The Worst Duke in the World

by Lisa Berne

  He was stammering adorably again, and Jane felt her temperature go up several additional degrees. Another idea came to her and she didn’t waste any time wondering if it meant she was good or bad. She said:

  “I think we ought to kiss each other.”

  He looked surprised. And then so happy that her own heart gave a leap of joy within her.

  “Do you really, Miss Kent?”

  “Yes. Your Grace.”

  “Then let’s do that. If you’re sure?”

  “I’m very sure.”

  “I say, how ripping.”

  With one gloved hand still holding the reins, the Duke raised his other gloved hand to his mouth, took the tip of one finger between his teeth, tugged his hand free, and in a very dashing way spat out his glove and let it drop down into the well at their feet. Then that newly bare hand was warmly cupping her cheek, and the Duke brought his face closer to her own, and then his incredibly attractive mouth was on hers, and Jane, her lips eagerly parting, felt her bones melt away into wonderful nothingness as white-hot sensation took hold of her.

  Oh, he did taste of chocolate, and maybe also of apple, and possibly even the cinnamon that was in the puffs at dessert, but most strongly of chocolate, rich, sweet, decadent, and he was altogether so delicious that Jane wanted to eat him up like another dessert.

  The best dessert in the world.

  She slid the tip of her tongue along the inside of his upper lip where, she knew, the flesh was sensitive, exquisitely receptive, and felt the Duke jerk in response.

  So Jane did it again.

  And he did it again. That reactive little judder.

  There was something so very pleasurable about giving him pleasure.

  It made her greedy for more.

  Ravenous, even.

  Jane kissed that enticing upper lip of his.

  It would not be going too far to say that she fastened on it, like a bee upon a flower. Moistly. Juicily. First she sucked upon it, slow and sweet, and then without any warning at all she nipped with her teeth.

  And the Duke juddered again.

  “Jane,” he said, low, husky, against her mouth. “Jane.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m going to—I want to—if you do—I mean, may I?”

  She didn’t know what he wanted to do, but was confident it was going to be something nice. “Yes.”

  And then the Duke kissed her upper lip, quite like she had kissed his.

  Saliva from his mouth, shared with her.

  Nectar, and she the happy bee.

  A greedy, happy bee.

  Chocolate, apple, cinnamon.

  Delicious.

  Vaguely Jane heard herself making a soft, humming sort of noise deep in her throat.

  Really, almost like the sound a happy little bee might make.

  She wondered, equally vaguely, but hopefully, if he was going to nip at her upper lip as she had done to him. Which she wouldn’t mind one bit.

  But instead, he slowly, slowly—tortuously slowly—deepened the kiss, his tongue against hers, wet, stroking, filling her, pulling back, filling her again, in a lovely pulsing rhythm that sent blazing warmth surging everywhere within her—oh, everywhere—and Jane didn’t feel any disappointment at all that he hadn’t bitten her as she had been hoping.

  She was disappointed, however, when after a while he broke the kiss, because it was far too soon, in her opinion, to stop kissing. He drew back a little, and she saw that he was looking at her again with that same questioning expression.

  “I say, was that all right?”

  “More than all right.” She smiled, then wondered if the sight of her dimples would galvanize him into kissing her again. Unfortunately he only said:

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “You liked it?” he asked.

  “So very much.”

  “I say, I’m glad.”

  “I am, too. Your Grace. Do you want to do it again?”

  “Really?”

  “Yes indeed.”

  He grinned, looking suddenly and adorably boyish. “Capital.”

  And he did kiss her again, and Jane didn’t have to be jealous of that little chocolate conserve anymore, because he deepened the kiss immediately and hungrily, and she felt wholly savored, and this time he did nip at her upper lip, and Jane gave a noisy gasp of enjoyment, and would have bitten his lip again, except that the Duke abruptly pulled away from her and straightened his tall dark hat which had gone charmingly askew.

