A Duke in Shining Armor

by Loretta Chase

  He was aware of a taut silence within, while the world without went black with flashes of light and deep booms that rattled the old windows.

  “Someone’s been here,” he said, as he watched the flames take hold. “Everything else about the park looks . . . not neglected exactly, but not well attended to. The firewood’s been brought in recently, though. Must have been Alice’s doing. We used to play here as children.”

  The three camp beds he and his two friends had used were still here. Two were bare. One held bedding. Alice, clearly, had spent time here recently. Why? He hoped she wasn’t having second thoughts about her marriage, because it was too bloody late. Not to mention he had enough complications in his life without adding Blackwood to the list.

  The doors flew open to a blast of wet wind.

  He and Olympia hurried to the doors and slammed them closed. He latched them, locking out the world. Holding reality at bay. For the moment.

  She quickly stepped away, brushing the wet from her hands. “Look at you,” she said. “You’re soaked to the skin.”

  “It’s summer,” he said.

  “It’s not that warm,” she said.

  “We have a fire.”

  “The damp lingers in stone buildings,” she said. “This one’s practically on top of a river. You’re not only wet but bruised. Your ankle will never get better, the way you abuse it.”

  “It’s getting better,” he said. “The way you fuss about it, a fellow might get the idea that you cared . . . about him.”

  For a long moment she stared at him.

  “He might,” he said.

  “Might?” She marched to the fire, then to a window, then back to face him, hands on her hips. “Might? How thick can you be? I as good as proposed to you!”

  “Yes, well, you shouldn’t spring that sort of thing on a fellow without warning.”

  “I’ve all but ripped off my clothes and screamed, ‘Take me now.’ How much warning do you need?”

  “That was rather too subtle for me,” he said, “since you didn’t actually take your clothes off. Then there’s the thinking part. A large, complicated thinking part.”

  “It isn’t that complicated,” she said.

  “Then let’s say it’s . . . fraught. That’s a good word.”

  “It’s a stupid word.”

  “You’re going to make this difficult, aren’t you?” he said.

  “I’m not making anything difficult,” she said. “I understand everything. Perfectly. Too, too well. Which means we need not go over the ground of friendship, loyalty, and honor once again. It makes me want to scream—and mine is not a nervous sensibility. I am not an excessively emotional sort of person. I’m practical and sensible. I know you haven’t seen much of that side of me, but—”

  “I’ve seen several sides of you,” he said.

  How will you feel in a year . . . in five years?

  He knew how he’d feel. He felt it now.

  “I’ve seen so many sides of you,” he said. “Which means I understand, better than ever, why Ashmont won’t let you go.”

  “Because he’s possessive and obstinate.”

  “Is that what his letter sounded like to you? Because that wasn’t what I heard. Mind you, I only caught parts of it—and that was against my will, but my aunt and his evil uncle were blocking the damned door while they argued about it. Otherwise I would have caught up with you sooner.”

  “You shouldn’t have come after me. Not this time. Not the other day.”

  “No, it ought to have been Ashmont, but it wasn’t.”

  “It wasn’t Ashmont because he was too drunk—on his wedding day—the day you claim he was so thrilled about.”

  “Yes, well, he can be a bit of an ass at times.”

  “A bit! At times!”

  “I’m not in a position to throw stones,” he said. “The point is—the reason I came after you . . . this time—”

  “He didn’t even write the letter himself!” she said. “That is, he did put pen to paper, but those weren’t his words. He doesn’t write that way, let alone speak that way. And there were hardly any inkblots. And it covered two sheets of paper, on both sides!”

  “He makes the blots from stopping to think.”

  “He didn’t have to think. Somebody else did that for him.”

  “Not exactly. The thing is, I’d rather not be defending him at the moment, but one must present the case fairly.”

  “I don’t need anything presented. I’m not stupid.”

