A Duke Never Yields (22 page)

She turned her head back to the book, and it was gone.

“You’ve no right,” she said. “You hardly ever kiss me, and even then only when I’ve been very naughty indeed. It’s no wonder I’ve found another fellow. You’ve driven me into his arms.”

Wallingford smiled indulgently at her. Nothing could pierce his good humor this morning. He had awoken even earlier than usual, opening his eyes to the golden sunrise with the settled conviction that he was going to ask Abigail Harewood to marry him.

Perhaps even today.

The idea had been hovering in the back of his mind for some time, of course, though he hadn’t acknowledged it, nor even put it into words. Since the early days of his manhood, when he had thought of marriage at all, he had put it under the heading of
Duties, miscellaneous
, and had some vague notion that he would find a suitable bride when he could put it off no longer, sire a few children, and carry on with the rest of his life more or less as before, albeit with a little more discretion. But falling in love, and asking that woman to marry him, to cleave only unto each other and all that rot? Such things were unspeakably bourgeois.

And yet here he was, falling in love, fallen already, doomed from the moment she’d kissed him in the rain-soaked stable of the inn. To place Abigail Harewood under the heading of
Duties, miscellaneous
was a sacrilege. He couldn’t bear to think of carrying her back to Belgrave Square in a cloud of white tulle and proceeding to bed her once a week, according to ritual, while she carried on a life of charitable committees and afternoon calls, and he carried on a life of club dinners and afternoon mistresses. No, he wanted to keep her right here in this enchanted Italian castle, and make love to her in the sunshine and under the silver moon.

Except that he hadn’t made love to her. He had scarcely even kissed her, and only then, as she said, when she had been particularly naughty and trapped—
trapped!
—him into it.

He had not made love to her, because she was an innocent, and he was not.

He had not made love to her, because he must first prove himself worthy of the privilege.

He had not made love to her, because he was waiting to be sure. He was waiting to wake up in the morning, open his eyes to the golden sunrise, and know that marrying Abigail was the right course, the only course, and the rest of it—Belgrave Square and
Duties, miscellaneous
—would sort itself out.

If she would have him.

A little wobble of worry overturned his smooth-sailing bonhomie. Abigail, after all, did exhibit a certain cynicism about the institution of marriage, and aristocratic marriage in particular. He might reassure her all he liked about Belgrave Square and
Duties, miscellaneous
, but whereas other girls would leap at the chance to be Duchess of Wallingford (it did have rather a nice ring to it, he thought affectionately, gazing at Abigail’s creamy cheek), his mad little elf would probably much rather elope to a garret in Paris, suitably wretched and north facing, with some ghastly emaciated poet.

“In any case,” she went on, turning pointedly back to her Plutarch and flipping another page, “he’s a great deal more attentive than you are this morning.”

By God, he would make her his duchess. And take her to live in a garret in Paris, if he had to, where they would keep their bohemian neighbors awake all night with the creaking of the bedsprings.

“Rubbish,” he said. “I’m attentive to your every need. Picnics and Latin every day. Moonlit walks every night.”

“Except when there’s no moon.”

“And I deliver you honorably to your door before midnight, a gentleman to my fingertips.”

“I didn’t take up with you for your gentlemanly fingertips. Quite the opposite.”

God, she was perfect. Why hadn’t he made this decision before? So right, so elegant a solution.

For one thing, well down on his list but a pleasant prospect indeed, marriage to Abigail checkmated his grandfather’s scheme rather neatly.

Wallingford sprang forward, filled with glee, filled with certainty, and planted his hands on either side of Abigail’s hips.

“What the devil, Wallingford,” she began, but he leaned into her mouth and kissed her confusion thoroughly away. In an instant, she had cupped his cheeks with her hands, and kissed him back so ardently that desire flamed up like a torch in his belly.

She leaned back against the tree and he followed her, running his tongue along the seam of her lips until she opened them with a sigh and allowed him inside, allowed him to taste the curve of her mouth and the sweetness of her velvet tongue, while his hand crept up to caress her waist. Sometime in the heat of late May, Abigail had shed all but one of her petticoats, and her skin now burned so tantalizingly close he could feel every swell of her body through the barriers of her dress and stays and chemise.

