How to Lose a Duke in Ten Days

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  He laughed a little, his breath soft on her face.

  “I shall need practice, Stuart. Lots of practice.”

  “Is that what you want?” he asked, and in his eyes was that tender, smoky look she loved.

  “Yes.” She paused a few seconds. “Stuart?”

  “Yes, Edie?”

  “I should like to practice now.”

  His face, handsome enough to break any girl’s heart, twisted a bit, broke up—­looking glad, so very glad that it made her heart sing. “If you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure.” Their fingers still entwined, she turned toward the door.

  “Intend to lead, do you?” he asked, as she pulled him across the room.

  “As often as possible,” she said, making him laugh.

  They paused by the door so he could retrieve his walking stick, then together they went upstairs and into her room. Once they were both inside, she turned the key in the lock.

  “I’ve given Reeves the whole night off,” she said, her voice shaking a little, but she looked at him steadily. “I’m counting on the fact that you’ve had enough practice at this to undo me.”

  He shook his head, laughing a little as she came toward him. “And here I’m almost wishing I’d come to this moment a virgin.”

  That surprised her. “Why would you wish that?”

  “I was once so proud of myself for all the women I’d had, so vainly proud. And yet, now I’m rather ashamed of the fact, because none of those women have ever been to me what you are.” He looked up. “I love you, Edie. I love you with every part of my soul.”

  Joy pierced her heart, a sting of joy so sweet that it was several moments before she could reply. “But if you were a virgin,” she said at last, “I fear we’d never have gotten this far. I need you to be just the man you are, Stuart. I need to be reminded every day that I am a pretty, passionate woman, with golden freckles and lovely legs. I need you to touch me and caress me and make it like bliss. I need you to make love to me, and give me that sweet, sweet pleasure.”

  He laughed again, so merrily this time that she felt a bit nettled. “What are you laughing at?”

  “Now who’s being torrid?” he teased, but he sobered almost at once. “I can do all that,” he promised and put his hands on her shoulders. “Turn around.”

  When she did, he began undoing the buttons along the back of her gown. It was a slow process, for the buttons were cloth-­covered, and it seemed to take forever before he reached her waist. But at last, he was able to remove her evening gown, sliding it off her shoulders, down her waist, and over her hips. It sank to the floor in a pool of blue silk, and when she stepped out of it, he used his foot to push it out of the way.

  He then removed her corset cover, tossed it aside, and began working to undo the laces of her corset. Not once did he hesitate over her intricate clothing, making her appreciate just how many other women he had undressed, but as she’d told him, she did not resent his past experience. Though the past few weeks had unearthed in her a jealous streak she hadn’t known she possessed, now as he undressed her, she felt only desire. It deepened with every garment he so skillfully removed, and by the time she was down to her last layer of underclothes, she was so aroused she could hardly breathe.

  He turned her around and sank down in front of her. He removed her evening shoes, then his warm palms were gliding up her calves to her knees. As his hands slid inside her drawers to remove the garters that held up her stockings, his fingertips tickled the backs of her knees, making her wriggle in protest.

  He laughed under his breath, untying the ribbons of her garters and sliding her stockings down her legs. “My ticklish darling,” he said. “I’m glad I have some bargaining chips with you.”

  “But—­” She broke off, trying not to squeal as his ­fingertips slid beneath the hem of her drawers and began gliding upward, caressing the backs of her thighs. “But what do you intend to bargain for?”

  “Hmm . . . there are so many possibilities.” He paused, considering, his fingers gliding back and forth against the bare skin just beneath her bottom.

  The sensation was so exquisite, her knees wobbled, she sucked in a sharp gasp, and had to rest her hands on his shoulders to prevent herself from sinking to the floor.

  His fingers stilled. “Do you like that?” he asked.

  “Yes.” It was a soft, breathless admission.

