Never Deny a Duke

by Hunter, Madeline

  “It’s on the other side of the church. Goes on a way after all these years. The newer graves are over by the big tree at the far end.”

  They left him and walked around the church to the graveyard. No stone wall surrounded it. The big tree seemed to mark its current border. “I suppose it will be over there,” he said.

  “Not all the way, though.” She kept her gaze on the stones while they moved down a row toward the tree. “Around here, I would think,” she said, stopping.

  She went in one direction and he in another. He found the grave first. He almost did not call to her, not wanting to see her disappointment. He experienced none of the triumph he should have felt.

  “It is here, Davina.”

  She came over, her expression carefully set to hide her reaction. She looked at the stone with James MacCallum’s year of birth and death.

  He noticed the minister had followed them out. He stared at Davina hard, his eyes squinting and his brow furrowed. Something about her clearly arrested this old man’s attention.

  “If I wanted to protect a child, I would arrange for a grave lest anyone come looking,” she said. “And why is it here, and not in the family yard, if he truly died before his father? I have not seen many other MacCallums buried in this plot.”

  A few weeks ago he would have disabused her of the twisted scheme she wove around this boy’s life and death. Instead, he kept noticing how the minister watched her.

  “Davina, we can argue the finer points of new identities later. Right now, I think the minister wants to speak to you. If I go, he may not hold back as he does now. I will wait at the phaeton.”

  He walked away, wondering if he had just handed her a sizable chunk of the estate his father had entrusted to him.

  * * *

  Davina walked toward the minister. “His Grace thinks you may want to talk to me.”

  He palmed the air as if pushing the idea aside. “Nothing to say, really. Just wondering is all, if my mind is right or not on the memory.”

  “What memory is that?”

  “My eyes aren’t what they were, so I’m probably wrong. Only it seems to me that you look like him.”

  “Like who?”

  “Years ago, a man came to these parts. A stranger. Shared a few ales with him, and a bit of whiskey too, so I came to know him a bit. He helped the local folk for a summer, then disappeared one day.”

  “My father has visited this region. I even came with him once.”

  “Oh, it was long before your time. I wasn’t much more than a lad. Just taken my orders, as I recall. It was long ago.” He peered at her face. “Something about you that reminds me of him. Your smile, for sure. And this.” He drew his fingers down either side of his face. Then he chuckled. “I’m just an old man with an old memory. They’re stronger than the new ones these days.”

  She judged him to be around seventy-five. The old memories had a way of moving around in time, stretching and contracting. What was remembered as five years ago actually was twenty, and vice versa. “If he was a relative of mine, I’m glad he helped the locals however he could.”

  “Seemed a good man to me. I was sorry to see him go.”

  “I thank you for your help today. You have been very kind,” she said by way of taking her leave. She walked through the yard and back to the carriage, where Brentworth lounged against its side.

  “Did he want something?” he asked.

  She let him help her into the seat. “He thought I looked like a stranger who was here some years ago. I think he meant my father, who visited this region a few times in the summers. I do resemble him.”

  He appeared relieved, which she thought odd.

  “It was not an encouraging day for you,” he said, settling beside her. He did not sound smug, at least. Perhaps his tone even carried a shade of sympathy.

  “I was not able to place any proof in front of you, but I am no worse off than before.”

  “We found his grave, Davina. He did not grow to manhood in Northumberland, and father a son who then fathered you.”

  She tucked her wrap closer around her and fixed her gaze on the lane. “As I said, there is no proof a body is in that grave, Brentworth.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  That evening, after dinner with the ladies, Brentworth took his port to the terrace outside the ballroom. He gazed down on the garden. It appeared even more neglected and wild in the twilight.

  Its condition was inexcusable. He must have ignored requests from the steward to be allowed to deal with it. He would tell Roberts to hire a gardener. And a few more servants. He might not visit this house again, but it should not go to total ruin.

  He pictured the blackened husk of a wing. It was perhaps time to see what could be done about that too. He sipped his port, marveling that his mind even permitted these considerations. A year ago, he would have found something else to think about if such notions entered his head.

  It was Davina’s doing, he supposed. Not only her scolds, which were well deserved. Even now, with her above in her chamber, her presence changed his outlook. Last night, he had woken from a dream in which the whole house burned down around him. No sooner had he opened his eyes than he saw her in his mind, and the remnants of the dream and its horrors disappeared.

  She had a rare influence on him, one he resisted acknowledging, but that was becoming harder to do. His decision to leave her with that minister in case there might be more to learn—that had been inexplicable as anything other than one friend doing what was right for another, even if it cost them something. It was the sort of thing he might do for his closest friends, and no woman had ever been one of those.

  He liked her. He admired her. He wanted her. That last impulse complicated everything. He had never wanted a woman he could not have. He never retreated from a woman he could have. Had Davina been a different kind of woman, if she were sophisticated and experienced and worldly in the ways the ladies he pursued always were, he would have proposed an affair by now, and not accepted the torture he experienced.

