Jilting the Duke

by Rachael Miles

  And there it was . . . the past laid present between them. She couldn’t avoid it.

  “No. They weren’t insignificant. And I have no excuse. Only that I could not have remained in my uncle’s house any longer. So much changed after you left, and Tom offered me an . . . escape. Can you forgive me?”

  His pause was long, as he sat, his arms still folded across his chest, regarding her intently. In the silence that stretched between them, she could almost hear Tom’s voice whispering, “Patience.”

  “Yes.” His voice was firm, deliberate.

  “Yes?” she repeated in surprise. “I didn’t expect that.”

  “We were young, too young perhaps to know our minds.”

  She wanted to object: She had known her own mind. She simply hadn’t been allowed to follow it. But his was an easy answer, one that didn’t require other explanations. So she let it stand.

  “Thank you.” She touched his hand once more, covering it with her hand. “I must apologize for resenting that Tom made you guardian. Ian adores you, and you have been exceptionally kind, not just to him, to both of us.”

  “Tom was a good man. If nothing else, his request made me realize the time for holding grudges had long past.”

  “Then perhaps we can be friends,” Sophia offered cautiously.

  “Perhaps we can be.” Aidan offered her a wide smile and was repaid by hers in turn. “It occurs to me, if you would consider it, that when I return to my estate with Ian, you might wish to go with us. The house is large, or if you are concerned about the proprieties, I could send word to open the dower house. I even have another garden in disrepair that you could take in hand.”

  “I would like that very much.” She knew she spoke too quickly, agreed without even a moment’s pause. But it was a lifeline, a way to hold on to Ian just a little longer.

  By the time they returned to her house, they had sketched out the details. They would leave shortly after Phineas’s dinner party and spend the rest of the summer and fall at Aidan’s distant ducal estate in Monmouthshire.

  Chapter Eighteen

  When Sophia awoke, streaks of color were not yet brightening the dark sky. But her dreams, influenced by the Apothecaries’ Garden, had been filled with color: purples by yellows, oranges and reds, blues and whites all in one. It was cacophonous, and jarring . . . and beautiful. It was her vision for Aidan’s garden, but not what she’d originally planned.

  The lines had all been there in her drawings, but not these particular details. It wasn’t a design she would normally create. The long stalwart lines of the Italian cypresses rooted in raucous beds of color. But having seen it in her imagination, she wanted it.

  She picked up the sketchbook and colored in the plants with a bag of pastel crayons she kept near her dressing table. Tom had joked that she couldn’t be long without paper to sketch on, and he’d kept her supplied with blank-page account books. This was the last one he’d given her, and she’d resisted filling the last dozen pages, but she began to draw today without thinking. She sketched quickly, preserving the outlines of the beds and colors from her dream.

  When she was done, she moved to her wardrobe. She needed to see if the garden she imagined could actually take shape in Aidan’s yard, or if it were one of those ideas possible only in a dream world.

  Since she knew the mostly private path to Aidan’s yard, she saw no reason not to use it.

  She wouldn’t run the risk of meeting Aidan—he’d said he intended to spend the evening at his club—but she still should not be noticed. Sally had laid out a morning dress, but she ignored it. Instead, she drew from the closet a dress she had often worn in Italy when she walked the hills searching for botanical specimens. Now dyed black, it was more of a shift than a dress, with two drawstrings to pull the heavy cotton in above and below her bodice. The top drawstring pulled the puffed sleeves of the dress in to cover her shoulders. It was a plain dress more suitable for a servant than a woman of rank, but she would only be slipping from one garden to the next. With a black lace fichu, she covered the exposed skin between her shoulders and the nape of her neck.

  She slept with her hair braided, and now she simply pinned the braids against her head and placed on top an oversized poke bonnet that hid her face. Over it all, she draped a long cloak with a hood, and she pulled the hood over her head. She stood in front of the mirror to test her appearance: no one could recognize her.

