by Syrie James
“This is . . . just the tip of the iceberg,” Kathryn heard herself say. Her gaze was drawn to the stubble of beard framing his face. “I don’t know where I’ll find the time, but we have to . . . um. . . .” She wished she could touch his beard and find out if it was as soft as she remembered. “We have to map out what races you’ll be holding. And invite people to perform. And . . .” His beard surrounded his lips, which were pink and delectable and begging to be kissed. Dear Lord, she was thinking about kissing him again. This would never do. “Oh!” she cried in a desperate attempt to distract herself. “We need giveaways! Is there a toy shop in Rosquay?”
There was no toy shop. The general store had nothing that would serve as a suitable gift for children. “The problem is,” Kathryn explained as they left the village, “whatever keepsake you wish to give each child has to be available in a quantity of a hundred or more.”
“Maybe we ought to order something from London,” Lord Darcy suggested.
“Maybe.”
They’d been gone so long that the tide had come back in, requiring them to take a ferryboat back.
The duke sat down beside her, even though they were the only passengers and there was another empty seat. As they crossed the strait, Kathryn was intensely aware of Lord Darcy’s thigh and shoulder resting mere inches from her own. A wave of heat enveloped her that had nothing to do with the summer sun.
When they reached the quay at St. Gabriel’s Mount, the duke stepped out of the boat first, then reached down to help Kathryn alight. As his hand grasped hers and he assisted her onto the dock, their eyes met and she felt a zing travel up her arm. A zing that continued to resonate long after he’d let go of her hand.
There will be no zinging, Kathryn admonished herself.
As they made their way along the dock, she noticed a construction crew at work across the harbor. It pleased her to see that the duke was taking care of things in his community. When they reached the gateway leading into St. Gabriel’s Mount village, a small carriage with the duke’s family crest was waiting.
“Knowing how anxious you have been to get back to work,” the duke told her, “I arranged for my coachman to provide a conveyance up to the castle. It will save us a half hour and a steep hike, as you know.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. That was very thoughtful.”
Before they could board the vehicle, however, Kathryn’s attention was drawn to a pair of little red-haired girls in faded dresses who were racing along the lane, holding aloft small whirligigs on wooden sticks. The girls laughed with delight as they watched the pinwheels spin round and round.
Kathryn halted in her tracks. “May I have a moment, Your Grace? I’d like to speak with those girls.” Hailing their attention, she enthused, “Might I see one of your pinwheels?”
The eldest girl, perhaps seven years of age, placed her toy in Kathryn’s hand. The article was simple but well-made of brightly colored paper, the furls held in place by a small nail. “May I ask where you got these?”
“My mum made ’em,” replied the girl, glancing shyly at the duke.
“Did she indeed?” Kathryn returned the toy to its owner. “What is your name?”
“Rose Penberthy, miss. This be me sister Flora.”
Kathryn introduced herself and the duke followed suit. Upon learning who he was, both girls immediately dropped a wide-eyed curtsy.
“Rose,” Kathryn said, “I’d like to speak to your mother. Is she home?”
“Yes, miss. Where else would she be?” Giggling, Rose pointed behind her, down the lane that served as St. Gabriel’s Mount’s main street. “We live in the house w’ the red door.” With that, the girls raced off.
Lord Darcy darted Kathryn a glance. “I take it you wish to pay Mrs. Penberthy a visit? Something to do with . . . pinwheels?”
“They would make the perfect gift for the Children’s Fête. If she’d be willing to make them.”
“I am overdue to call on the Penberthys in any case. I didn’t have time to stop in the last time I was here.” Lord Darcy told his driver to wait, and they proceeded down the lane. “Penberthy is one of the local fishermen. Their eldest daughter, Ivy, is one of my maids.”
“I’ve met Ivy, she’s a lovely girl.”
