Defiant Angel (31 page)

Wrapped securely and snugly in a fluffy towel, Tiffany leaned her head against Clinton's shoulder, asking drowsily, "Where are you taking me?"

Smiling down at his treasured bundle, he replied easily, "To our room, of course."

A blush crept up her cheeks becomingly. "No, Germane is there!"

Clinton kicked open the door, saying, "Not to worry, Princess. She and Mortimer have temporarily been assigned to other duties till they can come to some compromise."

Placing her on her feet and unwrapping the towel, Clinton proceeded to dry her damp body. "Stop that! I am capable of doing it myself," she cried indignantly.

Continuing, in spite of her protest, Clinton easily stated, "I'm only making restitution for dismissing your maid. Now, turn around."

She complied with his request, allowing his ministration until she felt him deftly place the towel over her buttocks and between her legs. Whipping the towel from his hands, she screamed, "Give me that!"

Clinton laughed, standing back, watching her perform the task. He quickly dried himself and, walking to his wardrobe, pulled out his clothes.

Tiffany wrapped the towel around her, securing an end under her arm.' 'But I don't know where my clothes are. . ." Her voice broke off as she realized she was unable to draw her eyes from his half-clothed body.

Clinton was aware of Tiffany's perusal of him, as he was of her delectable towel-clad form. Rubbing his hand across his furred chest, he smiled, noting her eyes following his hand. "Princess, on the bed you'll find a box. I took the liberty of purchasing a few items for you."

Brought from the perusal of his chest by his voice, she bristled at his words, once again reminded how highhanded he could be. Turning from him to the bed, she reached and untied the ribbon, lifting the lid. Her eyes widened at the contents--four pairs of breeches in different colors, along with an assortment of muslin shirts. Lifting the fawn-colored breeches out, she turned to him, a question in her eyes.

"I know your preference for breeches, Princess." A leer crossed his face and he continued, "And I find I quite enjoy the way they mold that sweet derriere of yours."

She glared at him and then turned, a smile lifting the corners of her mouth. She frowned for only a moment thinking his motives were self-serving. Shrugging that thought off, she quickly dropped her towel, bending to don her breeches, unaware of the wicked gleam that crossed his eyes and the unmistakable invitation she offered.

Clinton was much taken with the view, imagining the feel of her buttocks against his groin as he rode from behind. Her question interrupted his carnal thought. "Do you think it proper I dress as such?" .

Walking over to her, watching her shrug on her shirt, he turned her face to him and began to button her shirt, letting his hands brush against the soft skin. "Princess, you are a duchess, and a duchess can do anything she wants." His hand slipped inside her shirt to fondle the weight of one of her breasts.

Tiffany slapped at his hand, walking away to the dresser, retorting, "I suppose that also applies to a duke?"

Grinning wolfishly at her, he responded, "Have you any doubt?" After awarding him with a look of exasperation, she turned and attempted to brush through the tangled tresses.

She felt his hand take the brush and perform the service himself. She could not help her remark to him. "The mighty duke reduced to a maid." She looked at him through the mirror to gauge his reaction and was awarded with his mischievous smile, making her heart lurch.

"Since I am the one who caused its state, I am the one to rectify it. Besides, I need the practice since your maid will no longer perform her services." At her wide-eyed look, he explained, "It appears Mortimer and Germane can't seem to share common ground, civilly. I have relieved them of certain duties." Brushing her hair in long, smooth strokes, he continued, "Until they come to terms with one another, they will attend us only insofar as caring for the chamber, our clothing, and serving our meals." Laying down the brush, he placed a kiss on her neck. She felt goose bumps on her spine and moved from him.

"That is unheard-of! Highly improper, as well." She turned, finding he had not moved and was but a breath away.

"Improper? Hardly, Princess. A husband and wife should care for one another, see to their mutual needs." He winked at her knowingly. She glared in return. "As far as unheard-of, well, I do what's best for us. Not what is mode or fashionable. Now, come here and let me finish your hair."

Hirning obediendy, she taunted him, "And how will the mighty duke style my hair? An upsweep, a cignon ..."

"Nay." Kissing the top of her head, inhaling the delicate fragrance of violets, he reached for a bright blue ribbon, tying it around her hair. Standing back to regard his work, he said, "Just like this. Flowing free and wild, like you." He turned her to face him and drew her up against his body, bending his head, capturing her lips in a gentle yet promising kiss. Tiffany was shocked at her own eager response to the touch of his lips and leaned against him.

