Dukes Prefer Blondes

by Loretta Chase

  Which she was.

  Yet she was a reasoning woman as well, and the reasoning woman knew Mr. Radford was right.

  At this point, Mama would have accepted, albeit not delightedly, any gentleman owning a title and some property.

  But no, Clara had to become infatuated with a man who had no title and might not get one for years—­or ever—­depending on his connections among influential men. He lived in chambers, not even a rented town house. His father had property, apparently, but no title. Worse, he’d married A Divorced Woman. Adultery and other marital woes abounded in the beau monde, but ladies quietly suffered or quietly went away without advertising their troubles in costly legal proceedings.

  As to rank: Mama had accepted Harry’s marrying Sophy Noirot, a dressmaker, but gentlemen were allowed more leeway in marriage as in everything else. As it was, Mama and Papa were ecstatic because Harry hadn’t married a ballet dancer. Too, Sophy Noirot had had a lady’s upbringing. This, combined with her devastating charm, had made Mama almost affectionate toward her.

  To expect Mama to accept Mr. Not-­Remotely-­Charming Radford was beyond the bounds of probability. And if she didn’t accept a suitor, Papa would not, unless he wanted to move to Arabia and live in a tent.

  Even Mr. Radford, for all his rhetorical skills, would not be able to argue, browbeat, or coax them to accept him.

  And perhaps, after all, Clara wasn’t a suitable wife for him. She was expensive, frivolous, and shallow. One good deed did not turn her into somebody else, and her good deed was nothing to brag about. Mr. Radford could have rescued Toby Coppy without her, and with a great deal less annoyance, then and afterward.

  Her trouble was, she wanted to be somebody she wasn’t.

  It was the same as she’d always done, wanting to be with the boys, because their lives were more interesting. Their toys were more entertaining. Their books were more intriguing. Their games were more exciting.

  Mr. Radford was more entertaining, intriguing, and exciting than any other man she’d known, and so of course she wanted him. But he was a man, not a book or a toy or a game. This man had a career he thrived on. He had a brilliant future—­unless somebody killed him—­in which she didn’t fit. Perhaps he liked and desired her. But one must live in the world, and the world hated large gaps in social positions. Had the chasm been smaller and more easily bridged, their paths would have crossed from time to time in the last thirteen years.

  She wouldn’t fit in his world and she felt certain her world wouldn’t let him in. He was too clear-­eyed and logical not to see that.

  She was the deluded one.

  Very well, then. Perhaps she was overwrought, after being ill for so long. Perhaps she hadn’t been thinking as clearly as she’d supposed.

  She’d have a good cry—­several, more likely—­and in time she’d get over this. Over him. Then she might as well marry the Duke of Malvern, for all the reasons she’d given. Why not? Grandmama Warford’s husband had been chosen for her. She’d married without love. But in time she’d made her spouse into what she wanted and had become quite fond of him.

  According to Cupid’s pointing finger, two minutes had passed.

  Clara made herself take a long, calming breath, then another. She turned away from the clock. She wished the Noirot sisters were here—­with a decanter of brandy, their remedy for all ailments, mental, emotional, and physical.

  The door flew open.

  Radford stormed back into the room. He slammed the door behind him.

  “You will not marry Bernard,” he said.

  He could not keep himself detached. He’d gone as far as the landing, but he couldn’t shut out his other self or stifle the turmoil in his mind and heart.

  He was a fool, a great fool, and he’d lose in the end, very likely. But had this been a legal matter, had this been one of the hopeless cases no one else would take on, he would have fought anyway and done what he could.

  He could not walk away without fighting.

  He was aware of shattered porcelain on the floor near the door. Yet one would never know, looking at her, that Clara was the one who’d thrown it.

  She had her screen in place. Every inch the highborn lady, she regarded him with an extremely polite lack of expression. The way a duchess might regard a drunken boor at her party, a moment before signaling for the footmen to remove him. Discreetly.

