The Brooding Duke of Danforth

by Christine Merrill

  ‘So young,’ she whispered. ‘How did you manage?’

  ‘I had no other choice but to do so,’ he said. ‘Though I continued to sneak biscuits from the kitchen, I made a point of being circumspect in other aspects of my life. I learned to listen more than I spoke. My silence allowed people to assume a depth of character that I did not, at first, have.’

  ‘You must have seemed a very serious young man,’ she said. It explained why he had grown into such a reserved adult.

  But today he smiled. ‘I suspect everyone preferred my behaviour to that of my father. He was an absolute tartar to both family and servants.’ He said it in an offhand manner, as if living with such a man was no trouble at all.

  She stared at him in amazement, for she knew otherwise.

  ‘Have I done something to surprise you?’ he said.

  ‘Since arriving at this house, you have done nothing but surprise me,’ she said. Not only was more he open and talkative than he had been, with this secluded luncheon he had set a scene which seemed quite proper on one hand and ripe for seduction on the other.

  His smile now looked smug. ‘Good. It will not do to be too predictable in courting you, I think. Would you like a grape?’

  She held up a hand. ‘We are courting, then?’

  ‘I thought you knew.’ He held the fruit out to her, rolling it between his fingers in a way that made her nipples tighten.

  ‘To what end?’ she said, forcing herself to look into his eyes and not at his clever hands.

  ‘I still hope to make you my Duchess,’ he said, popping the grape into his own mouth.

  Now she was watching his lips, imagining his tongue on her body. ‘Does that mean you have forgiven me for the way our last engagement ended?’

  ‘I blame myself for that,’ he said, reaching into the basket for another grape. ‘I assumed that my title was enough to guarantee success of the union.’

  ‘With most women, it would have been,’ she allowed. It should have been. She had been informed of that often enough. But she had wanted him to speak freely, a thing he had trained himself never to do. ‘I am sorry that I disappointed you.’

  He touched her hand. ‘Do not be. Since seeing you again, I have decided that such a shallow acceptance was not enough for me,’ he replied, giving her a significant look. He was not precisely staring, but the level of interest when he looked at her had changed in the few days that they had been talking. In London, she had been convinced that she bored him. But now he was definitely interested in her and not just because he wished to do the things he’d suggested last night.

  ‘Why did you propose to me the last time?’

  ‘So many questions,’ he said, holding out the grape to her.

  She reached for it and he pulled his hand away, then offered it again, his hand extending to touch her lips.

  She closed her eyes and took it, trying to ignore the faint warmth of his hand and concentrate on the pop of the skin and the burst of sweetness on her tongue. She swallowed and looked at him again. ‘You have not answered me.’

  He shrugged. ‘It is a bad habit of mine.’

  ‘I am aware of that,’ she said, helping herself to another grape. ‘But you promised to do better than you did the first time you proposed, so you must indulge at least some of my curiosity.’

  He responded with a nod of acquiescence.

  ‘When you offered for me, we were strangers. I had no idea what I had done to attract your attention, nor do I understand this renewal.’

  This seemed to surprise him. But rather than annoyance, the puzzlement turned into the slightest of smiles. ‘I am not used to having my motives questioned.’

  ‘Then I doubt we will do well together,’ she said, pushing her plate aside. ‘For I will do so frequently. You cannot expect me to walk blindly through the rest of my life, trusting that you know what is best for both of us, especially since you’ve made no effort to discover my likes or dislikes, needs or wants.’

  ‘Until now,’ he reminded her. ‘Lenore says that, because of my title, I am too used to having my own way.’

  ‘And apparently I have to tell you that it is never good to mention one lady while courting another,’ Abby replied. ‘Especially when it is your goal to convince her that she has no rival.’

  ‘Very true,’ he said, nodding again. ‘My apologies, Miss Prescott.’ Then he smiled in a way that showed his confidence had returned. ‘Or, after what has happened between us already, might I call you Abigail?’

  She could not help the blush creeping into her cheeks as she said, ‘I prefer Abby. Abigail makes me sound like a maid.’

  He nodded. ‘Very well, Abby, you wished to know why I offered for you.’

  ‘And why you continue to pursue me,’ she added. ‘And do not tell me that it is because I am pretty. There are girls making their come out this Season who are far prettier and who have more advantageous connections, as well. But you did not wish to marry any of them.’

  ‘Possibly true,’ he agreed. ‘But beauty is a matter of personal taste and I cannot think of any female in a decade of Seasons that I consider finer than you.’

  ‘Oh.’ Was it possible to be both flattered and disappointed at the same time? If this was the answer to her question, it was far less than she had hoped to hear.

  Then he smiled again. ‘That said, it was not the main thing that attracted me to you. Do you remember the night we met?’

  ‘If you are speaking of the ball at Almack’s, we did not actually meet,’ she pointed out.

  ‘But you do you remember it, just as I do,’ he said. There was warmth in his voice, as he recalled it, as if it was possible to savour a moment, like a glass of good brandy.

  ‘We did not speak, nor were we introduced.’ That was what she’d told herself on the carriage ride home. And later that night, when she could not stop thinking of him.

