What Would a Duke Do?

by Collette Cameron

  “My coachman left over two hours ago.” Pert chin jutted forward and ignoring the hand he extended to assist her onto the road, she swept past him as regally as any of Almacks’ elegant patronesses. “I cannot imagine what’s keeping Jackson.” As she stood in the middle of the road, her arms folded, she gave the slightest, befuddled shake of her head.

  A bit of moss drifted to the ground.

  Gabriella tracked the movement with her keen-eyed gaze. Her mouth pulled into a prim line before she anchored those arresting, thick-lashed eyes on him with a don’t-you-dare-laugh look. Shaking out her skirts, little bits of twigs, leaves, and dirt spilling around her feet, she searched the road again and a bit of tension left her. She relaxed her stiff shoulders and lowered her chin.

  Even rumpled, frazzled, her hem soiled, and dirt clinging to her gown, in the fading light she was a radiant jewel. A forest nymph: mysterious and untamed and utterly bewitching.

  She squatted and gingerly lifted the shredded remnant of what appeared to be a night shift or perhaps a chemise. A perplexed frowned wrinkled her brow as she spread both hands wide, staring at the destruction. “I don’t understand…this. Why would anyone do this? Be so despicable? So destructive for no reason? Such vileness is beyond me.”

  Dropping the mangled cloth, she swallowed audibly, and compassion swelled within his chest. The darling, brave girl. Were those dried tears on her face? Impossible to tell in the half-light, but a definite dirt smudge slashed across one porcelain cheek. He’d dipped his hand halfway to his coat pocket to fetch his handkerchief to wipe her face before he stopped himself. Not only didn’t he have the right, these tender sentiments toward her muddled his determination.

  Nonetheless, he admired her gumption. She was much more affected than she let on. But then, what woman wouldn’t be?

  If he took her in his arms and comforted her as he ached to do, she’d likely box his ears or punch him in the nose. Or both. She’d probably stomp his foot and elbow his ribs too. He’d not mind all that much if doing so removed the haunted look from her arresting eyes.

  Max extended a hand again, and this time, after a long, long moment’s hesitation where he was certain she meant to refuse his offer of assistance once more, she slid her fingers into his palm. He helped her stand upright. “What the devil happened, Miss Breckensole?”

  “You can see what they did for yourself, Your Grace.” She promptly withdrew her hand then wiped it on her skirt.

  He scowled. Was his touch so unwelcome? “Tell me anyway.”

  She released a fragile little laugh, spreading both hands wide once more. “Two ruffians came along. They also stole Ophelia’s birthday present and the team.” Her bravado slipped a notch, and her lower lip trembled the merest bit before she ticked that stubborn chin upward once more. “Grandpapa will be devastated.”

  Probably because the miser would have to purchase another team. Did the skinflint’s coffers creak and groan from infrequent use when he was forced to lift the lid to extract money?

  Everyone far and wide knew Harold Breckensole for an uncharitable tightwad. A man who never paid the asking price for anything and a pinchfist misanthrope who rarely gave so much as a groat to those less fortunate. He was also the unconscionable bounder who’d swindled Max’s grandfather and purchased Hartfordshire Court and the surrounding five-and-forty acres for a bloody pittance.

  He cheated and blackmailed Grandfather.

  Max shook loose his morose meanderings. This wasn’t the time, but he had a plan, and by God, old Breckensole would pay dearly for his shady dealings. Indeed, the bloody blighter would. And soon. Very soon.

  Two fingers pressed to his temple, Max studied the ruined garments and torn wrapping papers scattered about the ground. This act bespoke hatred and vengeance. “Your coachman’s been gone for upward of two hours, you say?” More than enough time to walk to Hartfordshire Court and return.

  Gabriella responded with a single, terse nod.

  She’d behaved this way since this past December. Since that Christmas house-party they’d attended as guests of the Duke and Duchess of Sutcliffe. One day, she’d been warm and welcoming, her sable-fringed hazel eyes sparkling and her kissable petal-pink lips smiling. The next morning, a warrior’s practiced scowl upon those same lovely features and thunder darkening her eyes to steely gray, she’d become brusque and cold, avoiding him as if he were covered in oozing sores.

