The English Duke

by Karen Ranney

  At least his leg wasn’t hurting. He couldn’t feel much of anything, including his nose. He couldn’t test the theory, however, since his right hand was currently holding on to the banister and the left was carrying his walking stick.

  Damnable thing, that. He hated the tangible proof of his injury. A constant reminder of his own fallacy. He’d been a fool to take Ercole out that day. He wasn’t the horseman his brother had been.

  He wasn’t a lot of things his brother had been, including profligate and hedonistic. No, he was the proper son, the dutiful and honorable child of the wildly popular 9th Duke of Roth. A boy shuttled off to school when he got old enough, given enough funds to purchase a commission when he’d reached his majority.

  He’d never done anything to attract the wrong kind of attention, but neither did he have that spark, that something that compelled people’s interest. His father had it. Simon had it. Reese had it. Even the annoying Josephine York had it.

  He wasn’t dangerous or demanding or dictatorial. He wanted peace and contentment and order around him. He wanted to be able to give his mind room to breathe, to function, to examine and detect.

  The landing abruptly tilted, making him idly wonder if he was going to tumble down the stairs. The Duke of Roth found at the bottom of the grand staircase, limbs shattered, mind lost, a fool dead before his time.

  He gripped the banister even tighter, refusing to lose his footing. That’s one thing he had for which he’d never been given credit—a stubbornness filling every part of him. He wouldn’t give up. He would never surrender. Not to infirmity. Not to circumstances. Not to the mind-altering effects of the elixir.

  Finally, he was done with the stairs, walking with some difficulty down the corridor. He stretched out his left hand as a guide, his fingers brushing against the wall to keep him centered on the runner.

  He thought he heard laughter. Or it might be the elixir, bringing him taunting sounds and images as it normally did. He lived in a cloud of his own imagination when forced to take the stuff. He saw fantastical animals, colors, and shapes. Nothing was tethered to the earth but seemed to float slightly above the ground.

  Not far now. Only a little way. Once in his room he would collapse on his bed and let the hallucinations continue. He’d allow himself to become part of them, the god on the clouds, Neptune of the sea, a bee buzzing in the Duchess’s Garden.

  Thank God he was almost to his suite.

  The bedroom was dark, the only light spilling in from the sitting room. She moved back behind the screen as the duke entered the suite. The door closed hard behind him, the noise loud in the silence of the night.

  Was he angry?

  She hoped not, because she needed to come out from behind the screen and announce herself. How could she explain being in his living quarters without him summarily banishing them tomorrow? Coupled with Josephine’s outrageous actions, they’d hardly been the perfect houseguests, had they? Whether or not Gran felt up to the journey, there was every chance they would be asked to leave.

  She heard halting footsteps near, so close she held her breath.

  Now, Martha. Step out now and explain yourself.

  “Who’s there?”

  His voice was odd, the speech slurred. Had he spent the time since dinner imbibing more spirits?

  She peered out from behind the screen to encounter Jordan standing only a foot or two away from her.

  His hand reached out and touched her, his fingers brushing against her bodice.

  “What the devil?”

  She swallowed with difficulty, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, they were trapped in her throat.

  What could she possibly say?

  He was suddenly closer. She raised one hand and encountered his shirt. In the past few hours he’d taken off his jacket, appearing as he had in the boathouse.

  She was trembling. Could he feel it?

  He took another step. His shoe edged hers, a curious mating.

  He bent his head, his breath on her forehead.

  “A dream,” he muttered. “A fevered wish granted.”

  She didn’t understand, but she thought he might be intoxicated.

  Her heart felt as if it was skipping beats. She was breathless as if she’d been running in the past few minutes instead of hiding in his room.

  Her hand moved, the fingers splaying. She closed her eyes, the better to sense him. Although she had sketched out her father’s plans, she had no talent at drawing. For the first time, she wished she could take charcoal and paper and draw him as she felt him.

  No doubt it was the influence of the mural of Rome, but she saw him as a gladiator, naked but for strips of leather, his eyes deadly intent. This man would fight for his life, would combat anything or anyone set against him.

  He frightened her at the same time he excited something in her, a wish, a desire, a need to be someone different. Daring Martha. Beautiful Martha. Martha, who incited a man’s yearning.

  His breath was on her cheek now and she knew she should step away. Instead, she held herself still.

  “Shall I kiss you, creature of my dreams?”

  She should tell him who she was. She should inform him that she was the plain Martha with whom he had worked this afternoon. The same woman who’d been half in love with him before she ever met him.

  His breath was on her lips now.

  Josephine would have taken advantage of the moment. Josephine would have reached up, put her arms around his neck and opened her mouth to his kiss.

  She wasn’t Josephine.

  But she did the same, standing on tiptoe, stretching both hands up to link behind his neck, waiting. Her first kiss and she desperately wanted it to be with him.

  Suddenly, his mouth was on hers and she gasped in wonder. Every part of her body felt as if it was tingling, from her toes to the warmth inside her.

  His lips tasted of wine, but that was only the first surprise.