  ‘And yet I liked to think we had met,’ he said, his conviction unshaken. ‘I watched you, discreetly, for the rest of the evening. I was waiting for you to do something that would bring me to my senses. Instead, I saw the way you dealt with your father’s temper.’

  That night, she had been so busy wondering about him that she’d almost managed to forget the rest of the evening. ‘He was angry that we were late,’ she said.

  ‘You were not the success he’d hoped,’ the Duke added.

  The reminder of it stung. That night, she’d told herself that most of the available gentlemen were busy with other ladies. But there had been a niggling fear that there was something about her that had repelled their interest. ‘Was your offer made to console me?’ she said, confused.

  He shook his head and his smile became a grin of admiration. ‘You did not seem to need my help. When your father badgered you over it, you said you would throw a fit on the dance floor to shame him. I believe demonic possession was referenced.’

  ‘Oh.’ In retrospect, she was not sure which was more embarrassing, the fact that her words had been overheard, or how near they were to the truth. When she had uttered them, the pressure had been building behind her temples and she had been sure that if her father spoke one more word she would cast up her dinner on the dance floor, or, at the very least, fall into a swoon.

  Apparently, it had never occurred to the Duke that she had been in distress for he laughed at the memory. ‘I had been preparing to rush to your aid and salvage your night by requesting an introduction. Instead, you put Prescott in his place and he gave you no further trouble.’

  ‘Not until we got home, at least,’ she replied. Because her father had learned exactly how much abuse his family could take when they were in public, he was at his worst when there were no witnesses. He had badgered her mother to the edge of tears. Then he had stopped and turned his temper to Abby. ‘Father ranted about that evening for almost a week.’ And she had stayed in her room with
a basin near her head and the curtains drawn against the light. ‘But then you arrived with your offer and, suddenly, I could do no wrong.’

  Then she had spoiled the wedding and his mood as well. ‘I was forced to rusticate after the wedding,’ she said, afraid to look up from her wine glass. ‘Mama went with me, of course. But Father loathes the country. He had found consolation in the arms of a new mistress.’

  ‘When my father was alive, he was much the same.’ His voice was gentle, like the hand of a surgeon, probing a fresh wound. ‘Early in life, I realised that it was not possible to get the upper hand against a man who need answer only to the King, so I stopped trying to fight him. I never shouted back at him. I did not contradict him, no matter how wrong he was. I did not frown or laugh or smile or cry. I did not cower in the face of his rage. I simply waited until it stopped.’

  ‘Did he surrender when you refused to argue?’ she said, intrigued.

  ‘On the contrary, it made him even angrier. I won in the end, of course. He shouted himself into an apoplexy and died before I reached my majority. Then I took his place as head of the family.’

  ‘It appears that you never lost the habit of hiding your thoughts and feelings,’ she said. ‘In London, I assumed your aloof nature was because you had no real interest in me.’

  ‘I am not without feelings,’ he assured her. ‘I simply do not believe in showing them to excess, as my father did. It is quite possible that he’d have lived longer had he not spent all his energy in trying to break me.’ He was smiling now, in the same distant way he had as he’d proposed to her, as though his mind was somewhere far away and not nearly so happy.

  ‘It was not your fault he died young,’ she said.

  He came back to her, then, with the doubtful raise of an eyebrow. ‘It was me he was shouting at when he had his final attack. It would not have been so bad if he had gone quickly. But he lingered in a sickbed for some months after he was stricken. He still tried to shout, but his mouth and tongue could no longer work to speak clearly.’ There was a brief flash of pain in his eyes, immediately stifled by his iron will. ‘He did not really need words. I could understand him well enough. I knew exactly what he wished to say to me.’

  ‘Have you told anyone of this?’ she asked in a quiet voice.

  ‘Not even Lenore,’ he said, looking faintly surprised again.

  It would be easier for both of them if he would cry. After a lifetime with her mother, she knew how to handle tears. Anger as well, thanks to her father. But there was nothing in her life to teach her how to mend pain that she could not even see.

  So, she reached out to him in the only way she could think of, putting her arms around his neck and her mouth to his.

  His breath was unsteady at first, as though he could not decide whether to take advantage of what she was offering or push her away. It would have been easier for him to tempt her to submission one grape at a time, plying her with wine and cake until her legs spread and her last reservations disappeared.

  It would have been wonderful, she was sure, just as the last two kisses had been. But though she had been ready to give all to him, he had kept a part of himself separate from her. Today, she wanted more from him.

  He fought that battle for only a few seconds before surrendering to what she wanted. With each passing moment she held him, he seemed to calm, the muscles of his arms and neck growing soft under her hands, before tensing again. Then he gathered her to him and stretched out on the blanket, pulling her down to lay beside him, touching from head to foot. There was a rattle of plates and the tinkling of a spilled glass as his free arm swept the picnic out of the way. Then there was nothing but the crunch of dry leaves under their bodies and the twinned sounds of their breathing.

