Duke of Storm

by Gaelen Foley

  “Your Grace—”

  “Connor,” he whispered.

  Suddenly, Maggie moved toward him, and his own resistance crumbled entirely. As she lifted her arms to embrace him, he pulled her to him, sliding his hands around her waist. She tilted her head back in eager abandon, offering her lips as he leaned down and claimed them.

  He devoured her, his blood thrumming with triumph, with awe. Her lips were warm and silken beneath his, far sweeter than he could have imagined. She returned his kisses with neophyte wonder, letting him lead her, parting her lips at the stroke of his tongue.

  He moaned as he tasted her, tightening his hold around her waist. Fantasies of taking her here against the wall in this darkened alcove flooded his mind.

  But, somehow, he held himself back. He checked his wild impulses, slowed his fierce kisses, and gradually loosened his clutching grip around her waist.

  Both panting a little, they ended the kiss.

  “Oh my,” she breathed. As her dreamy eyes swept open, he scanned her face, praying he had not completely overstepped his bounds.

  He did not want to botch this.

  “Um, I hope…that was all right,” he ventured.

  “Pardon…I’ve forgotten what planet I’m on.”

  He laughed softly. That seemed a good sign. “Shall I apologize?”

  “Please don’t. I would have kissed you if you hadn’t kissed me.” She bit her lip after this admission, while, beneath her velvet lashes, her gray eyes smoldered with silver desire.

  Connor shook his head, amazed, and hard as a rock. She was playing with fire, but when she slid her arms around his neck and tilted her head back for another kiss, his restraint splintered into shards.

  He clamped his arms around her once again, yanking her slim body flush against his. All that existed was this woman’s softness, her pliant, yielding warmth as she parted her lips again, luring him into her mouth. He reveled in the way that she clung to him, but when a feminine groan full of yearning escaped her, it ignited his instincts.

  With two steps like a dance move, he drove her back against the narrow wall beside the window and consumed her as she consumed him. He could feel her carnal delight. Here, they were cloaked by the darkest of the shadows. Here, with the solid wall behind her, he could explore the beauty of her sleek, firm curves. He touched her waist, her neck, and she did not protest. So he let his palm glide cautiously down the bare, alluring expanse of her alabaster chest; it heaved beneath his touch, rising and falling in time with the wild rhythm of his kisses.

  Her hand hovered over his on her chest, but she made no move to stop him, even when he inched his touch down the swell of her bosom, lightly rounding its hardened crest. He groaned at the distended nipple swelling under his thumb, longing with all his heart to take it into his mouth. He could have torn her gown asunder with the need to know every inch of this woman.

  Her writhing willingness there against the wall had him blinded with lust in seconds, panting.

  If only he’d have thought to take one of these blasted hotel rooms for the night. For his delicate English rose wanted him, in all his rough, rowdy, seething storm, like she yearned for the rain. He almost couldn’t believe it. For one fleeting moment, Connor envisioned having her beneath him in bed. Making her come. He could almost feel her legs around him, her nails raking down his bare back. He could ravish her for hours…

  “Oh God,” she finally whispered, gripping his shoulders in a halfhearted attempt to bring him to heel. “We…we shouldn’t be doing this, Your Grace.”

  Your Grace.

  Her use of his lofty new title jarred him. It sounded so elegant, when he could barely hold back the barbaric frenzy of lust seething inside him.

  He wanted so badly to let it all go with her. Give in to the hunger that had raged in him for so long.

  He was astonished that she seemed to want this as badly as he did.

  Determined, however, to show her that “His Grace” was not the savage Irishman, nor the rough, ruthless soldier she probably thought he might be—very well, the one that he could be when the occasion called—Connor forced himself to yield to her wishes. Somehow dragged himself back from her body. He hoped that she was too innocent to know what the pulsating rod that she’d surely felt against her belly signified.

  Maggie’s chest heaved as she sought to catch her breath. As for Connor, likewise, it took him a long moment to find his voice and bring his flesh back under control.

