She scoffed, crossing her arms in a gesture of bravado and ignoring how his promise sent goose bumps rushing across her skin.
“Laugh now, kitten. The next time there won’t be anyone around to save you.”
“Stop calling me that,” she hissed uselessly.
Her face burned at his gravelly whisper so close to her ear. She knew she should be worried. Even a little scared. But the only thing she could wonder was how soon he might try to catch her again.
Chapter 21
She sat with Lord Strickland beside Marcus’s bed for a good hour, listening with interest as he regaled her with stories of his boyhood with the duke, including their years together at Eton. Mackenzie left early in the conversation—no doubt he did not wish to hear of the childhood he was denied. Whatever the reason, it allowed her to actually concentrate on what the earl was saying and attempt to put the vexing Mackenzie from her mind.
When she emerged from the duke’s bedchamber much later, she glanced around uneasily, almost expecting Mackenzie to pounce on her. After his warning, could one blame her? Things felt very unfinished between them.
Fortunately, she did not cross paths with Mackenzie. She was able to locate her sister without incident.
She found Bryony in her bedchamber, changing into warmer clothes to go on a walk with Clara and Enid. She tossed clothing from her armoire with frustrated tsks, as though she always possessed an extensive wardrobe and the addition of several new ensembles was not anything novel or spectacular. It occurred to Poppy that aside of being born to great beauty her sister was perhaps meant to belong to the upper echelons of Society. She had no difficulty navigating the social waters of the aristocracy. In fact, fourteen-year-old Clara seemed a bit in awe of Bryony.
“I’ve nothing to wear!” Bryony sighed, propping a fist on her hip.
“Try the plum-colored wool,” she suggested.
Bryony seized the wool dress with undisguised glee. “We’re gathering holly and mistletoe,” she exclaimed excitedly as though they would be gathering gold bullion. It gave Poppy a pang to realize how very much her sister’s life was lacking for her to take such intense pleasure in tasks that were very ordinary for others.
“Delightful,” she murmured distractedly, trying to think how best to broach the subject of Mackenzie with her sister.
“Bryony,” she began, deciding directness the best approach. Struan was not a man to be trifled with and her sister needed to realize that. “About Mr. Mackenzie . . .”
Bryony’s cheeks colored prettily for a moment. “Spying on me, Poppy?”
“I just happened upon the two of you . . . as anyone else could do. The stables are hardly private. Not that you should be anywhere in private with that man,” she said archly. “You really must have a care. He’s not a gentleman. Once a lady’s reputation is lost, it is no easy matter to repair.”
“I’m not an idiot!” Bryony snapped. “I know about such things.”
“Do you?”
“I know how to handle myself.” She began brushing her hair, savagely pulling the bristles through the rich auburn mass.
“With the likes of Mr. Mackenzie? I fear you do not. You are quite out of your depths with him.” They both were. “He is much more . . . experienced than you, Bryony.”
“You don’t think he likes me,” she accused, propping her hands on shapely hips.
Poppy sighed. Did she think this would be a simple conversation? There was nothing easy about Bryony these days. “On the contrary, I fear he might like you too much, but you’re much too young and he’s not the sort of man to settle down and offer matrimony.”
“If you, of all people, can win over a duke, I should be able to win over Mr. Mackenzie.”
Poppy jerked at the not so veiled insult. “Bryony, I’m only concerned—”
“No, you’re not! You’re jealous!”
“Jealous!” She worked her lips but no other words would come out.
“That’s right! Your duke is on his deathbed and you don’t like that I’m the one getting all the attention from a handsome man.” Her sister snatched up her muff and marched toward the door. “And don’t think I haven’t seen the way you look at Mr. Mackenzie either.”
She gaped after Bryony, speechless. If her sister had noticed something afoot between Struan and herself, who else had noticed?
With one hand on the door latch, Bryony’s razor-sharp eyes flashed with a fine fury as she accused, “You already have the duke, must you have Mr. Mackenzie, too?”
At that charge, Poppy found her voice. “Bryony! It’s not like that!”
Shaking her head, the girl yanked the door open. Before storming out, she cast one last withering glare at Poppy. “You make me so mad! I can’t wait until I’m married and you can’t tell me what to do anymore!”
Poppy had never seen her sister look at her in such a way. It was definitely not sisterly. No, she glared at her like she was a . . . rival.
Poppy adopted a placating tone. “Bryony, you know I would never—”
“Clara is waiting for me. I need to go.” She angled her chin at a proud angle. “I’m sure I’ll forgive you later, but right now I don’t want to talk to you.”
That said, the girl flounced out of the room, slamming the door after her.
Poppy stood there, stunned, the sound of the door slamming reverberating in her ears. Never had she seen her sister in such a temper—and for what reason? Because Poppy had admonished her to behave herself with Mackenzie? Her own temper flared. The girl needed a good spanking. And Mackenzie! In her mind, he was equally to blame. If he was not . . . If he had not . . . not . . .
Been so handsome and enticing and intriguing?
She stomped her foot once, annoyed that it did not seem reasonable to blame him for merely existing and being himself.
