Four Dukes and a Devil

by Cathy Maxwell

  Removing his hand from between her legs, he shifted her, sliding her up and over him so she straddled his hips. His hand went between them, working to open the buttons on his falls.

  But even as he did, he suddenly stopped, his entire frame growing rigid. Breaking off their kiss, he turned his head away and sucked in a harsh breath. “Bloody hell,” he cursed.

  She frowned. “Quentin?”

  Cursing again, he closed his eyes for a long moment, then ever so gently lifted her so that she was sitting beside him again. “I can’t,” he said between clenched teeth.

  “Can’t what?”

  “Take you, that’s what.” He paused and gulped down a deep breath. “The rain appears to have lessened. Let’s get you dressed, so we can be on our way again.”

  By Christ, what’s wrong with me? he berated himself, as he took up the reins with shaking hands. How could I have forgotten for a single instant that she’s a virgin? Worse still, how could he have been so lost to passion that he’d been on the verge of taking her—in a curricle no less!

  He knew he should offer for her. After the liberties he’d just enjoyed, she had every reason to expect a marriage proposal. But despite her protestations of love, she was young—too young to really know her own mind.

  She hadn’t even had a London Season. Hadn’t yet been able to test her wings and take her pick of men. Did he have the right to step in and claim her before she knew who she was and what she wanted?

  The barbarian inside him said yes. The civilized man disagreed. No, he told himself, for her own good, and mine as well, I should set her free. A few weeks from now, she’ll thank me. By next spring, she’ll be glad she hadn’t let a whirlwind romance with a virtual stranger determine the rest of her life.

  And what of me?

  What of him? I’m infatuated, that’s all. Once she returned home, and he wasn’t in her company for long hours each day, her allure would fade. Lovely, effervescent, and delightful as India Byron might be, she would quickly become no more important to him than any other woman. And when they next met, they would do so as ordinary acquaintances—albeit ones who had shared an intense, though brief, passion.

  Watching the now-lazily-falling rain, he forced down a sigh. Shifting his glance, he saw that she was once again properly attired. Even her bonnet was back on her head, with the ribbon tied in a pretty bow beneath her chin. Reaching for his surtout, he draped the woolen garment over her.

  “But haven’t you need of your coat?” she protested in a soft voice. Her luminous green eyes met his, the impact of her gaze seeming to reach into his soul.

  Lust. Nothing more than lust, he told himself.

  “I won’t have you taking a chill,” he said, his words sounding gruff, even to his own ears.

  Giving the reins a sharp snap, he maneuvered the carriage back onto the road and set out for the Pettigrews’.

  With darkness having fallen, India followed Quentin inside through a servants’ entrance at the rear of the house. Careful to be quiet, the two of them made their way up another back staircase, then down the corridor toward their rooms. Luckily, they didn’t encounter anyone along the way. All the guests were downstairs eating dinner, while the servants were busy seeing to their needs.

  Reaching the door to her bedchamber, she stopped, then gazed up at Quentin.

  “I’ll send word to your aunt that we have returned,” he said. “I’m sure she’ll be along to look in on you as soon as she can. In the meantime, have your maid bring you something to eat. You must be famished by now.”

  Actually, food was the farthest thing from her mind, her body still aglow from their passionate encounter in his carriage. He’d been so silent on the journey back, though. Was it because of his frustration at having to put such an abrupt halt to their lovemaking?

  Were it not for his restraint, she would have surrendered her virginity to him, and gladly. Maybe she should have told him that then. Mayhap she ought to tell him that now. As brazen as it might sound aloud, she wanted him to be her first.

  Her only.

  She was trying to find the words when he reached out and caught her hand inside his own.

  “I want you to know that what happened between us this evening was my doing and mine alone,” he said. “You are to assume none of the responsibility, do you understand? You’re lovely, India. Sweet and delightful and innocent in every way.”

  “But I’m not,” she said, recalling how she’d coaxed him to kiss her and the wanton manner in which she’d responded to his every touch. “N-not innocent, that is.”

