The Art of Duke Hunting

by Sophia Nash

  His words made a small amount of sense, and so she locked away the schoolmarmish tone from her words. “Of course. But I really don’t think we have anything to worry about now. Don’t you agree? The Drake is new and well built—such fine craftsmanship.”

  He closed those unnerving eyes of his. “The Drake? This ship is named The Drake?” He seemed to moan.

  He might be a handsome devil with that ancient noble mien, but his wits were scrambled. Right. She walked to the secured water jug, poured a good portion in a bowl and dipped a piece of linen in it. Crossing the space, she faced him. “May I?”

  He didn’t move. She wiped his face with clean water and dabbed at the cut on the upper edge of his forehead. She almost recoiled when she noticed a familiar licorice scent almost oozing from his being. Absinthe. One of her beloved deceased husband’s poisons of choice. She held her breath and forced herself to say not a word lest she lose her grip on common civility.

  When she was done, she dropped the linen and he stepped on it so she could upend the bowl over his head to sluice the salt from his face and clothes. Silently, she repeated the steps to cleanse herself. After scrubbing her face dry, she offered him a new scrap of linen too.

  “Are you ever going to tell me what was going on out there?” she finally asked.

  “I was preparing to die, madam. You must be one of the few in England who hasn’t heard of the Norwich Curse.”

  “Oh, I know all about the ‘Duke of Duck Curse.’ ” Why, she knew more about it than anyone. But now was certainly not the time to tell him she was a direct descendant of the initiator. She certainly didn’t want to play, ahem, ducks and drakes with his sanity.

  He pokered up. “We prefer the other reference.”

  The vessel immediately dipped ominously and both stumbled sideways. His eyes glazed over as his face paled. He looked ready to lose his bearing again and so she dragged him to the sole bunk in her cabin to urge him to sit.

  “Rest for a moment,” she urged. Esme crossed the space to pour a tin cup of water for each of them and then returned to offer him one.

  As she watched him drink, she suddenly remembered. Remembered hearing what had happened to his brother all those years ago. The duke had every right to be terrified, especially since he obviously had not an idea why he was on the ship. If she had to wager on it, she would guess it had something to do with the royal entourage, the infamous rapscallion band of dukes who walked hand in glove with the Prince Regent, and of which he was a member.

  Every English lady worth her weight in smelling salts had a favorite member of the royal entourage, and Norwich had always been Esme’s since the night many seasons ago when she had first spied him entering a gilded ballroom in Mayfair—his mother on one arm, his ravishing sister on the other. His intelligent, regal face full of angles had mesmerized her, and she had silently prayed his cool eyes would meet hers. But they had not. He had swept the room with a casual, arrogant gaze and she had not caught his eye even though she had been standing in prime view. And he had barely glanced at her later that evening when the Duke of Candover had introduced her along with a bevy of his sisters. Then again, this gentleman’s indifference to ladies with matrimony on their minds was legendary. Like all the other events she spied him attend afterward, he danced once with his mother, once with his sister, and then disappeared with members of the royal entourage. He was the most mysterious one of the tribe.

  But right now, there was not a hint of pride in the duke’s stark expression. He drank the last bit of water and returned the cup to her hand. His unguarded expression met hers and she could not stop herself from moving a step closer.

  She set the two cups on the side table, and then paused, trying to fight the intimacy of the moment. But the black despair she spied in his face broke her. She sat on the bunk beside him.

  Roman’s thoughts were perilously close to getting the better of him. He was even allowing a tall, spindly countess beyond the first blush (and second blush, most likely) to order him about. He’d be damned if he’d spend another second here, except that he was beyond weary to the bone and his head ached from slamming into the mast and suffering the ill effects of drinking too damn much.

  And she’d been wrong. The storm was regaining intensity now. The sounds of creaking wood made the blood pool in his ears and block his thoughts.

