The Duke of Ice

by Burke, Darcy

  After he bowed, she gestured for him to come stand beside her. “You do not come to court very often, Kilve.”

  “I do not, Your Majesty. I beg your pardon.” He offered another bow.

  “I know you were in mourning for a while. Presumably you aren’t any longer?”

  “No.”

  She nodded. “Good.”

  Others were shown in, and they bowed and curtsied, answering the Queen’s questions with poise and grace. Violet came forward and dropped into a deep curtsey.

  “Are those lilies of the valley, Lady Pendleton?” the Queen asked before turning her head to look at Nick. “And you are wearing them too,” she noted. “Do I need to be aware of a forthcoming match?” she asked him.

  “No, Your Majesty. It is simply a coincidence.”

  Charlotte’s full lips curved into a delighted smile. “A charming one.”

  Once everyone had paid their respects to Queen Charlotte, she motioned for Nick to come closer. “I would be remiss if I didn’t thank you for your service. You fought at Badajoz, did you not?”

  “I did, Your Majesty.”

  “Such a terrible battle. Wellington has told me all about it—as much as I can bear.” She looked at him intently for a moment, then seemed to recall something, her eyes flickering. “You fought alongside your brother. Wellington told me that too. He was about to be discharged so that he could return home and inherit.”

  That wasn’t quite right—Uncle Gil had still been alive at that time—but Nick didn’t correct her.

  “So awful to have lived through such an ordeal and to lose your brother at the same time. I’m sorry for your loss, and we are deeply grateful for his sacrifice.”

  Nick inclined his head. Misery and despair coursed through him while the old tang of terror soured his mouth. Ordeal wasn’t an adequate word. It had been hell on earth, and after Maurice fell, Nick hadn’t cared if he lived or died. He’d protected his brother’s body, fighting everyone off with a rage that some had later described as otherworldly. Nick couldn’t say because he didn’t remember the specifics after Maurice had taken his last breath.

  His eye caught Violet watching him. She stood nearby, probably close enough to hear what the Queen had said. Observing the creases in her brow and the troubled set of her mouth, he’d say she had.

  The audience ended a short time later, and Violet found Nick in the sitting room as people were departing for their coaches. His body thrummed with tension—the conversation with the Queen had unsettled him, and the confines of the reception room had made him restless.

  “Are you—”

  Nick cut her off before she finished. “I need to walk.” He abruptly turned and stalked from the house, taking to the sidewalk and devouring it in long strides.

  He tried to push the distressing thoughts to the back of his mind, as he typically did, but for some reason Maurice’s face kept appearing to him. Teasing when they were boys, laughing before he’d bought his commission, gray and lifeless in the midst of battle.

  The pernicious tendrils of despair wound around him. He clenched his fists at his sides as he walked, moving faster as if he could run from the fear that threatened to send him to his knees.

  “Nick! Nick!”

  He’d no idea how many times she shouted his name, but by the time he paused and turned toward the street, her coach was stopped several yards behind him. Her footman jumped down and opened the door, then helped her out.

  She had to go slowly because of the ridiculous volume of her dress. But once she was on the sidewalk, she rushed to meet him. “Nick?”

  He didn’t respond, just stared at her. He couldn’t think of a thing to say. His mind, overcome with emotion and memory, was shutting down. Good, perhaps then he could forget.

  She took his hand. “Come with me.”

  He didn’t object as she dragged him to her coach. He moved much more slowly than before, feeling as though he’d been coated in lead. Everything felt so heavy all of a sudden.

  The footman helped her back into the coach, and Nick climbed in behind her, taking the rear-facing seat because her skirts were completely occupying the other one.

  A moment later, they were on their way.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “She asked me about Maurice.”

  “I heard that.” Her voice was soft, comforting, and he calmed a little. “Do you want to tell me why you’re upset?”

