The Last Duke (The 1797 Club Book 10)

by Jess Michaels

  Need mushroomed in her from some deep place she’d never felt before. A tingling that seemed to bring all her limbs and nerve endings to life, a heat that burned and soothed all at once. She wanted something. She knew what it was called, but had never felt it. Had been trained to avoid it. Now she didn’t give a damn about ruination. Just him.

  He dragged his mouth away in that instant with a low growl that seemed to settle in that throbbing place between her legs. He didn’t release her, but continued to stare down into her face like he didn’t fully recognize her. Or perhaps he didn’t recognize himself. Then he sighed.

  “I will admit, Sarah, I don’t know what to do about this. This wanting that seems to sear my very soul. That doesn’t seem to give a damn about propriety or grace or anything but touching you.”

  She shivered at the nature of his words. Things said in the dark by a lover, not in private between duke and governess, no matter where she’d started off in life.

  She swallowed hard, past her worry, past her fear, past her uncertainty, and whispered in a voice that was so low and dark and husky with desire that she could hardly recognize it as her own, “Perhaps we don’t have to know, Kit.”

  He brushed a hand across her cheek, smoothing away an errant curl before he released her and sat back into a position that was at least a little more proper.

  He smiled. “It is not in my nature not to know. I always know my next move and all the reasons for it.” He sighed. “But then again, it is not in my nature to pin a young woman against a settee arm and revel in her taste.”

  She shivered again. “So?”

  “So we are in uncharted territory. And perhaps that is not the worst thing. When I touch you, it is most definitely far from that.”

  He stood, and she followed him to her own feet. He caught her by the waist and dragged her closer, brushing her lips with hers. This time it was gentle. But she felt the heat throbbing behind it.

  “Hmmm,” he murmured as they parted. “I should go before I can’t. But you’ve given me a great deal to consider, Sarah.”

  She smiled as he backed toward the door, gave her a small salute and then departed the room. She sagged back onto the settee where he’d so thoroughly kissed her.

  “So have you,” she whispered. “So have you.”

  Chapter Twelve

  When his father died, Kit had had a hard time picturing the moment when life would feel normal again. And yet, two weeks past that fateful afternoon, he did, occasionally, feel himself again. So did the rest of his world. The servants had gone to wearing a simple black band on their arm, his friends the same. His sister laughed more often and played with the other children. Not that she didn’t still sometimes weep or act out in her pain, but it felt like an improvement, a move toward the better.

  The only thing consistently different from the day before his father’s death was his relationship with Sarah. That had changed, and it didn’t seem to have any ability to return. She worked for him, that was the same, but they’d had many a stolen moment in the hallway or a parlor after everyone else had gone. Kissing her was becoming a favorite pastime and she was his ultimate distraction from pain. He wanted more and more and more.

  A fact that left him a bit uncomfortable. Was he being fair?

  He shrugged off the thought and entered his father’s study. His study now, he supposed, though it didn’t feel that way yet. He had only gone into the room a handful of times since his father’s death. He hadn’t changed anything when it came to the décor, and his father’s papers and notes were still strewn across the mahogany desk top.

  He drew in a long breath as he stared around the room. Even more than the chamber where Kit now slept, this place was truly the domain of the old duke. It had the weight of him and the sense of him still in its walls.

  And it was time to sort through it. Any one of his friends would have gladly stepped forward to help him in that endeavor, but he had put them off, at least for now. If it became too overwhelming he would ask for the help. He needed to do it soon, as his friends would soon be leaving. That night was a final party with all of them and some friends from the shire, then the carriages would begin to roll out over the next few days.

  He was both mournful of that moment and anticipating it. He would miss his friends—their large group was a comfort—but he also looked forward to figuring out what the new normal of his life would look like.

  And who would play a part in it.

  He settled into the leather seat behind the desk and looked over the piles of papers. Ledgers, letters, notes were all arranged in neat sections. As he moved them around, he found a message written in Ewan’s even hand. It didn’t surprise him. Ewan and Matthew had gone over the papers in the first days when Kit’s grief was too painful and sharp. Ewan wrote notes constantly, since he could not speak.

  Still, Kit drew a deep breath before he read this one.

  Your father made things easy. There will be little difficulty in taking over and no nasty surprises Matthew or I could find. He loved you, Kit, and he knew, as we all know, that you will be as fine a duke as you are a man. E.

  Kit’s eyes stung as he folded the note and tucked it safely away. He’d been raised for all this, of course. Taught by both word and example the importance of being a decent landlord, a decent employer, a decent man. Taught to serve his populace with honor and kindness.

  And it still felt overwhelming.

  He shook it off and opened the right top drawer of his father’s desk. Quills and ink bottles and other writing accoutrement greeted him. The old duke had been a great writer. Correspondence was important to him. Kit smiled as he looked at the well-worn instruments that spoke of his father’s craft.

  He opened the second drawer on that side and found a few dogeared books and another ledger. He moved to the opposite side and opened the top drawer, expecting to find more of these utterly mundane and completely moving artifacts of his father’s day to day life.

