The Dukes of War: Complete Collection

by Ridley, Erica

  Xavier tucked the cat back into the basket and hurried into the cottage, away from the bitter cold. Once inside, he leaned against the door until sensation returned to his fingertips.

  Lord, it was wretched outside. In the past few hours, the weather had only worsened.

  He could build up the fire in the parlor, but firewood was limited. He’d told Miss Downing that there would be plenty to see her through the night, and that was true—but it meant extinguishing all the other fires in order to better ration the wood. If the blinding snowfall kept him from chopping more, he would need to preserve what they still had.

  In the morning, he would shovel a path to the road and put Miss Downing on the first passing hack. Once she was on her way, he would take stock of his provisions and decide how to best fortify his cottage. And turn his life around. He shrugged out of his coat and knelt to release Egui from his basket.

  At last free of its makeshift leash, the cat shot off down the corridor and out of sight.

  Xavier pushed to his feet. He’d let Miss Downing know her pet had returned safely, and then he’d barricade himself in the servants’ quarters until dawn. This wasn’t a mere challenge. This was his chance to prove he was no longer the monster he’d become.

  He rolled his shoulders back. Just a handful of hours. Morning would be here before he knew it. He’d endured much worse fates than an unexpected visit by a voluptuous temptress.

  He strode down the hall to his bedchamber, intending to knock softly lest Miss Downing be sound asleep.

  The door was wide open. She was still there. Still clothed. And damnably seductive.

  She sat on the sole stool, running a brush through her long, brown hair. The lustrous curls caught the light, entrancing him as they stretched and coiled about her. His heart quickened.

  What would it be like to sink his fingers into that mass of soft, silken curls? To slide his hand behind her head as he brought her lips to his? Or to have a cascade of curls curtain him from both sides as she straddled his hips and leaned down to—

  He rapped his fingers against the doorframe hard enough to draw blood. She glanced up, startled, and then smiled shyly. His heart skipped a beat.

  Friend friend friend, he reminded himself, trying desperately to tear his gaze from hers. No looking, no touching, no lovemaking. His houseguest was one hundred percent out-of-bounds. But he kept his feet on the other side of the doorway to be safe.

  “No problem with the cat.” He cleared his throat when his voice came out raspier than expected. “Is there anything else you need before I turn in for the night?”

  Her cheeks flushed a deep pink. “Would you mind terribly… helping me remove my gown?”

  “Would I what?” he choked out, suddenly unable to breathe.

  “It’s just… Ladies’ gowns are made with the expectation that one’s maid will manage the lacing and unlacing.” She gestured behind her. “I find myself incapable of the contortions necessary to unhook my gown and unbind my stays.”

  He swallowed hard and prayed for strength. “How did you plan to get dressed without a lady’s maid?”

  Her blush deepened. “I didn’t plan to be dressed.”

  “Well done. Now I’m expected to play maid.” He stalked forward to unlace her as quickly as possible.

  “I did give you another option,” she murmured. “I find the thought of both of us naked to be equally acceptable.”

  He groaned. It was going to be a long, hard night.

  Literally.

  Chapter 8

  Xavier’s first thought upon waking wasn’t about the willing woman curled betwixt his bed linen… but only because he hadn’t managed to sleep at all, for that very same reason.

  Yes, the servants’ quarters were uncomfortable in their strangeness. Without a fire in the hearth, his breath escaped his lungs in visible puffs of frigid air. But that was nothing. During the war, he’d slept in far less noble conditions. Beneath the rain, against the wind, upon the earth itself—he’d been trained to properly rest his body to prepare for enemy action.

  He hadn’t been prepared for a curvaceous bluestocking with chestnut eyes, lustrous curls, and a devilishly tempting proposal. Turning her down had been the hardest thing he’d done since leaving the army… until she’d asked him to help unlace her stays. His smallclothes tightened at the memory of his trembling fingers lifting that long, soft hair from the nape of her neck.

