Bewitching the Forbidden Duke: A Steamy Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Scarlett Osborne

  But even as he said it, his throat constricted with something like loss and grief. He was a man now. She was a woman. He knew he couldn’t travel unchaperoned with an unmarried woman—the scandal would rock Society. He would be ostracized as a cad. She would be judged a woman of low morals.

  And Society would be right to be scandalized. Because she was no longer just a sweet, enjoyable child—she was a strikingly beautiful woman who would draw attention everywhere she went. And no one would believe that a man could be alone with such a woman and not want her in his arms, in his bed. He would indeed want those things himself. He couldn’t deny it.

  He looked up at her and saw sadness in her face that mirrored his own. She, too, seemed to understand things had changed. “You used to tell me you’d run away with me and join the Travellers.”

  He hid his head in his hands, raking his fingers through his hair. “Oh, Joanna,” he said softly. “What are we going to do? You’ve been a part of me for so long that it would kill me to lose you. But we can’t love each other now the way we did as children. We’re not children.”

  Her voice was strong and resolute. “Well, if becoming a man and woman means we can’t love each other like children anymore, then we just have to start loving each other as men and women do.” There wasn’t a trace of embarrassment in her words.

  He looked at her in shock. Truly she must still be a complete innocent, to even say such a thing. She couldn’t know what she was talking about. Only a—well, a wanton, could offer herself to a man so lightly and freely. And a wanton was the last thing his Joanna was.

  Imagine if any of the dandies at ’varsity were to hear such a beautiful young woman talk this way? They would ruin her good name. First they’d trick her into doing whatever they wished, then they’d ruin her reputation and snicker publicly about it.

  Christopher knew what appetites he wanted to satisfy on the glorious body of the girl standing in front of him. But beyond that, he truly loved Joanna, as he had never before had the chance to love another human being.

  Good God, she’s only eighteen, no matter how ripe and delicious her body looks. What kind of a cad would force himself on an innocent girl?

  Joanna might think she knew what was best for her, but he was older and he knew better. He must protect her. From his own newly raging desire, which he could not deny. And from her own innocent recklessness, which if unchecked would bring her to shame. He must guide their feelings in a safer direction.

  “Joanna, you are dearer to me than any sister. And I love you more than a sister. No matter what happens, you can count on me for that.”

  She must never know that I love her as so much more than a sister.

  For the rest of their short time together that afternoon, he tried to focus the conversation on commonplace, familiar things: the horses her Da was readying for the county livestock fair; his dog Huntress’s latest litter—including the runt, Orion, who was thriving on cow’s milk and almost as strong as his mates.

  They just about made it safely through that painful, troubling day.

  He walked home in the summer twilight, his mind roiling with conflicting emotions. Perhaps he should just stop seeing her? But no, he couldn’t bear that. For the joy of her company, he would do whatever it took to hide his true feelings.

  It occurred to him then that in all the years they had known each other, the word “love” had never before been spoken by either of them. And yet to say it now seemed the most obvious and natural thing in the world.

  Chapter 3

  Strategies and Snares

  Joanna was lost in thought as she made her way back to the Traveller encampment that same evening. She needed to think this situation through carefully.

  Joanna knew she had changed during the two years Christopher had been gone. But her Christy had changed just as much.

  His face had hardened into manliness. It was all lines and edges, now. His eyes were still as honest and direct as always, and they glowed with good health. But his fine square chin with its attractive dimple had grown much more determined and resolute.

  His nose had become more patrician, as if he were coming to an acceptance of his lofty role in the world. The soft, light boyish down on his cheeks was gone, and in its place a faint shadow of dark beard, cleanly shaven, had replaced it.

  Joanna saw how Christopher’s shoulders had broadened and how hours of sport at Oxford had developed his chest and biceps. His muscles rippled beneath his shirt. He had arms meant to hold a woman, to protect her from the world. Any woman, young or old, would want him.

