“You sound so certain that will happen, and how I envy your confidence.” Despite the warmth of the sun, she trembled, and he pressed his lips to her forehead. “However, it will never be over, for me. And twice since my arrival, Lenore has rattled the rooftops with her screams of terror, in the middle of the night. To my regret, my return has awakened old memories, and Sheldon haunts my sister as he haunts me.”
“Why, Lucy?” Tipping her chin, he brought her gaze to his. “I know you hide something, because you could never fool me, but I do not understand why you will not confide in me. What bothers you? What secret do you conceal, and why will you not share your pain with me?”
~
On the surface, Damian’s query seemed pedestrian, in nature. But if Lucy apprised him of the awful truth, of her tortuous suspicions, which, if confirmed, could ruin all hope for happiness, he might reject her, and that would kill her.
“You arrive late.” Adjusting his cravat, she changed the subject. “Your trunks were delivered three days ago, and I have watched for any sign of you, ever since.”
“I would have written after Blake sent word that you docked in London, but you stopped responding to my letters, in January, and I should like to know why.” With a finger, he traced the crest of her ear, and strange sensations coiled in the pit of her belly. “Why do you ignore me, as that is not very nice?”
“Because your correspondence grew rather intimate, after you spent the holidays with my family, in America.” Indeed, some of his suggestions, which detailed indelicate maneuvers involving his tongue and her anatomy, brought the burn of embarrassment to her cheeks. “I knew not how to reply.”
“Oh, come now.” To her pleasure, his voice grew thick with unmistakable need, which she noted happened with greater frequency, in her company. “Given the indulgence we shared beneath the kissing bough, at Christmas, I thought we moved beyond polite decorum, dear Lucy. And you know the legend associated with the custom.”
“Must you remind me of that minor indiscretion?” As if she could ever forget how he explored her mouth, how he drew her into his embrace, and how he tensed at her touch. “And I do not believe in the lore.”
“And what if I do?” With his finger, he tapped the tip of her nose. “Would you refuse me?”
“I can hardly refuse a request that has not been posed.” And before the conversation broached a topic she simply could not ponder, she withdrew from his lap and gave her attention elsewhere. “Will you help me find my glasses? I cannot seem to locate them.”
“Coward.”
“I am no such thing.” That piqued her temper, given all she endured. “Across the ocean I have journeyed to confront a dastardly murderer, offering ample evidence in opposition to your insult, Your Grace.”
“Yet you turn away from me.” The distress in his tone scored a merciless hit, and she whirled about and squared her shoulders.
“I could never turn away from you.” Just as quick, she retraced her steps and found herself in the comfort of his embrace. “But my world is on fire, Damian, and I know not how to douse the flames or find my way home, if I even have one.”
“Why would you say that?” In a move that always inspired reassurance, he rubbed his cheek to hers. “What of Pemberton?”
“That is Lenore’s home with Blake.” And Lucy considered herself an interloper, as she was forever interrupting the couple’s intimate interludes, which knew no bounds, given the unconventional and downright startling places she happened upon them. “I am but a guest.”
“All right.” He shuffled her in his arms and tipped her chin. “What of your accommodations in America, with your aunt and uncle?”
“I am not American.” And the few acquaintances she made in the foreign land seemed to resent that. “I was born and raised in London, yet I have no home there, either.” She clutched the lapels of his coat. “Indeed, I am a vagabond, forever destined to wander aimlessly between two nations.”
“Then share mine.” As she studied the dashing duke, not once did he blink. “Make your home with me and never again wander aimlessly between two nations, as you can build a life with me.”
For a moment, Lucy thought him serious. With her heart hammering in her chest, in accompaniment with the lilting singsong of birds, she just stood there. A gentle breeze teased her flesh and sifted through her curls, yet she remained stock-still, until Damian grinned, and she breathed a sigh of relief.
“Your Grace, you seem forever intent on shocking me.” A hearty chuckle did much to alleviate the stress of the situation, although it did nothing to dispel her disappointment. “I should collect my stringer, as I caught several beauties for dinner.”
