Duke of Thorns (Heiress Games 1)

by Sara Ramsey

  She curled one hand over his chest, seeking the strong, steady beat of his heart. The other reached up to trace, wonderingly, over the angular line of his jaw. His breath hissed. His eyes turned to fire. He caught her wrist again, but he didn’t pull her hand away — he wrapped her fingers in his, as though they were partners.

  As though they had all the time they needed for whatever might come next.

  His words, though, didn’t match the invitation his body gave her. “This is not the plan,” he said.

  He almost sounded like he was talking to himself. She shrugged. “Plans can change, can’t they?”

  He met her eyes, searching for answers. She met his without a trace of fear. Perhaps she should have feared him, feared what he could do to her, to her company —his reputation, his title, and his usual demeanor all marked him as someone with whom one shouldn’t trifle. But she suddenly felt like an explorer granted access to a strange and mysterious land — the first outsider to see the secret heart of the kingdom, not just the fearsome walls surrounding it.

  Callie stopped hesitating. She leaned in and kissed him.

  When her artless softness met his unyielding experience, she should have lost. But he was the one who crumbled. His reserve vanished. His hands turned possessive. His mouth, momentarily stilled by shock, turned hungry, then ravenous.

  Ravenous was the only word for it. He slanted his mouth over hers, pressing, seeking, demanding. She tried to breathe, and he seized the opportunity. Their mouths fused together. His tongue, the weapon he wielded expertly in conversation, became something wholly different — something she welcomed.

  She couldn’t think. She only felt — felt the heady rush as they melted into each other. His hands caressed over her shoulder, over her spine, over the silk that kept them apart. His mouth, never stopping, could have conquered her even without the expeditionary force of his hands.

  Even without her sudden belief that she had been born for this.

  She moaned at that thought. All her wants, all her secret dreams — all the women she wished she could have been — waited just below the surface. He would uncover it all.

  He was right — she should have been careful with her wishes.

  “Thorington,” she whispered, pulling away from him.

  “Gavin,” he said, shifting her in his arms so he could claim her again. “Call me Gavin.”

  She heard the need in his voice, recognized it as the match to her own. So she let him kiss her again. She might have begged him to if he hadn’t.

  But it was bittersweet this time, undercut by the knowledge that he was right — that this wasn’t part of the plan. And when she pulled away a second time, he didn’t follow her.

  Her hand still pressed against his heart. She let it trail over his shirt, then over the buttons of his coat. He caught it then, holding it back against his chest.

  And then they were silent.

  She stayed still for as long as she could bear. She wasn’t sure she could look into his eyes and see everything she felt reflected back to her. She wasn’t sure she could bear the knowledge of what she’d seen. Thorington — Gavin — was so much more than she had thought he was.

  And like a traveler coming home from a foreign land, she wasn’t sure that even she would believe what she had seen.

  “I trust I was adequate for your first kiss,” he said.

  In his usual dry, disdainful tone, that would have sounded like an insult. But there was just a hint of uncertainty. And his hand, still holding hers against his chest, didn’t seem willing to let her go.

  “Adequate enough, sirrah,” she whispered.

  The darkness wasn’t complete enough to hide his smile. His fingers squeezed hers. “Don’t doubt I’ll rap your knuckles someday for your insolence, my dear.”

  “Such a gentleman, aren’t you?”

  She said it teasingly, but she realized, too late, that it was the wrong thing to say. He dropped her hand. “No. I’m not.”

  “Gavin.”

  One word. She tested the weight of it and found it pleased her to say it. He should have been Gavin, not Thorington. In the dark, she could make it so.

  But only if he agreed to it. And suddenly he didn’t seem so agreeable.

  “We should return you to your room, Miss Briarley.”

  She frowned. There was still recklessness — or whisky — in her veins. “But we haven’t finished our tea.”

  He laughed. She could still surprise him. But she couldn’t entirely sway him when his mind was made up. “Your skills are commendable. But it’s dark now. You should go to your room before some villain ruins you.”

