The Truth About Love and Dukes

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  He grabbed her arms while he still could, and pulled back. “Irene, for God’s sake.”

  She followed his retreat, and cut off any more words with another kiss, a quick one to his mouth, but whatever he’d intended to say went straight out of his head as she trailed soft kisses along his cheek, to his ear and back again.

  He could not find the will to shove her away again. He could not move at all.

  She tilted her head and left another trail of kisses along his opposite cheek, then she pressed another to his lips. At last, she drew back. Her lips a few inches from his, she waited, and he knew if he was going to call a halt to her sweet seduction, now was the moment.

  Inside, he began to shake.

  She was so close to him that her breathing mingled with his. Along with the scent of his boutonniere, he could smell the fragrance of her skin, her hair. Desire was clawing at him now, blurring with his reason, blotting out his good sense.

  At last, she moved to withdraw, but it brought no relief. An agonized sound tore from his lips, his hands gripped her arms, and he shoved her back onto her own seat, but instead of letting her go, he followed her, falling to his knees as he maneuvered her body onto the seat of the growler.

  He captured her mouth with his. Her lips parted, and at once the kiss was deep, open, and lush, unleashing all the lust he’d been battling since they met. The need for her that raged through his body right now shocked even him, and he couldn’t imagine what she felt. When she made a wordless sound against his mouth, he forced himself to slow down.

  He cupped her face in his hands and gentled the kiss, tasting her in soft nibbles, suckling her lower lip. He pressed kisses to her chin, then her neck, but though he’d thought to work his way down, her high collar prevented him from that exploration. If he was going to inflame her as he was inflamed, he had to start lower and work his way up.

  He slid his hand down from her cheek, over the full curve of her breast, cursing whoever had invented the corset, and moved farther down, over her thigh and down to her knee. Grasping folds of black crepe and linen in his fist, he slid her skirts up and slipped his hand beneath.

  He cupped his hand around her calf and glided upward along the side of her leg to the top of her stocking, where his fingertips worked beneath her garter and stocking hem. When he touched bare skin, it was like hot silk.

  Still kissing her, he grazed the back of her knee with his fingertips, and she moaned against his mouth. Her hands raked through his hair. She cupped his head, pulling him closer, wanting more.

  He gave it, moving his hand higher, gliding his palm over her hip, and then moved to ease between her thighs.

  She jerked in shock and broke the kiss, crying out. Her hands came down, flattening against his chest.

  He went still, knowing that if maidenly panic impelled her to call a halt now, he’d have to let her go, and if that happened, he’d have to climb out of the cab and hurl himself into the path of oncoming traffic.

  Given the confined space and her many layers of clothing, his options for arousing her were limited. He decided words were his best bet.

  “Irene, I want to touch you,” he said, his hand working between her closed thighs in infinitesimal increments. “Just let me touch you. It’s all I’ve thought about.”

  She relaxed a little, and then a little more, and he was able to push his fingers inside the slit of her drawers.

  She was hot, slick, fully aroused, inflaming his senses. She moaned as he began to caress her, slowly at first, and then faster.

  “Oh!” she groaned, her arms tightening, her hot face buried against his neck. “Oh, oh.”

  She moved on the seat, her hip brushing against his groin, and a shudder of pure pleasure rocked his body, forcing him to stop. “Christ,” he muttered, and straightened on his knees, striving to hold back.

  After a moment, he leaned down, pressing kisses to her face as he began to caress her again.

  “Irene,” he murmured, saying her name as he’d been saying it to himself for a week of tortured nights, while the tip of his finger slid back and forth between the secret folds of her, spreading her moisture, until her body was moving in desperate jerks and her every breath was a pant.

  She was close to orgasm, he knew, and he pulled back so that he could look into her face. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted, a fine bead of sweat on her brow as she strove toward climax.

  “That’s it, Irene,” he murmured, coaxing her, wanting more than anything to see her come. “That’s it. You’re almost there.”

  He didn’t know if she knew what he meant, if she had ever pleasured herself, but when she cried out, her hips arching into his hand, he knew her face was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and the soft cries of her pleasure were the sweetest thing he’d ever heard.

  He worked to give her every bit of sensation her body could derive, and when at last she sagged back against the seat with a sated sigh, he kissed her mouth again and pulled his hand from beneath her skirt.

  He’d have liked to think he could have resisted taking her virginity in a carriage, but as many times as he’d reflect on this moment later, he’d never be absolutely sure he could be that heroic. Either way, Fate never gave him the chance to decide.

  The carriage jerked to a halt.

  Quick as lightning, he yanked her skirts down. He flung himself back, away from her, and it felt as if he were tearing himself in two. “Go in the servant’s entrance,” he told her as she sat up and he reached for her hat. “And up to your room as fast as you can. If anyone sees you and asks where you’ve been,” he added as he plunked the black monstrosity down on top of her head and tugged the veil into place, “you were working, and visiting with your father. Since you’re wearing mourning, you’ll have to make up a dead relative and wear black for a month, so let’s hope no one sees you. No matter what, you did not go to Camden Town.”

