How to Lose a Duke in Ten Days

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  “Well, it’s hard not to notice a girl who is six feet tall,” she said, laughing, trying to make light of that particular flaw. “And, it becomes impossible not to notice her when she chases you out to the garden and proposes marriage to you.”

  “No, no,” he said, shaking his head, “that’s not what I mean at all.” He moved closer, close enough that the ruffled jabot of her tea gown brushed his chest. “For one thing, you’re not taller than I am,” he murmured, and his finger brushed beneath her chin, lifting her face. “See?”

  Edie went still beneath the light touch, but she couldn’t pull back. She couldn’t look away as his gray eyes darkened to that smoky color.

  “As for the other, shall I tell you why I noticed you?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “You were looking at me, staring really, and your gaze was so fierce, so intent, and I couldn’t imagine why.”

  She forced herself to say something. “How terribly rude of me.”

  “It was riveting. I felt as if I’d just been pinned with an arrow.” He laughed a little. “Cupid’s arrow, possibly.”

  She frowned a little, uncertain. “Are you flirting with me?”

  His gaze roamed over her face, an open, unnerving stare, and she wanted, suddenly, to look away. But she didn’t. “No, Edie. I am a bit of a flirt, I know. I always have been. But in this case, I’m quite serious. When I first saw you, I felt as if I’d just run straight into something wholly outside my experience. You weren’t like any girl I’d ever seen before. The way you looked at me wasn’t coquettish—­not a bit. But it wasn’t uninterested either. I didn’t know what it was. I’m still not completely certain how to define it, even now.”

  She had no intention of helping him on that score. There was no way she’d admit that her first sight of him had been equally shattering. Not Cupid’s arrow, but riveting just the same.

  “Anyway,” he went on, “I loved Africa because it appealed to the man I was then. It’s a continent of enormities—­elephants, stretches of plain as far as the eye can see, sunsets that are so stunning, it’s as if the sky’s on fire. But I’m not that man anymore. Nowadays, I’m much more appreciative of things like a walk in the garden, and a pretty rose.” He dropped his walking stick to the grass and plucked one of the roses off the pillar. Then, ignoring her protest, he untied her bonnet and pulled it off.

  “Hold this,” he ordered, shoving the bonnet into her hands. He ran a hand over the short stem to be sure there were no thorns on it, then he leaned sideways, tucked the stem into her hair behind her ear, and straightened to admire his handiwork. “There, now,” he murmured. “That’s a sight any man can appreciate.”

  “You’d say something like that to any woman you wanted to seduce.”

  “This is more than seduction. This is courtship.”

  “I wouldn’t know the difference,” she said with a little laugh, looking down at her hat. “I’ve never had either.”

  He didn’t reply, and when she looked up again, she found him watching her in a way that made her catch her breath.

  “You deserve both, Edie,” he said. “And I intend to see that you have them.”

  IT WAS ALL very well to talk to Edie about courtship, but later, in her room with her arms wrapped around his leg, Stuart couldn’t help thinking seduction much more appealing.

  The first time she’d stretched his leg, the pain had been severe enough to hold his desire in check, and her subsequent revelation shocking enough to keep it at bay.

  But now, even knowing the ghastly thing that had happened to her wasn’t enough to stop arousal from stirring in him when she touched him. He kept reminding himself of what she’d been forced to endure at another man’s hands, but his masculine imagination proved stubbornly resistant to such gentlemanlike considerations.

  He’d been given a glimmer of hope yesterday in kissing her hand, and another earlier today by her admission that the idea of him with another woman made her jealous. Two indications she wasn’t as indifferent to him as she might like to appear. But, nonetheless, reality had to proceed much more slowly than his imagination, and he tried to remember that he was only torturing himself with speculations about taking off her clothes or kissing her beautiful skin, for such things were probably a long way off. But that didn’t help much either, and he could only conclude he was a glutton for self-­punishment.

  By the midst of the second exercise, with her body behind his and her weight pressing him to the floor, he was contemplating how delicious it would be if he could somehow reverse this position, and he knew this had to stop, or he’d go mad.

