The Duke's Captive

by Adele Ashworth

  He let out a growl, coming fast and hard within her, sucking her neck, clinging to her with a wild possession that made it nearly impossible for her to breathe. She gulped for air as he shuddered against her, thrusting upward into her a final time, panting, his face buried in her hair.

  She remained still, fighting a sudden urge to cry, though she had no idea why she should want to. They hadn’t made love; there was nothing romantic or emotionally close in what they’d done, and yet as they stood together, still joined physically against the wall of a fishing cottage, she felt more bound to him than to any other man ever in her life. Something more than poor luck or chance or a strength of two wills kept bringing them together, and the saddest part of all was that nothing meaningful, or even good, could possibly come of it. There was no affection between them, no hope of a future of happiness. He despised her and desired her at the same time, a combination that brought nothing but heartache and regret. She had always loved him, but she found it far easier to stay away from him than he did her. If only God would listen to her prayers and quell his insatiable need to haunt her to the grave. . . .

  “Viola?”

  She shivered against him, tried to push him away with her shoulder. He didn’t seem to notice as he continued to hold her tightly, running his nose along her hairline at the base of her neck, inhaling deeply.

  “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget your scent,” he said, his tone low and contemplative.

  She had no idea how to reply, whether he thought her particular smell good or bad, though as she finally felt him slip out of her a measure of relief that they were no longer joined intimately settled in.

  “Are you going to say something?” he drawled, slowly releasing her and backing away to reach for his clothes.

  With a level of modesty, and without offering him even a glance, she lowered her leg from the cot as she shuffled her nightgown until it dropped to the floor.

  “I’m not sure what to say,” she answered truthfully, noting how the moment had suddenly become so awkward that she felt like crawling out of her skin.

  He didn’t reply to that as he began to dress. She ran her fingers through her hair, then sat on the edge of the cot and folded her hands in her lap, staring at the floor but positively feeling his gaze focused on her, watching, waiting.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked solemnly, seconds later.

  Irritated, she ran a palm across her forehead. “That my mind is a jumble right now, Ian. That my nerves are raw, and that when I think of you, I just don’t know what to feel anymore.”

  She’d said the words with absolute honesty, without much clear thought, but the moment they were out of her mouth, she regretted them.

  He cleared his throat. “I suppose I wasn’t expecting you to say what a marvelous lover I am.”

  Her head shot up. Their gazes locked and she glared at him.

  He chuckled, running his fingers through his tousled hair. “Sorry.”

  It hadn’t occurred to her that he might find the entire episode awkward as well, and his apparent sheepishness surprised her, even warmed her heart a bit.

  “I want to go home,” she said very softly.

  To her relief, neither his anger nor bitterness resurfaced, though his easygoing expression slowly faded as he began to walk toward her. She held her ground, sitting up a little straighter, completely uncertain of his mood. When he stopped directly in front of her, he reached out for a lock of her hair, lacing it through his fingers as his brows gradually creased in contemplation.

  “Maybe I’m not ready to let you go,” he finally replied in a near-whisper.

  She had no idea what to make of that statement, though under the circumstances, she could only assume he meant to keep her even longer in this hovel as his plaything. She would never last five weeks, as he had in the dungeon. For the first time in two days, she felt the weight of helplessness start to settle in the pit of her stomach.

  “Ian, please, enough,” she said, hoping to sound stern and not desperate. “I need a bath, clean clothes, to see my son. I cannot stay here another—”

  “Viola, lie down,” he cut in gently.

  She frowned. “What—Why?”

  He sighed and untangled his fingers from her hair. “We’re both tired and I don’t want to talk about this now.”

  She hesitated only until he grabbed her elbow, lifted her arm, and began to pull her toward the top of the cot. Then, to her surprise, instead of leaving, he walked to the lamp and extinguished the light before lowering himself beside her.

  “We need to discuss—”

  “Mmmm . . . go to sleep. . . .”

  She turned to face the wall and he scooted in to conform to her backside, laying the quilt over them both, then draping his arm over her waist and planting his face in her neck and hair. The last thing she recalled was the comforting sound of his slow, steady breathing before sleep quickly overtook her once more.

  A sharp knocking at the door jolted her awake. Startled, she abruptly sat up, uncertain where she was for a moment until she brushed stray hair from her face and her eyes adjusted to rays of bright sunshine beaming through the bars in the window.

  The lock clicked just as she remembered that Ian had been with her when she’d fallen asleep at dawn. He must have stepped out while she’d slept, though why he’d knock upon his return—

  “Pardon me, Lady Cheshire,” came a meek female voice from the doorway as it slowly creaked open.

  Viola clutched the quilt to her neck. “Who are you?”

  A girl of about sixteen entered, smiling prettily, her blonde hair tightly knotted at her nape, her clothes clean and perfectly pressed. In one hand she carried a small picnic basket, in the other a large leather valise over which was draped what appeared to be a gown covered in a linen travel bag. She quickly placed the items on the floor, wiped her hands once on her skirts, then curtseyed.

  “Name’s Missy Stone, my lady. So sorry to disturb you, but his grace sent me from the house to see to your needs this morning.”

