Chasing the Duke: Steamy Second Chance Regency Romance

by Tracy Sumner

  His fingers tightened around hers as visions of them tumbling across his bed raced through his mind. Her scent, peony and orange blossoms, rolled over him like a wave and took him under. “Are you dizzy with delight, Princess? And if not, how can I get you to be?”

  He didn’t know why he asked this when he was running full-speed away from her.

  Or trying to. And failing.

  While he pondered this dilemma, managing his enchanting botanist through another elegant rotation, somewhere behind him, a glass hit the floor and exploded with a bang. To Tristan’s unmitigated mortification, the sound plunged him into the anarchy of a rain-soaked field in Belgium, the chalky scent of death crushing, the bitter taste of fear choking.

  All at once, he was at war, and the memories were swallowing him whole.

  “Tristan.” Camille yanked his sleeve—and this was when he apprehended he’d brought them to a standstill in the middle of the ballroom, puzzled couples darting around them.

  She repeated his name, more urgently this time.

  He gazed at her and blinked slowly. “I’m fine,” he whispered when he was reasonably sure he wasn’t. And as he’d been trying to tell her, might never be again.

  Camille grasped his forearm and smiled, fanning her face like she’d gotten warm and needed a reprieve. Nodding at anyone who looked their way, she gestured to the refreshment table as if they’d discussed food and drink as a remedy. She was quick, this woman, razor-sharp. She would have made a fine soldier. Tristan wanted to tell her this, she’d have liked it, he imagined, but he had to focus or anxiety would triumph and completely ruin the evening.

  As it was, he wasn’t going to sleep for days.

  Camille grabbed a glass from a passing footman and shoved it in his hand. “Drink, Tris. Your skin has gone the color of daisy petals.”

  He drained the glass, the wine stinging the back of his throat but doing little to mist his mind. “Is that good?”

  She shook her head, her gaze probing as she searched his face. “I don’t think so.”

  “I may need a moment,” he admitted when he recognized how badly his hands were shaking. “Can you make excuses for me? A loose button, a sudden headache?”

  “The countess has a wide variety of sitting rooms with doors that lock. Find one.”

  Tristan laughed, although blackness was edging his vision, and panic was beginning to swell. “Yes, she mentioned those. In excellent working order should I have the urge to ravish anyone this evening.”

  Camille flushed, her gaze dropping to her slippers.

  Damned if they weren’t in trouble, both of them, he thought desperately.

  After an awkward silence, she took his glass and gestured with it to a hallway leading off the ballroom. “I’ll render apologies should the countess want to know where you’ve run off to. Should I keep a list of the eligible ladies who stop by hoping to be ravished?”

  “Naturally.” He turned, heading toward a discreet salon of his choice. “That reminds me,” he said and glanced over his shoulder, “apparently a handsome marquess is trying to run you to ground now that Ridley’s gone off to be with his mommy. I think I was summoned to intervene. Hold my place, should this occur. I’ll regain my ducal fighting stance swiftly, I promise.”

  Then he stumbled from the ballroom before he let society see what war did to a man.

  Throughout a cotillion and a Scotch reel, Camille worried about the way color had bled from Tristan’s cheeks. As she tried to imagine what dread like that must feel like, she stepped on Lord Heming’s toes and got lost during her conversation with Baron Birmingham. When Viscount Arnold approached for his selection, she claimed to have a torn hem and took herself off to find Tristan.

  This worrying without action would not do.

  She located him in the fourth room she tried.

  He didn’t turn from his study of the woodlands surrounding the countess’s estate, simply stood quietly before the window sipping from a glass. He looked lonely. On an island he didn’t want anyone else to reach, the glow from a candelabra turning the tips of his hair gold and gilding his skin. Camille turned the key in the lock, and the dull clink echoed through the room.

  “They’re like nightmares while I’m awake. I don’t know why, but startling sounds bring them to the forefront of my mind. Like they’re close, shallowly buried and easy to retrieve.” He braced his hand on the window ledge and gazed into the snowy night. “Only needing a jolt to reveal them. Then I’m tossed into the pit.”

