What I Did For a Duke (18 page)

Genevieve had ducked her head and was brushing her knuckles across her lips. Back and forth. Back and forth. He watched, irritated, wondering if her lips were swollen. He recognized his irritation as guilt’s more tolerable cousin.

“I’m
drunk
,” he pointed out.

It was an inane thing to say. It was also no longer entirely true. He’d kissed himself almost all the way to the other side of sobriety.

Her knuckle stilled on her lips and her brows dove to meet in a frown. She brought her hand deliberately down to entwine with her other one and held both of them still against her thighs, and stared back at him. And for a moment, she seemed to actually
consider
his ridiculous words.

“Of
course
you are,” she humored, finally, and so very, very gently. “I’m certain that’s all it was.”

Was that tremble he heard in her voice
laughter
?

A little of it might have been fear.

Of him, or of what she’d just done?

Or of what she
wanted
to do?

Well, she
ought
to be afraid of what he wanted to do. Or at least possess a healthy sense of self-preservation.

But he had little doubt that he would be able to do it. All it required was strategy.

She was backing away from him now.

Don’t go
, was his first panicked thought.

Followed by:
Hurry up
.

“Shall I send a servant down to look after you?” she said as she backed away.

She couldn’t help it, of course. The looking after him. The looking after of people. He thought of her again gently replacing, retying Millicent’s bonnet. She
breathed
kindness. He surged toward it hungrily and just as quickly surged away.

“No. I’ll see myself up,” he said curtly.

See what she’d reduced him to?
Simplicity
. Perish the thought.

She paused, perhaps waiting for the acerbic twist to his words.

He didn’t have it in him at the moment.

So she really did leave.

Chapter 16

S
he raced back up the stairs, and closed the door and leaned against it momentarily, as if locking all untoward desires out.

But there the roses were, standing guard like a sentry. Announcing to the world who Genevieve Eversea
really
was.

They really do. Remind me of you.

Her very good mouth stung from that very good kiss. And she remembered his words, as though they’d been a spell that had lured her downstairs and into his arms in the first place.
It should make you want to do things you’d never dreamed you’d want to do, and in that moment all of those things will make perfect sense.

Almost
, he’d said.

He was lying. She smiled half to herself.

Unless . . . he wasn’t. Her smile faded.

Because the notion that a kiss could be better than
that
. . . it was nearly inconceivable. Surely if one kissed someone one loved it would lift her right from her body.

It should herald, or at least promise, the most intense physical pleasure you’ve ever known, regardless of whether that promise is ever, ever fulfilled.

She drew in a shuddering breath. She sat down hard on the edge of the bed.

She rested the backs of her fingers gingerly against her thoroughly kissed mouth, and regarded herself in the mirror.

Promise.
It had been exactly that.

And then she pulled her hand away from her mouth and studied it. The hand that Harry had kissed.

That the duke had pinned with his fingers to the grass just the other day.

That she had slid into the duke’s shirt this evening as his tongue tangled with hers.

Memories of textures came back to her, all out of order: his tongue, sinewy and hot and sweet with brandy and how the touch of it to hers had sent hot quicksilver through her veins. The skin of his chest, smooth and taut and covered in crisp dark hair she’d actually tangled in her fingers. Hard thighs, hard cock, firm hands, all pressed with conviction and extremely confident knowledge against her body, and how her body knew just how to blend into his. Her body had been
designed
for this.

Ah, but he’d also wound his hands into her hair. That, for him, had been indulgence. A grace note, a tender savoring.

He’d been shaking with desire for her.

The power of all of this was extraordinary, and really, she ought not to summon memories of it any more than she ought to summon spirits during a séance.

She stood up abruptly and approached the roses instinctively. She stroked the velvety softness of one again. Then cupped one of them in her hands. And imagined the duke’s hand sliding beneath her arse, pressing her up hard against his cock.

She closed her eyes against the shock of pleasure that stormed her at the memory.

She imagined him heading up to his bed. Was he reliving the kiss? Would he sleep? Or were such kisses a common occurrence for him, the man who knew about . . . horses.

She was afraid.

She dropped her face into her hands, breathing hard.

And she wasn’t afraid for the reasons she ought to be. It was the last part of his recitation that worried her most.

Regardless of whether that promise is ever, ever fulfilled.

Because truthfully, given how she felt when she relived the kiss . . . she thought she might
die
if that promise wasn’t fulfilled.

A
utumn was a rectangle of brilliant blue through the kitchen window and a line, as far as the eye could see, at least from that particular window, of bare trees. Another clear day, another hearty breakfast.

