Mad About the Duke (15 page)

“Perhaps you should take a look inside the duchess's
Chronicles.
You might find someone for her.”

“I don't think—,” he began, then he realized what she was offering. And what he'd just refused.

A chance to look inside this infamous volume and see exactly what was written about him.

But before he could change his mind, she had moved on. “Well, no matter. You know what is best for your daughter, I imagine.”

“I am certain she will make a good match,” he offered, still cursing himself for not taking her offer of a peek inside that demmed journal.

“Yes, of course,” she said. “Spoken like a true father.”

“I suppose,” he said, knowing all too well that he'd done nothing to help Arabella make a match. In fact, he'd done quite the opposite.

“Did you?”

He glanced up. “Did I what?”

“Make a good match when you married?” she asked.

There it was, that honest, concerned light in her blue eyes. It caught him unawares. “I thought so,” he confessed, shocked that he'd said that much about
a subject he'd all but banned from his heart, from being spoken of.

“Has she been gone long?” Lady Standon asked softly. “Oh, goodness, I am prying again. Please, I beg your forgiveness…I have not the right to be so…”

James shook his head. “No, my lady, it isn't some great secret. My wife died when my daughter was born.”

The lady shivered. “No wonder you've never remarried. What a terrible shock.”

“Yes, very much so,” he replied, but not for the reasons she suspected.

Roderick. Roderick. I will marry only him,
Vanessa had cried out in fever.
Oh, Roderick, where are you?

No mention of James in her rantings, nor of the baby in the nursery. Her only fevered thoughts had been for the man she'd loved and set aside at her family's behest so she could be the Duchess of Parkerton.

Vanessa had never loved him. Her smiles, her sighs, the light in her eyes had all been for another.

James had walked away from her deathbed a man torn asunder by a truth he'd never imagined. She had loved his title and not him.

That dark night, all those years ago, James had thought he'd go mad with it all. But he hadn't. And life had continued on.

And now, he realized, it had done so without him.

Then he looked up at Lady Standon, who was smiling down at her handiwork on his coat, so determined to have her advantageous marriage. All he wanted to do was save her from that fate.

“To listen to a London mantua maker or tailor,” she said, “they would have one believe that such a simple task as this can only be done properly by a French woman who's escaped a convent—if only to justify their outlandish expenses.”

She rose and he did as well, and they met halfway across the room. As she helped him into the coat, James marveled at how she'd transformed Jack's coat into something that was almost respectable. But if that was truly the case, why did he feel so utterly rakish?

She'd come back around him and was reaching up to straighten the lapels.

Once again she was so close, so scandalously near, that he couldn't help himself.

Perhaps he was going mad, just as every Tremont before him was rumored to have eventually run.

For how could he not take this moment and kiss her?

E
linor's hands froze on the rough wool of Mr. St. Maur's jacket.

One moment she'd been smoothing the fabric over his chest, straightening the seams and getting it to sit just so, as a valet might, and the next, she realized just what she was really doing.

And it had nothing to do with tailoring.

For her fingers were following the lines and planes of his magnificent chest, with little thought given to the lay of his coat.

Elinor closed her eyes and took a steadying breath.

For what the coat covered was far more desirable. Under her hands reposed a brooding potency, and not just in the wall of muscles before her but also in his proud carriage and dark, mysterious character.

No pasty tulip this man. No fribble in fine merino and a dashing neck cloth to disguise the padded shoulders and calves beneath, giving only the illusion of a masculine physique.

The man before her was entirely male.

Then, in startling clarity, she remembered his costume from the night before. How his bare chest had felt to her touch.

Elinor couldn't help herself; she shivered, for suddenly his arm curled around her waist and held her fast, and the memories flooded her.

Oh, this was happening all too quickly, and yet…

Her lashes flew open and she found herself staring at the buttons of his coat.

In one wry thought, she realized she'd missed one that needed to be resewn.

Just more evidence as to how much this man needed a woman…
needed her.

She shivered again, willing herself to stop staring at the button hanging on by a thread and look up and into his eyes.

Yet how could she? For when she did, she would know. Know exactly what was going to happen.

He would kiss her. Just as he'd done the night before.

Her insides fluttered, twisting and whirling as if she'd swallowed a basket of butterflies. Oh, she could see it so clearly…
he'd dip his head down and cover her mouth with his and then…

Her knees wavered and her fingers dug into the rough wool before her. She clung to him, for she hadn't the courage to look up. She just didn't.

Then why ever did you buy that gown?

Elinor stole a quick glance at the bundle sitting on the settee. The one that contained a gown for a mistress, for a lady of passion.

If she couldn't manage the courage to kiss Mr. St.
Maur again, however would she find the fortitude to actually wear such a gown?

Slowly, Elinor tipped her chin upward and gazed into his eyes—dark blue, forbidding eyes that should have frightened her if it hadn't been for the fires of desire burning there.

