Four Dukes and a Devil (19 page)

“I assure you it’s unintentional,” she said quietly.

“Now, it’s all arranged. The four of you are to stay at Beaulieu Park for the next fortnight until the cottage is aired and habitable.” He paused and brushed off the inconvenience. “It’s not an imposition of any sort. The number of apartments in Beaulieu rivals the royal pavilion in Brighton. I shall assign two dozen maids to see to you and the boys to maintain a level of
unquestionable
propriety, since any breaches in decorum could result in actions already deemed unpalatable…to
all
of us.”

She burst out in a little breath. “Of course.”

“At any rate, I shall be in residence a mere week or so. I’ve only come to resolve a long-standing dispute between the former Duke of Beaufort and our neighbor. Then I must return to London. You shall then have Beaulieu to yourselves.” His eyes had become lazy and half-closed, his amusement returned. “I trust you not to cause too much damage in my absence, ma’am.”

She hated having so little chance to exercise the smallest measure of pride. Poverty did that to a person. “Of course, Your Grace.”

His eyes darkened with displeasure.

“I mean, yes and thank you,
Mr. Varick.
” When his gaze did not waver from hers, she snapped. “What?”

“I find even ‘Mr. Varick’ sounds like an affront, coming from you.”

“Well, then what on earth am I to use when addressing you?”

“
John.
” His gaze never wavered, his voice decisive yet cool. “When we are in private, of course.”

“I beg your pardon? I—”

“Think of it this way, your demands will take on an entirely new level of importance with such equality of station.”

“I rather doubt I shall ever rival your rank.”

“Well, you can’t say you weren’t given a rare opportunity last night.”

She looked away, only to encounter Peter’s confused expression—another reason to change the subject. She cleared her throat. “What sort of dispute do you have with your neighbor? Perhaps I could at the very least offer an impartial opinion—if only to erase the smallest dab of our debt to you.”

He studied her for a few moments before he retrieved the thick sheaf of papers, which he had placed in a cubby on the side of the carriage. “My neighbor, the Earl of Wymith, refuses to allow a road to be built at the northernmost minuscule corner of fields he has left fallow.”

“And?”

He rubbed a hand over his face. “And for decades my family and all the tenants of Beaulieu, as well as the nearby village, have had to travel nearly twenty miles to circumvent Wymith’s property to arrive at Cromford Canal, where barges stop to transport goods to market. And I had hoped…”

“Had hoped what precisely?”

“Well, the last time I visited my uncle here—just before he died—I saw that the area has become more and more depressed. Many families have lost their men to the war—and those husbands and sons who have returned have lost their tenancies to others.”

“Well, what are you going to do about it?” She was instantly contrite about the note of insistence in her voice. Really, she had no sense of reticence when it came to injustice.

He sighed with a great show of tolerance. “I was about to tell you. I had planned to construct a large mill on the edge of Beaulieu. It would be an ambitious project, designed to bring employment and wealth to the people of Derbyshire. But we will need the easement to encourage others to mill their grains here. If we could create the road, the distance to the canal would be negligible.”

She felt a sudden rush of affection for this man before her. He was not like most aristocrats she had known, always after amusements and loath to promote commerce. Victoria had never understood why great men and ladies viewed honest work and industry with such contempt. “Why does your neighbor hate the Beaufort family so much?”

“According to the Earl of Wymith, my uncle almost killed his father two decades ago when the former earl was trying to retrieve wounded game—a duck—he had shot from a blind on his property. According to my uncle, who never failed to repeat this story ad nauseum at every opportunity, the earl was trespassing in search of Beaulieu-raised pheasants, and he had every right to shoot at him. My uncle was, ahem, fanatical about hunting and very particular about poachers. Thank God he was also a very poor shot.”

“So, your uncle wounded the earl?”

“Mostly his pride. According to the apothecary who tended him, the earl sustained a small flesh wound on his arm that did not require stitching.” The duke shook his head. “I recently sent an apology to the new earl, but he would not accept it. And when I tendered an offer to buy the tiny yet critical eighth of an acre to build the road, Wymith said he would sooner give land to a Frenchman than sell it to a Beaufort. I’ve pressed members in the House of Lords to use their influence, but the man won’t see reason.”

“So this entire dispute is over a nicked arm and a lost duck?”

