What a Duke Wants

by Lavinia Kent

  She had killed Foxworthy.

  She was a murderess. There was no going back.

  It might have been an accident, she might have had no choice, but he was dead and she was to blame. The memory of his body lying across the cold stone of the floor came back to her with all the horror and disbelief contained in the moment it had happened.

  She had done that. She and no one else.

  And she knew what happened to murderers.

  Her fingers shook. She wrapped them even tighter about her arms. Thinking about Foxworthy always affected her badly. And that was without the added worry of trying to understand who her pursuers were—and what they might want.

  She fluttered her lashes quickly, trying to dry them before tears could form. She did not want Mr. Smythe to see her cry . . . He was her one spot of comfort in the midst of the mess her life had become.

  Would she still be here? Had she come at all? After his failure to arrive the night before, he would not be surprised if she stayed in her room. He paused at the back door of the inn, his hand flat upon the rough wood.

  He was nervous.

  The thought caught him off guard. He was never nervous. He’d faced cannon fire without feeling this tightness in his gut. He swung the door open and stepped out onto the stairs, the boards creaking beneath his boots.

  She was there.

  Her eyes opened wide as if he’d given her a fright. Was she as nervous as he was?

  Her hand shook slightly as she brushed at her skirt and stood.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d be here,” he said.

  “I am.” She sounded breathless.

  “Yes, but . . .” He let it hang, not wanting to mention his failure to show the night before.

  Her gaze moved from his booted feet up his thighs and belly to reach his face. More than his gut tightened. She hadn’t looked at him like that before.

  He wanted to reach out and touch her, to draw her close.

  Her words stopped him. “You didn’t tell me you were related to the duke. Why would you not?”

  “Related to the duke?” His features were in shadow, the inn’s lamp lighting him from behind, but she could hear the confusion in his voice—and something else, that magic something that made her troubles seem so far away. “You think I am related to the duke?”

  “I don’t know why you try to pretend. I met a man last night, Douglas—he came to tell me you were dining with the Duke of Hargrove—and he told me of your relationship.”

  He looked perplexed for a moment as she drew close enough to see him more clearly in the dark. He opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again. “Douglas.”

  She nodded.

  “He didn’t tell me that he’d spoken to you.”

  “Should he not have?”

  “And he said that I was related to the duke?”

  “Not quite. He said something about a close relationship and troubles. I thought about it and decided being related was the most probable answer. And, as I said the other night, you look a little like the bit I saw of him.”

  “The tops of our hats are the same?”

  “No, I think it’s your height and general coloring. You don’t stand like he does though—all stiff and straight, like a poker. I wonder if it was bred into him?”

  “Like a poker?” He sounded quite affronted.

  “I am speaking without thinking again, aren’t I?” The sudden feelings of safety Mr. Smythe brought with him had loosened her tongue along with her nerves. “I should have realized he’s your employer and perhaps even family. What is he, some type of cousin?”

  He pressed his lips tight for a moment. “We’re rather closer than that.”

  Mr. Smythe was illegitimate. Oh, raspberries. She hadn’t even thought of that. Hadn’t even considered the possibility. She should have, but she hadn’t. Her thoughts had been on her own troubles. “I am sorry.”

  Now he just looked confused. “You’re sorry?”

  “You keep repeating what I say as question.” She was glad they seemed to be moving beyond his relationship to the duke. There were some things there was just no good way to talk about. “You look much nicer than he does.” Oh, she shouldn’t have said that. “Someday I am just going to sew my lips shut.”

  “Now that would be a shame.” Mr. Smythe stepped down a couple of steps until they were face-to-face.

  It was the perfect moment for a kiss.

  The wonder of anticipation filled her. She hadn’t realized she was longing for his kiss, but suddenly it was all she could think about. She leaned a little further.

  The desire for his mouth upon her own was more powerful than anything she could remember.

  A few years ago she’d kissed more than one man and enjoyed every single one. Kisses had been fun and flirtatious. They held the possibility of risk, but of only the most minor variety. And she’d certainly never needed them, felt that she couldn’t survive without them.

  Unfortunately what had been true of Miss Isabella Masters, lady of the ton, was, however, not true of Miss Smith, nursery maid.

  A kiss that for Miss Masters was light entertainment could spell disaster for Miss Smith. Her teeth bit into her lower lip. Maids and governesses could be dismissed over a kiss—in fact, not only could be, but probably would be.

  So was he worth the trouble a kiss might bring?

  And did she have any choice? She did not believe she could live without knowing what his lips felt like.

  Surely she deserved a single moment of happiness. Surely she deserved the kiss she needed before she was forced to flee, forced to leave him behind.

  She stepped closer, felt the heat of his body against her breast. She raised her head slightly, tilted her neck to the perfect angle, looked at his lips, inhaled, letting her own lips part, moved her gaze to his eyes, and back down—waited.

  And waited.

  She could feel his glance upon her, knew her invitation was not subtle.

  He stared down at her lips and suddenly she knew it would be now, that moment when a well-behaved girl would step away, but. . .

