The Duke of St. Giles

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The Duke of St. Giles Page 14

by Jillian Eaton


  She felt his muscles tighten beneath her fingertips, but when he would have set her away from him she clung with surprising strength, knowing that if they stopped now she would never find the courage to begin again. And she wanted this. She needed this. For reasons she couldn’t explain. For reasons she didn’t want to admit. Not to him. Not even to herself.

  “Kiss me,” she repeated, rising up on her bare toes and looping her arms around his neck. “Kiss me.”

  Their eyes met, smoldering gold-flecked caramel clashing into piercing blue. Emily felt the arm around her waist tighten before he lowered his head and took her mouth, the gentleness of the kiss made all the more sensuous by the contrasting fierceness of his expression.

  She melted into him, her hands trailing away from his face and drifting down to his broad shoulders, fingers curling into the hard grooves of sinew and bone. He cupped her jaw, his thumb tracing the contours of her face before settling below the curve of her ear, exerting just enough pressure to have her head angling to the side.

  The kiss changed.

  Grew.

  Deepened.

  West coaxed her mouth open with tiny, teasing nibbles. When her lips parted she heard his groan of satisfaction and then felt the wet, slippery slide of his tongue. If anyone had forewarned her this was how kissing was done she would have no doubt been repulsed, but with West it felt right.

  With West she craved more.

  Emily didn’t know if it was the danger that drew her, or the years of conforming to society’s idea of perfection, or a combination of both, and truly she didn’t care. In this time, in this moment, there was only her, and there was only him.

  Their breaths became harsh, their chests rising and falling in violent tandem. Her breasts ached where they pushed against his chest. Her skin burned where she felt the hard jut of his arousal through the thin fabric of her nightgown.

  Her wrapper had all but fallen away, exposing her body to West’s hot, searing gaze when he reared back and stared down at her, his hands slipping around to cling possessively to her softly rounded hips. She gazed up at him, her lips parted, her eyes wide. Time itself seemed to slow, each second lingering longer than the last. Then she whispered his name, and it was as though she’d doused him in freezing water.

  A shudder rippled through him and he reached for her wrists, unwinding her arms from around his neck before he stepped back.

  “No,” he said, speaking with a savage ferocity that left her speechless. “No.” Brushing roughly past her, he stalked out of the room, leaving the door swinging wide behind him and Emily gazing in open-mouthed astonishment after him.

  She touched her mouth, tracing the contours of her lips, feeling the swollen, tender flesh. Never in all her life had she experienced such passion. It defied words. It defied explanation. It defied everything. Her body still tingled. Her breaths still came in short, uneven gasps. She traced the tantalizing trail his fingers had taken from the rounded edge of her jaw to the long line of her neck and down, down to her waist where her skin still yearned for his touch.

  She wondered if he’d felt what she felt. If he’d burned as she’d burned. And as the candles slowly died away and shadows crept into the library she couldn’t help but wonder if his harshly uttered ‘no’ had been for her… or himself.

  In for a penny, in for a pound.

  The old saying slipped into West’s head and took root as he rose the next morning and splashed cold water on his face. He didn’t bother looking up when the door opened. Only one person would dare enter his bedroom unannounced, and it was someone he had no intention of seeing before breakfast.

  “Get out, Sullivan.”

  Instead of listening, Sullivan closed the door deliberately behind him and lounged up against it. He was already dressed in breeches the color of a robin’s egg, a yellow jacket with frothy white lace at the sleeves, and a blood red cravat secured with a gold lapel. “Good to see you as well,” he said with a grin. His ever-watchful gaze flicked over to the bed where the sheets were still twisted from West’s endless tossing and turning the night before and his grin widened. “I say, you’ve been busy, haven’t you? Finally get that pretty piece of the tail you’ve kidnapped in the sack? Well done, my friend. She’s not the sort I would go for myself. Too smart for her own good, that one. You’ll have your work cut out for you. But I suppose she’s comely enough. Certainly curvy enough. How was she?”

