The Duke Can Go to the Devil (21 page)

Splat.

T
hat had
not
gone the way he had imagined it would.

Lying in the mud, breath knocked from his lungs, and backside sunk several inches into the mud, William gazed up at the puffy clouds above them, trying to figure out how things had gone so wrong. This was, for the record, the
second
time she had knocked him to the ground.

She squirmed on top of him, trying to disentangle their appendages from both each other and the huge swath of her skirts that had somehow wrapped around them. Grabbing her by the upper arms, he shifted her away and gasped for air, trying to refill his squashed lungs.

She twisted around to face him, already shaking her head. “Devil take it, are you all right? And I swear, that is the last time I am going to ask you that today.”

Nodding quickly, he rubbed at his chest, making certain his ribs were still intact. “I would ask you the same, but I'm quite sure I took the brunt of it for both of us.” How could someone who weighed so little in his arms weigh so much on his chest? It felt as though he'd been slammed with an anvil.

The comment obviously didn't sit well with her. Yanking her skirts from his legs, she sat up properly. “I was
doing perfectly fine without you, thank you very much. You can thank yourself for whatever ‘brunt' you sustained.”

“You told me to help you,” he growled back, pushing himself up to a sitting position and bracing his hands on the ground behind him. “So I was
helping
you.”

“I
asked
you to help, and when you refused, I took matters into my own hands. If you decided to interfere after that, you have only yourself to blame.”

“A gentleman does not leave a lady dangling from a horse like a fish on a line.”

She lifted her chin a notch. “I was getting into position. I had it under control.”

He snorted. “Until the horse shifted or spooked, then you would have been on your backside in the mud.”

“Which is an improvement over this
how
?” She gestured widely with both hands, pointing out her prone position and mud-streaked skirts. Somehow, mud had splattered into her temples and across her right cheek. She looked utterly ridiculous and as mad as Medusa.

And for some reason, he suddenly understood what she had been laughing at earlier. He shook his head, letting out a rueful chuckle. “Point conceded.”

She blinked, then narrowed her eyes ominously. “Don't you dare laugh.” But he saw the way she pinched her lips together, fighting against a grin.

“Turnabout is fair play, Miss Bradford,” he said before giving into the humor of the situation. He laughed aloud, not caring that it hurt his ribs to do so, or that the cold wetness of the mud had soaked clear through his clothes. What an absurd picture they must have made, wallowing in the mud like a pair of well-dressed pigs.

She smacked him square in the chest with the back of her hand, albeit lightly. “You weather-bitten sea bass,”
she exclaimed, but there was no mistaking the amusement in her voice. “How dare you laugh at a lady?”

He lifted his eyebrows. “Oh, so
now
you are a lady. All this time, you've refused the distinction, but now that you are covered in muck and cursing like a sailor it suddenly suits you?”

She grinned wickedly, giving up any pretense of outrage. “Precisely. I've never felt more ladylike in my life.” Dragging a finger through the mud, she then swiped it across her left cheek. “See? I even have the same fashion sense as a duke.”

He threw back his head and laughed, completely abandoning any hope of propriety. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt so free. If nothing else, she really could make him laugh. “You are beyond incorrigible,” he said at last, shaking his head ruefully. What other female on the planet could have led to this moment?

“Good. Then you English haven't changed me yet.”

Indeed. And heaven help him, but he was glad for it. He pushed his way to his feet and yanked off his ruined gloves. “We certainly have not.” After tossing the gloves in the general direction of his horse, he turned and offered a relatively clean hand to May.

She pulled off her own gloves, threw them toward her own horse, then placed her slender hand in his. He quickly pulled her to her feet, allowing their contact to linger while she found her footing. She was an absolute mess, with fewer clean spots than dirty. “Come on,” he said, his voice slightly rough. “The stream is just a few hundred yards from here.”

He paused long enough to secure the horses to a nearby tree, then offered her his elbow. She ignored it, instead slipping her hand back into his. “My hands are
clean and your sleeve is most certainly not,” she said, giving him a little wink.

Another time, he would have protested. But right now, after all that had just occurred, it seemed perfectly natural to lace his fingers with hers. In that moment, all of their roles and rules had fallen by the wayside, and it was just the two of them, enjoying the company.

The water was higher than normal in the stream, which was for the best, given the amount of cleaning up they had to do. May glanced over at him as he pulled off his boots, set them aside on the mossy bank, and waded in. The water was bracingly cold, but spot cleaning would have been hopeless.

