This Duke is Mine

by Eloisa James

  He shook the feeling away; it was illogical. It didn’t matter how many men a woman had slept with. He had told himself that after Evangeline—on their wedding night—had detailed her many exploits (which had begun with a footman at the tender age of fifteen). He had been right.

  None of those men had changed the essential Evangeline, or the way he’d felt about her.

  But still, that glow—that ferocious, animalistic, possessive glow at the bottom of his heart—didn’t fade away. He dismissed it as being akin to poetry: unaccountable, illogical.

  Poor Olivia was undoubtedly sore after the events of the previous night. He eased her onto her back, then took his time caressing those creamy, soft, intoxicating curves. She slept on; he began embellishing his touch with a kiss now and then. She stirred a few times, but it wasn’t until he had a hand exploring the delicate skin on her inner thigh, while his mouth inched closer to a sweet pink nipple . . .

  She woke up.

  She didn’t murmur a greeting. Instead she sat straight upright and shrieked, “Ohmygoodness, where am I?”

  Quin wasn’t very good at answering questions at the best of times (unless, of course, they had to do with mathematics). Instead of answering, he reached up, pulled that luscious bundle of female flesh down onto his chest, and kissed her. Which made a feeling of possessiveness rage through his body again.

  He let it happen.

  It wasn’t logical. Wasn’t really him. It was powerful, though.

  “Oh, Quin,” Olivia whispered, considerably later. She was flat on her back, and he was inching his way down her body, kissing as he went.

  “Hmmm.”

  “I love it when you growl in my ear.”

  Quin thought about that. “You make me sound like a rabid bulldog.”

  She threw her hands over her head in a happy stretch that signaled pure pleasure. “I don’t mean you growl like a dog. You’re—it’s as though you’re so happy to have me here.”

  “You’re mine,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Of course I’m happy you’re here.” He nudged her legs apart.

  “Just what are you doing down there?” Olivia asked, peering down at him.

  “Kissing your thighs.”

  She tried to pull her knees together. “Absolutely not. We must return to the house before your guests notice our absence. Thank goodness these birds made such a racket and woke us up.”

  He lapped a little design on her thigh that made her shiver despite all her busy conversation, slid his tongue a little closer to her hot middle, caressed her breast in a way that he now knew drove her half mad with pleasure.

  “Why, why, Quin,” she said, in that breathless voice he’d heard only a few times. “What . . .”

  He ran a delicate finger over beautiful pink folds.

  She sat up again. “No!” And she followed that up with a lot of babble. They had to go inside, they had to bathe and dress, they had to avoid his mother, they had to . . .

  The one thing his beloved Olivia didn’t realize about him yet was that when Quin made up his mind . . . he got what he wanted.

  The only way to stop the flood of words and anxiety was to pull her into a kiss. Since his hand had found its way to the softest, wettest place in her whole body, he wasn’t inclined to listen to protests.

  Mind you, he wanted to do more than stroke her. But if he had momentarily lost self-control the night before, he had it again now. Olivia, sweet Olivia, needed to experience bone-numbing pleasure before he would venture near her again.

  Finally he had her gasping and twisting against his finger and pleading, please, please, please. He ruthlessly rejected the urge to leap on top of her, and instead carefully pushed another finger next to the first . . . and that was it. She cried out, clutching at his shoulders, her whole body shaking.

  It was so damned enticing that Quin actually had to stop for a moment and wrestle his own body back into submission.

  She was everything he wanted . . . everything he could ever want.

  He couldn’t ruin it.

  “Quin,” she said, struggling for breath. “Oh, that. That.”

  He nodded, rolling over and giving his body another little lecture. No, he would not rub against her.

  “Your turn,” she said, looking like the brave little soldier facing a battalion of armed elephants.

  That did it. His erection finally calmed enough that he could sit up. “Time to return to the house,” he said, looking around for his smalls. It was the work of a moment to put on his breeches and shirt. “We should go back before too many servants are up and about.”

  “My knees are weak,” Olivia said. Her voice was throaty and sounded as though she was inviting precisely that which she was not.