  West sat down heavily in a high backed wooden chair and began to pull on his riding boots. “Best watch your tongue,” he warned, lifting his chin and fixing his friend with a dark, warning scowl. “Before it gets cut out of your mouth.”

  “Threatening violence before ten in the morning?” Sullivan’s eyebrows shot up. “I take it all back. You poor bloke. How many months does that make it now? Four? Five?”

  “Are you counting how long I have been celibate?”

  “Someone has to. Makes me feel better about myself, to be honest.”

  Even though he had only one boot halfway laced and the other not at all, West straightened in the chair and pinned his friend with a hard stare. “And how would you know how many months I’ve gone without a woman?”

  Sullivan smiled affably. “I make it my business to know things. And I know the last woman seen entering that fancy townhouse of yours was one Lady Veronica Mathers, wife to Lord Henry Mathers, Earl of Penthistle. The very same earl, by the by, who attempted to have Darkhall down a while back. Right piece of work, that one. I suppose that’s what happens when you’re being cuckolded by your own wife. Best watch yourself, Green.”

  It was a warning West didn’t need. He had regretted the affair almost from the moment it began and attempted to end it shortly thereafter, but besides being good in bed Veronica had proved herself to be alarmingly tenacious. After drying her tears with a diamond the size of his fist he sent her on her way and he’d not heard a word from her since.

  Maybe that was why he found himself so attracted to Emily. Sullivan was right, much as he hated to admit it (and never would out loud). He’d not had a good lay in five months. Bloody hell, that was almost half a year. It was as good an explanation as any, especially considering she wasn’t the type he normally gravitated towards. As Sullivan had pointed out she was too smart for her own good, not to mention stubborn, opinionated, and inexperienced. Although he had to say what she lacked in experience she more than made up for in enthusiasm.

  He leaned forward to finish lacing up his boots, grateful to have a reason to disguise the growing stiffness in the crotch of his trousers. The last thing he needed was for Sullivan to know he now grew hard at the mere thought of Emily. The arrogant bastard knew too much already.

  “You’d best watch yourself,” he grunted out as he tugged at the boot’s leather straps. “If you paid half attention to your own affairs as you did of those around you you’d be making more money than you knew what to do with.”

  “I am already making more money than I know what to do with. And it’s all legal. Can’t say the same about yourself, now can you?” The gambler rubbed his chin. “The offer I made before still stands, you know. Accept it and make an honest man of yourself. Like me.”

  The offer Sullivan referred to was the same one he’d first made almost exactly one year ago today. He’d invited West to manage Darkhall, for which he would gift forty percent ownership. It was, surprisingly (especially given the source) a fair business deal. More than fair, given the amount of money at stake, and beneficial for both men. It would free Sullivan from feeling as though he were married to his beloved gambling hell, and it would give West financial security that fell within the four corners of the law. Yet he still gave the same excuse now as he’d given twelve months before.

  “And hand myself over to the Runners tied up in a neat tidy bow?” He sat back and raked a through his hair. “I think not.”

  “Please.” Sullivan rolled his eyes. “As though they couldn’t nab you any time they damn well felt like it. They know where
you live, you sodding idiot. If any evidence of your crimes existed they would take you in a heartbeat, but they haven’t, and they won’t because you’ve never left any evidence behind. You are as clean a criminal as they come, my friend. Why not shake the whole nasty business altogether?”

  It was a question West found himself asking more with every passing day. Why didn’t he leave it all behind? Start fresh. Begin anew. He already had enough money tucked away to live comfortably for the rest of his years without working another day in his life, although West knew himself well enough to know he would go mad without something to keep his mind busy.

