This Duke is Mine

by Eloisa James

  “All the more reason to admire his decision to join the battle.”

  “His father was quite dismayed, but Rupert has a very strong will. When he puts his mind to something, no one can change it.”

  A fleeting frown crossed the duke’s face. “I suppose—” He broke off.

  “Yes?”

  “Your fiancé sounds like an excellent man all around. Loyal to his country, brave even with the encumbrance of a physical disability, and resolute in his convictions in the face of his father’s disapproval. I have met the Duke of Canterwick, and I would expect that he exerted considerable pressure on his son to remain in England. I look forward to meeting Montsurrey.”

  Olivia nodded. She couldn’t say anything much without being disloyal to Rupert, and she had made up her mind that she simply wouldn’t do it.

  But the duke was not finished. “Canterwick apparently told my mother that his son’s brains were as scrambled as an egg custard.”

  “Ah,” Olivia said. Of course she agreed, but she had realized when the duchess was so dismissive of Rupert that she could either spend her entire life listening to sniggers behind her husband’s back, or she could make it clear that no one should dare to insult Rupert to her face.

  “The duke shows a dismaying inability to recognize his son’s strong points,” she said, suiting thought to word. “Rupert’s thoughts are often remarkably clear.” That was true enough. Rupert understood precisely what he thought of Lucy, for example. Olivia glanced down with a rush of affection. The little dog was trotting beside her, waving her tail so briskly that it kept hitting Olivia’s leg.

  “Parents are sometimes of that inclination,” the duke said. His face was impossible to read.

  “Of course, Canterwick would have preferred that Rupert remain in England, given that he has no other heirs,” Olivia said. “But Rupert would not sacrifice his own and his country’s honor merely for something as ephemeral as a title.”

  That drew a distinct frown from the duke. It may well have been the first time that anyone had envied Rupert; she felt quite sad that he wasn’t here to enjoy it.

  “Would you have liked to have joined His Majesty’s Service, Your Grace?” she asked.

  “Of course.” He said it rather gruffly. “But I am already the duke, and a duke without an heir. I could not in good conscience leave my responsibilities in the hands of others.”

  “Rupert has no responsibilities as yet. He felt in his heart that he had to go.” The duke really did look grim around the mouth, and Olivia started to feel a bit sorry for him. “He probably won’t have any effect on the war effort,” she offered. “He only has a company of one hundred men.”

  “As I understand it, the number of men is important, but not as important as one’s strategic planning,” the duke said.

  Olivia didn’t even try to imagine Rupert engaged in strategic planning.

  “Are you worried about his safety?”

  “Yes,” Olivia said. And she was, oddly enough. For all her bleating over the marriage, something had shifted within her by the time she’d said good-bye. Rupert was not undamaged, but he was hers, for better or worse.

  She hesitated a moment and then decided that she had better be absolutely straightforward. “You and I, Your Grace, have fallen into something of a flirtation.”

  He turned his head, rather slowly, and looked down at her. The flare in his eyes couldn’t be described by a word as innocuous as flirtation. “I would not describe it as such,” he said, echoing her thought.

  Was he trying to shame her? If there was one thing Olivia hated, it was people who hid their emotions behind a mask of propriety. She’d had enough of that from her family. Though she loved them dearly, she’d long ago concluded that greed dictated her parents’ relationship to her.

  “I understand if you wish to pretend that the feeling isn’t there, but I cannot agree with you,” she said.

  “In fact, I have described it to myself as being in the grip of compulsive lust,” he said bluntly. “I assure you, Miss Lytton, that I have never kissed a strange woman in such an impetuous manner before you appeared at my front door.”

  Olivia felt a sudden flush break over her entire body. Her heart was pounding. She did not dare look at him. Part of her wanted to protest: didn’t he realize that she was plump and unattractive? She peeked at him.

  “You are betrothed,” he said, his voice coming out in a growl.

  “Since childhood,” she said, nodding.