  No one had ever hinted about a kiss. Nor had anything she ever read explained it would harness your breath and send your heart catapulting. Your mind would be emptied of all thoughts until it felt as if light spread through you. Your body became a stained-glass window, vibrant colors appearing behind your closed lids.

  Her hands tightened behind his neck as she began to tremble. His arms went around her, linking at her back, pulling her even tighter to him.

  Could he feel her breasts?

  She wanted him to touch her, which was only one of the shocking thoughts she had in the next few minutes. He didn’t release her and she didn’t struggle against him.

  When he finally broke the kiss, they were both breathing hard.

  “You feel real,” he said, his voice different. Lower, perhaps, or slower, as if the words had been carefully considered and deliberately spoken.

  She was shocking herself, but she didn’t want to leave. Not yet. Give her a moment or two more of this bliss, please, enough to last her for a lifetime of memories.

  “You can’t be real.”

  Oh, but she was. More to the point, so was he. So real, so warm, and so close.

  His fingers trailed over the edge of her collar. No one had ever told her that her neck would be so sensitive, or that a man’s fingers would bring fire in their wake. No, not any man, only this man.

  Had he had a great deal of experience in seduction? It seemed as if he had, because he bent to kiss her again and her whole body felt as if it was inflamed.

  If anyone saw her now, she’d be ruined. Worse, she would be ridiculed. Who did she think she was? A true beauty, or a seductress—someone who could enchant the Duke of Roth? No, she was only Martha York, the girl who worked with her father, who could always be found out on the lake. Never in a ducal apartment adrift in passion.

  She really had to leave. She had to escape, now, before anything else untoward happened. She was not going to continue to press herself against his body, marvel at his physique, or compare him to other men she’d seen.

  Sh
e’d never been this close to a man or allowed one to take liberties with her. Not once had she encouraged a kiss or hoped he would touch her.

  How shameful was she? She wanted to see him without his clothes. She chastised herself mentally for her forwardness but she didn’t move away. She couldn’t remember ever having that wish about anyone, but it seemed so natural and so right to want to place her hands on his bare shoulders, marvel at the play of muscles she could feel beneath the shirt. Please, give her a few minutes to flatten her hands against his chest, allow her fingers to trail through the hair there, then dance across his flat stomach.

  Her thoughts weren’t the least virginal. She wished she had more experience instead of having only witnessed the act on a shadowed terrace.

  A button on his shirt slipped free. Two fingers slid into the placket, her fingertips resting against the skin of his chest. By her actions she’d broken some kind of barrier, one of thought and will.

  Slowly she undid two more buttons until her hand slipped inside his shirt. She felt as if she’d done this before, as if she knew him in an elemental way. As if kissing him was natural and so were her explorations.

  His fast breathing was an echo of hers. Was his heart beating as rapidly? Were his thoughts as chaotic?

  She knew what she was doing was wrong, could never be explained to another soul. Yet, at the same time, it felt right and ordained. She was supposed to be here with him in this shadowed bedroom. She was destined to touch him, ramping up the wonder and passion she felt.

  He didn’t move. She continued until all the buttons were open and she could push the edges of the shirt wide.

  Stepping forward, she placed her lips on his chest, a kiss of benediction, of wonder, and possibly of supplication.

  She knew what she wanted to do next, continue disrobing him, revealing him in all his beauty. She wanted to run her hands over his skin, rejoicing in the symmetry and perfection of his body.

  She didn’t get the chance.

  Chapter 18

  Providence had evidently felt charitable toward him tonight. Here, Jordan, I grant you agony with your leg, but forgetfulness in the elixir and passion in the touch of a soft and welcoming woman.

  The room was spinning, but she felt real. She was his prize for having endured the earlier pain. He wouldn’t remember her tomorrow or even a few hours from now. However, he was going to enjoy the hallucination as long as it lasted.

  A waking dream, that’s what he would consider it.

  She was touching him and breathing in a way that made him think she was as aroused as he. If she was real, he’d thank her for making him feel as if he was whole and virile and man enough to please her.

  But she was only a creature formed by his loneliness and the opiates in Dr. Reynolds’s elixir.

  When she’d kissed him, the top of his head went sailing somewhere among the stars. He wanted to kiss her again. He wanted to feel the desire she so effortlessly summoned.

  Where had his walking stick gone? He’d dropped it somewhere after entering the bedroom and being confronted with this delightful dream made real. His hand reached out, pressed hers against his chest.

  He threaded his fingers through the mass of her curls, feeling the softness of her hair as he bent to kiss her. A drumbeat began deep inside him, the rhythm slow but increasing, demanding.

  How long had it been since he felt the touch of a woman? Too long. He’d been celibate for years, first out of necessity in the navy. Second, because after ascending to the dukedom the last thing he wanted was to find himself in a compromising position with a young miss.

  His waking dream wasn’t a virtuous female and he didn’t have to worry about anything. She wasn’t real. Neither was he, in the strictest sense. His mind was under the throes of the drug. His will was compromised. His needs were dominant.

  He folded his arms around her, drawing her closer. In the way of all dreams she fit perfectly as if she belonged there.

  She was tall enough she could place her lips against his throat, sigh against his neck, and make him grateful for the effects of the elixir.

