Four Dukes and a Devil (26 page)

“You do play well,” he said.

“What?” Her brows drew together, needing a moment to adjust to the sudden change in conversation.

“I greatly enjoyed your performance on the pianoforte. Although, as you said yourself, it was not without fault.”

“A gentleman would not point out such things.”

“A gentleman like Harte, you mean? We haven’t been acquainted long, but I know you well enough to tell that you don’t care for false flattery.”

She toyed with a piece of ribbon on her dress. “You are right, I do not.”

“Then you will believe me, when I say you play well, and that I would never turn down an opportunity to hear you perform.”

She met his gaze again and smiled. “And I would never refuse to do so, were you my audience, Your Grace.”

“Quentin,” he said in a throaty tone. “In private you must always call me Quentin.”

I do already,
she thought,
in my mind and my heart.

A footman approached just then, making her realize she’d forgotten there were other people in the room.

“Oh, here is our tea,” she said with forced cheer. “And the comfits, as you promised. They look delicious.”

Quentin leaned nearer. “But not as delicious as you.”

She shivered, her arm pressing against his side.

“Nevertheless,” he said, pulling slightly away again. “I shall have to content myself with these. Let us indulge, India. I fear we shall need the sustenance with yet another Miss Ossley waiting to entertain us.”

She blinked, then laughed. Taking a piece of marchpane from the plate, she bit in and let the sugary almond confection melt against her tongue.

I
was about to give up on you,” Quentin called three mornings later—the hour so early, a faint dawn mist swirled like smoke over the damp grass.

Turning from where he’d been waiting near a small copse of trees, he watched her hurry down the stone steps at the front of the house. As she moved, the skirts of her simple blue day dress billowed around her in a most becoming way, revealing brief, tempting glimpses of her calves and the sturdy brown, kidskin half boots covering her feet.

At least she’s dressed appropriately for an outing,
he thought, shifting the pair of fishing rods and the tackle basket in his hand.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said, drawing to a halt at his side. “I’m not used to waking up while it’s still night outside.” She raised a hand to cover the yawn that caught her, moisture brimming in her eyes.

“The fish bite best when it’s early. If you’d rather go back to bed, there’s still time to hurry inside again without anyone being the wiser.”

She shook her head. “Oh no, not after overhearing Peter tell Lady Pettigrew last night that he plans to remain at home with the ladies today. If he’s staying with the women, then I’m going with the men! Besides, after I told Mallory that I was sneaking out with you, she decided to come along as well.”

“She’s already gone down to the stream. I saw her with Hargreaves and a couple of the others not ten minutes past. We’re the last of the group, I believe.”

“Then let us go too before it gets light enough for Peter to look out his window and see us.”

Quentin nodded, knowing he wouldn’t be surprised if Harte did exactly that.

Despite his original agreement to help free India from Harte’s unwanted attentions, he hadn’t initially realized just how persistent, nor how annoying “Peter the Pest” could be.

But over the course of the past few days, Quentin had received a firsthand education on the subject. Rather than cause Harte to withdraw in defeat, Quentin’s attentions toward India only seemed to inflame him, goading Harte to compete against him with the determination of a knight questing after a grail. Not only was Harte interested in wresting India from his supposed grasp, he wanted to beat Quentin at any activity in which the two of them were engaged.

Quentin had in no way actively sought the rivalry, but neither had he backed down from it. To date, the two of them had faced off over everything from whist to cricket, charades and crambo to horseback riding and golf. Then, of course, there was the infamous hunting expedition. Even now, Harte received an occasional jibe from one of the other men over his memorable, murky swim in the bog.

At first, Quentin had been amused by the young man’s efforts to compete against him, especially considering that Harte never managed to win any of their encounters. He’d tried to be tolerant as well, attributing Harte’s obsessiveness to youthful excess and a lack of experience. But lately he simply found him tedious and a bit pathetic.

No wonder poor India was at her wits’ end. Harte wouldn’t take no for an answer, not even when the truth was plain for all to see. Everyone in attendance knew that India Byron wasn’t romantically interested in Peter Harte. The man needed to accept reality and move on.

Yet despite all the bother, Quentin couldn’t complain about the time he was spending with India. Each day with her was a new adventure. Every hour an exciting delight. Witty, intelligent, and filled with a zest for life, she made him feel young and alive in ways he’d forgotten he could be. She made him realize there were myriad pleasures to be had, if one only took the time to look.

