The Duchess of Love

by Sally MacKenzie

  Nigel’s eyebrows shot up. “You can’t be saying I spend too much time in my study! I’m here because I’m avoiding the Widow Blackburn, remember?”

  “Right. I should probably warn you that Venus is a bit of a matchmaker. She’s hoping our arrival in the neighborhood will brighten Aphrodite’s matrimonial outlook.” Drew headed for the door—best to have a clear path of retreat. “I believe she thinks her sister would make a splendid duchess.”

  Nigel laughed. “You’d best be on your toes then, Drew.”

  “Not I. Remember, Venus thinks you are the duke.”

  Drew closed the door on Nigel’s impressively imaginative curses.

  “Ow!” Venus pricked her finger for the third time. She watched a red bead of blood ooze out of her abused flesh and then stuck her finger into her mouth. At this rate, the handkerchief she was embroidering would be more red than white.

  “Did you say something, dear?” Mama looked up from her book; even Ditee glanced up briefly.

  Papa was in the study, writing Sunday’s sermon. Sermons were not his forte. He called on the devil a shocking number of times while trying to wrestle a moderately uplifting message onto the page, so the women had retreated to the morning room.

  “No, Mama. I merely stuck my finger with the needle.”

  Mama frowned and then returned to her reading. “Perhaps you should go for a walk. You seem oddly agitated.”

  Venus swallowed a slightly hysterical giggle. Go for a walk? Dear God! Yesterday’s walk was the source of her agitation. Not the walk itself, of course, but what had happened at her destination.

  She closed her eyes in mortification, but popped them open immediately.

  The vision of a naked Mr. Valentine must be burned into the back of her eyelids, because whenever she shut them, she saw him in exquisite detail. It had been almost impossible to sleep last night.

  She pressed her lips together, but didn’t quite muffle her moan. Mama gave her a concerned—and slightly annoyed—look, but thankfully forbore to comment.

  And it wasn’t just Mr. Valentine’s image that tortured her: her body remembered all too well the feel of his naked arm around her waist, of his naked chest against her back, of his hands moving over her skin—and the light touch of his kiss.

  She shifted on her chair. She must be sickening. She ached all over. Her breasts and her—She flushed. She wouldn’t think of it.

  The only way she’d found to control the fever eating at her was to consider how she must have appeared to him—and then a different kind of heat flooded her.

  She’d been swimming naked! No woman of gentle birth—likely no female of any sort—did such a shocking thing.

  And he’d been looking at her. He’d seen parts of her she didn’t examine closely.

  “Venus, please. If you don’t wish to walk, perhaps you could find some other activity to do—somewhere else,” Mama said. “Your sighing and twitching are most distracting.”

  Mama and Ditee were both staring at her now.

  “Yes, Mama. I’m sorry.” Venus stood and took her needlework up to her room. There was no point in attempting any more sewing. She was only turning herself into a pincushion.

  She put her workbasket by her desk and stared out the window. As luck would have it, her room faced the pond, though of course it was too far away and hidden by the woods to see. But she knew it was there.

  She rested her head against the glass. How would she ever face Mr. Valentine again without expiring of embarrassment? And she’d persuaded him to invite them and all the gentry of Little Huffington to Hyndon House. Everyone she knew could enjoy the spectacle of Miss Venus Collingswood turning red as a beet or engaging in her very first fit of the vapors. Mrs. Higgins and Esmeralda would be especially amused.

  Venus straightened. No. She was made of sterner stuff than that—she would have to be. She must remember Ditee. Mr. Valentine was merely a means to an end, a way of bringing her sister to his cousin the duke’s attention. She could put up with a little personal discomfort for that. Likely a London beau such as Mr. Valentine had seen countless women without their clothing—and had done many things (whatever those things might be) with them as well. He’d probably already forgotten one thin country miss’s unremarkable figure.

  He hadn’t forgotten to arrange the party, had he? Mrs. Shipley said he and the duke weren’t expected to stay at Hyndon House long. There was no time to waste.

