The Dukes of War: Complete Collection

by Ridley, Erica

  “And you did,” she said with a smile.

  “Did we?” he asked, his voice dry. “Perhaps Carlisle did. I didn’t. The rest of us…” His voice trailed off. None of it had worked out as any of them had hoped. “Ravenwood’s dukedom kept him from going, and the bullet in Edmund Blackpool’s chest kept him from coming back. Go ask Bart how much adulation he’s received since returning home without a leg. Even the magic of an officer’s regimentals has its limits.”

  She lifted her chin. “That doesn’t mean he’s not a hero.”

  “A hero who can’t stand his own reflection.” Xavier lifted a shoulder. “Not that I’m overly fond of mine. Is it my turn yet?”

  Pensive, she nodded slowly. “Yes. Ask anything you like.”

  He rubbed his temples. The ability to be clever escaped him at the moment. His head was still brimming with memories of war and the loss and disappointments all his friends had faced. But she’d inadvertently given him a topic to explore.

  “What made you become a bluestocking?” he asked. “The real answer. Not just ‘I like books.’”

  She laughed. “Nobody chooses to become a bluestocking, any more than they choose to become a wallflower.”

  “Nobody?”

  She stared at him as if she’d never considered the idea before. Perhaps she hadn’t. She chewed her lower lip. “I suppose I did. Choose to be a bluestocking, I mean. Not a wallflower. I have tried so hard to make an—but that wasn’t the question. Bluestockings. My mother was one. And I wanted to be just like her. She and Aunt Montagu were my heroes.”

  His elbow slipped off its armrest. “Elizabeth Montagu was your aunt? How could you not have become a bluestocking? She fairly invented the practice!”

  Miss Downing gazed at the fire. “I think she was perhaps a second or third cousin, several times removed. A fair percentage of the volumes in my private library came from her. I was far too young to attend the literary assemblies, but my mother had done, and she could quote to me from memory.”

  He couldn’t even imagine. “How did your father feel about that?”

  “Papa? He was a respected scholar and had once held an advisory position of some renown with the war office. Neither Isaac nor I can recall a time when we weren’t surrounded by books and actively reading. In fact, I memorized the Odyssey to compete with my brother.” She smiled at the memory. “In my family, knowledge was the highest goal one could pursue. ‘Bluestocking’ wasn’t a slur, but rather a term of pride.”

  In her family. An empty feeling gathered in the pit of his stomach. “When did you realize that wasn’t true in all families?”

  Her mouth tightened. “The day I made my curtsey. Novels weren’t shunned in my home any more than periodicals, so between scandal sheets and gothic serials, I was convinced that no matter what happened on the night of my come-out, for better or for worse, it would be absolutely memorable.”

  “And what happened?”

  Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Nothing.”

  He frowned. “How could nothing happen? If you had a come-out, then certainly something—”

  “I believe we’re overdue for my turn at question-asking.” Her voice trembled, then pushed on. “When you first came home from war, you were a hairsbreadth away from vegetative. It took months for you to show any awareness or interest in the world around you.”

  His spine stiffened. “Is that a question?”

  “I’ll rephrase.” Her stare turned piercing. “Why did you retreat into your own mind?”

  He glared at her. “It was safer.”

  She didn’t look away.

  Neither did he.

  She sighed and held up her palms. “Care to elaborate?”

  Not particularly. But nor did he wish to owe her a boon. “No one returns from war the same man he was when he started.” He, more than anyone. “I didn’t like who I had become. And I couldn’t make myself forget.”

  “Who did you become?”

  He shook his head. “That’s a different question.”

  “You lost your innocence,” she guessed.

  His lips twisted. “I lost that years before.”

  “I don’t mean your virginity. I mean your innocence. You thought the world was one way, and it turned out to be another.”

  “That’s… an understatement.” It had turned out to be a living hell.

