Say No to the Duke

by James, Eloisa

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll take you to Wilmslow if we are accompanied by a chaperone.” His voice was indomitable.

  “You just tried to win a night in my bed!” she cried, frustrated. “Where were all your principles a half hour ago?”

  “You believed me?” A glinting smile spread across his face. “I rather thought you had put me in the category of a wilted vegetable, Bess.”

  “What?” She eyed him. “You know exactly what you look like, Jeremy. Don’t be absurd.”

  “You’re the one who is here with me, late at night, without a footman within call, though he should be coming with tea any moment, now I think on it.”

  “Because you are . . . you,” she said, exasperated. “Could we go to Wilmslow just for one afternoon?” True desperation was leaking into her voice but she couldn’t stop it. “We needn’t have a chaperone if we merely walked around the town.”

  “Aunt Knowe,” Jeremy said firmly.

  Betsy groaned.

  “If she accompanies us, I’ll agree. As an older woman, she can visit any place we might frequent. The attention will focus on her, rather than on you.”

  “I will ask her,” Betsy said reluctantly.

  “Then it’s as good as done.”

  “I still don’t see why we can’t go alone,” Betsy grumbled.

  “There’s this as a reason,” Jeremy said. There was something in his voice that made her head jerk up. He braced his arms on the billiard table on either side of her.

  His face was so close to hers that she could see his eyes even more clearly than before. The gray, flecked with a lighter color, made them look like granite. This close, his expression was still enigmatic.

  But not his eyes. Jeremy’s eyes burned with lust. Her own widened in surprise, but he didn’t move. He just watched her, his breath touching her face.

  Chapter Eight

  Betsy had never been kissed.

  She had made it clear to her suitors in hundreds of ways that she would not welcome any physical protestations of affection. If gentlemen cared to go on their knees, they could remain at a reasonable distance and make their case from below.

  But this was different.

  Jeremy wasn’t kissing her. He was just waiting, and all of a sudden, the world narrowed to the two of them. A flare of adventure swept through her. She had never wanted to kiss her suitors, but Jeremy?

  She leaned forward and put her lips tentatively on his.

  To her surprise, his tongue swept her lips and dipped inside.

  Jeremy tasted so good that he stole away her common sense. His tongue curled around hers and sensation streaked down the backs of her knees.

  This kiss was unsanitary, but Jeremy tasted so good. Like cherries in summer, when you can’t stop eating them until your lips and fingers are stained purple. Hot and luscious and carnal.

  Her tongue twisted around his. She hadn’t realized that eating cherries was carnal, not until this moment, when she tried to make sense of the way he tasted, better than summer fruit. Her heart was pounding with the frantic pace of a woodpecker. And she was . . .

  Loose.

  Her knees felt loose and her arms felt boneless and her mouth was open against his and she felt . . .

  This was lust, presumably.

  That thing she’d told herself that she would never, ever succumb to.

  She jerked backward.

  Thank goodness she did, because through the open door she heard approaching footsteps. “Carper . . . the tea!” she whispered.

  Jeremy moved to the side just as Carper appeared. The footman was toting a heavy silver tray laden with a steaming pot of tea.

  “Apologies from myself and Cook, Lady Boadicea,” he said, looking around for a place to set down the tea tray. “A number of guests decided they’d like a tea tray before bed, and the boiling water had run out.”

  “Our game is finished,” Jeremy said. “Lady Boadicea, would you like the tea tray brought to your chamber?”

  “No, thank you,” Betsy said, giving Carper an apologetic smile.

  “I shall be glad of a cup before bed,” Jeremy said. “Tell my man I’ll be there directly.” Carper trotted away, the sound of his footsteps fading into the castle’s silence.

  Jeremy moved back between her legs and bent his head, his lips brushing hers with leisurely pleasure.

  Words and thoughts jostled in Betsy’s head, but her body claimed the lion’s share of her attention. Somehow her arms wound around his neck. A tendon flexed under her fingertips and she was glad that billiards required she remove her gloves.

