Only a Duke Will Do

by Sabrina Jeffries

  Mischief glinted in his eyes. “I said, ‘Go find the bananas.’”

  “You know perfectly well there are no banana trees here!”

  “Exactly.” He strode toward her with clear intent.

  A little thrill coursed down her spine. “But he’ll get lost or—”

  “Don’t fret yourself over it.” His dark smile made her toes curl in her half boots. “He’s been trained to look for a while and then return to his owner.”

  Torn between laughter and outrage, she backed away from him. “You mean you sent that poor thing on a wild banana chase? That’s awful!”

  “Trust me, there’s nothing Raji likes better than a good swing through the trees.” He stalked her with a tiger’s easy grace. “Besides, a man has to find some way to be alone with the woman he’s courting, doesn’t he?”

  The words hung in the air, tantalizing her with the forbidden, alarming her with the reality.

  Once again she’d made a huge miscalculation. And judging from the predatory look on Simon’s face, she’d best beat a hasty retreat.

  Chapter Nine

  Dear Cousin,

  Why can’t Miss North and the duke pursue their ambitions? Assumptions like yours are why women like myself refuse to marry—because once we achieve our life’s dream, we are loath to toss it aside for the dubious pleasures of matrimony.

  Your irate cousin,

  Charlotte

  Simon wasn’t surprised Louisa had caught on to his ploy so quickly—he could scarcely believe she had let him take it this far.

  She hurried back down the path toward the road. “It’s getting late, sir. We should return to town.”

  She thought to flee him, did she? The devil she would.

  Reaching inside his waistcoat pocket, he called out, “Don’t you want to know how much money Lord Trusbut donated to the London Ladies Society?”

  That made her halt. She hesitated, probably weighing whether to engage the enemy in this cozy spot, but the reformer in her won out over the cautious spinster.

  When she faced him, he was dangling the bank draft from his fingers.

  Her face darkened. “That belongs to me, and you know it.” She held out her hand. “Now give it here.”

  “‘Give it here’?” He chuckled. “That may work for my sister when she deals with your lummox of a brother, but I’m not so easily led.” With a grin, he tucked the draft inside his pocket. “If you want it, you will have to come and get it.”

  Though color suffused her lovely cheeks, her eyes glittered in the rapidly dimming light. “I am not going to play your games,” she told him with typically feminine condescension. “Hand me the draft, Your Grace.”

  His grin vanished. “Call me Simon, and I will.”

  “Your Grace, Your Grace, Your Grace—”

  “I will make you call me Simon if it’s the last thing I do,” he growled, then lunged for her.

  She whirled and ran from him. “I shall never say it now, sir,” she called back as she weaved through birches and elms, her bodice ribbons trailing out behind her like a comet’s tail.

  Fortunately her skirts hampered her speed, so he caught up to her within moments. Snagging her about the waist, he yanked her back against him so hard that he knocked off her hat. “Call me Simon,” he hissed in her ear as her sweet derriere nestled against his groin. “Call me Simon or you will never see that draft.”

  She stopped wriggling, and for a second he thought he had won. Until she brought the heel of her very sturdy half boot back into his shin. Hard.

  “Ow!” He released her at once. The bloody female had kicked him!

  She turned and slid her hand inside his pocket, jerking out the draft with a cry of triumph. When she read it, she froze. “Oh my word.”

  Simon glared up at her as he rubbed his sore shin. “I hope that warms your mercenary little heart.”

  “Two hundred pounds! Do you know what we can do with two hundred pounds?”

  “Hire hackneys?” he grumbled as he straightened.

  “Add nicely to our fund for our candidate.”

  He went cold. Not if he had anything to say about it.

  She stared at the draft, a guilty flush touching her cheeks. “Um…what amount had Lord Trusbut offered before you convinced him to change it?”

