my husband to make a home that is ours alone.’

  She stopped watching his reflection in the washstand mirror and turned, examining his eyes. Her lips turned up, but it didn’t feel like a smile. ‘I suppose I will feel differently when you leave tomorrow to find your duchess. But today I love you.’

  *

  Her lips were soft under his. She tasted of nature. Perhaps it was the spiced scent which always seemed to cling to her, or perhaps it was because she was so different from the women of his past and future. But he didn’t care about the reason. Just for a few moments he wanted to experience her.

  She clutched at him, pulling him to her. He ended the kiss too soon, leaving their faces pressed cheek to cheek, feeling their breaths mingle. Then he sat on the bed and took her by the bottom, skirts and all, pushing them up just enough so he could sit her astride him. He kissed her again and ran his fingers up her back, through the thin material of her gown, until he touched one of her shoulders. The feel of her under his hand captivated him.

  He buried his face in the cleft of her bodice, awash in the heavenly sinful friction of cloth covering soft, delicate skin.

  Keeping his lips against her skin for all but the briefest moment, he slipped the shoulders down on her gown, revealing a corset contrasting against the flesh that blossomed over the top of the stiff fabric. Her breasts, like her hair, barely stayed in their constraints, as if waiting for the smallest movement to free them.

  Hooks unclasped under his fingertips. The corset ties hardly needed a tug, and when she stirred against him, the corset fell open and the chemise had already slid down her shoulders.

  As he removed her clothes she slipped from one form to the next, becoming a woman from another land, a world he’d never seen, and a magical being, female, feminine and with the ability to hold him captive with her spirit.

  His hands grazed over her back, taking strength from her body, filling him with a sense of power. She arched against him.

  He had not known it could be like this. To be inside this realm of another person, gaining strength from them.

  *

  She increased the distance between them just enough to capture this moment in her vision. To see him. His eyes were shut. Defenceless. Innocent. Never had she seen such a captivated look on a man’s face. His nose, aquiline, and lips, soft. She moved, brushing her forefinger over them, and he kissed her and kept one arm at her waist while he pulled back the counterpane and watched as she slid into the bed.

  He swept the coat from his shoulders, removed his waistcoat and pulled the cravat away in a silken whoosh. He whipped his shirt up and over his head—stopping her breathing for a minute. He tossed the garment aside. For half a second he stood motionless.

  He sat beside her and the narrow bed, not made for two people, sagged with his presence. She placed her hand in the very small of his back, savouring the feel of his muscles beneath her fingertips while he tugged at his boots and then his stockings. The buff doeskin slid from his legs and he lay almost over her, propping himself on his elbows to keep his full weight from her, skin heating skin.

  He kissed her and she could taste him, and her heart beat stronger, igniting the volcanic smoulder inside her. Her blood transformed into a lava heat, seeming to flow from her body through his body and returning to her.

  His legs melded with hers, and his whole body surrounded her. The shaving spice on his skin mixed with the barest hint of wood smoke and she didn’t know what kept her from actually igniting.

  He twisted to his side, pulling her almost from the bed and into his complete grasp. The pillow slid to one side of the floor and the coverings to the other. The bed had no room for anything but them. His every movement against her increased the deepness of her breathing, and sent her higher into a cloud of pleasure. Molten.

  Fingers explored her, claiming each curve of her body, and the feeling of his hand rolled over her so that even the places he did not reach responded as if he had caressed them.

  He touched her softness, her wetness, and she erupted into spasms, lost to everything.

  *

  Rhys sat with his shoulders against the bed frame, looking at Bellona. Her hair wreathed around her—more appealing than any he’d ever seen graced with a tiara. He tapped her chin when she closed her eyes and let his knuckles rest at her arm when she looked up at him—sated, he hoped.

  Twining his fingers through her hair, he lifted it and let the locks slide free. The second time, he brought them to his face, the delicate ends caressing his cheek. Savouring every strand.

  And then something clattered outside the door, hitting the wood.

  He knifed his body around, jerking the counterpane from the floor to toss the covering over her, and when he did his elbow hit the washstand, jarrin
g it, skittering the mirror over, and the glass clattered to the floor. The fabric slid in place, partly, just as the door opened.

