How to Lose a Duke in Ten Days

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  “You’re back,” she said.

  He straightened from petting the terrier and smiled at her. “Miss me?”

  Like mad.

  She didn’t say it. Instead, she shrugged. “A little.”

  “Only a little?” He shook his head and sighed. “Heartless Edie. Still, you are wearing white today, so I can’t complain.”

  She reached up one hand, fingering her high collar. “Just my shirtwaist,” she felt impelled to point out. “My skirt isn’t white.”

  His gaze lowered, then lifted. “That’s a pity.”

  As always when he said things like that, her heart gave a hard thump in her breast, and she grabbed for a neutral subject. “It’s very hot.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “It is.”

  A perfectly ordinary thing to say, and yet, the way he said it sent a warmth in her spreading through her body that had nothing to do with the weather.

  “Stuart!” Joanna’s joyful greeting saved her from having to think of a reply. Her sister stopped beside her, breathing hard from having run across the lawn. Joanna had none of her painful shyness with him. “You’re back!”

  “Hullo, petal.” He grinned at her as he glanced at Edie. “I hope you missed me?”

  She grinned back at him. “That depends. Do you know how to play croquet?”

  “I do.”

  “But are you any good?”

  “I was, actually. But I haven’t played in years.”

  “Either way, you’ll surely be better than me, so you must come and help me. Edie’s beaten me three times already, and I’m about to lose again because I’ve got a tricky shot to make, and I don’t think I can do it. You can take my shot for me.”

  “No, he can’t!” Edie protested, indignant. “That would be cheating.”

  “Edie, Edie,” Stuart chided, laughing. “You are so ruthless at games.”

  “She is,” Joanna put in before she could answer. “I don’t know why I even play with her. And she’s very good. Please, help me, Stuart.”

  “I will, but it shall have to be another time. I’m going up to change while you and your sister finish your game, then I want tea on the terrace. I’ve been in a hot, crowded train all afternoon.”

  “After that, will you play?”

  “Not today. After tea, I want to spend some time with your sister.” He glanced at Edie. “Alone.”

  “Oh, very well,” Joanna grumbled. “Perfect chance to win for a change,” she added under her breath as she turned away, “and it doesn’t come off. I’ll never beat her.”

  “Really, Edie,” he whispered as Joanna stalked off to make her shot. “Four games in a row? Be a sport and let her win one.”

  She looked at him, saw his cajoling smile, and gave in. “Oh, all right. You must be softening me up,” she added, making it sound like an accusation.

  “God, I hope so.” He ducked his head beneath her straw hat, and planted a quick kiss on her lips. “I certainly hope so.”

  AFTER TEA, THEY went for their usual walk. Instead of going through the gardens, however, Stuart expressed the desire to tour the home farm, so they went that way, across the lawn and down the lane.

  She couldn’t help noting as they walked that his pace was slower today. “Does your leg hurt?” she asked.

  “A bit,” he admitted. “Trains are so cramped, it’s difficult. And I didn’t have you to stretch me out these two days.”

  “We can do that before dinner.”

  “Love to,” he said at once, and again she felt an absurd burst of joy.

  “How was London?” she asked. “Did you see the doctor?”

  “I did. He’s glad I seem to be improving, and he’s given me some additional stretching exercises to add to my regimen. I also saw Mrs. Calloway, and she is delighted by the idea of a trip to Italy next year.”

  Edie’s joy dimmed a little at the reminder of Joanna’s impending departure.

  “I’ll miss her, too, Edie,” he said, correctly interpreting her sudden silence.

  That didn’t make her feel better, but she nodded. “I know, Stuart.”

  Suddenly, he stopped walking. “I say, look where we are.”

  Edie came to a halt as well, looking around. “We’re by the henhouses.”

  “Yes, exactly.” He glanced around and grabbed her hand. “Come on.”

  She laughed, allowing him to pull her and Snuffles along. “You want to see the chickens? The dog will love that.”

