by Shayla Black
Her backside reached her dressing table, and she inched up onto the surface. She sent him a welcoming smile as she drew the pins out of her hair. The lush black mass cascaded down about her torso, one daring lock curling about the underside of her bare breast, framing the taut summit.
Gavin looked. He swallowed. He wanted. There were reasons he should not, but he could not remember them now.
Kira grasped each of her knees and slowly drew her legs apart in a tantalizing dance. A glance confirmed that she was moist, ready.
As if by magic, as if from the mere wish of it, Gavin felt his trousers melt away. He, too, was bare.
A step later, he reached Kira, easing his hips between her thighs. Lust jolted him as she opened her arms in welcome. His heart slammed against his chest in a frantic beat. Gavin felt her slender arms slide around him. She wriggled closer, pressing a single soft kiss to his cheek. Desire rolled through him again, along with an odd sense of peace. He belonged here.
Kira took a deep breath. Her breasts rose against him, encouraging a more intimate touch. He bent down, took a breast in his hand and drew the dusky tip toward his mouth. Her musky scent wafted around him in a pungent swirl flavored with other scents. Gavin recognized the perfume from the hilltops near Norfield, and he sank into the wondrous smell.
His mouth closed about her nipple, hard from the first touch of his tongue. She was like a bounty, and he feasted for seemingly endless moments. Kira tossed her head back, gasped, and murmured his name over and over as he suckled her.
Lust multiplied, robbed him of breath. Gavin began to sweat again as he straightened and grasped her hips. Her eyes, so deeply blue beneath the black fringe of her half-closed lashes, welcomed him. Positioning himself at her portal, Gavin glanced into the mirror at Kira’s back and groaned. The dressing table was the perfect place to take a woman like Kira, for her front was exposed to his hungry gaze and her round derriere visible in the glass behind her. He could view nearly every delectable angle of her as he lost himself inside her.
“Kira,” he called her name. The spice of her skin, combined with the tang of arousal, answered his call.
Dying to be inside her, he lunged forward—
And woke to find himself alone. Gavin lay still, bathed in sweat. He panted, one rapid breath following another. Every nerve tingled with arousal. He didn’t remember a time he had been so hard.
Disoriented, he glanced about the surrounding darkness, surprised to find the familiar shadows of his own bedchamber. Rolling to his feet with a groan, he prayed that the biting spring wind blowing through his open windows would cool his heated body.
Gavin removed his nightshirt, which he found both damp and constricting, and flung it across the room with an oath. Then he paced his chamber. He didn’t give a damn that he was stark naked, that someone from the garden below might be able to view him through the open window, moonlight permitting. He only cared that his fascination with James’s fiancée wasn’t abating.
What was the matter with him? This strange attraction must stop, or else this kind of lust could start influencing his decisions. Any number of men had fallen to such a malady. Lord knew his father had planned entire weeks around tupping a new woman. In doing so, he’d neglected his wife, his duties, his children, his reputation—everything that mattered. Gavin refused to behave like an idiot simply to satisfy lust.
Frankly, he did not understand his reaction to Kira. He’d never had a yen for foreign women. Oh, when visiting the Continent, he’d partaken. Italy, Spain, Portugal, and the like all held beautiful women. But he hadn’t wanted them so desperately that he dreamt about them, memorized every inch of their bodies.
Nor had tawdry women, particularly ones with so infamous a past, ever held any appeal for him. Other men fancied such creatures. Not Gavin. He always did his best to choose the right and proper path.
And while he appreciated Kira’s intelligence, he knew any number of clever women. Cordelia, for instance. As much as he admired her, Gavin had never been overcome with a desire to lead her to the nearest bed and have his wicked way with her.
What was it about Kira Melbourne that drew him? Was it knowing that she belonged to James? Gavin shook his head, raking stiff fingers through his short, sodden hair.