  Skirting the desk he stood behind, she settled in beside him, shoulders touching, and took his glass. Gin. It burned as it went down, and she coughed.

  “Easy,” Tristan said without looking at her, a hint of a smile in his voice.

  She pushed the glass back in his hand, a hand that no longer shook, she noted. “I walked in on Lady Pierce-Nesmith two doors down on her knees before a man, a man most definitely not Lord Pierce-Nesmith. It was, if nothing else, enlightening.”

  Tristan turned to her with a sputtered laugh. “You’re kidding.”

  Camille grimaced, recalling what she’d seen in the two-second flash. “I wish I were.”

  “Don’t they know about the famous Milburn locks?” He tipped his glass her way. “Which I noticed you wisely employed.”

  Stepping back, she rested her bottom on the desk. Tristan had located a study of some sort to hide in. Bookcases, armchairs, dark corners, dust. Nothing romantic about it. A room for reflection, not seduction. “Has this happened before?”

  He flicked his fingers, dismissing the question. “No matter. But I think it proves a fine point, in light of our recent…transactions. Why I can’t marry. Why I can’t live with anyone. Sleep through the night with anyone. You think this was dreadful, the dreams are worse. The dreams are horrendous.” When she started to speak, he held her off with a stern look. “Not right now, Princess. Maybe not ever. You see, old Ridley is right about one thing, aside from his fascination with you. I’m no longer fit for society. I no longer belong.”

  Camille gazed at his pensive silhouette, her heart seizing, wondering why she had to love such a complicated man. Because she did love him, she always had, and her continued feelings were a disaster in the making. Desire pulsed through her as she stood there, his scent—the faintest hint of smoke and sandalwood—drifting to her, the heat from his body crossing the short distance separating them and cloaking her like a woolen shawl. She recognized what she wanted. His hands on her body, his teeth nipping her skin, his lips claiming hers. She didn’t want this from Ridley, and she never would.

  She’d not experienced true passion and had no idea how to make it happen, but she knew in her soul what she felt.

  “What can I do to erase those memories?” she asked, thrilled by her daring but frightened by her absolute lack of knowledge.

  He slowly lifted his head, his eyes as dark as baize in the candlelight. “Best not ask during a weak moment, because I’m not sure I can deny myself.” But defying himself, he stepped close, threaded his fingers through her hair, scattering pins as he tilted her head high. “If you only understood where this will go if I allow it. If I allow you to take me there.”

  She gasped, her lids fluttering as his nails scored her scalp, a gentle abrasion that sent longing spiraling between her thighs, hardening her nipples to fine points beneath her shift.

  “You smell like summer,” he murmured, his breath brushing her cheek. “Like cool ponds and wheat fields, like passion and promise and want. The way the world was before I witnessed another side. The world I wish I could step back into. After a kiss that killed, is there more?” His lips brushed her jaw, the side of her mouth, lingering, teasing. “I think we’re both wondering.”

  Grasping her waist, he set her fully on the desk, nudged her knees apart, and stepped in until their hips bumped. She sighed, her gaze dropping. Beneath his buckskin close, his rigid length tented his breeches. Long and hard and beautiful.

  A burst of feminine po
wer lit her from within. To have his body react to her in this way seemed no less than a miracle.

  Astounded, she looked up at him in wonder.

  In the milky candlelight, his face took on a thunderous cast. “You should be frightened, Camille. We aren’t playing; we’re no longer children.” He nodded to the door, a tight breath racing from his lips. “Locked in, I could seduce you, here, now. Tangle us both up in need, toss every plan you’ve made for yourself in the hearth, and turn your future to ashes. It’s happened a thousand times in a thousand parlors with a thousand people who later wished it hadn’t.” He exhaled again, irritated and torn. “Why aren’t you letting me do the right thing?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered and set her lips to his, knowing not what to do, only knowing she had to touch him.

  Sliding one hand behind her neck, he released a primal sound and lifted her off the desk and into him. His lips moved over hers, again and again, until he sighed in frustration. Cradling her jaw, he tilted her head, the slight adjustment putting them in flawless alignment—and sending the kiss rocketing into an alternate universe.

