“I have some ideas, but my plans are not completely formulated… I’ll share them with you when I’m more certain of the, as yet, unresolved details.”
“Ha! I knew it. You were a spy.” She chortled with self-satisfaction.
He laughed and lay on his side, propped on one elbow. “You have caught me out, Lady Lloyd-Smith.” He raised the bottle to his mouth and took another swig. “You are sworn to secrecy, I’m afraid.”
She scoffed. “As if I should tell a soul.”
“If you did, I would have to exact a horrible retribution.” He placed his now empty bottle on the grass and sat up, resting his forearms on his bent knees.
She rolled her eyes. “I am terrified.”
“You should be. I’m a dangerous man.” With a look of menace in his eyes, he went to all fours and began to prowl toward her. “Virtuous women run in fear from me.”
Unaccountably afraid, she tried to move backward, but her long skirts caught underneath her and effectively held her in place. She fell to her back with a shriek as with an evil leer, he loomed over her a mere handbreadth from her face. Her eyes flew wide. “What are you doing?”
“Getting the chicken. I’m hungry,” he tossed off flippantly and reached into the hamper directly beside her and pulled out the large crockery bowl that held the roast fowl. Sitting back, he opened the towel that wrapped it, disjointed a fat leg, and offered it to her.
“Oh.” Still flat on her back, she smiled weakly. “Thank you, no. I prefer white meat.”
He brandished the leg. “I’m ambivalent. I like legs just as much as breasts.” He took a large bite of the chicken and as he chewed, gave her a closed-mouth smile, decadent in its suggestive wickedness. He swallowed.
So did she.
She wondered if he would taste of rosemary herbs and butter should he kiss her. She licked her lips, suddenly hungry.
“Do you have more ale?”
She nodded silently, reached into the hamper and handed him another bottle.
“And some of the cheddar and a bit of the bread and pickles, if you would be so kind?”
She unearthed the cheese and broke off some of the crusty bread. “Will this do?”
He nodded, wrapped the cheese and pickles in bread and took a large bite. With a groan of pleasure, he closed his eyes as he chewed and, his throat working with every swallow, washed it all down with long pulls on the ale bottle.
She’d never before considered a man’s neck of particular interest. She hastily revised her opinion. Duncan’s was fascinating.
“Excellent cheese and pickle. You mentioned something about raspberry tarts?”
“Oh!” She rummaged in the basket and pulled out a parcel wrapped in parchment paper and placed it on the blanket in front of him.
“You are not eating?”
“Oh! Yes…yes, I’m eating.” With a bright smile, she quickly pulled the crockery bowl containing the chicken toward her, rummaged in the hamper and retrieved a knife, fork and a plate and cut off a portion of breast to which she added a hunk of cheese and some pickles. With dainty precision, she began to cut off bites of chicken and then cheese and lift them to her mouth. Spearing a pickle, she held it aloft and waggled it back and forth. “See. I’m eating.”
With a comical expression of astonishment, Duncan reached for more chicken. Other than a desultory comment of, “More cheddar, please,” or “Lemonade?” They ate in friendly silence as Duncan appeared to enjoy the bucolic setting, and she enjoyed Duncan. Between them, most of what she and cook had packed disappeared. In addition to admiring his surrounds, he frequently cast looks her way that suggested he’d prefer to consume her, but, he as yet, held to his customary discipline of gentlemanly behavior and did not touch her. She felt as if in imminent danger, but of what she couldn’t say. It was the strangest, most provocative, dining experience she could ever remember.
Their drive home, while congenial, was fraught with lascivious portent so intoxicating that at merely a warm gaze from him, her heart raced and her body responded as if he’d stroked her naked skin—and still to come was their private dinner.
Chapter Thirteen
When she alighted from her carriage in front of Eleanor’s townhome that evening, Duncan tripped lightly down the steps to meet her. Lust for him flooded her as it usually did upon first sight. He paused for a moment and stood in open admiration. Her satisfaction soared at the desire displayed on his handsome face. She thought it only fair he want her, too. In his elegant evening clothes, he resembled the hero she’d dreamed of marrying as a little girl, and she wanted him in all ways with an intensity that resembled obsession.
