A Vixen For The Devilish Duke (Steamy Historical Regency Romance)

by Olivia Bennet

  She flicked her index finger, finding that sensitive place she’d discovered by accident in the bath. The sensation was too much and she bit her lip to keep from crying out.

  Dorothea canted her hips, breath getting ragged, her fingers stroking, rubbing, caressing in ever-smaller circles. She kept the rose tightly clutched in her other hand, even as the thorns pricked her fingers. There was no pain, only pleasure. Something built inside of her, pulsing along her body as she stoked the flames to an inferno.

  In the heat of wanton desire, she pictured the Duke’s face between her thighs, his emerald eyes scrutinizing her every reaction as he kissed her. The very thought was enough to consume her. Dorothea’s body shuddered.

  “Dear heavens,” she cried out, the rose crushed in her palm. Her mind whited out, conflagrations eating along her body and consuming everything, leaving scorched earth in its wake and Dorothea, floating and exhausted.

  She came to herself even more determined to win the Duke’s heart.

  Whatever it takes.

  * * *

  To say that Harry had a headache would imply that he had endured even a minute following his mother’s death without pain. No, the location might vary but the pain was the same. No amount of brandy-laced tisanes helped. Michel had gone so far as to summon the physician, who had instructed Mrs. Belvedere to make him some willow bark tea every morning and some valerian tea every night.

  Harry thanked him and pretended to his staff that the remedies were working. Nothing did, however, and he was hard put to interact with anyone in a civilized manner. He thanked the Lord for confinement. He could blame that for not going out.

  Even Miss Raby, who was the only person capable of bringing him out of his funk, was no bulwark against the pain. She had gone off with Lady Harriet and he missed her terribly. She had taken to visiting him at his house. They would sit in his garden, not saying much, while Lady Harriet hovered close enough for propriety while still giving them a modicum of privacy.

  His mother had loved the gardens.

  He took a deep breath, telling himself to pull himself together.

  People lose their mothers every day. It is no reason to lose one’s mind.

  He admonished the face in the looking glass. But the eyes that stared back had lost the spark of life that enabled him to care.

  “It will get better.”

  He looked up in surprise to see Michel at his doorway, a tray in his hand. “I brought you your tea.”

  “Ah, that is kind of you. Thank you.”

  Michel placed the cup on his dressing table and then commenced fussing with Harry’s clothes. The Duke let him straighten and tighten to his heart’s content for he knew it was the only way to mitigate some of Michel’s worry. He felt oddly grateful for his valet. Not many households had retained staff for as long a time as he had been with Michel and Mrs. Belvedere. It was truly a gift to have people around who cared whether he ate or slept.

  God knows I cannot summon the energy to care on my own.

  “Will Miss Raby be joining you today, Your Grace?” Michel asked, just as if he could read Harry’s mind.

  “I don’t believe so. She has gone to London, if I am not mistaken.”

  “To London? Whatever for?”

  “Well, as you know, they are awaiting letters from her parents to confirm the possibility of her being the daughter of the Earl of Cornhill. She decided to visit her kin in London and see if he might have heard something.”

  “What if the parents never respond? Surely there must be some other way. With the resemblance, the ‘death’ of the other twin…there are too many coincidences.”

  “Indeed.”

  They stayed quiet for a time, Michel trimming Harry’s sideburns while he sipped at his tea.

  “Will you be taking the waters, Your Grace?”

  “Taking the waters? I do not recall having such plans.”

  “They might be helpful with your pain. You remember we discussed it?”

  Harry could not in fact, remember. But he nodded anyway. “I do not think I can afford the time. I have already taken an unconscionable time away from my businesses.”

  “I don’t know, Your Grace. Your man of business is very capable. I feel he can manage without you for a while.”

  Harry quirked an eyebrow. “Are you sending me away, Michel?”

  “No, Your Grace, of course not. I simply feel you might benefit from the time away.”

  “Perhaps. I shall think on it.”

  Michel nodded. “That’s all I ask, Your Grace.”

  “As for now, I think I have things to do.” Harry stood up, putting his cup on the dresser.

  “But what about breakfast, Your Grace?”

  “I shall have something at the club. But thank you for your concern, Michel.” He met the valet’s eyes in the mirror, “It means a lot.”

  Michel simply nodded, his face solemn. “We all miss Her Grace.”

  Harry nodded swiftly and left the room. His horse was waiting by the time he exited the house and he climbed on, making his way at a fast clip down the lane. He had no fixed destination in mind, he simply meant to give the horse its head and see where it would end up.

  When he looked up again, he was in the small meadow on the other side of the lake which bordered his land. He was unsurprised that Rufus had made his way here. The grass was lush and plentiful and the area was peaceful. He alighted from the horse and hobbled him before finding a rock to rest on. He was simply staring at the tiny ripples in the lake, letting Rufus graze as he would when he looked up and saw two approaching figures.

