A Duke, the Lady, and a Baby

by Vanessa Riley

  “Thanks.” Her compliment almost brought a smile, but this moment of vanity was a trap. He waggled his index finger. “No changing the subject, young lady. You like risk. You don’t care about tempting fate.”

  He moved closer. “It’s not wise for someone with a head injury to be up so soon. You thought differently, so you had Mrs. St. Maur ignore a direct order.”

  “Yes. Yes, I did.”

  She swayed, and he braced against the sofa to hold her up.

  Hands about her waist, he drew her near. His gallant reward—the feel of her rapid heart beating against his chest.

  “This isn’t saving you from a falling chandelier, but it’s something.”

  He strengthened his hold. She was easy in his arms, and he liked thinking he comforted her. “I don’t want you falling.”

  “Your Grace, let me sit. Then lecture me.”

  “You’re trying to soften me. You’re in the wrong. I won’t soften—”

  “Must you talk?” Her fingers curled onto the lapel of his robe; her cheek laid upon his shoulder. “Sssshhhhh.”

  He groaned, part frustration, part this intangible thing that made him so aware of her breathing, the tickle of tresses along his neck, the curl of fingers against his skin.

  Holding this woman was dangerous.

  Yet, his arms stayed in place. His heart beat with hers. “You like the strong, silent type?”

  “Well, you’re strong, but not silent, so I may never know.”

  “Grandfather was a man of few words. He’d sit at that desk over there, dictating commands to me and my cousin on everything from posture to penmanship.”

  “Do you have a beautiful hand?”

  Busick flexed his palm, the shrapnel scar near his thumb. “No. Colin did. Exceptional. Better than any. Markham tried to claim credit . . . I’m rambling.”

  “A little.”

  “Except for his rules, I suppose you’d like Grandfather’s reticence. Was Mr. LaCroy quiet? Did he do as you asked?”

  She pushed away. “I’m feeling better.”

  Busick should’ve followed her request and remained quiet. Then he’d still be holding her, glancing into her dark eyes, hoping to know their secrets. When would her unexpected honesty manifest into a confession that she desired him, too?

  His horse should come inside and kick him. Strathmore men didn’t chase after women in their employ.

  “I’m fine, Your Grace. I’ll be better when the countess arrives.”

  “You don’t have to be so strong. You can be weak. I’ll not think less of you.”

  “Weak?” She slipped farther away. “No.”

  He hated how much room existed between them. “You’re the only one who’s made me rethink my convictions. That’s my weakness.”

  “But I can’t be weak, Your Grace. It’s not allowed. I’m sure there’s a rule against it. I was taught to be strong—the perfect helpmate, hostess, and a hundred other things. I wish I had the luxury to be weak.”

  He pressed forward, the distance between them evaporated. “There’s strength in a shared weakness. Confide in me.”

  Shaking her head, she moved toward the unlit fireplace and stared at the mirror. “Confide in you? Fine. My thoughts are desperate enough. My marriage was not a happy one. I tried very hard to please my husband, to warn him of bad influences. He wouldn’t listen. He said he’d protect me from the slurs against our union and my heritage. I was to be away from every slight he imagined.”

  “Some can be horrid.”

  She lifted a shaky finger and pointed to her reflection. “His different wife; his difficult wife. His dark wife.”

  “So, Mr. LaCroy was of the gentlemen class. There are expectations of whom he’s to marry, a society darling with proper looks, money, and connections. You’re beautiful, but not what the ton expects.”

  “They want my money absent my face.”

  “That’s a shame. It’s a very nice face. I take it your late husband squandered your means and you now find yourself a governess?”

  “Something like that.” She folded her arms about her. “It’s a little hard to be weak when my husband . . . his family has cut me off from everyone. It’s hard to trust.”

  Busick sat on the sofa arm. “I’m sorry.”

  She stared straight ahead at the mirror. “I was strong. I could take the slights if we faced things together.”