“Are you certain I didn't hurt you when we fell?”

He shook his head, conveniently ignoring the ache in his ribs. “I'm perfectly fine, I assure you.”

She kneeled at the bank and dipped her skirts into the water. Thanks to the way they had fallen, she wasn't near as filthy as he was. She worked at the mud, rubbing the fabric back and forth over itself. “Your stepmother is going to swoon when she sees what I've done with her habit.”

Vivian was the very last person he cared to think about just then. “She'll get over it,” he said gruffly, trying to ignore the glimpses of May's leg that he kept catching. “It's a dreary fabric, regardless. I much prefer the colorful gowns you wear.”

May glanced up sharply, surprise rounding her eyes. “Really? I had no idea. My aunt hates my gowns, and I rather thought you agreed with her on most things.”

He didn't point out that her aunt was a woman, and he most definitely was not. He loved the way her gowns fit, and how the little touches, the embroidery and trims
and unusual colors, made her stand out in a crowd. “Not everything. The gowns show your eye for beauty.”

She dropped her skirts, staring back at him with the oddest expression. “Thank you. My father's trade provides me with the most exquisite of fabrics. Each one is special to me when I think of the place or person it came from.”

Nodding, he smiled briefly. “It's good when we can have those reminders of people.” He wondered how he would remember her when she was gone. Would he ever be able to look at the folly again and not think of her? Or at Blackella, or the nursery, or even the entire city of Bath? Everywhere he looked, she seemed to have left her mark.

Swallowing, he tried to refocus on his task. He was a disaster, and there was no way he could show up at the mill looking like this. Glancing down at his mud-streaked shirt, he sighed. There was no help for it. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and dove underwater.

*   *   *

May watched, slack-jawed, as the duke emerged from the stream, water cascading down over his body. His white shirt clung to his chest and arms, the thin fabric nearly translucent against his skin. She could see hints of dark hair across his chest in between the vee of his waistcoat.

He scraped his hair back from his forehead then rubbed the water from his eyes. He looked himself over then, nodding in approval. “Much better,” he decreed before glancing to where she sat kneeling on the shore. Oh, Lord have mercy, but the man was gorgeous.
Particularly with his features relaxed and his lips curved in a soft smile. Having a nearly unencumbered view of his nicely muscled arms didn't hurt, either.

He tilted his head. “Is there a problem?”

She swallowed past the lump in her throat and shook her head. “No. I was just thinking that looked incredibly cold.”

“It is,” he said with a chuckle. He waded back toward her, his legs cutting easily through the swiftly moving waters. “Care to give it a try?”

There he went, teasing her again. Her heart gave a little flip as she shook her head. “I'm cold and wet enough as it is, thank you.”

When he'd reached the shore, he held out his hand. “Are you sure? I promise to keep you from drowning.”

She grinned, holding up both hands, palms out. “Your promises haven't worked out too well for us today. I think perhaps I won't tempt fate.”

“I suppose you have a point,” he replied with a rueful laugh. Wringing the excess moisture from his clothes, he came to sit beside her on the mossy bank. “I really do apologize. I never intended for either one of us to end up on the ground.”

“Well, I should hope not,” she said, sending him a teasing glance.

Rolling his eyes, he crooked a finger at her. “Come here. Your face is filthy. If you won't let me dunk you, at least allow me help you with that.”

She readily obliged. Resting her hands on her knees, she leaned forward so he could have better access. Pulling a scrap of linen from a hidden pocket, he dabbed at her cheeks with one hand while holding her lightly by the chin with the other. There was nothing remotely romantic about his ministrations, but still her breathing
kicked up at not only his touch, but his closeness. From this distance, she could see that he still had a faint trail of mud across his jaw. She dipped her fingers into the water and swiped it away. The hint of stubble abraded the sensitive skin of her fingertips.

He paused, his eyes meeting hers. She wet her lips. “Dirt,” she said simply by way of explanation.

“Thank you,” he said gruffly. Rewetting the cloth, he gently swiped it down the slope of her nose and along the creases bracketing her mouth. He lingered there, then slowly swiped the pad of his thumb over her lips.

She drew in a quiet breath, trying to slow the pounding of her heart. His eyes met hers again, and for a moment neither of them moved or spoke. She watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed, suddenly absolutely certain that he was feeling the same shock of awareness between them.

