If I Only Had a Duke

by Lenora Bell

  His climax hit him like a fist to the gut, splintering his control and bringing blood rushing through his body and pleasure screaming through every nerve.

  Flopping back onto the bed, he drew Thea against his chest. Her curls mixing with his sweat. His seed on her hand, pooling across his abdomen.

  Pleasure thudded through him, fainter now, like the fading drumbeat of a retreating army. He didn’t want it to end.

  He stroked her hair. “That was so good, Thea. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” She raised her head, smiling shyly. “Was that . . . right?”

  “More than right.”

  When he regained enough equilibrium he grabbed his old, torn linen shirt and wiped them clean.

  In the candlelight her eyes had a lighter circle of gray, like a band of silver clasped around her pupil. How had he not noticed that before?

  He banded his arms around her and settled her against his chest, drinking in the scent of warm, recently pleasured woman.

  He wasn’t going to examine why it felt so right. Or why he didn’t even care about breaking his rules. Why shouldn’t he sleep with Thea in his arms?

  He could drift in this pleasure a few hours longer.

  It was unexpected, this happiness.

  Shouldn’t her mother’s imperious, recriminating tones be intruding into her head about now? Remonstrating. Scolding.

  Instead there was only the sighing of Dalton’s breath and the steady beat of his heart against her ear, and a pleasant hum of lingering, languid sensation in her limbs.

  “I find I rather like bed sport,” she said. “I think I have an affinity for it.”

  “Mmm.” He nuzzled her ear with firm, questing lips. “I won’t dispute that.”

  Goodness, she loved hearing his breath hitch. “What do you call it, anyway? The moment of . . . completion.”

  “My climax . . .” he murmured drowsily. “Crisis . . . coming . . . my pleasure.” He stroked her hair. “Our pleasure.”

  She drifted, held tight in the warm circle of his arms. If she’d known he was this agreeable after having a crisis, then she should have given him one that first night. It would have made things easier.

  Thea smiled against his chest.

  The release . . . the coming. And then the discovery.

  She’d never considered all the possibilities of this body of hers. How she could be so much more than something inert, silent, draped in satin and stuck with feathers to entice a mate.

  There was so much more to her body.

  Pleasure singing through blood and contracting muscles.

  And there was more to this journey as well. A destination. Leading to more discovery.

  “Dalton?”

  A grunt. He was still awake.

  “The painting I seek in your attic is a self-portrait by Artemisia, the Renaissance painter I told you about. Her letters mention a painting she was working on entitled Self-portrait as the Allegory of Painting, but it’s been lost.”

  His fingers drifted lightly across her shoulder. “What would you do with the painting?”

  “Write about it . . . perhaps an article for the British Institution. History has relegated her to a brief footnote. The seventeenth century wasn’t ready for a fiery, opinionated woman who utilized her art to pass judgment on a society that restricted her freedoms.”

  “So you want to rewrite history.”

  “I’d like to think perhaps the world might be ready for the self-portrait now. Ready to acknowledge her bold, uncompromising talent.”

  “Perhaps. Though I wouldn’t hold out much hope of that.”

  “Women’s artwork was . . . still is . . . supposed to be feminine, and safe, and placid. Artemisia broke that mold. There’s nothing pretty or safe about her mythological paintings. Blood spurts from the neck of her Holofernes, while a muscular, anguished Judith saws through bone and gristle.”

  He shifted above her. “Really? I’d like to see that.”

  “The painting’s in a gallery in Florence. I think it’s the reason I’m here instead of dutifully embroidering a sampler at my grandmother’s house in London, waiting to be sold to Foxford. That painting proclaims that our fingers are no less skillful, our minds no less sharp and our sensibilities, the way we view the world, no less unique.”

  “There are others, you know,” Dalton said drowsily.

  She searched his face in the darkness. “What do you mean, there are others?”

  “Other attics . . . rooms . . . entire estates filled with artworks and antiquities my father won at gambling. Stole, really.”

