The Offer

by Sara Portman

  After his thumb traced along the other side of her jaw, his fingers cupped her nape and supported her there as she remained tilted up to him.

  “Well?” he asked.

  She swallowed. What had he asked again? “Lucy,” she said, barely recovering her wits. “My name is Lucy.”

  “Ah. Pure, saintly Lucy.” His fingers kneaded at her nape, while his other arm drew her fully up against him. “Tell me, Saint Lucy, would you like your first real kiss to be sweet, or more dangerous?”

  Dangerous? Her eyes widened. What did dangerous kissing involve? She tensed. That her mind wasn’t imaginative enough to put specifics to his meaning did not appear to matter to her body. As soon as he had spoken the word, tiny darts of anticipation had traversed to all of her extremities and back again to her very core.

  His questioning lips slowly widened into a devilish grin. “Excellent choice.”

  “But I…I haven’t answered yet,” she breathed.

  “Yes, dear. You have.”

  He lowered his mouth then, not to her lips, but to her ear. “Dangerous kisses,” he whispered, brushing his lips across her lobe, “can start anywhere.”

  His hot breath brushed her neck and she shivered before she could help it.

  “Like here,” he said, taking her earlobe in his mouth and dragging his teeth across it before releasing it, dampened, to the cool air. “And here.” He kissed a spot below her jaw.

  Lucy stood frozen in stark contrast to the hot chaos of sensation moving within her. He lifted his mouth from its branding of her throat and gazed hotly down at her for the briefest of moments before he dropped his lips to hers.

  This was no gentle press of lips to lips. As soon as his mouth met hers, his tongue probed until her lips parted and the kiss became devouring. She didn’t know what to do. Wasn’t even sure what she was doing, but she was responding. Without even knowing, she was responding.

  It was not sweet. What a silly, benign word to be connected to this assault of mouths and hands and sensations.

  Yes. Hands. The arm at her waist had become exploratory, moving up and down her back in an ever-lengthening line that inevitably included long, squeezing strokes of her backside that pulled her into him in the most intimate way.

  She should protest. This was more than a kiss. He was groping her. But...

  Hmmm. That was the part that made it so…so…good. Every time his hand moved upward from her backside, she felt its loss. And when it trailed back down to cup her again, she melted just a little bit deeper. His hand veered off course to splay across her rib cage before passing lightly, but slowly, across the peak of her breast.

  And that was good too.

  All the while, his mouth held hers, their tongues dancing while her own hands traced his muscled back.

  When had she begun her own exploration? She didn’t know when, but she knew why. The need to touch him was too tempting—too seductive.

  And there was the danger. This was no kiss. This was seduction. Even as it happened, she knew what place these new sensations were occupying in her. They were occupying the places happily vacated by her good sense.

  Dangerous, indeed.

  She muttered an objection, but it came out only as a breathy groan that he swallowed with his deepening kiss.

  With Herculean effort, she tore her mouth from his and turned her face away, taking in greedy gulps of air. She felt his breath rise and fall with the same labor, but she did not look at him. She could not.

  “I…I think I have the way of it.”

  She kept her eyes to the floor and hurried from the room, knowing even as she did so that she was, in fact, scampering away like a frightened rabbit.

  Chapter Five

  Bex stared at the door through which she’d fled—fled as though her very life were at stake.

  What the hell just happened here?

  The vibration began as a slight contraction of his midsection, but it grew strength as it traveled through his chest. When it had coursed upward far enough to match itself with his widening grin, he had no choice but to release it. He threw his head back and laughed. He laughed in such loud, roaring bellows, he had to take in great gulps of air. He bent and clutched his gut from the force of it. Lord, he’d not laughed with such abandon since he was a boy. The entire household probably could hear him. Certainly, she could probably hear him, but he could not keep it from happening.

  Eventually his breath became more steady as the spasms subsided and his guffaws lessened to sounded sighs.

  It was only then he became aware of a particularly coarse clearing of a man’s throat behind him and swung around to face the doorway.

  The butler made no effort to disguise the haughty disapproval that seemed the particular training of butlers in great houses—like they were the bloody enforcers of decorum of all who passed through their domains.

  Let him disapprove, thought Bex. What would the man do? Turn him out? He was here on the duke’s summons.

  Bex took two more large, deep breaths and raised questioning eyebrows at the crusty old man.

  “His Grace will see you now, sir,” the man said in a carefully dignified tone, surely meant to school Bex in the correct manner of conducting oneself. If only the old man had come a little sooner. What would he have thought of Bex’s conduct then?

  With a smile at the thought, Bex followed the butler from the room. As it was, the brief interaction was nothing but a comedy of errors leading to a bit of fun. There had been no real harm done. The thought of having been caught in his interlude with Saint Lucy of Beadwell by the officious butler was certainly diverting, but he was not callous enough to truly wish for it.

  What a scrape that would be for poor Saint Lucy.

  Not for him, of course. No one cared a fig for who he was or the state of his reputation. Besides, even if they did, men always seemed to overcome these things. Women like Miss Betancourt—vicar’s daughters in need of employment—they did not.

