If I Only Had a Duke

by Lenora Bell

  This floating feeling. This leap into the unknown.

  His hands shaping her waist.

  The roughness of his unshaven face scratching her cheeks and her chin.

  Kissing the duke felt like viewing a life-changing painting in a gallery. The perception of a curtain opening on another world. Reality shifting, expanding.

  She knocked his hat off and dipped her fingers into his thick, wavy hair, pulling him closer.

  A lady certainly never knocked a gentleman’s hat off his head. Or imagined ripping his coat off to expose the powerful chest she’d seen last evening.

  My heavens. She was becoming a wanton.

  And she loved every second of it.

  Most of the time a kiss was just a kiss for Dalton. Lips meeting, seeking invitation, claiming acquaintance. A prelude to the act of lovemaking. A conversation that didn’t require words.

  Sometimes, very rarely, it became something more, a glimpse of heaven, of redemption.

  And then there was this.

  Dalton was lost from the moment his lips touched hers.

  Lost to danger, lost to thought.

  Her clever tongue matched him stroke for stroke as she opened wider, allowing him more access.

  The noises she made. Soft little surprised moans. The way she pulled him toward her with her fingers threaded through his hair.

  Where was the repression, the prudishness, the passivity? Weren’t vestal virgins supposed to be timorous and unsure?

  Thea took to kissing with an enthusiasm that had him harder than the carriage wheel spokes. All that repression must have primed her for this moment. And she was letting go.

  Flying free and swift into passion.

  He’d kissed her to stop her from talking. To distract her. Maybe even to frighten her a little. Take her out of her safe world of theoretical danger and into reality.

  Stop that quick mind from uncovering his secrets.

  And then he hadn’t been thinking at all because she’d licked those plump, pink lips, so close to his, and he’d needed to taste, drink, claim.

  He trailed the tip of his finger along the pulse in her neck, the hollow where his thumb fit perfectly in the depression.

  She moaned and shut her eyes. He nibbled at her lip and she opened for him and then he slid inside again, tasting that sweet mixture of innocence and abandon.

  Maybe this was his first kiss, not hers.

  The strange thought came, unbidden, and wouldn’t dislodge.

  If there’d been enough room he would have pulled her onto his lap, but he couldn’t, and the restriction acted as an aphrodisiac.

  He cupped her cheek with his hand and stroked his thumb down across her lower lip while he kissed her.

  Sensation without emotion.

  The release of physical gratification without the need for intimacy.

  Those were the principles that governed his dalliances.

  He never truly gave himself to a woman. There was always a part of him watching from someplace outside his body. Observing. Remaining separate and untouchable.

  But all that talk of the Hellhound . . . and Dalton had become him. The primal warrior. Balanced on the knife’s edge of lust.

  Full of raw, visceral need. The need for victory. For dominion.

  His body had created some twisted idea that claiming her was his new purpose in life.

  The window fogged over.

  He nudged her lips apart with his thumb and deepened the kiss. Her soft breasts pressed against his chest.

  She rubbed her velvety cheek against him like the brush of a cat’s tail as it swished past him.

  Hell, he wasn’t strong enough to resist that invitation.

  He kissed her neck, her flushed peach-colored cheeks, the delicate skin behind her ear.

  His belly tensed and his cock strained against his breeches’ flap.

  Her small hands settled on his cheeks.

  He thought she was stopping him, but instead, she leaned her head up and kissed the corners of his mouth. Then she kissed the indentation in his chin. “I’ve been wanting to do that since we waltzed,” she breathed.

  He closed his eyes.

  She could teach some widows he knew a few lessons.

  The carriage shuddered—or did he shudder? No, it was the carriage.

  They slowed to a halt with a squeaking of wheels and a shouted whoa, there from the postilion.

  Dalton drew away swiftly, calming his erratic breathing with an effort, and retrieved her bonnet from the floor.

  The door opened and Con’s face appeared, his nose red from the cold.

  He took one quick look at Thea’s rumpled hair and swollen lips and raised his thick eyebrows.

