by Eva Devon
Luckily, he wasn’t behaving quite as moronically as he had then. But still. . . He couldn’t ignore the way his heart was pounding against his ribs or the way he longed to simply just stride up towards her, take her in his arms, and wrap them both in that tartan of hers. My God, he wanted to claim her.
No reason. No thought. No explanation. He wanted to take her mouth with his and make her forget any thought she’d ever had before she set eyes upon him. It was a ridiculously primitive thing to think and one entirely outside his character.
He forced himself to draw a breath.
“I should apologize for being so forward, I suppose,” he finally said.
With every moment that passed, despite her behavior, it was becoming absolutely clear that she was completely inexperienced when it came to men. Or at least sexual interactions with men. If she was a virgin, a strange virgin, but a virgin no less, as he was now almost certain of, he was on dangerous ground.
He hadn’t pursued her strictly out of lust. Not at all. The feeling that had provoked him to follow her across the loch was indescribable. Even so, he’d quickly acknowledged to himself that he wanted to make love to her.
He didn’t make love to or ruin virgins, however. He never had and he never would. The one time there had been a virgin in his bed, it had been him. Even so, there was no way in hell that he was going to be responsible for some young woman’s awakening. Especially in a society that deemed a woman valueless once her virginity was gone if she was unmarried. It was damned unfair to women.
“Are you going to apologize then or just keep looking as if you’ve been brained?”
“No apology.”
“If you were a gentleman, you would.”
“Ah. But I’m far more than a gentleman and we special fellows hardly apologize.”
Her defiance faded a bit and a look of dismay softened her features. “Och, no. Say it isn’t so?”
“Say what isn’t so?” He frowned. The droplets of water on his body were turning frosty. “And yes, now I’m a bit cold. My clothes are further down the way on Lady—”
“Lady Cavendish’s property.”
“Yes. How did you. . . Ah. My accent, being decidedly English has given me away.”
She shook her head. “I should have known straight away you were one of them.”
“What one of them is that?”
“A Sassenach,” she said sadly. “Worse, from the timbre of your voice, a titled Sassenach.”
“Oh,” he admitted, “it gets worse than that, dear girl. Far worse.”
“It can’t possibly.”
“Oh, but it can,” he countered. There was something delicious about needling her. She clearly didn’t like the idea of having been so friendly with a titled Englishman. He knew that, in general, his sort was loathed up here, but he was determined to prove he was not like the rest of his lot.
“How?” she groaned.
“I’m a duke.”
She gasped. “And you dare talk to me like this with your wife not two miles hence?”
“Good lady, I would never do something as stupid as wed. I am a bachelor.”
“You’re not married? I thought the dukes visiting had wives!”
“Two of the dukes are married.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose that’s another blanket on the ground?”
He waggled his brows at her, unable to help himself from teasing her now that she’d gone all full of indignation. “Or would you mind sharing yours?”
“Bloody cheek!”
He gasped in horror. “Bloody language, young miss.”
“I am no’ a miss.”
“I gathered you weren’t a peasant.”
A slow, wicked smile tilted her lips as she bent and picked up the other thick, folded tartan of red, gold, and black upon the ground and tossed it at him. Clearly, she was enjoying what she was about to say.
“It’s far worse,” she lilted.
He grinned, enjoying the encounter more and more. So, he couldn’t ruin her. At least they could enjoy a lively exchange. “Shock me then. How so?”
“I’m a lady.”
“Father an earl or something?” he asked lightly as he grabbed the tartan. It was thick, dry, and huge. So huge, a man might feel he was drowning in it. What the devil was he supposed to do with it? He’d seen kilts. . . But. . .
“No,” she said, a dangerously pleased note to the word.
“Don’t say you’re married? Or do, because then I will have no foibles in divesting you of your—”
“My brother is the Duke of Blackburn.”
The Duke of Blackburn?
The teasing words died on his lips and he wrapped the tartan about his waist so fast that he felt his life depended on it. Most likely because if Blackburn suddenly spotted them, his life would depend on it. “Good day to you then.”
And without another word, he whipped around and charged along the shoreline. As fast and as far away from his own imminent ruination as his bare feet would allow him.
Chapter 2
Lady Rosamund, only sister of the Duke of Blackburn, stared at the retreating form of the audacious duke and wondered if fate was smacking her upside the head with a solution. For months she’d been lonely, discontent, and chomping at the bit to do something with her safe but monotonous life.
Anything.
Oh, she loved the Highlands. She loved her home. She loved her brother.
But the unchanging landscape had begun to wear upon her as a giant stone, slowly smoothing away any distinct edges she might have, until she’d fit within the familiar settings of everyday life.
A young lady who knew that, eventually, a season in Edinburgh would occur, would just let the duke hie off. After all, he was clearly a blackguard. But by God, he was a fascinating blackguard.
And he wasn’t the sort of blackguard to do her any real damage.
Of that, she’d known right away.
But why had he suddenly bolted when learning who she was?
“Excuse me!” she called as she clutched her tartan about her.
He didn’t turn. In fact, all massive six feet and several unclothed inches of him kept up his quick, striding pace.
