“Have you heard from my brother?” she asked. “I meant to ask when you were visiting his dogs the other day, but I forgot.” She addressed Ivy. “Your sister is delightfully witty, she had me laughing so hard.”
Octavia glanced at Ivy, then answered, “No, we haven’t heard from him. Do you know where he went?”
Lady Ana Maria shook her head. “No. Thaddeus knows, but he won’t tell me. He says Seb is safe and doing well, and that he will come back when he is ready. I miss him dearly.”
She looked so mournful Ivy wanted to hug her, even though that would be entirely inappropriate, and likely rather odd.
But she could do something. “Lady Ana Maria, would you like to come to the club some evening? We have whist on Mondays—tonight, actually—and it can be fun.”
“You are so lovely to try to take my mind off things,” Lady Ana Maria said. “I will come. Nash—that is, the Duke of Malvern—has been there. I would very much like to.”
“Excellent.”
The ladies said their goodbyes, Ivy and Octavia heading to the applecart, Ivy able to sufficiently distract Octavia with a discussion of the juiciest type so that her sister wouldn’t continue to press the point.
She loved him, he’d left, and she would have to adjust to that. She didn’t regret her decision, but she did sorely regret his.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“They should be ready to harvest in another month.”
Sebastian followed Clowster’s gaze, looking with satisfaction at the emerging turnip greens.
“I don’t know if I’ve ever eaten turnips,” he remarked.
Clowster snorted. “Of course you haven’t, Your Grace.”
Sebastian gave Clowster a good-natured shove, and he responded by grinning and waggling his eyebrows.
The day was warm, and Sebastian could feel sweat trickling down his back. He wore his usual work garb of worn trousers and an equally worn shirt, both the hand-me-downs from an earlier worker, a gentleman who had a similar frame to his, but was at least half a foot shorter, meaning that his trousers ended at his lower shins.
Sebastian had chosen to come to the Hasford estate the farthest from London, not just to escape, but also so nobody would know who he was. He hadn’t visited this estate since he was a boy.
It had taken all of about half an hour before he was recognized, however. A combination, perhaps, of Sebastian’s inability to disguise his patrician accent and his looking remarkably like one of his ancestors, whose painting hung on the wall. Once the staff had stopped treating him as some unidentifiable anomaly, they’d taken to using Ivy’s nickname for him, unaware she’d coined it first.
It had smarted, hearing it from someone else’s lips, but he had grown accustomed to it. He’d grown accustomed to many things: waking up at dawn, working all day, being told what to do by someone he wouldn’t have noticed before.
And he’d grown accustomed to the pain of missing her. He didn’t think he would ever not feel it, but at least he could endure it. It helped that he was constantly busy.
Mr. Clowster made certain of that. He was the estate’s current steward, the third such Clowster to hold the position.
“De Silva.” Mr. Clowster’s voice penetrated his thoughts, and he turned to regard the steward. His current boss.
Not as lovely as his previous one, but Mr. Clowster didn’t have to worry that his worker would threaten his livelihood with his arrogant anger.
Mostly because the livelihood comprised a variety of vegetables, and Sebastian couldn’t manage to be offended by any of those, no matter how stubbornly they refused to grow.
“What is it?”
It was close to dusk, and the sun was beginning to shift in the sky, indicating it wouldn’t be long before the shadows lengthened and they had to go inside. The housekeeper, Mrs. Werriter, would be anticipating their arrival. Sebastian had noted with some humor that she was sweet on Mr. Clowster, who hadn’t noticed a thing.
“It’ll be time for you to go soon.”
“What?” Sebastian asked in surprise. “Go where?” If it was to the market, they’d gone just the other week.
“You have to deal with it, lad. Whatever it is that you were running away from.” Mr. Clowster jerked his head toward the rows of turnips. “These’ll be coming up with or without you soon enough. You’ve spent time learning how to listen, and what to do, and I s’pose that is what you needed. Am I right?”
Sebastian folded his arms over his chest and glared at Mr. Clowster. “Did the duke tell you? Or the other duke?” Because he wouldn’t put it past either Thaddeus or Nash to have alerted the staff about his heartache, damn them.
Mr. Clowster snorted. “I’m not in the habit of corresponding with dukes, Your Grace,” he said in a pointed tone. “Even the one who owns this estate. It’s obvious. We all knew there was a reason you came here, but we thought we’d just help you along with it.” He nodded, making a shooing gesture. “And now you have. Too bad you won’t get a chance to taste your turnips.”
Now it was Sebastian’s turn to laugh. “I’m that obvious, hm?”
“You’re in love. You should talk to her.” Just what Nash had said, only Sebastian hadn’t been who he needed to be then.
Was he now?
And if he was, what would she say?
“Oh.”
Ivy covered her mouth with her hand. He was here. He was here, after not being here for two months.
Or fifty-seven days, six hours, and forty-seven minutes, if one had been counting. Which one had not been.
She had expected the knock at the door to be one of the constables who checked in with her every day. To ensure the club was safe, but also to receive whatever was left over from Mac’s cooking the night before.
The words burst out of her before she could even think. “Where have you been?”