  “You’re the only villain I’ve seen at Maidenstone,” she said.

  “Precisely.”

  The heat in his voice gave her a hint as to what ruin she might find if she stayed with him. And part of her — the woman she might have been — wanted to stay.

  But she had stopped kissing him for a reason. He would be a horrible husband. He would grind her underfoot while she, dazzled and stupid with need for him, gave in to his every demand.

  Not to mention that he had never said he wished to marry her. He’d sold his brother to her, after all. That wasn’t the action of someone who wanted her for himself.

  In the calculus that made up her life, she could choose love or freedom.

  And, as he had reminded her, love didn’t buy ships.

  So she gave up the safe haven of his lap. “Thank you for the lesson,” Callie said.

  Thorington — for he was no longer Gavin — inclined his head.

  She left him alone in the dark. Left before she could change her mind.

  Left before she could find out any more of what might have been.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  When Callie left — fled — Thorington’s presence, she discovered that Serena had abandoned them. So much for Serena’s claim that she would protect Callie from ruin.

  Callie was less concerned than she likely should have been. They hadn’t been caught. Still, she dashed down the darkened stairs and through the gloomy passageways that would take her back to Maidenstone’s modern rooms. The darkness wasn’t absolute yet, but twilight made the house feel unsettling. Any number of foul deeds had happened in those halls — it wasn’t so hard to imagine that she could be another.

  But she would rather be caught in a near-run than go back to Thorington and beg for a candle.

  She didn’t want a candle anyway. She wanted to go back and kiss him again. Just the thought of it made her smile — a silly smile, one that made her try to control the upturn of her mouth even though no one was in sight. He might still be up there, in the dark, thinking of her.

  Thinking of her as she thought of him. Maybe it was the whisky that made her smile. It couldn’t be that their kiss had been more than she’d imagined a kiss could be. It couldn’t be that he’d been more than she’d imagined he could be.

  She wasn’t surprised that he had kissed her — some instinct, one she mostly ignored, had known that he desired her. But she was surprised that he had been so tender. And their conversation before that kiss had somehow felt easy, even as they delved into secrets neither of them should have shared.

  Thorington could never be described as easy. But for a few moments, for her, he had been.

  Callie hesitated on the final staircase. If she returned, she might surprise a laugh out of him. He might become Gavin again.

  No. He had made it clear that a kiss was all he could give her.

  Callie rubbed her hand across her mouth and straightened her shoulders. She felt a bit woozy, either from the kisses or the whisky. She thought of going to her bed, lying there, and dreaming of Gavin.

  She was a fool. He wasn’t Gavin; he was Thorington. And succumbing to dreams when she needed to be making plans was not something she could allow herself to do.

  She found the library again and was pleased that it was empty. There was just enough twilight left for her to see that the servants ha
dn’t cleared away the newssheets she’d left on one of the heavy mahogany tables. Somewhere in the distance, she heard muted conversation; there were others in the house who still stirred.

  But the library was perfectly empty. Her study in Baltimore sometimes felt like this, when she sought it out on cool, restless nights. She ran her fingers along the mantel above the empty fireplace until she found a tinderbox. She had become quite proficient with fire after her father’s death, not needing someone else to strike steel against flint or coax the sparks into embers, then flame.

  She showered sparks onto the tinder until it caught, then lit a candle before damping the tinder and closing the box. The candle seemed to be spermaceti, more expensive than tallow or even beeswax, and it cast a warm, steady light in her little corner of the library.

  She returned to the table. She’d thought the newssheets had been left undisturbed, but she realized that someone had placed a recent edition of the Gazette on top of the pile. It took at least two days for papers from London to reach them, and the papers were then passed around the party until they were at risk of disintegrating.

  This one was from over a week earlier. It wouldn’t have any gossip about Thorington. But as she set it aside, a headline caught her eye.

