Love Letters From a Duke (30 page)

Through the crowd two men came forward, Jack Tremont and another fellow who Thatcher didn’t know.

“Have you met Lord Larken?” Temple inquired.

Thatcher’s gaze rose to meet that of the man before him. Larken? Why, the fellow had been legendary amongst Wellington’s intelligence officers. “Only by reputation. I am honored to meet you, sir.”

“Captain Thatcher?” Larken asked, holding out his hand.

“Yes.”

“And I have heard of you as well.” The two men shook in greeting, and Thatcher liked the fellow immediately. “You were at Corunna, were you not?”

Thatcher nodded.

“Saved your entire unit from capture, I heard, and then ended up capturing the French pursuing you. You’ve a devious mind, sir. Have you considered a career in the Foreign Office?”

Temple laughed. “Don’t even try recruiting him, Larken. He has obligations enough now that he’s come home.”

“Yes,” Jack said moodily. “Obligations he needs to get on with.” He nudged Thatcher in Felicity’s direction.

Standing his ground, Thatcher shot back, “Speaking of obligations, why aren’t you with your wife?”

“Working,” Jack replied. “Still haven’t found our man.”

“And you think this Dashwell fellow will be here tonight?” Thatcher found it hard to believe the cheeky American, no matter his legendary daring, would show his face here with Temple, Jack, and Larken all in attendance, all hunting for him.

Jack crossed his arms over his chest. “You don’t know Dash. The man would love nothing more than to come here and leave some impertinent message for Temple to find or to steal a kiss from some innocent miss and ask her to pass a note to one of us.”

“Not if we find him first,” Larken said with a deadly assurance that made Thatcher all too glad his only plans for the night were finding Felicity and convincing her to marry him.

Then again, perhaps his friends had the easier task.

The Setchfield ball always promised the
ton
a night of surprises, and on more than one occasion, scandal.

Felicity had no interest in either. She wanted only to meet Hollindrake and get on with her life. And forget Thatcher. And his dark eyes. And the way he made her laugh.

As the third set ended, she tried to still her tapping foot, for impatience, as Miss Emery liked to tell them, “was not the sign of a lady.” Well botheration, she wouldn’t be in this
state if Hollindrake would just make his entrance and get all this over with!

But there was another element to her nervousness. What if Thatcher made good his promise and arrived? Oh, whatever would she do then?

Then suddenly there was a murmur through the crowd, and a whisper of excitement raced across the room.

Hollindrake
.

Felicity took a deep breath and tried to tamp down the nausea that threatened to make her the first
on dit
of the night. She couldn’t toss up her accounts on the man! She just couldn’t. So taking a few more breaths, she turned toward the grand entrance, but in her path stood a man in a simple black suit, a plain domino on his face. She barely slanted him a glance as she strained to see who was about to be announced, that is until the stranger took her hand and without asking her favor or preferences hauled her out toward the dance floor where the strains of a waltz, the first of the evening, were beginning.

It was then she saw the glittering dark eyes, the hot, rakish gaze devouring her, felt the familiar heat of his hand running up and down her arm.

Thatcher!
Dear heavens! And worse, her traitorous body trembled in rapture. Oh, why did he have to make her feel so…wonderful?

“What are you doing here?” she asked as he continued to guide her toward the dance floor, farther and farther from Hollindrake. “I told you not to come.”

“So you did.” He took her other hand, set it on his shoulder and began the waltz without saying another word.

“I’ll have you know the waltzes are lady’s choice and I don’t recall choosing you,” she told him, trying not to melt into his chest, doing her best to ignore the way her body swayed happily with his. Oh, she should be furious with
him, but instead she realized she was…well, relieved.

“Then you were quite neglectful in that regard for you would have missed your chance to dance with me.” He swung her around.

“How did you ever get in here?” she asked.

“Walked. Right through the front door.”

“As if you were invited? Of all the cheek—” Though she supposed that was what she loved about him—he cared naught for Society’s dictums.

“Yes, exactly as if I’d been invited.” He pulled her closer, and her breasts grew heavier as they brushed against his chest, sending tendrils of desire spiraling downward.

“Stop that,” she protested.

“Stop what?” he asked, tugging her closer still.

“You are holding me too tight. What if someone sees me?”

“Sees what? A fairy queen dancing with her footman?”

“Is that what you are? You look like a highwayman.”

“Shall I steal you away? Shall we chart our own lives, Duchess? By our own rules?”

“I—I—I—” she stammered. “I cannot.”

“Let me love you tonight, Felicity,” he whispered; no, he promised. “As you should be.”

As they continued to whirl around the floor, Felicity caught glimpses of other couples. Margaret Hodges—her smile bright and dazzling with joy as she danced with her Robin Hood. In another moment she caught sight of Pippin, her eyes starry with wonder as she danced with a tall, disreputable looking pirate.