  After a time, the kiss ended and he touched her face, brushing the hair from her eyes and tracing the curve of her parted lips with his thumb. She responded in kind, grazing his cheek with her knuckles and feeling the beginnings of stubble. Then, as she had with the kiss, she led the way, stroking his shoulders and slipping her hands under his coat, unbuttoning his waistcoat to rest her palms on the linen of his shirt, dragging her fingertips down his body until they caught under the top band of his breeches.

  He let out another shaky sigh and reached to undo his buttons, letting the flap of his pants fall. She knew his manhood must be there, just within reach, but she could not bring herself to look away from his face. His eyes were closed, his mouth unsmiling, lips parted, moving as if in silent prayer. He was waiting for her to decide what she wanted from him.

  It was unfair of him to leave this to her, when he knew that she did not know what was supposed to happen next. But if she admitted defeat, the part of him that she most wanted would retreat, to be replaced by the man he showed to others: cool, efficient and invulnerable. So, she did as she had done before and led blindly.

  She took her hands away from his waist. With one she raised her skirts and with the other she dragged his hand beneath them, placing it on the bare skin of her thigh. Then she reached out with both hands and cradled his manhood in them.

  His eyelids flew open and his shocked gaze locked with hers, eyes widening as she began to explore, feeling the soft skin grow hard and tight over blood and muscle. His whole body jerked in surprise as she stroked him from root to tip and his other hand plunged forward, beneath her petticoats, then froze as it closed on the crease at the top of her leg.

  She stroked again, harder this time, running a nail along the skin at the head of him, silently daring him to go further.

  In response, he sucked a breath through his teeth as if struggling to maintain control. Then his hand relaxed and his knuckles grazed the folds between her legs. He parted them with his thumb and with a single touch, she could feel herself move closer to release. His hand moved again and his fingers slid into her, claiming her body as his own.

  It was very, very good, but it was not the sudden rush of pleasure that she’d felt when he had kissed her in the bedroom upstairs. He was toying with her, prolonging the play, waiting for...something. Then she understood. She had the power to make him do whatever she pleased.

  She tightened her grip on him, pretending that her hands were her body, making a channel of them, enveloping him. His legs were shaking, his hips bucking under her ministrations. But his fingers began to move inside her, trying to gain control of her before he lost his.

  He would fail. Because this time, she refused to let him win until he had given her every part of himself. He was near to breaking, his expression desperate, his breath coming in gasps, then released slowly as he tried not to give in to her.

  She closed her eyes, pretending to surrender, and wet her lips, biting the lower one with her teeth as she concentrated on how he felt in her hands and imagining how it might feel to have him where his fingers were, buried to the part that was now cupped and resting heavy in one of her hands. He would move in her like the slide of her hand on him now and her muscles would hold him inside, just...like...this.

  Suddenly, his whole body stiffened, then went limp as he gave a final groan and spent himself in her hand. She opened her eyes then, to find his face not defeated, but triumphant. His smile was almost a grimace of pain, his cheeks wet with sweat or tears as if, by touching him, she had wrung every last feeling out of him along with his release.

  There was a moment of utter stillness between them. Then, his hands began to work against her. They were gentle now, relaxed and sure. But they were no less possessive. One of his thumbs went unerringly to the most sensitive place, circling it as his fingers slipped deep inside her again.

  ‘Good?’ he asked. He sounded as breathless as she felt. Was that what she had done to him? She nodded. It was very good. It was even better than the last time. When she was sure that he had done all he could to her, still he did not stop, moving faster, making her beg. Making her break as he had done.

  He
did not withdraw as she came back to herself. But then she had not released him, either. He was still resting safely against her palm as they stared into each other’s eyes.

  ‘This was not what I had planned for the afternoon,’ he said, his composure returning, though the smile accompanying it was not quite so unreadable.

  ‘What were you intending?’ she said.

  ‘Just a picnic,’ he said, trying to look innocent. ‘And to let nature take its course.’

  She must have looked confused for he laughed. ‘I thought, perhaps, I might try to seduce you.’

  ‘With grapes?’ she said, remembering how he had been feeding her before.

  ‘I knew it was unwise. You are an innocent young lady, after all.’

  ‘Am I, still?’ she said, suddenly doubtful.

  ‘You have stumbled upon a game that is much more fun than hide-and-seek,’ he said, moving his fingers inside her body. ‘And far safer than the one I might have attempted.’

  It was hard to imagine that real lovemaking might be more risky than this, for what was happening did not feel safe at all. What they had done was wet and messy and dangerous. It was broad daylight. They were both half-naked. And she suspected that, in the throes of passion, she might have sat on a teacake.

  But she could feel her body waking again, with each movement he made, and the organ in her hand seemed to be waking as well. And the Duke of Danforth was looking at her with a hopeful smile that made her want to call him Benedict and agree to anything he might suggest.

  ‘How long?’ she said, half-whispering.

  ‘How long for what?’ he responded.

  ‘How long until we are missed?’ she asked, not sure whether she was more hopeful or worried.

  He consulted his pocket watch. ‘An hour at least.’ The smile he gave her next almost stopped her heart. ‘And that, my darling Abigail, is all the time in the world.’