  Still, he’d received more daunting looks from juries and judges.

  “You’ll be wretched,” he said. “Bernard disgusts me, but if I believed he could make you happy, I’d wish you both well.” He would, though he’d choke to death, saying the words. “But he won’t. He’s incapable of caring about anybody but Bernard. You’ll throw yourself away on him.”

  He paused, trying to will his heart to slow down to let him breathe. And think.

  “If you must throw yourself away on somebody, Clara, then let it be me. If you must make something of somebody, make something of me.”

  Her expression changed not at all.

  “Dash it, Clara—­marry me!”

  She scowled. “Is that your idea of a proposal? I’ve never heard anything so unromantic in all my life. Every other gentleman exerts his intellect—­as much as he has of the commodity—­to compose a beautiful speech. Every other gentleman sinks to his knees to beg for the honor of my hand. Every other gentleman tells me his future happiness hinges on my saying yes. Every other gentleman speaks of how undeserving he is of such bliss. Every—­”

  “I’m not every other gentleman,” he said.

  “Hmph,” said she.

  He advanced. She didn’t retreat. He grasped her shoulders. “Marry me, drat you.”

  “You’re crushing my sleeves!”

  “To the devil with your sleeves!” he said.

  “You cannot barge in here, after—­”

  He bent his head and kissed her the way he’d wanted to do all the while he’d stood here before, talking and talking and trying to talk himself into sanity. He kissed her with weeks of wanting, weeks of anxiety, weeks of regret.

  She kissed him back, angrily but passionately, and his heart unknotted. He was right, absolutely right, in this. She was right. For him.

  She broke the kiss and drew back and glared at him. “If you think one kiss is going to sweep me off my feet—­after you rejected me in that callous manner—­”

  “I’m callous,” he said. “And obnoxious. But persistent, too, my lady. And if one kiss won’t do it—­”

  He grasped the back of her head and kissed her again, this time determined to conquer. Her mouth instantly gave way. Her mouth . . . so soft, and the taste of her, like nobody else in this world. Sweet and wild, like the nymphs and naiads and dryads of myth.

  She brought her hands up to grasp his arms, and he knew she was melting, too.

  He drew away. “Marry me, Clara.”

  Her eyes drifted open. “I’m thinking,” she said, not altogether steadily.

  “Don’t think.” He kissed her, this time with all the feeling he stored deep, deep in his heart under lock and key. But the inner vault couldn’t withstand the feel of her mouth and the taste and scent and totality of Clara. She unlocked it, and let loose emotions he’d long forgotten or hadn’t known were there.

  She thought he’d kissed her before. She’d thought those were grown-­up kisses.

  She’d been wrong. Again.

  His mouth slanted over hers, taking over and taking charge and demanding everything. It didn’t matter that she couldn’t abide being dictated to. Nothing mattered. Her brain said goodbye and her knees fainted and she wanted to say, Wait.

  He gave her no time to find herself, let alone recover. He swept her into a raging kiss like an electrical storm.

  The world went dark, and lights flashed, but it was all in feelings. Flashes of heat and brightness and s
oaring happiness.

  It was almost more than she could bear. If he hadn’t been holding her, she would have sunk to the floor in a little puddle of whatever liquefied article remained of Lady Clara Fairfax.

  But no, she was still here, upright more or less, and trying to find herself in the whirlwind of sensations. He was kissing all over her face—­her nose, her cheeks, her ears, behind her ears. His hands moved over her and her body was tingling, coming hotly awake. She grasped his arms, holding on for dear life, while the one comprehensible thought in what was left of her mind was:

  Ye gods ye gods ye gods.

  Yes, he’d kissed her before and she’d kissed him back, and learned some things, but this was beyond it. His hands were everywhere, and everywhere he touched, she vibrated like violin strings under a bow. This was what she’d imagined when he’d examined her knuckles that night. She’d wanted him to touch her in the same detailed way, everywhere. He did it now, but it was more than she’d imagined.