  And at twenty, he was a full-grown man. Joanna herself was only eighteen, and she had had no experience of men, but still she knew herself to be a woman. And she lived among earthy people who well understood what urges drove men and women.

  What’s this silly business about loving me like a sister? I’ll have to put a stop to that right quickly!

  She remembered Christy’s face as he first looked upon her today. She could see his eyes rake over her newly ripened body, wanting it. Wanting her. Lusting for her.

  Looking at her, he had been breathing hard, and his eyes were almost feverish. There was a fine, manly bulge in his breeches, and it was a compliment to her. Yes, he was ready.

  A sister! What bloody nonsense.

  He was no doubt still a virgin, as was she. But he was now a man fully grown, ready to have pleasure from a girl. All this she had seen in one instinctive glance at her childhood friend, and it awakened a corresponding hunger in her.

  Yes, he is the one I will have, the one I will give my maidenhead to. He is the one I will choose as a partner for my entire life, so there can be no shame if we express our love in the way God intended.

  Yet she had not reckoned on Christopher’s inherent good breeding, his natural chivalry toward women. It seemed that among all the obstacles to her claiming her man, Christy himself might prove the biggest obstacle.

  How could she open his eyes and win him to her? He was still such a boy in many ways. Although she was two years younger, didn’t they say girls were always more mature than boys? She knew that she and Christy were meant for each other, even if he didn’t know it yet.

  Joanna reached her father’s caravan just as dusk was falling. She was back to the camp in good time, then—twilight lasted for hours at this time of year, and the Travellers were likely to sit out in the sultry evening shadows, talking and laughing and singing old Traveller ballads. Joanna loved this time of year.

  She sought her father’s old caravan. It was rickety and broken down, but it still rode smoothly enough with a horse or two harnessed up to pull it. It was a cheery yellow with dabs of bright red paint. It was home, and she loved it.

  There already was a campfire started in the little clearing behind the caravan. She could see other campfires near other caravans, here and there in the woods around her. Clusters of other Travellers, in small groups of kinfolk and friends, were gathering for their evening meal.

  Maggie Mae was stirring something in a pot. Stew, maybe? It smelled delicious.

  Joanna had known Maggie Mae her whole life. She was some sort of relation, her Da’s great-aunt perhaps. She was old as the mountain crags and as tough as the knotty roots beneath an oak tree.

  Joanna’s own mother had died when Joanna was a baby. Maggie Mae has stepped in to help Da raise her. It wasn’t something a man could do by himself, particularly with a girl child.

  “Here,” said the old woman, handing Joanna a large tin spoon. “Ye can stir this while I clean an’ cut up the couple o’ fowl yer Da shot down and bagged today. It’ll make a tasty mouthful for ye. There were some potatoes left, an’ I found a patch of lovely mushrooms in the woods.”

  “Smells good, Maggie Mae,” Joanna said absentmindedly.

  Her thoughts were back on Christopher, going round and round in her head. What do I do? If I push too hard, mayhap he won’t respect me as much. But if I act all stand-offish and prim, we’ll get no further with
this.

  “Here! Here! What’s the matter with ye, lass? Ye’re stirring the pot so hard ye’ll make a hole in the bottom of it yet. And ye’re sloshing good soup over the sides.”

  “Sorry, Maggie Mae. I’ll be more careful.” But her thoughts pulled her away again to puzzle over Christopher.

  Maggie Mae gave her a sharp tap on the shoulder to bring her back to reality. “Ye’re right addled tonight, lass. I don’t know what to make of ye.”

  Joanna realized that if she didn’t snap out of her foggy state, she’d soon have Maggie Mae interrogating her like a magistrate. And Maggie Mae wouldn’t rest, then, till she had an explanation.

  “Oh, I don’t know what ails me, Maggie Mae. Just the summer heat, I suppose. Where’s Da?”

  “He’ll be back in a minute or two. Just gathering more firewood.”

  “Joanna, lass!” It was her Da’s cheerful voice. A tall man, he had broad shoulders, but grief over the loss of his wife had left those shoulders a little bowed. Still, he had a strong, brave spirit that Joanna admired greatly.

