Who Wants to Marry a Duke

by Sabrina Jeffries

  He advanced on her. “Because our kiss didn’t thrill you?”

  “I didn’t say that.” She looked downright nervous now.

  Good. He liked her nervous. She let her guard down then. “So our kiss did thrill you.”

  “I—I’m not sure. . . .”

  “Not sure?” He took another step forward, and she backed up toward the fountain, nearly falling in before he slipped his arm about her waist to steady her. “Well, Olivia? Which is it? Because our kiss certainly thrilled me. And I could have sworn I wasn’t alone in that.”

  Her eyes widened and her fetching mouth fell open.

  “But perhaps I should make certain of it,” he went on. “For both of us.”

  Then lowering his head, he sealed his mouth to hers.

  Chapter Three

  Olivia grabbed his shoulders, but only to keep her balance. Not because she liked his kisses.

  Oh, devil take it, she did like his kisses, which were as combustible as sweet oil of vitriol and nearly as dangerous. She’d forgotten how delicious his lips tasted, how him holding her close made her heart race and her knees wobble. He conjured up feelings she couldn’t comprehend. And as usual, whenever she didn’t understand something, she threw herself into it with even more enthusiasm until she did.

  So she joined her hands around his neck—probably crushing his shirt collar and cravat—and opened her mouth to him in anticipation of him kissing her as he had before.

  Instead, he drew back to search her face. “You never answered my question. Is your stepmother here? Is she hiding out in the garden somewhere?”

  “How should I know if she’s hiding in the garden? I’ve been dancing with you. But yes, she’s at the ball somewhere. She’s my chaperone.”

  He narrowed his gaze on her. “I’m trying to determine if this is another attempt to trick me into offering marriage.”

  “Trick you! Dear heavens, you’re full of yourself.” When he bristled at that, she added, “You were the one who brought me out here, so only you would know why you did. For that matter, you were the one to initiate the kiss.”

  “Ah. Right.” A self-deprecating chuckle escaped him. “Excellent point.”

  She shook her head. She didn’t know what to think of him. “If it makes you feel any better, I promise to turn you down again if you do offer.”

  “I have no intention of offering,” he said in a brittle tone.

  She ignored the quick stab of disappointment in her chest. Even if she did like kissing him, she had no desire to marry such a self-important, arrogant fellow. He was too much like Papa in his habits. “Then since I have no intention of accepting, we’re in agreement. But as you seem ridiculously concerned about being caught kissing me, we should probably go back inside and—”

  He smothered the rest of her words with his mouth.

  She considered protesting. He was waxing hot and cold, and it got more confusing by the moment.

  But then he did what he’d done before and thrust his tongue inside her mouth, and she melted. Kissing him in that fashion was like heaven. No wonder he was arrogant. He kissed the same way angels surely did.

  He nibbled her lower lip, another strange behavior that made her go all hot inside. “You mustn’t read too much into this,” he whispered.

  Ignoring the pang those words gave her, she whispered back, “Neither should you.”

  “Just because I like kissing you doesn’t mean I—”

  “More kissing,” she muttered. “Less talking.”

  With a chuckle, he drew her over to a bench where they’d be hidden from view if anyone came into the garden. That should have alarmed her. It did not.

  He pulled her down beside him, then set about feathering delicious little kisses along her cheekbone to her ear. “Are you sure you’re a chemist?”

  She leaned back to lift an eyebrow at him. “Are you sure you’re a rakehell? Because you certainly aren’t acting like one.”

  “Then I’d best begin doing so,” he rasped.

  This time he kissed her neck. He even licked her pulse at her throat, which should have disgusted her and instead made her wish to do the same to him.

  Would he like it? Did she dare?

  She tried it, reveling in his scent of rosewood oil and soap. The scrape of his whiskers delighted her, too, and so did the way he groaned and buried his mouth between her breasts. How wicked!

  How thrilling. She gripped his head, meaning to pull him from her bosom and instead tugged him closer. Oh, dear. She was rapidly losing her way. He must be a rakehell after all.

