To Love a Duchess

by Karen Ranney

  Once more he withdrew. Suzanne arched her back.

  She was perfect in every way, from her breasts, to her derriere, to her long legs, to the curve of her waist. He would not have changed one single thing about her. The fact that she was eager and impatient was just one more delight.

  She leaned forward, bracing herself on her forearms, her cheek against the mattress. Each time he slid forward she moaned, a soft appeal that had the effect of making him even harder, even more desperate for completion. He moved his hands from her breasts to her hips, pulling her tighter against him even as he felt her begin to shudder.

  Her body trapped him, cradled him, imprisoned him in a demanding grip. He was powerless to control himself. No words on earth, no will, nothing could have stopped him from joining her in that next moment. Bliss overcame him, nearly felled him, and for long minutes he was in the center of a maelstrom, awash in a storm of sensation.

  When it was over, with aftershocks still thundering through his frame, he collapsed on the bed, holding her. His rational mind surfaced, told him to release her and move away. Instead, he wrapped his arms around Suzanne’s waist, his lips against her neck, needing her as much now as he had a moment earlier.

  Reason enough, perhaps, to feel the dagger points of warning.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Suzanne lay awake, listening to the wind howling around Mrs. Ross’s house. Nature had brought them a storm overnight. Perhaps she’d been aware of the thunder and the lightning in a vague way. Adam had interested her more.

  The rain came down in a thunderous volley and then seemed to stop for a little while, a curiously calming rhythm.

  Her arm was extended toward Adam, who was still asleep. Her hand was curled, her knuckles resting against his bare chest. For some reason, it was important to her that they touch and maintain a connection.

  He’d loved her again in the predawn hours before the world woke. This had been a silent joining, one without a word spoken. Their dance had been perfectly choreographed from the beginning of time. A strong and muscular male paired with a curvy, soft female. The only sounds they’d made were those of pleasure. The only requests were done with a kiss or a tender touch.

  They had probably scandalized Mrs. Ross. Had their driver waited outside all night? Was Michael sitting, even now, in the rain? Adam had left his rooms for a few minutes last night. Had it been to make arrangements?

  How very irresponsible of her not to have thought of Michael before now. She was not like George in that regard. He’d thought anyone in his employ should endure any sort of ill treatment. The privilege of working for the Duke of Marsley was enough, in his mind, to make up for any discomfort.

  Yet she’d acted as selfishly last night, hadn’t she? She’d forgotten about anything but Adam.

  If Michael had returned to Marsley House, had it been with a tale that he couldn’t wait to share with the rest of the staff? Surely she should be more concerned about her reputation? How very odd that it didn’t matter to her one whit. She just didn’t care.

  The wind howled at the window as if to chastise her.

  What did she care about the opinions of others? They hadn’t sat with her during the long, dark, endless nights. Not one of them had inquired as to her pain. None of them had even mentioned Georgie in all this time. As if the loss of her child was something unmentionable like her corset or shift.

  She turned her head toward the window. Dawn had been overpowered by the storm, the rainbow of colors on the eastern sky muted by black clouds. Shadows lingered in this bedroom, draped Adam, and shielded both of them.

  They would whisper about her behavior, that she wasn’t acting the role of duchess but one of a strumpet. What did she care about her title? It had never brought her happiness or belonging or a true home. If Georgie had lived she would have tolerated George without a word spoken in protest. If her son hadn’t perished, she would have endured her life, grateful for the gift of being a mother. Now?

  She stared at the shadowed ceiling.

  A thought was beginning to penetrate the haze of grief surrounding her for the past two years. Living didn’t mean that she loved Georgie any less. In the back of sadness, pushing forward inexorably was another emotion: hope. It had no actual reason for being. It wasn’t tied to anything tangible. It simply existed like the sunrise and the sunset, ephemeral and constant.