  Someone was speaking to him. He wasn’t sure if it was the countess for he was lost in the past, his brother’s last words swirling in his mind. He looked up to see her studying him and noticed she was shivering.

  Without thought, he grabbed the blanket at the end of the bed and draped it over her slim shoulders. He secured it about her, and a small sense of calm invaded his gut as he tended to her.

  A great horrid boom buffeted the air. He closed his eyes and listened so hard for the sound of breaking beams that he couldn’t breathe. Instead, he felt something ever so smooth course down his sideburns and cheek. And again. And then he felt it on both cheeks. He exhaled deeply. Roman opened his eyes to find her stroking his face. God, was he nothing but an infant to be coddled? It was not to be borne.

  “Listen to me,” she whispered. “It’s all right. Just take my hand in yours.”

  “Don’t cosset me,” he gritted out.

  “Why would I want to do that?” she replied with a casual shrug. “You’re as cross as a bear and half as pleasant.”

  She was damned good at dissembling. A crack of thunder broke his momentary lucidity. He jumped up and hit his head on the low hanging portion above the bunk and fell back. He eased onto the length of her bed as dizzying darkness retreated from the edges of his vision.

  Her gown rustled and he felt the small dip of the mattress as she lay down beside him. His head pounded with a vengeance.

  “Look,” her voice was so soft. “I know your story. It’s all right. Just lie here with me.” Her thin hand slipped into his.

  An ache in the back of his throat would not allow him to speak. The waves were crashing faster, and the pitch and sway of the ship made him feel like the jaws of death were within a hair’s breath. He fought the overwhelming desire to get the hell up. Find the blasted key. Sprint to the deck and climb the damned mast. Like before.

  “Please don’t,” she whispered as if she could read his mind.

  He turned his head toward hers. She had the most intelligent, tranquil face—a sense of calm and kindness radiated through every pore. Her wet and tangled light brown hair framed a face with large gray eyes that were fixed on him with compassion and ageless wisdom. Her eyes made the chaos beyond these walls almost fade into a static hum. She shivered again and primal instincts rose within him.

  Instinctively, he released her hand and pulled her into the crook of his shoulder before wrapping his arms around her thin frame. That was when he felt her gentle lips graze the edge of his jaw. He’d never felt anything like it. It was pure comfort.

  The storm had reached a pitch of intensity and he gripped her tightly, barely realizing she might not be able to breathe properly. She reached and stroked his sideburn and jaw again and he exhaled.

  And suddenly, desperately, he wanted her.

  Roman groaned. For Christsakes, it was insane. And impossible. For some confounded reason he was aroused and the touch of her hands was bewitching him to a blinding degree. She was soft and gentle and he felt like a wild animal.

  The ship heaved to port then fell so hard that Roman felt his body hang in the air.

  She exhaled roughly as her body jolted against his.

  He regathered her to him and without thought lowered his head to press a kiss on her forehead. He felt far more in control with this woman in his arms. But it wasn’t enough. He wanted to lose himself while he was locked inside here. He felt paralyzed, unable to find the effort to break down her door. There would be nothing but a wall of water behind it.

  She looked up at him, and he felt the tension of desire fire through his veins. He still could not believe this countess was
allowing him to hold her. For some odd reason, she made death feel farther away than it was.

  A deafening crack of thunder rolled through the air and it broke the moment. Before he could react, she moved halfway on top of him, grasped his face and kissed him. He latched onto her like a man gasping his last breath. He could not stop his arms from binding her to him.

  He should be a gentleman. He should stop. He should not take this gentle woman. But he could not change course. He could not let her go. She felt like a life raft. The best he could do was to utter one word. “Please.” And then he could not stop from repeating it. He prayed she would not see reason.

  He felt her head bob on his shoulder, and then he pulled face-to-face with her and kissed her again, long and deep. Only once did she turn her face away for but a moment.

  He reached to touch her cheek but could not stay the shaking in his hand. He lowered it.

