Kiss of a Duke: 12 Dukes of Christmas #2

by Erica Ridley

  “Do you think being a rake is like being a spinster?” he stammered.

  She shrugged. “Both are happily unwed.”

  He arched his brows. “Are you certain all spinsters are happy to be unwed?”

  “Are you certain all rakes prefer a life of solitude?” she countered.

  He’d thought he was certain. Now he wasn’t sure about anything.

  “If I were to… not be a rake,” he said carefully. “Would you like that better?”

  “I would like you the same,” she answered immediately. “I’d be interested in studying the variables that prompted such a change in behavior. But I would still find it in my heart to bake you biscuits.”

  She twinkled up at him.

  He could not help but return her grin.

  Penelope was unlike anyone he’d ever known. She didn’t want him to fit any predetermined role. Not rake, not lover, not husband. She wanted to know him, not change him. He was the one who had begun to question his choices.

  A crack of thunder sounded overhead.

  They both lifted their heads to the sky in time for the first droplets of sleet to splash into their faces.

  “It’s coming,” he said. He braced his muscles. “On your mark.”

  She gripped his arm tight. “Run!”

  They tore off down the street, panting and laughing as the sky opened up and drenched them in cold rain.

  By the time they arrived at Penelope’s doorstep, they were both completely drenched, and their cheeks hurt from laughing.

  “Coming inside?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “I have an appointment across town.”

  “I’d tempt you with biscuits, but I’ve been so busy that I forgot to send my maid to market.” She pushed a hunk of wet hair from her eyes. “I suppose I should get out of these damp clothes.”

  Nicholas imagined himself unrolling her stockings one by one, hanging them up by the mantel with care, then slowly unbuttoning her—

  “Good plan,” he said hoarsely.

  Now that the overhang of her roof protected them from the rain, perhaps it was time to open his other coat pocket. The one without ornithology.

  He shook the rain from his hand and pulled out a small, brown-paper package.

  Her eyes widened. “What is—”

  “It’s nothing,” he said quickly. “Open it later. When you’re not busy.”

  “I will be stuck in my laboratory the next few days,” she said with a sigh. “I’ve so much work to do.”

  He nodded. “I won’t bother you.”

  “You can if you want,” she said softly, then slipped inside her cottage and shut the door.

  Nicholas raked a shaking hand through his soggy hair. Apparently, he’d lost his hat at some point and hadn’t even noticed. All his attention had been on Penelope. He reached out to touch the knocker, then shoved his hands back into his pockets.

  His whole life, he had limited far more than his interactions in an attempt to avoid becoming attached. He’d limited his hopes, his emotions, his happiness. Now look at him.

  Clutching his coat, he turned from her door and stepped back out into the rain. His chest pounded. It was too late to stay safe.

  He was in very, very deep trouble.

  Chapter 10

  Penelope carefully allowed a single drop of liquid to fall from one flask to another.

  Duchess was nearly perfect. All she was adding now were flourishes. Floral notes above and beyond the underlying chemistry to mask science with sweetness. She inhaled the final aroma and smiled.

  Ladies would try a perfume because it smelled nice. They would become repeat clients because it worked.

  Since she’d begun testing Duchess herself, Penelope had noticed a distinct shift in her interactions with gentlemen in her community. Eye contact, where before there was none. Greetings that lasted longer than how do you do. Attention from a certain charming scoundrel she couldn’t keep from her mind.

  Everything about him was seductive.

  She slid a glance to the package Nicholas had given her the day before. It sat unopened next to her bain marie and notebook. A brown paper temptation, when she ought to be working. Her fingers twitched. She wasn’t a silly, rake-obsessed chit like the ladies he was used to.

  Of course she could wait to complete a respectable day’s work before opening a simple gift. Besides, it wasn’t as if she were expecting romance.

