Four Dukes and a Devil

by Cathy Maxwell

  “Slow down. Try to catch your breath, Vic.”

  “What did you just call me?” She appeared stricken. “Please don’t call me that. You may use Victoria if you like, but not the other.”

  What in hell? “Come, I shall help you find them. Do you know where they set out to go?”

  “I was trying to find the lake.” The smallest crease of a wrinkle appeared between her brows. “The stable master said he spied them walking there.”

  “Come.” He politely offered his arm.

  She stared at it. “Really, there’s no need. I’m perfectly capable of walking unaided. I just need your direction.”

  “Well, that’s a first. I never thought I’d ever hear you ask for my direction.” His lips curled into a smile as they set off. He dared to glance at her profile discreetly from the corner of his eyes as they walked, a hand’s width of air between, and an acre of tension.

  She worried her lower lip and refused to be provoked into conversation with him.

  He found he could not stop himself from goading her again. He began to lengthen his loose strides, covering more ground than she. She had to add a kick to her step to stay abreast. Halfway up the second long hill, he noticed she had fallen behind, and he slowed, appalled at his puerile maneuverings to force her to speak. Perhaps she was well and truly terrified for the boys.

  And then suddenly, she was running past him—No, racing him up the huge hill.

  And he began to laugh—to laugh harder than he had in two decades. But it did not stop him from accepting her silent challenge—and passing her shortly thereafter.

  A dozen steps from the top, he slowed to an exaggerated snail’s pace to allow her to win. It was the gentlemanly thing to do.

  Without warning, two hands shoved his back hard from behind. He lost his footing and landed face-first on his hands and knees before he rolled onto his seat.

  “I’m so sorry, Your Grace. Did you trip? Do you need my help? My goodness, perhaps you would do better to carry your walking stick. Balance suffers and bones become brittle late in life, you know.”

  He looked up to see her at the top, her hands on the lovely curve of her slim hips, and her lively green eyes brimming with laughter. “You’re perfectly right. I should take better care.” God, he had missed the sight of her these last five days.

  She came toward him, full of life, and he lifted his arm to catch the hand she offered. “Up we go, now.”

  She made the mistake of ignoring his superior angle, and he jerked her down into his lap. And found himself face-to-face with the most tempting female in all of Christendom. His body was thirteen steps ahead of his mind, registering the small round bottom pressing against him. And suddenly there was no more laughter between them.

  The air seemed to thin, and they stared at each other, time suspended. Her hat lost somewhere down her back, her lovely dark auburn locks framed her heart-shaped face, bringing perfection within far too easy a distance.

  He forced himself to break the tension eddying through and all around them, its current pulling at them. “Well, perhaps we should—”

  His words were cut off when she swooped in and stole a quick kiss—just the smallest brush of her divine lush lips against his own before she pulled back. She apparently had not only lost her humor, but now also her nerve. She pushed against his chest to rise.

  When he tightened his grip on her arms and wouldn’t release her, her eyes widened.

  “I’ve never known you to do anything so halfheartedly, Victoria.” He stroked the side of her cheek, and whispered, “For God’s sake, don’t start now.”

  And then he took control.

  He meant to leave her without a shred of doubt about who was in charge of matters concerning efficient ways to implode every last one of her scruples and his. All the good reasons he had lined up quite orderly to keep her at a distance were effectively forgotten as he held this magnificent, vivacious woman in his arms.

  The bow shape of her upper lip had distracted him hour upon hour in his carriage and he lost no time familiarizing himself with the delicacy, as well as its plush mate below. God, she was so sweet—all pliant femininity. Without knowing what he did, his hand found its way behind her head to hold her steady while he teased the seam between those delectable lips of hers. He felt her harsh exhalation of surprise on the hollow of his taut cheek as he delved beyond. And in that moment he learned the truth about Victoria Givan. She was untutored in the art of a kiss; she was without doubt an exuberant, unforgettable, yet very innocent siren. No one else had ever kissed her this intimately, and the male in him growled at the thought of anyone else ever considering it.

  With no surprise, Victoria Givan learned the sinful intricacies of a kiss far more quickly than was proper for a lady. Suddenly, it was her hands that were gripping his back, urging him closer. And it was her delicate tongue torturing him…tempting him to madness. John deepened the kiss, for once in his life allowing himself to get lost in the woman he held in his arms. Without thought, he caressed her curves and the pebbled crests of her breasts through the thin, high-necked gray dress she wore. He was losing every inch of his famous control, losing every battle in his—

  With the suddenness of a spring shower, and just as drenching, he was left grasping at air.

  “Yes, well…It appears”—she straightened her gown—“the resuscitation has worked. Marvelously.”

  “The what?” He imagined the feel of her luscious neck squeezed between his hands.

  “The re-sus-ci-ta-tion,” she repeated. “You don’t need a hearing horn, do you?”

  He would bury her right here. Alive.

  “You fell, don’t you remember? Perhaps your memory is failing, too.”

  “Victoria,” he growled, “so help me…” Better yet, he would make love to her so long, and so well that she’d be unable to form another ridiculous observation…for at least a full week. Good God. What was he thinking? He shook his head, disgusted. He had to regain rational thought.

