His Duchess

by Charlotte Russell

The Duke of Taviston stepped into the small clearing and gave a visible start. Clearly, he had not been expecting to find anyone. The moonlight shone strongly enough he would have no trouble identifying her.

  “Miss Forster? What are you doing here? Are you all by yourself? Are you all right?”

  He was at the bench in two quick strides. Victoria craned her neck up at him. He must have noted the awkwardness of it for he immediately sat down beside her.

  For all that she had wanted to avoid him; Victoria’s heart did a little leap of joy at the sight of him. She promised herself she would only look; she would not touch.

  “It’s me. I came out for some fresh air. I am all alone and I am well, thank you.”

  He looked at her as if she had suddenly grown a third ear. It was an endearing look, his puzzlement. She had to smile.

  “You asked four questions and I answered them.” Drat, she had cleared away the confused expression.

  He returned her smile. She gripped her champagne glass with both hands. Behave.

  “Ah. I’m sorry I was so abrupt.”

  “It’s quite all right. Are you enjoying the ball?”

  He grimaced. “As much as one can enjoy these affairs.”

  “Why do you come if you don’t take pleasure from it?” she asked. It was odd, but she no longer felt uneasy in his presence. Tense and excited, yes; uneasy, no.

  “Excellent question indeed.” He sat facing the garden path with his arms resting on his thighs and his hands draped between his knees. He had removed his gloves at some point. She unabashedly stared at his straight nose, strong chin, and warm lips. Well, she did not know for sure his lips were warm, but she liked to think of them that way.

  Enough with these wayward thoughts. “I, for one, have no choice but to be here. I must find a husband in order to get away from Louisa and Mr. Browne.” She hadn’t meant to let that fact slip again.

  He straightened and turned to face her. With concern he said, “Does Mr. Browne bother you?”

  An unusual question. “Certainly, he can be vexing at times, but then most men are.”

  “No. I meant to say, does he, er, physically bother you?” Turning his body more fully toward her, he peered straight into her eyes.

  She wanted nothing more than to sustain that gaze. But of a will of their own, her cheeks flushed and her gaze strayed away.

  “Victoria?” Apprehension colored his voice.

  She turned toward him again and her heart warmed at the concern lining his face and echoed in the way he intimately said her name. He worried for her. How unlike the proper, intimidating duke.

  “I beg your pardon. Do you not know about Barrett Browne?”

  “Know what?”

  “He does not fancy women at all,” she whispered. “He apparently prefers the company of men.”

  His eyes widened considerably. “That explains much.” Then he scowled at her. “How do you know of such things?”

  “The servants at Rippingale Manor were my daily companions and they were not always discreet in their talk around me.”

  He frowned. “That sounds appallingly lonely.”

  She looked across the path. “Actually, I enjoyed my years there. I knew everyone in the village.” She looked back towards Taviston. “In truth, I have only been lonely since I arrived in London. The only people who deign to speak to me are the older members of the ton, whom everyone else deems inconsequential.”

  She lowered her gaze from his face. His white cravat was tied simply. It always was. No pretense there. She had noticed his rich red waistcoat earlier tonight. He did not seem the type at all to wear such showy garments. Another contradiction. Her thoughts drifted back to the day she had seen him without clothing. She shivered and licked her lips.

  His low, deep voice brought her eyes back up to his. “I am sorry for the treatment you have received here in London.”

  Expecting to see pity in his eyes, she was surprised when his eyes darkened and slipped down to rest on her mouth.

  Her brain screamed, Nooooo! Her body would not listen. She grabbed the lapels of his black coat and pulled him down toward her while at the same time shifting her bottom closer to him on the bench. The champagne glass went rolling to the ground. Closing her eyes, she sealed her lips to his.

  A man shouldn’t look at a woman that way if he didn’t want to be kissed.

  She had been right on all counts about his lips. They were warm and firm. In fact, they were downright rigid, with shock no doubt. At least for the first ten seconds. Then his hands came up to encircle her arms. She thought he meant to push her away, but instead he pulled her closer still. His hand slid up her arm and tilted her head slightly, deepening the kiss.

