by Maya Rodale
“I wish. A duke can dream.”
She laughed, and he forced a laugh, and everything was right and proper, and then what she said next forced the air right from his lungs.
“So tell me, Your Grace, who was that charming woman you were just now waltzing with?” Lady Jemma batted her eyelashes like a coquette, but there was nothing coquettish about her question. There was something steely underneath the words. “I did not recognize her.”
In other words, Lady Jemma had just declared Meredith a nobody.
“I was waltzing with Miss Green. She is the duchess’s longtime companion.”
“Ah, how democratic of you.” Here she gave a little laugh as if to say, oh, you silly Americans! James felt himself bristle. “If she weren’t a mere companion, one might think she’s a rival for your hand.”
Now James’s heart started to pound in a nervous way. He did not care for the direction of this conversation. He didn’t want to discuss Meredith with her. One was love, one was duty.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he replied, warning her off the subject with his voice.
“A man of your station will marry a woman of a similar station. Dukes don’t marry companions or governesses or scullery maids, no matter what the novels say. ’Tis the way of the world, I’m afraid. At least, it is the way of the haute ton.”
James opened his mouth to offer some sort of protest or lightly dismissive comment. But all he could think was: How do you know? Why do you say this? Is it that obvious? But before he could find his voice, Lady Jemma was off on another subject altogether.
“But never mind all that. You’ll marry a proper woman, as you are expected to do. Are you familiar with the horses of Arabia? I have this mad scheme to travel there and get one. I’d like to breed them with some of the stock in my stables now.”
James blinked, trying to catch up. Horses. Yes. A vastly preferable subject to discuss than what may or may not exist between him and Miss Green.
“I should like to hear more about that,” he said, knowing that he could relax and collect himself while she chattered away.
She told him more. He had to agree—it was a mad scheme to travel all the way to Arabia for a horse, no matter what qualities the animal might possess. He wondered if she intended to do this before or after marriage. It would make for one hell of a honeymoon . . .
And then, because it was the done thing, he asked her to dance.
And then, because it was the done thing, she accepted.
As he whirled her around the ballroom, he caught a glimpse of the duchess smiling approvingly. He saw Lady Winston smiling in the way that struck fear in the hearts of unmarried men. He saw so many of the guests watching and discussing the mere fact that he was waltzing with Lady Jemma—again, after dancing with her at so many other soirees.
He noticed all this because he was not exactly riveted by the woman in his arms.
“Of course he’ll marry Lady Jemma. He hasn’t shown an interest in any other woman—except the companion and he would never wed her. The duchess wouldn’t allow it!”
After heaven in his arms, Meredith fell back to earth. It wasn’t a long, slow tumble, either, but a hard crash. One moment they had been waltzing, and she felt it again—that connection so strong and potent that she considered throwing caution to the wind. Pick me! Kiss me! Love me!
But then she’d barely returned to the side of the ballroom when she turned around to see him conversing with Lady Jemma, her eminently suitable horse-mad rival. Meredith stood in the shadows, off to the side and out of the way, and watched.
James didn’t hold her as close, nor did he look deeply into her eyes. It was plain to Meredith that James didn’t care for her very much, but that only made her feel worse. She couldn’t imagine giving up their passion for the sake of a polite waltz, or a mutual interest in horses. If it were love, she would understand.
From her place on the sidelines, Meredith was able to hear as conversations all around her hummed and buzzed along the same theme: what a good match they were, what the odds were in the betting book at White’s that he’d propose within a fortnight, what their stables would be like, how he could do worse. No one thought to censor their tongues near her, for what did the thoughts and feelings of the duchess’s companion matter? Why, they probably didn’t even notice her at all. Not even with her beautiful gown and a diamond brooch that belonged to the duchess. Meredith was still invisible.
When she could wrench her gaze away, Meredith noted more than a few smug, approving smiles. The duchess and Lady Winston, especially, were particularly pleased by the sight of James and Lady Jemma whirling around the ballroom.
Meredith was quite certain that when she had danced with the duke tonight, the sentiments were vastly different. She’d seen the skeptical expressions and overheard the questions. She knew what they would say—did say—Why is he dancing with her twice? Just who does she think she is?
The duchess was not pleased. No one shared in Meredith’s joy. And that was only for the grave sin of a second waltz. Imagine what would happen if, if, IF they were to marry!?
The stares. The whispers. The questions. The skepticism. The condemnation.
Could this intangible something between them withstand all that? Could their love—or whatever it was—withstand the guilt of wrecking his sisters’ prospects and crushing the duchess’s dearest wish for the dukedom? Could James live with himself after choosing love over duty?
Could she?
She feared not.
The hour was approaching midnight. Meredith had enjoyed her fairy-tale moment with the handsome, charming duke. Now it was time to return to her bedchamber and turn back into a pumpkin. It was best to get out while she still could.