  “Twenty.” When her startled gaze shot to him, he added, “I strongly encouraged him to add a zero.” After promising privately that he would prevent the group from pursuing their political aspirations. Trusbut might be willing to placate his wife’s new interest in reform, but he was as wary as the other lords about letting some charitable group trot a questionable political candidate about the country giving incendiary speeches.

  “Thank you. It is much appreciated.”

  Her unwitting thanks troubled his conscience, but he told himself he would make it up to her once they were married.

  Contrition shining in her eyes, Louisa folded the draft, then slipped it inside the pocket of her morning gown. “I’m sorry I kicked you. It was most ungenerous of me. This is far more than I expected, Your Grace.”

  If she called him “Your Grace” one more time, he would take her over his knee. “Surely I deserve more than a mere thanks,” he snapped.

  She stiffened. “Now see here, I am not the sort of woman to offer—”

  “Call me Simon, damn it.”

  Her eyes went wide. “Oh.”

  The color suffusing her cheeks gave him pause. “You thought I was going to ask for something else, didn’t you?”

  She dropped her gaze. “No, I-I wasn’t…I just thought—”

  “That I was going to ask for a kiss. Or something equally scandalous.” He stepped nearer. “Perhaps you were even hoping I would.”

  “Certainly not!” But she couldn’t meet his eyes. “I told you already that I have no desire to—”

  Taking her off guard, he tugged her into his arms, then kissed her. Suddenly, firmly…briefly. When she lifted her startled gaze to him, he said, “There, you have your kiss. Now call me Simon.”

  A laugh sputtered out of her that she quickly squelched. Her lips formed a prim line once more, but their twitch betrayed her. “I told you, I shan’t be so familiar with you.” She pushed against his chest. “And I certainly didn’t mean for you to—”

  He kissed her again, but before she could shove him away, he drew back. “I am happy to give you as many kisses as you please, as long as you call me Simon.”

  She looked torn between anger and laughter. “You know perfectly well I wasn’t asking you to—”

  He leaned forward to kiss her again, but she hastily pressed her hand to his lips. “Stop that, sir!”

  “Simon,” he prompted against her gloved fingers. “Call me Simon, and I will stop.”

  Another laugh bubbled out of her. “Are you deaf? I told you, I won’t call you Simon until I know the real you better.”

  Imprisoning her hand against his lips, he began to kiss her gloved fingers one by one. “So you prefer that I keep kissing you—”

  “You know that’s not what I meant,” she said in a throaty whisper.

  Yet she did not push him away or try to halt him as he unfastened the tiny buttons of her glove and opened it to feather a kiss over the lilac-scented skin of her wrist. When her pulse stammered into a wild thrumming, his own pulse leapt in response. She was not as immune to him as she pretended, thank God.

  “You have such pretty hands.” He peeled her glove off, kissing every inch he bared. “Such delicate fingers.”

  Her breath came in a hot, staccato rhythm against his forehead. “Don’t be ridiculous. I have short, stubby fingers. That’s why I play the harp so badly. Everyone says so.”

  “Everyone is wrong.” He tucked her glove inside his trouser pocket, then skimmed his lips down her index finger to kiss her bare palm. When her fingers flattened against his cheek in a near caress, he exulted. “I remember your harp playing. It was wonderful.”

  She laughed shakily
. “Then you’re either mad or tone-deaf, or remembering another woman’s harp playing entirely. Regina’s perhaps.”

  “It wasn’t my sister’s hands I dreamt of in Calcutta. It wasn’t her fingers I dreamt of having stroke my cheek.” His voice deepened. “The way you are now.”

  Stiffening, she tried to pull her hand away, but he wouldn’t let her, caressing her palm with his open mouth until she softened.

  “I don’t believe you thought of my fingers for one minute,” she said, but the yearning in her gaze showed that she wanted him to be telling the truth.

  Oddly enough, he was. “No?” He paused in the midst of nibbling her sweet pinkie to seize her other hand, then rub her ring finger through the glove. “You have a scar on the second knuckle, right here, which you got when a terrier bit you. You told me about it at that dinner at the Iversleys.” When she had let him hold her bare hand briefly beneath the table.

