Dancing in The Duke’s Arms

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

  Chapter Nine

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  Stoke caught up with the riders less than a mile east of the house. How many days had he endured the memory of kissing George? Too many. For those brief moments when she’d relaxed into his arms and had surrendered herself to him, he’d been finished. Kissing her had been a mistake. He’d lost his head and handled her as if she were a courtesan. She’d been the one to come to her senses and end the embrace. Thank God. Thank God. He would otherwise have laid her down on the path and taken her right there. He’d even worked out the logistics of doing so.

  Off the path and onto the soft ground. His coat as protection from the leaves and soil, skirts up, his hands where they should not be. Unbutton and thrust in. Jesus. What he’d wanted to do felt so real that he sometimes thought he had.

  The slower riders were in sight. George and Miss Hunter had borrowed mounts from his stable, and much to his consternation, William had put George on Pluto, a spirited gelding who required a firm hand. So far, Pluto was behaving, but he doubted those good manners would last. He did not, in point of fact, have any idea how well the two women rode. He hoped to God William had known what he was doing, giving George a horse like that. His brother often failed to think things through.

  They emerged from the narrower path onto a field and spread out. William urged his horse into a canter, and George did the same. Miss Hunter stayed behind. Lord Revers, engaged in conversation with her, paced himself beside her.

  George rode with confidence, but in the open field, Pluto’s nature would soon become an issue. If her confidence was misplaced, she might be badly hurt. Pluto was sixteen and a half hands, and strong enough that when he wanted his way, he got it. All but the best riders had difficulty with him at some point.

  The group spread out according to skill, mounts, and, one imagined, one’s preferences about flirting versus the exertion of riding faster than a walk. William returned to ride with Kitty and Lord Revers, leaving George at the head of the field. The distance between George and the others increased. Stoke joined his brother. He nodded at Kitty, who turned pink and looked away. He gestured for William to accompany him out of the young lady’s earshot, for what he had to say was not fit for innocent young ears. “What were you thinking, giving her Pluto?”

  William’s eyes widened. He’d got his brother’s back up, but pride be damned. He glanced over his shoulder at Revers. “She’d be bored otherwise. Insulted too.”

  “Bored.” He lowered his voice because Revers and Kitty were so near. “Better bored than thrown off. Are you mad?” George was now several yards ahead of the field, easy to do with Pluto, with his long, easy gait. “Pluto is not an appropriate mount for a woman. If he takes it into his head to misbehave, she could be hurt.”

  “Best horsewoman I’ve ever met.” William spoke with uncharacteristic sharpness. “You’d know that if you’d ever come down from the clouds to breathe the same air as the rest of us.”

  He looked ahead to where George rode. To his horror, and yes, anger, she set Pluto to just short of a full out gallop. True, she sat Pluto with no sign—yet—that she could not keep her seat. “She’s too small to control him.”

  “She’s not.” William’s lack of concern was small comfort. He gave a smile, part amusement, part smug pride. “Watch her ride. Just watch.”

  He had to allow she rode beautifully. She and William were alike in their confidence in all things physical. Pluto was under control and covering ground quickly. “Pray God she’ll not be killed if she falls.”

  “Go after her, if you’re worried.”

  He gave his brother a look that would have incinerated anyone else. William knew him too well and had too much experience with his moods to be afraid of him now.

  “Go on, Stoke. See if I’m not right.”

  “I’ll have your head if you’re not.” He spurred his horse and cantered after George. The reckless woman set Pluto to a gallop. Stoke gave Neptune his head and the stallion responded with a bound that settled into a gallop. He made up the distance quickly, and he would have caught her up except she aimed Pluto at a stone fence. Three and a half feet high, that fence. Pluto could take it easily, but that didn’t mean George could, or that she’d stay on the horse when he landed on the other side. If he landed.

  Stoke shouted, and Neptune responded with a burst of speed. For a while, he thought he’d come even with her in time to head her off, but no. Pluto wanted the fence, the damned evil beast. She had no choice now but to make the jump.