  “Up,” he said.

  “You go,” she suggested. “I’ll take a little nap and follow later.” She curled into a ball and tugged the blanket over herself again. Her eyes drifted shut.

  “I can’t leave you in a tree.”

  “Yes, you certainly can. You go inside and have breakfast with everyone. I’ll come in later. That way no one will think that we spent the night doing wicked things in a tree, which I’m sure is what would come to mind if we appeared together. I know I often assume people are cavorting in trees.”

  “I cannot leave you here,” he said patiently.

  “I’ll be fine. You’re the one who fell out of that other tree, not me.”

  Quin squatted down. “Olivia, wake up. We’re going inside, and I can’t carry you down.”

  “Too tired. And too sore. I’m not climbing down until I’ve had a rest. Wake me in a few hours.”

  That was an order. Quin stood up, as best as he could, and looked down at his future duchess. She seemed to be sleeping peacefully, a hand under her cheek, her gorgeous, tousled hair curling all over the blanket. She didn’t even have a pillow, and yet she looked blissfully comfortable.

  He found he was grinning: he was rumpled and unwashed, and happier than he’d been in years.

  She opened one eye.

  “Bring some tea when you come back?”

  “As I explained, footmen can’t negotiate up the ladder while carrying trays. Wait a minute—are you, Miss Lytton, asking a duke to fetch you some tea?”

  Her eye closed again, but he saw the little curl of a smile on her mouth. She was testing her power, his Olivia was.

  “Yes,” she said sweetly. “That’s what marriage is all about.”

  “What is it all about?”

  “Being nice because”—she smiled—“you want the other person to be nice to you.”

  He brought her tea.

  And crumpets.

  Twenty-two

  Wreathed in Glory

  Early evening

  "I simply cannot believe you did that!” It was a little insulting the way Georgiana was staring at Olivia, rather as if she were a two-headed calf at the fair. “No wonder you didn’t come to breakfast. Or lunch.”

  “I slept right through both. But it wasn’t as if we spent the night in the open air,” Olivia tried to explain. “It’s a tiny house; it just happens to be up in a tree.”

  Georgiana snapped her mouth shut. Her eyes were laughing, though. “I simply cannot believe it. No one could get me into a tree. I’m quite certain that you found the one man in the world who likes to climb trees.”

  “It’s rather amazing, isn’t it?” Olivia said. She could hardly put it into words. “He’s everything I would have dreamed of, if I’d thought that I could dream.”

  Georgiana shook her head. “Even you couldn’t have dreamed up a man who likes to sleep in trees.”

  “I know.” Olivia was so happy that she felt as if she were about to burst. “How was luncheon?”

  “We should join the party in the drawing room,” Georgiana said, starting. “Her Grace is terribly irritable. She clearly suspects there’s a reason you missed breakfast and luncheon. None of the houseguests have departed, and I gather some plan to stay for at least a week. She was
quite short with Mr. Epicure Dapper—the gentleman with the remarkable addiction to puffed shoulders on his coats.”

  Olivia snorted. “How the mighty have fallen!”

  “Lord Justin takes positive delight in tormenting her, you know. After luncheon, the young ladies all begged him to sing for them, and he sang French songs!”

  “He is half French, is he not?” Olivia held open the bedchamber door so that Georgiana could precede her. “Why shouldn’t he sing in his native language?”

  “Oh, Olivia, you know perfectly well that French songs are nothing like English ones. They sound improper even when they aren’t.”

  “Her irritability has nothing to do with Justin’s propensity for singing in his mother’s tongue.”

  Georgiana stopped short at the top of the stairway. “Don’t tell me you crossed swords with her again last night.”

  “Aren’t you glad you weren’t with us? It would have given you a double migraine, if such a thing exists.”

  Olivia started down, but Georgiana caught her arm. “Tell me all, please.”

  “If you remember, you sent me into the library and said that Quin would follow.”

  “Which he did. I watched him track you through the crowd like a fox stalking a chicken.”

