The Trouble With Being a Duke (16 page)

Both ladies gasped, but rather than apologize, the odious Lady Crooning had the nerve to say, “You cannot be serious. You’re a duke and she . . . she’s a . . . a . . .”

“A what?” Anthony asked, his face now tight with irritation and lack of patience.

Lady Crooning didn’t finish that sentence however, saying instead, “Society will flog her.”

“I’m sure they shall,” Anthony said, enjoying the look of surprise on the ladies’ faces. “It’s not the first time this family has taken on the
ton,
however, and while there are those who will disapprove of my choice in wife, I’ve never really been one to care about the opinion of others. I’d much rather be happy.”

“You cannot mean that.” The countess and her daughter spoke in unison.

Anthony didn’t even bother to hide his distaste for the two women any longer. “I most certainly do. I have no wish to surround myself with snobbery, and as far as Society goes, I’ll have you know that Miss Chilcott’s character is superior to most of those dolts who think themselves grand on the basis of a title they did nothing to earn.” He moved to rise. “Now, if you please, I should like to return to my study. There is still—”

“Well I never,” the countess said, her cheeks reddening as she rose to her feet, yanking her daughter up with her.

“If you wish to leave,” Anthony said unflinchingly, “I will call for Phelps to show you out.” He could sense his mother’s tenseness as if it had been his own and knew he’d have to apologize to her profusely for subjecting her to such rudeness, but he simply couldn’t bear listening to Lady Crooning or her daughter for one more second. He wanted to strangle them—the fact that he’d only given them a set down was really a testament to the level of command he had over his own actions.

“Thank you for the tea, Your Grace,” Lady Crooning said tightly, acknowledging the duchess with a halfhearted attempt at a curtsy before stomping toward the door with her daughter in tow.

Much to Anthony’s surprise, they stopped in the doorway and turned back to face him. “I trust you will not forget the dance you promised Harriett,” Lady Crooning said.

It was Anthony’s turn to be shocked. Had the woman no self-respect for herself or her daughter? He looked at Lady Harriett, who appeared oblivious to how degrading it ought to have been for her that her mother was practically begging a duke to dance with her. He nodded however and said, “I am a man of my word.”

And then they were gone, and Anthony allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief. He turned to his mother, who, he noticed, did not look the least bit pleased. “That was completely unnecessary,” she said. “Not to mention incredibly embarrassing for all of us.”

“I’m sorry, Mama, but she is the one who wormed her way into our home, expecting me to fall on my knees for her daughter. You should have known better than to ask me to help entertain them.”

His mother shook her head a little sadly. “You know that I lack the strength of character required to deal with a woman like her. If you hadn’t come, we would in all likelihood be dining at their home this very evening.”

Reaching for her hand, Anthony gave it a tight squeeze. “You’re a duchess, Mama—she is nobody compared to you.”

The corner of his mother’s mouth edged upward a little. “Who’s being a snob now, Anthony?”

“I only wish to encourage you to be more confident, Mama. You should have no trouble putting women like that in their rightful place.”

“Your father always did say that I was too polite for my own good,” she muttered, her eyes glistening a little at the mention of the old duke.

Feeling the need to comfort her, Anthony pulled her into a tight embrace—something he hadn’t done since the day his father had died. “There’s nothing wrong with being polite,” he whispered, “but there are those who will see it as a weakness and try to take advantage. You must learn to sort these people out from the rest, and you must learn to be firm with them.”

She shook her head against his chest. “When did you become so wise?”

“I am merely offering you the same advice that Papa once gave to me,” he whispered, his own eyes beginning to burn at the memory of the man who’d filled such a large part of his life. He knew there were many aristocrats who spent little time with their children, allowing nannies to do all of the work instead. Not his parents though. His father had taken an immense interest in his upbringing—had designed the tree house that had been placed in one of the large oaks in the garden himself.

They’d played pirates there together, his father giving him treasure maps with impossibly difficult riddles to solve that he must have spent hours concocting in the evenings after Anthony went to bed. Yes, he’d had tutors, but his father had always taken the time to sit down on the library floor with him, books scattered all around them as they’d pored over the atlas, the works of Plato, Aristotle and Socrates, Motte’s translation of Newton’s
The Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy
and a hundred other works that his father believed essential to a young boy’s education.

Stepping out of the embrace, the duchess wiped her damp eyes with the back of her hand, made an attempt at a weak smile and said, “I miss him so desperately much, Anthony.”

Fearing his voice would crack if he tried to speak, Anthony just nodded.

