Desperate Duchesses

by Eloisa James

  “You’ll have to catch a minnow out here if you want one,” Damon said.

  “Mr. Cunningham,” Roberta said, “do people boat on the Thames as well?”

  “There’s too much river traffic,” Mr. Cunningham explained. “The Thames is no place for anything other than a large pleasure craft. Unfortunately, they’re talking of covering over the Fleet, which would be a great shame.”

  They drifted past a field all glossy and yellow with buttercups just as Teddy managed to catch a large amount of dripping weed. “Look!” he said, “I’ll give this to my kitten because Rummer says that cats eat grass sometimes, did you know that?”

  Damon said fiercely, “Drop it, Teddy.”

  Mr. Cunningham was laughing. “You need to teach your son how to swim, Damon. He’ll swim like a minnow on the first try.”

  “I’m sure that I would,” Teddy put in.

  “The water’s quite shallow around the curve over there,” Mr. Cunningham suggested. “Mud flats. We could simply drop him off the boat, just as Lady Roberta suggested for the kitten.”

  “That would be good,” Teddy said, nodding so vigorously that he didn’t notice his father pulling the seaweed away, although he promptly plunged his hand back in the water to try to rescue it.

  “Teddy, I told you not to get wet,” his father said. “And Ransom, do I understand you to be volunteering for the pleasure of such instruction?”

  Rather to Roberta’s surprise, Mr. Cunningham didn’t say no outright. “Swimming involves disrobing, which wouldn’t be appropriate for ladies,” he noted.

  “A boy never shows a girl his pizzle,” Teddy informed Roberta.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said.

  “But once you’re married, you can look at all of ’em that you wish.”

  “I assume that is a philosophy learned at Papa’s knee?” Roberta enquired.

  Damon stopped laughing to say that perhaps the field would be a good place for their picnic.

  Mr. Cunningham agreeably began steering the boat in that direction and a moment later they were on the bank. Teddy let it be known that he would like a private visit to the trees, and he and Damon set off in that direction. Roberta busied herself with setting out the picnic basket under a tree while Mr. Cunningham fashioned a landing post out of a sapling.

  By the time they came back, Roberta had discovered that a rug on top of bumpy ground is not a comfortable seat. They all seated themselves except Teddy, who danced around them like an impatient dragonfly.

  Damon drained his glass of wine with a slightly desperate air. “Parenting is exhausting,” he said.

  “That is because you have insufficient help. Weren’t you going to find a nursemaid?”

  “The Registry Office is sending a new one tomorrow,” he said. “I only have to survive today.”

  Roberta looked at him and couldn’t help a tiny smile. His hair was standing on end, and his arm was wet to the elbow from pulling Teddy’s hand out of the river. He was pouring himself another glass of wine as if it were the elixir of life. Mr. Cunningham had deserted his uncomfortable seat and was swinging Teddy in a circle until he shrieked.

  “Perhaps Mr. Cunningham would be kind enough to go through the grove to the mud flat?” Roberta asked. “He can teach Teddy how to swim and we’ll sit in this vastly uncomfortable spot and wait for them to come back, sparing me the sight of a miniature pizzle.”

  Damon blinked at her for a moment and then leapt to his feet. “Ransom!” he called.

  Roberta finished her glass just as Mr. Cunningham and Teddy set off through the grove.

  “He won’t drown, will he?” Damon said, sounding not terribly concerned.

  “I think it’s unlikely. Where did Mr. Cunningham learn about children?”

  “Likely he has siblings,” Damon said. He lay backwards and then sat up with a curse. “Damn it, where have you placed us, Roberta?”

  “In a field of buttercups. Tables and chairs are unaccountably missing.”

  “I’ve been in many a field,” Damon said, “and this is the most uncomfortable of my experience.” He brought Roberta to her feet. Then he picked up the rug and kicked at something underneath.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Cowpats,” he said. “You put the rug down on a lovely collection of them. In fact,” Damon said looking about, “this entire field is dotted with cowpats.”