  Victoria was sure she could hear the angels singing. Or perhaps it was simply every nerve in her body.

  His lips were in constant motion on hers, but she had no idea what to do.

  “Taviston.” She let his name slip when his mouth momentarily retreated from hers. Opening her eyes, she saw his burning deeply with desire. Yes, she knew it well now.

  “Follow me,” he said against her mouth.

  He began kissing her again and she tried to imitate the moves he was making. She must have succeeded because she heard a low moan emanate from his throat. What a divine sound. Leaning into him, she parted her lips slightly. He didn’t hesitate in the least to enter her mouth with his tongue. She was taken aback, for mere seconds, then succumbed to the exhilarating taste of him. It was simply heavenly.

  Victoria would never know what brought him back to reality. She had had no intention of ever returning. But he abruptly broke off the kiss, moving his hands to her upper arms and attempting to set her away from him. But she still gripped his lapels. He slid his hands down her sarcenet-clad arms and forcibly removed her hands from his clothing.

  Standing up quickly, he pulled her upright as well. Then he began to lecture, in a harsh tone that chilled Victoria’s blood. “You are a scandal waiting to happen! I hope to God that I am miles away when—” He broke off suddenly, sighed and said, with his voice cracking, “Go.”

  She went as fast as her slippered feet would carry her.

  Chapter Twelve

  Victoria spent much of the next day secreted away in her sitting room, alternating between invigorating happiness and shameful mortification. When she was feeling the latter emotion, she sat staring out at the driving rain and blamed her behavior on the champagne she had drunk. When she swung back to feeling madly joyful, she clapped her hands and congratulated herself for being so assertive. She had wanted to kiss him. And so she had. And it had been wonderful, fabulous, and essentially the crowning moment of her life so far.

  Oh, God. She had kissed him. Taviston. The Duke of Taviston. His Grace. Not even the devil himself could have thought up a more humiliating scenario for her. This episode truly put to shame all her previous encounters with him. She supposed she should count her blessings they had at least been alone in the garden and not in the middle of the ballroom.

  She realized, of course, that he had returned her kiss. Thank goodness, since she had no experience in such things. Yes, he had participated in the kiss though his awful words afterwards made clear he was not happy about it.

  Would that she could store the breathtaking, soul-embracing memory away in her mind, forget about the Duke of Taviston, and get on with finding a husband. But no, it was the end of the week and she had yet to call upon the Duchess of Taviston. If she didn’t show herself at Taviston House today, she had probably better not show herself in society anymore. Taviston had warned her against offending his mother. Victoria must go.

  She had already prayed three times she would not come across him during her visit. Calling was generally an affair for ladies, but it was his house. A large house. Surely, she could call on the duchess for the required fifteen minutes and escape without encountering the duke.

  Reluctantly she pulled her gaze from the rain slashing the window. Most likely no one in their
right mind was out calling today. But she could not afford to have the duchess look upon her with disfavor. If she didn’t get married, or at least engaged, soon, she feared the Brownes would send her back to the country. While she had enjoyed her simple life in Rippingale, she wanted a family of her own. So, she dragged herself to her bedroom and changed into her best gown, a light blue muslin.

  Victoria stepped out into the wetness accompanied by Timothy the footman. Thankfully, he was Louisa’s least favorite servant and, more often than not, her cousin didn’t care what he did as long as he was out of her sight. This arrangement worked in both Victoria’s and Timothy’s favor. With pattens strapped onto her shoes in order to keep them dry, her heaviest pelisse tightly buttoned, and a bonnet firmly tied around her head, she hitched her skirt up as high as possible and walked under the umbrella Timothy held. A few carriages sloshed down the street but no one else was walking.

  She grumbled to herself about overly handsome dukes and bothersome cousins the entire journey. By the time she arrived in Grosvenor Square she had cleared her mind enough to present herself calmly to the duchess.