  Penelope turned back to her flask and adjusted the flame. Maintaining the proper volume was so troublesome. She could measure a given amount of liquid into a tube, but wouldn’t know with certainty how much had evaporated unless she stopped the experiment to measure, at which point—

  An unbidden memory heated her cheeks. In a fit of extreme non-coquettishness, she had complained to Nicholas about that very subject just the other day. She set down her tools and buried her face in her hands. Was it any wonder the man had other things to do?

  A choked laugh escaped her throat. Nicholas had no doubt stopped listening the moment he realized “flask” had nothing to do with whiskey. Literally any other woman in Christmas would show him a more interesting time. Penelope’s idea of excitement was Dalton’s argument for atomic theory based on measurable mass.

  Well, that was the test, wasn’t it? Not if she could catch a man using artifice and feminine wiles, but if she could maintain a rake’s attention whilst being utterly herself.

  With a little help from Duchess.

  She stared in frustration at the orange flame flickering beneath the vial before her. A strange unrest filled her. Using science to incite a man’s passions was all well and good. Indeed, before Duchess, she’d never incited more than a yawn.

  But she had begun to want more than passion. More than biology. Her chest tightened. She wanted Nicholas to understand her. And like what he saw.

  “Imbecile,” she muttered under her breath. “Perfumes aren’t magic.”

  She had to stay logical. Rational. Calm. Patient. Soon the trial would be over. He would return home; she would return to her laboratory. Who cared if—

  Penelope snatched the package off the counter and sliced the cotton string binding it together.

  She tried to calm her heart. The only reason Nicholas believed himself even cursorily attracted was due to an aromatic blend of chemical compounds. Not her personality. Any gifts he brought were therefore meaningless.

  Her fingers trembled. What did she expect to find inside? Chocolates? An embarrassing flush heated her ears. Was that not what she wanted from him? To be wooed like any other woman, even if it wasn’t real? Muscles tense, she unfolded the paper and pushed it aside.

  Flasks.

  Her breath caught.

  He’d bought her flasks.

  Her heart beat out of control. She lifted one of the delicate glass cylinders to inspect it.

  It was the same as the model she normally purchased, save for a few key modifications. The lip was not completely round, but contained an external dip on one side, allowing the wielder to control the pour of liquid with greater precision.

  The base was the same roundness, the body the same thickness, but tiny indicators on the glass would allow her to gauge the volume of liquid inside and whether its value had changed. The design was perfect.

  She clutched all four flasks to her chest. He did see her. He did know her. He understood her. She couldn’t stop smiling. This gift wasn’t the traditional fare any gentleman purchased for any woman, but something meant specifically for her.

  So where on earth was he? Since delivering the gift, he had disappeared. Her smile dipped at the edges.

  He was not promised to her. A rake, by definition, did not promise himself to anyone. The gift might mean nothing.

  Perhaps his natural wanderlust had led him to other women. Those who could be won with a single red rose. She swallowed a sour taste. The moment he exited Duchess’s scent range, she would no longer be foremost in his thoughts.

  No matter. Scie
nce was the only thought she intended to keep in mind. Chemistry was the sole commitment she had time for. Anything else was an unnecessary complication.

  She stared down at the flasks in her hands. Her shoulders curved. She would thank him for his thoughtful gift. He was a nice person. A temporary tourist who would soon return where he belonged. She placed the flasks back onto the table. There was no room in the equation for emotion.

  She shouldn’t make more of it than what it was.

  A knock sounded from outside.

  She blew out the candle and went to answer.

  Before she could finish opening the door, Nicholas barreled in hefting a large wicker basket.

  Her heart filled with joy. “What are you doing?”

  He grinned at her. “I come bearing gifts.”

  “Frankincense, gold, and myrrh?” The corners of her mouth twitched.

  “Close.” He strode past her into the kitchen and dropped the basket on her table with a thud. “Flour, sugar, and butter.”

  “How much flour, sugar, and butter?” she asked suspiciously. “That basket looks like it weighs two stone.”