  He had watched her like a green boy’s first infatuation at dinner tonight, trying not to be obvious, imagining scandalous things while Miss Ingram chatted on about some lieutenant she had known decades ago. The port he held now and the crisp air would hopefully enable him to stop gritting his teeth in frustration.

  “Is there a family Bible to be found here?”

  He heard her voice behind him. His reaction was not that of a gentleman. The devil rose in him. His better side whispered, Tell her to leave at once.

  To hell with that.

  He turned to see her just outside the French doors. The low light made an ethereal cloud of her hair and put stars in her eyes. “My family Bible is not.”

  “I meant mine, and you know it.”

  He set his glass on the terrace bannister. “It should be in the library. Let us go see.”

  * * *

  Brentworth had not argued with her about whose family the Bible belonged to. He had not tried to disagree it was her own. Perhaps he was growing accustomed to the idea that she should have this estate.

  Down the gallery they walked, down the stairs to the entry hall. The long curtain that hid the scarred wing’s access forbade their turning that way, of course. Someday she would tear that down and watch those chambers rebuilt if she had the means to pay for it. Not that she would need more space for her plans. The part of the house that remained habitable would serve her purposes well enough. She had spent hours laying it all out. Here the pharmacy, there the physician’s consultation office, upstairs the beds for those too ill to send home right away. A surgery too, with a good surgeon who had studied in a hospital. She had not yet decided where that should be.

  Brentworth must have said something or made a sign, because the footman who scurried toward them to be on service suddenly pivoted and retraced his steps. Together, she and the duke entered the library.

  “It will be good to use this chamber,” she said. “The furnishi
ngs are in want of some humanity.”

  “An odd thing to say.”

  “It all feels so new in here, is what I meant. As if no one has ever sat in the chairs.” She ran her fingertips over the carving at the top of one. “It is new, isn’t it? This gothic style is in favor again.”

  “Roberts chose it. The old furnishings carried the smell of smoke and soot. Most of the house was refurnished by him.”

  “You had no say?”

  “I left it to him.” He used that tone that said he had nothing else to say on the matter.

  He went to the bookcases. “We should look for religious books. I can’t think where else a Bible would be put. These are all grouped by subject, as is typical.”

  “It could be in a desk or case.”

  “If it had been, Roberts would have put it up here when they changed the furnishings.” He moved slowly down the case, surveying the rows of books. “You might help. It is your family Bible, you claim.”

  She took position on the other end of the case and sought any religious books. After a few minutes, she found them. “Here they are.”

  Brentworth came over, and side by side, they read every binding, even those of books far too thin to be Bibles. She pulled out any that had no title on the spine. She found a Bible and snatched it out triumphantly, but on opening it discovered it was not the one she sought. No names had been inscribed in its front. No births or deaths or little notes about important events in the family history.

  “It appears it is not here,” Brentworth said while he reached high above her for the books on the final shelf. His position brought him so close to her that his side brushed against hers.

  “Well, it is somewhere in this house, unless someone disposed of it.”

  “Are you accusing me of destroying a Bible? I suppose I did that because I foresaw that someday a vexing woman would appear claiming she should have this land, and I wanted to destroy all the evidence she might find.”

  It has been an insulting thing to say, as well as a fairly stupid one. “I suppose if anyone came upon it over the years they would have put it somewhere, not destroyed it as a relic of a prior owner. As you point out, it is a Bible, not a common book.”

  “I think that is safe to say.”

  “I suppose it might have been in the chapel and burned in that fire.”

  “I would not expect it to be left there by my family, but since it is not here, that is the unfortunate conclusion.”

  They strolled to one of the divans and sat down while she pondered the alternative. “Perhaps one of your ancestors packed it away with other family items and put it in the attic. I should go up and check there.” She began to rise to do just that.

  He caught her arm and guided her back down to her seat. “It will be easier in the day, when there is light. Any search will be hard, even dangerous, in an attic with nothing but a candle.”

  “I suppose it can wait.” But she did not want to wait. Having lit upon this idea, she was impatient to see it through. She needed to find that Bible, to see if it noted that the last baron’s young son had died. She did not think it would.

  She would chat a few minutes, claim she was retiring, then get a candle and go up to see if the Bible, or anything useful, was in the attic.

  He rose and went to build up the fire. The embers caught. Low flames emerged. He stood there a moment, looking at them, his back to her. Then he turned.

  Her breath caught. She forgot about the attic. Only a female born yesterday would not know what he was thinking.

  She should take her leave now. At once. Go up to her chamber and bar the door.

  She didn’t. The way he looked mesmerized her. Hot and cool, hard and soft, all at once. Deliciously dangerous and completely focused on her. A primitive excitement spun through her.

  Nothing will happen. Not really. It won’t even be like last time. You can enjoy the flirting for a while. Enjoy this wonderful prickling, and how your blood courses quickly. He has already sworn off you, but you can enjoy his wanting you at least.

  He came to her and sat, closer. He turned toward her, his left arm along the back of the cushion, his fingers toying with the ends of her hair. “You did not tell me what the minister said.”

