The Duke Heist

by Erica Ridley

“Good afternoon. I’m Chloe. And I’m thinking very seriously about living inside your millinery trunk.”

  He took her hand and gave the trunk a dubious glance. “There’s not much oxygen in there. Experts recommend a dressing room with plenty of natural light.”

  “I’ve got one,” she admitted. “And if you think your collection is eccentric…”

  He pressed his lips to the back of her fingers. The gesture was not torrid but tender. As if she was a prize worth winning. “It is delightful to meet you, Chloe Wynchester. I’m Lawrence. I daresay you’re perfect no matter what clothes you wear.”

  “I daresay I’d like to kiss you, Lawrence,” she said before she lost her nerve.

  His face slowly broke into a grin. “Prove it.”

  The brims of their bonnets mashed together as she threw herself into his embrace.

  His mouth was familiar and forbidden, his heat a cocoon from which she never wished to break free.

  Without dislodging his lips from hers, he rose from his chair, pulling her to her feet and closer to his chest. His heartbeat was as syncopated as hers. As her knees melted from the heat of his kisses, he cradled her to his body. Protecting her. Plundering her. Branding her with his kiss.

  Bean had always said that, to the right person, she would be visible, memorable, worthy of love exactly as she was. His words had proven true only for members of their family. No one else had ever seen beyond the bland mask to the woman just behind it.

  Until now. Until Faircliffe.

  No—until Lawrence.

  His hands glided down her spine, hungry, searching. He was learning her dips and curves just as he’d learned her lips and mouth.

  He had wanted a pretext to see her again, she realized. He had missed her. He had hoped she would return soon. He had spent his evening not at Almack’s but hunched over his table, pinning silk flowers to hats for her.

  She kissed him for every feather, every wax grape, every bloom, and every ribbon. She kissed him for the plain bonnet with nothing at all, because he hadn’t wanted her to feel obliged to do anything she wasn’t ready for.

  He didn’t realize she wanted everything he could give and everything he could not. She longed to spend the rest of the afternoon there in his arms, losing herself in each new sensation until she was dizzy with desire.

  Her siblings hoped Tommy found their painting quickly, but Chloe prayed the hunt would last all the way until the end-of-season gala. Even if she could now ask Lawrence for the painting, she wouldn’t do so unless she had to. She wasn’t ready to lose him. To be invisible again.

  Once the painting was in their hands, the game was over. No more bonnets. No more kisses.

  No more Faircliffe.

  18

  Lawrence reveled in Chloe’s kiss. He was more addicted to her taste than an opium eater to laudanum. Each kiss was drugging, beckoning him deeper, filling his every sense with the warmth of her soft curves and the jasmine scent of her hair.

  He hungered for the forbidden contours of her body. He promised himself that each kiss would be the last and proved himself a liar over and over again.

  An infinity of kisses would not be enough.

  The more he gave, the more he felt whole. He adored that she adored his silly hats. He adored that, out of all the fantastical options, she’d immediately chosen the one he’d created.

  He felt disproportionately proud, as though he had not decorated a bonnet but climbed a mountain and brought her the moon. He wanted to give her so much more than silly hats and stolen kisses. He could not shower her with gold, but he could spoil her with pleasure.

  His body grew hard at the thought. Her mouth was sweet and demanding, her curves supple and tempting. He would rather tear their clothes off than pile more adornments on. Kiss her all over, leaving no inch untouched by his mouth and tongue. He pressed her closer to him to resist the temptation.

  No matter how much he longed to sink between her thighs and bring them both to pleasure, he could not indulge such desires.

  Chloe’s fingers slid into his hair, dislodging his bonnet from his head. As she stroked the hair at his nape, his entire body felt like purring in pleasure. It required all of his willpower not to pet her even more intimately in response. To show her just how sensual a touch could be. He wanted her to luxuriate in his kisses, to come apart in his hands.