  “People,” he explained, jerking his chin toward the road ahead, and sure enough, mere seconds after Jane had straightened her own hat and reluctantly scooted a few inches away from him, jammed her glove back on, put the lid back onto the conserve box, and tried with all her might to project the air of one who hasn’t just been passionately kissing the person sitting next to her, from around the bend came a sleek black barouche drawn by a team of four horses.

  It passed them in the gathering twilight and Jane got a brief glimpse inside, of two—no, three people, two women and a man, who evinced no curiosity whatsoever in the curricle drawn up alongside the road or its occupants. Which in a way was a good thing, as she wouldn’t have welcomed their scrutiny, but on the other hand, Jane thought with a pointless yet rising indignation, what if they had suffered an accident and needed help?

  The very least they could have done was to stop and ask.

  Whoever those people were, she disliked them.

  The Duke picked up his glove and put it back on, then chirruped to his horses. They began to move and the curricle rolled back onto the road. Jane glanced at him and saw that he looked both happy and rather dazed.

  They didn’t talk, but it was one of those nice companionable silences where one didn’t feel one had to grope awkwardly for something to say or wish anxiously for something else to happen as a distraction. In fact, it would have been fine with her if they stayed like this for a very long time, rolling along side by side, with her mouth feeling all savored and her body still sizzling with pleasure. And with a box of chocolate conserves on her lap.

  But, reality being what it was, it only took ten minutes or so for them to get back to the Hall.

  When the Duke brought the curricle to a halt on the carriage sweep, Jane said to him:

  “Thank you—well, for everything. Your Grace.”

  He looked at her, a little shyly, she thought, but still with that delightful dazed expression on his face and an unmistakable light in his eyes. “Thank you. Miss Kent. Jane.”

  The front door opened, a footman hurried out, and just like that, their lovely interlude of solitude was over.

  When Jane came into the Great Hall, there was Great-grandmother Henrietta, who looked into her face, and at the box she was carrying, and into her face again, and, blushing wildly, Jane had once more that uncomfortable, unpleasant, sinking feeling of guilt.

  “The Duke drove you home again?” said Great-grandmother.

  Jane nodded.

  “How kind,” Great-grandmother said, but in a tone of voice which strongly suggested to Jane that while it might indeed have been a kind gesture on the Duke’s part, Great-grandmother nonetheless still didn’t approve of it, not one tiny bit.

  Whistling a little under his breath, Anthony nimbly swept past a big, lumbering carriage with a great deal of luggage strapped on top, and then, a few minutes later, the barouche that had, to his infinite chagrin, kept him from kissing Jane some more.

  Kissing Jane.

  Wasn’t that something.

  He felt hot all over just thinking about it.

  And what a good kisser Jane was.

  Anthony hoped he had kissed her as well as she had kissed him.

  He thought that maybe, just maybe, he had.

  Because she had kissed him back, and made that adorable humming sound, and also she had audibly gasped when he’d bitten her upper lip, but in a pleased-sounding way, clearly not in horror, as one did when, say, one came across an angry bear
, and he had been fairly sure that she (Jane, not the bear) was going to nip him again—when that damned barouche had interrupted things.

  When, he wondered, could he and Jane kiss again?

  He wanted to try having his mouth be just above hers, teasing them both in the most terrible and wonderful way, until they couldn’t stand it for another single second, and then plunge into each other like they had just a little while ago and which had been amazing.

  Also, he would love to trail his tongue along the side of her neck, maybe both sides of her neck, and maybe even nip at the soft skin there with his teeth. He wondered if Jane would like that, and if she would gasp or hum again. Or bite him on the skin of his neck. Which he thought he would enjoy very much.

  And while they were at it, he’d really like to touch her with his hands.

  Everywhere.

  Without her having any clothes on.

  Actually, without him having any clothes on either.

  He hoped she wouldn’t mind that he had hairy legs.

  And a fair amount of hair on his chest, too.

  Plus rather prominent collar-bones, as he didn’t have much fat on him anywhere.