  “We had just worked out a few things to both of our satisfaction when the dowager entered the room. She interrupted us, if you follow what I’m saying.”

  “Just what are you saying?”

  “Not that,” Olivia said with a crow of laughter. “We were merely kissing.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “She was horribly cross about it. She said that I was too fat to marry her son,” Olivia said, going straight to the only point that she clearly remembered. “Apparently, she believes I was a sensible choice for Rupert because my ample hips make up for his deficient brains.”

  “I cannot believe the dowager said such a thing!” Georgiana gasped. “She can be brusque, perhaps, but never uncivil. And such a comment—which is so untrue—goes far beyond garden-variety incivility.”

  “I assure you, she did say it, but she didn’t truly mean it,” Olivia said. “She’s merely cross that now she will not have Wonderful You as her daughter-in-law—and really, who can blame her?”

  “You are very kind, Olivia, but I am disappointed,” Georgiana said, her small bosom swelling with such indignation that she bore a faint resemblance to the dowager herself. “For such a lady of consequence to fall below her own firmly held standards is shocking.”

  “It’s probably my influence. I expect she is nothing but sunshine and daisies in the general course of events. I bring out the predator in her.”

  “That’s no predator you’re describing. It’s rude, common behavior.” Georgiana finally started down the stairs. “Well, the dowager may be unhappy, but Mother will be ecstatic.”

  “I doubt that very much.”

  “One duke is as good as another.”

  “Once she realizes that you refuse to take my place—well, I don’t like to think. Remember, Father promised that one of his daughters would marry Rupert. Though really, Georgie, when I think on it, you could do worse. You are trained to the job.”

  “You don’t want me to marry Rupert,” Georgiana stated. “And I don’t want to marry Rupert. And frankly, whereas you were always a good daughter except in the smallest things, I’m not.”

  “You’re not?” Olivia asked.

  “Mother and Father made the mistake of thinking that because I conquered every task they set me, I was therefore obedient. I’m not.” She reached the bottom of the stairs and turned around to face Olivia.

  “Georgie!” Olivia gasped. “You’re—this is wonderful!”

  “They also made the mistake of thinking that you were rebellious, simply because you recited limericks and generally carried on. But that was all flummery. You are the obedient daughter.”

  Olivia stepped down beside her. “I think I prefer being the rebel. I sound like a ninny.”

  “The Duke of Sconce would never be enticed by a ninny,” Georgiana said with a grin. “He’s mad for you. I expected him to break out and announce that he had chosen you to be his wife at the luncheon table, but he managed to restrain himself.”

  Just then one of the footmen standing along the walls of the entryway sprang forward and swung open the great doors.

  Olivia turned, thinking it might be Quin. Then she froze in place, unable to speak. The person at the door was, most decidedly, not Quin.

  Georgiana experienced no such hesitation. “Your Grace,” she said, as Cleese ushered in the Duke of Canterwick. “It is such a pleasure to see you.”

  “It’s Rupert,” Olivia blurted out. “Something’s happened to Rupert.”

  “No!” The duke turned his head and saw her. “My dear, my dear, it’s the best possible news!”

  (As Olivia later told Georgiana, she would have thought that the best possible news would refer to her own pregnancy, and she had very good reason to know that wasn’t the case.)

  “Rupert has surpassed himself!” The duke shouted it. His entire face glowed with happiness.

  “What?”

  “Wreathed in glory,” Canterwick said, still shouting. “Crowned in it! Earl of Wellington mentioned him in the dispatches . . . Prince Regent informed . . . special honors considered. Good evening, Miss Georgiana! And how are you getting along with Sconce, then?”

  “Very well, thank you,” Georgiana said, smiling. “I am so happy to hear your news, Your Grace.”

  “Not as happy as I am,” the duke said, somewhat less fortissimo. “Happy is not . . . I can’t even describe what I’m feeling. Couldn’t believe it at first. His Majesty’s messenger had to tell me four times. Then I sent a man to Dover to wait for my son and bring him here as soon as he touches shore. Should be any day, the messenger said. I came straight here to share the news. I have to tell everyone.” He interrupted his crowing and moved to Olivia, putting his hands on her shoulders and giving her a paternal shake. “I can see that you’re as dumbstruck as anyone, m’dear. Well, it’s the truth. I see there’s a bit of a party tonight, which is splendid. Splendid! I shall be able to tell everyone at once.”