  “Even a misguided man wants to protect his lady. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  LaCroy brushed curls and tears from her face. “It’s wrong when he can’t take the weight of it, when his shoulders were already laden with his depression.”

  The pain in her voice dragged through him, stinging like hot metal fragments shredding flesh. “You take too much upon yourself.”

  “Not being able to help my lost husband hurts. Learning more of his darkness and what he’s done, crushing.”

  “Be weak. Let a friend . . . let me support you, then rebel again in the morning.”

  She picked at the bandage on her hand. “Is that a command, Your Grace? Does it require scheduling? You said to rebel in the morning. Before elocution practice for Lionel or after?”

  Straining, his back aching more, he stood beside her.

  They were a sight to see in the mirror. She was the right height for him to put his arm about her without bending. One little stretch and he’d have a proper hold on her waist, an inch of hip, an ounce or two of bosom. A perfect clench. But that wouldn’t be proper.

  “I asked, if that was an order.”

  “Yes. For ten minutes, be uncontrolled. Cry, punch, make me a proxy for all the things that have made you sad. I owe you that.”

  She turned to him, staring with that blank look she often offered, the one where he couldn’t read her thoughts, couldn’t see into her heart.

  “Punch at you? Is that what you’ll teach your ward, violence and conflict?”

  He kept his hands at his sides, not testing that perfect clench. “LaCroy, we need to get better at negotiating things. Let me be of aid to you.”

  She smiled a little.

  Then swayed a little more.

  He caught her and held her. When he couldn’t stand not kissing, not crossing that line, he stroked her chin. “Duck your arm about my shoulder and let me help you sit.”

  Miracle of miracles, she followed his request. LaCroy slid her hand behind his neck, then leaned into him.

  They walked together as they had that first night, but her robe didn’t hide her curves like the footman’s livery. The press of her thigh and thin nightgown felt different from her breeches.

  “I do like you much better as a woman. I say that respectfully.”

  At the desk, he sat, set down his crutch, and then lifted her beside him. Hip to hip, he kept her hand.

  “Duke, you smell like rum and floury pap milk.”

  He chuckled and smoothed the stain to his robe sleeve. “The former was needed to ease the pain. My back twinges upon occasion. You slammed into me pretty hard. I wasn’t expecting such a hit.”

  “If you had, I’m not sure I would have been able to move you.”

  Did she shudder against him? Or was the tremble the swoosh of his blood coursing hot in his veins?

  He stretched, almost put his arm behind her, but drew his palms to his lap. His resolve was in danger of slipping, and the desk was sturdy. Without the fears of balancing, he could court discovery, the flimsy nature of her nightgown.

  But he wouldn’t.

  LaCroy wasn’t the type of woman you dallied with and then let go. She was one to keep, to argue with and deal with forever.

  “The second stain is Lionel’s fault. Why settle for less when you’ve had the best?” He blinked. “Ohhh, that wasn’t the thing to say.”

  “It was honest. Thank you.”

  “I want to say thank you again. Patience LaCroy, you risked your life. I am grateful. But soldier, that was crazed. You could’ve been killed. I don’t want you taking such r
isks.”

  “Would you tell Lord Gantry to not do what he felt in his heart? You’d keep him contained?”

  Heart? Busick was in her heart?

  Not touching her, not tracing her satin skin was proving more difficult. Yet, when he looked again into her eyes, he saw shadows—caution and something else.

  It was time to be a better man.

  A man Lionel would be proud of. He anchored his hands to the desk. “I know what’s going on here.”

  “You do? You finally figured it out.”

  “Yes. We’d just had words. I said something I should’ve kept to myself, and then you risked your life for mine. That’s when I realized what was between us.”

  The relief in her eyes disappeared. “Between us?”

  “Yes. I hurt you with my commands, my crossness, my orders. You’re in love with me. Who wants to be ordered around when they’ve fallen in love?”

  “What?”

  “I figured it out. It’s not like I hadn’t seen the signs before. Your injuries are my fault. This risk-taking is my fault. My attraction to you makes things worse.”

