What a Duke Dares

by Anna Campbell

  She wrapped herself in a paisley shawl, as much for modesty as warmth. She hoped to encounter an obliging maid before she braved the taproom. Carefully she opened the door and checked the lamplit hallway.

  Time reversed, leaving her giddy. It was like the morning when he’d caught her trying to escape.

  “What’s wrong, Pen?”

  She scowled at where he huddled against the opposite wall, using his greatcoat as an inadequate blanket. “Are you afraid I mean to run?”

  “No.” With one hand, he rubbed his eyes.

  Even in the dim light, she noted his weariness. Did endless craving play on his nerves? Or was that wishful thinking? “Then what are you doing here?”

  One eyebrow tilted. “I’m not welcome inside.”

  Guilt stabbed her. The corridor was considerably colder than the bedroom. “I thought you’d go downstairs where there’s a fire.”

  “And about a thousand people, most of whom have fleas and only passing acquaintance with soap and water.” With a wince, he stretched against the wall, then stood without his usual lithe smoothness. Her guilt strengthened. He hadn’t said so, but she guessed that he stayed close to protect her.

  “I don’t have fleas,” she said softly, hitching the shawl around her shoulders. Despite the velvet robe and the grandmotherly flannel nightdress, she felt naked when she looked into his eyes. She couldn’t help recalling his gaze on her body. Dear Lord, if this awkwardness persisted until they reached England, she’d go stark, staring mad.

  “Not yet,” he said drily. “It’s miles to Genoa, with lavish accommodations every night.”

  She’d have to speak plainly. Which was strange. With Cam, she rarely needed to spell things out. Squaring her shoulders, she told herself to forget that he’d seen her in the bath. “You can come in.”

  To her surprise, he didn’t leap at her invitation. “I’m safer out here.”

  She sighed and stood back, leaving him space to enter the firelit room. “I haven’t got another soap dish.”

  His lips twitched, although the tension across his broad shoulders hinted that he too felt the swirling undercurrents. “Instead you’ve got armor.”

  How she wished his eyes didn’t crinkle when he smiled. How she wished his face didn’t brighten to brilliance. How she wished her heart wasn’t so susceptible. “Armor?”

  “The head to toe covering.” He didn’t approach. “What changed your mind about inviting me in? Earlier you looked ready to flay me.”

  The heat in her cheeks could warm the inn. “I’d rather ignore that incident.”

  The smile lines around his eyes deepened. “I can imagine.”

  “So are you coming in? I’m getting cold.”

  He folded his arms across his chest and leaned with elegant nonchalance against the wall. “In that get-up? No chance.”

  She growled deep in her throat and started to shut him out. Let the rogue freeze.

  “Wait,” he said softly. He caught the door.

  For a blazing interval, they were close enough to touch. Looking deep into his eyes, she couldn’t mistake his desire. He wanted her, all right. A question sizzled in the air. A question that made her skin tighten with yearning.

  Fleetingly she considered yielding to what they both wanted. Then she recalled her misery after leaving England, her futile attempts to forget him, the emptiness she carried with her constantly. If Cam used her body, she’d never escape this agonized longing.

  Worse, if he besmirched his honor in his childhood playmate’s bed, he’d never forgive himself. Then she’d never forgive herself. He had enough burdens without despising himself as yet another Rothermere scoundrel.

  What a damnable mess.

  She nearly left him shivering, this time from cowardice rather than exasperation, until she told herself that she was better than that. Not entirely convinced that she was, she gestured him inside. This time he cooperated.

  “You can sleep on the right,” she said irritably, slipping the shawl from her shoulders and dropping it over a chair. “I hope you don’t snore.”

  He looked troubled. “You’d share the bed?”

  She glowered. “Purely a humanitarian gesture. It’s as cold as charity.”

  “Do you trust me that much?”

  Oh, God save her. She’d always trusted him. She’d trusted him before she loved him. Nothing since had shaken either trust or love. Even his recent arrogance. Even tonight’s revelation that he wanted her. “I promise not to demand my wicked way. Would you rather sleep on the floor? I’m not giving up any of my blankets.”

