A Good Day to Marry a Duke

by Betina Krahn

  “But especially to Arthur. I felt horrible for him.” She looked up and found him watching her with an intensity that spurred her heart to extra beats. “Your brother is odd at times, I’ll admit. But he’s mostly just bookish and hasn’t been out in the world much. He’s sharp about some things, and gentle, and courteous. He’s really very sweet.”

  “You’ve gone soft on him,” Ashton accused, one corner of his mouth quirked up in that wicked half smile of his that started her bones melting.

  “And why wouldn’t I?” she said, battling her fascination with his lips. She knew just how they would taste and feel—how they could tease her sensitive—“He needs someone to stand up for him and care for him and help him take his rightful place in the world.”

  “Yes, well, it can’t be you.”

  “Oh? And why not?” She could hardly breathe. He was so close . . . he filled her senses and invaded her very breath. Parts of her that had no business making themselves known were tingling with anticipation.

  Alarmed, she rose and stood with her hands clasped, but she was unable to make herself move away or to take her eyes from his handsome mouth. She wanted so badly to touch that face, to run her fingers over every slope and curve—to memorize every—

  “I’ll tell you why not.” His words came low and slow and vibrated her very fingertips. “Better yet, I’ll show you.”

  He seized her arms and pulled her off balance and onto his lap. The next instant he was kissing her within an inch of her life. His mouth was hard and demanding at first, but softened as she responded and wrapped her arms around his neck. She shifted against him, savoring the feel of his body beneath her and smiling against his lips as his hands moved over her waist, claiming it. She held her breath as he slid his hands down her skirts to trace the contours of her leg.

  Moments later he dragged her petticoats higher and slid his hand past her garters to her bare thigh. She held her breath as he reached her knickers and the sensitive curve of her hip. She wanted more . . . his touch on her bare skin, his hands caressing her body, his strength around her, his hardness inside her.

  She was barely conscious of shifting, moving to straddle him, to press her burning need against him. They were now face to face, exploring each other and the lush, instinctive synchrony of their bodies molding, moving, rubbing. When she stiffened and shuddered, momentarily lost in a flash and rumble of pleasure, she sensed it was exactly what she wanted—needed—this release of tension, this freedom from constant restraint. She melted against him, feeling deliciously flushed and open to him.

  With just a few kisses and knowledgeable touches he’d led her into a warm shower of pleasure. She kissed him deeply, feeling his hardness against her sensitive and hungry flesh. She wanted to be naked and horizontal and to have him deep within her, driving them both toward even greater—

  She froze as the realization of what just happened made it through the steamy haze muddling her mind. She opened her eyes and looked around.

  They were in a church—Merciful Heaven!—and Red lay snoring just a few feet away. She was straddling the rogue’s lap with her skirts raised halfway to Heaven, and her body was burning for more. When she tried to move away, his hands on her waist held her against him.

  “That’s why it can’t be you,” he said, his voice thick with unspent passion.

  Because she had just disgraced herself. Because she had abandoned her morals yet again and been betrayed by her body’s lustful cravings. Shame flooded her face. She squirmed out of his grasp, stood on shaky legs, and turned her back to him to right her skirts. Her hands trembled.

  Seconds later, he was on his feet behind her.

  “Arthur could never give you that,” he said, putting his hands on her shoulders and turning her around. She turned her head, frantic to avoid what she was certain would be a gloating expression. He lifted her chin to make her meet his gaze.

  “You’re not a weak, wilting lily of a deb. You’re a strong, determined, passionate woman. You need someone to match your strength.” He stroked her cheek to coax her to meet his gaze. “Noble or common—what matters in a marriage is that a man and a woman are equally matched. The church fathers called it ‘equally yoked,’ though I believe what they meant by that was that believers should marry believers, not heathens. All the same, it works to say that people should marry their equal.” He gave her a wry and tender smile.