  He gave her a look as if she were hopelessly dense. “Not the chickens, darling. The feathers.”

  “The feathers? What on earth for?”

  He didn’t explain. As he led her and Snuffles past the henhouses, the dog barked and growled, causing the hens in the fenced pen to flutter in alarm and vanish into the coop.

  “We’re frightening the hens,” she told him. “If there are no eggs tomorrow, I’m telling Mrs. Bigelow that it’s your fault.”

  Stuart was not dissuaded by that. He led her around the corner of the henhouses to the feather house several dozen yards beyond, where he took Snuffles’s lead from her fingers and tied the dog firmly to a nearby fence post. Then, he opened the door of the feather house, pulled her inside, and closed the door behind them. She blinked, for though the building had windows, the interior was dim after the bright sunshine outside, and it took several minutes for her eyes to adjust.

  “So why are we in here?” she asked, glancing around at the wood-­slatted pens where feathers were stored after being cleaned and dried.

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he tossed his walking stick into one of the pens, turned around, and leaned back against the wooden slats behind him. Resting his hands on either side of the top slat, he lifted himself to perch on the edge. He grinned at her. “You’re looking at me as if I’ve lost my wits.”

  “Well . . .” she began.

  His grin widened. “Oh, come on, don’t tell me you’ve never wanted to.”

  She frowned, bewildered. “Never wanted to what?”

  Instead of answering, he leaned back and fell straight into the feathers behind him.

  She laughed as tiny feathers and bits of down floated up toward the ceiling and she leaned forward to look into his grinning face. “That’s why you wanted to come in here?”

  “Of course. My friends and I used to play here. Old Treves would grumble about it, with us mussing about in his feathers, but he never told on us. Not once.” He laughed, looking up into her dubious face. “I can tell you did not grow up in the country, Edie.”

  “No. I grew up in a very large house in the middle of Manhattan with all the conveniences of modern life. Our feather beds and pillows came from a store.”

  “So you’ve never played in the feathers? You were deprived of one of childhood’s greatest joys.”

  She glanced at the sides of the three-­foot-­high enclosure. “Will you be able to get back out?”

  “Hell’s bells, I didn’t even think of that.” He laughed. “Ah, well, I’ll worry about that later.” He slid backward, so that his entire body was in the pen. “Well, come on,” he urged, “what are you waiting for?”

  She pulled off her hat and tossed it aside, then she turned around, lifted herself onto the edge, and with a glance over her shoulder to make sure he was out of her way, she fell backward. She was laughing even before she landed next to him in a pouf of white.

  “Fun, isn’t it?” he asked.

  She nodded, staring up at the wood ceiling, the floor of the loft above. “So you weren’t allowed to play in here?”

  “God, no. These feathers are for pillows and mattresses for the house, not for play. My father would have taken a crop to me if he’d known.”

  “A crop?” She turned her head and looked at him. “How awful! Your father must have been a tyrant.”

  “He
was, rather. But—­” Stuart paused and shrugged. “He bothered so little about us, it didn’t matter. We almost never saw him.”

  His cavalier attitude about it rather startled her. She thought of his mother, and her cold haughtiness, and she didn’t know what to say. “That’s a shame,” she said at last. “My parents were very attentive to me and my sister. Until my mother died, anyway. That changed my father, I think. Without my mother, he didn’t know what to do with two daughters. He was a bit lost.”

  Stuart turned on his side, rubbing his head to dislodge any bits of down from his short hair, then he propped his weight on his elbow and rested his cheek on his hand, looking at her. “So you had to be both mother and sister for Joanna?”

  “Yes, exactly. I was seventeen when my mother died. Joanna was only eight. I felt I had to take over.”

  “I understand. Nadine and I have exactly the same age difference. When my father died, though, my sister was already sixteen. But if she’d been a little girl, I would have been like father to her as well as brother. I almost wish that had been the case. I might have been able to save her from being completely scatterbrained.”