  George adjusted, leaning forward. Pluto gathered himself and went up and up and stretched out in the air. Stoke’s heart banged away at his chest for that eternity. Then he, too, had to make the jump. Neptune cleared the fence effortlessly, there could never be any question of him failing a jump like that. Ahead of him, Pluto had already landed without a break in stride. George kept her seat and urged the gelding onward. Stoke followed. Since she slowed, as indeed she ought to, this time he caught up easily.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she said, as coolly as if she’d not been at risk of breaking her neck.

  “You little fool.”

  Her eyes opened wide. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You could have killed yourself and injured a valuable horse.”

  She blanched so thoroughly the freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks became more noticeable. “Lord William said I could jump him. Was that wrong?” She put a hand to her chest. Pluto danced sideways, and Stoke reached for her bridle, but she wasn’t the least perturbed. Nor unbalanced either. “Oh, no.” She was appalled at the possibility that Pluto should not have been jumped. “I’d never do anything I oughtn’t to have with him. He’s grand. Just grand. I’m sorry, if I oughtn’t have.”

  “William had no business putting you on Pluto.”

  “But why?” She patted Pluto’s shoulder and clicked her tongue so that Stoke was obliged to follow. At least she was moving at a sedate pace. “He’s wonderful. I adore him. Unless I’m much mistaken, he loves to jump.”

  “You might have been injured.” In his mind’s eye, he saw her taking the fence. A perfectly timed jump.

  “So might you, when you jumped. So might anyone who ever rides.” Her eyebrows drew together. “At home, Your Grace, I’m counted an excellent rider.”

  “I have no knowledge of that.”

  She tipped her head to one side. “Are you to be informed of all my talents?”

  “When they involve dangerous pursuits, yes.” She would do anything for him. Make any sacrifice. If he asked it of her, she would refuse an offer of marriage were one made to her. He did not care for knowing what he would do with that information.

  “I’ll need a list from you of what you consider dangerous.”

  “So, I’m to be excoriated for fearing you would injure yourself?”

  She closed her eyes, and he would have bet anything she was counting to herself. When she opened her eyes again, she was serene. “I believed Lord William had authority to tell me I could jump Pluto. I must have misunderstood him, for I know he would not otherwise have told me so.”

  “He does. Of course he does.” He should not have kissed her. What a dunderheaded mistake that had been, treating her as if there were no question of her sexual availability to him.

  “So…you are blaming me for Lord William’s failure to inform you he’d told me Pluto was an excellent jumper. I see.”

  “I have spoken to him.” The burgundy of her riding habit went well with her skin and eyes. Her hat, of the same shade as her habit and with a black plume in the band, sat jauntily atop her head, and that too was in complement to her pale orange hair.

  “I understand.”

  “You do not.”

  “You were concerned for my safety. That is commendable of you.” She nodded. “I apologize for any upset I caused you.”

  “I would have been concerned for the safety of any woman riding Pluto. As I told William, you are too small to count on controlling him if he decides h
e’ll pay no attention to you.”

  Her mouth tightened. “Am I to understand, sir, that despite the evidence of my competence, you refuse to accept it?”

  Such forthright speech was but one of the reasons they did not suit. There were dozens more, but this one would do. “I’ll thank you not to be impertinent.”

  Her expression smoothed out, and two pink spots blossomed on her cheeks. He felt a thorough beast for that, but he was in the right, and she was not. With one graceful motion, she dismounted. “Again, my apologies, Your Grace.”

  She didn’t mean it. That was beyond obvious. She turned her back to him and stroked Pluto’s nose. “Lovely animal. Thank you for the magnificent ride.” She lowered her voice and whispered, not softly enough to prevent him from hearing her, “I’m sorry your master is unpleasant.” She face him with a look of such innocence he could have believed she did not know that his hearing was unnaturally acute. Though, of course, she did know. She extended Pluto’s reins to him, giving him no choice but to take them.

