Duke of Storm

by Gaelen Foley

  And now she sat here marveling at the chance to become his wife.

  Was she asleep right now, or was this really happening?

  She could barely speak as a future more wonderful than she’d ever dared hope for blossomed into possibility right before her eyes, like magic. Not just marriage, not just escape from Delia’s. But him. A husband who gave her such joy.

  Love.

  Except…

  Connor waited for her answer, palpably on edge, looming in the shadows with a frown, while the moon looked on. Restlessly, he folded one arm across his lean middle and rested the other on top of it, his loosely curled hand obscuring his mouth.

  His piercing stare never left her.

  And for her part, Maggie was acutely aware of him. A part of her wanted to trap this moment and save it forever. The night that he proposed…

  Yet she hesitated, sitting there with the hard bench at her back and a scattering of leftover raindrops blowing off the trees around them.

  He arched his eyebrows, tapping his finger against his mouth as though he were mentally timing her answer.

  Little did he know the reason for her prolonged silence, however.

  The truth was, the well-behaved, the generous, the unselfish Maggie Winthrop was privately fighting a savage moral battle with herself.

  Take this man, this duke, this war hero for her husband? Share in all his wealth and power? Unleash the fullness of her blazing desire for him—and get to leave Delia’s?

  He was offering her everything she wanted on a shiny silver tray.

  But…a marriage of convenience? Because he felt sorry for her? Because he felt guilty, and obligated to make it up to her, as if the whole Hyde Park debacle were his fault?

  She couldn’t possibly take advantage of his chivalrous nature like that.

  Could she?

  He was so dear, with his concern for her. But Connor didn’t owe her anything.

  So she grappled with temptation. Wanting, for once in her life, just to give in to her own selfish desires. Admittedly, there was also a certain measure of dismay that her dream man had only offered marriage out of “practicality.”

  Trying to read him, she noticed that his frown had deepened into an impatient scowl as he waited for her to say something.

  “Well?” he said, sounding a trifle exasperated with her. “Tonight, if you please?”

  Maggie struggled for words. “Your Grace—”

  “Connor.”

  “Connor,” she echoed faintly. Don’t be selfish, Maggie. Don’t be like Delia.

  “Connor,” she started again, clutching tightly to all her hard-won Christian virtue. The meek shall inherit the earth. She forced a patient smile. Blessed are the peacemakers. “You mustn’t blame yourself for what happened between Delia and me.” She took a deep breath. “This is my problem, not yours. Trust me, it’s been going on for a very long time. I don’t want you to feel as though it’s your job to fix it.”

  He stared at her, his coal-black eyebrows knitting together, as though he had no idea how to take that reply. “Yes…but…” He seemed to weigh every word. “Such an agreement would hold advantages for us both,” he pointed out. “We’ve…already become rather comfortable together. For the most part.”

  Maggie gulped silently, remembering those lush kisses they had shared in the alcove. Comfortable indeed. “True.”

  Yet she could not help noticing that this Connor, here in the garden folly, was a very different fellow from the self-assured warrior she had met that first night at Amberley House.

  When he had proposed their first bargain, hiding innumerable secrets up his sleeve, he had seemed aloof, amused, and coolly in control.

  Tonight he was volatile, edgy. Maggie sensed that she had better handle him with care.

  She did not want to offend the man when he was doing this to try to help her. “You do realize we only met ten days ago?” she asked.

  “So?” He shifted away from the post where he was leaning, and the floorboards creaked beneath his muscled weight.

  He stood with his feet planted wide and clasped his hands behind his back, as though he were giving his report to the generals. “Matches have been made on far less.”

  “Yes, but—” Maggie’s patience began to fray at the edges. Why was he making this so difficult on her? She held on to her smile, though it thinned. “You aren’t listening. What happened between Delia and me wasn’t your fault in any way. You are not obligated to me.”

  “I never said I was.” The set of his square jaw was implacable.

  Maggie pressed her lips shut and lowered her head, her pulse pounding with the nearness of temptation. Just give in.