And look he did, not only at the world as she showed it to him, but at her as well. Despite his resolve to take matters between them no farther than a bit of harmless flirting, he found himself wanting more. Wanting her. Desiring her with a need that seemed to deepen by the day. So far, he’d held his longing in check, refusing to give in to the desire that burned inside him like a barely banked fire.

If she weren’t such an innocent, he would have taken her already. He knew she was far from immune to him and that he would have no difficulty acquiring an invitation to her bed. But she
was
innocent. Which meant he would have to leave her sexual awakening to the man who would one day become her husband, whoever he might be.

Scowling at the thought, he forced himself back to the topic at hand. “You’re right,” he said. “No time to dawdle. We have fish to catch. You have been fishing before, have you not?”

“Of course. With my brothers. But I fear I must warn you that I can’t bear baiting the hook. You’ll have to do it for me.”

He smiled. “Too squeamish?”

“No. I feel sorry for the worms. Imagine being skewered, then fed to a fish. Poor things.” She shuddered.

Laughing, he held out a hand.

After a moment, she took it, and together they set out after the others.

“I think I’ve got one!” India declared nearly two hours later as she stood with her boots braced in the soft, grass-covered bank that overlooked the gently eddying stream.

She and Quentin were alone, the pair of them having walked some distance upstream from the others in order to find a calm spot where the fish were likely to be hungry and plentiful. Apparently, their strategy was working, since he’d already caught a lovely trout not more than fifteen minutes ago, and now she had a bite as well.

Tightening her grip on her fishing rod, she pulled back on the line and worked to reel in her catch. The lancewood pole bobbed sharply, confirming her suspicion that she had a lively one. The pliable wood quivered, the line growing taut as the fish struggled to escape.

“Keep at it,” Quentin encouraged from where he stood several feet to her left. “Don’t let him snag you up on a rock and break away.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Quentin secure his own fishing rod. Then she had no more time to watch him, since she was far too busy reeling in her line to pay attention to anything else—not even another enjoyable perusal of Quentin Marlowe’s striking physique.

Having dressed with sport in mind, he wore a fawn waistcoat and breeches with a pair of knee-high black Hessians on his feet. And although he’d arrived wearing a coat, he’d stripped that off an hour earlier after seeking her permission to do so. As he’d told her, the sleeves were far too confining for fishing and the material far too warm for the rising August temperatures.

“Must be a big one,” he remarked, as he drew up beside her.

Moments later, the fish popped out of the water, wriggling wildly on the hook. She fought to maintain the upper hand.

Quentin moved past her and steadied his feet on a rock along the edge of the stream, before leaning forward to grab the line and secure her catch. “What a beauty!” he called, holding the dripping fish aloft. “Two pounds if I don’t miss my guess. We certainly won’t be going back emptyhanded.”

She smiled, pleased by her success. “I wish my brothers were here to see. They’d be green as chive cheese.”

“Competitive, are they?”

“Horribly. Especially when it comes to sport. I’ve long ago washed my hands of their wagers and wrangling. Still a fish like this deserves some recognition, do you not think?”

“Indeed, it does. If you’d like I could frank a letter to each of them, providing a detailed description and an ink rendering of your catch. Or maybe an advertisement in the
Times
would be more fitting. I have a caption in mind already.
Lady wishes her brothers to know that she is the better angler!
”

She laughed at his good-natured teasing, watching as he went to the creel he’d brought and laid the fish inside next to his own catch.

“Following on your earlier remark about cheese,” he ventured. “What would you say to a small repast?”

“You brought food?”

“I most certainly did. No respectable angler ever comes out without something to eat.”

Her stomach rumbled in approval of the idea. “Then I’d say you’re brilliant, that’s what. I’ve been famished for ages, but assumed we’d have to wait to return to the house.”

“Nothing of the sort. Let’s dip our hands clean in the stream, then we shall dine in style. Or at least on that big rock over there. I believe it looks wide enough to share.”

Glancing across, she studied the large chunk of granite and agreed, noting that it was about the size of Lady Pettigrew’s settee without the upholstery.

Minutes later found them seated next to each other, her feet dangling a couple inches above the ground. He handed her a handkerchief with a wedge of cheddar and a hunk of crisp, yeasty bread nestled inside. The rich, salty aromas made her mouth water.

Unable to wait an instant longer, she dived into the simple meal, finding it heavenly. “Umm, delicious,” she pronounced after a first swallow.