  “Oh, there it is,” she said, out of breath and on her tiptoes, pointing at the lake on the other side of the hill. At least, her high-pitched voice proved she was not as immune as she wished.

  “Yes, I know,” he said, dripping with irritation as he stood up awkwardly. Inwardly, he cursed his breeches, which were not cut to accommodate what they were being forced to accommodate.

  She closed the very short distance to the immense body of water. He edged behind her and was at least grateful she didn’t turn around. He wasn’t sure if he still wanted to wrap his hands about her throat to choke her or seduce her within an inch of her bloody virtue. Lord, what had he become?

  Just like a female, she pretended not to notice his annoyance, while she searched the distant opposite end of the lake.

  “Perhaps they’re in that little hut over there,” she said as cool as you please, indicating a nearby rude structure. “The stable master said that the gamekeeper had offered to show them how to shoot yesterday. That’s his lodging, isn’t it?” Her eyes wouldn’t meet his.

  “Yes,” he gritted out, loins still aching.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Now was the time for all good men to regain their sanity and strength of will. He casually bent to retrieve a few flat stones. He sent them skimming over the glasslike surface of the lake and cursed again. He’d cursed more in the last week than he had in his entire life.

  Victoria had not spent many years among boys without knowing precisely what John Varick was about. And she’d been warned, and echoed the warning to dozens, nay, hundreds of girls. She should know better than this. She sighed.

  Lord, it had been exciting—far more exciting than anything she could have ever possibly dreamed. Oh, he had brought to life in her the very thing that was supposed to have remained dormant for a person of her class. He had stirred passion into being deep within her.

  Well, this was what happened to females who dallied with desire. She had wanted to experience a man’s k
iss, and for once, her wishes had been granted.

  She picked up her pace toward the half-hidden structure and prayed for regulation of her thoughts before temptation got the better of her. But really, why was she trying so hard? Her virtue was about as important as the spots on a laying hen. She began to stomp harder as she continued forward. Not one single person would even care what a spinster teacher in a foundling home did with her life. It was all so pointless, really. Except to her. She would know.

  But she had always despaired at the idea of going to her grave a virgin spinster. She could bear the truth that she would remain a spinster her entire life. But did she have to add insult to injury by remaining a virgin, too? Was she never to know intimately what it was like to be a woman?

  She had dutifully said her prayers every morning, every evening, and over every dreary meal she had ever endured. And ever since she had turned thirty years old last year, she had prayed for one opportunity—just one—to understand what it would be like to be held, to be cherished—well, to do a bit of holding and cherishing in return to a man who entranced her.

  The very thing she had wished for was before her, and she was struggling mightily to resist it. And for what reason? He, the Catch of the Century, would be the last person to reveal her wicked weakness of character. Oh, what was wrong with her?

  The tiniest sting stabbed at the tender skin above her ankle as she strode along. She reached down to jerk her gown away from the bramble she was sure she would find. “Oh!” As she jumped back, the end of a large snake slithered under the woods’ decaying leaves of winter. Edging many feet away from the ghastly creature, she investigated her flesh. Her thin stocking was down about her half boot—the binding thigh ribbon had apparently lost the fight against gravity during the race with him or more likely when she had lost the fight to keep herself away from him.

  Two punctures marred the skin just above the half boot and wayward stocking. That vile reptile had bitten her. Of course.

  “Hey…Are you all right?”

  She looked up to find him there. Immediately lowering her shift and gown, she had the oddest dizzy sensation as she stood up.

  “Is it a thorn? Here now, let me have a look.” He sat on his heels and reached for her boot.

  She was so stunned, she let him. “I…I think it was a snake. Actually, I know it was a snake.”

  In the blink of an eye he was carrying her into the gamekeeper’s hut, and she felt like some sort of foolish, improbable damsel in distress straight from the pages of her book of Canterbury Tales. It didn’t feel nearly as exciting as she had always dreamed, especially when he abruptly dropped her onto a rustic bed and yanked aside her skirting to examine her calf.

  He bit out, “Stay still,” very unlike any of those heroes she sighed over. “What did it look like?”

  The room spun, her vision blurring before the reality of the blood on her leg. “I didn’t see it very clearly.” Botheration, her flesh blazed with pain. Now there was no question about it. She truly, positively, absolutely detested everything about nature. “It was sort of tawny. Very, very long…And there was a darker pattern on it.”

  His face became ashen. “A pattern? What sort?”

  Her stomach roiled, and the most awful queasy sensation gripped her. “I think it was speckled…Or perhaps there were little dark diamond shapes? I don’t know, really. It disappeared quickly.” She shivered, involuntarily.

  He was staring at her, his expression stark, his eyes hard. She had never seen him so serious. Only now, he was fishing about in his pockets.

  “I’ve only heard of one instance of a harmless snake biting anyone,” he muttered. “They would have to be truly provoked.”

  “I think I stepped on it. Is that enough provocation?” She was doing a wretched job of camouflaging the ball of fear growing in the pit of her stomach. “What are you doing?”

  He extracted a small pocketknife and unfolded the tiny lethal-looking blade.