  Oh, it would be so easy to whisper a yes. Selfishly lay claim to all that he was offering, for her own benefit. But she knew that he was passionate, impulsive, hot-tempered, and deeply loyal.

  And, right now, he was angry over her misadventures of yesterday. But marriage was too big a decision for anyone to make from a passing mood.

  What if he regretted it once his righteous anger passed? She couldn’t live with herself if she exploited the moment for her own benefit.

  She sought another tack. “What about the plot to assassinate you? I thought you said you want to find the killer first.”

  “Yes. The marriage itself would have to wait until after the threat is laid to rest. But I’ll be better able to concentrate on that task once I can rest assured that your situation will be sorted, as well.” His tone was businesslike, grim. “I cannot watch you go through this anymore, Maggie. I won’t stand for it. You deserve better in life, and I can give you that.”

  She quaked a little at his ferocity, then strove for clarity while the frogs sang their springtime serenade. “I appreciate your desire to protect me. I do. You are most gallant. But…it’s not your job to rescue me.”

  “Damn it, Maggie, what if I want to rescue you?” he retorted, nigh glaring at her. “What if that’s the reason men like me exist?”

  She did not know what to say to that.

  Well, actually, the next words that came were ones she did not want to share, because they were so pitiful.

  A soft sigh escaped her and she lowered her head, cringing at the prospect of uttering them. But he deserved the truth.

  He waited. “What?”

  She fidgeted with her hands in her lap, unable to meet his gaze, nor to keep the tremor of emotion from her voice. “You can’t marry someone because you feel sorry for them, Connor. Believe me, I know what that’s like. I had suitors I pitied, too, and I’d rather die than be that to you.”

  “Pity?” he exclaimed. “Are you daft, girl?”

  She looked up abruptly and found him studying her like she’d sprouted two heads.

  “This isn’t pity! What do you take me for, a saint?”

  Startled, she watched him as he began to pace. “What is it, then?”

  He did not answer at once, but eyed her warily as he marched the four paces it took him to reach the other side of the gazebo. “Practicality is all, like I told you.”

  Pivoting, he paced back the other way, toward the stairs, restless as a lion in a cage. “You’re easy to be with. You make a person feel…comfortable around you. And you seem to tolerate me more than I would’ve expected from any Englishwoman. We’re well situated to help each other. Besides, you’ve lent me your assistance, and I never forget those who help me. I always reward me friends and allies. That’s how you keep ’em.”

  “I see.” She pondered this for a beat, rather more confused. “So…you want to marry me from gratitude?”

  “In part, aye.” His Grace seemed to be growing rather nervous. “And, come,” he added with a roguish half-smile, “think of the laugh we’ll have. Can you imagine the look on your sister’s face when she hears the news?”

  Maggie smiled ruefully at him. Thank God that at least it wasn’t pity.

  “So, practicality and gratitude…and revenge on Delia and Bryce. This is very generous o
f you, but I’m still not entirely sure such things form the best foundation for a marriage.”

  “God, you are stubborn,” he muttered, but her hesitation only seemed to make him more determined. “There’s also the fact that both of our former modes of life have ended now. A man needs a purpose!” he declared. “Mine ended when we trounced Boney. You, meanwhile, got tossed out of your home when your father died—Delia told me so, remember?—with all her bragging about how generous she is to let you live there.” He shook his head. “What a piece of work.”

  “Well, be that as it may,” Maggie said uncertainly, “it’s bad enough being a burden to my sister. I should never want to become one to you.”

  “Nonsense.” He stopped pacing and frowned at her, resting his hands on his hips. “I’ve got to take someone for a duchess, don’t I? Aunt Lucinda’s already got some girls she wants me to meet at her soirée on Friday night—”

  “What?” Maggie cried, sitting up straight.

  “Aye. I told her I can choose my own wife—and why shouldn’t it be you? You’ve got the right sort of bloodlines, don’t you? Your father was an earl. You’ve been trained all your life, born and bred to run a large aristocratic household, have you not? You’re perfectly well qualified for the post.”