  Speaking of which, Anthony suddenly remembered Jane telling him yesterday after church, in a cheerful manner, that she was getting a little fatter. She looked perfect to him just as she was, but if that was something that made her happy, he was all for it.

  He was extra glad, now, that he had given her the chocolates.

  He made a mental note to ask Bunch to get some more sent over from the village first thing in the morning. Perhaps a larger box this time.

  With any luck, Jane would come over to Hastings again tomorrow after lessons and he could give her the new box.

  Also, it would be fun to play billiards some more. By their fourth game together she had made impressive progress.

  Maybe they’d be able to steal away for a few quiet moments together, too.

  Or even longer than that.

  He could hardly wait.

  Anthony’s mood of exuberance and anticipation lasted until the precise moment when, having arrived home, stopped in to see Wakefield, and changed for dinner, he came downstairs and saw the front door swing open, and three people come inside, and Margaret, up and about again, go sailing forward to meet them and on her face a wide, welcoming smile which struck horrible dismay into Anthony’s whole being.

  For here—as he promptly learned—was none other than the Countess of Silsbury, her daughter Lady Felicia, and her son the Viscount Whitton. Whose barouche he had blithely passed, in happy ignorance of the fact that it had, in fact, been bound for Hastings with what no doubt was the express purpose of ruining what had been an epically splendid day.

  “My dear Jane,” said Great-grandmother Henrietta, “your gown doesn’t fit you properly. I must confess I’m rather surprised at Miss Simpkin’s poor workmanship. Usually it’s quite exact.”

  The family had gone to the rococo drawing-room as it always did after dinner, and had grouped itself cozily around the leaping fire. Cousin Gabriel had an open book before him, and next to him, sharing a small sofa, was Livia, who had her head bent over some sewing, and Great-grandmother was seated closest to the fire in a wide, elaborately carved giltwood chair that to Jane looked a lot like a small throne.

  “Actually, Great-grandmother, I’m afraid I’m the problem. I’ve expanded a bit since Miss Simpkin took my measurements. I’ve been eating rather a lot.”

  “It has not escaped my notice,” said Great-grandmother, but kindly. “So adjustments will, therefore, need to be made.”

  “Yes indeed.” Jane looked down with pleasure at the soft, moss-green silk of her gown. How pretty it was! Miss Simpkin had suggested white, or cream, or ivory as suitable colors for a young unmarried lady, but Great-grandmother had overridden her, saying that white would wash Jane out, and how right she had been. The green of this particular fabric set off Jane’s pale hair to perfection, and gave her gray eyes almost a silvery brilliance. She wished the Duke could see her in it. But before she fell into a pleasant daydream, which included not only the Duke’s admiration at seeing her in this beautiful evening-gown, but also him undoing all those little buttons in the back and sliding it off her and so on and so forth, Jane went on:

  “I was thinking that I could try again to learn how to sew, and do it myself.”

  “A very worthy thought, my dear, but I wouldn’t suggest attempting to learn on something so complex as an evening-gown. Sally can alter your gowns, and I’ll send word to Miss Simpkin regarding your changed dimensions.”

  “Thank you, Great-grandmother,” said Jane. “But I would like to at least try. Even though I was horrible at it before. Livia, do you by any chance have anything easy for me to practice on?”

  Livia looked up and smiled at her. “I’ve been mending rips in Daniel’s smocks. Would you like to try one of those?”

  “Yes, that does sound easy,” said Jane, but after half an hour of wrestling with the fine white cotton, knotting her thread ineffectually, unpicking seams, poking herself with the needle, and finally ruining the little smock entirely by bleeding on it, Jane found herself both hideously bored and forced to admit she was still terrible at sewing. Apologetically she passed everything back to Livia and then picked up her book of Wordsworth poems, but before she could open it Great-grandmother said:

  “My dear, for the time being, do come straight home after lessons. Tomorrow the friseur will arrive from Bath, as he does every quarter, to attend to Livia’s hair and my own. And yours, too, now. Accompanying him will be a dancing-master I’ve engaged on your behalf, Monsieur Voclaine—he’ll be staying here at the Hall for at least a fortnight, and possibly more, until you’ve become adept in all the various dances. And, of course, you’ll want to continue your riding lessons, if not with Gabriel then with whatever groom he designates for the task.”