  “Like it or not, Daisy love, the Duke of Meridian will never be your equal.” He tapped her temple. “Not here.” He tapped her chest above her heart. “Nor here.” He leaned closer and breathed against her lips: “And certainly not here.” His mouth caressed hers so gently, so lovingly, that tears welled within her closed eyes.

  He wasn’t condemning her for her knowledge of carnal pleasures; rather, he was saying his brother was woefully ignorant of such things. Was he right? Did her knowledge of passion make her an unsuitable wife for a man who had little or no experience of it?

  She pushed away, scrambling for emotional footing, trying to make sense of his motives. As she gathered her shawl around her, she shivered and blinked to clear her vision. Did he care anything about her, or was he just using her own passions to get her to abandon pursuit of his brother?

  In his presence she couldn’t think straight; he had her wits roped and tied. Why was he luring her into forbidden pleasures, and then rescuing her from her own headstrong urges? Was he just another treacherous Meridian, using his gift for temptation to destroy her hopes? While the other family members sneered and bullied to get their way, he flattered and seduced. But did that make him any less dangerous?

  At that moment she remembered what Lady Sylvia had called him in that upper room at the Earl of Mountjoy’s. “A prime Meridian.”

  He was that, all right.

  She had fled his pull on her desires and now found herself at the limits of the lamplight. She turned to find him watching her, staring at her with what could only be called lust in his eyes. At least that much was true. He wanted her almost as much as he wanted her to give up Arthur.

  Almost.

  That put things into perspective. Taking a steadying breath, she strode back to the table, shook Uncle Red awake, and grabbed the volume containing Gemma Howard’s baptismal record.

  “What is it?” Red sat up, smacking his lips dryly, looking around.

  “We found it, Uncle Red. We found Gemma Howard in the book and we have to get that ‘dean’ fellow to make out a paper saying who her parents were and when she was baptized. Come on.”

  She looped an arm through her uncle’s and led him briskly to the stairs, leaving Ashton standing in the lamplight.

  * * *

  She wouldn’t listen, Ashton realized, his hopes sinking. She wasn’t going to give up her pursuit of Arthur, no matter how ardently he tried to persuade her they were mismatched. Time was running out. By the end of the week, she would be at Betancourt with the family and a number of other notables . . . where the family elders expected he would discredit her lineage even if he had to falsify it.

  But what if it were true? What if her ancestry could be traced back to Charles II, the Restoration king? Two weeks was an absurdly short amount of time to prove any sort of history, much less a family lineage that spanned two continents, but they had made a promising start. The scholar in him rebelled at the idea of patently lying about history, no matter how small it was in scope. The past was foundation to the present, Huxley had drilled into him years ago, and to deny or falsify it was to undermine the future.

  Her future.

  There was only one path left. Her personal history included more than she pretended. She was no shrinking virgin, that was clear. Much as he despised the idea, he would have to use her own unknown past and whatever gave her such a delicious eagerness for pleasure against her.

  Chapter Seventeen

  That very night, Ashton Graham appeared as a dinner guest at the Earl of Albemarle’s table, along with at least a dozen other engaging guests. The
duke was delighted to have his younger brother at his side and embraced him heartily, while their tight-lipped uncle was less welcoming.

  Daisy was seated opposite the duke at dinner that night and struggled to be an attentive listener as he related his afternoon in the gardens collecting specimens. He described in exhaustive detail his scientific observations, techniques of capture, and preservation . . . then went on to discuss where in his collection he intended to place these new acquisitions.

  Twice Daisy tried to change the subject, but “collecting” was all the duke could think about. The elaborate seven-course meal the Albemarles provided sat largely untouched before him. She found herself wishing he would drink a few glasses of wine; he was wound as tight as a clock spring.

  Down the long table, Ashton was entertaining both ladies and gentlemen with tales of Ascot races and yachting and the prince’s royal faux pas. She glanced his way and felt a spur of envy that they got to enjoy his scandalous company. During the serving, he looked toward her, as if drawn by her gaze, and their eyes met. She ached to reach across the candelabra, crystal, and linen . . . past the silks, starched collars, and fancy manners . . . to touch him. She wanted to be the woman sitting beside him, enjoying his jaded opinions and droll stories of London society.