He lowered the hand with the linen, but kept her chin firmly tucked between his thumb and forefinger. Then slowly—oh so slowly—he leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers. It was a soft kiss, tender enough to make her weak in the knees. Thank goodness she wasn't standing.

He pulled away a few inches, his eyes flitting over her face. She didn't make a sound, didn't move an inch. She'd made a promise, and she wouldn't break it. Still, she had no intention of stopping
him
from kissing
her
.

He drew a long, slow breath, then leaned in again. Using his grip on her chin, he tilted her face and kissed her cheek, then the other one, then her forehead, then her temples. Each kiss was light but lingering, making her stomach dance with butterflies.

Again, he pulled back, his eyes searching. The wind rustled the trees above them as water gurgled over the
smooth rocks in the stream. “I should stop,” he said quietly.

“Yes,” she agreed.

But neither of them moved.

His gaze fell to her lips again, and this time when he kissed her, he didn't hold back. Unlike their first kiss,
he
was in control. It was his hands that cupped her jaw and pulled her closer. This time it was his tongue that coaxed her lips apart and invaded her mouth with a moan of pleasure. It was his lead, his desires that drove the moment, making it utter perfection.

He kissed her deeply, passionately, toe-curlingly and heart-poundingly. His taste, his smell, his warmth—all of it filled her senses until it felt as though he was all there was in the world. Just the two of them.

By the time he broke the kiss, she was light-headed with exhilaration. His fingers lingered, holding her jaw as his golden gaze met hers. “You are one of the most incredible women I have ever met. I hope you don't mind my wanting to kiss you properly. Just this once.”

A small, giddy smile lifted her lips. “I'll allow it. Just this once.”

His mouth curled up at the corners. “I'm relieved to hear it.” He kissed her again, then once more before releasing his hold and leaning back.

For as long as she lived, she doubted she would ever forget the way he looked, all wet and disheveled and handsome enough to take her breath away.

Nor would she forget the way she felt.

Whether she ever admitted it aloud or not, she was very, very glad for her summer in England.

H
eaven help him, but she was gorgeous. She was more tempting than anyone he had ever known, and much more enticing. He could scarcely recall what it was that had so exasperated him about her when they first met. All those things that he had thought he disliked—her frankness, her humor, her ability to see him as a person instead of a duke—had somehow become the things he loved most about her.

And despite his intention not to allow his resolve to slip, he wasn't at all sorry.

As William and May walked toward the mill, their horses following along behind them, he knew that he could never regret that kiss. Those kisses. That feeling.

The look in her eyes.

It was against all the rules he had set for himself, all the careful plans he lived by, but that moment by the stream was one of the most meaningful in his life. It was honest, and real, and completely from the heart. There were no titles or social statuses or envy of money between them. No political gains to be had, or favors to be garnered.

They took their time walking. Yes, they wanted to dry their clothes as much as possible, but there was also a sense of delaying the inevitable. When they reached the
mill, there could be no more casual touches and familiar glances. The perception of the ducal estate rested on his shoulders, and that perception was particularly important when he was around those who looked to him for their livelihoods.

As they crested the hill that overlooked the mill, he slowed to a stop and gestured toward the building below. “Spencer Mill, the finest and most advanced mill in all of England.” He was oddly nervous about what she would think. Would she appreciate the incredible amount of work that went into creating an industry from scratch? Would she finally see that he didn't simply spend his days lounging around his property?

She followed his gaze to the long, three-story stone-block building that rose from the valley with stately purpose. A single stack rose above it, while the canal flowed directly alongside it. The waters were still higher and murkier than usual, splashing against the stone retaining walls that had been constructed less than two years earlier, but thankfully it was still flowing unimpeded. Though most of the work went on inside, the grounds were busy with workers coming and going around the complex.

She raised an eyebrow. “
Spencer
Mill? You own this too?”

“Indeed. I had it built, as well. The greenhouse was my father's contribution to the estate. This is mine.” It was the thing he was most proud of in his life, and he wanted her to see how much it meant to him. Her opinion shouldn't matter, but it did.

She nodded, seemingly impressed. “Ambitious. How long did it take to build? You couldn't have been duke that long, given your little sister's age.”

Relaxing, he started forward again, leading the way
down the hill toward the road. “My father died before Clarisse was born. I've held the title for almost six years, but I've been working on plans for building a mill since shortly after University.”

