by Darcy Burke
She stopped speaking and he let the sounds of the night soothe her until she spoke again.
“Her death changed him. He became bitter. Mean.” She turned to look at him in the moonlight and shadows. “The thought of spending the rest of my life with a man who does not love me, saddens me. It would be very lonely.”
“But you’d have children and a house to run. Your life would have purpose.”
In a quiet voice she said, “What happens when the children are grown, and my son marries, and I no longer have a house to run, or a family to take care of?”
He didn’t know what to say to that.
She continued. “I guess a man like you would still have other women to spend time with. You might no longer be the handsome catch you are now, and you may find it more difficult to attract the most sought-after courtesans when you’re middle aged, but there will still be those who, needing money, would be happy to spend time with you. If I cannot compete with courtesans while in my youth, if my husband valued his relationships with them more highly than he regarded me, how could I compete with them when I’m old? Only a man who loved me—and only me—would see that growing old at my side would give him far more joy than meaningless romps with women who see him as simply a purse to pluck.”
Dangerfield swallowed back a lump in his throat. He had to admit he’d not thought about growing old. Didn’t like to think about it. He assumed he’d have a family. Estates to run. He’d arrogantly assumed that would be enough. But her words jarred something deep in his soul.
He remembered his father, and the way he’d looked at his mother. It was as though, for him, the light left the room whenever she did. Harlow couldn’t remember a time when his father stayed away from home unless his wife and son were with him.
His father loved his mother and she’d loved him.
That sort of love—the all-consuming love—scared him. He saw what it did to his mother when his father died. But what was the alternative? A life of duty and empty pleasure? He was already growing tired of the empty, meaningless beddings with women whose names he could scarcely recall.
For the first time in his life he wanted more. Caitlin made him want more.
She spoke, and it was as if she’d read his thoughts. “Sometimes you can be surrounded by people and still be alone. I wish for something more from my life. I want companionship, shared joys and love. Is that wrong?”
He took her tiny hand in his and squeezed. “No.” He shook his head. “No, it’s not wrong. Mayhap hard to find, but not wrong.” He let her hand go and immediately missed its warmth. “I’m sorry. For what it’s worth I’m sorry your father lost your home.”
“Don’t be. If it hadn’t been to you it would have been to someone else. At least you have allowed me a chance to win it back.”
She’d barely finished speaking when Harlow guided the gig in through the gates of Mansfield Manor and drew it to a halt.
Then, to her astonishment, he turned to her and took her face in his hands. “You,” he said, softly, “are an amazing woman, Caitlin. Any man would be lucky to have you as his wife.” And before she could gather her wits, he kissed her.
It was a kiss that sent latent heat to her every extremity. His lips on hers were pure bliss. His tongue swept into her mouth, stoking her pleasure, and melting her from the inside.
She moaned. He answered her moan with a deep groan of his own and pulled her onto his lap. His throaty sounds of pleasure roused a burst of eager sensations within her. She had never experienced anything like it. It was terrifying. Exciting. Terrifying. Excite—
A whimper escaped her as his hand, burning in its gentleness, stroked her neck, her throat, her shoulders in searing caresses.
She pushed into his hardness and he deepened the kiss. The slow, deliberate licks of his tongue sent joy farrowing down her spine until her toes curled. She felt as if she was being consumed by him, being pulled into his world of pleasure and lust, and she finally understood its allure. She liked it.
She wanted more.
Perhaps coming to his bed would not be difficult at all.
Harlow, too, had fallen under pleasure’s spell; she could feel it in him, hear it in his needy moan, soft and low. He groaned her name and tilted his head the other way, kissing again with a sweet, drowning depth.
His hands crept under the edge of her dress, and warmth seared along her weakened limbs as his fingers trailed up her legs. Her womanly center pulsed with need. She knew it was wicked, but she longed for his touch.
As though he had heard her Harlow suddenly stopped, his breathing rough. He stayed close, his forehead resting on hers. His fingers continued stroking her leg. “Your skin is like silk beneath my touch.”
She squirmed in his lap and felt his arousal beneath her bottom. He groaned.
“Christ, I want you.”
She froze.
His hand rose to the top of her thighs. He hesitated, but only for a moment. “Let me give you a taste of the pleasure you’ll find in my bed.” Before she could respond, his finger stroked through her curls… and any thought she might have had of stopping him, fled.
“God,” he whispered in her ear, “you’re so wet for me.”
She didn’t know if that was a good thing or bad, but at that moment she did not care. She clung to him, not wanting him to stop.
His thumb brushed over her nub as his finger slid deep within her. Her breathing faltered, and then returned in little gasps. She couldn’t stop her hips from lifting in time to the penetration and withdrawal.
Soon one finger became two, his thumb continued to circle, and when he took her mouth again and plunged his tongue deep within, her world erupted behind her closed eyelids. Stars burst and music echoed in her head as she shattered in his arms.
She came down to earth slowly. His hand was still stroking her bare thigh above her stocking. She finally opened her eyes and saw him watching her with concern etched into his features. She gave a shaky smile.
His mouth broke into a relieved grin but his eyes were still full of molten fire and his arousal pulsed beneath her… and she knew it was time to leave before she did something foolish. Even more foolish.