  Viola blinked, confused. “To see to my needs?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Missy closed the door behind her and locked it, then walked swiftly to the stove to light it. “He was called away from the estate urgently at dawn and asked me to let you sleep till at least ten. ’Tis half past ten now. I’ve brought blueberry scones, cooked bacon, and tea for brewing. If you’ll give me a moment, I’ll get the water heating.”

  A bit dumbfounded, Viola watched the girl putter around the small cabin, realizing she should be relieved that he’d gone, but instead feeling more than a little saddened and irritated that he’d left her without even a brief explanation or apology.

  “I’ve also brought one of Lord Chatwin’s sister’s good day gowns for you to wear, and I’ll have your evening gown cleaned and returned to you, as he ordered,” the girl continued cheerfully as she began removing items from the valise. “After you’ve eaten, I’ll help with your toilette, and then at your leisure, Larson will drive you to the city and take you any place you wish to go.”

  So that was it, she realized with a sinking heart. Their tryst had ended with not even a good-bye. Just cold breakfast, a borrowed dress, and a ride home.

  “You needn’t worry, my lady,” Missy added seconds later, scrutinizing the expression on her face. “Lord Chatwin hires only those servants who are extremely discreet.”

  “Of course,” Viola said at once, ignoring the heated flush in her cheeks and trying to sound indifferent as she finally rose from the cot. She needed to use the chamber pot and she wanted to wash herself, but she preferred to wait for the water to warm. And she was ravenous of a sudden. “You said you brought scones?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Missy turned her attention to the picnic basket and rummaged inside. “They’re quite delicious, if I do s
ay so myself. My mother bakes them for his grace every—”

  “So where did his grace run off to so quickly this morning?”

  Missy’s gaze shot up from the basket, a grin of understanding breaking out across her wide mouth. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know, my lady.”

  Viola almost kicked herself for her absolute stupidity. She wasn’t testing the girl; she truly wanted the answer, needed the answer for all the complex reasons that escaped her at the moment, regardless of whether it was any of her business.

  But in the end, his doings remained his matter or he would have told her himself. She wasn’t a relation, his wife, his mistress, or even his obligation. He’d finished with her, obviously washed his hands of her, and now he just needed to see her packed up and taken home as soon as possible.

  So, on that confusingly dismal thought, she grew silent, allowed herself to eat his—yes—delicious scones, to be dressed and primped by the Duke of Chatwin’s maid in his fishing cottage, of all places, knowing his entire household would soon be privy to the account but would keep his mysterious, two-day liaison with the Lady Cheshire of London below stairs on his country estate. Probably.

  In any case, the affair was over, and he had, at last, gotten what he had wanted all along. He would likely soon forget her as a sexual triumph and trophy won. A revenge complete.

  She needed now to just get back to the routine of her own busy life—and do her best to try to forget that she’d ever met the bastard Ian Wentworth.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Hermione accused me of trying to help him escape today. I denied it, of course, but she has become suspicious of my visits now and threatens to tell Desi. He is ailing, and I must do all that I can to get him out of there. The masquerade is next week, and with a full house, I’m hoping to think of a plan to have him rescued so that nobody gets hurt.

  Hold on, Ian. Help is coming. Please, my brave man, hold on. . . .

  From the upstairs balcony, Ian stared down at the growing crowd, trying to remain inconspicuous before being formally announced at Lady Isabella Summerland’s August soiree. Viola had already arrived, he knew, and although he had yet to see her, he watched with diligence, knowing he’d spot her instantly among the guests the second she took to the dance floor below.

  It had been nearly three weeks since their intimate encounter, and in that time he’d thought of little else—their passionate, if enlightening, conversations, the scent of her skin, her breathless sighs and moans of ecstasy, and the innocent beauty of her face when she’d slept. He’d watched her for a long while that morning before he’d left the cottage. His intent had been to stray from her side only long enough to arrange a warm breakfast for both of them before engaging her in another round of lovemaking, knowing he’d imprisoned her far too long and needed to take her home. But when he’d arrived at the house he’d received the note that had called him away so quickly and unexpectedly. He’d wanted to explain, but there hadn’t been time. And now, as he’d finally arrived in London to discuss things with her and apologize for his hasty exit that morning, he had no idea how to approach her, or even what to say. Which was why he now found himself acting like an inexperienced schoolboy with jittery nerves, hiding behind the pillars above the dance floor just to have a look at her first.

  Still, wondering if she thought about their last time together as much as he did kept him in the most suspense. He’d never in his life made love to a woman standing, having all the control, and with so much obsession and power and animalistic hunger. And every time he thought about how she had abandoned herself to his will and taken him, had accepted all of his hurt and anger, had permitted him to express his deepest emotions and compelling, confusing need for her in such a raw manner, his heart was truly soothed. At that moment Viola had totally understood him, had allowed him to show her a part of himself he’d hidden from everyone for five long years. And the most shocking thing of all was how now, after almost a month since he’d left her, instead of feeling sexually sated and proud of accomplishing his goal of humiliation and revenge, ready to rid himself of his past and move on with his life, all he could think of was how much he wanted to be with her again. Not like before, not brutally fast and with erotic domination, but slowly, in a soft, luxurious bed, making slow, passionate, meaningful love to her—something that probably meant different things to the two of them but mattered nonetheless. It was now very clear to him that his future remained just as tightly tied to the lovely Lady Cheshire as it was to the shy Miss Viola Bennington-Jones all those years ago. But, God help him, he had no idea what to do about it.