  “Earlier, you mentioned that once one loses one’s innocence, it cannot be regained.” She tilted her head. “That’s true. But it’s not the whole story.”

  He stared down at his boots. “Nothing is ever the whole story.”

  “I mean, as people, we’re always losing our innocence about something, aren’t we? That doesn’t negate or even minimize it, but it does mean we have to keep moving forward.” Her lips pursed as she considered him. “You didn’t like who you had become. That’s fair. But you’re no longer that person. That was the old you. This is the new you.”

  He snorted. “How do you know who or how I am?”

  “Because you’re not on the battlefield anymore.” Her words sped faster. “You say war changes a man. I believe you. But it’s not the only thing that changes a person. Who we are at any given moment is a combination of our past experiences, present situation, and potential future. It’s not stagnant. The person you no longer liked wasn’t the same bright-eyed recruit who joined, or the man you became when you came home.”

  “A vegetable,” he said wryly.

  She shook her head. “Not a vegetable. A man searching for answers. I don’t know if you found any. Perhaps there are none to find. But whatever you had become, you no longer are. No one is ever the person they were even six months prior. The mere fact of disliking what you’d become inherently changed you for the better.”

  He ran a hand over his face, then let his head fall back against the chair. “I don’t feel better.”

  “Another sign that you’re human. Soldiers protect the greater good. The acts they’re called to perform are unpleasant, but their hearts are in the right place.”

  “Don’t both sides think so?” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. How he wished the experience had merely been unpleasant.

  Her brow wrinkled in concern. “Are you… sympathizing with Napoleon?”

  “I’m condemning war in general.” He massaged the back of his neck. “And now it’s my turn to ask a question.”

  Her lips scrunched as if she were physically holding herself back from pressing further, but she nodded and lifted a hand for him to continue.

  Splendid. Now if only he had a question. Mostly he hadn’t wanted to discuss the war, much less his feelings about it. Curse this game. The good news was that she only had one question left. The bad news was that he still had two to go.

  At least… it should’ve felt like bad news. When they’d sat down to play what he’d assumed was frivolous nonsense, there weren’t many things he’d wished to do less. But somehow, the fire had dwindled without him noticing.

  What had begun as a silly challenge was now a very real, very personal conversation. He found himself not wishing to “waste” questions on trivial topics. Miss Downing was clever and insightful and utterly impossible, and he wanted to know everything about her.

  He leaned forward. “My circle of friends is infamous, but I know nothing about yours. Who are your closest friends?”

  “Books.” She tapped herself on the chest. “Bluestocking, remember?”

  Her flippancy surprised him. “I asked a real question.”

  “I gave a real answer.”

  “A one-word answer.” What had she said to him earlier? He held his palms wide. “Care to elaborate?”

  No, she didn’t look as though she did. Her arms were folded beneath her chest and her gaze was on the ebbing fire. But then she raised her eyes to his.

  “My brother has his own responsibilities to deal with. Grace is married. I’ll see her at the Theatre Royal in less than a fortnight for Cymon, but we’ll be paying attention to the
stage, not each other. I have no other family or friends. Which leaves... books.” She paused.

  He watched her in silence.

  “I love books.” She smiled in the direction of their feet. “I truly do. They may not love me back, but it feels like they do while I’m reading them. Spending the afternoon with a favorite character gives me more time with someone than I usually get in a month. Before I met Grace, books were the best and only friends I’d had for years. So I spend all the time with them that I can.”

  “Until now,” he said softly.

  Her laugh was humorless. “Until I turned up on your doorstep without my library in tow?”

  “No.” He kept his voice was low and warm. “Apart from Lady Carlisle, the characters you read about were your only friends… until now. Now you have me, too.”

  Firelight splashed across her startled face.

  The back of his neck heated. Embarrassed, he waved a hand. “Your turn. Last question.”

  Contemplative, she returned her gaze to the fire. When she spoke, her words were so soft he could barely hear them. But he couldn’t escape them.