He’d never been lured by the forbidden before. Certainly if his cousin had chosen a woman with all the allure and verve of, say, Honoria Baycliffe, Gavin doubted he’d find himself prowling his bedroom floor like a tomcat.
So it must be something about Kira herself that drew him. But what?
His mind supplied him images of her: smile hesitant upon the first day of their meeting, posture angry when he’d asked about the uncle she’d never met, face alive when he’d accidentally brushed his fingers against her breast, countenance seemingly innocent as he watched her over dinner, eyes concerned as she’d brought her shawl to Aunt Caroline to hide her dress’s tear. The woman had many facets, and that intrigued him.
Before her intrusion into the family, Gavin awoke every morning certain the day would be without change. Steadiness—he’d always appreciated that. Change brought too many headaches. At times, he rejected the new simply because he liked the old too much to try anything else. So why would a woman as changeable and as multi-sided as Kira draw him to her?
Cursing, Gavin threw himself back on the bed and retrieved his sheets from the floor. The whole argument was ridiculous. He was tired and making little sense because of it. He did not like Kira for her mutating moods. He did not like her at all. She had an attractive body, so his wanting it made perfect sense. The sentiment was inconvenient, yes. But he would find some way to honor his promise to Aunt Caroline and oust Miss Melbourne from their lives. He had to. And once she was gone, Gavin would forget her. And life would return to its predictable cadence. It was all very simple.
* * * *
Kira had scarcely finished eating a solitary breakfast in her room when her maid knocked, bearing the news that the duke himself wished to see her in his office now.
Did he? Well, she had no wish to oblige him. Nothing good happened when they were alone. He usually insulted her—while staring. She read many things in his gaze, most often disapproval. But the last time he’d confronted her had been most distressing. As angry as she’d been with him, when he grasped her arm and pulled her near, the shock and tingle of the connection she felt with him sizzled her anger away. Worse, his gaze made it clear he felt the same. Those relentless dark eyes fastened on her, communicating something so fierce she’d been stunned, rooted to her spot.
Staring out her window at the riotous multi-colored blooms in the cloud-shadowed garden, Kira found herself identifying various flowers—climbing roses here, pink dogwoods there, snapdragons near the fountain trickling with water—anything to avoid Cropthorne.
She did not like him, did not trust him, did not want to be alone with him again.
Resolving that the odious man could simply wait, Kira withdrew the book of poetry she’d plucked from the library shelves and sat to read. She’d lost count of the number of pages she turned when she heard a firm knock upon her door.
“Yes?” she called.
“Miss Melbourne, I’d like to speak with you.”
Cropthorne. So the duke had come to her. Without shock, she noted that he sounded displeased.
“Do you have something new to convey to me beyond our last discussion in the music room? If not, I must confess I’ve no wish to hear a renewal of your insults.”
He paused. Kira pictured him grinding his teeth on the other side of her door. She smiled at the image.
“Indeed, I do. May we speak about it more privately?”
Kira stared at the solid white door separating her from the duke. She did not really want to see him. He’d made it perfectly clear that he held her in contempt. Though she had always been uncomfortable with her mixed heritage, she refused to allow a puffed-up buffoon like Cropthorne to sharpen his tongue on her. But if he truly had something new to
say, something kinder, perhaps she ought to listen. If nothing else, her defiance would not aid her in persuading the man to accept her marriage to James.
She sighed in resignation. “I shall be down in a few moments.”
At length, Cropthorne said, “I will await you in my study.”
Retreating footfall told her he left her door. Anxiety stirred her up, made her stomach uneasy. Only when she stood did Kira realize that she trembled. She closed her eyes, shaking her head. Why should she allow such a shallow, unpleasant sort of man to upset her? To matter at all?
Knowing she could no longer put off the inevitable, no matter how she wished it, Kira lay her book of poetry aside and made her way to the duke’s lair.
After a brief knock, he bade her to enter. Reluctantly, she did so.