  She certainly wasn’t having any fantasies about taking off his clothes and kissing him, and that was really the crux of the problem. He just didn’t know what to do about it. How did a man seduce a woman under these circumstances? How did he make her want what had only brought her pain?

  “You’re very quiet,” she commented as she sat back.

  “Am I?” He stretched out his leg, stirred it a bit to shake out the taut muscle, then bent it again so she could begin the third stretch to his quadriceps and reached for his watch.

  “Yes.”

  She leaned in, her forearm pressing against his back, her hand around his calf, her breast against his . . . God, he really needed to stop thinking about these things.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked. “Are you in very much pain today?”

  “Not precisely.” Blinking, he tried to focus his attention on the watch in his hand, but each second that ticked by seemed like an hour. “I’m just not in much of a mood for conversation,” he said, and in those rueful words, he wondered if he’d just found a way forward.

  When he’d taken her hand the other day and kissed it, he knew she’d felt pleasure in it. But she’d snatched her hand back at once, too hampered by apprehensions to allow the pleasure to continue. Words were far less threatening, and could be just as seductive. Not flattery or pretty compliments, no, but something else entirely.

  “Thirty seconds,” he told her, and when she sat back, he set his watch aside and rolled over. “I’m not talking much because the things I’m thinking right now are things I’m not sure I can discuss with you.”

  He paused, his gaze roaming over her, and he watched her body tense and her hands flatten on the floor as if to push her up—­the gazelle readying to flee. “For instance,” he murmured, “I’m thinking about how much I like it when you wear white.”

  “Oh.” It was a hushed sound of surprise, mingled perhaps with a hint of relief. Her hand lifted self-­consciously to the high, ruffled collar of her tea gown, the same one she’d been wearing the other day on the terrace. “Dressmakers tell me it’s a good color for me. They say it flatters my skin and my hair.”

  “I daresay it does, but that’s not quite the reason I like it.”

  He sat up, and she tensed, rising on her knees as if to stand, but he merely leaned back to rest his weight on his arms, and she relaxed again, easing back on her heels. He waited, and after a moment, her curiosity got the better of her. “Is white your favorite color, then?” she asked.

  “No, actually. Blue’s always been my favorite color. But I like white now, too. I have done ever since that day five years ago when we sat on the terrace together.”

  She stirred, stirring his hopes. “You do like to bring up that day.”

  “It’s a favorite memory of mine. You were wearing white, and I liked it because it evoked images in my mind, images of you naked in my bed. Sheets, as you know, are white.”

  Color bloomed in her cheeks. Her hand tightened at the ruffled collar of her gown, her thumb rubbed the blue cameo at her throat. “You shouldn’t say these things,” she whispered. “It’s unseemly.”

  “It’s honest.”

  “It embarrasses me.”

  “Yes, I know.” He sat up, but he didn’t touch her. “Nonetheless, I’m afraid
that’s not enough of a deterrent for me, Edie. Because when I say things like that, I’m hoping it arouses you, and I want you to be aroused.”

  The rosy tint in her cheeks deepened, giving him a hint it might be working. Her pale pink lips parted, but she didn’t speak, and he took advantage of her silence.

  “I was imagining you amid those white sheets, with your red-­gold hair all around your shoulders and that gorgeous smile on your face, and it took my breath away. And I looked at these pretty, gold freckles . . .” He paused to brush his fingertip ever so lightly over her nose and cheek.

  “Don’t tease me about my freckles,” she choked, and pushed his hand down.

  “I’m not. I looked at them, and I wondered if you had them everywhere, and I started reckoning up how long it would take me to kiss them all. It was a topic I contemplated many times while I was away.”

  She went utterly still, but her breathing had quickened, and he knew he’d hit at last on something that might bring the gazelle close enough to catch.