  His heart leapt for a minute when he caught sight of the straw-colored hair and familiar face. But then his shoulders slumped again when he realized that it was Lady Dorothea, and not Miss Raby who approached him with such determination.

  For a minute, he entertained the thought of just getting on Rufus and taking off but he could not be so rude. If he meant to marry Miss Raby one day, he needed to cultivate a relationship with her entire family, including Lady Dorothea. And he had made up his mind. He would be making an offer.

  He got to his feet as she approached. “Lady Dorothea…this is a surprise.”

  She smiled. “Yes, I was just returning from my morning exercise when I caught a glimpse of you riding hell for leather. I knew you would end up here because there’s really nowhere else for you to go.”

  “What astute sleuthing.” Harry said drily.

  She smiled demurely, “Thank you. May I join you?” She indicated the rock he’d been sitting on.

  He stared at it as he had forgotten it was there. “I’m not sure that’s appropriate.”

  “Oh nonsense. Sarah is right here.” She stepped forward and sat down, looking expectantly up at him. “Won’t you sit?”

  Chapter 19

  Throwing a Kerchief

  “How do you make someone fall in love?” Dorothea asked.

  It was late summer, autumn now more than a distant dream. The beginning of the day was still drowsy with mist and the air shimmered with the morning dew despite the hour. Cicadas whirred in the trees, their music lending the situation a sense of unreality. Swallowtail butterflies—not as bright or colorful as peacocks—dipped and wove between the stalks of the tall grass. A mayfly hovered, its movements erratic, its long tails quivering. The sky was lightening with the rising sun, a wash of pinks and oranges tinting the deep, endless blue.

  His Grace drew his fingers through the air, following their antics and captivating her eye with the grace of his hands. If Dorothea concentrated on the tips of those long, pale fingers, she thought she could see magic. There was a glimmer of light, a sheen like water over a pebble. She watched and forgot she had asked a question.

  His Grace didn’t forget. “Do you have someone in mind?”

  Dorothea started, a blush spread across her face, as hot as the aftermath of sunburn. “No. Of course not! What a question, Your Grace! I'm just curious, that's all.”

  “Ah. C
uriosity.” His Grace brought his spell-casting to an abrupt halt and dropped his hand into his lap. He reared back, surveying her with narrowed eyes. He didn’t say another word but Dorothea could feel his judgment of her. She cast around frantically for something to say, again wondering why he could not look at her the same way he watched that Adelia.

  She reached into her pocket and retrieved a fan, touching it to her lips. The paper was speckled like a robin’s egg. Dorothea studied the construction of the fan, hoping to draw the Duke’s gaze to the delicacy of her grasp, the neat ovals of her fingernails, and the soft curve of her lips. The Duke smiled and it made Dorothea's stomach flip.

  She cleared her throat. “Well? How is it done, then? Do you know?”

  “With great delicacy.” His Grace spread his hands on his knees, his gaze fixed on the distance and not, unfortunately, on her hands or her lips or anywhere on her person.

  “You cannot make someone fall in love if they're not ready to fall in love. You cannot force someone to do anything against their will. To do so would be cruel and dangerous. Worse, such an act will be remembered and will likely backfire upon you threefold to redress the balance of your actions.”

  “Oh? Do you believe that? That there is a balance some unknowable entity keeps track of?”

  “I do. For I have seen it many a time. I am surprised that you do not. Have I not seen you sitting at the front row in Sunday service, very attentive to the parson?”

  His Grace moved a little, turning slightly to face her. He lifted a hand, briefly touching his rounded velvet hat and the few strands of sweat-dampened hair that curled free. He traced over his cheek, his expression distant as if lost in thought, until with a soft sigh he ran his fingers around his green silk cravat, contrasting beautifully with his white riding shirt.

  Dorothea followed the path of those fingers. She longed for permission to touch, to press kisses to His Grace's hair, his face, his neck. Drawing in a breath, she exhaled her yearning, a shiver running through her. His Grace seemed oblivious to her suffering, and it was this that made Dorothea want him all the more.

  She stared, lips parted, mouth dry, as His Grace pulled the green silk away from his throat. It was a simple gesture, the action of a man too hot beneath his layered clothes. It was a harmless gesture, meaningless—and yet to Dorothea, it carried a sensual charge she was helpless to resist. She almost whimpered as His Grace stretched and purred, tilting his head from side to side. His throat was pale, paler than a woman's, but without any feminine vulnerability. She supposed it was because of all the hours he spent huddled at his mother’s bedside. She was relieved that at least the old bag was gone now. He could perhaps begin to devote his attention to the rest of the world, and more specifically, herself.

  Dorothea wished she could place her lips against the side of His Grace's neck and feel the insistent flutter of his pulse. She wished she could taste the fine-dewed sweat from His Grace's nape, where a few tendrils of hair had escaped his queue.