  “Truly?” Thea’s heart pounded. “Where?”

  Dalton’s chest rose and fell beneath her like the swell of a wave beneath a ship.

  “When I was fifteen, home from Eton on holidays, my father brought me to a large town house in Mayfair. The way he was acting, so furtive and secretive, I thought perhaps he wanted to introduce me to one of his mistresses. I was wrong.”

  His voice drifted into silence and Thea held her breath, needing the story to continue, afraid he might fall asleep first.

  “The house was literally filled floor to ceiling with treasure, like some mythological dragon’s lair. Marble statues . . . coffers of coins . . . piles of priceless, ancient paintings . . .”

  Thea’s breath caught. “That must have been quite a sight. What did he do with it all?”

  “Nothing.” A bitter note crept into Dalton’s deep voice. “Hoarded it. He had an eye for beauty, the old duke, but he only wanted to claim, to possess, to become the wealthiest man in England.” His voice trailed off and his breathing deepened.

  Thea brushed his rough, angular jaw, wanting to soften this memory for him somehow. “It’s all still there?”

  “Covered in dust,” he murmured sleepily. “And cobwebs . . . the attic at Balfry is only a taste. I’ve no idea what should be done with his hoard.”

  Her skin heated from his arms around her, and now her mind buzzed with possibilities. She’d gladly help him decide what to do with ancient masterpieces.

  “Some noblemen donate ancestral artworks to the Institution,” she whispered, keeping her voice even, not wanting to frighten him away with the excitement and fervor sparking in her mind. “The Institution exhibits the works for the public occasionally, and for students of art to copy and study.”

  “I like that idea.” His arm twitched against her shoulder and his breathing grew rhythmic.

  “Dalton?” she whispered.

  No reply.

  It was so unfamiliar to hear someone else breathing close to her. She’d never had anyone else in her bedchamber. No sisters. No friends who spent the night and crawled into bed to whisper secrets.

  She’d always been alone.

  What would she and Dalton say to each other tomorrow? How would she look at him without imagining the wicked, secret things they’d done?

  Thea’s entire body flashed hot, and then cold, thinking of it.

  She’d truly broken loose from familial moorings now.

  There was danger in that thought. Uncertainty.

  But also excitement.

  And a tantalizing taste of freedom.

  Chapter 15

  Damn, damn, damn.

  Dalton woke with Thea’s head nestled into his neck and her small fist tucked under his jaw. He counted one unforgivable sin for every breath she took against his chest.

  Accepting a morsel of creamy trifle from her spoon.

  Pouring her a tumbler of honeyed Irish whiskey.

  Accepting her dare to prove he was a rake. Wrapping his cravat around her wrists.

  Jesus. Had he really done that?

  Lapping her creamy sweetness until she cried her release. Clasping his hand around her hand and teaching her to give him release.

  And the worst crime of all?

  Wrapping his arms around her and telling her that the paintings in the attic at Balfry were only a taste.

  Stupid, heartless, triple-damned b
astard.

  He never slept the entire night with a woman in his arms, vulnerable and pleasure sated.

  Last night he’d given in to a self-indulgent need for connection he hadn’t surrendered to since Cambridge when he’d fancied himself a poet and drank cheap wine in taverns and written verses even more unpalatable than the wine.

  What happens next? she’d asked.

  He’d been dying to show her exactly what happened next.

  Ease inside. Find the rhythm, the angle, she needed. Sink deep. Deeper.

  Pleasure bursting, ripe and fleeting as a summer’s day.

  That’s right. Follow those thoughts to the logical conclusion. You wouldn’t be able to offer for her and the guilt would tear you apart.

  She was a danger to him because she made him feel. She dulled his edge.

  And he was a grave danger to her because anyone close to him would become a target. Alec had been drowned to crush the old duke, punish him for his sins.

  If Dalton’s secret came to light, the powerful men who hated him for stealing their profits and scaring away their customers would attempt to control him in the same way.

