by Darcy Burke
“What is it, Your Grace?”
“Do you have it, Chapple?”
“Have what, Your Grace?” the butler panted.
“The item we discussed. The gift for the…Lady Vivienne.”
“It will be delivered tonight, Your Grace.”
“Good.” He’d present the surprise to her tomorrow. “Tell Fletcher I’ll dress for dinner now.” He started toward the entry hall, Chapple following at his heels. “Lady Vivienne is aware she is expected at dinner?”
“I think so, Your Grace. I do not think she will be able to dress for the occasion, however, as she has only one dress at present.”
Good point. “Then I won’t change either. We will have an informal dinner. Tell Cook.”
“One other matter, Your Grace.”
“What is it?”
“The Duke of Stoke Teversault sent a message inquiring as to whether Wyndover Park will field an oarsman in the Dukeries Cup this year.”
Damn it. Nathan had forgotten all about the annual scull race held on the serpentine lake at Teversault. At Sedgemere’s house party, the Duchess of Linton had mentioned her brother would be rowing for The Chimneys this year, and William Besett would row for Teversault. Nathan was a mediocre oarsman, and he had no brothers or cousins to enter. Wyndover Park was not one of the Dukeries, but Stoke Teversault always extended the courtesy of an invitation. Nathan might have asked a friend, as he had in the past, but he did not want to endanger Vivienne by inviting guests to his estate.
“Reply that Wyndover Park forfeits this year, and thank the Duke of Stoke Teversault for his courtesy.”
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace.” The lines around Chapple’s mouth deepened with disapproval. Chapple, like all the servants, enjoyed watching the race, especially those years when the Wyndover family fielded an oarsman.
“You heard me, Chapple.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Chapple said with a labored sigh.
Vivienne was grateful for the distraction of dinner. She’d spent most of the day walking the grounds and learning her way around Wyndover Park. She might have liked to read a book, but the duke was in the library. She did not want to disturb him.
That wasn’t entirely true. It wasn’t that she cared so much if she disturbed him, but she didn’t want to be alone with him. The way he’d held her in the garden, kissed her last night—both gestures had been sweet and innocent. The trouble was, she would have liked more of the same, only not quite so sweet and definitely not innocent.
She didn’t know what was wrong with her.
She had never been free with her favors, and she had never desired a man like the Duke of Wyndover. Ne rien! She didn’t even know his given name. It was assuredly something very pretty, like William or Charles. A pretty name to go with his pretty face.
“There you go, my lady,” said the maid. The middle-aged woman had been abruptly promoted to lady’s maid and tasked with styling Vivienne’s hair. “You look lovely, if I do say so myself.”
“It will do, O’Connell.”
She did look lovely—not as pretty as the duke, but then, that bar was much too high.
“Not much we can do with yer dress. It’s clean, and His Grace did say he would not dress for dinner.”
“Very accommodating of him,” Vivienne answered, watching in the mirror as the maid fussed with the hair-styling accoutrement. “Does he host many dinner parties?”
“Oh yes, my lady.” O’Connell, who was tall with strawberry blond hair tucked in a cap, nodded. “Here and in London. I travel back and forth with the family. Not all of the staff do, you see.”
Vivienne nodded, understanding the maid saw this as a mark of honor.
“He hosts dozens and dozens of dinner parties, balls, and the like. He’s the Duke of Wyndover.”
Obviously, the maid thought that last statement explained all.
“Who plays hostess? He has no duchess.” Oh God. He wasn’t married, was he? She hadn’t considered that he might be married. Perhaps that was the reason he’d been so chaste in his dealings with her.
“No, my lady. Not yet. His mother plays hostess. The duchess is in Bath at present. Of course, if she hears you are here, she’ll be back in an instant.” O’Connell’s brown eyes widened. “Not that she’ll hear. We’re all to remain mum on the subject.”
She ought to give Wyndover more credit. “Why would she return so quickly?”