  “Do you suppose a bull will be coming along?”

  “In a month or so when the grass is high enough. I’m going to have to sacrifice my gloves, which will give Martins palpitations, but what can I do? Back up, Roberta.”

  Two minutes later, cowpats started sailing across the field.

  “See if you can get one in the river,” Roberta suggested.

  The river lay gurgling in the sunshine, about ten yards away. Damon pulled back his arm and then let the cowpat fly.

  It struck the bank just before the river. Roberta very loudly said nothing.

  “I can do better than that,” Damon muttered. “Here, help me take my coat off. I don’t want to soil it with my gloves.”

  She helped him pull off his beautiful coat. It was a misty grey, lined with scarlet silk that trimmed the sleeves with a huge open cuff. His breeches were the same scarlet, very tight. His waistcoat followed until he was wearing nothing but the breeches and a linen shirt, so fine that she could see the swell of his muscles as he threw another cowpat. But it landed a good foot before the edge.

  “Do gentlemen invite women into their chambers to help them dress, the way ladies do?” she asked with some curiosity.

  He shook his head. “I’m aiming at that duck, Roberta—” And he gave a little whoop. “Hit it!”

  “Perhaps, if it hadn’t dived first.” And then, answering his gesture, “No, I am certainly not going to hand you a cowpat.”

  “I’d never ask such a thing of a proper lady, but that’s the great thing about you, Roberta. You’re not so ladylike.”

  “I don’t think that’s a compliment.”

  “Only because you have no idea how tedious ladies can be. For one thing, they have no sense of competitiveness. And having grown up as Jemma’s brother, you can imagine how boring I find that.”

  “Is Jemma competitive?”

  He laughed. “Jemma is the best female chess player in England and France, and quite likely better than all the men as well. She kept beating Philidor, and he is the best in France.”

  “Who’s the best in England?”

  He blinked at her. “You don’t know?”

  She shook her head.

  “Your lover,” he said with relish. “Villiers. Though I suppose I shouldn’t yet call him that. Now, do you suppose I could hit the sapling we tied the boat to?”

  “No.”

  “You’re not very encouraging,” he complained and then leaned back as far as he could and let go with a mighty fling. The pat fell far short.

  “I’ll try,” she said.

  It was very gratifying; his mouth actually fell open.

  Clearly, the right shape of cowpat was essential. It had to be disc shaped, as opposed to some of the balls Damon was hurdling around; they lost their shape in midair and fell to a pile of dust.

  Finally she found just the right one and, saying a silent apology to Jemma’s beautiful lilac gloves, crossed her hand over her chest and spun the disc as hard as she could.

  It didn’t quite hit the sapling, but it went further than any of Damon’s.

  “How in the hell did you know how to do that?” he said, a gratifying shock in his voice.

  “Your sister may be the best chess player in two countries,” she said, pulling off her soiled gloves, “but I shall claim the title of best cowpat thrower.”

  “It’s yours. So where did you do your training, Lady Roberta?”

  “No training,” she said, grinning at him. “Just the ability to assess the mistakes of those who went before me.”

  “Piss on that,” Damon sai
d, finding a disc-shaped cowpat for himself. Of course, when he tried the spinning method it went past the buoy. “Still, you were there first,” he said, very fairly. “I think that’s cleared a spot for a rug; what you do think?”

  “I think we should walk through the woods and see how Teddy is swimming.”

  “You don’t want to lounge in the dappled shade with me and practice your kisses? I could quote some poetry and ply you with wine.”

  “I’ve heard enough poetry in my life,” she said wryly.

  “Ah, but this is—with excuses to your father—a different brand of poetry. Come live with me, and be my love,” he said, with exaggerated emphasis. “You will be my buttercup and I will be your—your—parsnip.”

  “I don’t want to be your love,” Roberta said, giggling.

  “You could give it a try.” He put an arm around her waist and before she knew it she had her back against an old apple tree. His mouth looked very delectable, but—

  “Are you really trying to seduce me?”

