Say Yes to the Duke

by Kieran Kramer

  He’d kissed her.

  Really kissed her.

  And she’d never forget.

  Never, ever.

  Although she wished she could. He was a blackguard, a ne’er-do-well. And he’d laughed at her when she’d slapped him.

  The hounds began to whine and wag their massive tails at him, which caused the duke and his friends to look in his direction.

  “You! Groom!” His Grace shouted. “Get over here and pick this up.” He pointed to the still-smoking cheroot in the snow.

  Inwardly, Janice winced. Despite her disapproval of Mr. Callahan on general principles, she couldn’t help feeling very strongly that he didn’t deserve to be addressed with so little dignity. He was intelligent. Shrewd. All virile man. This she knew from experience. Very close experience.

  She sensed a split second’s hesitation before he left the horse, but then he walked toward Janice and the duke with a fearless gait and she found herself bracing. For heaven’s sakes, she reminded herself. He’s a groom.

  But it was no good. Her pulse quickened even further as he approached. He’d unlocked a door to a deeply pleasurable place within her with his kisses, which was reason enough to lose her breath. In his groom’s garb, he somehow managed to exude an aura of power, something that went beyond his impressive physique. It shone from his eyes and seasoned his stride with confidence. She had to struggle to maintain an even expression and thought back to what she’d told Isobel in the carriage: nothing happened in the country.

  And then he strode past her.

  She felt a searing disappointment. The next moment, he was only a few feet away from her, bending over the cheroot, smashing it out in the snow, and picking it up. He straightened and faced Halsey and her both. The feel of his mouth on hers was still fresh in her memory.

  “Move swiftly when I beckon you.” The duke spoke without heat but with an implied sense of supremacy.

  Mr. Callahan stood directly between His Grace and the house. “An old leg injury, Your Grace.”

  It was no apology. And he hadn’t appeared to have a leg injury earlier. Oh, no. He’d been a firm rock of a man who’d held steady all the while that she’d kissed him, kneed him, and then slapped him.

  The duke’s face, implacable as it was, took on a curious cast. “Was it you who told Lady Janice my grandmother might be ill?” There was no chiding in his tone. But there was something else.…

  Control. That’s what it was. The duke was very controlled, Janice thought, and held her breath.

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  She was fascinated to see that Luke Callahan appeared equally in control. It was like watching a chess game between two well-matched opponents.

  “It’s not your place to speak to the young lady at all.” Halsey was still cool and composed. But the tension around his mouth belied his words, making Janice’s heart beat faster.

  “Their carriage wheel broke,” Mr. Callahan replied calmly, “and her driver needed assistance. Naturally, I asked why they were on the estate. It was a matter of security, Your Grace.”

  Yes, that’s right, Janice thought. He’d told her he was under orders to preserve the integrity of the estate.

  “I make those decisions, not you,” said the duke. “Whatever carriage comes through those gates will be free to arrive at this house. All inquiries will be left to me. Have you questioned visitors before?”

  “Never, Your Grace,” the groom replied.

  Janice blinked. He was lying right there. He’d told her he had, that it was his job.

  The duke observed him through narrowed eyes. Mr. Callahan looked steadily back.

  “I’ll fire you for your insolence if you do it again,” His Grace said. “The only reason I won’t this time is because it might distress the lady. Now get the snow off those steps. And do it quickly.” He finally showed some irritation in his tone.

  “Very well, Your Grace.” Mr. Callahan turned to do as he was bid.

  Janice was flummoxed.

  Mr. Callahan had won that match.

  It made no sense, but he’d somehow bested the duke in a game that should never have been played. She wasn’t even sure His Grace knew he’d been defeated.

  The gritty sound of Mr. Callahan’s boot on the stone and the sheer conviction of his movements—shouldn’t he have at least pretended to have a weak leg?—only added to her sense that he was the vanquisher and not the vanquished.

  Yet he was a servant doing a servant’s job. How could he be as enthralling a figure as a duke?

  He’s not. He’s a groom.

