What the Duke Wants

by Amy Quinton

  Gasped. Out loud.

  For staring down at her with one eyebrow lifted in question, were a pair of eyes—emerald green eyes, to be more precise. The most deeply penetrating emerald green eyes she had ever seen in all of her near twenty-one years.

  No longer did she feel slightly tinged with embarrassment—of course not, that would be far too easy. No, now the heat from extreme humiliation spread up from her neck and behind her ears as she drank in the handsome sight of the dream—er, man—standing over her and witnessing what should have been her own private humiliation. Though why the sight of this man should make her more embarrassed than before was a mystery. It’s not like she wasn’t used to public embarrassment. Though admittedly it wasn’t something one ever really got used to either.

  So maybe gasping aloud was not the recommended method of laughing off an acutely embarrassing demonstration of inelegance either, but then it was not every day that one encounters eyes. Er, or green eyes. Or. Oh, this was definitely turning out to be one of her finer moments. She couldn’t even talk to herself with any semblance of sanity.

  She was so lost between her jumbled thoughts and the depth of those eyes, she didn’t immediately realize those eyes, or more pointedly, the man attached to them, were verbally addressing her until the words “Ahem” finally (finally!) penetrated the fog in her brain—which, unfortunately, brought her attention to his mouth.

  Two full lips registered in her mind—both slightly hitched to the side as if in a half-smile. The bottom lip just begging to be nibbled.

  Nibbled? Ugh.

  Now where had that ridiculous thought come from? Perhaps she should consider breaking her fast before taking a morning walk from now on? She hadn’t felt hungry before…

  Well, damn.

  She closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing. Slowly and deeply. In and out. Out and in. She counted to ten. She needed to reign in her runaway mind so she could address the state of affairs at hand. She was not (mental foot stamp) a silly, scatter-brained chit. And that mouth most likely belonged to someone important to Aunt Mary.

  Grace’s eyes flew open with that realization. What would Aunt Mary do if she discovered…?

  The thought was too alarming to complete. Grace now made a herculean effort to pull herself together (and not curse), confident she would be laughing off the memory. Later. Perhaps tomorrow. Or the next day.

  “Excuse me, my lord? I am afraid the mud might be hardening and whilst I love gardens, I do not want to become a permanent fixture in this one.”

  There. This is good. My brain is functioning again, albeit a bit impertinently.

  She let slip a light chuckle, hoping to further diffuse the awkwardness of the situation. Who doesn’t appreciate a little self-deprecating humor to smooth over an uncomfortable state of affairs?

  “Of course…May I ask? Does this sort of thing…happen…often?”

  Apparently, not this man. His voice was harsh, and he had a stern countenance upon his face, and for just a teeny, tiny minute, she imagined sticking her tongue out at him whilst dumping a nice fat mud pie directly onto his head. She certainly had plenty to share. Of mud, that is. Really, did he think she plopped down in the mud on purpose?

  So acutely was she staring at this man whilst contemplating some type of mischief to wipe away the scowl etched on his face, she only vaguely noticed he had pulled her up to stand. Without saying a word. Certainly, without any form of introduction. As was normal. And proper.

  She shivered when his hands grazed the sides of her arms as he tested to see whether or not she was steady before letting go. Goose bumps broke out across both arms. Was she coming down with an ague?

  She forced herself to return her attention to the conversation at hand.

  “Why ever would you think that, er, my lord?”

  She decided to stow away her thoughts of mischief and recall that she was (honest) a gentlewoman, despite the mud caked up the backside of her skirt. She didn’t know who this man was, which, again, was rude, so she played it safe with a generic ‘my lord’. The title would cover anything unless he was…

  “Stonebridge.” Mr. Green Eyes' eyes twinkled. She thought of emeralds.

  “Of course, Stonebridge. Ah, Stonebridge. Er, Wait. Stonebridge, as in the Duke of?”