  Dalton cleared his throat. “Ah, why have we stopped?” And when had it grown so dark? How long had they been kissing?

  “Why don’t you come see for yourself?” Con grunted. “It’s the damn queerest sight I’ve seen in some time, begging your pardon, my lady.” He lifted his cap to Thea.

  “Quite all right, Con.” Thea tied her bonnet ribbons, restoring at least a thin layer of propriety.

  “I—I could use some fresh air,” she said.

  Con held out a hand to stop her from moving. “Best stay in the carriage, my lady.”

  “Why, what’s the matter?”

  “Your money or your life,” came a thin voice from the side of the carriage.

  Really? A highwayman? Dalton thought.

  Didn’t the fellow know those days were long past? It was becoming increasingly rare to encounter highwaymen with all the guarded turnpikes along the road.

  Con’s weathered face split into a grin. “We’re being robbed at pistol point.”

  “And that’s amusing because . . . ?”

  “You should see the highwayman. Or should I say, highway lad. Can’t be more than fifteen. Voice hasn’t even changed yet. Sounds like a damned choirboy.”

  He’d rather face a dozen highwaymen than more of Thea’s questions.

  And her kisses were even more perilous.

  Dalton turned to Thea. “Nothing to worry about, my lady. This will be over swiftly.”

  Chapter 10

  God damn it, Dalton mentally kicked himself. You’re a beast. A rutting beast.

  Too occupied kissing the lady entrusted to his care and protection to notice they were being robbed by a highwayman.

  A sorry excuse for a highwayman, but he held a pistol nonetheless and appeared to believe he might convince them to part with their money.

  The hapless fellow couldn’t be more than sixteen, with a round face covered in freckles, and fierce brown eyes. No doubt the son of an impoverished farmhand, driven to the act by hunger. A tall lad, but skin and bones. Hardly any shoulders to speak of.

  “Hand over your coins,” the lad said. “Don’t want your bank notes.”

  Con had been right, the highwayman sounded like a girl. Poor fellow.

  “Easy now,” Dalton cautioned Con under his breath. “We don’t want to frighten him. Pistols and jumpy, scared lads are never a good combination.”

  “Now then, my fine lad,” Con said jovially. “No need to wave that thing about.”

  It was a rusty old pistol. Might not even be loaded.

  But they had to assume it was.

  Dalton and Con exchanged a quick glance.

  Dalton would distract the lad, while Con moved to disarm him.

  The hired postilion wisely stayed silent atop the carriage seat, attracting no attention.

  Dalton fumbled for the coins in his waistcoat pocket. “Here you are, lad. More than enough for you.” He held out a shiny guinea and the boy’s eyes followed his fingers hungrily, while Con edged closer.

  “Don’t call me lad.” The highwayman raised the pistol higher, aiming straight for Dalton’s chest. “I’m the Dread Dark Baron, Knight of the Roads.”

  Dalton would have laughed if that pistol hadn’t been staring him down.

  “Why don’t you lower that,�
�� he said soothingly. “We’re armed to the grinders and twice your size. Take these coins and run back home to your mother.”

  Con was nearly there now, moving silently, preparing to strike. One quick jab with his wrist and he’d knock away the pistol.

  In three . . . two . . .

  “Why, you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” an indignant female voice pronounced.

  Thea. Of course. She’d exited the carriage and appeared to be marching toward the highwayman, her fists stuck onto her hips and her face forbidding.

  Con wavered, unsure whether to strike.

  “We’re handling this, my lady,” Dalton said, tensing in preparation to wrestle Thea out of harm’s way when Con attacked.

  Now what was the unpredictable female doing? Instead of following orders, she walked right up to the highwayman.

  “Don’t you know you’re doing it all wrong?” Thea asked indignantly.

  The highwayman gave her a guilty glance. “I . . . I am? I’m sorry.”

  Had he just apologized to her?

  “You’re supposed to wait until the cover of true nightfall,” Thea said. “And you’re most definitely supposed to wear a kerchief tied around your nose and mouth so that people can’t see your features.”

  Was she lecturing the highwayman?

