Rebel Love (Heart's Temptation Book 2)

by Scarlett Scott

  Half an hour. Tia frowned. The girl could be halfway back to America by now. “I don’t suppose she told you where she intended to go next?”

  “No.”

  A great lot of help he was. Tia tried not to notice how very broad his shoulders were, how lean his legs. She glanced instead to the book he held. It was a volume of poetry. She’d never had much patience for verse. “I’m sorry for the interruption,” she told him, deciding the time for lingering was at an end. She needed to find Miss Whitney and bring the girl to task. England was not Virginia. She couldn’t simply wander about as she chose, especially not as a young, innocent miss. She had a reputation to uphold.

  “Think nothing of it, my lady.” Devonshire still stood uncomfortably near to her, looking down with an unreadable expression upon his face. “I was merely enjoying a bit of solitude while I still could.”

  Solitude? Tia thought it an odd statement indeed but perhaps another indication of why she’d never been particularly drawn to the man. Aside from his undeniably arresting appearance, that was. She considered him now, her gaze dropping to his mouth of its own will before she forced herself to once again become ensnared in his riveting stare. “I confess I’m confused, Your Grace. Is not keeping the company of others rather the point of a country house party?”

  He nodded, appearing a solemn, lonely figure suddenly. “I daresay it is, my lady. For most.”

  She couldn’t help it. She knew she ought to be running after her errant charge, but there was something suddenly compelling about Devonshire. Here in the outdoors, the sun shining down upon him, the polish of his ordinary façade buffed away by the manner in which she’d caught him unaware…he seemed different to her. Almost dangerous. Certainly handsome. But sad too, as if he were a man who had never quite located his true place in the world.

  “But not for you?” she asked him quietly.

  “Ça dépend,” he answered, stroking the binding of his book absentmindedly.

  There was something about watching his long fingers that caused an ache deep inside Tia. It had been so very long since she’d been touched by a man. Too long, she reminded herself, else she wouldn’t be mooning over the Duke of Devonshire.“On what does it depend?”

  “The others with whom I’m expected to keep company,” he answered cryptically.

  “I see.” She frowned again, supposing she really should have left well enough alone. She had the distinct impression he didn’t want her there. “Then perhaps I should leave you to your seclusion after all. I don’t wish to further inconvenience you. Good day, Your Grace.”

  She spun on her heel, determined to beat a hasty retreat before she made any more of a fool of herself, tarrying over conversation with a man who would prefer to be left alone. A man she didn’t even like, no matter how attractive she found him. Yes, it was the beard, she decided as she hurried away. The beard had rendered him quite magnetic.

  Lost in her round of self-chastising, Tia wasn’t paying proper attention to her mules. They were delicate silk, horridly impractical for being outside and not at all the sort of things to be rushing about in. Her heel caught in the stones of the path, twisting her ankle and making her lose her balance at the same time.

  Pain shot from her ankle up her leg as she landed in an inglorious heap on her hands and knees. She must have cried out, because the duke came rushing around the bend, all the better to prolong her humiliation. Her ankle aching, she stared at his trousers in misery, wishing she’d had the grace to fall somewhere out of his earshot instead.

  He hunkered down at her side, his striking face coming back into her view. “Lady Stokey, are you hurt?” His voice was laced with genuine concern.

  “Yes,” she told him, grimacing when she flexed her foot and was met with another sharp twinge of discomfort. “My pride and my ankle are both grievously wounded.”

  He took her hands in his, turning them over to inspect her palms. They were bare because she’d been too intent on chasing after Miss Whitney to care. Devonshire was gloveless too, and the contact of his skin on hers gave her an unexpected jolt. He rubbed his thumbs over her lightly, lingering on the abrasions she’d earned in her tumble. “I’m afraid you’re bleeding as well.”

  She glanced from her raw palms to his face. He was unbearably near, so near she had great difficulty catching her breath. Good heavens. She had to compose herself. “I shall mend,” she said, trying for an air of unconcern. It wouldn’t do for him to know the effect he had on her. Why, she didn’t like the man. He was altogether unappealing. She preferred men who were eager and attentive, who knew how to kiss and woo a woman. Who were seductive and easy to understand and flirted with practiced ease. Men who didn’t hide in the gardens reading poetry, of all things.