  She wished she could kiss down the smooth column of His Grace's throat and lick at the notch between his collarbones. She wanted all this, wanted to make His Grace sigh and flush with pleasure. She wanted to be spread out beneath him, but she knew that was impossible unless he asked for her hand. If only she could be sure of him, the way she was sure of most things in her life—that her parents loved her dearly, that she was a diamond of the first water, that she loathed her so-called sister. But His Grace was different. His Grace seemed resistant to her charms and none had, as yet, worked on him.

  Dorothea forced her gaze away. She studied a yellowed stem of grass and felt her heartbeat steady itself as her resolve strengthened. She wet her lips before she spoke. “It is said that a single glance from a fox is enough to make a man lose his mind.” She paused, weighing her words. “They say if a man should gaze into a fox's eyes, he will fall in love with it, immediately and without question.”

  Another pause, longer this time. “Your Grace, tell me, what do you need to make someone love you?”

  The words hung between them. Slowly, the Duke turned and looked at her, intense and unwavering. “Are you in love with me, Lady Dorothea?”

  Dorothea dry-swallowed. Her mind went blank. She groped for a witty reply, knowing that whatever she said, His Grace would likely mock her.

  Still waiting for an answer, the Duke tilted his head again. His smile turned sad. “Ah, so that's it. The curse of the fox.”

  “No. You don't understand. I want you to fall in love with me,” Dorothea blurted. She walked across the grass that separated them and took hold of the Duke’s hand, feeling the slide of his skin against hers, feeling the warmth of the Duke’s body beneath her fingers. “It should be enough that I love you, but I don't want to be just another conquest. I want to be special. I want you to love me, too. How do I make you fall in love with me, Your Grace?”

  The Duke gazed down at her, eyes unreadable. “You can't make me do anything.”

  “But…” Dorothea struggled to find an argument that would convince His Grace of her sincerity, of her need. But how could she think clearly when the gentleman she loved was before her, smiling with such gentle amusement?

  Despair gripped her. Dorothea tried again. “But...”

  His Grace's smile warmed, became a soft laugh. He remarked, “You can't make me do anything I don't want already.”

  Dorothea stared. “I beg your pardon?”

  His Grace shifted backward slightly, catching the sleeves of his shirt against Dorothea’s fingers. “Explain what you mean!” Dorothea demanded desperately.

  His Grace laughed as he moved away from her and sat down on a boulder, his expression sparking a challenge. “Really, My Lady. There was no mystery to falling in love. It's the seduction that requires effort.”

  “What do you mean by that? Be clear, please.”

  The Duke sighed. “I am already in love with somebody, My Lady. And it’s not you. Please leave me in peace.”

  Dorothea stared, unfortunately quite able to guess who he meant. “She and I are identical. How do you know it’s not me you really love?”

  He turned his head and looked at her, his gaze incredulous. “You might have her face, but you do not possess her heart, her spirit…her goodness. You cannot hold a candle to her.”

  Dorothea stared at him, bosom heaving. And the very worst part of this horrible morning was that she knew he was not trying to be cruel.

  * * *

  Rose Harrington was reading through old correspondence, namely the letters she had written her late mother after the birth of her children.

  Dear Mother,

  My heart is broken.

  While I am thankful beyond belief for the blessing of my dear little Dorothea, I cannot help but long for her twin who did not survive. I know that she is in heaven—a little angel watching over us. I find myself talking to her sometimes, telling her about her sister.

  I tell her about Dorothea’s chubby little toes and how much their father loves to wiggle them in order to make the baby laugh. I tell her of the birthmark on her hip, shaped like sailing ship, and I wonder if she had one too. I did not even get to look her over, Mother...

  Rose gasped, looking up from the letter, her eyes darting hither and thither, unable to settle on anything. She leaped forward and grabbed the little bell, ringing it frantically.

  A footman knocked on the door of her sitting room and stepped in. “Fetch Mrs. Andrews to me at once!”

  The footman bowed, and left. Rose got to her feet and began to pace, as she wrung her hands.

  “Yes, Milady? You called?”

  She wheeled around, eyes bugging out of her head as she stared at Mrs. Andrews. She strode toward her, fisting her hand in Mrs. Andrew’s apron. “I need you to think back, please. My second child, the one who did not make it, did she have a birthmark?”

  Mrs. Andrews opened her mouth but nothing came out. Her eyes were darting from side to side as if she was thinking hard.

&n
bsp; “You have to remember!” Rose cried.

  “I-I-I don’t know, ma’am. Tis the midwife that saw her.”

  Rose flung her away, turning aside in frustration. “And where is she? Where did the midwife go?”

  “I-I-I don’t know.”

  Mrs. Andrews sounded a little scared, which made Rose feel regretful. Her intention had not been to scare the woman. Just to jog her memory. She swung around, strode past Mrs. Andrews, and went to her chamber.