When the Duchess Said Yes (4 page)

She did recall him. She couldn’t deny it, for she’d been the one who’d acted boldly. What had it been, a week ago? Ten days? March and Charlotte had taken her with them to the opera. It had been Lizzie’s first opera, and she’d been enchanted. But March had insisted they leave their box before the first act was done, to avoid the crush and more easily make their way to visit with friends on the opposite side of the playhouse. Other acquaintances had stopped them first, and while they’d talked, Lizzie had slipped into an empty box nearby to hear the last aria of the act.

But in the middle of that aria, she’d had the oddest sensation, as if someone or something were calling to her. She’d looked up and discovered the handsomest gentleman she’d ever seen watching her as if they’d been the only two in the playhouse. He’d leaned forward, toward her, and into the reflected light from the stage. His features were strong and regular, his brow and hair dark, his eyes—oh, such eyes, even at a distance!—burning with a fiery intensity, and an unabashed interest, too. No man had ever looked at her that way, not once, and she was thankful for the shadows that masked her inevitable blush.

And though she’d known she shouldn’t, she’d smiled. She hadn’t been able to help herself. She’d smiled, and he’d smiled in return, a slow, easy smile, full of wicked charm that had made her cheeks grow warm. She’d felt like a heroine in a romance with a mysterious secret admirer, and her heart had raced with excitement. Who knew what would have happened had not Charlotte called to her, drawing her away. When she later searched for the gentleman again from her seat, he was gone, his box empty. She’d been disappointed, but relieved, too, and in her mind, that had been that.

Until now, when he stood not a playhouse away but directly before her, still watching, still smiling at her with that same wicked charm.

“I must go,” she blurted out. “My—my friends will miss me.”

“So will mine,” he countered. “I don’t care. You shouldn’t, either.”

She shook her head, trying to shake away his argument. She didn’t want to tell him March’s name or Charlotte’s, either, any more than her own, for fear of scandal.

“But my friends care very much for me, and I for them,” she said carefully. “Why should I oblige you instead?”

His smile was warm, and unlike the smiles of most men, it not only reached his eyes but filled them.

“Because you are singularly beautiful,” he said. “Because you are as sweet as the first peach, and luscious as the first rose.”

“Goodness.” Her eyes widened. She’d never heard such deliriously fine rubbish slip from a man’s lips, not with such utter conviction, and certainly never offered up to her.

“Yes,” he said thoughtfully, as if this were new to him, too, though of course it couldn’t be. “Yes, you are. I haven’t been able to put you from my thoughts since I saw you at the opera.”

She felt her resolve melting and her resistance with it, dissolving right here among these crowds of people. She knew she shouldn’t believe so much as a word. And yet, because of the phantom Duke of Hawkesworth, who had found it a bothersome trial even to be in the same country with her, she longed to believe these honeysweet words from this unbearably handsome gentleman. The duke had had his mistresses; what harm could come of her having these few moments?

“A dance,” he said, offering his hand to her. “I’ve always wished to dance with a fairy. Come, the floor can’t be far. I can hear the musicians from here.”

“I can’t accept,” she said, looking down at his proffered hand with far more regret than she should have. “If I were seen dancing with you, I would be ruined.”

“Then no one
shall
see us.” He didn’t wait for her to take his hand, but claimed hers instead. Swiftly he ducked between the trees and hedges, leading her into a small clearing inside the greenery. Although the crowds on the walk could clearly be heard a few feet away, the space was surprisingly private, and designed to be so, too. Lizzie stopped short, frowning at the single whitewashed bench, clearly meant for trysting.

“This is madness,” she said, pulling her hand free. “I can’t stay here with you.”

“Hush,” he said softly, bowing low before her, all dark-clad elegance. “Do you hear the music? Pray honor me with this dance, my fairy queen.”

She shouldn’t, she shouldn’t, yet there she was, taking his hand. He was taller than she was, so tall that she had to tip her head back a bit to meet his eye, rare for her with anyone. He drew her forward, into the center of the little clearing, and they turned with the music. Of course he danced well, assured in his steps without the fussiness of a dancing master. Likely he did everything well. A gentleman like him would. Moonlight splashed full across his face, and Lizzie sighed.

