When a Duke Loves a Woman

by Lorraine Heath

  “Pittance.” A day’s earnings, but money well spent to see how very touched he was to once again have the timepiece in his possession.

  “At the very least, allow me to pay recompense for that.”

  “It’s a gift, Thorne. Accept it as that.”

  He nodded. “I’m so touched, Gillie. I shall no doubt think of you more often than I do my father when I look at it.”

  For a time perhaps, but eventually memories of her would fade, and he would again associate it with his father because those ties were stronger, had lasted longer, encompassed generations. She squeezed the hand that still held the watch. “I’m just so pleased you have it back.”

  “I’d kiss you soundly this very minute if it wouldn’t cause scandal,” he said.

  “You can do it after we close.”

  Something warm and tempting flashed in his eyes. “In the meantime I wouldn’t mind working back there with you where it’s a trifle small and I’d have excuses for touching you whenever we have to edge our way past each other.”

  So he did much as he’d done the night before, pouring drinks and talking. She wondered what these good people would think to know they were being waited on by a duke. While Finn had heard his position, it had never been declared for all to hear and she never addressed him as “Your Grace.” Perhaps because she’d never ceased to see him as simply a man, even though she knew deep down he was so much more and could never be hers completely.

  In a way, he belonged to England, sat in the House of Lords, tended to the Queen’s business, created and altered laws, saw to the good of the country. Mick had wanted his father’s acknowledgment because he’d yearned for the exaltation that came with being related to nobility, but she had never desired that for herself, other than the fantasy she’d had as a child. The upper echelons were beyond reach for most, for the simple folk, the commoner. It didn’t mean they couldn’t achieve worthy positions—it simply meant they had to work harder for them because nothing was given to them.

  Although having gotten to know Thorne, she realized nothing came without a price. For all his social standing, he wasn’t nearly as free as she. He was playing at being a bartender, but it wasn’t something he could do forever, no matter how much he might enjoy it. Just as she was playing at being his lover. She couldn’t be it forever, no matter how much she might enjoy it.

  He would marry and she would not. He was responsible for providing an heir. She would not marry a man she did not love, and she suspected that in her lifetime there would be only one. This one. This one she could not have.

  Through Finn she had learned they were not for the nobility, not for the long term. But she could make the most of the short term.

  So when the tavern was closed up tightly for the night and they reached the top of the stairs, she didn’t stop to sit and absorb the quiet. There would be an abundance of other nights for that, nights when she would sit there alone and think of him and what had been—and she wanted minutes and minutes and minutes of memories she could flip through, without having to revisit one too often because she had an abundance of others hoarded away.

  Instead she led him into her apartment, into her bedchamber, into her bed. With remarkable speed they divested each other of their clothing before tumbling onto the sheets. With his body half covering hers, he clamped a hand along the side of her face and captured her mouth with a fervor that might have frightened her if she weren’t as eager to seize his. She loved the hunger that welled up between them, the attempt to satiate that hinted any quenching would be short-lived. Always, she would again want his mouth on hers, always she would crave the taste and feel of him. Always.

  Which made their coming together bittersweet.

  “This might have been the longest day of my life,” he rasped as he trailed his mouth along her throat. “Waiting to have a moment alone with you.”

  “I wasn’t certain if I’d see you tonight.”

  “An act of Parliament wouldn’t have kept me away.”

  But a wife would, although she didn’t say that, wasn’t going to think about that. She knew of at least five women who had taken men to their bed without benefit of marriage. This very moment she was lost in sin and yet she couldn’t seem to care. The sensations rippled through her as his hot mouth and nimble fingers had their way with her, kissing here, nibbling there, stroking here, pinching there, while hers responded in kind, tormenting him—based upon his moans and groans that were music to her ears.

  Then he shifted her so she was beneath him and he was above her, his hips wedged between her thighs. “Wrap your legs around me,” he ordered.

  “I didn’t think you had the strength to support yourself.”

  “I’ve another day of healing behind me. I’m going to risk it.”

  Lifting her hips, she wound her legs tightly around his waist, more than ready when he plunged into her. She loved the way he stretched and filled her, the weight of him over her. Cradling her head between his hands, he dipped down and took her mouth while she skimmed her fingers down his back and gripped his buttocks.

  Moaning low, he began rocking against her, carrying her to dizzying heights of pleasure and torment. Every bone and muscle wanted to curl in on itself; every bone and muscle wanted to explode in release. Nothing had ever felt so good, and she knew the next time she would think the same thing. No matter how often she’d thought of what had transpired last night, the memory of it wasn’t as good as the reality.

  As the world exploded around her, as she flew apart and came back together, she knew memories would not be enough to sustain her, but they would be all she had and she would cherish and hoard them. She became aware of his frantic pumping, his harsh breathing, his stifling moans—

  Then he pushed himself free of her, burying his face between her breasts as he shook with spasms, spilling his seed in his hand in an effort to protect her from anyone ever learning of her sins.