  “I panicked.” His eyes were impish. “Running out of biscuits is like running out of…”

  “Oxygen?” she guessed.

  He shook his head. “Hot chocolate.”

  “Humans can live very long lives with no consumption of chocolate,” she informed him gently.

  “But without chocolate, are we truly living?” He shot a stern glance over his shoulder before continuing to unload the basket. “I think that’s everything. I added each ingredient to my list when we made the last batch.”

  “You did? I didn’t see you write anything down.”

  “Mental list,” he clarified. “I’m almost as good at list-keeping as I am at biscuit-eating.”

  He was right. Everything she needed was there.

  “You purchased all of this because I chanced to mention I hadn’t had time to go to market?”

  He nodded. “Confession: after long and careful consideration, I concluded that your lack of biscuit ingredients was at least partially my fault.”

  “Very self-aware,” she murmured. “But that was yesterday. What if I’ve been to market in the meantime?”

  “Then we’ll have even more biscuits.” His eyes brightened. “Did you?”

  “No.” She stifled a giggle at his crestfallen expression.

  “You are a cruel, cruel woman,” he chastised her. “I shall write your name on the ‘wicked’ list for teasing me.”

  “It’s not teasing,” she protested. “I’m a natural philosopher. Science deals with hypotheticals.”

  “And I will deal with you later.” He gathered her measuring cups and a mixing bowl, then pointed toward the stools. “Sit. Allow me to demonstrate the only chemistry lesson I ever paid attention to.”

  Penelope selected the closest stool and rested her elbows on the counter behind her in order to watch as he worked. Her insides felt warm and her normally tight muscles were unusually relaxed.

  This was what it felt like to have someone take care of her, she realized. No—not to take care of her. To care about her. A delicious shiver skated across her skin. She hadn’t just crossed his mind. He had acted on his feelings. She couldn’t stop smiling.

  She did her best to focus on the recipe. “Make sure the eggs—”

  “No interruptions, Natural Philosopher,” he scolded her. “Your kitchen is not my first workshop. Science is about observation, is it not? Your job is to observe silently.”

  She tried to keep a straight face. “What if, in the name of science, I happen to observe that you look especially fine today?”

  He gestured with his fingers. “More detail, please.”

  She affected a dry, scientific tone. “One might observe that the tailoring of today’s coat emphasizes the strength of your muscles. That the gold in your waistcoat brings an extra sparkle to your eyes. Or how the smudge of flour on your left eyebrow makes an unusual sartorial touch.”

  “You may comment upon your uncontrollable attraction to me at will,” he assured her. “Do continue. What were you saying about how the sight of me sets your loins a-quiver?”

  She burst out laughing. “I didn’t—”

  “How gravely you wound me, madam.” He sent her a faux petulant glare. “Just as I was debating sharing these biscuits with you.”

  She clutched her hands to her chest in shock. “Who is this imposter in my kitchen? The real Saint Nick would never voluntarily share biscuits.”

  “I was tricking you,” he agreed. “The biscuits are for me. Your gift is the empty basket.”

  “It’s a lovely basket,” she said solemnly. “It smells of wicker and unrealized potential.”

  “There might be a single portion of fine chocolate inside,” he said. “Also only for me.”

  She grinned and hopped off the stool to investigate. There was indeed fine chocolate inside. More than enough for two. He’d thought of everything.

  Her heart gave a little flip as she surveyed the kitchen. As much as she loved the pretty stone, the glass petal, the incredible flasks... His other presents had been static objects meant to be enjoyed by her alone. Today’s gift was an experience meant to be shared together.

  She could not think of anything more romantic. But it was all thanks to Duchess.

  After a quick taste of the batter, he slid the first tray of biscuits into the oven and grimaced. “As much as it pains me to say this… Can you set that abominable alarm?”

