Duchess in Love

by Eloisa James

  “You won’t fall.”

  “I am too large to be carried all the way downstairs. You must put me down—I mean, please, put me down.”

  “I shall not. I enjoy carrying you.” And he gave her a little squeeze.

  “Cam!”

  “Mmm,” he said. “There’s something to be said for carrying women about. It gives one such good access.” He looked at her with an amused twinkle and his hands—

  “Cam!” She almost jumped out of her skin.

  “That’s better. You don’t look quite so much like a scared rabbit.”

  “I don’t!”

  “Red eyes and all,” he nodded. He kept walking.

  “Please may I walk downstairs?” Gina pleaded. “This is embarrassing.”

  “Who’s embarrassed?” He inched his right hand forward and let out his breath in a big whoosh. They had reached the landing when he said, “you may be right,” and set her down. Gina looked up at him. It wasn’t that she wanted to be carried, of course.

  “I might become embarrassed,” he said, looking her straight in the eye.

  But Gina saw a suggestive glint in his eye and looked down. It was a split-second glance, but enough. “Dear me,” she said. “That’s quite a problem.”

  He took a quick look around. They were at the turn of the landing, and there was no one in sight. He put his arms around her, running his hands down her back and the delicious curve of her bottom. “It was an act of charity,” he said soulfully. “I had to take your mind off your loss.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What loss?”

  “How soon you forgot! Remember those corsets? I was just anticipating how you were going to look with nothing under your gown but your own sweet skin.”

  “Why—”

  He took the words from her mouth with his lips. “Why, without a corset, you will be—” but he lost track of what he was saying because her lips were warm on his, and his hands had jerked her against his embarrassing body.

  And then he did exactly what he spent the entire night planning: he put a hand on her breast, and even through three or four layers of cloth, she arched her back into his hand and opened her lips—he barely caught her squeal.

  “I thought I imagined that,” he said with satisfaction, looking down at his wife. She was looking at him, lips open and eyes dazed. “But I didn’t.” His hand tightened and he caught her cry in a kiss again.

  “You will never be able to make love outdoors,” he whispered into her ear. He was getting a little worried that someone would come up the stairs, so he pushed her back and tugged at her dress. “There! You look just the same.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  But before he could answer, she answered herself. “Heathen! I’ll have you know that Englishmen don’t ever do—that!”

  He laughed. “I’m willing to believe that some of them never do that, or did you mean that they never do it outdoors?”

  Gina turned to look at him as she descended the stairs. He was struck with an irresistible urge to dishevel her hair. She was such a duchess, with her proud gait and calm way of talking.

  “If I were married to you—” he said.

  “You are,” she put in.

  “You know what I mean. Someday when I am truly married and living at Girton, I will take my wife out to the bluebell wood. Being the heathen that I am.”

  They had reached the hallway. Cam self-consciously adjusted his jacket. He needed to stop this conversation or risk social humiliation. He glanced over at Gina and made a quick decision to go for a walk outdoors. She had her brows knit, and she looked as if she were musing over a particularly difficult problem.

  “Don’t you remember the bluebell wood?” he said into her ear.

  “Of course I remember the wood!” she snapped. “You left me there in the middle of the night. How could I forget?”

  “I’d forgotten that,” Cam chuckled. “Stephen and I ran away, didn’t we?”

  “You told me there were ghouls in the woods first,” Gina said indignantly.

  “You were too good at fishing. We had to bring you to a sense of your place in the world. Besides, we rescued you after five minutes, didn’t we?”

  “Humph,” Gina said and pushed open the drawing room door. She was met by a level of talk that rose like a storm of bees. Clearly the party had been informed of the indignity suffered by the duchess. Cam bowed and backed away. The all-male companionship of the stables sounded comforting at the moment.

  Something about his wife was driving him insane. He gave a bark of rueful laughter. He’d been without a woman for too long, that was it. And since she was the only woman in the world he couldn’t sleep with, given that the act would terminate their annulment proceedings, naturally he was being driven to distraction by temptation.