  Ouch. Qualified for the post? So, what, he was hiring her to be his duchess? Maggie nodded vaguely in answer to his questions about her bloodlines and education, but failed to hide her wince at what he’d apparently meant as a compliment. Good Lord, he sounded like he was selecting which of his troops to promote to sergeant. Somehow, this was almost as lowering to her as Bryce’s rudeness yesterday.

  But that had been cruel and deliberate. Connor was being innocently sincere.

  Which somehow only made it worse.

  For he never even came close to uttering the one word she longed with all her soul to hear.

  “Ahem.” She finally found her voice and a path to take if she had any hope of smoothing over the excruciating awkwardness that had descended upon them. “Right. So, then. You are proposing a marriage of convenience.”

  Apparently, he heard the disappointment in her voice, for he bristled and stepped back. “If you don’t like the idea, then say so.” He lifted his hands out to his sides. “You don’t have to come up with any excuses, all right? I can take it. I’m a big boy. Actually,” he cut her off before she could speak, “I think I understand you just fine—so never mind, as you wish, no matter. It was just an idea,” he muttered, then turned away and went to the railing, putting his back to her.

  Utterly confused, Maggie blinked, trying to comprehend the man.

  “Jaysus,” he grumbled under his breath, “I’ve heard women are fickle, but ’twas only two nights ago that you were in my arms. Up in the alcove—in case you’ve forgotten.” He glanced over his shoulder at her.

  Maggie gulped at the reminder.

  “I should’ve thought then my interest in you was clear,” he muttered, turning away again.

  Hold on…

  Maggie’s pulse slammed in her veins as it started dawning on her—or rather, as she slowly let herself dare to believe—that maybe, just maybe, there was more real feeling behind this offer than the rough-and-tumble warrior cared to admit aloud.

  “Reckon I read too much into those kisses, then,” he said, studying the sky from his spot at the railing. “I merely thought to offer myself as a solution to your problem. But if you don’t like the idea, then never mind.”

  He paused.

  “Just tell me one thing.” He kept his back to her, his hands planted on the railing. “Is it because I’m Irish?”

  Her eyes widened. “What?”

  Belated understanding flooded in.

  “I mean, it would barely come as a surprise—I’ve been dealing with the prejudice all my life. I just really hadn’t expected it from you.”

  “Connor, no! Never!” Maggie leapt to her feet and rushed across the folly to him, laying a hand on his shoulder. “That’s not it at all. I promise you!” Taking his arm to force him to turn to her, she searched his face, which wore a wounded glower. “It’s got nothing to do with your Irish blood, my…dear friend.” She did not have the courage to call him anything more intimate than that.

  “What is it, then?”

  “It’s because you’re so much more to me than some mere solution to a problem, Connor. And I so want to be more than that to you,” she finished in a heartfelt whisper.

  He scanned her face with a guarded look, as though weighing the sincerity in her eyes.

  “It was different with all my other suitors,” Maggie confessed. “I just wanted out of Delia’s house, and I still do. But with you… Connor, I care for you so much. I know it’s fast; I know it’s reckless. And I am not trying to be difficult, o-or hurt your feelings. It’s just…I would want you to want me for more than just a marriage of convenience.”

  “But, Maggie, I do.” His glower vanished, replaced by a soulful stare as he cupped her face. “God, what a coward I am. Forgive me,” he whispered, “I feared what you’d say. I didn’t want to look a fool. But I am one. God knows I am.” He swallowed hard. “A fool in love with you.”

  Maggie touched his chest in an awestruck caress. “I feel the same.”

  “You do?”

  She nodded, full of wonder.

  He caressed her arm. “Well, then…?”

  “Yes,” she said, trembling. “I will marry you.”

  His eyes glowed as he savored her answer. Maggie slid her hands up his chest, curled one behind his nape, and pulled him down to kiss her. Connor wrapped his arms around her waist and drew her close against his warm, powerful body.

