by Erica Ridley
She would be honored to devote her time to any law that could use fact-gathering or an analytical mind to put things into perspective and dream up possible solutions.
Diana had long ago resigned herself to a life of hard work with no recognition. Helping an honorable, loyal, stubborn man like Colehaven to achieve greater success would be just as fulfilling.
But, of course, she was placing the cart before the horse. Just because the duke had listened to her opinion in the past did not mean he wished to do so for the rest of his career.
Without looking at her, Colehaven accepted a glass of ratafia and strode off in the direction of his important, popular friends.
Diana hadn’t expected different. In fact, she’d hoped he would not insist on continuing their conversation after they’d reached the end of the ratafia queue. Friendliness that public would cause far more attention and gossip than either of them wished to suffer.
And yet, a tiny part of her wished he didn’t care about the whispers. That friendship was friendship, whether it be two lords who ran the Wicked Duke and all of England… or the Duke of Colehaven and a nobody orphan like Diana.
Irritated with herself, she downed half her ratafia in a single gulp and turned to head back to her usual shadows.
A snippet of conversation stopped her from going.
“Did you see Colehaven?” one of the stately matrons whispered to another. “If my Agatha can tempt him to sign her dance card again, I think she has a chance.”
“Again?” echoed her companion. “When did he dance with Agatha the first time?”
“Last Season,” Agatha’s mother said proudly. “He stood up with her on two different occasions. She still has the cards bearing his signatures affixed to her vanity.”
The companion gave a sad shake of her head. “That was last year. There are new debutantes to contend with. The Lyndon girl’s been out all of a fortnight and is already being bandied about as this season’s Original. She’s niece to the Earl of Fortescue and beautiful in both looks and manners.”
“Agatha is everything that is polite and proper,” her mother said hotly.
“She has freckles,” her companion whispered as though the word itself was contagious. “A duke needn’t settle for anything short of perfection. Especially not one as young and handsome as Colehaven. If my Hester were only a wee more biddable…”
Proper. Biddable. Perfect.
Words that never once had been spoken to describe Diana.
She wasn’t related to anyone with a title, could in no way improve Colehaven’s connections or standings. She was old, outspoken, the opposite of docile…
There was no reason for depressed spirits or hurt feelings, Diana reminded herself. She didn’t want him to waltz with her. She just needed him to listen to her. Occasionally. Secretly. The rest didn’t matter.
Despite how her twisting heart might feel about the thought of him wed to some vapid, portrait-perfect little girl.
She stared down at her glass. No matter how much she tried to deny her feelings, Colehaven was precisely the sort of man she would want, if she could let herself want a man like him. He was friendly, principled, confident…
Too late, she realized she’d wandered not back to the wallflower perch where she belonged, but closer to Colehaven and his peers.
One of the men wiggled his brows. “Have you seen this year’s crop?”
Diana did not need to consult her journal to know that he wasn’t talking about potatoes. What Adolphus Fernsby lacked in titled connections, he made up for with shameless flirtation. His name was on every dance card… if the bearer possessed a large enough dowry.
Colehaven shook his head. “Too young.”
“Well, one oughtn’t dally long,” Fernsby pointed out. “If they’re still around after two or three years, something must be wrong. And besides, those who require an heir and a spare need time to perfect their craft, in case the first few are daughters.”
A marquess famed for his love of fox-hunting turned to him in horror. “Stricken with a sister and a daughter? Surely Fate cannot be so cruel.”
“You jest.” Fernsby sniffed in pique. “I hope your future wife spawns nothing but girls.”
The marquess shivered. “A dreadful curse. Are you certain you’re not a gypsy?”
Fernsby harrumphed and stalked away.
From this angle, Diana could not see Colehaven’s expression, but the roll of his eyes was evident in the tone of his voice. “Why does he think we require his direction on whom to wed?”
“As if there’s any question,” the marquess agreed with a sigh. “We know what sort of woman makes a proper duchess. We’ll do our duty when it’s time, without the pinks of the ton pecking us like mother hens.”
“He does make a good hen,” Colehaven mused. “I think it’s the way his hair sticks up in the back.”
“That style is called the ‘frightened owl,’ not the ‘mother hen,’” the marquess scolded him. “Which you would know, if you would just glance at the four hundred fashion plates your sister ordered for you—”
Colehaven groaned. “Not you, too. I thought being a duke meant I didn’t need to be fashionable. Aren’t young ladies supposed to be more interested in my title than how I tie my neckcloth?”
“Oh, is that a neckcloth?” The marquess asked politely. “I thought you’d misplaced this morning’s serviette.”
“I hope you are cursed with nothing but daughters,” Colehaven informed him. “Hellions, every one of them.”
Diana stared down into her half-empty glass. They were right. No one needed Adolphus Fernsby or anyone else reminding them what sort of woman made an appropriate duchess. She would need to gird her loins for the inevitable day when Colehaven wed the “right” kind of girl.
The worst part was, Diana needed him to follow the prescribed path. In order for Colehaven to do good works, he had to remain respected amongst his peers. His decision-making could not be called into question. A wife with unexpected quirks would attract unnecessary attention and distract from the true goals.