  She backed away on her bottom to the end of the cot.

  “I told you to stay still. Victoria, do as I say. Look, I promise I’ll never force you to do another blasted thing in your life ever again,” he said quietly, in complete opposition to the ironlike authority she saw in his face. Whatever he had in mind, it was going to happen with or without her permission. She thought the former might hurt less, and so she lowered her leg for his inspection.

  When she saw the glint of the knife, she squeezed her eyes shut.

  Two slashes of raw pain sliced through her, and she yelped a vile oath but remained very still.

  “Good girl,” he bit out.

  A warm pressure replaced the vicious blade, and she reopened her eyes to see his dark head covering her leg. Lord, he was kissing her leg. My God…she thought she might faint.

  And then she felt him sucking the raw wound with a vengeance. “Oh please, stop…” she moaned, her leg throbbing.

  He turned his head away and she heard him spit upon the earthen floor. “Hush,” he said breathlessly, before he reapplied himself to the task.

  It wasn’t so awful after all, she thought, her head spinning on some unseen axis. Once the throbbing stopped, and the numbness settled on her flesh like a warm blanket, her mind rationalized the horridness of the situation. He efficiently drew the venom from her until she became worried he would be ill from it.

  Finally, he lifted his mouth from her, but shaded the area from her view. Withdrawing a handkerchief, he wrapped it about her ankle and tucked the ends in place. “There now.”

  He stared at her, his expression blank, his eyes glassy. “Here.” He reached into his coat and withdrew his ornate flask with a royal crest etched into its silver side.

  And then she saw it. His hand shook, just the slightest bit as he extended it to her.

  God. She was going to die, and he knew it. She was going to die from tromping about the so-called benign countryside. After all those years walking near the so-called lethal dangers outside of Mayfair in town.

  She’d never drunk so much as a single drop of spirits in all her life. She grabbed the flask he offered and, without a pang of remorse, drank long and deep—which wasn’t nearly as long or as deep as she would have liked. A clog of fire engulfed her throat, and she coughed through the fires of hell. And drank a lot more.

  “Victoria,” he whispered, despair lacing his words. “That’s enough.”

  “Then you drink,” she said, summoning up false bravado.

  “Now you want me to drink?”

  “This is a wake, correct? It’s why you offered me your brandy, isn’t it?”

  He didn’t laugh, which only served to make her even more scared. He put the flask on a table just out of her reach and surreptitiously glanced at her bound leg. Her ankle and calf throbbed with the sensation of hundreds of pins and needles poking at her.

  “There, now. You’re just overcome. And no, I’ve given up spirits. Did you not say it’s bad for my gout?” With this forced amusement from his lips, which contrasted with the grave concern in his expression, she knew then, without a single doubt, that she was through with life.

  “Oh…John,” she whispered again, her mind softening from the brandy. And then she couldn’t stop the words guaranteed to make her a fool. “I wasn’t supposed to die yet.”

  “Victoria—”

  “This is not the way it was to happen. I was supposed to live a long, dreary life, and become a gray old maid after raising hundreds of foundlings. And they would have put a plaque in the chapel in my honor.” She felt very light-headed as she rushed on. “Oh, I regret so many things. Worst of all, I’ll never experience…” She stopped abruptly, her mortification complete.

  “Never experience what?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all.” If she could blush any deeper, fire would erupt from her veins.

  “Tell me.”

  “I’ll die a—a…Well, you know…”

  He blinked.

  “Darling,” he said, “don’t be ri
diculous…”

  “Ridiculous? I think I have the right to say or act any way I like when I’m dying. Was that or was that not a poisonous serpent that just bit me?”

  “There are no serpents in England—only snakes—mostly grass snakes.”

  “Don’t you dare change the subject, John. Was I or was I not just bitten by a deadly poisonous snake?”

  “Perhaps.” It was better she didn’t know the conclusions he’d drawn. If the snake was a mature viper, which it most likely was, he would never reveal how painful and how very fatal it could be.

  “Did you or did you not just extract venom?”

  “Possibly,” he said reluctantly.

  “Which snakes in England have venom?”

  “The one that prefers shaded woody areas—the V. berus.”

  She appeared near shock, her face and hands white and clammy. “Just because I spent my life within a foundling home doesn’t mean I can’t decipher Latin. Oh God, it’s V. as in vipera,” she moaned.

  “Now, don’t leap to conclusions. The grass snake is speckled.”

  “And, let me guess,” she said, her pupils dilated unnaturally. “The viper has dark diamond shapes.”

  “Look, there’s a possibility you could become ill for a while, but there’s every reason to believe you will recover. You are young, and very strong and—” His words were bringing naught but more worry to her expression, and so he gathered her in his arms, and she finally gave in to the tears that had been slowly gathering in her glassy eyes. He prayed the last words he had spoken were well and true. And he also hoped his throat ached from tension and not venom.

  He leaned over her and kissed her temple, then her wet cheeks, then her…God, he wanted to chase away those tears with every fiber of his being. He would do anything to wipe away the horror of the moment. He wanted to comfort her, assure her that she was cherished for once in her life.