  Ignoring the taste of the cheroot on his lips, the stubble roughening his chin, she wound her arms behind his neck and pressed her lips to his in excitement. He slid his hands around her waist and she clutched him tighter, coaxing his lips apart, but he pulled back as though she’d be offended after he’d been smoking.

  “I don’t care,” she whispered. Then she captured his rugged face between her hands and kissed him more insistently, licking his lips apart with the tip of her tongue.

  He groaned and gathered her into a tighter embrace. Thrilled to the core, Maggie stroked his stubbled jaw, devouring the smoky, liquor-tinged flavor of him. His raw maleness intoxicated her.

  Reject him because of his Irish blood? Was he daft? She’d had no idea that this small Achilles’ heel of insecurity had existed behind his tough, formidable exterior; it showed that he had been wounded in some secret place deep in his heart, and it called to the nurturer in her.

  It made her love him even more and vow that, as his wife, she’d take good care of him.

  Perhaps if the mighty major possessed this hidden weak spot of a type so familiar to her own, for she doubted herself in so many things, then maybe likewise she could find a little of the strength deep inside herself that was so obvious in him. But as she kissed him, their tongues swirling, lips wet, all she wanted to do was make him understand that he had no such thing to fear from her.

  “Oh Connor,” she whispered between kisses, “ever since I met you, all I want is to be with you.”

  As if by magic, her words unlocked a whirlwind of desire from within him.

  His hands ran down her sides, then he lifted her off her feet; Maggie gasped in breathless delight and wrapped her legs around his waist, her skirts rustling.

  “You are a marvel, girl,” he said gruffly, and moved toward the nearby post, holding her with her back against it as he stood between her legs.

  “God, what you do to me,” he panted between kisses. “I’m sorry I wasn’t more direct. I usually am.” He laughed at himself, husky and low. “I didn’t want it to change anything between us if you said no.”

  “Say no? To you?” She, too, laughed breathlessly as her body heated with the feel of him against her, his lean hips firm between her thighs. “Have you taken leave of your senses, man? How could I possibly? How could any woman?”


  “You’re not just any woman, my darlin’ Maggie.” As he kissed her over and over again between his ragged phrases, she was quite prepared to forgive the scoundrel anything. “You want the truth? Hang the marriage of convenience. Marry me because I’m mad about you. Because we belong together. I feel it in my bones.”

  “Yes,” she gasped out. “Yes, yes.” She dug her fingers into his broad shoulders and kissed him fiercely. “I was yours from the first moment I saw you.”

  “God, I want you,” he said with a thrilling note of savagery in his groan. He pressed in tighter between her legs, subtly caressing her with his entire body, while he held her at waist level by the cheeks of her backside.

  Maggie undulated against him. It was so deliciously scandalous, but she couldn’t stop. As Connor kissed his way down her neck, she unbuttoned her cloak with trembling fingers, baring more of her chest.

  All the while, she thrilled to the silk and warmth of his lips and the scratchy delight of his chin chafing the crook of her neck.

  Her chest heaving, she ran her hands through his hair, giddy with pleasure; as he lifted his head, she turned her face and flicked her tongue playfully against his ear.

  A violent quiver ran the length of him. “Sweet Christ, girl, you drive me mad.”

  “I want you, Connor. I’ve waited my whole life for you.”

  “Angel.”

  “Take me,” she whispered in his ear.

  He laughed softly, breathlessly. “Not here. You little madwoman. You’re killin’ me.”

  “Uhn, please.”

  Drawing his face back from hers an inch or so, he gazed at her. Temptation glittered in his eyes. Feeling downright feverish, Maggie licked her lips, waiting.

  He moved away from the post where he had pinned her so delightfully, and sat down, putting her on his lap. “No, my lady. I know you, and I wouldn’t want you to be doing somethin’ you might regret before the wedding. But I can give you this…”

  He ran his hand down her chest and over her stomach, resting his fiery palm over her mound through her walking dress. With a shudder of desire, Maggie closed her eyes, her heart pounding.