The Demon Duchess: An Aristocrat Falls for a Cowboy Second Chance Romance (The Demon Duchess Series Book 2)

by Tessa Bowen

  It pleased and threatened him at the same time. Charmed and disgusted him too. A woman like that shouldn’t be wearing rough wool against her tender hide, but the incongruous sight was oddly appealing. He’d liked her in that robe last night too. Her hair was getting looser each day she was here. He liked it tight or loose. This woman didn’t have a bad angle. She was drop-dead gorgeous even in a pig sty. And gorgeous didn’t belong in Montana, goddamn it.

  “What the hell are you doing!” he bellowed as he approached.

  She pivoted, spilling a bit of feed from her bucket. The pigs clamored around her, bumping into her knees with their snouts. She let out a giggle and heaved the contents of the bucket into the trough.

  “What does it look like?” she retorted cheerfully.

  “Come out of there,” he ordered. “I can’t let you do that.”

  “Why ever not?”

  Her cheeks were pink in the cool air, her green eyes bright as grass. Why did she look so happy?

  “Because…”

  Her laughter was singsong as she hurled another bucket of feed into the trough. “Because I’m a baroness?”

  Was she actually laughing at him? He was only trying to defend her dignity.

  “It’s just not right—it’s men’s work,” he told her stiffly.

  “Oh, pish—men’s work, women’s work. This isn’t the dark ages. Besides, I’m no good in the kitchen, like I told you. And I did the chickens yesterday…”

  “Great, so you’ve graduated from chickens to pigs. What’s next, teaching the goats how to waltz?”

  “I’m making myself useful.”

  She tweaked a small pink pig’s tail and tittered. Her girlish laughter was sending odd sensations up and down his spine.

  “Where’s Ducky?”

  “Napping.”

  She sprinkled the grain like fairy dust. Burnished flecks flew through the air in an artful arc.

  “You’re making a mess,” he groused, stepping into the sty with her.

  “Well, that’s rather the point, isn’t it?” she asked innocently. “It’s a pig pen.”

  She was ankle-deep in pig shit and apple cores, smiling gaily as if it was the best day of her life.

  “Is that my jacket?”

  “Why, yes—it is.”

  “You kept it this whole time—that’s pretty weird, isn’t it?”

  That burst her bubble a little. He could tell because her smile faded and she blinked slowly.

  “It’s very warm and I like the way it smells.”

  John crossed his arms over his chest. “It smells like me.”

  She cocked her fair head. “Yes.”

  “Well, it looks all kinds of wrong on you—it’s too big.”

  He detected a twitching of her brow and knew he was getting to her.

  “Naturally it’s too big. I suppose I’ll have to add a proper pig-feeding jacket to my wardrobe if I plan on continuing such chores,” she said crisply. “And fear not, it won’t be made of cashmere—perhaps just a nice sturdy merino.”

  “Don’t add anything to your wardrobe. I don’t want you doing any more chores.”

  She tried a different approach by batting her lashes at him. “It’s very sweet of you to be concerned, but I’m quite content doing this. I used to feed the animals with my father—I have very fond memories of doing so. My mother forbade me from the pig pen, however. She said a lady should never step foot into a pig pen. So you see, I have her rolling in her grave which rather delights me.”

  “Maybe I’ll forbid it too.”

  Her forehead was damn near scrunching, but it wasn’t quite there yet.

  “I can’t sit all day. You told me before there are many things that need doing on a ranch—I know you have a lot to handle. I enjoy being useful to you.”

  Her choice of the word useful really stuck in his craw. If she wanted to be useful she’d supply him with a good roll in the hay. His stress had nearly reached a breaking point. Part of it was caused by general tension and some of it was old stuff that had been pushed to the surface by his father’s death, but a good deal of what ailed him was just plain old sexual frustration. It had been too long since he’d had any release in that department. It was times like these when he wished he could enjoy casual sex more. He’d never been one for a meaningless screw. He liked to know the woman he was inside of and he preferred to have a connection that went beyond just the physical.