  They were walking along a lilac hedge. The perfume of the blossoms floated in the air all around them. He stopped, dropping her arm, so she had to look up at him. A strong hand tipped up her chin. Their eyes met. “Olivia,” he said. And that was all.

  She was in his arms, and his lips came down on hers. For a moment they kissed the way they had in the silver room: a bit tentative, gentle, a sip and a taste. But then his arms tightened and she tilted her head just so, and the kiss changed. Her lips opened and he was there, tangling with her.

  The fragrance of the lilacs faded. Instead, she smelled spice and soap, a mingling of gentleman and highwayman that was the duke.

  He was right. This wasn’t flirtation; this was craving, so deep and intense that Olivia’s whole body vibrated with the need to be closer. She wrapped her arms around his neck, stood on tiptoe, allowed his hand to press her body against the hard planes of his body. The other cupped the back of her head, cradling it in a position that tilted her head so that he could kiss her hard, a hungry, smoldering kiss that told her without words that he didn’t think she was plump and unattractive.

  His hair fell from its ribbon and brushed her cheek. His eyes were closed, which made him look like a different man. Open-eyed, he was fierce, hawk-like, somewhat cold. With his eyes closed, he was someone else entirely.

  A man in the grip of pleasure, her instinct told her.

  His lips slid from hers, seeking the tender sweep of her neck. She gasped and shivered; his eyes opened.

  “This is not flirtation.” His voice rasped as his lips lit a trail of heat across her cheek.

  “No,” she whispered, trembling against him.

  “It’s a bloody forest fire,” he said, dropping one last short, hard kiss on her lips and then putting her away from him.

  Olivia swallowed.

  “Yet you are betrothed.” It was a statement, but those dark eyes were asking a question. Olivia felt as if the world peeled away from around them, as if there were only the two of them in the whole of the windy garden: this tall, hard man, his eyes searching her face, and Miss Olivia Mayfield Lytton, betrothed at birth to a marquess. Her heart thudded against her ribs, but . . .

  There was Rupert to think of, and Georgiana.

  She steeled herself and willed the words aloud. “A forest fire is no reason to betray the two people I . . . to betray my fiancé.”

  “Two people.” He paused. “Georgiana?”

  “That’s irrelevant,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean to—at any rate, it’s completely irrelevant.”

  “No, it’s not. She’s here because my mother invited her.”

  Olivia nodded.

  “It’s not as if we were looking her over, like a horse at Tattersall’s,” he said somewhat defensively. “My first marriage went very poorly. My mother is anxious that I don’t repeat the mistake.”

  Olivia touched his cheek, as lightly as a breath, but still her fingertips tingled. “Georgiana would never betray you.”

  “So you have heard the gossip?” His eyes were shuttered.

  “My maid mentioned your former wife’s reputation.”

  “Evangeline earned her reputation, I’m afraid.” There was no shame, or condemnation in his voice. “I believe we had better continue to the stables, Miss Lytton. My aunt, not to mention young Justin, will grow restless if they are kept waiting in the pony cart.”

  Olivia again took his arm. Her knees felt weak.

  “I take it, then, that Montsurrey has your loyalty.�
��

  She nodded, but realized he was looking straight ahead, and said, “Yes.” It came out a croak. “He—he would be very hurt if I were to . . . It wouldn’t do.”

  “A very English response,” he said, glancing down at her. “It wouldn’t do. But you’re right. The very worst thing any man could do to another, especially one serving his country, would be to steal his future wife. Perhaps when he has returned safely, we might discuss this further?”

  “You and I scarcely know each other,” Olivia said, keeping her voice steady only with effort.

  “I want to get to know you better. That’s the point of the conversation.” His voice was dark, husky.

  Georgiana’s hopeful face swam before Olivia’s eyes. She drew herself together. Rupert was one thing, but Georgiana was her twin, her other half. And she felt instinctively that her sister was right: this man was perfect for Georgie. Not for Olivia.

  “One doesn’t marry on the basis of madness,” she said, dropping a cool edge into her voice.

