The Dangerous Duke

by Christine Wells

  As the twilight faded, he slowed his mount and picked his way more cautiously. He’d intended to work off some of his frustration, but the ride had exacerbated, rather than dulled his mood.

  God, he wanted her. Even in the midst of planning for her protection and securing an amnesty from the government, he wanted Lady Kate with a gripping intensity he’d never known before.

  Refraining from taking her when she lay on that bed so pliant and receptive to his touch had taxed his powers of restraint to the extreme. He had to keep wrenching his mind into focus, bringing it back to the very real problem of keeping Lady Kate from trying to escape. And making sure her brother stayed in jail.

  Quite simply, she fascinated him. He’d never met an aristocratic lady with quite that combination of intelligence and daring. Physical courage, too.

  Jumping from that carriage must have required backbone, foolhardy though the attempt was. But then, perhaps not so very foolhardy. She hadn’t known who kidnapped her, after all. She must have been desperate.

  He’d expected that once he told her of the threat against her life she’d instantly become more malleable. He’d have no further trouble with her once she knew the danger she was in.

  And he prided himself on being a good judge of character!

  Despite a situation that would throw most females into fainting fits, she’d coolly told him she’d already considered and dealt with the likely consequences of her plans to blackmail the government.

  While his mind applauded her cleverness, in reality, the maneuver had only increased the danger. With that tactic, she’d progressed from distressed female ready to do anything to save her brother to professional blackmailer—a woman who knew exactly what she was about. A trouble-maker who might not confine her activities to this one occasion. Someone who needed to be eliminated.

  Jardine had lost no time in appropriating the opening chapter of her memoirs that she’d so cunningly sent to her solicitor for safekeeping. She would be very fortunate if Jardine decided to keep the information to himself.

  Max snorted. He should have known as soon as he met her this assignment wouldn’t be easy.

  EXHAUSTED by her painful efforts, Kate sank into her pillows, panting. Running away was out of the question. Her ankle wasn’t sprained, but she could barely walk. Added to that, she didn’t know where she was and she had neither money nor transport. If someone really wanted to kill her, she suspected she was better off with the duke than on her own. He might try to seduce her when she recovered, but his restraint that morning showed he was not entirely without scruples.

  Kate put plans for escape out of her mind for the moment, but she couldn’t stop thinking about Stephen. Without her to campaign for his release, how would he win free?

  Her brother was a grown man and two years older than she. As far as worldly knowledge went, however, he was like a babe in the woods.

  Lyle said all Stephen had to do was tell the Home Office the whereabouts of a handful of criminals and all would be forgiven. That quiet, stubborn refusal was typical of Stephen. He had a rather tiresome sense of righteousness that would never be swayed by self-interest or greed.

  Oh, Stephen! Why did you have to get mixed up in this?

  And why did she still feel responsible for him, after all these years?

  A door slammed. The sounds of Lyle moving about the adjoining room caught her attention.

  It was Lyle’s estate, his house that had been burned by those rebels. Not only that, but he was a duke, a powerful man. Perhaps he could have Stephen released. Perhaps she might work on him, even as he sought to manipulate her into helping him change her brother’s mind.

  But how?

  A dart of apprehension shot through her, but she shook her head. No. Not that way. A woman never really won if the victory meant compromising her virtue, she was sure.

  But she was very good at charming people, at making men feel comfortable with her. Perhaps the duke might be persuaded . . .

  PERRY could have left her there. She’d lain among the straw, bright pink in the face, sides heaving, like a sow delivering a litter of piglets.

  But he had orders from Lyle, so he lifted her and carried her into the fresh air outside.

  He pulled out a flask—an exact replica of the one Lyle had given him to drink from the previous evening—and raised it to her lips.

  The maid choked and wheezed. Her nose ran. What an appalling sight! But soon, her breathing slowed and quieted. She took out a handkerchief and dabbed at her nose, gazing up at him with puffy, worshipful eyes.