  On the surface managing Darkhall seemed to be the perfect solution. He would no longer live on the fringes of society, constantly looking over his shoulder. He could leave St. Giles behind once and for all. He could stroll right past a bloody Runner and not fear he would be thrown in cuffs. And yet… and yet St. Giles was the only home he’d ever known. If he left it behind he would be leaving a piece of himself behind as well; a piece he wasn’t sure he wanted to part with. Who would he be, if not the Duke of St. Giles? A husband, a small voice intruded. A father. An honest man. He brushed the voice aside. “I am not ready.” It was, all things considered, the most honest answer he could possibly give.

  Sullivan moved away from the door and wandered over to the one of the windows overlooking the front lawns. Outside the clear glass the sun shone brightly, indicating another pleasant day. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with Lord Collinsworth, would it? I told you. Stay here for a while, keep your head down, and it will all be forgotten in a week or two. He doesn’t have the financial means to pursue a case against you.”

  West swiveled in his chair and crossed one leg over the other. “A murder accusation is not something one forgets.”

  Sullivan’s broad shoulders rose and fell beneath his outrageous jacket in a careless shrug. “You have an alibi. You weren’t even in London when she was killed, nor when her body was dragged out of the Thames.”

  “I will hang just as easily from the gallows for kidnapping as I will for murder.”

  “What kidnapping? You and Lady Emily ran away together. Alas, the affair was sweet but fleeting and you decided not to marry at Gretna Green after all.”

  West snorted. “A good story, although you’re forgetting one small detail.”

  “Oh?” Sullivan turned away from the window and regarded him with an arched brow. “And what is that?”

  “I would need Emily’s full collaboration, which I doubt I will be getting seeing as I—”

  “Dragged her halfway across London and are holding her prisoner against her will.” Sullivan tapped a finger against his chin. “Right. I forgot. Pray tell, remind me what you are planning to do with her again? Playing house is all well and good, but we’re not in the Dark Ages anymore. You cannot just go about hoarding pretty woman without consequence. Unfortunately.”

  “She will be safely returned once her ransom is paid.” Which reminded him he needed to actually send out the bloody ransom note, something he should have done the day they arrived. Tomorrow, he decided. He would send it tomorrow. At the latest the next day after that. Come to think of it, there wasn’t such a great rush. Emily seemed content at Rosemore. Even happy. From the little he’d learned about her life in London he knew things weren’t as blissful as they appeared on the surface.

  “Ransom. But of course.” Sullivan slapped his palm against the side of his head. “You never did tell me who her parents were. Filthy rich nabobs, are they?”

  “Her mother is dead,” West said absently as his thoughts continued to drift towards Emily.

  Was she already awake? Was she thinking of him? Was she angry with him? He wouldn’t blame her if she were. He’d made a muck of their encounter last night. He never should have put his hands on her… but she’d been like a bloody siren calling his name, and he’d been helpless to resist her sultry song. Never in all his life could he remember being as enthralled with a woman as he was with Emily. And for once it wasn’t only her appearance that drew him.

  It was the way she jumped from topic to topic, as though she were afraid she would forget to say something of dire importance unless she said it at that very moment, whether it fit into the conversation or not. It was the way her nose crinkled when she laughed, and how she gritted her teeth when she was annoyed. It was her courage. Her infallible spirit. Her determination to see the brightness in things. Her determination to see the brightness in him.

  “And her father? Who is he?” Sullivan asked, drawing West back to the present.

  “The Duke of Brumleigh.” He stood up and began to roll the sleeves of his shirt to the elbow. He needed to clear his head and nothing would do it faster than a brisk ride through the countryside. He walked to the door and paused, turning to look back over his shoulder at Sullivan. Perhaps if he hadn’t been so consumed with thoughts of Emily he would have noticed the peculiar light in the gambler’s eyes. “Are you coming or not? I would leave you here but the maids will be up soon to clean the rooms and the last thing I need is to find you’ve tupped one of them in my own bed.”

  Sullivan’s mouth tightened at the corners as though he were about to say something, but with a nearly imperceptible shake of his head he seemed to change his mind. Together they made their way to the front parlor where a full tea service complete with pastries still warm from the oven was waiting for them.