  “Let me help you to stand,” he said in a tone that allowed for no argument. “On the count of three. One, two—” He pulled her up without waiting for her compliance and without waiting to say “three”.

  Tia leaned into the duke as she stood, wincing when the pressure of weight upon her ankle produced more pronounced pain. Oh dear, perhaps she’d sprained it. However would she contain Miss Whitney if she were hobbled like an old dowager for the entirety of the party?

  “I thought you said on the count of three,” she groused, rather cut up about the entire situation.

  First, her charge had disappeared. Then, Tia had reacted to Devonshire as if she were a smitten young girl straight off her comeout. Now she’d fallen in a heap before him. And she still hadn’t located Miss Whitney. This fortnight was certainly off to a marvelous start.

  “Put your weight on me,” he ordered next, ignoring her. “I’ll walk you to the bench, and then I’ll take a look at your ankle to see what damage has been done.”

  “No.” She tried to extricate herself from his grasp without success. “I don’t require your assistance, Your Grace.”

  “Nonsense.” When she continued to attempt her escape, he caught her up in his arms.

  Tia’s hands went to his shoulders for purchase, finding them just as solid and strong as they looked. “Good heavens, put me down at once,” she told him. If his proximity before had been tempting, it was now alarming. She could smell his scent, a deliciously masculine blend of soap, spice and the outdoors. She could feel the fine fabric of his jacket beneath her fingertips. His golden hair curled down over his collar, brushing against her as he moved. And she could detect the faintest flecks of gray in his otherwise perfectly blue eyes. It didn’t escape her notice that he’d scooped her up without a bit of strain, as though she weighed little more than a handful of feathers.

  He disregarded her request to put her back on her own two feet and carried her to the bench where he’d been sitting when she’d first interrupted him. He gently lowered her to its hard surface, and she had to secretly admit that she was somewhat disappointed to no longer be in his arms. When he sank to his knees before her, reaching beneath her skirts, her disappointment turned to dismay.

  “Your Grace,” she protested. “What are you about?”

  “Hush,” he dismissed her concerns, his hand closing around the ankle that was giving her pain. “I’m seeing to your injury.”

  “You needn’t.” She endeavored to pull her limb from his grasp, to no avail. His touch was warm and gentle through her stockings. A sudden rush of awareness threatened to swallow her whole. A wicked, luxurious heat settled between her thighs. She tamped it down. “For heaven’s sake, I’m fine. I’m merely in a bit of pain, but it shall pass.”

  But his fingers were already gently at work, angling her foot this way and that. “It would be remiss of me not to make certain you haven’t done yourself serious harm. You took quite a spill.”

  Oh dear. Little more than a dull throb plagued her ankle now, but another throb had taken up residence within her. A decidedly naughty one. She wet her suddenly dry lips. “Truly, Your Grace. This is most improper.”

  He was insistent in playing the role of savior. “Does this hurt?” He presse
d his thumb against her inner foot.

  “No.” Quite the opposite. It felt wonderfully good. Too bad he was not at all the sort of man for an inamorato. The wickedness in her pulled her skirts just a bit higher anyway, revealing the curve of her calf.

  The duke’s touch moved north as well, feeling suspiciously like a caress. “What of this?”

  She flinched when he found the exact spot on her ankle where the soreness originated. “Yes.”

  He stopped his ministrations and glanced up, his gaze meeting hers. She wondered if he could tell she wasn’t as unaffected as she pretended and hoped not. He moved her foot again with one hand while holding her ankle with the other. “I don’t think you’ve broken anything, fortunately. But it does feel a trifle swollen. More than likely, you’ve sprained it. You’ll need to rest for the remainder of the day.”

  Tia scoffed, doing her best to disregard his lingering touch. “I haven’t time to rest. I have a wayward young American to locate and browbeat to within an inch of her wretched life.”

