What a Duke Dares

by Anna Campbell

  She stared at him. “Goodness, Cam, was that an apology? I thought you’d lost the knack.”

  His lips firmed, but he remained calm. Pity. Her longing was so much easier to control when dislike crackled. Except what vibrated between them wasn’t exactly dislike.

  “I’ve been a brute.”

  Her laugh was wry. “Not by anyone’s definition but your own.”

  His gaze remained unwavering. “You know why I’ve been difficult.”

  “You told me.”

  Then he’d retreated to silence on the subject. Thank heaven. It was excruciating, knowing that he wanted her, but knowing also that only a fool would succumb.

  “I’d hoped honesty would simplify things.”

  “It didn’t.” The air tautened until she felt suffocated. Would he kiss her? Just one kiss to last a lifetime wasn’t too much to ask. Except she already had too much to remember.

  “Is that because you don’t want me?” The flickering light was more deceptive than true darkness. She could almost imagine desperation in his eyes. Cam was never desperate. He’d never let himself become desperate. “Or because you do?”

  She jolted back, spilling wine over her hand. “Cam, I—”

  “God knows this is wrong. I’m courting another woman. You’re my friend’s sister. We grew up together.” His voice shook. “But tell me you want me. Not knowing is driving me mad.”

  She didn’t want to hear this, partly because a wicked, wanton part of her burned to fling herself into his arms and beg him to do a thousand wild and forbidden things to her. She retreated against the balustrade. Fear beat high and fast in her throat.

  The threat of betraying her secret hovered close. He must never know she loved him. His pity would be worse than death. “There’s no point to this.”

  Cam took her glass and placed it with his on the balustrade. “I need to know.”

  “No, you don’t,” she said, then groaned when satisfaction flooded his face. On this breezy terrace, with his usually immaculate dark hair ruffled and his eyes glowing with passion, he was the handsomest man she’d ever seen.

  He grabbed her hand. “If you don’t want me, you’d say so.”

  She knew to her bones that if he kept touching her, she’d lie in his bed tonight. “Someone might see.”

  “I don’t care. Tell me.”

  His touch set her blood ablaze, shooting hot and urgent to the pit of her belly. “What use is this?” she asked in angry despair, struggling to withdraw. “You’re marrying Lady Marianne.”

  His gaze focused on her lips, making them tingle as if he kissed her. “Once, I wanted to marry you.”

  Bitterness welled. “When you thought you could mold me into what you wanted. Before my family’s eccentricities tumbled over into full-scale scandal with Peter’s ruin.”

  She’d cut off her right hand to hear him deny her assertions, but of course, he didn’t. He wouldn’t lie to her. She respected that even as she loathed it. “Lady Marianne will make the perfect duchess.”

  Pain lanced through her as she acknowledged that he’d never have said that about Penelope Thorne, even before her bohemian wanderings. “Do you love her?”

  He snatched his hand free and his jaw hardened with the rejection familiar whenever anyone mentioned love. “You’re mistaken to think that love is a requirement for a happy marriage.”

  “You’re mistaken to think that it’s not,” she snapped back.

  “My parents were in love. For a short time.”

  “Your parents were always children dressed as grown-ups.”

  He glared down his daunting nose. “You venture on dangerous territory.”

  She drew herself to her full height. Temper made her speak in a rush. “Why? You speak freely to me.” Her tone eased. “Cam, I know this… attraction is a pest. But it’s not so surprising. We’re two healthy adults confined to each other’s company. It would be unnatural not to demonstrate a little curiosity.”

  A bitter smile twisted his lips. “That’s a facile explanation.”

  For a sizzling interval, their eyes met. She knew that, like her, he remembered her standing naked before him.

  Then the shutters crashed down over his expression. She felt disoriented. He’d lured her up to a door, then slammed it in her face.

  Still, she was grateful when Cam’s fierceness ebbed. It had been torture to hear him speak his need aloud and know that it wasn’t enough, it could never be enough.