  But when she was very young, she’d been a shopgirl. And you always will be, you fool, if you can’t keep your eyes off the help.

  The crowning moment came when Mr. Callahan finished his chore and walked purposefully down the steps. “All finished, Your Grace.” He stood at relaxed attention, his gloved hands dangling at his sides, while the dogs stared avidly at him, their tongues lolling.

  He was a Very Bad Man, Janice thought. And, God help her, she couldn’t look away.

  Except she must when, seconds later, she walked past him. Even with snow pelting her cheeks, she felt his heat. And his gaze. Yet she wouldn’t look at him. That wouldn’t be proper. Kissing him wasn’t proper, either. But what was done was done. She could be proper starting now. She would behave as a real lady should.

  But as she cautiously ascended the freshly cleared steps to the front door with the duke—finally!—his unremarkable friends following behind in much the same way the hounds were, she had an odd craving, considering how fortunate she was to be with His Grace: she wished a wayward groom were escorting her up these stairs instead.

  Was it exhaustion or desperation that made her think this way? Every woman in London would like to trade places with her right now. The duke’s grip was firm and his body next to hers intimidating. Beneath his coat, his calves strained with muscle, and his belly was flat as a washing board. He was clearly in the prime of life.

  And he was without a wife.

  She looked one more time over her right shoulder to see Mr. Callahan, and her heart skipped a beat. There he was, watching her steadily, his mouth grim. Forbidding. As if he was ready to do someone bodily damage. Yet there was also that element of amusement behind his eyes, barely concealed, when they locked gazes.

  Janice bristled. This was the man who’d devoured her lips as if he were partaking of a rich gateau, who’d raked the length of her body with his hot, shameless gaze.

  He was a savage. And he had no right to be amused by her.

  But her body didn’t lie.

  She wanted him, nonetheless.

  Chapter Three

  A butler magically appeared to throw the door wide in welcome. Janice was never so ready to cross a threshold. The duke and his friends came behind her, and then the hounds. When the door finally shut, sealing the scoundrel groom out, she breathed a sigh of relief. She could focus on why she was here—and then she remembered she wouldn’t be here long.

  Her heart sank fast to her feet. And she knew it was because once the roads cleared she would be sent back to London.

  But at least now she was warm. And somehow the hodgepodge of a décor, faded but still dignified—from the suit of armor in the corner to the tall case clock ticking laboriously at the base of the staircase to the ancient hat stand—spoke to her. The home seemed ducal in the noblest sense of the word, achieving an air that overlooked mere pomp in favor of depth and substance.

  Perhaps Halsey was the same way. She hoped so. She’d forgive him his self-importance outside in the snow, as well as his apparent indifference to her. What duke didn’t feel important? And as for his lack of interest in her, perhaps he was wise to maintain his distance. For all he knew, she—like the other women who’d come before her to Halsey House—was after him, and if she followed her parents’ wishes he’d be correct.

  Embarrassed at the very idea of scheming to win a man she didn’t know, especially a duke, she stared upward at the
house’s beams and rich, well-worn tapestries hung on its high walls. Welcome, it seemed to say. I have stories to tell, great and small. A slant of light from the transom above the front door fell on a crystal vase on the massive sideboard, throwing little diamonds over the black-and-white tile floor.

  She might not be Irish, like Daddy, but she was fey in her own way. She got a sure impression that much laughter had echoed through this home’s spaces at one time or another, that abundant love had flowed as copiously as wine at a wedding.

  She had a sudden wish that one of the house’s stories would be hers.

  But it won’t be, she reminded herself. You’re leaving.

  As soon as the roads cleared and her wheel was fixed. It would be a week at most. And it was a good thing. His Grace, his friends … they didn’t want her here. She could tell.

  She tried not to think of the way Mr. Callahan had kissed her, as if he wanted her very much.

  From somewhere far away on the next floor, several women could be heard chatting and laughing. The duke looked sharply up at the top of the wide staircase and then directed his butler to send the housekeeper to the drawing room straightaway. “Tell her that until Lady Janice’s maid has had an opportunity to put away her things or Mrs. Friday arrives, she’ll serve as Lady Janice’s chaperone.” The duke looked to her. “I’m going to tell my grandmother myself you’re here. I’ll see you in a few minutes. Meanwhile, don’t wait. The tea tray should be ready.”