“I have always thought you a beautiful woman, but you have outdone yourself tonight.”
The empire gown of iridescent red silk gauze was of the finest weave and draped closely to her body. She wore special stays of red silk that fit underneath half her breasts and lifted them high into a gathered bodice cut so low, slight crescents of the darker pink flesh of her areolas would play peek-a-boo with Duncan all night—should he look. Rich embroidery done in gold and threaded with seed pearls adorned the bodice, the cap sleeves, and the hemline of the gown and a golden cord with gold tassels on the end banded her torso to tie just under her breasts. The stiff embroidery covering the bodice kept the gown marginally within the bounds of propriety. Beneath the transparent gown, she wore an equally delicate silk shift, also of scarlet. In the right light, the clear outline of her legs from her ankles to the vee where they joined her body could be seen through the skirts of the dress. She’d pulled her dark hair up into tousled curls bound around with bands of golden cord interwoven with ropes of seed pearls. In her ears, she wore golden filigree earrings set with rubies. Her slippers were of plain gold satin, as was her long, fringed wrap.
She would never have worn such a risqué creation to anything but a private dinner and felt extraordinarily wicked for doing so now. For the first time in their history, she’d slipped out before Mr. Greyson could see her, not wanting to confront his certain disapproval. The dress crossed the limits of what she was comfortable with, but desperate measures for desperate times. She had to find some way to overcome Duncan’s idiotic self-discipline. She’d begun to despair of ever enticing this man to her bed.
“Do you like it? You do not think it too revealing? I would not normally ask a man such a question as it would seem I begged his compliments, but as you are just a ‘friend’, I feel I might treat you as I would Eleanor or Her Grace.”
“You brazen tease,” he chided with amusement, but the admiration never left his expression.
She laughed softly and shot him a flirtatious look. “Your Grace, we have had this discussion. I’m not teasing.” She held up the skirts of the column of gossamer, scarlet gauze and turned. “So…what do you think?”
“It would be difficult to overstate the pleasure I find in looking at you in that dress. You are the goddess of beauty come down from Olympus to visit us, poor mortals.” He offered an arm and assisted her up the three outside steps and into the townhome. “I do have one question, however.” He leaned down as they crossed the threshold and murmured in her ear, “What sorcery do you work to stay in it?”
She leaned toward him and whispered back, “I don’t. I don’t work sorcery, and I hope I don’t stay in it.”
He closed his eyes as if in pain and half laughed, half-muttered something about an incorrigible bla…bla…bla. She really didn’t hear exactly what he said but heard enough to understand the male complaint behind his mumbling and satisfaction blossomed within. With a warm palm in the middle of her back, Duncan ushered her into a room she knew to be Eleanor’s library. It had been transformed for this occasion into an intimate dining venue, complete with fine china, crystal, silverware and a white Damascus tablecloth with matching white serviettes. A highly polished silver candelabrum with eight candles occupied the center of the round table surrounded by white wax gardenias that perfumed the air with their fragrant scent.
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br /> “This is beautiful, Duncan. You did this all for me?”
“Yes. Are you hungry?” He asked. “We can have a drink first if you wish.”
“I could eat a horse,” she replied. “Would it be horribly rude of me to ask that we dine as quickly as it can be brought?”
With that, Duncan set about having the dinner sent up as quickly as possible. The hours flew as all through the lobster bisque; the roast pig a la jelly with applesauce and pan-browned potatoes; baked whitefish in butter and rosemary with green beans; roast veal with celery dressing, and green peas; they chatted about ships and horses and the fare from the kitchen of gentlemen’s clubs and drank successive glasses of light Hock from Mosel, Germany, a Pinot Noir from Austria, and finally a British Port.