  There could be no two people who’d fit together more magically.

  She wanted to learn, wanted to bring him to his knees, the girl who’d fought for his attention still very much a part of her. So she followed his every move, shyly touched her tongue to his, swirled it in the rhythm he was echoing below her waist, pressing the tantalizing part of himself, even harder than when they’d started, into her most secret of places. She matched him measure for measure, finally losing all reason, clutching his shoulders and kissing him back with nothing but a blind reach for more.

  More contact. Deeper. Faster. Harder.

  Perhaps she whispered her plea, because he was there. Setting her gently back on the desk, yanking layers of clothing high, reaching through the slit in her drawers, and touching her as she’d touched herself in her darkened bedchamber, but on this night, knowing exactly, exactly, where to go when she’d fumbled.

  He understood—and brought swift pleasure.

  Their kiss was impossible to maintain with his fingers circling, pressing, fondling, lighting a fire inside her, making her vision blur and her breath shorten. Her head fell back on a husky moan as she scooted forward, begging without words. If he would just…

  “This is what you’re looking for, Princess,” he whispered into her neck. Sucking her earlobe between his teeth, he slid a finger inside her, a delightful breach, a delicious surrender. “Don’t think,” he added breathlessly as he invaded her body with sure, flawless strokes. “This is what I’m giving you. You fought for it, now take it.”

  So she did.

  Closed her eyes and let sensation override fear. Of losing her soul when he’d always owned her heart. Of recognizing no other man could touch her in this way, make her want in this way.

  Greedy and desperate, she consumed.

  The feel of his long body curled over hers, lips at her jaw, his hair, soft and silky, brushing her temple. Hand gripping the nape of her neck, holding her steady as he plundered. A ticking clock. The call of a raven outside the window. The faint murmur of the orchestra belowstairs. Overridden only by her raspy cries, sounds she was unable to contain or classify.

  She would have been embarrassed if she’d been able to be anything but his.

  The feeling started as a buzz in her head, a swirl of anticipation in her belly. Her fingers tingled, her thighs clenched.

  “That’s it,” he murmured and slowed his rhythm. His hand went to cradle her jaw, tipping her head back. “Open your eyes. My gift, what I’m taking, is to witness what color yours turn when you come.”

  She followed his command, for once willing to, and found his gaze devouring her, his expression frenzied. He shifted his arm, swept his thumb over the peaked nub at the juncture of her core. Once, twice. Her lids fluttered as she ceded to his caress. “No, keep them open. Look at me when you crest.” He swallowed, his throat clicking. “Please,” he begged when she guessed he’d never begged for anything in his life.

  It was too much. His voice, his touch.

  What he was doing to her was too much.

  She fell against him, pressed her cry of pleasure into his shoulder, her shudders into his chest. He brought her close, kissed her brow, her cheek, murmured tender, meaningless words in her ear.

  For a long instant, he continued to touch her, drawing bliss from her body as he would water from a well until she had to push him away. Until she was bone-dry. “No more…I can’t.”

  Stepping back, he straightened her skirts, gathered her hairpins from the desk. All with his breath shooting from his lips, his breeches still deliciously tented, his hands trembling. Finally, with a sigh, he closed them into fists and came to a full stop.

  “You,” Camille whispered in sudden realization. He was still in a state of need. Surely, she could deliver pleasure if he told her what to do.

  Imagining such intimacy sent a dizzying burst through her. She guessed she’d be good at it if she tried. “Tell me what to do,” she said and reached for him.

  Swearing, Tristan stumbled back, her hairpins scattering across the rug. “That’s not happening. Apologies for being vulgar, but if you touch me”—he grazed the heel of his hand down his shaft, unleashing the wild desire simmering beneath her skin—“I’ll spill like a schoolboy and have a mess in my trousers and my head. Thank you, but I can take care of this later. I’m quite proficient, as most men are. The knotty business in my brain may take longer.”