  Grimness thinned his mouth. “We need to talk.”

  She stopped straightening a bed chaotic with her restlessness. “It’s the middle of the night.”

  He stood as straight as a soldier on parade. “I must say this now.”

  A bleak premonition knotting her belly, she sat on the bed. Nobody said “we need to talk” before good news. “How very ominous, Your Grace.”

  His expression didn’t lighten at her mockery. “Listen to me, Pen.”

  Fear made her rush into speech. “What happened tonight was an accident. Better to forget it.”

  He shook his head and stepped forward. “I can’t forget it.” He paused. “And forgive me if I’m presumptuous, but I doubt you can either.”

  “You’ve seen a naked woman before, Cam.”

  “We’ve traveled in close confines—”

  “And very annoying it’s been too,” she said quickly.

  One commanding hand rose to silence her. “Something unexpected has happened. When I saw you again, I—”

  Cam was never lost for words. With another man in other circumstances, she might believe he meant to declare his love. “Can’t this wait until morning?”

  Or forever?

  Stubbornness firmed his jaw. “No.” He stared hard at her, green eyes opaque. “Pen, God forgive me, but I never expected to want you.”

  Like a seedling reaching for the sun, joy unfurled. Until native cynicism made her hesitate. “You don’t sound very happy about it.”

  His lips flattened. “I’m not.”

  Her laugh was acid. “So this isn’t the prelude to another proposal?”

  He flinched. “You had good reason to refuse me.”

  Yes, she did. She still did. “A lucky escape for you.”

  “I wouldn’t be so ungallant.”

  Her lips twisted and she stared into her lap, covered in thick white flannel. Strangely, this was the closest they’d ventured to a frank conversation in a week. “Never you, Your Grace.”

  “Stop sniping. I’m struggling to do what’s best.”

  She regarded him with dislike. “You always do.”

  Her ironic tone nettled him. “Our circumstances are trying, but not impossible.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  He plowed on. “I’ve always tried to be honorable.”

  Of course he had, she thought wearily. Another snide remark rose, but his expression stifled it. “That’s good.”

  “Pen, I have to keep my hands off you.”

  Pain crunched her heart. “Because I’m an unsuitable bride?”

  Waiting for agreement felt like the pause before someone punched a bruise.

  He shook his head. “Because I’m courting another lady.” He stared over her head as if the crucifix on the wall provided enormous interest. “When I return to England, I’m marrying Lady Marianne Seaton, the daughter of the Marquess of Baildon.”

  Chapter Eight

  Hyde Park, London, February 1828

  After that miraculous encounter in Lord Chetwell’s cupboard, Harry was too restless to sleep. Too restless and too happy. Sophie mightn’t love him yet, but she was interested. To the point of defying her powerful brother.

  Harry had wandered home from the ball in a daze. The memory of Sophie’s kisses fizzed in his blood. The sound of her voice filled his ears like music. Her scent haunted him.

  He was head over heels
, madly in love. And he didn’t give a tinker’s curse.

  Anticipation had him saddling his horse—he wasn’t selfish enough to wake a groom so early—and riding to the park before dawn. He settled his mount under a tree with a view of Rotten Row. There was a special luxury in being here on a misty February morning, knowing that his beloved might appear any moment. The sun just peeped above the horizon, shooting long golden rays through the bare trees.

  Into this magical glade trotted his Sophie, controlling a fine gray mare with a light touch. She wore a neat dark blue riding habit, and the jaunty angle of her hat made him want to kiss her.

  Harry straightened from his slouch, an uncontrollable smile spreading across his face. His heart performed a jig.

  She smiled back. “Mr. Thorne, what a surprise,” she said in an unnaturally lilting voice for the benefit of the groom plodding behind.

  Stifling a laugh, Harry doffed his hat and bowed. What a hopeless conspirator she was. “Lady Sophie, a delightful chance.”

  “The park is quiet this morning.” She glanced at Harry under her long lashes. “Are you alone?”

  “Yes. Perhaps we could ride a little way.”

