The Duke and I: A Forever Yours Novella

by Reid, Stacy

  Her sister was right; Emma was petrified. Not because her brother or papa might discover her recklessness. But that she would fail to rouse Elliot’s interest, and had to endure a lifetime of regrets, like never kissing him again or holding him for more than a few seconds. It had been distressing to realize how empty her life was, and how fearful she was to act on the hope and desires she’d harbored for years. There was no joy at the thought of being a countess, only a raw, unbridled fear that a lifetime with someone she held no affections for would reflect her parents’ indifferent relationship. That he would treat her with pity and disdain because of her wounds.

  She wanted to break away and be free, even if for only one night. She felt suffocated, and the need for something else had been roiling inside her. A seething cauldron of restlessness, hope, and need for more. One night for herself to indulge and she only wanted that with Elliot, the boy she had loved with such intensity, and the man she still admired, if only because of his business acumen and charitable kindness, for he did not allow her close enough for anything else. Perhaps if she had one wicked night with the duke, she could move on from him, and just maybe finally silence the part of her that had started longing for him since her fifteenth year. She’d always struggled with wicked unladylike thoughts of Elliot kissing her, and doing so much more.

  I’ll not trouble you with my unwanted sentiments ever again, Miss Emma. And he had been faithful to his words, even when she had silently cried and hoped he would not give up on her.

  “Are you not at all scared. What if…what if your leg…”

  Dark emotions reared its head and clogged her throat. There were days she wished she was as unblemished as her sister. If that were so, she wouldn’t be so nervous about seducing someone as handsome and self-assured as Elliot. “I will be fine. I’ve taken long walks through the gardens without my walking stick. And I am wearing stockings. I shan’t remove them at all.”

  “Emma, how scandalous are you hoping to be?” Her sister demanded in a horrified whisper, her light blue eyes flashing with excitement and trepidation.

  “I plan to be as scandalous as possible. Isn’t that the objective of a masquerade at a country manor? Debauchery and wickedness?” Emma could not tell if she was expectant or terrified.

  Her sister lightly touched her hand. “Oh, Emma, I wish I were brave as you.”

  Emma smiled and smoothed her hand over the soft lines of her dress. She wore a dark red satin gown with a dubious neckline. The depth of the décolletage was more revealing than Emma had ever dared wear before, but it was modest compared with those her sister had worn since her marriage. This was not a gown that would be considered suitable for an unwed virgin lady. It invited male interest and definitely suggested that interest would be encouraged. Emma had a tiny waist and had daringly decided not to wear her stays under the dress, so the gown revealed the actual contours of her body not just the delicate flesh of her voluptuous breasts. It had taken her all week with the help of Maryann to complete the gown. “Do I pass muster?”

  “Oh Emma, you are gorgeous.” A blush heated Maryann’s face, and she rubbed her pregnant belly almost absently. “Do you…do you know what will happen? Though I am younger, I am a married woman, and you have no notion what to expect in a seduction.”

  Emma’s entire body blushed when she understood her sister’s apparent mortification. “He has kissed me before…it was years ago.”

  “I gather you plan to do far more than kissing,” Maryann said pertly, her face burning a brighter red.

  “I…if the situation calls for it.”

  “I cannot credit I am about to tell you how to prepare for a scoundrel to take liberties with you!”

  Emma choked back a horrified laugh. “It is not necessary, I am sure Elliott knows how to take liberties with a woman,” she said softly, though she desperately wished she knew. “The carriage is ready, and I must leave and return before Anthony reaches home.”

  “You do know if he is likely to be there?”

  A shiver, half dread, half anticipation, ruffled her nerves.

  “I believe he said he had a previous engagement and would not attend the masquerade. And even if he does, he is quite unlikely to recognize me with this blonde wig and face mask, and without my walking stick. You needn’t worry, Maryann, all shall be well.”

  “We have never done anything quite so scandalous, and I’ve been told by mamma my marriage to Dr. Hugh Grantham bordered on indecency. If this ever becomes known, I daresay you will send mamma to an early grave.”

