What a Duke Wants (6 page)

He looked down at her, his eyes kind, but questioning. “Just call me Douglas. It’s what His Grace does.”

H
ad three hours really passed? Mark wished he’d simply ignored duty and ignored Hargrove’s invitation. Hargrove was not an uninteresting man, but he was a long-winded one. Mark cared about Parliament and fully intended to take his seat, but Hargrove’s endless discussion of petty minutiae was wearing him down. He smiled and tried to ask an intelligent question about the agricultural horse tax. Hargrove grabbed on to it and began to expound again.

Miss Smith would be gone by now. She never stayed long and he doubted she’d waited more than fifteen minutes when he had not appeared. The brightest spot in his day, the only moments when he felt himself, and they were past before they could begin.

Hargrove was still answering his question and Mark could no longer even remember what it was. Had he actually asked about timber duties? What else could he say? Something about the coronation, perhaps? He noticed that any mention of it brought out opinion. Was the king spending too much? Would Queen Caroline dare to come? What would be served for dinner that night?

The last question brought as much discussion as any other.

“You seem to have drifted off. Strattington? Am I going on a little long? My mother always said I could talk from now until Judgment Day and not grow tired,” Hargrove said with surprising perception, wiping his mouth with a lace-edged handkerchief.

“No, of course not. I am merely trying to consider what you have said in light of my new responsibilities.” He rested his head upon his hand.

“Is that your father’s ring?” Hargrove stared at the large ruby upon his finger. “It’s rumored to be one of the clearest rubies ever mined.”

“Yes.”

“I remember when your father brought it back from India. I think the king offered him a title in return for it, but he would not sell.”

“I’ve always believed that to be only rumor. My father loved the king, as did my uncle. If the king had asked for the ring I am sure that one of them would have gifted it to him.”

“It must be difficult taking over from such a great man as your uncle. He was so perfect in fulfilling all that was expected of him. He set us all an excellent example. I know your cousin William admired his father greatly.”

“Did you know William? I must admit I had not seen him for several years before his death.”

“We were—were close. I was only a few years ahead of him at school. We had been the best of friends since then. His death was a great tragedy.”

“Yes, it was. I certainly never expected to inherit.” Mark hoped that was not saying too much.

“Life is strange. And you got his valet, too. Excellent man, Divers. I tried to steal him once.” Hargrove seemed to give himself a little shake. He dabbed his mouth again. “Now tell me about your journey. Has anything eventful happened? Have you met anyone interesting?”

Mark had the feeling that Hargrove was asking about something specific, but he could not imagine what. And he was not about to mention Miss Smith, though she was the only interesting person he’d met since becoming a duke.

He glanced at the clock, wishing he could turn back its hands. He would not see her tonight—not unless he snuck into her room. The thought held a certain appeal.

Chapter 6

I
sabella sat on the back stairs of the inn, tapping her boots against the step below her. This was the first inn without a view to the stable yard and she hoped Mr. Smythe would find her. She shouldn’t be out at all, but she didn’t want to even think about not seeing him for another night.

Blue Coat had stayed hidden today and she hadn’t once had that chill on the back of her neck that made her feel watched. It was the only reason she hadn’t fled, but it didn’t make her feel any safer. It almost seemed more dangerous now that she didn’t know where Mr. Blue Coat was, if he was still following her.

Had he returned to London? Was she actually safe for now? She tried to pretend that she was—it was easier than giving in to her fears. She wrapped her arms tight about herself in the gesture of a young child.

When she’d fled from London after Foxworthy’s death she’d had a list of possible employers from Lady Smythe-Burke, a wonderful recommendation for Miss Isabella Smith, and a small purse of coin. Now she had an even smaller purse of coin and that was all. Mrs. Wattington would never give her a reference if she fled with no notice.

Did she need to leave? Perhaps Blue Coat had decided that she wasn’t Isabella Masters.

No. Not a chance. He knew just who she was.

She squeezed her hands tight and tried to think about her situation, forced herself to consider the actual possibilities.

The blue-coated man might be working for her brother, Masters. If that was the case, the outcome would not be pleasant, but it would not be as dire as . . . Her mind could not complete the thought. Her brother no longer had power over her. He might still force her home, but despite everything she doubted he’d imprison her in his home. They might have disagreed those last couple months before she ran—he might have been ready to force her to wed Foxworthy—but deep in her heart she believed he’d only done what he thought he had to. If only she knew what else he might believe he had to do. What if he felt obligated to bring in the law?

And what if Blue Coat was not working for her brother? She wrapped her arms tight about her body as a chill took her.

She had killed Foxworthy.

She was a murderess. There was no going back.

It might have been an accident, she might have had no choice, but he was dead and she was to blame. The memory of his body lying across the cold stone of the floor came back to her with all the horror and disbelief contained in the moment it had happened.