  He did not regret kissing her, though. Not for one, lusty moment of that glorious madness. It had been as rash as hell. But tomorrow was promised to no man. Soldiers’ creed.

  “You’re right,” he finally managed with a haphazard laugh, “probably best that you go now. I’ll, er, keep my distance downstairs for a while. Wouldn’t want to cause a scandal.”

  She gazed at him, still panting from their brief but passionate contact, her lips bee-stung. “That was wonderful.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “We should do that again sometime,” she murmured, torturing him.

  A small groan of thwarted want escaped him, and Connor looked away. God, this girl could have him eating out of her hand if he didn’t watch his step. “You’d better get out of here before…”

  “Before what?” she whispered, a sparkle in her eyes.

  He shook his head, marveling.

  “You’re trouble.”

  “I bid you a fond good evening, Your Grace,” she said coyly.

  Connor gave her a playful salute, and she went on her way, leaving him still dazzled and dazed. What a fine town London was, after all, he thought in amusement. This was much better than wartime.

  At length, he, too, left the alcove. They returned to the ballroom several minutes apart, entering through different doors.

  As far as he knew, no one was the wiser regarding their absence.

  But his head was still spinning when he caught sight of her again amid the throng. It was about then that Connor sensed, deep down, that something profound had changed in his world tonight.

  He had not yet managed to uncover the murderer. But he was fairly sure he’d found his duchess. If she’d have him. Once the timing was right.

  And more than just his duchess, truth be told.

  It was altogether possible that he’d found his soul mate.

  CHAPTER 14

  Hyde Park

  Put out, petulant and pouty, Maggie decided. That was the best way to describe her sister’s mood the next afternoon as they trundled along through Hyde Park at the fashionable hour.

  “You really needn’t have danced with him twice,” Delia reproached her. “Why do you always have to make yourself the center of attention?”

  Maggie’s eyes flared open wide at that. Me?

  She glanced in amazement at her sister, but there was no point arguing, she knew from long experience. She merely let Delia have her say, giving the sort of noncommittal nods and halfhearted shrugs and evasive monosyllabic responses that she had learned from Edward.

  Instead, as they rumbled along sitting side by side, both facing forward, Delia closer to the oncoming traffic, all the better to display herself, Maggie focused her attention on the dramatic sky that stretched out across London.

  Much of the firmament overhead was bright, sunny and springlike, pale blue, with complex layers of clouds. But England’s weather was never to be trusted entirely. The strong though pleasant breeze rustling in from the north prodded before it several dark, ominous thunderheads.

  The wind riffling through the trees throughout Hyde Park made the waters of the Serpentine choppy and tried to blow away her hat.

  The slight threat of rain merely added an air of excitement to the daily ritual of the promenade. People zoomed back and forth in their carriages, the ladies showing off their fancy equipage gowns, eyeing up each other’s pelisses and spring wraps and hats and bonnets.

  Gentlemen went cantering by on fine, leggy mounts, while the usual collection of waterfo
wl drifted on the lake.

  It was a perfectly ordinary day, at least for now. As the dark clouds crept closer overhead, inch by inch, their deep blue tone reminded Maggie of the Duke of Amberley’s eyes.

  He was the cause of Delia’s current pique. God forbid her little sister should have a duke paying attention to her.

  If only she knew, Maggie thought. Savoring the memory of what had happened in that alcove last night, she hid her wicked mirth from her opinionated sister.

  What did this man bring out in her? Wild urges, the most unladylike yearnings…

  To her amazement, a match with him was beginning to seem genuinely possible, but she barely dared entertain the thought. If she let herself hope, the disappointment could be crushing. Because, frankly, he was wonderful.

  Suppressing a shiver of remembered delight, she stared into space for a moment as the carriage rolled along. Delia went on complaining. Maggie didn’t listen, didn’t care. Nothing could burst her bubble of happiness today.

  Not when she could still feel the pleasant, scratchy roughness of his jaw against her chin, the brandy-flavored warmth of his mouth consuming hers, and the satin glide of his fingertips skimming her face, her neck, her bosom…

  She had never known such kisses were possible. Even now, perched on the seat of her sister’s luxurious open coach, the memory of it made her toes curl.