  They might try using Thea as a bargaining chip. A weapon to bring him to his knees.

  He’d never forgive himself if anything happened to her because of her association with him.

  He wanted to be the one to fulfill her every dream. But he wasn’t that man.

  She moved in his arms, sighing softly and nestling closer, warm curves heating his skin. He recognized her yearning for love, for acceptance. Recognized it, and couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

  Because he could never be what she needed and he’d have to say goodbye soon.

  And he’d have to dream about this moment for the rest of his lonely life.

  How she looked all curled up, dark fringe of eyelashes across her cheeks, one smooth shoulder exposed.

  Need to leave. Now.

  Gingerly, he lifted her off his chest and set her back upon the bed.

  He lifted the bedclothes, preparing to leave.

  Blunder.

  She’d removed her stays and her lovely breasts were clearly visible beneath the thin cambric of her chemise. The garment had ridden up her legs and was twisted between her thighs. He could see her shapely legs, the dark patch between her thighs.

  The sight sent a shock of longing down his arms, along his fingertips, and deeper, into his chest, somewhere in the region of where his heart should be.

  He leapt off the bed, not caring anymore if she heard him, and grabbed his clothing and boots.

  Hand on the door. Push it open. Don’t look back.

  In the hallway, Dalton slammed his back against the wall, aching to go back into that room.

  Peel off her shift to reveal high curving breasts, slender waist and flaring hips.

  She’d lift her hair off her shoulders and turn to catch his eye, silver-ringed eyes framed by gold waves.

  Shy invitation in that glance. Not yet. Can’t touch her yet.

  Maybe she needed a wash. She might be sticky still from last night’s abandon.

  Dip a cloth in warm water. Smooth a cake of rose-scented soap and smooth it over the scrolling lines of her neck, her back, her shoulders.

  Use the soap instead of his fingers.

  Make her wait . . . make her breathing falter . . . bring the soap around now. Over her nipples, under the swell of her breasts. Down to her belly button, fingers gripping the soap harder now.

  Slide the soap lower . . . between her thighs. Where he wanted to be. Where he wanted to slide.

  Heavy with need now. So close to losing control.

  Take her over the edge until she cried his name and then . . . lift her into his arms and take her to bed.

  He banged his head back against the wall. What the hell was he doing standing outside of her room, panting like a lusting fool?

  “Mr. Gabrielli?”

  He straightened. “Good morning, Betsy,” he said gruffly, praying the woman didn’t glance below his waistcoat. “Mrs. Gabrielli requires a pot of drinking chocolate for her breakfast.”

  He strode quickly down the stairs and headed for the stables.

  He’d ride the remaining two hours to Bristol outside the carriage.

  Separated from Thea by layers of wood and steel.

  And impossibility.

  “This is the place, my lady.” Con handed first Thea, and then Molly, down from the carriage in front of the cheerful green-painted door in the orange brick façade of the Trumpeter Inn on St. Maryport Street in Bristol.

  “You’ll rest here until the ship sails tonight.” Con noticed Thea craning her neck toward the horses. “The duke will be at the docks by now, seeing about the ship.”

  “Oh.” Thea tried to hide her disappointment.

  She’d thought maybe they’d have luncheon together. Dalton hadn’t spoken to her since he’d slipped away while she was still sleeping. He’d ridden out, beside the carriage, and they hadn’t stopped between Bath and Bristol.

  Molly had slept most of the journey, still feeling tired. Leaving Thea more than two hours to remember every intimate, shattering detail of last night.

  Thea had changed. Become aware of light and sound and taste in a new way.

  The chocolate she’d sipped that morning had been impossibly rich. And when a breeze ruffled her bonnet ribbons across her cheek, the soft, silken contact triggered memories of his fingers brushing her cheek.

  She shivered slightly.

  “Could it be the duke’s avoiding you for some reason?” There was a knowing twinkle in Con’s blue eyes.

  Thea’s face heated. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  They knew, of course. Con and Molly knew she’d shared a room with Dalton.

