Christmas in The Duke's Arms

by Grace Burrowes

  She cocked her head. The ribbon tied beneath her chin glinted dully in the light. “Have I said something wrong?”

  “No.”

  “I have.” She stepped closer. “You are the most inscrutable man I have ever met.”

  He laughed. No mirth at all.

  “I’m quite serious.” She studied him. “No.” Her quiet voice lanced through him. “Don’t look away. Not when I am about to understand you.”

  “Are you certain you wish to?” He held her gaze, and the silence of his hunting box became unendurable. He fixed in his head an image of her in his bed. Nude. And of him, there to touch, and taste, experiencing that moment when his prick slid into her body. Her. Not any woman, but her. Specifically. The woman who made him see beauty where he’d once seen only duty.

  She blinked, and her cheeks turned pink. She did not look away from him. Nor did he look away from her. Then she did glance away, but her attention came back immediately. He was too much aware of the difference in their ranks. She was a lady, one could not deny her that, but though she’d lived with relatives who had rank and property, she was herself without distinction, born to no fortune, in the care of a relative whose neglect of her told the world the value he placed on her.

  She had no pretensions. None at all. In London, she had never put herself forward. She did nothing to anger her cousin, yet she’d been unfailingly a friend to Miss Louisa Clay. Her champion in all things. She struck to his center, to his heart. Found him out. Assessed.

  “Do you think no one could love you?” she asked.

  “I do not think that.”

  She tilted her head again, then again, eyes narrowed while she stared into his soul. “You do. But why? Why would you think such a thing?”

  “I’ve no illusions I am well liked.”

  “One does not simply like a duke.” She stripped off her gloves and set them on the portion of the window seat that he did not occupy, and his heart raced away. “Dukes are terrifying personages.”

  He took one of her hands in his. “I terrify you.”

  “Naturally.”

  “How easily you say that.” What would happen to him if this did not end where he hoped?

  “I would be a most unusual woman if you did not.” With her free hand, she traced three fingers along the line of his cheek, the underside of his mouth.

  “Are you this moment?”

  “I have never been more terrified of anyone than I am of you this moment.”

  He released her, spread his arms wide, and leaned back. “Go then, if you are in terror.”

  She stepped toward him, and for him the world disappeared, but for her. She freed her wrist from the loop of her habit and ran her fingers lightly through his hair, brushing it back, and smoothing it down. Both hands. “Does your hair never lie flat?”

  “Never.” He set a hand on the back of her waist. He took and then let out a breath. “Edith.” She left her hands on his head. He drew her closer and whispered, “I have never, ever forgotten you.”

  Her eyes fluttered. “You said that before.”

  “I did.”

  “What am I to make of that?”

  “That it is true.” He brought her toward him, and there was no denying at all that they had crossed another barrier. “I met you and never could think of any woman but you afterward.”

  “That can’t be so.”

  “It is. I can’t forget you. I never shall.” The air trembled with awareness. “Another truth, Edith. I have never made love to a woman.”

  “No.” Her eyes opened wide. “No, I don’t believe that. I won’t.”

  “I have fornicated.” He removed her hat and stretched to set it on a nearby table. Having done that, he brought her back into his embrace. “Nothing but that.”

  She ran a hand over his head again, and then she leaned in and brushed her mouth over his.

  Chapter Fourteen

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  Curiosity had separated her from good sense. Curiosity and a powerful longing to touch him. If they hadn’t been so close, him with an arm around her and her with her hands in his thick, soft hair—not at all coarse, as she’d wondered—she wouldn’t have dared. Plainly, quite plainly, he’d thought about this, too, or they’d not have ended up with her near enough to him to have touched his mouth with hers.

  And?

  And nothing.

  He did nothing.

  She put a hand to his chest and tipped her head back, waiting for the humiliation to pass, settling in herself the fact that she had misjudged their situation and his words. She tilted her head down, staring at the green fabric of her bodice, then at her fingertips on his breast. She would have to look at him. Not yet. Not yet.