“Or a pheasant.” He shook his head. “Can you imagine what I’ve offered through an army of solicitors to soothe the Wymith feathers?”

“I’m not sure I want to hear this.”

“Fifteen thousand pounds.”

Something caught at the back of her throat, and she could not stop a fit of coughing that overcame her. Peter came to her aid, pounding her back. She could not manage to stop. She wasn’t sure if she was more embarrassed by her coughing or shocked by the outrageous amount he had named. Why, fifteen thousand pounds was nearly thirty
years’
worth of food for the foundlings at the home in London.

Through her tears, Victoria saw Peter eyeing the duke. “Do you think you could spare a bit of the, uh,
water
in that silver flask you keep trying to hide, Your Grace? I think Miss Givan might need it.”

F
or nearly five days, John Varick avoided Victoria Givan and her merry band of boys. It was the sanest course of action. For some absurd reason, he just didn’t have the heart to find out the truth behind this irritatingly tempting female. She was either a spirited but virtuous young woman with a tenuous hold on a position in a foundling home, or she had a mysterious
benefactor
who supplied her with fine footwear and a position in the foundling home, no doubt to provide an outlet for her boundless reserves of energy. In the first case, he refused to lead an innocent down the path toward ruin, and in the second case, just the idea of her in the bed of another man made him want to unleash every last one of his bloodthirsty Beaufort character traits and hunt down the bastard.

And so, he had shunned temptation for both their sakes.

It had been easy to do given the acres of paneled, gilded, and richly furnished rooms between them and the mounds of documents in his study. Oh, he had played the perfect host—in absentia. His housekeeper had reported that she had, indeed, given Miss Givan and the boys a daylong tour of Beaulieu. Apparently, her young charges had taken particular delight in the hundreds of fallow deer racks, and the battlefield paintings by masters and demimasters attesting to the family’s vicious feudal beginnings. Only the stuffed, mounted, and framed remnants of the past remained. In overwhelming quantities.

Surprisingly, the bewitching young woman had not made a single effort to engage his notice. Quite the contrary. Safely ensconced in the easternmost wing of Beaulieu, she had taken her meals with the boys and occupied them inside and outside of these walls, keeping out of sight. He should be grateful. But for some perverse reason it only served to irk him. For it proved he had not had the same effect on her as she had had on him—which was a deviaton from the swarms of females in his past. And if there was one thing John Varick detested, it was aberrations of any sort.

Well, she would be gone soon enough, and the memory of the entire episode with the exquisite green-eyed beauty and the less than exquisite words flowing from those lush lips would fade. He had done his duty by retrieving her party’s battered possessions from the inn where the north road mail coach driver had at last seen fit to deliver their bags. And at the appropriate time he would arrange for one of his carriages to transport them to the refurbished cottage at Wallace Abbey.

Closeted in the vast study that was now his alone to prowl, John tried for the third time this morning to bury himself in the mountains of problems he had always relished untangling. If he hadn’t been allowed the honor of serving his country in the war against the French with his body—and his powerful uncle had forbidden it given John’s future station—then he had long ago decided to serve his countrymen with his mind.

A sound drifted from the open window, and he stood abruptly and strode to look outside. She was there…walking from the direction of the stables, her cheeks glowing with exertion, and her well-worn straw hat hanging from its black ribbons down her back. She was even lovelier than he remembered.

Oddly, she was alone, a look of consternation worrying her brow. Shading her face, she stopped and gazed past the rise of the formal gardens.

He hated seeing her ill ease. Despite the clamor in his mind—much like a midnight church bell, warning of disaster, he closed the distance to the ornate door and all the barriers between them to join her outside.

“Miss Givan?”

She whirled around to face him. How could he have forgotten how vibrant and beautiful she was? The force of it nearly knocked the wind from him.

“Oh, Your Grace…I mean, oh, please excuse me. So good to see you.” She tugged her hat back onto her pretty head, her deep plum-colored locks flooding her shoulders and back like a schoolgirl. At a guess, all her pins were lost hodgepodge about the countryside.

“May I be of service? I spied you from my study and you appeared overanxious.”