  Georgie’s death had taught her that her world, the world that was familiar and normal, would be forever different. Nothing would be the same. Yet her life needn’t be over. She could still feel. Last night had proven that.

  Adam’s hand touched her cheek gently before he rose up and kissed her softly.

  “Have you been awake long?”

  “Only a few minutes,” she said, rolling over to face him. She was naked beneath the sheet, but she didn’t feel awkward or self-conscious. Instead, she felt free in ways she never had before. The Daring Duchess. She much preferred that to Marble Marsley.

  His fingers pushed the hair behind her ear. She was going to have a terrible time brushing it later. She would have to borrow his brush because she hadn’t left Marsley House with her reticule and didn’t have a comb.

  When she returned home, everyone would know what she’d been doing. She hadn’t taken a great deal of care with her clothing last night. No doubt it was wrinkled, but the black silk didn’t show much abuse. Perhaps she could get away with it.

  “What excuse shall we give when we return to Marsley House?” she asked.

  “Why must we return?”

  Now that was an idea, one she hadn’t considered. Perhaps she could run away completely from her role and that enormous house. Georgie had been the only bright light in an otherwise dull and dark existence.

  She reached out, her fingers trailing over Adam’s bristly cheek and then tracing the shape of his lips. What a truly handsome man he was. Her hero. Her man of mystery. What had he called it? Not the War Office, but something else. The Silent Service.

  She placed her hand gently over the scar on his shoulder. “How did you get this?” she asked.

  “I was shot.”

  “At Manipora,” she said.

  He nodded.

  Horrified, she stared at that small mark. A few inches lower and it would have struck his heart. He would have died in India and she would never have known him.

  She pressed both hands against his chest.

  “Oh, Adam,” she said, unable to tell him what she felt. She was both terrified and grateful. He must take greater care. He could still be injured.

  What would she do without him?

  The question shocked her. He wasn’t her majordomo. He wasn’t her servant. He owed her no loyalty or devotion. After today she would probably never see him again.

  “Sankara,” she said, the name suddenly occurring to her.

  “The duke’s secretary?”

  She nodded. “He came home from India with George. I sometimes think Sankara was George’s only friend. If anyone would know where that journal is, it’s Sankara.”

  “He left after your husband died, didn’t he?”

  “I was all for him staying on, but I think he was lost without George.”

  He leaned over to kiss her again.

  “Fair enough,” he said, several delightful moments later. “I’ll send word to him.”

  She shook her head. “Sankara won’t come. He’s a man of great pride, Adam.”

  “Then I’ll go see him.”

  She curved her palm against his cheek. “Not without me. I absolutely insist upon it.”

  “Are you back to being a duchess, Your Grace?”

  “I am, Drummond, and I also insist that you kiss me again. Consider it a command.”

  “Very well, but only because I always do my duty.”

  And much more than that.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  A few hours later they dressed. He was more fortunate than Suzanne. What wardrobe he kept at his lodgings was assiduously c
ared for by Mrs. Ross. He had a snowy-white recently laundered and ironed shirt, and trousers to wear. He considered suggesting that Mrs. Ross might be willing to put an iron to Suzanne’s wrinkled dress, then immediately thought better of the idea.

  Like it or not, his landlady was protective of him. You might even say that she was possessive to a certain degree. He had not, up until now, done anything to dissuade her. It had been pleasant to have someone fuss over him.

  However, now it might prove to be a problem.

  He shaved and finished dressing, then entered the kitchen to find the windows misted over. The day was a wet one, the view of the sky promising even more rain. After having lived in India for so many years, he liked the smell of an English rainy day. Something in the air tingled his nose and made his lungs want to expand even farther. Rain cleansed and wiped the dust off nature.

  “However do you make tea?” Suzanne asked.

  He turned from his examination of the garden to see her standing there barefoot in her wrinkled black dress.

  He smiled and wondered how long it had been since amusement had cut through his thoughts and lightened his heart.