  She would write him a note. Yes, it was shocking—or would be shocking if they had a personal relationship. This was strictly business. She would remind him of the planned event—and if it wasn’t yet planned, perhaps that would prod him into action—and suggest he might wish to bring his cousin into the village tomorrow afternoon so he could meet Ditee before the gathering.

  She dipped her quill into the inkwell. Getting Ditee into the village would be a Herculean task in itself, but that was tomorrow’s problem.

  Drew was talking to Mrs. Edgemoor about the party when Mrs. Shipley arrived. Mrs. Edgemoor had taken it much better than he’d expected—certainly better than Nigel, who had stormed around the study predicting discovery and disaster.

  Nigel might well be right, but one needed a little excitement in one’s life.

  “Oh, Lavinia,” Mrs. Edgemoor said, “you’ll never guess. Mr. Valentine here says the duke is going to entertain the neighborhood.” Her voice was an odd mix of horror and excitement. “How shall I ever manage?”

  “I’ll help you, Maud. Don’t worry.” Mrs. Shipley removed her bonnet and smiled at Drew. “Let me give Mr. Valentine this message, and then we’ll have a nice chat about it.” She handed him a twist of paper and led Mrs. Edgemoor off.

  He frowned at the paper. There was only one person at the vicarage who might send him a message, but he wouldn’t have guessed she’d be so bold. His heart suddenly felt like a rock. He’d thought Venus was different, but apparently he was mistaken. Grasping hussies weren’t limited to Town, and they chased anything in breeches, not just dukes.

  He should throw the message away unread: Nigel certainly would. Sometimes—oftentimes—he thought his cousin would make a far better duke than he. He crumpled the paper up, but before he could toss it in the flames, curiosity got the better of him. He smoothed it out, read it—and chuckled.

  Dear Mr. Valentine,

  Please excuse my presumption in writing to you, but I felt I must put myself forward on my sister’s behalf as I understand you and the duke do not plan to linger in Little Huffington. I hope you will not take offense at my reminding you that you thought the duke might wish to invite the local gentry to Hyndon House. In anticipation of that, my sister and I will be in the village tomorrow afternoon in case the duke might enjoy meeting her in a less formal setting.

  Yours most sincerely,

  Miss Venus Collingswood

  Certainly not the impassioned missive he’d feared. Her handwriting was so precise, much like a schoolgirl’s, and the tone … she sounded like someone’s old maiden aunt. Had she gone through many drafts to get it just right? He’d wager she had.

  His heart—and that other organ—lifted. She looked nothing like anyone’s maiden aunt, old or otherwise. He’d spent quite a heated night, dreaming of her: her slim waist, her exquisite breasts, her soft skin and silky hair, warm brown eyes and sharp tongue. Thoughts of her tongue, and ways she might creatively employ it, had almost forced him to take himself in hand, as it were, something he’d not resorted to since he was a lad.

  He folded the note and put it in his pocket. It appeared that he and Nigel had some business to conduct in Little Huffington tomorrow afternoon.

  Chapter 4

  “Couldn’t you have left the book at home?” Venus looked over at her sister as they trudged down the hill to the village. How did Ditee manage to read and walk at the same time?

  “I’m at a very interesting part.” Ditee shot Venus an annoyed glance before she turned a page. “If you’ll remember, I didn’t want to come.”


  “Even Mama agreed your blue dress needed some new ribbon to brighten it up.”

  Ditee snorted. “That dress is perfectly fine the way it is. There’s no need to waste time and money fussing with it.”

  “Ditee, that dress is five years old.”

  “So? I can’t have worn it more than a handful of times.”

  Venus drew in a deep breath. She would not argue, but she couldn’t quite bite her tongue. “The white ribbons are yellowed with age.”

  Why couldn’t Ditee be a little more aware of her appearance? She didn’t have to be clothes mad—that would be a mistake here in Little Huffington where the latest fashions were simply late, arriving two or three years after everyone in Town had moved on to other things—but a little interest wouldn’t go amiss. She was so beautiful; she would be completely without par if she’d cultivate just a modicum of fashion sense.

  Ditee’s eyes traveled to the next page. “No one is going to be studying my ribbons at this stupid gathering. Really, I don’t know why I have to go. I would be happier staying home.”