  His palm pressed against the small of her back. Deliberate, since she felt the flex of his biceps. She looked at him, and his eyes locked with hers, and she could not breathe for the need she saw there. A thousand thoughts flashed through his eyes, and he kept them all to himself. She had never known such a self-contained man, so few words and now none when she desperately needed them from him. His arms remained around her still.

  She said, “Tell me if you want me to kiss you again, or if we must agree it did not happen. Tell me that much.”

  “Again, Edith.”

  She did. She leaned in again and kissed him, another light touch of her lips to his, before she drew away. “Like that?”

  He shook his head. That was almost a smile. Almost.

  “What could you mean, I wonder.” She wound her hand around the back of his neck, above the collar of his coat. The world changed. Everything different. Everything new. Magical. She kissed him again. She smelled the outdoors. Him.

  His arms were around her, his mouth under hers. More than a slide across his lips this time. At the last minute, his lower lip caught hers, and her life changed forever. Again.

  Her body tingled, her chest tightened, she could not feel her knees. This was no game. No harmless flirtation. She went taut with need. She melted against him, tipped her head to his, and pressed her mouth against his. She kissed him, and he kissed her back, and she could not get enough of this ascension of her body into longing.

  Had she really thought he would be as controlled in kissing as he was in everything else? How could she have? He cupped the back of her head, and she opened her mouth. She’d only ever kissed one other man. One lover. One devastation of her heart, and then Oxthorpe kissed her back. Not a game. Not something to be indulged and forgotten.

  There was no mistaking his physical state, and they froze, the two of them, when she brushed a hand across the middle of the buttons on the left side of his breeches. He drew breath, and she saw His Grace, the Duke of Oxthorpe, who kept his silence, whom almost no one spoke of in terms of the qualities she knew he possessed. He was Oxthorpe, and the ability to say one knew him was the same as laying claim to power and influence.

  He knew this. He knew and did not offer himself easily to anyone. He knew if he made his interest in a woman known that she might agree to anything. This, to a man like him, must be a fell power. How could anyone say no to Oxthorpe? The miracle, the miracle was that he’d not become a man who took every part of that power as his due.

  Again, she brushed a finger along the fall of his breeches and decided against words. No words for now. She unfastened one of those left-most buttons, then another, then her fingers were sliding inside, between fabric, linen. No games. Just her growing need and the leap of tension between them.

  He brought her toward him, his body shifting, pulled up handfuls of her habit, and she moved with him, and the only thought in her mind was that he was going to put his cock inside her, fill her, and that was the miracle, that they could find each other like this.

  His hands slid underneath her clothes, then up to grip her bottom, and her life depended on balancing like this, on the spread of his thighs, him lifting her up and positioning himself. She did the same, made the necessary adjustments, and when he pushed inside her, she met t
hat motion with a shiver of her entire being toward bliss.

  A moan left her, unadulterated bliss, because his sex in her was beyond perfect, the way her body accepted him, took him greedily. Already she was slipping away. She bit her lower lip and concentrated on what she was feeling. The pressure of him inside her, the strength of his arms around her, the scent of him, the way his expression changed with each push inside her, each answering roll and thrust from him.

  His hands on her bottom brought her forward then relaxed, and she could feel the tension in his arms and legs, and she forgot she’d meant to be silent, for she gripped his shoulders, and put her mouth by his ear and said, “I wish I was naked. I wish you could touch me everywhere.”

  He thrust up. “Yes?”

  “Yes, please, like that.” She licked the outside of his ear. “I wish you were naked, too. I wish I could touch you and see all of you.”

  “You’ve seen me naked.”

  With a slow rock of her hips timed with his and restricted by the fact they were sitting, balanced indelicately and mostly by dint of his strength and willingness to be uncomfortable, rather than in a bed, she said, “I did not see enough.”