  “That sounds pressing indeed,” he told her solemnly. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to enlist someone else to help hunt your charge down for the life-threatening browbeating.”

  He released her ankle and pulled her skirts back into place. Tia felt the loss of his touch like an ache. This ridiculous reaction to him had to stop. She’d been a widow for several years, but she took great care with her lovers. She didn’t simply set her cap for a man because he was beautiful and happened to touch her ankle and had a deliciously rakish beard.

  Tia stared at him as he stood, an idea taking root in her mind. Yes, it was the perfect solution for her sudden, inconvenient and thoroughly foolish attraction to the Duke of Devonshire. After all, it would be a wonderful coup for Miss Whitney to bring a duke up to scratch. “Perhaps you’ll be so kind as to assist me in locating Miss Whitney?” she asked, giving the duke her most charming smile.

  He nodded, picking up the book that he’d abandoned on the bench when he’d rushed to her rescue. “Of course, my lady. But in the meantime, I fear you’ll need my aid to escape from the maze first.” He offered her his arm.

  Tia took it, allowing him to tug her to her feet. Her ankle still hurt but not nearly as badly as it first had after her inconvenient spill. “Thank you, Your Grace. You’re most kind.” And easily trapped, she hoped. For it would certainly be a boon to her if she could settle the troublesome Miss Whitney with a suitable gentleman at the first opportunity. A man very much like the Duke of Devonshire.

  Heath aided Lady Stokey back to the main house, mindful of her limping gait and his painful arousal both. Had he known that touching her would prove so bloody dangerous to his restraint, he never would have so much as laid a finger upon her hem. But he’d been carried away by his concern, the need to make certain she hadn’t broken a bone. From the moment he’d caught her up in his arms, he’d had a troubling suspicion that he was walking down a path from which there would be no return. Lady Stokey was an ethereal beauty, as golden as an angel with finely formed features, lush red lips and wide eyes the color of a meadow in spring. She’d smelled of violets.

  He could still smell her now if he leaned near enough.

  But the greatest folly of all had been lifting her skirts to reveal her trim, lovely legs. He’d stolen a peek all the way to her knees when he first lifted her silk and petticoats aside. He hadn’t been able to help himself. And it had been worth it. Touching her had been intoxicating. He’d never before caressed a woman’s limbs through her stockings, but he would now forever find the act unbearably erotic.

  Unless he missed his guess, she hadn’t been immune either. He’d caught the way her lips had parted, the way the green of her eyes had deepened, the way she’d lifted her hem even higher. It was too bad, really, that he was in search of a wife and not a mistress. If it had been a mistress he was after, he would have escorted Lady Stokey to her chamber and then joined her inside. To the devil with her nuisance of a young charge.

  Instead, he was playing the role he’d honed well over the years. Perfect gentleman. “How is your ankle faring, my lady?” he asked, still desperate to distract himself from the inconvenient state of his cock.

  She turned to him, her elaborately styled blonde locks glinting in the sun. In her haste to chase after her charge, she’d neglected to wear a hat and he was grateful for it. “In truth, it’s still paining me, but I daresay it shan’t be the death of me.”

  He’d always thought Lady Stokey something of a flighty woman. Though on occasion he’d traveled in the periphery of her circles, they’d never truly engaged in much conversation. That she was clever surprised him. In his experience, there ordinarily wasn’t much substance to a woman of beauty. He’d known a few exceptions, of course, but they were just that. Exceptions.

  A distinct expression of pain now furrowed her brow as she limped through the maze. He disliked seeing her suffering. “I would be more than happy to carry you to your chamber, Lady Stokey,” he volunteered out of a combined sense of duty and desire. He had to admit that holding her in his arms once more would not precisely be a hardship.

  “Heavens no,” she objected immediately. “If I sap all your strength, you’ll have none left to pursue Miss Whitney, wherever she may be.”

  She’d gone back to watching the ground before them, giving him her profile. He instantly regretted his hasty offer to locate her charge. Miss Whitney had indeed ventured past him in the maze, and though she was but a slip of a girl, he suspected she was a wily foe if the way she’d flummoxed Lady Stokey was any indication. He hadn’t the patience for silly young girls.