  “Your skin is like satin,” he murmured into her breasts. “And you smell so good. I can only imagine how you would taste if I—”

  “Olivia?” a voice called from somewhere behind them. “Are you out here? Gwyn wanted me to find you so we could all chat.”

  It was Beatrice. Thorn put a finger to his lips, but Olivia didn’t plan to wait until the woman came down here and discovered them together.

  She rose from the bench. “I’m here. I was sitting and admiring the fountain.” She hurried up the stone steps to where Beatrice stood near the door. “The Wolfes truly have a lovely garden, don’t they?”

  “They do,” Beatrice said as she peered beyond Olivia into the darkness.

  Olivia wasn’t good at deception, but if she let Thorn get caught with her again, he would never believe she hadn’t done it on purpose somehow. He was so absurdly suspicious.

  She looped her arm in Beatrice’s. “I’m quite eager to talk to Lady Gwyn. When Mama and I were introduced to her as we entered this evening, she and I barely got to say two words. There is such a crush here tonight, don’t you think? It’s precisely why I came out to get some air.”

  Lord, she was babbling. She’d never babbled in her life. Because she’d never before practiced to deceive.

  Apparently, tonight was to be full of firsts for her.

  “Have you seen Thorn?” Beatrice asked, looking suspicious. “I could have sworn he was with you when you came out here.”

  “Oh. He . . . um . . . merely showed me the garden and hurried back inside. I believe he was headed in search of more ratafia.”

  Beatrice’s face cleared. “That does sound like my brother-in-law.” She patted Olivia’s hand and headed for the door. “I’m sure we’ll run into him again.”

  Olivia hoped not. Her body couldn’t take much more of a practiced rakehell’s attentions.

  Thank goodness she wouldn’t have to see him after this. She and the Greycourts were leaving for their estate tomorrow, and she could bury herself once more in her work.

  Now if only she didn’t have fresh fuel for her fantasies, her nights would be calm. But she suspected it would be a long while before that happened.

  * * *

  Thorn sat on the bench, waiting until he was certain that Beatrice and Olivia were gone, then waiting a while longer for his arousal to subside. Damn it all to hell. He’d handled matters badly. He’d intended to inform Olivia he’d be keeping an eye on her at Grey’s estate.

  Instead, he’d fallen right back into doing things with her that were most unwise. It didn’t bode well for his ability to keep her at bay at Grey’s.

  Perhaps he shouldn’t go.

  Like hell he shouldn’t. He still wasn’t convinced of her motives for doing this. And even if she proved as transparent as she seemed, she could very well be incompetent as a chemist. What did he know about chemistry? What did Grey, for that matter?

  He rose. The ladies were gone. And he had a long night ahead of him. Presently Vickerman was awaiting his latest play, so Thorn—or rather, Konrad Juncker—would have to put the theater manager off again if Thorn meant to join Grey and the others for the trip to Carymont tomorrow.

  It couldn’t be helped. He would make that clear to Juncker. Having grown up in London, Juncker was no more German than Thorn, but the two had become fast friends over the writing of Thorn’s plays.

  Thorn had been reluctant from the
beginning to let it be known he was a working writer. One reason was the freedom that using Juncker afforded him. Thorn could easily move about the stews without anyone realizing he was doing research.

  The other reason was to protect his family. Before the death of his stepfather, the only father he’d ever known, he’d been loath to hurt Father’s career as ambassador to Prussia. And now that all his family was here, Thorn was even more wary of exposing himself and them.

  Juncker was happy to oblige. The adventures had made him famous, and that in turn helped him get his poems published. Once in a while, Juncker even wrote a bit or two for the plays. Poets didn’t make much, after all, and Thorn was happy to pay his friend for the use of his name and any writing he wished to do for Thorn’s works.

  Thorn walked into the ballroom, only to find himself surrounded by half his family. His mother was standing with Bonham, which grated on Thorn, and Olivia stood beside her, which did not. He glanced around for Lady Norley, but she was across the room chatting with Mother’s closest friend, Lady Hornsby. Judging from their animated gestures, they had known each other long enough to be comfortable together. Hmm.

