Jacquie D'Alessandro

by Whirlwind Wedding

  Heat stung him and his eyes popped open. The first thing he saw was her mouth… that incredible, kissable mouth. If he leaned forward just a bit, he could taste it—

  She released his hand. “You want to kiss me.”

  Her whispered words brushed by him, setting his pulse thrumming. Damn it, yes, he wanted to kiss her. Needed to. Had to. Surely one kiss would satisfy this inexplicable hunger to taste her.

  Giving in to a craving he couldn’t explain or fight any longer, he leaned forward.

  She stepped back.

  He closed the distance between them, but again she retreated, her expressive eyes filled with uncertainty. Hell, the woman hadn’t backed down before him once—not in the face of his anger, his sarcasm, or suspicions. But the thought of his kiss sent her into retreat.

  “Is something amiss?” he asked softly, stepping closer.

  “Amiss?” She backed up and nearly tripped on her hem.

  “Yes. It’s an English word meaning ‘wrong.’ You seem… nervous.”

  “Certainly not,” she retorted, inching backward until the wooden wall stopped her. “I’m merely, er, warm.”

  “Yes, it’s quite warm in here.” Two long, unhurried strides brought him directly in front of her. He braced his hands on the wall on either side of her shoulders, bracketing her in.

  Raising her chin a notch, she stared at him with what he had to admit was a fine show of bravado, but her rapid breathing spoiled the effect.

  “If you’re trying to frighten me, your grace—”

  “I’m trying to kiss you, which will be much easier now that you’ve stopped moving about.”

  “I don’t want you to kiss me.”

  “Yes, you do.” He moved closer, until only inches separated them. The scent of lilacs filled his head. “Have you ever been kissed?”

  “Of course. Thousands of times.”

  Recalling her stunned reaction when he’d asked if she’d been William’s lover, he raised a brow. “I meant by a man.”

  “Oh. Well, then, hundreds of times.”

  “By a man other than your father.”

  “Oh. In that case… once.”

  Unexpected irritation rippled through him. “Indeed? And did you enjoy it?”

  “Actually, no. It was rather… dry.”

  “Ah. Then you were not properly kissed.”

  “And you wish to kiss me properly?”

  “No.” He leaned forward and whispered in her ear, “I intend to kiss you most improperly.”

  Drawing her into his arms, he covered her lips with his. God help him, she felt exquisite. Soft and round, warm and delicious.

  When he ran his tongue along the seam of her lips, she gasped, effectively parting her lips, and he slipped his tongue into the luscious warmth of her mouth. Strawberries. She tasted like strawberries. Sweet, delicious, seductive.

  He pulled her closer, until her long, lush body was pressed tightly against him, and he marveled at the unique sensation of kissing such a tall woman.

  His common sense roused itself and demanded he stop, but he couldn’t. Damn it, he should have been appalled at himself for kissing her, uninterested in the naive chit, bored with her innocence.

  Instead, he was fascinated, aching, and aroused. When she shyly touched her tongue to his, a groan rumbled deep in his throat, and he delved deeper, slanting his mouth over hers, tasting, thrusting, swallowing her breathy moans. He lost all sense of time and place, could think only of the woman in his arms, the warm, soft feel of her, the sweet, drugging taste of her, the gentle floral scent of her.

  His arousal ached with a need that grew so intense, it finally dragged him from his sensuous haze. He had to stop. Now. Or he’d lay her down right here in the stable.

  Summoning his last ounce of self-control, he ended their kiss.

  Her eyes opened slowly. “Oh my.”

  Oh my, indeed. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but he certainly hadn’t anticipated this woman unleashing the flood of lust clutching him in a stranglehold. His heart slapped against his ribs, and his damn hands were shaking. Instead of satisfying his curiosity, her kiss had only whetted his appetite, a hunger that threatened to consume him whole—right after it burned him alive.

  Her soft breasts were crushed against his chest, igniting fires on his skin. His arousal throbbed painfully and only a lifetime of keeping himself in strict control afforded him the ability to lower his arms and step away from her.

