Four Dukes and a Devil (23 page)

“Yes. Everyone knows the way to engage a man’s interest is to insist you’ll have none of him.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s not the way of it a’tall. I fell in love with you when I somehow found myself taking you sixty miles instead of sixty yards.”

“No. That’s the reason I fell in love with you, John.”

It was as if she had struck him, he went so still. Christ, he hadn’t dared to hope until now. He then crushed her to him, his arms like two iron bands about her. Until…

The faintest flapping or scratching noise pierced their dream. “John…Have I mentioned how little I like the countryside? And all the dangers one finds in nature?” Victoria revealed, haltingly.

“Come closer. I’ll protect you.” He kissed her worried brow gently. “It’s probably just a little, harmless mouse.”

She reluctantly pushed away from his arms. “You should know better given my history. The carpenter warned there were
bats
here when they came to rebuild.”

“Well, Victoria, I sucked the snakebite. Escort the bat outside, if you please.” He grasped the broom and extended it to her. “If you face down your fear, my love, I shall reward you with a very long honeymoon in Beaufort House in Mayfair.”

She strode over to a window and threw open the sash.

“Inviting more in are you?” He smiled that impossibly irresistible smile at her.

“Do you have a better idea?”

He went to the table, efficiently lit a candle, and gathered an empty jar from the washboard.

“I didn’t know that bats dislike candlelight.”

“Everyone knows bats are night creatures.”

“Is this sort of like how you knew vipers prefer wooded, shady areas?”

“No, this is sort of like how I knew you might come to love me as I love you.”

She looked at him, and his eyes softened. He put down the articles he had collected and pulled her back into his arms. “Actually, I have a much better idea. The Duke of Helston and the Earl of Wallace are just the sort who relish offering a
friendly
hand.”

A commotion of voices drifted from the front of the cottage, and John winked, grasped her hand, and pulled her outside, through the kitchen door. Rounding the side of the house, he urged her on. “Come, darling, it’s only a little farther.”

“Said the devil to the innocent.”

He led them to the now-empty carriage and helped her inside. “Now kiss me again,” he insisted. “You know we’ll not have another chance of being alone as soon as they run us to the ground. And there is plenty of room in the second carriage…if they don’t breathe.”

“Ah, finally—your finesse—your infamous skills of diplomacy and negotiation—makes an appearance.” She grasped his neckcloth and urged him closer.

John tapped three times on the ceiling of the carriage, and the barouche moved forward. “Precisely. You have your methods, and I have mine. We shall do very well together, darling.” He encircled her with his arms and lowered his lips to hers, until she finally, blessedly, allowed herself to grasp the happiness she had always deserved. Victoria kissed the man she loved with all her heart and soul and allowed the anxiety of a lifetime to flow from her breast into his, only to learn the extraordinary joy of shared dreams realized.

She whispered such words of love in his ear combined with that throaty low laughter of hers designed to melt butter and all lesser men. Holding her, kissing her, John suddenly envisioned it all. The gaggle of Helstons and Wallaces, and all the other mysterious members of the dowager duchess’s secret club, regularly invading their residences for the rest of his life. Above all, he envisioned Victoria…and children. So very many children—some his, many not. They were crowding the empty halls of his childhood, of his past. In front of him, crowds of happiness beckoned, and he answered their call by opening his heart to the woman before him and caressing her beautiful face until she fell back into his warm embrace.

My dear Mr. Brown,

This is an amendment of sorts to my last letter to you—of which I have not received the pleasure of a reply. Everyone here says holding a grudge for so long is not attractive in a gentleman, but if this idea irritates you further, let it be known that I did not necessarily agree with them.

It now appears there are to be two weddings in the near future. In addition to the marriage of the Countess of Sheffield and the Earl of Wallace, Miss Victoria Givan is to be the new Duke of Beaufort’s bride shortly. Very shortly, if the duke has his way. And as we well know, dukes always have their way. It is amazing how hard, and how fast these great men are falling as of late. Very unlike, ahem, resentful Scots.

I am happy to report that the new Duke of Beaufort does not possess the vile, bloodthirsty nature of his predecessors. Nor does my dear new friend, the Earl of Wymith, a man I plan to introduce to the last two widows in my club. My grandson is lukewarm on the idea. Indeed, he says he would rather settle my Elizabeth and Sarah with a small fortune instead of enduring the travails of friendship and love again.