  Please say no. Please, please say no.

  He bowed stiffly, and she couldn’t help but notice the tight pull of his morning jacket across his broad shoulders. Was that a hint of a smile on his face just before he tipped his head? Not likely. She shook off her wandering thoughts. Again.

  “Indubitably.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He sighed. “Yes, I am the Duke of Stonebridge. At your service.”

  “Your Grace! I am Miss Grace Radclyffe. Sir. Er, Your Grace,” she exclaimed, breathlessly, as the reality of exactly WHO he was crashed through her scattered thoughts like a stampeding heard of wild wildebeests.

  Wild wildebeests?

  So, this was the Duke of Stonebridge and her cousin Beatryce’s soon-to-be-almost betrothed? Well, certainly nobody bothered to inform her that His Grace had eyes.

  Ugh. Note to brain: Re-engage, please.

  Had her mother been in attendance, she would have been proud of the fluidity of Grace’s curtsey despite the embarrassing circumstances and encrusted mud upon her person. Perhaps it was the shock: it certainly wasn’t her inability to remove her eyes from His Grace’s bottom lip, but in her haste to greet her would-be rescuer as befitting his station, her flawlessly executed curtsey in reality only remained regal for approximately three seconds before her left foot slid right out from beneath her…

  Oh, Hello mud. Nice to meet you again. We really need to stop meeting this way.

  This encounter might possibly be her most embarrassing of all time.

  Plop.

  Was that mud dripping from His Grace’s boots? Again?

  Of course, and oh yes, to make things even better, mud was now splattered up the right leg of the tailored breeches. Fitted second-skin-painted-on breaches encasing disconcertingly well-muscled thighs.

  Hmm…Clearly, the duke does not believe in lying about all day doing nothing.

  She shook away her wayward thoughts. For the umpteenth time. Without question, this event was more embarrassing than any of her previous mishaps. Ever. Probably.

  “I think, perhaps, I have need of your assistance again. If you would be so kind, Your Grace?”

  “Indeed. Mayhap we should dispense with further formalities of greeting and relocate to a more…stable…patch of earth, if such exists?”

  “Yes. Certainly.” She ignored the not-so-subtle quip.

  Grace had barely completed her last thought when the duke bodily lifted her by the waist from her personal bed of mud. She closed her eyes to the experience. For the first time in her life, she felt feminine and delicate. She was not a short lady (in fact, she was quite tall at five feet, seven inches), yet her feet did not brush the ground as he carried her to safety. His hands held her aloft with ease, and in return, she gripped the sides of his upper arms with a surprising strength of her own.

  The heat of his hands around her waist sent tingles of warmth out from her center and set her heart to racing. Before she knew it, his hands were sliding further around her waist as he pulled her closer until she was flattened against his chest. She told herself it probably made carrying her easier.

  She kept her eyes tightly closed. She imagined this was a disconcerting (though shockingly real) dream. Perhaps, if she held her breath and opened her eyes gradually, she would find she was still in her room up at the house. And the heat she could feel all over her body would, in reality, be the result of a small house fire in the corner of her bedroom. One could dream, right?

  Her fanciful thoughts were interrupted by a sound she could smell. Smell? And feel. And it wasn’t an unpleasant sensation at’all.

  “Ahem.”

  She reluctantly opened her eyes only to be lost in deep pools of
green. She was at eye level with the duke, and so close, she could discern tiny golden flecks in his emerald irises. He pulled back from their tight embrace. Just the tiniest amount. Probably so he could look her in the eye when he spoke, but he continued to hold her aloft. He was so close, her peripheral vision was filled solely with his face and his black-as-pitch hair.

  Nothing else existed in this world. Perhaps, this was a dream after all? She noticed his pupils were dilated and his eyes, in general, darkened by the minute. Odd, what with it being so unusually sunny today.

