Four Dukes and a Devil

by Cathy Maxwell

  “Oh, please, John…” she whispered, trembling. “Lie beside me. Kiss me. Hold me.”

  He knew exactly what she asked and exactly what he could not do. He might want to offer her raw physical comfort more than he’d wished for anything in his entire structured, ordered, carefully constructed existence meant to distance himself from every last bloody conniving, marriageable female in England, but she knew naught of what she asked.

  God. She might very well be dying. Or not. Either way, this tiny hut in the middle of the wood was the last place he would deflower the woman he wanted as the future Duchess of Beaufort—if she lived through the next day and night.

  He shook his head to clear it. What had he just thought? Christ, who was he trying to fool? Right here, right now, whether she was dying or not, he was going to stop avoiding one primary fact.

  He adored her. Could not stay away from her no matter how hard he tried. She might just be the most impertinent female in all of creation, but hell, there was a certain charm to that, for there wasn’t a man or woman alive who had even dared to think he or she could manage him.

  Still kneeling beside her, he rested his forehead against hers. Sometime within the next two hours to two weeks he was either going to bury her or marry her. Either option seemed better than keeping himself from this ball of fiery woman and even her battalion of boys who had entered his refined domain.

  John repressed a groan. God, he was going to give her everything she had never asked for…and more. So much more. He would give her his name, something he’d thought he would never do before years of careful reflection, and even more painstaking negotiation with a score of solicitors.

  But what he dared not give her was what she asked for now. However, he could give her a taste of what was to come if she lived through this wretched afternoon. The idea held five parts despair to one part passion. He prayed his body would obey his mind.

  He cradled her head with one hand and dipped down to drag a trail of kisses on her feverish cheeks. Victoria’s ragged breath caught in her throat as he valiantly tried to chase away her fears with a kiss designed to enchant. A slow kiss, and a slow stroke along the inside of her arm, down the side of her rounded, perfectly shaped breast.

  She was so damned responsive. After long minutes, her obvious panic receded slightly, and he wrestled with the first spark of desire igniting between them . She was gripping his arms, urging him closer. “Oh, John, do hurry. I feel faint—so hot, so cold. Shivery…”

  She must be near delirium. “It’s best not to rush on so,” he murmured.

  “But if we don’t rush,” she said breathlessly, “I might never experience it.”

  He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Instead, he tucked kisses under her high collar as he worked the buttons free down the bodice. He would shower her with just the smallest bit more pleasure, before a long retreat. Settling his mouth over the coral-fleshed peak that had plagued his thoughts day and night, she immediately moaned. Her excitement drove him to the brink of madness, and he unconsciously bunched the skirting of her gown high above her slender thighs.

  Surely she was dying. Victoria’s head was spinning, and dimly she thought it was from the venom or from the brandy she had consumed—probably both. And all she could think with dark humor was that this was a perfectly lovely way to die even if it wasn’t honorable. It was probably going to weigh heavily against a lifetime of pious living.

  But it was worth it.

  She could barely breathe when she looked past half-closed eyes to find his lips encircling the sensitive tip of her breast. His mouth tugged at her, and her body arched toward him. A well of longing…and something else spiraled within her as she stroked the dark locks on his head. She would have liked to have had a child with those long, black lashes, and that raven hair of his. And those eyes that were so deeply blue they reminded her of the candied violets in the forbidden bakeries of her childhood.

  And suddenly, he was moving his lips back to her neck, his deft fingers covering her bared breast with the edge of her gown. He whispered all manner of lovely words meant to soothe her. Lord, he was retreating.

  “John, I swear that if you stop now, I shall never, ever forgive you,” she whispered.

  “Victoria,” he groaned, grasping her face. “You don’t understand.” He stilled her lips with his fingers as she tried to argue. “I don’t want to hurt you further. And certain things must be said. I would insist we—”

  “Don’t you dare say another word.” She pulled on his neckcloth until he was forced to lie atop her on the small bed. The feel of his overly starched shirt and coat against her breast was unbearably erotic. And then she suddenly noticed that, just as she asked, he had stopped speaking. His expression had grown primal, and stark—all raw man. A man whose last ounce of control staggered on a stone precipice that broke away as he leaned down to possess her lips once again with his own.

  The haze of passion ebbed but a moment, when she realized he had risen slightly, and the rustling was the sound of him unfastening his breeches. All thoughts of flowers, and lashes, and the children she would never see flew from her. He moved above her, and she instinctively opened her legs to accommodate his body. Oh, this should be beyond embarrassing, if it were not so shockingly elemental, and right…as nature intended. It was as if fate had ordained that she would bind her body and soul to his on this very day.

  Her body ached for him to press closer to her. But just as she thought she might die from craving his touch, from wanting the mystery of him, he stopped. Again.

  She opened her eyes to find a guilt-stricken look in those now dark eyes of his. She spoke before she could even think. “Would it help if I told you I forgive you in advance? Or perhaps a touch of anger would spur you. Just think of the headlines…Catch of the Century—CAUGHT!”

  “Victoria…” he rasped. “You are the most confounding…plaguing…irresistible woman.”

