My Unfair Lady (9 page)

   "What's your question?" breathed Summer, feeling the strength in his fingers, watching his arm muscles bulge through his jacket, reminding her of the way he'd fought. The hidden dangers in this man took her breath away.

   "You've proved to me that you know how to use that knife you carry around. Who taught you to use it—your father? And why would he do such a thing?"

   Summer blinked. Didn't he know how dangerous it could be to carry a weapon that you didn't know how to use? "I told you before, I was raised by coatimundis and an injun."

   "I thought you were joking."

   "Tarnation, why would I joke about a thing like that? Oh, never mind. It's the Apache injuns that taught me to fight, well, one in particular, and the coatis taught me to smell out a situation, which is why I knew that man would shoot you."

   His fingers had progressed to her shoulder, lifting up the fall of billowy fabric, and traced circles across her skin. It took all of Summer's self-control not to move. "Why is it," he asked, "that whenever you answer a question, it only creates a hundred more in my mind?"

   "I… I don't know. I think it's because the life I've lived has been so different from yours."

   His hand crept to the side of her neck. "Has it? Why would an Indian teach you to fight, unless you had the need to defend yourself? The same as a kind Chinaman once did for me?" His fingers stroked the soft skin at the base of her throat. "We may be more alike than you think. Than I ever would have thought." His hand curved around the back of her neck, hot, demanding. Summer couldn't have resisted that pull if she'd tried.

   "Chatto taught me to fight because…"

   The pressure on the back of her neck increased, pulling her closer to him. "Who's Chatto?"

   Summer's head started to spin, her face so close to his that she pulled his breath into her very own lungs. "He's the… the injun. Who taught me to use my knife… who gave it to me."

   "Aah." His lips touched hers. Soft heat spread down to her toes. He forced her head sideways and spread her lips wider with the pressure of his own. She lay locked between his mouth and the hand at the back of her neck, grateful for the support, for surely she'd have collapsed by now, turned into a quivering mass of need. She groaned, and he took advantage of the opening, plunging his tongue into her mouth, once, twice, until she felt a hot surge of warmth between her legs, a pulse as if something there tried to reach for him, to be caressed and fondled just as skillfully and surely as he did her mouth.

   Summer never knew a kiss could be like this. A thing of such passion that it consumed her entire body, and made her want, need… that other thing. The one thing she'd sought from Monte… that he couldn't give her, not like this man could.

   How she knew this, she wasn't sure, but her body did, infusing her with strength, so that she fought against his tongue to plunge her own into his mouth. He groaned and pulled her tighter, pushing her backward on the seat, his body half over her own, his other hand—the one that wasn't busy burying itself in the hair at the back of her neck—caressed the top of her breasts with a kneading motion that pulled them farther out of her bodice, until the tips of her nipples were finally freed to be lightly pinched and tugged, until the wave of heat between her legs erupted into a liquid warmth.

   She should be appalled, she knew. No one had ever touched her breasts before, had handled her in such an intimate way, not even Monte.

   Monte.

   Summer couldn't believe what she was doing. She'd already given one man her word of undying love, and at the mere touch of a kiss, she was ready to betray him. With a man who didn't even like her!

   She turned her face away, fought to catch her breath and still the clamoring need in her body. "We can't do this."

   "The hell we can't." His mouth, deprived of her lips, sought her breasts.

   Summer couldn't let that skillful mouth take over where his hands had been… "I'm an American!"

   "Who gives a damn?"

   "You did five minutes ago."

   "Stupidly prejudiced."

   Summer felt his tongue graze her nipple with liquid heat.
She had to say anything
, she thought,
anything
to stop him
. She couldn't believe that she'd ever complained that her passion always overwhelmed that of a man. Not his. Never his. She'd met her match; no, more than her match, and it terrified her.

   What had they been talking about before? "Chatto," she chattered. "He taught me to use a knife, gave me my first kiss. Thought I'd be his warrior woman—and I almost did! My coatis, so like big dogs that I named them Whiner and Fighter, they raised me too. Don't you see, no matter how much you teach me, I'll always be an uncultured…"

   He nuzzled her neck, every muscle in his body taut, refusing to pull away from her. But she could tell that he finally listened.

   "I'll never be able to marry you. I can never be a duchess and make you a good wife. I'll be lucky if I can become a lady…"

   "Marriage?" The duke shot off her so quickly, he bumped his head against the roof of the brougham. "Who the bloody hell said anything about marriage? And you had me convinced you weren't a title-hunter. Hah! You're just like the rest of them, trying to trap a man into marriage, just so people will have to call you duchess!"

   Summer tried not to grin. So, she'd hit on the magic word, had she? The one word that could turn this man's lust cold? She'd have to remember that.

   She sat up and pushed her breasts back down into her bodice and took a good calming breath. She'd have to take a bath tonight, she decided, to cool the things this man had done to her body. She'd discovered that although the piped water might be considered warm here, it never filled her bath with anything approaching that temperature. Who would've thought she'd ever be grateful for that chilly water?

   "Please be calm, Your Grace. If you recall, I'm already engaged. You just needed to be reminded of the consequences of your actions."

   He froze, his face a comical mixture of chagrin and confusion. Summer tried to smother her laughter, but really, she had to release some of the tension he'd created. He looked offended at first, then smiled down at her. Really, an astonishingly remarkabl
e
man
, thought Summer,
that he didn't mind being
laughed at.

   The duke bowed out of the carriage and held out his hand to her. Summer took it, hoping that her fingers wouldn't still tingle when he touched them, that whatever reaction her body kept having toward him would go away, but of course it didn't, so she twisted out of his grasp.

   And they both became very stiff and formal as he escorted her to the door.