He ate a bite of the serving he’d prepared for himself, then nodded in agreement. “Just right on a fine summer morning.”

They fell silent for a brief time, while they both enjoyed the meal, comfortable and relaxed with each other. She felt as though they’d shared moments like this a hundred times before. And yet in truth they were still strangers, their acquaintance numbered by mere days.

But still it feels like more,
she thought.
It feels like eternity. I’m being silly,
she told herself, shaking off the sensation.

In two days more, the country party would end, and she and Quentin would return to their usual lives and activities. She realized she didn’t know what those were for him. Suddenly, she wanted to hear everything about him before it was too late to ask.

“Tell me about your estate,” she said, breaking off a small bite of bread without eating it.

He glanced over at her. “What do you want to know?”

“Anything. Everything. I only know that it is located in Herefordshire near the Welsh border and that you have over five hundred tenants and a hundred servants to see to the Keep.”

His mouth curved into a wide smile. “You already seem well acquainted with the subject. Gossip pages again?”

“They’re very informative, as I’ve told you. Nevertheless, they only present facts without any real substance or detail. What’s it like there in the winter, for instance?”

“Cold, as I believe winter generally is.”

She shot him a look. “Don’t be flippant, Your Grace.”

“Quentin,” he corrected in a warm drawl.

“Don’t be flippant,
Quentin.
You know what I mean. Do you take sleigh rides or skate on a pond? How do you pass the holidays? Do you have lots of family?”

His expression sobered. “Two brothers, but they are often away. When my parents were alive, we all used to celebrate Christmas at Weybridge Keep, but those days are long since past. Now, I generally stay in London. What of you?”

“Oh, we always go to Braebourne to Cousin Edward’s estate. The family wouldn’t think to do otherwise.”

“I am sure it’s delightful.”

“It is. You should—”

He raised a brow. “I should what?”

She had been ready to say, “you should come,” but then realized the implications of such an invitation. What would he think of her wanting to see him again? Especially since she’d just been asking questions about his estate? Would he wonder if she suddenly had designs upon him? Had hopes of marrying him?

But of course I don’t,
she admonished. Quentin was dashing and seductive and entirely capable of winning the hand of any woman he chose. But the idea of a serious attachment between them was absurd. His courting of her was only make-believe, after all.

Yet what if it wasn’t? What if he really was pursuing me and truly wanted me for his wife?

A potent longing tightened like a vise around her heart, leaving her with an unexpected awareness that such a wish was exactly what she wanted. Quite intensely, in fact. Lowering her gaze, she stared hard at her toes and struggled to collect her tattered emotions.

“What is it I should do?” he inquired again, his words returning her to their conversation.

She searched for an answer, forcing a smile. “Do? Why see if there’s anything left in that basket. I’m still hungry.”

He chuckled. “I believe there’s an orange.”

“Perfect.”
I only hope I can choke it down, along with my foolish dreams.

Sitting quietly, she let him peel and section the fruit, then pass her a serving. Thanking him, she forced herself to eat a slice.

Juice squirted in a crazy arch as she bit in, a few droplets sliding down her cheek. She raised a hand to wipe them away, but he stopped her.

“Here,” he said. “Allow me.”

Her eyelids fluttered slightly, her pulse thudding in her throat as she held still. Using the edge of his handkerchief, he leaned close and pressed the fine linen against her damp skin.

“All done?” she asked with an odd quaver in her voice.

“Not quite,” he said. “I think I may have missed a spot.”

She glanced up and into his eyes. A tingle sizzled down her spine at the acute need she saw in his gaze. Need for her.

Then his mouth was on her skin, his tongue gliding over the spot where the orange juice had been. “Sweet,” he murmured. “So very sweet.”

Her toes curled, and her eyelids fell closed, her breath catching on a harsh inhale.

Nuzzling her cheek, he pressed a series of lingering kisses against her flesh in a seemingly random pattern that led slowly to her mouth. Her senses spun in crazy circles, his touch everything she remembered and more. She still had dreams of him, but those paled in comparison to the reality of his touch, her memories no more than weak facsimiles of real passion and ardent need. A sigh escaped her, a ragged snippet of sound that verged on a moan. Enthralled, she waited for his kiss, yearned for his possession.

Finally, his mouth met hers, plundering with a leisurely thoroughness that made her ache. Dark, sultry, and delectable, she couldn’t get enough, her desire heightened by the power of not just her need, but her emotions. He was everything she wanted. Everything she craved. Everything she…loved?