“What if I am in earnest?” Thus he thrust her back into the storm.
But what should she tell him when the truth could ruin any chance for happiness?
“There is so much unsettled in my life, right now, not the least of which is the impending trial.” Scanning the vicinity for her spectacles, she seized upon any similar shape that she might recover her invaluable accessory and glimpse his expression without impediment. “However, I would submit that my existence has manifested a whirlwind of disquietude since Papa was killed, and you have been my only constant.”
“I like that, as I wish to be of service, in any capacity, where you are concerned. By the by, I found your glasses.” Without ceremony, he situated her spectacles atop her nose, and she pushed the frames into place.
“Thank you, as you are my salvation.” When Lucy bent to untie the stringer, he rushed to provide aid.
“Let me do that, sweetheart.” How his term of affection thrilled her. As he drew forth her catch, he whistled in monotone. “You were not exaggerating, and I look forward to dinner, as these are my favorite.”
“I know, and I wish to please you, so the cook will prepare them for tonight.” Wringing her fingers, she shuffled her bare feet. “Is this not like fonder times, when we fished in the trout stream just beyond the glade, at Uncle Samuel’s farm in Virginia? And perhaps everything will return to the way it used to be, before—”
“—The kiss.” He slipped the stringer into the water and stood. “You know I never meant to frighten you, but lucky for us I have the remedy for what ails you, lovely Lucy.”
“You do?” Confused, she blinked. “But I do not understand.”
“Do you not, because the answer stands before you, and you possess uncommon intelligence, my dear.” When he advanced on her person, she comprehended his intent and pressed her palms to his chest. “Can you not see, now that I have restored your glasses, the cure is to do it again and again, until it becomes second nature?”
And he was right, as she gazed into his crystal blue eyes, which danced with wicked purpose.
“Damian—” The protest died in her throat, as he covered her mouth with his.
Had he come at her aggressively, she could have resisted him. But her duke knew her well, and he baited her with sweet little flicks of his tongue, taunting and teasing, and she answered the summons, as he fogged her spectacles. Smooth as well-churned butter, he brushed his lips to hers, wearing her down with gentle nips and prods, until she welcomed his tender tack and made a few moves of her own.
The worry, the fear tormenting her every moment seemed to vanish into the oblivion. As he angled his head and deepened the kiss, intensifying the fragile yet robust connection, Lucy pondered the possibilities. Although she desperately wanted to believe in him, in all that he offered, an awful truth presented a very real barrier. Then her naughty duke pulled her closer, breaching every limit of polite decorum, and she did not think, anymore.
THE DUKE WEARS NADA
CHAPTER TWO
A dull painting of some long dead ancestor served as a functional balm to the disconcerting thoughts that swirled in Damian’s brain, as well as the ache below his belly button, as he joined Blake in the study, for a brandy and men’s talk. At least, in the masculine domain marked by leather wall inserts, a Harrison chrono
meter, and the tinge of cigar smoke, Damian did not need to worry about an interrogation on such scintillating topics as courtship and marriage.
“It is remarkably pleasing to see you, brother, as it has been since the end of the January, when last we gathered at Elliott House.” Blake handed Damian a drink and eased to a leather high-back chair. “So, how long have you been in love with Lucy?”
“I am not in love with her.” Damian tugged on his cravat. “She is possessed of keen intelligence.”
“Indeed, she is.”
“And she is a devil of a fisherman.”
“Indeed, she is.”
“She is blessed with sharp wit.”
“Again, you are correct. Yet, none of that fits your usual requirements.” Blake smirked. “So tell me, just the same, when she captured your special attention.”
“I beg your pardon?” For all of two seconds, Damian panicked. Just as quick, he tamped his anxiety, studied the polished toes of his Hessians, and composed himself. “Will you be serious?”