  But it wasn’t the aged housekeeper’s head, the one with discreet quiet acceptance in her demeanour, who peeked around the door, but one of the underservants holding a wooden pail. Peering in with a question in her eyes.

  Her expression changing, her eyes opened wide and her mouth fell into what appeared to be a near scream, but came out as a strangled gasp.

  No, of course it could not be the housekeeper, a woman known for her silence.

  He closed his lips and watched as the thoughts behind the girl’s eyes embedded the scene before her into her mind for ever.

  ‘Leave,’ Rhys commanded.

  The girl nodded, gave a gasped ‘yes’ with the uptake of her head and then she snapped shut the door.

  He swore, words he’d never said in front of any female before, and the moment they fell from his lips, he knew as Bellona’s head turned to him. He saw a different look in her eyes and he much preferred the servant’s shocked gaze to the black one befitting a coiled snake about to strike.

  He blinked to gather his thoughts because his next words were so very important, but before he could speak them, she pulled ever so slightly from his side.

  Her eyes. He’d never seen a darker stare.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Her hands clenched. Trapped. But she would not be snared. She had lain with him, knowing he would go to London and she had not once asked him to stay. She had wished him well. She had been in his bed and then he swore when they were discovered.

  He was not the one who would be destroyed by their actions becoming common knowledge and he well knew it. She was. But he swore. Because now he must do the right thing and offer for her hand. She’d seen how a man could be a treacherous husband and father when he did not wish to be wed. Her father had followed the dictates of his body and had then been angered because he blamed her mother for his lust.

  ‘So, Your Grace, this is a first for you as well.’ Soft words.

  ‘In a sense.’ Controlled, he said, ‘I will instruct her that she is not to speak of this.’

  ‘You may instruct her,’ Bellona said calmly, ‘but you know how the talk will travel. By the time we have dressed it will already be flying around the estate.’

  ‘We will marry.’

  ‘I would not wed you if you were the last duke on earth.’ She reached for the pins at the bedside and in one quick twist she’d secured her hair and pinned it almost in place. She pulled the covers around her and moved from the bed. ‘I can do better.’

  ‘The Prince is taken.’

  ‘I am not talking of rank, as you very well know. You trapped me like a hare.’

  ‘No. I do not have to do something like that to get a wife and you know it. I can wed any one of a score of women. A fortnight of courtship and a proposal and I would be married.’

  The words buzzed in her head so loud she could hardly think to form her own thoughts. They were true, but for him to speak them, unforgivable.

  ‘Yes. But I am here. You desire me. Your head tells you I am the wrong woman, but your body does not care. And now you think I have no choice. That I must marry you because my reputation will be soiled for ever. You also have no choice—you can say that later, too.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You heard the maid and you knocked the mirror askew.’

  ‘That was an accident.’

  ‘Accident.’ She followed with an expressive gesture. ‘That is what I think of your accident.’

  He jumped to his feet. ‘You cannot for one moment believe I did this to trap you.’

  ‘Oh—’ she shrugged ‘—why should I not? You had a brief moment to think and you didn’t. You acted.’ She cocked her head to the side.

  ‘You are wrong.’

  ‘I refuse. Refuse. Refuse. To let my children think their father was forced into marriage with me.’ She could not control her voice. Let the world hear. ‘That he purchased me in his own way. Oh, I have seen that. How many drachmas am I worth? Five hundred. Oh, but you have much more money. A thousand, then. And will you shout at me in front of my children to tell me how you paid too much for me? No, you will not.’

  His voice softened. ‘I would not.’

  ‘No, you will not.’

  She stood, securing the coverings, a Grecian goddess draped in white, as in times of old, proud as any statue. She brushed a tangle of hair from her lips.

  ‘I will walk naked down St James’s Street before I turn my back on my heritage and before I am trapped into a marriage I don’t want.’ She swirled the cloth and controlled her words. ‘But thank you for asking.’

  He inclined his head to her and reached for his own clothing, thankful she did not have a spear and that her bow and arrows had not been returned to her. That was the only thing from this situation which he could be happy with.

  ‘I—’

  Her words cut across his before he could finish. ‘I will say, Stubble it, Your Grace. Or perhaps, Rolleston, hold your tongue, seeing that I can only call you Rhys when we are alone because we have no ties at all.’