  “And the other day, when you came out on the terrace in this?” He fingered the soft folds of lawn spread out over the carpet around her. “The sun was out, and I fancied I saw the outline of your body underneath. Oh, just the faintest trace—­the curve of your hip, your long, long legs. But it was more than enough to set my imagination to work.” He paused, his own breathing none too steady as he looked back up and met her eyes. “So you see? That’s why I like it when you wear white.”

  “Goodness.” She looked away, a hand pressed to the base of her throat. “And I had on three petticoats.”

  He could discern that she was aroused by the things he’d said, but she was also hotly embarrassed, and he decided it was best to pull back. The dance of romance always had some push and pull.

  “Yes, well, we men have vivid imaginations,” he said in a joking sort of way. “Why do you think we like to watch ladies play tennis?”

  She made a choked sound, smothered laughter. “Oh, dear, if the ladies learned this masculine secret, I fear none of us would dare to wear white outdoors again.”

  “Well, don’t give it away, Edie, or I shall be resented by all of mankind. It wouldn’t affect me, of course, for in my case, the damage is done. Those images of your long, lovely legs are engraved on my brain, and there’s no getting rid of them now.” With that, he glanced at the clock. “Ah, my two hours are up, I see. We’d best change or we’ll be late down to dinner and Wellesley will cluck like a hen.”

  He grasped the footboard, stood up, and held out his hand to help her to her feet. When she rose, he kept her hand in his long enough to press a quick kiss to it, but he also let it go straightaway, deciding it was best not to push his luck. Anticipation was part of this game, and as he’d told her yesterday, he was playing to win.

  Chapter 15

  WITH ONLY EDIE, Joanna, and Mrs. Simmons in residence, dinner at Highclyffe was usually a simple, five-­course affair, unless Edie was entertaining guests. Since Stuart’s arrival, however, Mrs. Bigelow and Wellesley had been pressing her for more elaborate menus. Preoccupied with other concerns about her husband’s return, Edie hadn’t had time to address the issue. That night, the cook and the butler apparently decided to take matters into their own hands.

  Canapés, soup, fish, lamb cutlets, and a dish of baked mushrooms came and went, and when the butler brought in a joint of beef and a dish of potatoes dauphine, Edie felt impelled to inquire further on the subject. “Heavens, Mrs. Bigelow is quite ambitious tonight, Wellesley. How many courses has she prepared?”

  “Ten, Your Grace.”

  “Ten? For four ­people?”

  “Mrs. Bigelow felt—­and I concurred, Your Grace—­that the return of His Grace required a joint, game, a second vegetable, a more elaborate dessert, and fruit with a strong cheese, in addition to the usual fare.”

  “I see.” She looked across the table at her husband, who merely grinned back at her. “Far be it from me to question what a duke needs in the way of sustenance,” she murmured, but the minute Wellesley went to bring another wine, she looked at Stuart. “Did you ask for all that food?”

  “And usurp your duty to select the menu, Duchess? Never. But I’m not complaining. There’s something to be said for a ten-­course meal after years of eating mainly out of tins and packets.”

  “Well, I hope Mrs. Bigelow finds good use for the leftover food. Ten courses, indeed.”

  “I don’t think we’ve ever had ten courses before,” Joanna said, sounding rather awed. “Not by ourselves. How lovely!”

  Despite her enthusiasm, Joanna was yawning profusely by the time dessert arrived, the consequence of eating far too much rich food, and Edie decided enough was enough. The dessert plates had barely been cleared away before she stood up.

  “I think we’ll go through,” she announced, “and leave Stuart to his port and cigar.”

  The other three rose as well, but Stuart refused the masculine custom of after-­dinner port in the dining room with a laugh. “No, Edie. Being back in civilized society is all very well, but I shall go through with you and have my port in the drawing room. I don’t smoke, and I have no desire to sit in here and drink in isolated, ducal splendor. Wellesley, would you have Mrs. Bigelow send fruit to the drawing room and take the port through with it?”

  If she had given such unorthodox instructions to Wellesley, he’d have at least cocked an eyebrow and looked disapproving. But in Stuart’s case, he simply bowed, murmured, “Very good, Your Grace,” and glided from the room to follow instructions, the footmen in tow.