  “I do not want to live with regrets, Maryann, I do not want to look back on my life twenty years from now and wonder what it would have been like to just be with him,” she said softly. “To kiss him, even if it is just once more.”

  A tingle of excitement jolted through her system. No one else had ever stirred this raw sensuality inside of her, the one that roiled in her blood, screaming for freedom.

  “Promise me you will be careful. Our brother must never know, Emma.”

  “I cannot live under the thumb of Anthony in every aspect of my life. I already feel as if I am a shadow of who I could be.”

  The tide of familiar pain and regret rose to choke her like thick smoke. She needed this, or one day she would simply shatter, and nothing would be able to piece her back together.

  Tonight, she would live.

  Chapter 3

  Every sense and emotion of Elliot narrowed onto the lady who sauntered into the grand ballroom of the Lady Waverly’s stately country manor. He froze, but just for a moment. Miss Emma Fitzgerald. He would know the curve of her lips, that pointed chin, and her delectably petite shape and curves anywhere. His foundation rocked at the implication she was at Lady Waverly’s house party and masquerade ball. These sorts of entertainment were ones no genteel lady of society should attend. The lack of a limp surprised him. Since the accident, he had never encountered her before without a cane for assistance. Perhaps I am mistaken in the identity. It was unpardonable that someone else could illicit such a visceral reaction in him.

  A mass of silky dark blonde strands was piled atop her head in an elaborate style. Clearly, a wig, for Miss Emma Fitzgerald was the possessor of a mane of glorious red hair that burned like fire under the sun. Her lips were painted vixen red, luscious and pouting. Her sensual body was fitted into a red ball gown with a distressingly lowered neckline, which hugged along her breasts like a possessive lover, before falling in a shimmer to her ankles. The cut of the gown accented her small waste and all her generous curves. The domino mask was one of dark gold with black feathers, fashioned to cover the upper part of her cheeks and nose.

  No…it was her, and a fierce dart of pride arrowed through him at her accomplishment. How he wished she had allowed him to be there for her through what must have been dark and trying times.

  Something he had thought long dead rose from the silent depths of his soul. It stirred, stretched, and hummed as a blast of pleasure rocked him back on his heels. Emma was here, in his domain.

  Devil take it. Why is she here?

  It should be patently obvious to his scrambled brain, but somehow, he couldn’t process that Emma was dressed so provocatively, or worse she had planned a tryst. There was truly no other reason to attend the countess’s yearly ball but to be scandalous. There were no debutants here, no charming ingénues, only rakes and scoundrels, Cyprians, merry widows, disenchanted wives, courtesans and their debauchers. He watched her covertly from the upper balcony of the second floor, a dark and secluded spot covered by jungle like greenery where he had been lingering and watching the rowdy throng below. A worried frown flittered over her features, and her teeth bit her lower lip betraying her nervousness. That wide lush mouth. He’d imagined kissing them, at first gently, then ravenously, for years.

  Being so focused on her lips, it took him a few seconds to realize she searched for someone specifically. He would call out and put a bullet in whoever she planned to rendezvous with. Elliot would not al
low a bounder to take advantage of her sweetness, her innocence, and the lush sensuality with which she glowed.

  He almost sent a note to Anthony who had elected to attend a ball in London and decided against it. Emma would be more than embarrassed if Elliot informed her brother of her recklessness. It was not as if she was a young debutante anymore. She was five and twenty. He convinced himself he was only doing what any friend of Anthony’s would do as Elliot followed her, working his way down the winding stairs, always a few paces behind her, never letting her out of his sight as she made her way through the crowded ballroom.

  Boredom no longer held him. All ennui had vanished the moment he spied her. it was a dangerous thing to acknowledge. He wanted to gut the men that enjoyed a double, triple, a quadruple glance and salivated despite being with their own ladies. He would know exactly where to cut, he thought viciously, for he had assisted his father numerous times in his surgery.

