Dancing in The Duke’s Arms

by Grace Burrowes, Shana Galen, Miranda Neville, Carolyn Jewel

  “Is that all?”

  “Yes.”

  “I seem to recall from previous encounters that you never lacked for appetite.”

  “I’ve reformed.” The butter was stamped with the duke’s coat of arms, but he’d already taken some that included a corner of the escutcheon. There were fresh strawberries, bright, gleaming red, and so plump her mouth watered looking at them. Blackberries and gooseberries too and clotted cream.

  “Have you?” Miles and miles of desert sand enfolded his words. Ten thousand miles of hot and arid dunes.

  “Yes. I have.”

  She sat at his right with her toast and the dab of butter Kitty would have allowed herself. She resented him and Kitty for the bareness served her. She also resented the footman. In fact, she resented the entire household for the expectation that she be a properly delicate female.

  His plate had one and a half poached eggs on it. He had toast with butter melted over the entire top and three sausages. Three.

  She poured herself tea and remembered, at the last moment, to ask him if he wished for more. He did. The morning Times was at his elbow, and while she essayed to appear so frail of appetite that toast was a challenge for her constitution, she surreptitiously read his paper upside down and partially sideways.

  At Uplyft Hall, Hugh’s papers were still delivered. The butler ironed the pages for her every morning, and she pored over them with her breakfast, which was more than toast and an atom of butter. Meanwhile, His Grace addressed himself to his meal with no sign of appreciation.

  “Have you plans for the day?” he asked.

  She was going to die from lack of poached eggs. She had visions of distracting him long enough to take one of his sausages and ended up in the uncomfortable situation of being both hungry and amused at the thought of snatching food from the duke’s plate. She ought to dare all and take his paper too. “Plans?”

  “Yes.” He took a sip of his tea. “Plans. Activities. Outings. Such as will edify you or improve your character.”

  “Yes. I have—” She was infernally aware of her sexual response to him. It was unfortunate. Beyond unfortunate. It was highly improper—she was improper. Entirely unsuitable for such company as his. “I strive always to improve my character.”

  “Perhaps I’ve not made myself clear.” He picked up his fork. “I refer to something that you hope to do today, as opposed to some uncertain time in the future.”

  “Oh. That sort of plan.”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought I’d read.” Lie naked beneath him, her legs wrapped around his hips? Her resolve to be delicate wavered in the face of her unassuaged hunger.

  “Have you a volume in mind?”

  She gaped at him. What was this inquisition? Her mind went blank. What would a delicate young lady want to read? Something boring. Something educational or inspirational. “A…history.”

  “Of?”

  What was the dullest possible thing she could read? “Of…of…botany.”

  His expression smoothed out. Thank God one of them could manage this conversation. “Teversault has an extensive library. Please feel at liberty to browse.”

  “Thank you.” She took a bite of toast and chewed with no enthusiasm. As toast went, the bread was excellent, but there wasn’t enough butter. She stared at her plate and forced herself to swallow. Toast was all Kitty ever had for breakfast. How did anyone survive on toast alone?

  She imagined jumping to her feet. She could claim she’d seen a mouse, and then, when he went to investigate or, more likely, when he was distracted with his footman investigating, she could take his last sausage and—

  “Are you unwell, Mrs. Lark?”

  She let out a short breath, defeated. “I cannot do this. Kitty will never forgive me, but I cannot.”

  “I beg your pardon?” He’d been about to cut into his sausage, but he stopped, silverware in his hands. His fingers were long and slender. He had strong, dexterous hands.

  “I promised I’d behave. Be proper and ladylike, but I am neither of those things. I’m not scandalous, I don’t think, but I’m not dignified. Not like Kitty. Or you.”

  His eyebrows rose as he completed a neat slice across his sausage.

  “I’ve tried to be delicate and refined, which is what all gentlemen prefer in a lady, and where has it got me?”

  “At Teversault?”

