by Brenda Joyce
The Duke did not have to be told who it was—he knew. But Woodward gravely informed him that his visitor was Lady Nicole Shelton, although he barely heard. His mother was looking at him queerly, saying, “Lady Nicole Bragg Shelton from Dragmore, Hadrian?”
The slightest flush tinged his high cheekbones as he rose abruptly. “I have a riding date,” he said curtly, his tone cutting off any further questions. He hurried out, leaving her gaping after him.
Woodward led him to the small parlor off of the slate-floored foyer. The door was open and the Duke’s steps slowed as he saw her. A primitive need rose up in him; he became a stalking male. She was sitting on the sofa and she immediately stood, her gaze locking with his.
She was no wild gypsy today, but she was somehow more entrancing than she had been last night. She wore a bottle-green riding habit with a matching hat, her hair pinned up and out of sight. She held black leather gloves and a riding crop, twisting the former in her hands.
“I am glad you have come,” he said low, halting in front of her. His gaze swept over her exquisite features, and yes, she was every bit as strikingly beautiful as he remembered. It had not been his imagination running wild.
She curtsied but he stopped her, lifting her back up. “Please, no formalities, I think that would be rather ridiculous given the circumstances, don’t you?”
She blinked at him. Her eyes, he saw, were so pale that they were almost silver. He wondered if she had even heard him, or if she had even understood. Sometimes she perplexed him, with her blushes and confusion, as if she were not a lady of experience. Or perhaps she was as undone with the physical attraction that raced between them as he himself seemed to be.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said, her voice low and husky.
He heard footsteps in the hall and he stiffened, knowing it was the Dowager Duchess. There was no graceful way out of the situation. He would have to introduce them. The Duke’s jaw tightened.
Isobel entered the foyer, looking perturbed, her gaze going from his visitor to himself. The Duke thought he read disapproval in her eyes, and it disturbed him, just as her meeting Lady Shelton here did. “Lady Shelton, the Dowager Duchess of Clayborough,” he said formally, his tone giving absolutely no indication that anything was amiss.
The two women exchanged greetings. Isobel said, “Won’t you join us for tea, Lady Shelton? Woodward, please bring us some refreshments.”
The Duke cut her off, taking Nicole’s arm firmly. “I am sorry, Mother, but as I said, we have a riding date.”
Before Isobel could insist they stay, and he saw from her expression that she would, he was leading his guest out of the salon and through the foyer. “It’s a beautiful day, and it would be a shame if we did not take advantage of it,” he remarked, thinking about how he would soon take advantage of what she was offering him.
“Of—of course,” Nicole stammered, apparently unnerved by such an abrupt exit. She threw a look over her shoulder. The Duke had not a doubt that his mother was standing there on the porch, knowing exactly what he had in mind, and shocked that he would be so blatant about it.
But then, he was rather shocked himself. But that would not change his intentions. Not at all.
Nicole tried to look again over her shoulder, as the Duke led her firmly down the shallow steps and away from the house. The Dowager Duchess followed them out and was staring at them in shock and disapproval. Nicole’s dismay rose. The Duke’s mother was clearly displeased with her son’s interest in her. She must know all about Nicole’s sordid past, just as everyone did.
But then his words, with their husky, intimate tone, chased away all thoughts of the Dowager Duchess. “I had hoped you would come today, Nicole.”
They were at the stables and he was ordering a groom to bring their mounts. Nicole’s eyes were wide, riveted upon his striking features. He had called her Nicole. Everything was happening so fast, and it was like a dream come true.
Last night she had been unable to sleep, her thoughts swimming with his image, and she had recalled every word he had said to her at the masque. Nicole had never been interested in any man before, but now she understood the attraction between the sexes. And what she was feeling could be nothing other than love.
“I hope you don’t mind my calling you Nicole.”
“How could I mind?” she murmured, his tone and look sending tingles racing through her body.
“Good, then we shall dispense with all formalities, and you may call me Hadrian.”