  It seemed rather uneven, now that he thought of it. A man must be very, very bad to have his reputation cause him any serious trouble, particularly if there was any wealth or title to shield him. He had only to consider himself to know this was the case. He’d treated a certain Miss Mary Huxley unconscionably, but that hadn’t mattered to anyone once he was suddenly in line for a dukedom.

  The memory sobered his laughter. Why had he thought of her? It was of no matter to anyone now. The girl was already married. She likely had a brood of children. He was not married to Miss Huxley, nor was he in line for a title of any sort. The entire circumstance was long past.

  As his thoughts completed their inevitably fitting journey from the diverting to the unpleasant, Bex followed the disapproving butler around the final corner and into the duke’s study.

  Damn.

  The duke rose from behind a massive desk, but the bow of deference Bex gave was a distracted one. He’d met the present duke twice before, and briefly at that. He had no complaint with the man.

  It was the man who did not rise—who remained seated facing the duke’s desk—who received the full venom of Bex’s glare.

  As though finally unable to hold his resolve against the loathing emanating from Bex upon his arrival, the man finally faced him. The look they exchanged was cold.

  The duke spoke first. “Please come in, Mr. Brantwood.”

  Bex stepped forward. “Your Grace,” he said with a deferential nod. He crossed the remaining space from the doorway to the vacant chair and lowered himself into it. Then he slowly turned, just enough to direct his greeting, but not enough to fully face the occupant of the other chair.

  “Father.”

  “Bexley.”

  “I was not aware, Your Grace, when I received your message,” Bex said, working to keep the disgust from his tone, “that my father was to be here as well.”

 
The duke looked curiously at Bex. “I invited you here in response to the request for a meeting I received from your father—a request on your behalf as well as his own. Were you not aware of it?”

  “I was not.”

  The duke’s sharp eyes darted between the two men “Do you not reside together?”

  They did for the time being, though Bex had become particularly adept at never encountering his father. He preferred things that way.

  “Allow me to apologize, Your Grace,” the elder Mr. Brantwood purred. “I did not explain to Bexley my purpose for requesting our meeting.”

  Ah. So it would seem, then, that Bex’s father had not only the advantage of knowing the full list of attendees for their discussion, but the agenda for it as well. How considerate.

  Bex watched carefully as the duke’s discerning gaze settled upon his father’s practiced expression of earnest humility.

  “We are all here now, per your request,” the duke pointed out. “Is your father unwell?”

  To Bex’s knowledge, his grandfather—the man who would have been the seventh Duke of Worley, had John Brantwood never reappeared—was happily situated at Oakwood Lodge with his daughter-in law. He was elderly, but Bex had not heard from his mother of any decline in the man’s health.

  Edward sat forward in his chair. “He is as well as can be expected, Your Grace, given all the dramatic events to which he has been exposed at his advanced age. You can imagine what a blow it was to believe he would be elevated to the peerage only to have it snatched so suddenly from his grasp.”

  The duke did not bother to meet the other man’s eyes, instead relocating a stack of correspondence on his desk as he responded. “I’ve had a letter from your father—several, in fact, over the past year. He indicated his great relief, not only for my safe return but also for his rescue from the burden of assuming the responsibilities of the dukedom.”

  Edward did not hesitate in his retort. “I’m sure he saw no cause to spread ill will. Most men aspire to some elevated status of authority or wealth for which they will be remembered after their death.”

  “Yes.” This time the duke’s direct gaze cut to the man opposite him, his blue eyes becoming cold and wary. “Some men do.”

  Silence settled on them following the duke’s statement, and Bex granted his titled cousin a measure of respect for recognizing his father’s ploy. Edward had not yet revealed his purpose for the meeting, but Bex had his suspicions. He sincerely hoped they were incorrect.

  Edward finally cleared his throat, piercing the quiet. “My father’s health is not the purpose for requesting your time, Your Grace.” He shifted in his chair to lean conspiratorially forward, as though defending the words from unintended ears, yet oddly spoke loudly enough for Bex, the only other occupant of the room, to hear quite clearly. “I understand your years away prevented you from benefiting from your father’s mentorship and I’m sure you are quite overwhelmed by the responsibilities you face.” He sat straight again. “I applaud you for your very wise marriage, but there are countless other matters requiring your attention. As I am among your nearest living family and am decades your senior in age and experience, I would be remiss in not offering my wisdom and aid until you have gained your footing.”

  The duke rested one elbow on the velvet-upholstered arm of his substantial chair and regarded Edward coolly. He said nothing.

  The older man squirmed under the duke’s stare for a few moments before launching into his true purpose. “It still remains, for instance, to deal with the unfortunate consequences of your absence, Your Grace.”

  The duke gave no outward reaction to this claim. “Enlighten me as to the consequences most concerning to you,” he calmly bade the other man.

  Edward adjusted himself in his chair yet again. His face had turned ruddy, his eyes dark with disfavor for this duke who’d declined to grasp at the offer of counsel.

  His father was a pompous fool.

