If I Only Had a Duke

by Lenora Bell

  “Come along, caro esposo.” She hooked her elbow through his. “These nice gentlemen are going to purchase our repast.”

  “Say, you’re a brick, you are, Gabrielli. Got a stomach like a steel hull.” Bulldog placed his arms around Dalton’s shoulder, suddenly his best friend. “Let me make it up to you. What’s your pleasure? Brandy? Wine?”

  Dalton grunted. “Whiskey.”

  Bulldog grinned. “The finest Ireland has to offer. I’ll have it sent to your room.”

  “We’ll need your best chamber,” Thea commanded. “Hot water, fresh linens, ointment for his cuts and bruises.” She glared at the men and they hung their heads.

  “Will there be anything else, Mrs. Gabrielli?” Betsy asked.

  “You,” Dalton whispered, low and intense so only Thea could hear. “He’ll need you.”

  Too many direct hits to the skull.

  Only explanation for those words.

  “That will be all, thank you, Betsy.” Thea blushed.

  “I’ll bring the physician who’s attending Molly to you,” Thea said as they climbed the stairs after Betsy.

  “No,” Dalton growled. “No physicians.”

  “But . . . you’re cut. And bleeding.”

  “It’s nothing.” He winced. “There were two of them is all.”

  “It’s a good thing I came along when I did. What do you call that boxing technique? Flop and drop?”

  “Ha.” Dalton winced as pain shot through his ribs. “Stop making me laugh. It hurts too much.”

  “I’m serious. When you return to London you should take lessons at Gentleman Jackson’s. You should learn how to defend yourself.”

  Oh, the endless irony of that.

  He could have flattened those bumbling brutes within ten seconds with both hands tied behind his back.

  Of course he could never tell her that. She would ask far too many questions.

  Ten minutes later Dalton was settled in a low red velvet chair by a crackling fire in the most spacious chamber the inn had to offer. They were eager to stop him from complaining.

  The accommodating Betsy brought a basin of hot water, some fresh linens, and ointment. “I’ll send your meal soon. If you need me to help wash your wounds, Mr. Gabrielli, or if you need anything at all”—she gave him a flirtatious wink—“just ask for Betsy.”

  Thea frowned. “That will be all,” she said firmly, showing Betsy to the door.

  Dalton smiled. She didn’t like Betsy winking at him. He had no idea why that pleased him, but it did.

  Thea turned back to him. “Those men gave you quite a pounding.”

  Ah . . . the things he did to stop clever wallflowers from learning his secrets.

  “Only a few scratches and bruises. No more than usual.” He winced as pain spread through his abdomen. “May have a cracked rib or two. Nothing to worry about. Go and see to Molly now. I’ll be fine.”

  “Are you quite sure?”

  She bit her lower lip, leaving a small patch of darker pink that drew his gaze and made him remember their interrupted kiss in the carriage. He’d like to finish that kiss.

  End it properly.

  True concern filled her eyes. “If you’re truly injured I’ll have to send for the physician. I won’t take no for an answer, Your Grace.”

  “Nothing a few swallows of whiskey won’t cure. Hand me that bottle, will you, lamb?”

  When potent grain and honey heated his belly and Thea and her tempting lips left the room, Dalton stretched his legs in front of the fire and closed his eyes.

  The spirits dulled the pain of his bruised ribs.

  But the whiskey did nothing for the ache of wanting Thea so badly.

  Chapter 12

  The merry sound of dancing fiddles sounded faintly in Molly’s chamber.

  Con stood watch next to her bed, greeting Thea with a raised hand when she entered.

  “How’s she getting on?” Thea whispered, smoothing a strand of Molly’s hair back from her forehead. She slept peacefully, though her face was still white and her lips pinched.

  “Doctor gave her a sleeping draft,” Con whispered. “Said she’ll be fine. Only half-starved and exhausted.”

  “Did she eat anything before she fell asleep?”

  Con nodded. “Drank some hearty beef tea and devoured six rolls.” He glanced at Molly with a strangely tender expression. “You know her, don’t you?”