“Hadrian,” she whispered, unable to look away.
The groom appeared with their horses, and the Duke stepped away from her to check her mount’s girth. Nicole seized the opportunity to feast her eyes on him. Last night he had been dashing and undeniably male in his black evening wear, but today he was even more virile in appearance. His riding breeches, made of the finest, softest doeskin, fit his powerful thighs like a second skin. He turned back to her and she quickly dropped her gaze, praying he had not caught her staring so avidly—so brazenly.
They rode along a path through the fields. The Duke complimented her taste in horseflesh, admiring her blooded chestnut mare. Nicole usually rode her own horse astride, a hot-tempered thoroughbred stallion. But today she had ignored her own inclinations, for she dearly wanted to make a good impression. She was riding sidesaddle for his benefit. Just as she had had two maids help her to dress and do her hair, the entire toilette taking two long endless hours. She thought that he was pleased with her—it had been worth it.
Chapman Hall was far behind them now, lost behind a line of thick, tall oaks. The path meandered through the woods and ahead of them lay a glade, where a brook babbled by. “Let’s walk,” the Duke said abruptly, sliding lithely to the ground.
Nicole did not care what they did, and she halted her mare as he came around to her side. She slipped off—right into his arms.
She stiffened in surprise while his hands closed on her arms; their knees touched. He waited much longer than was proper before stepping away from her. Then he smiled, as if he hadn’t been embracing her. It changed his forbidding expression entirely.
Nicole was breathless. How could such a man be interested in her? But he was, for hadn’t he already told her that he had hoped she would come to Chapman Hall that day?
“Shall we walk?” he asked.
Nicole’s tongue was tied. She managed to nod, hoping he would not think her a complete nitwit. She tried to think of a suitable topic of conversation, but he took her hand and all coherence fled from her thoughts.
A taut silence seemed to stretch between them as they strolled along the banks of the brook, the Duke having taken her reins from her and leading both horses. Nicole was more than speechless now, her heart was hammering. She had never in her life been as aware of a man as she was of the Duke of Clayborough. But she had to say something. Or he would begin to think her nothing more than a silly, besotted female idiot.
He must have sensed her distress, for he spoke, intruding upon the quiet of the afternoon. “You seem to be a very adept horsewoman.”
She was much more than adept, but modesty was considered a virtue in a lady. “Yes,” she agreed with him. She groped for something more to say. After all, if she could not expound upon the subject of horses, what could she discuss? “I…I am very fond of riding.”
He slanted a look at her. “I am very fond of riding also.”
His tone had changed and she swallowed. It was almost as if there were another meaning to his words. “I ride almost every day.”
He was staring at her. “Are your rides docile, Nicole, or dangerous?” His tone was low.
She blinked. She could only think of how she preferred to ride at breakneck speed across the hunt course. “Dangerous.” She could not fathom where this conversation was leading.
“Dangerous,” he repeated slowly. He had stopped and so had she, for he still gripped her hand. “How dangerous?”
“I—I don’t know.” His look was unnerving
her. As was his tone of voice.
“Do you find the danger exciting?”
There was nothing more thrilling than taking a four foot jump at a high speed. “Yes,” she whispered.
His hand had tightened on hers. For a moment it seemed that he could not speak. “You are so different from the others. I have never met a woman before who would admit she is attracted to the danger of her pastimes.”
Nicole blinked at him. It was a compliment, or she thought that it was, though she could barely think at all. “Shall we go on?” she whispered.
“As riding partners?” he returned.
“R-riding partners?” she stammered, unable to believe her good fortune and not quite understanding him. “D-do you like hunting too?”
He stepped closer to her, taking her other hand. Nicole’s eyes widened. His grip upon her palms was hard. She could not have moved away from him if she had wanted to—which she didn’t.
“Not until today,” he said harshly. “Just how good a rider are you, Nicole?”
Nicole could no longer think. He was reeling her into his arms, and she knew—she just knew—that he was going to kiss her. “V-very good,” she whispered.