  “Oh, look who’s come in from the garden now,” Gwyn said with a twinkle in her eye. “How odd that you and Miss Norley chose to get a breath of fresh air at nearly the same time.”

  “Leave them alone, my dear,” Mother said. “Thorn isn’t so foolish as to take a young, respectable woman he’s just met out into the garden. I’m sure they didn’t even cross paths.”

  Thorn could tell a subtle warning when he heard one. It was her way of slapping his wrist. “Mother’s right. Miss Norley is perfectly safe from me. And anyway, I was actually out in the mews, looking at that new gelding Major Wolfe keeps bragging about.”

  “He’s a prime goer, isn’t he?” his brother-in-law put in.

  “Indeed, he is,” Thorn lied.

  Gwyn and Beatrice exchanged glances. They didn’t believe him for a minute. Even Grey narrowed his gaze on Thorn, while Olivia merely stared serenely at the company as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

  That only proved, once again, that she couldn’t be trusted. Most ladies would have some reaction to being teased about being caught with a man. Yet not even a blush stained her cheeks.

  Come to think of it, he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her blush. Unfortunately, that only made him wonder what it would take to gain one.

  Damn it to hell.

  “Mother, I’ll be away from town for a while. I’m planning on traveling with Grey, Beatrice, and Miss Norley to Carymont tomorrow.”

  Olivia’s gaze shot to him and color stained her cheeks. Ah, so he could make her blush, though her embarrassment quickly turned to anger, judging by the daggered glance she shot him. She was clearly none too happy, which was precisely what he’d intended. To put her on her guard. To let her know that she’d best behave herself around his relations.

  But a quick survey of his family’s reaction showed that throwing his cannonball into the cozy group had roused more than Olivia to anger.

  “Grey!” Beatrice exclaimed, with hurt in her voice. “You knew about this and didn’t tell me?”

  Grey shot Thorn a foul look. “It was just decided tonight, sweetheart. A short while ago, as a matter of fact. I was about to tell you when Thorn interrupted.”

  Beatrice looked unconvinced.

  “I’m hoping to purchase some property in Suffolk,” Thorn lied blithely, “so I thought I might as well travel there with family to observe the place and then hire a post chaise to return.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Gwyn and Mother smirking at him. Let them smirk. They saw love matches everywhere, and if they thought he was sweet on Olivia, they wouldn’t give him much grief about his comings and goings.

  Major Wolfe, on the other hand, was hard to read. Thorn’s brother-in-law was always enigmatic, but tonight he was positively inscrutable. What was the man thinking? Wolfe already knew quite a bit about Grey’s suspicions concerning his father’s death, so he might be drawing his own conclusions about the trip to Carymont. For that matter, Beatrice might have mentioned to him the real reason for it. She and her brother were very close.

  Well, at least the major was in their corner. Bad leg or not, Wolfe would make a formidable foe for anyone.

  “Forgive me, Lady Gwyn,” Olivia said, without so much as a glance his way, “but if I’m to be traveling tomorrow, I had best get plenty of sleep tonight. So I believe I’ll fetch Mama and have your footman call for our carriage.”

  “Of course, my dear,” Gwyn said, shooting him a knowing look. “Given the circumstances, we’re pleased you even managed to attend. I’ll walk you out.”

  Damn. He shouldn’t have told everyone about going to Suffolk. Now he would have to endure questions from Gwyn and Beatrice and Mother for the rest of the night.

  The hell he would. As soon as Olivia and Gwyn had walked away, he went over to kiss his mother’s cheek. “I’d best be off, too, Mother, for the same reason as Miss Norley. I don’t want to be the one to hold up Grey’s leaving in the morning. You know how he hates getting a late start.”

  “I mean to leave at eight a.m.,” Grey said with a taunting smile. “Or earlier, if you can manage it.”

  Thorn stifled a groan. “In other words, your usual crack of dawn departure. I’ll do my best.”

  “But Carymont isn’t far, is it?” Bonham interjected. “So you should have an easy journey even if you do get a late start.”