  “What the devil are you about, Mrs. Lark?” He’d held her in his arms once, twice, now. He’d driven from London to Hampstead Heath after William, detained at Scylfe on business Stoke himself had sent him on, had written to tell him Edward Lark had died and would he please, please render her all possible assistance. He’d arrived to find she’d been coping, valiantly. Her husband’s relations were not kind, he’d soon learned, and at one point not long after his arrival, she’d simply broken down. He’d come far too close to offending all decency with her. He’d not held her again until that day by the pond.

  With one hand, she scooped up her habit and slipped the loop around her wrist to keep the voluminous skirts from tripping her. Her smile was pleasant, perfectly bland, with a hint of smugness that infuriated him. “I shall walk back to Teversault,” she said in clipped tones. “That must allay your fears for my safety.” She extended her hand. “I’m happy to walk him back. That is, if you trust Pluto not to trample me out of spite for my inept horsewomanship.”

  He gave her the sort of look that made grown men quail. To no apparent effect on her. “We’re at least five miles from the house. You’ll be more than an hour getting back.” He pointed at the fence. “How do you think you’ll get over that dressed as you are?”

  She huffed out a breath. “Five miles is a pleasant stroll. As for the fence, I’m sure I’ll manage. If there’s not a stile somewhere, I’ll go around.”

  He looked over his shoulder and saw the main group had gone to the left rather than to the right as he and George had done. “I will accompany you back to Teversault.”

  “I had rather you didn’t.”

  He dismounted and gave her a tight smile. “That is unfortunate for you, ma’am.”

  She took a deep breath, and a part of him that was not gentlemanly was fascinated by the way her habit tightened across her bosom. “Your Grace. This is absurd. You don’t want to be in my company any more than I wish to be in yours. There’s no harm in my walking back.”

  “I will not allow you to return to the house alone.”

  She frowned hard. “Fetch one of the grooms. I shall wait here. On my honor.”

  “They’ve gone that way.” He pointed to his right.

  “Then allow me to ride back.”

  He gave her a glower that William had once described as the devil looking back from the mirror. “You’d hare off at a gallop to spite me.”

  She burst into laughter, and as before, she was transformed from tolerable to beguiling, without him having the faintest idea why or how. “I would,” she said. “I would indeed. Unless you’d made me promise not to, and I can’t think how you’d succeed at that.”

  He closed the distance between them and put a hand on her cheek. He wished like hell he’d taken off his gloves and thanked God he had not. She turned her head away, but he pressed lightly on her cheek until she looked at him. This was a dangerous business, staying so close to her. Touching her. “Will you laugh at me again, Mrs. Lark?”

  “I don’t feel like laughing.”

  “You may suppose I know a way to make you promise me.”

  Her eyes snapped to his, and the color on her cheeks spread. “Fiend.”

  “I am a Machiavelli.” He heard the silky tone in his voice and was appalled. He was seducing her, and he had no ability to stop himself. Reckless, unplanned words poured from him. “I think you love me. I think that’s why I have the power to bend you to my will.”

  “I love the idea of you. There’s a difference.”

  He dropped the reins of both horses and put his other hand on her face too. God her mouth was delicious. Not mere speculation this time, but knowledge. “Explain it to me.”

  “I don’t see why I ought.”

  “I wish to understand.”

  “I don’t know you at all. Not really.”

  “And?” He’d moved closer, obliterating the former decency of the space between them. She seemed not to notice.

  “The man who came to me at Hampstead Heath was everything admirable. I’ll be forever grateful to you for that, but I no longer mistake your former kindness for continuing affection.”

  “A great many people admire me.” He did not recognize his voice, his seducer’s voice.

  “I do admire you.” He loved the color of her habit, the contrast of that dark wine color with her pale skin and hair. “Who wouldn’t admire the Duke of Stoke Teversault? At the moment, however, I don’t admire you at all.”