  That explained it all.

  He strode out to the stables. In the middle of the night it had occurred to him forcefully that the key point of an annulment was virginity.

  There were many, many pauses on the way from virginity to the lack thereof. If his wife wanted to experiment with him before she hopped into bed with her stuffy marquess, who was he to complain?

  He wandered to the stable door musing over a few questions he had for Lady Troubridge.

  For example, was there a bluebell wood tucked away on the estate?

  19

  A Piscatory Discussion on the Riverbank

  Neville was so critical that Carola wished she had chosen Esme’s Bernie to flirt with instead. They hadn’t yet made it down to the river, because he kept adjusting this or that about her apparel, and giving her more and more instructions about how to be flirtatious.

  “Neville!” she finally cried in exasperation. “I assure you that Tuppy won’t notice anything about my garments, not even if I appeared in sackcloth!”

  “Don’t underestimate yourself,” he said, giving her a last critical glance. “No. That cloth must go.” And with one swift lunge he plucked away the kerchief that had taken her maid at least a half hour to arrange.

  Carola futilely grabbed at it. “This gown is far too low without that handkerchief! I can’t be seen like this!”

  “Of course you can. Now you look much more the thing,” he said with satisfaction.

  She looked down at her plump breasts with horror. “He already thinks I’m fat, Neville! Can’t you understand that I have to cover up all this flesh? At this rate, he’ll think that I’ve grown at least two sizes!”

  “When did you marry the poor man?”

  “Four years ago. Why do you ask?”

  “I believe that your chest has grown in the interim. It certainly has since I first met you, darling green girl that you were.”

  Carola narrowed her eyes. “My clothing size is private information.”

  “Even if I promise not to hanker after your large and luscious bosom? I never allow myself to desire impossibilities. But I think it’s quite likely that your poor besotted husband is.”

  “Besotted? Not likely!”

  “Besotted,” he returned. “I saw him looking at you, after you walloped him in the drawing room. He looked blue as one of those fish he loves so much. If I had any hope of catching you for myself, I gave it up that moment.”

  Carola slipped her arm through his and smiled. “Oh, Neville, you are the best friend a woman could have!”

  “Don’t smile at me that way or I’ll change my mind about letting Tuppy have you,” he said.

  She squeezed his arm.

  They were almost down to the river when he paused. She dragged him forward. “There he is. I recognize his back!”

  “Just a moment, Carola.”

  She looked up at him.

  “You need to think about me.”

  She nodded. “I am.”

  “No, really think about me.” He tipped up her chin with a strong hand. She stood, brown eyes blinking innocently at him. “Damned if I don’t envy Tuppy, fishmonger that he is,” Neville muttered.

 
; Then he lunged at her rosy mouth, ignoring the ineffectual way she batted at his chest.

  “There!” he said a moment later. Her cheeks were pink and she looked thoroughly aroused. Which she was—by anger if not by lust.

  “You! You!” she spluttered. “You must not behave in that outrageous fashion, Neville Charlton!”

  “Next time someone grabs you, kick him in the ankle,” he advised, turning her back to the river. “Now remember to look at me, Carola. Not the fishmonger.”

  “He’s not a fishmonger!” Carola said, turning even pinker.

  “Good afternoon!” Neville called. Two elderly gentlemen were sitting beside Tuppy and taking bait from a bored footman. The men stood up as they approached.

  Carola was careful not to look at her husband, but she did notice that the only free chair was next to him. She started to move toward it when Neville preempted her.

  He sat down and smiled provocatively at her. “I’ll take you on my knee, my lady,” he said with an unmistakable leer.

  Carola’s eyes widened. She’d never done such a fast thing in her life as to sit on a gentleman’s knees. But here was Neville, stretching out his hands. The two old men had already gone back to talking about trout lures and were paying no attention. She walked over and delicately perched on the very end of his knee.