  Oh! The thought came in spite of her efforts to stay measured about it all. I may die if I can’t marry this one. If Delia ruined it for her somehow, this time, Maggie swore she’d do a violence to her sister.

  Connor. She savored his first name on her tongue, now that she’d been given permission to use it.

  There was just something so dear about the man… Those glimpses of melancholy behind his humor. The restless, uneasy churning within him, of chivalrous ideals at odds with ruthless killer instincts.

  At the duel and last night in the alcove, she had seen how he trusted those instincts—and his passions. This was not the English way, in the main. He seemed amused by the decorum, the restraint customary to the English as a breed, and Maggie found his attitude oddly liberating.

  The sense of freedom it gave her felt like an invigorating gust of fresh air.

  Unfortunately, the actual breezes blowing back on them from ahead smelled like sweaty carriage horses.

  Maggie wrinkled her nose as Delia’s driver, Hubert, in brown Birdwell livery, urged the clip-clopping team along the graveled Ring.

  For a moment, she wondered what the coachman must think of the way Delia continued nagging and needling her.

  “I don’t see why you went out of your way to try and throw yourself at him.”

  “I did nothing of the kind,” Maggie said serenely.

  Delia huffed. “He is unsuitable, in any case. He may be a duke, but he’s Irish—”

  “Only three-quarters.”

  “—and besides, it is completely inappropriate for you to set your cap at him after he dueled with your beau.”

  “Haven’t you heard, Delia? I am no longer receiving Lord Bryce.”

  “What? Why?” Delia turned to her indignantly, feigning ignorance. “Why am I only learning of this now? Since when?”

  “Since he behaved in such a repulsive manner last week at the ball and the duel. Bryce is of no consequence to me anymore—as you know full well.”

  Delia shook her head. “God, you are so spoiled.”

  “Spoiled?” Maggie echoed in shock. “Why would you say that? I am not.”

  Delia’s eyes gleamed. Then she glanced toward the stream of oncoming carriages. “Oh look, there’s the Duchess of Rivenwood.”

  Thank God, Maggie thought, clenching her jaw. Delia usually behaved a bit better in front of Serena or anyone higher-ranking than herself, the phony.

  “Ugh, but she’s with that insufferable Portia Tennesley again,” Delia added under her breath.

  “What’s wrong with Lady Portia? I thought you liked her.”

  “She never shuts up about her stupid wedding.”

  Maggie held her tongue, though there was some truth in that. Still, it was far preferable to hear the latest minute details of Portia’s wedding plans than continue listening to Delia’s browbeating.

  Poor Portia. Everybody knew that the only reason she was obsessed with planning her wedding was because the man her parents were forcing her to marry was said to be such a crashing bore.

  Maggie could not confirm this, since she had never met the groom. The Duke of Fountainhurst rarely came to Town—never mind that Fountainhurst House was one of the giant ducal mansions that graced the four corners of Moonlight Square. Rumor had it the man was rich as Croesus, but, alas, he had remained single on account of his keen scientific interest in studying—of all things—insects.

  Lord Gable enjoyed astronomy, and that was nice enough a hobby, Maggie thought. Netherford supported the arts, while Serena’s Azrael housed wild animals at the menagerie he had inherited from his father.

  But insects? Creepy-crawly, wriggling little vermin?

  No. This was really just a bridge too far for any fashionable young lady. Even if the amateur entomologist in question was a millionaire duke.

  Poor girl, Maggie thought with a sigh. There were rumors of some other young fellow whom Lady Portia had adored a Season or two ago, but he had disappeared and nobody knew what happened to him.

  Dead, probably.

  To prevent her becoming a spinster, and for the many advantages of any family alliance with a ducal house, her parents had pledged their daughter to the renowned eccentric. For her part, having lost the suitor she’d preferred with no explanation given of his fate or his whereabouts, Portia cared little what happened to her anymore, and, wishing to benefit her family, had not given serious protest to the match. But in her heart, Maggie knew, her friend was already set against her future husband.