  Tucking her sketchbook and pencils under her arm, she ran down the stairs and into the dark.

  Within five minutes, she had slipped inside the door at the bottom of Aidan’s garden. She’d seen no one. It was too early yet. The darkness had lifted only enough for her to find her way.

  It felt exhilarating, like those years long past when she had slipped out of her uncle’s house to watch the stars on the lawn, or to hunt for night-blooming plants in the forest, or—much later—to meet with Aidan.

  She wished she hadn’t remembered that last. It brought him too close to the front of her mind. But she pushed his image away, focusing on the lines of the dream garden she could still see in her memory. She began to walk the garden, testing her plans, oblivious to the sounds of the houses coming alive and the horses in the mews stirring in the lifting darkness.

  * * *

  Aidan had been standing at the window for at least an hour. He had come home half-drunk from his club, stripped down to his underclothes, and put himself to bed.

  The dream began as always, with pleasure, then Sophia had disappeared, and he’d dreamt of Tom. This time Tom stood near a pond, hand outstretched, pointing at the body of a dark-haired child floating facedown. Aidan plunged into the water, searching, but the child had disappeared. In the clear water, he saw bodies floating beneath the surface. Men from his regiment, their horses, Ian, Sophia, his brother Benjamin. He tried to pull them to shore, but they turned to skeletons in his arms.

  He’d awoken in a sweat, gasping with grief, his heart drumming fast. He tried to distract himself from the dream, by imagining Sophia in his bed, his hands running down her body. But the grief and fear remained and the sense of impending danger.

  The light of the sunrise was only beginning to streak the sky, tinging the tops of the houses as it approached him from the east. In the garden below him darkness began to lighten gradually, revealing glimpses of movement in the trees. A figure in a long cloak walked in and out of the shadows. For a moment, uncertain in the half-light, he wondered if he were awake or sleeping. He threw the last of the whiskey to the back of his throat, and the burn called him to himself. Someone was in his garden. He picked up the folding knife he kept on his dressing table, wishing he hadn’t left his pistols in his study.

  His balcony was supported by broad columns and a trellis, an easy route to the garden, quicker than running through the darkened house.

  He had no slippers, but the grass was soft. He walked stealthily, staying in the shadows, keeping his attention on the dark figure near the trees. He was close; he could call out, demanding the figure identify itself, but then he might risk being shot if his intruder had an accomplice. The figure turned toward the back of the yard and the gate.

  He moved swiftly. Taking hold of the back of the cloak, he flung the intruder to the ground and himself after. He heard a sharp breath as the weight of his body knocked the wind from the intruder’s lungs. Only when holding the intruder down on the grass, did he smell it: lavender. Sophia. And not a dream.

  He pulled back the cloak, only to be frustrated by her bonnet twisted half-round. He pulled the string under her chin and pushed its sides away from her face. She looked at him, half in fear, half in expectation.

  There was no resisting his passion, the call of the dreams too strong. Her body was beneath him, its curves soft against his legs and chest. He could feel himself grow taut, primed by dreams and danger. He kissed her—not the tentative kiss he’d imagined as a start to his seduction, a sweet kiss that would disarm her. No, this was a kiss that spoke of years o
f longing. Of seeing her again in the half-light of his dreams.

  But the urgency in his kiss surprised them both, and for a moment she didn’t react. Then, as if giving in to some inner debate, her body answered his, returning the pressure on his lips, her legs moving against the confines of the cloak to arch slightly against him.

  He kissed her again, less hard but no less desperately. Tasting her lips, the inside of her mouth, he waited for her to push him away, but she didn’t. Instead, she matched his fervor. He didn’t stop kissing her, didn’t dare risk giving her a moment to reconsider. He slipped his hand between them, under the thick material of the cloak. Untying it at the neck, he felt below it the thinner material of her dress. He kept his kisses deep and rocked gently against her lower body. When he pulled his mouth away from hers to kiss her neck, she traced her own line of kisses across his forehead and into his hair.