  “Very well, Your Grace.”

  Daddy would be so glad that His Grace was a stickler for the proprieties.

  Luke Callahan, Janice was sure, had completely misjudged the duke, but she’d forgive the groom for maligning his employer so. She knew too well how difficult it was to be looked down upon. Servants met with glaring lapses in kindness toward them every day, and resentments, naturally, could grow very heated.

  “My other houseguests should appear any moment,” His Grace added. “I’m sure they’re anxious to meet you.”

  Before she could reply, he bowed and left her with his cohorts. She really preferred to go straight to her room to unpack first and clean off her travel dirt, but how could she say no to her host? He had a way of speaking that was different from everyone else of her acquaintance—as if he never second-guessed himself but always assumed everyone would do his bidding. And he was deucedly unapologetic about that fact.

  It was entirely mortifying, really, to be left alone with Halsey’s two friends, neither of whom looked at her with any real warmth in their eyes. She understood why the highly eligible duke was on the defensive. But these two?

  They had no excuse.

  But Janice refused to surrender to the awkward situation. A footman led them to a vast space filled with oil paintings of horses. There were bold red accents everywhere: in the fabrics, on the vases, and even on the china on the tea tray. The dogs had collapsed before the fire.

  It was a man’s drawing room.

  It needs a woman’s touch, she couldn’t help thinking as she took a seat by a low table, where the teapot sat at the ready. She hoped Isobel and Oscar would get their own tea very soon, but they probably hadn’t yet. Isobel would soon be upstairs with Janice’s trunks. And Oscar would no doubt go to the stables to the horses.

  She must admit, she even hoped Mr. Callahan would get his tea, although she shouldn’t care whether he did or not. She wouldn’t think of his shapely legs or broad shoulders, nor would she think of the way he’d kissed her, as if he couldn’t get enough of her. She must remind herself that she had many misgivings about him, however glorious a masculine specimen he was.

  The housekeeper, an older woman with a large bosom and a kindly face, glided in. “Don’t mind me, my lords and my lady,” she said quietly.

  “Thank you.” Janice felt as if she’d put out the entire household with her arrival.

  Isobel liked to take her time putting away Janice’s things, so unless Mrs. Friday arrived soon, the poor housekeeper would have to ignore her regular duties. She took a seat near the window and opened a small book that she pulled from her apron.

  Lord Yarrow, whose face was long and his nose markedly hooked beneath his jet-black hair, sat opposite Janice. “So you’re Brady’s stepdaughter by his second marriage?” His voice carried that tonnish ennui that she so despised.

  “Yes.” She poured him a cup of tea. “Although my parents make no distinction between siblings. We’re all one happy family.”

  “Happy? Is that so?” Predictably, the older, rounder Lord Rowntree didn’t sound terribly interested as he flung out his tails and took his own seat on a red silk settee. He had silver sideburns and a strong cleft in his chin.

  “It is so.” Janice handed him a brimming cup, too.

  “Your older sister is very beautiful.” Lord Yarrow gazed at her with open curiosity, as if he hoped she’d react strongly.

  But he’d be disappointed. Janice was used to hearing such compliments about her sister, and contrary to what everyone assumed, she was quite proud to be related to Marcia.

  “Yes,” Janice said, “she’s the most beautiful woman in Town, apart from Mama. Of course”—she smiled—“I’m most prejudiced in their favor.”

  Janice felt a strong longing to retreat to her room and crawl into bed with a good book, not make small talk with these world-weary fellows who were the last men on earth she’d ever want to marry. They certainly didn’t stand out the way the duke did—

  Or Luke Callahan.

  Oh, dear. Him again. She added two lumps of sugar to distract herself. His Grace, she told herself sternly, was the man she should be thinking of. Yes, he was intimidating and indifferent to most of the rest of the world, but he acted as a duke should.