  Chapter 21

  He’d never known as much contentment as he did with her nestled within his arms. She was warmth and goodness, and in spite of her growing up on the streets, she possessed an innocence that made him want to protect her, even knowing she was fully capable of protecting herself.

  “I might be becoming addicted to you,” she said quietly, and he chuckled.

  “No more so than I am to you.”

  She trailed her finger over his chest. “I’m always amazed when you offer to help out, whether it’s assisting with customers or tidying up.”

  “I’ve never been one for lazing about.”

  “You must have your own affairs to see to.”

  “Most of those I can handle during the day.”

  Shifting until one of her legs was positioned between both of his, her lovely thigh pressed up against his cock, she lifted herself up and gazed down on him. “What sort of things does a duke have to do?”

  “I have four estates so I must read reports from the stewards of each, approve repairs and maintenance, make decisions regarding how to increase the income generated by each. Meet with my solicitors regarding various situations that arise. Meet with bankers regarding investments. A lot of meetings.”

  “And you must marry.”

  A prospect that should have brought him joy rather than despair. “Yes. And I need to have an heir.”

  “That’s a nice thing about being a commoner. We don’t have to marry; we don’t have to provide children. Your sort always seems to be on show.”

  “I suppose we are. One of our duties is to ensure fodder for the gossips and the gossip rags. Without us, they would cease to exist.”

  “I wouldn’t like being the focus of everything.”

  “Is that the reason you stay behind the bar?”

  She nodded. “I love owning the tavern, but I’d rather do it quietly. Mick is different about his hotel. It’s important to him that people see him as much as they see what he has accomplished. Perhaps it’s simply because he’s a man and feels he must come across as a conq
ueror.”

  “You’re a much more subtle conqueror. People could underestimate you.”

  “Which I can use to my advantage sometimes. Charlie certainly didn’t think I would jump him.”

  “But he knew you weren’t to be trifled with. It’s the reason he ran off.”

  “When will you run off, I wonder.”

  He combed his fingers through her hair. “I won’t run off, Gillie.”

  “But there will come a night when it will be our last night. When it comes, please tell me.”

  He knew they would be the most difficult words he’d ever utter, but he cared for her too much, respected her too much to bed her while bedding a wife. “It won’t come for a while yet.”

  If he didn’t need an heir, didn’t need a wife who understood the intricacies of Society, it might have never come. But it would, it would have to because he had responsibilities, because he’d made promises. Yet he would delay it as long as possible. “My mother is hosting a ball in two weeks. I’d like for you to come.”

  Scoffing, she flopped over onto her back. “No bloody way.”

  He rolled over until he was positioned as she had been, with his leg between hers, his thigh pressed up against the sweet haven he was going to visit once more before leaving. “The Season is over. There won’t be many people in attendance. Your brother Mick is to be invited, so I won’t be the only person you know.”

  “Why would you want me there?”

  “Because I want to introduce you to my mother, to people I know. You’re a fascinating woman, Gillie, and they will be intrigued.”

  “You want to display me like an animal at the zoological gardens.”

  “No.” He was appalled by the very idea, but how to make her understand? “You’re a successful businesswoman. Born to the streets, yet you’ve risen above them. You deserve to be recognized for your accomplishments, to move about in circles where you can influence people who have the means to address social injustice.”

  “They’re a bunch of nobs.”

  “You’re judging them harshly, when they won’t do the same of you.”

  “Of course they will. They’ve been doing it my whole life.”

  “Then prove them wrong. Your speech proves you’re educated, even if that education didn’t take place in private schools. You’re graceful and strong. To be admired.” He trailed his mouth along her throat. “Besides, I want to waltz with you. I don’t want you to be a secret.”

  “But I am, and what we are doing here can’t be shared.”

  Kissing the sensitive spot below her ear, he heard her soft sigh. “We’re not going to tell people what we’re doing here but I know your world now, Gillie, and it’s not at all what I thought it would be. You’re asking me about my world. I’m requesting you simply step into it for a night, share it with me. You might find it to your liking.”

  If she did, perhaps he would no longer have to contemplate ever giving her up.

  The following afternoon as Gillie strode into the Trewlove Hotel and marched up the stairs, flight after flight, to the top floor where her brother had his offices and his residence, she knew it wouldn’t make any difference at all if she found Thorne’s world to her liking, but she had to admit to being curious about it—not so much his world, as learning more about him. What did his residence look like? How did he treat his servants? And then there was the prospect of meeting his mother, his friends, which made her at once want to jump out of her skin while also having her curiosity racing forward with glee. What were they like, the people with whom he surrounded himself? She was anxious to meet them because one’s friends were often a reflection of oneself. And all she knew about him was narrow, were his interactions in her small section of London. His life was much broader than that, wider, encompassed a good deal she couldn’t even imagine.

  She’d been a fool to accept the invitation, to tell him she’d come. He’d used nefarious means, asking her over and over until, during a moment of weakness when she’d been unable to remember her name, she’d agreed to attend. Before leaving her that morning, he had pulled the gilded invitation from his jacket pocket and handed it to her. She’d run her fingers over the embossed script, striving not to be intimidated by it.