  “Come on,” he said. “I’ll take you home.”

  THE next morning, Kate paused in the doorway, watching Lyle. The duke sat at the only table in the cottage with a handsome traveling desk open before him. He might have dispensed with a change of raiment, but he’d carried writing implements on this rescue mission. Interesting.

  His dark head was bent over a letter he was composing. He didn’t look up, though a flicker of his eyelids indicated perhaps he sensed her presence, the way she always sensed when he was near. He wrote without falter or pause for thought.

  She couldn’t see what he wrote, but she could tell from the decisive movement of his hand across the page that the script would be strong and bold. Like the rest of him.

  Only when he’d signed the document, folded it, and chosen a wafer to seal it, did he look up.

  He rose at once and bowed, letting his gaze run over her. “You seem more like yourself this morning.”

  Careful of her sore ankle, she dipped a curtsey, still aware of the letter that remained unsealed on the table. She burned to know what was in it, but of course she was too well bred to ask.

  Good breeding had become excessively inconvenient of late.

  He made no attempt to enlighten her, slipping the letter, unsealed, back into his traveling desk and setting the desk on a spare chair.

  “Would you care to take some breakfast before we go? I sent my man to the village for a basket. And there is coffee, too.”

  His manner was perfectly polite, but strain tightened the lines bracketing his mouth and darkened his eyes.

  Had he slept last night? Where had he slept? There was only one bed in the cottage, and she certainly would have known if he’d lain down beside her.

  He indicated the coffeepot. “Will you pour?”

  “Of course.” She sat opposite him at the small wooden table and wished for the soothing warmth of tea, rather than the pungent, thick coffee that poured sluggishly into the tin mugs he provided. It looked like mud. She didn’t know if she could bring herself to drink it.

  However, she opened the basket and found slender bread rolls, strawberry jam, and a pat of pale, creamy butter.

  “Nothing like the scent of fresh bread, is there?” she said, hoping he would not see through her chatty tone to the breathless anticipation beneath.

  It was like walking a knife’s edge. Danger to the left and right, and a niggling suspicion that the worst danger of all lay squarely on the path she now trod. She only knew what Lyle told her, after all.

  He hadn’t harmed her yet. On the other hand, the Home Office’s rather final solution to her threats bore the ring of truth.

  Should she believe him when he said she was in danger? What had Lyle to gain from kidnapping her, after all? He couldn’t be so uncertain of his talents as to think he needed to steal her away to seduce her. She’d shown herself shamefully willing on the night of the ball.

  An unpleasant fluttering in her stomach made her take a sharp breath. At least she would not be so foolish as to succumb to him again.

  She glanced up briefly from her bread and butter and saw him watching her with that curious cold fire in his eyes. It was a struggle to smile at him and appear unconcerned, as if that heated encounter after the ball hadn’t occurred.

  Lowering her gaze, she took a swift sip of coffee. She gulped and fought the urge to choke. The hot slurry burned its way down her throat; she felt its heat al
l the way to her uneasy stomach.

  “Is the coffee to your taste, Lady Kate?”

  Her eyes watered with the effort of suppressing a cough, but she managed it. “Oh, yes. Very, er . . . pleasant.”

  Kate was renowned for never losing her aplomb, even in the most fraught situations. For some reason, it had become a point of honor with her to remain in complete control of herself when the duke was near.

  Defiantly, she took another painful sip of the brew.

  “You like George’s coffee?” He lifted his mug to scrutinize its contents. “How extraordinary. I find it almost undrinkable, but unfortunately I’ve had to make do with his services on this journey. The man’s culinary skill scarcely compares with his discretion, but the latter is far more valuable to us at present.”

  Kate cleared her throat. “Where are you taking me?”

  “To a hunting box in the shires. An almost forgotten part of my holdings. My great-grandfather was never fond of hunting, so he leased the house each season. This time, it will be leased to us, a Mr. and Mrs. John Wetherby.”