  His hand found her breast, gently caressing the side. Then moving to the center, he felt the lace of a drawstring and pulled it. She wore no other undergarments. His hand rubbed soft flesh between his fingers. She gasped and struggled, but not against him; her arms were tangled, he realized, in the cloak between them. He pulled at the material with her, releasing her arms, and she pulled him closer, rubbing her hands up and down his back, pulling his hips against hers.

  His one hand still cradling her breast, he kissed down her neck, smelling the lavender water on the skin below her ear, then moving farther still, down the center of her chest, kissing the line of her décolletage, then taking the center of her other breast in his mouth. She arched against him again, as he teased her with his teeth and then with the thumb and forefinger of his hand. She was breathing soft, thick pants as he pulled the second drawstring and slid his hand down her belly. The material gave way enough for him to caress the intimate folds beyond her soft tufts of hair, and beyond that to slip his fingers into her core.

  He wanted to undress her there. Bury himself in her body. Claim her once more for his. But he also knew that this moment of unthinking passion was too fragile. The sun already lit the garden, leaving only their patch below the trees in half-light. The birds had already begun calling to one another; the horses in the mews had begun to whinny for their breakfast. Sophia with her eyes closed had not realized the change, but the moment she opened her eyes, she would withdraw from their passion.

  Had her legs not been entangled in the cloak, he might have had a chance. But to undress her farther he would have to move off of her, and that would break the physical contact that held her out of time and thought. Though everything within him said “try,” he gave up the thought of taking her in the garden.

  But he could at least leave her satisfied. He kissed back up her neck to nuzzle her ear, whispering, “Let me give you pleasure, Sophia,” as he pressed his palm against her mound. She arched her hips into his hand, and he covered her mouth once more with his lips. Caressing with tongue and fingers, he waited until she shattered in his arms.

  She kept her eyes closed for some minutes, as the heat of her body calmed. He watched her, forcing himself to breathe deeply, wanting to appear in control when she came back to herself. And in truth, he had found satisfaction in proving she was not impervious to him and that he could use her passion to his ends.

  “You’ve been drinking. I could taste it on your lips.”

  “That’s not why I kissed you.”

  She put her hand to her lips, feeling them, the heat still lingering, her flesh swollen with passion. “That was more than a kiss.”

  “It’s still not the reason.”

  “Why then?”

  “Because you came to me, and I remember . . . how it felt. Be my lover again. Here, in my garden or in my bed.” Though he knew she would refuse, he added, “We could go there now. With your cloak, no one would recognize you. This was just a taste of the pleasure I can give you. Come with me.”

  Sophia looked to the house, her silence revealing her temptation. “But Ian?”

  “Isn’t here. He doesn’t even know you are gone. In fact, given that garb, I would bet no one knows where you are. Not clever, my Sophia.” He pressed his lips hard against hers once more, whispering against her cheek. “I could make this house a seraglio with you its only concubine, and no one would ever suspect.” He pressed another kiss to her lips, until she matched him kiss for kiss. “Besides, why did you come here in the dark if not to become my lover?”

  “The garden . . . I dreamt about it. I wanted to see . . .”

  “You came to see my garden,” he repeated, disbelieving, but he knew it was the truth. Nothing else explained her movements in the dark.

  “Yes. The garden.”

  “You understand how I could have misunderstood.” He nuzzled the skin of her neck.

  “I thought you would be at your club.”

  “It doesn’t matter; we can’t ignore this.” He brushed her hair back under her bonnet and tucked her curls behind her ear. “Perhaps before, but not now. Will you consider it?”

  “Consider what?”

  “Becoming my lover.” Her breast was still exposed, and he cupped his hand around its fullness and leaned over to kiss it, pulling hard against the nipple until she gasped with renewed passion. “If you are worried about disclosure, we could wait until we arrive at my estate. I’ve already sent word to open the dower house. Malcolm and Audrey have a house close by. It would be easy for Ian to spend a day . . . or a night with their boys.”