“I still expect him to walk through the door any minute, you know,” his mother continued. She heaved a great sigh, then leveled Anthony with a frank expression. “I’ve never been a very strong person, Anthony. Your father—he was my rock. With him gone I . . .” Her voice broke and she looked away.

“You have me, Mama,” Anthony told her gently. “And you also have Winston and Louise. If you need anything—anything at all, we’re here for you.”

“That’s why I called for you to join me for tea with Lady Crooning, though I do think you overstepped a little.” She grinned slightly. “You were awfully rude to her.”

Anthony couldn’t help but smile. “I was rather, wasn’t I?” To which his mother nodded. Anthony shrugged. “Well, she deserved it.”

“Perhaps she did, but that doesn’t make it all right,” his mother said. “You must try to show a bit more grace and restraint in such situations. Had your father been here—”

“He would be disappointed in me, wouldn’t he?” Regret filled him at the realization of how differently his father would have handled the situation. Anthony had to do better if he wished to live up to the former duke’s name.

His mother was serious as she met his gaze. “Your memories of your father are not from when he was young like you. I know that you idolize him, but he made his own mistakes too. You make a fine duke, Anthony, and I have no doubt that your father would be proud of you.”

Clenching his jaw to stop the sob that was trying to work its way out of his throat, Anthony nodded and turned toward the side table. “Would you care for a drink?” he asked as soon as he felt capable of speaking without his voice cracking.

“I wouldn’t mind a sherry,” his mother replied. He could hear her moving about as he poured a glass for each of them, selecting a cognac for himself. “You really think she’s the one, don’t you?”

Anthony stiffened for a moment and then turned. “I do.” Stepping toward his mother, he offered her her glass.

Taking it, she stared down at it, her brow knit in a serious frown as she said, “Then you must stop at nothing to win her.” She looked up at Anthony, and there was such encouragement in her eyes that Anthony knew without doubt that she was just as determined as he in turning Miss Chilcott into the Duchess of Kingsborough. In case he had any doubt however, she raised her glass toward his and said, “You have my full support.”

They clinked their glasses together, and Anthony silently reflected on how important a moment it was. His mother might not have had the strength of character required to give women like Lady Crooning a proper set down, but she was kind and loving to a fault, and the fact that she trusted him so completely with something that he barely understood himself meant the world to him. Now, if he could only convince Miss Chilcott and her parents, everything might just work out the way he hoped after all.

Chapter 17

F
ive days had passed since the Kingsborough Ball, and Isabella’s mind was more muddled than it had ever been before. She was being courted by Mr. Roberts, who
still
hadn’t proposed,
and
she was being pursued by a duke.

She let out a sigh of despair. She didn’t care for Mr. Roberts in the least—especially not now that he had revealed what her marriage to him would entail. But she knew that her father had done all in his power to encourage his suit and consequently feared that denying Mr. Roberts at this point would not only incur his wrath but also make a mockery of her father.

On the other hand, the man she felt drawn toward was so far above her on the social ladder that she felt such hopelessness at even considering the possibility of that working out. Besides, her mother hated his kind and everything they stood for, which would not lead to very joyous family reunions.

The duke seemed not to mind her station in life, which only endeared him to her further. He might have been a man of power, but he was good and kind, or he would have started by trying to make her his mistress instead. He had not, however, and while he seemed terribly convinced that a union between them would work, Isabella still worried.

She didn’t know him very well after all, and he didn’t know her. What if this . . .
thing
. . . they felt for each other wasn’t enough? What if it faded? He hadn’t called it love, much to her relief, since she would have thought him presumptuous if he had, but rather the
promise
of love. And yet . . . what if all it was, was a need? She’d heard of such unquenchable desire before, and judging from the way he’d kissed her at the ball, not to mention their interlude on the road three days ago . . . She felt herself grow unbearably hot at the reminder and went to open the window.

Lust.

She allowed the word to form in the privacy of her mind and took a moment to consider it. Was that what it was? A breeze swept past her face, toying with her hair, and she sighed as she looked at the piece of paper she held in her hand. Marjorie had brought it up to her in secrecy, and she’d waited for the maid to depart before tearing open the seal to read its contents—an invitation from the duke to meet him later that afternoon by the Kingsborough barn, located quite conveniently on the same road that she would have to take to go to her aunt’s house.

Isabella felt her heart flutter at the very thought of accepting such a liaison. It spelled trouble, and yet the note said that he only wished to talk to her. Instinct warned her that he would want to do a whole lot more, but the sound of her heart beating was drowning out her voice of reason.