She had done that. She and no one else.

And she knew what happened to murderers.

Her fingers shook. She wrapped them even tighter about her arms. Thinking about Foxworthy always affected her badly. And that was without the added worry of trying to understand who her pursuers were—and what they might want.

She fluttered her lashes quickly, trying to dry them before tears could form. She did not want Mr. Smythe to see her cry . . . He was her one spot of comfort in the midst of the mess her life had become.

W
ould she still be here? Had she come at all? After his failure to arrive the night before, he would not be surprised if she stayed in her room. He paused at the back door of the inn, his hand flat upon the rough wood.

He was nervous.

The thought caught him off guard. He was never nervous. He’d faced cannon fire without feeling this tightness in his gut. He swung the door open and stepped out onto the stairs, the boards creaking beneath his boots.

She was there.

Her eyes opened wide as if he’d given her a fright. Was she as nervous as he was?

Her hand shook slightly as she brushed at her skirt and stood.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be here,” he said.

“I am.” She sounded breathless.

“Yes, but . . .” He let it hang, not wanting to mention his failure to show the night before.

Her gaze moved from his booted feet up his thighs and belly to reach his face. More than his gut tightened. She hadn’t looked at him like that before.

He wanted to reach out and touch her, to draw her close.

Her words stopped him. “You didn’t tell me you were related to the duke. Why would you not?”

“R
elated to the duke?” His features were in shadow, the inn’s lamp lighting him from behind, but she could hear the confusion in his voice—and something else, that magic something that made her troubles seem so far away. “You think I am related to the duke?”

“I don’t know why you try to pretend. I met a man last night, Douglas—he came to tell me you were dining with the Duke of Hargrove—and he told me of your relationship.”

He looked perplexed for a moment as she drew close enough to see him more clearly in the dark. He opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again. “Douglas.”

She nodded.

“He didn’t tell me that he’d spoken to you.”

“Should he not have?”

“And he said that I was related to the duke?”

“Not quite. He said something about a close relationship and troubles. I thought about it and decided being related was the most probable answer. And, as I said the other night, you look a little like the bit I saw of him.”

“The tops of our hats are the same?”

“No, I think it’s your height and general coloring. You don’t stand like he does though—all stiff and straight, like a poker. I wonder if it was bred into him?”

“Like a poker?” He sounded quite affronted.

“I am speaking without thinking again, aren’t I?” The sudden feelings of safety Mr. Smythe brought with him had loosened her tongue along with her nerves. “I should have realized he’s your employer and perhaps even family. What is he, some type of cousin?”

He pressed his lips tight for a moment. “We’re rather closer than that.”

Mr. Smythe was illegitimate. Oh, raspberries. She hadn’t even thought of that. Hadn’t even considered the possibility. She should have, but she hadn’t. Her thoughts had been on her own troubles. “I am sorry.”

Now he just looked confused. “You’re sorry?”

“You keep repeating what I say as question.” She was glad they seemed to be moving beyond his relationship to the duke. There were some things there was just no good way to talk about. “You look much nicer than he does.” Oh, she shouldn’t have said that. “Someday I am just going to sew my lips shut.”

“Now that would be a shame.” Mr. Smythe stepped down a couple of steps until they were face-to-face.

It was the perfect moment for a kiss.

The wonder of anticipation filled her. She hadn’t realized she was longing for his kiss, but suddenly it was all she could think about. She leaned a little further.

The desire for his mouth upon her own was more powerful than anything she could remember.

A few years ago she’d kissed more than one man and enjoyed every single one. Kisses had been fun and flirtatious. They held the possibility of risk, but of only the most minor variety. And she’d certainly never needed them, felt that she couldn’t survive without them.

Unfortunately what had been true of Miss Isabella Masters, lady of the
ton
, was, however, not true of Miss Smith, nursery maid.

A kiss that for Miss Masters was light entertainment could spell disaster for Miss Smith. Her teeth bit into her lower lip. Maids and governesses could be dismissed over a kiss—in fact, not only could be, but probably would be.

So was he worth the trouble a kiss might bring?

And did she have any choice? She did not believe she could live without knowing what his lips felt like.

Surely she deserved a single moment of happiness. Surely she deserved the kiss she needed before she was forced to flee, forced to leave him behind.

She stepped closer, felt the heat of his body against her breast. She raised her head slightly, tilted her neck to the perfect angle, looked at his lips, inhaled, letting her own lips part, moved her gaze to his eyes, and back down—waited.

And waited.

She could feel his glance upon her, knew her invitation was not subtle.

He stared down at her lips and suddenly she knew it would be now, that moment when a well-behaved girl would step away, but. . .

S
he didn’t realize he was the duke. It was such a relief. Douglas had talked to her and kept his secret. He would have to find out exactly what the man had said. Mark stared down at her softly lit face, so sweet and trusting, though he always had the feeling that she could do anything at any time.