  Emma was alluring, but it was more than that. The lush eroticism she displayed with her sweet voluptuous body drew every libertine’s unabashed admiration. But it would be the innocence that sparkled from her dark blue eyes that enticed. It shouldn’t, but it did. The predator in the men around would soon stir, and the dark primal part of them would itch to take her untapped sensuality and corrupt her. That was certainly the effect she had on him. Elliot wanted to wrap those wide sexy pouting lips of hers around his cock, bruising and pleasuring her lips, and then ride her body for hours.

  Bloody Hell.

  Anger snapped through him, and he gritted his teeth against his lurid thoughts. What the hell was wrong with him? This was the reason he had stayed so faithfully away from Emma. He was unable to conceal his evident desire for her, and he had gained a broken nose to prove the consequences of thinking carnally about her.

  After a few minutes of casually circling the packed ballroom, her shoulders wilted. The confidence she had strolled in with wavered, and she spun as if heading for the entrance then faltered.

  He frowned, concern curling through him as she clearly battled with herself. Whatever it was she fought with, the determination won. She visibly firmed her shoulders, notched her chin a little higher and sauntered back into the throng. A few gentlemen wasted no time approaching her, and while she smiled and responded, he could see her wariness.

  A servant was passing with a tray of champagne, she reached out and snared a glass.

  Why was she there? Why would she take such a risk with her reputation? No one attended Lady Waverly’s masquerade ball for dancing and fun, they sought illicit pleasures and discreet bedding partners. Lady Waverly might have gained a title from her marriage to the late Peregrine Chambers, Earl of Waverly but she was not truly part of society. She reigned over London’s demi-mondaine, but she would always be thought of as a former high-class courtesan who had caught her aging husband in parson’s mousetrap. If her luscious charms had driven the old man to his grave early, as was rumored, then he had departed the earth with a smile on his face. However, much of the old tabbies of the ton deplored her existence, she had provided her earl with an heir and a spare before he headed for pastures new.

  Elliot leaned against a column, careful to be out of her line of sight and observed how Emma behaved. She was looking for someone, and that man had not long to live, for Elliot would make sure the bastard failed in seducing her. She stood out from the crowd in a manner that was both alarming and enticing. Surely the predatory rakes would detect the innocent within their mix and want to be the first to seduce her into bed. She also wore the least revealing gown, the barely-there décolletage designed to entice, and from the admiring glances aimed her way, she had certainly succeeded.

  She stood apart from the fashionable crowd, a small smile on that wide lush mouth as she observed the dancers. Beautifully gowned, and bejeweled women were gliding around the room in a waltz, and they were being held far too close than was considered appropriate. But that was the point, here they could be as scandalous as they wanted without judgment, safe behind their masks and wigs.

  It was one of the reasons he liked attending Lady Waverly’s outrageous parties and balls. It was the one night people were honest with their needs and desires. Here the rules of modesty and decorum, duplicity and pretentiousness were forgotten once everyone alighted from their carriages. Here ladies and gentlemen were far bolder and more improper than they might have been otherwise. It was so unusual for people to be themselves in the world he had been thrust in. Elliot hoped the day would eventually come when everyone would do away with the masks and be themselves without fear of judgement.

  Emma seemed undecided, and her evident nervousness grew, and after the third glass of champagne, she seemed jittery. A few gentlemen sidled up to her, and with wide eyes, she shook her head wordlessly. One lingered, the persistent bounder, but with a sweet smile, she left the presence of viscount Beauford and strolled along the edge of the ballroom.

  And not once did Elliot remove his gaze from Emma. He had missed her.

  Though he had seen her last week, he hadn’t taken the time to converse with her. Her face had lighted with pleasure when she had seen him, and some of his loneliness had been chased away. It was damned stupid, but her smile always had that effect on him. Warmth crept inside when she bestowed it in his direction, intentionally or not. Elliot didn’t even want to think about the power of her laugh, or he might do something stupid. Something like thinking her presence at the scandalous house party meant more, meant that he could satisfy whatever craving drove her here.