And while that should have terrified her right down to her slippers, it didn't, because he tucked her in closer, until there was nothing left between them but their clothing, his body molding to hers.

There was something so intimate, so perfect in how he fit to her, how their bodies met, that everything, instead of being as wrong and scandalous as it should be, became so very right.

Without a word, he tipped his head down and claimed her lips in a kiss, with the same presumption that had given him leave to hold her thusly.

As he kissed her, his lips plying hers, teasing hers, she melted—inside and out. It was ever so much, being held, being kissed, being touched. For now that he had her just where he wanted her—entwined together, her hips up against him, her breasts pressed to his chest—his hands began to explore her.

Slowly, tantalizingly. Tracing over her body, following the lines of her curves as she had done just moments before to him. But where her hands had done so with a purpose—after all, his jacket had needed to be straightened into place—his had an entirely different intent.

Instead of putting her into order, he was unraveling her, sending teasing spirals of desire through her as his hand rounded over her backside, rose up along the side of her hip, traveled up her side and curved around the fullness of her breast.

All the while he kept kissing her, teasing her, tasting her, his breath warm and hot when he moved his lips to her neck.

In that moment she could breathe—but only for that moment, for then his mouth came crashing back on hers, as hungry and dangerous as ever.

And worse yet—she was just as delirious, desirous, her arms winding around his neck, pulling him closer still.

Yet into Elinor's dizzy thoughts came the sound of bells chiming haphazardly.

Bells? It was so hard to concentrate when he pulled her even closer, his lips exploring her neck, hot and warm, leaving a trail of intoxicating desires in their wake.

Then the rush of footsteps pierced her senses and she realized something very important.

It wasn't just a heavenly choir that was echoing through her thoughts but the doorbell.

The one at her front door…

And the footsteps? Now right outside the parlor, along with a clear voice that was enough to pierce her desire-clouded good sense.

“No, I don't think she's returned,” Minerva was saying, “but I could be wrong.”

This was followed by the telltale creak of the door as it started to open.

Thank goodness the house was in such a state of wrack and ruin, for those rusty hinges on the parlor door gave Elinor and St. Maur just enough time to wrench apart and take more appropriate and staid positions out of each other's reach.

Out of his arms.

Elinor tried to catch her breath, tried to pat her hair
into place, glance at the state of her gown, but there wasn't time to right any of it, for the door swung open and there stood Minerva and Lucy.

One thought rang through Elinor's head. Thank goodness it wasn't that sharp-eyed Aunt Bedelia.

The old girl wouldn't miss a thing.

But apparently neither did Lucy and Minerva.

“Oh, Elinor, you are home,” Minerva was saying. “I was just telling Lucy that I didn't think you'd returned, but she insisted you must be, and here you are.”

The first Lady Standon came into the room in her usual willowy and graceful way, but she came to an awkward halt when she spotted Mr. St. Maur standing to one side of the room.

Elinor noticed he hadn't even the decency to look discomfited—as she surely was if the heat on her cheeks was any indication.

Rather he looked as singularly rakish and proud of himself as he had the first day she'd met him.

Devil of a man!

“Mr. St. Maur,” Minerva said, nodding briskly to him. “You already know Lady Clifton.”

“St. Maur,” Lucy said stiffly, and Elinor noticed she offered no other courtesy, for her friend was eyeing the man with cool regard. The sort that spoke of deadly intentions.

Well, well, she needn't have Lucy Sterling and her dangerous contacts with the Foreign Office coming down on Mr. St. Maur.

For merely helping her out.

Elinor cringed. Well, that and for the other barely mentionable matter of kissing her.
Twice
.

Swaying a bit, Elinor did her best to rein this situ
ation back into some semblance of order. “My, my! Look at the time. Mr. St. Maur, didn't you say you had an appointment this afternoon?” He stood there for a moment, as if he too was caught in the remembrance of their kiss, but when she shot him a pointed glance, he bounded back into respectability.

As much as such a man could manage.

“Yes, I do. Thank you, my lady,” he said, smiling at her. “When I have a report for you, I will send a note around.”

“A note?” she said a little too hastily. Just a note? He wouldn't be making his report in person?

“To make sure you'll be in when next I call,” he added.

When next he called…
Elinor's thoughts raced. Perhaps he knew of someplace he could make his report in private…so they could continue…

“Elinor?” Lucy said, nudging her out of her daydream.

“Oh, yes, that would be most excellent, sir,” she replied.

“
Harrumph,
” Minerva snorted, shooting a glance at Mr. St. Maur.

The man made a polite cough, then bowed to the ladies and retreated to the foyer.

Elinor shot an apologetic glance at her friends and followed him toward the door.

There was nothing untoward about that. She was merely being polite.

That, and she didn't want him to leave. Not just yet. And neither did he, so it seemed, for St. Maur stood, lingering, by the door.