“Oh, my, look at you,” she whispered with a certain despair as he guided her through the steps of the dance. “I know that is monstrously rude of me to say, but—but
look
at you.”

He cocked one dark brow. “You say that as if I’m the Tower of London, a site to be recommended to visitors.”

“I say that because you are so handsome.” Her smile felt as wide as a common fool’s, and she couldn’t make
herself look away from his dark eyes, his black hair, and the clean, sharp line of his jaw. “Perhaps the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.”

He laughed again, a sound she was sure she’d never tire of. “You’re only saying that because I said you were beautiful.”

“I’m saying it because it’s the truth.” His shoulder beneath her hand was wide and strong, made for her to lean upon. “I’m not very good at dissembling, you see. I’m much better with the truth.”

“A beautiful woman who cannot lie.” He placed his hand on the small of her back, finding a place below the wings. “What a rare and wonderful creature.”

She frowned, concentrating on keeping her spangled skirts clear of her heels without tripping him, too. “But you, sir, are not being truthful. I am not beautiful, especially not the way you are. I am comely, but not beautiful. Everyone says so.”

“Then everyone is wrong, sweeting, and that
is
the truth.”

“No.” The silk flowers in her hair wafted back and forth on their wire stems as she shook her head. “My cheeks are too round and my hair too dark, and I have a bump in the middle of my nose from falling from an apple tree when I was six. So I will grant you comely, even striking, but not beautiful. No.
You
are beautiful, like the plaster statue of Adonis I saw last week in the museum.”

“Not quite.” His laugh had dropped to a chuckle, so warm that the sound tickled down Lizzie’s spine and back up again. “Adonis. My God. Didn’t your mother tell you that a pretty face can hide an ugly soul?”

“Hardly.” Her smile turned wry. “She would say a pretty face would be the first one asked to dance at a ball.”

“Then that explains why you are here with me now.”
He drew her closer, close enough that she felt the plush velvet of his coat against her bare skin. Their dancing slowed to a sway as he leaned closer, his face over hers while the lights in the branches twinkled overhead.

She knew he was going to kiss her. She also knew that if she’d any sense of decency, she’d turn away and deny him. But then she likewise knew herself, and was dreadfully aware that there’d be no denying anyone, however deserved. Instead she raised her mouth a fraction, challenging him.

“You can’t explain fairies,” she said. “We are beyond reason and capture.”

“Not to me,” he said. He bent lower, his mouth brushing over hers. “Kiss me, my fairy queen.”

Her heart racing with anticipation, she closed her eyes and offered her pursed lips, the way she’d observed other ladies do.

But observation wasn’t experience, and at once she could tell she wasn’t doing it right. She realized that as soon as his mouth found hers and without a word he demanded that she relax and kiss him in return. She’d no idea a man’s mouth could be so firm and so soft at once, or able to coax her lips to part so that their mouths joined, too, all wet heat and sensation. Her knees turned wobbly and she held on to his shoulders so she wouldn’t collapse. He pulled her closer, the spangles on her gown catching on the silver braid of his coat. His arm tightened around her waist in a way that only made her want to kiss him more, and when he finally broke away, she felt light-headed, full of wonder, and regretful that it had ended.

“Oh, my.” She touched her fingertips to her lips to see if they’d changed, and smiled up at him from the cozy nest in the crook of his arm. “How extraordinary.”

“Most extraordinary.” He smiled, too, with a very
male pride, as he ran his open hand up and down her back.

She chuckled with happiness. “A first kiss is supposed to be extraordinary.”

“Our first, yes,” he said, “but I’d wager it won’t be our last.”

She frowned a bit because he’d misunderstood. This had been her first kiss ever, not just with him, but then his hand slid lower, his fingers spreading over her bottom in a way that also was extraordinary—perhaps a bit too much so.

“My carriage isn’t far, nor is my house,” he said, his invitation warm against her ear. “We can have the whole night to explore more of your fairy ways together.”

He pulled her hips close to his, and shockingly she felt the hard length of his cock in his breeches, heady proof that she’d not been the only one to be moved by their kiss.

But in that instant Lizzie realized the reality of what she’d done, and what he wanted her to do. Swiftly she stepped apart, away from his caress.