  In the meantime, the unlucky bride had decided that if she could not have the man she had wanted, then at least she’d have the wedding of her dreams.

  “God, I don’t envy her,” Delia said out of the corner of her mouth, but when their friends’ carriage rolled into earshot, she turned all sweetness, waving eagerly. “Hullo, ladies! Halloo, Your Grace! Lady Portia! So nice to see you both again! Stop the coach, Hubert,” she ordered her driver. “I wish to speak to the duchess.”

  As Serena’s carriage glided toward them, Delia wrinkled her nose adorably and waggled her fingers, looking faker, Maggie thought, than those costumed wax likenesses of famous historical figures designed by that French émigré artist, Madame Tussaud. For a few pennies, the curious could wander through her studio inspecting everyone from King Henry VIII to Napoleon himself. But with Delia, such entertainment came free of charge.

  Maggie prayed for patience as their carriage glided to a halt by the edge of the Ring.

  Her Grace of Rivenwood, likewise, bade her coachman pull up alongside, though the other two women were heading in the opposite direction.

  “How are you both today?” Serena asked pleasantly. The raven-haired beauty looked striking in a light beige carriage gown with ribbon trim the color of red wine, and a jaunty hat to match. “Quite recovered from the ball, I trust?”

  “Oh yes. You?”

  They exchanged pleasantries for a moment, then Delia beamed artificially at Serena’s companion. “And how goes the wedding planning, Lady Portia?”

  Maggie nearly choked at her sister’s hypocrisy. It was so transparently insincere that she saw fit to chime in quickly, showing a more genuine interest. “Yes, have you decided on your flowers?”

  Flaxen-haired, with guarded blue eyes and a thoughtful face, Lady Portia Tennesley sighed and shook her head. “Sadly, no. Fountainhurst informs me through his clerk that he is concerned we should not choose flowers that disturb the bees.”

  “Oh God,” Delia whispered.

  “There, there, don’t worry, darling,” Serena said, patting her hand while Portia looked forlorn. “You have plenty of tim
e to sort it out. The wedding is still far off.”

  Lady Portia shrugged. “At least he hasn’t given me any trouble over the music. Who can disagree over Mozart? Better than a band of crickets chirping, at least.”

  Maggie laughed while Serena shook her head. “She’s making a joke of all of this,” Serena said.

  “What else can I do? It is a joke,” Portia replied with a weary half-smile.

  “And at least now you’ve got the invitations settled,” Serena insisted.

  “Thanks to you,” Portia said, smiling at her friend and then looking ruefully at Delia and Maggie. “Serena is so much more resolute than I. I couldn’t decide between silver embossing on white linen cards or gilt engraving on cream.”

  “They both sound beautiful,” Maggie offered.

  “They were,” Portia said. “I could’ve taken another month to make up my mind, but…ah well. Delay will not prevent the inevitable.”

  “Darling, he may be…different, but different can be lovely,” Serena said, turning to Portia. “Take it from me. The Duke of Fountainhurst probably has fine hidden qualities.”

  “What,” Portia said with a bit of smirk, “like a caterpillar?”

  They couldn’t help laughing, and Portia tipped her head back to look wryly at the sky, as though imploring heaven.

  “At least he’s handsome. Well, when he takes off his spectacles,” Serena pointed out. “And, er, combs his hair.”

  “I’d hardly know,” Portia said. “I’ve only seen him twice.”

  “Exactly. You have to give him a chance,” Serena said.

  “I just hope I don’t have to share the marriage bed with a colony of ants,” Portia drawled.

  “I’m sure that won’t be the case!” Serena chided as they laughed sympathetically. “But, you know…” The duchess looked askance at Portia with a twinkle in her eyes. “Tall and strapping as he is, I’ll bet he’s got a big worm.”

  Delia hooted with laughter. Portia pressed her lips together and looked at Serena matter-of-factly while Maggie giggled.

  Portia finally shrugged. “Guess I’ll find out. Whether I like it or not.”