Darling Duke (Heart's Temptation Book 6)

by Scarlett Scott

  But he said none of those things. Instead, he inhaled the fresh scents of jasmine and lily of the valley and tuberose, held it deep in his lungs as though it were a panacea. He held her to him as if she could resurrect him, as if he were yet capable of being salvaged.

  Even if he was not. Even if nothing would ever again return him to the man he had once been. Not even the woman in his arms.

  “I am here now, Spencer,” she repeated. “And I am yours. Whatever came before me, I cannot change. What comes next is up to you.”

  She was wrong about that, but he didn’t bother to correct her.

  ou are an accomplished rider, princess.”

  Bo cast her husband a sidelong glance, suppressing a smile. “Do not sound so surprised, Duke. I know I almost killed myself on Damask Rose, but there is nothing I love more than galloping across the land, feeling the wind in my face.”

  They trotted side by side on Arabian mounts, early afternoon sun gilding the lush Warwickshire landscape and lending it an almost ethereal air. Since breakfast, they had not strayed from each other’s sides except to change for riding. While Bo knew there was much her husband had yet to reveal to her, she was willing to wait, to allow him to his own time, and she could not help but feel closer to him after seeing him seize up that morning.

  She had witnessed him vulnerable and shaken, lost somewhere in the depths of his past, and he had allowed her to pull him through it. That he had accepted her embrace rather than pushing her away suggested there was hope yet for their marriage. If he did not wish for children, she would not force the matter. Not today. Not yet.

  “You were reckless with Damask Rose,” he agreed, studying her in a way that made her feel as if he saw inside her. “Promise me that you will not ride with such disregard for your own safety ever again.”

  “What is this? Concern for my wellbeing?” she teased. “Have a care or I may begin to suspect you actually like me, Your Grace.”

  He grinned back at her, his emerald eyes rivaling the lush flora surrounding them. “I do like you.”

  For some reason, his simple statement sent a warm rush of pleasure straight through her. She looked away lest her expression gave away more than she wished for him to see. “I may like you as well.”

  “You may?” He laughed, and it was a beautiful laugh, masculine and rich. It did odd things to her insides. She wondered then how often he found amusement in anything. His life had not seemingly been filled with levity, and she longed to see more lightness in him, especially if she was the source. “I daresay I shall have to try harder to persuade you if you remain uncertain.”

  Her lips twitched. “I can think of ways you might try.”

  Another bark of laughter left him, and she turned toward it, unable to resist his magnetic pull. He was gloriously beautiful, laughing in the sunlight, strong and lean atop his mount. The man seated a horse with such effortless grace it made her sigh.

  “Did you open your second gift?” he asked her then, surprising her with the change of subject.

  She thought of the wrapped gift she had left in her chamber that morning. “No. I thought perhaps you would like to be there when I opened it.”

  He nodded, his gaze dipping to her mouth. “Capital idea, princess. I would like nothing better.”

  She wondered what the other gift could possibly be, though its shape was rather familiar. Some sort of book, she would guess, but she could not imagine what manner of book the Duke of Bainbridge would have purchased for her as a gift. An etiquette guide perhaps?

  “I only got you one gift,” she said then. “It is not fair that you had two for me.”

  “My gift was more than enough.” He reached into his waistcoat and extracted it. “I have consulted the time on no less than three occasions already today, and each time I was reminded of my favorite horse thief.”

  She laughed, grateful for the abatement of the tension that had been growing between them. The sides of him that she had witnessed today—vulnerable and lighthearted—appealed to her. There was far more to the icy Duke of Disdain than she had once believed.

  “Your taste in horseflesh is impeccable.” This was yet another part of him that intrigued her. Her mount today, Majestic Iris, was sleek and beautiful, though a great deal better behaved than Damask Rose had been.

  “Thank you.” His tone was butter soft, setting off an answering flutter low in her belly. “Horses were not always a passion of mine, but in the last few years, I have found much solace in them. They are such noble creatures, so intelligent, capable of doing great harm and yet also incredibly gentle. The contradiction appeals to me, I suppose.”