  He made a production out of putting his arms around her and showing her how to handle the rod the footman handed him.

  “Relax, you little idiot!” he breathed into her ear.

  “I am!” she said indignantly. He put his hand over hers, and demonstrated the proper grip on a fishing rod.

  “I’ve sent a servant to fetch a chair,” came a stern voice at her right.

  Carola finally looked at Tuppy. What she saw in his eyes stiffened her backbone. He looked scornful. In fact, she realized with horror that he probably thought that she was too plump to sit on a man’s knees. He probably ordered the chair so as to save Neville from her weight.

  Without further thought, she giggled softly and looked up at Neville. “I’m quite comfortable here, sir. Unless you foresee a problem?”

  Neville had that leering glance down to a science, she thought. It was truly amazing the way his good-natured face turned so suggestive. He put his hand over hers again. “I would never dream of anything more delicious than you on my knees,” he said soulfully.

  It wasn’t until he poked her in the side that she remembered her part. She cast Tuppy a glance under her eyelashes. He was looking rather grimly at the rod he held in his hand. Surely he had heard Neville’s comment. “I could never deny you anything that you desire,” she said in a clear voice, remembering at the last moment to smile intimately at her fishing partner.

  “Pretty good,” Neville breathed in her left ear.

  He glanced at Carola’s husband. Tuppy was glaring at the two of them. So Neville took a long and deliberate look straight down Carola’s gown. She did have luscious breasts, damn it. He moved uncomfortably. It was all in the name of friendship, of course.

  “Lean back against me,” he whispered to Carola.

  Of course that brought her breasts right under his nose. He risked another look at Tuppy. Unless he was much mistaken, the man was planning a massacre. And he, Neville, would be the first to go. Just then the two elderly gentlemen rose and began to stroll back to the house.

  Neville jerked his fishing line just slightly, just enough so that the hook and line flew out of the water, splashing as they fell back into the river.

  “Botheration!” he cried. “There’s river water on my trousers. I shall have to change immediately! Nothing stains as badly as river water.”

  “River water?” Carola said with surprise. “I don’t see any.” She leaned forward to look at his lemon yellow pantaloons, inadvertently giving Tuppy a fine glance down her bodice.

  Neville grinned to himself. After he took care of Carola’s little problem, he might hire himself out as a marriage broker. “I assure you that I felt the chill of river water. And naturally I cannot be seen in soiled clothing.” He stood up, gently pushing her back into the seat and handing her the fishing rod.

  “I shall return in the flash of an eye,” he announced. He gave her his finest leer. “And then I shall accompany you to the house. I am certain that this excursion has been most exhausting. Perhaps you will need to rest, Lady Perwinkle.”

  Without waiting for an answer, he strode briskly toward the house. He was feeling remarkably hungry. Probably all that leering at a heaving bosom that would never be his. A warm crumpet would be just the thing. Perhaps three or four. Let the two lovebirds gawk at each other for an hour or so.

  Carola leaned gingerly back in the chair and picked up her rod. She kept her eyes on the river and didn’t look at Tuppy. Instead she practiced breathing shallowly so that her chest wouldn’t rise and fall too much and look even larger than it was.

  There was a noise beside her. It almost sounded like a growl. She turned to look at Tuppy. “Did you say something?” she asked.

  He stared back at her, eyes narrowed. “You are still my wife, even if you seem to have forgotten that fact.”

  “I am aware of my marital status,” she said, trying to push all the air into her stomach so that her chest wouldn’t catch his attention.

  “Then why are you acting like such a trollop?” he asked grimly.

  Carola forgot about her chest. “I am not a trollop!”

  “You certainly act like one. I could never deny you anything that you desire!” He made a scoffing noise.

  Unless she was much mistaken, Esme’s plan was working. “Oh, but I couldn’t deny Neville,” she said, looking up at Tuppy from under her lashes. “He’s been a dear, dear friend to me in the past year.”

