All I Want for Christmas Is a Duke (9 page)

“Forget the cake, Benson,” Christopher told the footman with a wince. “And don’t bother with a glass. I’ll take the decanter. Hand it over.”

Setting the tray down on the side table, the footman passed off the crystal decanter of cognac.

Martin pointed at his brother. “For God’s sake, don’t drink the whole thing.”

“I dare you to stop me. I’m in pain and bedridden without a single woman in sight.” Christopher sat up after several tries. Hissing out a breath, he tossed the stopper onto the tray with a clang and took a long swig. “My leg may be broken, but all I can think about is your neighbor who dragged me out of the snow. When did she move in?”

“Several months ago.”

“That woman is stunning. Do you know that? Absolutely stunning.”

Martin rolled his eyes. “You find every woman stunning.”

“Maybe I do,” Christopher drawled, taking another swig. “Is she married?”

“No.”

“Excellent. I shall have to call on her.”

“With a broken leg?”

“A mere complication.”

Leave it to his brother to think a broken leg was nothing.

After the footman gathered the tray of cakes, the footman announced, “Your Grace.”

Martin glanced toward the footman. “Yes?”

“The butler wanted me to inform you that you have an unannounced visitor. A Mrs. Robinson. Are you at home?”

Martin scrambled up onto his booted feet from the edge of the bed, his heart pounding. Why was she— “Yes. Yes, I am. Lead her into the study.”

The footman departed.

Christopher’s dark brows rose as he eyed the open door leading out into the corridor. “Well, well. Apparently you are far more worried about her reputation than she is her own.” He smirked and held up the decanter toward Martin in a mock salute. “Merry Christmas, old boy.”

Martin adjusted his attire and shoved back his hair from his eyes. “How do I look?”

Christopher took another swig of cognac. “I suggest less clothing. It will hurry things along.”

“This is where I stop taking your advice.” Martin leaned over and snatched the decanter, also taking a swig of the smoky liquid in an effort to calm his nerves. He took one more.

“Ey, ey.” Christopher reached up and tugged the decanter from his hands. “I need that more than you do. You also don’t want to go to her with cognac on your breath. She won’t take you seriously.”

Martin paused. “Good point.”

Christopher glanced up at him. “Your hair is a mess.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. Have the valet tend to it and put you into eveningwear at once. Make it a white waistcoat and white cravat. Women love a man in eveningwear. And remember. Don’t let her leave until you get a yes and a kiss. At the very least.”

Martin eased out a ragged breath. “I can do this.”

“But of course you can. You can do anything. You are duke.”

“I am duke.” He said it as if he never realized it before. “I am duke.”

“Yes. Good. Now just keep saying it. You are duke.”

“If I keep saying it, she is likely to think me conceited.”

“You’re not supposed to say it aloud. It’s meant to motivate you.”

Martin let out a breath. “Right.”

Chapter Six

I dream of holding our children and our future.

When will I be given a chance to meet both?

—Mister X

Fortunately, her favorite malachite satin evening gown still fit. Fortunately. Unfortunately, she couldn’t get rid of the nerves that had seized her the moment she had stepped into his house. She had come to end their friendship by accepting his proposal and knew that in doing so, she would have to face the one thing she hadn’t faced in eight years: intimacy.

Easing out a shaky breath in an effort to calm herself, Jane trailed her hand against the blue silk brocaded walls that were as beautiful as everything around her.

Whisking around the study that was lit with brightly burning glass lamps, Jane veered toward Martin’s mahogany desk that was always impressively organized, right down to the quill.

Finding a piece of parchment that had been perfectly aligned against the smooth edge of the large desk, she paused.

In perfect black ink it read: Jane

It was a note. For her. She blinked. Did he know she was coming? Or was it something he intended to send? Knowing full well she shouldn’t, she still did.

She slid the note from the desk and unfolded it.

Her brows rose. It was empty.

Jane fingered the parchment and eyed the open doors of the study. How odd. She bit her lip. Setting it onto the desk, Jane leaned toward the bronzed stand to retrieve a quill. She hesitated, her fingers brushing over each one. It felt so personal touching his belongings.

She lowered her gaze to the parchment.

She was ready for this. She was ready for him.

Carefully dragging out one of the quills from the stand, she dipped the sharpened tip into the inkwell. She angled the blank side of the parchment toward herself and scribed:

Please inform Mister X that I still love him, even after all these years.

I don’t think I ever told him.

Nothing beyond that needed to be said.

Setting the quill back into its stand, Jane sanded the ink several times to ensure it was dry, refolded it, then set the missive back onto the edge of the desk. She slowly wandered from one side of the study to the other and back again, glancing toward the open doors. It had already been a good fifteen minutes that she had been waiting. Where was he?

She seated herself, arranging her evening gown in a manner that would best compliment her figure, and folded her hands. Five more minutes passed. Then another five. Then another five.

Exasperated, she stood. Maybe she should inquire as to his whereabouts. What if something had happened? Leaving the study, she momentarily lingered in the garland-draped corridor, looking for a footman. None were to be found.