  She noted his careful phrasing. Breeding horses had been his way of healing, she would imagine, thinking again of the trauma he had experienced. Her mind could not grapple with the horror he must have endured, watching his wife take her life before his eyes, the shock and pain of it. Her heart gave a pang in her breast as she recalled again how he had looked earlier at breakfast.

  He had gone pale, his eyes glazed, and he had seemed like a man lost, adrift somewhere inside himself in a hell that only he could see. She had seen him suffer a similar fit before his mother, and she had to imagine it was not an uncommon occurrence. Bo wondered how much he had suffered on his own. His mother did not seem to possess a warm or maternal nature, and he and Lord Harry were not close. Who else did he have?

  No one seemed the obvious answer.

  But that time was at an end, for she had meant every word she had spoken to him. He had her now, and regardless of the manner in which their marriage had come to fruition, she was his. She would chase away the darkness with light, banish his ghosts. Whatever he required, she would be there if he would but let her.

  She realized she had been quiet for too long, and that he was looking at her oddly now, as if he could sense the bent of her introspection. “Your stallion is impressive,” she said, thinking of the muscled, rich brown horse back at Boswell Manor. “I should like to ride him some day.”

  “Pharaoh,” he answered, giving her a pointed look. “I imported him from Aleppo. He is a wary beast, and you are never quite certain where you stand with him. One moment, he can be docile as a lamb, and the next he is a force of nature.”

  She raised a brow. “Why does that sound familiar?”

  “Minx,” he said without heat. “You cannot ride him without me. I alone can sense his moods. It seems to be a particular talent of mine. Perhaps the only one I possess.”

  “I do not know about that.” She cast a sly look his way. “I can think of several others.”

  A wicked smile curved his sensual lips, and it sent a pulse between her thighs that was only heightened by the rhythmic plodding of her horse beneath her. “Oh? What would those be? Perhaps you would care to enlighten me.”

  Bo smiled right back at him. “You excel at arrogance, for one thing. For another, you are quite good at stealing books. You are also brilliant at insults.”

  “Allow me to argue that arrogance is a ducal obligation.” He paused, cocking his head at her. “As for stealing books, I have only ever taken one book into my possession without having purchased it, and as that tome was decidedly contraband, I do not think it signifies. And I admit to having a difficult time recalling a single insult I have issued.”

  She pursed her lips. “You did call me a wanton tart masquerading as a lady.”

  Was it her imagination, or did a flush stain his high cheekbones?

  He glanced away from her for a moment, clenching his jaw, before meeting her gaze once more. “I was an ass, and I am sorry. I…you are unlike any other lady in my acquaintance. I was not certain what to make of your, er, reading proclivities or your bold nature.”

  His awkward admission touched her, as much because she knew it was sincere as because it was so very Spencer. Now that she was beginning to learn the man beneath his façade, she could well imagine how she must have flummoxed him. She was not unaware of her own shortcomings. Her sisters referred
to her as a rapscallion in skirts. She had never pretended to behave. Had never wished to be the meek and mild-mannered lady her parents had longed for her to become. Finishing school had not finished her, as she had no wish to change. She was herself, and she had a tendency to find trouble, and every part of her balked at rules and propriety. She could not reconstitute herself to make her more palatable for others. It was not in her nature.

  “I accept your apology,” she told him, something alarmingly warm and tender sinking through her. He was so handsome, the sun clinging to the hair peeking beneath his rakish hat, bathing him in a glow. His expression was so pained, so vulnerable once more, and she loved it.

  She could love him.

  Dear God.

  The thought struck her, unwanted. Unneeded. Alarming. No, she did not love her husband of one day. It was all the lovemaking that was rendering her maudlin, ruining her mind. That and his undeniable masculine beauty. And his halting, heartfelt apology. Not to mention the way he had embraced her earlier, as if she were the life sustaining him, how he had buried his face in her hair as though he wanted to inhale her. And his laugh. How beautiful it was to see him smile, hear him give in. The heady knowledge that she could melt his ice. That she was already melting it, like a summer sun, even in this moment.