Oh, John…please hurry back to town. The center aisle of St. George’s is a very long one, and I shall twice require your arm to lean against. You know how frail I am these days. I do hope you are not laughing. I should not have to warn you that Attila the Dog does not take kindly to gentlemen who are unkind to me.

Do come. I shall be forced to desperate measures if you do not, and I promise you will like it even less than all that has come before—if that is possible.

Your devoted, Ata

About Sophia Nash

Want to read more about the characters in this novella and the entire secret widows club? RITA® Award-winning author
SOPHIA NASH
’s latest series for Avon Books is on shelves now! Meet Rosamunde Baird, the lady capable of taking on the austere Duke of Helston in
A Dangerous Beauty
, named Best Regency-set Historical of the Year by
Romantic Times
BOOK
reviews
magazine. The
Chicago Tribune
called Georgiana Wilde’s and the Marquis of Ellesmere’s love story in
The Kiss
“a dazzling combination of subtly complex charact ers, simmering sensuality, and writing that gleams with sharp wit.” Or fall in love with the Countess of Sheffield and a rugged stranger in Sophia’s latest story,
Love with the Perfect Scoundrel
. To learn more about the author and her books, visit
www.SophiaNash.com.

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Charmed By Her Smile

Tracy Anne Warren

London, England
Early August 1809

I
ndia Byron raised a glass of champagne punch to her lips, then choked when she caught sight of a tawny-haired young man standing in the drawing-room doorway, scanning the crowd.

How did he get in here?
she thought in alarm.

It was bad enough her older brother, Spence, had brought the simpleton home for the summer along with a gaggle of first-years from Oxford. But now to find him in London at a family wedding—to which he quite clearly had
not
been invited—well, it was really beyond the pale.

She knew without conceit that he was here because of her. Ever since their introduction at her father’s country estate last month, he’d been mooning over her—making calves’ eyes and penning dozens of truly dreadful poems written in her honor.
One more ode to my “dewy emerald eyes
,” she thought,
and I’ll surely be sick!

Taking a few steps back, she maneuvered herself so she was half-hidden behind a pair of her cousins, Jack and Drake—both men too deep in conversation to notice her skulking.

The next time I see Spence,
she vowed,
he’s a dead man!

Swallowing a hasty draught of punch to help bolster her nerves, she set the champagne flute down on the nearest table and glanced around for a convenient avenue of escape. Across the room, another cousin, Cade Byron, and his new wife, Meg, were holding court—the bride and groom both glowing with happiness, as they accepted the well-wishes of family and friends alike. But India didn’t have time to celebrate. At that moment, she needed to save herself.

Spying an open set of French doors that led to the terrace and garden beyond, she hurried toward them. As she did, she glanced back and gasped when she saw a pair of familiar mooning hazel eyes turn her way. Breaking into a run, she wondered how she was going to elude him.

Mercy help me, I’m bored
, Quentin Marlowe, 8th Duke of Weybridge, thought, as he drained the last of his champagne. Twirling the now-empty glass between his fingers, he leaned a shoulder against a foliage-covered garden arbor and gazed across the lawn toward Clybourne House.

Actually, he would rather be drinking brandy, but he supposed eleven thirty in the morning was too early for hard liquor—even for him. Brandy or not, he knew the spirits would do nothing to relieve his present ennui. Not that his friend Cade’s wedding wasn’t a splendid affair—since it was—but at its heart, a reception was still just a reception. And over the course of his two-and-thirty years, he’d attended far too many weddings and wedding receptions to see this one as anything new.

Lately it seemed as if
nothing
was new.

London was invariably the same. Each spring, the Season came and went with its usual round of parties, amusements, and the annual crop of perky debutantes, all desperately searching for a husband.

Then late summer would arrive, and it was off to the country for hunting, riding, and social gatherings that would last through the autumn.

The holidays descended next, along with family and friends come to revel over cups of wassail and bicker over their differences.

Then winter set in—cold, oppressive and dreary.

Finally, spring returned and the whole cycle would begin again. Just thinking about it made him sigh.

That’s the problem
, he mused.
Nothing surprises me anymore. It’s all just a tedious bore
.

Suddenly, a flash of white caught his eye as a young woman with fair skin and lustrous sable hair hurried from the house. Her slippered feet flew as she ran, her gaze darting right, then left, then back.