Mrs. Eversea touched Mr. Eversea on the arm ever so slightly. A signal. The sort of thing married people did. A universe of meaning could be conveyed with a minute twitch of a brow. Because if anyone else had regarded Genevieve Eversea so directly and at such length over breakfast it might have been considered untoward. But their guest was doing it, and he was a duke.

But perhaps he was simply weary, and had been captivated by his reflection in the silver coffeepot directly across at an angle.

And this is what Jacob Eversea conveyed to his wife with a tip of an eyebrow. A sort of shrug.

All
of the men sitting around the table looked significantly more disreputable this morning. They’d managed to dress and button themselves up correctly, but those who weren’t serviced by a valet had missed a few whiskers on their faces when they attempted shaving with hungover hands. And every single pair of male eyes was red.

Ian Eversea inadvertently intercepted the duke’s gaze. The duke took his knife and slid it with slow precision across his plate, bisecting a slice of ham the way a brigand might slice a throat.

Ian swallowed noisily.

“Ian, your appetite seems a bit off,” his mother accused. “Perhaps you ought to drink less.”

The duke chewed slowly. Swallowed.

And smiled.

He wasn’t admiring himself in the coffeepot.

Genevieve Eversea was her usual composed self, weary and lovely in some sort of soft shade of blue, and the hair which had poured like a dark waterfall over her shoulders last night was magically coiled and pinned up and tamed. Women did like to show their hair who was in charge.

His hand hummed with the memory of its feel. He would have it down again before the week was out.

“The day is so fine I thought we could take a journey to Rosemont,” he announced to the table. “My estate here in Sussex. I spend so much time in London that I seldom have a chance to see it. ’Tis but an hour’s journey from here, and rain hasn’t yet made an unholy mess of the roads.”

“Why, Moncrieffe, that’s downright sociable of you.”

The duke rewarded Jacob Eversea’s wryness with a very dry look.

And all of a sudden Jacob pushed the silver coffeepot over to him.

Isolde Eversea glanced at her husband and bit back a smile.

“Oh, now, sir.” Harriet the cook was irritated at having her role usurped. She swooped down and bustled over and poured the duke another cup of coffee, lest he sprain a wrist waiting upon himself.

“I didn’t know you had an estate in Sussex, Moncrieffe.”

This from Lord Harry Osborne, who attempted a smile along with it.

“I do,” the duke said easily. “And I’ve a few paintings that could benefit from the eye of an expert. I inherited the paintings. I should like to know more about them.”

Faint blue rings arced beneath Genevieve’s eyes. She hadn’t slept much, either.

She wasn’t meeting his eyes directly yet. She would.

“Perhaps Genevieve and I can be of some assistance to you there,” Harry volunteered hurriedly.

Moncrieffe ignored Harry. “I also think I might have a painting of a kitten somewhere in the house . . . but it’s been so long since I’ve visited . . .”

Millicent smiled at this. She wasn’t so simple that she didn’t know when she was being both humored and teased. But she didn’t mind.

“Remember the swans?” Genevieve said suddenly, almost enthusiastically. “Do you remember our first visit to Rosemont, Millicent? We went on a whim when the duke was away.”

“They were splendid,” Millicent agreed.

“But is the house open, Moncrieffe?” Jacob Eversea wanted to know.

“I sent word ahead a few days ago that I might spend a day or two there, and the staff no doubt has made it ready for visitors.”

Harry’s head jerked up suddenly. His fork froze midway to his mouth. His knuckles had gone white on it.

And then he gingerly laid it down on his plate. He cleared his throat.

“Do you . . .” He stopped. The tension around his jaw made it seem even more eloquently square. “I say, Lord Moncrieffe, do you . . .”

Everyone turned to Harry.

Handsome Lord Harry Osborne looked a little worse for wear after losing more than he could afford to lose to the duke at five-card loo. His eyes sagged a bit, from a poor night’s sleep. Was it simply too much brandy? Or was he, too, tossing and turning over Genevieve Eversea? Or over Lady Millicent Blenkenship? Was he running amuck, kissing Millicent’s hand after midnight?

He
ought
to toss and turn over Genevieve Eversea, the duke thought.

The duke had done precisely that last night.

The duke favored him with his attention. “Yes, Osborne?”

“. . . do you have a greenhouse at Rosemont?”

Harry fixed him with a surprisingly intense gaze.

A curious hush fell over the room.

Genevieve looked at Harry, eyes wide, fascinated at this turn of events. Then she flicked her eyes to the duke, and then studiously back down at her plate, admiring the pattern of roses about the edge, and her neatly eviscerated egg.

Harry was officially
jealous
. Or so it would seem.

The duke allowed that silence to settle in, to become significant. And then he smiled faintly, and said almost disinterestedly, “Doesn’t everybody have a greenhouse?”