“At four and thirty, I am set in my ways, thus my query should not surprise you.” Blake snickered. “And you have it bad, my friend, thus it is my turn to gloat, and gloat I shall.”
“I submit you have spent too much time in your wife’s company, because you sound like a matchmaking mama.” Perhaps Damian should have remained at Penhurst. “And if memory serves, I supported you in your conquest to win Lenore.”
“Not without the customary ribbing that often accompanies the shark infested waters known as courtship, when I thought you might forgo such childish nonsense.” Blake assessed his fingernails and narrowed his stare. “Thus I believe it only fair to return the favor. And did I not warn you about the younger Miss Teversham, in Portsea?”
“You did.” And Blake’s powers of foresight still irked Damian. “But I had hoped you might rise above childish sport.”
“A-ha.” The leader of the Brethren slapped his thighs. “I am correct in my assertion, and do not try to deny it. Wait until I tell Lenore, as she made me swear to keelhaul you, if you ruined Lucy.”
“There is nothing to deny, because there is nothing between us.” Why could Damian not confide in Blake? What kept Damian silent, when he had shared every single conquest with a man who could not be more a sibling were they bound by blood? “And you would side with Lenore over me?”
“When you are married, you will understand that the bond between a husband and a wife supersedes all else, and you never want to anger your bride, or you could end up sleeping on the daybed in your study.” Then Blake coughed. “Not that I know what that is like, but I submit I could never strike you, so you need not worry. Now, tell me why you frown.”
“Am I that obvious?” When Blake rolled his eyes, Damian groaned. As the mantel clock ticked in a steady rhythm, he reflected on Lucy’s peculiar behavior. “Has Lenore mentioned anything that might be troubling her sister?”
“No.” Blake shifted and leaned against the armrest. “Why do you ask?”
“Because there is something distant in her manner, something new and bothersome, but she will not confide in me.” Or was it a recent development? Given Lucy’s changed demeanor after her kidnapping, she possessed a forlorn undercurrent that drew him to her, as he ached to rescue her from her desolation and despair and restore her ebullient smile, much absent of late. “When we first met, Lucy boasted a seemingly endless supply of energy mixed with joy. However, upon her return from her captivity, she struck me as more mature, yet I am convinced there is more to it.”
“And that is when you commenced the chase.” Propped on an elbow, Blake rested his chin in his hand. “How far have you progressed beyond illicit kisses, that I might smooth my wife’s ruffled feathers?”
“What makes you think I have kissed Lucy?” In mock affront, Damian sniffed and tugged on the lace edge of his sleeve. “As we are just friends.”
“Brother, do I look like I was born yesterday?” Blake arched a brow, and Damian realized his goose was cooked. “When you arrived, with my sister-in-law firmly planted in your lap, she bore telltale swollen lips, a blush in her cheeks, and she could not meet my gaze, evidencing a well-ravished woman. So, shall we dispense with the charade?”
“You exaggerate.” Yet, Damian yearned to savor Lucy’s mouth, as she gave vent to her sweet little moans of pleasure, which she did several times, as they navigated the graveled drive to the main entrance. “It was naught but a simple, welcoming exchange between acquaintances.”
“Is that really your story?” Blake choked on his brandy. “Because I have acquaintances too numerous to count, and we do not exchange welcomes like that.”
“You are too witty, brother.” In the future, Damian would exercise more restraint. Then again, given his love of logic, he doubted his ability to resist Lucy. “But I would argue you are more sensitive to her condition, in light of your familial connections, and you weave unsustainable inferences from whole cloth.”
“You honestly think you are fooling me.” It was a statement, not a question. Blinking, Blake sputtered. “Do you not realize your refusal to share the details only confirms my suspicions?”
“Because you did the same thing with Lenore.” The fog cleared, and Damian discovered, too late, that his conclusion confirmed Blake’s suppositions. “Then again, I am nothing if not discreet.”