  He cupped her head in his hands and tilted her head back and kissed her on the lips once more. It was deep and wicked and dark—­his tongue moving inside her, knowing her, claiming her, filling her with the taste of him. It was hot, and turbulent with feelings too tumultuous to sort.

  He was kissing her and guiding her backward, and she went, like a dancer following his lead. It was like a waltz, but more heated and intimate, their bodies pressed close together, his legs pressing against hers . . . then his knee between her legs, his hand on her bottom.

  She felt the bed against her back but had no time to think because he grasped her waist and lifted her onto the bed. He wedged himself between her legs, and she gasped. This was wicked, indeed, so improper. So wonderful.

  Then he was kissing her again, and she brought her arms round his neck and gave back fervently what she received. He slid his hands up from her waist to her breasts, cupping them and squeezing, and she arched back. She couldn’t help herself . . . oh, the way it felt . . . and how she hated the layers of clothing between his hands and her body.

  He lifted her up fully onto the bed and climbed onto it. Then it was instinct, too, to inch back on her elbows, watching him advance, watching him climb over her while her heart beat harder and harder.

  She remembered the dream she’d had of him lying on top of her, and the wonderful weight and warmth and sense of safety she’d felt under his big body.

  Then her head was on the pillows, and she was half sitting, the way she’d done when she was ill. Now she was strong, though, and more alive than she’d ever felt before.

  He took out the pins from her cap and dropped them on the bedside table. Her heart raced and her breath came faster. He took off her cap and tossed it aside. He undid the ribbon at her throat. She felt his thumb at the hollow of her throat.

  He murmured, “I saw that when you were in your nightgown, and I wanted to put my tongue there.” He touched his mouth to the spot, then his tongue, and feelings streamed through her, trickling to the pit of her belly and making it ache. She squirmed, and her head fell back, and his mouth was on her throat and her neck and she thought she’d die of pleasure. It was so very, very improper.

  And yes, she thought. Yes, this is what I want. This is what I was looking for.

  Then he was straddling her, kissing her, and she was aware of his hand sliding down, dragging up her skirts and petticoats . . . his hand on her knee, his finger sliding up to the top of her stockings, then inching up.

  He lifted his head to watch her while he moved his fingers up her bare thigh . . . up and up and up.

  She gasped.

  He bent his head and slid his tongue over her parted lips.

  He kissed her. Such kisses. Long and deep and wild, like passion. Like love.

  Then, as she was falling into a beautifully dark, turbulent place, he lifted his head.

  He let out a shaky breath.

  “That’s enough of that,” he said thickly.

  Her ladyship opened her eyes and lifted a sulky blue gaze to meet his.

  “No, it isn’t,” she said.

  It was so very like the little girl’s voice Radford remembered from so long ago: I want to go in the boat.

  “Yes, it is,” he said.

  “No, it isn’t.”

  He was overheated, overaroused, and frustrated to the point of insanity. His other self hated him for stopping and loathed his moral principles. His rational self knew he was in a scrape he likely couldn’t get out of. All the same it was all he could do not to laugh at her sulky face and voice.

  “I will not debauch you in your great-­aunt’s house,” he said. “It’s a moral principle, dammit.”

  “Oh.” Her mouth slowly curved upward.

  “Right. Not until we’re married.”

  And how the devil that’s to happen is beyond me.

  He lifted himself off her. Had he been the sort of man who gave way to theatrics outside the courtroom, he would have torn his hair out.

  He shouldn’t have let it go so far.

  As though he’d had the power to stop it.

  The enchantress Calypso was nothing to Lady Clara Fairfax.

  She lay back on the pillow, her pale gold hair coming undone, her lips pink and swollen, her eyes soft with emotions he did not want to torment himself by trying to name.

  Love or desire or affection or pleasure or amusement.

  At any rate, she wasn’t hitting him or throwing anything at him.

  “Are we to marry, then?” she said.