  The moment he took his lips from her breast, she began to redress. He watched as she put on reserve and civility with each layer of her clothing. When she was finished replacing her dress, fichu, and cloak, she held out her arms for Aidan to help her up. He rose, then pulled her up after him, setting her off-balance at the same time, drawing her into his arms. He kissed her once more, a gentle persuasive kiss.

  He set her back from him with regret, his body still taut with desire. He had been carried away by the passion that rose so swiftly between them and by his own heated responses to her body under his. But on the chessboard of his seduction, he could not have planned a better move. She had come to him—her reason was irrelevant. And now, he could begin a more active pursuit. Until they left for his estate, he would distract her with stolen kisses and torment her with gentle touches. And then, once they were far from interruption, he would remind her of exactly how enjoyable an affair with him could be.

  * * *

  Sophia looked down at the ground where they had both lain, the imprint of their bodies still visible in the bent grass, then she turned away toward his garden door, walking quickly. Aidan was right: the passion had been there. She simply hadn’t realized it was smoldering on his side as well as hers. She was grateful her clothes were black, no green stains to reveal their tryst. And it had to be only a tryst. He was too dangerous to her peace and calm.

  Once at his garden door, she thought to object to his proposal, but as if reading her thoughts, he interrupted. “What do you plan for the garden?”

  “That seems so insignificant now, after . . .” She looked back at the garden.

  “I told you yesterday: nothing between us has ever been insignificant.” Aidan pulled her bonnet up around her face, then lifted the hood of her cloak to conceal her face entirely. He followed her out into the alley and walked behind her toward her house.

  “I don’t think I can describe in words what I’ve imagined. Will you promise to let me work until the design is fully executed? Not critique or complain before the thing comes together?”

  “I’ll leave the garden to you, but in return you must promise not to make a decision before we get to my estate.”

  Against her better instincts, she nodded agreement. They walked the rest of the way silently, and at the door to her garden, she bid him good-bye and slipped inside. Leaning back against the closed garden door, she shut her eyes, recalling every moment from the time he’d knocked her to the ground.

  She shook her head, willing the tears of recrimination
from her eyes. How could she? What had she been thinking? She’d been exhilarated by her dream, not considering Aidan might be home, might find her, might misunderstand her intentions. But what else could he think? Finding her in his garden in the half-light, how could he not think her a light-skirt?

  He’d offered to make her his lover.

  She should be insulted. And yet, the worst part was that she wanted to say yes. Even if it only lasted for a few months, to have him once more, to hold him and breathe in the musk of his skin. Phineas was right: Aidan wouldn’t marry her, and if they were discovered, she’d be ruined. But she was a widow. . . . If they were discreet? When it ended, she would simply withdraw to the country, leaving London to him and his next mistress and eventually to his bride. All paths led to sorrow: If she rejected his offer, she would regret it for the rest of her life, and Aidan was not a man to give her another chance. If she accepted . . .

  Troubled, she entered the library. She could hear the house coming awake. She set her cloak and bonnet aside and walked to the pier glass between two bays of windows to examine her reflection. Would the flush on her cheeks tell of her indiscretion?

  In the window’s reflection, she could see a package on her desk and walked to examine it. From Mr. Murray. She flexed the edge of the package. Paper, not books. Tom’s fair copy returned from the printer—something to take her mind off the persistent problem of Aidan and her passion.

  But first she had to focus on putting her plans for Aidan’s garden into effect. She drew up instructions for Perkins, complete with plant lists and diagrams of the plantings as she had dreamed them. In the light of day, the design was still exhilarating. Even if it hadn’t been, she couldn’t retreat now.

  As she wrote the plans, however, she found herself constantly distracted by the smell of grass on her skirt, the hint of Aidan’s scent on her neck, the remembered taste of his kiss on her lips. No, she would never be able to concentrate with such reminders, and she withdrew to her room to change into a more suitable morning dress.