Pretty little thing,
he mused.
Gorgeous, actually.
Quite likely a Byron, he guessed, especially given the multitude of them in attendance today. And young—probably not much more than eighteen, if he didn’t miss the mark. Obviously, she was fleeing from something—or more likely
someone
—since it seemed probable she was being pursued by one of the other guests. A lover’s game perhaps?

Shrugging, he glanced away.

He was contemplating whether or not to indulge in one of the cheroots in his lapel pocket, when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of her racing down the terrace steps and across the yard. Her pale skirts swirled around her legs, displaying her trim ankles in a most enticing way, as she moved deeper into the garden. Suddenly she lifted her head and met his gaze, espying him where he stood in the partial concealment of the leafy arbor.

Slowing, she glanced again toward the house, hesitating as though she were weighing her options. Apparently, having made up her mind, she continued on in his direction, coming to a halt barely an inch away from him.

“Quick!” she declared in a breathless voice. “Kiss me!”

One eyebrow winged skyward. “I beg your pardon?”

“No time for pardons,” she admonished. “He’s nearly upon us. Just do it.
Kiss me!
”

“He isn’t a jealous husband, is he?” he asked with lazy amusement. “Or a lover brandishing a pistol?”

Now that really would liven up the festivities,
he thought.

“No,” she said. “He’s just a besotted idiot who doesn’t know when to go away. Hurry while there’s still time. Kiss me.
Please!
”

Quentin looked down at her lovely heart-shaped face and into the depths of her beseeching green eyes. His gaze roamed lower, tracing across the adorable sweep of her nose, the refined curves of her cheekbones, then over her full, rosy lips which were parted in rapt anticipation.

Despite his better judgment, he was intrigued. Even more, he had a sudden craving to find out if her mouth tasted as ripe and delicious as it looked.

“Well,” he drawled, warming to the possibilities. “Who am I to deny a lady?”

Taking her in his arms, he pressed his lips to hers.

The spark was instantaneous; a jolt of pleasure so intense it blazed through him like a rippling summer heat, saturating his blood and sinking deep into his vitals. As for her mouth, she tasted like honey and wine, with a lightness that made him think of pure springwater. Wanting a deeper draught to quench his sudden thirst, he traced his tongue along her lower lip and urged her mouth to open.

She gave an answering sigh of delight and began to respond. But just as quickly, she pressed her palms to his chest and broke away. She didn’t draw back very far, however—their faces remaining close. “Is he still there?” she whispered.

He who?

For a moment, Quentin didn’t understand the question. Then memory returned. Glancing up, he surveyed the garden. “Brown hair? Lanky build? Wounded expression like a puppy that just got kicked?”

She gave a faint nod.

“Then yes, he’s still there. Shall we continue, since he doesn’t look sure yet whether to stay or go?”

She paused, her eyes wide and slightly bemused. He wondered if she was about to refuse, when she nodded and slid her arms around his shoulders. “Yes. Kiss me again.”

With a smile, he bent to do as she commanded.

Sensing her distraction over the other man, he kept their kiss brief this time. Light, playful, and undemanding. She relaxed, growing increasingly more confident and pliant inside his embrace.

Leaving his lips against hers so they were barely brushing, he flicked another glance upward. “Now he looks like a furious, wounded puppy,” he murmured. “Mad enough to chew off his own tail. Sure you aren’t trying to make him jealous?”

Her sweet breath puffed against his mouth. “No! I just want him gone since he’s been plaguing me this past month entire. Truly, I have tried to be nice, but he just will not take the hint.”

He gave her another plucking, lingering kiss. “Don’t look now, but I think your wish has been granted. He’s turned around and is walking back to the house—or should I say stomping back. Ah, there, he’s gone inside.”

“Thank heavens,” India declared, tension flowing from her in voluble waves that reached all the way to her toes.

For a moment she considered looking over her shoulder to verify that Peter, “the Pest,” was truly gone, but she didn’t want to take the chance of ruining her good fortune. Instead she gazed up into the face of the stranger, who still held her within his arms.

Arresting was the best way to describe him, she decided, since he wasn’t handsome in the conventional sense. His nose was too long and hawkish for one, his chin too square. His bone structure looked chiseled, as though it had been hewn from a rough block of granite. Contrarily, his lips were elegant, capable of being seductive or stern, she was sure, depending upon his whim. As for his eyes, they were dark—the color of freshly brewed coffee—with a pair of formidable brows that arched like raven’s wings above his penetrating gaze.