  “I doubt it. I hate to say mean things about your family, Stuart, but your sister isn’t the brightest candle in the chandelier.”

  “No,” he agreed, laughing. “She isn’t, is she?”

  “So you and your friends played in here?” She snuggled deeper, liking the feel of the feathers beneath her. “What did you do?”

  “Oh, feather fights, of course. Didn’t you have pillow fights with your girlfriends?”

  “Well, yes, but we never had loose feathers like this.”

  “Then it doesn’t count.”

  “What? Why not?” she demanded, feeling a bit indignant.

  “Really, Edie, if you don’t hit your opponent hard enough to break the pillow open and have the feathers flying everywhere, it is not a true pillow fight.”

  She watched as he picked up a handful of down.

  “Stuart,” she warned, but he didn’t throw them at her. Instead, he plucked out one small feather, and tossed the others aside. Reaching over, he touched the feather beneath her chin.

  She shook her head, laughing.

  “You’re ticklish,” he accused, sounding far too delighted by the fact.

  “No, I’m not.” But even as she denied it, she laughed harder, squeezing her eyes shut, wriggling as he brushed the feather along her jaw.

  “Edie, I never knew this about you,” he teased. “I think things between us just got a bit more equal.”

  She felt his hand curve around her waist. “No, don’t,” she shrieked, still laughing. “Don’t tickle me.”

  He didn’t. For no reason at all, he stilled, and when she opened her eyes, he was staring at her, his face grave, his eyes dark and smoky.

  She swallowed hard. “What are you thinking?” she whispered, but even as she asked the question, she already knew the answer.

  “I’m thinking it’s not in the sheets,” he murmured as he pulled a bit of white fluff from her hair. “But it’ll do.”

  He bent his head and kissed her. It was more like the kiss he’d given her the other night in the garden rather than the sweet kisses outside her bedroom door. Familiar with his kisses now, her body responded almost at once, relaxing, easing, warming to him.

  He explored her mouth, his tongue caressing hers, then pulling back, coaxing her to reciprocate. He finally broke the kiss, but she had time for just one gasp for air before he kissed her again. The kiss deepened, and the warmth in her deepened, too, growing hotter, centering in her breasts, low in her abdomen, between her legs. She groaned against his mouth.

  He broke the kiss again, and she felt him easing back as if to withdraw. This time, instead of letting him go, she curled her fingers around the armholes of his waistcoat to keep him there. She did not want these kisses to end, not yet.

  “Edie?”

  She knew the question he was asking and she opened her eyes. “You told me it was bliss to be kissed and caressed, didn’t you?” she whispered. “Here’s your chance to prove it.”

  He smiled a little. He looked down at his hand where it rested lightly on her waist. Slowly, his palm slid upward over her ribs and across her breast. She inhaled sharply, and he stilled, then he looked into her eyes. A question.

  She nodded.

  His palm seemed to burn through the four layers of clothing she wore, straight to her bare skin, and yet she shivered. His gaze still locked with hers, he cupped his hand, then flattened it and cupped it again, shaping her small breast even within the stiff confines of her corset, and her body responded, her hips stirring against the feathers, her leg bending, then straightening, her back arching to press her breast closer to his hand. She felt strange, restless, as if every part of her body needed to move.

  He didn’t linger, though. His hand moved on, gliding up to the collar of her shirtwaist. His fingers stirred between the frills and found a button. She felt it come undone.

  Slowly, he moved down, undoing buttons. By the time he reached her waist, she was quivering inside. She watched his hand as he pulled back the placket, his tanned skin so dark against her white shirtwaist and pale pink corset, so blatantly masculine against silk and lace. His hand slid away, and she watched as he bent his head, pressing a kiss to the top of her breast just above her corset cover.

  She gasped, her body arching again. Her hands lifted from the feathers to cradle his head and touch his dark hair as he pressed kisses to her breast, her collarbone, and her bared shoulder.