  Venus nodded at Mr. Pettigrew, the blacksmith, as they reached the village shops. “Perhaps, but even Papa said you must attend, Ditee.” She’d tried everything to convince Mama and Papa to go and drag Ditee with them after the invitation to the duke’s garden party had arrived this morning. She’d even pointed out Papa’s living as vicar might be dependent on getting into the duke’s good graces; Greycliffe could certainly decide to install someone else if he chose, and then where would they be? It was just an accident she’d mentioned Mr. Valentine.

  She frowned down at her sturdy walking shoes. Why hadn’t Mr. Valentine told her he’d written to Papa? She kicked a stone that was careless enough to be lying in her path and sent it shooting ahead of them. Once she’d mentioned his name, Papa’s face had lit up. He’d told Ditee she had to meet Mr. Valentine, who was apparently quite a Latin scholar. Of course, Papa didn’t know the man was also young and marriageable; he only cared that he was interested in the classics.

  Ditee was supposed to be matched with the duke, not Mr. Valentine, but what did it matter? A husband was a husband, and if Mr. Valentine was more appropriate, so be it.

  Venus felt very disgruntled.

  “You don’t happen to have a pencil and a scrap of paper, do you?” Ditee asked.

  “Of course not. Why in the world would I?”

  Ditee shrugged. “I didn’t think you would; I merely hoped you might. I would have brought them myself if I hadn’t had to hurry out of the house.”

  “You didn’t hurry anywhere. I had to hound you for the last half hour to get you to leave.”

  Ditee sniffed. “There you have it. If you hadn’t been badgering me, I would have thought to bring them myself. Now I have nothing to make a note on.”

  “Likely Mr. Fenwick will have paper and pencil in his shop.”

  Ditee’s face lit up. “Of course! I’ll—oh!” She’d quickened her steps just as a man came out of Mr. Whitcomb’s snuff and spirits shop. She ran full into him, throwing up her hands to brace herself on his chest and dropping her book to the walkway.

  The man grabbed her shoulders to steady her. “Are you all right, miss?”

  Who was he? He was slightly above average height, well dressed—Venus would swear his clothes came from London—and moderately handsome. Hmm. Did he look like a duke?

  Mr. Valentine appeared behind him.

  Oh.

  Venus felt rather like she had at the pond, completely unable to draw an adequate breath.

  She’d dreamt of him again last night, of his shoulders and chest and, ah, other naked parts. She’d felt his light, brief kiss over and over, and she’d wished—yearned—for something more, though she’d no idea what more there was. She’d woken hot, feeling as if her skin was too tight, her sheets all twisted.

  And now she saw him with clothes on. He was just as handsome in his snowy white linen, dark coat, and doeskin breeches.

  And with his knowing, laughing eyes.

  She snapped her mouth shut as he bent to whisper by her ear. “She’s pretty, but not as pretty as you.”

  Damn it, her jaw dropped again.

  “Yes, yes,” Ditee was saying. She sounded oddly flustered. Venus swiveled her head to look at her sister more closely. Good God, was Ditee blushing?

  “I’m fine,” Ditee said, stepping back out of the man’s hold. “I’m so sorry, sir. I wasn’t looking where I was going. I hope I didn’t do you an injury?”

  “Of course not, Miss …?”

  “I believe this is Miss Aphrodite Collingswood,” Mr. Valentine said, “and her sister, Miss Venus.” He bowed. “And we are, as you’ve probably surmised, the Duke of Greycliffe and Mr. Nigel Valentine.”

  “How do you do, sir—your grace,” Venus said, since Ditee seemed to have lost her tongue.

  The duke glared at Mr. Valentine, who gave him an odd look in exchange. Then Greycliffe nodded—well, it was more a jerk of his head than a nod—and bent to save Ditee’s book from the pavement. He glanced at the title and smiled as he handed it back to her. “You are reading Horace, I see.”

  Oh, dear. Venus glanced at Mr. Valentine by her side. Would he jump into the conversation and start discussing classical matters, distracting Ditee’s attention from the duke? That would be disastrous.

  “Oh,” Ditee said, taking the book. “Yes. Thank you. Do you know the work?”