  And with that, he drew Olivia into the drawing room. The dowager moved forward with a smile; Quin turned around from a conversation. Before either of them could greet him, Canterwick waved the assembly to silence as if he owned the house.

  He was something of an actor, Olivia thought, starting to get over the shock of his arrival and the astounding news he brought. First she had thought Rupert was dead, and now . . . Now?

  “As you may know, my son, the Marquess of Montsurrey, is the major of the First Company of Canterwick Rifles,” the duke was saying, once again at a near-shout. He rocked back and forth on his heels, the words tumbling out. “For one reason or another, the Rifles landed at Oporto in Portugal. Apparently, when my son discovered this error, he shaped up his men and took them across country to Badajoz, the fort of Badajoz.”

  The entire room was rapt, attention fixed on the duke. Except Quin; his eyes were fixed on Olivia’s back. Olivia could feel her shoulder blades prickling.

  “As I’m sure you know, Badajoz has been under siege, under the command of General Thomas Picton. There had been many an attempt to scale the ramparts—some of them detailed in the London papers—but to no avail. Not, that is, until my son arrived!”

  Olivia doubted that the duke knew how triumphant his tone was whenever he said the words my son.

  “He’s glowing,” Georgiana murmured to her. “Isn’t it wonderful, Olivia? I mean, wonderful for Rupert. This will change everything for him.”

  Olivia nodded.

  “The general labeled the Canterwick Rifles the ‘Forlorn Hope,’ ” the duke went on. “That’s the term they give to a company that has no hope of success. ‘Forlorn Hope’! My son! Picton had to eat his words.”

  “I expect Picton didn’t want to let them climb the ramparts,” Olivia whispere
d back to Georgiana. “It’s rather nice to see that even a general can’t stop Rupert once he puts his mind to something.”

  “He and his men surmounted those ramparts, although every other English company had failed,” the duke bellowed. “Scaled then and held them for several days, until the Fifth Division was able to return. They’d given up, you see. Given up and moved on, thinking the French were keeping the fort at Badajoz. They weren’t, thanks to my son!”

  Olivia couldn’t stop herself; she glanced to her right. Quin was looking at her; their eyes met, and it felt as if a gulf had opened between them.

  “Most of the French defenders retreated to San Cristobal, and surrendered from there,” the duke said, his voice growing louder by the moment. “The marquess led his company up those ramparts, then held the fort, and captured many French soldiers. Held it. With one hundred men, he held the whole fort.” The duke leveled a ferocious look around the room. “There have been those who said things behind my son’s back. Made fun of him. Never again! They’re talking of the Order of the Bath. An honor held by twenty-four men at the most. My son!”

  There was a moment of silence and then, spontaneously, applause . . . spreading from hand to hand until the whole party was cheering, even tearful in some cases.

  The duke suddenly turned to the side and caught Olivia’s arm, pulled her to him. “Miss Lytton believed in him,” he said, looking around the room, fierce. “I present to you my son’s fiancée, the future Marchioness of Montsurrey.”

  Olivia almost tripped, caught herself, smiled. The applause briefly grew louder, then subsided as the Dowager Duchess of Sconce advanced majestically to stand before the duke. In the perfect silence of the room, she dropped into a low, and only slightly creaky, curtsy.

  “Your Grace,” she said, “it will be the honor of this nation to welcome your son back to the shores of England wreathed in rightly deserved glory.”

  Olivia did not look at Quin again.

  She could not look.

  Twenty-three

  Why Heroes Are Not as Much Fun as Dukes

  The dinner that followed the arrival of the Duke of Canterwick was never forgotten by any of the delighted and—after the joyous popping of champagne corks—inebriated guests. Though there was one participant who, even years later, would remember feeling utter despair in the midst of all that celebration.