  Did he find her attractive? Lying naked in the snowdrifts wouldn’t cool his ardor. The saving grace was that he wouldn’t have to try it. She’d be gone in a few hours.

  He swung his feet onto the floor and rolled the kinks from his shoulders. It was morning. The snow would shortly begin to melt. And if not, well, that’s why God had invented shovels. People had places to be. The mail coach wouldn’t rumble by until noon, but the hack drivers would start rolling past long before. By midday, he’d be back in dreadful solitude.

  Then, and only then, would he reenter his bedchamber, lay his head upon warm pillows that still smelled of her perfume, and allow himself to think of what might have been, had the circumstances been different.

  But first, he would have to go re-lace the lady. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be able to dress at all. He splashed cold water on his face and scowled at his reflection. Perhaps throwing himself upon a snowdrift wasn’t such a bad idea.

  Why must women’s clothing be so… interactive?

  Xavier could get in and out of full regimentals in a matter of seconds. In fact, he’d let his valet go when he’d joined the army and hadn’t bothered to look for a replacement since his return. He didn’t need a valet. His retinue of five—a cook, a housekeeper, a butler, a footman, and a stableboy—were more than sufficient for an ex-soldier in a country cottage.

  If only his servants were here! The cook and the housekeeper could play lady’s maids whilst Xavier and the other three men shoveled snowdrifts all the way back to London if need be.

  Of course, if they were here, they would constitute five more witnesses to Miss Downing’s utter and complete ruin. As it stood now, there was still a chance, however slim, of getting her packed off and back home with everything important intact and no one ever being the wiser.

  He dressed quickly. When he tugged on his first boot, his stockinged toes sank into something damp and spongy. He scowled and jerked his foot free. There could only be one explanation. He turned over his Hessian and curled his lip in disgust as a wet clump of cat hair and cravat threads tumbled out.

  Egui. The world’s smallest, and most efficient, chaperone.

  When there was no more personal grooming he could do to procrastinate the inevitable, Xavier made his way down the corridor toward his bedchamber.

  Gentle firelight spilled from the open doorway.

  She was awake. Of course she was awake. Her cat couldn’t have left the bedchamber without her having first opened the door.

  He knocked on the doorjamb without peering inside. “Good morning, Miss Downing. You’re up early. Did you not sleep well?”

  “I usually rise with the sun, though ’tis not very fashionable. Come in, come in. You don’t intend to hold a conversation from the other side of a wall, do you?”

  He did consider a wall to be the safest of all possible barriers, but he supposed it was the least practical. He rolled back his shoulders and stepped into the open doorway.

  His throat dried.

  Miss Downing had moved the stool before the fireplace and sat with her back toward him. A cinnamon-colored dress gaped below her nape as she tilted her head to one side and struggled to drag a pearl comb through her long, wavy hair. Each curl glimmered in the firelight, then nestled back against the curve of her breast and the small of her spine.

  He had never seen anything more erotic in his life.

  “Would you like me to—” He clapped his chest when his voice came out far too husky. After clearing his throat, he tried again. “Shall I lace your stays?”

  “Only if you wish
to.” Rosy firelight—or perhaps a light blush—colored her exposed neck.

  “I have to,” he answered, not bothering to hide the strangled desperation in his voice. “For both of us.”

  “You don’t have to.” She turned around and looked him square in the eyes. “You wish to.”

  A surprised laugh burst from his throat. His bluestocking might be exceptionally well read, but she knew very little about men.

  “No. What I wish to do are acts so unapologetically carnal, the ink would catch fire if I attempted to commit my ideas to paper. But what I’m going to do is lace up your stays, toast some breakfast, and put you on the first coach back to London. You will thank me later.”

  “I will think of you later.” The tip of her tongue ran along the bottom of her upper lip. “Just as I did last night.”

  He clutched the doorjamb and held his position. If he went to her right now, it would not be to lace her stays. They were playing with fire.