  As if by common consent, they turned toward the sea that tomorrow became their highway. Somewhere down there his yacht lay at anchor. If winds were favorable, they’d be in England within a fortnight.

  A silence descended. At first, it was heavy with suppressed passion, but gradually it became something softer and kinder. As his voice was softer and kinder when he spoke. “Pen, why are you so determined to go into exile? What are you running away from?”

  You.

  She’d spent the last nine years fleeing this man she loved but who could never love her. Despite excitement and adventure, despite playing a sophisticate in a sophisticated world, she hadn’t run toward anything. What a lowering admission.

  “I enjoy my life.” Apart from a constant ache that no spectacular scenery or charming admirers or glamorous intrigues banished.

  “You’d enjoy London.”

  “I doubt it. People at home are more conservative than here. English society won’t accept me with open arms.”

  “I would.”

  Pen couldn’t help herself. She laughed. It was either laugh or cry. If she cried, he might guess how it would crush her to leave him. “No, Cam. I’m not throwing myself into your arms under any circumstances.”

  He didn’t laugh. He looked disturbed and angry. That dangerous hum in the air returned. Fatalistically she recognized that it had never gone away. “Pen, I’m trying my best to remember that I’m an honorable man.”

  She sobered, telling herself that she couldn’t allow him to compromise his principles. But how easy it would be to ignore what was right when for the sake of a little sin, he could be hers. However briefly. Physically if not emotionally.

  She could cross a mere foot of space and kiss him. If she knew anything about men—and at twenty-eight, she should—the slightest encouragement would shatter his restraint.

  “Unfortunately,” she whispered before she could stop herself.

  The hum rose to overwhelm every other sound.

  Then he stepped back and bowed. Even as hunger darkened his eyes, he spoke with the chill politeness she’d heard too often on this journey. This evening, they’d spoken like friends. Or lovers. Now she watched Cam draw the shades over that intimacy. “I won’t act the cad. My family’s reputation is at stake. If I tumble you, I prove that all my work to restore the family honor has been in vain.”

  She’d known that. Still, rejection hurt. She bent her head, not wanting him to see how he wounded her.

  A couple emerged onto the terrace from the inn. The lady paused and spoke with joyful recognition. Even worse, in the clipped accents of an upper-class Englishwoman. “Miss Thorne, what a wonderful surprise.”

  Chapter Nine

  Prescott Place, Wiltshire, March 1828

  She came to him through the sweet new greenery like a forest spirit, although there was nothing unearthly about the woman he seized in his arms. She was all warm, passionate femininity.

  Harry kissed Sophie until they were both breathless. Then he kissed her some more. “You got away.”

  His asinine comment sparked amusement. “Obviously.”

  This past week, Sophie had joined a house party given by one of Leath’s political cronies. Despite Harry’s best efforts, his pursuit of Sophie had attracted attention. Leath had removed her from London to separate her from young Mr. Thorne. A note channeled via Sophie’s maid had put paid to that plan.

  Harry kissed Sophie again. His blood heated as she answered with eager dips and swirls of her tongue. Still a little unsure of
herself but gaining in confidence every minute.

  “Sweetheart, I’ve missed you so much,” he said brokenly, punctuating every word with kisses.

  They’d only kissed once before, and the craving to do it again had kept him sleepless and grumpy. They’d managed three more meetings in Hyde Park and a couple of circumspect dances. Here in Sir Garth Burton’s woods on a sleepy afternoon, nobody was likely to interrupt. Harry had sworn he wouldn’t lose his head. But after one glimpse of his beloved, moderation flew to Hades.

  “I’ve missed you too,” Sophie murmured unsteadily, her hands working on Harry’s shoulders as if she hardly believed that he was there.

  “It’s been an eternity.” He trailed his lips down her throat, nipping the curve of her shoulder until she trembled.

  “It’s only a week.”

  “You speak lightly of my pain,” he whispered into her skin.

  “I’ve thought of you every minute.” She slid her hands under his coat, bringing him closer.

  “I’ve thought of you too.”