“Tell me,” she said, against his lips, “to what do I owe the pleasure of this wholly ungentlemanly conduct?” Her thumbs brushed against his cheek; her fingers caressed his hair.

Wallingford left her mouth to kiss his way along her jaw to her ear. “I can’t leave the field entirely to my rival.”

“Mmm. Yes, he’s very skilled. I should think you’ll need a great deal of practice.”

“I am at your service.”

She pulled back. Her eyes were wide in her delicate face. “Are you, Wallingford? Are you really?”

“Up to a point.” He ran his finger around the curve of her ear.

“Oh! Only more of your teasing, I suppose. This pointless self-denial, when even my untrained virgin sensibilities can tell you’re aching to have me.”

He sat back. “For God’s sake, Abigail.”

“Good heavens, Wallingford. Are you
blushing
?
Do you think I’m unaware of your aroused physical state? I
have
studied the functions of male anatomy, you realize.”

“Yes, I realize that.” He resisted the urge to glance down. He knew quite well that the male anatomy in question was straining desperately against the prison of his trousers, just as Abigail had observed.

“Why, you
are
blushing! And how lovely it looks on you. It brings your face quite alive.”

“I didn’t strike you as alive before?”

A frustrated sigh. “Look, must we go on exchanging clever remarks? I’d much rather kiss.”

He leaned forward to oblige her, but before he had quite reached her lips she gave a gasp of dismay and pushed him away. “Stop a moment. How long was I sleeping? What time is it?”

Wallingford groaned and produced his watch. “Nine twenty-three.”

“Oh, Lord. Already? I’m dreadfully sorry, my darling, but I really must go. I promised Morini I’d help with the midsummer masks. We’re quite behind, though I stayed up half the night working . . .” She was on her feet, picking up random picnic detritus and tossing it in the wicker basket in a series of dangerous crashes. The sun dappled her hair through the leaves.

“Midsummer masks?” Wallingford repeated stupidly, transfixed by the sight of her bosom as it ducked and lifted before his eyes.

“Yes, for the party tonight. You
do
have a mask, don’t you?”

“Of course I have a mask.”

She stopped and turned, a flask of water hanging from her hand. “You’ve forgotten entirely, haven’t you?”

“Of course I haven’t forgotten. I . . . my mask is . . . it’s all ready. Quite . . . quite ready, and all that. With a”—he made a helpless motion with one finger—“a feather, you see, in one corner. Both corners, that is. Goose down, to be precise. I have a great fondness for the stuff.” He grinned up hopefully at her.

She dropped the flask in the basket and clapped her hands. “Well played. You nearly had me, right up until
goose down
.” She picked up the basket. “Now will you help me with the blanket?”

He took the basket from her and set it down in the grass, and then he picked up the blanket and folded it. In his present state of panting lust, it seemed a useful thing to do. Wallingford had learned, in the past few months, how to manage this constant simmer of passion, how to distract himself from sexual arousal with physical tasks, to discipline the cravings of his body. Not so different, really, from swimming to the middle of the lake and knowing there was nothing else to do but keep going, whatever his personal inclinations. He had learned simply to enjoy the flaring of desire, to take pleasure not in hasty consummation but in anticipation, in touches and glances, in Abigail herself.

Abigail herself, meanwhile, was no help at all. She simply didn’t see the point. “I don’t see the point, Wallingford,” she said, picking her way through the trees by his side. They had walked around to the far side of the lake, as they did most days, where privacy was more certain. “We’re far from the proprieties of London, after all. I’m willing; you’re certainly willing. What the devil are we waiting for?”

He smiled to himself. “You’ve never heard of the virtue of self-denial?”

“What do you know of the virtue of self-denial? I’m sure you’ve never sampled it before.”

“You sound cross, my dear.”

“I
am
cross.” She stopped and turned to him. “You’ve gone to bed with dozens of women, Wallingford. Why not me?”

How could he answer her? He hooked the basket handle over his elbow and touched her hair. “You know the answer to that.”

Abigail slapped his hand away. “Yes, this tiresome and ridiculous prohibition against seducing virgins; or rather well-bred virgins, for I’m sure you gentlemen have no such scruples about the unprotected sort.”

“That’s not true. I’ve never . . .” He frowned. “In any case, it has nothing to do with scruples. It has to do with . . .”

She turned and resumed walking. “Convention? Doubts?”