  She turned back to the hearth and resumed teasing the knots from her curly hair. “I don’t suppose you’ve any skill with a comb? My lady’s maid is the only one who could ever vanquish these tangles, and I fear I’m only making the matter worse.”

  His jaw worked. He was profoundly grateful she couldn’t witness the naked desire writ upon his face.

  Yes, he wanted to run his fingers through that long, silken hair. To touch it, to comb it, but mostly to have its softness be the sole blanket above their hot, twined bodies.

  Which was simultaneously the best and worst idea to have ever crossed his mind. He liked her too much to let her throw away her future on a tryst with someone like him.

  “We can’t be lovers, Miss Downing. Now or ever. You think me someone I am not.” As she met his gaze, he infused his tone with cold finality. “Your vision of me is flawed. A romanticized, idealized knight who saves the day and wins his lady’s favor. I am no knight. I do not deserve your favors. I will not be your seducer.”

  She lifted a half-bare shoulder. “Right now I think you’re someone who doesn’t know how to unknot curly hair and doesn’t wish to come out and say so.”

  “I know how to comb hair.” Against his better judgment, he stormed forward and snatched the pearl comb from her fingers. “Stand up. Not another word until you’re properly laced.”

  She rose to her feet as docile as a lamb.

  Xavier wasn’t remotely fooled.

  With the comb between his teeth, he cinched her stays and buttoned her gown as quickly as possible. When she settled back on the stool, he lifted her hair in one hand and began to gently tease the tangles free, starting from the ends.

  The firelight caught each curl as it released, turning the long brown waves into rippling gold.

  When a contented little sigh escaped Miss Downing’s throat, the tension in his neck muscles softened. Her eyes were closed, and a half-smile curved her lips. The corners of his mouth quirked in response.

  His seductive bluestocking was a far better cat than that devil creature she’d brought in a basket. He could comb her hair for hours, just to listen to her relaxed sighs and watch the blissful expression upon her pretty face.

  His fingers froze in place. He could do this for hours? Just because she liked it?

  “Good enough.” He tossed the comb into her lap and stalked out the door before her big brown eyes and sweet-smelling skin domesticated him any further. She would be gone in the next two hours. He would see to it personally.

  He kicked a fur-speckled pile of what looked like his favorite undershirt out of the middle of the corridor and began to pile on his outerwear. Hat, scarf, coat, gloves. He snatched his shovel from around the corner. Forget the breakfast. He was no innkeeper. He was an irascible, soulless, solitary ex-soldier, and the lady was going home. Right. Now.

  He swung open the front door. A mountain of snow tumbled inside. It was piled almost as high as the tops of his boots—and still falling. He stared in disbelief.

  A thick blanket of white snow covered every inch of the horizon. No, not a blanket. Most blankets weren’t ten inches thick and growing. He couldn’t distinguish the road from his garden. Everything was white—and impassible. His blood ran cold.

  This was a scourge. This was disaster. Bloody hell.

  Chapter 9

  Snowbound?

  Jane wrapped her arms around her chest to keep from flinging them wide and twirling about the parlor in glee. Snowbound.

  She had been soundly rejected upon her arrival and hadn’t yet decided whether the humiliation or the disappointment had hurt more... but this morning’s conversation had made it plain that Captain Grey was not immune to her, and—snowbound! She couldn’t have planned for a more promising turn of events. There was still a chance!

  Of course, if she were to nurture that chance, the first order of business was to improve his terrible mood.

  He was understandably less enthusiastic than she was about the ongoing snowstorm. Being trapped in here with him meant his staff was trapped somewhere else, and there were meals to prepare and hearths to stock and cat fur covering most of the cottage.

  There wasn’t much Jane could do about the abundance of fur or the dearth of firewood, but while Captain Grey was fixing breakfast, she collected the linens Egui had destroyed and safely hid away whatever the cat had not yet found. It might take Captain Grey an extra half hour to find his clean shirts, but at least they would be whole when he did so.