  ‘Except the ties of marriage,’ he added.

  ‘And this is written where?’

  If he did not tread very carefully, he knew that not only the servants, but the tongues of the ton would get more than a splash or two of on dits. This would make the notorious tales of Lady Lamb fall by the wayside. He slipped on the trousers that had been dropped beside the bed. He picked up the shirt he’d tossed to the floor and donned it. She stood draped in rough-woven bedclothes, and the small amount of light found her, sparkling on the earrings, cloaking her regally.

  ‘In society’s eyes,’ he said, ‘you’ll be able to wed no vicar now. You will be a woman known to have been…been in my bed…in the servants’ quarters…’

  ‘What about you, Your Grace? If you ask another to wed you too soon, what will you think of her if she says yes? She will be marrying only your title. Your funds. Your estate.’

  He continued with his shirt and trousers. ‘Warrington will insist on our marriage. Your sister, the countess, will expect it. I will acquire a special licence before first light tomorrow morning.’ He held his boot and sat on the bed. He stared at the leather. ‘With Warrington and I both in accord, we can have this completed by nightfall. It is not unheard of for a man and woman to share a bed on their wedding day.’

  ‘This is not my wedding day.’

  He raised his eyes…waiting.

  She smiled. At least her lips did. Her eyes, not at all.

  ‘Yes. It is.’ He paused, seeing steel in her face. ‘You cannot…’ He paused. ‘You cannot refuse. Warrington has control of your dowry.’

  ‘Yes. Warrington has control of my dowry. I cannot get it at the moment, but I am sure he will give it to me eventually. That was a mistake my father’s wife regrets. She has promised she will correct it very soon.’

  He knew where this was going. ‘And your father’s wife…’

  Her shoulders flicked up and then down. ‘We have talked. Her relative has the wealth so that my father cannot touch it. It was done that way before her father died because he did not want his money in the hands of her husband, my father. My father’s wife can do exactly as she pleases because her cousin moves the funds as she instructs. And when I told her in the past of my wish to be free…’ Her chin tilted. She might not have a spear in her hands but she could use her words as one. She tossed the words out and they landed as a challenge. ‘My father’s wife understands. She understands my need to make sure I am safe at night and that no man can get near me if I choose not to let him. She has a spinster aunt in Scotland. My father’s wife owns the house and she would like me to live there with her aunt. That is who I spoke of before.’

  ‘Bellona. You must be my wife.’ He looked at his boots again. The floor. The crumpled neckcloth. The waistcoat lying beside it, but even they did not make sense to him now. Could she
not understand? Did she not know how many ambitious mothers would put their daughters before him—a virginal sacrifice the daughters would willingly become? His wife would be getting the same life of wealth he shared. The same deference from the whole of society. It was the way of the world. He had no more choice in it than they did.

  ‘I will cherish that request—those words—just as I cherished the words in the books I sold to the sailor.’

  ‘It isn’t a request as you well know.’

  ‘And I am not refusing you.’ She swept the cover around her as she turned, her cape of bedclothes swirling, and he realised she was about to walk out of the room into the servants’ area clad as a heathen goddess. He did not think she would walk quickly up the stairs. Oh, no. She would possibly meander. Every servant in the area was going to get to see her dressed like this.

  ‘I am merely taking a lifetime to decide. You may wait patiently for my answer.’ She opened the door wide and he was suddenly thankful he was mostly dressed.

  She pointed to the floor. ‘I will be sending someone for the dress.’ She indicated the clothing he had removed from her body. ‘Please do not let it be misplaced as I will be directing a servant to this room.’ Her eyes. No woman had ever looked at him in such a way.

  ‘You cannot go about like that,’ he commanded.

  The door closed on his words.

  The mirror lay at his feet. Unbroken. He picked it up. Hair mussed. No cravat. He looked more heathen than she did.

  He slung the mirror on to the bed behind him, put on his boots, kicked the pillow into the wall and looked around the room. Let the servants talk.

  For the first time in his life, he was thankful his father was no longer alive.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Bellona bypassed the servants’ stairs, fearing her covering might get caught in her feet on the narrow climb. In the main stairway, she bundled the covers closer and moved towards the family rooms. She reached the top in time to see the duchess open a door and stand with her hand at her neck, and a bruise on her forehead.