  Yet … that wasn’t nearly as memorable as a groom acting as a duke should.

  It was shocking and inappropriate, how Mr. Callahan behaved.

  But fascinating nonetheless.

  Janice restrained a sigh and looked over her own dish of tea to see Lord Rowntree cross one leg over the other, and the words Mr. Callahan’s thighs popped into her head. An instant rush of warmth to the apex of her own thighs ensued, followed by a strong dose of guilt that made her temples pound. She drank a sip of tea and wondered if she was a wanton or merely prone to outlandish daydreams.

  Mama would be appalled either way.

  Janice was grateful to hear more feminine laughter and the muted sounds of many feet on the stairs. The men paused in their conversation just as three women came into the room, all of them elegantly attired but looking rather hastily put together. Sleepy, even. It was quite a shock this late in the day.

  “Sorry we’re late,” said the first young woman in a strong American accent. “We stayed up past midnight … reading novels.” Dressed in a plum muslin gown and with a mess of black curls framing her dainty face, she gave a giant yawn and plopped down next to Lord Rowntree. “I’m Lilith Branson of Boston,” she said, and extended a hand to Janice.

  For the briefest moment, Janice stared at it, not quite sure what to do. So she put down her cup and held her hand out, too. Miss Branson gripped her palm and shook it hard. “Nice to meet you.”

  “And you.” Janice was excited to meet someone new. It was a rare thing to see an American socialite, especially one as bold and friendly as Miss Branson. “I’m Lady Janice Sherwood. My father is the Marquess of Brady.”

  “I’ve heard much of your sister Lady Chadwick,” said another young lady in a rather dated yellow silk gown. She had brown hair and bright green eyes. “I’m Lady Opal, and this is my sister, Lady Rose.”

  “Pleased to meet you both.” Janice smiled, happy they had each other. She knew the value of sisters and suddenly missed her own.

  Rose was freckle faced, with strawberry blonde hair, and wore a soft blue gown that Janice could swear had nearly threadbare sleeves, although she wouldn’t gaze upon them long enough to find out.

  Despite the sad state of their gowns, the sisters, with their wide-set
eyes, were equally pretty. Neither outshone the other. And Miss Branson was attractive, too. She had dimples on either side of her heart-shaped mouth and a pert nose.

  Janice poured them each a cup of tea. “Were you invited here by the dowager, as well?” she asked with sympathy. Perhaps they’d been caught in an awkward situation, too. It would explain their lack of chaperone. They were certainly of an age to require one.

  The two men watched them all as if attending a play.

  “Oh, no.” Lilith gave a hearty laugh. “I came on my own. I’d read about the Duke of Halsey’s stables. I’ve got my own back home. I figured he wouldn’t mind a visit from an American heiress with a know-how for horses.” She winked. “Don’t tell my father. He thinks I’m over here visiting a boarding-school friend in London.”

  Janice was shocked but tried not to show it.

  “And we’re on our way further north,” explained Lady Rose with a sweet smile, “to our aunt’s house in Manchester.”

  “Our late mother knew the duke’s mother,” said Lady Opal. “We stopped to pay our regards.”

  “I see,” said Janice, trying her best to be understanding. But they mentioned nothing of an invitation, either.

  “Our usual companion was ill when we left our home in Kent,” Lady Rose said. “She should be arriving any day now. As soon as she does, we’ll make our way north again.”

  “This companion of theirs must be very ill,” Lilith said to Janice. “They’ve been here a month.”

  Lady Rose’s brow puckered. “And you’ve been here three weeks, have you not?”

  “That I have.” Lilith stared back at her and drank her tea down in one gulp as the men exchanged amused glances. “But if anyone told me I needed a chaperone, I’d tell them to jump in a lake. I’m rich, I’m American, and I do what I want.”

  Good God, Janice thought. How marvelous that must be!

  But she couldn’t get away from the fact that these women were highly questionable guests. Mama would be appalled that they were here. As for the men, from their poor manners alone Janice didn’t think much of them at all.