  It wouldn’t be proper to run her hands down his back.

  His hands didn’t move, clamped onto the table.

  His lips drifted over hers, his tongue dragging over her bottom lip. It felt fuller and her tongue hovered in front of her teeth, waiting for his.

  Every time his lips caressed hers, she felt a kind of greed rising up inside her for more, more of his touch, more of his taste.

  More.

  The thought made her recoil so hard that she actually reeled backward and would have fallen onto the table except his hands flashed forward and caught her.

  “No more,” Betsy said shakily as he brought her back upright.

  “No more kisses?” Jeremy cocked an eyebrow at her. She’d never realized how winglike his eyebrows were. They went up like curved blades, suiting the sharp planes of his face.

  “I don’t kiss like that,” she said, her voice rasping in an embarrassing fashion. “In fact, I don’t kiss at all.”

  Because he’d had to catch her, he was leaning over her, which was somehow even more sensual than when they were mouth to mouth.

  “That was certainly an awkward first kiss,” Jeremy said, straightening and backing away. “I’m sure that your hordes of suitors have offered you far more graceful busses.”

  She didn’t reply to that.

  A wicked little smile was playing on his lips. “I didn’t even know that I wanted a kiss,” he said, all friendly as if what happened was nothing. “But I do believe you’ve healed me, Bess.”

  “Healed you?” She felt as if her brain were drowning in a river of sweet honey. She could see why lust was addictive. An anxious voice had popped up in the back of her mind, reminding her that lust had to be addictive.

  Otherwise, her mother never would have abandoned her babies, would she? It wasn’t as if Betsy’s father was abusive, or even intrusive. The way Aunt Knowe told her, the duke had remained in the castle at the same time her mother was in London, conducting an affaire.

  Her younger sister Joan was conceived that year: born at the castle, but conceived in London.

  “Cured you of what?” she clarified.

  “Disinterest,” he said. His smile widened. “War knocked it out of me, but by God, one kiss from you . . . no wonder all those suitors are lined up to ask for your hand in marriage!”

  “I don’t suppose you’ll be joining them,” she said, a shrewish note leaking into her voice because . . . honestly? She felt shaken to the bone by that kiss. It did something to her. She had loved it.

  Jeremy was ranging about the room, grinning with the sort of cheer that she pulled over herself like a coverlet when she was in society.

  On him, it was real.

  She put a hand to her lips and they pulsed at her touch. She wanted to slide from the table and leap into his arms. Paste her lips to his and welcome whatever kiss he’d give her. The only thing stopping her was the certain knowledge that lust was irrational. Wicked.

  “I must go to bed,” she said, sliding off the edge of the table and coming to her feet. Her knees felt weak.

  Thankfully, Jeremy was gentleman enough not to make a joke or even leer at her. Kisses were nothing; she knew that from other girls. But she didn’t know anyone who’d kissed a man in the middle of the night, in a deserted room.

  She dropped into a curtsy. “Lord Jeremy.”

  “Here,” he said, visibly alarmed. “A
re you angry? Did you not wish to kiss me?”

  She met his eyes and grimaced, something like a smile. “Of course I did.”

  “Then why are you giving me such an odd look?” he asked. “That’s one of those smiles that you don’t mean, where your mouth curls up, but your eyes stay flat. Look, if you didn’t want me to kiss you, I am truly sorry. I misinterpreted.”

  “I kissed you first, remember? It was a surprising experience, that’s all.” She shook out her skirts so she didn’t have to meet his eyes. “I’ve been kissed before, as you surmised. This was one of many.”

  “I knew that. No man proposes marriage these days without at least claiming a woman’s lips first. What if you found out that she had false teeth?”

  “Shocking,” Betsy said, walking to the door. “Are you retiring as well?”

  “You know, I believe I shall,” he said, looking absurdly jolly. “I haven’t been sleeping more than a few hours a night, but at the moment I feel as if I could lie down and sleep.”

