by Brenda Joyce
A knock on her door brought her out of a heavy, much needed sleep. Nicole blinked, startled to realize that she had dozed for some time. It looked to be late morning, nearly noon. Groggily she sat up. “Yes?”
Aldric appeared. “I know you are not feeling well, my Lady, but the Viscountess Serle is here. Shall I tell her you are indisposed?” His kindly eyes were worried, although his tone was formal and impassive.
“Martha is here!” Nicole cried, delighted. “No, no! I’ll be down in a moment!”
“Very well,” Aldric said, looking relieved as he backed out.
Nicole flew from the bed and quickly washed her face, retying her hair into one long tail. Then she ran down the stairs. “Martha!”
The Viscountess Serle was a small woman, somewhat plump, with thick chestnut hair and ivory skin. She had been sitting demurely on the golden velvet sofa in the parlor, a cup of tea in her small hands, dressed in a green and pink striped ensemble. She set her cup down and leapt to her feet with a cry of delight. The two girls hugged enthusiastically.
“I have missed you so!” Martha cried.
“I am so glad you are back,” Nicole returned, beaming.
Martha sat, pulling Nicole down beside her. Her smile faded as she stared at her friend. “Nicole, your eyes are puffy. Have you been crying?”
Nicole’s expression turned somber. “No, although I thought I would.”
“What happened?”
Quickly Nicole jumped to her feet and firmly shut the parlor door, turning back to face her friend. Suddenly she was overwhelmed with the urge to cry. Aghast, she covered her face with her hands and fought to stem the rising flood tide.
“Oh, dear,” Martha gasped, hurrying to her. “Come sit down, tell me what has happened to upset you so!”
“I’m sorry,” Nicole said, once she had a grip on her raw emotions. She looked at her best friend. “I am an utter jackass, Martha!”
Although Martha was used to Nicole’s unconventional attire, mannerisms and language, she blushed slightly. “You are no fool.”
“I made a fool of myself with the Duke of Clayborough,” Nicole cried.
Martha gasped. “With the Duke of Clayborough!”
Nicole nodded grimly. “I went to the masque the other night at the Adderlys’. It was in his honor. I looked at him and my heart stopped, Martha. How stupid I was.”
“He is very handsome,” Martha said, her tone cautious.
“We talked. When he looked at me his eyes were like flames. He invited me to Chapman Hall.”
Martha gasped. “He invited you to Chapman Hall! But that does not sound like the Duke of Clayborough, not at all! He must have been very taken with you.”
Nicole looked at her, her eyes glittering like ice. “Oh, he was quite taken, let me assure you of that! He assumed I was married! He invited me there for a—a—a…”
Martha gasped again. “He thought you were married!”
“I thought he was taken with me.” Nicole looked away, color rising. “I even thought,” she stopped. “I thought he was courting me.” She stole a glance at her friend, whose expression was stunned. “He kissed me, Martha.”
“Oh dear,” was all Martha could say.
“I liked it.” Thinking about what had happened between them brought a deeper flush to Nicole’s golden complexion. Worse, her heart began to hammer erratically, and she could feel his hot, hungry lips on hers as if he were kissing her again. “I kissed him back.”
“Nicole,” Martha began, but Nicole interrupted.
“Now I know why he hustled me out of the house and did not let me have tea with his mother!” Nicole cried, furious and humiliated all over again.
“The Dowager Duchess was there?” Martha moaned. “She saw you at his house? Nicole, you didn’t have a chaperone with you, did you?” The question was hopeful.
Nicole shook her head. “Yesterday I went back to Chapman Hall—he had invited me to return. Somehow he had found out I was unwed, and everything changed. The bastard! He was as cold as ice, apologizing for his mistake, and telling me I must never come again. As if I would!”
“Oh, God!” Martha said, causing Nicole to widen her eyes.
“He thought I was some married trollop he would amuse himself with,” Nicole whispered urgently. “Oh, I hate him!”