To her delight, while subtle, Duncan’s eyes returned again and again to her décolleté, and he had several times rearranged his position in his chair. To further provoke him, when her hands were not otherwise occupied, she had picked up one of the white gardenias and delicately stroked the mounds of her breasts. “The gardenia is one of my favorite flowers. Such a delightful smell.” She inhaled, long and deep, as if to prove her point, well aware the bodice of the gown was not up to the challenge of covering her adequately when she did so. How she resisted laughing at Duncan’s muffled groans she’d never know.
When the servants put a blancmange with sugared berries before her, she complained, “Is it your plan to gorge me on food such that I will no longer fit into my clothes?”
“You don’t fit into them now,” he muttered under his breath and then turned to her with a forced smile. “Come, bring your Port. We will sit on the sofa and let our food digest.”
Florence followed him to a wonderfully comfortable sofa whose soft, fluffy cushions nestled her in indolent pleasure. She sat back against the bolster of the arm and extended her slippered feet across the seats. She peered at him over the top of her wine goblet. “Her Grace is over the moon about her pending wedding.”
“As is Major Abernathy.” Duncan slipped an arm under her calves, raised them and sat with her legs from the knees down in his lap. “I had meant to ask you if he might join your list of investors. He would greatly benefit from additional monies now that he is to marry Maman.”
“Of course. He will be joining a list that includes my entire household from the scullery maid to my house steward, plus Lord Seville and Baron Anthony—in short, all those for whom I care the most—so you may reassure him that I will use his money most wisely. I would feel the burden of such responsibility heavily as many of my investors would be made destitute should they lose these monies, but I am confident in the success of this venture, and then… I have your surety. I cannot overstate my gratitude for such a gesture of largesse.”
He shrugged with a smile. “It required nothing from me save a signature. I have every faith you will be successful.” He slipped her shoes off and began to massage her ankles and feet with gentle pressure. “Major Abernathy and Maman have planned a small ceremony at St. James at 11:00 in the morning two weeks from today. Are you to be a bridesmaid?”
“Mmmm… no. Flower girl. I refused to be anything as matronly as a bridesmaid.” She grinned at his responding snort. Her eyelids had drifted to half-mast before she made herself resist the temptation to fade into sleep. All her plans of seduction would be for naught should she succumb. “What you are doing feels delicious. I would never allow anyone but a ‘friend’ or my husband to handle me so familiarly.” She sighed happily and closed her eyes. “It is a good thing you are my ‘friend’.”
“I would prefer to be your husband. Florence, will you marry me?”
Inwardly she bolted upright with a jubilant cry of, “Yes! Yes! Yes!” as her heart leaped in exultation and tried to pound from her body. Outwardly, she opened one languid eye and peered at him. “You are serious.”
“Utterly.”
She opened both eyes, placed her wine goblet on a near table and slowly sat upright, drawing her stocking feet from his lap. “There is an accepted form for asking a woman to marry you. It is not whilst you are fondling her lower limbs. I’ve never been proposed to, and this may be my last chance. So…” She cocked her head and regarded him steadily.
With a half-smile, he nodded and stood, holding out a hand to assist her to her feet. He took both of her hands into his and sank to one knee. He inhaled.
“Ahem.” She cleared her throat loudly and cut her eyes to her shoes accompanied by two sharp jerks of her head.
He frowned and followed the direction of her gaze. “Ah.” Duncan stood, retrieved the shoes, and slipped them back onto her feet. He then rose, elevated his chin and ran a finger around his collar to loosen his cravat and reached for the rest of his fortified wine. He tossed it back and returned to stand in front of her. “Anything else?”
She shook her head and stifled her laughter.
“So, I may continue?”
She nodded her head, smoothed her dress, squared her shoulders and her posture, and looked at him expectantly.
With a soft huff of laughter, he took her hands in his and slowly descended to one knee. “Lady Lloyd-Smith?”
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“Will you please marry me?”
“Why?” she prompted.
“Why?” He squinted at her with a look of incredulity on his face.