“Oh, I see.” Why did Blake’s smile raise the hair on the back of Damian’s neck? “It was prudence that led you to weigh anchor in Lady Wilhelmina’s harbor, in my box at the Theatre Royal on Drury Lane. Or the time you sailed Lady Amelia’s middle passage, on the desk in my study at Elliott House, during Mama’s birthday celebration. Then there was the afternoon I found you naked as the day you were born, with Lady Julia, atop the table in my quarters aboard the Tristan. And then—”
“That is quite enough, and I get your meaning.” Frustrated, Damian pushed from the chair and paced before the hearth, a habit he loathed and often eschewed, as it indicated a lack of control, but he had to do something, else he might run amok. Still, he was unprepared to dissect his feelings for Lucy. “Let me assure you that I care naught for Miss Lucilla, as she is a bespectacled, unpolished termagant destined to become the next Lady Hester Stanhope. Indeed, Lucy possesses naught to recommend her, other than her substantial dowry, of which I have no need, and her newfound familial connections, which I already share.”
~
It was, perhaps, the most unfortunate luck that Lucy perched beneath the large window in Blake’s study, digging for worms in the soft earth under the bushes, just as Damian launched his offensive against her brother-in-law’s assertions. While she had not set her cap for the duke of Weston, given his professed ardor, she coveted hope for a future of which she had never dared to dream, until that Christmas kiss.
In quiet, she collected her small spade and pail, hunkered, and crept from behind the shrubbery. Once she gained the relative safety of the path, she let the tears flow and followed the trail through the rose garden, which brought her to the orangery.
The charming structure, which boasted a combination of brick pillars and glass, offered the perfect sanctuary, where she could hide and have her cry. Just inside the door, she stowed the bucket, wiped her hands on her apron, and then she yielded.
“Lucy, is that you?” Lenore inquired.
“Yes.” Dragging her sleeve across her face, Lucy rolled her shoulders and strolled into the center of the small structure, where she discovered Lenore stretched across a daybed. “I did not know you were here, else I would not have disturbed you.”
“What happened?” Heavily pregnant, Lenore rubbed her protruding belly, set aside her silks, extended a hand, and flicked her fingers. “Come sit with me, and tell me why you weep.”
“But you mistake my condition.” With a half-hearted chuckle, Lucy attempted to deflect unwanted scrutiny, because she doubted her ability to answer queries, without crying. “The win blew something into my eye, and I ducked in here to shelter wh
ile I cleared my vision.”
“Ah, I see.” Lenore patted the spot beside her. “Now, take your ease, and despite your claims to the contrary, tell me why you weep.”
“I do not suppose you could simply ignore me.” Yanking off her spectacles, Lucy plopped to the cushion. To her chagrin, Damian’s words echoed in her brain, and she burst into tears. “Oh, Lenore, I hate myself.”
“What?” Always reliable, Lenore slipped an arm about Lucy’s shoulders. “Why on earth would you say such a thing, when you know you are a beautiful, strong-willed, intelligent young woman?”
“But I am not the sort of lady that would attract a distinguished gentleman.” Why had she believed she could win Damian, a handsome duke, when she had nothing to recommend her? “Lenore, am I vain?”
“You?” With an expression of shock, Lenore pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and dried Lucy’s face. “Never, as it is not in your nature.” Then Lenore bit her bottom lip. “Lucy, has something happened between you and Damian? If he has hurt you—”
“No.” It was Lucy’s stupidity that wounded her. “In truth, Damian did nothing. If anyone is at fault, it is mine to own, for reaching too far beyond my station.”
“Dearest, if I may, are you interested in Damian?” After situating a pillow, Lenore reclined. “Because I believe he intends to offer for you.”
“I beg your pardon?” Again, Damian’s none-too-flattering comments cut through Lucy and provoked a fresh spate of tears. “Why would you suggest such a thing? Has Damian said something to Blake?”
“So you are interested in Damian.” Sisters could be terribly bothersome, sometimes. “I knew it, and that bodes well, because Damian admires you when you are not looking.”
The Duke Wears Nada Page 2