  Instead, when he opened the top drawer, he found half a dozen leather-bound books stacked neatly in a pile. Not printed works on farming or management like the ones from the opposite side of the desk.

  These looked like…

  He opened one and found it filled from edge to edge with his father’s familiar scrawling hand. Kit caught his breath. This was his father’s diary.

  He flipped to the end, where a silken piece of fabric marked its place, and discovered the last entry was dated less than a week before his father’s death. The hand was shakier, less sure.

  Kit pushed the journal away on the desk and stared at it. The pain, which he had succeeded in keeping at bay during the time since his father’s death, rushed back to him now. Washed over him. Became unbearable, a mockery of what he thought he had overcome.

  He bent his head, feeling every wave of it and knowing it would now wash him away, out to sea where there was no coming back from it.

  There was a light knock on the door, and as he lifted his head to shout at the unknown person to leave him be, it opened and revealed Sarah.

  For a moment, time stood still. He stared at her, lovely and soft, and the pain faded just a fraction. But not enough.

  “What is it?” he barked, unable to temper his tone.

  She jumped at the sharpness of it, yet she still took a hesitant half step into the room. “I-I’m sorry, Kit. Last night we spoke about a new riding habit for Phoebe and—”

  He jerked his face away. A riding habit? He vaguely recalled the conversation. Something about increasing his rapidly growing sister’s allowance for clothes and other necessities. It was part of what he’d come in here to look at today, compare his father’s allowance for that expense to her needs.

  And now that duty felt so tiny and unimportant when his father’s journal was sitting on the desk, screaming at him in the old duke’s voice.

  “I will deal with it when I deal with it,” he snapped, slamming a hand on the desk and reveling in
the fact that the physical pain momentarily erased the emotional. All too momentarily.

  Her lips parted a little and then she inclined her head slightly. “Of course, Your Grace.”

  He flinched. When they were alone, she never called him Your Grace, always Kit. But his tantrum had thrown her back to propriety, a wall between them.

  “I’m sorry to have pushed the subject,” she continued, her voice trembling. “I will leave you. Good day.”

  He shoved to his feet as she turned. “Wait.”

  She stopped. He could see from her tight shoulders that she wanted to keep walking like she hadn’t heard him, but she didn’t. And that meant he had a chance.

  “I’m…I’m sorry, Sarah,” he said as he came around the desk toward her. She did turn back to him now, and he could see wariness and empathy mixed on her expression. “I should not have spoken to you in such a fashion.”

  She stared at him a moment, then reached behind herself and closed the door. She folded her hands before her and said, “Why did you?”

  He glanced back at the desk, at the journal, and the pain spiked high in his chest again. “It’s just…I…he…”

  He sighed. It seemed he could not form the words he needed to say. So he turned and swept the journal up. He handed it over to her without explanation.

  She looked at the leather-bound volume, then opened it slowly. She stared at his father’s words and then up to his face. “Oh, Kit,” she whispered. “His diary?”

  He nodded and took a deep breath. “Diaries, actually. There are at least six more in the drawer, and I would assume those are only the ones from this year.”

  Her eyes went wide and she glanced down at the thick book. “Seven books for less than half a year?”

  “He was a prodigious writer,” he explained with a smile. “He wrote everything down. A life of lists is a life well lived, he used to say.”

  Sarah’s face broke into a wide smile. “I like that saying. I have been known to make a list or two in my day.”

  He wanted to smile with her, but instead he took the journal back and smoothed his fingers over the supple leather surface. She watched him a moment, then stepped closer and reached out to cover his hand.

  “Finding these journals troubles you,” she said softly. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  He nodded. “It is interfering with your day, I know.”

  She shrugged. “No, it isn’t. Phoebe is learning to change nappies and is happy as can be despite the subject matter. I’m happy to focus on you, Kit. Now, what is it? Do you fear you will find something in these pages that you won’t like?”

  “No,” he said swiftly. “My father was an open book with both his successes and his failures. And Matthew and Ewan have gone over his finances—it does not seem there will be any surprises there, as happened to Baldwin when his father died.”

  Sarah’s eyebrows lifted in surprise and Kit realized he had just shared a secret, which he wouldn’t normally do. It must have reflected on his face, for she shook her head gently. “I will never repeat anything you tell me, I can assure you.”

  He stared at her. Not so long ago, her word would have meant very little to him. He would have dragged up the past as proof of how untrustworthy she was. And yet he felt no need to do so anymore. Sarah had said it herself—she owed him no explanation. And she had nothing to prove.

  “Thank you,” he said as he pulled away and set the journal back on the desk. He sat on the edge and looked across the room at the portrait above the fireplace. A family portrait with his father and mother and Kit as a baby.

  “Well, if it is not fear of uncovering what you didn’t know that makes you hesitate, what is it?”

  “They’re his words,” he whispered. “The last entry in this book is from a week before his death. They are probably the last words he ever wrote. Just thinking of that—”

  He broke off and was shocked when he felt a hot tear slide down his cheek. Sarah caught her breath and then she rushed forward, her arms coming around his neck as she drew him in and held him close.