  But these were not gentlemanly thoughts. These were the craven yearnings of a man who took far more than he ought to have. To keep kissing her would risk offering more of his soul than he was prepared to give.

  In an act of self-preservation, he wrenched his mouth from hers.

  She blinked up at him, her eyes sleepy with passion, her lips plump and kissable, her hands still twined about his neck. If he did not find a chaste distraction quickly, he would tumble her onto the closest sofa and lose what little good sense remained.

  He wracked his jumbled thoughts for an activity that might not lead to lovemaking.

  “Come see my”—he floundered for a suitable word—“library.”

  The corners of her eyes crinkled. “All right.”

  And just like that, his rampant desire was washed out by an icy wave of dread.

  He never allowed visitors into his library. It was locked for a reason. The last time anyone had glimpsed these paintings had been during the previous year’s end-of-season gala. He’d thought Miss York would like the painting she’d complimented, but her response had been tepid at best. Nothing like Chloe’s surprise and delight at his gift of bonnets.

  He tucked her fingers about his arm and led her to his sanctuary. What would she think?

  The shelves were not as full as they had once been. Their sparseness did not bother him. He came to the library not just to read but to gaze upon its walls. All that remained of the Faircliffe treasures hung in gilded frames. This, too, was a much thinner collection than it had once been. But, gathered together in one room, the art that remained appeared magnificent.

  To Lawrence.

  With trepidation, he turned to face Chloe. Her lips were parted, her eyes wide with wonder.

  “It’s like a museum,” she breathed.

  His knees almost buckled in relief. Museums were good. People flocked there. His chest swelled. She thought his library was fine. He thought she was wonderful.

  “It’s my favorite room,” he admitted. The only blight was the empty pedestal where his mother’s angel vase belonged. “Do you want to meet my ancestors?”

  “Can I?”

  He led her to the wall where he’d relocated what had once been the Hall of Portraits. “This is Loftus Gosling, the first Duke of Faircliffe.”

  “He has kind eyes,” Chloe replied. “And a darling dog.”

  “That is a very serious man with a very serious companion, out and about on the very serious business of hunting.”

  “Mmm. If you say so.”

  “All the Faircliffe men have been renowned for their solemnity.” He winced. “Except my father.”

  “Do you mean ‘until’ your father? What about the present Duke of Faircliffe?”

  “I am very serious and solemn,” he protested. “I have on multiple occasions been called as hard as a glacier.”

  “Mmm,” she said again. “Perhaps because they haven’t seen you in a bonnet.”

  “It was a very serious bonnet,” he murmured. “The serious-est. If you found it silly, it is because you are silly. I’m at my most statesmanlike with several colorful woodland creatures pinned to my head.”

  “Aren’t we all,” she agreed, and set her bonnet at a rakish angle. “Who is this next gentleman?”

  Lawrence took her through them one by one, introducing her to great-great-grandparents and recounting family legends. It had been his mother who had shared the old family stories with him, passing them down at night as bedtime stories. He cherished each and every one.

  A series of portraits was not the same as having a large family, but it was as close as Lawrence could get. S
tanding there, picturing the old stories in his mind’s eye, made him feel a little less alone.

  He’d always planned on continuing the tradition with his own children one day. Yet this was the first time he’d thought to share those tales with a friend. Not just any friend—with Chloe.

  “My favorite bit,” she said, “was how your grandfather won your grandmother. My brother’s favorite would be that he named his horse after his great-great-grandfather’s.”

  Perhaps Lawrence’s grandfather had gone to sleep listening to the same bedside tales.

  “That does it,” he said. “I’m renaming my horses after the ones in these paintings.”

  Chloe shook her head.

  “Don’t do that. Your children and grandchildren may want to name theirs in your honor.”

  The thought made a strange flutter in his stomach. He had fantasized about having a family of his own for so long, it had never occurred to him that future generations might fantasize about knowing him.

  “I should’ve given my new nags better names than ‘Elderberry’ and ‘Mango,’” he muttered.

