by Lenora Bell
“He blushes when he speaks to me. I think it’s sweet. I required the means to write a letter. He loaned me this traveling desk. Very obliging of him.”
Dark blue eyes narrowed. “Promise me you’ll not accept favors from strangers. Under that earnest, starched collar could beat the charred heart of a hardened criminal. One with ulterior motives and nefarious designs.”
Really, the gentleman had an overactive imagination. “I hardly think Mr. Cooper was contemplating anything too wicked.”
“No, but he was contemplating your figure. Couldn’t tear his gaze away from you.”
“You’re staring rather rudely yourself,” she rejoined.
Of course his goal in all this rudeness was to goad her into an unbecoming fit of pique. He wanted her to act like a spoiled princess. Beg him to send her back to the comforts of London.
She would never give him that satisfaction.
Certain things had been expected of Thea.
To wed. To be a mother. To swim along with the inexorable tide of generations of women just like her moving toward the same destination.
Now here she was turning midstream and fighting her way against the current. It wouldn’t be easy.
And there was a large, duke-sized obstruction currently blocking her path.
“Mr. Jones.” She set down her quill. “Never say you’re jealous of a poor clerk.”
He backed away so quickly his chair nearly overturned. “Jealous of that pup? Preposterous. Finish your letter.”
She hid a smile, finished the last sentence, signed her name, blotted the pen, and placed it carefully back in its case.
“I’ll return that.” The duke reassembled the case.
Thea rose, wiping away crumbs, and folded the letter.
When they reached the table of the poor, terrorized Mr. Cooper, she bent near him. “Thank you ever so much for lending me the writing kit, Mr. Cooper.”
The man blushed, then trembled when Osborne glared at him, then blushed some more. Thea gave the clerk her brightest smile. “I pray you, pay no attention whatsoever to Mr. Jones. He ate a bad oyster last evening.”
Thea patted the duke on the shoulder. “Poor man is suffering dreadfully. Turns him into an uncivil beast.”
Oh, how she enjoyed the murderous look on Osborne’s face.
Vexing dukes might just be her new favorite pastime.
Thea thrust her letter into his great paws. “Be a dear and post this for me, won’t you, Mr. Jones? There’s an obliging fellow.”
Chapter 8
The Great Wall of Duke sprawled next to Thea, the crown of his black hat brushing against the blue-striped silk ceiling, his sheer physical bulk relegating her to a thin wedge of carriage seat.
Thea did her best to concentrate on the rolling hills and quaint stone farmhouses of the passing countryside but found it impossible.
He was too near. And there was that distracting possibility of their bodies meeting . . . conversing . . . while they remained silent.
He hadn’t said more than two words to her since they left the White Hart Inn. Probably still sore about her sending him on a menial errand such as posting her letter.
Ordering him about in front of a clerk had gone against her entire upbringing. She’d almost gone back and apologized on the spot.
Dukes take precedence unless a member of the Royal Family is present. Etiquette rules etched into her mind since birth, much like the Ten Commandments.
But Thea had been apologizing for one thing or another her entire life, and being here in this carriage marked a declaration of independence of sorts. So maybe the rules didn’t apply anymore.
In this brave new motherless world maybe dukes did not take precedence.
Maybe they were simply men. Maybe they didn’t deserve her respect or adulation based solely on their birthright.
He’d lectured her on the impropriety of speaking with a respectable clerk, in a public dining room, for heaven’s sake, when he’d dallied with half the widows and a goodly portion of the wives in London.
The enormity of the unfairness of that galled her.
She’d watched him during her first two seasons, as a hen watched a fox circling its sturdy enclosure, aware of the dangerous charm, but safe behind the barrier of her own drabness.
In the ballrooms of London he’d exuded charisma that seduced every female in his path. But he’d never even spared the wallflowers one glance. He was the king of intrigues, scandals, and careless arrogance.
A far cry from the brooding man beside her. What was he thinking about? Something vexing, judging by the way he furrowed his brow and tapped his foot.
Tap, tap, tap. Three times for displeasure.
Probably plotting how to get rid of her at the next posting inn. He’d said he wanted to tie her up and send her back to London.
Obviously he cared nothing for her good opinion. She was a temporary problem for him. Another day and a half and he could wash his hands of her.
She stole a glance at those hands where they rested on his thighs, ungloved and interestingly unpolished.
Who ever heard of a duke with roughened hands and a hint of dirt under his nails? And that jagged cut along his jaw gave him a dastardly look, exacerbated by the brown stubble of beard he was allowing to grow unchecked.
He was too . . . well, he was simply too everything. Too large, too distracting, and too accustomed to having his way in all matters.
He glanced up and caught her staring. “I didn’t post your letter, you know,” he remarked nonchalantly.
“I beg your pardon? Not post my letter? Why ever not? It was a very simple task. Even a duke could perform it.”
He gave her a tight half smile. “You don’t truly want to send that letter.”
“How do you know what I want? Did you read my private correspondence?”
“Of course I read it,” he scoffed. “You wanted me to read it.”
“I most certainly did not.” Thea didn’t even attempt to modulate her tones to a ladylike volume. “And please stop presuming to know my mind better than I know it myself.”
