Nash grunted, then gestured toward his chin. “Come on, then.”
He braced himself for it, wanting her to know how it felt to connect, not just to toss her hand into empty space. She would need the experience if she was to properly defend herself. He didn’t want her to be unprepared.
Even though he had no intention of letting her go anywhere without him.
Her fist shot out, connecting with his jaw, making his head fly back as he staggered to maintain his footing.
He shook his head clear, hearing Finan howling in laughter just behind him. And her shocked face in front.
“It’s fine, I told you to. How did it feel?” he asked, rubbing the spot she’d hit with his hand.
“Powerful,” she replied. “Did it hurt? I am so sorry.”
“It’s fine.” He worked his jaw back and forth to ease the pain out. It wasn’t the worst hit he’d received—that had come from Finan, of course—but it was strong, and so he was proud of the hurt, knowing that he’d done something to protect her.
“I think you should try again,” Finan said.
“Goodness, no,” she blurted. “I didn’t expect it to be so intense.”
Which could describe this moment as well as any time he touched her. Placed his mouth on her full lips, ran his fingers down her curves.
And here he was back again, thinking about her in ways he should not possibly think about her. Although now she would be able to defend herself against anyone who might want to put their hands on her.
“Oh, I forgot to mention it. The Lees sent a note. It’s to be tomorrow at the docks.” She grinned up at him. “Although now you’ve taught me this, perhaps you don’t need to bother coming?”
He growled.
She rolled her eyes. “Fine, I’m not certain precisely what time. I will send a note later.” She bounced on her toes, an exhilarated expression on her face. “This is nearly as much fun as—” And then her eyes got wide, shifting quickly to Finan, clearly aware of what she’d nearly almost said.
He smothered a chuckle, regretting he couldn’t finish this training session with a training kiss.
“You’re going to the docks wearing that?”
Ana Maria raised an eyebrow at Nash’s startled tone.
He stood in her salon, hands behind his back, obviously pacing as he waited for her to arrive. They’d agreed he would pick her up at eleven o’clock, and it was barely forty-five minutes past ten. She was secretly delighted he was so early. Did it mean he was eagerly looking forward to being with her?
Although the same could be said of her, so they were paired in that sentiment.
“Are you an arbiter of fashion now?” she asked, reaching forward to tug on his sloppily tied cravat. “And what is wrong with what I am wearing?”
She glanced down, unable to resist smiling at her gown. It was made of spring green fabric, with little daisies embroidered all over it. The gown had no fewer than four flounces at the bottom, and the fichu she wore draped around her shoulders was a sheer green color also, giving a nod to discretion, but also revealing some of her bosom underneath.
“You’re—it’s—well, you look too good.”
The other eyebrow rose. “I look too good? Goodness, Nash, you will overwhelm me with compliments!” She bit her lip to keep from giggling at his obvious discomfiture.
“You will be with me, and I am certain you will deter anybody who attempts anything because I ‘look too good.’”
He rose up to his full height, drawing his arms from behind his back to fold them over his chest.
“You won’t intimidate me, Nash. Remember, we know each other too well.” Her eyes widened as she realized that what she said could be construed in a few ways, not all of them respectable.
“We do.” His gaze slid over her, a nearly tangible thing that made her shiver.
Reminding her that only a week or so ago he’d had his hand on her breast, caressing her nipple. That he’d spoken delightfully naughty things in her ear as he touched her.
“Stop that,” she said. “We won’t ever leave if you insist on looking at me that way.”
He stepped forward, unfolding his arms. “Maybe we shouldn’t leave.”
“Nash . . .”
“Call me by my name,” he said hoarsely. “Ignatius.”
She blinked. “Ignatius.” It was such an odd name for Nash; it sounded as though it belonged to a wizened old man who spent his days in his study.
He grimaced. “Yes, I know it’s ridiculous.”
“It’s not!” she exclaimed. “Just—just that I didn’t know your name. Ever.” She paused. “Do Sebastian and Thaddeus know?”
He shook his head slowly. “No. You’re the only one I’ve told.”
His admission made her warm inside, made her feel as though he did truly value her in his life. To share something with her he’d never told his closest friends meant something. Especially from “I don’t speak when I could grunt” Nash.
She patted his lapel, looking up into his handsome face. “Thank you for trusting me with that. Ignatius.”
He looked at her with an expression of such vulnerability, so different from his usual expression, that she had to swallow hard to keep herself from tearing up.
“So,” he said in his usual tone, “we had better leave so you don’t miss seeing the new shipment. I don’t want to be responsible if you lose out on purchasing more fabric to beat potential assaulters over the head with.”
She chuckled, giving his lapel one last caress.
“Yes, Ignatius, we should leave.”
He didn’t know what had made him tell her. Not that it was a deep secret; it was a name, for goodness’ sake. One that anybody could discover, if they cared to. But he hadn’t used it, not since his mother had left. She was the only one who’d called him by it, and after she left, he became Nash.
Until Ana Maria.