“Because she wants the duke to marry, of course. He’s an only child. The duchess thought she’d never conceive, and then fifteen years after she and the late duke wed—God rest his soul—here comes the current duke. I wasn’t with the family then, but to hear Chapple tell it, there was much rejoicing that day.”
“So the duke needs an heir.”
“If he doesn’t produce one, the title passes to”—she lowered her voice—“an American.”
“Heavens.” Vivienne barely suppressed a smile. Glynaven was on good terms with the United States of America, but she understood England’s ambiguity toward its former colony.
“Why hasn’t he married yet?” Vivienne asked, more to herself than O’Connell, as she didn’t expect a servant to possess that information. “Surely he must meet dozens of eligible ladies at all of these family gatherings.”
She’d never met the Duchess of Wyndover, but if the woman was anything like her own mother, the duke’s house had been full of eligible, acceptable ladies.
“Oh yes, but none of the ladies is like you.”
Vivienne turned on the stool to face the maid directly. “What do you mean?”
“I mean no disrespect, my lady!” O’Connell held her hands up. “It’s a compliment. You don’t swoon when you’re with him. We all thought maybe he planned to make you his duchess.”
Vivienne blinked. “I don’t understand. Women swoon when they’re with the duke?”
“All the time, my lady.” O’Connell pushed a loose strand of hair back under her cap. “I can hardly blame them. I mean, look at the man. I nearly swooned when I first saw him. But that was from a distance, and Mrs. Patton—she’s the housekeeper—pinched me and told me if I dared faint I’d lose my position. Now I keep my eyes down when he’s near.” She pushed at her hair again. “If I don’t look at him directly, I don’t feel quite so dizzy.”
Oh, this was too much. It was a wonder the man did not have the arrogance of a king. With women falling at his feet, he should have thought himself God’s gift to the fairer sex. She liked him more because he never acted as such when he was near her. In fact, he seemed to prefer to avoid discussing his good looks.
“This has all been very interesting, O’Connell.” She rose, hating the plain dress she wore and knowing she should be grateful for it.
“It wasn’t gossip,” O’Connell said hastily. “Mrs. Patton doesn’t tolerate gossip.”
“Definitely not gossip to state facts.” She winked, and the maid’s shoulders relaxed. Vivienne liked O’Connell. Her lady’s maid at Glynaven palace had been tight-lipped and always frowning. Vivienne’s hair was never tidy, her dresses too wrinkled, and the maid hadn’t had a tender hand with a brush.
Poor Hortense was probably dead now, and Vivienne did not want to think ill of the dead, but if she ever had another lady’s maid, she’d want someone like O’Connell.
She wondered if she should meet the duke in the drawing room, then decided since the dinner was informal, he would probably be waiting for her in the dining room. Thanks to her explorations earlier that day, she knew precisely where to go.
When she entered, he stood at the far side of the table, hands in his pockets, gaze on a painting on the wall across from him. For a moment, she understood why women swooned. He was arrestingly handsome. All the golden hair shining in the firelight, those stunning eyes, that square jaw, and chiseled cheeks.
She didn’t know what he looked like underneath his clothing, but he looked very, very good in it. He was all long, lean lines and firm muscles.
She m
oved inside the dining room, and his gaze shifted and collided with hers. She felt a jolt when he looked at her, when all of that male beauty focused on her and her alone.
He smiled, a genuine smile that somehow made him even more attractive, although less imposing.
“You found it.” He crossed to her, took her hand, and kissed her knuckles. Lips still pressed to her knuckles, he glanced up at her, his eyes darkening. “You look beautiful.”
She almost laughed. She looked beautiful? Hardly.
“Thank you,” she said. “And thank you for dinner. You didn’t have to go to the trouble, but I confess I am glad you did. This room is stunning.”