“If you didn’t want me to read it you would have posted it yourself.”
“I only gave you the letter because you were Mr. Jones. I’ve always imagined that’s what a solicitous gentleman might do for his paramour, small acts of kindness, to show he cared.”
His eyes narrowed. “May I remind you, madam, that I did not seek your company on this journey? The moment you set foot inside my carriage you became my responsibility.”
“Your carriage was merely convenient.” Thea kept her gaze steady, even though she wanted to shrink away from him. “I don’t need your protection, or your censure, or you obstructing my mail. Now give me back my letter.” She held out her hand.
He loomed closer, inches from her now.
Let him advance. She would never retreat. Never cede victory.
His needs didn’t take precedence. He didn’t know what was best for her.
“And besides,” Thea continued, “it’s not your carriage, it’s Mr. Jones’s carriage, so I’m not your responsibility.”
“A mere technicality.” The duke veered nearer, his arms bracketing her on the seat.
Thea reconsidered her no-retreat strategy.
Those dark blue eyes threatened to drown her resolve, cast her into a maelstrom of capitulation and longing.
How could one small-sized proven disaster of an almost spinster hope to hold her own with such an arrogant beast?
She must try. She could no longer be meek and obedient Lady Dorothea.
She could battle an overbearing duke and emerge the victor.
She looked him squarely in the eyes. “Give me back the letter. I’ll post it myself.”
“No.” He prolonged the vowel, clearly issuing a challenge with that one short word.
“Give it here.” She reached for the lapel of his coat, intending to find the inner pocket.
He caught her wrist. His touch ma
de her mind steam over, like a mirror next to a copper bathing tub.
His eyes softened. “Do you honestly want to communicate such a lie? It will destroy your reputation.”
Taken aback by the concern in his eyes, Thea paused. “If the letter isn’t posted my mother will think I’ve been abducted. She’ll launch a search party.”
“And if it’s posted, you’ll break your mother’s heart.” A note of real worry snuck into his voice.
“I broke my mother’s heart years ago, when I wasn’t the success she’d groomed me to be.” She searched for a way to make him understand. “She meant for me to dazzle, to awe, to inspire applause and adoration, like a fireworks display over Vauxhall. But instead I fizzled with a damp plop and never left the ground.”
“But an actor in a traveling company? You honestly think your mother will believe a story like that?”
“Why shouldn’t I have fallen in love and been compromised by a traveling player? They are paid to portray passion on the stage.”
“Most of them have false teeth and wear wigs and more paint than a Covent Garden bawd. At least you could invent a middle-aged country squire.”
“That would give my mother too much hope. This will allow her to grieve. And move on to finding perfect matches for my brothers.”
His grip on her wrist loosened, and his thumb brushed over the pulse in her wrist. “You make it sound so dire, as if you’re already an old maid. You needn’t throw everything away. Your life is full of promise. I’m not sure you’re aware of how astonishingly beautiful you are, Thea. And coupled with that brilliant mind of yours . . . it’s a lethal combination.”
When he turned on the charm it was as if a streetlamp flared to life inside his eyes, burning with sensual promise. He was the lethal one.
She licked her suddenly dry lips and his gaze lowered to her mouth.
“So beautiful.” He captured her other wrist as well and soothed his finger over the sensitive skin of her inner wrist.
Low and silver-edged, that voice.
And those fingers on the insides of her wrists, stroking, soothing.
What were they even arguing about?
Maybe the letter had been penned hastily.
Do not let him distract you with his practiced charm. Concentrate, Thea. This is too important.
It was only that she kept having these compelling glimpses of something under his surface. Something that wasn’t rakish or glib at all.
Something genuine and honest and concerned with more than his immediate pleasure.
“I do appreciate your concern for my welfare, Your Grace, but this is my life. And I’m free to live how I choose.”
“Two ladies shouldn’t live alone in the wilds of Ireland. You’ll be easy prey for opportunists and rogues. And if you’re disinherited you’ll be penniless, as well as helpless and defenseless.”
And then he said something infuriating like that and ruined everything.
Thea jerked her wrists away, irritation stiffening her shoulders. “It’s hardly the wilds, and I’m not helpless. I’m highly educated and trained to manage a much larger household. And I’m perfectly capable of earning my own income should the need arise.”
He crossed thick arms over his formidable chest. “Tell me you don’t want luxury and comfort. I’ve never known a woman not to want that. I’ll wager you like fine linen bedclothes and French-milled soap as much as the next lady. You smell as if you do.”
“I’ll learn to live without. I’ll do whatever it takes. Anything is better than marrying a man of my mother’s choosing. A loveless marriage. Bondage to a man who loathes me.”
“What’s she going to do, shackle you to the vicar?”
“You don’t know my mother.”
“Actually, I do. Remember I was there, at James . . . at the Duke of Harland’s estate last year. I know she’s a formidable foe. Are you sure you’re ready to incur her wrath? And what will you do for income?”
She had a plan in that regard. Of course that plan involved the paintings in his attic.
It wouldn’t be in her interests to antagonize him too far.