  “She comes from a large family of tenant farmers near the town of Balfry. Eleven mouths to feed. I’m not sure how Mrs. Barton manages.”

  Con’s blue eyes widened slightly in his wrinkled and bewhiskered face. “Mrs. Barton, you say?”

  “A widow.”

  “Wouldn’t happen to know her Christian name, would you?”

  Thea thought back. She’d only ever referred to Molly’s mother as Mrs. Barton. She shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Never mind, then.” Con’s eyes crinkled as he looked at Molly. “Reminds me of someone I once knew. Has the same fierce brown eyes.” His gaze returned to Thea. “Well then, and how did His Grace fare with those two blighters? They didn’t know what hit them, eh?”

  Thea tilted a glance at Con. “On the contrary, His Grace received battered ribs, a cut over one eye, and quite a few other bruises I’ve no doubt.”

  Con’s bushy eyebrows climbed. “Really now? In that event, perhaps you’d best go and tend to him. I’ll stay here and watch Molly. She’ll be fine, don’t you worry.”

  Had she ever thought Con rough and unmannerly? Quite the opposite was true. She touched his sleeve. “Thank you.”

  He cleared his throat. “Go on with you now, my lady. You’ve an injured beast to soothe.”

  Thea’s stomach did nervous flips as she traversed the hallway.

  The prudent course of action would be to request separate chambers. For propriety’s sake.

  She stopped walking.

  Only a short time before she’d been singing an aria under the moonlight for an audience of ruffians.

  Not much propriety in that.

  Right then. One more step down the path of adventure.

  And then another.

  And then she knocked upon the duke’s door.

  “Enter,” came the deep, gruff command.

  He’d loosened his bloodstained cravat, and his coat was unbuttoned, but it seemed he hadn’t made any progress on washing the blood from his face.

  Too busy drinking whiskey, apparently. The level of the amber liquid inside the bottle had lowered significantly.

  “How are you feeling, Your Grace?”

  “I’ve been worse.”

  “Let’s have a look at those injuries, shall we?” She spoke briskly, as she imagined a trained nurse might speak to a patient.

  Purely medical interest. Completely aboveboard and irreproachable.

  He grunted.

  “Right, then.” She unbuttoned the cuffs of her long sleeves and rolled them over her wrists. “You’ll have to move to the bed. I can’t wash your wounds when you’re all scrunched up like that.”

  He lifted his eyes and the floor tilted under her feet.

  Such a deep, deep blue. And filled with pain. She reached her hand toward him and then snapped it back to her side.

  “I can’t lift you, Your Grace. You’ll have to rouse yourself. Our meal will be here soon.”

  “You want me on the bed, do you?” he asked, his eyes glinting.

  Heat flushed her cheeks. “For purely medical purposes, you understand.”

  “Oh, aye, I understand.” He lurched to his feet, gasping slightly, but refusing her offer of support.

  He removed his coat.

  Thea’s turn to gasp. “There’s blood on your shirt.”

  “Is there?” He glanced down. “So there is. One of them had a knife.”

  “Gracious. You could have been killed.”

  “Not likely.” He grinned wolfishly. “I’ve got a tough hide.”

  He lowered himself onto t
he bed. “Do your worst, Thea. Do your worst.” He swallowed more whiskey.

  Thea undid the buttons at the top of his white linen shirt.

  He pulled a laborious breath through the sides of his teeth as she gently worked the shirt up his arms and over his head.

  Thea caught her breath at the sight of his powerful chest and hard, ridged abdomen.

  She washed blood from the cut over his eye with a cloth dipped in hot water and he winced and caught her by the wrist.

  “I’m sorry, Your Grace.”

  “Call me Dalton.” He gazed at her steadily, searching her face. “And don’t apologize, Thea. A woman who rescues dukes by singing moonlit arias should never apologize . . . for anything.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. “Dalton? But aren’t you Osborne now?”

  “My former courtesy title stuck with me even though I’m the duke now, since I was Dalton for so long.”

  Dalton . . . Did that make them . . . intimates?

  She scrubbed blood from the shallow cut on his chest.