  He pulled his hands from beneath her drawers and lifted them to the garment’s waistband. He slipped the hooks free, and slid the garment off her hips. “What about this?” he asked, ducking his head beneath the hem of her chemise to press a kiss to her bare stomach.

  She cried out, her hands tightening on his shoulders. “Stuart,” she wailed softly, shifting against his mouth as his tongue flicked lightly over her navel. “Oh, oh. That’s too much.”

  He emerged from beneath her chemise and stood up. “Someday,” he said as he bent his head closer to hers, “I shall have to show you just how pleasurable tickling can be.”

  He kissed her before she could inform him there was nothing pleasurable about being tickled. The kiss was one of those lush, deep kisses full of desire that she was coming to love so much, but when his hands reached for the hem of her chemise and he began pulling the garment up to remove it, she was seized by a sudden paroxysm of shyness. The notion of revealing to him one of the most disappointing features of her body caused her desire to falter, and she tore her mouth from his. “Wait.”

  He stilled. “What is it?”

  She didn’t want to explain. She wanted to regain the desire of before. She reached up to slide his black dinner jacket from his wide shoulders. “I think it’s my turn to undress you.”

  That made him smile. “Taking the lead again, I see.”

  “Yes,” she said, and pulled off his jacket. “I like being in charge.”

  “I like that, too, actually.” His smile widened into a grin. “As long as you don’t make me go to tea with the vicar.”

  She laughed, remembering that day. “I won’t,” she promised as she pulled the ends of his white silk bowtie. “I’m far too fond of you now to subject you to that sort of torture.”

  “Thank God for that,” he muttered, as she reached for his collar stud. When she fumbled with it a bit, he showed her how to remove it, as well as his shirt studs and cuff links. He pulled off his shoes and socks, and as she turned to drop his studs and links into a dish on her dressing table, he removed his shirt and tossed it aside. She turned to face him again as he pulled off his undershirt, and the sight of his naked torso made her breath catch.

  His bare skin, tanned by the African sun, gleamed like golden bronze. His chest was a wall of sculpted muscle and sinew, the sheer strength of it plainly obvious, and her heart slammed against her ribs. But the hard pounding of her heart was not from panic. Instead, she felt only desire as her gaze traveled downward, across the brown disks of his nipples, the washboard ribbing of his stomach, and the indentation of his navel.

  She fanned her hands across his chest, appreciating rather than fearing the strength and power of his body. As she reached for the waistband of his trousers, the feel of his hard arousal beneath her hands evoked no fear, only a deepening hunger and a need for completion. But before she could slide his trousers off his hips, he stopped her.

  “My turn.” Again he reached for the hem of her chemise, but again, she resisted.

  “What’s wrong, Edie?”

  “Nothing. It’s just—­” She broke off and looked away, her cheeks growing hot, even though she knew it made no sense to feel embarrassed now. “I’m feeling a bit shy, I suppose.”

  “Still? But why?” When she didn’t answer, he kissed her. “Tell me.”

  She turned her face away. “My breasts are too small.”

  “What?” He made a sound of disbelief. “I don’t believe it. Show me
. Let me see them.”

  “They’re too small to see,” she mumbled, even as he began drawing up her chemise. “Even I can’t see them.”

  He laughed, which only made her feel worse. But she stretched her arms toward the ceiling and allowed him to pull her chemise over her head. He dropped it to the floor and reached for her wrists, spreading her arms wide before she could cover herself. She squeezed her eyes shut, desire faltering in the wake of a dreadful sense of inadequacy. It seemed an eternity before he spoke.

  “Edie, I fear there’s something wrong with your eyesight,” he said at last, causing her to open her eyes and look into his. “I can see your breasts perfectly, darling.”

  He let her wrists go. “Shall I tell you what they look like?” He smiled so tenderly that she feared she might cry all over again. “Since you apparently can’t see them for yourself, I think I should.”

  His hands lifted to touch her. “They are small, yes, and round, and perfectly shaped.” His fingertips grazed lightly over the tops of her breasts, then beneath. “They’re very pretty, too, creamy white, with golden freckles scattered over them, and these gorgeous, rosy pink nipples.”

