Dreaming of the Duke (The Dukes' Club Book 2)

by Eva Devon

  His eyes widened innocently, as innocently as his eyes could ever possibly ever attempt. “Rescuing you from whatever machinations my grandmother had in store for you.”

  She squirmed again under his broad frame, attempting to dislodge him. “I would have rescued myself eventually.”

  He remained solidly atop her. “But not until after several days—”

  “Hours,” she pointed out quickly. She would not inflame his clearly already engorged ego.

  “Days of hideous lecture,” he droned on, no consideration to her correction, “and attempts at reforming your already ideal character.”

  That gave her pause. She stopped shifting about beneath him firstly to stop the strangely increasingly pleasant feelings such activity was inducing in her rebellious body and out of blatant curiosity. “Ideal?”

  “Without doubt.”

  She narrowed her eyes, deeply suspicious that any man, let alone such man as himself could find her in any way ideal. “How so?”

  “You have an independent mind and an adventurous spirit,” he said as though it were the most obvious thing in the entirety of the world.

  “Most men do not consider me ideal. They consider me a catastrophe,” she found herself saying with a degree of softness that might make her sound vulnerable so she added acerbically, “Idiots that they are.”

  “Yes,” he acceded just as softly with a highly different intention. Those hot eyes of his were wandering over her face as if he had discovered a highly prized artifact. “Most men would and are.”

  “But you are not most men?”

  He said nothing, only smiled slightly, a ridiculously charming smile.

  “No.” She made every attempt to glare at him, but he was so endearing what with his black hair brushing over his forehead, and that ludicrously admiring expression upon his far too handsome features. “I suppose you are not.”

  “And you are not most women.”

  “I do believe that goes without saying.” She hesitated, wondering what the devil was happening here in the coach rattling through London. “Is that why you rescued me from your grandmother?”

  “Pardon?” He seemed quite distracted by some aspect of her face.

  She ignored his strangely compelling gaze. “Because you think I am unique?”

  “No.” He blinked as if shaking his own supercilious thoughts away. “I rescued you, because my grandmother, love her as I do, has a will of iron and whatever she wants she gets and well, I wouldn’t leave a dog with her that didn’t wish to be.”

  “Well, thank you.”

  He pulled back from her a little, the weight of his chest lifting away from hers as he propped himself on twin rock hard arms. “I didn’t mean—”

  She took the opportunity to scramble away, and attempted not to think on how very strange her breasts felt and how they ached at his sudden withdrawal. “I am not interested in what you meant.”

  He lifted his hand and carefully brushed one of her errant locks aside. “Are you not?”

  “No. And why didn’t you just order her to let me go. You are the duke after all. Why the theatrics?”

  He looked askance. “I run the ducal estates in name only, you see.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said softly.

  “I show up to ceremonies, suit on, coronet in place, but I do not have the ability to be a good duke. So, my grandmother agreed to take care of the estates and everything else for me. She ensures that I can’t ruin generations of Hunt rule.”

  His words were quick, emotionless and she could hardly believe he meant them. “I hardly think that you seem incapable.”

  His eyes hardened. “I am. Leave it at that. My only skills are with women, wine and song. Make no mistake. Any other belief in me would be quite inadvisable.”

  A strange sort of sadness tugged at her heart. He had a very dark view of himself. Still, she wasn’t going to be a fool and try to change him. Her parents had constantly tried to change each other and the only thing they’d gained was misery. Besides she was leaving. Yes. Leaving. Cordy cleared her throat. “Will you send my things to whatever dock you are escorting me to? I’ll be glad to see the backside of this dratted country.”

  “Whatever for? And why in god’s name should I take you to the docks?”

  A strange, suspicious feeling took root in her stomach. “Why, to leave this ridiculous country. You rescued me to help me escape!”

  All that mischievousness which had been there just moments ago, was fast slipping away. “You are staying.”

  The air whooshed out of her but she managed to inquire, “Why is that?”

  “Because I wish it,” he replied with the same sort of surety as the sovereign might have declared to his ridiculously unpaid tailors upon the request for a new suit.

  “Your whims are most disconcerting.”

  “I said was a bad duke. I didn’t say I wasn’t a duke at all. What I desire, I usually get. And I don’t wish you to leave. Not yet.”

  “But I can now arrange for our annulment abroad,” she pointed out. . . as though he wasn’t already aware. Surely, he couldn’t possibly be serious! “The medical exam is done and frankly, it was foolish of me to come here. London is the devil.”

  He seemed to listen, but his reply, “You are staying,” suggested he hadn’t heard a word she said.

  She narrowed her gaze. “Are you suddenly deaf?”

  “No.”

  “Then why do you repeat yourself?”

  He shrugged and then took a seat beside her in such a luxuriously sprawled position one might have assumed he was a sultan. “You are not leaving England,” he said simply.

  She scrambled up into a decidedly flummoxed half seated position. “Then what is it that I am doing?”

  He stared back at her as if she were mad. “You are coming with me, of course.”

  She swallowed, barely daring to believe the horrifying nonsense coming from his beautiful mouth. “That seems hardly advisable.”