  He held her still, lips twitching. “If I’d walked out of the pond, you’d not have been appalled?”

  “I would have been, but if I’d known this—”

  “Edith—”

  “If I’d known this about you, I would have walked to the shore and pulled you from the water.”

  He held her tight, fingers pressing her toward him. “You drive me mad.”

  “I wish I could see your parts.” She kissed the side of his jaw, and his skin felt smooth, and she found a place where his pulse beat, and she kissed him there, too. “I wish I could see right now, this moment.”

  He tipped his shoulders back, pushed farther back into the window seat, setting one shoulder against the side of the window to brace himself. “I always oblige a lady.”

  “No, no.” She shifted and found an angle that sent him deeper. Her arousal, the angle of his penetration made words an inconvenience, and yet, the feelings in her were too big to keep to herself. She concentrated to find the words. “No, Oxthorpe. No.” She grabbed either side of his face. “Stay or I’ll never forgive you.”

  “I’ll not disappoint, then.” His words ended in a low growl, and she watched his eyes close, the shift of his focus to the physical, to the contact between them, more, more than that, to his contact with her body, and she was fiercely glad of the sight. They were wordless now, reduced to inarticulate sounds.

  The moment came when she was nothing but a reach for her approaching pleasure, and Oxthorpe, he wrapped an arm around her hips and pulled her close, while his other hand worked beneath her skirts. His fingers stroked her, and she slipped away from everything but sensation.

  Oxthorpe whispered, “Yes, my love. Yes.”

  She registered the sound, the satisfaction in those words, and then there were tears welling up along with her climax because such intense physical pleasure was not endurable. His fingers, the strokes of his fingers, and his cock moving in her, the reaction that caused annihilated her.

  Chapter Fifteen

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  With a sinking heart, Oxthorpe stood in front of the dark and empty parish hall. He must have mistaken the date of the assembly. It must have been Saturday, while he was still in Nottingham, cursing himself for wanting to send his regrets to Madison, at whose home he’d been invited to dine. Or perhaps Friday. It couldn’t have been Sunday when he’d gone to church with Madison and then stayed at his hotel, telling himself he would not leave before his business was concluded Tuesday.

  And then he had. He’d suffered through every appointment he’d made, interminable reviews of documents, and then dined with the actual Sheriff of Nottingham and left early. He’d left his valet at the hotel to arrange their return. He’d sent his regrets to Madison and left for Hopewell-on-Lyft. For nothing. All his hurrying and driving like a madman for nothing. His distraction and rudeness to Madison, with a steadily diminishing portion of his mind on business, and the bloody building hadn’t a soul in it.

  “Your Grace?”

  He said nothing in response to his coachman’s inquiry. He’d gone home first to change from traveling clothes to evening clothes, and now either he was too late, or he was here on the wrong day. All this commotion and disruption of his schedule, his heart entirely overtaken, and he’d come here on the wrong day?

  “The roof is leaking again, Your Grace. They’ve moved the assembly to Carrington Close.”

  Slowly, he turned. “How do you know?”

  The moon came out from behind the clouds, and he had a silvered view of his servant, bundled in scarfs, a thick coat, and gloves. With one heavy boot propped up, his coachman shrugged. He felt a pang of regret for keeping the man from the festivities. He must have wanted to attend. He’d given most of his staff at Killhope leave to attend. “That’s what they did last year.”

  “Very well then.” He kept his expression sober. Killhope had been quiet, not because it was late, but because all but a skeleton staff had been there. All the rest were at the assembly. “To Carrington Close.”

  “Aye, Your Grace.”

  He strode back to the carriage and closed the door more loudly than was necessary. It would be thirty minutes, longer given it was cold and dark and icy, before he arrived anywhere near Edith. At this rate, he’d get there only to find everyone on their way home. Nothing but servants cleaning up the detritus of a party hastily relocated. If he’d known, if he’d been home when the parish hall roof sprang a leak, he could have offered up Killhope as a location.

