The Hero Least Likely

by Darcy Burke

  "Fear not. I'm usually with the other Haberdashers and we look out for one another."

  "Haberdashers?"

  "Our club. Jack and George and myself."

  Quince felt an unfamiliar and fierce twinge. "Who is George?"

  "George Lockhart. We all grew up together in Staffordshire." Miss Bittlesworth sighed. "Now Jack is married and George is off to care for her ailing aunt in Scotland."

  At the hint that George was a girl after all, he felt the pain in his chest subside. He hugged Miss Bittlesworth closer. "And now you're lonely?"

  He felt her stiffen in reaction. "No, I'm not saying that. It's simply different." She sighed again, relaxing back into him. "I was gone for eight months and when I came back everything was just different." Her tone had become a bit forlorn at the end.

  "It's the nature of growing up," he said.

  "Don't patronize me," she warned.

  Quince smiled to himself. "Like it or not, I have a few years on you. Perhaps I know what I'm talking about."

  That made Miss Bittlesworth wriggle to turn around again. He was fairly sure that her skirt was becoming woefully tangled by this point.

  "I'm not arguing whether you are correct," she said. "I'm saying that you're being patronizing."

  "And you don't care for that?"

  "Not at all."

  A lock of her hair had come free from its pins and curled down along her jaw. He smoothed it back behind her ear. As he watched, her expression changed from mild irritation to speculation, and then to a wicked delight.

  "What?" he asked.

  "It just occurred to me that I have the high ground. A strategically superior position."

  Quince ran his thumb over her jaw. "Really? And what do you plan to do with that?"

  "Conquer," she whispered before lowering to cover his mouth with her own.

  FIFTEEN

  Sabre could feel her own heartbeat increase as she leaned down to kiss the duke. When she pressed her lips to his she felt him tense. He gripped her arms and for a moment she was afraid he was going to push her away. Then he succumbed and pulled her closer. Their lips slid and clung in a dance similar in tempo to their duel. Sabre's skin flushed and her breathing became uneven. She had been kissed many times, but never to this effect. She had made a study of kissing, actually. It had started when she was six years old and convinced one of the stable lads to teach her. He had been only eight and more than happy to comply. She had continued this tutelage with the local boys until she was ten and her mother had found out. It had led to the most severe punishments she had ever known in her life, followed by years of lectures about her Reputation. And how her Reputation could be Compromised. But Sabre was nothing if not determined and had resumed her education on kissing as soon as she began to attend dances. All of that effort had seemed for naught now. Here was the man she was meant to kiss. No one else had ever made her feel like this.

  Lying on his chest she threaded her fingers into his tousled hair and heard him moan low in his throat. His arms circled her and his hand fastened at the nape of her neck, holding her close. They deepened the kiss, mouths open and searching. Even this didn't seem enough and she found herself overwhelmed with a desperate hunger. He moved his hands to the sides of her face and gently held her still while pulling his own mouth away. She heard herself huff in protest.

  His breathing was as labored as her own. "A moment, please," he said between gasps.

  She nodded and, once he released her, nuzzled her face into his neck. His pulse was speeding in his veins, further testament that she wasn't the only one affected. He put his arms around her again, stroking her back. Lower, she could feel his manhood jutting against her thigh. Some of the serving girls back home had been willing to tell her about what happened between a man and a woman. Opinions seemed to vary on how enjoyable the act was, and before now Sabre had wondered how it could be quite as transcendent as some girls as had described it. But that had been before his kiss. Before being pressed up against him in an intimate embrace. The only thing she wanted was to be closer to him. To feel his skin under her hands. She started to unbutton his shirt but by the second button he had captured her hand.

  "Sabrina," he said in a chiding tone. But he moved her captured hand to his mouth and kissed her fingertips, her palm, her wrist.

  "Quince," she responded in a whisper, kissing his throat where his pulse still beat fast and steady.

  "This is--" he paused to kiss her palm again, sending shivers through her. "Unwise."