  Thorn stared the fellow down. Bonham had no right even to enter the conversation, much less stand there making calf ’s eyes at Mother. What she could see in the man escaped Thorn entirely. He was handsome for a gentleman in his sixties—with a full head of graying hair, a robust body, and no sagging jowls—but Thorn still resented his presence.

  “We’ll have an easy journey regardless,” Thorn said. “Traveling with family is always pleasant.”

  Bonham flashed him a ghost of a smile. “With family and Miss Norley, you mean.”

  Damn him. “Of course.”

  Then, as Mother chuckled, Thorn walked off. He tried not to fume as he left, knowing that he’d been rude, but also not caring. His encounter with Miss Norley had put him in a foul mood, and his talk with Juncker about the play wasn’t likely to improve it. Olivia might get some sleep tonight, but he doubted he’d get any.

  Fortunately, he found Juncker at his lodgings in the Albany Hotel and didn’t have to go hunting through taverns half the night to run the chap down. Juncker’s rooms were nicer than any bachelor could want, which he could ill have afforded without Thorn’s money.

  Thorn wasn’t surprised when the fellow met him at the door clearly dressed to go out. “Thorn!” Juncker cried. “You’re just in time to join me. I’m going to that new tavern on Piccadilly where the barmaids have nice arses and even nicer—”

  “I can’t.” Pushing past Juncker, he dropped onto the aging sofa. “I’m leaving for Suffolk in the morning.”

  Juncker’s mood changed at once. With a scowl, he shut the door. “What about the play? You said you’d have it finished this week.”

  “I know, but something came up. I’ll work on the ending while I’m traveling.”

  “You always say that,” Juncker grumbled, “yet you never do. Once you leave London, I have no hope of seeing any writing from you.”

  Juncker began to pace, his beetled brow appearing fearsome indeed. His height alone would intimidate, but his dark blue eyes and wildly disordered blond hair—what was called the “frightened owl” style—made him look like a madman. Gentlemen usually steered clear of him.

  Ladies did not. Juncker was the very figure of the tortured writer, and women always swooned over that.

  Juncker glared at him. “I don’t understand why you don’t just tell Vickerman you write the plays. Then every time you leave town, he’ll be more than happy to allow you a reprieve. Hell, he’d be ecstatic to have a duke in his arsenal.”


  “That’s the problem. I don’t want people knowing I wrote them, and Vickerman would only succeed in keeping it secret for the space of a day. If that.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Besides, if you don’t write for me, how will you live so well?”

  Juncker’s shoulders slumped. “True.”

  “So stop fretting, for God’s sake,” Thorn said irritably. “Vickerman will understand. Just tell him your muse is on holiday.”

  “He doesn’t believe in muses. He believes in cold, hard cash, as you well know. And he gets damned disagreeable when I can’t produce the work for him because you’re off doing as you please.” Juncker stalked up to pin Thorn with an accusing look. “He’s not the only one. If you aren’t careful, I’ll write the damn plays myself, and to hell with you.”

  Thorn laughed. “All the characters will speak in iambic pentameter, I suppose.” When Juncker didn’t rise to the bait, Thorn added, “If it’s money you’re worried about, I can advance you some until Vickerman pays for the play.”

  Juncker snorted. “It’s not money. Not yet, anyway. I just . . . It’s been a while since we had a play in the theater. People seem to be losing interest.”

  “If they are, c’est la vie. All good things must come to an end eventually.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. You don’t have to worry about the money. I’m the one who’ll be out in the cold.”

  Seeing his friend’s doleful look, he rose to place a hand on his shoulder. “You know I was merely joking about the iambic pentameter, don’t you?”

  Juncker’s terse nod struck Thorn to the heart.

  Thorn sighed. “You’re a fine poet. And a fine writer in general. What happened to that novel you were working on? What I read of it was damned good, and now that you’re famous in London circles, you would probably have no trouble getting published.”

  “If I finished it.” His friend pulled away. “Unlike yours, my muse went on holiday, fell off the ship, and drowned. I haven’t gone beyond chapter five.” Juncker tapped his head. “I’m dry as dust up here, cobwebs everywhere.”

  “I know the feeling well,” Thorn said. “Just keep writing. It will come.”