She had never been in this room, but it was clearly his domain and it fit him: dark, practical, with a trace of elegance and more than a touch of wealth. Walnut paneling covered the walls. A massive mahogany desk stood as a barrier between the two of them. A wall of books, shelved in neat rows, lined the wall at his back, framed by heavy forest green draperies that had been drawn against all but a sliver of the morning sun.
“Sit, please.” He gestured to a George III mahogany library chair in front of his desk.
Kira did so, watching his face. She did not trust his shuttered, authoritative expression. Whatever he had to say, while perhaps not a resumption of his previous insults, would not be pleasant, she sensed.
“Your grace, I—”
He held up a large hand to stay her words. “First, let me thank you for assisting my aunt yesterday. You came to her rescue, and for that I am indebted.”
The words were kind, yes. And they surprised Kira. But somehow she doubted he’d summoned her here for the purpose of thanking her for her wrap.
“You are welcome.”
With a slight incline of his head, he acknowledged her. “We have another matter of import to discuss. I realize I insulted you greatly when last we met. I am certain you’ll find this odd, but I meant nothing personal. As head of my family, I protect my loved ones at all costs. I still do not believe it is to James’s benefit to marry a woman who will raise brows among his parishioners.”
She opened her mouth to object; he staved off her words with a shake of his head. “I mean that as no judgment of you.”
Kira doubted that very much.
“The kind of gossip circulating about you, whether true or not, is damaging. You must know that. I’m sure you’ll make a perfectly lovely wife—for someone else.”
Cropthorne clearly thought he explained himself without insulting her. What a dolt! He believed the gossip about her. Before, that fact had simply angered her. Now it pained her, probably because his bad opinion was the only thing that could stand between her and the acceptance marriage to James could provide. Blast it, she wanted him to trust in her innocence. But she sensed that he was not a trusting sort of man.
“At the risk of repeating my earlier sentiments, I told you once I would be an exemplary wife to your cousin. I believe that, with time, the vicious gossip will dissipate. By then, James’s parishioners will know that—”
“You’re the model of English virtue?” He raised a challenging brow. “Allow me to disagree.”
With those few words, he insulted her heritage so easily, her ire rose. “I have every bit of affection for England that you do.”
Cropthorne answered her only with a dubious stare as he paused to retrieve a piece of paper from a drawer in his desk. He looked it over, and with a satisfied nod, slid it across the desk in her direction.
Kira hesitated, gazing at the duke with uncertainty roiling in her belly.
Shadows clung to Cropthorne’s face. He appeared like a carved statue, marble, cold…yet she could not deny that he was a vision of masculine perfection, and strangely enthralling for it. An odd time to notice such a thing, certainly. His eyes looked unreadable, his full mouth firm and grim.
Their gazes connected. As if time stopped, Kira felt the breath leave her body, heard her heart beat, once, twice. Heat flared in his eyes; she was nearly certain of it, and her cheeks flushed. But the duke looked away too quickly.
“Well, look at it.” With a flick of his wrist, he gestured to the paper on the well-polished desk before her.
With an odd sense of dread, she did so. As she unfolded the rectangular scrap of paper, she saw it was a bank draft, made out in her name, in the amount of ten thousand pounds.
Money?
Afraid she understood all too well, Kira raised her gaze to him.
“Everyone in this world wants something. Whatever you desire, this should be enough for you to acquire it. In return, I ask that you leave James today.”
Pain lanced Kira. She hated the fact she cared for Cropthorne’s opinion at all, but he thought ill enough of her to give her a fortune simply to keep her from wedding his cousin. At least he hadn’t lied, she thought with irony. He had not renewed his previous insults. Rather, he’d insulted her on a deeper level. Instead of being merely of loose morals and bad blood, as he’d earlier insinuated, now he thought her mercenary as well.
Tears stung the back of her eyes, tightened her throat. She swallowed them. His grace was not going to destroy the happiness within her grasp. One man’s small opinion, no matter how handsome the man or how much she responded to him, mattered. His success meant her failure. She had come too far and wanted too much to allow that.