  She tossed her napkin on the table. “I’ve been plotting how I might snatch that sausage from your plate. Because I’m famished.” She rushed on. It felt good to speak without artifice. “It’s better you accept the truth about me, except I suppose you already know.”

  “Do go on.”

  She pointed at his plate. “I love poached eggs and sausage and those berries, I could eat them all, and there isn’t near enough butter on my toast. I don’t care how dainty and feminine it is to eat only tea and crusts. I’ve never been dainty, as you well know. You once lectured me on the subject.”

  “Did I?”

  “I’m sure you don’t recall, but you took me to task for my lack of delicacy.”

  “Extraordinary that I’d do such a thing.”

  “You were correct.”

  “As I often am. I am, for example, correct when I say that you are dainty.”

  She snorted and tried, too late, to recover.

  The duke continued as if he’d not noticed. “If one defines dainty as slender and small, then you are dainty.”

  “I can’t help that.” She threw her arms wide. “I am not quiet. Nor subdued. Kitty says I smile too often and laugh too much, and I know, sir, that you think the same. I enjoy food and good drink and when I see a view like this”—she indicated the windows—“why, I feel it so strongly I am unable to stop myself from saying so.”

  “True.”

  “It’s worse. I have no plans to read about botany.”

  “I am astonished.”

  “My plans this morning, sir, are to walk all the way to the end of your driveway, I might even run for the sheer joy of it, and I shall count all the lime trees, and then I shall beat your brother in a footrace, and I’ll play with your puppies and take sugar to the horses.”

  He did not say a word. Not one. She felt her cheeks burning, and at the same time, her stomach clenched. Teversault, like the man before her, was dignified and grave and steeped in centuries of nobility, and she, why, she was none of that.

  Eventually he said, “A footrace.”

  “Yes.” He was not the sort of man to slip between the covers naked or leave a bed sweaty from exertion. What a pity that was.

  “I am perfectly happy to live at Uplyft Hall with Hugh when he comes home at last, with whomever he marries. I ask you, how many people have relations they must tolerate for the sake of the happiness of a loved one? Oh, good God!”

  The footman who had been so excellent at blending into the wall had taken it upon himself to fill a plate with eggs and sausage for her, and he’d bent over her shoulder to remove her toast and set this new plate before her, followed by a bowl of berries immersed in a cloud of clotted cream.

  “Please. Enjoy your meal, Mrs. Lark.” Stoke Teversault retook possession of his fork and ate a bite of sausage.

  She placed her napkin on her lap and did exactly that. She tasted one of the poached eggs and moaned. When she’d swallowed, she whispered, “Perfection.”

  “My chef is gifted.”

  “He is. He is.” She ate steadily, savoring the flavors and textures. The smoothness of the eggs, the tension and release as her knife sliced into the sausage, the herbs and seasonings that had been added to the meat. In between, she sipped her tea. She nodded at his paper. “Is there news of the French legation? Every morning I scour the Times for any mention of Hugh. Since I haven’t my own paper here, I hope I may persuade you to search for me. Or give me the pages you are done with.”

  “I should be delighted to assist you.” He picked up the paper and opened it. He spoke the correct words, but there was a rigi
dity to them that suggested he’d taken offense. This was ever her fate, to offend him with her lack of delicacy.

  Having eaten every last morsel on her plate, she drew the berries toward her and ate a spoonful. Again she sank against her chair. “I have eaten a mouthful of summer.”

  He held his paper to one side and glanced at her, eyebrows raised.

  “Sublime summer, Your Grace.” She sat straight again, closed her eyes and took another spoonful. When she’d finished the mouthful and allowed the experience to settle on her, she decided she could survive sight. Stoke Teversault was watching her intently, because that’s how he did everything. She put down her spoon and set her elbows on the table and her chin on her clasped hands. “Do you know what I adore?”

  “I expect you intend to tell me.”