  He’d never before kissed a woman and felt like this. Not once in his experience had the world fallen away.

  Until this moment he thought he knew passion. He didn’t realize it had the ability to infuse him with joy. Or make him want to grab her and twirl her around the room in a thoroughly un-Jordan-like move.

  He wanted to kiss her until dawn lit up the room. He wanted to touch her everywhere and find those spots that made her giggle or sigh or moan. She was only a waking dream, half wish, half need, created by the elixir.

  Yet one kiss led to another and to another until he felt weak in the knees.

  He was going to fall down any moment.

  He stumbled backward, feeling the mattress against his back.

  She didn’t utter one compassionate word, thank God. This hallucination was not a creature crafted of pity.

  He drew her with him and she went, her lips still clinging to his. Somehow they climbed onto the mattress, his delusion remaining with him.

  He didn’t say a word, terrified she would disappear and he’d be left staring at a twirling ceiling. Until he lost himself to the opiates, he would enjoy her touch and her mind-numbing kisses.

  To his surprise, his waking dream was helping him disrobe. Not only him, but her. Her fingers flew over the fastenings, most of which defied his clumsy hands. Women’s fashions were geared to making it as difficult as possible for a man to understand them.

  Virtue maintained through confusion.

  She slid from the bed and he stretched out a hand to stop her then clenched his fingers into a fist. Let her go. Let her disappear. What sort of fool was he to want to love a hallucination?

  To his surprise, she wasn’t leaving him after all; she’d only stood to remove her petticoat. When she returned to the bed his waking dream was attired only in a shift. With any luck she wouldn’t leave until after they loved.

  He might become addicted to Dr. Reynolds’s elixir if it promised this kind of companion.

  “You’re not real,” he said.

  There, a bit of sanity in the midst of this fog. At least he was attempting to find some semblance of himself. His rational mind was trying to make sense of everything while his body merely wanted the pleasure.

  Her finger pressed against his lips, followed shortly by her mouth.

  His imagination had provided a dream who could kiss like a houri, who tempted him without a word spoken.

  His leg prevented him from being completely mobile, but he could certainly sit up and remove his shoes, socks, and then his trousers. It had been years since he’d undressed in front of a woman, but it didn’t matter because she wasn’t truly there. She was a thought, a wish, something fervently desired and as amorphous as a cloud.

  Her hands wrapping around his ankle was surprisingly erotic. But when her fingers trailed up his leg, he stopped her. The pain was there, dormant but waiting to be summoned from his mental fog. Not yet. He didn’t want it to return just yet. Let him experience the miracle of this enchanting, unreal creature for a few more minutes before he surrendered to either the darkness or the agony.

  He removed his shirt, lay back on the bed and allowed himself to fully enjoy the moment. His waking dream stripped him of every thought, of every worry. He felt only pleasure at her hands and unexpected joy.

  Her hands stroked from his waist, all the way up his chest to his neck before bracketing his face. She lowered her head to kiss him again.

  If she was real, he’d ask what gave her pleasure. Her excitement was evident from the soft exhalations of breath escaping her. When his hands stroked her, she softly moaned.

  His imagination furnished her with the softest skin, the smoothest curves, and plump breasts fitting his palms just so. She was perfect, created out of his most fervent fantasies.

  Her skin was warmer than normal as if she had a fever. If so, it was another thing they shared, this drea
m creature and his besotted self. He felt as if he was in the middle of a conflagration, flames bursting from inside him.

  Sliding to the center of the bed, he raised her over him. He did so with ease, his imagination making this seduction effortless. She didn’t question why he put her in that position. Why would she? This female was an extension of himself, his wishes given the illusion of flesh.

  Her shift was white in the moonlight, making her appear like a phantom. His body responded as if she was real. His heart was racing, his pulse jumping in concert. His breath was tight and fast.

  Real or not he prayed the hallucination would last. Just for a few more minutes. He wanted her. He had to have her.

  She bowed over him, placed her lips on his, and sighed into his mouth. For an eternity of moments he was lost in her kiss.

  He needn’t cajole her or charm her or even appear before her flawed and broken. She already knew him. She was part of him. He’d created her solely for these perfect moments. As she allowed him to pull her shift over her head, he realized his imagination was so much more powerful than he’d ever known.

  She didn’t see him as damaged or lacking. In this act of joining, they were simply two creatures lost in the throes of passion, rejoicing in the act of making love. Who cared if he was drugged and she wasn’t real?

  Her breasts filled his hands, the hard tips pressing into his palms. One hand at her back urged her down. He raised his head until he could mouth a nipple, smiling at the sound of her sigh above him.

  He couldn’t think, could only feel, desire overcoming any memory of pain. Ecstasy surged through him, numbing him to outside noises or even his own being. The creature of his imagination moaned above him. He lifted her until her heated flesh slid over his erection, teasing him with its wetness. He hesitated there, at her opening, then guided her into place. She was tight yet welcoming, clenching around him as he entered.

  Her moan of delight changed slightly.

  Damn him, he’d imagined a virgin.

  She was a sweet innocent who needed to be soothed, treated with tenderness. In that next instant the cogent thought abruptly vanished, leaving him overwhelmed by pleasure.