  AMERICAN PRIVATEERS A MENACE.

  She laughed. The British were so shocked that anyone could challenge them on the seas that the issue of American privateers had become a national disgrace. She skimmed over the article, looking for any news she might glean about her own interests.

  And there, near the bottom, she read, “Ships from Baltimore, in particular, are causing havoc across the Atlantic, even daring to prey on British interests in the Channel and around the Irish coast. A single ship from Baltimore has, in its first cruise, taken over a dozen ships, including the British frigate Adamant. The captain of that unfortunate vessel, a Mr. Hallett, son of the Hon. Frederick Hallett, M.P., is now billeted at Dartmouth, assisting in the preparation of Channel defenses against both the privateering nuisance and the larger threat from Napoleon. We pray he is more effective in this endeavor than in his last command. We also urge the government to destroy these vipers in their nest, in Baltimore’s harbor, rather than allowing them to prey on innocent merchants.”

  Callie snickered. She recognized Hallett’s name — she had read the captain’s log after they had captured Adamant. She wasn’t surprised that the Navy had taken away his command, even in the midst of wars with France and America that left them continually desperate for men.

  But the dozen ships that the paper referenced gave her pause. What had Jacobs been up to? Had he been caught yet, or were all those prizes safely distributed?

  As she contemplated whether she might be rich or ruined, one of the terrace doors opened. Rafe emerged from the twilight. “I didn’t expect to find you here, Miss Briarley,” he said. “Has the party reduced you to such dire circumstances?”

  He was beyond the reach of her lone candle and she couldn’t see his face. But his voice, as always, sounded friendly. “I do read on occasion,” she said. “You must be shocked to find literacy among the Americans.”

  He laughed. “I’ve never cast aspersions against the Americans. If you tell anyone I said this I’ll deny it, but the lot of you are lucky you took your freedom from us long before we started this bloody business with Napoleon.”

  “I had nothing to do with it, of course,” Callie said. She flipped the paper over, casually, hoping he wouldn’t notice the headline. “I’m a mere female, and too young to have been a revolutionary anyway.”

  Rafe snorted. “I’ll grant you’re too young, but I vow that’s all that would have stopped you.”

  “I shall take that as a compliment, my lord,” she said.

  She didn’t invite him to join her, expecting him to leave her. But he dropped into the chair across from her. He wore a greatcoat over riding breeches and Hessian boots, and he carried a hat in his gloved hand. Callie vaguely wondered where he had been; she couldn’t recall whether she had seen him at dinner, although it wouldn’t have been remarkable for him to skip the event.

  “You should not be here alone, Miss Briarley,” he said. “You might perish of boredom.”

  “I was far more alone in Baltimore,” she said, waving him away. “I believe I shall survive tonight.”

  Rafe stripped off his gloves, picked up a cold candle from the table, and leaned over to tip it into her flame. When it caught, he sat back, considering her. “Your self-sufficiency is admirable. But let’s cut bait, my dear. You are too valuable a prize to be left unescorted.”

  Callie laughed. “That sounds entirely too medieval. I’m not a prize.”

  Rafe gestured around the room. “It fits the house, doesn’t it? And anyway, you are a prize. Even if those who see it aren’t doing enough to make you aware of it.”

  His voice hinted at something that Callie didn’t want to examine. She tried to dismiss him instead. “I’m sure I shall be quite safe. No one has behaved with even the smallest bit of impropriety toward me at this party.”

  “Those who would are too frightened of Thorington to do so. But if they found you alone, they might seize the opportunity.”

  “Your imagination is vivid, my lord.”

  Rafe nodded, but he didn’t smile. “Humor an old man, Miss Briarley. I wouldn’t want to see you harmed. I shall keep you company until you are ready to retire.”

  Callie nearly laughed again. But there was something in his eyes that stopped her. He was younger than Thorington — thirty-three, according to the Debrett’s she had finally read after being embarrassed over not knowing about Thorington’s former wife — but at the moment, he seemed far older.