  “Your ladyship, I’m not sure—” the groom began before Sophie cut him off with a laugh. A very unconvincing laugh.

  “Mr. Thorne and I are old chums, Jones. Why, we danced together only last night.”

  “Very well, my lady.” The man settled into the saddle, his stare unwavering. Leath had chosen a diligent guardian.

  Harry had hoped for more kisses. What man wouldn’t? But he saw that a brief and decorous conversation was all he could expect. “It was quite a party, wasn’t it?”

  He wheeled his horse to amble in the same direction as Sophie’s. The park must contain other people, but as far as he was concerned, he was alone with his beloved.

  “I enjoyed myself immensely,” Sophie said with another sideways glance. “A memorable occasion.”

  Harry was more convinced than ever that she was a minx. He liked her all the more for it. The thought of her harnessed to a dry stick like Desborough made the gorge rise in his throat. “Is this your first visit to London?”

  “No, my brother always comes up for parliament. The last few years, he’s brought me too.”

  Leath was touted as a future prime minister, wasn’t he? Or at least he had been, until his uncle’s criminal activities had stained the family name. The marquess must be seething over the gossip, and all of it so public, thanks to Sedgemoor’s intervention.

  Leath would place Harry in the Sedgemoor camp. After all, the Rothermeres and Thornes had grown up together. Years ago, there had even been talk of marriage between Cam and Harry’s sister, Penelope. What a disaster that would have been. Pen was headstrong and unconventional, whereas Cam was the model of gentlemanly restraint.

  “That explains the town bronze. Most young ladies are wide-eyed with wonder during their first season.”

  She giggled delightfully. “I’m quite the sophisticate now that I’ve seen Astley’s Circus and the menagerie at the Tower of London.”

  Color brightened Sophie’s cheeks. She had the most exquisite skin. Harry’s blood heated when he imagined that skin bare to his exploration. As his hands tightened on the reins, his horse shifted.

  They’d moved ahead of Jones, who seemed prepared to give Harry the benefit of the doubt. For now. Harry leaned to pat his horse’s gleaming neck and spoke in a murmur. “I want to touch you.”

  She responded in a whisper. “I couldn’t get away on my own.”

  “Neither you should. London’s full of scoundrels.”

  “Including you?”

  “Yes, including me,” he said gloomily. Then more loudly for the sake of Jones who edged closer, clearly suspicious, “Do you live in the country the rest of the year?”

  “I’ve been at school in Bath. Now I live with my mother at Alloway Chase in Yorkshire.”

  “Your mother doesn’t come to Town?”

  “She isn’t well.” She stared at his black armband. “I’m sad to see that you’ve recently lost someone.”

  “My brother died in January. I’m surprised you hadn’t heard.” If Leath had warned Sophie away, surely he’d mentioned Peter’s financial woes. Peter’s calamitous mismanagement of the already sparse Thorne coffers threatened the family’s ruin, making Harry an even more unsuitable match for this lovely girl.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you.” He met her compassionate blue stare and his love, already powerful, deepened into something richer. “He was marvelous company and he’d go to the wall for the people he loved.”

  “He sounds wonderful.”

  “He was.” Harry found himself saying what he hadn’t said to anyone else since Peter’s lonely death. “I’ve lost my taste for pleasure. The whole world is gray.” Except when he was with Sophie.

  “I felt like that after my father died.”

  The late marquess had passed away four years ago. The nation had mourned the loss of a brilliant politician. As with his son, there had been talk of him becoming prime minister. Just up from Oxford, Harry had paid little heed. He’d been too busy kicking up his heels and adding a few more smears to the family reputation.

  He reached to comfort her before Jones cleared his throat. Winning Sophie from the dragons who protected her wouldn’t be easy. For the first time in his shallow life, Harry burned to meet a challenge.

  He glanced around and noticed that full day had broken. Riders emerged for their morning exercise. To save Sophie from talk, he must ride on. “It was a pleasure seeing you.”

  She bent her head with a grace that hinted at the grand lady she’d one day become. Under the brim of her stylish beaver hat, Harry caught a gratifying flash of longing in her eyes. “I’m engaged for Lady Carson’s ball tonight.”