But was he really so stiff? He must be getting better at being the duke than he’d imagined.

He would admit to feeling different when dressed and combed. There was something about being fastened into stiff brocades and expensive silks that made one change. His shoulders went back further. His chin rose just that tiniest of bits. And his eyes—he supposed he even looked at the world a bit differently when he was the duke.

When he was the duke.

It seemed an odd way to think about it, because he was the duke all the time, but he just didn’t feel it. Someday he supposed it would grow around him, become part of him, but right now it seemed like something he put on along with his coat, like something his valet kept locked away and took out when it was time to dress each morning.

But right now, right this second, this moment, he was anything but the duke. He was simply a man, and only a man.

She moved closer to him. He could feel her breath against his cheek, feel her gaze upon his mouth. She could not possibly be aware of the invitation she was sending, an invitation it was beyond his power to deny.

“Are you going to kiss me?”

The question was so soft that at first he wasn’t sure he’d heard it.

“You keep staring at my lips, but you’re not doing anything. Are you going to kiss me?”

He
was
staring at her lips, staring at them but not quite seeing them. He focused on their rosy fullness. “Do you want me to kiss you?”

Her glance darted from his mouth up to his eyes. Her skin flushed and he could tell she wanted to look away, step away—instead she stepped closer, her eyes dropping back to his mouth. “Yes.” She said it firmly, but then hesitated. “I know I shouldn’t want you to. I’ve known you less than a week—hardly half a week.”

“Has it only been that long?” He ran a finger across her cheek. “It feels so much longer, as if I’ve known you forever.” And it did.

He knew he shouldn’t kiss her. She was right about that. And he certainly shouldn’t kiss her here—on the inn steps—where anybody might see.

He stepped closer, his fingers slid down and cupped her chin, bringing her face nearer.

And he kissed her. Light. Gentle. The perfect first kiss for his innocent girl.

Her lips were tender and a little dry. He licked them for her. She tasted of mushroom gravy. The inn must have served it for dinner that night. It almost made him laugh—but only almost.

Laughter would have been impossible as she leaned into him, her lips pressing against his with greater pressure, her firm breasts rubbing against the linen of his shirt, her arms coming up around his neck, pulling his head down, her—

It was definitely not her first kiss. That fact filled Mark’s mind and then faded as the desires of his body forced away all thought.

His hands wrapped about her waist, lifting her into fuller contact. His tongue swept along the crease of her lips, pushing its way in. She opened her mouth to him, welcoming him in. She was as fully in the moment as he—then she pulled back. Her hands slid down his shoulders to push against his chest.

“No.” She was breathless, but firm. There could be no mistaking that she meant the word.

S
he didn’t mean it at all. Isabella wanted to lean in to him, to lick him, devour him, have him devour her, to grab her moment; wanted to push her common sense, her troubles away. When she was with him all her worries faded to nothingness. She felt a strength she’d never known before—as if she could do anything.

Only. . .

She forced air into her lungs and tried to bring her mind around to the
no
her lips had formed so perfectly. She pulled back far enough to stare into his eyes. They were nearly black with passion—and tenderness. It was almost enough to have her lean into him again.

Only—they were standing on a public stair.

Only—the lamp was bright above them.

Only—the lady’s maid who was sharing a room with her and Joey had agreed to watch him for just an hour while he slept.

Only—somebody could appear at any moment.

They were all good reasons, sensible reasons, and she needed to be a sensible girl if she wanted to survive. She needed to act with reason as well as passion. She had put her wants, her needs aside before—she could do so again.

Only—he looked so good, so kind, so everything she’d ever wanted, ever dreamed could be hers.

She started to lean against him again, tilted her chin up—caught herself and stepped back.

“No.” This time she did not sound so sure.

“Are you a tease?” He said it flatly.

“No.” She glanced up toward the light, feeling his eyes follow her subtle movement. She smiled at him, just barely, just enough to let him see her own wants. Her sister had told her nothing drew a man as fast as a woman’s desire.

“Ah, there is that. Should we go someplace else?”

“I need to get back to Joey.”

He reached out and placed his fingers beneath her chin, drawing her glance back to his. He stared at her for several moments. “Tomorrow, then?”

“I don’t know.” Another little smile. She would keep her options open.

“What don’t you know? If you can get away? If we can find a place to meet? Or you don’t know that you want to do this?”

“If I say ‘I don’t know’ again I’ll feel like an indecisive idiot,” she answered, licking her lower lip, drawing his gaze. “Well, I don’t know the answer to the first two questions. I never know what Mrs. Wattington will want or how Joey will be feeling. It’s the third question I am not sure about. What exactly is ‘this’? A kiss? I think after thirty seconds I know that I could kiss you for hours. But I know that men want more.” Her voice dropped very low. “I know I want more.”