  "Is it?" she asked.

  "Most unwise," he assured her before gripping her arms and pulling her up for another kiss.

  The friction of sliding against him made her skin tingle. And then his kiss. Where their first kiss had quickly led to a driving hunger, this time it was sweet. Sacred. She felt she could go on kissing him like this for hours. Forever. Finally, her lips swollen and tingling, she gave a small sigh and rested her head on his shoulder. Her heart felt whole. Nothing existed outside the sweet cocoon of his touch. Weary from her day, she slept.

  Quince awoke with a hot, heavy blanket on him. Shortly before he was going to toss it to the floor he realized it wasn't a blanket but Miss Bittlesworth. Sabrina. Sabre. They had slept the whole night on a silly chaise lounge on his balcony. He felt foolish. And delighted. And rather intensely wanted to take her into his bedroom to finish what they had started. She was so warm and soft. Rounded in all the perfect places that a lady should be. He caressed his hands over her hips and derriere. Were that she could be his mistress, he would feel no need to leave his chambers for the foreseeable future. He had never felt that way about any woman before, but she seemed to incite all of his carnal desires. She had from the first moment he saw her.

  She stirred and he moved his hands from their intimate wanderings back up to her shoulders. She raised her head and smiled at him. "Good morning."

  His fairy queen was rumpled, hair fallen from pins. Her voice was scratchy from sleep. He had never seen anything more beautiful. "Good morning," he whispered, cupping her cheek. She leaned into his touch, closing her eyes. He couldn't stop himself from kissing her again. She giggled in surprise but enthusiastically returned his kiss. She twined her fingers into his hair. Shortly, what had started as a morning greeting changed to exploration. Changed to seduction. He moved his hands to her hips, anchoring her against himself. Wanting so desperately to remove the clothes that separated them. He felt something that was beyond desire. Beyond seduction. He wanted to push her down on the floor and raise her skirts. Wanted to drive into her relentlessly and hear her screaming his name.

  If asked, he wouldn't have thought himself capable of rising from the chaise that quickly and setting her bodily aside. She looked confused and swayed a bit on her feet.

  "I…" Quince stopped, unable to say anything. He couldn't even meet her eyes. He had always prided himself on being better than his father. Better than Gideon. They had given in to their desires, used women as nothing more than objects for satisfaction. Now he found that with the right temptation his willpower was no stronger than theirs.

  Her voice subdued, she said, "If you could excuse me, your grace, I need to refresh myself."

  Now he did look at her to see that she gave him a brilliant smile, her eyes sparkling. "Quince," he reminded softly.

  "Quince," she agreed, her tone that of someone sharing a secret. She curtsied and left the room as though everything were perfectly normal. As though she woke up every morning lying on top of a duke. What did he know, perhaps she did. He tapped his fist against his thigh, not sure where to put his conflicted feelings. A large part of him wanted to pursue her. While they were kissing he had been afraid he would demand her favors. Now he was afraid he would beg for them. She was a complication he didn't need.

  Once she was out of sight of the duke, Sabre put a hand to the wall of the hallway and took a moment to balance herself. For all that she had followed her curiosity over the years to discover what there was to know a
bout kissing and lovemaking, everything from last night and this morning was outside of her experience. She had never felt like this before. In fact, feelings weren't something that she equated with any of her previous encounters. Unless curiosity, discovery, and, at times, disgust counted as feelings. But this had been different. The duke had been different. Quince. Just thinking his name she found her skin burning. When he had gripped her and held her tight against his manhood, her body had responded with a searing ache low in her belly and a wetness that she could still feel. Then he had set her aside. It was like being cast down from heaven.

  But she had seen the panic in his eyes, the tension in his body where only moments before there had been a languid pleasure. Regardless of her own desire to protest, to argue, to seduce, she could see that he was very much on the edge of ordering her away. And thus she had used the only strategy that occurred to her to set things to rights. Pretended nothing was wrong. Pretended everything was normal. But leaning here on the wall she knew nothing was normal at all.