   "Thank you, Your Grace, for a most… interesting evening. Are you sure you won't come in so that I can see to your wound?"

   Byron felt oddly relieved, and only slightly disap pointed, that they were back on formal ground. He could again treat her as a business acquaintance, and he wanted to keep it that way. "As I said, it's only a scratch. And the pleasure was all mine, madam." And then she had to go and spoil it.

   "I still don't think it was funny," she told him as he walked away. "That story about Miss Carlysle. I thought it sounded fascinating. The cream, that is."

   Visions of those breasts he'd bared in the carriage, covered in sweet, silky cream, danced through Byron's head, and his trousers tightened rather uncomfortably. Why hadn't the sight of Miss Carlysle covered in the stuff affected him this way? He ran to the waiting carriage.

Summer tilted her head beneath her jaunty riding hat and saw the flutter of feathers that adorned the crown from the corner of her eye, and ignored them. If Mr. Worth thought the golden feathers brought out the glints in her eye, then she'd wear the silly things. She faced Maria across the ornate bed of her newly rented room inside the charming inn that Byron had secured for them while they attended the races. She folded her arms across the bodice of her golden silk dress. "You're going with me."

   Maria's green eyes flashed fire from beneath her coal black lashes. "I don't belong with all those fancy people and ya' know it."

   "You're afraid."

   "No, I ain't!"

   Summer smothered a grin. "Then go get in one of my new dresses, that one with green trim, and I'll tell His Grace to wait for you."

   "And what's wrong with this dress?"

   Summer eyed the bold colors and excess of orna ments. In New York she'd let Maria choose both their dresses, and remembered how they'd been laughed at whenever they appeared in public. Since then, she'd come to understand the subtleties of good taste, but Maria stubbornly continued to wear her own flamboyant wardrobe.

   "Tarnation, Maria. It's a Worth gown! How could you possibly not want to wear it?"

   Maria sniffed, then spun with a flurry of purple and red skirts, raising her hand to the little monkey on her shoulder so he wouldn't be dislodged, and stormed into her connecting room, mumbling under her breath about how some people just wouldn't take "no" for an answer.

   By the time the duke arrived, they were both ready to go to the races. Summer hadn't believed she'd have to wear such an ornate gown to see a horse race, remembering the ones in Tombstone that consisted of shouting bets, drunken riders, and enough cloudy dirt to ruin any dress. But the Ascot, Summer had been informed, was always the high point of the season, and debutantes went to show off their beauty and dresses, not to actually watch the race.

   Still, she hoped she'd get a chance to see some horses.

   They rode the short distance from the country inn to the races in an open carriage, Summer enjoying the sunshine and fresh air after weeks of living in smoggy London. But not her two companions. Maria still sulked in her elegant gown of green satin-trimmed chintz, and the duke… she stole another glance at him. He wore a dark blue coat and trousers, so dark they appeared black at first, with another pale blue cravat that matched the color of his eyes in the sun, paled to such a light shade that they startled her every time she looked into them. Which she determinedly tried not to.

   Summer didn't understand how it had happened, that kiss after the ball, except perhaps that they'd been through a harrowing experience, and she'd had that hero-worship thing after seeing him fight, and he'd only just succumbed to a man's inclinations. But neither of them could look at each other without a coloring of their cheeks, and if Maria hadn't been so annoyed, she'd surely have noticed.

   When they reached the moorland and she laid eyes on the race pavilion filled with ladies dressed in such finery it looked like a cluster of fluttering butterflies, her insides started to do the same. His Grace told her he expected His Royal Highness to attend, that he rarely missed the races, and that she'd be introduced to the great man. Her acceptance into society hinged on this singular meeting, and with her feeling all jittery around Byron, the level of panic in her chest threatened to close her throat up. She knew if she didn't settle something between them now, she'd never be able to survive the day.

   The coachman slowed the horses and joined the line of other carriages.

   Summer leaned forward to speak to Byron where he sat opposite her. "We needn't feel uncomfortable with each other, you know. How's your injury?"

   Byron finally looked at her, his jaw unclenching only a bit. "I told you it's just a scratch."

   Summer tried again. "Surely what happened between us was just a natural reaction to the events of that night."

"I shouldn't have let it go so far."

   "It wasn't your fault." Summer felt Maria shift beside her—the instant perkiness of her body as her friend concentrated on their words, the sulky attitude disappearing as surely as mist in sunshine.

   "Probably not," agreed the duke with an arrogant jut of his chin. "If you hadn't reacted so, uh, strongly."

   Summer squelched a spurt of annoyance.

   "Reacted?" piped in Maria. "To what?"

   They both ignored her.

   "Now you see why it's so important I get married," said Summer. The duke lifted a brow. "Well, isn't that the point of marriage? So you can… you know?"

   He threw back his head and laughed, drawing startled looks from the occupants of other carriages nearby. "To some, I suppose it is."

   "You can what? What?" Maria's voice rose. "What happened?"

   Summer sighed. "Nothing. Right, Your Grace? Nothing at all happened."

   "Nothing," he agreed, nodding his head, looking as if he was trying his ghastly hardest not to stare at the tops of her breasts. He licked his lips.

   Summer shivered, her eyes drawn by the sight of that pale pink, to his mouth that she'd warned herself sternly not to look at, for she'd dreamed of it with such sweet torture that she knew she couldn't stand to look at it without reacting. Such remarkably full lips for a man, the bottom one with a slight cleft that only showed when he wasn't angry or defensive, when his face relaxed with desire. Like when he'd kissed her with such skillful gentleness, and then he'd lowered his head, and she could feel again the heat grazing her neck, lower, to cover her…