  “There are many, Your Grace,” Edward began, more slowly and deliberately than before, “but perhaps the most urgent matter pertains to accounts that must be settled.”

  Ah. Disappointingly, Bex had theorized correctly.

  “My father’s secretary was dismissed,” the duke stated, “but I have replaced him. The position was not vacant for long. I’m not aware of any delinquent accounts, nor have I been notified of creditors appearing to make such claims.” The duke knew as well as Bex did exactly whose accounts the old man was here to have settled. Bex couldn’t blame the duke for making him spell it out. He would have done the same, in the duke’s position. If Edward Brantwood had come to beg for money, let the man openly beg.

  “You understand”—Edward’s voice was decidedly tighter—“there were expenses incurred by our family in preparing to take on the responsibilities of the dukedom while you were believed deceased.”

  Bex eyed the duke, who remained impressively devoid of any outward show of surprise or disgust at the claim. Bex didn’t care if his own disgust was evident at this point, along with his rising anger at having been brought to Worley House under false pretenses.

  “Perhaps I should understand what sort of preparations were undertaken,” the duke suggested patiently.

  Edward coughed. “As you can imagine, Your Grace, once everyone was convinced of your death abroad, it was incumbent upon my family to take our place in society and begin to move about in circles befitting a duke and his heir.”

  “But you were not, in fact, the duke or the heir. Were you, cousin?”

  “My father was heir, but as you know he is quite elderly. He was unable to relocate to London on behalf of the family.”

  “I see.”

  Edward shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Your Grace,” he began, “I have for some months been considering the need for an indulgence of your time so that you might understand our present situation and your connection to it.” He waved his hands and stammered, “Through no intention on your part, I am certain, Your Grace. I expect you will be dismayed when you learn the seriousness of the matter.”

  The duke’s mouth tightened to a grim line. “Pray, elaborate.”

  To Edward’s credit, he was not evasive. “We have exhausted all available funds, Your Grace, and unless we can make some payment on amounts due, we will not be extended further credit.”

  The duke was quiet for some time, propping his elbows on the desk and tapping his tenting his fingers. After a long moment, he released a fatigued sigh. “I gather by your reference to ‘further’ credit that you have already incurred considerable debts.”

  It was a statement, not a question, but Edward replied nonetheless. “We had necessities, you understand, for establishing ourselves in London. Moneylenders were happy to extend credit to a duke’s heir.”

  “Or the heir’s heir,” the duke added wryly.

  Edward did not dispute it.

  Bex remained silent. He had no excuse whatsoever for hurrying to London five years prior and accepting all of his father’s rubbish about why they could not simply continue to live as gentleman farmers until they actually inherited. The reasons his father had given then were the same he’d given the duke—they had to gain polish and build connections in society, lest they disgrace the dukedom with their provincial, unsophisticated ways. In hindsight, Bex did not see how spending money one did not actually possess on expensive clothing and card games was particularly sophisticated. He would wager as well that the dukedom found the present circumstance considerably more disgraceful than if they had simply remained gentleman farmers.

  But they had not.

  And Bex could not deny his participation. He had believed every encouraging word his father had said and arrived in London as a man barely twenty believing he would someday inherit a kingdom. It may as well have been a kingdom, compared with the small estate in Surrey. He had been young, naïve, and expected to inherit a
vast fortune. He had been every moneylender’s fantasy.

  At least he had youth to blame. It was not much, but it was something. What had his father as an excuse?

  “Do you not have debts as well?” the duke asked.

  “I have my own debts, yes,” Bex said. “They were no less foolishly acquired.”

  The duke released a burdened sigh. “I will require an accounting.”

  “With all due respect, Your Grace”—Bex lifted his chin and met his cousin’s hard blue gaze—“no.”

  Surprise flashed through the intelligent eyes. “No? You’ll not provide an accounting?”

  “That is correct.”

  The duke leaned slowly back into his chair and peered at Bex. “That will complicate things, you understand.”

  “In what manner?” Bex asked stiffly.

  “How am I to pay creditors for whom I have no names or amounts?”

  Bex rose. He looked from his father to the duke. “If there has been a misunderstanding, allow me to clarify. I have not made any demands for financial support, nor do I intend to do so. I am no longer a duke-in-waiting, nor do I expect to live as though I am.” Bex stepped behind the chair from which he had risen and gripped the back of it, certain his hands would quake with his anger if he did not steady himself. There were noises of objection coming from his father, but he ignored them. “My congratulations, Your Grace, on the pending addition to your family. Rest assured, I harbor no secret desire that you will fail to produce an heir. I shall live out the life for which I was always intended, benefiting from the modest portion set aside by my grandfather until such time as I inherit Oakwood Lodge and become a quiet, unassuming gentleman farmer.” He meant the last for his father, who was finally quiet. “And I shall suffer the consequences of my own poor judgment by seeing to the settlement of my debts myself,” he added.

  The duke nodded and seemed to accept this declaration with some measure of respect. Bex finally looked to his father then, already preparing for the disgust and disapproval he would see there. His father would not understand his choice, and he did not much care.