Four Dukes and a Devil (21 page)

“Such flattery. The words a lady longs to hear—”

He interrupted by lowering his mouth to hers. And then his kiss became so all-consuming, her thoughts tangled, and she lost her grip on the moment.

It all came crashing down, as he nudged more snugly into the cradle of her legs, the fabric of his breeches slightly abrading the tender skin of the inside of her thighs.

And then, he flexed his hips slowly. It was the oddest, most intimate sensation—as if his entire body was kissing hers, molding to hers—filling her in a place he alone was meant to forge.

And before she could take in the magnitude of what was happening, he was rocking gently, and she was turning to molten liquid. “Hold on to me, darling,” he whispered into her ear. “Tighter.” And for once, she obeyed him, followed his wishes to the letter.

Pain suddenly lanced her and left her flesh throbbing.

He went stock-still. “Give it a moment,” he groaned. He was deep inside of her, that part of him thrumming to the beat of her heart.

She registered his hand stroking her head, and slowly a nearly primal desire to move even closer to him—to advance, and retreat—enveloped her. Her fingers tightened again on the bunched muscles of his broad back.

At her signal, he proceeded, in gentle, then increasingly powerful, thrusts to fulfill all her dark-as-the-night flights of fancy. And then all thought was lost as she splintered into a thousand stars like those of a spring night. He plunged deeper than she thought possible, then gasped and became still, his heart racing inches above her own.

The heat of the afternoon, the brandy, and the poison wound ’round her senses. The inevitable guilt from what she had just forced upon him soon followed, and she surrendered to the magnitude of it all.

As he carefully rolled to her side and gathered her in his arms, John desperately hoped he had given her a measure of pleasure and chased away her darkest fears for at least a few moments. God, he had sworn he would not do this. So much for his famous discipline. His last vestige of self-control had vanished in the face of her sweetly ardent desire. She had, with her poignant show of puffed-up bravery and innocence, uncovered a desperate need he hadn’t known he’d possessed. She was as vital as the air he breathed to sustain him.

He looked down to find her unconscious now, her face pale and still. Her breath caught ominously, and an ache of the acutest kind dragged over the part of him he hadn’t ever known could register pain—his heart. Ah…it was surely being torn asunder.

She exhaled roughly and worked to drag another lungful inside of her. She was clinging to life as courageously as she had lived her life.

God
…He felt as wretched and ancient as she had repeatedly jested.

The smallest sigh drifted from her. And then another that seemed to gurgle and shudder endlessly.
A death rattle
…

A loud snore rended the air.

He bit his lip and looked up at the roughened timber crisscrossing the ceiling. For Christsakes. When had he turned into such a melodramatic idiot? Oh, he knew the answer…It was the precise minute he had met the impossible yet perfect creature before him now snoring as deeply as a two-ton longshoreman after an encounter with a barrel or two of poorly distilled whiskey.

V
ictoria had never, ever,
ever
been so mortified. Why, she had for all practical purposes
begged
the Duke of Beaufort to make love to her. And so she did what any rational woman would have done. She refused to see him for three days.

At first he had come to her bedchamber door at Beaulieu in person—every three hours, like clockwork. One solid knock followed by ten seconds of silence. Then his voice would call out, at first filled with anxiety, then with frustration, and still later with cool resignation.

The kindly maid had explained it all to her. The boys and the duke had
escorted
her from the lake after they had found her there. Did she not remember tripping over the fallen tree limb? Hitting her head and falling unconscious? Her dreadful headache?

Oh, she remembered the last part, all right. Actually, she remembered every single last embarrassing detail of their encounter until she had slipped into the comforting arms of drunken oblivion.

So that was how he had hidden the truth. He had obviously concocted the main story, then found the boys to provide a side helping of decorum while he carried her back.

At this point, her dignity was so far removed from her that she rather doubted it could ever be recovered, in even the smallest quantity. That stung almost as much as her loss of virtue to the man from whom she most longed to hide the tangle of tender feelings curling around her heart.

It would take a century before she could face him. She, who had recently prided herself on her ability to play the nonchalant heroine.

And so it went for three days. She’d secretly hoped he would break down the door in the middle of the night despite the fact that two footmen and one maid were stationed outside her door per her request.

After the first day,
notes,
versus his person, arrived with each meal tray. She returned them unopened.

She spent her time brooding, and sometimes lurking behind the silk drapery framing the tall windows in her chambers. Often, she saw him playing games with the boys outside. First he taught them nine pins, perfecting their aim and showing them how to address the pins with the heavy ball. Then it was on to rounders. He was very adept at swinging the odd-shaped, heavy wooden bat. Of course, he did it within sight of her window. He would turn his head toward her apartments every so often, and she would scurry back like the pathetic mouse she had become.