  Which made the task he’d set himself—to woo and marry her to gain Hartfordshire Court once more—all the more difficult. He well knew Breckensole’s only heirs were the twins. Yes, Max’s man of business had done his research. He also knew Breckensole’s dirty little secret. A secret he’d most certainly wouldn’t want his granddaughters to learn.

  Worried Gabriella would think his rage was directed toward her, he lowered his eyelids against the fury he feared glinted there and unrelentingly twisted his gut.

  Of its own accord, his attention swept her shapely figure. Mayhap this incident might be used in his favor. She required rescuing, though he hadn’t a single doubt she’d deny it with her last breath. And Providence had seen to it that he came along at an opportune moment where she was hard-put to toss his chivalry back in his face.

  He rather liked playing the gallant for her.

  True, a smidgeon of remorse for what he intended to do poked its unwanted head up. But Max reconciled his guilt with the knowledge she and her sister would be well-cared for after Breckensole’s ruination.

  His ire wasn’t directed at the twins, or even the old man’s wife, for that matter. No, the sole recipient of Max’s disgust and retribution was Harold Breckensole; the man directly or indirectly responsible for the deaths of four of Max’s family members.

  His regard sank to Gabriella’s tapping toes. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot. A cadence of annoyance clearly revealing her impatience. Did she know she drummed her feet whenever aggravated? He checked a smile. She was so easy to read. He’d wager at this very moment, she skewed her mouth back and forth in a winsome fashion, something else she did whenever vexed or anxious. A fashion that made him very much want to kiss those lush lips she’d nibbled to a raspberry red in her frustration.

  “Do you think the constable will be able to find Grandpapa’s horses?” she asked. After all she’d been through, her concern was for her grandfather.

  He wouldn’t lift a finger to help Breckensole, but he would for her. “Quite possibly. The team is unusual and not easily forgotten. I can put the word out to sources I know to have them stay on alert.”

  Her expression contemplative, she continued to torture the soil with her toes.

  Given the dainty, thin-soled slippers she wore, he wasn’t at all surprised she hadn’t walked home as well. Her tramp into the forest had undoubtedly ruined the footwear though. “Most wise of you to conceal yourself in the woodlands until your man returned.”

  A surprised, discomfited look flitted across her pale features, which she concealed almost instantly. Not meeting his gaze, she cleared her throat. “Erm…yes. Exactly so.”

  Even in the faint light he didn’t miss the rosy hue sweeping across her cheeks as she became suddenly fixated on the trees’ silhouettes. Ah. His mind had stumbled upon the awkward truth, and to spare her further embarrassment, he cupped her elbow. “Come, let’s be away from here. I cannot help but feel it’s not altogether safe for us to remain.”

  She trained her gaze on the wreckage and put a slightly unsteady hand to her forehead. Was she hurt worse than she let on? Or did emotion overwhelm her?

  He squinted one eye, and for the first time noticed the ugly discoloration on her forehead. “Miss Breckensole, you are injured.”

  Bending slightly nearer, he lifted the edge of her bonnet. Intoxicating and seductive, her perfume wafted upward. Nostrils flared, he breathed in her essence: lavender and something lemony? Mayhap a hint of jasmine as well.

  The heady combination sent Max’s senses reeling, and it took all of his
restraint to keep from nuzzling the slim, ivory column of her throat were the fragrance surely lingered on her satiny skin. Annoyance pelted him. He needed to wrestle his attraction to her under control. She was a means to an end. She couldn’t be anything more.

  Before I found my grandfather’s journal, she could’ve been.

  He’d very much wished her to be.

  “You didn’t answer. Are you hurt?” He skimmed her from head to toe. She hadn’t limped as she exited the woods, and he detected no obvious abrasions.

  “Not seriously.” She tilted her head, her eyes round with uncertainty. “A slight bump on my head and sore knees. I’m far more worried about my grandfather’s reaction to all of this. Grandmama’s too. She’s not been well.”

  He’d known that before she made mention of it in the village today. Truthfully, there wasn’t much he didn’t know about the Breckensoles. He’d made it his business. Know one’s enemy, Father had drilled into him as had his father before him. And his before him.