  He smiled. “But you are, my dear girl. And that’s how I want you to stay.”

  “But—”

  “Go to your room, eat your dinner, and get some sleep. Everything will seem clearer in the morning.”

  She thrust out her lower lip. “You make me sound like a child.”

  A rueful laugh rolled from his throat before his gaze darkened with a sensuality she was quickly coming to recognize. “Never fear. I’m well aware you’re a woman. A wonderful, mesmerizing woman, who will continue to grow more beautiful and enchanting with each passing day.”

  Lifting her hand, he closed his eyes and pressed his lips against her palm for a long moment. “Sleep well, India. Dream of sweet thoughts and cherished wishes.”

  She trembled, wanting to throw her arms around him and hold him close. Instead, she forced herself to remain still, as he released her hand and took a few steps back. “Good night,” she said.

  “Good night.” With a last look, he turned and strode away.

  Setting a hand on the door handle to her bedchamber, she stood for a long moment before finally going inside.

  She awakened early the next morning and rose from bed, anxious to dress quickly and go downstairs. She wanted to find Quentin so they could talk before everyone else joined them for breakfast. Otherwise, she knew she would be compelled to wait for an opportunity to speak with him alone—and risk missing the chance entirely.

  Practically running, she flew down the staircase and into the main hall. One of the Pettigrews’ liveried footmen watched her come to a gliding halt, her slippers skating lightly over the polished marble floor.

  “Excuse me, but could you tell me if any of the guests have come downstairs yet?”

  “One or two,” the young man said with an encouraging smile. “Who are ye looking for, Miss?”

  “The Duke of Weybridge. He’s tall and dark with very brown eyes.”

  “I know ’im. But I’m afraid you’ve missed him.”

  “What do you mean? Missed him?” she asked, an odd clenching sensation flexing beneath her breasts.

  “He left not long after first light. Helped him out m’self with his luggage and such.”

  “Are you quite sure it was His Grace?”

  “Can’t miss the silver in that hair o’his. Aye, I’m sure it was him.”

  A buzzing rang in her ears, and she swayed.

  “Here now, Miss, are ye awright?” He reached a hand toward her, as if concerned she might fall.

  She drew away, collecting herself enough to meet his concerned gaze. “Yes. I am quite well.”

  Only she wasn’t. Quentin was gone.

  Chapter Eight

  Your turn again,” said a childish singsong voice.

  Dragging herself out of her reverie, India stared at her seven-year-old sister, who was seated across from her on the schoolroom floor. “What?”

  “It’s your turn,” Poppy Byron said with a measure of exasperation. “We’re playing spillikins, remember?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. I wasn’t attending as I should. My apologies.”

  The younger girl’s dark brows drew together. “You haven’t been attending a lot of things lately,” she muttered under her breath.

  “What is that supposed to mean? And yes, I heard you.”

  Poppy glanced up. “Sorry. It’s just that you haven’t seemed yourself the last few weeks. Ever since you came back from that visi
t with Aunt Ava, you’ve been…”

  “Yes? What have I been?”

  “Sad. You never laugh anymore. Not like you used to. Why don’t you laugh anymore, India?”

  Lowering her gaze, she stared at the jumbled mass of wooden jackstraws scattered over the broad oak flooring. “I laugh when someone says something funny,” she defended. Reaching toward a spillikin with a painted blue tip, she lifted one away. “And I’m not sad.”

  But she was sad, and they both knew it, no matter how hard she tried to conceal her feelings.

  In the nearly three months since she’d returned home from the Pettigrews’, she’d been melancholy.

  At first, she’d tried to pretend nothing was wrong, going out of her way to be sunny and cheerful, as she threw herself into the usual round of family activities with an almost frightening zeal. Yet inwardly she was miserable, only allowing her real feelings to escape at night, when she was certain she was alone.