  She exited the ballroom and walked with slow, measured steps down the massive hallway. He lingered in the shadowed entrance of the ballroom until he noted where she went. A few minutes later she emerged from the withdrawing room and walked back toward the main staircase. She went through the French door and into a small, secluded garden. A part of him knew he would regret it, but he was compelled to ensure her safety. Though in his gut, Elliot knew the person she needed protection from most was himself.

  A soft breeze whispered through the trees, carrying with it the scent of jasmine and roses. She lifted her face to the cool night air, and the sigh that issued from her was forlorn. Emma moved further into the gardens, skirting pass a birdbath with surprising grace. Elliot made his way over to the lone fountain and lowered himself onto a stone bench which was partially obscured by an over pruned rosebush. He must have made some sound, for she whipped around with more speed and grace than he’d expected. Her eyes flicked around the shadows of the garden, probing and seeking. He stood, and stepped closer, their gazes collided, and she swallowed. The movement was slight, and if Elliot hadn’t been watching her so intently, he would have missed it. What he saw in her blue gaze froze him—relief, a hot flash of desire and need, before her lids shuttered.

  Sweet mercy!

  He gripped his glass of whisky, needing an anchor, and lifted the glass to his lips, and with one long swallow finished his drink, his gaze never leaving her body. She momentarily looked away, then a few beats later glanced back at him and smiled. His awareness of her became acute and intense. Too intense. She finished her glass of champagne in one swallow, set it down by the birdbath, and glided across the expanse of the lawns her stride so confident and sensual he was magnetized. There was no limp, no evident discomfort and for a moment he wondered if it had been his fevered dreams why he had thought this lady was Emma. She sauntered toward him, and he was unable to glance away from her exquisitely voluptuous figure, the sway of her hips, and the determination in her walk.

  Sensations skittered across Elliot’s nerve endings. His breath seized when he realized little Emma was on the prowl—for him. The knowledge filled him with stark need, and fear, and damn if it would abate. He slowly sat, needing something firmer than the ground beneath him. She reached his darkened corner and stepped between his casually splayed legs.

  “They say you are the man to see when one wants to indulge in sin,” she said with a low husky voice that trembled slightly.
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  His heart was damned well near to bursting from his chest. What? “Do they?”

  “Are you not the duke of Hartford, the gentleman dubbed for the last several seasons as a veritable rake of the first order, London’s wickedest lover, and society’s most devilish duke?”

  The question caused his stomach to tighten. “Not everything printed in the scandal sheet is true.” He’d only had a few lovers, and he was quite discriminating when selecting those lovers. He did not dally with innocents, nor had he ever bedded a married or affianced lady.

  “So, I’ve been misinformed. A pity,” she drawled, effortlessly captivating his interest when all the other ladies for this season had been unable to do so. But then Emma Fitzgerald had always been his weakness.

  “Well, half of it is true.”

  “The better part?”

  “The dangerous half.”

  Her lips curved in approval.

  “You must tell me your name so I won't be at a disadvantage,” he said, beyond curious as to her response. Lady Waverly had designed her masquerade so only the identities of the ladies, who had far more to lose within society, were protected.

  “A lady intrigued by the decadence and notorious vices a masquerade ball offers.”

  The silence that stretched between them was filled with something dangerous and exciting.

  He almost expired on the spot. “How intrigued?”

  She made no reply. Instead, she stepped between Elliot’s splayed legs, brushing against his thighs. Bold. Oh so bold and unlike Emma. He tried to reason around the hum of need firing his brain cells. It was then he noticed the mask was not a mask at all but gold paint. Somehow, she had used makeup like the actors did on stage, and whatever else he couldn’t imagine, painting the mask onto her face. The painting covered her forehead, nose, and top half of her cheeks in dark shades of gold. Only the shape of her eyes was fitted with an elegant apple red and black mask that curved to her ears.