And it was. The long mahogany table gleamed with china and silver. Above it, a chandelier glowed softly, the unusual crystal drops hanging from each sconce making a sort of rainbow on the white-paneled walls. Red roses in short arrangements sat on either end of the sideboard and in the middle of the table. One end had been set for him and one for her.
“Tell Cook to send the first course,” Wyndover said to the footman.
The man disappeared, and they were alone. Wyndover pulled out the chair beside her and gestured for her to sit. Vivienne smiled and shook her head.
“What’s wrong?” His brow lowered with sudden concern.
“This seat is much too far from yours,” she said. “I shall have to yell across the table.”
He studied her for a long moment. “You would like to sit closer to me?”
“Is that allowed?”
“Oh, allowed and encouraged. I’ll have the footman move your setting.”
She waved a hand. “I may be a princess, but I know how to set a table.” She moved the setting herself, and a moment later, the two of them were seated beside each other, Wyndover at the head of the table and Vivienne on his right.
The footman said nothing about the altered arrangement when he returned. He merely served the soup and retreated to the corner.
Vivienne was determined to keep the conversation light, and with the servants present, she couldn’t discuss Glynaven or her circumstances. She steered the conversation toward music and literature, her favorites, and Wyndover proved capable of speaking intelligently on both subjects.
He also proved a skilled conversationalist as he directed the talk toward traveling and the customs of various countries he’d visited. As she’d visited many of the same, she could add easily and with great pleasure to the subject.
They had a great deal in common, and when dinner ended, Vivienne was almost surprised to find the jasmine ice before her. They must have talked for hours, and it had seemed no time at all.
She’d drunk a little bit too much wine, as the servants had filled her glass after each sip. Her head swam pleasantly, and though Wyndover was still as handsome as ever when she looked at him, she saw more than the perfect features now.
She saw the man.
And she liked what she saw.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked.
She rose a bit unsteadily. “I suppose it is because I’ve had a wonderful evening, and I didn’t expect it.”
He rose as well, taking her elbow. He must have thought to steady her, but she was not that intoxicated.
“What sort of evening did you expect?”
She shrugged, a gesture she would make only when in her cups, as she’d been told at least a thousand times that princesses did not shrug.
“The sort where you wax poetic on the leek soup and exclaim at the sauce on the potatoes.”
His mouth turned up at the corner. It was a very nice mouth. She wanted to kiss it, but that would probably shock the servants. She scanned the room. No servants at the moment. They’d removed all but the ices and were probably in the kitchen taking a moment’s respite.
“I know the sort of evening you mean. I don’t think either of us had anything poetic to say about the leek soup. I must say the sauce on the potatoes was quite to my liking.”
She lifted her hand and placed it against his smoothly shaved cheek. “You are quite to my liking.”
He didn’t blink, didn’t breathe.
After a long silence, he shifted slightly. “I thought I was too pretty for you.”
“Oh, you’re very pretty.” Her fingers stroked his cheek and trailed down to his jaw. “But I shan’t be swooning, if that is your concern.”
He grasped her hand. “Who told you?”
“It’s common knowledge, Duke. What is your Christian name, by the way?”
“Nathan. Why?”
“I like to know a man’s name before I kiss him.”
He still held her wrist, and when she leaned in to kiss him, he hesitated just for a moment. Then he dropped her hand and bent as her arms circled his neck and she pulled his mouth to hers.
Chapter 6
She tasted of jasmine ices and the sweet wine they’d drunk together. She tasted better than he could imagine. And the feel of her…
He dared not put his arms around her, because he couldn’t trust himself to behave. She pressed her body to him, her lush breasts pushing against his chest, her long, aristocratic fingers in his hair. Her mouth was gentle and full, and her kisses very, very thorough. He’d expected the kiss to be sloppy. But she wasn’t foxed, or if she was, she was very good at disguising the fact.
She drew back, looked up at him. Her green eyes were so large they filled his vision.
“Put your arms around me. Or”—she leaned back—“would you rather I stop?”