“Oh, Nicole,” Martha took her hand, squeezing it. He didn’t—he only kissed you—didn’t he?”
Nicole flushed. She remembered how his body had pressed hers into the grass, how he had unfastened her jacket, how his hands had stroked up intimately along the length of her inner thighs. Her body began to throb in response to her vivid mental rampaging. “I’m still a virgin, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Then no harm is done,” Martha said, patting her hand and sighing in relief. “Oh, you poor dear! Clayborough is a terrible rake, you know, and quite ruthless. No woman holds his interest for very long, it’s said, not even his mistresses. And supposedly his mistresses are the most beautiful women in the realm.”
“He has more than one?” Nicole asked, feeling hurt all over again.
“No, he keeps one at a time.” Martha saw her expression and added, “But so do most men.”
“Robert doesn’t, does he?” Suddenly Nicole wished she had bitten off her tongue, for the question was too intimate to ask, even of her best friend.
But Martha smiled, her expression soft. “No, Robert doesn’t, and I am very lucky.”
Nicole knew how much Martha loved her husband and how he adored her. “You are very lucky,” she agreed.
Martha looked at her. “I think Clayborough was taken with you, Nicole.”
“He thought I was married.”
“I still think he was taken with you. I see him from time to time in London, and he never shows any interest in any lady; they are always throwing themselves at him. Except, of course, for Lady Elizabeth Martindale.”
“Lady Elizabeth Martindale?”
“The Marquess of Stafford’s daughter.” Martha made a face. “I do think he was taken with you. Oh, it’s too bad they are engaged!”
Nicole froze. “He is engaged to her?”
“You didn’t know?”
“I know nothing about him,” Nicole said, the room suddenly very still around her.
“They have been engaged a very long time, since she was two—and she is just eighteen,” Martha said gently, as if to soften the blow. “’Tis always been a fact that the Duke of Clayborough is unavailable, much to every young lady’s dismay. She is to have her season, and they are to be wed this summer.”
“I see,” Nicole said stiffly, standing up. Her pulse began to roar, deafening her. A betrothal made between two such powerful families, one that had been sustained for sixteen years, was written in stone. He was as good as married.
Nicole saw red.
So he had not just thought her married, he was betrothed to another, and in seven or eight months he would be wed. He was more despicable than she had ever dreamed!
“Nicole,” Martha stood, too, looking worried. “Sit down and drink some tea. Please.”
Nicole looked at her, her eyes blazing. “I thought he wanted to marry me! Me!”
“Oh, Nicole!”
Nicole turned and strode toward the door, rage in every single one of her long strides.
“Nicole, where are you going?” Martha cried frantically. “Don’t do something you shall regret! Please, don’t!”
If Nicole heard her, she gave no sign. Moments later Martha saw her on her blood red thorougbred, riding astride, her nose almost buried in the stallion’s black mane, galloping from the stables in the direction of Chapman Hall.
The Duke left the stable, the sounds of hammers pounding on wood following him. He was replacing the two back walls of the barn, which were sadly in need of repair. So far, he was satisfied with the progress the laborers he had hired were making.
He headed for the house with long strides, intending to take care of some cor
respondence before his midday meal. He had only taken a few steps, however, when the sound of racing hoofbeats made him pause, searching for its cause.
A magnificent blood bay thoroughbred was emerging from the woods at the far side of the ill-tended lawns, running all out. The stallion galloped across his lawn, his rider bent low over his back, and seconds later the animal came to a plunging, rearing halt beside him. The Duke was stunned at the sight of Nicole Shelton astride him.
He had never seen a lady astride a horse before, or any woman for that matter, and that was shocking enough. The sight of her long legs, encased tightly in men’s breeches, powerfully gripping the horse, mesmerized him. Then he became aware of her stark, savage beauty, her eyes blazing and silver, her hair loose and windswept, flowing behind her. She was magnificent and he was frozen, both shocked by her defiance of every dictum of convention that existed and gripped in a barbarous desire.