“It’s good to see you, Ivy.” His gaze was intense, as though he was trying to see all of her all at once. It felt too much. It wasn’t enough. “Can I come in?”
“Yes.” She opened the door wider, and he stepped inside. He wore a plain suit with a white shirt, the clothing looking as though it had been chosen for its usefulness rather than its ability to make its wearer look handsome.
Not that he needed any help there.
If anything, he looked handsomer. He’d allowed his facial hair to grow in, so he had the start of a beard on his lean cheeks. It was golden brown and drew attention to his mouth. His gorgeously shaped mouth. His hair was longer, too, giving him an even more rakish look.
“Do you—would you like anything to drink?”
“Tea, perhaps?” he said with a hint of a grin.
She chuckled in surprise. “I can make—”
“I don’t need anything, Ivy,” he said. He paused, and his gaze seemed even more searching. “Except you.”
Sebastian had no idea what he was going to say to her. Just that he was going to say something.
His brain felt fuzzy, the only persistent thought that he needed to see her. To talk to her. To tell her—something.
He hadn’t expected that something to be a joke about his dislike of tea within a few moments of greeting her, but then again, everything about her was unexpected.
How he felt seeing her was not unexpected, however. It felt as though he’d been whacked in the chest by a powerful object, but the powerful object was a fierce emotion that was wonderful and tormenting all at the same time.
Was that love? It must be love. Now the Romantic poets he’d read back in the day made a lot more sense, what with always walking around with a mixture of agony and desire and yearning.
Well, if she turned him away, perhaps he could find a third career as a poet. Because that was doubtlessly lucrative. He’d snort at himself if he wasn’t so on the edge.
“Well,” she said, clearly composing herself, “would you like to sit down?” She gestured to one of the tables in the gaming room. It wasn’t their table, much to his regret.
; “I would.” He waited for her to walk to the table, then followed, his mind buzzing with the overwhelmingness of everything.
Just say it all, his brain reminded him. All the things you went over while you were at the Hasford country estate. In between settling disputes between the housekeeper and the stable master, hiring temporary help for the harvest, and gently rebuffing the advances of the squire’s widow.
She sat, folding her hands in her lap. She looked calm, but he could see her fingers moving as she clenched and unclenched her hands.
He drew a chair to sit opposite her. If he leaned forward, he would likely kiss her.
He wanted to kiss her so badly. It took an effort to keep his back rigid against the chair so as not to close the distance between them. But he would not intrude on her that way, not without saying everything he had to say—whatever that was—first.
“Well?”
“Well.”
He couldn’t sit in the chair. It didn’t feel like enough. He rose and went to kneel on the floor in front of her. The hardwood hurt his knees, and yet the pain was welcome—feeling it meant it was real, that he was here with her now.
“Ivy, I—” And then he paused, the enormity of his emotions making his chest swell. “I was wrong. I want to tell you everything, tell you how I feel. And if at the end of it you don’t want to see me again, I will accept it. But I am hoping you will hear me out.”
“You’re asking me,” she said. “Not telling me.” She sounded faintly surprised, and he felt a wry smile tug at his lips.
“I am asking. I’m asking for so many things.” Please give them to me. Because if you don’t, I will have to resort to writing what will undoubtedly be bad poetry.
“What are you asking for?”
He took a deep breath. “Ivy, before, when I asked you before, I made it seem as though I would be doing you a favor. I barely even asked you, I just sailed over it. I could say that wasn’t what I meant at all, but I’d be lying. Even then, even after spending time with you and talking with you and eating cheese and drinking tea, I thought that you wanted to go back to that life we both used to have. It was arrogant of me”—at which she nodded—“and I have regretted it every moment since.”
“You didn’t drink tea,” she pointed out, a trace of humor in her voice. Thank goodness.
“And what I didn’t know then, but I know now, is that there is nothing about you that I would change. I don’t want you to be a Society lady, worrying about your latest gown or who has accepted an invitation to dine.”
She kept her gaze steady on him.
“But just as important as that is that I don’t want to change. I don’t want to change who I am now—a man, a man with faults and stubbornness and occasional arrogance”—at which her lips quirked up in a smile—“who loves his sister and his dogs and—and you. I love you, Ivy. And because I love you, I know that you would not be who you are, the strong woman I love, if you hadn’t made your choices. Gambled on your own future. And I wouldn’t be worthy of you if I let someone else dictate what was going to happen to me. That’s why I left.”
“Where did you go?” she asked. “You’ve been away so long.” She sounded mournful, and he dared to hope.
He gazed over her shoulder in thought. Because if he kept looking at her lovely face he’d forget his words, and she should hear them so she could understand. Because he finally understood, thanks to his sojourn away from it all, and the work, and possibly even the turnips.
“I needed to discover what it was that had changed in my life. It was you, and Octavia, and the club, but it was also me: my resolve, my confidence, my goals. I don’t want to be someone who just gets things handed to them. And I don’t want to take them either. I want to ask for them.” He reached around to his back, withdrawing the thing he’d kept as a reminder of what he was working toward.
“A—cribbage board?” she asked, sounding startled.