She moved off his lap, straightened her clothing, and gathered up her horse’s reins. “Thank you, Your Grace.” She couldn’t look at him. “That was... quite enjoyable. But now I must get home.”
For a heartbeat nothing happened. Then Dangerfield threw his head back and laughed. Still laughing, he jumped to the ground and moved behind the gig to untie Champers. “When I have you in my bed, I hope the words you use to describe our joining will be more honest than ‘quite enjoyable’.”
She still didn’t look at him. “Just because I have lost the first challenge does not mean I will lose the wager.”
“Perhaps.” She recognized the movement beside her as a bow of farewell. “But think how enjoyable the losing will be.”
Her face heated and she couldn’t think of a reply, so she simply coaxed her horse to move. Dangerfield's delighted chuckle followed her as she rolled up the drive. Worse, she could think of nothing but the pleasure he’d given her. For one fleeting moment the desire to lose almost outweighed her need to win. Then she rounded the bend and saw Mansfield Manor before her. Remembered what it stood for—freedom to live the life she wanted.
And yet, everything had changed.
What did she want?
Dangerfield had offered her marriage. He must think he was going to lose. So he’d dangled in front of her what he thought was the greater prize—his name.
Mansfield Manor was her safety net, the object that would ensure she did not end up marrying a man like Harlow Telford, Duke of Dangerfield. He was a man who saw a woman as a pleasurable pursuit rather than a true partner. Harlow was a man who did not know the meaning of the words ‘love’ or ‘commitment’. She would be safe, cared for, but not loved.
His own needs came first.
But they hadn’t tonight. Tonight the only one who ha
d received true pleasure was her.
And she enjoyed it.
And she wanted more.
Chapter Seven
The long ride home gave Harlow time to cool the agony of his arousal. While he always ensured his partners received mind-blowing pleasure, never before had he denied his own. It was a painful jolt of reality.
Tonight, all he’d wanted was Caitlin’s pleasure. The thought disturbed him.
He knew, whichever way the wager ended, she would have little choice but to marry him. However, he’d rather she accepted his proposal of her own free will. Although she hadn’t been repulsed by the idea, she hadn’t swooned with joy, either. He respected her need for more from a marriage. However, she wanted something he didn’t think he could give. She wanted his heart.
Why did the thought of opening up to her and letting her share his life—all of his life—scare him? Was he worried she would find him lacking?
When he really considered how he lived his life he was embarrassed by how little he actually did.
He rarely bothered with his parliamentary duty. What did he know of running a country? He employed the best managers so his estates ran perfectly well without him. His investments flourished due to Marcus’s skills, and his home ran perfectly thanks to his mother.
But what did he do? What did he contribute?
He moved uneasily in the saddle, uncomfortable with the man Caitlin was forcing him to meet.
He’d accepted this wager as a means to relieve his boredom. It didn’t matter if Caitlin won her house back. It only mattered that he got what he wanted—Caitlin in his bed, a wife he could leave to run his household and provide heirs, and the chance to make good on his promise to Jeremy.
He hadn’t considered that Caitlin wouldn’t be in raptures over the idea of marrying a duke. In fact, he hadn’t considered Caitlin’s wishes at all.
He was an arrogant son-of-a-bitch.
He handed Champers’s reins to his groom and walked into his house, sober and chastened.
Tonight had been a revelation. Caitlin stirred more than his lust. He wanted her respect. He wanted to be… more. More for her. He suddenly found himself in the unenviable position of wanting a woman to be proud of him. He wanted her to look at him with pride, rather than simply seeing him as a title and a means to a life of wealth and ease.
However, from where he stood, winning the wager would be easier. Caitlin had stripped him bare and she was not enamored of the man underneath his title and trappings. What could he do? He had to think of something.
There was one way certain to earn her respect, and perhaps soften her toward him: give her back Mansfield Manor.
But therein lay the problem. He’d promised Jeremy—the innocent party in all of this—that he would procure Mansfield Manor for him, and he would not go back on his word. Not without Jeremy’s approval. Caitlin would understand that his honor dictated he fulfill his promise to his brother.
Especially since Jeremy was her brother too.
Which led to another problem. Caitlin still considered herself an only child. She did not know she had a brother… a half-brother. Would she be pleased? He was sure she’d be thrilled to find she had more family, but Jeremy refused to let him tell her.
Yes, he decided. It was time the past was dealt with. It would help everyone—his mother, brother, and Caitlin—if they could all move on.
He’d talk to Jeremy in the morning. Perhaps the boy would not hold him to his promise. He could buy Jeremy any estate he wanted, and give Mansfield Manor to Caitlin with a clear conscience.
He would not use it to force her to marry him. He needed her to marry him because it was what she wanted. Because the fulfilling life she had dangled in front of his eyes he also wanted—and he wanted her to choose to have it with him.
As he walked up the stairs to his bedchamber he marveled at how suddenly the word “wedding” brought only a satisfied smile to his lips.
Caitlin spent the next morning racing across the Bridgenorth fields trying to erase Harlow’s lovemaking from her mind. She was only partially successful.