  “What precisely occurred to disillusion you and make you believe you had crossed from good to evil?”

  His spine went rigid. “I didn’t ‘believe’ it. It’s a fact. And I do not deserve forgiveness.”

  She shook her head. “That’s not an answer.”

  “You won’t get an answer.”

  “Then you owe me a boon.”

  His muscles tightened. Famous. He could either divulge his darkest regret or open himself up to making new ones. “The boon can’t be lovemaking, or forcing me to answer a question I already refused to answer.”

  She leaned back in her chair. “You don’t get to decide the boon or the question. You simply answer, or not.”

  His heartbeat sped in frustration. He rubbed his temples. “What’s your boon, Miss Downing?”

  She met his eyes. “Jane.”

  He blinked. “What?”

  “My name is Jane. Now that we’re friends, I ask for leave to call you Xavier.”

  His stomach fluttered. “First-naming each other is your boon?”

  She smiled back at him sweetly. “If that’s too intimate, we can always try the lovemaking instead.”

  “My turn to ask a question,” he said quickly. She was incorrigible. He couldn’t help but grin back at her. “Jane.”

  Her cheeks flushed becomingly.

  He angled toward her. “You explained how you got here. Why did you do it? You’re intelligent enough to realize illicit affairs aren’t romantic. They’re illicit, and then they’re over.”

  She exhaled slowly. “Perhaps for you, liaisons are illicit and then they’re over. I don’t have affairs at all.”

  Xavier doubted that was for lack of interest. Jane was exquisite to look at and only became more beautiful whenever she opened her mouth and spoke.

  Her thumb teased her lower lip. “I’m not a wallflower because it’s diverting. I’m a wallflower because nobody notices me. I slip through their minds before I can finish reminding them of my name.” She wrapped her arms about her chest. “I try to make it a game, to say or do things impossible to ignore. But even at my most outrageous, I never earn a second glance.”

  Impossible. He would never be able to put her out of his mind.

  She looked away. “In truth, I hate society events. I’m invisible in every crowd. It’s torture. I can barely sit through an orchestra performance despite my love of violins above all instruments, because every such outing is wrapped inside an hour or three of ignominy. And no one will notice but me. Almack’s is even worse.”

  He pushed to his feet. “Get up.”

  “What?” She blinked up at him in confusion.

  He held out his hand. “Come here.”

  She placed her hand tentatively in his. “Why?”

  “We’re dancing.” He coaxed her up from her chair.

  She glanced over her shoulder at the dimly lit parlor. “Right here?”

  “Right. Here.” And he pulled her into his arms.

  Chapter 12

  Jane couldn’t breathe.

  She’d lost all control of her lungs—and her wobbly legs—the moment Captain Grey pulled her to him. The moment Xavier welcomed her into his embrace.

  He wanted to dance. How could they dance? There was no music. She couldn’t even feel her knees. Not with her hand in his and his other arm about her waist, holding her close. She closed her eyes. He smelled of sandalwood and citrus. Everything about him was rock hard and hot to the touch.

  “Know any danceable melodies?” he murmured into her ear.

  She shook her head, disappointed. Their dance was over before it began. “I’m afraid my savant abilities are limited to literature.”

  To her surprise, he began to hum and guided her in time with the rhythm.

  She tilted her head to the side and followed his lead. Why was the song so familiar? She was certain she’d heard the melody before. From a violin, perhaps. It almost sounded like… Her breath caught as she recognized the tune.

  “It’s from Antigona.” She gazed up at him shyly. “The opera we saw together.”

  He smiled. “I wanted to dance with you then, too.”

  Her throat dried. Could it be true? Doubtful. Her gaze fell. It didn’t matter. He was being nice. All they would share was this moment. She didn’t realize how badly she would long for more.

  The muscles beneath his coat tightened as he led her in smooth, graceful circles. She didn’t need music to feel like she was floating. The soft firelight made the room all the more romantic. She could almost believe herself the belle of a ball.