  “The letter shows how sincerely he wants you back,” he said. He was going to be fair. He was going to be sporting. Honor and friendship demanded it. “For Ashmont to submit to the indignity of letting his uncle dictate a love letter—well, that shows feeling, I think. And though the words weren’t Ashmont’s, the sentiments were. I know. I heard him, on the night before he was to be married.”

  She folded her arms and her expression became stony. But her changeable eyes had turned grey, and he saw pain there.

  About them, the storm threw fits. The world turned black, then bright white, then black again, while thunder underlined their words and their silences.

  Inside was quiet, except for the fire’s crackling, but the quiet was so heavy that Ripley felt as though he walked through chest-deep mud.

  Or maybe quicksand.

  He thought, and picked his words carefully. “Is that why you bolted today? Because of the feelings Ashmont’s uncle helped him put into words?”

  “Yes.” She unfolded her arms and paced to the fire, then to a window. “I wanted to cry. But when I got outside, away from everybody, I couldn’t cry. And I couldn’t go back and arrange the books to calm myself because everybody would find me, and then I would certainly cry. So I walked.”

  “If you don’t want to marry him, don’t marry him,” he said.

  “I don’t want to. But I must. But I can’t. How can I? How can I, when—”

  A crash outside cut her off. The windows lit again. Another crash, with echoes.

  As his eyes adjusted to the changing light, he saw that her pained expression was gone, as though the lightning had blasted it away. For a moment she seemed puzzled about something. Then she took a deep breath and let it out. He watched her bosom rise and fall. He told himself not to look there. He didn’t listen, as usual.

  “Never mind,” she said. She unwrapped the white neckerchief from around her throat.

  He hadn’t understood why she’d needed it in the first place, except as decoration for a very plain dress. And yes, it made sense to take it off. It had grown rather warm inside, with the windows closed and a fire blazing perhaps more fiercely than a damp day in June warranted. Because of thinking too hard and not paying proper attention to what he was doing, he’d made a great deal more fire than the small room needed.

  Then she started unbuttoning her dress.

  Ripley experienced the same sensation he’d felt a short while ago—a lifetime ago—in the library, when she’d set down the letter and walked out. He closed his eyes and opened them, but no, this wasn’t a fantasy or a dream.

  “What are you doing?” he said.

  “I’m being unsubtle,” she said.

  The dress was made like a coat, buttoning from neck to hem. She was halfway down the bodice already, though there must be more than twenty very small buttons there. And another two or three thousand on the skirt.

  While she went on unbuttoning with alarming efficiency, it took his mind a moment to make sense of I’m being unsubtle.

  Then he remembered.

  “Olympia,” he said.

  She went on unbuttoning, concentrating very hard on what she was doing, apparently, because she caught her bottom lip in her teeth and a small crease had appeared in her brow, directly above the nosepiece of her spectacles.

  “Dammit, Olympia.”

  “Everybody says that,” she muttered. “‘Dammit, Olympia.’ Well, damn you back.”

  “Stop it.”

&nbs
p; “I think not. This situation is intolerable, and I don’t see how it can get worse.”

  She’d got the dress unbuttoned to the waist. He could see her smooth throat, all of it. He caught a glimpse of skin farther down, and a sliver of white undergarments.

  He told himself he was bigger and stronger, and could easily make her stop. But he couldn’t. He’d have to touch her.

  He could not touch her.

  Not unless . . . until. Not now.

  “It can get a great deal worse,” he said. His voice had dropped an octave.

  The storm went on, flashing and crashing about the little fishing house.

  He swallowed. “Yes, well, maybe not such a bad idea, after all. Your clothes are wet.”

  So were his. He was keeping them on.

  She said nothing. She undid the belt and tossed it onto a chair.

  The room grew oppressively hot.

  She continued unbuttoning. She had to bend forward now to do so, and he could see the swell of her breasts above the chemise’s simple neckline. And a lacy edging directly below the chemise. It was the edging of her corset. The one he’d bought her. Good God. Pink ribbons and lace and naughty stitching, around and over the—the—there. And there was ripe and full and creamy.