  She had a vague notion regarding how to go about preparing herself to attend her first ball. It might have been more concrete had she attended Mick’s wedding, but at the time she’d expected to feel rather out of place at the elaborate affair, pretending to be something she wasn’t. But now she had a strong urge to prove to herself, if to no one else, she was worthy of entry into the highest of social circles—without putting on false airs or acting in a manner that wasn’t true to herself. She had learned a good deal from the tavern owners for whom she’d first worked. Mrs. Smythson had insisted she join her for tea every afternoon and had taught her comportment. “The world is uncommonly unfair to women,” she’d once told Gillie, “but that will not change until women make it so. You do the cause no great service by hiding what you are. Embrace it and show the world you are a force to be reckoned with.”

  The couple had no children, and Gillie often thought her presence in their lives filled a hole in their hearts. Mrs. Smythson had taken her shopping for her first frock. Gillie had never cared for the frilly, preferring the practicality of simple skirts and shirts. Nor did she have the patience for or the desire to spend time putting her hair up into elaborate coiffures, so she kept it short and tidy. Changing the manner in which one had lived for so long necessitated compromises, and in the end she was happy with Gillian Trewlove.

  So while she was nervous about attending the ball, she believed that when it came down to it, she could hold her own. Still, a bit more polish wasn’t out of order. She’d caught the attention of a duke when she’d once thought she’d never catch the attention of any man. Perhaps she could do right by him in a larger world, perhaps there was a small part of her that thought maybe she had the wrong of it: that for them there would never be a final night.

  Such a silly thought. Still it was there as, with merely a passing glance, she walked by the glass door with Trewlove etched in it proclaiming the rooms beyond as belonging to her brother—as though they could belong to anyone else—and continued on to a set of polished wooden doors that led into his flat. She’d visited on a couple of occasions, intrigued by the notion he required so much grandeur while she yearned for none at all. But then Mick had always known his father was a duke, had resented that his sire refused to acknowledge him, and had felt he had something to prove and that involved mimicking the world of the aristocracy as much as possible. He’d accomplished that with great success and shared all that he’d learned with her. But he viewed everything through a masculine eye, while she was in need of a feminine one.

  She knocked. Waited not even a heartbeat before a footman opened the door.

  “Miss Trewlove.”

  Whenever anyone addressed her as such, she felt a great need to look around in order to determine to whom they were speaking. She’d never been comfortable with the formality, even from servants or employees. She was a fool to seriously consider attending the ball where there would be naught but formality. “Is Lady Aslyn about?”

  After ushering her in, he said, “If you’ll be so kind as to wait here, I shall inquire.”

  Which made no sense. Either she was or she wasn’t. Shouldn’t he know? Still, she stood in the entryway while he headed off. A few minutes later, her brother’s wife rounded a corner, smiling brightly, her blue eyes glittering with joy and her arms outstretched. “Gillie! How wonderful that you’ve come to call.”

  She towered over the woman, so she had to bend down considerably in order to return the hug Aslyn offered. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  “Never.” Aslyn stepped out of her embrace. “Did you let Mick know you were here?”

  “No, actually, it’s you with whom I wish to speak.”

  She appeared both delighted and confused, no doubt because Gillie had n
ot gone out of her way before to spend time with the Earl of Eames’s daughter. She’d assumed they’d have nothing in common, and while she liked her well enough, she didn’t think she’d be interested in discussing the process of fermentation. “Wonderful. Join me in the parlor and I’ll send for tea.”

  She followed Aslyn—who alerted a nearby footman they were in need of refreshments—into a front room and dropped into a chair while her hostess seemed to float down into hers, adjusting the positioning of the wide skirt of her green-striped frock with its numerous flounces and taffeta bows, aspects which would prove a hindrance when hauling casks up from the cellar. Her blond hair was swept up off her neck, curling tendrils framing her face. Gillie didn’t want to consider how much effort the woman would put into going out of the residence when she put so much effort into her appearance for remaining in it.

  “How have you been?” Aslyn asked, and Gillie heard the true interest in her tone.

  “I’ve been busy with the tavern and all. Mick doesn’t come as often since he got married.”

  A light blush crept over her sister-by-marriage’s face. “We’ve been a bit busy as well.”

  A few nights ago she might not have guessed what they were busy doing, but she certainly had a fairly good idea now. She decided she might as well get down to her reason for being here. “Are you familiar with the Duke of Thornley?”

  Aslyn blinked with apparent surprise. “Yes, I’ve known him for some time.”

  “I met him recently, on his wedding day, actually—or what was supposed to have been his wedding day.”

  “Oh my goodness. Is he the man Mick saw leaving your residence? He told me about him, thought he was a beggar.”

  Gillie explained all that had happened.

  “Oh my stars. I hadn’t heard anything about that.” She shook her head. “Well, I heard Lady Lavinia had taken ill, and then I saw the announcement that the betrothal was off. But the truth of it, what actually transpired—I daresay I don’t blame them for keeping everything so very hushed.”