Who Wants to Marry a Duke

by Sabrina Jeffries

  Thorn might not realize it but his constant challenges of her ability to do these tests had begun to make her uneasy. What if she couldn’t manage this? What if she discovered nothing?

  She couldn’t think about that now. Grey was counting on her. So she would ignore the effect Thorn had on her and get to work.

  * * *

  “Turn the box around so I can see how it’s marked,” said Olivia, Thorn’s pesky taskmaster.

  “Perhaps you should have put the markings on all sides,” Thorn grumbled as he shifted the box. The very heavy box. Damn, how much did laboratory equipment weigh, anyway?

  “Perhaps you should have left the work to a footman as I originally suggested. The one who brought our tea would have been happy to help.”

  She had a point. Thorn hated that. “Think of it this way—how often will you get to order a duke about? Besides, I wouldn’t dream of missing the chance to see a woman of science at work.”

  “I would consider ‘woman of science’ a compliment if I didn’t know you were being sarcastic.” She gestured to a table. “Put the box over there.”

  Of course she would pick the farthest table from them. He was getting enough exercise to fill a session or two of practice fisticuffs at Gentleman Jackson’s. Olivia had already taken half an hour deciding which table should hold which part of her laboratory, a process that had involved him moving boxes more than once. Then she’d required another half an hour to sort the boxes either to tables or underneath the shelving to be put up later.

  He paused to pull out his handkerchief and mop his forehead. He’d removed his hat long ago, and she her bonnet. He tried not to notice how fetching she looked without it, tried not to imagine how much hair made up that fat chignon and how desperately he wanted to see that hair tumbling down about her waist.

  He glanced around and realized that all the boxes had been sorted. “That was the last one.” Thank God. “So what’s next?”

  Tucking one of her golden curls behind her ear, she broke into a smile. “The best part. Unpacking.”

  “That’s the best part?”

  “For me it is. The contents of the boxes should mostly be where they belong, but some items will still have to be moved around.”

  “I take it that I’m going to be the one moving them around.”

  “It depends on what they are. I’m perfectly capable of moving a jar to another table or onto a shelf. But we can stop for another cup of tea, if you’d like a rest.”

  At her minxish smile, he gritted his teeth. The woman knew just how to prick his pride. “I’m fine. Besides, the tea is probably cold by now, and we ate all the lemon cakes.”

  That seemed to startle her. She glanced over to where the footman had earlier set up a small table, two chairs, and a tray of refreshments. “Oh. So we did.” She flashed him a rueful smile. “I get quite caught up when I’m working on a project, and I don’t realize how late it’s getting to be.”

  “I noticed.” He drew out his pocket watch. “Grey and Beatrice generally keep country hours, but not on days they’re traveling, so we still have a while before dinner.”

  For the next hour, he got to unpack boxes and leave her to examine each item to decide where it went. She wore a look of pure bliss as she moved from table to shelf, arranging and organizing and setting up equipment that had been broken down for the journey.

  There were names of ingredients he’d never heard of—aqua regia, nitrate of potash, muriatic acid, green vitriol, salt of wormwood, spirit of ether, and a dozen other mysterious compounds.

  “What? No eye of newt?” he quipped.

  “It’s right there,” she said, gesturing to ajar.

  “That says ‘Mustard Seed’ on the label.”

  “I know. The mustard seed shouldn’t have been included. I won’t need it.” When he gaped at her, she added, “Oh, that’s why you joked all those years ago about paying me with ‘eye of newt.’ You thought it really was the eyes of lizards. Sorry to disappoint, but ‘eye of newt’ is mustard seed.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Not a bit.”

  “What about the other ingredients for the witches’ brew in Macbeth?” he asked. “‘Toe of frog, wool of bat, and tongue of dog’?”

  “‘Toe of frog’ is buttercup. ‘Wool of bat’ is holly leaves.”

  “Ah, but surely the ‘tongue of dog’ is exactly what it says.”