Upon hearing booted steps heading toward her, she peered down the vast candle-lit corridor. Martin’s tall, broad frame strode toward her, hands in pockets. His dark hair was swept back with tonic and he was meticulously dressed in well-fitted dark evening attire and a snowy white waistcoat and cravat as if he had been entertaining guests.

Her heart popped. He looked magnificent.

Pushing out a calming breath, she set her hands on her satin stomacher and closed the distance between them.

“Merry Christmas, Jane,” he rumbled out.

His voice seemed huskier. “Merry Christmas, Martin,” she managed.

His dark eyes slid rapidly down the length of her evening gown before veering back to her throat as if just noting she was wearing the locket. He paused before her. His jaw tightened as he intently met her gaze in the shadows of the corridor. “You look beautiful.”

Her breath hitched and she suddenly felt like she was sixteen and running naked through a field. It was unnerving. Running naked through any field hadn’t been on her schedule for years. She swallowed and respectfully inclined her head in greeting. “Thank you.”

They stared at each other.

Knowing she ought to get to the point of her visit, she quickly said, “I came to inquire about your brother. Is he well?”

He shrugged. “As well as a man with a broken leg can be. Fortunately, he is young, loves to drink, and therefore will survive.”

She winced at the thought. “Is he in a lot of pain?”

“I’m afraid so. He won’t be able to go back to France any time soon, which I will say I’m glad for. I can never get him to stay long. He has a severe case of wanderlust. A broken leg is the only way to keep a man like him in town.”

She bit back a smile. “So in your opinion it comes as a blessing.”

“It does. Only don’t tell him I said that.” He lowered his shaven chin against his white silk cravat, searching her face. “You’re wearing the locket.”

Something about the way he said it felt like he was dragging his finger up the length of her spine. “I am.”

“And?”

“And I accept.” That was rather easy.

“You accept.” He still searched her face. “You don’t seem all that enthused. Why is that?”

She brought her hands together, knowing full well why. She had to get used to the idea that they would no longer be friends. “Accepting your proposal is going to change everything between us.”

“Not everything.”

“I disagree. You will, after all, wish to kiss me and…and take me into your…bed.” She couldn’t believe she was saying it.

His brows rose. “Is that what ails you? My bedding you?”

She nodded, feeling her entire face burn.

“I see.” He eyed her and eventually gestured toward the study. “Shall we take this into the study, Mrs. Robinson? So we might discuss this in private?” Casually rounding her, he strode down the corridor and disappeared through the doors.

In heart-pounding disbelief, she turned toward the direction he had gone, bringing her hands together. Why was he calling her Mrs. Robinson? They weren’t actually going to talk about kissing and sex, were they?

As if wading through knee-high waters, she trailed after him. Coming into the study, she glanced toward him. How was it that she had become the timid one in their relationship?

He gestured toward a chair and strode toward the doors behind her. Sliding them closed, he turned the key, latching the doors shut to ensure their privacy.

Her stomach flipped. It was the first time he had ever locked a door behind them in all the years she had known him. Apparently, they were going to do more than talk about kissing and sex.

She hurried to the seat he had gestured to and sat, clasping her hands together to keep them from fidgeting. What if she disappointed him? What if she didn’t kiss him or touch him in the way he envisioned? Oh, God.

With long-legged strides, he closed the distance between them and settled into the leather chair opposite her. Leaning back, he eyed her and draped an arm against its side, extending a muscled, trouser-clad leg. “How long have we known each other?”

She tried to ease the pounding of her heart. “Too many years for a respectable woman to count.”

“I’ll be a gentleman and won’t make you count.” He hesitated, then asked, “Am I allowed to get personal?”

An ache overtook her throat. “I suppose.”

He stared. “You suppose?”

“Yes. I meant yes. Of course. Ask me anything.”

“I will.” He tilted his dark head, sending combed strands toward his forehead. “Do you find me attractive?”

Her eyes widened at the blunt question. She wasn’t expecting that. “Given that the doors are locked, I probably shouldn’t answer.”

“I’m trying to have a conversation with you.” His voice became strained. “Do you or don’t you find me attractive? Would you consider bedding me a nuisance?”

She plastered her hands against her gown, willing herself not to faint, knowing she was actually having this conversation with him. Him. Martin. “Uh…it certainly wouldn’t be a nuisance. After all, I do find you…attractive…enough.” She was going to say incredibly attractive but decided against it. Enough sounded more respectable.

He sat up. “Attractive enough?” he echoed. “And what does that mean?”

He was clearly annoyed. Something she hadn’t intended. “It means exactly what I intended it to mean. That I find you attractive.”

“No. You said attractive enough.”

Oh, dear. “I know. But I didn’t mean to—”

“Am I attractive to you or not?” he pressed. “That is all I want to know.”

She wet her lips. “Very.”

“So you would bed me if given the chance?”

“Yes.”