  The man looking back at her now was a different man altogether. Gone was his cool and aloof manner from before. In its place was searing warmth tinged with a sense of caring that made her tremble. And he was staring at her mouth.

  “Miss Radclyffe…”

  She was so close she could feel his warm, minty breath mingling with her own. His voice sounded different. Almost gruff. Perhaps it was because she was so much closer now and could hear him better.

  “Are you steady now?” His voice was a whisper, soft and decidedly unsteady.

  No? “Yes.”

  Would she ever be steady again? Had she ever been steady in her life? Really. And would her brain ever function around this man? Ever? He probably thought her vocabulary singularly limited, and her brain filled with feathers to boot.

  He released her. Slowly. Softly. Reluctantly. Or was it wishful thinking on her part? She slid down his body. Who knew it would feel so good?

  He balanced her gently with his hands until she could remain upright under her own strength.

  As soon as his hands left her person, he abruptly straightened, which was something considering he was already standing upright to begin with. However, it wasn’t just his physical bearing that changed, it was his manner as well. The transformation was so quick as to be almost laughable. Once again, he was the aloof stranger. Gone was the dark, burning look in his eyes, as was the perceived gentleness with which he rescued her from her own awkwardness. Instead, his eyes held a cool detachment that made her wonder if she hadn’t imagined the entire unfortunate event after all. Wishful thinking, that.

  With all the excitement generated by her earthy encounter, her hair had begun to come unbound from its hastily applied chignon; several strands were flying about her face with the breeze. She raised her hand to brush away the loose strands. When she did, she felt the dried mud on her bare arms, thus disabusing her of the notion that it was all an incredible dream.

  The duke jerked his eyes back to her face after watching her hands smooth her hair. Then he dipped his head in an almost imperceptible nod, and with a quick “Miss Radclyffe,” turned on his heel and marched back to the house, leaving Grace behind gaping at a curiously wet with mud, but nicely formed…

  Chapter 4

  Stonebridge virtually stormed his way back to the house. Several thoughts fought for prominence in his mind: what in the hell had come over him? How could one woman cause him to lose his composure so completely? And why did the name Radclyffe sound so bloody familiar?

  He was a duke, thirty years old, at a society house party preparing to propose to Lady Beatryce Beckett, when suddenly a young miss he had only just met nearly had him grinning like a young, carefree…buffoon. He never behaved this way out in society. Especially not with near perfect strangers. It was too easy to stumble in the face of such scrutiny as with the watch dogs of propriety. Too easy to make a small slip and invite unwanted attention. His mask of calm indifference in any situation was one of his biggest defenses against the vultures of the ton. And some slip of a girl had unerringly flung it in the mud.

  He threw open the French doors at the back of the house and marched inside, pulling at his neck cloth as he went as if it were a noose choking off the air to his lungs. He was heedless of anyone else about, his actions completely out of character. He was proud of his reputation for having a level head. He suffered no fools, and though people of society might find him cold and even boring at times, he knew nothing he ever said or did in the last fifteen years had suggested even a hint of scandal, and he wouldn’t start now. And on top of all that, in the face of his self-directed anger, he was repeating himself. Dammit.

  Abruptly, he let loose his grip on his cravat lest he embarrass himself by stripping it off in front of any guests who happened to be wandering about; never mind the state of his soiled clothes and the frightening scowl upon his face. At the very least, he would carry on to his assigned room with his dignity intact.

  He reached the front stairs, and as efficiently as expected, the Becketts’ butler was there waiting for him. At his nod and without a word to the state of his dress, the man guided him up the stairs to his temporary accommodations.

  Immediately, his thoughts returned to the Incident. Fortunately, his many years’ experience as a duke had provided him with the control he needed to keep from revealing any cracks in his perfectly cultivated bearing to his beautiful tormentor. It had been a long time since he had felt so carefree; therefore, it came as quite a shock to his peace of mind that some strange, silly woman, and a new acquaintance at that, could draw forth such a feeling so effortlessly. In point of fact, she wasn’t even really an acquaintance, and yet it took quite an effort to reign in his sudden desire to chuckle lightheartedly and grin like a fool with her. She was utterly endearing to behold.