He pulled away, knowing if he continued, they'd be back to square one.

Tiffany was startled back into reality and flushed with humiliation and anger at herself, turning her back to him.

Laughing, he said, "Did no one ever tell you, Princess, that losing is relative? What's important is conceding with grace."

Spinning about, she retorted, "Then I suggest you start conceding gracefully, my lord, for you'll not win."

Shaking his head, a smile on his face, he crossed his arms loosely. "Ah, had I the time, we would see again who concedes. Perhaps later, for now I have other plans for you.''

Miffed by his threat, bristling at his arrogance, she stood her ground. "I will not go."

A smile ruffled his mouth. "You will." He grabbed her arm and pulled her along, playfully.

"Wait, Clinton. Stop! I have no shoes on, you fool!" Tiffany tried to dig her heels to stop him, but he was not to be stopped. Just before he grabbed her by the waist to toss her over his shoulder, he asked, "Since when did that matter?"

Tiffany pounded on his back with her hands and kicked her feet, screaming, "Put me down this instant!"

Clinton laughed heartily as he kicked open the door, walking past a startled Germane and a mortified Mortimer in the hallway.

"You are a beast, sir." Clinton patted her upraised derriere and she cried out. Clinton laughed as he carried her as if she were a sack down the broad, curving staircase, past the astonished eyes of the servants.

"You cruel, mean beast. Put me down this instant!"

"I hear you, love. All of Wentworth hears you, Princess."

Approaching the front door, which was whisked open by a dumbfounded Bartholomew, Clinton exited, only to stop when hearing his name called. Turning to look back into the foyer, he saw timid Alicia holding a basket, her eyes wide as saucers. "Your . . . er . . . Grace, the basket."

"Ah yes, sweet Alicia, bring it over." Alicia trod carefully, seeing her new mistress thrash about on His Grace's shoulder, screaming at him. Clinton took the basket and, whistling, walked down the steps, carrying his bundles.

Blood was pounding in Tiffany's ears and her face was quite red.

"Please, Clinton, put me down. I am getting quite dizzy.''

"As you wish, Princess.'' He let her slide ever so slowly down the full length of him until her bare feet touched the warm cobble-way of the drive.

He began to walk and she began to slow her pace, hoping to escape him. As usual, Clinton was always aware of her and stated quite casually, never missing a step, "I wouldn't try it, Tiffany."

She glared at him. She was angry, dizzy, and her stomach grumbled in protest, for she had not eaten.

"I'm hungry," she blurted out.

Slowing his steps so she walked beside him, he smiled down at her pouting face and teasingly replied, "If you're a good girl, I might feed you."

"You beast! Does your torture never cease? First you rape me, then bathe me, dress me, drag me, and now you would starve me."

He stopped and she collided with his back. He smiled wickedly at her. "Starve you? Why, Princess, I thought I appeased your appetite quite well. However, I obviously failed." He made to grab for her arm.

Realizing his intent and the meaning behind his words, she screamed, "No, you cad! No, I say! I am hungry for food, you fool!"

Feigning mock innocence, Clinton replied, "How stupid of me, and here I thought you hungered for me. Oh well, perhaps later I can appease that appetite. Come along, I know a nice place for our respite."

Her hunger overpowering her desire to escape him, she followed.

They came upon a group of large willows. Clinton stopped, sitting down on the soft grass that grew beneath the trees. Tiffany stood pondering if it was indeed wise to sit down in the secluded area. Clinton laid out a sumptuous lunch on a white linen cloth. "Are you going to sit, Princess, or eat standing?"

"Only if you promise not to touch jne will I sit."

"I promise I wish only to satisfy your appetite." He

smiled devilishly at her. Tiffany glared at him, refusing to sit. "For food, of course, Princess. Later I shall appease your more carnal appetite," he added.

The food was so tempting and she was so hungry, she dropped to the soft cushion of grass, accepting a plate filled with her favorite foods.

The afternoon was sunny and warm. A soft breeze which held the hint of autumn ruffled through the hanging boughs of the willows. After accepting a second glass of wine, she became more relaxed and comfortable and gave over to the tranquility the afternoon afforded.