  “As you wish.” She started the kitchen chronometer and then positioned herself directly before him. “I’ve only one question. How ever will we pass twelve long minutes?”

  He moved closer, sending her a sultry glance from beneath his lashes. “Mmm. I doubt your suggestion at all resembles my—”

  She twined her arms about his neck and pressed her lips to his before he could continue.

  He immediately enveloped her in his warm embrace and returned her kiss with passion. She felt her heart melting. He tasted of sugar and nutmeg and long, cozy nights. Each kiss was a promise of something more, something better. He did not want to change her into someone she was not. He wanted to bring her pleasure, exactly as she was. And she absolutely intended to let him. Starting with—

  The experiment, she reminded herself with a start. This was a trial for Duchess, not a fantasy for Penelope. She’d almost ruined it by kissing him, instead of waiting for him to kiss her.

  It was too late to stop now. But to keep the results pure, she could not allow herself to be the aggressor, even in something as simple as a kiss. If their physical interactions were to progress further, he would need to instigate each step from his own free will.

  Please let there be additional physical interactions, she begged the fragrant drops of perfume on her pulse points. His every kiss incited a whirlpool of emotion, a surge of desire so intense it took her breath away. And when his tongue touched hers…

  Every molecule of her body wanted this man more than she’d dreamed possible. It was as if she was hydrogen and he was carbon and together their irresistible chemical bond had joined to form ethylene, a substance so flammable that any spark could cause it to combust.

  At this rate, her entire kitchen was going to ignite.

  Each delicious, drugging kiss caused an instant reaction of subsequent sparks from her mouth to her core. Her pulse raced for him. Her body begged for him. Her—

  He lifted her waist and swung her onto the edge of the table. Her heart pounded in excitement. The sudden arrival of her derrière knocked one of the eggs off the other side of the table and to the floor.

  Penelope did not care a button about broken eggs or melting butter or the puff of flour that her skirts had sent flying. From this angle, her hips were now at the same height as Nicholas’s, aligning their sexual organs perfectly.

  She couldn’t wait to find out what he intended to do about it.

  Without breaking their ki
ss, he slid his hands over the curve of her hips, up the dip in her waist, coming to rest so close to her bodice that the edge of his fingers brushed against the curve of her breasts.

  Her nipples immediately responded. The pad of his thumb stroked the side of her breast. She held her breath. Her skin tightened in anticipation, yearning for a touch that did not come.

  He lifted his lips a fraction from hers. “May I—”

  “Yes,” she gasped. “Immediately.”

  His mouth once again claimed hers.

  Slowly, inexorably, his hand at last cupped her breast. Her entire body came alive at the touch. His fingers teased her nipple lightly, devastatingly, flooding the pleasure regions in her brain with a strong urge to rip her clothes from her body in order to give him greater access. To give him anything he wanted.

  She couldn’t say so aloud. All she could do was respond to his kiss.

  He hiked the hems of her skirts up just high enough to allow his hips to nestle between her thighs. Her breath caught. Even though several layers of clothing still separated them, there was no mistaking the hardness pressing against her core.

  Experimentally, she rubbed against him.

  He gasped into her mouth and grabbed her hips tight. “Good God, woman.”

  “I liked it,” she whispered against his lips. She should not have done that. “Should I stop?”

  “I like it, too.” His voice was scratchy and tortured. “Do it again.”

  As his kisses once again robbed her of thought, she gave up on tally-marks for the experiment. This was so much better. His talented hands caressed her breasts, her trembling legs were locked tight about his hips, and the throbbing of—

  A deafening clamor rent the air as the mechanical alarm sent hundreds of nails pounding against sheets of metal.

  He leaped back and glanced wildly about the kitchen in desperate search for the switch. “Where do I…? How can we…?”

  She slid from the table and raced to the switch, sliding perilously on a patch of runny egg in the process. Her hand slapped at the control until the racket finally stopped.

  Unfortunately, so had their intimate moment.