Daring a Duke

by Claudia Dain

  “I can take care of myself,” she said, “and that doesn’t necessarily mean . . . what you are implying.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Sometimes, Hugh, a woman is not interested in . . .

  avoiding a man’s attentions,” she said, looking up at him, her smile bright. “Sometimes, in taking care of herself, she welcomes them.”

  Edenham grinned. “Why, Libby, are American women truly that free?”

  This was it. Her chance, if she dared take it. Looking at Edenham, it was very difficult to think of any reason to avoid him. It. Her chance.

  “Why not find out?” she said.

  It was the most daring thing she had ever said. She was grinning from ear to ear. She couldn’t help herself. She felt positively inspired. Inspired to do what, she was too demure to list, even to herself.

  “A challenge? I accept,” he said without a moment’s hesitation. “To defeat the memory of Ezekiel Biddle, I accept.”

  Jane laughed. “Poor Mr. Biddle. I do think he would be much alarmed by your fascination with him. He is a simple man, who simply happened to . . .” She shrugged. It was suggestive, she was almost certain. Certainly Ezekiel had more currency as a mysterious suitor than what he had been, a groper.

  “Whatever he happened to do,” Edenham said, “I must and shall do better. Now, where shall this challenge be taken up? I do think I know a place. Are you willing, Libby?”

  She could refuse him. She had that power and she wasn’t afraid to use it. But why refuse him now? She could just as easily refuse him later, after she had enjoyed herself for a bit. How was a woman supposed to gain any experience at these things if she went about refusing men out of hand, before they had actually done anything remotely interesting?

  “I do think that Ezekiel must be challenged. He shall grow so very arrogant in his talents if he is not,” she said.

  Poor Ezekiel. She was using him dreadfully.

  “And we both know how you dislike arrogance in a man,” he said, indicating by a wave of his arm that she should follow him across the stair hall to a small door on the far side, leaving the doorways to both the blue and red reception rooms behind them. She followed, intrigued.

  “Where are we going?” she asked. “You seem to know this house very well.”

  “I do,” he said. “In fact, most of the guests here today know this floor very well. Hyde hosts an assemblie every year, this circuit of rooms visited by one and all.”

  They had passed through a small doorway from the stair hall into an antechamber done up in shades of cream and ivory and some very discreet gilding. It was a smallish room by Hyde House standards, but it had three windows so it was quite impressive if only in that. But they did not stay in the antechamber. Edenham, taking her by the hand, which he did with such easy confidence that she couldn’t be alarmed, and certainly it was nothing like the tentative touch of her hand that Reliance Jones had proffered, led her into a larger room. A bedroom, to be precise. The room was nearly covered in gold leaf, the bed was colossal in size and appointments, the bed curtains lush, and a thick carpet covered nearly the entire floor.

  Edenham, still holding her hand, looked at her with a very boyish and slightly mischievous smile, and said, “I hardly know where to begin, but no matter where I begin it, this is the perfect place to start and end it, isn’t it, Libby?”

  “A bedroom?” she said, pulling her hand out of his.

  Well, actually, that was what she intended to do, but he held her fast. Reliance Jones had certainly not been so bold. She yanked her hand back again. Edenham smiled and pulled her to him. Her feet skidded across the carpet. It was most shocking.

  “This is the state bed. It’s rumored that George I slept in it.”

  “Didn’t he have his own bed?” Jane said, pushing against his chest with her free hand. Edenham had the other one tucked behind him, the result being that she was hugging him. By force, though, not by choice. An important distinction.

  “Sometimes, you use whatever bed you can find,”

  Edenham said, his half smile fading from his mouth as he lowered his lips to hers.

  It was not at all what she had expected. For one, she had lost all control of the situation, which was most, most distressing. For another, he was behaving entirely more aggressively than he had done previously, which did put quite a different spin on everything, didn’t it? And finally, she was thrown far beyond curiosity or adventure or even a sort of intellectual excitement.