  “Perhaps I’ll see you there,” he said, not meaning perhaps at all. He bowed. Jones’s watchful expression warned him that a kiss on her hand would take things too far, damn it. “Good morning, Lady Sophie.”

  Hills above Genoa, early March 1828

  Pen stood on the inn’s terrace and stared at the rugged coastline below. The night was clear and she easily made out Genoa’s lights in the distance. Around her bloomed pots of spring flowers. After the frozen wastes, this seemed nothing short of miraculous.

  The grueling journey drew to a close. Tomorrow, they embarked for home. This last week had been almost easy. The weather had been kinder and the roads in the more heavily populated areas showed considerable improvement from the goat tracks higher up. Even the inns were more luxurious, saving her from sharing a room with Cam again. Thank God. She still remembered lying awake, eaten with useless jealousy, while he’d stretched silently beside her, no more asleep than she.

  The announcement of Cam’s marital plans should have eased the tension between them. She’d always known he’d marry, and now that his bride had a name, she should finally be able to crush her painful longing.

  Instead, since that endless night, the atmosphere had weighed heavier and heavier. Until tonight it had become so unbearable, she’d barely finished dinner before rushing outside to escape him.

  She flattened her unsteady hands upon the stone balustrade and stared blindly into the night. She wore a favorite gown, a sea-green silk purchased last year in Florence. Even as she’d asked Maria to find it, she’d recognized her pathetic purposes. She flaunted herself, taunting Cam. This will never be yours, however much you want it.

  Definitely pathetic.

  “Has my conversation driven you to throw yourself off a cliff?” a low voice asked behind her.

  Slowly Pen turned. She should have guessed that Cam would follow. Lamps lit the terrace, lending enough brightness for her to see him in the shadows near the doorway. He’d dressed with care too, as if aware that tonight marked some kind of ending.

  She’d been so reluctant to travel with him. It seemed absurd to be sad that their time together was nearly over. �
��You don’t talk enough to drive me to self-harm.”

  He approached with the loose-limbed stroll that always set her heart racing. She really was a besotted idiot. He passed her one of the glasses of red wine he carried. “Let’s toast old acquaintance.”

  For once, prickling hostility was absent. Instead, Cam seemed like the kindhearted boy she’d known years ago. Her determination to maintain her distance faltered. She raised her glass. “To friendship.”

  “Our journey ends,” he said musingly.

  “We have the voyage ahead.”

  “We’re safe from scandal on the Windhover. My crew is paid to keep their mouths shut.”

  How he must want this marriage with Lady Marianne. Unworthy chagrin cramped Pen’s heart. She wanted to tear every hair from the woman’s no doubt perfectly coiffured head. Pen had devoted too many futile hours to wondering about Cam’s choice. Beautiful, Pen was sure. Impeccably behaved. Circumspect.

  “We’ve made it.” She tried and failed to sound happy.

  Thankfully Cam didn’t appear to notice her glumness. He sipped his wine and stared out to sea with a pensive expression. “Yes. And without killing each other.”

  “We’ve come close.”

  He studied her. “I wish you well, Pen. I’ve only ever wished you well.”

  She knew that. Her rejection of his proposal might sting. Her independence and obstinacy undoubtedly infuriated him. Perhaps he even regretted that they’d never explore the desire simmering between them. But the bonds of childhood affection persisted.

  “I wish you well too, Cam,” she said softly.

  “What do you intend to do when you get home?”

  “Settle my aunt’s affairs.”

  “After that?”

  She shrugged. “Return to Italy. I have friends here and places I’d like to see.”

  “You won’t stay in England?”

  And witness, even from afar, Cam’s wedded bliss? Cam becoming a father? She’d rather cut out her liver with a paperknife. “No.”

  “Elias and Harry would love to have their sister home.”

  “They have their own lives. They’re used to doing without me.”

  “Now they have to do without you and without Peter.” He flinched at her distressed inhalation. “I’m sorry. That was insensitive.”