Kathryn realized that this was the first time she’d had an opportunity to venture into the village. “What a charming place.” The two dozen or so small houses and shops were constructed of gray stone. She couldn’t help but notice, however, that although the tiny front gardens were well-kept, some of the buildings looked a bit worse for wear.
Lord Darcy, noting the direction of her gaze, appeared to read her thoughts as well. “The village could use freshening up,” he admitted. “Hayward was neglectful in that respect. I am doing what I can. But these things take time.”
The front door of the Penberthys’ cottage was weather-beaten, its red paint faded and peeling. A woman in a frayed dress sat on the front steps, shelling peas. Two toddlers played in a patch of weedy grass nearby.
The duke removed his hat and bowed politely. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Penberthy.”
The woman gasped in recognition, quickly set aside her basket, and rose to give him a curtsy. “Yer Grace.”
“Might I introduce a friend of mine, Miss Kathryn Atherton? She is down from London.”
The woman dipped another curtsy to Kathryn. “A pleasure to meet you, miss.”
“The pleasure is mine,” Kathryn returned.
A worried look crossed the woman’s face as she asked the duke: “Are ye here t’ collect the rent, Yer Grace?”
“The rent? No. I leave such matters to my steward.” The duke lowered his voice and inquired in a concerned tone, “Are you in arrears with the rent, Mrs. Penberthy?”
She nodded, her eyes cast down at her scuffed boots. “I’m ever so sorry, Yer Grace. But Erasmus, he be laid up these past few months with pain in his foot. It’s so bad now he can hardly walk. Hasn’t took his boat out since May. We’ve had narry a penny to live on but me girl Ivy’s wages, and what I can bring in wi’ a bit o’ washing. Mr. Avery said as we could have more time to pay, but—”
“And so you shall,” the duke replied. “Take all the time you need, madam.”
Mrs. Penberthy gave a visible sigh of relief. “Thank ye, Yer Grace.”
“However, there is another matter we should like to discuss with you, Mrs. Penberthy.” Darcy glanced at Kathryn, signaling her to take over.
“We saw your daughters playing with pinwheels. Rose said you made them yourself.”
“What, them whirligigs?” Mrs. Penberthy let go a guffaw as she picked up her basket of peas. “That just be a bit o’ fun to make the young’uns smile. Make ’em out of scraps, I do.”
“Would you be able to make a hundred of them, Mrs. Penberthy?” Kathryn asked.
“A hundred?” Mrs. Penberthy’s mouth fell open and she nearly dropped the basket.
“You would have until the end of the month. They would serve as gifts at the Children’s Fête.”
“We would pay you, of course,” the duke put in, “whatever fee you think reasonable.”
“It would be my honor, Yer Grace,” Mrs. Penberthy stammered, her eyes lighting up with joy. “But a hundred! I will need supplies . . . paper and sticks and such.”
“I’ll have Mr. Avery get in touch with you to arrange the terms and so forth. Tell him what you need, and he will forward you an advance to purchase supplies.”
“Very well, Yer Grace. Thank ye ever so much.”
“No, thank you, madam. You are doing us a great service.” Lord Darcy made as if to go, then turned back. “May I ask what ails your husband, Mrs. Penberthy? You mentioned his foot. What does the doctor say?”
“Oh,” she scoffed, “we can no’ afford a doctor, Yer Grace.”
“Well, he must see a doctor, ma’am. I will call one out, and I shall be happy to pay his fee.”
Kathryn and the duke soon took their leave. At the touch of his hand as h
e helped her board his carriage, another zing of intense awareness shot through her.
Only a lightweight carriage could make the drive up the steep road, and the vehicle only had one passenger seat. They were obliged to sit side by side again.
As the carriage rumbled along, Kathryn’s pulse began hammering too rapidly for comfort. She recognized his distinct scent, that intoxicating mix of soap and cologne, which sent her mind careening back to what had happened that night in the billiards room. She was grateful that thoughts were secrets and he could never know what she was thinking.
“That was kind of you,” she said, trying to sound matter-of-fact.