“I must go.” Her voice sounded odd, breathless and throaty and not her own. “I’ve been gone too long. My sist—my friends will miss me.”

“Not as much as I shall,” he said winningly, reaching for her again. “Come, lass. I promise you that was only the beginning.”

“I—I can’t,” she stammered, panicking as she skittered backward. He was every bit as handsome and charming and tempting as ever, but now fear and regret washed over her like an icy bath. What would the Duke of Hawkesworth say if he ever learned that she’d gone into the bushes with a stranger and let him kiss and embrace her? Worse yet, what would March say? Oh, truly she
was
Lizzie Wyldest! No matter how Charlotte pleaded on her behalf, March would order her immediately
packed back to Dorset and ignominy, and likely spinsterhood, too.

“I must go at once,” she said breathlessly, “before my friends worry and come hunting for me, and—and you do not wish them to find you.”

“Let them,” he said with a grandly dismissive sweep of his arm. “I’ll fight them all for your sake.”

She rather believed he would, and part of her was delighted by his bravery, like that of a knight of old. But these weren’t olden times and she couldn’t let him fall into the hands of March’s burly footmen, and in despair she played her final card.

“You can’t,” she said. “I won’t permit it. There’d be no point to fighting, anyway, for I am promised to wed another.”

Not trusting herself, she didn’t wait to measure his response. She ducked beneath the branches and fled into the crowd, her skirts flying and her wired wings bobbing against her back.

“Lizzie!” Charlotte held her arms out to her, obviously relieved. “Where have you been? We’ve been hunting all over for you.”

Lizzie flung herself into her sister’s embrace, hugging her tight. Her heart was still pounding, her thoughts confused by all that had just happened. And what would she do if the gentleman followed her?

“Are you unharmed, Lizzie?” Charlotte asked. “Poor thing, I can feel your heart.”

With a shuddering sigh, Lizzie broke away, struggling to compose herself.

“I’m fine, perfectly fine,” she said. “I went to the privy, that was all, and then I couldn’t find you again.”

She hated herself for lying to Charlotte, but the truth was so shamefully grievous that Lizzie could never confess it, not even to her sister.

Charlotte’s contrition made it worse. “Oh, please forgive me, Lizzie, forgive me if you can. That was all my fault, for becoming so caught up in the tattle of the day that I forgot you. Here now, sit beside me and calm yourself before we return to the gentlemen. You’re very jumbled now, and I want you to be serene when you meet Hawke.”

She led Lizzie toward the nearest bench, conveniently emptied for them by a footman who’d shooed away the bench’s other, less worthy occupants. Seated at her sister’s side, Charlotte smoothed Lizzie’s hair, tucking the stray wisps back beneath her flowered wreath.

“You’re flushed,” Charlotte said with concern. “Are you feverish? Do you feel unwell?”

“I’m well enough.” Quickly Lizzie looked down, fearing what her eyes might betray. “But if you please, Charlotte, shouldn’t we return to the pavilion?”

Charlotte rose and smiled slyly. “To the pavilion, and to meet your bridegroom, too. I suppose you’ve every reason to feel feverish, dear Lizzie, haven’t you?”

Perhaps she
was
feverish. Certainly all the way back to the pavilion her stomach was twisting in knots as she struggled to balance her conscience against her giddy excitement. She must banish the nameless stranger from her head
now
, and instead anticipate meeting the man who would be her husband. She must put from her mind the only kiss she’d ever had, and concentrate on her dutiful marriage and the honorable kisses that would come from her husband. Duty, honor, respectability appropriate to her rank and position, to her husband and the children they’d have together: that was what mattered, not the folly of a meaningless embrace and a kiss from a man whom—with luck—she’d never see again.

A man whom, if Lizzie was honest, she would never forget.

Yet as soon as she and Charlotte reached the canal,
they could see that March was alone at the table in the pavilion. He wasn’t sitting, either, but standing, his expression severe and his hands clasped behind his waist. His watch was no longer open on the table but tucked back in its waistcoat pocket. None of it augured well.

“I have sent for the carriage,” March announced even before they’d reached him. “Our evening here is done. Hawke has only now sent word that he regrets that he is unable to attend us this evening. Regrets, my foot. My only regret is that he is such a selfish, ill-mannered rascal.”