  “White raspberries. I had them the summer I was married. My husband brought them back from Wiltshire.” The incident had taught her much about how to get on in a marriage. She and Edward had formed an even stronger bond, for George had learned that receiving a gift with delight had made the gift as delightful to Edward to give as for her to accept. “Edward and I, Mr. Lark, that is, we had blackberries at the end of our rear lawn that he told me he never could eradicate, try as he might. When I tasted them, I told him he must never try again. You’ve never had better blackberries than that, I promise you.” She plucked one of the blackberries from the cream. “These are nearly as sweet as ours were.”

  “Nearly?”

  “Your strawberries are better. I confess that.” Now she felt odd for having mentioned Edward. She oughtn’t have, nor should she have been prattling on at all. “Have you found anything shocking? In the paper.”

  “I would not tell you if I had.”

  She stirred her berries and cream. “I suppose nothing shocks you.”

  “On the contrary. There is a great deal that shocks me.”

  “Such as?”

  “The poor manners and laziness of our youth, for one.”

  “Our parents said that about the young—us. And their parents said that about the young in their day. It never ends.”

  “Your poor opinion of my blackberries, for another.” His dark eyes were focused on her, and she ended up staring at her bowl for fear he’d see too much in her expression, for she was thinking of naked dukes.

  “Would you rather I lie to you?”

  He snapped out the paper. “I shall look for news of your brother.”

  “Thank you. That’s very kind.” She meant that sincerely and hoped he believed it of her. “More tea?”

  “No, thank you.”

  She finished eating while the duke scanned the news. She watched him while he read. The planes and angles of his face, the shape of his mouth. The breadth of his shoulders. His features and body converged into an ineluctable whole that was nothing like Edward. Her husband had been shorter than the duke, less wiry, and more prone to smiles. Edward had been handsome. Handsomer even than Lord William, with blue eyes and blond hair, and she missed him desperately. She could not comprehend why a man so different from Edward would cause this constriction of her heart.

  What, she wondered, as she sat at the table with the dark and quiet duke who could never be called handsome, would he be like as a lover? In her mind, she saw and felt the sweep of his bare palm along her thigh, the drag of his fingers after, the slide of his sex into hers, with all the slippery, throbbing, glorious feelings that came with such contact.

  She did not dare look at him. He’d know. He’d take one look at her and see her thoughts. A whirlpool appeared in her teacup. Lord. Lord. What was she to do about this? She spooned in some of the cream from her berries.

  “Mrs. Lark. What are you doing?”

  She picked up her tea, annoyed by his offended tone. “Adding cream.” She took a sip and considered the impact. A hint of the berries which was nice. The fullness of the cream diluted by the tea was—what did she think? “I believe it needs more.”

  “More.”

  “Yes.” She added two large spoonfuls and stirred.

  “That is an abomination.”

  “Half measures never do.” She added the rest because he was so horrified. The remaining tea was now pale tan and thick. “It’s the color of my freckles.”

  “Delightful.”

  “It is.” After another sip, she stared into her teacup. “That’s quite good.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Why not? Clotted cream is delicious, the berries make it sweet, and the tea renders it bracing. Here.” She extended her cup to him. “In the interest of scientific inquiry.”

  “I’ve no intention of drinking anything that looks like a potion brewed of your freckles.” No smile appeared on his hard, stern mouth. Not a whisper of a smile, yet she had the oddest, most peculiar suspicion that he was, in fact, playing along.

  “Coward.”

  He leaned back and looked down his nose at her.

  “What else am I to think?”

  “That I’ve better sense than you.”

  She drank more.

  He reached over and took the cup from her. He studied the contents, then took a sip. “Gah. As well drink cream.”

  She took back the cup. “You don’t wish to admit I’ve invented a new drink.”

  “Cream? Not new, Mrs. Lark. We have been drinking it since the domestication of cows.”

  “Cream tea.”

  “There is no such thing.”