He took her hand and brought her fingers to his lips. “Lady Standon, regrettably I must leave. Until
next time.” His gaze burned into hers, leaving her trembling right down to her slippers, just as his kiss had.

That dark, heated glance reignited every bit of passion he'd brought to life.

Elinor drew a steadying breath. Regrettably? Oh, yes, most decidedly so.

Just then Tia popped her head over the stairwell. “Mr. St. Maur, how are the plans for my picnic progressing?”

He dropped Elinor's hand and smiled up at the girl.

Oh, her incorrigible sister! Her timing was unforgivable. And worse, to continue to press Mr. St. Maur for this expensive outing when Elinor had expressly forbidden her to do so!

“With all good speed, Miss Wraxton,” he replied. “I assume Tuesday afternoon will suit your schedule?”

The girl pursed her lips and considered his question. “If that is the earliest—”

“Tia!” Elinor exclaimed.

“Oh, if my sister insists, then Tuesday suits perfectly,” Tia supplied. She went to retreat back up the stairs but changed her mind and leaned perilously over the railing to say, “I like apple tarts, ham and mincemeat pie, as does Elinor. And she's also fond of a nice soft cheese, French if you can manage it—”

“To your room this moment,” Elinor told her, pointing a finger up the stairs, “or the only thing you'll be doing Tuesday is taking lessons from Mrs. Hutchinson on the fine art of polishing silver.”

This was enough to send her younger sibling scurrying out of sight, thankfully.

Mr. St. Maur leaned over and asked in that teasing manner of his, “Does your housekeeper even know how to polish silver?”

“I doubt it,” Elinor replied, putting her hand back on his sleeve. “But my sister doesn't know that.”

He laughed, and the deep masculine tones teased down her spine.

“You needn't take us on this picnic, sir.”

“But apparently I've offered and promised.”

“You've done no such thing, and don't let her bully you into it. My sister is incorrigible.”

“I don't mind,” he told her. “I'm quite used to incorrigible relations.”

“Well, she shouldn't press you so. It is improper,” Elinor said. Oh, yes, here she was giving a lecture on propriety, when not five minutes earlier she'd been…Shaking off that thought, she continued, “Besides, it is hardly the time of year for a picnic.” She shivered to give her statement a little more emphasis.

“Your sister seems undaunted,” he said, then glanced outside. “Besides, I suspect this weather will hold.” He smiled at her. “What say you, Lady Standon, would you like to escape London for a few hours? You enjoy the country, don't you?”

“Yes, but—”

“And wouldn't you like to stretch your legs and walk a bit? Give your dogs someplace to frolic for a few hours—”

“Yes, but I cannot impose my sister's whims—”

“It isn't imposing,” he told her. “Besides, I have a property that I…I oversee. And it is being remodeled for its owner. I would love for you to visit it with me so I can gain your opinions on the work so far.”

“Despite my common taste in gowns?” she teased.

His eyes sparkled with mischief. “Especially because of your taste in gowns. And it would mean a lot to me.”

How could she resist such an appeal? “Yes, that sounds delightful.”

“Excellent,” he said. “I'll make the arrangements.”

He bowed again and took his leave, and when the front door closed with a resounding
thud,
Elinor teetered back into the parlor and collapsed onto the settee, her fingers going to her lips.

For quite frankly, she didn't think she'd be able to stand another second.

“Elinor Sterling!” Lucy exclaimed, like Aunt Bedelia when she decided one's gown would not do. “You wretched tease! You sent that poor man off in a terrible state.” Then she too collapsed onto a chair and broke into a cacophony of laughter.

Minerva crossed her arms over her chest. “I see nothing amusing about this! Why, Elinor, you were kissing him! Again! I thought that after last night—”

“Last night?” Lucy scrambled to sit up. Then she took a long glance at Elinor. “Oh, my heavens! It was you at the Setchfield ball. You're the one everyone is talking about!”

Minerva groaned. “I feared it would come to this.”

“No, no,” Lucy said quickly. “No one knows who the couple might be. But the speculation this morning is rampant!” She sat back on the settee and sighed. “Oh, to have the possession of the most hotly debated
on dit
in Town and not be able to say a word.”

“Oh, Lucy, you won't, will you?” Elinor stole another glance at the door.

“Elinor Wraxton Sterling, I am no tattletale,” Lucy said. “My father would roll over in his grave
if I started spilling secrets. But it is rather rewarding knowing something that not even Aunt Bedelia has discovered.”

“For now,” Minerva said, shaking her head.

 

James entered his house by opening the door.

That might seem rather ordinary for most people, but the Duke of Parkerton never opened his own door. Most likely, he would have sent the footman (or rather footmen) who was supposed to be guarding his sacred portal packing without references for such a dereliction of duty, but quite frankly he didn't notice until he was halfway across the foyer.