Turning, she exited her sister’s bedchamber and hastened to her own room. She was fuming and felt like throwing something. It was probably best if she did that in her own chamber.
She marched the half dozen strides that took her to her room. Opening the door, she stepped inside. For a moment, she collapsed against the door. Closing her eyes, she expelled a deep breath, her emotions still raging hot.
Blast Bryony! And blast Mackenzie, too! She would blame him if only because it made her feel better to do so.
After several more breaths, she pushed off the door and stalked toward the small side table on the other side of the room. When she had first spotted the tray of Madeira upon her arrival, she never thought she would have use for it. She had noticed every room in the house boasted a tray of Madeira. The maid, catching her gaze straying to the tray, had explained that the duchess had a penchant for the stuff as it reminded her of her country of birth.
It wasn’t Poppy’s habit to imbibe of spirits, but right now a nip of the stuff sounded just about right. Between keeping up the charade of being affianced to the duke, coping with her sister and fending off Struan Mackenzie, it seemed in order.
Her skirts swished as she made her way across the room and poured herself a measure of the drink. She swished it and stared at it a moment before tossing it back. She sucked in a breath as it went down in a scalding wash.
“Looking for some liquid courage, Miss Fairchurch?”
She whirled with a gasp, her now empty glass thudding to the plush carpet.
Struan Mackenzie stretched out on her bed, hands laced behind his head, bold as you please, watching her with hooded eyes that promised all manner of retribution.
“What are you doing in here?
“I told you there would be a reckoning.”
She glanced to the door. “Anyone could enter my chamber. You cannot be here!”
“The duchess is having an afternoon nap. Everyone else is off holly gathering. However—” He swung his legs around, dropped his booted feet to the floor. She backed away as he rounded the bed, but he didn’t approach her. He strode a direct, unhurried line for the door. Glancing back at her, he turned the lock on her bed
chamber door. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll lock the door so no one can walk in on us.”
Panic swelled up inside her. “That doesn’t make me feel better. Not at all.”
That corner of his mouth kicked up as he advanced on her. She continued to back away, making certain that she moved in the opposite direction of that looming bed. She stopped when she reached the wall, her hands pressing, palms flat against the cool plaster.
He stopped, keeping a good space between them. It did little to comfort her. She still didn’t trust him. Especially not alone with her in here.
“You won’t quit,” she stated flatly.
“It’s not in my makeup.”
“I’ll scream,” she warned.
He chuckled. “No, you won’t.”
She felt her nostrils flare on a breath. “Why are you so intent on pursuing me?”
He paused, giving her words careful consideration. “I don’t rightly know. There’s something about you, Miss Fairchurch. Something between us. I can’t ignore it. Neither can you, if you’d be honest with yourself.” He took one step closer and brought his hand to her throat. His thumb gently swiped over her pulse. “But honesty, I realize, is elusive for you.”
Her pulse jumped from his touch. Or was it his words? She knew he was referring to her betrothal to the duke and the fact that he didn’t believe it to be true. He wouldn’t drop the matter.
“I mean it,” she threatened.
He leaned in, still holding her throat, his mouth a hairsbreadth over her own. “Do it. Scream, then.”
She opened her mouth, debating letting a scream fly free. It’d be nice just to surprise him. To prove him wrong about her. Of course, there were other ways to do that.
Perhaps it was the Madeira swirling hotly through her blood, addling her thoughts, lending her courage.
She closed that last bit of space separating them. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pressed her body against him and mashed her mouth into his. Perhaps if she shocked him, it would wipe that arrogant smugness from his face.
She succeeded in shocking him. He didn’t move for a long stretch of moments, and then he did.
His arms went around her. She squeaked as he lifted her off the floor. Her feet dangled in the air. It added to the floating sensation his lips already stirred inside her.
They kissed until there was nothing but the combined frenzy of their lips and tongues.
She brought her hands up to his face, holding him and reveling in the sensation of his strong jaw as she explored the taste of him.
Suddenly she was falling. She grabbed onto his shoulders with a soft yelp as they fell back onto the bed.
The sensation of the brocade counterpane beneath woke her. She curled her hands into his shoulders and pushed. “No, stop!”
He froze, his chest panting with sawing breaths as he looked down at her with eyes gone dark and heavy. She felt an answering pull in her belly.
“You don’t want me to stop,” he growled, his brogue thicker than usual.
She moistened her lips. She knew she should probably be afraid. She was alone with him. He was big and strong, capable of overpowering her. He could easily do that.
“I’m in love with Marcus,” she blurted.
A shutter slammed over his gaze. He sat back, lifting off her. “Of course you are. He’s rich and powerful and titled. How could I forget?”
She flinched as his hand came down suddenly toward her. His eyes flashed, clearly aware that for a moment she thought he might strike her.
“You think I would strike you?”
She shook her head. Shame coursed through her. He lowered his hand the rest of the way to her. His fingers traced her kiss-swollen lips slowly. He merely wanted to touch her face. Not strike her. Never that. It wasn’t in him to do that. Somehow she knew that much about him. The flinch had been a thoughtless instinct.