Nicole leapt to the ground and strode toward him, her long legs straining the fabric of her breeches, leaving nothing of her form to his imagination. For another moment he could not tear his gaze away from her limbs, and it occurred to him that any woman who could ride a horse like that could certainly ride him equally well. Distracted, he only saw her raise her crop at the last possible moment.
“Miserable bastard,” she hissed, swinging it furiously at his face.
Acting purely on reflex, the Duke caught her wrist just as the braided end flicked his jaw, leaving a stinging red welt. Anger quickly replaced his surprise. He took the crop from her, snapping it abruptly in two, and tossed it aside. She screamed, the sound one of pure rage, her hand flying up again, intent on striking him anew. He caught her arm and whipped her around too quickly and her back slammed into the barn. She dared to resist him, her other hand reaching for him, fingers curled, nails poised like claws. He caught that one, too, and pinned her to the wall, both of her wrists above her head, and in another scant moment he had closed the last few inches between them, pressing his hard, aroused body against hers.
What had just occurred was beyond belief, yet she continued to struggle wildly against him, like an animal caught in a trap, crazed. Her every movement fanned the fires in him, and he pressed more heavily against her, his manhood pulsing eagerly against her softness as he instinctively sought to subdue her. “Release me,” she screamed. “Release me, you rotten cur, so I can give you what you deserve!”
Terribly graphic, sexual images danced in his mind. “And just what is it I deserve?” His breath fanned her lips, she went still. He knew it was that exact moment that she became aware of him and his virility.
“Ten lashes, not one!” she snarled.
“I do not think that is why you have come back.”
“I came back to draw your blood!”
He trembled, both in response to her real savagery and to the idea of his drawing her blood. “Does spilling my blood excite you, Nicole?” he asked, very, very low.
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” She bucked wildly against him again, then froze, panting, when her gyrations only served to increase the intimacy between them.
“Beware,” he said smokily, “if there is any more blood to be spilled today, it shall not be mine.” He looked her in the eye, throbbing so strongly against her she could not possibly escape his meaning. Her eyes widened, and he was pleased that she understood.
“You would not.”
“Right now, I would. Isn’t that why you have come back?”
For a moment she was too stunned by his answer to respond, then she shrieked, twisting wildly and crying out at the pain she caused herself in his iron, immoveable grip. “Now you threaten me with rape?!”
“Threaten, no. Warn, perhaps. Rape—never.”
“I will fight you until my last dying breath,” she cried.
He saw her fighting him, then climaxing in his arms. His hold on her tightened, and he thought he might lose the last of his control. “You will like dying in my arms, Nicole,” he promised softly. “I will make sure of it.”
“Release me,” she cried frantically. He knew she did not understand his meaning, but she sensed the danger she was in. “Release me, now, damn you!”
He had to. If he did not, he would cease to be responsible for his actions. His body was screaming at him, begging for its own release, so he turned his head away from hers, breathing deeply. “Do we have a truce?”
She laughed. “Never!”
He whipped his gaze to hers and saw the blaze of hatred in her eyes. “So you hate me, now, do you?”
“Oh yes,” she spat. “For a moment I loved you, but now, how I hate you!”
He froze. That she had loved him, even if foolishly and for a short time, stunned him. Many women had fallen in love with him and he was well aware of it. But he had never really paid attention, and certainly never cared what they felt. Now, something seemed to prick him, and perhaps it was his conscience. “Love does not change to hatred so fast, Nicole,” he said softly. Their mouths were very close. “Shall we test how much you hate me?” He did not know why it was so important to him to prove her wrong.
“There is nothing to test,” she said, suddenly breathless. Her gaze moved to his mouth. “Don’t.”
There was no way he could prevent himself from kissing her, no matter how wrong it was, not now. Not when their bodies were pressed together from breast to toe, not when he strained against her femininity, not when she dared to declare her hatred of him. “I think that you want me more than you hate me,” he murmured.