  “That’s what you meant by being ‘cured’? By a kiss, like a frog who used to be a prince?”

  “No. But I’ve learned to be thankful for small gifts. You have given me something, but I can’t elaborate because you’re a young lady.”

  She stopped.

  The castle echoed with silence around them. The sound of their feet on stone pavement had been swallowed up by the long corridors that ran before and behind them.

  “I want to know. It was my kiss, after all.”

  “You’ve given me a cockstand,” he said, tilting his head and watching her as if she were a chess problem. “The first in months.”

  “A—oh.”

  Well, that made sense. Fallen women, loose women, inspired that sort of thing in men. Her mother surely had. It made sense that Betsy inherited the ability.

  “We shall not ever do that again,” she said, meeting his eyes to make certain that he completely understood.

  “Of course not. I expect you have a quota.”

  “A what?”

  “One kiss per man? One to confound his senses, and then he is supposed to flop down on his knees and blurt out a proposal? You already know that I’m not going to do that, so I’ll take my allotted kiss and head back to London before I lose my head and propose.”

  “You may do as you wish,” Betsy said, feeling nauseated. She put a hand on her stomach to steady herself and walked faster.

  A large hand clamped on her shoulder. “Bess.”

  She pulled away. “I have to be up early in the morning.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  She kept silent until they reached the end of the corridor.

  “It wasn’t a deep metaphysical question,” Jeremy observed.

  “Why would anything be the matter with me?” She looked up at him, certain that her face was composed.

  “Damned if I know.”

  They walked up a half flight of steps. They were heading toward the family wing, in the North Tower, by a shortcut that hopefully avoided servants.

  Jeremy felt a sudden conviction that whatever Bess was feeling, he should not allow her to retire to her room without discussion. Everything wouldn’t be better in the morning, as when they had had a squabble, and then met again the next day with a silent agreement to let bygones be bygones.

  This was something else. Their kiss might have ruined the only connection he had that amused him.

  “You tell me,” he said, “and I’ll tell you.”

  “What are you talking about?” Her voice was steady. But he heard a thread of tension there. Something was wrong.

  Damn it, he shouldn’t have kissed her. But hadn’t she done the kissing? He couldn’t remember clearly, because of the burst of pure desire that went down his spine when their lips met.

  “I’ll answer your question,” he said, “the one you posed to me back in the billiard room, and then you answer mine.”

  He was appealing to her curiosity. Over the last two months he’d noticed that mysteries were anathema to this particular Wilde. She wanted to know where people were and what they were thinking.

  “There’s nothing for me to tell. I’m merely tired. And I don’t remember what it was I asked you.”

  That was untrue, or he’d eat his hat. He’d seen her save up a question and ask one of her brothers weeks later for the answer.

  “I haven’t had a cockstand in months,” he told her, conversationally. “No interest. Not in Lady Tallow or anyone else. But you, with the way you glare at me, and then bite your lower lip, you brought me back to life, or at least the part of me below my waist. You do have a delicious lower lip, Bess.”

  She shuddered visibly. He saw it.

  “All right, I told you what I meant by that comment about being healed. I did something wrong in our kiss,” he said. “You have to tell me, Bess.”

  “Nothing was wrong,” she said stonily.

  He felt a prickle of anger, so he stepped in front of her. “There were two of us in the room. We kissed, and now you’ve got a desperate look about you, as if I took you by force, or lured you into something indecent, and we both know that didn’t happen. So what in the hell is going on?”

  His stomach clenched as he saw a tear running down one of her cheeks.

  “It was just a kiss,” he said, about to reach for her and stopping himself.

  She moved to put her back against the corridor wall. He backed up so he was against the opposite wall. He tried to make his voice as gentle as possible, which didn’t come easily to him. “Did something happen to you that Ophelia or Lady Knowe should know about? Or your father?”

  Betsy frowned at him.

  What on earth was he talking about?

  Then she recoiled, her shoulders striking the stone wall behind her. “No. Thank goodness.”