  Women had always found him attractive. He’d never had a problem getting them in his bed. Unfortunately, the only woman he wanted in his bed right now was the one woman he couldn’t have. He couldn’t have her because it would cause the shit storm brewing between them to escalate into a cyclone of epic proportions. He may not like her, but they sure shared a connection—and that was Ducky. Sleeping with her would be deep—too deep. So deep that he would fall into the deepest of pits and never come out again.

  He’d been drawn to her from the start, and his desire had bloomed as she’d bloomed. Seeing her pregnant had been one hell of a turn on, which possibly made him some sort of a freak. He’d figured his lust would simmer to a low boil once she’d given birth, but it hadn’t. Knowing that her body had produced their perfect daughter, only made him want that body more. And it was only her body he wanted. He told himself that at least.

  She probably wouldn’t be any fun in the sack anyway. Not that it was fun he was after. He was more interested in total and utter possession. She’d barely let him touch her that night, had refused his kiss even. What kind of a woman refused a kiss from a man? A frigid old prude, that’s what kind of woman. Later, she’d been all over him, demanding sexual services from him.

  Who knew what sleeping with this woman would be like. Who knew what lurked behind the ice queen façade. The facade was melting it seemed—melting in Montana. She was wearing a messy pony tail for Christ’s sake. She was a conundrum. A conundrum wrapped in his wool jacket. Maybe that was part of the attraction. No matter how intriguing the idea of getting naked with her was, he had to remember that he didn’t like her. She drove him crazy in fact. He didn’t like her and he had to get rid of her before he lost the battle he was having with himself. He would achieve this by being the world’s biggest asshole.

  “Don’t try and settle into the part of the rancher’s wife,” he bit out cruelly. “I’m packing you out of here soon.”

  That remark caused a head-on collision of eyebrows.

  “I’m not bloody going anywhere. You can’t make me—I’m Ducky’s mother.”

  She spoke the words with such confidence that it threw him a little. He’d expected her to cry, she seemed to be doing that a lot lately, but it looked like she was more in the mood for a fight today. The fact that she’d stood up to him only got him hotter around the collar, in more ways than one.

  He spun away from her, growling with pent-up fury. “Why did you come here, goddamn it!”

  “The pigs needed feeding!” she hurled back.

  He threw a warning scowl over his shoulder. “You know that’s not what I meant—you don’t belong here, I told you that before.”

  “Where, in a sty?” she goaded.

  “I feel like strangling you,” he gritted.

  “That would be counterproductive, one less pair of hands on deck. I could help you with the horses, if you think that is somehow less beneath me. I’m sure I could get the knack of the Western saddle and I’d like to learn, but you refused my offer. You’re so bloody backward you want to keep your woman in the kitchen, which I find utterly ridiculous.”

  “You’re not my woman,” he seethed. “If you were, we’d be sleeping together.”

  He regretted the words as soon as they were out. He wished he could stuff them back into his stupid goddamn mouth.

  “That could be arranged if it would put you in a better mood,” she said under her breath.

  He turned to face her again. “What did you say?”

  John could feel the color rising in his face. Her face
had gone as crimson as a cherry too. She took a few steadying puffs of air. He guessed he should try to breathe too.

  “I may not be your woman,” she huffed. “But I am the mother of your child—a child who is better off with both parents.”

  “Well, I’m not better off with you,” he said between his teeth.

  “I haven’t made myself a nuisance,” she argued.

  “Lady, you have no idea.”

  “I’m sorry that my presence here offends you so deeply, but I’m not going back to England. They hate me there even more than you do. At least you and Ducky are together. She’ll always love you more than she loves me, but I want to be near her always. So I have a chance at having her love me at least half as much as she loves you.”

  “I’ve got to get away from you,” he said more to himself than to her.