“It was your idea to hire the woman to make pinwheels,” the duke retorted, “and an excellent notion at that. It appears that the income she earns will be much appreciated.”
“I meant it was kind of you to offer to summon a doctor for her husband.”
“It seemed to be the right thing to do.”
Upon arriving at the castle, they made their way up the stairs together, pausing on the third floor landing.
“Thank you for taking the time to go into the village with me today,” he said softly, his eyes finding hers.
“Thank you for my new hat.” She untied the bonnet strings and removed it from her head.
“It was my pleasure.”
“I had a lovely time,” she said, desperate to be on her way, yet wanting the moment to never end.
“As did I.”
“Well. I should get back to work.”
“So you should.” He took one of her hands in his and pressed upon it a gentle kiss. “Will I see you at dinner, Miss Atherton?”
Zing.
Confound it. Here was Kathryn’s chance to tell him that she couldn’t possibly have dinner with him tonight. They had just spent the entire afternoon together. She really needed to buckle down.
Instead, she heard herself say: “You will.”
As he undressed for bed, Lance thought over everything he and Miss Atherton had done since he first ran into her that afternoon on the terrace, to the moment they had said good night after dinner.
She was such a fascinating woman. He had enjoyed every minute of their time together, and every word of the conversations they’d shared. He suspected that she had enjoyed it equally as much.
Which was a good thing. A very good thing.
“Thank you, Woodston,” Lance said as he divested himself of his shirt and handed it over to his valet.
A good-looking fellow in his early forties, Woodston had been particularly grief-stricken when Hayward died. And no wonder. The man had attended the former duke for nineteen years.
Although new to this duke business, Lance was accustomed to being waited on. As an officer in the Navy, he’d had his own servant, who in addition to his normal duties looked after Lance’s cabin, served as his valet, fetched his washing water, and served him at table.
Woodston, Lance had been pleased to discover, was equally as skilled and devoted as the Marine who had last served him in that capacity. Hayward had chosen well.
“I’ve had the most wonderful day,” Lance added.
“Did you, Your Grace?” the valet asked.
“Yes.” Lance sat down and removed his boots and stockings. “Miss Atherton and I went into Rosquay. It began as a simple matter to purchase her a new hat. Then she insisted on meeting with some local craftsmen. I worried that they might not take to her because she’s a woman. There was some initial reluctance at first. But then something remarkable happened.”
“What is that, Your Grace?”
“Once the men got over their initial mistrust and started actually listening to what Miss Atherton was saying, it was a different story. She impressed them with her energy and her imagination.” Lance chuckled as he stood up and unbuttoned his trousers. “She charmed the socks off of every single one of them.”
“Good for her,” Woodston commented, taking Lance’s pants and hanging them up.
“She did it all on her own as well.” Renovation not being a skill in his wheelhouse, Lance had simply stood by, letting her do all the talking. “We now have an army of painters, upholsterers, wall paperers, and wood carvers at my beck and call, ready to bid on the project.”
To bid on the project.
The notion gave Lance pause.
The chance that Miss Atherton’s drawings would ever actually reach the bidding phase was still a frail ghost of a prospect. It depended entirely on whether or not she would agree to marry him.
When . . . and if . . . he had the nerve to ask her again.
Give her a chance to get to know you. People change their minds every day.
He pictured the moment in his mind. Perhaps he would find her standing at the terrace wall, as he had this afternoon. Or walking on the beach. He would take her hand in his and kiss it and say, My dearest Miss Atherton, you are all I think about. And all I care about. She would admit that she had come to feel the same way. He would bend down on one knee then, and ask her to be his wife. Yes, she would say, those stunning aquamarine eyes shining. I will.
He would cover her face with kisses, then lift her in his arms and take her back to his bedchamber, where, at long last, he would—
“Your Grace?”