She wanted to see him again, if only to say good-bye. The very idea of having to do so was terrifying, but unless she ran away with him, she had no choice. She didn’t want to disappoint her parents, to humiliate her father or, for that matter, to tell Mr. Roberts that he’d wasted so much time on her. It just wasn’t in her.

But just because she’d determined to sacrifice herself for the sake of others did not mean she should be denied one last afternoon of happiness with the man she . . . She decided not to finish that thought, for not only was it ridiculously romantic, even for her, but it would also lead to further heartbreak if she allowed herself to believe it to be true.

Donning a plain white cotton gown, Isabella picked a bouquet of daffodils in the garden, then announced to her mother that she would be taking them over to her aunt. Fortunately, her mother was in the middle of her correspondence and barely batted an eyelid, waving Isabella off instead as she wished her a pleasant walk.

“Can I come with you?” Jamie asked just before Isabella reached the garden gate.

“No,” Isabella said, turning to meet her sister’s inquisitive gaze with a pointed look.

Jamie smiled cheekily and whispered, “You’re going to meet him, aren’t you?”

Isabella had of course shared with her sister every detail about the Kingsborough Ball—except for the kiss—and, like the duke, Jamie was of the opinion that the two should marry, claiming that all of Isabella’s reasons against doing so were ridiculous.

“I’m going to end whatever is between us,” Isabella said, trying to sound convincing.

Her sister looked dubious, then shook her head. “It’s one thing for you to lie to everyone else, but to lie to yourself, Izzie . . .” She scrunched her mouth as if thinking how best to continue. “I never thought you such a coward.”

Filled with the kind of indignation one could feel only at receiving such a blunt appraisal from a younger sibling, Isabella opened her mouth to protest, except that her sister was already marching back toward the house. “Give my love to Aunt Rosalyn and Uncle Herbert, will you?” she called over her shoulder, stopping Isabella from saying whatever it was she’d meant to say a moment earlier.

Isabella stared after her.

Was Jamie right? Was she a coward? She wouldn’t have thought so, considering everything she was giving up for the sake of those she loved. But emotionally . . . It wasn’t a thought she wished to entertain at present, so with a brisk step, Isabella quickly left Moxley behind her and headed toward the rendezvous point, her heartbeat quickening when she spotted the brown building in the distance.

“You can do this,” she told herself, squaring her shoulders and clenching her teeth as if she’d been on the verge of facing an army in battle rather than a simple man, though she had to admit that there was nothing simple about him. In fact, nobody had ever complicated her life more.

As she came closer, she looked over her shoulder to ensure that there was nobody else on the road who might see her. Not even a stray dog could be seen, and Isabella wasn’t entirely sure if she felt worried or relieved by this, for there was no longer any excuse not to turn off the road, walk into the field and around to the back of the barn, where one of the doors stood slightly ajar.

Pushing it open just enough to squeeze through, Isabella stopped and allowed her eyes to adjust to the dim interior. It was warm inside—the sort of dry warmth one feels on a bright sunny day—and it smelled richly of hay. A fluttering sound reached her ears, and she looked up to see a bird preening its feathers up under the rafters, where narrow gaps in the wood roofing allowed beams of sunshine to pour through, bathing the hay in a golden glow.

She was just about to step further inside when a strong arm snaked its way around her waist, pulling her back against a solid chest. She would have screamed in startled surprise, but a large hand covered her mouth instead. “It’s just me,” a deep, familiar voice whispered against her ear.

She relaxed, and he removed his hand. “Was that really necessary?” she asked, moving to escape his grasp. He spun her around instead so they were facing each other, and she reluctantly sucked in a breath. How was it possible for him to be handsomer than when she’d last seen him? Logic told her it wasn’t so, yet she couldn’t deny that her recollection of his appearance had been unjust—a clear sign of her own denial.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you—just surprise you a little, that’s all.” He brought his hand up and ran the inside of his thumb along her cheek. “I’ve missed you.”

Isabella felt her heart hammer against her chest at the deep sincerity that glowed in his eyes. “Your Grace, I—”

“Anthony,” he muttered, still stroking her cheek.

Isabella frowned, her mind not at all its usual alert self with him caressing her. “I beg your pardon?” she managed, the feel of his arm tightening around her waist sending a shiver down her spine.