“Speaking of marriage,” the marquess said, “I notice Thad’s ward is still unwed.”
Safe against the wall, Diana inched close enough to see Colehaven’s expression.
“I’m working on it,” he assured his friend. “Finding the right match takes time.”
“You haven’t even found any wrong matches,” the marquess pointed out. “I haven’t seen her in anybody’s company but yours.”
Colehaven’s gaze sharpened. “When was she in my company?”
“When you queued up for that glass of ratafia you haven’t even touched.” The marquess cocked his head. “It’s not like you to take this long to win a wager. The reason you haven’t married her off yet isn’t because you…”
“No,” Colehaven interrupted firmly. “I’ve always known what kind of wife I need, and she is certainly not—”
His eyes met Diana’s.
She was against a wall, almost out of sight, and somehow he had sensed her presence.
Belatedly.
She spun and walked off before he could call out to her and beg the opportunity to explain his words.
There was nothing to explain. He was right.
Every person in this ballroom knew which young ladies were contenders for titled husbands. Diana’s name was not on that list.
Colehaven in particular was acutely aware of her many shortcomings in that regard. He was being practical. Practicality was a trait she admired. There was no reason at all for her eyes to prick with heat or her throat to feel swollen and raw. She’d known she wasn’t suitable.
She just hadn’t prepared to hear him say so aloud.
Diana handed her unfinished ratafia to a footman as she exited the ballroom. She turned down the first corridor and pushed through the side doors leading to the enclosed garden.
The sudden blast of bracing air was welcome on her skin. The sky was clear and full of stars, and the shock of co
ld kept her mind from returning to the ballroom. Up ahead was another party guest who preferred solitude to revelry.
No, not just any guest. This was—
“Are you trying to catch your death?” the Duke of Colehaven demanded, his eyes widening at the sight of her. He clamped a warm hand about her elbow and dragged her behind a manicured hedge.
“It’s not that cold,” she protested. “Other people are in the garden.”
“Other people have coats.” He rubbed his hands over her bare arms. “And nobody else is in this garden. Come back to the ballroom.”
“So you can win a wager?”
He closed his eyes. “What I wanted…”
“As I told you before, you do not control me.” She lifted her chin. “Nor will any man. I enjoy being a spinster.”
“No one enjoys being a spinster.”
“The fallen ones do,” she countered at once. “They enjoy their freedoms and a whole lot more.”
In fact, every time she saw him, she could not help but wish she had no reputation to protect. Given the freedom to do so, she would kiss him every chance she could. And if she had no reason to bother with good behavior at all… Diana would not mind being very, very bad.
Colehaven curved his hand over her mouth. “Don’t let anyone hear you talk like that.”
Like who? They were alone in the garden. Stolen moments were not the same as a life of freedom, but even a stolen moment should not be squandered. She pressed the tip of her tongue to his palm.
He dropped his hand at once, his eyes full of warning. “Diana—”
“If I’m not saving my virtue,” she said sweetly, “then it’s my currency to spend however I wish. Perhaps I’ll wager it.”
He gripped her arms. “If you dare—”
“Are you a betting man?” she asked, batting wide eyes. Just because she couldn’t have him forever didn’t mean they should walk away. Not yet. “I wager you can’t shut that beautiful mouth for five minutes and prove yourself immune to a fallen spinster.”
“I’ll take that bet,” he snapped. “Not that I need it. You and I aren’t—”
“No talking.” She placed a finger to his lips and smiled. “And no touching. You, that is. I can do as I please for five minutes. Agreed?”
His eyes flashed like daggers, but his shoulders gave a laconic shrug, as if to dare her to do her worst.
Diana fully intended to. He liked to pretend he wasn’t ruled by his emotions, his desires. She had five minutes to prove otherwise. She doubted she’d need all five, but intended to enjoy every one. Her smile widened.
She let her finger fall from his lips. If the wind was still cold, she didn’t feel it at all.
Her pulse raced in anticipation. She drew herself up on her toes until her mouth brushed the spot on his lip that her finger had touched.
“I’m close enough to kiss,” she murmured.
Each syllable brought her mouth closer or further from his, as if each word was a kiss, each sentence a promise of lovemaking.
Just as his lips parted, she lowered her feet, breaking the delicious contact. Perhaps she’d kiss him, and perhaps she wouldn’t. This was her wager, not his.
She placed her fingertips to the center of his chest, just below his cravat.
He was wearing too many layers for her to feel the beating of his heart, but his heat was almost scalding.
Letting her fingertips trail against him, she began a slow, hip-swinging circle about him, as if lazily perusing a fine steed at Tattersall’s.
Not that she’d been to Tattersall’s. Tattersall’s was for men, just like everything else. Everything except this moment, this wager, these five delectable minutes where she held the power.
The muscles of his upper arm twitched beneath her touch, as if forcing himself to stay perfectly still had wound Colehaven tight.