  Far beyond.

  Her intellect was not even remotely involved. No, this was . . . keelhauling and nothing less. She was being pulled under, her breath stopped in her lungs, her heart slamming against her ribs in a desperate attempt to survive, her mind spinning as sensations rushed through her.

  Some would have called it a kiss. It was far too simple and too innocent a word for what Edenham was doing to her.

  His mouth moved over hers, open and wet, licking her, biting her lower lip, nibbling . . . and then his tongue swept in, a blaze of passion, rolling, searching, plumbing her depths.

  Shocking. Completely.

  And worse? She responded instantly, opening to him, mirroring his kiss, doing to him what he did to her.

  It seemed . . . appropriate, though she could not think why.

  Her hand against his chest no longer pushed, but pulled him to her, her hand a fist in his coat. Her hand that was in his, tugged behind his back, pressed hard against him, pushing him nearer and nearer again.

  He was so very large. It should have been impossible for her to force his body to move in any direction, but she did it. He moved closer, his knee pressing between her legs, the muslin of her skirts tightening against her thighs. She lifted herself onto her toes, her free hand sliding up his chest to wrap itself around his neck.

  Mindless movement. She did not intend to do any of it, indeed, was barely aware of doing anything at all. She only wanted more. To be closer. To get more of what he was doing. To dive deeper. To submerge herself in him.

  “Breathe, Libby,” he whispered, lifting his mouth from hers. “Breathe into me.”

  Oh. Right. She’d been holding her breath. Silly. But breathe into him? Could she? Would she not drown?

  “I’ve got you. Trust me,” he said, his mouth moving down her throat, across her jaw, and then he captured her mouth again.

  Trust him? No, that was absurd. She could not trust him. She knew that better than anything else she knew. He was not to be trusted. He was English. He was a duke. He was . . . kissing her.

  Well, it might be all right to trust him with kissing her.

  It certainly felt all right. All the rest, though . . . she would not trust him on that.

  She felt immeasurably better and threw herself into kissing him, breathing deeply of him, her mouth and his joined, open and wet, seeking and finding.

  She dove in. Without reserve. And he had spoken truly.

  He did have her.

  His hand released hers, yet she still held him to her.

  His hands, now free, moved over her body. He wrapped one long arm around her waist and held her firmly against him, but no more firmly than she held him against her. His other hand, his fingertips, traced the line of her jaw, her neck, trailing down and down until he brushed, just barely, against the rigid tip of her nipple.

  A fondle. Was it? It was so delicate. Nothing at all like Ezekiel’s clumsy, heavy-handed grope at the top of her breast.

  He touched her there again, his fingertip moving up, and then down, and then up again.

  Oh, definitely a fondle. As delicate yet as precise as a hummingbird. She shivered and moaned into his mouth, wrapping her arms about him tighter, pushing her breasts and her aching nipples against his chest, the pressure answering a need she had not known she had. She wanted him to lift her off her feet as he had done before. She wanted him to carry her away, to carry all her rules of deportment and class and nation to the edg
e of this cliff she was on and drop them into the deep blue sea.

  She wanted freedom.

  He pulled back from her, set her back down upon her heels, his large hands on her hips, and ended the kiss.

  That was not the freedom she had been hoping for.

  “Now tell me about Ezekiel Biddle,” Edenham said, his eyes glowing quite green. He did not look at all happy.

  Odd, for she felt very happy, nearly euphoric, a bubbling swirl spinning inside her like a whirlpool. She wanted to laugh out loud, to throw her arms around his neck again and kiss the lobe of his ear.

  In fact, she did just that. All of it.

  Edenham grabbed her around the waist, held her to him for an instant, and she could feel that he was happy somewhere down below the hem of his waistcoat, and then he unwrapped her arms from around his neck and set her down again.

  “I don’t want to talk about him,” she said, grinning. “I’m happy. Aren’t you happy?”

  “You made him up, didn’t you? Pure invention.”

