by Lenora Bell
Now he would kiss her.
But he didn’t.
If Lulu painted his portrait, she’d have to show how his hair caught the candlelight and glowed almost blue. Like ink spreading over parchment. Like night spreading over a sky.
Careful, Charlene. You’re not given to poetry.
“You have a bit of chocolate.” He stood and reached across the table to brush his thumb across her full lower lip. “Here.”
Her eyes closed and her breath hitched.
There was the sound of a bench scraping across the floor.
She kept her eyes tightly closed. Now. Now he would kiss her.
Footsteps.
Still no kiss. She quieted her breathing, tilted her lips up. Waiting. Ready.
“I’m going to kiss you,” he breathed in her ear. “You have exactly three seconds to leave. I advise you to leave.”
He waited for a moment. “Please leave.”
Her eyes flew open. “I can stop you at any time and throw you to the floorboards, remember?”
“Is that a challenge?” His green eyes grew smoky and intense. “I’ve never been able to resist a dare.”
“Maybe,” she said archly.
He sat down on the bench next to her, deliberately close.
She lifted her chin. “I’m not afraid.”
A wicked smile played over his lips. “You should be.”
Oh, he was arrogant. He thought his kiss would overwhelm her. He had no idea. She’d been kissed before. But looking into his glittering eyes, she did feel a small wedge of fear. Not fear of him, fear of herself.
She wanted him to kiss her. Not only because of the reward but because the restless feeling in the pit of her stomach that had begun when he’d played his guitar was worse than ever, driving her to seek an answer to the sweet ache.
Maybe he was unconventional, and had a conscience, but he still assumed women should be falling over themselves to fight over him.
“One,” he said.
The countess would be thrilled.
The countess.
She’d completely forgotten there was no use being compromised if the countess wasn’t there to burst in upon them.
Blast.
“Two.” He tugged on her shawl until it slipped off her shoulders and pooled on the floor.
She forgot all about the countess.
But no three came.
One small, unspoken word echoed in the space between their lips. He ran one finger lightly down her cheek, his eyes lingering on her mouth. Then he parted her lips with his thumb and tilted her head back. His thumb stroked her lips and slipped inside her mouth, the tip touching her tongue.
She tasted cinnamon from the chocolate and salt from his skin. Her neck was fragile and slim resting in his large hand.
This wasn’t the right time.
She should wait until the countess could interrupt them.
This would be madness.
“Three,” she whispered.
Chapter 10
Before the word ended he wrapped an arm around her waist and crushed her against his solid frame. His kiss was soft at first, a series of light touches along the contours of her lower lip.
His hand cupped her face, his fingers splayed across her cheek, gently guiding her head back to give him more access. When his tongue slid along her lips, she tasted chocolate and a warning hint of red chili. The slow, teasing kiss made it difficult to remember why she would ever want to stop him. Instead, she wanted more.
She opened her lips and he answered the invitation, his tongue slipping deeper. Strong fingers tugged at the ribbon tying her braid, loosening the tangles until her hair fell around her shoulders and heat swept through her body.
Gathering her curls in his fists and pulling her head back, he stared into her eyes. “God help me, I want you,” he groaned.
His lips moved over hers, his tongue coaxing her lips wider. His kiss was a blatant invitation to sin. It told her that he knew all her secret desires and would fulfill every one.
Minutes . . . years passed as he kissed her and kissed her. There was no thought of anything except the heated need that only his lips could quench. He stroked her shoulders soothingly, shifting the angle of their mouths to delve deeper.
His tongue flicked over hers, demanding an answer. She buried her fingers in his thick hair, pressing against him so thoroughly that she lost all sense of where her curves ended and his hard edges began.
She ran her hands down his back and strong muscles, knotted and bunched beneath her touch. He was so big. So overwhelming. His heat and strength surrounded her, intoxicated her.
“Yes,” he murmured in her ear. “Touch me, too.”
She didn’t want him to stop.
She’d lived for so long so tightly protected. So closed to the possibility that a man could give, as well as take, pleasure.
His fingers caressed across her throat, and his thumb traced the sensitive hollow at the base of her neck. What had happened to all her fine resolutions about maintaining control and curbing her emotions? There was nothing tidy or controlled about this moment.
She turned her head and rubbed against his cheek, the faint stubble scraping her skin. This small pain brought the pleasure into stark focus. So much pleasure. Radiating up from the ache between her thighs, rippling up her belly, spreading to her breasts, and suffusing her cheeks with warmth.
Another slight movement and her lips brushed his. Tentatively, she kissed his lower lip. He remained still under her exploration. She grew bolder, darting her tongue into his mouth. He closed his eyes and moaned softly.
The sound made her feel powerful. This was the Duke of Harland, His Disgrace, an uncivilized brute . . . and she could make him moan.
She trailed kisses along his jaw, slipping one hand inside the front of his dressing gown. His heart beat, wild and erratic.
He slid his hands down her back until they settled around her bum. With a firm grip, he pulled her against the evidence of his arousal. Hard and insistent. Pushing through the thin cotton of her nightgown.