  “You’ll not sap my strength so easily,” he reassured her. Lady Stokey, for all her layers of dress, had been as light as a bird in his arms. And like a bird, she was a tiny, gorgeous creature.

  “Oh,” she exclaimed suddenly, her expression crumpling as she clenched his arm in a rigid grip. “Oh dear.”

  He stopped, sliding an arm round her waist, the better to give her purchase and keep weight off her injured leg. The maddening scent of violets enveloped him. “Perhaps you’ll permit me to carry you after all.”

  “No,” she denied even as she clutched his arm and her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “You mustn’t. I can walk on my own. I may lack grace, but I’m no weakling.”

  A weakling she was not. A stubborn woman, however, she was. He decided not to allow her the opportunity for further argument. Heath tucked his book inside his coat, then bent and once more scooped her up.

  “Your Grace,” she remonstrated, her tone one of surprise mingled with disapproval. Her hands linked around his neck. Her lovely Cupid’s bow of a mouth was so very near to his. If he but dipped his head, he could take her lips.

  No, damn it. He could not. He forced himself to stare straight ahead and carry them from the maze. He’d come to Penworth in search of a wife, and he was determined to stay the course. Lady Stokey, tempting though she may be, was not the woman for him. Her reputation preceded her, and he didn’t want a butterfly as his mate. Rather, he wanted a bookworm. A woman of substance. A woman of loyalty who was willing to respect her husband. Not a dazzlingly seductive widow with a string of lovers in her past and a penchant for throwing wild soirees. Regardless of how delicious she smelled and how alluring she felt in his arms.

  “I’ll not have another word of protest,” he informed her coolly. “I cannot in good conscience allow you to carry on while in such obvious pain.”

  As he entered the house, Lady Thornton, his hostess and Lady Stokey’s sister, appeared before him, having been interrupted in directing her housekeeper. The sisters were opposites in appearance, one dark, the other light, but both equally lovely. Worry clouded the marchioness’s face. “What has happened?”

  “I merely sprained my ankle. Tell this insufferable man to put me on my feet,” Lady Stokey demanded in a queenly accent.

  Heath exchanged a commiserating glance with Lady Thornton. “This insufferable man is attemp
ting to keep her ladyship from doing herself further harm. If you’ll be so kind as to direct me to her chamber?”

  His hostess raised an inky brow at his request. He knew he could have simply deposited Lady Stokey in the drawing room, but he was on a mission now. He couldn’t very well abandon his damsel in distress partway through his rescue. But if she thought his actions odd, in the end Lady Thornton chose to keep her misgivings to herself. “The east wing, third door to your left.”

  He nodded to her. “Thank you.”

  “You cannot be serious,” Lady Stokey chimed in. “I’m perfectly capable of walking. Cleo, tell him.”

  “You mustn’t take any chances,” her sister called after them as Heath stalked in the direction of the stairs. “You’ll not want to be injured for the party, dearest sister.”

  Heath gave his reluctant armful a victorious glance. “You see? Finally, a voice of reason. Listen to your sister if not me.” He took the steps with ease, grateful that all the hard labor he’d been performing on his estate had finally rewarded him. He wasn’t even winded.

  The same could not be said for Lady Stokey, whose cheeks were pink and whose breath seemed too quick for a woman at rest. Her eyes snapped emerald fire at him. He had to admit she was even more captivating when irritated. “Voice of reason indeed.” She tipped up her chin in a show of defiance. “Since when is carrying an able-bodied woman about as if she were a sack of turnips considered reasonable?”

  “I would never carry a sack of turnips with such great care,” he told her solemnly. There it was again, her heavenly scent, teasing his senses and his cock both. He forced himself to keep to the matter at hand. “Though I must confess I wonder what circumstances in life would require one to carry a sack of turnips to begin with.”

  “Bother.” Her lips compressed and she turned her head away from him again, apparently too cross to even continue berating him.