His features softened. “Well, good. Because the sort of attraction I have for you shouldn’t even be named. Whilst I was abroad, three women got to know your first name on a regular basis. And I’m too much of a gentleman to tell you how.”

She couldn’t believe they were talking about this.

He hesitated. “I take it our conversation makes you uncomfortable?”

She nodded and kept right on nodding to ensure there wasn’t any doubt as to how uncomfortable she was.

“Why? We know each other incredibly well and I proposed and you accepted.”

“Yes, but…”

“But what?” He stared.

“Well…you…you are…” She couldn’t say it.

“I am what?”

A breath escaped her. “You’re Martin. You’ll always be that seventeen-year-old boy in my mind.”

He slowly leaned forward in his chair, edging toward her. Methodically propping both forearms on his knees, he held her gaze. “You and I have a problem. Because I’m not seventeen anymore.”

“I know.”

“Do you? Because how are we to wed and have children, Jane, if you aren’t even comfortable with the idea of my being a man?”

“I will get used to it.”

“Used to it?” His eyes darkened. “Excuse me while I try not to get annoyed hearing you say that. I don’t want you to—” He rose and stalked around the desk. “Used to it,” he muttered, taking off his evening coat and tossing it onto the chair. The coat missed and slipped to the floor. Grabbing it up, he whipped it onto the chair to ensure it stayed and swung toward her. “Have you no passion for me?” he demanded, hitting his chest with a thud. “None? Is that what you are telling me? Because I need to know. I’m not marrying a woman who doesn’t feel the same way I do.”

It was the most animated she had ever seen him be. Mister X had officially stepped into the room. And despite that closed and riled expression, she sensed his vulnerability. One that she herself was feeling. She swallowed and eventually managed, “It isn’t that I don’t have any passion for you, Martin. I do. Half the time, my pulse can’t even control itself around you. Even when we were younger, I felt that way around you. I always have. I simply pushed it aside. I had to.”

“Then what is it?” he pressed. “What is making you push me aside now?”

“I simply…I get nervous in allowing myself to submit to you in that way.”

“Why?”

And here it was. The truth she had been avoiding all these years. The truth as to why she hadn’t involved herself with any man since Philip. She clasped her hands in an effort not to feel awkward. “The only man I have ever been intimate with—meaning…Philip—was…well, he was overly passionate. In the two weeks I was married to him, it was incredibly daunting.”

He shifted his jaw. “Daunting? How so?”

“I don’t know what he was expecting. You men seem to think that because I can stand on a stage and sing opera, I’m capable of anything. Especially in matters of an amorous nature. But I’m not. Stepping onstage to give a performance is one thing and taking off clothes to give another sort of performance is quite the other. When he and I married, barely the second night alone, he was forcing me to do things I wasn’t comfortable doing.”

He swiped his face. “I don’t want to listen to any more.”

They stared at each other.

He eventually blurted, “Tell me.”

“He would want me to walk around naked for him whilst he pleasured himself. I don’t even like walking around naked for myself. I don’t even like to sleep naked or look at myself naked in the mirror. But he wouldn’t leave me alone until I did it. He nagged and nagged me for a whole week. And we hadn’t even been married for two!”

He swiped his face again. “I don’t want you comparing me to a man who obviously had no understanding outside of his own needs. It’s insulting.”

“I’m sorry. I’m merely trying to explain why I’m so nervous about us stepping beyond our friendship. I don’t want you to be disappointed into thinking that I’m more than I am. Because I’m not about to walk around naked for you. It’s not who I am.”

He glared. “Do you honestly think that I would judge you based upon your inability to walk around naked for me? What sort of man do you take me for? Hell, I doubt I’ll ever be able to walk around naked for you! Do you have any idea how long it took me to even kiss a woman, yet alone bed one? I was two and twenty, Jane. Two and twenty! Whilst Christopher kissed his first girl when he was six.”

She bit back a startled laugh at hearing him say it. Now she didn’t feel quite so bashful.

He glared again. “Are you laughing at me?”

She tried to erase her amusement. “No. I’m not.”

He pointed rigidly. “Yes, you are. And I don’t appreciate it. Unlike my brother and every man in London, I have a modesty to me. One I cannot erase, and I am not about to apologize for it. Especially to you. Because I have damn well been apologizing for myself to my father all my life. All my life! And I’m done with that. Do you understand? I’m done!”

Her throat tightened. Her Martin, her beloved Martin, had at long last found respect for himself. A respect that neither she, nor anyone else, could have taught him. A respect he could have only taught himself. It meant that he was, indeed, a man. And she was proud of him. Incredibly proud of him.

“Never apologize for who you are.” Trying to soften his annoyance, she pointed to the note he lingered by. “Read it.”

“Read what?”

“My missive.”

“Your missive?” He paused at seeing it. He snatched it up and unfolded it. Whilst reading it, a breath escaped him. Holding her gaze for a long moment, he slowly brought it to his lips and kissed it. Not once, but twice.

She tried to throttle the dizzying reality that he was kissing it as if it were her.

Still watching her, he folded it and tucked it into his inner waistcoat pocket.