  He took another few steps without a word. Silence . . . silence just made Olivia even more conscious of the powerful body next to her. Brother-in-law, she said to herself.

  “So are you familiar with this sort of madness?” His voice was colorless. “Does it come often to you?”

  Like his wife. That’s what he’s thinking. She opened her mouth to deny it—and thought again. “Rupert and I have been betrothed since his birth. Of course I have not . . .” She tried again. “Neither of us had a choice of spouse. We both understood fidelity was not part of our fathers’ pact, at least before marriage.”

  They were rounding the corner of the stables now. A stable boy peeked out the door, then popped back inside, followed by the clop of horse’s shoes as a dappled mare emerged into the sunshine.

  “I’ll put you on your mount,” the duke said.

  He led her to the mare, then put his hands on her waist. For a moment they both froze. His hands tightened, and he lifted her carefully up to the saddle.

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” she murmured, slipping her leg around the pommel and tweaking her skirts.

  “I prefer to be called Quin.”

  Startled, she looked down at him. “That would be quite improper.”

  “ ‘Improper’ would be if I pulled you off this horse in front of four servants and kissed you senseless.”

  “You can’t!” she squeaked.

  “I can.” He said it calmly enough. “And I can only assume that it wouldn’t disturb you, Olivia, given that you just characterized yourself as an accomplished flirt . . . to put your description in the best possible light.”

  What was she supposed to say to that? “ ‘Miss Lytton’ to you?” The duke had already turned away and leapt on his horse in one smooth movement. He was angry: she could see the contained fury in his body, in the way his cheekbones looked even more sharply masculine than usual.

  But she didn’t know how to respond. Everything in her—except her pride and loyalty—longed to reach out, touch his hand, catch his sleeve. Give him a feverish look, somehow, anyhow, lure him back so that he would kiss her again like that. As if she were desirable. Sensual.

  Olivia glanced down and caught sight of her own leg curved around the pommel. The sight jolted her back to her senses. He wanted her now, for some reason.

  But she was fat. Her leg was fat. He hadn’t seen that yet, somehow. He’d overlooked it, but he wouldn’t—couldn’t—if they were ever in a state of undress together.

  The thought made her stomach pitch, but she welcomed the faint queasiness. It was a call to reason. Quin would be happy with Georgiana. He would forget this nonsense, this “forest fire,” as he called it.

  She smiled at the stable boy holding her horse’s reins. “Will you keep Lucy for me until I return? I do believe she thinks there might be rats in the stable.”

  “She’d be right,” the boy said promptly. Lucy was nosing around at the wall, her tail stiff with delight.

  “Find them,” Olivia suggested.

  He grinned and handed over the reins. She deftly tightened them, nudged the mare, and set out after the duke. Quin.

  They reached the house by a road that rounded a bend and placed them before the house. Littlebourne Manor had a magisterial façade, she realized, paying attention to it for the first time.

  Rather than sprawling in many directions, like so many ancestral mansions that had been added to in bits and pieces, it stood upright, trim and perfectly symmetrical, surrounded by immaculately manicured lawns.

  It was too neat for her. Each feature had its exact duplicate on the opposite side: windows, gables, chimneys.

  “What do you think?” the duke asked, as she drew up her horse.

  “It’s too orderly for my taste,” she said, with a wave of her hand at the windows marching along like tin soldiers. “I’m a quite haphazard person.”

  “What does haphazard mean in architectural terms?” he asked. But she could see Lady Cecily and Justin waiting for them, so she put her mare to a trot.

  “I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting, Lady Cecily,” she said, bending down once she reached the pony cart.

  “You should be apologizing to me,” Justin said with some indignation. “Aunt Cecily arrived only a moment ago, whereas I’ve had time to write an entire roundel. It’s not bad either, if I say so myself.” He waved a piece of foolscap at them.

  “I will look forward to hearing it,” Olivia said. “How is your ankle, Lady Cecily?”