He escorted her out to his carriage, nodding to the coachman and the additional footmen he’d insisted come along.
He knew he could take care of Ana Maria himself, but he wanted extra protection just because.
Because she was a precious thing that should never get hurt.
Because he cared for her far more than he should.
Because he wanted her to feel safe and protected anytime she was with him.
Except when he was kissing her—then he wanted her to feel wild and dangerous. Like he did.
He was falling, he knew that. And yet he couldn’t seem to stop.
And it would only end in heartache.
“Are you all right?”
Her soft tone brought him out of his thoughts.
“Mm,” he replied. He turned to meet her eyes, their warm brown depths making him feel safe, oddly enough.
He was safe with her. She would respect his opinions, challenge him when he needed it, and listen to him on one of the rare occasions he spoke.
“Why do you want so much fabric?” he asked. “You’ve redecorated the salon, I can tell that much.”
She leaned back against the seat cushion, giving him an affronted look. “You don’t like how I redecorated?”
“I didn’t say that. It’s very—it’s very colorful.”
“That sounds nearly as complimentary as telling me I look too good,” she said with a chuckle.
He frowned, knowing she was being lighthearted, but also keenly aware of his inability to communicate how he felt.
“It’s very you,” he said at last. “When I think of you, Ana Maria, I think of joy. Of color. Of being happy, even when things seem to be miserable.”
“Oh!” she said in a startled tone. “That is—that is one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me. Thank you. Ignatius.”
“Mm,” he replied, completely embarrassed.
“When I think of you, I think of possibility,” she said.
He raised his eyebrows in question.
“By possibility I mean that you have so much within you, things I don’t
think you recognize yourself. Things like kindness and empathy and power.”
“I’m powerful enough,” he retorted. The many fights he’d gotten into—and won—were testament to that.
“I don’t mean power in your brute force, though that is certainly impressive.”
He shouldn’t feel proud of that compliment, but he did.
“I mean power in what you can do for people.”
“Because I’m a duke, you mean?”
She shook her head. “Not just that, although of course you are able to do so much because of your position. I mean power in who you champion. I don’t know if you realize how much you mean to Sebastian and Thaddeus. How much you mean to me.”
He wished he could vault out of the carriage so he wouldn’t succumb to all the emotion swamping him. And yet he still wanted to hear more.
“I wouldn’t have survived without Sebastian and Thaddeus,” he said in a gruff voice. “I was so hurt, and they let me just be with them, not having to talk about it.”
“Do you want to talk about it now?” she interrupted.
He took a deep breath. “Yes.” His answer was surprising even to himself.
“Tell me,” she urged.
Ana Maria’s chest tightened as she listened to Nash pouring his heart out—about his father’s violence toward his mother, toward him. About his mother’s eventual escape, her sobbing as she left her only son behind.
“Do you know where she is?” she asked. She squeezed his hand, which she’d somehow taken hold of during his recitation.
He nodded his head slowly. “I do. I didn’t dare before, but I think I should at least make sure she is safe.”
“Always the protector,” she said with a smile.
“I used to resent her, especially right after she left.”
“Of course, you were so young, you couldn’t understand.” And Ana Maria didn’t know what decision she’d make in that situation—to stay and face more brutality, but be with your only child? Or run, knowing you might never see your child again?
Her heart hurt for Nash’s mother.
“So have you contacted her yet?” She held her breath for his answer.
He shook his head. “No. I should—I think about it. I just don’t know what I would do if I discovered she was—she was unhappy, or worse.”
She turned to look at him. His face—usually set in resolution—was so vulnerable she wanted to cry.
“You should. I’ll be there no matter what you find out.”
“And what if I can’t help her?”
She gave him a disbelieving look. “You’re a duke, Nash. You can use all that power and privilege to get anything done, if you want to. Don’t you have some smart siblings lying around your house who could assist you?”
He winced. “You know about that?”
She rolled her eyes. “Of course I do. Servants talk, remember? And until six months ago, I was a servant. They all know who your employees are. It’s hardly a secret belowstairs.”
“It was the least I could do, given my father’s . . . proclivities.”
“And I admire you for it.”
He gave a slight nod, as though reluctant to accept praise. The usual Nash. “It was Robert, my secretary, who found her.” He paused. “And when he told me, I wanted to hit him. I didn’t. I didn’t even break the vase I grabbed.” He shook his head. “But it was close.”
Ana Maria gasped. “That must have been frightening,” she replied.
He opened his mouth to contradict her, then realized she was correct. It was frightening. It was a feeling he didn’t want to have anymore—that loss of control, that worry he would do something like his father.
But he hadn’t done anything, had he, even though his temper had risen? He’d put the vase back, which would not have happened before—just ask the chair he’d destroyed when his grandmother arrived.
“But I didn’t,” he continued slowly. “I’ve been thinking about what you’ve been saying. About choice. About deciding how you want to present yourself to the world.”
“So you’ll be wearing pink and silver gowns?” She accompanied her words with a soft smile.