  She giggled. “If you need assistance with future livestock, my brother Jacob adores animals.”

  An odd sensation tickled his chest. How wonderful it must be to have siblings—to be able to offer one up as if he were an extension of oneself, as if Lawrence could call her brother a friend by proxy! Good day. You don’t know me, because I am a complete stranger, but I have a horse with no name. Have you any suggestions?

  If only it were that easy. Walk up to someone as though you were related and be immediately welcomed into the family. He suddenly wished more than anything that it were possible, that a large, loving family would one day open their arms and choose him.

  “Your ancestors are as handsome as you are.” Chloe turned to glance about the library. “What other treasures lurk around the corner?”

  He hesitated. His family portraits were important but fairly pedestrian.

  What would happen if he showed Chloe the handful of more experimental paintings that fascinated him? Would she like them, too? Or would she find his taste questionable and his art laughable, and perhaps rethink her opinion of him as well?

  He was appalled to discover he feared Chloe’s rejection as much as society’s.

  Lawrence did not seek her approbation but to forge a connection. To be understood by her in a way no other acquaintances sought to know him.

  “Over here,” he found himself saying. “My secret collection.”

  When they reached the corner, she regarded the panoply of styles with interest.

  “I am no artist,” she admitted, “but I am intrigued both by it and by you. Tell me what I am looking at.”

  He took a deep breath and did just that.

  She asked insightful questions and listened intently to his replies, even when the answer was “I don’t know. It felt like part of me when I saw it.”

  “Art fascinates me,” he explained, “because it captures a moment in time that may or may not have existed. No matter how rich the detail, it can never tell the full story.”

  This was much the same way he felt every time he looked at Chloe. She was beauty, she was mystery, she was more than she revealed at first glance. He suspected he could gaze upon her for the rest of his life and never uncover all of her hidden depths.

  He hesitated before confessing, “One of the best aspects of the theatre is the sets behind the actors.”

  “Is it?” She gave a startled laugh. “You would get on well with my sister Marjorie. She says the same thing.”

  “Does she?” He searched her eyes in wonder.

  He had expected her to mock such a ridiculous fancy, not accept it without question and immediately offer yet another sibling whose taste apparently mirrored his own. It was intoxicating to realize Chloe didn’t find his eccentricities strange but, rather, normal.

  This time he could not deny the wave of envy running through him. He didn’t want to belong to just any big, loving family.

  He wanted one like the Wynchesters.

  “Marjorie paints,” she explained with obvious pride. “If I tell her you find the act of creating as valuable as the art itself, you will be her favorite person in the world.”

  He could not help but wish she would repeat it to her sister. His belly fluttered. Lawrence had never been anyone’s favorite person before. Even as a jest.

  “Do you have a favorite person?” he asked.

  “I have many of them,” she answered without hesitation. “Bean and my siblings. More, if you count Tiglet.”

  “I would never fail to count Tiglet,” he replied solemnly.

  Was it foolish of him to wish his own name on that list?

  Once he pledged himself to Miss York, there would be no more passionate embraces with Chloe, but it did not mean they were obliged to return to being strangers.

  What if he and Chloe could remain…friends? Openly, this time? The thought made him dizzy. What if he could meet Jacob and Marjorie and whoever else was in her family? Not portraits on a wall, but real people whose legends were still unfolding. The Wild Wynchesters…and the Goslings.

  A throat cleared in the doorway. “Your Grace?”

  He turned to see his butler bearing a folded missive on a tray. “Yes, Hastings?”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, Your Grace, but Lord Southerby—”

  “Good God.” Lawrence strode over and snatched up the letter, suddenly realizing that Southerby’s footman had been awaiting his response for nearly an hour.

  The earl’s seaside development venture was almost fully financed, and he needed to know soon if Lawrence was able to be a founding partner. He had been about to respond when Chloe’s unexpected arrival had caused him to forget everything but her.