  She laughed gaily. “‘Tongue of dog’ is hound’s-tongue, sometimes also called wild comfrey. The witches’ brew comprises a variety of natural ingredients, most of which you can find in any good herb garden.”

  “That’s vastly disappointing.”

  “Why?”

  He hadn’t expected that question. “They’re witches. They’re supposed to be . . . well . . . wicked and frightening.”

  “I think their wickedness comes from how they use their predictions to tempt Macbeth into murdering the people who stand in his way. But yes, Shakespeare took advantage of the multiple names of herbs to choose ones that sounded particularly gruesome.”

  Olivia gestured to another jar. “Chemicals also have a variety of names. That nitrate of potash is sometimes called saltpeter, for example. Names of ingredients evolve as we learn more about them.”

  “You have ruined Macbeth for me,” he said crossly. “The witches might as well be my French chef mixing up a salad in the kitchen.”

  “To be honest, I never liked Macbeth. Too many people being killed. I prefer the comedies.”

  “So you said.” He found her love of humor endearing. The fact that she enjoyed his plays, too, was gratifying, but rather surprising for a woman of her unique ambition. Then a thought occurred to him. “Why choose chemistry?”

  “What?” she said distractedly.

  “You could have been a naturalist or an astronomer. There are a few women already who discover comets and the like, so astronomy wouldn’t be as difficult an area to explore. Why chemistry?”

  “For one thing, I grew up watching my uncle do fascinating experiments, and discovering elements no one had isolated before, like chlorine. For another, I like the purpose of chemistry—to discover the chemical components of our world. That enables us to manipulate those chemicals to the good of mankind. Astronomy can’t do that.”

  Thorn gestured to where a large jar held pride of place on one worktable. “That arsenic isn’t good for mankind. And I may not know much about chemistry, but I do know that saltpeter is a key ingredient in gunpowder.”

  “Saltpeter is also used to salt meat. Even arsenic is useful in producing glass. Chemicals are just bricks. They can be used to create buildings or they can be used as weapons. So don’t blame the chemicals. Blame the people who use them.”

  He watched as she checked items off a list packed in the trunk she’d brought from home. Now she walked over to that same trunk and pulled out some notebooks.

  “Are those the journals you were speaking of?” he asked.

  “Clippings from them, yes. I’ll need to refer to them as I work.” She set them out on a table with a couple of jars on it. Then she turned to open the box on the far end that purported to contain several pieces of some contraption, most of it made of glass.

  Chemistry laboratories seemed to have a great deal of glassware, as evidenced by his sore muscles.

  “I suppose you’re going to assemble what’s in that box,” he said.

  “Why? Do you think I can’t?”

  Her belligerent expression told him it was probably time he admitted something. “I know you can. Any remaining doubt I had concerning your abilities as a chemist vanished somewhere around the time you set up that other complicated piece of laboratory equipment.” He flashed her a faint smile. “And without so much as a list of directions, I might add. I would need directions, at the very least. At home, my servants usually do all the assembling of laboratory equipment.”

  He’d expected her to laugh or make some pert remark. Instead, she continued to stand there w
ith her back to him, staring down into the box.

  “Don’t misunderstand me, Thorn,” she said. “I greatly appreciate your help this afternoon. But there’s nothing left for you to do now, so you should probably return to the house and dress for dinner.”

  He stepped toward her. “Why? Is my presence bothering you?”

  “Of course not.” The way she turned her attention to arranging the notebooks she’d already arranged told him differently. “I just don’t want to keep you from your family.”

  Walking up behind her, he murmured, “I spend time with my family often enough. But in all these years, you and I have not once encountered each other in society since our initial meeting. And I like encountering you. Talking to you.” He laid a hand on her waist, giving her plenty of time to move away. “Touching you.”

  She dragged in a heavy breath but remained where she was. Taking that as an invitation, he slid his other arm about her waist to pull her closer so he could kiss her temple. When her pulse quickened beneath his lips, he was emboldened to kiss her ear. Then the nape of her neck.

  “God, you always smell so good. How do you manage it?”