  “Thought I’d find you up here all by yourself.”

  Ian half-smiled, thankful for the interruption of thoughts too complicated, though he didn’t turn to look at his friend who slowly walked to his side.

  “Evening, Fairbourne,” he replied. “I despise these things.”

  Lucas sighed. “As do I.”

  “So why are you here?” Ian asked, moving a little to his right to give the man room to stand beside him.

  Lucas leaned his elbows on the balcony and clasped his hands in front of him, peering over the edge to the scene below. “The same reason you are, I expect.”

  Ian almost snorted. “To fill your belly with Lady Tenby’s food?”

  Lucas chuckled. “You don’t lie well, Chatwin.”

  “Well, I know you’re not here for the dancing,” Ian maintained, turning slightly to eye his friend askance.

  “No, I’m here for the food,” Fairbourne said, grinning. “Fired my French chef last week.”

  “Right,” Ian retorted, glancing back to the dance floor. “You don’t lie well, either.”

  “True enough,” Lucas admitted. “I wanted to remind you I’m still waiting on payment for that painting I purchased for you at Brimleys.”

  God, the painting. He’d forgotten about that.

  “How much?”

  Fairbourne grinned wryly. “Plenty. But it is a beauty. You’d think I’d purchased an original Rubens the way society has been aflutter with gossip these last weeks, everyone wondering what it’s worth, what I’d paid, if I’d sell, and of course, if you were the . . . uh . . . subject.” He chuckled again, raking his fingers through his hair. “Had to hide it in my attic just to keep the staff from gaping then disappearing to fulfill their own fantasies.”

  Ian groaned and looked away, stretching his neck in a circle as he suddenly felt uncomfortable in his clothes. “I’ll send someone for it next week, along with a bank draft.”

  Lucas cleared his throat. “Think you’ll hang it?”

  He snorted. “Maybe around Lady Cheshire’s smooth and lovely neck.”

  “Funny,” Fairbourne said through a chuckle, “I rather thought the good widow has been dragging you along for quite some time now with her lascivious paintings tied around your—”

  “Don’t say it, Fairbourne,” Ian cut in, “or next month you’ll find a nude portrait of you at auction.” He tossed a grin to his friend. “The lovely widow can be easily persuaded to paint quickly and sell.”

  Lucas nodded once and gave in. “Always good to know, my friend.”

  A few moments of silence fell between them, then Lucas nodded toward the far doorway and murmured nonchalantly, “There she is, just entering.”

  Ian immediately focused on the north entrance, at first seeing nothing but a swirl of colorful skirts and blur of dandies attempting to make the perfect conversation to impress. And then, as if drawn by some inexplicable power, he spotted her, and his breath caught in his chest.

  She looked radiant, dressed entirely in sea blue, her gown hugging a tightly drawn corset and tied at her left hip with a large cream-colored satin bow that matched the flounces of her skirt, her long silk gloves, and the wide brim of her hat. He couldn’t see her hair or eyes, but he had no trouble identifying the line of
her jaw and the lusciousness of her pink lips now tipped up in a rather seductive, playful smile.

  Ian’s pulse began to race as he felt his body break out in sweat. True, he was nervous, for reasons he more or less understood, but suddenly he was also quite furious when he realized she walked arm in arm with Miles Whitman, using that seductive smile on him like warm honey—warm, sweet honey flowing over crusty old bread.

  All at once, inexplicably, nothing in his life made sense, nothing in his head made sense.

  “You’ve been gone a long time,” Lucas murmured, his tone thoughtful.

  “Three weeks is not a long time,” he charged in fast return, unable to take his eyes off Viola until she walked beneath the balcony and disappeared from view.

  Lucas shrugged and stood upright again. “Maybe that’s true. It’s probably more accurate to say that a lot can change in a very short time.”

  Ian turned his complete attention to his friend, careful not to give anything away in his expression. “What are you trying to tell me, Fairbourne?” he asked cautiously.

  Lucas held his steady gaze, pausing only long enough to gather his thoughts. “It seems Mr. Whitman has taken a fancy to Lady Cheshire.”

  “The gentleman has admired her for a time, as many do,” Ian replied somewhat defensively. “So?”

  Lucas reached up and scratched the back of his neck. “I’ve heard, however, that he has escorted her to every social event in the last three weeks, and that she’s made it quite obvious to all that should he ask, she would accept his offer to become his wife.”

  Become his wife . . .

  “That’s absurd,” Ian said in a gruff, near-whisper.

  Lucas shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  Ian felt the world stop, as if he’d been living in some freak, horrific play that had just ended with tragedy, no satisfying resolution, no applause to come. And with its tragic ending came nothing but agony and strangeness and confusion for all who watched, all who participated. His mouth went dry; he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Time simply stopped as the gods looked on and laughed at him in mocking silence.