  “We shall travel north. I know a marvelous hunting lodge,” he enthused, ignoring her.

  “I do not think so,” she gritted.

  “Though I adore your mousetrap of a mind, thinking is not required of you at present.”

  She goggled at him, wondering if she’d left her head behind or if this could truly be befalling her. “Are you mad?” she exclaimed.

  “No.”

  “Did you bash your head in your rapid descent from that old oak?” Dear God, she hoped so.

  “No.” He continued to stare impassively at her, like an unyielding wall.

  “Are you drunk?” she asked hopefully.

  “Not at present. Would you care for a drink?”

  “No!” she yelled, her blood slowly boiling until she was sure she was going to reach out and biff him.

  His brows drew together in mock shock at her tone. “Then stop asking silly questions.”

  Her eyes narrowed to slits so small, she could barely see his infuriating countenance. “I will if you take me to the docks.”

  He paused for a long moment, apparently giving her command consideration. “No.”

  She flung herself on the seat opposite him, determined to be as far away from him as possible. “You are repeating yourself again.”

  He grinned. “Yes.”

  “Look here,” she began in what she believed to be a way in which one reasons with such an oaf. “I will not be bullied nor told what to do.”

  “Yes, you will.” He folded his arms across his chest, causing muscles she barely even knew existed to move in a most fascinating succession of ways.

  “Why do you believe I shall do such a thing?” she demanded, wishing that she had merely peeled off down the street on her own steam rather than waiting for him to crash down from that dratted tree.

  “Because I am your husband,” he declared imperiously with such a degree of amusement, that one would have thought he were the Lord Wellington himself.

  “No,” she growled, fig
hting the urge to grind her teeth together. “You are not.”

  He waggled his finger at her, his eyes alight with a terribly pleased glow. “The law disagrees with you.”

  “Only for the moment,” she hissed, knowing full well that she had jumped from the pan to the fire. But who could have possibly thought imprisonment by that demented grandmother would be more reasonable than escape with a husband who had seemed quite unwilling to have a wife?

  “The moment is all that matters.”

  “Ooooh! You do realize your grandmother will be furious.”

  His grin blossomed into a full and ecstatic grin. “I know. Isn’t it marvelous?”

  “My God,” she groaned, burying her face in her hands, willing him, the carriage, and quite frankly, all of London to disappear.

  “You don’t believe in God,” he corrected blithely. “Rocks perhaps but—”

  “Never mind that now.” Cordy groaned again lest she begin a tirade of swearing. A sense of indignation that she had indeed been kidnapped by her own husband growing within her.

  “What would you like me to mind? Hmm. Your mouth? I adore your mouth, even when it is speaking the most contrary of—”

  She flung her hands down to her sides and attempted to pin him with a glare so frosty his entire being should have crystalized on the spot. A sudden and infuriating thought came to her. “That’s why you’ve done this!”

  He glanced from side to side, his face relaxed and oh so innocent. “Done what?”

  “Rescued me, you dolt.”

  “There is no need for name calling. It is beneath you, a woman of your intelligence.”

  Dread rippled through her. Yes. Dread, because with each passing moment, the truth of his erratic behavior dawned on her. “You’ve rescued me because it will anger your grandmother.”

  There was that silence again.

  “That’s all this is,” she pushed, waiting for him to deny it, but certain he would not. “An opportunity to prove your lack of worth.”

  His joie de vivre simmered to a low boil and his innocent expression petered away. “That is not entirely correct.”

  “Then what? Please do elucidate.”

  He cleared his throat and leaned forward, bracing his forearms against his muscled thighs. “There is a much larger picture here.”

  “Would you care to paint it for me?”

  He cocked his head to the side, eyeing her carefully before replying, “No.”

  “I will not sit idly—”

  “All you need know is that you are my wife. You will do as I say. And what I say is that you are staying.”

  Did the entire Eversleigh clan suddenly wish her to stay in London? It certainly seemed so. How had everything changed so quickly, so horribly, in just a few hours? She was in a carriage with what had to be a mad man. Yes. A mad man. Mad as his grandmother. And as impetuous as his sister. The entire Eversleigh family was crack brained. It was the only explanation for her situation. If they were all mad, he was not to be reasoned with.

  And that was when she decided screaming, though exceptionally female, was the only answer to this insane circumstance. . . And scream she did.

  Chapter 12

  After traveling goodness knew how many miles, submitting herself to the probings of a doctor, being entrapped by her grandmother-in-law, and rescued by her husband, Cordelia couldn’t believe that she was now the captive of said rescuer.

  Hadn’t she come all this way to be free of him?

  This morning, she’d been so certain that it was his grandmother that she had to be wary of but no. All this time, it had been he, her husband, who was the one she should have avoided at all costs.

  The entire course down the mysterious Nile would not have been far enough to place herself from his company. Not with that gloriously pleased madness in his eyes.

  And she, fool that she was had swung right into his literal grasp, believing he was happy to be rid of her. That he would send her merrily back to Egypt, her work, and freedom.

  Freedom? As Gemma would say, Ha!