“God, no. With . . . with wanting to do things differently.” He said the last words in a mutter, almost to himself.

“With what?”

“With exactly the sort of sentimental rubbish you insist you despise. Tell me more about this midsummer whatever-it-is.” He shifted the basket back to his hand.

“Oh, it’s going to be splendid! You really must come, Wallingford; I’m quite serious. Masks and dancing, and all the villagers out in the courtyard with us. Lilibet and Alexandra and I shall be dressed as serving girls . . .”

“
Serving girls?
”

“According to Morini, it’s traditional for the ladies of the castle to dress as maids on Midsummer’s Eve. Of course, one’s got to do the thing properly and . . .”

She went on pattering about anchovy paste and the local philharmonic, but Wallingford’s brain had ceased functioning at the phrase
serving girls
and the image it conjured: Abigail in some low-necked frock, her breasts spilling over the bodice, perhaps even (oh, merciful God!) an apron around her swinging hips, as she offered him a tray of delectables. Words passed over his head,
olives
and
stuffing
and
tuba
, but his mental fingers were plucking at her mental bodice, and nothing made any sense until a sharp object bludgeoned his ribs and Abigail’s indignant voice intruded on his vision: “I say, Wallingford, are you attending me?”

“Oh yes. Tubas. Awfully jolly. Shall perish of excitement.” How soon, he wondered, would the threatened tubas make their appearance? Was it possible to spirit Abigail away first, in costume of course, to serve him his olives privately, one by one?

Would she be wearing her mask, too?

He swallowed heavily.

“Tubas,
really
. You’re not listening at all, Wallingford. I was discussing the significance of Midsummer’s Eve.”

“Midsummer, of course. Longest day of the year. A cause for celebration, certainly.”

“To the
castle
, Wallingford. It’s an enchanted night, the night of lovers, they say. And Morini and I have made such careful preparations. It won’t go awry this time, I’m certain.”

Just as the phrase
night of lovers
began to have the same arresting effect on Wallingford’s brain as
serving girls
, something else snagged his attention.

He cocked his head, gave it a little shake, and asked, “What did you say?”

“Oh, the preparations. You can’t imagine . . .”

“You said
this time
. As if there were some other time. That is to say, some other night.”

“Did I? You know how I drop these silly remarks, Wallingford. They mean nothing at all.” Her pace picked up, leaving Wallingford slightly behind, and causing the hem of her single petticoat to swish into view around her churning ankles. Her graceful ankles, of which he occasionally caught glimpses . . .

Stop
.

He shook his head again. “No. Your silly remarks mean the most of all, Abigail Harewood.” He lengthened his stride and caught up with her. “Out with it. What are you scheming?”

“Nothing at all. The absurdity. Do you think Philip needs a mask? I’m not sure I shall have the time . . .”

“Abigail,” he growled, catching her arm.

She pivoted about his elbow with all the force of her forward momentum. He caught her just in time, rather neatly, so she was trapped between his two arms. He let the picnic basket drop to the ground. A blush was rising up in her cheeks, though it might have been the exertion.

Might
.

“Tell me about Midsummer’s Eve, Abigail,” he said, in a silky voice.

Abigail cast her eyes down to the sliver of grass between them. Despite the morning hour, the weather was warm, with a baking quality already settling into the air, promising a hot afternoon. A few tiny dewdrops of perspiration shone on her upper lip. “I already told you,” she said. “An enchanted night, a night for lovers. I had hoped . . .” She lifted one hand and laid her fingertips against his jacket, staring at them as she spoke. “You and I, Wallingford . . . oh, don’t make me ask it . . .”

“Abigail.”

“I know why you haven’t touched me. I know you’re trying to behave honorably, to prove you’re capable of self-restraint. And I respect that, I do. But you see, Wallingford . . .” She looked up at him at last, and her face was pure longing. “You don’t need to go on like this. I’m not a debutante, a conventional marriage-minded girl; I never wanted that. You know this. I don’t expect promises and betrothals. I adore you, you know that, too, now more than ever, and I should so want . . . and I do believe you want it, too, that you care for me . . . I want . . . to
show
you, Wallingford. To
know
you, every bit of you. Without restraints or promises, simply two people who . . . who care for each other, and who . . .” She stamped her foot. “Oh, don’t make me go on like this.
Say
something.”