  Halston answered Timothy’s knock. He recognized her instantly. “Miss Forster. Do come in.”

  He held the door wide for her and she stepped in, bringing much of the rain with her. Morgan would have been thoroughly annoyed at the mess.

  Halston smiled with welcome. “Let me take your coat, miss, and we will get you before a fire in a trice.” He acted as if she called every day, rain or shine.

  “I am here to call upon Her Grace, Halston,” she informed him. After removing her pelisse and bonnet she sat on a chair in the foyer to remove her pattens as well.

  “Very good, miss. Follow me to the drawing room and I will ascertain whether or not Her Grace is at home.”

  Halston started up the grand staircase. Unpleasant memories flooded Victoria’s mind. Well, they weren’t all bad memories. There was the lovely vision of Taviston in dishabille. She snapped her head up and looked around for any signs of him.

  She made it safely to the drawing room. Halston had sent a footman ahead to stoke the fire and she gratefully moved her shivering self toward it. The butler gave her a bow and left.

  For at least five minutes she stood by the fire, not only warming herself but also hoping to dry out the bottom of her dress. Unfortunately, this gave her time to ponder how she would react if the duchess refused to see her. It certainly would not help her social standing. Halston had been a little forward in showing her straight to the drawing room. If the duchess was not “at home” then Victoria would have to turn around and leave.

  Turning her back to the fire, she contemplated the room. It was exquisitely decorated. This dukedom and all of its wealth went back many, many hundreds of years. The woodwork and plasterwork had been painted white and the walls were papered in a dark blue pattern. The furniture was very old, but well cared for. A sofa, flanked by two wing chairs, faced the fireplace. She crossed over and sat down. For the first time she noticed the painting over the mantle.

  It was a Danforth family portrait; she would guess it had been painted about ten years ago. The duchess and the late duke were seated on a garden bench, holding hands. Taviston and his middle brother Peyton stood behind them, each with a hand on a parent’s shoulder. The only daughter sat to her mother’s left with the youngest brother, James, pulled to her side.

  Victoria could not hold back a smile as she studied the picture. Taviston resembled his father, with the same black hair and grey eyes. He looked young, perhaps only eighteen or so, but he carried the same solemn expression he did these days. Peyton looked to be only a year or two younger than the duke. Victoria had to sigh at his masculine beauty. His tousled auburn hair and twinkling blue eyes indicated the mischievous spirit Taviston had ascribed to him. James was just a boy of ten or eleven. His black hair and serious appearance mirrored Taviston’s, but in contrast he had those same sparkling blue eyes as Peyton. As for their sister, Harriet was it? She was a lovely young woman a year or two older than Taviston, with Peyton’s auburn hair and the duke’s grey eyes.

  The picture of a vibrant family sent a stab of jealousy through her heart. She had dreamed of growing up in such a family since the day her mother had died, when she was four. More recently, she had transformed her dream into a fervent desire to be the wife and mother of such a family.

  The duchess swept into the room on light feet, as if she couldn’t wait to speak with Victoria. “Good afternoon, Miss Forster. How wonderful that you have called on such a dreadful afternoon.”

  Victoria stood and faced the duchess. She smiled tremulously at first, then with greater confidence as she saw the sincere pleasure on the older woman’s face.

  “Good afternoon, Your Grace. I am honored to call upon you.” When the duchess finally reached her, Victoria curtsied.

  “Let’s sit,” said the duchess, waving her hand at the sofa. “Halston should be bringing tea up at any moment.”

  Panic pierced her heart at the mention of tea. Tea would require her to stay longer than fifteen minutes. She calmed herself by remembering they were ensconced in the closed drawing room, out of sight. Taviston couldn’t possibly see her.

  After they were both seated, Victoria nodded her head at the picture over the fireplace. “I was admiring your fine family, ma’am.”

  The duchess’s eyes turned wistful. “I miss my William more than I can say, but I am extremely proud of my sons and their accomplishments. My daughter Harriet as well. She’s made a lovely life for her family in Hampshire. If only I could get the boys to settle down and begin families of their own. More grandchildren would not be unwelcome.” Her sapphire eyes shone brightly.