  “Oh, no. He exists,” she said, still grinning, still bubbling. “Do you know you have very pretty ears? Has anyone ever told you that?”

  Edenham rubbed his ear where she’d kissed him, looking at her a bit cautiously. She’d bite him there next time, just a nibble. She could hardly wait.

  “No, no one has,” he said. “Now, Jane, about Ezekiel Biddle . . .”

  “Oh, he’s miles away,” she said, coming closer to him, touching a button on his waistcoat. He backed up a step.

  She took a matching step nearer. “You’re not in pain are you? Did my brothers hurt you awfully?”

  If she said it with a certain cheerful lilt . . . well, she just couldn’t help it. She was happy. And he looked so confused and wary. And his bruised face and cut lip called to her in a most humiliating way. She just wouldn’t confess it to him; there was no reason she should, after all. Was there any reason for him to know every thought in her head? Naturally not.

  “I’m fine,” he said.

  “You look very fine,” she said, grinning, taking another step nearer. Edenham scowled and backed up again.

  “What’s wrong? Are you suddenly shy?”

  “I am not,” he snapped out, his dark brows drawn together in a dignified scowl.

  “Well, then. Why don’t you kiss me again?” He didn’t say anything. He didn’t do anything either. There was only one thing left for her to do. So she did it. “Nathaniel Talbott certainly would never have stopped at one innocent kiss.”

  “Nathaniel Talbott?” he said very abruptly and not at all quietly. “What happened to Ezekiel Biddle?”

  “Your grace,” she said sweetly, smiling up at him, “I certainly think you must have the wrong impression of me entirely. I am not some unsophisticated rustic, sitting alone at the hearth, doing needlework.”

  “No, you’re running through the streets of New York catching men in your hem like burrs!” he said, looking very, very unhappy. She was so glad.

  “Why are you surprised? You did say I was very beautiful. What did you expect?”

  “Nothing,” he growled. “I don’t know what I expected.

  Certainly . . . nothing,” he said again, running a hand through his hair.

  It was a most lovely gesture. He had lovely hands and lovely hair. Could she induce him to do it again?

  Very likely.

  “Don’t you want to kiss me again?” she asked. “Don’t you want to . . . touch me?” His eyes lifted to hers at the last question and a certain speculative gleam arose in his eyes. She shouldn’t have hesitated. It had given him some idea or other. “Who knows how long my brothers may be kept occupied.”

  She meant it not so much as a threat but as a spur to action. He certainly had taken a drubbing at their hands.

  He was clearly overmatched, not that she thought any less of him for that. Her brothers were known ruffians, of the most gentile sort, naturally.

  “You’re not concerned that there’s a bed in this room?”

  he asked, taking a step nearer.

  She couldn’t help it. She backed up a step, just a gentle sliding of her foot. The look in his eyes did not look at all cordial.

  “No, not at all,” she said. “I trust you.”

  “Do you? Why, Libby?” He took another step nearer.

  She held her ground . . . for all of five seconds, and then she backed up a half step.

  “Why, what could happen?” she said. “Nothing that we both won’t enjoy.”

  “True,” Edenham said, smiling fractionally. His smile didn’t look at all cordial either. “And now that I know that no matter what I do to you, your brothers won’t force marriage upon me, I should say that we may have reached the perfect understanding.”

  “What?” she squeaked. Oh, yes, squeaked. There was no denying it. The problem was, she forgot to back up again.

  In the next instant, the next long step, Edenham had her.

  “As you are a woman of such vast experience, I can let my guard down completely, can’t I?” he said, sweeping her up into his arms and then, without any ceremony whatsoever, tossing her upon that great, high, curtained bed.

  Jane sat up immediately from her undignified sprawl and sputtered, “Keep your guard up! Keep it up!”