As she circled behind him, Diana allowed herself the luxury of slowing even further, dragging her fingertips inch by inch across the wide expanse of his shoulders.
“I’m not cold now,” she whispered against the back of his neck, where his dark hair curled against the snowy white of his cravat. “I’m imagining how it would feel to touch your bare flesh.”
He sucked in a tiny, audible breath.
Diana trailed a finger down his spine. She’d phrased her teasing statement so that it was unclear if she’d never touched a man, or if she lamented being unable to add him to her list. Let him stew on that for the rest of his life, while he was wed to Miss Perfect.
Just as her finger dipped below his waist, she changed course and continued her slow circle around his other side, until her finger caught against the button of his fall.
His muscles tightened visibly. From this angle, he could see her, and his eyes dared her to continue her dangerous game.
She circled the button with her fingertip. The angle of his fall shifted. Colehaven might be holding himself as still as possible, but there was no hiding his arousal.
“I want to touch it,” she whispered.
A small groan escaped his throat.
“But I’m not going to,” she continued. “If we touch, we touch each other. We’re equals, or we’re nothing.”
He tilted his hips toward her palm as though to ask, does this feel like nothing?
“Whatever freedoms you think you enjoy as an unwed gentleman, I enjoy as an unfettered spinster. What I do with my time and my body is my business.” She ran her fingernails up his chest and lifted her parted lips to his. “I’ll share them when and how I see fit.”
The heat from his gaze melted her to her core.
She brushed her mouth against his. “Five minutes are up.”
“Thank God,” he snarled, and swung her against the closest tree.
Before she could so much as gasp, his hands were in her hair and his mouth slanted over hers.
This was no tepid, timid kiss between strangers. This was a claiming, raw and possessive. A demand for surrender.
She would not give it to him. She knotted her fingers in his hair and returned his kiss, passion for passion. Every lick, every nibble, every taste was a dance of fire, marking territory and losing ground as each grasp for control brought each of them closer to the precipice of surrender.
“I’m not yours,” she gasped between kisses.
He splayed his hands against her ribs, the pads of his thumbs rubbing indecently against the bottom of her bosom. “Right now, you are.”
“Careful,” she whispered, lowering one of her palms dangerously close to his tented fall. “If I’m yours, that makes you mine.”
“Then take what you want,” he growled. “I’ll do the same.”
His fingers cupped her breasts as he covered her mouth with his.
Pleasure emanated through her as he expertly teased her nipples. Pleasure, and an exquisite, torturous pressure building between her legs.
Intoxicated, she reached for his fall and thrilled to feel his hard heat pulse against her fingers. What would happen if she—
Music spilled into the garden.
“Are you mad?” giggled a female voice. “It’s freezing out here. Let’s go back to the ballroom.”
Diana and Colehaven jerked their hands off each other’s bodies.
“You bewitched me,” he whispered.
“You make me stupid,” she countered.
“Equals,” he muttered, and wrapped his arms about her to cradle her to his chest.
His heart was beating just as rapidly as hers.
After a moment, he curved his hands about her arms and gently pulled her upright.
“Go,” he commanded. “Whilst some presence of mind still remains.”
She frowned. “What are you—”
“I need another moment or twelve out in the cold,” he said wryly. “You have a guardian who might be turning this residence upside-down in search of you.”
“Eep.” The cold suddenly rushed back into her bones. “You’re right.”
With one f
inal glance over her shoulder, Diana fled back inside the house before anyone else could stumble upon them.
The wager had seemed such a good idea. An opportunity to prove to Colehaven that he was neither as perfect nor as immune as he believed. And, if Diana was honest, a chance to circumvent the hypocrisy that let men be rakes whilst spinsters were meant to stay demure and sexless.
But she wasn’t certain that either one of them had won the wager after all. Rather than snuff the sparks between them, the night had all but caught fire. Next time…
Diana shook her head. There wouldn’t be a next time. They had both learned their lesson. They would keep their hands to themselves from this moment on.
Probably.
Chapter 12
When Cole had denied any interest in a woman like Diana, the words had been automatic because they’d always been true. He knew what kind of duchess was expected of him. After spending so many years trying to prove himself, Cole would settle for no less than perfection in a wife.
That Diana had overheard him say so… Well, that hadn’t been ideal, but nor had it been untruthful. She would have expected no less.
Except, when his eyes met hers, it was his own tongue that had felt strange forming the words. As if they were no longer true, and the person he was being most dishonest with was himself.
Perhaps that was why he’d just directed his coachman to the Middleton town house. After a brief detour, to prepare a small gift.
Cole strode up the front walk and rapped smartly upon the knocker.
He wasn’t thinking marriage, of course. But he also was not not thinking marriage. After last night.. He’d felt her nipples between his fingers, for God’s sake.
His body tightened every time the memory flashed before his eyes. As it had approximately every five minutes since fleeing the garden.
Five minutes. He’d never be able to hear those words again without reliving Diana Middleton sliding her fingers against his—
“Your Grace,” said the butler. “A pleasure to see you. I’m afraid master Middleton is still abed.”