  He should have Thea ride postilion with a pistol. She obviously didn’t need his protection. “My lady,” he warned sternly. “Con and I are in control of this situation.”

  Which generated about as much response as he’d assumed it would.

  She marched to the highwayman and stuck out her open palm. “Give me that pistol.”

  The highwayman hung his head. “I’m sorry, my lady. I was that desperate.”

  “Give it here.”

  To Dalton’s astonishment the lad placed his pistol in Thea’s palm. She held the handle gingerly between her thumb and forefinger.

  The highwayman’s unlined face softened into a near smile. “I’m sorry, Lady Dorothea. I didn’t know what else to do. And I never thought I’d see someone I knew. You’re the first carriage I tried, honest.”

  Dalton and Con exchanged puzzled glances. Had the highwayman just called her Lady Dorothea?

  Dalton turned to Thea. “Do you, perchance, know this highwayman?”

  She leaned forward and snatched off the highwayman’s cap and two long black braids tumbled out. “Highway hoyden, more like. This is Molly. We met in Ireland. How on earth she ended up as a highwayman outside of Bath, I am sure she will enlighten us. Now come along, Molly. Into the carriage. Before anyone else sees you.”

  Molly glared at Con. “That one was sneaking up on me.”

  “You were waving a pistol about and attempting to rob him. Of course he was sneaking up on you.”

  “Not loaded.”

  “Well, he didn’t know that.”

  “Molly,” exclaimed Thea. “You climb in the carriage this instant. Dread Dark Baron. What utter nonsense.”

  Thea turned to Dalton. “She’ll ride inside with me.” She said it challengingly, as if he might contradict her.

  “Suits me.” He’d never trust himself alone in a carriage with her again. Not after the earth-shattering kiss they’d just shared.

  Con approached Molly and leaned over so their faces were level. “Well then, Master Molly, is it? Or Miss Molly?”

  Molly’s brown eyes narrowed to slits. “You’re Irish?”

  “As the Blarney Stone. And what brings you to the Bath Road this fine evening?”

  Molly crossed her thin arms, and her knobby elbows stuck out from a threadbare coat. “I had my money stolen. The unholy basta—” She glanced at Thea. “The bad man that stole my money ran off to Bristol.”

  “We’ll take you to Bristol, no fare necessary. Now in you go.” Con helped Thea and the girl formerly known as the Dread Dark Baron into the carriage.

  Dalton mounted one of the horses.

  They were only a few minutes from the Bath turnpike now, and it was nearly dark. Not much risk of discovery.

  When they were under way again, Dalton caught Con’s eye. “And then there were four,” he said, shaking his head.

  “I have to give the lady credit,” Con replied, shouting across the horses. “Never a dull moment. Highly entertaining.”

  Dalton gripped the reins. Entertaining was one word for it.

  He could think of others.

  That kiss had shaken him, shifted his center of balance.

  Branded him as plainly as the cut across his jaw.

  He was losing the battle for control.

  Beast, he thought disgustedly. Couldn’t control yourself, could you. Had to succumb to temptation.

  But she’d been talking about the Hellhound. He’d only kissed her to stop her theorizing.

  Guilt seared his mind.

  He’d just sent a letter to her mother, for Christ’s sake. Vowed to deliver her safe and unharmed.

  By God, if he did one thing in this life, he’d damn well keep his word.

  There’d be no more intimate conversations.

  And absolutely no more kissing.

  Molly refused the handkerchief Thea offered her. “I never cry,” she scoffed, wrinkling her freckle-spattered nose. “Used to drive Da mad that I didn’t cry when he took the strap to me.”

  “What were you thinking, Molly? You could have been killed. Those are dangerous men out there.”

  There was something thoroughly unconventional about the rapport between the duke and his servant. She’d been watching their silent interaction. They would have had Molly disarmed within seconds.

  “The red-and-silver-haired Irish bloke’s all right, but I don’t like the look of that big handsome one with the brooding eyes. Don’t trust handsome fellows. You shouldn’t be traveling with him, my lady. He’s apt to steal your heart . . . and steal your money, too.”