Yet all along, she had known it would not last. During the gloomy afternoon, when she tried for the fifth time to bury her nose in the
Canterbury Tales,
the one book that had never failed to enthrall her until now, she heard the sound of several pairs of footsteps scurrying away and the click of the lock echoing from the door. She held her breath.

He strode forward several feet, and all the air immediately seemed to desert the chamber. He seemed to have forgotten that for once, it was up to him to close the door since he had obviously dismissed the army of servants. He returned to shut the door, then closed the distance between them. Three feet from her bedside, he came to a halt and stared down at her. “How are you?” The faintest grooves appeared on his forehead.

“Much improved,” she murmured, then glanced at her hands, which she forced still.

“Victoria—” he began.

“No,” she said, “Don’t say it.”

“What do you suppose I was going to say?”

“What you hinted at while we were in that vile little hut, and I was pretending to die. You remember, the same place I became foxed to the gills and forced you to…to have your way with me.” The vision of her tightly entwined fingers became blurry.

“Actually, I think it was
you
who was having your way with
me
, Vic,” he said, dry humor itching his words.

“I told you not to call me that.”

“Very well,
Victoria.
The physician privately reported to me that you are fully recovered in body if not in spirits.” He was standing very stiffly. “I’m sorry, more sorry than I can say, that you suffered through that scare with the snake, which, in hindsight was quite obviously a grass snake and—”

“And what?”

“And I’m sorry I hurt you.” He seemed hardly able to get out the last words. “I’m sorry that I offered you the brandy. Sorry I—”

“What? Followed my directions?”

“No. You have absolutely no share of the blame for what happened. But now we must be sensible. I don’t want to argue with you. You see…we must marry. I
want
to marry you straightaway. I’ve already arranged a carriage to leave today to take us back to town—with the maid you’ve come to like—Mrs. Conlan.”

Oh, this was worse than she had envisioned. He was dissembling. He was also rambling, quite obviously stricken with the knowledge of what his honor, as a gentleman, demanded.

“You know,” she interrupted, “I should let you do it, if only to teach you a lesson.”

He stood stock-still. “What on earth are you implying?”

“I mean, really, why ruin one life when two can be ruined so easily?”

Anger flooded his normally impassive expression. “Is this your response?”

She continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “But I find I can’t do it. Yes, I find I’d rather spend the rest of my life teaching orphans than tending to your failing health.”

“
Victoria
…” His tone was menacing, low. “So help me God—”

“He won’t help you, I assure you. I find He deserts me at every critical hour. I suppose it’s my complete and utter lack of principles in the face of temptation—oh, what is the use? Look, I’m sorry I seduced you against your will.”

He quickened his speech. “Tell me now, straightaway. Are you uttering all these ridiculous things to warn me off? Victoria…does your heart belong to another?”

She answered without pause. “Yes.” She could not stop her eyes darting away from his.

“Have I ever told you that you are the absolute worst liar plaguing Christendom? Now who in bloody hell gave you those ridiculous boots? Is he the one who calls you ‘Vic’?”

“Oh, for pity’s sake,
Your Grace
. I’m a commoner. I could be the product of a Covent Garden light-skirt and a pandering drunk for all you know.”

“Actually, I’m guessing your father was an army captain, and your mother a prim but luscious schoolteacher, what with those charmingly dictatorial ways of yours.”

She started. Why, she knew precisely who her parents were and he was halfway closer to the truth than he would ever know. When she’d become a teacher and gotten access to the foundling home’s private records, the first thing she had done was search for clues.

Her father had, apparently, been one of a vast wave of men in the Royal Navy—a Captain Givan. In her dreams, she envisioned him as a formidable officer spitting at his archrival’s feet as he died an honorable death.

She’d forced the details about her mother from the older matron at the foundling home. Mrs. Kane had still remembered the day a scared young maid had tried to deposit Victoria in the front hall with an almost illegible petition signed by a Mrs. Givan. The matron had explained to the maid that infants could not just be left without a formal review and acceptance by the governors. The girl had silently left, but within minutes, the matron had found nine-month-old Victoria propped against the gates of the home along with the petition. No trace of the young maid or Mrs. Givan had ever been found, and so Victoria had been absorbed into the sprawling foundling home’s system.

The petition, written on nearly translucent paper, suggested Mrs. Givan was the only daughter and relation of a dead vicar. Dying of consumption, Victoria’s mother had left her child and the petition along with a brass button token from Victoria’s father, who had just died at sea in service to His Majesty. The records she had found at the Royal Naval offices had snuffed out her last hope of ever finding relations. Captain Charles Givan had lived and died without a single relation listed in his records.

“What is going on in that head of yours?” His voice was low, his expression eerily calm, but he refused to wait for an answer. “Victoria, gather your affairs. We leave this afternoon. If the weather holds, we can be in London tomorrow—can secure a Special License by—”

“You are perfectly right. And after we marry, could we hold a ball in the Beaufort London town house? I’m certain all your friends in the House of Lords would enjoy the honor of bowing and scraping before me. And the gossips will be positively panting to hear all the details of how THE CATCH OF THE CENTURY was netted by a bloody NOBODY you found on the side of a country road!” The last she shouted at him.