“The cribbage board,” he replied. He flipped it upside down, sliding the bottom panel out to reveal the storage space. He withdrew the ring, clasping it tightly in his fist.
“Ivy,” he began. “I won’t say I don’t care where we live. I do care. I don’t want to live in a spacious town house. I don’t want to sleep on satin sheets and have more servants than I can count. I want to live with you, in a home of our own making, wherever that might be. I want us both to risk it all, gamble on our future together.”
“You’d make a terrible card player,” she said, her eyes bright.
“I would. I do. I am showing all my cards, Ivy. I don’t have any other tricks up my sleeve. I am Sebastian de Silva and I love you. So now I am going to ask.” He swallowed, holding the ring out to her. “Ivy, will you marry me?”
“Yes.”
Ivy grinned as he leaped to his feet, grabbing her up and out of the chair to whirl her in his arms. They both looked down as they heard a noise on the floor.
“The ring!” he exclaimed, dropping down to retrieve it from where he’d dropped it. He shuffled over on his knees, a wide smile on his handsome face. “I want to hear it again. Ivy, will you marry me?”
“Yes,” she repeated, and he slid the ring on her finger, then kept hold of her hands as he stood up. He placed one palm on the side of her face, his fingers caressing her tenderly.
“And now, Ivy, may I kiss you?”
“All this asking, Mr. de Silva.” She licked her lips, which had gotten suddenly dry. “How about you tell me what you want.”
His eyes lit up at her words, and his mouth curled into a wicked smile. “First, Miss Holton, I want to kiss you.”
And he did. He slid his tongue in as she opened her mouth, and then his hand moved to the back of her neck, holding her in position. His other hand went to her waist, then slid up her rib cage to her breast, and he rested his palm there. Her whole body ached for him to touch her. He broke the kiss, his breathing already ragged. “And then I want to stroke your breast”—at which point he did just that and she gasped—“and if you’ll let me, I’ll undo your exceedingly practical gown so I can see your gorgeous body.”
“Mm,” she replied, turning around to present her back.
She felt his fingers at her buttons, and within a few moments, he’d slid her gown off her shoulders, holding it wide so she could step out of it.
She turned back to face him in her shift. “And this?” she asked, gesturing to it.
“Please.”
Meanwhile, his hands were at his neckcloth, unwrapping it with one quick movement, then he removed his jacket and began to undo the buttons at his shirt.
She stood in just her stockings and shoes, her hair a tumbled mess around her shoulders.
His eyes drank her in, and she felt as though she were dressed entirely in his love.
And then he undid the placket of his trousers, toeing off his shoes as he shucked the fabric down. His erection stood proudly out from his smallclothes, and she couldn’t help but lick her lips as she regarded it.
“Christ, Ivy, you’ll be the death of me before we even marry,” he growled, sweeping her into his arms, picking her up to deposit her on the table. Another table, not their table.
“Is it your intention to christen each one of these?” she asked, glancing around the room.
“If it means I can fuck you on every one of them, then yes,” he said. His clever fingers finding her nipple, beginning to stroke it to a hard point.
She felt herself getting wet down there, and her hand moved of its own volition to caress the part of her that ached.
He still stood on the floor, his erection right at her eye level.
“Mm, yes, Ivy. Show me what you like.” His gaze was rapacious on where her hand was stroking herself, and his hand went to his cock, gripping it tight as he began to slide his fist up and down.
“Ivy, I need to be inside you.”
“Another order?” she said with a grin. She shifted over to make room, but he shook his head.
“No, not that way
. Over here.” He grabbed hold of her legs, spreading them wide so she was bared to him, then urged her forward to the edge of the table so her legs dangled off. He stepped forward so his cock was right there at her entrance. His stomach muscles were flexed, the hard ridges defining them a delicious sight. He took his shaft in his hand and pressed himself inside as she caught her breath. He slid inside as he took her leg and wrapped it around his waist. She did the same with the other leg and then he grabbed hold of her waist, holding her off the table entirely. He was certainly strong. It felt so good for him to be inside, and she bit her lip as she shifted against him. “That’s it, Ivy. Goddamn, woman, yes. Fuck me.” And then he managed to deposit them back on the table, still connected, only now she was on top astride him. She blinked in surprise as he urged her up, then down, until she got the rhythm of it. And then it was delicious, the pressure increasing inside her as she rode him, his gaze hungry on her, his hands roaming all over her body.
His fingers found that spot that was begging to be touched, and he stroked her as she kept moving, the momentum building until she hit that peak, flinging her head back to cry out as the enormity of it engulfed her.
“You are beautiful when you come,” he said. His hair was damp from their exertions, and she could feel him inside her, hard and demanding. She kept moving up and down, faster and faster, until his eyes closed and the tendons in his neck stood out.
And then he arched his back and groaned, and she could feel the hot liquid spill inside her. Her hands went to rest on his chest, and they were both panting and she had never been happier in her life.
At last, after a few long moments, he opened his eyes and his lips curled into a wry smile. “Do you suppose after we are married we could try this in an actual bed?” He arched a brow. “And possibly try some turnips? I hear they are delicious.”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, yes, yes.”
Epilogue
Never Kiss a Duke Page 28