“I imagine you are superb,” he said. His hands slid up to her elbows and their bodies touched.
Nicole had never been kissed before. In fact, she had never imagined what could possibly be appealing about a man covering your mouth with his—until last night. Last night she had dreamed of his kisses, wondering endlessly and shamelessly what it would be like, and now, dear God, she was about to find out.
“The time for pretense is over,” he said. “I want you, Nicole. I want you very much.”
Nicole could barely believe what she was hearing. Their thighs touched, her breasts brushed his shirtfront. And then his mouth covered hers, the kiss slow, gentle and delicate.
Rapturous longing filled Nicole as his mouth teased and seduced her. She strained against him, her ardor natural and even innocent, and his hands instantly tightened, nearly hurting her. The pressure of his lips suddenly changed, and he was devouring her.
Nicole gasped, pressed against him from toe to breast, his arms locked around her. His mouth was fierce, nearly brutal, demanding instant surrender. She opened for him and was shocked when his tongue thrust into her mouth. He pillaged there, while she was swept away by hot desire.
Filled with a sudden, desperate need, she touched her tongue to his. His response was instantaneous. He groaned, his hands moving down to her buttocks, grasping them firmly, lifting her up against the long, hard shaft of his manhood. Hungrily, shaking in his arms, Nicole began to fence with him. She was clutching the folds of his shirt, clinging, and pressing herself wildly against him.
Abruptly he laid her in the grass by the stream and covered her body with his. As he settled himself on top of her, his massive manhood against her loins, Nicole cried out in desperate, dazed pleasure. She felt him tugging up her skirts while she arched against him.
“Soon, Nicole,” he rasped, “soon, I promise you, I will give you everything you want; I will ride you as you’ve never been ridden before…”
Nicole could barely think as his hand slid over her thinly clad knee, beneath her skirts and petticoats, then over her thigh. He moved his mouth to her neck, and she shifted, moaning, a stone abruptly digging into the back of her head. Her eyes flew open and sanity hit her full force. She was lying on her back, half in the grass and half in the dirt, and the Duke of Clayborough was treating her the way no lady should ever be treated.
She did not want him to stop. Even as her mind cried out a fierce warning, her hands dug into the thick, long tawny hair at his nape. Even as she knew she must not continue this endeavor, she moaned and thrashed as he stroked high up on the insides of her thighs, only the thin cotton of her lace drawers between her flesh and his. His hands came up and he began to unsnap the frogs of her riding jacket. This was the Duke of Clayborough, she managed to think frantically, and she wanted not just to make a good impression, but to be his wife.
That need was more compelling than any other need, and she grasped his wrists to stop him, crying out. “No, please! Not like this!”
Instantly he became still. He did not move for a heartbeat, but the moment was one of respite. Despite the delicious agony her body was in, despite the raging urgency in her veins, full coherence claimed Nicole. She knew, she had not one doubt, she had just gone too far. No lady would do what she had done, or allowed what she had allowed. Dismay filled her, chasing away all but her longing for him.
Abruptly he rolled off of her and sat up. He did not look at her. “You are right. I am sorry.”
She had not expected that, and Nicole closed her eyes briefly in relief. She prayed that his apology meant that he would not condemn her as immoral. When she opened them he was standing above her, staring down at her, his expression inscrutable, which made him look even more forbidding than before. She tried to read his eyes, but they were dark and hooded and it was impossible.
He held out a hand, and Nicole, flushing, accepted it. He drew her swiftly to her feet.
She made a big show of brushing off her skirts, so as not to have to meet his gaze again. She was afraid to learn what he was really thinking, afraid she had just ruined herself in his eyes. How could it be otherwise? She, who had never really cared before what any man might think of her, had spent hours preparing for this meeting, only to ruin it all with her wildness. “It’s not your fault,” she said, swiping at her dress. She had the distinct urge to cry.
“I know better,” he said calmly, still regarding her. “No lady deserves to be tumbled in the dirt like a dairy maid.”