He tugged at her earlobe with his lips. “Aren’t you going to stop me, Lady Dorothea?” he whispered. “I thought you said you could incapacitate me at any moment.”
Rattled, she pushed her hand against his chest, setting him at arm’s length. “I was going to stop you momentarily.”
“Really? It didn’t feel that way to me.” His breathing was ragged, his voice rough with emotion. She saw him make a conscious effort to slow his breathing. There was that mocking arched eyebrow again.
He ran a hand through his hair. Retied his dressing gown.
“I was merely being polite,” Charlene said, the melting feeling swiftly evaporating.
He gave a short laugh. “Run off to bed now, before you tell more lies.”
This had been a challenge to him. Nothing more. Nothing earthshaking or life-changing or any of the other daft ideas that had flitted through her mind.
He’d confirmed her initial assessment. He was laughing at her desire.
Two could play this game.
“Well? How did I score?” she asked.
“What?”
“I assume you’re testing all of us? Isn’t that what you’re doing? Running us through our paces like candidates for your stables? I want to know my score.”
He turned away from her.
“One to ten. My score on the kissing scale. Out with it,” she persisted.
“Go to bed.” He clenched his jaw.
She raised her chin. “I’d hate to think I scored less than Lady Augusta. Although she is quite lovely. If you like the desperate type.”
“Go to bed. Now.”
“Did Lady Vivienne learn any new kissing techniques in France?”
“We’re not having this discus
sion.”
“Six,” Charlene said.
He looked at her blankly.
“I give you a six. It started in seven territory, but then you ruined it by talking at the end. Definitely a six.”
Liar. There was no scale for the magnitude of that kiss. But if it had meant so little to him, she wasn’t about to admit that it had been monumental for her.
“A six? Please. I’ll have you know that I’ve never had any . . . oh no. I see what you’re doing, goading me into talking. It won’t work. This conversation is over. I’ll not say another word.”
The duke drummed his fingers against the tabletop.
He was full of bravado. He’d said he didn’t need a wife, only an heir. But his hands told a different story, finding a musical rhythm on the wooden tabletop, as if it had been his guitar. His hands told Charlene that he wanted to touch her, take comfort in her.
And the duke’s eyes belied his words as well. The loss and darkness beneath the clear green surface called to her. Told her that he only pushed her away because he didn’t know how to be a duke, or how to be a father. Or a husband.
She had to resist the invitation in his eyes, his hands. An invitation to open to him, to heal him, give him the warmth he craved.
That wasn’t what she’d been employed for. She was here to seduce him into a compromising situation and extract a marriage proposal.
Nothing more.
She couldn’t give him anything, except lies.
“Kindly go to bed, Lady Dorothea,” he said through gritted teeth. “And leave me in peace.”
“Thank you for the chocolate, Your Grace.” She paused in the doorway. “Though I sincerely doubt it will help either of us sleep.”
Chapter 11
There were dark shadows under the duke’s eyes that told of a sleepless night. Not that Charlene had met his gaze this morning. He was steadfastly avoiding her, giving all his attention to Lady Vivienne.
He stepped into the rowboat and stood with legs widespread, offering his hand to the willowy brunette.
“Are you sure she’s seaworthy?” Lady Vivienne asked, lifting her hem away from the muddy riverbank and eyeing the peeling paint on the duke’s rowboat.
“Slightly disreputable but perfectly seaworthy. Froggy’s carried me down the river Wey for twenty-eight summers now. Nothing to fear.”
When he’d offered to take them for a ride on the river, Charlene had expected something more ducal than a humble rowboat with the name Froggy emblazoned in fading green paint on the side. The boat was conveniently too small to accommodate the mothers—he’d left them to their own devices. They hadn’t even protested the idea of their precious daughters in a boat with His Disgrace without a chaperone. Charlene was surprised by how willing they were to flout the rules of propriety in pursuit of their prize.
He positioned Lady Vivienne and Lady Augusta in the stern and Charlene and Alice in the bow. Untying the mooring with an expert flick of his fingers, he used an oar to push off from the shore.
He settled on the middle bench and dipped the oar in the water.
That’s when Charlene’s suspicions were confirmed.
The duke was ignoring her.
Charlene and Alice had a splendid view . . . of his back.
Once again, he’d discarded his coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves. Was the man ever fully clothed? She didn’t care a whit that his powerful back muscles strained against the thin silk of his fawn-colored waistcoat as he pulled the oars through the water. Or that his forearms were corded with muscle and had to be as thick around as her calves.
What manner of man kissed a girl with such passion, then turned his back on her? Charlene had relived every spine-tingling moment of their encounter over and over, unable to sleep. But for him, she was only another girl who succumbed to his charm. She’d been a momentarily interesting challenge. Nothing more.
“Perfect. Just perfect,” Charlene muttered under her breath.
“Don’t be discouraged,” Alice whispered. “After last night, the duke will have to choose you.”
Charlene stared. “What do you mean?” Surely she hadn’t seen them kissing.
“You know.” Alice glanced at Charlene’s chest, her cheeks turning pink. “Your display. I saw the way he stared.”
“Oh, yes. Of course. My display. How could I have forgotten?”