  She moved frantically to the edge of the bed, and did anyone truly need a bed as large as this? Only a king would think so. Before she got there, Edenham, who, now that they were in bed together, really should be referred to as Hugh, the intimacy they shared being much more than implied, anyway, Hugh grabbed her around the waist and pulled her quite neatly and without any fuss at all back to the center of the bed. The mattress sagged slightly, the result being that Jane and Hugh were enveloped in the bed rather like a pair of eggs in a nest.

  “Oh, it’s up,” Hugh said, leaning over her, his excessively large hand fully encompassing her from her waist to her ribs, his thumb pressed against the underside of her breast.

  “Now, how many other of your many admirers has had you in his bed? Your list appears quite comprehensive.”

  “This is not your bed,” she said, her hands and forearms a shield between them. He didn’t seem to notice that she’d made a shield, likely because his leg was thrown over her thigh. “And I don’t have a list!”

  “Any bed will do,” Hugh said. “Haven’t I just proved that? But I do appreciate your precision about these things, Libby. So few women take the time to be precise. Now, whose bed? Take your time, dear. I’m in no hurry.”

  And so saying, he began to tickle her, right on her ribs.

  He held her down, the brute, his leg trapping hers, his body leaning over her. She kept her arms over her chest, buried her face between his shoulder and the bed, and laughed until she begged for mercy. Hugh laughed right along with her.

  “Quarter!” she shrieked over her laughter.

  “Quarter given,” he said, his hand stilling and lying on her side.

  When she’d caught her breath, they lay like that, side by side, grinning at each other. It was the most unusual experience of her life. They were lying in a bed, side by side, fully clothed . . . and she had never felt more at ease. He was an odd sort of duke, wasn’t he?

  “Tell me about your children,” she said, making no move to leave the bed.

  Hugh braced himself up on one elbow, his hand to his head, and took a deep breath. My, he was handsome. She felt light-headed just looking at him. Jane lay on her back and stared up at the bed coverings above her, her hands folded just under her breasts.

  “William and Sarah,” he said. “William’s the elder, and the heir. His mother died when he was less than a week old.”

  “Her name?” she asked softly.

  “Maria,” he answered just as softly. “William has her eyes. The blue of heather.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “How old is William?”

  “Five in July. Sarah will be three come Sept
ember.

  I named her for my sister who died long ago, a riding accident when she was only a child. I wish I hadn’t now,”

  he said softly, lying back on the bed, his hands behind his head. “I can hardly bear to allow her near horses.”

  “That’s understandable,” she said. “Loss is always difficult. Especially the loss of . . . oh, that’s nonsense. Losing anyone is difficult; child, spouse, sibling, friend. Even an enemy, I suppose. Whom to toil against then?”

  Hugh looked at her with a slight turning of his head.

  “I’m not your enemy, Libby. You know that, don’t you?

  Jane Liberty Elliot. ’Tis a fine name to wear proudly. I like that you do.”

  She did not answer, for what was there to say? Her enemy? No, he was hardly that. Not anymore. Had he ever been? He could not have been, could he? It didn’t seem possible. What was there to hate about this man, this man who had loved and lost three wives, a young sister, an infant child? He was just a man. A lovely, funny, gentle man of the most remarkable looks on three continents.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I’ve never had anyone call me Libby before. I think I like it.” She turned to look at him, propping her head on her hand. “You’ve never had a wife named Libby, have you?”

  Hugh chuckled. “No, a Maria, an Elizabeth, an Ophelia.

  Ophelia and the baby died within minutes of each other.

  I named him Richard.” Needless to say, the laughter had bled out of his voice. “I never thought to have three wives.

  I never thought that . . .” His voice trailed off and sadness had him by the throat.

  Jane did not let anything take her by the throat, nor anyone else, if she could help it. “Hugh, life is full of I never thought that moments, yet when is life is ever predictable? We delude ourselves by believing otherwise. Why, look at me. I never thought that I’d be sharing a bed with an English duke, yet here I am. But no one must find out, you understand. My reputation back home would be in tatters, ripped in such a way that I could never repair it.”