  She drew a long, shuddering breath, and he grimly noted that she was obviously as shaken as he.

  “Goodness,” she said in an unsteady voice. “I had no idea that kissing improperly was so…”

  “So… what?”

  “So… not dry.” She inhaled several more times, then cleared her throat. “Now do you believe that I read your thoughts?”

  “No.”

  Color stained her cheeks and temper flashed in her eyes. “Are you denying you wanted to kiss me?”

  His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth. “No. But any man would want to kiss you.” And damn it, he felt like he’d kill any man who did.

  “Do you still intend to ride tonight?”

  “That is none of your concern.”

  She simply stared at him for several heartbeats, then shook her head. “In that case, I can only hope that you’ll reconsider and heed my warning. And pray that no harm comes to you. At least it isn’t raining as it was in my vision, so perhaps you’ll be safe. This time. Good night, your grace. I won’t bother you with my visions again.”

  Austin watched her disappear into the darkness, forcing himself not to go after her. Something in her voice as she’d uttered those last words scraped at his insides. He raked his hands through his hair and paced. Damn it all, how could she expect him, expect anyone, to seriously credit her claims of visions and mind reading? It was simply too far-fetched, too illogical, to consider.

  But no matter how much it chafed him to admit it, she was right about one thing. He had wanted to kiss her. With an intensity that stunned him. And now that he’d tasted her, he wanted to do it again.

  And again.

  Chapter 6

  Elizabeth approached the stables early the next morning, anxious to get out of the house after a restless night spent trying to forget her disturbing encounter with the duke. Had he gone riding? She’d lain awake half the night, listening for rain, but the weather had thankfully remained fair. Hopefully some fresh air and a brisk ride would obliterate her worry and concern, not to mention the disappointment and hurt, aching inside at the realization that she’d never convince him about her visions.

  Yet she knew mere exercise would never erase the memory of that kiss. That incredible, soul-stirring, unforgettable kiss that had touched her deep inside and awakened a sleeping passion she hadn’t known existed. And kindled feelings… yearnings… she was afraid to examine too closely.

  She desperately wanted, needed, to forget the exquisite feel of him, the heavenly taste of him, but her heart was simply not cooperating.

  She entered the stables and Mortlin greeted her with a smile. “Come to visit the cats, Miss Matthews? Or do ye wish to ride?”

  Forcing aside her turmoil, she returned the groom’s smile, then bent down to scratch George behind her ears. “Both. How about I visit with the kittens while you saddle a mount for me?”

  “Fine idea,” Mortlin said. “Look, there’s two ’idin’ by that ’ay stack that ye ’aven’t met.”

  Spying the two frisky calico furballs, she said, “They’re adorable. What are their names?” She sent him an arch look. “Or should I not ask?”

  Color seeped into Mortlin’s thin cheeks and he shuffled his feet. “Well, the bigger one’s named Zounds—”

  “That isn’t so terrible.”

  “And the other one is, er…” He flushed to the tips of his protruding ears. “I can’t say it in front of a lady.”

  Pressing her lips together to contain her amusement, she said, “I see.”
<
br />   “Guess I’ve got to change the wee beastie’s name, but ’twas the first thing what popped out of me mouth when it was born.” He shook his head, clearly bemused. “Them kittens just kept comin’ and comin’. No stoppin’ them, there was. Gave me quite a turn, it did.”

  “Yes, I imagine so.” She ran her hands over George’s warm belly, then stilled. After gently pressing the furry tummy several more times, she hid a smile. “The gestation period for a cat is about sixty days. I’m afraid I won’t still be here when George gives birth to her next litter, or I’d offer to assist you. I’m quite capable in these matters.”

  “I’m sure ye are, but…” His voice trailed off and his eyes widened to saucers. “Next litter?”

  “Yes. I predict George will be a mama again in about a month.”

  Mortlin’s widened eyes bugged out. “Surely the beast is just fat! The kittens aren’t even three months old! ’Ow the blazes did this ’appen?”