  “Of course,” he said, leaning over to brush his mouth against hers.

  “You smell a little bit like a cowpat,” she said.

  “I could say the same to you.”

  “Don’t. I prefer to think of myself as perfumed.”

  “I prefer to think of you as naked,” he said, his voice a husky murmur against the sound of birds singing.

  She let him kiss her. Why not? He was a rogue, but such an enjoyable one. She relaxed against him, letting him slip into her mouth, start a game that made her heart pound. He had his hair tied back, so she pulled on the ribbon until all that loose silk fell into her hands, the way it had the previous night.

  He was kissing her with a breathless intensity now, his mouth slanting over hers, invading her, retreating. His lips were hot and beautifully full. She licked his lower lip and he let out a little noise, like a muffled groan.

  It was so odd that she pulled back to stare at him.

  That was a bad idea because Damon seemed to have shed his friendly exterior. He snatched her back so quickly she lost her breath, and kissed her hard, so her knees buckled. He had her against the tree trunk, and she could feel every hard curve of his body.

  “Don’t push at me,” she gasped. “This tree has bumps on it.”

  “We can lie down.”

  “No.”

  “Then I’ll have to protect you from those evil bumps,” he said, sliding his hand over the curve of her bottom and pulling her against his body. He had bumps of his own, and her body welcomed each of them with feverish delight.

  It made her feel weak and silly, capable of collapsing against him and squealing, take me, or something foolish of that nature. That dim suggestion was just enough to bring her thoughts together.

  She pulled back and this time he let her go, bracing his arms on the tree on either side of her. Kissing made her feel delicate and fragile, all those things she wasn’t and never could be.

  “Are you trying to seduce me?” he demanded. “Because, damn it, Roberta, you’re about as close to success as I’ve ever come with a marriageable young woman.”

  “No, I’m not,” she said, pushing his arms away. He had no reason to look quite so shocked at the idea that she might be seductive. “You know I’m not.”

  He straightened. “Because you’re in love with Villiers, right?”

  “Among other reasons,” she said, straightening her skirts.

  He still sounded a little stunned. “If you weren’t in love, you still wouldn’t want to seduce me?”

  Roberta looked up at him. He had a look of utter disbelief on his face. He stood there, muscled and lean in his white shirt, his hair tousled by her hands, and his eyes narrowed. She started laughing.

  “I’ll kiss you silent,” he threatened.

  So she sobered. “It’s just that—well, you will fall in love someday, Damon, and then you’ll see what I mean. You’re awfully handsome and very sweet, funny and all the rest of it. Just not for me.”

  “Sweet and funny?” He ran a hand through his hair and it looked even wilder. “Damn it, what happened to my ribbon?”

  She picked it up and watched as he pulled his hair back and tied it off his face. The style suited him; it made his cheekbones even more prominent.

  “Haven’t you ever been in love?” she asked.

  “Of course I have,” he said, smirking at her. “Many a time.”

  “No, really in love.”

  He pulled on his waistcoat. “Of course I have been, you wench. The first time was a lass named Susan, and I’ll have you know she was lovely.”

  “Someone from the village?” she guessed, thinking of him as a young lad with a buxom barmaid.

  “Lord Kendrick’s daughter,” he said, pulling on his coat. “Married a squire and lives in the country.”

  “Really? And did she love you back?”

  “Oh, she did.”

  “Well, then—”

  “For at least a week. She sent me a letter drenched in scent. Which brought us to a tragic close, because our butler informed my father that I was receiving mail from a lady, and he cut off our friendship.”

  “Goodness. He didn’t want you to marry your Susan?”

  He grinned at her. “I was fourteen. And he’d arranged my marriage already, though the poor lass died before we got to the point.”

  “How old was Susan?”

  “An ancient woman of seventeen.”

  “Quite precocious on your part.”

  “I shall watch Teddy like a hawk. Speaking of which…”

  They walked across the buttercups to a small grove of spindly trees. They were about half way through when Damon said suddenly, “You never told me why you wouldn’t wish to seduce me if Villiers wasn’t in the picture.”