  He started to stalk away from her and she followed or tried to at least. Apparently, the quagmire she was standing in had a good grip on her because her feet stuck in place even as her body careened toward him. The Baroness went down on her ass in the wet mud, making a loud thud as she hit the ground. With a groan John turned, knowing he would find her floundering in the bog. The pigs sniffed and tugged at her clothing.

  “Jesus Christ—you’re hopeless.”

  “Are you just going to stand there shaking your head,” she fumed. “Or are you going to help me up?”

  “You’re on your own.”

  “Oh, you horrid man.”

  He made his way in the opposite direction, trying not to laugh at the unlady like grunt she made hefting herself out of the muck. She sounded like Miss Piggy.

  Baroness Piggy of the Pigs.

  “Where are you going!” she called after him.

  John chewed his smiling lips. “I’m going to take a dip in the river.”

  He could hear her squishing behind him. She sounded like a walking wet fart. He stifled laughter by coughing. He was acting like a child and a jackass. She was as ridiculous as he was and hard to stay mad at.

  “I could use a dip too,” she declared. “Is the water cold?”

  He gestured to the high mountain peaks capped with snow. “What do you think? It comes off of those mountains.”

  Hopefully it would be cold enough to deflate his pumped up cock. He really was a freak. What sort of man got a hard-on in a pig pen?

  “Sounds rather bracing.”

  “I raaaaather wish you wouldn’t follow me.”

  She did of course, just like the British pest she was, smacking and slapping all the way as they crossed the meadow past the fence line that opened up into a large valley. The grass was dry and yellow, spreading like a wheaten blanket all the way to the foot of the cliffs. Beyond the trees, tinged orange and amber with autumn leaves, flowed the Bighorn River. He could see its blue waters sparkling through the branches. The waters wouldn’t start to rush until the snow melted. John guessed winter would come early this year. There was already a thick dusting of powder on the mountain tops.

  The Bighorn was the river of his youth. He remembered better and simpler times, fishing and swimming with Jeb. He was drawn to the waters as if they could heal what ailed him. There was nothing more soul-cleansing than soaking in the purity that was the Bighorn and looking up at those sky-scraping Montana Mountains. Perhaps part of him knew she’d follow him. And maybe that same part of him wanted her too. It seemed only fitting that he share this slice of his childhood with her, she was after all the mother of his child (as she had just pointed out). Then again, he disliked her and wanted to get rid of her. Why did he have to keep reminding himself of that? It didn’t matter—whatever game she was playing would end here. She’d never step foot in that river. She had to be bluffing.

  John ignored her as he shucked his boots and jacket, jeans and shirt coming off next. He left his boxers on, not wanting her to see the evidence of his arousal, and waded into the waters, sinking chest deep into the rippling current. He glided past the cove of rocks to his special place while she stood on the banks with her arms crossed, her pants and boots caked with mud. The wind had whipped her hair into an even looser state of disarray. Tendrils of spun gold framed her face, quite like an angelic halo. Those dark brows clashed with her beatific locks however. They were lowered in defiance and her green eyes glittered dangerously across the waters at him.

  “I’m coming in,” she announced, hopping on one foot as she yanked a boot off.

  His big jacket fell into a pile with her boots. Backlit by the late afternoon sun, he could make out the lace of her camisole through her cotton blouse. Feeding pigs in French lace—and why not. She was a baroness after all. This woman did everything with style. He liked the tight corduroy pants she wore for her chores. They were painted on her slender limbs, a classy shade of taupe. When she bent and peeled them off her mile-long legs he knew he was in trouble.

  “You’re not coming in here,” he scoffed. “You couldn’t handle it—you’ll freeze your tits off.”

  Of course he had to bring up her tits—they were all he was thinking of, so it was no wonder he’d mentioned them.

  “Nonsense,” she said unbuttoning her blouse with confidence. “Trevor used to take me to this charming spa in Iceland every spring. We did naked ice plunges every morning and evening.”

  Her lips curved in a smug smile when he snarled in irritation.

  “This isn’t a fucking spa,” he muttered childishly. “Enter at your own risk. Don’t witches sink anyway?”