  He gave her a mighty hug, lifting her off her feet. “Where’ve you been all afternoon, then? Out in the forest casting spells on us all, with those witchy eyes of yers?”

  Joanna loved her Da more than anyone else in the world—with the exception, maybe, of Christy. She knew that her Da adored her, and she could do no wrong in his eyes. Da would do anything to protect her. Really, she was all he had in the world, and he let her know in every look and gesture that in his estimation, she was a priceless treasure.

  “Domnall, sit for the meal,” Maggie Mae urged. She was ladling large spoons of the stew into tin bowls. “The food gets cold so fast, and I want ye to enjoy it. Joanna, girl, stop talking to yer Da and let him eat some dinner.”

  The three of them settled comfortably around the fire, eating their fill of the freshly caught game birds. They didn’t say much for a while—just enjoyed Maggie Mae’s good cooking. There was delightfully cool water to drink, too, just brought up from the nearby brook.

  “More?” the old woman asked. They nodded, their mouths too full to talk, and she dished up seconds all around.

  Joanna was helping Maggie Mae clear the few tin plates and utensils, when a hearty voice called out a greeting. “The Bagley family,” the newcomer said. “This is where I come to see the loveliest two women in the camp.”

  “Ah, now, don’t ye be butterin’ us up, Cormac. We’re wise to yer charm,” said Maggie Mae with a big smile.

  “Mac, come sit a spell with us, if ye have the time,” Domnall said to the other man. “You’ll have a drop o’ whiskey with us, won’t ye?”

  Some clean tin cups were brought out and the jug was passed from hand to hand. “What news from the town, Mac?”

  Cormac was a few years younger than Domnall. He had crisply curling black hair, sparkling dark eyes, and a merry smile. Cormac could charm the birds right down from the sky, as Maggie Mae put it. He had the gift of the gab—a joke or a story for every occasion. His good cheer was contagious.

  Cormac also had a musical gift—when he played a sad song on the fiddle, everyone listening was moved to shed a tear. And when he played a lively song, you just had to stand up and dance. He was very valuable to the band of Travellers because of these two gifts. As they made their pilgrimage from place to place, the Travellers were usually shunned by the Outsiders settled in those areas.

  But Cormac could walk into any public house in England, with his fiddle under his arm. He’d play for the Outsiders, and he’d sit and pass an evening talking and jesting with them, just as if he were one of them. As a result, he knew the lay of the land wherever their group went. It was valuable information to his fellow Travellers.

  So Domnall now asked him, as people always did, “What news from the town, Mac?”

  Cormac shook his head as if he had nothing good to say. “Tell me, Dom, what did you and yours have for your meal this night?”

  Domnall looked at him as if he had lost his senses. “What? A few game fowl that I shot and bagged. Why?”

  “The same supper as most everyone else in this camp, I’d wager. Dom, ye’d best spread the word. This land belongs to the Duke of Gresham, the law says, and his bloody Graciousness is on the tear about poaching Travellers. Told his man Brown to have their lads on the lookout for us. Says that any man, woman, or child among us caught taking so much as a rabbit will be horsewhipped, or have his right hand cut off, or worse.”

  Joanna’s father smiled and poured out another round of whiskey. “He’ll have to catch us first. I don’t see that happening. Nay, his lordship’s attention will soon turn to something else, and we’ll be fine.”

  “This time seems more serious, Dom. Seems the Duke thinks the bloody Prince is goin’ to come down here from London in the huntin’ season, and the Duke’ll be embarrassed if the game supply’s low. Means to keep his foot on our necks meanwhile, even if it means we starve. All I’m sayin’ is be careful, Domnall. Just be careful.”

  A shiver ran through Joanna. That’s Christy’s father they’re talking about. The one who plans to horsewhip and mutilate and starve us. She was cold suddenly, as if with an evil premonition. She reached for the whiskey, but it did nothing to drive away the chill.