  That he was hers.

  Yes, it was all those things working at her feverish mind, tricking her into thinking nonsense. She did not love Spencer Marlow. No, she did not. She could not.

  Loving him would be foolish. Dangerous. Stupid. Naïve.

  Their marriage had been forced. He had not wished to wed her. She had not wished to wed him. He was damaged by whatever he had endured with his previous wife. That woman’s demons still haunted him. And yet…

  “You say you accept my apology, though you are glaring at me now as if we are at daggers drawn.” His quizzical observation burst through her tortured musings.

  Oh.

  Oh no.

  Oh damn it all.

  This was happening whether she wished it to or not, and she most decidedly did not wish it to happen.

  She stared at him, and her heart, her stupid, ludicrous heart, expanded in her chest. Warmth filled her from the inside, as though the sun had somehow managed to infiltrate her body. Her heart pounded, a strange exhilaration sluiced over her, and it was the most surreal moment of her life.

  Bo sat atop her mare, completely motionless, being carried across a verdant field, staring at the man she had married, realizing that this was the sort of moment from which there was no return. Understanding that everything had changed. That what she least wanted was blossoming inside her, undeniable and demanding.

  That she was falling in love with her husband.

  “Let’s ride,” she blurted, desperate to end the moment. To fly in the wind, attempt to grind these unwanted emotions beneath her horse’s hooves and send them splintering into the ether.

  “We are riding.” He looked at her oddly yet again.

  She swallowed. What did a woman look like when she realized she was falling hopelessly in love with a man who did not love her in return? She felt suddenly as if he could see into her and read her feelings. Good God. “A race,” she managed. “From here to the tree line in the distance. On the count of three, we go.”

  “Boadicea.”

  Even the way he said her name, her full name rather than the abbreviated version, sent a fresh frisson of feelings skittering through her. She attempted to compose herself, hoping that her expression was as bland as she struggled to make it. She stared at him, thinking please do not notice I am a complete fool for you. “Spencer. Are you afraid you will lose?”

  His expression changed, and she knew her challenge had been accepted. “I do not lose, princess. To that end, I do think your proposed race should have a reward. What goes to the victor?”

  In addition to harboring an aversion to rules, Bo also had a deep-seated competitive side. She was an excellent horsewoman, and she had no doubt that she could beat Spencer in any race, and that regardless of the victor, she would challenge him. “The loser must do whatever the winner wishes for the remainder of the day,” she invented. “No questions asked.”

  His eyes gleamed. “Those stakes are acceptable. Who will count?”

  “Me,” she decided, feeling the need to race into the wind. Hoping it would dispel the ridiculous emotion lodging in her chest at that moment. “On the count of three. One, two, three.”

  And just like that, they galloped, soaring over the field. Their mounts were neck-and-neck, the well-trained horses eager to unleash some of their energy at last in much the same way that Bo was grateful she had finally been given the opportunity to revel in the speed and thrill of racing a horse. Though she had taken a horrible spill from Damask Rose and this was the first time she was riding with any speed since that day, she was unafraid. She was, in a word, exhilarated.

  She lowered her body over Majestic Iris’s neck, spurring her on, gratified when she pulled into the lead. The tree line loomed. She was getting nearer to victory. To beating him. And any inconvenient thoughts of love had been thrust into the back of her mind. Winning was all she could think about. Winning and riding, riding faster, harder, spurring her mount. She was one with her horse. She was going to win.

  And then, a movement in her peripheral vision. He was gaining on her. No. She could not let him win any more than she could admit she was falling in love with him. Oh, drat it all. There it was again already, forcing itself into her mind when she least wanted it.

  Love.