  “With perfume,” she said lightly. “How else?”

  He bit back a laugh. Most women pretended they didn’t use anything—that their scent was utterly natural. “And I suppose you make your own.”

  “O-Of course.” When he licked her ear, it took her a moment to go on, in a rather breathy voice. “Perfumers are m-merely chemists with . . . different ingredients at their . . . disposal.”

  “Like French chefs making salads,” he murmured.

  “I-If you w-wish.”

  What he wished was to touch her in more intimate ways, no matter how his mind screamed it was unwise. She felt so bloody good in his arms. Still, Grey would never forgive him if she took umbrage and left the estate in a huff.

  But Thorn didn’t think she would. Leaving in a huff wasn’t her mode of behavior.

  So he raised the hand he’d placed on her waist until it rested on the side of one breast. And when her only reaction was to sigh, he took the daring next step of covering her breast with his hand.

  “Good . . . heavens . . .” she whispered.

  He fondled her breast gently, shamelessly. “You like that, do you?”

  “Oh, yes.” Then she paused. “That is . . . what I meant was . . .”

  “Never deny that you enjoy pleasure. Unless you truly don’t.”

  Her redingote gown was lighter than most dresses of that fashion, but between it and her stays, he couldn’t feel her nipple. And he badly wanted to. So he began unbuttoning her redingote where it was closed in the front.

  She stiffened. “Wh-What are you doing now?”

  “I want to caress you inside your gown.” He lowered his voice. “If you’ll allow it.”

  After a moment’s hesitation she whispered, “All right.”

  His blood leapt at her answer, and then leapt even higher when he delved inside her gown and then inside one flimsy cup of her stays to cup her breast. As he began to fondle her through the thin linen of her shift, she gasped. He kneaded her breast, then thumbed her nipple, reveling in how it knotted up. And the little broken sigh she gave was almost as erotic as the feel of her ample breast in his hand.

  God, he was growing hard. He hoped she couldn’t feel his thickening cock against her backside. Then again, it wasn’t as if he could hide it.

  Her bosom was so responsive to his touch that he craved even more. A chance to taste her.

  Now in a fever to cross that new threshold, he turned her to face him. Then he lifted her onto the table and sat her right down on the journals.

  “Thorn!” she cried. “Be careful!”

  “I will, sweeting.” He spread the upper part of her redingote open. “I’d never hurt you, you know.”

  “That’s not . . . what I meant.” Her breathing quickened as he lowered one cup of her stays. Then he untied the gathered neckline of her shift so he could ungather it, so to speak, and drag it down to expose her bare bounty to his eyes and fingers.

  And mouth.

  Oh, God, yes. He bent his head to suck her and thought surely he’d died and gone to Paradise. She smelled of jasmine here, too, and he feared he might come right in his trousers. Which were becoming painfully tight at the moment.

  He shifted her a little, and she caught his shoulders. “When I said ‘be careful,’ I meant . . . I meant . . .”

  The words left her brain, apparently, once he began flicking his tongue over her bare nipple and lightly pinching the other one through her clothes. At this moment, it wouldn’t take much for him to lift her skirts and explore her lovely quim, too.

  God save him, but he desired her most powerfully. It was madness, he knew, yet he couldn’t get the thought of bedding her out of his randy brain.

  No, it wasn’t his brain doing the thinking right now, but his cock. And damn, if he didn’t want to give it free rein.

  Chapter Seven

  A thousand thoughts rushed through Olivia’s head, but only one kept pushing its way to the front.

  More. Now. Yes. Good.

  If her brain would stop chanting that, she might remember why she’d been cautioning him. But that seemed impossible at present. Because he was treating her breasts to such sucks and nips and astonishing licks of his tongue that she wanted to swoon.

  She never swooned.

  And all the while that he was devouring her naked breast, he was fondling the other one through her clothes. It drove her to distraction.

  Was this supposed to feel so wonderful? Or was he simply that good at being a rakehell? Because if this was what he’d been learning to do all this time, it was a pity she’d stopped going into society to avoid him. She might have run into him and had this sooner.