  And drat the man, she had forgotten to badger him until he produced that letter. What had she been thinking? Nothing at all, was the answer. After he had started kissing her she didn't remember having any thoughts of substance. Well, she would march back in there and make him show the letter to her. In a moment. Perhaps after she had an opportunity to straighten herself and change into fresh clothing. Pushing away from the wall she made her way back to her room.

  Not sure what else to do with himself and too restless to sit still, Quince had repaired to the ballroom to practice his fencing forms. He had no fencing master in residence, something he would consider changing since he found himself at Belle Fleur more often. For today he certainly didn't want to invite Miss Bittlesworth to partner him as a good deal of what he needed to do was get away from her to think. Or not to think. He wasn't really certain anymore. But now he was tired, slick with sweat, and looking forward to some repose before luncheon.

  What he didn't want was to find his intrusive guest up to her elbows in the bottom drawer of his bureau.

  "Is there something I can help you find, Miss Bittlesworth?"

  She startled a bit but then addressed him over her shoulder while reaching even deeper into the drawer. "I'm trying to find that bloody letter."

  "You won't find it there."

  "So I've noticed." She slid the drawer shut and turned to face him while still on her knees. "Well?" she asked.

  "Well what?"

  "Where is it?"

  "What makes you think I'll tell you?"

  She shook her head, sighed gustily, and folded her hands together like a forbearing governess. "I'm only trying to help you, your grace."

  He couldn't help but to laugh at her overly dramatic mien. She rewarded him with a smile and held out her hands to be helped up from the floor.

  At sight of the duke Sabre had felt a little lurch in her heart. He had obviously been doing something vigorous, seeing as his white shirt was damp and clung to his form. His hair, usually artfully tousled in keeping with the modern style, was instead slicked back from his face. She had wondered how he kept his physique since the last creature she had known as apparently lazy had been an old cow on the Bittlesworth estate. But evidently he was willing to engage in physical activity from time to time.

  As he walked toward her his posture was more relaxed, looser, than she had seen before. Best of all, he was smiling down at her as he grasped her hands to raise her to her feet. She realized, with a small frisson of worry, that she would do a lot to see that smile. Part of her heart was clamoring 'look at me, smile at me, I will do anything.' She tried not to let the worry over her own weakness be reflected in her eyes.

  "Where is it?" she asked again, still smiling. But her heart was saying, 'touch me, kiss me.' Treacherous thing, her heart. Best not to be trusted no matter how fast it beat or strongly it yearned.

  He stared down at her a few moments, as though considering her request. Their hands were still joined and his thumb absently stroked over her fingers. She wanted to step into his embrace. To lift her lips for another kiss. But she didn't know what had disturbed him this morning. And not knowing she didn't want to risk his rejection.

  He squeezed her fingers and turned to walk towards the bed. Her heart sped again, wondering his intentions. But he merely slid open the drawer of the bedside table and drew out a folded paper. Her startlement pushed aside the distracting intentions of her heart.

  "You had it there? Anyone could have found it!"

  He grinned. "You didn't."

  "I obviously thought too highly of you! The next time I have to find your important papers I shall start by looking in the middle of the floor."

  He shook his head in amusement, still smiling. Then looking down at the paper in his hands his smile slowly faded.

  Sabre bustled across the room and held her hand out. "Unpleasant things are best dealt with quickly. Let me open it if you don't want to."

  The duke frowned but handed the paper over to her. She inspected it closely. Fine, heavy paper. Unsealed and a bit crumpled. Sabre couldn't imagine resisting simply unfolding the paper to discover what it said. She glanced at the duke and saw that his attention was focused on the paper in her hand, the frown still on his face. She opened the letter and the first line after the salutation chilled her heart through.