"It is very beautiful here." Her voice broke the long silence. "France was lovely, but England is beautiful. Wentworth is indeed much different from Chablisienne." Turning her head to him, she added, "I think I prefer Wentworth's rolling hills to Chablisienne's manicured landscape. Do you own all of this?" she asked, sweeping her arm.

"Um-hmm, and about twenty miles north. It takes two to three days to cover the boundaries of the estate."

Tiffany watched him peel the skin from an apple with a sharp fruit knife. She shivered remembering the skill of his deft fingers on her body. Clinton handed her a piece of the peeled fruit, along with a slice of rich Brie. He smiled, watching her nibble the fare. "Have you ever been to Wales, Tiffany?"

Shaking her head and chewing her food, she looked at him in question.

"I thought we'd travel to my estate there. I think you'll like Wales with its rough headlands and coast."

Swallowing her food, she asked with interest, "You have an estate there, as well?"

"Ah, Princess, you have married a wealthy man. I have estates all over England and the Continent."

"What is it you do, Clinton?"

He smiled at her interest. "The family has lucrative holdings and businesses. Our main interests are banking, but we engage in shipping and horse breeding and racing, to name a few." Withdrawing a cheroot, lighting it, he leaned back against the tree. "You are a very wealthy woman, Tiffany. There is nothing on this earth you cannot buy."

"Save my freedom."

"Ah, that is true, Princess." He smiled and continued, "Brent handles the banking concern here and in Italy as well as the managing of the properties. Austin runs the shipping and fleets, while Tristan sails the trade route with the infidels in the South and handles the payment of tribute. Now, Rory . . . well, Rory is opening the lines to the Americas and the islands, establishing a base of operations in the United States. Our family businesses and interests provide all of us with wealth and futures so we can leave a legacy to our heirs."

Smiling at him, she declared, "I always imagined bankers as squat, stuffy, balding men with wire spectacles hanging on the bridge of their nose." Laughter spilled from her. "Brent and you certainly do not fit the mold."

"Or bent-over relics wielding their walking sticks?" he asked, teasingly.

Blushing, she recalled her description of a duke, she smiled brightly, replying, "Only time will tell."

Throwing his head back, he roared with laughter. Tiffany could not help herself and joined in.

"Come, Princess--" he stood, extending a hand to her "--an old friend of yours awaits."

"Where are we going?" she asked for the third time as she walked hand in hand with him.

"Has no one taught you the virtue of patience?"

"Nah! You're a fine example of patience, my lord. I'm living proof of your lack of it."

"Ah, point well taken. Betrothed, wedded, and bedded in less than four months does indeed show a lack of patience on my part."

Tiffany bristled at the reminder, and she snatched her hand from him. Clinton smiled.

They had reached the stables. Keegan walked up, tipping his hat to her. Tiffany smiled and, while he and Clinton engaged in conversation, wandered over to the paddock. Leaning against the rungs of the fence, she looked out over the paddocks.

She squinted her eyes, avoiding the low-hanging sun, looking at the horses that grazed peacefully within the field. She noticed a stable hand come out from one of the barns leading a large horse, which he released in the far paddock. The horse kicked up his hindquarters and began to race around the ring, relishing his freedom. Squinting, she saw the horse stop and tilt its head, then paw the ground with his forefoot. The sun prevented her from making out the features clearly, but a nagging sensation told her it looked familiar. Shading her eyes with her hand, she peered at the horse. The horse turned from her and raced away, making tight circles within the ring. She heard him whinny and saw him charge toward the fence, jumping over it. She saw his face, then screamed and leaped over the fence, toward the stallion. "Xanadu." He snorted and whinnied as he stood, pawing the ground and tossing his head impatiently.

Tiffany reached him, tears misting her eyes. She opened her arms wide, and Xanadu situated himself between them, his velvety muzzle nudging her.

Clinton watched enviously as she opened her arms wide to embrace the stallion, longing for the day she would open her arms in welcome to him. Walking, he stopped a distance from them, not wishing to interrupt their reunion.

"Ah, guv'nor, ya did a good turn puttin' the two halves of the coin together."

Clinton smiled and nodded in agreement. He heard Tiffany crying and became concerned as her sobs shook her slender shoulders. When he touched her, she immediately turned in his arms, willingly wrapping her arms about his neck. Tiffany buried her face against the hollow of his throat. He felt her tears fall on his chest and whispered, "I thought to make you happy, Princess, not sad."