  “You taste delicious,” he rasped against her breast. “I could fondle and suck you for hours.”

  “That would be . . . unwise.”

  “This, right now, is unwise.” He lazily traced her areola with his tongue. “Hasn’t stopped me, though.”

  Or her. Mama had once warned her it was the woman’s responsibility to keep a man’s urges in check. If that were true, Olivia was clearly very bad at it.

  But she had urges, too, and he was rousing every . . . blessed . . . one. Like her urge to smell him, which she indulged by kissing the top of his head and taking in the scent of sandalwood in his hair. Like her urge to touch him, which she indulged by sliding her hands inside his coat to feel his magnificent muscles straining against his waistcoat.

  “God, yes,” he growled. “Here.” He tugged one of her hands down to the middle of his trousers and flattened it over a strange protuberance there.

  “Is that a codpiece?” she asked.

  He choked out a laugh. “Something like that.”

  “I didn’t think men wore those anymore.”

  “Just rub it. Up and down.”

  The moment she did she realized it was flesh . . . a man’s flesh, and rather thick, too. Not to mention, reactive. It seemed to expand the more she stroked it.

  “Does rubbing it . . . feel good?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes.” His eyes slid shut. “Like a bloody good dream. Like Paradise.” He sighed heavily. “I could . . . rub you like that, if you want.”

  “I don’t have a rod of flesh like yours.”

  “Thank God. Doesn’t mean you have nothing else to rub.” He began dragging her skirts up. “Here. I’ll show you.”

  He shifted her on the table again, or perhaps she slid on the notebooks. But next thing she knew, something fell off the end of the table and crashed. One look in that direction, and her haze of pleasure evaporated. She knew what was in that jar, and it wouldn’t be long before . . .

  She shoved him hard. “Let me down. I have to take care of this. Now!”

  “We can just clean up the glass later, sweeting.”

  Wriggling past him, she slid off the table. “You don’t understand. That
glass jar contained a small piece of white phosphorus, which must be stored in water at all times. Because once the phosphorus dries out, it will ignite spontaneously as air hits it.”

  He tried to tug her back. “So let it ignite. The floor is stone, anyway.”

  “Can’t leave it alone, sorry.” Wrenching herself free of him, she hurried over to where she’d earlier placed a pail of sand, a watering can, a jar of bicarbonate of soda, and a sturdy broom for just this sort of purpose. “The smoke from white phosphorus is toxic.”

  Indeed, she could already hear the hissing of it igniting. She rushed over to throw sand on the sparkling fire and then water on the sand. As a thin plume of white smoke rose from it, she held her breath and carefully pushed the lot of it into the hearth with the broom.

  “That should take care of the smoke, which will go up the chimney,” she told him. “Fortunately for us, phosphorus doesn’t react to carbon and it was a small piece, so it’s probably all burned. But just in case, we should leave for a bit.”

  “You’ve got it under control now,” he bit out. “Can’t we—”

  “No,” she said firmly. “Trust me, you won’t like what that smoke does to you if you breathe it in.”

  “I suppose it’s just as well.” He seemed to draw into himself. “It’s probably nearly dinnertime, anyway. And nearly sunset, too.”

  He had a point. Much as she wished she could stay longer and work, she didn’t fancy trying to make her way back to the house in the dark alone. At least not until she got the lay of the land.

  She paused at the other end of the room to right her clothing. “From now on, I can’t have you in the laboratory, Thorn.” She would never get anything done if he continued to come with her. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “It was merely an accident,” he said. “Next time I’ll be more cautious.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I simply can’t have you here.”

  “Why?” he drawled. “Afraid I’ll see something I shouldn’t?”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake, you’ll force me to say it, won’t you? You distract me, all right? You can’t help yourself. You enjoy flirting and dallying with women, and I happen to be handy.” Olivia finished buttoning up her redingote before forcing herself to look him in the eye. “But these experiments are too important for me. I refuse to make a hash of it simply because you are . . . being yourself.”