  “Is that what happened to you, Molly? Why on earth are you here?”

  “Something like,” Molly muttered.

  “Something like what?”

  “I can’t tell you.” She crossed her arms stubbornly. “Don’t try to make me.”

  The middle child in a family of eleven children who’d recently lost their father, Molly had been forced to take work at a silk factory in Cork.

  “Why don’t you tell me,” Thea urged. “It may feel good to speak the words. May make your troubles seem lighter. Maybe it’s not as bad as you think. Or perhaps I can help.”

  Thea and her aunt had often visited Molly’s family cottage, bringing jars of honey, fresh-baked bread, toys, and handmade quilts to the harried mother with gray-streaked black hair, a care-lined face, and eleven mouths to feed. They were tenants of one of her aunt’s neighbors, a callous gentleman who left the care of his estate to managers who bled the tenants for high rents and didn’t see to basic repairs.

  The duke’s estate had no remaining tenants. Only a small staff of ancient retainers who were growing as old and knotty as the olive groves on his grounds. With all that land, he could provide good housing and arable land for a host of tenants. But he kept the house shut and dark as Pharaoh’s tomb.

  Thea shivered, remembering what he’d told her of his brother. Only five years old. But still, no reason to let such a magnificent property go to seed.

  “It’s bad.” Molly blinked her brown eyes. “I’m bad.” She stuffed her long braids back up under the floppy blue cap. “And I don’t want to be a girl anymore. Girls have the short end of the stick, and that’s certain sure. Think I’ll wear trousers from now on. And keep my hair hidden.” She jutted out her lip. “Don’t try to stop me.”

  Thea smiled. “I wouldn’t try to stop you. The Dread Dark Baron can do whatever she wants.”

  “That bit was good, don’t you think? Had ’em quivering in their fancy boots.”

  “Oh, they were terrified.”

  Molly gave a wobbly smile. “I didn’t know what else to do. I had no other options.”

  Thea nodded. “Jus
t as I thought.”

  “’Twas one of the books you lent me, a history of Richard Turpin, the highwayman.”

  Molly had followed Thea home one evening, trailing two steps behind, watchful and wary. When Thea arrived back at the cottage, she’d headed straight for the bookshelves because she’d seen how Molly’s eyes lit when she saw them.

  From that moment on, Molly had spent all her spare time reading every book in the house. Thea had been drawn to the young girl who walked with a swagger and swore like a sailor and wanted to read every book in the world.

  Molly arrived at the cottage in the evenings with her fingers stained bluish-purple from indigo silk dye, and her mind hungry for escape. She and Thea had read, side by side in front of the fireplace, during the long winter evenings.

  “Oh, so now I’m responsible for your delinquency?” Thea asked.

  “Course not,” Molly said. “’Twas all Jack Raney’s fault.” She clapped a hand over her mouth, her lively eyes darting to Thea’s face.

  “Jack Raney? You may as well tell me now, Molly.”

  Molly sighed, her thin shoulders heaving. “I . . . can’t.”

  “How about if I tell you a secret first?”

  Molly leaned forward. “Go on.”

  “You mustn’t tell anyone, but the handsome man with the dark blue eyes is none other than the Duke of Osborne. He’s traveling in disguise as a merchant named Mr. Jones, because he’s on the run from the jealous husband of one of the wives he dallied with.”

  “Osborne? You mean the Osborne of Balfry House?”

  Thea nodded. “And I aim to convince him to open the house again.”

  “Well.” Molly let out a surprised gush of breath. “I never thought he’d visit Ireland again.” Molly glanced at her suspiciously. “But why are you traveling with him? You’re not . . . are you and he . . . ?”

  “Nothing like that,” Thea hastened to assure her. “He’s merely my escort back to Aunt Emma.”

  “Is that so?” Molly whistled disbelievingly. “I saw the way he looked at you.”

  “I told you my secret, now it’s your turn.”

  Molly rolled her eyes. “Fair’s fair. But first tell me why you left London. You’ve only been there a month or so.”