“Flawless Italian won’t pay creditors,” he continued. “And you’re far too lovely and delicate to rusticate in a cottage the rest of your life.”
Delicate? She wasn’t delicate. At least not anymore.
Don’t lose your temper. You need to study his paintings. Don’t lose your . . .
Thea lost her temper.
“You,” she sputtered. “You pompous, autocratic, controlling . . .”
“You forgot arrogant.”
“. . . arrogant arse!”
“What age is your aunt?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Is the cottage entailed? How many servants does she keep? Is there a sturdy gate around the estate?”
Thea glowered at him. “I never should have trusted you with my mail.”
“Exactly.” His gaze darkened. “That’s exactly the lesson I’m trying to teach you. Never trust a man, Thea. We’re wolves, every last one of us. From the clerks to the dukes. We’ll take your letters and we won’t mail them. We’ll tell you we love you, and we won’t mean it. We’ll eat you for breakfast and spit out your bones.”
“And yet you think I should marry.”
“A husband may be neglectful, but he’d be sworn to protect you.”
Thea nearly laughed in his face. Sworn to protect? Her father had never protected anything in his life, save his own interests.
“I used to think marrying would be my best chance of escape from my mother’s control. I even had foolish notions of finding someone to love. But after my first season I gave up those silly dreams. You don’t need to teach me about not trusting men. That’s not a lesson I need to learn.”
“And yet you trusted that young clerk enough to accept a favor. And you handed over your letter to me like a credulous lamb.”
She drew her shoulders up in an attempt to seem more substantial. “You don’t need to warn me about big, bad wolves. I can take care of myself, thank you very much”
Something in his gaze shifted. “Can you, lamb?” His eyes darkened and grew serious. “I would worry about you, all alone next to that wide, bleak ocean.”
A sudden thought occurred to her. That small branch of fossil he wore around his neck. It was from the beaches of Balfry Bay.
The place where he’d said his brother drowned.
In the wide, bleak ocean.
Thea’s heart squeezed thinking that this strong, invincible man carried so much hurt inside him. So much pain he’d been avoiding for so long.
If she could convince him to visit Balfry House there’d be more for him to find than ancient masterpieces. He may very well find surcease from the horrifying memories of his brother’s death.
If he could visit the scene again. Face his anguish head-on.
Confront his emotions.
Unable to suppress the urge, she touched his cheek as well, the stubble across his jaw scratching the sensitive skin of her palm, their arms crossing, elbows touching.
“I’m not afraid of the future, Your Grace,” she said softly. “This isn’t only a whim. It’s not the moon growing full. It won’t wane back to a sliver again. I’ve thought this through very carefully. I’ve chosen this path.”
He turned his face and his lips touched her palm for one moment. Not a kiss, only the briefest of touches, but it set her heart racing.
“There’s another way,” he said. “Go back to London. Tell your mother you refuse to marry Foxford.”
Thea shook her head. “If it’s not Foxford it’ll only be someone else. My mother and grandmother are desperate for me to fulfill their dreams. You witnessed how my mother hired my half sister Miss Beckett in an attempt to land Harland. If that’s not desperate, I’ve no idea what is.”
Thea dropped her hand back into her lap, the imprint of his hint of a beard still tingling along her palm. “It’s not enough to ha
ve run away. I must have done something irrevocable.”
They could do something irrevocable right now, Dalton thought.
In this carriage. On this seat.
Get rid of that bonnet. Too much stiff straw and silk ribbons in his path.
Work on the cleverly concealed hooks under the quilted embroidery on her pelisse.
Make short work of the gown. The petticoats. The stays.
His gaze slid down her slim figure. She’d have pert, tip-tilted breasts. Smallish, but round and perfect for his palm. They’d jounce in his hands, firm and smooth.
He’d leave the garters and stockings.
He liked to see a woman in garters and nothing else. The contrast of those silk ribbons on smooth thighs never failed to make him stiff as iron.
Speaking of which . . . he shifted, easing his erection into a more comfortable position along his thigh, hoping she didn’t glance down.
Hoping she would glance down and see what she did to him.
She didn’t think she was perfect? She was.
Perfectly made to test his resolutions.
He wanted to kiss her. Somehow his hand had become tangled in her butter-and-marmalade curls.
Wild bramble roses with thin petals. That’s what she smelled like.
Her lips were a pale pink color, like the small French strawberries that used to grow wild in the fields near Balfry. Would they taste like strawberries, those lips?
He fought the need to claim her lips.
She’d be so sweet. So dangerously sweet.
He wanted all that sweetness for his own.
What would it be like to have a woman like her waiting for him when he came home from a night at the hells, bruised and aching?
Her innocence was strong enough to wash his pain away.
No. That was all wrong.
His pain was strong enough to destroy her innocence.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly. And those strawberry lips parted slightly. “Do you understand why I must mail the letter?”
Ah yes, the letter.
The one where she informed her mother that she could no longer live a lie, that she’d been compromised in Ireland by a traveling actor, of all the ridiculous lies.
When he’d read it, he’d experienced a sudden, visceral rage. Then he’d realized it was a complete falsehood.