  Husband and wife? She ought to have known he would try a trick like that. “Why not say we are brother and sister?” she said evenly. “It would make more sense.”

  A gleam in his eye told her not to push the matter any further. Swiftly, she changed the subject. “You don’t look at all like plain Mr. Wetherby.”

  An inscrutable expression came over his face. “And yet, a bare fortnight ago I was plain Mr. Brooke.”

  She gave a wry smile. “Somehow, I doubt anyone would describe you as plain, whether you were a commoner or a duke.”

  There was an arrested look in his eyes. He glanced away. “It hardly matters. At this season, we’re unlikely to be troubled with neighbors.”

  He smiled, returning his gaze to hers. “In fact, we will be quite alone.”

  Seven

  His kiss is warm velvet and sliding ecstasy.

  And the world falls away . . .

  LOUISA Brooke pressed her palms to her heated cheeks. Even the night air that wafted through the open window didn’t cool them.

  How could a lady write such . . . intimate thoughts, even in the privacy of her journal? And why did they make her, Louisa, feel so breathless and jittery and warm? As if she were the one experiencing this dark lover’s touch.

  Louisa knew what her symptoms meant, of course. She was not as naive as a spinster lady ought to be. Not only that, it seemed she was far too vulnerable for one who’d spent her adult life shoring up her defenses.

  This journal represented danger. It explored an erotic realm forbidden to unmarried ladies like her. Perhaps it was right and proper that realm was denied to innocent spinsters. Better to remain ignorant than to burn with longings destined to remain unfulfilled.

  But for this well-born, unmarried lady there was no escape from that confronting text. She had a duty to perform. She couldn’t turn away from the ardent words that wove sinuously, like tendrils of a vine around her mind. Clinging, twisting, gripping until she thought of little else but that small volume and the wealth of passion it contained.

  Heat flared through her body as she recalled a particularly evocative passage. Max had said she might find the journal’s contents shocking. Did he know the author of this work? And why did he want it translated? What did one woman’s sexual odyssey have to do with national security?

  She shouldn’t think about it. She should simply do as he asked: translate the journal and return it to him as quickly as possible. Perhaps, if she tried very hard, she might make her mind translate automatically, without consciously considering the information at all.

  Louisa smoothed her trembling hands on the skirts of her muslin gown. She picked up her pen and dipped it in ink. She bent her gaze to the page and tried to fortify her mind against this strange sensual offensive.

  But the shadowy figure of this lady’s lover loomed large. The act of translation, expressing those thoughts and feelings in her own words, using the pronouns “I” and “my,” seemed to intensify her reaction to the text.

  Boldly, I ran my palm along his flank and covered his male parts while he slept. He did not sleep much longer . . .

  Louisa gasped and her pen sputtered ink over the page. She reached for a blotter and pressed it down to remove the excess ink.

  How could she write such a thing? She’d never be able to look her brother in the eye again.

  She pushed away from the table, repressing a wild urge to scream. It was too much! He couldn’t expect this of her. Surely, if Max knew what the journal contained he’d never have asked her to translate it.

  The blatant eroticism of the text was one thing, but beneath it ran familiar undercurrents of frustration and longing.

  And loneliness. God, yes, the loneliness was so sharp she could taste it. She’d experienced those emotions too many times on her own account to wish to relive them through someone else.

  She rose and paced restlessly to the window, kneading her nape with her ink-stained fingers, digging without mercy into the knotted tendons beneath straggling wisps of blond hair. The pressure and pain came as welcome relief. She’d sat too long at her task.

  Far longer than she should have. She ought to get word to Max that she could do no more. When he discovered the nature of the journal he would understand, surely. He would take the journal away, to someone else who could read and write Italian, most probably a man . . .

  No, she couldn’t allow that. Strangely, she felt a kinship, a loyalty even, to this unknown authoress. The possibility that this lady’s secret life might become fodder for an insensitive man’s amusement appalled her. The thought propelled her back to the table again.