  And far more aware of what dangers might befall her than she was.

  So she nodded instead. “I thank you for your concern, then. But perhaps I should return to my room so I do not ruin your evening.”

  “Never mind that,” he said. He crossed his legs at the ankle, elegantly. “My evening activities have come to an end. Was there something you were looking for in the library?”

  She considered him. He didn’t look like he was going to leave her.

  “If you were looking for a novel, you mustn’t feign propriety for my benefit,” Rafe continued. “I’ve been known to read them myself.”

  “I do not think my governess would approve,” Callie said. “I shall educate myself with the newspapers instead.”

  “And how go your lessons with your ‘governess,’ Miss Briarley?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “I find the business tedious.”

  That wasn’t true — not at all. And his laugh said he knew it. But even though Rafe was perhaps kinder than his brother, he was still relentless. “By the time you finish your lessons, I vow you could reach far higher than Anthony for a match.”

  She snapped one of the papers open. “I’m sure I have no desire to reach higher.”

  “A shame,” he said. “You could be a queen if princes weren’t so hidebound about royal ancestry. But I’m sure you could settle for becoming a duchess.”

  His words slapped across her face, stunning her for a moment. She felt blood rush to her cheeks. Unable to help herself, she looked over her paper and finally met his gaze.

  “You do yourself no honor by teasing me, Lord Rafael,” she said in a low voice.

  “I am not teasing you, Miss Briarley,” he said gently.

  Something twinkled in his eyes — but it looked more like sympathy than cruelty. She shook her head, slowly, as though the gesture could erase the words that still hung in the air. “I have no designs on becoming a duchess. And you aren’t being kind to Lord Anthony by suggesting it.”

  “Lord Anthony would be the first to dance with you if you announced your engagement to someone else,” Rafe said.

  Callie gathered her papers together. “I think I should retire, my lord. But I thank you for the conversation.”

  Rafe rose, coming around the table and offering her his ar
m. “I shall escort you, then. There could be any number of devils waiting in the corridors.”

  “I doubt it,” she said crisply, putting her hand on his arm. “But I will humor you if it means we may part ways sooner.”

  “Yes, your grace,” he said.

  Callie glared at him. “I find your humor to be entirely inappropriate.”

  He was close enough now that she had to lift her face in order to glare at him properly. He sniffed, and something in his smile turned sly. “Whisky, Miss Briarley? What devil took you under his wing tonight?”

  The gleam in his eyes said he knew.

  Her anger hadn’t subsided by the time they reached her room. She waited outside while he opened the door and checked for intruders, as though he really was concerned for her safety. When he came back into the hallway, his smile was contrite. “I apologize, Miss Briarley. I have come to admire you greatly, but I forget that you may not feel the same about me.”

  She unbent a little. “I admire you as well, Lord Rafael. But I do not think the subject of my marital prospects is an appropriate conversation.”

  He leaned against the wall, as rakish as ever. “It’s not. But as it’s the only conversation anyone at this party seems to have, you can forgive me for forgetting that you’re the least interested in it of anyone.”

  “You cannot be serious,” she said.

  Rafe grinned. “There are bets being placed, Miss Briarley.”

  “There are always bets being placed,” she said tartly. “Men can’t seem to help themselves.”

  “It’s not just the men. Portia has fifty pounds on you running away with a footman.”

  “She wouldn’t,” Callie said with a gasp.

  “If it helps, she hedged her bet and put sixty on you marrying Thorington. But the oddsmakers give that an even worse chance than you disappearing with a stable hand.”

  Callie shook her head. Her candle cast ominous shadows in the hallway. And again, she thought their conversation sounded medieval.

  For a moment, she bitterly regretted that she had come to England. Not that she had entirely ruled her own life in Baltimore — Captain Jacobs’ refusal to stop privateering had reminded her of that. But at least she had had the illusion of control.