“Well, you see…well, the thing of it is—I can’t seem to find the boys and—and”—she bit her lip—“Oh, John—I fear they’re lost. They’re quite taken with this first taste of the country. And, I’ll admit I’m not very good at negotiating the hills and vales, and I don’t doubt the boys are very ill at it as well.” She appeared embarrassed. “All the dales look the same—very green, very beautiful, but
endless
and quite, quite barren of the wonderful signposts in town. Oh, botheration—
where
could they be?”

“Slow down. Try to catch your breath, Vic.”

“What did you just call me?” She appeared stricken. “Please don’t call me that. You may use Victoria if you like, but not the other.”

What in hell?
“Come, I shall help you find them. Do you know where they set out to go?”

“I was trying to find the lake.” The smallest crease of a wrinkle appeared between her brows. “The stable master said he spied them walking there.”

“Come.” He politely offered his arm.

She stared at it. “Really, there’s no need. I’m perfectly capable of walking unaided. I just need your direction.”

“Well, that’s a first. I never thought I’d ever hear you ask for my direction.” His lips curled into a smile as they set off. He dared to glance at her profile discreetly from the corner of his eyes as they walked, a hand’s width of air between, and an acre of tension.

She worried her lower lip and refused to be provoked into conversation with him.

He found he could not stop himself from goading her again. He began to lengthen his loose strides, covering more ground than she. She had to add a kick to her step to stay abreast. Halfway up the second long hill, he noticed she had fallen behind, and he slowed, appalled at his puerile maneuverings to force her to speak. Perhaps she was well and truly terrified for the boys.

And then suddenly, she was running past him—No,
racing
him up the huge hill.

And he began to laugh—to laugh harder than he had in two decades. But it did not stop him from accepting her silent challenge—and passing her shortly thereafter.

A dozen steps from the top, he slowed to an exaggerated snail’s pace to allow her to win. It was the gentlemanly thing to do.

Without warning, two hands shoved his back hard from behind. He lost his footing and landed face-first on his hands and knees before he rolled onto his seat.

“I’m so sorry,
Your Grace
. Did you trip? Do you need my help? My goodness, perhaps you would do better to carry your walking stick. Balance suffers and bones become brittle late in life, you know.”

He looked up to see her at the top, her hands on the lovely curve of her slim hips, and her lively green eyes brimming with laughter. “You’re perfectly right. I should take better care.” God, he had missed the sight of her these last five days.

She came toward him, full of life, and he lifted his arm to catch the hand she offered. “Up we go, now.”

She made the mistake of ignoring his superior angle, and he jerked her down into his lap. And found himself face-to-face with the most tempting female in all of Christendom. His body was thirteen steps ahead of his mind, registering the small round bottom pressing against him. And suddenly there was no more laughter between them.

The air seemed to thin, and they stared at each other, time suspended. Her hat lost somewhere down her back, her lovely dark auburn locks framed her heart-shaped face, bringing perfection within far too easy a distance.

He forced himself to break the tension eddying through and all around them, its current pulling at them. “Well, perhaps we should—”

His words were cut off when she swooped in and stole a quick kiss—just the smallest brush of her divine lush lips against his own before she pulled back. She apparently had not only lost her humor, but now also her nerve. She pushed against his chest to rise.

When he tightened his grip on her arms and wouldn’t release her, her eyes widened.

“I’ve never known you to do anything so halfheartedly, Victoria.” He stroked the side of her cheek, and whispered, “For God’s sake, don’t start now.”

And then he took control.

He meant to leave her without a shred of doubt about who was in charge of matters concerning efficient ways to implode every last one of her scruples and his. All the good reasons he had lined up quite orderly to keep her at a distance were effectively forgotten as he held this magnificent, vivacious woman in his arms.

The bow shape of her upper lip had distracted him hour upon hour in his carriage and he lost no time familiarizing himself with the delicacy, as well as its plush mate below. God, she was so sweet—all pliant femininity. Without knowing what he did, his hand found its way behind her head to hold her steady while he teased the seam between those delectable lips of hers. He felt her harsh exhalation of surprise on the hollow of his taut cheek as he delved beyond. And in that moment he learned the truth about Victoria Givan. She was untutored in the art of a kiss; she was without doubt an exuberant, unforgettable, yet very
innocent
siren. No one else had ever kissed her this intimately, and the male in him growled at the thought of anyone else ever considering it.