  Head cocked, he combed his gaze over her refined features. White lines of strain bracketed her mouth and crimped the corners of her lovely eyes. Reaching into his coat pocket, he retrieved a flask. After twisting the cap off, he offered the silver casket to her.

  A delicate, tawny eyebrow lifted mockingly.

  She probably had no idea what the contents were. In general, gentle-bred young ladies didn’t go about quaffing strong spirits. Still, a bottle of the stuff was delivered to Hartfordshire Court monthly, so someone imbibed, albeit not heavily.

  “It’s whisky,” he offered by way of explanation, levering the flask up and down.

  And as Miss Gabriella Breckensole had done on almost every occasion he’d encountered her, she’d flummoxed him once again. “I am not so very ignorant, Your Grace. I know what it is.”

  A wry smile tipping her soft oh-so-kissable lips, she accepted the flask and wrapping that rosebud mouth around the opening, took a hearty swallow. Not a dainty, feminine sip. No indeed. She took a gulp worthy of any healthy young buck and didn’t cough and gasp afterward as many a gent was wont to do.

  Max could almost feel the sharp sting on his tongue and the fiery trail burning to his stomach. A craving to taste the spirit on her mouth, to tease the flavor from her tongue, slammed into him, obliterating his rationale for what he planned to do to her.

  That stunning hunger, unequal and startling in its potency, set Max back on his heels.

  Control. Yourself. He thundered silently. She’s the means to an end. Nothing more. She cannot be.

  He really had become a selfish bastard, all in the name of vengeance for a sin committed decades before he’d been born. Yes, but he’d seen the effects played out and now understood his Grandfather’s choosing to drink himself into oblivion rather than face a single day sober.

  Eyes closed, Gabriella took another swig and gave a delicate shudder. She swallowed and thrust her arm straight out. “Here. I’ve had enough, thank you.”

  “Are you quite certain?” Max couldn’t prevent the humor filtering into his voice as he topped the case before tucking it back into his pocket.

  “Yes. Quite.” A heated glower accompanied her pithy retort.

  There was the spirited vixen he’d come to expect. The one that had told him to go bugger himself. The one who lifted her nose and thrust her mutinous, dimpled chin upward whenever their gazes clashed. The one who snubbed and cut him at every opportunity.

  And yet, his captivation waned not a jot. If anything, her allure grew. Considering his animosity toward her grandfather, and hers toward Max, did that make him perverse? Or mad? Or both, mayhap?

  None of that mattered. Achieving his goal was the only thing—the only thing—that did.

  He untied his horse’s reins. “As I cannot in good conscience leave you here to await your coachman’s return, Miss Breckensole, you’ll have to ride before me on Balor.”

  Before she could object, he grasped her narrow waist, his hands almost spanning the circumference, and lifted her onto the horse’s back, both of her svelte legs dangling over the near side.

  Through his gloves, his palms burned from the intimate contact. He might’ve let his hands linger an instant longer than was completely necessary. Too bad he couldn’t encourage her to ride astride. On second thought, that was a bloody awful notion. He’d explode in his pantaloons if he had to watch those creamy thighs flex and ripple as they gripped Balor.

  Giving him a fuming glare, she clutched Balor’s mane, and before she could slip to the ground, Max leapt into the saddle behind her. Securing her firmly around her slim waist, he lowered his mouth near her ear.

  “Don’t be foolish, Gabriella. We have but the one horse, and you’re wearing slippers. I shall not leave you here to await your coachman. The miscreants who stole your team could very well return.” Not likely, but not impossible either. “As much as you dislike me, I am a gentleman, and I shall see you safely home.”

  She grunted her displeasure and jerked away, in the process bumping his already sensitized groin. He stifled a groan. It was going to prove to be one bloody uncomfortable ride.

  Bowing her head in what he could only assume was resignation, she muttered, “I haven’t given you leave to use my Christian name, and neither am I fool enough to throw myself from a horse, Your Grace.”

  “I don’t believe you a fool at all, chérie.”

  She stiffened before elbowing him hard in the stomach.