  And more . . . She wanted to know how he spent his evenings, what books he read, which foods he couldn’t resist, whether he could drive a four-in-hand, and where he would go if he could live anywhere in the world. In truth, she wanted to know him in more than just the biblical sense.

  Oh, God.

  She paled so abruptly that the duke halted mid-discourse and asked if she were feeling quite well. She produced a fair imitation of a smile and bade him continue his fascinating comparison of the butterflies of western and southern England . . . while she gripped the table edge in a quiet panic.

  She had more than just a fascination for Ashton Graham. She had feelings of a kind—she forced her gaze back to the duke—she might never have for Arthur. Her heart sank, leaving a hollow in her middle as she searched her future husband for something, anything to pin a hope on.

  Her gaze snagged on his chin and slid to his mouth. Not broad and sensuous, but pleasant and perhaps even promising. She watched his mouth as he spoke, and gradually began to take hope.

  It was time she redirected her passionate leanings toward the duke. Given time and proximity, she would surely begin to have the same feelings for him that she was having for Ashton. It was her regrettable nature to be susceptible to the temptations of the flesh. And Arthur, as far as she could tell, was indeed made of flesh.

  By the end of dinner her spirits had rebounded and she had made up her mind. She had to kiss Arthur. And soon.

  * * *

  “Goodness, Daisy, I’ve all but talked your ears off,” the duke said as they strolled on the half-lit terrace outside the salon where their hosts and the other guests were gathered. It had taken a bit of doing to maneuver him outside and alone; in his presence, everyone seemed to show an unprecedented interest in butterfly collecting.

  “Nonsense, Your Grace,” she began.

  “Arthur,” he corrected.

  “Arthur,” she repeated with true pleasure. “I love to see you share your favorite occupation. I’ve learned a lot about insects and butterflies from you. And I think you are very wise to think of cultivating beehives along with your orchard.”

  “Don’t know why we haven’t done it before now.” He paused at the stone baluster that edged the terrace and looked down at her in the moonlight. “It seems like I’ve been waking up to a lot of things in recent days. There is so much to do . . . a great house to maintain, estates to run, people to sort out. Some of our servants should have been pensioned off years ago and replaced with younger backs and knees. And I had no idea how much land belonged to us until a week ago. I went to my father’s study—which is usually occupied by Uncle Bertram, who doesn’t like his things disturbed—and I discovered maps showing far-flung parcels of land belonging to Betancourt.”

  “You don’t say. That sounds like a big responsibility. You know, you need help, Arthur. Someone with a sound mind and a strong constitution to help you take stock of your obligations and get them in hand.”

  “Well, my aunts and uncles—”

  “Are getting on in years themselves,” she opined, feeling only a little guilty for pretending concern. “It’s hardly fair to burden them.”

  “I suppose that’s true.” He looked at her and slowly cocked his head, as if seeing her from a different perspective. She met his gaze and felt a mild surge of relief that he was finally paying attention to her. When he stepped closer, she broke into a flirtatious smile and put a hand on his arm.

  “Of course, it’s true,” came a strong voice from the terrace doors. She withdrew a step. Curse his hide! “Anyone can see the old cods are going dotty. I was starting to fear they would drag you with them.”

  “Ashton.” The duke’s face lit with good humor. “I must say, I’m glad to see you’re back in society. I hope this means you’ll be coming to Betancourt more.” He looked to Daisy with widened eyes. “Oh, I nearly forgot. We’re having people in next week. You must come, too. The family will be thrilled to see you. Miss Bumgarten, here, is coming.”

  “Really?” Ashton gave her a duplicitous smile. “How lovely. I’d be delighted to come home for a visit.”

  She gave him a fierce glare that Arthur missed.

  Ashton offered her his arm, which she ignored as she headed for the door.