  She sat at the dining table and placed three stockings and a waistcoat into her lap. The more unfortunate items were either in dire need of de-furring or had been clawed to shreds, but these were still salvageable. She could darn the stockings and sew new buttons onto the waistcoat before he’d even finish toasting the bread.

  Nor was it an unusual morning chore. After so many years with Egui, she not only carried a mending bag at all times, she’d become quite clever at cross-stitch and embroidery. ’Twas the only female “accomplishment” she’d ever found practical. She had yet to be begged to perform critical pianoforte scales or paint an emergency watercolor.

  Sewing, at least, gave her something useful to do while Captain Grey was in the kitchen fixing meals. An extra flourish here and there gave her hems a personal touch. And helped to pass the time.

  She finished the last of the day’s mending just as he emerged from the kitchen. From the set of his jaw, he had no intention of engaging in polite small talk or otherwise passing an agreeable morning in shared companionship.

  Jane had no intention of wasting a single second. The snow could melt at any moment, and when it did so, she intended to be… well, if not indispensable, then at least thoroughly ravished.

  She had proposed becoming his mistress not because she thought it a likely turn of events, but because it gave her higher ground from which to haggle. Sharing a town house with her brother had taught her that one’s starting point very often determined one’s outcome.

  If Captain Grey said, “I shall not touch you,” and Jane begged, “Oh, please, won’t you kiss me?” there wasn’t much room for compromise. But if Captain Grey said, “I shall not touch you,” and Jane suggested, “Why not be lovers?” then perhaps a conciliatory kiss wouldn’t be wholly out of the question.

  Foremost, however, was getting him to stop glowering at her as if she had orchestrated a seduction and the sudden snowstorm.

  She took a sip of her tea as she considered the problem. The first step to defuse a male in a wretched mood was to not toss new complaints upon the fire.

  “Thank you for preparing breakfast.” She ate a third of her toasted bread before meeting his eyes and smiling. “The toast is lovely, and the tea is just what I needed.”

  He glared back at her without a sound.

  Of course he couldn’t make a sound. Compliments and thank you were incredibly difficult sallies to argue with. She hid her smile. Once he found he could not provoke her into an argument, perhaps they could move on to better topics.

  This had to be tou
gh for him. As a soldier—more specifically, a captain—he would be far more accustomed to giving orders than to receiving them. He would not have risen in the ranks so quickly if he had not been a respected, skillful commander every step of the way.

  It was not hard to imagine a man as strong and honorable as him leading cavalry into battle or playing mentor to the aspiring officers among his troops. His epaulets and his title spoke to his courage and heroism.

  What she was more interested in was the man behind the regimentals. Or rather, beneath them. He had not always been a soldier, and now that the war was over, he found himself facing the unenviable prospect of becoming what he once was: just a man.

  Except no man was “just” a man. Everybody carried their unique hopes, dreams, and passions in their hearts. The trick was finding someone who shared them. Or would at least listen.

  This was where Jane excelled. She was extremely adept at listening. She nibbled her toast. This morning was as good a start as any. She had to make the most of the situation. If Captain Grey looked at her and thought of carnal acts, plural, then she was determined to try as many as she could before she had to leave.

  Her spine straightened. If she was going to be ruined, then by God she wanted to do it right. She wanted hot enough memories to keep her warm for the rest of her lonely, spinster life.

  “The expression on your face is quite disturbing,” Captain Grey said as he reached for the teapot. “Napoleon was said to look just that way before charging off to conquer a neighboring country.”

  Jane smiled. Such a statement was obviously meant to nettle, but she didn’t rise to the bait. Whether he realized it or not, his disgruntlement now was mostly for show. He’d even refilled her teacup before attending to his own.

  “Close enough,” she said lightly, lifting her cup to her lips and breathing in the fragrant steam. If she wished for him to warm up to her, she must choose a less incendiary topic than lovemaking. “I was thinking about how difficult it must be to be a soldier and how honorably you must have acquitted yourself in order to earn the rank of captain.”