“God, no. Don’t stop.”
He put his hands on her waist, pulled her body back against his. This time, he noted the heat of her. Such a small thing to generate so much heat. He cupped her face, running his thumbs over her delicate cheekbones, then brushing his lips over hers. Her mouth parted slightly, and he took her plump lower lip in a kiss, nipping it gently.
She moaned, her hands roaming his back. Nathan was aware the servants might return at any moment. They should stop kissing, but he couldn’t seem to abandon her mouth. Every touch of his lips to hers made him want more. Finally, when she opened for him, where their tongues touched and tangled and mated, he swore he could hear music. He’d wanted this for so long, he hadn’t thought the reality could live up to his imaginings. His very detailed imaginings.
But her lips were plumper, her mouth sweeter, the stroke of her tongue more tantalizing than he could have ever fantasized. And when her hands slid down to his buttocks, he had to release her and grip the edge of the table where he’d cornered her to keep from ravishing her then and there.
He had never wanted a woman, had never wanted anything, as much as he wanted her in that instant.
“Take me to bed,” she whispered, her velvet cheek brushing against his.
Nathan clutched the table tighter, struggling for control.
“No.”
She looked up at him, a brow arched. “You don’t want me?”
“Oh, I want you. In another moment, I shall crack this table with the force of my want.”
She looked at his hand clenching the table, then back at his eyes. “I’ve done something wrong. I’ve been too forward. I forget you English prefer your women more coy.”
“No.” He gripped her shoulders. “I like you exactly as you are. But if I take you”—he lowered his voice in case the servants were about—“if I take you to bed tonight, I will be taking advantage of your intoxicated state.”
“I am not so intoxicated.”
“Be that as it may, I prefer to give you time to reconsider.”
“Very noble of you. If I do not reconsider?”
“Then you should know I want more than a night or two of bedsport with you.”
“You want my affections?”
He touched her throat and trailed down to the center of her chest and that godawful collar. He forced himself to stop there, not to stray to the swells of her breasts. “I want your heart.”
Vivienne took a shaky breath. “Perhaps time to consider is warr
anted.”
She stepped back and out of his arms. Immediately, she wrapped her own arms around her body. Nathan could not tell if it was a protective gesture or one of thwarted longing.
“Will you ride with me in the morning? There’s something I want to show you.”
“Yes. I’d like that. I haven’t ridden since…before.”
He bowed. “Then I bid you good night. I will see you at the stables in the morning.”
As difficult as it was to walk away from her, he accomplished it, not pausing until he reached his room. In his bedchamber, he leaned against the door and closed his eyes.
“Shall I leave you, Your Grace?” Fletcher asked, coming out of the dressing room. Nathan opened his eyes to study the tall, thin man soberly dressed in black. Fletcher and Nathan were close in age, but Fletcher always seemed a good deal older. He already showed streaks of gray in his dark hair, and his face had a pinched look.
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Nathan pushed away from the door. “She’ll refuse me, Fletcher.” Nathan paced his room. “I can hardly blame her. She doesn’t even know me. I must be daft to think of asking her to marry me.”
Fletcher clasped his hands behind his back. “Lady Vivienne is the object of your affection, I take it.”
“Damn it, Fletcher. You were with me when I toured the Continent. You know she’s not Lady Vivienne.”
“I also know the princess could do far worse than you, Your Grace.”
Nathan gave the man a wan smile. “I’m not paying you enough, Fletcher.”
“I would not decline higher wages, but I am paid as well as, if not better than, my counterparts. I am not flattering you, Your Grace. I honestly believe the princess would be lucky to have you. From what I know of her, you would be fortunate to marry her. She is intelligent, accomplished, and politically astute.”
“All that and more.”
“Without question.”
Nathan dropped into a chair and put his face in his hands. “You make it sound so logical and reasonable, when this marriage business is anything but. What if she refuses me?”