  A sour look, sort of like Lionel’s face when he sipped the pap milk, crossed LaCroy’s. “I think I should return upstairs.”

  “Please. We have a level of honesty and acceptance between us. Let’s talk this through. Women becoming attached is a common thing, and usually I’m much better at ignoring the draw. I’m trying to do better to not lead anyone astray, but you’re different. I find myself drawn to you. I’m enthralled.”

  She put her hands to his skull, her fingers sinking into his hair. “Did you hit your head, too?”

  His pulse quickened as if his troop had taken on cannon fire.

  “There has to be a lump or a hole up here for Your Grace to say something so stupid.”

  His face dipped closer to hers. “Is this hysteria? I’m trying to be easy with your feelings and mine.”

  The woman laughed. “And, of course, now I’m terminated.”

  “Well. I . . . I hadn’t thought that far out. I don’t want you terminated.”

  LaCroy chuckled harder. She tried to smother them with her bandaged hand, but they escaped. “Please go on.”

  Was she laughing at him or their situation? He played with his cuff. “We’d have to see if we can still work together. It shouldn’t be too painful for either of us. I don’t want misunderstandings. I value your friendship.”

  “Let me help you, my dear Duke of Repington. I’m not in love with you, and I quit my employment. I end this farce now.”

  “No. Don’t.” He reached for her hand, but she’d jumped from the desk. “I want you to stay. We can forget this, just like we forgot how we met and go on, like normal.”

  She tottered a little and turned back to him. “Sorry. I must be swooning again. This love. It’s too much. Yes, I must quit it.”

  “No quitting me. The boy needs you . . . I don’t want you to go. I like you here. I like being able to talk with you.”

  “Why are you so willing to say such things? Are you sure my ploy to win you by saving your life didn’t work? Have you not accidentally fallen for your hero?”

  Maybe he had.

  Why else was the thought of her leaving abominable? He clasped her hands in his. “This speech made a great deal more sense when I was telling Lionel.”

  “Did he give you advice on your direct address?”

  “It actually put him to sleep. So I’ve made a fool of myself.”

  “Yes, you have. It’s endearing, though.”

  “Could this be another of the things we don’t talk about?”

  “Once a thing is said, it’s pretty hard to ignore.”

  “This is why I have a rule of no young women in the house.” He crossed his arms and hung his head. “This is the first time I’ve disgraced myself. LaCroy, you’ve been gracious and kind. You’ve kept my secrets. I’ve done nothing but put you at risk.”

  She put her hands to his shoulders, then slid them behind his neck. “I can see how you could leap to such a conclusion. You must be used to women being charmed by you, but it’s time for me to quit.”

  The woman was being kind, but she was no quitter.

  He clasped his palm about her elbow, stroking her arm through the thin fabric. “I feel . . . I feel quite foolish, and now I’ve ruined things for Lionel. I know how you care for him. You’ll do what you must but consider him. I need you here to care for Lionel and to make bread that the men rave about. I want you, need you . . . to stay.”

  “I must quit, for there is something else I must do.”

  She leaned in close, all those inches to his lips and drew him into a kiss.

  CHAPTER 20

  A KISS CAN SET YOU FREE

  Arrogant, endearing man. Still laughing, I put my mouth to his.

  What I’d intended as quick and chaste, deepened.

  His arms tangled with mine and drew me off-balance. I willingly went.

  Then I was lost, as his skillful palms slid to my hips, his practiced hands searching my shape.

  I let him.

  I wanted to be discovered. The real me had been hidden too long.

  Oh, the pressure of his lips changed, demanded more.

  I teetered as he swooped me up onto his lap. The silent command to cling to him had me drawing closer.

  This moved too fast, felt too good, changed too many of my notions of dukes and dreams and decorum and desks. With a sleight of hand, the duke had me flat on his, caught between his theater maps and his schedules.

  “I always wanted a nanny.” He chuckled, then blessed my lips again.

  Hadn’t I just made fun of the notion of falling for him?