  “Is the duchess about to be a serving girl?” he asked.

  She sent him a look over her shoulder. “I’ve been known to do some extraordinary things from time to time,” she said, contemplating the small stove set into the room’s fireplace with a frown.

  “Normally, Mrs. Ross brings me tea.”

  She sent him another look. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Drummond.”

  “Neither do I, Your Grace.”

  They smiled at each other in perfect accord.

  He hadn’t been able to get the sight of her out of his mind. He’d always remember her in his bed, the down pillows behind her, her rosy and flushed skin against the backdrop of his sheets. The covers had been rumpled, the counterpane fanned to the bottom of the bed.

  He walked to the table, grabbed the neck of the wine bottle and held it aloft.

  “‘A jug of wine, a loaf of bread, and thou beside me singing in the wilderness.’”

  “Are you quoting, Drummond?”

  “Indeed I am,” he said. “I, too, have been known to do some extraordinary things from time to time. It’s from the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám. A Persian poet.”

  “Must I sing?” she asked with a smile. “And where is this loaf of bread you claim? I’m starving.”

  “Regretfully, I don’t have any bread, either.”

  “Only wine,” she said. “I’ll get silly at breakfast.”

  “Something I should very much like to encourage,” he said. “I’ll get silly along with you.”

  She tilted her head slightly, regarding him in the same manner he used to inspect the footmen.

  “I cannot think of anyone else with whom I’d rather be silly, Drummond.”

  “Nor I, Your Grace.”

  She walked to him, took the bottle, and startled him by uncorking it and taking a swig. Then she stood on tiptoe and kissed him.

  Kissing Suzanne’s wine-flavored lips was a treat, one he duplicated often in the next few minutes.

  He was about to suggest that they adjourn to the bedroom once again. Or, if she preferred, he could easily throw down a blanket on the floor and they could make love in view of the rain-tossed garden. The only problem was that Mrs. Ross was almost as protective of her plants as she was of him. He wouldn’t be surprised to see her peering in the window with her umbrella in one hand and her flower basket in another.

  “Where is our driver?” Suzanne asked, banishing his thought of making love for the whole of the morning.

  “I sent Michael back to Marsley House last night.”

  She nodded, as if she’d expected that information.

  “And you asked him to come back this morning, didn’t you?”

  It was his turn to nod.

  “We are so very scandalous, Drummond.”

  “No, we aren’t, Your Grace. You were visited by a violent headache. Mrs. Ross, who, incidentally, is an old friend of yours, settled you into a guest bedroom. I slept on a downstairs sofa.”

  “You’re doing it again,” she said. “You’re protecting me when no one asked you to do so.”

  Her words rankled him. “A man should not have to be asked to protect the woman he . . .” His words trailed off. What the hell was he about to say?

  They stared at each other.

  “I apologize, Suzanne,” he finally said. “It’s a natural response to want to care for someone.”

  She still didn’t say anything, and it was probably the first time in his life when silence was acutely disturbing. Should he tell her that he hadn’t known the words he was about to utter until he heard them? That made him sound like a simpleton, didn’t it? Unfortunately, it was the truth.

  “I’ll go and check if Michael is here,” he said.

  Anything but stand there and try to figure out what, exactly, he was feeling. He didn’t have any problems analyzing obscure patterns, deciphering codes, or understanding the people he’d been assigned to watch. But emotions? That was entirely different and out of his range of expertise. Could anyone claim to be an expert? God knew he couldn’t, especially now.

  Michael was in the carriage in front of the house. Adam spoke with him for a few minutes.

  “Begging your pardon, Mr. Drummond, but is Her Grace all right?”

  “She’s fine,” he said. “Her headache seems much better this morning.”

  Michael nodded, evidently satisfied.

  An hour later he and Suzanne managed to exit the house without encountering Mrs. Ross. No doubt she was watching them from one of her many windows. He didn’t turn and look.