  He worked his way up another flight of stairs, and his thoughts of Grace continued. Not only had he been feeling like the veritable green lad in her presence, but the warmth of her body against his had him imagining some very lewd and carnal scenes. As he carried her away from the slippery mud, he was overcome with the need to pull her closer into his embrace. And when her body had pressed so intimately against his, as if made for him, his desire to throw her back down into that bed of mud and have his way with her was nearly uncontrollable—despite having just met her and there being a house full of guests awaiting his attendance, not the least of whom was meant to be his future wife.

  He knew his abrupt departure was rude and quite the conduct unbecoming a duke, but really, he had no choice. The chit was not just a danger to gardens everywhere; she threatened his peace of mind and his hard-won self-control.

  Hell, she threatens my very sanity.

  But damn me if she doesn’t have the brightest eyes in a becoming shade of blue, more brilliant and brighter than the sky on a clear, spring morning.

  And earthy brown hair that turned the color of caramel in the sunlight.

  Her hair was definitely distracting. He wanted to touch it. Run his fingers through it.

  And was that a kiss of sun across the bridge of her nose?

  Damn, but it suited her near faultless face. Made her real. Human. Not the fairy she appeared to be otherwise.

  And since when have I started cursing and talking to myself so frequently?

  It must be the result of being agitated over such a minor incident, and the sleepless night in the boisterous inn the night before. And quite possibly nerves over his upcoming engagement. Who was he kidding? He was never nervous. Calm and self-assured, but never nervous.

  He shook his head as if the action would clear his mind of unwanted thoughts and realized he was simply standing in front of the door to his rooms like a bedlamite. The butler was too well trained to comment on his odd behavior, but rather, stood stoically aside lest he have any further need of assistance.

  Stonebridge jerked himself out of his silent stupor and threw open the door, fighting the urge to blush. Blush!

  “Bryans!” he barked as he strode into the room. He didn’t yell, of course. He definitely didn’t yell. Dukes never raised their voices or lost their composure.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” replied Bryans, promptly as expected. Good. At least something was still working predictably.

  The look of complete calm on his valet’s countenance was expected—no, demanded—as it was of all his servants. At all times. Well, maybe he wasn’t quite that tyrannical with his staff, but clearly, his own
thoughts were out of character this morning. However, fortunately for his valet, the duke in his unreasonable agitation missed the slight upturn of the corner of his valet’s lips.

  Stonebridge marched off toward a nearby closed door, hoping it was an adjoining dressing room. He had never, not since he had become an adult at any rate, been in public in any state of dress that was less than orderly and precise. He certainly hadn’t been this…disorderly…when he had alighted from the carriage this morning despite the many hours on the dusty road. And it was entirely her fault.

  “Bryans, help me remove and dispose of these garments. And find me something appropriate and significantly less…soiled,” he thundered from the adjoining dressing room, for he had indeed found the dressing room. He didn’t normally care much about a bit of dirt, but he was too irritated and feeling out of sorts to stop and think about what he was saying. What was taking Bryans so long anyway?

  “Yes, Your Grace,” replied Bryans. Finally.

  Stonebridge sat on a low bench and held up a booted leg. As Bryans bent to remove the offensive smelling boots, the duke’s thoughts drifted back to his morning encounter with Miss Radclyffe, to the moment when she had looked up at him with those vividly shining eyes. At first, he saw humor in those rounded orbs before the shock of her embarrassing situation took hold.

  When she had looked up at him that way, with humor and so completely at ease, time had stood still. And with her oval face, fair skin, and wide open eyes, she was so expressive he could read every thought that flittered across her mind. In real time. As if her every thought was written out visibly in bold, black ink. At the time, it had felt refreshing.