  “Families are a great comfort,” Victoria said with a conviction stemming from her heart and not experience.

  The duchess abruptly changed the subject. “Now then, you seem well acquainted with my Taviston.” There was not a hint of malice in the duchess’s voice, only curiosity.

  Little do you know how well acquainted. This grand lady would surely be scandalized if she only knew the truth. Trying to think of something appropriate to say was proving extremely difficult, because memories of the duke’s delicious tongue invading her mouth flashed through her brain. She attempted to keep her eyes from crossing as she opened her mouth in the hope that rational words would flow forth.

  “Oh... Well, I—”

  Victoria was saved by dear, dear Halston. He chose that moment to arrive, bearing tea on a silver tray. After placing it on the table resting up against the back of the sofa, he answered the duchess’s beckoning and bent to hear a whispered word from that grand lady.

  Taking a deep breath, Victoria faced the duchess after having watched Halston’s entrance and retreat. There was a faint glimmer in Her Grace’s eyes as she bestowed one of her regal smiles on Victoria.

  “Would you do me the favor of pouring, my dear?”

  “I?” Victoria did not hide her surprise well. She knew she should feel honored and privileged to pour tea for the Duchess of Taviston; she only feared botching the job. Clearing her throat, she answered more respectfully, “I would love to, Your Grace.”

  “Thank you. Do call me Duchess, please.”

  She responded with a quiet, “Of course,” while rising to dispense the tea. The Danforth family certainly was one for familiarity. The duke wanted her to address him as... Well, she had no idea, but he had responded well to her calling him Taviston. She shook her head free of the delightful memory in order to concentrate on pouring the tea.

  “How do you take your tea, Duchess?”

  “A healthy dose of milk and sugar, please.”

  Victoria fixed a cup for the duchess first and carried it around to her, along with a plate of tiny cakes. Finally she poured herself a cup and returned to sit down. They sipped in silence for a minute.

  “You strike me as a sensible young lady.”

  How did one respond to that when one had not even seen the s
hadow of one’s sense in over a week? Victoria decided on the polite, vague reply.

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Many young ladies today are so silly and capricious. Yet you always seem composed. I mean no offense, my dear, but most young women would be in a near panic at not being married by your age.”

  “I take no offense, Duchess. Of course, I had no choice in having to wait for my Season, due to my relatives. But, I find that my years have given me a more mature perspective on the marriage market.” That was the biggest line of twaddle she had ever let out of her mouth. Silently asking for forgiveness, Victoria raised her teacup to hide her embarrassment.

  The duchess looked over the sofa toward the door.

  “Taviston!”

  Victoria started, nearly spilling her tea right down her gown. So much for sense and composure.

  TAVISTON NAVIGATED his way to the drawing room, having been summoned by his mother, via a message from Halston. He wasn’t aware they had a visitor until he opened the door and heard his mother’s surprised exclamation and then a muttered phrase sounding suspiciously like, “Oh, drat.”

  The devil was surely chuckling at this moment. Taviston wanted nothing more right now than to avoid Miss Victoria Forster. And here she sat in his drawing room, having tea with his mother. For a mere second he contemplated being rude and turning around and leaving but found he just couldn’t. He approached the sofa.

  “Mother.” He nodded toward his parent and afterward turned to their guest. “Miss Forster.”

  The object of his morning’s musings had stood up as he had crossed the room. She gave him a negligible curtsy and then mumbled the words “Your Grace” without ever looking up at him. She retook her seat with lightning speed.

  “Do join us for some tea, son. Is there something you needed?” his mother queried.

  Taviston gave her a baffled look. She acted as if she hadn’t requested his presence. He took a seat in the chair next to the sofa and waved toward the tea service. “Tea would do nicely. There is nothing I need, Mother.” Except for this petite female to be transported to a deserted island, from where she wouldn’t be able to cast her spells over his body.