  “Oomph,” he grunted, not daring to rub the offended flesh, else she slip loose, but he took the opportunity to lurch forward and brush his lips across one dainty ear. Tit for tat, chérie.

  “I am not now, nor will I ever be your sweetheart, you buffoon,” she finished rather breathlessly.

  We shall see, sweet Gabriella. We shall see.

  A stupid grin slashed Max’s mouth upward. He’d felt the tremor running through her, recognized the subtle shudder for what it was. Desire. For all of Miss Gabriella Breckensole’s protestations of dislike for him, her young body said something much, much different. And he could, and would, use that to his advantage.

  Inordinately pleased by the discovery, with a click of his tongue and a nudge to Balor’s sides, he directed this sturdy black toward Hartfordshire Court. “Walk on.”

  Stick straight and just as inflexible, Gabriella rode before him, doing her utmost to keep her behind—any part of her body for that matter—from brushing his.

  “Miss Breckensole, you can relax against me. Upon my word, I promise to act the perfect gentleman.”

  A distinctly unladylike snort met his declaration. “And I’m the Queen of Sheba.”

  He’d much prefer to address her as Gabriella or chérie, enjoying the way the syllables rolled off his tongue, but he wouldn’t put it past her to leap to the ground just to prove her point.

  Chin tucked, he glowered at the bonnet hiding her luxurious, rich honey-brown hair threaded with golden ribbons from his appreciative gaze. He gave her waist a little prod, and she jumped, rearing her head back and smacking him solidly in the jaw.

  That would bruise, he’d be bound.

  “It’s two miles to Hartfordshire.” He nudged her once more. “Relax.”

  She acted as if she’d sooner ride bald and bare-ass-naked through Hyde Park than allow any part of her body to touch him. Her rejection shouldn’t rankle, but it did. And while Max didn’t consider himself a rapscallion per se, he wasn’t a stranger to the joys of a woman’s form or the pleasures that could be found with a willing bed partner.

  He’d also evaded his fair share of huntresses in full cry, their title-hungry mamas, directing their eager daughter’s every move as they tried to snare a duke. Tried to trap him, to be exact. There hadn’t been a ball, soiree, assembly, picnic, or rout that he hadn’t been eyed like a prize stallion by debutantes, spinsters, wallflowers, heiresses, and the occasional widow too.

  He held no illusions of marital bliss. His parents’ union had been less than idyllic.
/>   Of their own volition, his lips kicked up into a sardonic smirk.

  But Max’s grandfather had adored his grandmother. So much so that after she died, he’d moved the household to London and refused to stay at Chartworth Hall. Grandfather had been an empty shell of a man, given to too much drink, going days on end without bathing or dressing. And in the end, he took his own life, because he couldn’t bear living without his beloved wife.

  If that was love, Max could well do without the castrating emotion.

  It was his turn to snort, and Gabriella sent him a puzzled, sideways look.

  Nevertheless, her aversion to him exasperated. He was the highly sought-after Duke of Pennington. Known for his wit and jovial temperament. His vices were few: a fine cognac or whisky, the occasional cheroot, and superior horseflesh. He didn’t keep a mistress—not for the lack of offers—and he was honest and fair; judiciously so most of the time.

  And yet, the minx grudgingly riding before him couldn’t abide him. Mayhap that was why he found her so intriguing. No, if he were honest with himself, he’d found her remarkable, too remarkable, before she’d turned her icy disdain upon him. He gave a slight shake of his head, reining in his wayward musings. It mattered not.

  She would be his bride and the dowry he’d insist upon was Hartfordshire Court. Nothing else would do. He had no compunction about resorting to extreme measures. His own version of blackmail, if need be. Nothing and no one kept him from something once he’d set his mind to it.

  Her grandfather was responsible for Max’s grandmother’s and grandfather’s deaths. Even Father’s, though he conceded, that was a bit of a stretch. His father’s tendency to drink and gamble to excess, as well as his less than discriminating taste in the women he took to bed had been his downfall. He’d tried to hire a strumpet already engaged with a ship’s captain. There’d been a fight and the captain had stabbed the seventh duke in the stomach. The wound had grown putrid, the infection spread, and he’d died a horrifying death.

  Breckensole would pay.