Rising slowly, bank draft in hand, she ripped it in half. “I am insulted in every conceivable manner by your bribe. You have not the money to buy my absence from your cousin’s life, for there is no such price.”
The shock that transformed the duke’s face might have been comical had she not been so livid.
“I will not believe that.” He stood, towering over her.
She stood as well and glared at him. “Do try. That way, when your cousin and I begin posting the banns tomorrow, you’ll not be terribly surprised.”
Chapter Five
That next day, James posted the first of their banns to clear the path for marriage, as he’d promised. Kira had been pleased, despite the fact none of the villagers had spoken to her after the church service. Still, she felt certain her dream of acceptance and security would come true when she and James reached Tunbridge Wells as man and wife. They simply had to.
The fact that Cropthorne and Mrs. Howland had chosen to remain behind from Sunday services upset her—more for James than herself. They might not wish to hear the posting of the banns, but they could not deny the reality forever. Kira understood what her fiancé’s family thought; the duke had made their contempt quite clear. James, however, was disheartened by their behavior, and Kira did not tell him of Cropthorne’s attempts to force her from the family. The truth would only upset him more. Though James disliked dissention almost as much as she, he did his utmost to protect her from the ugly gossip, even at his own peril. Truly, he was a good friend.
“Take a deep breath. All will be well.” James’s concerned gaze touched her as he helped her from the coach, out into the balmy night.
Nodding, Kira took hold of his arm and walked toward the Baycliffe’s Palladian-style house. Darius walked behind her, his silent presence comforting. In front, the duke, looking both elegant and formidable in evening black, escorted his aunt.
The dreaded evening of the assembly had arrived. Being the center of attention always forced Kira to admit to cowardice. And now that her impending nuptials had been announced, she would be the subject of even more speculation. As such, she had pleaded to remain at Norfield Park tonight, but James and Darius convinced her she must attend. She must show one and all she had nothing about which to be ashamed.
Once inside, Kira realized they had arrived late. The dancing had commenced some time ago, based on the wilted condition of many. The scents of perfume and liquor hung in the heavy, humid air despite the windows open to the night breeze. Villagers pressed together
in the smallish blue-walled room, fanning themselves as someone’s young daughter played the pianoforte.
When Cropthorne and Mrs. Howland entered, the chatter reduced to a buzz. Kira’s stomach tightened as James all but dragged her into the room next. As she feared, the moment they stepped through the portal, talk ceased altogether.
Mr. Howland smiled and behaved as if nothing untoward had occurred. He walked by her side, obtaining a glass of punch for her. Kira felt a roomful of incredulous, speculative stares, heard the whispers behind lacy fans as James introduced her to Mr. Baycliffe—a scarecrow of a man who was kinder than his wife. She closed her eyes, wishing for a place to hide.
“Miss Melbourne, try to smile.” James encouraged her, shoulders squared. “Remember, your goodness shines through your smile. People will see the light in you.”
Kira wished she could be half as optimistic, but she feared no one here would look past her reputation. For James, however, she did her best to appear happy.
“Much better. Relax and all will be well,” he vowed.
Patting the hand that rested on his arm, James pulled her toward Mrs. Baycliffe, who stood mere feet away in a fussy, lace-edged dress, speaking to three elderly men. Kira recoiled.
“I’d prefer not to give your neighbor the opportunity to insult me again,” she whispered.
“She is our hostess. We must greet her.”
Kira sent him an expression that conveyed her disagreement.
“I understand your feelings,” James said. “We will face others like her in life who haven’t yet found their Christian tolerance. We will persevere.”
Anxiety ate at Kira’s composure. “Must we persevere now?”
James’s glance gently scolded her as he pulled her toward their hostess.
Adorned in flounces and ruffles that accentuated her heavy bosom, Mrs. Baycliffe held a lacy handkerchief in one hand and a glass of sherry in the other. After sending the men a parting smile, she turned away. Her gaze found Kira and James.