  Edie made a sound of exasperation. “Really, that man is the end all,” she muttered to Stuart, as they walked through to the drawing room. “He never questions anything you say,” she added accusingly.

  “Of course not, Edie. I’m the duke.”

  It occurred to her that if she ever did go off her trolley and decide to live with her husband forever, the question of Wellesley would become quite an exasperating state of affairs. “And I’m the duchess. But that never seems to cut any ice with Wellesley.”

  Stuart merely laughed. “You seem to get your way with him in the end.”

  “But it’s always such a battle.”

  “That’s only because you’re American. Sadly, Wellesley is a snob of the highest degree.”

  “If we were in the States, I’d have sacked him ages ago.”

  “But we’re not in the States, so you can’t. Wellesley is as much a part of Highclyffe as the walls.”

  “A fact in which you seem to take great delight,” she said, noting his gleeful expression.

  “A bit like the vicar, darling,” he countered wickedly, grinning back at her. “It’s the way things are.”

  He paused outside the drawing room and turned to Joanna and Mrs. Simmons. “Whist, ladies? There are four of us.”

  Joanna shook her head with another enormous yawn. “I’m terribly tired. I think I’ll just go up to bed. Good night, everyone.”

  “I believe I shall accompany you, Joanna,” Mrs. Simmons said, and bowed to Stuart. “Good night, Your Grace.”

  Edie felt a stab of desperation. “You don’t have to go up just because Joanna does, you know,” she assured the governess. “You are more than welcome to stay. I’m sure His Grace won’t mind. We can play piquet with three ­people.”

  Mrs. Simmons showed no desire to cooperate with that plan. “Thank you, but I believe this would be an excellent time for me to write some letters. I am quite far behind on my correspondence of late, and my family, I fear, is feeling neglected as a result. If you don’t mind?”

  Edie plastered on a smile and refrained from a desperate impulse to point out that there was stationery right here in the drawing room. “Of course. Good night.”

  “Good night, Your Grace.”

  With the departure of her sister and the governess, she felt off
balance, partly in light of his torrid confession earlier in her room. Even now, just thinking about it, she felt a blush creeping into her face. “Perhaps I’ll go up, too. It’s eleven o’clock.”

  “Why don’t you stay down here with me for a bit? We could talk, or read.” He gestured to the gaming table nearby. “Or we could play a game.”

  “That depends,” she said wryly, “on what sort of game you had in mind. Did you arrange this? Joanna and Mrs. Simmons going off and leaving us alone?”

  “Upon my honor, I didn’t. And if you prefer to go to bed, I won’t press you. But I would like you to stay.”

  She took a deep breath. “Do you intend to make advances?”

  “Well, I’d like to,” he admitted, flashing her a provoking grin. “But only if you give me an opening.”

  “I shan’t.”

  “Then you don’t have anything to worry about, do you?” He moved to the gaming table and pulled open a drawer. “Cards?” he asked, holding up a deck. “Or backgammon? Or chess?”

  She considered which offered her the best chance of winning. “Chess.”

  His grimace seemed reassuring. “All right,” he said as he dropped the cards back in the drawer and shut it. “But you already told me you play very well, so I may not prove enough of a challenge for you. I don’t play chess often, myself.”

  “All the better for me, then,” she said, and took the chair he pulled out for her.

  He moved to sit opposite her at the small table, and they opened the drawers to pull out chess pieces and place them on the inlaid chessboard. But when she started arranging the white pieces in front of herself, he stopped her. “No, no, we have to pick colors,” he said, took up a pawn of each and hid them behind his back.

  “A gentleman usually lets a lady go first,” she reminded.

  “Usually.” He held out his clenched fists. “But I didn’t think you’d need that sort of advantage.”

  “I don’t,” she assured and pointed to one of his hands, but when he opened his fist to reveal a white pawn, she couldn’t help grinning. “Still, it’s nice to have it just the same.”