  “Indeed. Horace is one of my particular favorites. I believe I’ve read everything he’s written many times over.”

  Ditee’s face lit up in a way Venus had never seen before. It made her even more beautiful—as the stunned expressions on the men’s faces proved. “Oh, that is wonderful, your grace. Then perhaps you can answer a question that has just occurred to me.”

  Thank God the duke admired Horace. Now if she could just keep Mr. Valentine out of the conversation, all would be well.

  Not that she wished to have the annoying man to herself, of course.

  “May we escort you to your destination, ladies?” Mr. Valentine asked. “Then you and, er, my cousin can continue your discussion, Miss Aphrodite.”

  Ditee glanced at Venus and then at the duke. “Oh, yes, that would be very nice. We were just on our way to Mr. Fenwick’s store to purchase ribbon.”

  This was a day for Venus’s mouth to be constantly agape. Ditee hadn’t ripped up at Mr. Valentine or told the men how she’d been forced to shop for silly gewgaws. She’d never heard her sister sound so pleasant.

  “Splendid. Then let us proceed.” Mr. Valentine offered Venus his arm while the duke and Ditee walked on ahead.

  Venus’s fingers trembled slightly as she placed them on Mr. Valentine’s sleeve. She could almost see his naked arm beneath the cloth, and she remembered very distinctly how it had felt wrapped around her in the water—

  She waved her hand in front of her face. She could not think about such things.

  “Hot?” Mr. Valentine asked.

  “Yes. The weather is stifling.”

  “I don’t know. I think there’s a bit of a breeze.”

  Blast it, so there was. Time to change the subject. “I have a bone to pick with you, sir.”

  “You do? And here I thought I’d been the complete gentleman. What is the problem?”

  “Don’t pretend innocence.” She looked up into his deep blue eyes with their long, long lashes. He looked like a choirboy, not the slippery fellow he was.

  The sensation of his wet arms slipping over her naked body was so strong, she shivered. She forced her gaze ahead—and had the startling sight of Ditee talking in a distinctly animated fashion to a marriageable male. Good heavens! Her sister was even smiling.

  Venus should be delighted that her matchmaking looked to be well under way, but she wasn’t. She was too … annoyed with the man next to her.

  “I’m not pretending,” he said. “I sincerely don’t know what has put you in a pet.”

  She clenched her teet
h. “If you’ll forgive me, I find that hard to believe.”

  They reached Mr. Fenwick’s establishment. The duke escorted Ditee inside; Venus turned and poked the miscreant next to her in the chest.

  “You acted as though you had no idea who I was when we met at”—she felt herself flush—“before, but then I found out you’d written to Papa.”

  Mr. Valentine’s eyes looked decidedly wary. “Er, I did?”

  “Yes, as well you know. You wrote him about some article he’d written in The Classical Gazette. So why didn’t you mention that fact?”

  His lips twitched into a half smile. “I was distracted.”

  “By what?” She crossed her arms, arching an eyebrow. This should be interesting.

  He glanced down the street and took her hand, directing her away from the shop door. They were in plain view of anyone passing by, but enough out of the way that someone would have to walk over to them to hear what they were saying.

  His smile had widened and his eyes were gleaming with mischief … and something far hotter. “Do you have to ask?”

  “Y-yes.” What game was he playing now? He’d kept hold of her hand and was drawing circles in her palm with his thumb. She felt it all the way through her glove to her, er … core might be the most polite way to refer to the area of her person that was fluttering and growing embarrassingly damp. “I have n-no i—” She sucked in her breath. His thumb had moved to the inside of her wrist, setting her disreputable core to throbbing.

  She snatched her hand away from him. “I have no idea why you wouldn’t have revealed such an important point.”

  “Hmm.” He appeared to study her face. She’d swear there were little flames flickering deep in his eyes. His gaze dropped to her mouth, and she felt her lips swell. “What are we talking about?” he whispered, his voice rather hoarse.

  What indeed?

  Her lips ached to feel his touch. Would he—

  Good God! She jerked her head back. “Don’t try to avoid the question. You were about to tell me how you could have neglected to mention you’d corresponded with my father.”