She started making her way out of the ballroom when she heard someone—James—calling after her. He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. Hadn’t they given everyone enough to discuss this evening? Hadn’t they already caused enough gossip? She rather thought yes. Best to get out before permanent damage was done to either of their prospects.
“Meredith, wait,” he called out after her. “Where are you going?”
She paused.
Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.
But then she gave in and turned around.
“I’m tired, James. I think I’ll retire for the evening.”
He smiled. “You can’t be tired. It is not yet midnight. The night is young.”
“But I am tired, James. I am tired of standing on the sidelines of the ballroom . . . of life. I am tired of watching life happen to other people while I stay in the shadows. I am tired of feeling like I don’t quite belong—not here in the ballroom with the ton, nor downstairs with the servants. When I am tired like this I just need to be alone.”
“Dance with me.” He held out his hand. She wanted, badly, to take it. While dancing with someone twice in one evening was scandalous enough, a third dance would be ruinous.
“We should not.”
“Dance with me.” He waited, his hand still extended. All she had to do was place her hand in his. A woman must always accept a man’s invitation to dance.
“If we dance for a third time in one evening, people will talk and they will not be kind.”
“I don’t care. Dance with me.”
She was aware of people watching them. They were watching her, mere companion, have the nerve to put up a fuss about dancing with a duke. The whispers were already starting.
She knew that she had more to lose than he did, if she were to accept. That was the way of the world—the women always paid the consequences. If she were going to ruin her prospects, it would have to be for more than just a dance.
“Your Grace, I must refuse.”
Meredith turned and quit the ballroom.
James followed. He should not have followed.
“You should not be following me,” Meredith said in a low voice. “We should not be alone together.”
“But I can’t
help myself, can you?”
“I’m trying to, thank you very much. I am trying so hard, but you aren’t making it easy. So I just have to keep trying harder.”
“Why, Meredith, why?”
“You woo me. And then you tell me we can never be together. Then you say that I tempt you. When I’m not trying to. And now you insist on a third waltz, at midnight, like a bloody fairy tale.”
James reached out for her, grasping her hand. Meredith tugged it away and he relinquished his grasp. But he kept his hold on her with words.
“I don’t want to woo you,” he said in a low voice, right in her ear. “I don’t want to be tempted by you. I don’t want to think about marrying you, and I don’t want to agonize over what it would cost us both to be wed. I don’t want to want you, Meredith.”
There was no need for him to say the rest for her to hear what he left unspoken: But I do.
This should have made her heart sing. This should have made her feel like a fairy princess with the prince. Just. Within. Reach. But she had felt that before, and each time the inevitable crash took a little more out of her. Soon there might be nothing left.
“You say that tonight, Your Grace. But I’m not sure you’ll say it for the rest of your life.”
The way he looked at her was too much: with love and desire and sadness, all at once, all in those blue eyes of his. At that point, Meredith no longer cared about causing a scene. She only cared about self-preservation.
Abruptly, she turned and fled down the corridor.
“Meredith.”
He caught up with her in just a few steps. She kept walking as he fell in step beside her. With every step, they retreated farther and farther from the ballroom and all the guests.
“You should not follow me,” Meredith said in a low voice as she tried to get away from all of it. “You should be in the ballroom with your guests, and your family, and your Lady Jemma. You should be talking about horse things, and counting how many acres you both possess and how the ton will fawn over your match.”
“Strangely, I don’t find those things as compelling as you.”
“I am touched, truly.”
“Mer . . .” He tugged her into the nearest room. One candle provided the only light. Her eyes adjusted; it was his study.
The soft click of the door shutting behind them.
It was dark. They were alone. Her heart started to pound. Not with fear, but with wanting. It was dangerous in the dark, behind closed doors, with no one watching. Cut off from the world like this, there was no one and nothing to keep them in check.
Her heart beat hard with wanting. James was so close.
“We shouldn’t,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“We can’t,” she said in a low voice.
“I know,” he growled. “Oh, Meredith, I know.”
And then his mouth crashed down on hers.
Chapter 15
If a duke is going to break the rules, he should have a damn good time doing it . . . and ensure his partner does, too.
—The Rules for Dukes
The soft click of the door shutting behind them . . .
It was the sound of shutting out the rest of the world until there was only her and him and this something between them. It was invisible, but oh, so real. Meredith could feel it in the pounding of her heart. She felt the way it made her breath catch in her throat. Her skin was hot with anticipation.
James’s mouth came crashing down on hers and she gave up the fight.
I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t.
But how could she say no to the gentle pressure of his lips on hers, when it was everything she’d ever wanted? How could she help but yield and welcome him in when it was the only thing she wanted to do?
How could she do anything but kiss him back?
Meredith wrapped her arms around him and kissed him with all the pent-up heartache and desire inside of her. When she closed her eyes and concentrated on the kiss, everything melted away—Durham and duty, the haute ton crowded in the ballroom—and she was back in that room, that night when it all began.
A spark.