  She touched the small book, softly running her fingertips over the page.

  Someone had written this. A lady, much like Louisa. So like Louisa, in fact, that it might have been her own words she translated. Those experiences became hers; she became the woman in those pages.

  And the dark lover took on a face she knew too well.

  “My dear Louisa. All alone?”

  The unwelcome voice jerked her out of her thoughts. She turned swiftly, and an even more unwelcome figure stood there in all his dark-edged masculine glory.

  Smiling at her, rot him. Lord Jardine had the most devilishly attractive smile. Thank God it no longer affected her the way it had when she was a naive seventeen.

  Too late now, a voice inside her whispered. You are lost.

  Louisa forced her tongue to work. She managed to say in her usual, calm way, “The family is from home this evening. But I’m sure the butler told you that at the door.”

  He inclined his head. “Astute of you. Yes, I believe he mentioned some such, but I wasn’t attending. The mere sound of your name obliterates all else from my mind. But why so pale, m’dear? Surely, you expected me.”

  He paused, then said softly, “Aren’t you going to ask me to sit down?”

  “No,” she said. “If I’d known you were here, I would have refused to receive you. I suppose you bribed your way in.”

  “Greased old Finch’s palm with a couple of yellow boys,” he agreed. Then he frowned, those quick, dark eyes searching her face. “Why are you hiding from me? I’ve looked for you all week since I heard you were in town.”

  Her control almost slipped her grasp. “You are scarcely of such significance to me that I would put myself to the trouble of avoiding you.”

  He gave a crack of disbelieving laughter. “My love, you will have to do better than that.”

  She scowled. “I’ve been unwell, if you must know. In fact, it’s very likely an infectious complaint, so you’d best leave me before you catch it.”

  His brows snapped together. He strode forward and took her chin in his hand. Slowly, Jardine turned her face to the light with a deft, delicate touch as if he were an expert examining fine porcelain.

  She tried not to flinch.

  “But no,” he murmured. “You’re not pale at all. You a
re flushed, in fact.” His frown deepened. “If you have a fever, why aren’t you in bed? Why isn’t someone attending you?”

  A fever? She almost choked. That described her condition precisely. She stared into his face, with its angular lines and dark velvet eyes. The spoiled, rich, beautiful mouth that begged to be . . . kissed.

  It took every ounce of her will to resist the standing invitation of that mouth. She batted his hand away and stepped back. “Your concern is touching but unnecessary, my lord. I am well enough, as you see. Why are you here?”

  He stared at her, quite as if he guessed the reason for her reddened cheeks. Slowly, he smiled. “Do you know, I have quite forgotten?”

  She couldn’t stop her hand from reaching up to fidget with the fichu that shrouded her bosom. He watched her nervous gesture, then turned away with a quirk to his lips.

  The second his eye alighted on her work was a second too late. Her heart leaped to her throat, beating madly. She’d forgotten to cover the journal. And worse, the translation, written in her own hand, lay there for anyone to see.

  Curse the man! His mere presence scrambled her wits.

  Wildly, Louisa searched for some form of distraction. She could only think of one thing.

  Despising herself, she put the back of her hand to her forehead and swayed.

  “Oh! Oh, help me! I—I think I’m going to faint.”

  “AND how do you like Derbyshire, sir? I hear it is excellent country for raising sheep.”

  Kate had managed to keep up a polite, prosaic flow of conversation for most of the journey to the hunting box. Lyle indulged her, as a parent might indulge the hopeful chatter of a child striving to postpone bedtime.

  An apt analogy! Bedtime with the duke was something she, too, was determined to avoid.

  His lips twitched. “I confess, I hadn’t thought about it. I inherited Lyle Castle less than a fortnight ago, you know.”

  He stretched one long, booted leg before him, and she couldn’t help noticing the flex in his thigh muscle, so close to hers. He had the thick, powerful thighs of a sportsman.