She’d been the faster swimmer, but she had a feeling there wasn’t a chance she’d be able to keep up with him on land if he was determined to outpace her. But she’d been born the stubborn sort.
As she half ran along over the heather-edged terrain, she eyed him.
His dark hair, not quite black, was too long for society’s taste. It looked like a barber or manservant had never quite been able to tame it. It brushed his beautifully broad shoulders in slightly curled swathes.
Apparently, so compelled to get away from her was he, that he’d only wrapped the tartan about his waist, leaving the rest of him exposed.
“You mustn’t die of exposure!” she shouted.
Really, she wouldn’t mind entirely if he dropped the tartan altogether. Looking freely upon his magnificent person had been quite an education. It’s true, she’d told him no when he’d first declared what he’d liked to do with her. What else was she supposed to say? But it hadn’t been out of a lack of interest. It had been out of a lifetime of doing the right thing.
“Go home!” he bellowed without looking back.
“But I thought you wanted to have your way with me!”
At that, he stopped, his entire stance rigid, ensuring the musculature of his back, shoulders, arms, and covered buttocks were beautifully enhanced.
She longed to trace her fingertips along every defined bit of sinew. Maybe she’d lean forward and take a wee nibble. . .
The duke turned, his face surprisingly stony given how blithe he’d been during their entire earlier encounter.
“Lady. . . Lady. . .”
“Lady Rosamund,” she supplied, batting her lashes.
“Lady Rosamund. I did and do want to have my way with you. There is no point in denying it. But I want to live a long life as well. That w
ish supersedes my desire to—”
“Ensure I am most enthusiastic about the affair or persuade me towards such enthusiasm?”
A muscle ticked in his beautifully-shaped jaw as though his patience had suddenly abandoned him. “Yes. I’ve had the good fortune to meet your brother. He’s a good fellow and strikes me as the serious type. I’ve no wish to kill him over pistols or swords because I don’t doubt he’s the sort of fellow to call one out at dawn for having one’s way with his sister.”
Her lips twitched with amusement. He had her brother exactly. “That’s the only reason then?” she asked, amazed at her own boldness. “I assure you, my brother is quite capable of defending himself, though I should hate to see you marred by blade or lead ball.”
“While I thank you for your concern, I can assure you, that I am better than your brother in all things martial.”
“So, just fire your pistol in the air or some such thing. Isn’t that what men of honor do after all?”
His brows drew together. “Two things Lady Ros. I am not a man of honor. I’m perfectly willing to shoot a fellow in the back, you see. Further, are you begging me to bed you because this is what this conversation is beginning to sound like?”
She jerked her chin up. “Now just a moment.”
“Why else are you so determined to pursue me? Asking such things?”
“Because I think you’re interesting.”
He stared at her for a long moment then groaned. “This is terrible.”
“How so?”
“I find you interesting as well.”
“That’s so very terrible?”
“It wasn’t until I decided you were a virgin and the sister of Blackburn.”
“Is it that obvious?” she asked, genuinely curious. Did she give off some sort of signal? Did all virgins? “That I’m a. . .” She’d never said the word aloud. “Virgin?”
“Not at first, no. Your brazen nature suggested you might be a lady who was free to give herself.”
“I am free to give myself,” she countered.
He was silent for a long moment then, with pointed strides, he closed the distance between them.
It had not occurred to her just how much taller he was until this moment.
The duke positively towered over her.
She should have found his wall of a chest absolutely intimidating. She didn’t. Oh no. In fact, she wanted to reach out and embrace that wall of man. Now, she wouldn’t actually follow her wants. She wouldn’t. Would she?
“Lady Ros?”
“Rosamund will do.”
“Lady Ros,” he said, and despite the cold, he didn’t shiver.
She licked her lips. And then she wanted to kick herself. What a girlish thing to do! “Yes?” she managed.
“Are you offering yourself to me?”
Was she? By God, it did certainly sound like it. If she did, she’d be mad. Absolutely mad. And yet, she’d been sane and bored to tears. Yes, perhaps fate really had sent this man to her to stir her life up a bit. Surely there was bad blood running through her veins. Her father had been a scandal. So had a grandmother. It was the only thing accounting for her sudden audaciousness.
“If I was?” she asked, wishing she sounded half as seductive as he.
“Then my answer. . .” He leaned down slightly, lowering his head until his beautifully sensual lips lingered just over hers.
“Yes?” she breathed, her lips parting as she readied herself for his what had to be earth shattering kiss.
“Would be no.”
And then, he did it again.
The duke turned on his heel and strode off, this time as if the devil were on his heels.
Rosamund swayed towards his departed form then shook her head as if coming out of a wild dream.
If he thought that was the end of it, he was very much mistaken. For though, she had no intention of throwing her maidenhead at the man, she had every intention of getting to know him. After all, if she was going to live the life that she wanted, what better teacher than a man such as he?
Chapter 3
Rosamund found herself walking into the castle as if on a cloud of perfect air. She hadn’t felt so. . . Well. . . Optimistic in some time.
