The Duke’s Twin

by Lauren Smith

  His face, so full of hope and excitement, made Rebecca’s throat tighten. The man seemed to be truly enchanted by Lydia. Good. Their mother had said Mr. Beresford had a wealthy estate, Beresford House, the next bit of land to the east. And if what her sister had said of him was true, they would make a good match. Their mother would have preferred she marry the duke—or, more to the point, the title that came with him—but that didn’t matter, at least not to Lydia.

  “It seems we are alone, Miss Livingston,” said Wiltshire. “Are you prepared to face your doom upon the court?” A wolfish grin crossed his lips as he pointed his racket toward the lawn.

  An impish desire to play and tease him back took over, and, remembering her sister’s dare, she gave in, relishing in the freedom that came with just being herself.

  “My doom? You will be begging for mercy in a few minutes, Your Grace.” She raised her chin in defiance as she strode across the grass.

  “Then come and fight me, little amazon.” He took up his position, shuttlecock in hand. He continued to smile even as he fired the shuttlecock at her like a bullet.

  She squealed and jumped, but not fast enough. It smacked her in the bottom as she tried to flee. A flicker of anger shot through her, along with something hotter and darker. She shoved the feeling aside and retrieved the feathered ball. She tossed it aloft and then whacked it hard in his direction. He leapt aside with a none-too-graceful shout.

  “So much for civilized sportsmanship,” said the duke.

  She giggled. “I thought you wished to have a challenge.”

  “Very well then—have at you!”

  In moments the game dissolved into a chaotic war where the only goal was to dodge the shuttlecock or send it whizzing to strike the other person. Rebecca was laughing so hard that tears blurred her eyes, while Wiltshire could barely get a breath in between his own rumbling laughter. By the end of the game, they’d destroyed several of the delicate feathered balls.

  “Truce, dear lady, truce!” he begged, staking the racket’s handle on the ground and leaning on the head.

  “I believe the score is tied, Your Grace—four bruises apiece,” said Becca.

  They were but half a dozen feet away from each other now. It felt strangely scandalous to be out of breath so close to the duke like this. Becca still held the last feathered ball, and she cast him one more devilish look before she smacked it hard into his stomach.

  “Oomph!”

  “Five to four.”

  The duke mimed an injury, then dove at her, his hands curling around her waist.

  They stumbled and fell backward. Wiltshire landed first, taking her down with him so that she was sprawled on top. For a long moment neither of them moved. His hard, hot body lay beneath her own, her skirts tangled with his legs. The only sound to be heard was their shared breaths. He cupped her face, his body tensing beneath her. Her legs slid apart so that she almost straddled him. When he brushed his thumb over her bottom lip and parted her mouth, a shiver danced through her body. The sudden urge to wet her lips took over, and she licked, her tongue flicking against his thumb. He sucked in a harsh breath.

  “Christ, your eyes. Such a brilliant blue,” he murmured huskily and started to lift his head. Instinct took over, and she lowered her mouth toward his. So close…

  A distant shout called her back to her senses. Rebecca glanced around in a daze, realizing that her parents, sister, and Mr. Beresford were already down by the lake. It was her mother shouting for her to join them. She could not have seen the compromising position Rebecca and Wiltshire were in, given that the lake was down a sloping hill and the lawn where she and the duke lay was shielded by hedgerows.

  “Bloody hell.” The duke groaned and gently rolled her off him. “I apologize, Miss Livingston. I forgot myself.”

  He hastily stood and helped her to her feet. A strange emotion clouded his eyes, as if he was confused. What he had to be confused about Rebecca wasn’t sure. She only knew the sting of disappointment she felt when they hadn’t kissed. It would have been wonderful, she knew, yet now she would never have the chance again. He’d no doubt come to his senses.

  “Please, allow me to escort you down to the lake.” Wiltshire offered his arm to her, that rakish smile back in place. She was beginning to see that sometimes that smile he wore was a mask. While they’d played badminton, she’d glimpsed another smile, one that was real, sweeter and more seductive than this practiced rakish grin ever could be. He’d let his guard down with her, if only for a little while.