  Chapter 4

  Fever and Its Cure

  Thus began the most agonizing summer of either of their young lives. They could not bear to be apart, but it was pure torture to be together. Every movement, every casual touch or contact by one left the other on fire.

  Lying on their separate beds at night—he in a manor house, surrounded by silken hangings and resting on the softest of sheets; she on a bare pallet in her father’s rickety caravan—they tossed and turned, and could get no relief from sleep.

  They tried to do all the things that had brought them joy when they were children. They caught and roasted the fish on pointy sticks, but when he watched her slowly lick her fingers one by one, savoring the salty juices on them, the thought of her licking him the same way brought him to something very like madness.

  He lay flat on his stomach on the grass, searching for the entrance to a woodchuck’s den, but to see him lying prone in that way made her imagine what it would be like to be under him just then, with his strong arms holding her down by her shoulders, and his knee wedging her thighs apart.

  A saint could not have withstood it. Yet they carried on day after day in each other’s company, because it would be even harder not to see one another. And nothing happened. I might just make it through the summer without harming her. Damn it, though, she made it hard for a man to control himself.

  Perhaps because they were so uncomfortable with each other, arguments flared up easily between them. Once they had seemed like two identical halves of one soul. Disagreement between them would have seemed impossible. Now they were like dry, parched timber, and any spark could start a blaze.

  For Joanna, her secret deadline for action was late September, when the Travellers would leave Gresham on their age-old western trek to meet other clans at Stonehenge. There they would celebrate the Samhain festival, with rituals, feasting, and bonfires lit under the open stars. “Halloween, you’d call it,” she explained to a puzzled Christopher.

  An argument broke out between them, though, when she learned that he would become nearly unavailable to her starting on the “Glorious Twelfth” of August, when the hunting season officially opened. That meant they would miss more than a month of their daily meetings.

  “Joanna, I’ll slip away whenever I can to see you. But we’ll have house guests most of the time, and I can’t just disappear for hours without appearing very rude to the guests.”

  “Rude?” she snarled. “You haven’t seen me in two years, and now we’re going lose half the summer together because you bloody well don’t want to be rude to a bunch of snooty strangers? How about maybe you’re being rude to me?”

  “They’re not snooty strangers, Joanna, no more than the folk you’ll see at St
onehenge will be strangers to you. They’re the haut ton, the cream of England’s nobility, and we’re related to most of them by blood or marriage, if you look back far enough.”

  “‘Oat tonn’ my ancient aunt. If you look back far enough, they’re probably related to me, too, even if you have to go back to Adam and Eve to find the kinship,” Joanna said sharply. “But you don’t see me running after them like a lap dog, saying, ‘Yes, My Lord,’ and ‘No, My Lοrd.’ I’d respect you more, Christopher, if you didn’t care so much what they thought of you.”

  “Joanna, be reasonable. I have to care what they think. My family position, the marriages my sisters are able to make, and so many other things depend on my behaving as Society expects me to. I have responsibilities now.”

  “Oh, la-di-da, responsibilities, is it?” Joanna taunted. “And to think this was the boy who was going to run away with me and roam the world with the Travellers.”

  We were children when we said those things. She can’t really think we’d still be able to act like that.

  He tried to reason with her—a mistake, he knew, when she was in such a mood. “The other thing, Joanna, is that the Prince of Wales may be coming. It’s an unbelievable honor. I have to be at my father’s side for that. It would be a grave insult if I were missing.”

  “Oh, we wouldn’t want to insult your father, would we. Or the bloody Prince of Wales. You disappoint me, Christy.” She stalked off without a goodbye.

  Yet when he reached their usual meeting place the next afternoon, she was waiting for him. It seemed they could not stay away from each other.

  The rift between their separate worlds increasingly tormented them, almost as much as did their physical longing. The summer would be short, and then what would happen to them?

  In truth, Joanna did try to meet him halfway. “When this royal crowd leaves, and when the Travellers have left Gresham for the autumn, I could maybe write to you, Christy.”