He’d offered her marriage. Marriage.
She kept reciting her list, and pointing out to herself that Dangerfield did not meet her stringent requirements. He did not love her and—other than keeping her from winning back Mansfield Manor—he had no interest in her.
Yet, for all that, the offer was tempting. Her body sang at the thought of him and suddenly she felt like tearing up her silly list.
She was, therefore, very pleased to have a week before she’d have to face him in the bake-off. Perhaps by then her body would accept what her mind already knew—the Duke of Dangerfield was not husband material.
The afternoon found Caitlin in the village ensconced in Mrs. Darcy’s over-heated parlor while the old lady fussed about, making tea and tempting her with freshly baked scones. As she smothered her scone with jam and cream, Caitlin managed to slip in her request that Mrs. Darcy teach her how to bake a cake.
“A cake?” A sly smile twitched on Mrs. Darcy’s lips. “You wish me to give you cooking lessons? How interesting. Why have you not asked your Cook to teach you?”
“I wish to learn from the best.” It was no lie, but she would use flattery to get Mrs. Darcy’s agreement if she had to. “You have won the village bake-off for the past five years.”
“Well, well.” Mrs. Darcy leaned back in her chair. “It appears I’m in demand today.”
Caitlin willed her face to hold her beguiling smile. “I’m sure you’re baking is always in demand, but I’m here for lessons.”
“So you said.” Mrs. Darcy beamed knowingly. “But how strange. His Grace was here only this morning requesting the same thing.”
Damn the man! “Really?” Caitlin bit viciously into her scone. “That is odd.”
“Yes, indeed. He wishes to surprise a lady love I assume, for he would not divulge who he was making the cake for.”
The scone stuck in Caitlin’s suddenly very dry throat. Coughing, she scrabbled for her cup and a hasty gulp tea. How on earth could Dangerfield know about Mrs. Darcy? He’d never once attended the church fete.
Once her coughing fit ended, she took the napkin Mrs. Darcy offered and wiped her eyes.
“Quite the coup for me to teach the Duke of Dangerfield,” the old lady said, happily. “I’ll be the envy of every baker from here to London, I should think.”
“Quite. Very advantageous for you. I know it’s a lot to ask, but would you have time to teach both of us—separately?”
But Mrs. Darcy shook her cap-covered head. “I would have time if I could teach both of you together.”
Caitlin’s head lifted and her face went hot. “Oh, I’m sure the Duke won’t wish to share your services.”
“Why ever not?” She poured Caitlin more tea. “He’s due any minute. Stay and finish your tea. I’ll ask him. He’s a lovely man. When he was young he used to come several times a week to my bakery. He loved my apple pie. He’d buy several slices, and then take them outside and share them with the other children. Such a polite and generous boy. He never lorded it over the other children. He always thought of others before himself.”
The man had certainly changed then. Now the only person he thought of was himself. But before she could refuse Mrs. Darcy’s offer there was a resounding knock at the door.
“That will be him now.” And Mrs. Darcy bustled off to open the door. “Oh, Your Grace,” Caitlin heard her say in delighted tones, “are those for me?”
“From my garden,” replied Dangerfield. “I picked them myself.”
As she heard Harlow step inside, Caitlin’s misery swamped her, and sweat trickled down her back. She couldn’t face him. Not after last night. Her nerves were too raw, her body too on edge. Her emotions still in a whirl. She’d caught the ‘Dangerfield’ disease and she was sure there was no cure. Her body craved both Mrs. Darcy’s cream-covered scones and the Duke of Dangerfield, and neither was good for her—even in modera
tion. Abstinence seemed the only safe precaution.
To make matters worse, Caitlin couldn’t forget that he’d proposed marriage last night, as calmly as if discussing the weather on a fine day. A man should be consumed with poetry, or at least demonstrate devotion, when offering marriage. A proposal without a declaration of undying love was nothing more than a business proposition.
Did he think that if she married him she’d simply forget about claiming Mansfield Manor? If she married him, he’d still own it. The house should be in trust for her and any of her female descendants.
Her eyes narrowed and she shot dagger looks in his direction as he sauntered into Mrs. Darcy’s drawing room. Oh yes, he was up to something.
He was so tall—so large—in the confines of the room that it seemed as if all the space and air had been sucked out, making her light headed. When he saw her there, he halted, and a flicker of surprise crossed his face. Then he smiled, a slow, inviting smile.
A hot blade of excitement stabbed deep in her belly.
Eyes twinkling he bowed. “Beautiful as ever, Lady Caitlin. I hope I did not keep you out too late last night.” He moved to take her hand and press a long, lingering, and totally inappropriate kiss on her knuckles. “I have not been able to think of anyone or anything but you, sweet lady.”
Mrs. Darcy clapped her hands. “Oh, how nice. I did not realize you were so well acquainted. I have a favor to ask, Your Grace. Lady Caitlin would also like to learn how to bake a cake. Apparently she wishes to surprise her father.”
His smile did not dim at the mention of her father. “I could not think of anything I’d like more than to share any experience with Lady Caitlin. I have wanted—no, prayed—for an excuse to spend more time with Caitlin.”