  “Oh. Of course. Yes, I’ll come straightaway,” Jane promised, trying hard to inject into her voice a convincing enthusiasm. She did want to learn how to dance, and become a capable horsewoman, and if Great-grandmother wanted to have her hair tended to by this friseur from Bath, Jane had no objection and of course was really very grateful, but . . .

  But how could she go to Hastings after lessons?

  Anthony lay in his bed with his head resting on interlaced fingers and his elbows akimbo, staring up into the darkness. He would have liked to be thinking about Jane, and how intelligent and nice and kind and beautiful and fascinating and desirable she was, but instead his mind was filled with the horror of Margaret’s visit here to his room just a little while ago. She had been so cheerful, so animated, that Anthony’s already low spirits had sunk even further.

  What a marvelous evening, she had said, she couldn’t remember when she’d enjoyed herself so much, and wasn’t it delightful that the Viscount came along? Such a marvelous young man, and as for Lady Felicia—delightful and marvelous. And their mother the Countess! Also delightful.

  Then Margaret had gone on to say that she so much wanted this visit to be a success, and that perhaps it had been a mistake, with their previous guests, to keep their own little party quite so exclusive, and so she was going to immediately send out invitations for tea, dinner-parties, perhaps even a soirée musicale or a ball, thereby providing select members of the neighborhood an opportunity to meet the Merifields.

  And of course providing the Merifields with an opportunity to observe just how delightful and marvelous life was here.

  After that she had bustled away, full of energy and enthusiasm—quite possibly bent upon waking up the housekeeper and writing lists together till their candles guttered away into nothingness—leaving Anthony with barely the fortitude to untie his own neckcloth.

  Which reminded him of yet another example of his glaring nondukishness.

  He had no valet.

  And why?

  Because he didn’t want one.

  Of course there was that nice young chap Ev
ans who took care of his room, saw that his things were laundered and pressed and stowed away and all that, but as it happened, Anthony was not only able to put on his own clothes, he could also take them off. Unless, of course, his usual capacities had been sapped by Margaret’s ghastly cheer.

  Into Anthony’s mind now floated unfond memories of Father’s and Terence’s valets. They might as well have been twins in their rigidly upright demeanors, their frigid mannerisms, and their fanatical determination to keep their masters’ boots polished to an eye-shattering gleam.

  Selina, Anthony recalled in another unfond memory, had been after him to get a valet.

  His lack of one, she had said, reflected badly on her.

  Other memories of Selina began to rise, unfurl themselves like malevolent ghosts, and crowd inside his brain.

  None of them were good.

  Restlessly Anthony unlaced his hands from behind his head and turned onto his side, shoving away a great hank of hair that had fallen into his eyes.

  Five long years of wretchedness. And loneliness.

  It had been the worst sort of loneliness, too—the kind that came from having to be around someone one didn’t want to be around.

  The kind that left one feeling empty and secretly, impossibly, alone.

  Damn it to hell, Anthony thought, actual pain tearing at his heart, he didn’t want to get married again.

  He felt like an animal released from what had seemed like endless captivity.

  Such an animal would never willingly return to its cage.

  Damn it all to hell—never.

  And nothing would, or could, make him change his mind.

  Chapter 9

  Mr. Pressley had wrapped up today’s lessons with a very interesting talk about astronomy, and now Jane and Wakefield stood once again on the front steps of the vicarage.

  The weather had turned much colder.

  The sky was a low, heavy gray, the wind was up, and little flurries of snow occasionally spun down and swirled about, coming to rest on the ground in tiny, chilly white flakes that somehow gave the impression of being stubbornly determined to hang around making people’s feet cold for a long, long time.