  “Many more fear me.” He smiled at her, and when he did, he imagined asking her to come to bed with him so he could rid himself of this damnable lust. He’d revel in it. Soar through clouds of it.

  She went still. Her eyelashes were thick and looked shorter than they were because the tips were ashy blond. Well, then. She’d been married, and he’d let her see too much. Or perhaps not enough.

  “Your eyes are lovely.”

  “What’s that to do with anything?”

  She betrayed herself with that breathless question, and the next thing he knew, he’d bent his head to her and kissed her again.

  Chapter Ten

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  More times than she could count since coming to Teversault, George had dreamed of being kissed by Stoke Teversault. In any number of situations vanquished into implausibility, she had imagined, dreamed, daydreamed—it hardly mattered which—that she was alone with the Duke of Stoke Teversault and that her charm, intelligence, and practical, capable nature swept him off his feet. And into bed.

  In her imaginings, the duke, being a paragon in all things, would see past her flaws to the beauty of her heart and fall irrevocably in love with her. Under equally implausible facts, she, and she alone of all the women in Britain, drew him from his state of isolation. Awakened at last. She’d kiss him into an exploration of passion.

  No such thing had happened the first time they kissed. That was not what was happening this time. Except that he did seem to have pressed his lips to hers with a confidence that turned the backs of her knees to jelly. Lord, but he kissed divinely. She could not fathom why he was doing this again.

  Her brain was not functioning, or more to the point, her brain was unable to distinguish the thoughts and reactions that went along with shock, fear, astonishment, confusion, doubt, and joy. A terrible, hungry, starving lust demanding to be sated.

  His gloved hand cupped the back of her head, and his mouth turned urgent, Which had not happened that day at the pond. He did know his way around the business of kissing—and then—this wasn’t kissing. What they were doing was a prelude to intercourse. My God. Him. The Duke of Stoke Teversault was kissing her as if it was only a matter of time before she gave herself to him.

  She put a hand on his shoulder and followed his lead, willing, in fact, to follow him to perdition. His lips parted, urging her to do the same, and so she did.

  His mouth was soft, firm. He knew what he was doing, he knew how this was done. As he continued to hold her the har
d muscle of his arm pressed against her. Her insides hollowed out, and it was an extraordinary response. Overwhelming, and unfamiliar, and disconcerting. Different from Edward. But then, there had never been any doubt of the feelings she and Edward had for each other.

  In the back of her head, she was aware this was how women ruined themselves, even experienced ones, but she didn’t care. She was swept away by the impossibility of being kissed with such carnality, let alone that she was in Stoke Teversault’s arms. His other arm slid around her waist, and she put her free hand on his upper arm. Her existence became a paradox in which she relaxed against him while tension filled her, and then, mercy, something changed. Their mouths fell into a rhythm that dragged her along with him and melted her inside.

  His grip on her loosened. His hand moved along her spine and lower, and breathless, she waited to learn if he would touch her below the small of her back. She wished he would. Hoped he would. His tongue moved past her lips, into her mouth, and that was not something she’d ever imagined between them, and it was stunning. The moment she did the same, the world shifted again.

  Briefly, very briefly, he pulled back, but she remained in his arms. There was no denying that fact. She gazed up at him and the heat in his eyes transferred to her and coiled in the center of her and between her legs, and one edge of his mouth quirked up in a slow, dream-fed sort of way. He studied her, and she returned his frank interest.

  She liked his strong features, the sharp angles, and then that moment of suspended time ended, and when his head dipped toward hers again, she met him halfway. Kissing him was glorious, astonishing. This time, she knew more about what he liked. Not everything, but enough. She knew what she liked about kissing him, the way he kissed her, the way he reacted when she kissed him.

  Eventually, he drew back again, but she stayed relaxed, bonelessly aroused, awash with desire, absorbing the languorous tension of his mouth. She was in a precarious situation, she knew that. Ruin came of encounters like this. “Oh,” she whispered. “I like you far too well for this to be safe.”