She opened her mouth to protest, but he covered her lips, not allowing any more words to escape.
She wrenched violently against him, but he merely pressed her harder against the barn, merely tightened his already painful hold on her wrists. She made enraged noises; he hungrily claimed her mouth, wanting to claim much more and knowing if he let this continue, he would claim all of her. She bucked against him and it was heaven, yet it was also hell.
As he had thought, she would fight him to the very end.
She spoke when his mouth moved to her neck, where his kisses left red crescent marks. “What of your precious Elizabeth!”
He became still. “What of Elizabeth?”
“You do not even pretend to be faithful to your betrothed!”
“So you have done your homework,” he said, lifting his head to look at her. He saw the flaming anger in her eyes, and he wanted to change it to passion—for him. “Is that what this is about?”
“You are no different from a married man,” she hissed. “Yet you are a despicable rake. Let me go, now!”
She was right, and because ultimately he had too much honor to ravish her, he released her. She screamed and leapt at him, trying to hit him again.
He caught her, this time around the waist, pinning her arms to her sides, stunned again at her savagery, and even more aroused. She whirled in his arms before he tightened his hold, trying to run from him. “Stop it,” he snapped, shaking her once.
She was panting as if she had fought a great battle, and now he was pressed against her backside, which was no relief. Her breasts were full and heavy on his arms where he had wrapped them around her torso. She stopped trying to free herself, gasping great lungfuls of air, and he relaxed slightly, damning himself and his uncontrollable libido once more.
“I won’t hit you again,” she finally said harshly. “Just let me go.”
“Why?” He breathed against her neck. “I don’t think I embarrass you, Nicole. Or do I?”
She was very still, and he knew she was feeling him throbbing against her buttocks. He wanted to see her eyes, see her response. He felt her trembling in his arms. “You do not embarrass me,” she finally said. “You only embarrass yourself.”
Because his behavior was inexcusable, his tone was sardonic as he released her. “Touché. But it takes two to play this game, and if you had not come here, none of this would have happened.”
She whirled to face him, backing up warily. He saw the glitter in her
eyes for what it was, and while a part of him was appalled with himself, another pan of him was triumphant.
“You are the one with no morals, you are the one who would stop at nothing to get what you want.”
Anger flared. “Wrong. I warned you not to return here, and you did so at your own risk. If you did not come back for what I can give you, then why did you return?”
She gasped, crimson color suffusing her cheeks. “How arrogant you are! I came back to tell you what I think of you now that I know the truth!”
His hands found his hips, his mouth curved mockingly. “The truth. Oh yes, Elizabeth.”
“You are as good as married, yet you chased me! I did not know, I thought you were eligible. You thought I was a married woman of no morals! So who does that make right—and who does that make wrong?”
Guilt pricked him, but he was not ready to face it. And he did not like being accused of wrongful behavior—he was not accustomed to being told that he was wrong. No one would dare. Yet she dared. And he did not like his own behavior—not before, and not now. Once again, she had incited him to anger and to an unwelcome lust. “You thought my interest in you was that of a bachelor courting a young lady?” His tone was mocking, hard, cruel.
She backed up, reddening. “I did not think you merely meant me to be a paramour.”
“Just as I did not think you to be an unwed virgin.”
She gasped.
He could not believe what he had just said.
“You are cruel!”
“You drive me to it!” Harshly, he said, “Let me tell you again. You are not welcome here. Lady Shelton, and you are not to come back.”
She folded her arms tightly beneath her breasts. “I will never come back here, Your Grace. Unless, of course, it is to bring you and your bride a wedding present.”
His smile was as sardonic as her words. “So the tigress has more than claws. Let me repeat—you are not welcome here, Nicole, and if you think to cause trouble between me and Elizabeth, think again.”
“Do not worry, I have no intention of upsetting your precious Elizabeth!” Nicole whirled abruptly, running to her stallion.