He chuckled as he shook his head.
“Are you going to contact her?” she asked in a gentle tone.
He nodded. “I am.” Even though that terrifies me, too. But he could not continue avoiding the things that might bring him joy or pain.
“I will be there to support you.”
He reached over to take her other hand. “Thank you.”
They sat in silence, holding both of the other’s hands, until they pulled up at the docks.
“You never did say why you need so much fabric,” he said, standing beside her in the ship’s hold.
The Lees were also there, going through boxes of their shipments, pulling out bolts they thought would be of interest to Ana Maria. She liked how they worked together—neither speaking much, just working efficiently side by side. It seemed like an ideal partnership, although of course she imagined there were hiccups along the way. It couldn’t have been easy for either one of them to be married to the other, much less run a business together.
And yet here they were, clearly doing well enough to order in quantity, enough so that a curious young lady with a penchant for bright colors could come and see what they had and buy it before it went into their shop.
“I expect to be redecorating more than a few of Thaddeus’s rooms and Miss Ivy’s. It is my hope that I can consult with other ladies who want to make their homes more reflective of them. Not of their mothers, or stepmothers, or husbands.” She paused in her fabric-browsing to think more about it. “We seldom get the opportunity to express who we really are.” She gestured to her gown. “In fact, the only way we are even offered the chance is in how we dress. And even then if what we’re wearing doesn’t suit what someone might think about us, we’re disparaged for our choice.” She shrugged. “If I can help a few ladies realize their own potential, even just through the choice of their wall hangings, it will make me happy.”
“You’re a veritable fabric Joan of Arc,” he remarked.
“Don’t make light of it. That’s what people always do when ladies express an opinion.” She was surprised to find she was angry. She so seldom was.
“I didn’t mean to make light of it,” he said, sounding humble. He put his hand on top of hers, which was resting on a length of blue-green silk. “I think I made a joke because your words resonated with me, and I don’t always know what to do with my emotions.” He paused. “Which is putting it mildly.”
“Is that why you’re so determined to keep yourself distant from anyone you might care for?”
And where did this angry, honest woman come from?
He reeled back, as though her words had physically struck him. “I don’t keep myself distant.” He sounded defensive, and by his expression, she could tell he knew that, too.
This wasn’t the place for this discussion, she knew that. And yet she couldn’t seem to stop herself. “You care for people, but you present them with a wall of grunts and implacable strength. Nobody can ever be as strong as you are, or as privileged, or as alone, which is how you appear to want it. But Nash—Ignatius—nobody should be alone.” She took a deep breath, knowing that she was about to speak on something that would be entirely inappropriate. “You can’t marry that Lady Felicity.”
“Why not?” It sounded as though he were asking an honest question, not being combative. For once.
“She won’t care for you. She won’t ever care for you. She is pleasant enough, and obviously beautiful, but there is something lacking in her.”
“Like there is in me.”
He spoke as though it was decided. As though there was no hope for him.
And her heart hurt for him all over again. “I promise you,” she continued, her voice throbbing with emotion, “that you can find everything you think that is missing from yourself if you just give yourself the chance.” Give me a
chance.
“My lady,” Mrs. Lee said, walking toward them with her arms full of fabric. “I’ve just found what I consider to be the best of the lot.” She dumped them all onto a rough wooden table in front of Ana Maria, the colors a riotous jumble. “We will have to start moving the boxes out soon, so if you could—?”
“Yes, of course, I will get to work straightaway.”
“My emotions aren’t lacking,” he said through gritted teeth.
They were back in his carriage, bolts of fabric surrounding them, making them sit so closely their thighs were touching. The fabric of her skirts were tangled up with his legs, and she’d had to remove her hat since it kept hitting him in the head.
“I didn’t say that.”
“I can’t—I have them, I just can’t express them. If I do—”
“If you do—what?” she asked.
He twisted his head to look at her, his hands coming up of their own volition to cup her face. “If I do, then this happens.”
He lowered his mouth to hers, branding her with his lips, feeling forceful and powerful and yet utterly at her mercy.
She met him with just as much power and force, her hands clasping his arms, reaching around to knot themselves around his back, pulling him into her.
He groaned against her mouth, losing himself in her taste. Her tongue tangled with his, her hands unclasping from around his back to reach to his chest. She placed her fingers at his cravat, undoing the casual folds and pulling the fabric away from his neck.
He put his right hand at her waist, splaying his fingers so that they were just under her glorious, full breast.
He lowered his other hand down her leg toward the floor, grasping the fabric of her gown and bringing it up slowly, letting his fingers trail against her leg encased in soft silk stocking.
He went slowly, waiting for her to call a halt to this. But she didn’t; instead, she flattened her palm against his chest, sliding it down to his waist, then tentatively lower still.
And then her hand rested on top of his aching cock, separated only from her skin by his clothing. He wished they weren’t in a moving carriage, or he’d shuck everything and urge himself into her hand, teaching her how to stroke him.
Tall, Duke, and Dangerous Page 18