  “Excellent well! I put a poulder on it that I bought in Venice two years ago. The medicine is so powerful that it kept Helen herself young. And it’s particularly for bones; I remember that the man selling it—’twas on the square before Saint Mark’s—said that it would set your teeth and make them dance like the keys of a harpsichord. And so it did, though of course, it was my ankle, not my teeth.”

  “We’ll go to Ladybird Ridge,” the duke said to Justin. “Endeavor not to tip the cart over, if you can help it.”

  “It would be impossible to tip this thing over,” Justin said, looking disgusted. “Now, if you’d let me drive your phaeton, I would at least having a sporting chance to roll it—”

  The duke didn’t bother to answer, instead turning to Olivia. “Shall we?”

  “I wish your dear sister were with us,” Lady Cecily called up to Olivia. “I gather that she has a headache, so I sent her a dose of this poulder as well. It’s as precious as gold, I assure you, so I’m quite sure that she’s already feeling herself again. Should we send indoors and ask if she’d like to join us?”

  “No,” the duke said, before Olivia could respond. “We’re leaving now.” And he wheeled his horse. It was a great black gelding that pranced forward and made a halfhearted attempt to shake him off.

  Olivia turned her mare and followed.

  Fourteen

  The Flight of the Cherry Kite

  Of course Olivia was no stranger to flirtation, let alone lust, Quin said to himself. It made complete sense. One didn’t need to conduct a third experiment to prove this hypothesis: for whatever ignoble reason, he was particularly vulnerable to women who had a liberal relationship with the concept of chastity.

  Even worse, he was more besotted now than he had been with Evangeline.

  Evangeline had fascinated him: he had wanted to bring her home, cherish her, and make love to her. He had thought the curl of her hair and the tinkle of her laugh enchanting. But he could not remember feeling this sort of overwhelming sensuality, a wild madness that tangled up his reason and sent all the blood in his body to a place between his legs.

  He didn’t even have to look at Olivia to catalog her features. Her eyelashes were a trifle longer at the corners, which gave her a wicked air, a touch of Cleopatra. Even thinking of her body made his tighten painfully. She was all curves and plump, creamy flesh.

  And her eyes—they were honest. Unlike Evangeline, she told him the truth about herself, straight out. Both women were, one m
ight say, less than chaste. But Olivia didn’t pretend otherwise.

  What’s more, when he’d asked her in so many words if she would consider him rather than Montsurrey, she’d remained loyal to the marquess. He had the sense, as well, that she would always be so. No matter how coquettish she was as a young lady, once she married her returning warrior, she would be true to him.

  There was another signal difference, too: Olivia was genuinely desirous. In his arms she was like a quick flame.

  Evangeline . . . well, Evangeline had wanted words. That’s what she’d longed for. When they made love she would squeal and push at his chest, hating the fact that he towered over her. For her, it was all about the time before, and the time after: the words. And he was so terrible at words.

  He had slowed his mount to a walk, and Olivia caught up with him. She had a pretty flush in her cheeks from the exercise and wind.

  “I like your hat,” he said, suddenly finding a few words. It was like a cherry, perched atop a luscious mound of dark bronze-colored hair. Since it could have no useful function, it was obviously designed to make a man long to pluck it off.

  She looked startled for a moment, and then beamed at him. “It wouldn’t keep off the rain.”

  He turned onto a little dirt track, the pony clop-clopping behind them. “We’ll take the kites to the top of the ridge,” he told her, nodding ahead of them. “They fly best on a hill, and this is a particularly windy spot. Sometimes we can spin out ells of string before they lose the current.”

  Olivia looked at him curiously. “You sound like a kite expert, which is rather like finding a grown man admitting to playing jack-stones.”

  His heart gave a thump. “I used to play—” he said, before he caught himself. There was no reason to tell her the details. He was coming to terms with the fact that she wouldn’t be his. She belonged to another man, he of the patriotic bent and scrambled brain.

  So he turned it into a weak retort. “Kites are not something one ever forgets how to fly.”

  “I suppose not,” she said. But she looked curious, as if she saw through him.