  “You…you remember that?” Her eyes widened to a sultry black that enticed him to lose himself in them.

  He stripped her other glove off and tucked it in his pocket. Placing her hands on his shoulders, he tugged her close, plastering her against him from thigh to breast. “I remember everything,” he rasped.

  Then he took her lips with his, his blood fired with the need to plunder her honeyed mouth. To hell with biding his time, being careful to keep from frightening her off with too much too fast. The only way to shatter her Joan of Arc shield was to remind her that she was a desirable woman, too passionate to languish as a spinster.

  Too passionate and too damned luscious for words. She tasted of tea and lemon cakes—so thoroughly English that it intoxicated him, yet as exotic to him as any concoction of almond milk and coconut. And when she opened those soft-as-silk lips, coaxing him in, meeting his tongue thrust for thrust, it was all he could do not to lay her down beneath the birch and elms and satisfy his aching need.

  For a woman who seemed to have led a nun’s life of late, she certainly excelled at kissing. Just thinking of the men who might have dared to kiss her while he was in India made him kiss her more roughly, more possessively—

  She tore her mouth from his, struggling for breath, her hands now buried in his hair. “What else do you…remember about our time together?”

  At least she didn’t thrust him away. “Obviously more than you.” The words came out harsher than he’d meant, and he nuzzled her sleek swan’s throat. “I suppose you were too busy with those idiots at court to think of me.”

  “Idiots at court?” she echoed.

  “The ones who taught you to kiss so well.”

  He wished he’d kept his bloody mouth shut when she drew back to stare at him with a wounded expression. “So you do think I’m a wanton like my mother.”

  Damn, he knew how sensitive she was about that. “If I thought you were a wanton, I wouldn’t be courting you.” When she tried to leave his embrace, he wouldn’t let her. “But clearly you learned to kiss from someone.”

  She glared at him. “And what if I did? How many dozens of women did you kiss while you were away?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “I’m sure I would.” She tipped up her chin. “You probably had a string of Indian mistresses to rival a rajah.”

  “No,” he said tersely. “No mistresses.”

  Her eyes shone luminous in the fading light. “Then there were ladybirds.”

  “No ladybirds, either. I have been as celibate as a monk for seven years.”

  She looked skeptical. “I’m no longer a naïve girl, so you needn’t protect my delicate sensibilities. I’ve seen and heard enough at Newgate to know that men don’t usually deny themselves…certain things. You can tell me the truth.”

  “Why would I lie about it?”

  “So that I would think you’d saved yourself for me, or some such nonsense.”

  He cast her a rueful smile. “My reasons were more practical. I did not want to risk exposing myself to disease—or treachery. I had plenty of opportunity to observe the dangers of taking an Indian mistress, especially for a man in my position.” Given the alternatives, pleasuring himself had seemed the most prudent.

  Louisa, however, did not look convinced. “Then you should get yourself to a bawdy house straightaway, sir.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Surely she had not just suggested that he—

  “I’ve seen how cranky Marcus gets when Regina is away more than a few days, so I can only imagine how vexing seven years of celibacy must be. Which explains why you’re courting a woman who doesn’t wish to marry you. You need a less permanent solution, some ladybird or a mistress—”

  “I don’t want a ladybird.” He’d seen enough ladybirds during Grandfather’s “training” to last him a lifetime. That was the most important reason for his restraint in India, though he could hardly tell her that. “And I certainly don’t want a mistress.” Not after his encounter with Grandfather’s heartless mistress Betsy. He cupped her cheek. “I want a wife. I want you.”

  As he ran his thumb over her lavish lower lip, it trembled. “But I don’t want you,” she protested, a hint of desperation in her voice.

  “Then why are you jealous of my supposed companions in India?”

  He had her there and she knew it, for she blushed.

  “We were meant to be together, Louisa.” He backed her against a tree, trapping her. “And we both know it. So there is no point to your fighting it.”