She loved her brother. Very, very much. But he was a bit of a dour fellow. Not at all like he had been when they’d been children. Still, the death of their father had changed him.
No. Not his death. His life. His very scandalous and selfish life.
Truth be told her father had been a real degenerate.
Not a merry, cheeky fellow who apparently refused to have anything to do with an acquaintance’s virgin sister. Oh no. Her father had been public in his consumption of whores, wine, and song. From what she could gather, there had been nothing romantic or glamorous about his dissipated behavior.
The dukedom had suffered.
The lands had been neglected.
Frankly, she couldn’t recall more than a handful of experiences with her alcohol-sodden father. He’d always been kind to her when he’d stumbled into the nursery, but she’d never known him beyond a few pats on her head and a rancid-breathed inquiry into her daily study of the female arts which even small daughters of dukes were required to take part in.
Her brother, Duncan, on the other hand? His experiences with their father had turned him into a rigid man with an inability to enjoy himself lest he see signs that he was falling into sin.
It hadn’t always been like that.
Once, Duncan had laughed and smiled and teased and sung songs.
She missed that brother. Some days, she longed for him, especially when she was feeling especially lonely.
But that carefree Duncan was gone.
As if materializing out of her thoughts, her brother, the duke, strode out of his office, scowling, a ream of papers in his hands, kilt swinging about his legs.
“Is aught amiss?” she asked. Duncan scowled frequently, but at present his black brows had drawn together and his face was as dark as thunder.
“I’m going to have to fire my factotum.”
Rosamund gasped. Her brother had never fired a single servant that she knew of. He’d retired several on good pensions after their father had died. But he’d never been so cruel as to sack anyone.
“What has he done?” she asked, genuinely curious as to what could make her brother act thusly.
“He’s been lying to me.”
“Sold a few birds and pocketed the money for himself, eh?” It was easy to tease her brother. And it saddened her he cared for such miserly things now. He’d been growing colder and colder, month by month, as of late.
Only, instead of nodding and grumbling, Duncan’s gaze snapped to hers. “In fact, yes. But that’s not why I’m firing him.”
“No?”
“He defamed Lady Cavendish to me. Possibly to others.”
Ah. The fabled Lady Cavendish. Her brother had been cursing about her for months. Every time Rosamund had gotten a bit out of line, so to speak, he’d trotted out Lady Cavendish’s name as if the woman were a direct line to sin, hell, and all that was misery.
From what she’d heard through the local gossips, Lady Cavendish was quite merry and the villagers liked her.
Rosamund hadn’t tried to argue with her brother. Arguing with Duncan was like trying to force a Highland Coo to move when it had no wish to go.
But from the sheer anger on her brother’s face, it was as though his factotum had committed an entirely unforgivable sin. “What did he say?” she asked. When Duncan had railed against Lady Cavendish, her terrible ways, and all English persons in general, she had allowed her mind to go wandering off. Often to London, attempting to envision what that Sodom and Gomorrah was actually like.
“He claimed her guests were poaching on my land,” Duncan said tersely.
“Oh dear. They weren’t?”
He gave a decisive shake of his head. “Worse, I believed his lies and I confronted her about it. I may have been unpleasant.
”
She bit back a laugh. Poor Duncan. “Was she outraged?”
“She was. . .” Duncan’s face softened for the briefest instant but then he let out an annoyed breath. “She was infuriated. Not like a lady at all.”
“And?”
“I have to apologize,” he said, the words clearly causing him discomfort.
“Gentlemen do, though I’ve heard dukes don’t.”
“Then you’ve heard wrong,” Duncan intoned. “A duke, above all, should apologize when in the wrong.”
“So, when are you going to her lair?”
He sighed. “As soon as I can stand facing her again.”
Rosamund laughed this time. She couldn’t help it. Her brother sounded so distraught. “Is she that terrible?”
A strange look transformed his face from his usual hardness to one of almost worshipful contemplation. “She’s. . . She’s. . .”
“What?” she prompted.
Duncan blinked, the worshipful look disappearing. “Nothing and no one for you to concern yourself over. You’re not to meet her. She’d be a terrible influence.”
“Sounds marvelous,” she quipped. “Perhaps I should visit her myself.”
He glared. “Don’t you dare, Rosamund.”
She fiddled with her tartan. “Have you met any of her other guests?”
“Just one. Strange man.”
“Oh?” She widened her eyes, determined to appear innocent. “Who?”
“The Duke of Aston.” He gave her a warning glance. “And you’re not to meet him, either.”
“But we never meet anyone,” she protested. And they didn’t. The most discourse she had was with her maid, her horse, and her dog.
“These people are not the sort we associate with.”
“But if he’s a duke, surely—”
“Rosamund. He’s a scandal with a terrible reputation, if I understand him correctly. He’s not a proper duke at all.”
“What does that mean? Like Papa?”
“Not exactly. I don’t think. . . I don’t think he’s an utter wastrel, but he’s not to be trusted and certainly not by a young lady such as yourself.”
Well, it was true that he hadn’t behaved at all like a gentleman. Nothing like one. Except there had been his educated tones and then there had been his inherent arrogance.