  “There is, but your objection is noted.” She took a long drink, in part to hide her smile. “Now, Your Grace, I thank you for your hospitality.” She rose, and so did he. “I have activities to engage in, sir, that I hope will improve my character.”

  “Pray God they do.”

  Chapter Four

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  Stoke sat astride his horse at the mouth of his driveway, watching a figure in white and pink heading toward him. He had this morning seen just such a gown. The woman wearing it raced along the edge of the drive and touched each of the lime trees to her left as she passed them. No one but George moved with such exuberant life. Nor was that mass of pale orange hair easily contained or disguised. He stayed, stupidly, mounted even when she was near enough to see him.

  She slowed, looked guilty when she did see him, then came to a halt and curtseyed. She cocked her head and smiled, resigned, or so it seemed to him. Not the smile that had taken his breath the first time he saw it, but his spirits lifted all the same. She was not a suitable match for him. No woman of her liveliness could be happy with a man of his temperament.

  He ought to touch the brim of his hat and go on his way. That would put an end to the relaxation between them that was the result of this morning’s interactions. He ought not allow her to think they had anything more than acquaintance in common. She would never find in him a man who would delight her.

  She wasn’t the least out of breath, despite having been running along his driveway. Touching his trees. Her smile struck straight to his heart. He did not move, though he knew that was no wise decision. He did not want to stop watching her. In all his life, he’d not met a woman so vigorously alive as she was.

  Stoke was aware that he might have been married but for Edward Lark. Lark had been at Eton with William and Hugh Hunter. Two years ahead, but much admired by his schoolmates. He was the third son of an old and respected family from Devonshire, distantly related on the distaff side to Lord Bolingbroke.

  He’d joined the army after school and been to Spain but in the interlude that ended with Napoleon’s escape to France, Lark had inherited a modest but not insubstantial fortune from an aunt. He’d resigned his commission and come to Scylfe to celebrate his good fortune with William.

  At that time, Stoke had been there too because, as he’d learned, Hunter and his sisters were there, and he had begun to entertain improper thoughts of Miss Georgina Hunter. Had Lark arrived even a day later he might have found Stoke had lost his head and got himself engaged to the woman. For what young
lady, he’d thought, would refuse an offer from a duke?

  Edward Lark and George had hit it off instantly. Like George, Lark had thrown himself into friendships upon no evidence at all that there would still be a friendship the next week. The Hunters delayed their departure a week, then another week, and during that time the two had become inseparable. A month later—a single month—Stoke had sat in a place of honor as that damned interloper married George. The marriage had been the very definition of rash behavior soon regretted. Except, as he well knew, she regretted nothing. The lesson he ought to have learned—that George was not the duchess for him—had not sunk in.

  She walked partway around him, just to the side, and pushed back the brim of her hat. “Is he very fast?”

  “Yes.”

  “Has he a name?”

  “Third To Left.”

  Her forehead creased and then smoothed out. She let out a laugh. “That’s excellent. You’re teasing me. I didn’t know you could.” She was so young yet. He could not get out of his head his awareness that she had been married. She knew what went on between a man and a woman. “What miracle is this, that you’d tease me?”

  “Perhaps you’ve been inattentive.”

  “Perhaps I have been. Will you tell me his name?”

  “Neptune.” Edward Lark had taken her to bed, and her experiences since then had not dampened her spirits in the least.

  “That’s a splendid name for this fellow. Do you race him?”

  “Certainly not.” She was all eyes on his horse, and he had the very inappropriate thought that he would like it very much if she looked at him like that.

  “He’s a beauty. May I pet him?”

  “Thank you. Yes. If you like.”

  She stroked Neptune’s head, but had to go on her toes to do so. Stoke found himself with a view of her bosom. “I wish I had some sugar for you, you magnificent beast.”

  Stoke dismounted and held the reins in one hand. The distance from here to Teversault was a mile and a half along that drive lined with lime trees a hundred years old. There was another line of trees to the right and, in between, a footpath shaded by the trees. “How many did you count?”