“Really? I thought all young bucks fresh from University were required to spend their days aimlessly, gambling and sowing their wild oats.” She sent him another of her wicked little grins.

Cutting her an arch look, he said, “Do you really know me so little? After all this time together?”

She brushed a fallen lock of corn silk hair behind her ear. “I know you as you are now, dreadfully responsible lord of the manor. I was rather hoping there was a bit of unruliness in your youth. I like to imagine you've had a little fun at
some
point in your life.”

“I have.”
Today.
But he didn't say what he was thinking. Best not to slide back down that slippery slope. “But I've always been focused on the future. My father encouraged me to be involved with the estate from early on. He wanted me to be intimately familiar with both its past and present, and to be involved in shaping its future.”

Her smile was sweet, accentuating the rosy apples of her cheeks. “He sounds like he did a good job of preparing you for the title.”

“Yes, and prudently so. He was already past forty by the time I was born. The men in this family are not known for having the longest of life spans.”

“That's surprising,” she said, tilting her head in thought. “With so much wealth and privilege at your fingertips, one would think you'd live longer than most.”

They reached the hard-packed dirt road, which, with the exception of a few puddles, was fairly dried out.

“With great wealth comes even greater responsibility. It wears on a man.”

Even at his relatively young age, he could feel that wear. He knew that he'd need to marry soon and get about the business of begetting an heir. He wanted to have time to properly raise and prepare the next duke. This next Season, he would have to apply himself to finding the sort of woman who would properly fit the role: upstanding, virtuous, biddable, and of impeccable breeding.

His brow furrowed slightly. At that moment, the thought did not appeal to him in the least. Those qualities had always been top on his list, but thanks to the woman walking beside him, they also sounded exceedingly boring.

Which was a
good
thing, he reminded himself. Boring translated to scandal-free and dependable. He needed a duchess who would take the role as seriously as its rank deserved.

May bit her lip, her eyes on the road ahead. “Do you ever wish that you had been born to a different life? One that may not have as much privilege, but in which you could do whatever you wanted with your life?”

Leave it to May to ask a question like that. Such a question had never entered his mind. Most people would kill for what he had, as hard as it was for her to believe.

“I have never once considered such a thing. My life is impossible to separate from my title. It's part of who I am, and I wouldn't have it any other way.” He pursed his lips for a moment. “And really, I could ask the same question of you.”

“But you should already know the answer,” she said, smiling broadly. “I love the life I have lived thus far. I can't wait to return to it, in fact.”

A pang of . . .
something
pulled in his chest. She looked so beautiful, with her blue eyes bright in the sunshine, and her golden skin warm and inviting. Her habit was ill fitting, but it was testament to her remarkable figure that she still looked as regal as a queen. Was that why it was so easy to picture her in a different life? In one that played out right here in England?

As they approached the yard, some of the workers began to take note of their presence. Several tipped their hats, and a few others offered awkward bows. To a man, they all stared at May. A surge of protectiveness came from nowhere, and he had to force himself not to glare at the men and pull her to his side. It was natural that they would be curious. He'd never once been seen with a woman on the estate, let alone at the mill.

The main door thwacked open and Wallace Perkins hurried out. He was a brute of a man, short but built like a prize bull. His manner was always straightforward and to the point, one of the reasons William had chosen him for the job. A man who wasn't afraid to speak plainly to his superiors was a man who wouldn't be cowed by either his subordinates or his workload.

As he approached, it was easy to see that he had been on the work floor recently. His dark hair was dotted with the odd white cotton tuft, as were his brown coat and trousers. Grease smudged his fingers and sweat dampened his brow. “Your Grace. We weren't expecting you. Did you receive my note this morning?”

The man deserved a medal for his mild question and straight face. He had to be wondering who May was and what on earth had happened to the two of them. Though the dunk in the stream had helped, they still looked much the worse for wear.

“I did not. We've been out since breakfast. Is anything amiss?”

“Not at all, which was the point of the missive.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his brow. “It was a near thing yesterday, but all is well thanks to your quick actions.”

May sent William a curious look, and he gave a small shrug. “We had a fallen tree block the canal, which could have been disastrous if we'd flooded. But I had no more of a hand in the efforts than Mr. Perkins, or any of the other men who rushed in to help.”

“You are too kind, sir. Is there anything that I can do for you now?”

Nodding, William motioned to his horse. “Gray threw a shoe while Miss Bradford and I were riding. The mill was closer, so we came directly here. Can you send for the farrier and a cart or carriage to get us back to the house?”