“You are perfectly right,” he returned, unmoved. “It will be a beastly business.”

He withstood her blast of outrage with the same calculating tactics he’d used when she had first met him. The only difference was that she now knew how to retaliate.

“The boys have informed me that the cottage at Wallace Abbey is fully repaired,” she said stiffly. “We will leave your protection this afternoon. I was going to wait until tomorrow, but I find it might be better—”

“Coward,” he whispered.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.”

“Look, I release you from whatever bonds of gentlemanly code you’ve forced upon yourself. I assure you I find none of your ideas acceptable.” She sniffed.

“Victoria, listen to me. You are making a grave mistake. You could very well find yourself with child. Surely, you’ve considered the consequences. I hadn’t thought I’d have to remind you.”

“I’ve spent decades looking into the forlorn eyes of what some people—of your rank—call the physical evidence of sin. I assure you, I know precisely what might happen. If I do find myself in a condition, I shall find an obscure corner of England, and you shall pay for our care, which shall be but a pittance. There are plenty of war widows, and I shall play the part. The child and I shall be perfectly happy. Either way, you shall rejoin your
family
—your world, and I shall rejoin mine—eventually—at the foundling home or, if fate insists, somewhere far from anyone who would know the truth. What I will not do is accede to your wishes, which would only serve to subject us to the slow, daily torture of remembering the foolishness of a moment.”

She had wounded him as effectively as she had dared. She could see it in his eyes. But really, what had he expected?

“Victoria…if you think for a moment that I would allow you to cower off to some godforsaken corner if you found yourself with
my
child, you do not know me. And while I had wished to keep this from you, I can see I must tell you the full truth of it. Do you know that you talk in your sleep?”

A chill of worry wound down her spine.

“Well, I’m sorry to inform that you do, and there was idle talk among the servants before I put an end to it. Your reputation will be in tatters if we do not marry.” He paused and gentled his voice. “Now look, I’m sorry the idea of this marriage is so repugnant to you, but it will occur. God, woman! I should never have let you stew so long. Now, I shan’t force you to leave today, but I do expect you to reconcile yourself to the grim facts of our upcoming nuptials by the time we leave at first light. Tomorrow. I will not delay this again.” He turned on his heel and strode through the door without a backward glance.

Victoria bounded to the door after it shut, only to hear him bark for the servants to resume their posts. Only now they felt more like guards to keep
her
inside versus guards to keep
him
outside. She could have sworn he said something about “bread and broth, only,” but then it could very well have been “break her bones, slowly.”

Well, that had gone superbly well.

He had gone about it all wrong, he decided several hours later as he stood brooding and unseeing the beauty of the vista from his library window. He had the wealth of two nations, and yet he had not succeeded in the one thing that mattered. The one thing he wanted. Needed.

And yet, she was also correct. In marrying her, he might very well ruin her innate happiness. He could not easily envision her rubbing along with the members of the aristocracy. With their sharpened claws and ingrained instinct to winnow out anyone who smelled of the shop or worse, she would be ripped to ribbons in one evening. And they would do it with graciousness dripping from ear to ear. She didn’t stand a chance, even if half the gentlemen in the House of Lords owed him favors or money or both.

Nothing in his life was in balance. The idea he held dear, to rejuvenate the area with a mill, was fading. His meetings, or rather his attempts to meet with his stubborn neighbor, the Earl of Wymith, had utterly failed. On his second attempt to enter the sanctified chambers of his neighbor’s manor, the Wymith butler had informed His Grace that his lordship was giving him fair warning. He was lacing gun-traps on the edges of his property to ward off trespassers just as his former nemesis had done.

In the distance, a large carriage that rivaled his own inched along under the arch of tulip trees bordering the avenue leading toward the high tower of Beaulieu. Within a quarter hour, he watched two gentlemen descend from the carriage, who in turn helped two ladies find their footing. The first was a diminutive gray-haired lady, wearing an outrageously colorful gown. She carried a long-snouted, short-legged canine. Why, if he was not mistaken, it was the Dowager Duchess of Helston, followed by the fire-breathing Duke of Helston, the beautiful, blond Countess of Sheffield, and an oversized brute of a man, dressed as a gentleman. What in hell?

The library door was ajar, and he could hear the familiar demanding baritone of Helston acidly informing a footman that—
Yes, he would very much like to see His Grace, if His Grace would have time for His Grace.

John stilled the corner of his mouth from rising as the footman gave up any pretence of maintaining the correct forms of precedence. Through the sound of footsteps mounting the marble stair, John heard the echo of the party’s conversation.