  Surely, I was on the losing side of this battle. Repington won with the way he touched me, the way he looked at me like found treasure. From hills to valleys and back, his fingers made a fiery path on my skin, a campaign straight to my heart.

  I can’t surrender like this, on the drawing room’s desk, in the place I last saw my husband before he left Hamlin forever.

  I pushed on Repington’s shoulder, but my pinkie betrayed me, finding warm skin bared by his open collar, his unbuttoned nightshirt. “More talking, Duke. We need more talking.”

  He nudged my hand to his chest. “Non, ma chère.”

  His thumb stroked my ball-of-fire cheeks, and he kissed me so gently, so sweetly, that I forgot my fake name, my real name, and would answer to anything.

  “A moment, Duke?”

  His laugh is rich and knowing.

  With my palms to his jaw, I searched his eyes for something other than a reflection of me wanting him. Yet, that was all I saw or maybe all I allowed my soul to see. I can’t be swept away. I won’t lose everything. I pressed against his chest again; my fingers splayed along his scars. “Repington, this won’t do for us. I must get my documents.”

  He let me slip away. “What? Wait. What?”

  I rounded the desk and opened the top drawer. Tossing books and foolscap away, I cleared everything from the secret panel. A couple of taps slid the door open.

  “Come back here. You said we needed to talk.”

  “Seems as if we’d finished talking. I’m getting my documents.”

  “Your employment papers are upstairs in my bedchamber. Neither of us will go there, not with Lionel’s sleeping.”

  “My trust documents, Duke. The one’s left to me by my father.”

  “Mrs. LaCroy, when did you . . . These are from before, when you worked at Hamlin?”

  “I never worked here, not before you. Well, that’s not quite right. I worked at Hamlin—decorating it, keeping it immaculate for four years. But I wasn’t employed.”

  “How could you be here and not be employed?”

  I yanked free my paperwork. The crisp, folded parchment of legal terms and amounts. “They are still here. Markham never found them.”

  “Why would he want . . . What does he want? I don’t understand. And I don’t want you quitting. We c
an forget about this. We should try.”

  I waved my trust documents. “Can you truly forget? We’ve been in this quandary of you waffling on terminating me for weeks. I’m happy to quit to have control over me again. It’s liberating.”

  “I didn’t know if I could trust you about Lionel. I’ve seen other young women who cared more about the latest parties and mischief than their charges. Then you proved worthy. Annoying and resistant to orders, and beautiful, but very worthy. But what are these papers and how were you at Hamlin and not working here?”

  “Repington, you do babble when you are trying to figure things out. Perhaps you need Lionel’s counsel.”

  He held out his hand. “Give me these documents, and if I’m quiet will you kiss me again? Now that you no longer work for me, things can be different between us. I’m attracted to you. I’ve hidden it, struggled with it for an eternity.”

  He started to pick up his crutch, but I put my hand on his.

  “I need you to be at eye level when I say this next piece.”

  The duke gripped my hand. “You could kiss me again, but please don’t cry. I really hate—”

  “The mistress of Hamlin Hall is not a salaried position.”

  His arms wrapped about my waist. His lips savaged my neck with fire. “I suppose she’s compensated in other ways, but I haven’t offered that position, not yet. I love how you don’t mince words. You are direct.”

  “You are not listening, Cousin.”

  His fingers fell away. “Cousin?”

  “Yes. I am Patience Amelia Jordan, daughter of Patsy LaCroy Thomas and Wilhelm Thomas. I am Colin’s widow. These are my trust papers that prove my identity.”

  “But she . . . You?”

  He took my trust documents and flipped through the pages as if he wanted to tear them. “These . . .”

  “Think, Duke. Markham took my son and shipped me away. I fought to return. I snuck into Hamlin through the catacombs, ones I discovered living here for four years, to feed my son. I dressed as a footman to care for my Lionel. That’s how we met. I was the cow. I’d just fed my son.”

  He looked down at the papers again. Crafted in Papa’s exquisite hand and certified by his London solicitor, the proof had to be indisputable. But this was the doubting Duke of Repington.