“Of course. If there is anything else you require, just let me know.” He gathered the horses' reins and headed off for the stables.

Turning his attention back to May, William said, “Do you mind if we wait out here? I fear the noise and fibers inside may prove unpleasant. Additionally, I wouldn't wish to disrupt the workers with our presence.”

“I don't mind at all. Lord knows I don't want to cause any more trouble today than I already have,” she said with a rueful grin. “In the meantime, you can tell me all about this place and I shall pretend to know what you are talking about.”

She was teasing, but he could happily go on for hours about the mill, the machinery in it, and the products they made. “Very well. Should I start with the spinning mule or the single cylinder condensing beam engine?”

“Oh, definitely the engine.” She pursed her lips as though thinking. “Or, you could just start by telling me what it is you are milling.”

*   *   *

It was amazing how differently he stood when he was speaking of something he clearly had so much pride in. May stifled a smile, happy to see the enthusiasm in his eyes. Yes, he'd always stood like a man in control, a man with the full knowledge of his power. But as he stood in front of the building he had envisioned, pursued, and created, there was a tangible shift in the way he held his shoulders and lifted his chin. Instead of standing tall and straight, he leaned forward just a bit, as though eager to discuss the fruits of his labor.

It was rather endearing. Particularly given how sweet he had been at the stream. Kissing him the first time had been lovely. Being kissed by him had been a thousand times better, and her head still buzzed with the pleasure of the experience.

Leading her to a low stone wall where they would be out of the way of the drive, he smiled and gestured for her to sit. She did—gratefully—while he remained standing. “This is the county's first cotton mill.” Smiling, he gazed up at the building behind her. “We just received our first major shipment of American raw cotton, and using the very latest in steam-powered engines, we are able to create fabrics faster and cheaper, and in larger quantities than ever before.”

She drew in a surprised breath, her enthusiasm
slipping away. “Faster and cheaper? Does that affect the quality?”

Her father had been transporting imported fabrics for decades. She not only knew where the best fabrics came from, but she was familiar with—and even friends with—some of the people that produced them.

He didn't seem to pick up on the change in her tone. Pride lit his amber eyes as he met her gaze. “With such sophisticated machinery, the quality is both consistent and acceptable.”

Acceptable?
She screwed up her nose at the term. She couldn't help but think of her friend Smita and her family, all of whom worked to produce some of the finest India muslin in the world. Their craft was laborious and painstaking, but the quality was exceptional. In fact, more than half the village was employed by the mill there, and was therefore at the mercy of the textile market.

A stone settled in her stomach as she remembered the letter from Smita where she'd worried about the recent influx of cheap mass-produced but inferior textiles. Textiles exactly like what the duke was describing. “Acceptable? I thought a hand loom was the only way to guarantee a quality product.”

“Hand-loom products are slower and more expensive to make. We are producing quality goods at a price more people can afford. More important,” he added, gesturing down the lane to where workers were unloading crates from a wagon, “we've created over one hundred new jobs. That's one hundred more English men and women who can provide for their families.”

Yes, of course—only Englishmen deserved to be able to work. Why had she allowed herself to forget the way he looked at the world? To him, his countrymen were far
more important than any other people in the world. “Yes, but if you take four times that many jobs from others, how is that a good thing?”

Surprise registered on his face. As he realized what she was saying, she could practically see his gaze frost over like icy sea spray on a frigid porthole. “If you are suggesting that this, the business I have spent the last half dozen years working to create, is somehow a bad thing because it sees to the needs of those I am responsible for, then you have no concept of how seriously I take my duties to my tenants, servants, and employees.”

Her pulse was kicking up, dismay blotting out the pleasure of the day. He had a point, she did see that, but there was a larger issue here that he wasn't considering at all. “And if a village's entire economy collapses because they can no longer compete?”

“Then they should have been paying more attention to the innovations in the market.” He stepped away from her, the movement agitated. His affront was palpable, as an almost physical tension rose between them.

“Oh, really? And what would you suggest they do—buy the machinery that would turn their products into cheap facsimiles of what they have always been?”

His eyes narrowed as his jaw hardened. “The world is changing. England is no longer at the mercy of the East India Company and its pricing whims. There is a need for inexpensive textiles, and I am happy to be among those who fill it. If there is a market for high-priced, laboriously created textiles, then they are welcome to it.”