  What must they think of her? Her cheeks were going to burst into flames any second now.

  Molly’s freckles danced higher as she raised her eyebrows. “The lady doth protest too much, don’t you think so, Con?”

  Lending Molly the complete works of Mr. Shakespeare maybe hadn’t been such a clever idea.

  Con chuckled and regarded Thea with an amused smile. “She’s turning quite an interesting hue. What would you call that color, Molly, my love?”

  Molly pretended to deliberate. “Gooseberry?” She tilted her head. “Scarlet?”

  “You know, Molly,” Con said, “I’ve been hoping for a lady to come along and put that man in his place, good and proper like. And Lady Dorothea’s the one to achieve it, and make no mistake. Nearly there, I’d say.”

  Thea opened her mouth to protest and then shut it again. Anything she said now would only be incriminating. “Humph.” She tugged her bonnet lower to hide her face. “Are you two quite finished?”

  A young porter with shiny brass buttons marching down his red jacket and even shinier red spots around his nose ushered them inside the inn.

  Thea and Molly waited while Con made arrangements with a dour-faced innkeeper who had a drooping black moustache.

  “Everything’s settled,” Con said jovially, rejoining them. “We’ll be back soon, Mrs. Gabrielli.” He winked at Thea. “And young Master Gabrielli.” Another wink for Molly. He set his black cap back atop his ginger and gray head and strode away.

  Molly glanced at the porter triumphantly, obviously reveling in the fact that no one at the inn seemed to take any notice of the fact that she was a girl garbed in male clothing.

  She was tall and slender in the chest, but it wasn’t that. Thea regarded her curiously. It was something about the way she held herself. She’d taken to standing with her legs parted and her shoulders thrust back just like the duke.

  They followed the spotty-cheeked porter to their temporary chambers.

  “So what happened last night after I fainted?” Molly whispered. “Did you and . . . you know who . . . share a room?”

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Thea whispered back. “Nothing happened.”

  Well . . . not nothing. But Molly did
n’t need to know that.

  “Never took the duke for a coward,” Molly said with a sly smile.

  Nor me for a wanton, Thea thought.

  They reached Molly’s chamber first. “I think I’ll take another nap,” she said.

  “Still feeling weak?” Thea asked. There was more color in Molly’s cheeks now, which was a good sign.

  “I’m fine. Just tired, that’s all.”

  Thea made sure Molly was settled and then ordered hot water for a bath in her own chamber.

  When the copper tub was filled, Thea sank gratefully into the steam, eager to wash away the travel grime. When she slid deeper beneath the water he was there, cradling her in his arms, saturating her body with liquid heat. When she shifted, the water sloshed across her body like Dalton’s hands caressing her.

  Last night had been revelatory. And so wondrously decadent.

  She closed her eyes and leaned her head back. Slid fingers down her arms and across her breasts and then lower, over her belly.

  She wanted to learn more about her body. He’d kissed her . . . here. Her fingers found the place, sliding over sensitive flesh.

  Her limbs twitched beneath the water. One hand on her breast and the other under the water, inside the slippery opening of her body.

  The pleasure that still pulsed.

  She didn’t have to live by her mother’s rules any longer. She could be imprudent. Scandalous.

  She could take a lover.

  The shocking idea had never occurred to the proper, refined daughter of the Countess of Desmond. But the idea was definitely occurring to runaway Thea. Especially after the taste of pleasure she’d received last night.

  Her plan had been to exit society quietly, unobtrusively. But now that she’d sent the letter to her mother claiming she’d been compromised, there was no hope of that.

  There would be whispers about her precipitous departure from society.

  One of the servants could read her letter and spread the rumor.

  Artemisia had taken lovers and been branded promiscuous, her private life overshadowing her art.

  Even Aunt Emma had a scandalous past. Thea didn’t know all the details, but it was rumored she’d had an affair with a married earl whose wife was an invalid. Which explained why her aunt was never invited to London.