  “Because I intend to marry. And unlike Susan I have enough sense to see that you are not the husband for me.”

  “I’m not fourteen any longer. I have a title. Why would I be ineligible?”

  For some reason she felt like reassuring him, even though it was obviously all a jest. “You’re very good looking. And very skilled at kissing.”

  He grinned down at her. “Thanks for those words of praise. But?”

  She shrugged. “You don’t want to marry me; you explain it.”

  “I’m a man. No good at explaining things.”

  “The moment I saw Villiers, I knew he was perfect for me.”

  “Because he’s an old stick who will never embarrass you?”

  “I like you hugely, Damon. You can tell that I do. But I feel as if you are a family member, a cousin.”

  “If you were really my cousin I wouldn’t be kissing you under an apple tree.”

  “It’s just that it’s all easy with you. And funny.” She stopped, hands on her hips. “Do you really think that you’ll find yourself having a cowpat throwing contest with your bride?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “No?”

  “Absolutely not. When you fall in love, your heart will pound so much that you won’t be able to throw a mouse, let alone a cowpat.”

  “I don’t think I could throw a mouse now. I dislike the idea of scrabbling little feet in my palm. Unless they were yours, of course.”

  “That’s just what I mean. You wouldn’t be so silly if I were the right person for you. You’d be too afraid to do or say the wrong thing.”

  “Whereas with you I don’t give a damn?”

  “That is my distinct impression,” she said, walking a little faster because there was sunlight just a few trees away.

  “Well, in that case,” he said, and a moment later she was spun around against a tree again and he was kissing her. Hard. When Damon kissed, there was nothing cousinly or funny or sweet about him.

  At first she struggled a bit; had he no concern for the fact that she was marrying another?

  But Damon was the sort of kisser who claimed mastery. Lord of his realm, etc. There was no fighting him when he—

  She lost the t
hought. His fingers were warm on her back and his touch was singing through her dress.

  Plus he was pushing against her again. Dimly, she realized that pushing was definitely part of male strategy. Mating strategy, one had to assume.

  Fine.

  She liked it.

  She wiggled a bit in response, and then noticed that his breathing got a little ragged, and she thought, aha, and did it again.

  The trouble with Jemma’s too-tight gowns was immediately clear when Damon wrapped his hand around the part of her breasts that plumped above her bodice. The bodice promptly lost its moorings and took her corset with it, leaving her whole breast open to his caress.

  Dimly, Roberta knew that this had to stop.

  For some reason Damon was taken with the idea of kissing her, and acting as if he wanted to seduce her—all right, she was willing to admit that he did want to seduce her. But he wasn’t the man she was in love with.

  She jerked away from him.

  He made an odd little groaning sound, and then: “I was enjoying that.”

  “Do you really want to kiss a woman who’s thinking of another man?” she asked him, angry for some reason.

  He froze for a second. “I suppose not. Particularly, I must admit, if you were thinking of Villiers. All that passion for chess. All that white hair. No, thank you. I like my hair as it is, and I find chess deadly boring. Don’t you?”

  “I’ve never played.”

  He shuddered. “My father made Jemma and myself play for hours and hours when we were children. Some pieces go one way and others go the other way. It’s all about the queen, which”—he grinned at her—“I found tedious and Jemma did not.”

  “I shall learn to play.”

  “No point. Villiers will find it monotonous to play you, since you’re a beginner. And he’s not the type to suffer fools gladly.”

  “I shall think of ways to make it interesting for him,” she said obstinately.

  He looked amused but said nothing. A tale one of her father’s courtesans had told her came to mind. “We’ll play naked,” she said.

  He stopped short. “Roberta St. Giles!”

  She dimpled at him. “Reeves breed true,” she said, and took off with a toss of her head. They walked through the spinney to discover that Teddy was swimming like the proverbial fish, and Mr. Cunningham had taken an unlucky spill into the water.