  “I told you. I reminded him of a stranger who came here one summer. My father, I think, although he said longer ago than that, so it could have been my grandfather. He is said to have left home a few times, for months. He might have come here.” She was speaking quickly, the words rushing out, hoping to sound normal but knowing she didn’t. That light touch on her hair made her want to purr like a cat and snuggle in for more. “Maybe he found what he needed here somewhere, something to send to the king.”

  “Wouldn’t he have done something about that grave? Disavowed it somehow?”

  She tried to puzzle that out, but she wasn’t thinking clearly right now. “Perhaps. One wonders what he could do, though,” she murmured, her gaze locked on his handsome, wonderful face. What woman could stand against that face and those eyes and not become a fool in this situation? A better woman than she, that was certain. She could barely sit still.

  “I don’t know. It is probably a question for a clear mind,” he murmured back. He placed his warm palm against her face. She wanted to move her head so it became a caress. “I should ask permission before I do this, but I am not going to.” He leaned in and kissed her.

  He did not ravish her mouth, but she almost swooned anyway. Soft, careful kisses lured her arousal to expand in sly rivulets of pleasure.

  His mouth moved to her cheek, then nuzzled at her neck. She savored every nip and breath and how her skin tingled.

  “I think Miss Ingram is a terrible chaperone,” she said as she experienced the first signs of control slipping from her.

  “I think she is a perfect chaperone.” His voice, low and quiet and close to her ear, sounded unbearably sensual.

  Perfect. Distracted. Absent. Happy to read above while her charge was seduced below. Not terrible at all. Wonderful.

  That itching desire entered her bliss. The pleasure started pushing urges into her mind. The long, sweet kisses were no longer enough. She waited impatiently for the caresses her body craved. They did not come. His restraint held.

  She couldn’t believe he was going to torture her like this. She impulsively lifted his hand from her side and placed it on her breast. His kiss paused an instant, but she sensed that an hour’s debate occurred in that moment.

  “As you wish, darling.”

  Better, then. Comforting and exciting and a wave of brief relief. He touched her breasts, finding the tips and teasing until wildness beckoned. Invasive kisses, hot now, determined and hard, bound them in heightened intimacy. Sensuality submerged her until darkness claimed her consciousness. Her essence sought more pleasure, more closeness, more everything.

  She slipped her hand under his coat so she might feel him too. He looked down at what she was doing, then managed to shrug off his frock coat without missing more than two beats in their savage dance. She fumbled at the buttons on his waistcoat while he tore off his cravat. More buttons, on his shirt, until enough skin showed for her to press her lips against the skin of his chest.

  He held her to that kiss, one hand on her head while his other worked the tapes of her dress. She frantically reached behind to help. Her body wanted to burst out of that dress.

  He pushed the sleeves down her arms, then plucked at the lacing to her stays, all the while claiming her mouth with his in ways that sent shiver after shiver down her core. It seemed forever before her stays loosened enough for him to push them down. Her breasts pressed against the lawn of her chemise, wanting more yet.

  He looked down while he slid the chemise down her arms, exposing her. The air on her breasts excited her even more. He skimmed his fingertips around one, then the other. “You are very lovely, Davina. Beautiful.”

  She looked down at that fine masculine hand barely touching her but causing such anguish and anticipatio
n. She stopped breathing.

  That light touch grazed one hard nipple. She almost rose off the divan from the sensation. Then the other. She wanted more of that, of everything. He gave her more while he kissed her again. Her desire became unbearable.

  She thought it could not get worse, but it did, when he lowered his head and used his mouth, flicking his tongue and gently nipping with his teeth, when he finally sucked until she cried out, when his caress lowered to her hip, then pushed her legs apart and pressed against her mound.

  The dress interfered again. She hated that it kept her from what she wanted. She reached down her skirt and began lifting it. He helped, skimming it higher with long caresses, until his palm found the flesh of her thigh. Higher yet, until finally that warmth rested right near the center of her need.

  He touched her there and she cried out, loud. So loud that she heard herself. The sound shattered the dark and fevered small world they had built. It seemed to echo through the entire house.

  It stopped none of her hunger, but it stopped his touch. His whole presence stilled. Afraid of what that meant and desperate to continue, she took his face in her hands and kissed him hard.

  He let her, and kissed her too, but not with the passion of before. Softer again, kinder. Careful. They were the kisses you might give before the very last one.

  He turned his head. She did too. She gritted her teeth. She heard him mutter a curse.

  Face set into hard planes of control, he smoothed down her skirt. “I am sorry. I should not—” He lifted the chemise so she was covered. “If you will turn, I will fix the rest.”

  She closed her eyes, trying to contain the chaos that plagued her. She could not believe he had stopped. She raised her hand against his offer to help with her garments and shook her head. “I will do it,” she whispered.

  One more kiss. The final one that was coming. He stood. “I am sorry. I was not myself.”

  Weren’t you? “You were when you started this.”

  “Perhaps so.” She heard him move. Walk away. She heard the door open, then close.

  She collected herself, but it took some time. Then she managed her stays and tapes and made herself at least passingly presentable. With each minute, she grew angrier.