  The first week after Quentin left, her emotions ran the gambit from anger to despair. One moment she would be furious, berating him for his callousness and the shabby manner in which he had used her, then departed—recalling that he hadn’t even given her the courtesy of a note.

  But in the next breath, she would be sunk in misery, telling herself the fault was her own for being careless enough to fall in love with him. Suppose he had written her a note, or had even stayed to tell her good-bye. What might he have said that wouldn’t have crushed her just as much as his leaving? How could words have possibly softened the agonizing blow of knowing he did not love her in return?

  He’d said what they shared was nothing more than a fantasy. But for her, every moment, every emotion, was as real as the moon and as radiant as the stars.

  Finally, her tears had dried, and in their wake, she’d taken a vow to forget him—as he no doubt had already forgotten her. But as the days moved past, and her life resumed its natural course, her devotion for him did not fade. If anything, her love strengthened. Try as she might, she could not free herself from her memories of their days together—thoughts of him embedded deep into her bones, her love for him inextricably entwined around her soul.

  Forcing a smile, she looked across at her sister. “I just have a great deal on my mind these days, that’s all.”

  “Like going to London in the spring?”

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  “I wish I could go to London for the Season,” Poppy said with a wistful sigh.

  “That day shall come soon enough. Pray do not be so impatient.” I certainly wish I didn’t have to go, since I shall be expected to seek out a husband—a man who will not be Quentin Marlowe.

  And what if she saw him there? How would she bear such an encounter?

  She was just about to reach for a new spillikin stick when two pairs of slippered feet came stamping through the doorway. Her sisters—Anna and Janey—raced in, sliding to an abrupt, skirt-swinging halt.

  “India, India, you shall never guess!” twelve-year-old Janey declared, breathless from her apparently mad dash up the stairs.

  India met her gaze. “Never guess what?”

  “That we have a visitor and you are to come downstairs immediately.”

  Her lips tightened on a repressed sigh. “What sort of visitor? Has the squire called again?”

  “No,” stated Anna, in the exaggeratedly calm voice she had taken to using since turning fifteen last month. “The visitor is a gentleman, and Mama says you are to put on your best frock and join them as soon as may be.”

  “A gentleman? What’s his name?”

  “Well, we do not know, nor what he looks like, since he arrived before we had a chance to see,” Anna continued. “But he is closeted with Papa in his study at this very minute.”

  India scowled at that bit of news.

  “You don’t suppose he’s here to propose to you?” Janey said on a giggle. “Oh, heavens, what if it’s one of those fellows Spence brought home last summer? Maybe the one with the chuckleheaded expression who followed you around spouting poetry wherever he went.”

  Peter Harte!

  India felt her eyes widen with alarm. Good Lord, surely he didn’t have the temerity to come seeking her father’s permission to ask for her hand? Not after he’d been so thoroughly dismissed the last time they’d met? Then again, Peter Harte never had been one to take no for an answer.

  Well, she thought rising to her feet, he’s going to learn his lesson once and for all. She would go downstairs all right and see to it he was sent packing!

  Storming from the room, she headed for the stairs.

  Her sisters followed. Down one flight they went, to the second floor, like ducks in a row.

  “What about your gown?” Anna called when India didn’t turn in the direction of her bedchamber.

  Her dress was an old, comfortable moss green kersey-mere she’d worn dozens of times, eminently suitable for afternoons at home. “My attire is perfectly fine.”

  Perfectly fine for the likes of Peter Harte, that is.

  She continued on down the next flight of stairs, her sisters at her heels. When they reached the main floor, she stopped and turned. “You had all best stay here. Mama won’t approve if we all go in.”

  “Of course not,” Anna said, cloaking herself in a mantle of dignity. “I shall take the girls into the music room.”

  “Where you can try listening through the wall,” India observed with a knowing look.

  “Exactly!” Janey piped.

  India couldn’t help but grin. “Do not let Mama catch you.”

  But as she walked toward her father’s study, her smile fell away, her affront returning full force.

  She met her mother in front of the closed study doors.