  Snatching a pastry off the plate as though he were a man starved, Sullivan spoke around a mouthful of dough. “Speaking of maids, what can you tell me about the chit with curly red hair and a stick up her arse? Mattie, I think her name is.”

  West’s eyes narrowed. “I thought I told you to stay away from the maids.”

  “I am!” Sullivan protested, his expression one of pure innocence. “But a man needs to be prepared to defend himself. She’s a firecracker, that one. I bet she would bat her lashes at a man as soon as sink her teeth into him.” He swallowed the last bite of pastry and wiped his hands on his jacket. “Although I must admit I wouldn’t be adverse to either.”

  “Careful, Sullivan.” West’s tone carried a heavy note of warning that had the gambler tilting his head to the side. “I hold Mattie as dear as I would my own sister.”

  “But you do not have a sister,” Sullivan pointed out.

  “Precisely.”

  “So I am not to touch her?”

  “No.”

  “But what if she touches me?”

  “No.”

  “Do I have your permission to speak to her at least, oh high and mighty one?”

  “No.”

  Sullivan picked up another pastry and stuffed half of it in his mouth. “You are no fun a ‘tall anymore. I hope you know that.”

  “On second thought,” West said after he drained his tea and set the cup aside, “speak to her all you like.”

  “You mean it?”

  “Aye. After all, it won’t do any harm.” He glanced purposefully at the pastry Sullivan was busy stuffing into his mouth. “Mattie’s never been one to have her head turned by men of the more… portly variety.”

  West was well out the front door by the time Sullivan realized he’d been delivered an insult and he only grinned when his friend hurled a rather creative slur at his back.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Grosvenor Square

  London

  From inside the dark, somber confines of his study, the Duke of Brumleigh drew a ragged breath and buried his face in his hands. “Has there been any news?” he asked of the anxious looking woman standing on the other side of his desk.

  Wringing her hands together, Petunia shook her head and said, “I am afraid not, Your Grace. No letter came this morning, or last night. I stayed up until midnight to be certain.”

  The duke sat back with a frustrated growl. Once widely regarded as one of the handsomest men in England, he’d aged considerably since the death of his wife and even more so since the disappearance of his beloved Emily.
His black hair – what remained of it – was now streaked liberally with gray at the temples and lines weathered his face, leaving deep grooves across his forehead and on either side of his stern mouth.

  He cupped the back of his neck, pushing his fingers into the tight, unyielding muscles as he fixed his daughter’s companion with a hard scowl. A woman who seemed to possess neither a hardy constitution nor a strong backbone, Petunia visibly wilted beneath his stare and looked away, her countenance riddled with guilt.

  “I am so very sorry, Your Grace. If I could go back to that day—”

  “You would not be able to change a thing.” He cleared his throat and forced a smile. He knew it wasn’t Petunia’s fault his daughter had been taken, nor was it her fault Emily had not yet been returned. It would have been easy to blame her. Satisfying, even. But he had never been a man who took the easy road at the expense of others. Which, he supposed, was one of the main reasons he’d lost more than his daughter in the past few months. “If I am grateful for anything, it is that you were not harmed.”

  Petunia’s eyes, the color of the sky after a rainstorm, widened and she took a step back. “Your Grace?” she said uncertainly.

  Edgar cleared his throat a second time. He hadn’t meant to say that. At least not out loud, and certainly not to Petunia.

  Employed shortly after the death of his wife, Petunia Weatherby had ingratiated herself seamlessly into his household. Ten years his junior at the age of forty and two, she was an established spinster with an impeccable reputation, not to mention impeccable manners and the patience of a saint. She’d come highly recommended, and thus far he hadn’t found one fault in her service.

  She was intelligent, conscientious, and pretty as a flower newly bloomed in spring. A scowl immediately darkened his countenance at the sudden – not to mention unexpected – turn in direction his thoughts had taken.

 

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