  “Not really.” He registered the disappointment in her eyes even though she tried to mask it. “I watched him die. I tried to save him, but I couldn’t.”

  She came off the seat and knelt on the floor. Looking up at him, she rested her hands on his thighs. “Nick, I’m so sorry for all you’ve endured.”

  All I’d endured. Yes, there’d been so much death, but in many ways, his brother had been the toughest loss. He and Maurice had grown up together. They’d lived while their siblings, their mother, their father had all perished. Through it all, including losing Violet, Nick had known that he would survive, that he would be all right—because he had his brother by his side.

  “It’s… Sometimes it’s too much.”

  Her hands moved gently over him, massaging his muscles, taking the bitter edge off his tension. “I wish I’d met him. You always spoke of him with such affection.”

  “I’d give anything to have him back.” How many times had he whispered that plea in the dark days following Jacinda’s death? And again after Elias passed? If Maurice had been there, Nick could have managed so much better. Maybe the ice wouldn’t have taken over.

  She knelt at his feet, touching him, stroking him, infusing him with quiet strength until the coach came to a stop.

  “Where are we?” he asked.

  “My house. Come inside and have a drink. Then you can walk home—if you want. I’ll send my footman back to let your coachman know you’ve gone home.”

  A drink sounded good. Hell, several drinks sounded even better.

  He climbed down from the coach and helped her to descend. Her skirts crashed into his legs before she moved toward the short flight of steps leading to her stoop.

  “I should go.” He wasn’t fit company.

  Her coach pulled away, leaving them alone in front of her house.

  She turned to face him. “If you do, I’ll follow you. I’m not leaving you alone. Not until I’m satisfied you’re all right.”

  “Violet, I’m fine. I’ve had years to cope with his death.” With all of it.

  “Yes, and you became the Duke of Ice.” She stepped toward him. “Is that really who you want to be? Or would you rather be the man I’ve spent the past week with?”

  He was content as the Duke of Ice. His life was ordered, simple, and, for the most part, without upset. But over the past week, he’d found joy again—to a point. He realized he was still controlled, still ensuring he managed his emotions.

  She took his hand again and pulled him toward the house. He allowed her to move him several steps before he stopped short. She careened backward but quickly regained her balance.

  He dropped her hand. “I need to go, Violet.”

  “I’m not letting you.”

  His despair hardened to anger. “It isn’t for you to decide.”

  The door to her house opened, and the butler held it wide.

  “We can’t do this in the street,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “Go. Inside. Please.”

  She clasped his hand once more, her grip like iron, and gritted her teeth as she gave him a tug.

  He wanted to dig his heels in, but he couldn’t bring himself to make a scene. He’d go inside, tell her to let him the hell alone, and then he’d leave.

  Only, he underestimated Violet.

  She greeted her butler with a wide smile that utterly belied the tension swirling between them. “We’re just going into the sitting room for a drink, Lavery.” She sailed into the room, and Nick reluctantly followed her.

  As soon as he was inside, she closed the
door behind him.

  “What will your butler think?” he muttered.

  “That we’re carrying on an affair, which is what he’s been thinking for days. And quite accurately.” She went to the sideboard and poured him a glass of something that looked like whiskey.

  “You drink whiskey?” he asked, accepting the glass.

  “On rare occasion. That’s been sitting there for quite a while, I’m afraid.”

  He didn’t care. He tossed the lot down his throat and handed her the empty glass.

  She returned to the sideboard and refilled it. This time, she took a sip before giving it to him.

  He stopped himself before he drank. He didn’t want to be here. He felt his control slipping, and he didn’t want that to happen in front of her. “I need to go.”

  “You keep saying that, but if you’d like to talk to me about Maurice—or anything else, I’m more than happy to listen. What I am not more than happy to do is stand by and watch you freeze over and withdraw.”

  He glowered at her over the rim of the glass, then took a drink.