  How different men’s bodies were. Her fingers brushed over the golden-brown hair dusting his chest and one flat, round nipple.

  He had other scars. The ghosts of other wounds.

  “You’re a damned sight more attractive than my usual nurse, you know that?” His lips quirked. “It’s Con who usually tends me after a few rounds of pugilism.”

  Thea scrubbed a spot of blood off his cheek. “I’ve never understood the allure of pugilism. Men beating each other with their fists for sport. Isn’t there enough violence in the world? Do you need to ritualize it?”

  “I told you, Thea, men aren’t complicated. We like smashing things. It’s in our blood. After my brother drowned I felt vulnerable. As soon as I was old enough, I learned boxing and fencing to make myself stronger.”

  “You maybe should have studied the boxing a bit harder.”

  He smirked. “Oh, I was just warming up. Another five minutes and I would have delivered the knockouts.”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “It’s just that . . . well, you weren’t hitting them.”

  “Ah, but that was my strategy. Wear ’em down, tire ’em out, and then boom.” His fist thudded on top of the bed. He groaned, the jarring motion obviously hurting his ribs.

  “Stop flailing about,” Thea remonstrated.

  She spread ointment over the cut on his chest, her fingers sliding across smooth flesh and solid muscle. “Sit up, please. I’m going to wrap some linen around this scratch.”

  He propped himself up on his elbow. He was so very wide. It took her a long time to wrap the cloth around his torso. She had to lean so close to do it.

  It made her want to wrap more than cloth around his powerful frame.

  Thea drew her hand away. “I’ll send for a fresh shirt,” she said, turning away and scooting off the bed so he wouldn’t see the longing in her eyes.

  He caught her wrist and pulled her back to face him. “Don’t.” His eyes glowed boldly in the candlelight. “I always sleep nude.”

  And there were those waves of heat again, spreading from her belly up into her cheeks.

  Something wild and bold caught hold of Thea. If he slept nude, she should remove his breeches as well.

  Her fingers hovered, itching to move down to his breeches’ flap.

  Good gracious. She needed to walk around the stable yard in the cold air. Splash some icy water on her face.

  “I’ll just go and inquire after our meal,” she said to hide her confusion. To cover the fact that her entire body had gone liquid with longing and she’d been seconds away from ripping off his breeches.

  Which was not even remotely a ladylike thought.

  Outside the room, she leaned against the wall, catching her breath.

  Betsy appeared at the top of the stairs, bearing a silver tray laden with dishes. “And how’s Mr. Gabrielli? No serious injuries, I trust.”

  “Half-clothed at the moment, I’m afraid. Please have fresh linen delivered.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Gabrielli.”

  “I’ll take that tray now, thank you, Betsy.”

  Thea grasped the edge of the tray.

  Betsy held on. “Oh, now, it’s too heavy for you. I’ll just bring it in, shall I?”

  In other words, she wanted a glimpse of unclothed Dalton.

  “It’s not too heavy.” Thea pulled harder and Betsy reluctantly relinquished the tray.

  “I’ll just open the door for you then, shall I?” Betsy opened the door, craning her neck toward the bed, but she couldn’t see around the bed curtains.

  Whatever was on that tray smelled like heaven. Thea realized how ravenous she was. And not just for dukes.

  Thea set the tray on the table and showed the curious Betsy to the door.

  Dalton hoisted himself out of bed and sat in the chair across from her, wearing only buckskin breeches and the linen strip she’d wrapped around his chest.

  “She’s sending up a shirt for you.” Heat flooded Thea’s cheeks. She couldn’t help blushing. She’d never sat across from a half-naked man during a meal before. How did that disreputable stubble along his jaw and the bluish bruise on his cheek somehow make him more devastatingly handsome and his eyes even more blue?

  Thea distracted herself by concentrating on the simple beef-and-carrot stew and good, thick crusty bread and butter. She didn’t care about manners tonight. She even mopped up some stew with her bread.

  Dalton ate heartily as well and for a time silence reigned as they satisfied their appetites.