  He knew he should push her away. Keep some distance between them. Protect his heart. And yet he didn’t. He buried his face into the warm crook of her shoulder and clung there as all the pain came back. Only it was tempered now, soothed by her comfort as she smoothed her hands over his shoulders and back. He could sit with it, feel it, let it flow like a river and eventually dissipate when it was ready.

  A peace came over him when it did. Something he hadn’t felt before as he fought to keep the feelings at bay. Just letting them…be…had been transformative.

  He lifted his face and found her watching him closely. “Better?” she whispered.

  He nodded wordlessly.

  She smoothed her fingers over his cheeks. “Right now you are shocked by the realization that his words, his voice, are so close to you. But in time, I think you will see what a gift these books are.”

  “Yes, I know you’re right,” he said with a sigh. “I’m certain the rest are in this study somewhere, they probably go back years. Decades even. It will be like reading his life’s story, in his own words.”

  “Many would give a great deal to have such a glimpse of those they lost.”

  His brow wrinkled, for he realized she was talking about herself. She had so little left of her mother. He felt that for the first time, as deeply as he felt the loss of his father.

  She smiled at him, then leaned in and brushed her lips against his. It was a gentle action, meant to soothe him, he supposed. And yet it did the opposite. That light touch turned his mind from thoughts of family and loss to thoughts of a far more pleasant vein.

  She moved as if to turn away, but he rose from the edge of the desk and caught her arm to keep her in place. He dragged her back, loving how her body fit against his as they collided. Her empathy faded from her face, replaced by unmistakable desire, and he was lost. Utterly and completely lost to her.

  He dropped his mouth to hers and claimed it, his tongue gliding inside where he could taste her. And oh, how he wanted to taste her. He never wanted to forget that sweet flavor, he wanted to know if it was everywhere.

  And in that moment, he knew what he would do, if she allowed it.

  He backed her across the room to the chair in front of the fire. When he eased her into it and dropped to his knees before her, she drew back, confused.

  “Kit?” she whispered.

  He smiled at her before he tugged her in for another kiss. She melted against him, hands gripping at his lapels, tongue tangling with his with as much drive as he felt. She wanted more. She might not fully understand what more was, but she wanted it.

  And he could give it, without taking.

  “I want…” he panted as he pulled away. “I want to do something, Sarah. I want…to touch you.”

  She leaned in and took his mouth, her fingers gliding along his cheeks. “Silly man, you are touching me.”

  He caught her hips and slid her forward on the chair. Her legs were forced to open with the action, and he pushed up between them, blocked by her skirts but still keenly aware of the tightening of her thighs around his hips.

  “I am,” he whispered, and he let his hands move. He glided them down her throat, her chest, over her breasts—he noted she shivered—across her stomach, and then he pressed one hand between her legs. “But I want to do it here.”

  Her breath hitched. “You want to…to take me?”

  He shut his eyes. Fuck yes, he wanted to take her. Claim her. Burn her essence onto his skin until he felt her in every pore. Until she was a tattoo on his soul.

  But that was…he wasn’t ready to go so far. If he did, he’d have to go further, and that felt impetuous.

  “Not take,” he said, shocked by how shaky his voice was. “Give, Sarah. Give to you, give to me. Without claiming what should not be mine. Will you let me?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sarah blinked up at t
he man looming over her. The man who weeks ago she would have called an enemy and was now asking to become her lover. She wanted that. Wanted Kit. And what other chance would she ever have to take what he offered? Her life was going to be lived in service, whether here or somewhere else. She knew what little time those in her position had for a life of their own, a future that didn’t involve someone else’s children, someone else’s life.

  He offered her a taste of what she had lost when her mother died and her situation changed so drastically.

  All those thoughts ripped through her foggy mind, and she nodded. “Yes,” she whispered. “Please.”

  Kit’s face twitched at the please, as if that tiny word affected him. Then he leaned in and his mouth was on hers again. This time he was slower, gentler as he tasted and took, sucked and soothed. She felt her bones going liquid, her body melting into the chair as she surrendered to the wonderful sensations of…him.

  His mouth glided lower, his teeth nipping her jawline, then his lips fastened on her neck. She hissed at the new sensation, her body lifting beneath him as he tasted the column of her throat. As he did so, she felt his hands moving. He smoothed his fingers along her side, his hands cupped her hips, and she felt each digit dig in through the fabric of her skirt. He ground against her and she gasped as she felt the hard length of him through his trousers.

  Thanks to Isabel’s adventures, she knew a little about what a man wanted, what he did to a lady. Isabel had always acted like it was a pleasure, at least with Matthew, but Sarah had always had a hard time picturing that such a thing would feel nice.

  Now it made more sense. When Kit pushed against her, her body answered with a heated twitch and the place between her legs felt hot and achy and wet. She gasped out a moan of pleasure as his hands found their way back to the space between her legs and he settled one there, pressing his palm flat against her.

  He pulled his mouth from her throat, watching her as he rippled his hand over her, hard pressure receding and returning like waves on an ocean. She dipped her head back as pleasure unlike anything she’d ever known rushed over her and everything else in the world faded, drilling down to that one place where he touched her with such expert attention.