  “Please have the earl’s footman relay the message that I am not yet ready but will be before the end of the season.”

  “As you please.” Hastings bowed and left.

  Lawrence turned to Chloe. “I’m so sorry. If it were up to me, I’d spend the rest of the evening showing you every piece in my collection, but I’m afraid I’ve a debate tomorrow in the House of Lords that I must prepare for.”

  She gnawed her lip as if biting back words, then said in a rush, “I could help…if you wished.”

  Her voice was so soft as to be barely audible, but the look in her eyes matched what must have been the expression on his own face when debating whether to risk showing her the library: hungry. Hopeful. Terrified of rejection.

  “You don’t have to let me,” she said quickly. “I’m a woman—”

  “And no doubt brilliant. I’m a man used to doing everything on my own, because that is how it has always been.” His voice scratched. “Perhaps it needn’t be so tonight.”

  Her shocked gaze held his. “That means…that means yes?”

  He offered her his arm and tried not to think about how right she felt at his side. “Do you think your great-aunt can find us if we remove to my study?”

  “She’s probably asleep on a sofa.” Chloe’s eyes twinkled as she leaned in and lowered her voice. “She’s a dreadful chaperone.”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” he replied dryly. There was nothing he was more grateful for than Great-Aunt Wynchester’s ineptitude in that regard. “Shall I have a maid find her and deliver the news of where we’ve gone off to?”

  The embers of the fire crackled. Or perhaps it was the air sizzling with possibility.

  “That depends.” Chloe ran a finger lightly down his chest. “Can you guarantee there will be no kissing?”

  He placed his hand over his thudding heart. “On my honor, I can swear no such thing.”

  “Then we definitely shouldn’t tell her.” She gave a saucy wink. “Just in case.”

  19

  As nonplussed as Chloe was that Lawrence had accepted her offer of help—and as determined as she was to prove herself useful—her feet slowed as she followed him out of the library.

  T
his was the room. Puck was in here; she could feel him. As soon as she and her sister were together out of earshot, Chloe would tell Tommy to look closer at the library.

  When Lawrence turned to lock the door before heading to his office, Chloe asked no questions. She wanted him to think her primary interest lay in Parliament, not in his art collection.

  That it was kept under lock and key was no matter. Tommy had her own copy. From what she gathered during previous promenades, the housekeeper had not returned from holiday, and the other two maids were busier than usual, taking up the slack. Which meant Tommy could slip in and out of the library with no one the wiser.

  The idea that Puck & Family might return home before the end of the season gave Chloe’s stomach an odd twist. She shoved the unwelcome sense of sorrow away.

  Lawrence led her into a warm, cozy study. Late afternoon sun streamed through the windows. “You can take off your bonnet if you’ve tired of wearing it.”

  She would never tire of it. “I like my bonnet.”

  His dimple flashed. “Then by all means. Please take a seat.”

  A large, comfortable-looking, worn leather chair stood on the far side of a mahogany Pembroke table he appeared to be using as an escritoire. Two armchairs, presumably for guests, sat on the other side. Chloe chose the one with better light.

  She wanted to burn every moment of this evening into her memory.

  Rather than walk round to his chair, Lawrence sat down beside her and began rotating the piles of documents so that the text faced in their direction.

  She tried to breathe. Lawrence wasn’t just fulfilling her romantic desires; he was treating her like an equal. More so, in fact, than she imagined he would treat Lord Southerby if the earl were there.

  “I’ve never shared my methods with anyone before,” Lawrence said, negating the idea of even his peers being welcome in this space. “I have an exceptionally rough draft, but it reads longer than I like to speak and is missing half the points I want to make.”

  “Then let’s start at the beginning.” She motioned to the pages clutched in his hand, her pulse skipping.

  How many times had she spied upon the House of Commons from the attic or infiltrated the Strangers’ Gallery in disguise? This was more than having a statesman right in front of her. The Duke of Faircliffe was about to perform a speech for her alone.