  His jaw eased.

  “That was my first kiss,” she blurted out.

  “Really? It wasn’t that bad.” Jeremy’s brow furrowed. “I could do better if you give me another chance but honestly, Bess, as kisses go, it wasn’t terrible. Not too much spit, our teeth didn’t clang together, and you have very good breath. Like roses, as a matter of fact. Delightful.”

  “Yours too,” Betsy said mechanically, having been trained to return compliments. “You don’t understand.”

  “I should have given you a slug of that whisky,” he said. “Who knew my kisses were so powerful? Would you like to sit down? You’re looking white as a sheet. I think I’d better fetch Lady Knowe.”

  “No!” Betsy squeaked.

  “In that case, I suggest we have another go at it.” Jeremy gazed at her, eyes somber. He meant it. “I can’t leave you with a terrible experience of kissing. Lord knows what it would do for your future marital life.”

  Betsy pushed herself away from the wall and began walking again. “You’ve got the wrong end of the stick,” she said, over her shoulder. “I’m merely overtired. It’s been a long day, given the wedding and the ball.”

  “And our kiss,” he said, catching up. “So you would rather I believe that you were overcome by the pure bliss of kissing me than acknowledge that I did a terrible job, and put you off men for life?”

  “It was pure bliss,” Betsy said, wishing that he wasn’t so close to the truth. “Absolutely. No need for a repeat.”

  The problem was just that: It had been blissful. For a moment she had been flooded with a kind of giddy pleasure that was poison to a woman like herself. Like a future drunkard after his first glass of stout.

  “This is my bedchamber,” she said. Jeremy had terribly searching eyes. How did she ever imagine he was drunk?

  No inebriate could see straight through the smiles that had charmed polite society, knitting his brow and looking as if he planned to have a word with Aunt Knowe. Or even worse, her stepmother, Ophelia.

  She hesitated, hand on the door. “So when are we going to Wilmslow?”

  “Are we still going?” He sounded startled.

  “Of cou
rse we are.” She pushed open the door, then turned around and put into her voice every bit of command she’d learned in a lifetime of being the duke’s eldest daughter. “Surely you don’t think that one second-rate kiss would put me off a wager honestly won?”

  “Second-rate is it now? I thought it was blissful.”

  A gleam in his eye showed that he was thinking of trying again, but Betsy would never allow him to kiss her again. Or any other man.

  “I’ll leave you,” Jeremy said, apparently reading her eyes as easily as she could read his.

  “Yes, you do that,” she said. “We can discuss our plans tomorrow.”

  “Those would be the plans involving you donning a pair of breeches?” He grinned. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Hush!”

  “It’s not as if you will be able to keep your maid in the dark. You must trust her. I kissed you for one reason, Bess: to convince you of the need for a chaperone. I fancy you get the point? Because if we were alone together, and you in a pair of breeches, I’m quite likely going to think that I could persuade you to enjoy kissing.”

  Betsy ground her teeth. “I see your point,” she said woodenly. “I will ask Aunt Knowe to accompany us.”

  “Excellent. I might sleep tonight,” he said, looking surprised.

  “I knew it,” Betsy said, before she could stop herself.

  “What?”

  “I guessed how Diana had cured North’s sleeplessness.”

  He chuckled. “With kisses?”

  Betsy’s cheeks were burning. “We shared only one kiss. Imagine what she could accomplish with four or five.”

  He leaned close. “I shall imagine that, shall I?”

  “You are appalling.” She went into her bedchamber and almost closed the door, but stuck her head back out.

  He was still there, waiting for her, as if he knew that she would return. “I want to go to Wilmslow soon. Perhaps we should visit in our normal garb and find out if there is an auction we might attend.”

  “Good idea. I need to brace myself.”

  She frowned.

  “You . . . in breeches. No kissing. I might have to find a woman between now and then.” A slow smile spread over his face. “You won’t mind knowing about it, Bess, because you’ve no interest in me or my kisses.”