  “Such flattery. The words a lady longs to hear—”

  He interrupted by lowering his mouth to hers. And then his kiss became so all-consuming, her thoughts tangled, and she lost her grip on the moment.

  It all came crashing down, as he nudged more snugly into the cradle of her legs, the fabric of his breeches slightly abrading the tender skin of the inside of her thighs.

  And then, he flexed his hips slowly. It was the oddest, most intimate sensation—as if his entire body was kissing hers, molding to hers—filling her in a place he alone was meant to forge.

  And before she could take in the magnitude of what was happening, he was rocking gently, and she was turning to molten liquid. “Hold on to me, darling,” he whispered into her ear. “Tighter.” And for once, she obeyed him, followed his wishes to the letter.

  Pain suddenly lanced her and left her flesh throbbing.

  He went stock-still. “Give it a moment,” he groaned. He was deep inside of her, that part of him thrumming to the beat of her heart.

  She registered his hand stroking her head, and slowly a nearly primal desire to move even closer to him—to advance, and retreat—enveloped her. Her fingers tightened again on the bunched muscles of his broad back.

  At her signal, he proceeded, in gentle, then increasingly powerful, thrusts to fulfill all her dark-as-the-night flights of fancy. And then all thought was lost as she splintered into a thousand stars like those of a spring night. He plunged deeper than she thought possible, then gasped and became still, his heart racing inches above her own.

  The heat of the afternoon, the brandy, and the poison wound ’round her senses. The inevitable guilt from what she had just forced upon him soon followed, and she surrendered to the magnitude of it all.

  As he carefully rolled to her side and gathered her in his arms, John desperately hoped he had given her a measure of pleasure and chased away her darkest fears for at least a few moments. God, he had sworn he would not do this. So much for his famous discipline. His last vestige of self-control had vanished in the face of her sweetl
y ardent desire. She had, with her poignant show of puffed-up bravery and innocence, uncovered a desperate need he hadn’t known he’d possessed. She was as vital as the air he breathed to sustain him.

  He looked down to find her unconscious now, her face pale and still. Her breath caught ominously, and an ache of the acutest kind dragged over the part of him he hadn’t ever known could register pain—his heart. Ah…it was surely being torn asunder.

  She exhaled roughly and worked to drag another lungful inside of her. She was clinging to life as courageously as she had lived her life.

  God…He felt as wretched and ancient as she had repeatedly jested.

  The smallest sigh drifted from her. And then another that seemed to gurgle and shudder endlessly. A death rattle…

  A loud snore rended the air.

  He bit his lip and looked up at the roughened timber crisscrossing the ceiling. For Christsakes. When had he turned into such a melodramatic idiot? Oh, he knew the answer…It was the precise minute he had met the impossible yet perfect creature before him now snoring as deeply as a two-ton longshoreman after an encounter with a barrel or two of poorly distilled whiskey.

  Chapter Four

  V ictoria had never, ever, ever been so mortified. Why, she had for all practical purposes begged the Duke of Beaufort to make love to her. And so she did what any rational woman would have done. She refused to see him for three days.

  At first he had come to her bedchamber door at Beaulieu in person—every three hours, like clockwork. One solid knock followed by ten seconds of silence. Then his voice would call out, at first filled with anxiety, then with frustration, and still later with cool resignation.

  The kindly maid had explained it all to her. The boys and the duke had escorted her from the lake after they had found her there. Did she not remember tripping over the fallen tree limb? Hitting her head and falling unconscious? Her dreadful headache?

  Oh, she remembered the last part, all right. Actually, she remembered every single last embarrassing detail of their encounter until she had slipped into the comforting arms of drunken oblivion.

  So that was how he had hidden the truth. He had obviously concocted the main story, then found the boys to provide a side helping of decorum while he carried her back.

  At this point, her dignity was so far removed from her that she rather doubted it could ever be recovered, in even the smallest quantity. That stung almost as much as her loss of virtue to the man from whom she most longed to hide the tangle of tender feelings curling around her heart.

  It would take a century before she could face him. She, who had recently prided herself on her ability to play the nonchalant heroine.

  And so it went for three days. She’d secretly hoped he would break down the door in the middle of the night despite the fact that two footmen and one maid were stationed outside her door per her request.

  After the first day, notes, versus his person, arrived with each meal tray. She returned them unopened.

  She spent her time brooding, and sometimes lurking behind the silk drapery framing the tall windows in her chambers. Often, she saw him playing games with the boys outside. First he taught them nine pins, perfecting their aim and showing them how to address the pins with the heavy ball. Then it was on to rounders. He was very adept at swinging the odd-shaped, heavy wooden bat. Of course, he did it within sight of her window. He would turn his head toward her apartments every so often, and she would scurry back like the pathetic mouse she had become.

  Yet all along, she had known it would not last. During the gloomy afternoon, when she tried for the fifth time to bury her nose in the Canterbury Tales, the one book that had never failed to enthrall her until now, she heard the sound of several pairs of footsteps scurrying away and the click of the lock echoing from the door. She held her breath.