With no surprise, Victoria Givan learned the sinful intricacies of a kiss far more quickly than was proper for a lady. Suddenly, it was
her
hands that were gripping his back, urging him closer. And it was
her
delicate tongue torturing him…tempting him to madness. John deepened the kiss, for once in his life allowing himself to get lost in the woman he held in his arms. Without thought, he caressed her curves and the pebbled crests of her breasts through the thin, high-necked gray dress she wore. He was losing every inch of his famous control, losing every battle in his—

With the suddenness of a spring shower, and just as drenching, he was left grasping at air.

“Yes, well…It appears”—she straightened her gown—“the
resuscitation
has worked.
Marvelously.
”

“The
what
?” He imagined the feel of her luscious neck squeezed between his hands.

“The re-sus-ci-ta-tion,” she repeated. “You don’t need a hearing horn, do you?”

He would bury her right here. Alive.

“You fell, don’t you remember? Perhaps your memory is failing, too.”

“Victoria,” he growled, “so help me…” Better yet, he would make love to her so long, and so well that she’d be unable to form another ridiculous observation…for at least a full week. Good God. What was he thinking? He shook his head, disgusted. He had to regain rational thought.

“Oh,
there
it is,” she said, out of breath and on her tiptoes, pointing at the lake on the other side of the hill. At least, her high-pitched voice proved she was not as immune as she wished.

“Yes, I know,” he said, dripping with irritation as he stood up awkwardly. Inwardly, he cursed his breeches, which were not cut to accommodate what they were being forced to accommodate.

She closed the very short distance to the immense body of water. He edged behind her and was at least grateful she didn’t turn around. He wasn’t sure if he still wanted to wrap his hands about her throat to choke her or seduce her within an inch of her bloody virtue. Lord, what had he become?

Just like a female, she pretended not to notice his annoyance, while she searched the distant opposite end of the lake.

“Perhaps they’re in that little hut over there,” she said as cool as you please, indicating a nearby rude structure. “The stable master said that the gamekeeper had offered to show them how to shoot yesterday. That’s his lodging, isn’t it?” Her eyes wouldn’t meet his.

“Yes,” he gritted out, loins still aching.

“I’ll be right back.”

Now was the time for all good men to regain their sanity and strength of will. He casually bent to retrieve a few flat stones. He sent them skimming over the glasslike surface of the lake and cursed again. He’d cursed more in the last week than he had in his entire life.

Victoria had not spent many years among boys without knowing precisely what John Varick was about. And she’d been warned, and echoed the warning to dozens, nay, hundreds of girls. She should know better than this. She sighed.

Lord, it had been exciting—far more exciting than anything she could have ever possibly dreamed. Oh, he had brought to life in her the very thing that was supposed to have remained dormant for a person of her class. He had stirred passion into being deep within her.

Well, this was what happened to females who dallied with desire. She had wanted to experience a man’s kiss, and for once, her wishes had been granted.

She picked up her pace toward the half-hidden structure and prayed for regulation of her thoughts before temptation got the better of her. But really, why was she trying so hard? Her virtue was about as important as the spots on a laying hen. She began to stomp harder as she continued forward. Not one single person would even care what a spinster teacher in a foundling home did with her life. It was all so pointless, really. Except to her. She would know.

But she had always despaired at the idea of going to her grave a virgin spinster. She could bear the truth that she would remain a spinster her entire life. But did she have to add insult to injury by remaining a virgin, too? Was she never to know intimately what it was like to be a woman?

She had dutifully said her prayers every morning, every evening, and over every dreary meal she had ever endured. And ever since she had turned thirty years old last year, she had prayed for one opportunity—just one—to understand what it would be like to be held, to be cherished—well, to do a bit of holding and cherishing in return to a man who entranced her.

The very thing she had wished for was before her, and she was struggling mightily to resist it. And for what reason? He, the Catch of the Century, would be the last person to reveal her wicked weakness of character. Oh, what was wrong with her?

The tiniest sting stabbed at the tender skin above her ankle as she strode along. She reached down to jerk her gown away from the bramble she was sure she would find. “Oh!” As she jumped back, the end of a large snake slithered under the woods’ decaying leaves of winter. Edging many feet away from the ghastly creature, she investigated her flesh. Her thin stocking was down about her half boot—the binding thigh ribbon had apparently lost the fight against gravity during the race with him or more likely when she had lost the fight to keep herself away from him.