  She didn’t realize he was the duke. It was such a relief. Douglas had talked to her and kept his secret. He would have to find out exactly what the man had said. Mark stared down at her softly lit face, so sweet and trusting, though he always had the feeling that she could do anything at any time.

  But was he really so stiff? He must be getting better at being the duke than he’d imagined.

  He would admit to feeling different when dressed and combed. There was something about being fastened into stiff brocades and expensive silks that made one change. His shoulders went back further. His chin rose just that tiniest of bits. And his eyes—he supposed he even looked at the world a bit differently when he was the duke.

  When he was the duke.

  It seemed an odd way to think about it, because he was the duke all the time, but he just didn’t feel it. Someday he supposed it would grow around him, become part of him, but right now it seemed like something he put on along with his coat, like something his valet kept locked away and took out when it was time to dress each morning.

  But right now, right this second, this moment, he was anything but the duke. He was simply a man, and only a man.

  She moved closer to him. He could feel her breath against his cheek, feel her gaze upon his mouth. She could not possibly be aware of the invitation she was sending, an invitation it was beyond his power to deny.

  “Are you going to kiss me?”

  The question was so soft that at first he wasn’t sure he’d heard it.

  “You keep staring at my lips, but you’re not doing anything. Are you going to kiss me?”

  He was staring at her lips, staring at them but not quite seeing them. He focused on their rosy fullness. “Do you want me to kiss you?”

  Her glance darted from his mouth up to his eyes. Her skin flushed and he could tell she wanted to look away, step away—instead she stepped closer, her eyes dropping back to hi
s mouth. “Yes.” She said it firmly, but then hesitated. “I know I shouldn’t want you to. I’ve known you less than a week—hardly half a week.”

  “Has it only been that long?” He ran a finger across her cheek. “It feels so much longer, as if I’ve known you forever.” And it did.

  He knew he shouldn’t kiss her. She was right about that. And he certainly shouldn’t kiss her here—on the inn steps—where anybody might see.

  He stepped closer, his fingers slid down and cupped her chin, bringing her face nearer.

  And he kissed her. Light. Gentle. The perfect first kiss for his innocent girl.

  Her lips were tender and a little dry. He licked them for her. She tasted of mushroom gravy. The inn must have served it for dinner that night. It almost made him laugh—but only almost.

  Laughter would have been impossible as she leaned into him, her lips pressing against his with greater pressure, her firm breasts rubbing against the linen of his shirt, her arms coming up around his neck, pulling his head down, her—

  It was definitely not her first kiss. That fact filled Mark’s mind and then faded as the desires of his body forced away all thought.

  His hands wrapped about her waist, lifting her into fuller contact. His tongue swept along the crease of her lips, pushing its way in. She opened her mouth to him, welcoming him in. She was as fully in the moment as he—then she pulled back. Her hands slid down his shoulders to push against his chest.

  “No.” She was breathless, but firm. There could be no mistaking that she meant the word.

  She didn’t mean it at all. Isabella wanted to lean in to him, to lick him, devour him, have him devour her, to grab her moment; wanted to push her common sense, her troubles away. When she was with him all her worries faded to nothingness. She felt a strength she’d never known before—as if she could do anything.

  Only. . .

  She forced air into her lungs and tried to bring her mind around to the no her lips had formed so perfectly. She pulled back far enough to stare into his eyes. They were nearly black with passion—and tenderness. It was almost enough to have her lean into him again.

  Only—they were standing on a public stair.

  Only—the lamp was bright above them.

  Only—the lady’s maid who was sharing a room with her and Joey had agreed to watch him for just an hour while he slept.

  Only—somebody could appear at any moment.

  They were all good reasons, sensible reasons, and she needed to be a sensible girl if she wanted to survive. She needed to act with reason as well as passion. She had put her wants, her needs aside before—she could do so again.

  Only—he looked so good, so kind, so everything she’d ever wanted, ever dreamed could be hers.

  She started to lean against him again, tilted her chin up—caught herself and stepped back.

  “No.” This time she did not sound so sure.

  “Are you a tease?” He said it flatly.

  “No.” She glanced up toward the light, feeling his eyes follow her subtle movement. She smiled at him, just barely, just enough to let him see her own wants. Her sister had told her nothing drew a man as fast as a woman’s desire.

  “Ah, there is that. Should we go someplace else?”

  “I need to get back to Joey.”

  He reached out and placed his fingers beneath her chin, drawing her glance back to his. He stared at her for several moments. “Tomorrow, then?”

  “I don’t know.” Another little smile. She would keep her options open.

  “What don’t you know? If you can get away? If we can find a place to meet? Or you don’t know that you want to do this?”

  “If I say ‘I don’t know’ again I’ll feel like an indecisive idiot,” she answered, licking her lower lip, drawing his gaze. “Well, I don’t know the answer to the first two questions. I never know what Mrs. Wattington will want or how Joey will be feeling. It’s the third question I am not sure about. What exactly is ‘this’? A kiss? I think after thirty seconds I know that I could kiss you for hours. But I know that men want more.” Her voice dropped very low. “I know I want more.”