  She brushed the grass off her dress and slipped her arm through his as he led her down the sloping lawn toward the lake. Two easels were set up, and Lydia was already painting. Mr. Beresford stood beside her, attentive as ever, even holding her palette of paint for her while they talked eagerly about something. Rebecca couldn’t hear because she and the duke were still too far away.

  Rebecca noticed with chagrin that her own easel was quite far away from her sister’s. No doubt it had arranged like that on purpose.

  Lovely. Rebecca sighed and took her seat at the second easel. She started to take up her palette, but the duke reached for it first.

  “Allow me.”

  “Oh! You don’t have to” she began

  “Becca, dear, don’t bother His Grace,” her mother called out. “Lord Wiltshire, surely you would like to come watch Lydia paint. She’s so very gifted.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Livingston, but I’m quite content to assist Miss Livingston. My brother has seen to Miss Lydia.” The duke turned back to Rebecca, chuckling at her started expression.

  “What?” he asked.

  “You.”

  “What about me?”

  “You don’t want to go watch my sister?”

  “No, not particularly.” The duke tilted his head to one side as he studied her. “Just between us, I believe you are far more interesting.”

  “Interesting?” Rebecca didn’t think she’d ever heard that word applied to herself before. “I highly doubt that, Your Grace.”

  “Of course you are. I saw you in the library the other night, rearranging books. You’ve read quite a bit, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “I thought so. Now, tell me what you like to read about while I watch you paint a masterpiece.”

  This time she laughed. “Oh heavens, you will be in for quite a surprise, I fear,” she said and dipped one of her brushes in a bit of a paint on the palette he held.

  Above them the clear skies were quickly filling with blue-gray clouds heavy with rain. Maybe it would storm and wash away whatever devastation she was about to wreak upon her canvas.

  The duke stayed beside her, keeping her engaged with polite conversation about a number of subjects that she was interested in as she studied the landscape for a subject to paint. She decided to go with the lake and a grove of trees. Surely that would not be beyond what little talent she possessed.

  “I’m surprised we’ve not crossed paths in town,” Wiltshire noted, taking a stool next to her as she began to paint.

  “I’m not a lover of town. At least, not the balls and social engagements.”

  “And what are you a lover of?” The silken words flooded her entire body with a dizzying warmth. He was a flatterer, she could tell, but he was choosing to flatter her, and that caught her well off guard. She struggled to think.

  “Music, the theater, quiet hours reading in sunshine, riding… What about you?” She masked her curiosity by splashing some blue on her canvas.

  Wiltshire struck a thoughtful pose and looked skyward, as though the answers hung somewhere in the clouds.

  “Reading and music, though I avoid musicales like the plague. Too many debutantes believe they can sing, and some can make a man’s ears bleed. We could have used such ladies at Waterloo and brought the French to their knees that much sooner.”

  Rebecca burst into laughter, dropping her paintbrush by her feet. Wiltshire dove for it and remained on one knee as he picked it up
. His free hand toyed with the embroidered hem of her gown, then drifted beneath the fabric, brushing his fingertips over her stocking-clad leg.

  She jumped. His featherlight touch lingered a second longer than it should, sending tingles through her body before he withdrew his hand and stood, offering her the paintbrush. She couldn’t help but wonder if his hand had continued to rise… Her parents, sister, and Mr. Beresford couldn’t see them because of the bushes nearby. Scandal be damned—she would have given anything to know what would have happened if it had.

  “So…you read?” She attempted to focus by resuming their conversation, hastily slapping gray and blue paint on the canvas in an attempt to look busy.

  “Yes. But only the most lurid books.” He winked at her, and her heart skipped a beat as she caught sight of that dimple close to his mouth. “I obsess over Gothics. Now, Miss Livingston, tell me. Why has no man snatched you up? Surely your shuttlecock skills have men flocking to you.”

  The blunt honesty of his question shocked her, and she gaped at him. But rather than answer him she turned a question back onto him.