“Yes, you must tell me why you wish to marry me. That’s how it’s done.”
He stared at her horrified. “Because, you pestilent woman, I adore you, and my life is empty without you.”
“You will allow me to keep my independence? My perch phaeton, my whiskey and cigars, my fast horses?”
His brows wrinkled. “You smoke cigars?” He shook himself. “It’s of no matter. Of course. I don’t wish you to change in any way.”
She smiled. “Then yes. I will marry you.”
“Thank the Almighty.”
She could hardly contain the joy exploding inside her. He rose to his feet, bracketed her face between his hands and held her as he explored her lips with his. At first, his was a gentle exploration, a taunt of lips softly brushing hers again and again as if to sip from her mouth, but as the minutes passed and he didn’t desist, his lips began to firm and demand. His tongue slipped between her lips and tangled with hers, and she answered eagerly, her body glowing with arousal. She grabbed his upper arms to steady herself. When she could no longer breathe for want of him, he lifted his head, his own chest heaving and stepped back.
“I must stop now, or I will not stop at all.”
“Why stop at all?” she wailed. “Why do you torture us so? We are to be husband and wife. Who can have any large objection should we anticipate the wedding night? That is a perfectly divine sofa, and the library has a lock on the door. Her gazed fixed on that part of him tenting the falls of his breeches. “You appear very capable, and I am very willing.”
He closed his eyes and groaned, then turned and walked a few steps from her. He stood there silently, head back, hands planted on his hips. “No,” he murmured. “I promised myself I would treat you as a woman of quality should be treated.”
“Even if she doesn’t want to be!” she screeched.
His head dropped forward and shook, but he didn’t give her an answer. Neither did he turn around.
“Fine.” Her resolve became fixed. She loved him passionately. She adored him beyond all reason. She would do anything in the world for him… except let him deny her one more time. She slipped her feet from her slippers, picked them up and threw them at him, hitting him squarely between the shoulder blades.
He stiffened but did not turn around.
Her hands went to the golden cord that tied in the front of her gown and undid the knot. Straining behind her, her fingers unhooked the fastening to her bodice. It fell off her shoulders allowing her to withdraw her arms from the tiny sleeves and turn the entire dress around so that the fastenings that ran the back of the dress were readily available. She had them un
done in a trice and allowed the dress to slip to the floor, whereupon she stepped out of it. Wadding it up, she hurled it at Duncan and succeeded in draping it across one of his broad shoulders.
In a slither of scarlet silk, he pulled it off himself and held it up. “Florence,” he warned. “What are you doing?”
“I am taking my clothes off.” The laces to her stays were a little more challenging to reach, but as they were short stays, once she had them loosened, they were off in a jiffy. Her aim was a little high this time, and they landed on his head, the crimson laces dangling in his face.
He growled as he collected them and held them in the same hand that clutched her dress.
In the time it had taken him to remove her stays from his head, she had wiggled out of her shift. That, too, went the way of the others, landing on a broad shoulder.
When he reached for it, she noted his movements had become stiff, and he stood rigidly as if a war raged within him constrained by sheer will—well, either that or he was exceedingly angry.
She untied her ribbon garters and eased her silk stockings off first one leg and then the other. One gossamer stocking landed on his arm, the other on his opposite shoulder.
He was very slow to remove them. He arranged all her garments over one arm and then laid the lot of them in a chair.
“Will you please lock the library door, Your Grace? I have not a stitch of clothing on. I would hate for a servant to walk in.”
He had not looked at her once. He crossed to the paneled mahogany door and turned the key in the lock. A click could be heard as the lock engaged. With one hand braced against the door, he gazed at the floor, his frame rigid and fixed. She had done all that she knew to do. She prayed the next few minutes would not be a study in humiliation.
“I’m very angry with you, Florence.”
“Indeed?” she challenged.
“Yes,” he said mildly as he turned and prowled toward her. His eyes gorged on every bare part of her, from her feet to her face.
A Destitute Duke Page 11