Astonished, she quickly lifted her gaze to his. Again, she found his countenance unfathomable. But hope filled her breast. “Are—are you angry with me?”
For a moment, she thought something flickered in his eyes. “I am not angry with you.” He paused. “No man could be angry with such a beautiful woman.”
Relief swamped her and she almost sagged. She was too relieved to catch the forced tone of his words. “You think…that I am beautiful?”
He suddenly appeared confused. Then he smiled, but it was nothing like the smile he had given her before, it was sardonic. “Of course I find you beautiful, my dear. If I did not know better, I would think you unsure of yourself.” He laughed. “If you insist upon flattery, I will oblige you.”
Something had happened, and Nicole was not sure what it was. She saw the cynicism in his eyes. She wasn’t sure he was sincere, either, but then she remembered how he had kissed her—and there had been nothing insincere in that.
“Come to Chapman Hall tomorrow.” It was no request. “In the afternoon. I will be expecting you.”
Nicole nodded, wide-eyed, trembling, both dismayed and joyous. “I’ll be there.”
He dropped a quick kiss on her mouth. “You had better return to Dragmore now. I will accompany you until you are in sight of the house.”
Nicole nodded, too bedazzled by him to do anything other than agree.
The Duke of Clayborough had a tight rein on himself as he returned to Chapman Hall, the same strict control he had been exercising since he had practically tumbled Nicole Shelton. He was perturbed, even disturbed. For he could not deny what had happened. He was a man of discipline, yet he had just lost his head—and every bit of iron control he had. He had almost fornicated with Lady Shelton in the grass. She had made him lose momentary control, and he did not like it. To make matters worse, he was filled with anticipation of their next rendezvous.
And the Duke was not a man who daydreamed about women, or anything else, for that matter.
Yet he was already planning to sever his relationship with his current mistress, Miss Holland Dubois, as soon as he returned to London. He had been bored with her this past month; he had only visited her a half dozen times. To ease the separation, he would shower her with a few jewels and a substantial amount of coin. He did not look forward to the task, fo
r mistresses invariably were furious when the relationship was terminated, but she would have no trouble finding another protector, for she was very beautiful, very accommodating and very skilled.
Perhaps he would remain a bit longer at Chapman Hall. Instead of seeing Holland, he would be in bed with Lady Shelton. His jaw hardened again. Just thinking about what was to come aroused him, and he realized he was dangerously close to becoming infatuated with her. Severely, he shook his thoughts free of her.
He was shocked when, as soon as he had dismounted and handed his stallion to the head groom, Isobel flew down the steps of Chapman Hall and approached him with the strides of an angry soldier. “Hadrian,” she said tightly. “Come inside, we shall talk.”
He had not a doubt that he was about to get a rousing setdown for philandering in residence, and while he did deserve it, he was not in the mood to hear it. “Mother, may I remind you that I am not a boy of ten?” His tone was too polite.
“I do not need to be reminded of that, Hadrian,” she snapped. Abruptly she headed back for the house, not waiting to see if he would follow.
The Duke sighed and decided to humor her. He had stood by and helplessly watched his father’s callous and cruel treatment of her for too many years when he was a child not to concede to her in this instance, silly as it was. That abuse had finally stopped when he was fourteen. By then he was almost six feet tall, several inches taller than Francis, and about the same weight. While their strength might have been evenly matched, Francis did not have the power of rage on his side, while Hadrian did. It was not the first time he had tried to prevent his father from abusing his mother. When he was a child he had tried to come between them, only to have the painful slaps Francis aimed at Isobel diverted to him. When he grew larger, his attempts at protecting his mother were met with a switch. When he was fourteen, all abuse had stopped, both that directed at his mother, and that he suffered when he tried to interfere, for Hadrian struck his father with one determined blow to his jaw, causing Francis to crumble at his feet. He proceeded to hit him twice more, until he was coldly satisfied that Francis would never dare to try and hurt his mother again. And he hadn’t.