  “There you are,” her mother said in a quiet voice, her gaze sweeping down. “What is that you have on? Did the girls not tell you to change your gown?”

  “I can go back up if you like—”

  “No, no there’s no time. He’s been in with your father for fifteen minutes now as it is. I can’t imagine they have much more to discuss.”

  Fifteen minutes? What could Peter the Pest have had to talk to her father about for fifteen minutes?

  “Go on. Go in,” her mother encouraged with a wide smile, her blue eyes twinkling with anticipation.

  Does Mama approve his suit? She’d never thought her mother much cared for Peter, nor that her father had a good opinion of him either, come to think. But maybe a formal declaration made all the difference.

  Well, I shall put a stop to his overtures. Now and for good!

  Giving a brief knock, she opened the door and stepped inside.

  The room was large, with her father’s desk positioned so that he faced anyone who entered. A pair of upholstered armchairs was set in front of it, their high backs angled in a way that concealed the occupants.

  Without making any real attempt to identify the visitor—of whom all she could make out was a pair of booted feet—she marched up to her father. “Papa, I understand you wish to see me?”

  Gazing her way, he smiled and stood. “Ah, India. Good, you are here. We have a guest who has come all this way for a visit. He informs me he is acquainted with you.”

  “Well, yes, of course, he is. But there has been some mistake and whatever he has told you, I trust you will disregard it.”

  Her father’s thick salt-and-pepper brows rose on his forehead. “What’s that now?”

  “This gentleman is here under an erroneous assumption. And I would have you ask him to—”

  “Ask me to what?” remarked a well-remembered voice.

  From out of the chair he rose, large and dark and so exceptionally magnificent that for a moment she forgot how to draw her next breath. Her lips parted. “Quentin.”

  She stared, her senses alive as she drank in the sight of his beloved face. Then abruptly she remembered herself and the fact that they were not alone. “I m-mean, Your Grace. How do you do?” Lowering her gaze to the carpet
, she sank into a deep curtsy.

  Quentin returned the gesture with a bow. “Miss Byron. A pleasure as always.”

  A silence fell, her father looking between them, as he crossed his arms over his stocky chest. “So, what is this you were saying, India?”

  Her gaze darted his way, as she inwardly kicked herself for her impetuous assumptions. “N-nothing. Nothing of any import, that is. Pray forget I spoke.”

  A slight smile turned up the corners of Quentin’s mouth. Apparently choosing to withhold comment, however, he laid a hand on the back of his chair instead.

  “Yes, well, if that’s the case, then let’s move along,” her father stated. “His Grace and I were just discussing agriculture.”

  Agriculture!

  “It would seem your father takes a lively interest in the latest cultivation methods for turnips,” Quentin observed in an even tone.

  “A good cash crop, turnips. Beneficial for both man and beast,” her father asserted in a speech she had heard him make many times before. “But I daresay that’s not what brought Weybridge to our doorstep.” He cleared his throat. “It seems the duke would like a word with you, India, and I have agreed that he may have it.”

  Her heart hammered in her chest.

  Casting speculative glances between her and Quentin again, her father came around from behind his desk. “Your mother said something about rounding up a tray of tea and sandwiches. I think I’ll just go see how she’s coming with those.”

  Sending her a reassuring smile, her father left, closing the double doors at his back.

  The ticking of the clock that stood in the far corner of the room seemed to increase its volume, together with that of a bird warbling a tune from its perch on a branch outside one of the windows.

  Folding her hands in front of her, she waited, more awkward in Quentin’s presence than she could ever remember being. But then perhaps that was because she couldn’t decide whether she ought to run out of the room or run instead into his arms.

  Of course if she did that, she might also find herself begging, and she still possessed enough pride to forgo such a pitiable display. Possible, too, was the chance that her parents were wrong and that Quentin wished to speak to her for a completely different reason than they assumed. Although what that reason might be, she couldn’t imagine. Unless he was here to apologize for leaving without a word that day.