All About the Duke (The Dukes' Club Book 4) (23 page)

“I have thought of nothing else since last night,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Nothing else but you.”

“I am not going to bed you and. . .” Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at him. His words were pure torture to her conflicted soul. It was imperative she remember it was her body he wanted and nothing else. And in fact, it was only his body she longed for. For she knew him not at all. “I do not believe such drivel, my lord.”

“Jack,” he said softly as if she hadn’t just made her position plain. “You must call me Jack. And it is not drivel. It’s the truth.”

Good God, his gaze was powerful, she wanted to tear her own away, but couldn’t. Not when his eyes seemed to speak more volumes about what he would do to her just awakened body than any words could ever do. In fact, his eyes seemed to have a direct connection to her soul and the wild heat spinning within her. “Truth though it may be, calling you by your given name seems. . . unwise.”

“But you must,” he tilted his head slightly, his dark hair brushing his forehead. “Because we
are
going to be intimate. Very, very intimate”

His hands traced over her slippers then he clasped her ankles, massaging his thumbs over her silk stockings. She gulped. “Are we?” she asked feeling most uncommonly stupefied.

In reply, he tugged her skirts up, sliding them over her knees, pressing them back to her hips, exposing her stockinged legs and her lace undergarments.

Shock and a most alarming anticipation held her frozen. She should move. She really should, and yet her damnable curiosity held her still. Yes. Curiosity should always be explored and she’d often wondered about the mating rituals of. . . She sucked in a shaking gasp as she realized that she was indeed going to see what he might do next.

Wish Upon A Duke

Book 3

D
uncan Hamish Fergus, the tenth Duke of Blackburn, loathed Sassenachs. Even more so, he loathed house parties thrown by said Sassenachs. He loathed everything about them. Whether it be the shrill giggling of the silly women, the arrogant chest-puffing of the gentlemen, or the way in which they shot every bird that flew through the air, he loathed them. And of all of them, he loathed his neighbor Lady Imogen Cavendish the most.

For some reason that Duncan couldn’t quite fathom, Scotland had become popular. Perhaps the lords and ladies of England had simply grown bored with shooting birds on their own land. Now, apparently sickened with ennui, every Englishman who could find a carriage to take him north had cast off their trews and donned a kilt. Knobby knees or no.

It was enough to make a Scots’ man weep.

All those bloody Englishmen apparently, given his frequent hearings and sightings of drunken, merry-making lords, had one destination. Lady Cavendish’s hunting lodge. Yesterday’s report of a particularly loathsome sighting had been the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back.

Duncan strode over the frost-covered heather, bent on confronting Lady Cavendish once and for all. He could have sent his man. Most would. But for once, he wanted to vent his full rage upon the ridiculous woman, who was as useful as a soft slipper upon a Highland ben.

He loved the Highlands in winter, silent except for the wild wind, bitter cold, and brushed with God’s own perfect snow. He should have been enjoying his solitude and management of his estates, not herding a Sassenach woman like a sheepdog worries an errant sheep. But he was. And he was going to give her a setdown that would have her running for London and all its sinful pleasures.

He gazed up at the crisp sky that was shockingly blue for the first week of December and the last week of the hunting season. It should have been full white, heavy with snow, or wicked gray full of slashing rain. But no. It had to be marvelously blue. Which of course meant that the idiocy of Lady Cavendish’s guests would only escalate above their already foolhardy state. Good weather meant excessive sport, and he’d be bloody damned if he was going to let another gun wander onto his estate without his permission.

He didn’t permit shooting for entertainment on his land. It was a damned foolish occupation, picking birds out of the sky because a man had nothing better to do. Almost any occupation was better, and certainly kinder to the animals that graced the land.

The gurgling of a rushing stream filled the air, and he headed down toward it. The silvery bit of water marked the end of his estate and the beginning of a small tract of land belonging to the Englishwoman. Why in God’s name an English widow would wish to have a small bit of the Highlands was beyond him, except for the fact she seemed to like to invite hordes of Sassenachs and behave as though her tiny patch of land was Sodom and Gomorrah.

It should have been a pleasant day.

He should have been out managing the herds of great Highland cattle.

He should have been speaking with tenants, assuring them that Scotland’s woes were behind them now that Parliament, in all its pompous wisdom, had decided to ease many of the cruel laws against the Northerners.

But it wasn’t.

Frankly, any day a Scot had to come face-to-face with a Sassenach since the Battle of Culloden was a bad one.

Just as he was about to swipe at an ancient and massive holly bush, despite its prickly leaves, he curved around the foliage and bashed into a soft form. His foot caught in the long hem of a cape, and he slipped on the wet grass.

A feminine yelp of dismay burst from said soft form, and just before he could land full bore atop the woman, he twisted his body, wrapped his arms around her slight form, and took the force of their tumble, landing on his back.

Every single one of her womanly curves seemed pressed against his body.

He held absolutely still. For surely, if he held absolutely still, his mind would stop the sudden riot that had commenced within his usually perfectly ordered head.

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