  If she took off any more of her clothes he’d be the one to sink. The weight of his erection would drag him down. He turned his back on her, only to whirl when he heard a loud splash and then an even louder squawk.

  “Bloody hell, that’s cold!” She blinked and clucked like a plucked chicken. “This sodding water will freeze my bones! I think…I think I may be paralyzed.”

  She’d piled her hair on top of her head and tied it into a knot. Her arms were crossed over her naked chest and her eyes were bulging. He swam toward her and took her by the arm, dragging her into his magical inlet.

  “Quit your quacking—you sound just like Ducky when she has one of her shit fits.”

  The warm spring waters lapped around them and the Baroness let out a peep of wonder. “Now it’s warm—so gloriously warm. But how can that be?”

  “This is where the hot spring enters the river, it creates the perfect temperature.”

  “It’s nature’s bathtub,” she gasped in awe, dropping to her chin in the water. “Oh, it’s wondrous!”

  “Better than Iceland?” he sneered.

  “Much better—it’s Heaven.”

  “Damn straight.”

  John still held her wrist under the water. He slid his hand up her arm and trailed his moistened thumb across her cheek, wiping it clean of grime.

  “If you mention that fruitcake’s name in my pool again, I’ll drown you—got it?”

  She let out a long sigh. “I could die happy here.”

  He watched her take in the majestic landscape around her. Amazement slackened her features, making her appear very young.

  “This place is truly a wonder. And to think it all belongs to you.”

  “It’s not really right that any man should own this land, but I guess it’s the way of the world. At least I can protect it. And the mountains aren’t all mine—just to that ridge there.” He pointed to where Jackson land ran into Crow territory.

  “And that is where your horses graze?”

  He nodded. “They’ll start moving down to lower ground as temperatures drop—makes them easier to catch.”

  “You’re choosing one to sell?”

  He nodded again.

  She lowered her lashes. “Margaret told me about the fine work you do for your Crow neighbors.”

  “Did she now?” he drawled.

  “It’s remarkable, the generosity you’ve shown.”

  “I’m not generous, just guilty. I’m descended from robbers and murderers.”

  “Yo
u could charge five times the amount for your training if people knew your true identity.”

  “They don’t need to know. I just like to work with horses—I don’t care about the money,” he said simply. “I like to work with Mustangs best, haven’t gotten to in a long while…”

  He peered at her, wondering what else Margaret had told her. He stretched his sore hip as he observed her, not realizing he was wincing.

  “This must be good for soaking stiff muscles,” she remarked.

  “Uh huh, my left hip bothers me sometimes.”

  “An old football injury?”

  “Ah—you’ve noticed those corny pictures in the living room.”

  “I hear you were quite accomplished at sport, Jack. I mean…John. I’m still trying to get used to the name switch.”

  She’d risen out of the water a bit. The tops of her smooth breasts glowed like opalescent half-moons.

  John shrugged in response. “I was ok. And you can still call me Jack—some people do anyway, since it’s a nickname for John.”

  She licked her lips and continued. “I should call you by your given name. And Jeb was rather athletic too.”

  “Raaaaaather idiotic you mean. Bronc-riding is the stupidest sport there is—dangerous as hell—even worse than football.”

  This subject was making him uncomfortable. He sure as hell didn’t want to talk about his past with Jeb, or his past at all. He had enough problems in the now, no need dredging up what had already been. He was more interested in seeing more of those breasts (against his better judgment of course).

  “It really warms the cockles, doesn’t it?” she said, straightening to her waist with her arms covering her chest again.

  Her flesh was all pink, her hair starting to fall loose from its knot. It curled around her face in damp tendrils.

  “Too warm?” he asked.

  “No, it’s just right.”

  “You don’t seem too worried about your hair today.”

  “It’s a lost cause.”

  He laughed softly when she tightened her safety clutches across her bosom. He couldn’t resist teasing her. “Why are you hiding your breasts from me?”