  * * *

  The next morning Daisy persuaded the duke to accompany her for a ride. He was not well acquainted with horses and not much of a rider, he confessed, but he agreed to try since she had her heart set on it. When he was younger, his uncles had discouraged him from spending time in the stables or riding over the estates, so he had become accustomed to walking.

  Once again, Arthur turned out to be more honest than diplomatic. He sat stiff as a board and bounced in the saddle as if every step the horse took required an equal and opposite reaction. Daisy reined in Dancer to stay close to him and offer a few suggestions intended to make him more comfortable in the saddle and with the reins. She shared with him distracting tales of her early rides and some western lore regarding horses.

  In the end, she suggested they gallop a bit to let the horses work off some energy and promised it would smooth out his ride. She was relieved to see that he used his heels to make his mount go and he managed to hang on as they set off across open fields and veered along hedgerows. Frequently she took the lead and chose the path, and when she looked back he was smiling—at least she hoped it was a smile.

  To his credit, he persevered, improved, and was often on her heels as they crossed bridges, avoided stone walls, and rounded haystacks in fields. Was it her imagination that he sat more at ease in the saddle and used the reins more effectively now?

  The duke was red faced and panting, and she was breathing hard herself as they slowed to a walk and turned back toward the stables. Arthur insisted he was in fine fettle, and to her eye, he did seem invigorated by the exercise. When they came upon the horse trail Lady Regina had described to her, she knew she had found the perfect spot to maneuver him into a kiss.

  Marlton’s bridle path was an old cart road lined with mature trees that had grown tall enough to meet overhead and shade the area. It had become a picturesque venue for riders wishing to cool down their mounts before a final jog back to the stables.

  Sunlight slanted through the leaves and danced across the duke’s ruddy face, giving him a robust appearance. She smiled and asked if he wished to dismount and walk a bit in the shade. He smiled back, his eyes alight with pleasure as he expounded on the beauty of the place and how much he appreciated her tutelage in horsemanship. He spoke of tending to his stables when he returned to Betancourt, and promised her a tour of the main estate on horseback when she visited.

  She was supposed to wait for him to help her dismount. She leaned th
is way and that, trying to see around his mount, and finally spotted his boots on the far side.

  “Your Grace? Arthur?”

  A groan from his location galvanized her and a moment later she swung down from Dancer’s back and hurried around to see what was wrong.

  Arthur stood bent at the waist, his legs spread awkwardly and his arms dangling from his shoulders. “I—I can’t move,” he croaked.

  “Truly?” Alarmed, she rushed to help him straighten, inserting herself under his left arm. “You can stand, can’t you? Lean on me and I’ll help.”

  A massive groan accompanied his effort to straighten and he grabbed his lower back and squeezed his eyes shut. Seconds later, he laid his head back and took several labored breaths. “God in Heaven,” he muttered, clearly in pain. “What’s happened to me?”

  “I’ve heard of this,” she said, running her hands over his midsection before realizing how inappropriate that was and simply wrapping her arms around his waist to help him keep his balance. “You’re just unused to riding and your muscles have seized up. You’ll be fine in a few minutes. Here, we’ll walk it off . . . get your blood circulating again.”

  “Arghhhh!” He nearly fell flat on his face as she urged him forward. “I can’t walk—I can’t even move my legs!”

  This was bad, she realized. Very bad. The worst case of city-slicker stumble she’d ever seen. She looked around frantically, hoping for a stump or a felled tree where he might sit and recover. There was nothing of the kind in the vicinity; she had to come up with some way to get him back to the house.

  “Your Grace, I’ll have to rub your limbs to get the blood moving again. We’re too far from the house to go for help. Here”—she turned him toward his horse—“hold on to the saddle and don’t move.”

  “What are you—ohhhh—aghhhhh—”

  * * *

  That was the way Ashton found them: Daisy on her knees behind Arthur rubbing and massaging his legs with appalling familiarity, and Arthur gripping the saddle of his horse and moaning as if in great pain or great pleasure—it was impossible to say which. Ashton dismounted and rushed forward calling his brother’s name.