  Except, fairy tales didn’t happen to her. Her fingers grew cold. He was right. Love affairs—even stolen kisses—weren’t as carefree as she’d believed. Once the snow was gone, he would forget her just like all the others. And this time, it would break her heart.

  “Jane. Look at me.” He slipped a knuckle beneath her chin and raised her gaze to his. “I notice you. I see you. I have you in my arms.”

  Her lips parted and her eyes stung. Until he’d spoken the words, she hadn’t realized that she’d been waiting for them her entire life.

  With nothing more than a soft murmur, he’d carved open her soul and left a part of himself inside. She would never be the same. Her heart clattered at an alarming rate, but she could not look away. Nor did she wish to.

  His gorgeous blue eyes shone from beneath inky lashes. The intensity of his gaze was thrilling and frightening and filled her with wonder.

  He saw her. Plump, boring Jane. And yet he still wanted her in his arms.

  When they completed their circuit about the room, he paused before the fireplace—but did not immediately release her.

  She hoped he never would. The evening had been magical. He was magical. She would be happy to stay right here, wrapped in his arms, forever. But all she had was this moment.

  He lowered his head to hers. His lips grazed her cheekbone, her earlobe, the pulse point just beneath the line of her jaw. Her heart fluttered. Was he finally giving in to their chemistry? Or was he acting out of pity?

  She angled her head, seeking his mouth. She wanted to feel his lips against hers. To have him and taste him, and to know that this time, he wasn’t kissing her because she was bothersome. He’d be kissing her because he wanted her. Because he saw her. Because he liked her.

  When his mouth caught hers, gooseflesh rippled along her skin, followed by an infusion of molten desire. Her hot flesh ached to be free of her clothing so that she could feel her body even more intimately against his. Her heart thundered. Perhaps he would finally make love to her.

  She slid her hands up his strong arms to his neck, where overlong black hair curled against the stark white of his cravat, and kissed him back. He was wonderful.

  He noticed her. He saw that she wished to be seen. He made her believe that forever was something she actually deserved. She melted again
st him. He wouldn’t kiss her like this unless he felt it, too. Unless he meant it, at least for this moment. No one else looked outside of themselves long enough to wonder what torture others might be going through. No one else reached deep into the furthest crevices of her heart and dared to ask, why not love? Why not her, too?

  His lips were firm and warm. The dance of his tongue against hers, exhilarating. Her heart swelled. When she’d set out on this journey, she’d assumed the lustful nature of men would make it impossible to decline the charms of a willing female. She’d been wrong.

  Xavier was every bit as passionate as she might have hoped, but a thousand times more discriminating. He wasn’t holding her simply because she was there. He was holding her because he wished to. Because they both wished to. And oh, did she love his kisses.

  His hand cradled the back of her head as his mouth claimed hers. She slid her fingers into his hair, reveling in the sensation. Her pulse raced. She could scarcely credit that the moment was even happening. Each kiss, each touch, imprinted onto her brain. Every inch of her body felt electric and alive. It was even better than she’d imagined.

  This was Xavier’s body pressed against hers. His wicked mouth, his teasing tongue, his hair curling about her fingertips. For the moment, he was hers. She would take it. This was how it felt to be desired. The moment might not happen again.

  When the back of his knuckles brushed against the curve of her bosom, her nipples tightened beneath her shift. Yearning coursed through her like lightning. Her breasts felt fuller.

  As his fingertips skated slowly across one of the taut peaks, a wave of arousal flooded her. Her legs trembled. He was more than she’d hoped, and everything that she’d ever wanted. She prayed he’d never stop.

  Breathless, she arched into his touch. His hand cupped her breast as his fingers teased her nipple. Her breath stuttered. She had never felt so pretty, so powerful. No wonder courtesans held themselves like queens. She felt invincible.