Lance looked up, recalling that Woodston was still in the room. Patiently holding out his silk dressing gown. While Lance was standing here daydreaming, wearing nothing but his smalls. His face grew warm as he slid his arms into the garment’s sleeves and tied the belt around his waist. “Thank you, Woodston. That will be all.”
“Very well, Your Grace. Good night.” The valet left the chamber and closed the door.
Alone now, Lance allowed himself to pick up the fantasy where he’d left off.
He would take her back here to his bedchamber, where, at long last . . . he would begin to divest her of every single article of her clothing. Starting with that infernal suit jacket she always wore. He would grab hold of the lapels and rip it open, then do the same to the blouse beneath it, scattering buttons on the floor in his haste to touch and taste her flesh.
Lance’s blood began to simmer as he contemplated the sight of her chest. He remembered what it looked like. Her décolletage was an expanse of creamy porcelain skin. The upper part of her breasts curved enticingly above her corset. He remembered exactly how those breasts had felt in his hands. Oh, how he remembered.
Just thinking about it made him grow hard. His breath began to waver as he imagined what would happen next. How he would unhook her skirt and let it slip down until it lay in a pool of fabric at her feet. He would remove her corset next, until she was down to her chemise. And then . . .
What are you doing, Lance? You depraved idiot. Banish all such thoughts from your mind at once.
Lance’s pulse and respiration were rioting. His cock was as hard as a rock, aching for release. Bloody hell to damnation and back.
He had two choices now. Either climb into bed and finish himself off by hand. Or take an ice-cold bath.
Kathryn stood at the mirror above the bathroom sink, removing the last pins from her hair. After all that traipsing through Rosquay in the hot sun, she looked forward to a refreshing bath before going to bed.
What a lovely day it had been. More than lovely. It had proved to be one of the most enjoyable afternoons she’d spent in years.
She started the water running in the tub and then began to undress, unbuttoning and removing her silk blouse. Her skirt followed, then her shoes. She had learned so much about Lord Darcy today. About his childhood pursuits. About his early years at the naval training school. When he had shared the pain he’d suffered over his parents’ loss, it had touched her deeply.
Kathryn undid her corset and slipped out of it, then yanked her chemise over her head, adding them to the other clothing she’d draped over the back of a chair. The duke had grown up to be such a kind and generous man. The kind of man who insisted on replacing lost hats. The kind who fixed things in his comm
unity. The kind of man who didn’t blink an eyelash when asked to order a hundred pinwheels for the Children’s Fête. The kind of man who sent doctors to tend to poor fishermen.
It was all a reflection of his goodness.
She smiled to herself, thinking how much she had come to like the man. She had just untied her drawers, slid them down her legs, and stepped out of them when the door to the bathroom was suddenly and unceremoniously flung open.
Kathryn gasped.
The Duke of Darcy stopped short in the doorway, staring at her, his eyes wide with astonishment.
Chapter Thirteen
Kathryn froze. The bloomers she’d been clutching fell from her hand.
Hadn’t she locked the door? Apparently not.
Heat flooded her face and her heart began to pound. All she was wearing were stockings and garters. Grab your skirt! A towel! Anything! her mind commanded. Yet she couldn’t move a muscle.
Neither could the duke. He stood stock-still before her, barefoot and bare-legged, clad in only his dressing gown.
“Forgive me.” His voice sounded strangled as his eyes took in her nearly naked form. “I forgot . . . that we shared this bathroom.”
She hadn’t forgotten. She’d worried that she might inadvertently run into him here. That’s what locks are for, you fool. “It’s . . . the only bathroom . . . on this floor,” she heard herself stammer.
Her brain was still madly urging her to cover herself. But she continued to stand there, unable to budge, her eyes focused on him . . . specifically, on a particular part of his body in the mid-range area.
Kathryn couldn’t be certain what he wore beneath his dressing gown, but her guess was . . . nothing. She had seen his naked body. The image of that gorgeous masculine torso and the male appendage she had seen between those legs filled her mind.