  “If you are so eager to marry, as my father believes, why are you not courting my sister instead of allowing your brother to do it for you?”

  The duke’s dark brows lifted, and a gleam of surprise flashed in his brown eyes.

  “Well…my brother has much more sense than I. He doesn’t walk away from something good. I’m not sensible. I am drawn to things that tempt me.” His face reddened. He slid a finger beneath his cravat, trying to loosen it.

  Things that tempt him? Did he mean her or Lydia? Rebecca looked toward Lydia and Beresford. Their heads were bent together, Lydia smiling as she gestured to something on her canvas. She and Beresford made a lovely sight. Another twinge of melancholy and envy fluttered in her chest.

  “I say, that is a remarkably well-done elephant,” Wiltshire said, staring at her canvas.

  “I beg your pardon?” She looked back at what she’d been painting. Wiltshire pointed to the blurry gray shape on the canvas.

  “The elephant. I can see clearly the trunk and… Why are you laughing?”

  “It’s not”—snicker—“an elephant”—chortle. “It’s supposed to be the lake.” He soon dissolved into a fit of giggles with her, until the pair of them were both gasping for breath.

  “Christ,” Wiltshire moaned and clutched his stomach. “I haven’t laughed that hard in years.”

  “Nor have I,” Rebecca admitted.

  Seconds later, without warning, the skies opened up and unleashed a torrential rain.

  “Oh!” She leapt to her feet, knocking the easel over.

  Wiltshire dove to catch the painting. “Your elephant!”

  “Leave it. We must get out of the rain.” She had already reached for his hand before she gave it a second thought.

  His fingers laced through hers as he took the lead. “Of course. This way.”

  They dashed up the slippery green grass from the lake and headed into the gardens. Her parents, sister, and Mr. Beresford all ran back toward the manor. There was a small white gazebo cloaked in climbing ivy and adorned with pale-pink roses. Wiltshire grasped her by the waist and hoisted her up the set of steps and into the center of the structure. Her dress was soaked through, and a shiver racked her. He shrugged out of his coat and helped her put it on. The scent of sandalwood mixed with leather teased her nose. A fluttery warmth stirred in her chest as she snuggled deeper into his coat.

  “There. That’s better.” He stepped back, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. “I’m sorry about your elephant.”

  “It wasn’t an elephant!” She shoved him with a little laugh. And just like that, something changed between them. His eyes lit with a hunger that both frightened and excited her. His tall, warm body was too enticing to resist. She tiled her head back, her lips parting as their gazes locked.

  He reached for her, drawing her into his arms, and took her mouth with his. The kiss was sudden and wild. She had no idea what she was supposed to do, but she tried everything, loving the freedom she felt of exploring him. And to her surprise, she felt no judgment from him of her lack of experience. If anything, he seemed ready to teach her.

  His lips taunted, teased, and played with hers, instructing her how to respond. She learned each lesson well, drinking in the irresistible longing and desire she’d tried in vain to repress since the moment she’d met him. His hands roamed her body, his touch light but leaving fire in its wake. She liked the way he touched her, the way he cupped one breast, gently kneading it, then his other hand gripping her bottom, squeezing it.

  She felt owned by him, his hands caressing and holding her possessively. Eager to feel the same toward him, she slid her palms up his chest, then dug her nails lightly into his shoulders and ran her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. He shuddered against her and kissed her harder than before. Was this actually happening? Did the duke truly desire her?

  He coaxed her lips apart and slid his tongue into her mouth. She gasped and melted into him. He thrust his tongue between her lips, as though demonstrating what he wished to do with her in bed.

  It was all so very wicked. She felt wanton, and yet if it stopped, she’d cry out from the pain of losing this intensity. Surely this wasn’t right, yet she didn’t care. This was what she wanted. This was how a kiss should be. All passion, fire, and delicious abandon. This was what she had been missing in life. The way she should have felt when she looked at those gentlemen in the London ballrooms, but she never had. Not until she’d fallen into the duke’s arms yesterday.