  She had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing at the groom’s dumbfounded expression. “In the usual way, I suspect.” Giving George’s tummy one last rub, Elizabeth stood, then patted the man’s arm. “Do not worry yourself, Mortlin. George will be fine, and you’ll have a new group of mice catchers.”

  “Got more mice catchers underfoot now than I need,” he grumbled. “Stubble it, this is supposed to be a stable. I’m a groom, not a cat doctor. I’d best saddle yer mount now—before the blasted feline starts spewin’ out babes again.”

  Suppressing her amusement, Elizabeth entertained herself with the kittens while Mortlin went about his tasks. He soon presented her with a lovely brown mare named Rosamunde and offered her a hand up. She landed in the sidesaddle with a bone-jarring plop that shook her teeth. At home she’d often ridden astride on her solitary rides, but she dared not do so here even though she disliked sidesaddle. The fussy riding ensemble English fashion dictated she wear also irritated her. So many yards of material and poufs and flounces. She thought with longing of the simple, lightweight riding habits she’d fashioned herself and worn in America. Aunt Joanna had taken one look at them and nearly swooned. “Totally unsuitable, my dear,” Aunt Joanna had declared. “We must do something about your wardrobe immediately.”

  Adjusting her heavy skirts around her as best she could, Elizabeth started off. At the end of the short path leading from the stable, she paused and looked back. Mortlin was crouched down on his haunches, his weathered face wreathed in tenderness as he gently petted George’s swollen belly. He clearly thought she was out of earshot for he said, “We’ll ’ave to come up with some dignified names for yer new set of babies. Can’t have any more of them called Double Damnation.”

  Smiling to herself, she headed toward the forest. She traveled along the bank of the stream, enjoying the fresh clean air and the sunshine warming her face. She was not, however, enjoying the sidesaddle or the blasted riding habit that imprisoned her legs.

  When she reached the area where the stream widened and spilled into the lake, she pulled Rosamunde to a halt. She was wriggling her bottom around, desperate to untangle her legs from the yards of ungainly material binding them, when she felt herself slipping from the saddle. A startled yelp of dismay escaped her. She grabbed for the pommel, but wasn’t quick enough. She fell ignominiously from the horse, landing on her backside.

  Unfortunately she landed right in the mud.

  Even worse, she landed on a slippery steep incline. She slid down the slimy, wet embankment, screaming all the way, and landed in the stream with a loud splash. She sat stock-still, speechless with shock. Her legs stuck straight out in front of her, her boots completely submerged under the muddy water. Cold water lapped at her waist.

  “Have an accident?” a familiar voice asked from behind her.

  She gritted her teeth. Clearly he was unharmed, thank goodness, but she did not care for him happening along to witness her humiliation. “No, thank you. I’ve already had one.” Perhaps if she ignored him he’d go away.

  Her hope was in vain.

  “Dear me,” the duke said, tsking his tongue in a sympathetic fashion. She heard him dismount and make his way down to the water’s edge. “You seem to have gotten yourself into a bit of a predicament here.”

  Turning her head, she glared at him over her shoulder.

  “I am not in a predicament, your grace. I’m merely a bit damp.”

  “You’re also horseless.”

  “Nonsense. My mount is…” Her voice trailed off as she scanned the area. Her mare was nowhere in sight.

  “Probably halfway back to the stables by now. Must have been all that screaming you did on your way down. Makes some horses very skittish. Apparently Rosamunde is such a horse. Pity.” His smoky eyes gleamed at her, clearly indicating his amusement. “I’d ask if you are all right, but I seem to recall that you possess a most robust constitution.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  She tried to lift her legs and failed. “I’m not sure. My riding habit is soaked and so heavy, I can barely move.” Her irritation tripled when she realized she did indeed need help. “Do you suppose I could trouble you for some assistance?”

  He stroked his chin as if seriously pondering her question. “I’m not certain if I should aid you. I’d hate to risk getting all wet and dirty. Perhaps I should leave you there and go back for some help. I could return in, oh, about an hour or so.” He looked at her, brows raised. “What do you think about that?”