The duke smiled, and it was the sort of smile that was filled with the promise of pleasure, sin and mischief all rolled into one. Isabella felt her legs grow weak—the man was completely irresistible with his hair all mussed and his cravat slightly askew, as if he didn’t give a damn about propriety. Isabella’s heart skipped a beat. “I have kissed you twice, Miss Chilcott, and I am about to do so again. I believe it’s time we dispensed with formality, wouldn’t you agree?” And then, before Isabella was afforded the chance to voice a response to that question, the duke lowered his mouth over hers, and it was almost as if the ground fell away beneath her feet.

It was gentle at first, with their lips just grazing, but then he captured her lower lip between his teeth, tugging at the tender flesh, and she gasped, her arms reaching around his neck and pulling him closer. She was a fool, but she couldn’t stop herself, couldn’t think of anything else—didn’t want anything but this, right here, right now, with him.

The kiss grew deeper, more urgent, and Isabella ignored the voice in her head that called for her to stop and walk away. She was powerless against him and gave herself up to the kiss instead, parting her lips and allowing him entry. His tongue swept inside her mouth without hesitation, rolling over hers as he tasted her in the most sensual way possible.

Not knowing how it happened, she suddenly found herself pressed up against the barn wall, her breasts flattened against his chest as he pushed up against her. He abandoned her mouth, kissing his way along her jaw instead, straight toward her ear, where he flicked his tongue against her lobe.

A shock of heat shot straight through her, she felt her breasts tighten and then . . . an unbearable longing between her thighs. Dear God, she had to get away from him before she started begging him to do his worst with her. What a surprise that would be for Mr. Roberts on their wedding night. She groaned at the thought of it—a reaction the duke apparently took as a welcome, for his hands slipped between them, his fingers seeking her hardened nipples, then squeezing.

She groaned again, but this time it was from complete and utter pleasure.

“Tell me your name,” the duke whispered against her neck, sending yet another wave of heat straight to her groin. “Please,” he added.

“It’s . . .” Dear Lord, he’d managed to make her forget even that. She fought for control of her wits. “Isabella,” she gasped as his head dipped and he proceeded to lick his way along the edge of her neckline.

He paused. “Beautiful,” he murmured as he gave her bodice a slight tug. “The woman as well as the name—so utterly beautiful.”

Isabella allowed her head to fall back against the barn wall. She closed her eyes and sucked in a breath, knowing what he was looking at. There was no corset, since she rarely wore the uncomfortable thing, and her chemise was loose. Anthony had no trouble pulling both it and her gown down just enough to reveal her breasts in their entirety, and she was too caught up in the moment to stop him. It was mortifying.

Common sense spoke to her from a faraway corner of her mind, and she thought to push him away—to put an end to this folly before it was too late. But then he did the unspeakable. The wicked man grazed his teeth against one of her nipples, nipping it gently, and Isabella practically buckled. “So responsive . . . ,” she heard him mutter. “So passionate.” And then he took her entire breast in his mouth and suckled.

Oh, dear Lord!

What was happening to her? Her whole body was humming with expectation, there were tingly sensations in the most unspeakable places and she felt restless—as if she wanted something but couldn’t quite put her finger on what that something might be.

Blast!

The next thing she knew, she was in his arms and he was carrying her across the floor to a large pile of hay, his gaze hot and determined, which should probably have scared her to death but didn’t. Something about this man made her feel safe and comfortable. She trusted him, and the way in which he looked at her was enough to make her want to forget about all else. This was a sacred moment they were sharing, and nobody was going to intrude on it or ruin it for them.

Sitting down in the hay, Anthony leaned back with Isabella on his lap and hugged her against his chest. He wanted her in every way imaginable, but that was not the reason he’d come here. In fact, he really had meant only to talk to her, but then he’d seen her standing there with the scattered beams of sunlight brightening her hair and skin and he’d been unable to control himself. She’d looked so divine and tempting.

His hands reached for her breasts again and she groaned as he molded the soft, pliable flesh, feeling them swell with excitement. No, he would not deflower her so primitively in a barn, though it would not be for lack of wanting but because he knew she deserved better than a tumble in the hay—literally.

She wriggled against him and he belatedly realized that the deep, guttural groan he heard, so foreign to his ears, had come from somewhere deep inside himself. Again she moved, submitting him once more to the same sweet torture he’d felt a moment earlier as her bottom had rubbed against him. “Stop,” he muttered, his hand grabbing at her thigh in an attempt to hold her still. Her thigh . . . how he’d contemplated it for endless moments since accidentally placing his hand against it in the pumpkin carriage the night of the ball; the way it had felt to his touch—so soft and curvaceous—so sensual and womanly.

He felt her tense beneath him. “What . . . what is it?” she asked, her breathing low and heavy. “What’s wrong?”