  If one could call his cravat stuffed in her mouth freedom. Apparently, her screaming had disagreed with him and in a display of male dominance and irritatingly superior strength, he had torn off his cravat and tied it about her mouth rendering her silent.

  This had not stopped her from attempting to pummel the daylights out of him. . . which had then led to her hands being tied behind her with one of the carriage curtain ropes.

  In her entire life, she’d been in only one such similar predicament, and the sand bandit that had absconded with her had been remarkably more gallant. At present, she was fighting back silly tears of indignation.

  Tears did one no good after all, and they were no doubt only the physical manifestation of her depleted reserves. It was her good fortune that about an hour ago, he had fallen asleep. Even she knew she could be quite the handful when she chose to be, and he had apparently had enough. . .

  It had also helped that she’d played possum. . . a term she had learned from one of Kathryn’s scullery maids. Possum did seem to be a rather intelligent position to take. Apparently, he had been lulled by her eventual submission, no doubt believing his superior masculinity had won out.

  Night had long since fallen and they had not paused to light the lanterns within the coach. So, she sat in relative darkness eyeing her husband.

  Bloody Marvelous.

  She was in the hands of a beautiful mad man and she was heading farther and farther away from escape with each turn of the coach wheels.

  She chewed lightly on the silk cravat, wishing she had the teeth of a lion. Instead, her teeth meant more for the chewing of vegetables than silk, grew tired and she gave up the hope that she might be able to divest herself of her gag in such a fashion.

  Still, never one to take things easily, she let her eyes wander over the coach in hopes of finding some aid in escape. After several long, fruitless moments, her eyes fell to the coach door itself. She stared at the handle than swung her gaze to his sleeping form.

  He appeared to be as gone from this world as a wrapped mummy, sleeping eternally in seven different coffins. Perhaps. . .

  Carefully, she shifted across the seat. The rumbling of the coach masked her movements and without letting herself think to forwardly about her actions, she leaned down, and pressed her chin against the cold brass handle.

  To her utter delight, it snicked open and the door opened a crack. She peered out the window, spying far flung rolling fields on her side of the coach. In slow degrees, she lowered herself to her knees on the floor, just barely missing Jack’s polished, booted feet.

  He made a muffled sound in his sleep and rolled to the right, stuffing his strong arm behind his head.

  Her heart rammed up into her throat and she forced herself to draw in a measured breath. She might be about to break her own neck. . . but she was not about to stay with him, handsome or no. No one controlled her fate but herself, certainly not pouncing, arrogant dukes.

  The slightly open coach door let in a surprisingly piercing cold draft of air. She braced herself against it before she threw all sensible thoughts aside. Nudging her shoulder against the silk padded door, she pushed until it swung silently open.

  Fields passed quickly by as she let her mind go blank then rolled out of the coach.

  Her body hit the earth and she gasped Pain splintered through her bones and for several searing moments, she was sure she would not be walking away from her impulsive decision. The earth was hard, packed down by the heavy coaches that had rumbled past before. She grimaced against her gag.

  In inching movements, she wiggled onto her stomach and drew her knees up under herself. It was quite difficult given her tied hands, and after pressing her face into the dirt, she finally managed to pull herself into a kneeling position.

  She glanced down the road and could just barely make out the coach hurtling along the rutted way, but there was thankfully no sign of it stopping.

  A
vengeful laugh rippled up her throat, muffled against Jack’s damp cravat. Think he could kidnap her, did he? Clearly, her husband had no idea what sort of woman he was dealing with. With a pleased huff, Cordy stumbled to her feet and faced the road stretching in the opposite direction of her witless captor.

  Hmmmm.

  The road slipped on and on into the moonlit night with no sign of life. Well, she’d been in worse predicaments.

  As she began to stride down the rough road, a certain cooling eroded her determination to persevere. The air was astonishingly frigid. Oh, she knew cold. The deserts could plunge in temperature, yet this cold was something she had never quite experienced. It was damp and Gemma’s frock was about as much shield from the damp as striding about in one’s unmentionables. Though her breath was not visible, her skin prickled and tingled with a less than welcome sense that she was turning into a late summer ice.

  Still, she marched on.

  Step after step began to send her blood circling through her veins, warming her to a slight degree. Now, the only real question was her location. They could have taken any of the numerous roads from the city? She seemed to be heading in a southeasterly direction, one she hoped would lead her towards some sort of civilization.

  The moon wavered overhead, its pallid glow a consolation in the silvery night. The silence of the darkness on the other hand was disconcerting and so she began the recitation of the Roman dynasties as best she might.

  She’d made it entirely to the emperors after Julius Caesar, a particularly terrifying group of men, when the clopping of a horse’s hooves drummed through her recollection.

  Her legs froze in mid-stride and her brain was torn immediately between the desire to launch her physical form into the ditch and the need to make contact with someone who might untie her unfortunate wrists.

  Since indecision was not one of her general weaknesses, she came to the immediate conclusion that the freedom of her hands was essential as was the freeing of her mouth from the irksome cravat. Perhaps it was foolish, but she refused to go another step trussed up like a Christmas goose.

  So, she stood her ground on the silent road awaiting her veritable fate.