  Her breath was coming faster now, bringing to her senses the scent of sandalwood as his tongue touched her and tasted her. Once again his palm shaped her breast, and she couldn’t stop her body from arching into the caress. She wanted more of this.

  His fingertips curled over the edge of her corset, shoving beneath all her undergarments, the back of his hand scorching her bare skin. He worked his hand down within the tight confines of the garment over her breast far enough for his fingertips to touch her nipple.

  It was electric, sending sharp sensation throughout her body. It was too much to bear, and she cried out, her hips jerking.

  He eased back, his hand sliding out and away. He kissed her lips, her cheeks, her jaw, her ear. His hand glided down her hip, then he began pulling her skirt up.

  She felt a jolt of panic. “Stuart?”

  He stilled. “Do you want me to stop?” he asked. His breathing was quick, ragged, but gently, he kissed her ear. So gently.

  She swallowed, shoving panic down. This was Stuart, she reminded herself. Stuart. As long as she could see him, it would be all right. Looking into his eyes, she would remember the difference. “No, don’t stop,” she managed. “But look at me. Look at me when . . . when you touch me.”

  He lifted his head as his hand worked beneath layers of skirt and petticoat to her drawers. But even though she could see his face, even looking into his beautiful eyes, when he moved to slide his hand between her thighs, she seized up, that knot of fear pressing her chest. She went rigid and squeezed her legs together.

  He stopped, waiting.

  She felt again that suspension between fear and desire, that impossible conundrum. Her courage started slipping.

  “Say my name,” he told her.

  “Stuart.”

  Her legs opened a little as she said it; his hand eased between.

  “Stuart.” A soft moan this time, making him smile, and her legs relaxed a bit more.

  He shaped her inner thigh, the calluses on his palm catching on delicate nainsook as he slid his hand higher. He reached the apex of her legs, found the opening in her drawers. And then, he turned his hand, his fingertips touched her most intimate place, and she cried out. “Stuart!”

  Fear transmuted into something else, something that made her cry out again, somet
hing that was not fear at all but pleasure. He moved his finger, sliding it over her, caressing her in tiny circles, an exquisite tease that made her shiver and moan and close her eyes. This was what he meant about the bliss, she thought. It was this.

  He deepened the caress, sliding his finger between the folds of her feminine opening, easing inside her. She cried out against remembered invasion pulled up onto her elbows, and opened her eyes, fearing pain, instinct preparing her to fight. But there was no pain.

  She looked into Stuart’s face, so close to hers. His eyes were closed now, but she could still look into his face as he caressed her.

  With each slide of his finger, her body jerked in response. Every breath became a pant. The pleasure became hunger, then raw need. It built in her, rolling in her body, deeper, heavier, stronger, and then, without warning, it broke apart inside of her, a wash of sensation so lovely that it made her sob his name. He kissed her hard, taking her sobbing cry into his mouth. His fingers continued to caress her, and each quick, luscious stroke renewed the pleasure, until she felt that exquisite explosion come again. She’d been wrong, she realized as she fell back, panting, into the feathers. It was this, this that was the bliss. Her eyes closed again. “Stuart.”

  It was a sigh. All she could say. There were no other words.

  He heard her sigh his name, barely, over the thudding of his heart, but he knew it would whisper to him in dreams for the rest of his days. And nothing would ever be the same for him now. “I know, darling,” he said, and kissed her again. “I know.”

  He wished he could do it all again, bring her to the peak, watch her climax, hear that soft, whispered sigh, but he knew he did not have time for it now. His control was slipping irretrievably away, his body was on fire, and need was clawing at him.

  He wanted her so badly his hand was shaking as he unfastened the buttons of his trousers. He said her name and kissed her mouth as he worked his trousers down, and by the time they were around his knees, he felt as randy and desperate as a fourteen-­year-­old boy.