He could practically hear the whirring minds of everyone at the table attempting to extract meaning from the statement.

Everyone hopped a little, startled, when Harriet dropped a fork.

“It’s lovely, Harry,” Genevieve said gently. “Rosemont is. It will be a nice short trip and diversion today. And think of the gallery. You’ll enjoy it.”

She smiled at him, and Harry smiled weakly in return.

A rogue surge of jealousy swept up over Moncrieffe. She was trying to ease the young fool’s disquiet. Because she was so damned
thoughtful
.

“Won’t it be amusing, Harry!” Millicent enthused. “Swans! Oh yes! Let’s all go.”

“I’ve other plans,” Ian said quickly.

“Perhaps you ought to go have a talk with your cousin Adam, Ian,” his mother suggested.

The implication being that Adam the vicar might be able to help Ian unburden his conscience or regain his appetite.

“And be certain to bring your sketchbook, Lady Millicent,” the duke urged somberly. “Because everywhere you look . . . it’s beautiful.”

He was looking now at Genevieve.

Genevieve stared back at him with those cool blue eyes. She knew his words were part of a game, and yet she suspected it wasn’t entirely a game.

And it was perhaps this confusion that put the color in her cheeks.

Or perhaps she was thinking of where his hands had been the night before.

A man could hope.

A
picnic was got up, cold fowl and cakes and dates and half of a wheel of cheese packed hastily in a basket, so they needn’t feel a twinge of hunger for the few hours they would be away, and so they wouldn’t startle the duke’s staff with a need to feed a sudden small invasion of aristocrats.

Installed in the duke’s barouche, the final party, consisting of the Duke of Falconbridge, Harry, Millicent, and Genevieve (slippery Olivia had begged a previous commitment) and attending footmen, they rolled through Pennyroyal Green past Miss Marietta Endicott’s academy, past the Pig & Thistle, past the vicarage, where Adam stood outside talking to Ian and lifted an arm to wave while Ian glowered; past the two enormous oaks entwined in the town square, said to be so entwined that one could no longer stand without the other, though they battled with each other for their share of light and air and earth. And this, it was said, represented the Everseas and Redmonds.

Nearly an hour into their journey, over more rolling Sussex hills, every now and then a glimpse of the sea winking on the horizon, the duke said, “Ah. And so we’re here. On Rosemont land.”

“And how did you come to own Rosemont, Moncrieffe?” Harry wanted to know. Perhaps hoping he’d won it in a card game and could win an estate of his own one day.

“It was part of my wife’s dowry,” he said, his face turned toward the window.

The duke smiled mordantly to himself at the sudden silence. No one ever knew quite what to say when he mentioned his dead wife. It was a useful ploy when he wanted a conversation to end.

Which wasn’t necessarily the case at the moment.

“And now it’s mine.” He turned back to them brightly. “You’ll find the house isn’t grand, not like Eversea House or some of my other properties, but it is snug and the gardens are fine. Women seem to like the garden best of all. That, and the dolphin pool.”

“Satyr,” Genevieve corrected swiftly.

And then she smiled, realizing he’d said it purposely.

Moncrieffe bit his lip against a smile.

“Do you recall Vaccario’s engraving, Genevieve?” Harry added hurriedly. “The satyr watching a sleeping girl? We found it in the bookshop in London.”

“I recall it.” She looked across at Harry. He sat next to the duke.

“Winter and Summer” she would have called any engraving of the two of them.

Except that she’d had a taste of winter, and winter, as it turned out, was incendiary.

Millicent sat next to her, and she wondered if Harry and the duke were making similar comparisons among the two women in their own heads.

“Charming bit of baroque art,” Harry pressed on, almost desperately. “Vaccario’s engraving.”

Normally Genevieve would have taken this up eagerly. “It is, indeed,” she agreed politely. She was distracted by thoughts of . . . tasting Winter.

“Oh, the two of you always talk so much about what things
are
. Baroque and medieval and so forth. Why don’t you simply look at them and enjoy them?”

Millicent said this good-humoredly.

They all stared at her. And this was the key to Millicent’s charm, and why, no doubt, Harry had thought he wanted to marry her. Everyone needed a reminder to simply look at things and enjoy them, without labeling them.

T
he house was at the end of a long road lined with bare, long, long aspens and birches, which would meet in an arch when leafed out in spring. The hills undulated like a green blanket tucked carelessly about the house, which sat on the highest of them. The vista showed them sheep and cows grazing in fields neatly bisected by hedges serving as walls.

“It’s quite lovely, Moncrieffe,” Harry said, earnestly, a bit despondently, when a jewel box of a simple redbrick house, surrounded by a circular drive, came into view.