  Mrs. Ross had, up until now, showed a remarkable lack of curiosity as to his movements. He couldn’t help but wonder if she was part of the growing network of War Office operatives. He tried to remember how he’d first learned of her all those years ago, but he couldn’t recall. For some reason, however, he thought she’d been recommended to him by someone at the War Office.

  If that was true, it made him uncomfortable. The woman’s caring and concern could mask an assignment—to keep an eye on him.

  When had he become so watchful and questioning of everyone around him? Since he learned that Roger had put another operative at Marsley House. Since he’d started examining every single one of Roger’s motivations.

  Reaching out, he placed his hand on the small of Suzanne’s back, walking with her to the carriage. Once he’d given Michael their destination, they arranged themselves inside the vehicle.

  He had an idea and it wasn’t sitting well with him. Instead of Hackney supporting Roger in his ambitious run for Parliament, maybe their relationship was more complex.

  Was Roger working on Hackney’s behalf? Was this whole assignment merely to hide the fact that Hackney had something to do with Manipora? After all, Hackney had been in India at the time. In return for Roger’s protecting Hackney—and in gratitude—Hackney would be Roger’s financial backer during his run for Parliament.

  Another thing that had been bothering him ever since that first meeting with Roger—how had the man come by his knowledge of the journal? He’d mentioned that someone—an informant—had been close to the duke. Was it his former secretary?

  Adam’s suspicions of Hackney, coupled with Suzanne’s vehement denials of the duke’s treason, were making him seriously question his conclusions, something he’d never before done.

  “What’s wrong, Adam?”

  He glanced at Suzanne. Her eyes were filled with worry. Not grief. Not pain. Only worry, but he wanted to see her as she was this morning with a grin on her face and amusement in her eyes. She deserved to be happy.

  He was determined to give that to her.

  “Nothing,” he said, smiling at her.

  He wouldn’t say anything to her yet. Not until his ideas were more fully formed.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Sankara Bora lived in
a detached house in a fashionable part of London, exactly opposite from where Adam had thought he would live. Evidently, being the secretary to the Duke of Marsley had been a profitable venture.

  “Sankara married after George died,” Suzanne said, almost as if she’d heard his thoughts. “She is the daughter of a prince, I’m told.”

  There had been stranger pairings. That of a War Office operative and a duchess, for example.

  The double bay windows looked like eyes staring at them. The black wrought iron fence contained two green squares intersected by a pathway leading to a red painted front door. He had the impression, as they walked up to the house, that they were being watched. It could just be that his senses were on high alert and he was seeing enemies where there were none. After the events of the past weeks, he could be excused for eyeing the world around him somewhat skeptically.

  He used the brass knocker in the shape of a lotus blossom and waited.

  “I don’t have my reticule,” Suzanne said. “Or my calling cards.”

  He wasn’t familiar with the niceties of society, so he couldn’t offer any suggestions. Surely you could call on someone without announcing yourself? Whether or not it was proper, it was what they were going to have to do.

  The door was opened by a young maid in a black uniform with a spotless white apron. He shouldn’t have been surprised by the fact that she was Indian. No doubt the rest of Sankara’s staff was of his nationality. In the same fashion, English servants had been highly desired by English families in India.

  “I should very much like to see Mr. Bora, if he’s available,” Suzanne said, before he could speak. “If you would, please, tell him that the Duchess of Marsley is calling.”

  The young girl’s eyes widened, she hurriedly curtsied, and she stepped aside for them to enter the house.

  Being with a duchess could be helpful.

  They were led into a formal parlor, one that could rival Marsley House for the richness of its decor. The room was crowded with furniture, all of it overstuffed, fringed, and dark brown in color. Even the draperies hanging at the bay window were brown. Adam immediately felt as if he was entombed in a trench. Even the air smelled dusty, but that was no doubt from the collection of stuffed birds in their glass domes. Six ferns hung in front of the window, further darkening the space.