  Edie watched his face as he caressed her breasts and described how they seemed to him, and she felt a sense of wonder. Never before had she ever truly felt beautiful, but she did now. Joy rose up inside, joy so powerful and so bright, bursting through her chest as if she’d swallowed a box of fireworks.

  “Your breasts are perfect, Edie.” He rolled her nipples gently in his fingers, spreading heat through her body. “Luscious and perfect, and I long to kiss them and suckle them and play with them for hours.” An unsteady note began creeping into his voice as he spoke. “But I fear we’re running out of time. I’m not sure how much longer I can hold out before I come utterly undone.”

  His hand slid away from her breast. He took her by the hand and led her to the bed where he guided her to lie down.

  He started to unbutton his trousers, but she stopped him. “Wait,” she said and sat up. “I’m supposed to do this part.”

  “Are you?” He resumed undoing buttons, and her hands closed over his wrists.

  “Yes.” She felt his resistance, and it surprised her. “Now I think it’s my turn to ask what’s wrong,” she murmured. “Wouldn’t you like it if I undress you?”

  “I’d adore it, but—­” He broke off, shifting his weight. “It’s just that I should warn you first . . .” Again, he paused, and this time, he cleared his throat before he tried again. “It’s just that my leg’s not in the best of shape, you know. Don’t be too shocked when you see it.”

  In that moment, Edie knew that if she ever felt shy with him in future, all she had to do was remember this moment, for she had never loved him more than she did right now. “I let you look,” she whispered. “Remember?”

  “All right,” he said, allowing her to slide his trousers linen off his hips. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Edie looked down. He was fully aroused, but as she stared at his shaft, she felt only a deep, passionate tenderness. Her gaze moved lower, to the scars that crisscrossed his right thigh, and as she stared at the stark white lines, as she thought of the pain he had endured, it hurt her, too.

  She reached out to touch his leg, running her fingers lightly over the scars, and she felt a tremor run through his body at the light caress. “I love you,” she said, and heard his release of breath, a sigh of relief. She pressed her lips to one of the jagged white lines. “I love you.”

  He groaned in response, his hand tangled in her hair, and he gently pulled her head back. “God, Edie, don’t. I’m not sure how long I can hold out as it is.”

  “Why should you have to?” she asked, easing backward onto the bed, pulling him with her.

  He stretched out beside her, lying on his side with his weight on his elbow. “Because I have important things to do first,” he said, and reached out his free hand to touch her. His fingertips grazed her breast, then slid lower, down over her ribs, then her stomach, then lower still.

  When his fingertip reached the curls at the apex of her thighs, he stopped and looked up, meeting her gaze as he slid his finger between her folds. Their gazes locked, he stroked her over and over, tender and relentless, until her every breath was a pant, and her body was moving frantically against him, and she was sobbing his name. And then, she reached the peak, her head fell back, and she cried out his name over and over as the pleasure flooded through her in wave after wave, and she collapsed, panting, against the pillows.

  He leaned over her to kiss her mouth. “I want to be inside you,” he said, still caressing her. “Do you want that, too? God, please say yes.”

  “Yes.” She nodded, emphasizing the point. “Yes.”

  “Then come on top of me.” He showed her how, guiding her as she spread her legs apart over his hips and took his hard shaft into her body.

  He felt thick and full inside her, and scorching hot. The sensation of being on top of him was glorious, and she moaned, her hips flexing.

  He groaned, his own hips pressing up in response, urging her on. Sensing what he wanted, she began to move, rising up and coming down on top of his body, tightening her inner muscles again and again, using her body to stroke him.

  “Yes, Edie,” he groaned, his body jerking against hers again and again. “Oh, God, yes.”