  “Olympia,” he said hoarsely.

  She went on unbuttoning, and the front of the dress opened up, displaying the corset in all its delicious sinfulness and the neat waist it hugged . . . and the sweet curve tracing the fine swell of her hips.

  Leave, he told himself. All he needed to do was open the door and walk out. A little thunderstorm wouldn’t hurt him, and if it did, that was all to the good.

  He tried to turn away, but she’d worked her way downward past her hips and was steadily, inexorably, opening the garment to her knees. He could see all of the corset and part of her petticoat, which was plain white, much plainer than the wicked corset, and couldn’t have been a more innocent petticoat if a nun had been wearing it. But she wasn’t a nun, and there was the naughty French corset . . . and her breasts, threatening to spill out of it.

  He stood where he was, unable to move except for clenching and unclenching his hands, while his temperature climbed and his pulse rate with it. He stood, like the fool he was, watching as she unbuttoned, bending easily down, down to the very bottom of the dress. And when she’d undone the last button, she twisted and turned and wriggled her way out of the tight armholes and pulled the dress off, then tossed it onto a chair.

  She looked up at him, her face pink, her eyes glittering, her soft mouth curved in a triumphant little smile.

  She had every right to look triumphant. There she was, in all her shapely beauty and unpredictability. There she was, the spirited general of a girl who’d mowed down a bully. There she was, in a lot of white underthings and a naughty corset, the most deliciously irresistible thing he’d ever seen.

  Ripley never resisted temptation. He hardly knew how.

  He couldn’t look away or run away or do the right thing. He’d never been a saint and he wasn’t about to start now, of all times.

  She said, “Is this too subtle for you?”

  “No,” he managed to choke out. “Dammit, Olympia.”

  Two limping strides closed the space between them. Two more brought her up against the wall.

  Chapter 14

  Olympia looked up at him. He was so near she could feel the heat of his body. His eyes had narrowed to dangerous green slits.

  Her heart beat so fast she could hardly breathe, and a sensible and practical voice in her head said, Run.

  But that was nonsensical advice, not to mention it came far too late. If running could have solved anything, she’d have run faster and farther, the day she’d left her drunken bridegroom waiting with the minister.

  She’d called herself a damsel in distress, but she wasn’t. Damsels in distress were always virtuous ladies in trouble through no fault of their own. She was in trouble she’d made for herself. No dragons. No evil sorcerers. No stage villains twirling their mustaches. No heartless parents or stepparents.

  No, it was all Olympia, dammit.

  And it was still Olympia, dammit, half-naked and looking up into Ripley’s wicked wolf face, and smiling up at him while his green eyes sparked as hot as any dragon’s flames.

  A true damsel in distress would have at least tried to get away.

  Escape was the last thing she wanted.

  The scent of woodland clung to him, and the scents of a stormy summer day, the scents of wet wool and smoke. Under these and permeating them, she knew, though she couldn’t quite catch it yet, was the scent of his skin. She inhaled deeply, the way the opium smoker draws in the drug he craves.

  He started to say something, but as she inhaled, his gaze slid down, to her mouth, before lowering to her breasts, all too conspicuously displayed.

  He caught the back of her head and bent his, and kissed her, hard. She kissed him back in the same way. No sweet maiden’s kiss because she wasn’t sweet, was she? She was Olympia, dammit, and she wanted more and more and more of what she’d only tasted before: sin and heat and wild feelings. The feelings she’d given up believing she’d ever experience.

  She was aware, distantly, of rain drumming on the wooden roof and beating at the windows. She was aware, distantly, of the thrash and crash of the storm outside. But that was far away, as remote as a dream.

  The center of the world was here, in the incorrect and unacceptable longing she was sick of fighting. This was what she’d wanted, very possibly from the moment he’d burst into the library with his friends. Whether it had started then or after or long before, he was what she wanted now.