  The carriage door opened, but she didn’t move to get out. Instead, she stared at him, wide-eyed and flushed, looking deliciously tousled and completely overwhelmed.

  “Yes, I know,” he said, and leaned forward, grasping her arms and pulling her toward him. “It’s rather shattering, isn’t it?” He kissed her, hard, before she could answer and released her. “Go.”

  This time she obeyed, clamoring out of the growler, crossing the sidewalk, and descending the steps to the servant’s entrance. He waited until she was inside and the door had closed behind her, then he looked at the driver waiting by the taxi door. “White’s,” he said. He needed a drink.

  Chapter 16

  The family was out, and the servants were having their evening meal when Irene entered the house, and she was able to traverse the downstairs corridor, pass the servants’ dining room, and race up the backstairs to her bedroom without encountering anyone.

  In leaving the house to meet with Foscarelli, she hadn’t given much thought to what the servants would think of her going out or coming in at night. They were already aware of her occupation in the City, and though they surely disapproved of it and of her just as much as anyone upstairs might do, Irene had never been all that concerned about having anyone’s approval, above stairs or below. In this particular circumstance, however, she was heartily grateful to get into her room sight unseen.

  She shut her door behind her with a shuddering gasp of relief, and leaned back against it, a move that tilted her enormous hat up behind her head.

  She ripped it off and tossed it aside, then once again fell back against the door, panting not only from her race to her room, but from everything that had gone before.

  What Henry had done to her—oh, God, what had he done? His kiss, his hands, wringing sensations from her she’d never felt in her life, sensations she’d never have dreamt were possible. Such wicked, delicious excitement, catching her in a swirling vortex of pleasure that had carried her higher and higher, until . . . she couldn’t think how to describe it. There were no words for what Henry had done to her.

  I
t’s rather shattering, isn’t it?

  “To say the least,” she whispered, pressing a hand to her chest and taking in deep breaths of air, trying to curb the chaos inside her. But it was no good. Her heart was racing, her body was tingling, her skin was flushed with heat. Every cell of her seemed lit from the inside with a blissful euphoria. She laughed and fell back against the door. She felt absolutely glorious.

  Henry felt like hell. He had his drink—in fact, he had three, but even three whiskies proved a wholly inadequate remedy for what ailed him. He ordered a room prepared and sent one of White’s footmen for his valet and a change of clothes, for he knew there was no way he could go home in this condition. He could not bear the thought of sitting across from Irene at the breakfast table tomorrow, drinking tea and eating toast and making conversation with her and her sister and his siblings as if it were just an ordinary morning. He’d been doing that for nearly a fortnight. He couldn’t endure doing it again.

  He took his bath cold, which helped a bit, and he spent the night at his club, though sleeping had little to do with it, for the image of her face and the echoes of her passion haunted him all night. But he finally drifted off about dawn, and by midmorning, after a hot breakfast and a shave, he felt ready to do what he knew needed to be done. It was vital that he talk with her, and for that, he needed all the resolve he could muster. Otherwise, he might very well pin her to the nearest wall and ravish her on the spot.

  In the early afternoon, he went home, where his mother immediately pulled him aside for a brief conversation, and what she told him underscored the fact that he needed a private word with Irene as soon as possible. Unfortunately, she was not in the house. She had gone, her sister informed him, to work at the paper.

  He had his carriage brought around, and twenty minutes later, he was standing on the sidewalk in front of the plate glass door that led into the offices of Society Snippets.

  How strange life was, how unexpected. Two weeks ago, he’d thought he was the master of his world and what happened in it. And then Irene Deverill had come along, obliterating that illusion. In many ways, he was an utter mess as a result, but when he thought of her as she’d been last night, he wouldn’t change a thing. The problem was, chaos, unsated desire, and torture, however sweet, could not be borne indefinitely. He had to get clear. If he did not, his annihilation or her ruin would be the result.

  He opened the door. The bell jangled as he went inside, a faint sound barely audible above the din of the printing press that was thundering away at one end of the room, but the dark-haired young woman operating it heard the bell just the same. She glanced over her shoulder, and he recognized her as one of the journalists he’d seen on his second visit here. She stopped the press at once and came bustling over to him, and above the gold-rimmed spectacles perched on the tip of her nose, her dark eyes studied him with all the avid interest of her profession.

  “Miss Deverill?” he inquired, handing over his card.

  She took it, but didn’t read it. “Of course, Your Grace,” she said, making it clear she was already well aware of who he was. She shoved up her spectacles and pasted on an expression of brisk efficiency. “If you will follow me?”

  She led him to the closed door of Irene’s office, gave it a sharp knock, then opened it. “His Grace, the Duke of Torquil,” she announced, then stepped aside to let him pass through.

  Irene stood up as he came in, and as the door closed behind him, her radiant smile hit him with all the impact of a kick in the stomach. “Henry.”

  He set his jaw and removed his hat. “Miss Deverill,” he said and bowed.

  When he straightened, her smile was gone. Her chin went up a notch, reminding him of her pride, and it hurt him to know he was wounding that pride. After last night, she had reason to expect more of him than ducal formality, but though he felt like a cad, he could not allow, he did not dare allow, any intimacy between them now. He wasn’t strong enough to stand it.