  She moved with his rhythm, reveling in the power of pleasuring him, watching his face. When he came, she gloried in his climax, and when it was over, when he thrust up hard against her one last time, she followed him there, to the peak and over the edge of bliss. And afterward, when she settled beside him in the white, white sheets, his name on her lips was a soft sigh that contained everything she felt, all her love for him.

  “Now I’ve done it,” he said, as they lay side by side on her bed, holding hands, staring up at the ceiling. “I’ll never lead again.”

  “Yes, you will.” She rolled onto her side to look at him, and she smiled. “Sometimes.”

  Epilogue

  Highclyffe, eleven months later . . .

  “WHY IS IT that you always sponge off my plate?” Edie grumbled, as Stuart snatched another piece of bacon off her breakfast tray.

  “Because I’m always in your bed when Reeves brings your breakfast, that’s why.” He grinned, not the least bit repentant, and popped the slice of bacon into his mouth.

  She sniffed. “You could just have them send up a separate tray for you,” she pointed out as she picked up the copy of the Daily Sketch that had been placed, as usual, beside her plate.

  “I could, but it’s much more fun this way.” Stuart leaned over and started to kiss her, but she wasn’t fooled by that, and even as she allowed him a kiss, she slapped his hand, preventing him from stealing any more of her bacon.

  “I suppose I shall have to have a tray sent up, then,” he said, as she opened her newspaper, “since you’re so stingy.” He turned and stretched out his arm to ring for Reeves, but her voice stopped him before he could tug the bellpull.

  “Oh, my God.”

  Stuart’s hand fell at the startled sharpness of her voice, and he turned to look at her. “What is it?”

  Edie lifted her gaze from the newspaper and turned her head to look at him, her pretty green eyes wide with shock. “Frederick Van Hausen is dead.”

  He raised an eyebrow. That was an unexpected development. “Indeed?”

  She nodded and returned her attention to the paper. “He shot himself four days ago.”

  “Suicide?” Stuart considered. He’d known things were about to break, of course. Jack’s last telegram from New York had been short but clear.

  FISH CAUGHT STOP EXPOSURE IMMINENT

  But suicide? He hadn’t anticipated that. Humiliation, yes. Ruin, yes. Prison, quite likely. But suicide? No, he hadn’t anticipated that at all.

 
“He got caught in some sort of investment swindle,” Edie said after a moment.

  “Really?” Stuart tried to inject a convincing amount of surprise into his voice at that additional piece of news. “How shocking.”

  “Yes. He persuaded his friends and business associates as well as some British investors to put money into a company he started,” she went on, her gaze still scanning the page as she spoke. “But it turned out to be a swindle on his part. And the scandal was about to come out and ruin him. He’d have gone to prison.”

  “So he shot himself rather than face it.” Stuart smiled. What a nice bit of icing on the cake.

  “Evidently. He’d heard about some gold mines and formed an investment company to mine them, but it turned out the mines didn’t have any gold. He knew that all along, supposedly, but—­” She broke off and looked up, awareness dawning in her adorable, freckled face. “The gold mines were in Tanzania. Stuart, did you have something to do with this?”

  “Well . . .” He paused, considering how to answer. “Let’s say that I put the appropriate ­people in place to take him right where I wanted him to go, shall we?”

  She shook her head, clearly bewildered. “What do you mean, what ­people?”

  “My friends, Lord Trubridge, Lord Featherstone, Lord Somerton, and Lord Hayward were the British investors he swindled. Your father provided us with invaluable assistance on the New York side—­”

  “My father? You pulled Daddy into this?”

  “Of course. He doesn’t know what Van Hausen did to you,” Stuart added at once. “But when I asked him eleven months ago if he wanted revenge because the bastard ruined your reputation, he happily agreed.”

  “You arranged all this eleven months ago?”

  “I started it then, yes. It’s taken this long for the pieces to fall into place.” He met her gaze steadily over the top of the paper. “I told you, Edie, he would pay for what he did to you. And now he has. More thoroughly than even I could have dreamed.”