  Wiltshire moved them backward until he had her pinned against a wooden post. He rocked his hips against hers, letting her feel the bulge in his trousers as it dug into her. She knew a little of men and lovemaking from eavesdropping on ladies at balls. He was aroused by her. The thought thrilled her, and she flushed from head to toe with heat and happiness. Rebecca’s own body burned as she clenched her thighs. It almost hurt deep in her womb as she imagined what might happen between them, and she felt herself grow wet. Her kisses turned frantic as she tried to get closer to him. If this was her only chance of being with a man like him, she would not turn her back on it. Spinsterhood be damned.

  He groaned softly in her ear. His warm breath stirred the wisps of hair at the nape of her neck, and she trembled. “Miss Livingston…”

  “Becca. Call me Becca,” she begged in a ragged whisper.

  “Becca, you taste so sweet.” He kissed her again, raw and primal as his hands dug at her skirts, trying to raise them. She was just as desperate for him and bit at his bottom lip before licking away the sting. His hands scrambled into the chaos of her skirts as she traced his shoulders, delighting in the pleasure of touching him and letting him touch her. For as long as she lived, she would remember this moment of intimacy and the spell it cast over her heart and body.

  “May I touch you?” he whispered against her throat.

  “Touch me?” She tried to think through the daze of desire he was creating as he nibbled on her neck and kissed the sensitive skin just behind her ear. “I believe you’re doing quite a lot of that already.”

  “Not like this I’m not.” He moved his hand up her inner right thigh, slipping between the layers of petticoats. When he reached her folds, she nearly jumped. “Like this.”

  “There?” she gasped.

  “Oh yes,” he said gruffly, his mouth hot upon her lips as he kissed her again. They broke apart for a brief second as she nodded desperately.

  “Yes, touch me there.” She widened her legs, and when he stroked a fingertip through her parted folds, she moaned loudly, throwing her head back. Her eyes met his as he towered over her. He didn’t speak again. Instead, he penetrated her slowly with that single finger, rubbing her slickness around before he began to gently thrust in and out of her. She sucked in a deep breath, her breasts heaving against her bodice as she tried to comprehend this sudden rush of fire beneath her skin. It was a terrifying, th
rilling sense of something she barely understood building inside her.

  They stared into one another’s eyes as he continued to explore her, sometimes curling his finger inside her until he hit a spot that made her tense and nearly scream. Wiltshire panted, his eyes dark and hot as he savored each and every reaction.

  And then it hit—a force inside her seemed to explode all around her, inside her, through her, shattering her. She was spinning, dizzy and unsteady on her feet. His finger pumped over and over, rubbing that spot within her that had made her mad with pleasure. She closed her eyes, trying to suck in a breath.

  “My God, you’re beautiful when you come, Becca.” Wiltshire’s deep voice was husky, and it made her trembling only deepen.

  She clutched at his shoulders. “I…don’t think I can stand…”

  “I’ve got you, love. I’ve got you.”

  There was something about the way he said it that felt strangely deep, as though he didn’t plan to ever let her go. But that couldn’t be it. He removed his hand from under her skirts and lifted her up in his arms as he walked over to a bench at the back of the gazebo. He sat down and settled her upon his lap. She laid her head against his chest, her heart racing as she tried to process what she’d just experienced.

  “Are you all right now?” he asked, nuzzling the crown of her hair.

  “I don’t know…I’ve never felt that way before. I”

  “You’ve never touched yourself to experience pleasure?” Wiltshire’s tone held a hint of surprise, so she raised her head to look at him.

  “I’ve never really thought much about that—not until I met you.” She hadn’t meant to admit that last part, but it slipped out. She felt so vulnerable that he could have asked her anything and she would have told him.

  “So, I am the first to touch you and have the gift of seeing you experience such pleasure for the first time? You’ve given me quite a gift, Becca.”

  He rested his forehead against hers. It was then that she noticed she was sitting on his lap and his erection was nudging her bottom.

  “What about you?” she asked, squirming a little as her still-quaking channel stirred again at the touch of his body.