“Is lying so second nature to this mouth? I know you better than yourself.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked against the brush of his fingertips. “I’m not frightened of you. I know you wouldn’t hit me.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“I don’t understand, then.”
“Whatever you feel for the duke, it isn’t love.”
She laughed weakly. “You know so much of love?”
He ignored the question. She was perhaps glad he did not answer her. She wasn’t sure how she would feel to hear that he had loved someone else. The notion of it gave her an odd sensation in her chest. Almost as though a weight were there, pushing down. Which was ludicrous. He was close to thirty. Of course he could have loved a woman in the course of his life. She had no claim to him. On the contrary.
Instead he said, “You couldn’t kiss me the way you do and love someone else. That isn’t who you are, Poppy. You’ve more character than that. You look out for others . . . your sister, your father before you. You put yourself last.”
“So?” She had to fight the urge to squirm beneath his praise.
“So you wouldn’t hurt anyone. Least of all the man you love. You risk hurting the duke every time you’ve kissed me back. Every time you’ve let me touch you. You’re not built that way.”
She opened her mouth to deny the charge, but realized how foolish that would be. Who refused such an allegation? Everyone wanted others to believe that they were good and altruistic. She could not argue the point.
Without giving her time to respond, he climbed off her. She heard the lock click on her door as he opened it and stepped out into the hall.
He was gone.
She lay on her back, staring unseeingly at the ceiling. She brought her fingers to her puffy lips, still feeling him there . . . tasting him.
He was right. Whatever it was she felt for the duke, it wasn’t love. She couldn’t be in love with a man and crave Struan so desperately. She’d known this for a while but she hadn’t acknowledged it until Struan said the words.
Groaning, she covered her face with her hands. She was vastly tempted to grab her sister and flee back to London. If it wouldn’t raise so many eyebrows, if she couldn’t be convinced that Struan wouldn’t follow her, she would. He had proven exceptionally persistent in his pursuit of her.
Of course, you could tell him the truth. Admit who you are—or rather, who you’re not.
And then he would hate her for the lie.
Or worse. He might not be interested in her at all anymore. Perhaps he was only interested in her out of a misplaced competition with his brother.
There was no easy way out of this. Perhaps she could approach Lord Strickland tomorrow, explain how untenable the situation was becoming. She would leave out the part about falling in love with Struan Mackenzie—
She swallowed hard and shook her head against the mattress. Groaning, she covered her face with both hands. She was not falling in love with Struan Mackenzie. That would be madness. She didn’t love the man. She wasn’t that foolish. No, it was far safer falling in love with an impossible fantasy. A fantasy couldn’t come true.
A fantasy couldn’t hurt you.
Chapter 22
Struan reminded himself that there was a reason he only ever pursued women who clearly wanted his attentions. There was no confusion in those instances. None of this maddening rejection.
I’m in love with Marcus.
Even if she didn’t mean it, even if he didn’t believe her, she had said it. It was reason enough to leave her alone. He swallowed back an epithet. He should tumble the maid that changed the linens on his bed. She kept giving him inviting smiles and accidentally happening upon him while he was at his bath.
Instead of sinking between a pair of willing thighs, however, he found himself walking the corridor at the middle of the night. His feet moved, without conscious thought. Before he quite realized where he was going, he ended up in his brother’s chamber. A groom sat in the corner, nodding to sleep.
“I’ll sit with him,” he spoke, hi
s words jerking the servant awake. “Give us a moment.”
The groom nodded and hastily left the room, no doubt sensing some of his dangerous mood.
Struan sank down in the chair beside the bed, gazing dispassionately at his slumbering half brother.
After some time, he spoke. “I know you hate me.”
He waited a long moment as though he expected a response. “I suffered a great deal as a result of our father. You will never know how much.” He shrugged. Specifics didn’t matter. “He gave you everything and me nothing. Even so, I never blamed you. I never hated you or wanted anything that was yours.”
Until now.
He didn’t say the words. He simply let them hang in his mind, hovering like a great toxic cloud. Perhaps Poppy had the right of it and he needed to give her a wide berth. For the both of them.
“Funny thing. I actually admire you. I never thought I could feel like that about you, but choosing someone as special as Poppy. Hell, you’re a lot more than I ever gave you credit for.”
He released a shuddering breath and then jerked up from the chair. He stalked out of the room and found a groom waiting outside. One glance at his face and the groom scurried back into the room as though he feared Struan would level him with his wrath. He didn’t have anything to worry about. Right now the only person he was angry with was himself.
He strode down the corridor, deliberately not glancing at the door to her room. He passed it without looking. If he was determined to banish her from his mind, he needed to stop giving her so much power over him.
As though the thought of her conjured her, he stopped hard. She stood ahead of him wearing nothing more than her nightwear. Her bare feet peeked out from beneath the hem of her nightgown and robe.
She hadn’t noticed him yet. She knocked softly yet persistently at a bedchamber door. “Bryony? Please let me inside. I want to talk to you.”
There was no response that he could hear. Apparently she heard nothing either. Her profile scrunched up in frustration. “Please, Bry. I don’t want to fight with you.”
“Go away! Ruin someone else’s life and leave me alone.”
While the Duke Was Sleeping Page 18