  She didn’t think much of it at all. In fact, she was pretty well sick and tired of his amusement at her expense. She’d spent a sleepless night worrying about him and now he stood before her, perfectly fit and healthy, and all but chortling at her. The arrogant man deserved to have that smug look wiped off his face. But she could barely move.

  He turned as if to walk away and truly leave her stranded, and her temper snapped. Picking up a handful of mud, she slung it, meaning to make a splash and gain his attention.

  Unfortunately he chose that exact instant to turn around.

  Worse, she threw the mud with more force than she’d intended.

  The large gooey blob landed smack in the middle of his chest, splattering his pristine white shirt. The goop slid down his body, smudging his immaculate buff breeches, landing with a soft thud on the toe of one of his highly polished riding boots.

  Elizabeth froze. She hadn’t meant to hit him… had she? Good lord, he did not look pleased. A horrified giggle bubbled up in her throat and she fought to contain it. His expression clearly indicated that laughing would not be in her best interests.

  He didn’t move. His eyes followed the ruinous downward path the mud had streaked on his clothing, then he raised his gaze to hers.

  Plastering a sunny smile on her face, she said, “You no longer need to worry about getting all wet and dirty, your grace. There appears to be a rather nasty stain on your attire.”

  “You’re going to regret doing that.” His voice held more than a small amount of menace and his eyes bored into hers in a threatening manner. “You’ll be very sorry indeed.”

  “Pooh,” she scoffed. “You don’t scare me.”

  He advanced a step. “You should be scared.”

  “Why? What are you going to do? Throw me into the water?”

  He advanced another step. “No. I believe I’ll throw you over my knees and thrash the living daylights out of you.”

  She raised her brows. “Thrash me? Truly?”

  “Truly.”

  “Oh, dear. Well, as long as I’m to be thrashed, I might as well really deserve it.” She launched another handful of mud. This one landed with a wet splat against his belly.

  Austin froze. He looked down at his ruined shirt in stunned amazement. Few men would dare push him this way. He couldn’t believe she had the nerve to hit him once, let alone twice with mud. She was going to pay dearly for this. Very dearly indeed.

  His musings were interrupted by a mud ball whizzing by
his ear. It missed his face by less than a hair.

  That did it. He splashed into the water, grabbed her by her arms, and hauled her to her feet. “You’re aware, of course, that this means war,” he ground out, his gaze raking her flushed laughing face.

  “Of course. But keep in mind who won the last time the Americans and the British engaged in battle.”

  “I’m most confident of your defeat, Miss Matthews.”

  “I’m most confident of your defeat, your grace.”

  Austin halted at her words, his eyes narrowing on the mud splattered across her pert nose. Her gold-flecked gaze met his with sparkling challenge, but a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, and her dimples peeked out. His attention riveted on her full, lush lips. A tingle ran through him, recalling the feel of those lips crushed beneath his mouth. He forced his gaze upward and met her eyes— golden brown orbs brimming with laughter.

  She was utterly impossible. Impertinent beyond all measure. His clothing was ruined and he was standing in the damn lake. He was wet, uncomfortable and… furious.

  Wasn’t he furious?

  A frown pinched his brow. Yes, of course he was. Furious. He absolutely was not amused. Not in the least. This was not at all funny. And he certainly was not enjoying himself. Not a bit.

  “Prepare yourself to be thrashed,” he warned. Turning toward the embankment, he pulled her along.

  “You’ll have to catch me first!”

  She yanked herself free of his restraining hand, and lifting her sodden skirts to her knees, treaded her way farther out into the lake.

  “Come back here. Now.”

  “So you can thrash me? Ha! I think not!” She backed several more steps away, until the water came to her waist. Suddenly her musical laugh rang out. “Good heavens! You should see yourself! You look so funny!”

  Austin looked down. His wet filthy shirt clung to his chest like a second skin, and black muddy stripes adorned his riding breeches. Several dead leaves clung to his ruined boots.

  “I would wager you’ve never been so disheveled in your entire aristocratic life,” she said, laughing. “I must say, you’re looking most distinctly un-dukelike.”