  He strode forward several feet, and all the air immediately seemed to desert the chamber. He seemed to have forgotten that for once, it was up to him to close the door since he had obviously dismissed the army of servants. He returned to shut the door, then closed the distance between them. Three feet from her bedside, he came to a halt and stared down at her. “How are you?” The faintest grooves appeared on his forehead.

  “Much improved,” she murmured, then glanced at her hands, which she forced still.

  “Victoria—” he began.

  “No,” she said, “Don’t say it.”

  “What do you suppose I was going to say?”

  “What you hinted at while we were in that vile little hut, and I was pretending to die. You remember, the same place I became foxed to the gills and forced you to…to have your way with me.” The vision of her tightly entwined fingers became blurry.

  “Actually, I think it was you who was having your way with me, Vic,” he said, dry humor itching his words.

  “I told you not to call me that.”

  “Very well, Victoria. The physician privately reported to me that you are fully recovered in body if not in spirits.” He was standing very stiffly. “I’m sorry, more sorry than I can say, that you suffered through that scare with the snake, which, in hindsight was quite obviously a grass snake and—”

  “And what?”

  “And I’m sorry I hurt you.” He seemed hardly able to get out the last words. “I’m sorry that I offered you the brandy. Sorry I—”

  “What? Followed my directions?”

  “No. You have absolutely no share of the blame for what happened. But now we must be sensible. I don’t want to argue with you. You see…we must marry. I want to marry you straightaway. I’ve already arranged a carriage to leave today to take us back to town—with the maid you’ve come to like—Mrs. Conlan.”

  Oh, this was worse than she had envisioned. He was dissembling. He was also rambling, quite obviously stricken with the knowledge of what his honor, as a gentleman, demanded.

  “You know,” she interrupted, “I should let you do it, if only to teach you a lesson.”

  He stood stock-still. “What on earth are you implying?”

  “I mean, really, why ruin one life when two can be ruined so easily?”

  Anger flooded his normally impassive expression. “Is this your response?”

  She continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “But I find I can’t do it. Yes, I find I’d rather spend the rest of my life teaching orphans than tending to your failing health.”

  “Victoria…” His tone was menacing, low. “So help me God—”

  “He won’t help you, I assure you. I find He deserts me at every critical hour. I suppose it’s my complete and utter lack of principles in the face of temptation—oh, what is the use? Look, I’m sorry I seduced you against your will.”

  He quickened his speech. “Tell me now, straightaway. Are you uttering all these ridiculous things to warn me off? Victoria…does your heart belong to another?”

  She answered without pause. “Yes.” She could not stop her eyes darting away from his.

  “Have I ever told you that you are the absolute worst liar plaguing Christendom? Now who in bloody hell gave you those ridiculous boots? Is he the one who calls you ‘Vic’?”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake, Your Grace. I’m a commoner. I could be the product of a Covent Garden light-skirt and a pandering drunk for all you know.”

  “Actually, I’m guessing your father was an army captain, and your mother a prim but luscious schoolteacher, what with those charmingly dictatorial ways of yours.”

  She started. Why, she knew precisely who her parents were and he was halfway closer to the truth than he would ever know. When she’d become a teacher and gotten access to the foundling home’s private records, the first thing she had done was search for clues.

  Her father had, apparently, been one of a vast wave of men in the Royal Navy—a Captain Givan. In her dreams, she envisioned him as a formidable officer spitting at his archrival’s feet as he died an honorable death.

  She’d forced the details about her mother from the older matro
n at the foundling home. Mrs. Kane had still remembered the day a scared young maid had tried to deposit Victoria in the front hall with an almost illegible petition signed by a Mrs. Givan. The matron had explained to the maid that infants could not just be left without a formal review and acceptance by the governors. The girl had silently left, but within minutes, the matron had found nine-month-old Victoria propped against the gates of the home along with the petition. No trace of the young maid or Mrs. Givan had ever been found, and so Victoria had been absorbed into the sprawling foundling home’s system.

  The petition, written on nearly translucent paper, suggested Mrs. Givan was the only daughter and relation of a dead vicar. Dying of consumption, Victoria’s mother had left her child and the petition along with a brass button token from Victoria’s father, who had just died at sea in service to His Majesty. The records she had found at the Royal Naval offices had snuffed out her last hope of ever finding relations. Captain Charles Givan had lived and died without a single relation listed in his records.

  “What is going on in that head of yours?” His voice was low, his expression eerily calm, but he refused to wait for an answer. “Victoria, gather your affairs. We leave this afternoon. If the weather holds, we can be in London tomorrow—can secure a Special License by—”

  “You are perfectly right. And after we marry, could we hold a ball in the Beaufort London town house? I’m certain all your friends in the House of Lords would enjoy the honor of bowing and scraping before me. And the gossips will be positively panting to hear all the details of how THE CATCH OF THE CENTURY was netted by a bloody NOBODY you found on the side of a country road!” The last she shouted at him.

  “You are perfectly right,” he returned, unmoved. “It will be a beastly business.”

  He withstood her blast of outrage with the same calculating tactics he’d used when she had first met him. The only difference was that she now knew how to retaliate.