His most remarkable feature, by far though, was his hair. Thick and soft with a stubborn hint of wave, his close-cropped locks were so dark a brown as to appear black. But the true surprise lay at his temples, where twin streaks of silver gleamed as though painted there by a master’s hand.

Her fingers tingled with the need to touch, to glide through those pale strands and see if they were as luxurious as they promised to be. Instead, she left her hands where they rested on the wide expanse of his large male shoulders—her body nestled against his long, powerful frame.

“Lately, I’ve come to realize how the poor fox must feel during hunting season, “she remarked, trying to steer her thoughts back to her recent escape from her unwanted admirer’s attentions, rather than dwelling on the overwhelming sensuality of the man in whose arms she stood.

“That bad, hmm?” he asked.

“Worse.” She paused. “I suppose you think I’m cruel?”

His dark gaze turned gentle. “Not at all. Sometimes stronger deterrents than words are required.”

“Exactly. And I have you to thank. I am greatly in your debt.”

“No need. Believe me, the past few minutes have been my express pleasure.”

Her pulse gave a dangerous thump. “Yes, well, now that he is gone, I suppose I ought to be returning inside.”

“I wouldn’t go just yet,” he warned. “Not until he’s had time to call for his carriage.”

Tiny lines formed over the bridge of her nose. “Oh, mayhap you’re right. Still, you should probably release me, now that Peter is gone.”

He stroked a hand over her back in a way that made her want to purr like a cat. “All the more reason to keep you right where you are. I kissed you for his sake. Now, I want a kiss of my own. After all, you did make mention of being in my debt.”

“Yes, but you said there was no need for gratitude—”

His teeth flashed in a wicked grin, his arms tightening as he turned her more fully into the concealing shade of the arbor. “I changed my mind.”

Then, before she could draw another breath, his lips claimed hers again.

Delight burst like fireworks through her veins, the sensation of his touch every bit as shocking and thrilling as the first time she’d felt it.

When she’d asked him to kiss her, she’d assumed their embrace would be quick and to the point. He’d give her a simple, ordinary kiss that would last just long enough to discourage her unwanted suitor. Then she would thank him and be on her way back to the reception. No harm. No fuss.

But nothing of the sort had occurred.

Like a sky crackling with electricity just before a storm, a sizzle had gone through her body the instant his mouth touched hers. Her nerve endings had come alive, senses inundated with one glorious rush of pleasure after another.

Somehow she’d found the strength to break that initial embrace—and the second one as well—keeping enough of her wits about her to remember the reason she was in his arms at all. But this time she knew she was in trouble.

He was a complete stranger, and yet she was comfortable with him in ways that made no sense. His faintest touch left her vulnerable and unsure, but still she knew instinctively that she’d found a safe harbor in his arms.

Nevertheless, being alone with him was insane and foolhardy. She was only eighteen, not even officially out, yet here she was breaking every one of Society’s most sacred rules. Letting him help her get rid of Peter was one thing. Letting him kiss her senseless was quite another!

Push him away,
she told herself.
Say no while you still can.

But already it was too late, a heated shudder rippling over her skin like a fever, as he intensified their kiss. Slanting his mouth over hers, he claimed her, using a subtle pressure that made her gasp.

The moment her lips parted, his tongue came inside to glide in hot, wet, satiny circles that reduced her mind to mush. She whimpered as he feasted on her, the flavor of his kiss as intoxicating as the most potent liquor, and as effervescent as the finest French champagne.

Tightening her arms around his shoulders, she held on as he ravished her mouth, yielding to his smallest command, reveling in his possession. Responding to his tutelage, she followed his lead as he slowly, patiently taught her the finer points of kissing. He was the first man to ever really kiss her—since she supposed a couple of childish pecks under the mistletoe didn’t count. And given his obvious skills, she realized just how much more she had to learn.

A long minute later, he slid his hands low and cupped her bottom to press her more fully against him. She startled, growing momentarily tense in his embrace. He did as well, his muscles tightening, even as his hold on her relaxed.

With a groan, he wrenched himself away. His eyes were dark and lambent as they met her own, his eyelids heavy with clear passion. “My thanks for the kiss, dear girl,” he rasped on a husky tone. “I can safely say that you and I are more than even now.”

Abruptly, sanity came rushing back, along with a cascade of heat that crept into her face. Smiling, he stroked the edge of a finger over one hot cheek, his skin cool against her burning flesh.

“You’re as sweet as you are pretty. Run on now before I give your cousins real cause to come after me with a shotgun.”