  She stared at him and crossed her arms. “You can’t go back to being the Duke of Ice. It’s not good for you. This past week, you’ve been more like the old Nick, which I think was your intent given the way you recreated things we did before. So, let’s do what we can to keep him here.”

  Yes, he had tried to reclaim what they’d shared, but he wasn’t the same person. Too much had happened. “The Nick you met doesn’t exist anymore. You keep focusing on the past. I’ve decided I don’t want to do that. I can’t do that.”

  Lowering her arms, she came toward him, the feathers atop her head swaying. “Then we’ll find the new Nick, someone who doesn’t need to shield himself behind a wall of ice.”

  She stopped in front of him, so close, but didn’t touch him. He burned for her just as he ached to leave. She’d push him to places he maybe didn’t want to go.

  “What if I can’t do that? Everything that’s happened has made me who I am.”

  “And I’m a part of that,” she said softly. Her gaze turned sad. “We can’t go back, but I still hope we can move forward.”

  He wasn’t sure. Even now, those old feelings of bitterness stole over him. In his darkest moments, he’d blamed her for instigating a string of misfortune. Though he knew that none of it was her fault, it was difficult right now to differentiate that in the midst of his anguish.

  His body hummed with buried emotions and suppressed need. Before he could force himself to turn and go, she placed her hand against his chest.

  It was a simple contact, not even particularly intimate, but he felt it all the way to his core. And it provoked him to move—but not to leave.

  He slipped his finger beneath the gold bandeau encircling her head, to which those ridiculous ostrich feathers were attached, and slid it from her hair. He grasped one of the feathers and tossed the headpiece to the floor. Then he pulled the pins from her curls, letting lock after lock of blond silk fall through his fingers.

  When her hair was loose, he combed his hands through it, settling it like a veil over her shoulders. She was so beautiful, eyes sensuously narrowed, lips parted. Her tongue darted across her lower lip, and his control collapsed.

  Clasping her back, he dragged her against him. He crushed his mouth over hers, seeking immediate entry to the pleasures within. Their tongues met and clashed as his hunger drove him to press her body tightly against his. But the damn hoops beneath her skirt kept him from feeling what he wanted.

  He pulled his mouth from hers, nipping her bottom lip. She gasped, but it was an earthy, seductive sound. “Those bloody hoops,” was all he could manage to say. His body shook with need.

  She stared at him, her eyes keeping his captive while she slowly raised her skirt. “Untie them.” She turned, presenting the ties that held the hoops around her waist.

  Nick pulled at the ribbons, his fingers trembling. It took a bit longer than it should have, likely because he was fixated on the curve of her backside, clearly visible beneath the thin linen of her chemise, but he finally tugged them loose. He offered her his hand, helping her to step clear of the article.

  She still had so many clothes on. The volume was prohibitive. He didn’t want to wait to disrobe her—he needed her now.

  “Violet, I need to—”

  He cut himself off as she turned and dropped to her knees before him. Wordlessly, she unbuttoned his fall and adjusted his smallclothes so she could find his stiff cock. Withdrawing his flesh, she stroked it from base to tip, using a stroke that was swift and sure, giving him precisely what he craved.

  As she did this several more times, he closed his eyes and relaxed his shoulders, letting his head tip back. When the moist tip of her tongue connected with his sensitive skin, he moaned. Blood rushed to his balls, his cock, making him harder. He was desperate for her to take him into her.

  Then she did. Her mouth closed over him, moving slowly until she took him as deep as she could. Her retreat was even more enthralling, her lips and tongue sending curls of ecstasy writhing through him. When she moved forward once more, she picked up her pace, and her hands clasped his hips, her fingertips digging into his flesh.

  His need built, his pelvis moving with her. He tried not to thrust into her mouth, but it was so hard to hold himself back. He tried to regain the control he’d abandoned a few minutes ago, but it was more than just elusive—it was completely gone.