Burning brighter and brighter with each moment.
Just her and Just James.
When they were like this, mouths caught in a kiss, bodies melting into each other, desire flowing freely, it was enough. It was everything.
The soft glow of a lone candle . . .
There was just enough light for James to see her—the outline of her jaw, the plump curve of her lips, the delicate curve of her neck. James paused in the kiss to look at her, really look at her, seeing all her hopes and dreams and desires in her eyes. He saw love there, too. Real love for the man he was and the man he was becoming.
Just a girl, she had said that night.
She would never be just a girl to him.
He caressed her cheek gently, finding the skin soft and warm. Then he sank his fingers into her hair, cradling her as he lowered his mouth to hers for another kiss, this one gentle and deep and sure and promising forever.
Somehow, someway, forever.
He felt her sink against him, giving up resistance and giving herself up to him, and he swore he would find a way for them to be together.
Forever.
But first, tonight.
One kiss led to another led to another. He couldn’t get enough of her, her touch, her taste, the sound of her breath catching.
“Meredith . . .”
There was so much he wanted to say, but he couldn’t find the words. He could only tell her with his touch and the way he crooned her name.
His hands—rough, scarred, and strong hands that had worked—caressed her, savoring her every curve: the way her full breasts fit perfectly in his hand, the way her hips flared. She felt better than he remembered. Oh, how he had wanted her. Oh, how it’d been torture to know she was under the same roof and yet off-limits.
James pulled her flush against him, his hardness cradled in the soft vee of her thighs. He wanted to lay her down on a bed and lose himself in her. Or find himself. Whatever it was, he wanted that connection.
Still holding her close, James took one step, then another, guiding them toward the light of that one candle until she was up against the desk, the big ducal desk.
The sound of fabric rustling . . .
Meredith didn’t protest as James pushed the fabric of her skirts aside. His fingertips skimmed the inside of her thighs, and she shuddered at the delicate pleasure of it.
She did not protest as he pressed a kiss to her lips and dropped to his knees before her, reverentially. Feeling beautiful and adored, she parted her knees and leaned back.
A kiss.
James kissed her there, at the sensitive spot between her legs. She gasped at the initial touch of his mouth to her, and she sighed as he teased her with his tongue, tasting her and taking her to heights of pleasure she’d only imagined.
What had started with a kiss, a spark, was now a smolder. She burned, oh, she burned, as the heat within her grew hotter and the pressure in her core grew stronger.
I want. I want. I want.
More, she wanted more.
“James . . .” She whispered his name, and she wasn’t sure if it was a question or a plea.
His hands gripped her thighs and she moaned. She was close, so close to losing herself completely.
The sound of soft sighs and frantic breaths . . .
James stood before her, and Meredith reached for the buttons on his breeches. He didn’t stop her, no, she knew he wanted this as much as she.
Want being too small a word for the driving need to be melded as one and lost in each other.
In the quiet of the dim room, there was only the sound of fabric rustling aside—her skirts, his breeches—and the sound of her breaths or his, she didn’t know. They were one, or about to be, and she couldn’t wait much longer.
A kiss. His mouth found hers for a kiss that was frantic and desperate.
&n
bsp; James kissed her deeply as he eased into her, and she moaned softly as the hot, hard length of him filled her up. Her head fell back and he kissed her exposed throat.
She wrapped her legs around his back, urging him deeper.
“Oh, God, Mer . . .”
He thrust into her, slow and steady.
“I want . . . I need . . .” she panted.
“I know.”
He thrust again, slow and steady and sure, finding exactly the rhythm that somehow matched the pounding of her heart. She lost herself in that rhythm, letting go of everything except for the wild pleasure building within her.
This. Here. Her. James didn’t know who he was or where he belonged in the world, but here in Meredith’s arms and buried deep inside her, he knew this was where he wanted to be.
Now.
Forever.
He moved into her, losing himself in her warmth and taking pleasure in the sound of her sighs. He was driven by the pounding of his own heart, thudding hard and strong in his chest.
This. Her. Kiss.
There was nothing else in the world in that moment except for him and her and the pleasure between them. He was so attuned to her that he felt the moment she began to peak.
Sighs, more frantic. She tightened around him. Her fingers gripped his jacket and shirt like she was falling and holding on for dear life. He thrust hard and harder as he lost himself to his own climax. When she cried out he captured the sound with a kiss.
She wrapped her arms around him and sagged against him. James held her tight and breathed her in.
And then the room fell silent except for the sound of their breathing.
The soft glow of a lone candle . . .
It took a moment, but Meredith finally opened her eyes and drifted back to the present reality, slowly and achingly. They were in the study at Durham House. A ball for hundreds of guests raged just down the hall.
He was The Duke.
And she was still just a girl, the companion.
They had just made love, frantically, passionately, and without a care to the consequences. There would certainly be consequences. Her mind was still too hazy in the aftermath of their lovemaking to fully consider the implications.