  He backed her into a conveniently placed tree and touched her in earnest. Learning the curve of waist and hip, the slender line of her back. Careful of her innocence, he kept his hips from sliding against hers.

  Her hands slid daringly lower. Astonished gratification shook him, although those eager fingers digging into his buttocks threatened control.

  He stared at her through dazed eyes. Passion flushed her creamy skin and her blue eyes were heavy with desire. She looked rosy and approachable, a different creature from the golden-haired debutante he’d first met. She wore a cobalt walking dress, fastened down the front with hussar frogging and with a high collar, askew thanks to Harry’s attentions.

  He rested his forehead against hers, sharing her breath. She smelled marvelous. Like the vibrant spring that burst into life around them. She’d brought him to life. He wondered if she knew.

  “Harry?” He caught the confusion in her voice.

  He lifted his head. “Sophie, I’m trying to act the gentleman.”

  She smiled, her lips moist and swollen. “You don’t have to.”

  He groaned. He really didn’t need to hear her say that. Not if he meant to retain some honor. “Of course I do.”

  Her smile broadened and the light in her blue eyes filled his world with color. More, painted his world with rainbows. “I want you to touch me.”

  “You test my restraint.” He kissed her again, hot and voracious. His heart crashed against his ribs as she curled into him.

  “I don’t want to be restrained.” She clutched his shoulders.

  With shaking hands, he parted the frogging on her dress. He’d take things a little further then stop. Dear heaven, let him find the strength to stop.

  Control shuddered closer to fraying as her dress sagged open. The pink pearls of her nipples pushed against her delicate shift. With a groan, he bent and sucked one perfect bud. Her choked cry echoed in his ears. Knowing he ventured toward the point of no return, he cupped her other breast and rubbed his palm across her nipple. She arched until her belly bumped him.

  With sudden ruthlessness, he pushed the lacy edge down to reveal her breasts. Better than his dreams. Thoughts of her nakedness had fueled his fantasies, waking and sleeping, since he’d found her crying in Lord Oldhaven’s garden. He drew back to feast upon the sight.

  “You’re so beautiful.” Reverently he stroked her pale skin.

  He kissed the tip of her breast. The act conveyed homage more than desire, although desire surged powerful enough to shake his principles.

  She breathed unsteadily. “I feel beautiful when I’m with you.” She bit her lip. “I never have before.”

  Her vulnerability defeated the ravening beast inside him. Grateful and disappointed in equal measure, he sighed and stepped back. Because he loved her, he said what he’d always known to be true. “You deserve better than me.”

  She looked suddenly distraught. “Have I disgusted you?”

  Harry’s gut lurched. If anyone should feel ashamed, it was him. “Hell, no, Sophie. You’re glorious, perfect, an angel.”

  With shaking hands, she tugged at her bodice but the complicated fastenings were beyond her. “No angel lets a man strip her naked in public.”

  “Sophie, you’re human.” Very gently—and with a wicked regret that he couldn’t stifle—he restored her to respectability.

  “A little too human today,” she muttered.

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. Desire is perfectly natural.” It was too early for declarations. They’d only known each other a few weeks, and their meetings had been short and snatched from the teeth of scandal. But she needed to know that he wasn’t toying with her. “Desire is part of… love.”

  She went completely still. Her hands dropped to her sides and her eyes opened wide as if she strove to see him with absolute clarity, perhaps to check whether he lied. “Love, Harry?”

  Hell, he hadn’t blushed since he was in the nursery. Meeting her eyes, he spoke with the steadiness of complete conviction. “I love you, Sophie.”

  To his consternation, she didn’t smile.

  She took a long time to answer, which worried him even more.

  Had he mistaken her? Trepidation sank sharp teeth into him. She could be flirting. After all, she enjoyed her first season and flattery had turned the heads of girls less admired than Sophie. Perhaps she collected hearts like trophies. The thought made him feel sick.

  The delay became unbearable. “Say something, darling.”

  Still she didn’t smile as she straightened away from the tree. Her shoulders were level, her chin was up. She looked every inch the young aristocrat. “I love you, Harry.”