  He opened his eyes an infinitesimal amount and tipped his head down. Her hair fell around them like a cascade of gold, the silken locks brushing his thighs. Her lips, pink and perfect, surrounded him. It was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen. And he was going to spill himself in her mouth.

  Somehow finding a thread of control, he withdrew from her. Reaching down, he gripped her arms and pulled her to her feet.

  He stalked to the settee, bringing her with him. When he turned, she was delicately wiping her mouth. Overcome with lust, he kissed her, hot and hard and fast.

  “I need you, Violet.” He turned her toward the settee. “Lift your skirts and kneel, facing the back.”

  She hesitated, but only for a second before she lifted her skirts and climbed onto the cushions and settled on her knees. He grasped the bulk of fabric and held it up at her waist. She leaned forward, and with his free hand, he shoved the chemise, which was adamant about clinging to her backside, up to expose her flesh.

  She widened her stance, opening herself to him, and it was all the invitation he needed. He stroked his fingers along her folds, eliciting a soft moan from her lips. She was warm and wet, more than ready for him. Good, because he was past ready. He was almost past thinking.

  Guiding his cock to her opening, he eased inside, trying to go slow. The thin thread of control he’d found snapped in two as her tight heat engulfed him. Desire raged through him, and he surrendered to the madness, driving deep into her core.

  She gasped, thrusting her hips back until her backside was flush with his groin. He gripped her hips, still clutching the mass of bunched-up fabric, and pulled back, trying to go slowly to savor the sensations. But when it came time to push forward, he had no such patience. The momentum of his need took over, and he plunged into her.

  She moved with him, rocking back and forth, driving him to delicious torment. Her passionate cries urged him faster. Then she said his name. Over and over. It was part provocation and part plea. And it stole what little remained of his sense.

  He dug his fingers into her flesh and claimed her as his orgasm built. Ecstasy coiled inside him and her muscles clenched around his cock, pushing him to the brink. He teetered for a moment before cascading into delirium.

  He wasn’t sure how long he was mindless, but when awareness returned, their harsh breathing filled the room and their movements had slowed to nearly nothing. His grip on her clothing loosened, and the fabric fell against her leg and tried to drop over her backside. But he was still seated inside her. She felt so good, so rig
ht.

  And he felt like a beast.

  Withdrawing his flesh from hers, he let her dress cover her as he backed away. He tucked his slackening cock into his breeches and buttoned the fall.

  She turned and slid onto her backside on the settee, her chest still rising and falling as she worked to regain her breath. She smoothed her wrinkled skirts over her legs and looked up at him.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Her brow creased. “For what?”

  “I shouldn’t have taken you like that.”

  “Why? I quite enjoyed it. I look forward to doing that again, preferably without clothing to manage.”

  “Not the position.” He searched to find the right words but didn’t think there were any. “Me. I’m… You deserve better.” He had too much darkness, too much of the ice she didn’t want.

  She stood and went to him, her arms coming around his waist. “That’s nonsense.”

  “It isn’t,” he practically growled, his anger rising again. “You understand who I am now, and you have to accept I’m not the man you once knew, and probably not the man you want.”

  She frowned at him, her eyes narrowing with a bit of her own ire. “I don’t need you to tell me what I should want. I’ve had quite enough of people deciding things for me, thank you very much.”

  Yes, he supposed she had. He knew this wouldn’t be easy—him trying to regain some semblance of a happy life. And seeing if he could do that with her. He needed air.

  “I have to go.” He pulled out of her embrace. “And this time, you’re bloody letting me.”

  She held up her hands. “I can’t control you,” she said softly. “Nor do I want to.”

  Good, because he could barely control himself.

  Chapter 15

  The past two days had been a blur of social activity. Nick’s presence had been sought by the Queen, which Violet understood. Queen Charlotte had also requested Violet’s presence, particularly on an outing in Sydney Gardens. Since Violet resided in Bath, the Queen had been keen to hear all about the local sights and activities.