  And flush with his triumph, he lowered his mouth to hers once more.

  Chapter Ten

  Dear Charlotte,

  You know I admire your accomplishments. But surely you are lonely. Yes, your marriage was disastrous, but if you could live your life over, isn’t there some fellow with whom you might have been happier? And wouldn’t you have set aside your ambitions for this man?

  Many apologies from your cousin,

  Michael

  Louisa groaned when Simon began kissing her again. This was not what she wanted, this sweet…heady…good heavens, he was doing it to her again, him and his hard, heated body flattening her against the elm. How could he annihilate her resistance so easily?

  This never happened to her with any other men, only with Simon. Only he seemed able to tempt her to forget her purpose, her fears…

  “Simon, please,” she whispered as he scattered kisses along her jaw. Perhaps if she begged—

  A triumphant laugh escaped his lips. “I told you I would have you calling me Simon before the day was out.”

  Now she’d never convince him she didn’t want him. And he would take full advantage of that knowledge…as always. “You know my wanton nature so well,” she said bitterly.

  “Not wanton—passionate,” he breathed. “Nothing wrong with that.”

  Only as long as she kissed him, she thought acidly.

  If I thought you were a wanton, Louisa, I wouldn’t be courting you.

  She froze. Could the way to discourage his suit be that simple?

  Any man who’d spent seven years celibate to avoid complications or disease wouldn’t want a promiscuous wife. And she must do something before she found herself married to a man who might take her from her cause so she could bear his children—

  No, that mustn’t happen. “‘Wanton’ is exactly what I mean,” she murmured against his whisker-rough cheek. “You were right about the ‘idiots at court.’ They taught me to kiss. And more.”

  He paused, his mouth against her throat. “More?”

  Heart pounding, she embellished the lie. “Yes. I’ve tried to fight it, tried to hide it, but you’ve found me out.”

  He drew back to stare at her, his eyes the searing heat of blue flames. “What are you talking about?”

  She hesitated. She risked much by making this claim. After her hard work to overcome her family’s reputation, did she dare ruin her efforts?

  Did she dare not? Though he’d helped her with Lord Trusbut, that didn’t mean she could trust him. His persisten
t interest in their candidates was alarming. And if she gave in to his advances, only to find they were part of another scheme—

  No, she couldn’t bear it. Besides, he was the only man who couldn’t or wouldn’t hurt her reputation. He wouldn’t risk bringing scandal down on his sister’s family. If he tried, she’d simply tell people he was lying to wreak revenge on her for having him sent to India.

  She cast him a brazen glance of the sort she figured her mother would have worn. “After you went to India and I went to court, I was very angry. So I did some things I later came to regret. I allowed several men to sample my affections.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Sample how?”

  “You know—kiss me and touch me intimately, and…well, things a lady shouldn’t do.”

  “Like let a man make love to her?” he said coolly.

  She fought down a blush. “I-I am my mother’s daughter, you know.”

  “Apparently you are,” he said in a tone as unreadable as his expression in the rapidly dimming light. “Though it’s odd that such a thing hasn’t been whispered about you. If anything, people say you’ve been a model of propriety.”

  “I was careful and discreet.”

  “I see.” But he hadn’t released her, and she couldn’t tell if he believed her.

  “It happened at court, so the king was honor-bound to hide it, you know.”

  That got a reaction. “The king knew about these…dalliances?”

  The lie caught on her lips, but if Regina was right, the king and Simon were at odds, so Simon would never try to confirm her claim. “Certainly. He had to be the one to hush it up and force the gentlemen to keep their silence.” She thrust out her chin. “If you don’t believe me, ask him about it.”

  “I would not want to cause you any more trouble,” Simon said, an odd note in his voice. “Though I wonder why you would tell me your little secret.”

  She managed a shrug. “You want to court me, so I thought it only fair that you know I’m not chaste. Before this goes any further, you understand.”

  “Ah—I do understand. And I am relieved to hear of your past.”