  For a moment, he stared at her in disbelief. Could he be so fortunate? She looked like she meant it.

  Another close examination of her expression. By God, she meant it. Troupes of angels danced a gavotte in his soul.

  What could a fellow do when the woman he adored told him she loved him? Nothing except sweep that woman into a wild kiss.

  Harry surfaced from joy to discover that he lay over Sophie on the soft grass and that her hands tangled in his hair. “We have to stop.”

  She pouted in a way that made him desperate to go further, but some thread still moored him to reality. That reality didn’t encompass Harry Thorne taking the Marquess of Leath’s sister in the woods like an amorous gypsy. “I can’t believe the world talks about you as such a rake. I’m disappointed.”

  His laugh cracked as he rose on his hands. “Shall I promise to be rakish only with you until death do us part?”

  She went rigid and the teasing light drained from her eyes. “What… what do you mean?”

  He should be nervous. But he’d been committed to this woman since their first meeting. Everything following had only confirmed that he was eternally in her thrall.

  “I mean—” Even when he was certain, a man tended to stumble at such a moment.

  Poised over her like this, he couldn’t do justice to his intentions. Struggling to ignore how beautiful and damnably available she looked spread out on the grass, he rolled away and kneeled beside her. He tugged a crushed daisy from her wantonly tumbled golden curls. “Sit up, Sophie.”

  She frowned in puzzlement. “What is it?” Nonetheless, she sat, folding her legs beneath her.

  Taking her hand, he rose on one knee. “Lady Sophie, I knew the moment I saw you that I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” He swallowed and stared into her shining eyes. “Will you do me the inestimable honor of marrying me?”

  Hills above Genoa, early March 1828

  Damn, damn, damn.

  Cam knew he was devilish reckless playing these games in public. And now the time had come to pay the piper.

  As the horse-faced woman with the loud voice and deplorable taste in hats bustled toward them, he stepped away from Pen and tried to act as though their acquaintance was purely casual. At least, thank God, the woman hadn’t appeared
while he’d been manhandling Pen.

  He’d battled so hard to keep his distance, but in the end, the temptation had proven too strong. Especially now he knew that Pen wanted him too. Even when there was bugger all he could do to satisfy his craving and still call himself a gentleman.

  Awake, Pen was constantly in his mind. Even worse, he dreamed about her at night. Hot, sweaty, ribald dreams, where he used her hard. Like an experienced woman, not a delicate lady of his class. He woke shaking and ashamed, hard as an oar.

  If he could make his yacht fly back to England, he would. Surely once he didn’t see Penelope every day, he’d become again the measured, sensible man he’d been before he fell under this gorgeous termagant’s spell. Part of him still looked at her with astonishment. This is Pen of the scraped knees and broken dolls. You have no right to tumble the girl whose childhood tears you dried. Not only tumble her, but have her in every filthy way your imagination can conjure.

  When the woman reached them, Cam caught speculation in her beady eyes. The man, obviously also English, approached with less dispatch but equal curiosity. Luckily Cam knew neither of them. Although that wouldn’t save him from a scandal, unless he came up with some reason why he and an unmarried girl from a good family were alone together.

  “Mrs. Barker-Pratt, what a surprise.” Pen tried to sound enthusiastic.

  The two women exchanged kisses on the cheek and Pen turned to Cam. “My lord, permit me to introduce Mr. and Mrs. Barker-Pratt, dear friends of my late aunt.” She paused infinitesimally, but only someone who knew her as well as he did would guess how rattled she was. “Mr. and Mrs. Barker-Pratt, this is Lord Pembridge who has been touring the lakes.”

  He bowed, wondering whether the game was finally up. Anyone familiar with noble English families would recognize that heirs to the Sedgemoor dukedom took the courtesy title of Marquess of Pembridge. “Mrs. Barker-Pratt, Mr. Barker-Pratt.”

  “My lord.” Mrs. Barker-Pratt curtsied while the husband, a little man who faded into invisibility in his wife’s dominant presence, bowed.