  She grasped his hand and brought it to her lips.

  “I want you,” he said in a dark voice he didn’t recognize.

  She slowly ran her fingers down his chest. Instinctively, he knew it was all the answer he was going to get. Her soft hands were now unbuttoning his damp waistcoat and the top shirt buttons. His neckcloth was nowhere in sight—surely lost in London, where he should be.

  Without another thought, he pulled down her sleeve and swept aside the top of her dark blue bodice where the swell of her breasts hid the fast beat of her heart. Her skin was so soft, unlike anything he’d known. She inhaled sharply when he cupped her lovely breast. A hard crest formed at the tip as he touched her.

  A howl of wind brought him back to reality. He started to breathe unevenly and it was all he could do not to jump toward the door. And then shockingly, her hands were fiddling with the button on the falls of his breeches. Her hands found him and he could not breathe.

  Time stood still and the sounds of the tempest faded.

  Roman had thought he had experienced it all when it came to seduction. It was a fairly simple game played by jaded ladies of the Upper Ten Thousand who wanted to be led astray; charming widows and married ladies who exuded an air of fatigue and a desire for something to distract them from their lives of lassitude. But he had never ever had a lady attempt to take the lead once the bedroom door was closed. It was the last thought he had as her hand encompassed his arousal. He was as hard as a cannon and the small of his back tightened, poised for release.

  The ship dipped sharply and Roman used the momentum to roll on top of her. The great, damp mess of her skirting was in the way and he bunched and pulled at it until it was above her slender waist. He stared at her kiss-bruised lips, the flush of her cheeks, and her stark expression before he parted the slit in her drawers, and drove into her without pause.

  She exhaled with the most erotic sound, and pulled him closer.

  He forged deeper as the vessel rose, and held tight as the ship bucked in the wild sea. Roman worked her tight passage, lost in her instead of the raging storm. Each time he reached a peak and longed to go over she stilled and held him back. There was a method to her madness, and soon he understood her game.

  And so they prolonged it. Prolonged it until there were no more peaks to ascend and descend. He was so close to the edge that every movement was pain and pleasure.

  “Go on then,” she whispered.

  “With you,” he replied raggedly.

  But his nerves were all at once at such a pitch that he could not let go. Never in his life had he found himself in such a state of terror and arousal. During this time out of time, they continued as before—giving and taking, pausing and continuing, yet rarely speaking. Instead he stared at her face, her eyes dark and unreadable. And then she traced her fingers from the base of his spine, down his backside to caress his sensitive, tight sac—an action that was his undoing. He made an inarticulate sound and felt her contract around him. He pulled out of her tight, warm wetness and emptied himself on the linen in long bursts that drained him. The pulsing was unbearably pleasurable as he tried to regain his breath.

  Utter exhaustion engulfed him, almost comforted him, as he rolled and pulled her back into his arms. Filled with something that felt like gratitude mixed with confusion and mystery, he tenderly kissed the top of her head. Who in hell was this lady? Had he been introduced to her at any of the hundreds of the ton’s entertainments he’d attended over the years?

  His exhaustion and curiosity were short-lived. She was no-nonsense. The countess dragged herself to a seated position and swung her legs off the bunk.

  “Where are you going?” He tried to regulate his voice.

  “To the deck.” She pushed her tangled locks of light brown hair over her pretty shoulder.

  He was dumbstruck.

  “Are you coming?” She was rearranging her bodice.

  “Now you want to go?” Ladies really were the most capricious creatures.

  “I think it a good idea, actually.”

  Speechless, he stared at her.

  “I think one of the masts is down. We should decamp as you said.” She peered at him over her shoulder with those huge gray eyes of hers that were eerily familiar.

  “I beg your pardon?” He rasped out, his mouth cottony from the spirits.

  “Didn’t you hear the crack and the splintering a few minutes ago?”

  He lay back down and covered his head with a forearm. Christ.