  “I want to take care of you. Here, now.” She sounded petulant, like the girl who’d annoyed him over the years when men didn’t usually seek out bothersome lovers.

  He searched, found his glass on the window ledge and drained it. “Yes, that’s apparent.” Glancing over his shoulder, his eyes flashed in the chalky moonlight, the color of the first grass of spring. “It’s the tastiest offer I’ve had in my life. I want to say yes to anything you suggest we try, you have no idea how desperately, but I’m not going to.”

  Scrambling off the desk, she came up behind him. “Why not? After, after…” She gestured to herself, an inclusive movement, not sure how to vocalize what he’d done to her. “We know each other now.”

  He hung his head and laughed, the sound filling the room with as much heat as a raging hearthfire. By the time he swiveled to face her, she was aroused and angry, vexed beyond belief after such unmitigated pleasure.

  Perching on the ledge, he dangled the empty glass between his spread legs, likely to hide the situation beneath his trouser close, the cad. “We don’t know each other in that way. This, and the damned kiss that started it, only prove how well we work together. Chemistry. We have it. In spades.” He glanced down, kicked his boots around, then looked back at her. “I can see from the obstinate look on your face you don’t believe me.” Shrugging, his lips canted in a regrettable half-smile. “Do you know what I was thinking while I had my finger deep inside you? I was imagining the ways I could take you. Bent over the desk, filling you from behind. With my cock, not my finger, if I may be so bold. Dragging you to the floor and taking your hard nipples between my teeth as I discover what makes you forget yourself even more than you just did. Dropping to my knees and pleasuring you that way. My favorite way.” He tapped his glass against his knee with a lost look. “You think my hand is wondrous? My lips are destructive.”

  His portrayal certainly didn’t match how ladies of the ton described sexual congress in heated whispers.

  She had much, so much, to learn.

  “I thought about putting my mouth on you, too,” she murmured, dazed by his speech and the images storming her mind.

  “Go back to the ball, Princess,” he said between clenched teeth. “Before you push my unexpected streak of honor too far. Because I’m not going to do anything else I lie away at night hating myself for.” He tipped the glass her way. “Even for you.”

  Shaken, she stalked to the door, flipped the lock with a curs
e she hoped he was surprised she knew. “I’m not sorry,” she said without looking at him. “I’m not going to be one of the thousand people in a thousand parlors who wish they hadn’t.”

  She was in the hallway, five steps from the room, when she heard crystal shatter against the wall.

  Chapter 5

  Where there is salvation in false starts.

  The plums were a surprise, Camille concluded, cupping her hand around a fruit and pulling it loose. She’d nursed the tree through the fall and winter, checked water levels daily, and experimented with different fertilizers. But she hadn’t expected it to bud. And in the middle of winter, no less. The humid greenhouse climate the only reason it had. The poor thing didn’t realize it was December. In Yorkshire.

  This tree was going to be the making of her as an amateur botanist. It would be the reason the society in London finally agreed to speak to a female. The gentlemen on the committee had no idea a new variety of plum had been located in Sussex.

  She was going to enjoy telling them.

  “Camille Elise, I can’t believe you’re awake after such a long night.” Her aunt entered the conservatory with a clatter, the door slamming behind her. She patted her head and smiled crookedly, carefully avoiding ceramic pots and bags of soil on her way to her niece. “Megrims, you know. Too much wine, too much dancing.” Giggling, she made a prancing swirl down the center aisle. “But it was such fun. The countess does throw a marvelous bash! Definitely her best in years. Mercer made the evening, showing up as he did. Though he didn’t stay long. But one cannot argue with success. You shared a waltz, and the ton is humming. Everyone’s so thrilled he’s back.”

  Camille dropped a plum in the straw basket sitting at her feet. “I’ll be sure to tell him.”

  Her aunt stumbled and righted herself against the wooden bench housing a variety of garden tools. “What did you say? Something about Mercer?” She banged her ear with the heel of her hand. “You caught me on the bad side. That horrendous cold three years ago. I can’t hear the same out of it. Distressing, but what can one do? The local sawbones didn’t help one whit. Hot oil drops, posh!”