  My dearest duke,

  Your mother is doing quite well. I'm sure she would send her love if she knew I was writing to you. Sadly I must leave her soon for my rendezvous with you in London. I say rendezvous but it is best if we don't meet. Leave the papers on the sideboard of the anteroom at White’s at precisely eleven o'clock in the evening on the eleventh. Leave the building and don't look back.

  Sincerely,

  Your father's friend

  SIXTEEN

  "He's threatening your mother?" Sabre asked, shocked.

  The duke turned and walked towards the window, hands clasped behind his back. "So it seemed from the first letter. What does he say now?"

  Sabre knew she would have been able to read the text upside down from where he had been standing, but perhaps his talents didn't lie in the same direction hers did. Or he didn't want to read it.

  When she read off the first sentence he spun to face her again, his expression frighteningly remote. As she continued reading he walked back to where she stood, his attention still on the paper. She was beginning to think it quite probable that he had burned the first letter with his gaze alone. Between the cold threat of the blackmailer's words and the banked fury she sensed from the duke she felt, for the first time in her life, out of her depth.

  He pulled the letter from her fingers. "Thank you, that will be all."

  Being dismissed like a common servant brought her chin up. "I beg your pardon?"

  "You may leave."

  "I will not. I came here to help you and I will."

  She realized her mistake when his icy demeanor cracked a bit and rage poured out. "Really? You know where the papers are that this madman wants? You can protect my mother? You need to stop offering things that you cannot supply!"

  But she wasn’t one to be easily cowed. "You might not be in this bind if you'd done more than lounge about for the past week! In case it had escaped your notice, tomorrow is the eleventh!"

  "Of course I know that!" Crumpling the letter in his fist he strode back to the window. He braced his hands on the casing and stared out at the gardens. After a few moments he hung his head and said more quietly, "What is it you would have me do? There are no papers. To the best of my knowledge there never were."

  Sabre joined him at the window. "He believes there are papers? Give him some."

  Quince looked at her, tension clear in his expression. "Forgeries?"

  Sabre shrugged. "Forgeries, or better yet some of your father's papers that, with a stretch of the imagination, could be misconstrued to be damning. Can you think of anything like that?"

  He shook his head but had a distracted lo
ok as though he were running through the options in his mind.

  "Now may I look at your father's papers?" she asked.

  He glared down at her. "Why?"

  "It is only a hunch, but I believe I may be far more devious than you. There are probably things we could use that you just aren't seeing."

  He considered it for a moment, jaw tensing, then finally nodded. "I'll take you downstairs shortly. You may spend the afternoon looking, but we will need to decide on something quickly." At that he strode to the fireplace and pulled out a match.

  "No!" she cried, snatching the paper from him.

  "There's no reason to keep it," he argued, reaching for the letter again.

  "How can you say that?" she asked.

  "We already know what it says."

  "But we might forget or mix up the wording."

  He recited the letter to her word for word as she reviewed the paper incredulously. She wasn't sure which was more disturbing, his precision or the detached monotone he used. This was his mother. He had obviously known she was at risk since the first letter, yet he had done nothing. But Sabre didn't resist when he took the paper away again. He set fire to it and dropped it in the fireplace. They watched it burn in silence. Once it was ash he broke it apart with the poker to ensure that no trace remained.

  He looked at her again, still remote and tense. "I'll show you to the study and have luncheon sent in to you."

  "Yes, your grace," she said quietly. He preceded her without looking back and she followed. She noted that he hadn't corrected her that time to use his name rather than his honorific.

  Quince had conducted Miss Bittlesworth downstairs, had eaten, bathed, dressed, and now found himself staring down at the gardens again. Hours had passed and he found he was still furious. How dare that odious monster intimate an association with his mother? Was the swine courting her? Attending her salon? Now, since he had put off opening the letter, he didn't have the time to visit her and reassure himself that she was safe. Try to ascertain whether anyone new had joined her circles. Warn her that any such person might try to do her harm. He was, to put it bluntly, exactly the idiot that Miss Bittlesworth had accused him of being.