  She watched him swallow, saw the tendons in his neck draw tight. His eyes closed and then opened again.

  He stepped back suddenly, turned, and walked away.

  She held her breath for a moment, until he pivoted and walked back toward her. Then he paced away again. He repeated the pattern several times before coming to stand before her. “If all you want is kisses I can be happy with that. Well, not happy precisely, but contented. You are right, a man does want more, but a man also controls those wants.”

  There was a slight tap from the interior of the inn and then the maid who had been watching Joey popped her head out. She gazed down the stairs, looking beyond Isabella.

  “Is he waking then?” Isabella asked.

  “No, he’s still resting like the baby that he is, but I need to lay out my mistress’s dress for tomorrow and I didn’t wish to leave him alone.” She stuck her head out further. “I thought I heard you talking to someone.”

  Isabella turned her head, following the maid’s gaze. Mr. Smythe was gone. “I was,” she said. “One of the duke’s men. He was advising me on what the roads should be like tomorrow.”

  The maid gave a snort and stepped back into the inn. “A groom, I suppose. You need to be careful with them. They’re only after one thing.”

  Isabella did not reply, merely following the maid back in and up the interior stairs to the attic room they shared.

  The problem was she wasn’t sure what Mr. Smythe wanted. Well, he did want that, but he did seem to be considering something more besides. Somehow she had to find out just what—and quickly.

  And then there was herself, what did she want? What did she need?

  Mark stood in the shadows and watched Isabella slip back into the inn. His body was still tense with both arousal and the nearness of being discovered. If there was one thing he knew about maids, it was that they never kept quiet. If he’d been caught kissing Isabella the whole inn would have known of it within the hour and probably half the surrounding town as well. It was bad enough that Douglas probably knew. The blasted man knew everything.

  Mark glanced up at the dark windows above, looking for the familiar silhouette.

  Isabella had been right to step back, to step away, to draw a halt to it all.

  Still, he wished she hadn’t. His lips still longed for the feel of hers beneath them, soft, sweet, willing.

  Only how willing was she, and did he care? Could he be content with kisses? Could he risk more than kisses? If he seduced her did he need to tell her who he was first? Surely it was the only honorable thing—and yet his whole being cried out against letting her know that he was the duke.

  So he was back to the original question: Could he be content with kisses?

  He never had been before. He couldn’t recall ever willingly entering into a relationship that would consist only of kisses—not that this was a relationship. It was more of a dalliance. Still, she was right. A man wanted more, needed more.

  So why hadn’t he said that or even just walked away?

  He still could. It would be the easy thing, the sane thing, to simply instruct the driver to travel a normal distance tomorrow instead of these shortened drives that Mrs. Wattington demanded. If he did that, perhaps even added an extra few miles to the day, he would arrive in London as expected, rather than late. It surely couldn’t be a good thing to be late for one’s king—and yet he’d been willing to risk it.

  For kisses.

  Was he truly willing to risk royal ire for kisses?

  Isabella’s mind danced with the glory of Mr. Smythe’s kisses. It had been years since she’d been so lost in the wonder of a moment. All things suddenly seemed possible. She almost skipped as she headed up the stairs to her room.

  “We want what you took and we want it now.” The whisper came from behind her as she was halfway up the stairs.

&n
bsp; She froze, the breath leaving her.

  Then fear set in. She had to get away. Before she could turn and run she felt her arms grabbed and held tight. A large male body pressed against her back, forcing her against the stair rail. The scent of old sweat filled her nostrils.

  Her entire body froze. Last night she had been scared to enter the inn. Tonight it had not even occurred to her. Her thoughts had been of nothing but Mr. Smythe and his kisses. How could she have been so foolish?

  “Don’t turn, and don’t say anything,” the voice continued. “We want what you took from Foxworthy. Give it to us and we’ll let you be. If not, I am sure that many would be interested in what happened to the colonel and his papers.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Isabella tried to hold her voice even despite the terror that was fast taking over.

  “Don’t give us that. You have until we reach London.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “I am sure you do know what happens to those who commit murder—they hang.”

  Isabella’s heart jumped to her throat. They knew. They knew what she’d done. How?

  “But—” Even as she spoke Isabella felt herself thrust forward, her feet slipping beneath her as she fell to her knees on the hard wood of the stairs, splinters slipping through her skirt. She turned quickly, but there was only the clatter of boots and the swing of the door into the taproom.

  Chapter 7

  Hang. She could hang.

  Isabella had always known that, but hearing it said aloud made it all too real, too immediate.

  It was more than she could bear to think about.

  She turned over, pulling the covers up high, glad that the sun was finally peeking above the horizon. The night was over. Joey still slumbered safely in his cot, unaware of the troubles that plagued her.

  What did the whispering man want? She forced herself to remember that horrible day—not Foxworthy’s death, she always ran from that memory, but the aftermath. She’d been intent on finding the false papers that declared her brother guilty of treason. After the way Masters had treated her she almost hadn’t bothered, but her sister’s happiness had been tied up in it all as well.