  His jaw set. “I can see that for myself.” He looked back at his fishing rod.

  It was time for a change of topic. “Are you using a lure?” she asked, jiggling her line so that perhaps a fish would bite. It would be splendid if she could catch a fish in front of Tuppy.

  “A warbling minnow,” he said.

  She nodded. “Made with bucktail?”

  “Wood,” he said, casting her an unfathomable glance.

  Carola almost quailed at the look of indifference in his eye, but she barreled ahead. “I prefer a bucktail lure myself. Finkler says that they are by far the most useful in country streams.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Finkler is an idiot.”

  There was a moment’s pause, broken only by the weedy song of a kingfisher on the opposite bank.

  “What the hell do you know about Finkler?” he demanded.

  “I happened to hear him speak,” she said airily. Actually she had gone to the lecture in hopes that Tuppy would attend, but he wasn’t there. “And then I read his book. I thought it was quite interesting, except when he starting talking about eviscerating the poor fish.” She shuddered. “That was disgusting.”

  “Just when did you become interested in fishing?”

  Carola was starting to lose courage. Was it worse to lose her husband forever, or to humiliate herself by letting him know that she had sneaked down the Lady Troubridge’s library the previous night and escaped back to her room with not one but two books on trout fishing? She swallowed and prevaricated.

  “Neville taught me. Why, fishing has become my favorite sport in the world, thanks to him. He is a highly skilled fisherman,” she announced. “You can judge that for yourself by his excellent handling of the rod.”

  “Ah yes,” Tuppy said frostily. “We fishermen are always so careful about the stains caused by river water. I can’t tell you the number of yellow pantaloons that I have damaged with water.”

  Carola sat up a little higher. “Neville is a fine fisherman,” she said with her nose in the air. “He carves his own lures.”

  “So do I!” snapped Tuppy. “So does any competent fisherman!”

  “He’s not merely a competent fisherman,” she flashed back. “He handles his rod with flair
!” That was something that Finkler had talked about in his lecture—handling one’s rod with flair. But Tuppy didn’t seem to think much of that as evidence. If anything, his face grew even more stern.

  “I trust you know what you’re saying, madam,” he said in a steely tone.

  “Of course I do!” How dare he question her knowledge of fishing after she read all those books? “Neville is a better rod handler than you any day, Lord Perwinkle!”

  “I didn’t know we were being compared.” He stood up, throwing his rod on the ground. His face had gone dead white.

  Carola stood up as well, clutching her fishing pole. “Why, Tuppy—”

  “So now it’s Tuppy, is it? What happened to Lord Perwinkle?” He strode over to her, eyes blazing. “And why didn’t you let me know that I was involved in a fishing contest?”

  Carola blinked. “It’s not a contest.”

  “Fishing for trout in a particular pond!” Tuppy snapped. “And you, madam, appear to be the pond in question!” His eyes dropped to her chest.

  Carola looked down. She’d forgotten all about taking shallow breaths, and her breasts looked monstrously plump from this angle.

  His eyes were burning. “I believe these are still mine,” he said with so much rage in his voice that she shivered. Then he reached forward and jerked her into his arms. Carola felt a moment of humiliation as her bosom pressed against his chest. But then his mouth was on hers, and it was so sweet…she melted against him. And wound her arms around his neck. And generally acted as if kissing, rather than fishing, was her favorite sport in the world. She felt dizzy with it, with the smell and the taste of Tuppy.

  Until he put her away from him and looked down at her with inscrutable eyes. Carola’s chest heaved as she tried to get her breath, and his eyes lingered there for a moment. She felt desperately ashamed that she no longer had her kerchief. It was absolutely clear that he was thinking about her new plumpness. His mouth had grown so tight that it had a little white line around it.

  But he spoke courteously enough. “I see that I have not yet lost the contest.”

  She paused, bewildered, and tried to think what to say. He waited. “No,” she said uncertainly.