  Carrington Close was not dark. The windows blazed with lights, and a groom promptly came out to meet his carriage. His heart settled. Outside, he gave the groom a coin and called up to the coachman, “You’ll come in for food and dancing, then?”

  “Your Grace.”

  Oxthorpe took the front stairs two at a time. A wreath of pine and holly hung on the front door, festooned with a bow of blue ribbon and gold lace—Edith’s work, he was certain. Inside, handed over his hat, scarf and greatcoat and paid no attention to the glass of cider Mrs. Carrington’s butler had hidden behind an urn.

  At the door to the ballroom, he straightened the lay of his coat over his shoulders, tugged on his collar, smoothed his neckcloth. Another enormous wreath hung above the door, and there were blue ribbons and lace, and sprigs of holly all around the doorframe.

  Inside, the music ended. The noise of the assembly reduced. Now, then. With a nod and a coin pressed into the waiting footman’s hand, he walked into the ballroom as he should have every year the citizens of Hopewell-on-Lyft gave the party that brought them together in good cheer and spirits.

  The footman rapped his staff on the floor loudly enough to cut through the noise. “His Grace, the Duke of Oxthorpe.”

  The lull in conversation died away to silence.

  Wreaths and ribbons festooned the room. The mistletoe Edith had worked so hard to gather and decorate hung from every chandelier, sconce, or convenient beam.

  Mrs. Carrington approached him with a pretty young woman at his side. Two of the ladies of the assembly committee followed her. Edith was not among them.

  He would do this. Whether she was here or not, he would. The point was that he would not close himself off in solitude. Mrs. Carrington reached him first and sank into a curtsy. The young woman beside her curtsied as well. “Your Grace. You honor us with your presence.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Robina, may I introduce the duke?”

  “I should be delighted.”

  “Miss Weston, the Duke of Oxthorpe. If you recall, I pointed out to you his home of Killhope Castle.”

  “Your Grace.”

  He smiled at Miss Weston, aware that he’d startled Mrs. Carrington. “You are the young lady who has been visiting Mrs. Herbert.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  He was determined
to make himself agreeable, and if that meant he astonished the good people of Hopewell-on-Lyft, so be it. “I hope you have been enjoying your stay in our village.”

  “Very much so.”

  “You must come to Killhope Castle for a tour.”

  “Thank you. I would like that very much, sir.”

  The other ladies of the committee reached him, and he greeted them in turn and accepted their exclamations of delight at his appearance. Alas, amid the decorations and tables laden with food and drink, the faces that gazed at him were not smiling because he was here. His arrival had made everyone tense. Did they think he would demand that they cease their merriment immediately? He wanted to do something that would astound everyone, something that would prove to Edith there was hope for him.

  “Miss Weston.” He sketched a bow to her. “You’ll dance with me.”

  She managed to cover her astonishment. “I should love that, thank you.”

  He gave her a brilliant smile. Incandescent, he felt, and since, just then, the orchestra began the opening strains of another set, he held out his hand and waited for the very pretty Miss Weston to put her hand on his.

  They danced, and she was a charming partner. Delightful. He ignored the stares and concentrated on amusing Miss Weston, and thank God, thank the Lord in heaven, that he had asked her to dance and not some other young lady with less self-possession than Miss Weston.

  Presently, though, their dance was over. It was, he discovered, the last set before the orchestra broke to have something to eat and drink and for the others to do the same. He walked Miss Weston to the side of the room. They passed Mr. and Mrs. Wattles, and he stopped to bid them good evening. His mood lightened. He was often at The Duke’s Arms, doing custom with the Wattleses, and who would not admire the industry of a man who brewed an excellent beer in his cellar?

  He and Miss Weston spent some minutes in conversation while they were in queue for cider, quite welcome on a cold winter evening. Everyone stood aside for him, though, and there he and Miss Weston were at the head of the line. Someone called out, “The mistletoe!”