  “Have you noticed how hunger can make simple fare more delectable than the finest society feast?” Thea asked, wiping her hands across a napkin. “What are you drinking? It smells rather”—she leaned over and sniffed the bottle—“mossy.”

  “That’s a good word for it.” He held up the bottle. “This is fine triple-distilled malted barley Irish whiskey.”

  “Is it very strong?”

  “I wouldn’t say it’s Thea-strength.”

  Thea frowned. “What does that mean?”

  “Only that young ladies usually prefer sipping a light sherry. No shame in that. I enjoy a fine sherry myself occasionally.”

  She straightened in her chair. “I’ll have some whiskey, please.”

  May as well. The novel experience might help her ignore the firm planes of his chest. And how large his hands looked surrounding the tiny glass as he poured her a finger’s width of whiskey.

  She took a tiny sip, proud that she didn’t even sputter. Then another. It settled in her belly, warming her and loosening the knot between her shoulder blades.

  “Beef stew and whiskey. My how the lady is coming down in the world,” he teased.

  “I suppose I am.” Thea glanced around her at the plain furnishings. “Definitely the inn art has lowered a notch.”

  “Inn art?”

  “You know, the same five reproductions of classic paintings on the walls of every inn across England. There must be hundreds of apprentice painters madly copying those same five paintings, day after day.”

  He shook his head. “Can’t say I’ve noticed.”

  She waved her whiskey glass at the wall. “A Gainsborough, of course. It never fails. Inns always choose the most innocuous landscapes. Fluffy clouds. A church spire in the distance. Puffs of grazing sheep on a hillside. It’s comforting, wouldn’t you say?”

  He narrowed his eyes at the landscape and Thea took the opportunity to pour more whiskey and drink it down.

  “I don’t like it,” Dalton pronounced. “Not enough goddesses.”

  Thea laughed. “You didn’t like the Titian on the ballroom wall, either. Are you truly not a connoisseur of art?”

  “Haven’t thought about it much.”

  “Have you thought any more about your art collection at Balfry?”

  “I may be coming around to the idea.” His eyes glowed in the candlelight.

  There was knock at the
door and Thea rose to collect Dalton’s fresh shirt and cravat—wouldn’t do for him to answer the door half-naked. Might give Betsy heart palpitations.

  Though it truly was a shame to cover him up, she thought as he slipped the shirt over his head.

  Obviously, that was the whiskey talking.

  He tied his cravat only loosely.

  “I find I like whiskey,” Thea said. “Truly a marvelous invention.”

  Whiskey gave her the courage to do things like this . . . She piled her hair on top of her head, arching her back until her bosom thrust forward.

  He watched hungrily and she reveled in the power she held over him.

  She dropped her hair and shook her head, loving the weight of her hair against her back, its soft brushing against her neck.

  There was more than one way to convince a duke to unveil his art collection.

  The wayward thought settled through her mind like the whiskey warming her belly.

  Dalton clenched his fork, attempting to ignore her and failing miserably.

  She shook out her hair, and the firelight teased it into flame.

  Despite his best efforts to relegate her to that part of his mind reserved for Problems, Perils, and Plagues, he found her too desirable, and too intriguing.

  Her conversation sparked with wit, and a natural, easy sensuality infused her every movement.

  He admired her courage as well. Defying her fire-breathing dragon of a mother and leaving her safe, cosseted life behind was a very brave thing.

  “Oh, look,” she said, lifting the lid off the last silver dish. “Trifle!” She dipped her finger into the dessert in a decidedly unladylike fashion and then . . . oh, God, then she licked her finger.

  And Dalton was lost. Maybe they could sleep together on the same bed. Have just a taste of fun. Not too much.

  “Mmm,” she said, closing her eyes. “Sponge cake.” She licked her finger again. “Apricot jam. Sweet cream flavored with sweet wine.” She licked the last morsel away. “A hint of lemon, and frothy egg whites. Luscious.”

  She was luscious. Her eyes closed, her cheeks flushed from the whiskey and the heat of the fire. Those apricot and lemon curls spreading across the red velvet back of the chair.

  She scooped a spoonful of trifle directly from the dish. “I’m going to devour this.”