  “Well?” she urged. “Look. I know your head must feel wretched, but we’ve no time to dally. It was absinthe, right?”

  Just hearing the name of that poison made him nearly retch. He held up his hand. “Please don’t say that word.”

  He heard her footsteps walking away.

  Her calm voice floated back to him. “I don’t know why gentlemen insist ladies are the inconstant sex. Do you or do you not want to go on deck?” She paused. “I, for one, am not going into the rigging even if a mast is still standing. But I’m going to search out one of those small boats on deck, just in case.”

  Roman refastened his falls, feeling like an idiot in the face of her cool head and courage. She was not at all playing this game the way it ought to be played. She was the fair maiden and he was supposed to be the savior. She should be weak at the knees and instead, he was the lunatic. He rearranged his shirt, buttoned his waistcoat, and awkwardly shrugged back into his blue superfine coat, damp and misshapen from a thorough drenching. He raked back his hair, and pretended to be the collected aristocrat he was on dry ground. He crossed the small chamber and bowed as cool as you please. He would not hurry even if every pore of his ravaged body screamed to rush.

  The mysterious Countess of Derby bent down to retrieve a key from her boot.

  The devil. No wonder she hadn’t bothered to remove her boots during their interlude. Wasn’t she the cool one?

  And again, wasn’t he the bloody idiot.

  Chapter 2

  Esme wasn’t at all sure how she managed to keep her façade in place the next morning. Inside, she was all raw nerves and shock. She hadn’t known she could possess a shred of aplomb after almost two hours of lying in a cabin bunk last night with a reined-in wild man, exuding equal measures of feral passion and intoxicated fear. And all along, the shock of such intense pleasure washed over and through her. The way this man had taken her had shaken her to the depth of her being. There had been none of the gentleness, none of the loving words she had known in the past. There had just been raw carnality with a touch of terror on his side and intense emotions on hers. He had been like a bull, stretching her, taking as much as he could and pushing her harder until something had happened to her that had never happened before. She still wasn’t certain what had gripped her but for several long moments the most extreme sensations had coursed through her. Did he know? It was absurd. The entire experience had unnerved her so that she did what she did whenever she felt too exposed, she hid inside of herself and presented a calm front to the world.

  Right now, standing among the flock of other bedraggled per
sons on the deck of The Drake as it limped into port, she felt as if it must be transparent to everyone what she had done.

  She prayed she wasn’t blushing. She glanced from the tips of her practical boots to the captain of The Drake, who was conversing with the Duke of Norwich. The latter was gripping the railing off the bow, his gaze focused on the port they were approaching at a decidedly uneven pace. The duke turned suddenly and his blue, blue eyes bore into hers. He gave her a knowing glance. And a smile that spoke of intimacy shared. It was the look she had dared to hope he would give her the first time she had seen him so many years ago in that ballroom.

  She immediately turned her attention to the older man beside her. Mr. King, also known as the Master of Ceremonies in Bath, and also known as a man who liked nothing better than to peck at gossip until it barely resembled the truth at all.

  “My dear countess,” the gentleman opined. “Such a fine day, no? And after such fireworks last night.”

  Fireworks, indeed.

  The old puff-guts was dissembling, trying mightily to have everyone forget that he hadn’t blubbered, “All is lost! Every man for himself,” several long hours ago at this same spot on deck.

  “Who would have guessed,” she replied faintly.

  “My dear, I should like to offer you my services this bright morning,” he continued. “I shall take the trouble to secure a room for you as soon as we set anchor.”

  “Thank you, sir, but I shall see to myself.”

  “Dear me. But I should insist, Lady Derby. A lady traveling alone? Without even a maid? It is not at all the thing, don’t you know. Why, if your husband were alive, he would—”

  “But he is not and I am very capable of seeing to myself.” She always had.

  The older gentleman cleared his throat and muttered something.

  “Sorry?”