  He spurred his mount on, and their horses were once again even with each other, their powerful hooves hammering on the ground in tandem. The tree line was closer. His horse went faster, and she was staring at his back, staring at defeat, knowing that he had already won this race, but in addition to the race he had won far more from her.

  She wasn’t just falling.

  Holding her breath, she attempted to spur her mount into a final burst of speed. But none was forthcoming, and Spencer galloped past the tree line with ease, a full horse length ahead of her.

  She had lost. The race, her heart. She slowed Majestic Iris, allowed defeat to sink into her bones as she reined her in. Her husband turned his mount, trotting back to meet her, grinning with unrepentant triumph.

  “Well done, princess. You almost won.” He stopped alongside her, lightness dancing in his eyes, and a strange rush of giddiness fluttered through her at the sight. “I am afraid it was not meant to be, however. You are now mine to command for the remainder of the day.”

  If he only knew. She was his for the remainder of their lives. Her heart was his. She drank in the sight of him, staring for far longer than was necessary, loving the sight of him so carefree, a world away from the broken, disillusioned man he had been that morning.

  “Do not look so terrified, wife.” He winked. “I promise not to be too much of a tyrant.”

  Bo gawped some more. The Duke of Bainbridge had just winked at her. Why, if she had not witnessed it herself, she would not have believed a secondhand account. As it was, part of her was convinced he had gotten something in his eye.

  “I find your victory dubious,” she said at last, attempting to squelch the seemingly unstoppable surge of emotion roiling through her. “I believe you already knew you would win the race when you suggested it, that you were well aware that your mount would outmatch mine.”

  He did not defend himself, his gaze burning into hers. “Certain victory is the best kind.”

  “Spoken like a man who has never known defeat.” She kept her tone flippant as she parried back, desperate for him not to suspect the turmoil raging behind her calm façade. He was so observant, those moss-green orbs always plumbing and seeking, and she was not prepared to reveal the depths of her feelings to him. Not now. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. Self-preservation and pride would not allow it.

  “I am beginning to think I have won when it matters most.” He nudged his mount back into a walk.
“Come,” he called over his shoulder. “Let us find a proper place to have a picnic, and I shall begin enjoying the spoils of my victory.”

  She urged Majestic Iris to follow, smiling as she admired Spencer’s strong shoulders and lean waist from behind. Here, in the calm tranquility of the day, with nowhere to go, no one to see, and nothing but time and sunshine in their favor, it was easy to pretend they were a true husband and wife. That their marriage had not been forced or unwanted, and that not only did she love him, but he returned that love.

  Relentlessly, she forced that fantasy from her mind, reminding herself that the truth was far bleaker, and that she could not forget she had married a man who was broken in ways she could not fathom. Broken beyond her ability to fix him, no matter how much she wished she could. That she had married a man who did not and never could return her love. Despite the warmth of the sun, a shiver worked through her, and she knew she would have to do everything she could to keep from falling any deeper for him than she already had. She must guard her heart at all costs.

  Above the plod of their horses’ hooves, she heard the happy trill of a ditty she could not name. Good heavens, the Duke of Bainbridge was whistling, of all things. She had not even known he had such frivolity in him.

  nother tart?” Spencer asked, holding a cocoa tart near Boadicea’s tempting mouth.

  He had already fed her one of the decadent confections straight from his hand, and when she had licked a crumb from the pad of his thumb, it had taken every bit of his restraint to keep from pressing her down upon the blanket he had spread over the grass, throwing up her skirts, and sinking deep within her. Which meant, of course, that he wanted to feed her another. And another, until he fed her his tongue and his cock simultaneously.

  It was inevitable that he would take her here, in the bounty of late summer sun, in the midst of a field, nothing but the glorious sky above them and the sweet-scented earth beneath them. But first, he wanted to watch her consume another bite-sized bit of chocolate and meringue heaven. For Boadicea did not sample a dessert in a ladylike fashion—of course she didn’t. Instead, she licked, moaned, and savored. She devoured.