  “I hope you are well,” he said, taking refuge in polite civilities.

  “I am. And you?”

  “Perfectly sound,” he lied. He gave a cough and paused, looking down at his hat, working to come up with another polite inquiry so that he might ease his way into his reason for coming. “Quite busy. We are preparing to leave London for Ravenwood.”

  “Your estate in Hampshire?”

  “Yes. We go on Friday. That’s the Twelfth, you know.”

  “Ah, yes,” she said, a strangled sound that told him small talk was proving as difficult for her as for him. “The Glorious Twelfth. Will . . . will your family be hunting the grouse, or sailing the Solent?”

  “Oh, sailing, of course.” He smiled a little, remembering her first evening in his home. “We are a sailing family, after all.”

  “Yes.” She shifted her weight and glanced around, reminding him this aftermath must be as embarrassing for her as it was agonizing for him.

  He forced himself to come to the point. “Mama is to marry Foscarelli. She—” He broke off, for he still found his mother’s marriage a difficult thing to accept, but after a moment, he forced himself to go on. “She wanted to marry him on Tuesday, but I have persuaded her to wait one more week. Since we are decamping for the country, there is a great deal to do, both here and at Ravenwood, and it would be a great burden on Carlotta to supervise the entire settling-in. I cannot be of help, for I have far too much to do with the estate to assist with the household.”

  “So . . .” She paused, seeming puzzled. “Are you requiring me to go with you, then? Do you think another week will enable us to change your mother’s mind?”

  “No, I fear we are past that point. She is determined, and I doubt any persuasion will avail. Mama will journey down to Hampshire with us on Friday to help at Ravenwood, then return on Monday and marry Foscarelli on Tuesday at the Registry Office. They will, she has told me, stay at their new home in Chiswick for a week or two, then they plan to take a honeymoon to Italy, meet his family, that sort of thing.”

  His words were stilted, awkward, and something of what he felt must have communicated itself to her, for she said, “I know it is a serious concern and disappointment to you, and I’m sorry for that.”

  “You mustn’t think I blame you in any way.”

  “That’s a change from twelve days ago.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve failed in the task you set me on.” She looked down at her desk, making a show of straightening her blotter, then looked up, squaring her shoulders. “Are you going to take my paper?”

  The question shocked him, though he knew it should not have done. He’d set these stakes, and he certainly hadn’t given her any reason to believe him too much of a gentleman to follow through. He could never take from her something she loved. “I never would have taken it, Irene,” he said. “I know you probably don’t believe that, but I was angry, and desperate, and—I am not ashamed to admit it—afraid for my mother’s future. In hindsight, I see that my expectation that you might be able to persuade her against her course was unrealistic, not to mention unreasonable. And I am sorry for it.”

  “You were only trying to protect her. I see that now.”

  “Yes, but one can’t protect everyone all the time. Not even me.” He managed a laugh. “Especially not me. Which brings me to what I really came here to say.”

  She frowned, looking understandably bewildered.

  He crossed the room, moving to stand before her, glad there was the barrier of a desk between them. “As I said, we go on Friday. Angela wondered if your sister might come, too, if that would be acceptable? I do not think,” he added before she could answer, “it would be appropriate for you to accompany her.”

  The hurt that shimmered across her face hurt him, too, like a knife in his chest. “Right,” she mumbled and looked away. “Of course not.”

  “Irene, you mustn’t misunderstand—”

  “I couldn’t anyway,” she said, her voice overly bright. “I’ve been away from t
he paper far too much as it is. And there’s my father to consider. He’s not well, as you know, and . . .”

  Her voice trailed off, and for the life of him, he could not mask what he felt. “I can’t have you there, Irene,” he said, throwing his own pride to the winds, his voice a harsh and desperate rasp. “I can’t. Not under these circumstances. My past conduct makes it clear I cannot be trusted in your company.”

  She ducked her chin. “Because of last night,” she whispered, pink tinting her cheeks.

  “Yes. And because of that night in the library, and the images of you with me that plague my imagination, images you would find even more shocking than my deeds thus far have been.”

  “Oh.” The sound was faint, hushed, and it was a long moment before she spoke again. “And yet,” she whispered, looking up, “all I can think about right now is throwing my pride out the window, coming around this desk, and flinging myself at you in the most immodest way.”

  Henry froze, riveted, staring at her. The floor felt if it was slipping out from beneath him, along with all his honorable resolutions. “Irene, you have no idea what you’re saying. My . . . desire for you remains unabated.”

  The blush in her cheeks deepened. “Yes. I . . . after last night, that fact is rather self-evident.”

  “When you are near, I forget that I am a gentleman, and if distance is not put between us, I fear that I will continue to impose my attentions upon you. What do you think will happen to you if that continues?”

  “I . . .” She paused, licking her lips as if they were dry, a gesture that drew him like a moth to flame. “I’m not exactly sure.”

  “Forgive me, then, for I must be blunt. You are a virgin. You’ve never lain with a man. I’m right in assuming that, aren’t I?”

  Her cheeks were scarlet now. “Of course I haven’t! Heavens, do you think I could ever let any other man touch me the way you—”