  “Yes,” he said. “Unless you want to persist in your stupid fantasy of marrying stupid Bernard.”

  She came up onto her elbows. “I think you’ll be more entertaining. But you’re not the one who’s the duke. It’s going to be a bit tricky, isn’t it?”

  Damned well impossible. Radford, meet Mistake Number Eleven.

  “A bit,” he said.

  The big house was so quiet, away from the hubbub of London, that the noise from below, distant as it was, sounded like a rioting mob.

  Cursing himself for carelessness, Radford slid from the bed, taking Clara with him.

  “What?” she said.

  “Someone’s coming,” he said. He grabbed her cap and shoved it back onto her head. “Devil curse me, I should have thought.”

  From the stairs came footsteps, voices. Two voices, female. No, three.

  Davis. Lady Exton.

  Another, unfamiliar, rose above the others. “Calm? Who can be calm at such at time? Would you be calm, were she your daughter, and you wondering what was being kept from you? I have not slept a wink since I had your last letter. Where is she, Aunt Dora? Where is my poor child?”

  He looked at Clara. She looked at him, blue eyes wide.

  “Blast,” she said, and hastily arranged her cap, shoving in pins.

  Lady Warford was not the stealthy type.

  She entered the room in full sail, and full speech, the other women trailing after her.

  “Measles, indeed! What do you hide from me, Aunt? My Clara had measles when she was nine years old. I remember distinctly, because it was not long after she chipped her—­”

  She came to an abrupt stop when she saw Radford. Up came her eye glass, up went her chin, and she proceeded to demonstrate the fine art of looking down on a fellow more than a head taller than she.

  After surveying him from head to toe, she turned her gaze to Clara.

  “And this is the physician, I presume?” her ladyship said. “I can think of no other reason for a man to be in your bedroom.”

  “No, Mama, this is not the physician,” Clara said. “This is Mr. Radford.”

  “Radford,” Lady Warford repeated.

  “Yes, my dear,” said Lady Exton. “The Duke of Malvern’s cousin.”

  He saw Lady Warford’s gaze turn inward while she fl
ipped through the pages of her mental Book of Great Families, trying to determine where he fit in.

  He saw no reason to raise her hopes. “The legal branch of the Radfords,” he said. “The barristers, my lady.”

  She sent him one glacial glance before turning to her daughter. “And you have a lawsuit in progress, Clara?” she said coldly.

  “No, Mama,” Clara said. “Mr. Radford is the normal sort of suitor. That is to say, he has asked me to marry him, and I’ve decided to put him out of his misery.”

  The glacial expression warmed exactly one degree. “Certainly you would, Clara. You would not wish to toy with a gentleman’s affections.”

  “In his case, yes, I would, Mama. But I’ve said yes and meant it.”

  “You haven’t the least idea what you mean,” said her mother. “You have been ill. Obviously you are not fully recovered, else you’d remember you may not say yes to any gentleman without your father’s consent.” She turned to Radford. “Lord Warford has accompanied me to London. You may wish to apply to him in the usual way.”

  Well, that’s going to be a great waste of time.

  He thanked her and promised to do so, and took his leave so very politely that anybody who knew him would wonder if he was feeling quite well.

  Radford followed the usual forms. He wrote to the Marquess of Warford, requesting an appointment. This his lordship promptly granted—­because of course Clara’s parents wanted to wash their hands of the Barbarous Barrister without loss of time. Radford appeared punctually at the given time, was punctually admitted to his lordship’s study, and was punctually rejected. Exactly as he’d expected.

  The day was cold, windy, and wet, suiting his mood perfectly.

  He walked back from St. James’s, along Pall Mall and through Charing Cross . . . where he’d met her on the day that seemed a lifetime ago. He didn’t linger but strode on into the Strand as he’d done that day. On he walked, past St. Clement’s, heading to his world, the Temple and the lawyers’ hive.

  As he passed through Temple Bar, he saw a boy hawking newspapers.

  Two thoughts rose in his mind and connected.