  She wanted to be crushed against his big body, his arms wrapped about her. She mightn’t have known it before but she knew now that she’d been wanting to feel his chest rising and falling against hers, and to feel unmaidenly and unvirtuous excitement. She’d been waiting without knowing what she waited for until now: to feel heat coiling around and inside her. Like molten lava, it slithered over her skin and under it and into her brain. It melted and burnt up everything in its path: sensible and practical notions first of all. The world softened and hazed over and spun about her. She was lost and glad to be.

  He wasn’t the first man she would have chosen to lose her mind over. More like the last. But too bad for her. He was the one.

  Just once.

  Just this once.

  Passion. This once, the man I want, even if it’s wrong and ruinous.

  He kissed her and kissed her and kissed her. Everywhere. Along the side of her face and her ear and behind her ear and along her neck. It was only his mouth upon her skin, so small a pressure to have so much power. But the touch of his mouth was enough to make her want more. It made her forget herself and all she’d ever been taught about right and wrong. Everything inside her that had seemed so sure and solid before—the mind and will of the practical and sensible Olympia—all gave way, surrendering to him and the power of his mouth, his touch, the scent of his skin, and the warmth and strength of his powerful body.

  Oh, and his hands.

  They moved over her while he kissed her throat, then the top of her breast. Animal sounds, little moans, spilled out of her.

  And while he kissed her, she was aware—but distantly, as though it happened in another place—of his loosening her corset with smooth efficiency. In what seemed like no time at all she felt the ties giving way and the garment sliding from her. It was instinctive to grab it as it started to slip away. But his hands got in the way, and when he pushed the corset down and untied the tapes of her chemise with the same expertise, she forgot what she’d meant to do or why she’d wanted to do it.

  He pulled the chemise down and then his bare hands were on her breasts . . . cupping and squeezing them . . .

  A deep, sweet ache joined with a surge of happiness so sudden and powerful she could hardly stand up. She had wanted this, though she’d had no idea what this was and never could have imagined,
no matter how wildly she imagined.

  Then he put his mouth where his hands had been and suckled her. Heat shot deep into the pit of her belly. Her knees disappeared, and if he hadn’t been holding her, she’d have slid to the floor.

  “Oh,” she said. “Oh.” Her so-efficient brain could offer nothing more.

  He had his arms fully about her now, and he lifted her off the floor and carried her a little ways. He set her down on something soft. He bent over her and gently unhooked her spectacles from behind her ears and set them . . . somewhere—she didn’t care—because he started kissing her again, starting at her forehead.

  He kissed her eyebrows and her eyes and her nose and her cheeks and her chin, and on from there. These kisses were fiercer than what had gone before, and they seemed to sear her skin and under her skin. They turned everything hot and hazy and dark.

  He worked his way swiftly down, and she, squirming with pleasure and other, sharper feelings, tried to put her hands on his bare skin, too. She needed to kiss him in the way he kissed her, laying claim to as much of him as she could: This is mine and this is mine and this is mine and this is mine.

  They were like two armies fighting for territory. But the fight was somehow the opposite of a fight. Whatever it was, it had to be done. She needed her hands on his skin and his on hers. She needed kisses, more of them, taken and given. And while she took as much as she could, she felt a loss of things that covered her—her clothes, yes, but something more. For years and years, she’d hidden her dreams and wants, and bit by bit, other parts of herself.

  But from the moment she’d started unbuttoning her dress, she—whoever she was—had come out of her hiding place. She’d emerged from the world she’d tried to make safe and painless and had only made small and boring. With him, it was impossible to live in so small a place. With him, she couldn’t play by the rules and didn’t want to.

  All she wanted was more and more and more of him and what he did to her. She tugged at his shirt, pushing it up, to put her hands on his chest, so warm and hard. She laughed inside, feeling triumph when he groaned, even while she ached, so deep. She felt triumphant and right, even when she couldn’t stop crying out “Oh,” and “Oh!” while she squirmed under him, impatient for something else, something more.