Alice squeezed her hand. When she wasn’t talking to the duke, she was surprisingly normal.
“I feel you and I could be friends, Lady Dorothea, if we weren’t . . . that is to say . . .”
“Competitors?”
Alice nodded. Charlene hadn’t expected to like any of the ladies.
Alice stared wistfully into Charlene’s eyes. “I don’t have many friends in London. We’re not exactly an illustrious family,” she whispered. “My great-grandfather was a millworker, for all papa’s a baronet now. I don’t suppose you can imagine what that feels like.”
You’d be surprised, Charlene thought. She squeezed Alice’s hand. “Now who’s discouraged? You’re absolutely charming. If they can’t see that, then you don’t need them.”
Alice smiled. “That’s exceedingly nice of you. Perhaps you might come to tea some afternoon?”
“I’d like that.” Tea with Miss Tombs. Charlene added that to the growing list of things she’d have to tell Lady Dorothea when this was over.
“I hope we shan’t capsize, Your Grace,” Lady Augusta fluttered, clasping her hands to the pale green silk spencer stretched across her ample bosom. “I don’t know how to swim. You’d have to save me from drowning.”
“No danger of that, we are only going for a quick jaunt down a river that’s barely over four feet at its deepest.”
Charlene didn’t know how to swim. She’d never been on a boat before. She liked the feeling of the breeze on her cheeks and the sparkle of sunlight on the water. This was the sort of day that was entirely wasted on a city. A glorious English countryside day with a cloudless azure sky. Not a hint of coal smoke in the air, only the sweet smell of new-mown hay.
A pity she couldn’t enjoy the scenery. She was far too tense for that.
Charlene glared at the duke’s back, hoping the oars would leave splinters.
And she wanted to pitch Lady Augusta and her baby voice overboard.
She had to do something to regain his attention.
She couldn’t seduce him if he pretended she didn’t exist.
It was time for desperate measures.
It was impossible to ignore Lady Dorothea.
James could feel her behind him, glowing with sensuality. He had to turn around to steer, so he knew she was the only lady who hadn’t opened a silk parasol. He might also have noticed that the sun was teasing her curls to flame, her eyes reflected the turquoise sky, and her yellow bonnet was trimmed with glossy red cherries the exact color of her sweetly curved lips.
Those lips.
He hadn’t slept last night thinking of their extraordinary kiss. Imagining what could have happened on the sturdy kitchen table if he’d thrown his scruples to the wind.
She’d been willing.
And so very tempting, with her golden hair unbound and the taste of his chocolate on her tongue.
He rowed harder, seeking to lose himself in the exertion of the pull and sway of the oars. Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades as he watched the river roll by. If he was staring at the churning oars, he wasn’t staring at her.
She’d left her shawl on the kitchen floor. Damned if he hadn’t buried his face in its soft folds, inhaling the lingering scent of crushed rose petals and warm woman.
What the devil had he been thinking? Making her chocolate. Telling her about Trinidad. He never conversed with females. Except Josefa. Amend that. He never conversed with females he wanted to bed.
Those
situations only required practiced words.
Your hair smells nice.
Do you need help with those stockings?
Yes, just like that. Keep doing that.
He never unburdened his soul.
And another thing. A six. He was not a six. That kiss had definitely been in the way-beyond-ten range.
He’d asked Dalton to stay another day and entertain the mothers, because James wanted to observe the ladies without their overbearing chaperones. See which one exhibited the good sense and innate grace necessary for the role of the perfect duchess.
Lady Vivienne would be a prudent choice. Her bonnet was trimmed with dead pheasants that didn’t bobble like those sly cherries. She was equally inert, staring serenely at the scenery, not a hair or thread disarranged.
If the conversation strayed away from the topic of stables, she tended to yawn, but that wasn’t a bad quality for a wife. She truly was a thoroughbred—tall, slender, with the unmistakable stamp of good breeding on every lineament.
Lady Augusta, on the other hand, was openly ogling him. She leaned in, and the sharp edges of her parasol nearly blinded him. “Have you been to Gentleman Jackson’s?” She leered at his arms. “You are quite well developed.”
“I’ve never enjoyed pugilism. I prefer to make myself useful. I chop my own firewood. Row my own boats.”
He turned around to steer and caught Lady Dorothea rolling her eyes. He rowed even harder.
“Oh,” Lady Augusta exclaimed as they flew through the water. “Must we go so swiftly?” Her face began to take on the green of her jacket, and she clapped a hand to her mouth.
Miss Tombs seemed to be delivering a treatise on vegetables to Lady Dorothea, from the snatches of conversation he overheard. He wanted to like Miss Tombs. She was quite stunning and seemed a good-natured girl. But she was so . . . odd.
He turned his head slightly. “What are you speaking of, Miss Tombs?” he inquired, intrigued.
“Frugivorousness. Are you acquainted with the topic, Your Grace?”
“I can’t say I—”
“Oh, then I shall lend you my copy of A Vindication of Natural Diet by Mr. Percy Bysshe Shelley. I have it in my valise. I have not eaten animal flesh since I read it, and I have reduced by fully one stone. Man is not meant to be carnivorous. Rather, we are frugivorous.”