Felicity saw it then. Love. Her cousin and Margaret Hodges had found it tonight, so why shouldn’t she?

He spun her again, and Felicity grew dizzy. Oh, it wasn’t from the waltz, but the terrifying power those words held.

Let me love you.

What if Hollindrake never truly loved her? The staid, proper marriage she’d planned for all these years seemed
a dull and wretched existence now. Natural inclinations, indeed! She’d been a fool. But what could she do now?

Not that she had a choice in the matter, for she’d been so lost in her practical musings, she hadn’t noticed Thatcher maneuver her quite easily to the far side of the ballroom. In the blink of an eye he tugged her through an opening in the crowd, and through a door that was cleverly fitted into the wall. In an instant they were out of the lively buzz of the ballroom and in the soft muted silence of a dimly lit hall. But her abductor didn’t stop there—with his usual audacity, he continued to tow her deeper into the house.

“Thatcher, what the devil are you doing?” she finally protested. If they were found like this, so far from the ballroom, her reputation would be…

He didn’t speak, he just stopped, so abruptly that she slammed into the wall that was his chest. Her arms wound immediately, automatically, around his neck. She only glanced up at him for a moment, but what a moment it was. His gaze held and trapped hers, and suddenly the world spiraled down to just the two of them.

Slowly, tantalizingly, his head tipped down and his lips covered hers.

And Felicity was lost. Lost in his arms, lost in his kiss.

He steadied her when she swayed by pressing her up against the wall, where her body came alive, her hips moving up against his, coming up against that hardness that left her quaking with need. In the foyer the other day it had been like a game, but now…now there would be no turning back if they were to continue this hazardous play. “We shouldn’t…I can’t.”

But she didn’t mean it. For something about the light in Pippin’s eyes, the joy in Margaret Hodges’ smile, left her envious—because she too could have that same bliss if only she would let herself.

And then she knew why she loved matchmaking. It wasn’t
the satisfaction of two good and proper families uniting in marriage. Or the alliance of noble lineages.

It was the chance to see love happen. From that first spark of attraction to the happiness that shone in the eyes of a bride and groom.

Or as in Jack and Miranda’s case, a love that blossomed and grew into a family, filling the world around them with the happiness and affection they shared so openly.

“Thatcher, I—” she whispered, starting to tell him what she’d discovered. What this spark had ignited in her heart.

“We shall, and you will,” he told her, thinking she was about to issue another protest and staving her off by sweeping her up into his arms, then carrying her up a nearby stairwell. He continued to kiss her until they were up to nearly the top of the house and they’d arrived at a doorway. Pushing it open, Felicity found herself in the most magical room she’d ever seen, and knew without a doubt that her ruin was upon her.

“Your kingdom, my fair queen,” he whispered.

Felicity didn’t know what to say. Here, hidden away was an orangery built into the attics at the back of the house. A glass roof and two walls let in the starry night above, the snow having been swept away. In the corner a small stove kept the room warm, while around them orange trees grew in large pots. Candles had been tucked in all sorts of corners and nooks, giving the place an ethereal glow.

The smell of orange blossoms spiced the air, as if they had indeed stepped into a fairy kingdom.

“How did you know this was here?” she asked.

“I have my sources,” he told her, his hands warm upon her shoulders. “I wanted some place private…and perfect.” He led her to a wide lover’s couch that sat nestled amidst the trees. Obviously this spot had been designed for trysts, for the rich velvet cushion and wide width were more like a bed than a bench.

She shouldn’t, she couldn’t, she wouldn’t…but when she went to protest, she inhaled the fragrance in the room, and more so smelled him—a rich masculine scent that whispered unthinkable notions, incited her passions. She wanted to feel him, inhale that scent, taste him.

And when she looked up into his eyes, peered into those dark, mysterious depths, she realized something else. That all the ducal coronets in the world would never give her this—her heart’s desire.

“Thatcher, I—” She tried again to tell him how she’d changed her mind, how she wanted him and only him, but he took matters quite into his own hands.

He hauled her into his arms and kissed her anew. His lips didn’t just cover hers, they demanded a response.

And she gave it to him, winding her arms around his neck and clinging to him, letting the dizzy passion of his kiss build inside her. His kiss plundered her lips, her neck, behind her ear, until she moaned, if only to release some of the pent-up desire inside her.

Her feminine sigh was just the urging he needed to continue further—and not one to waste any time or chance, his rakish and expert fingers undid her costume. Her wings, her wig, and shoes were soon flung to the four corners, tangled as they were with his jacket, waistcoat, and shirt. Her hair tumbled out of its pins, and he opened the laces at the back of her gown and slid it down, so first one, then the other breast were freed.

Her knees quaked as his fingers teased her nipples into tight, taut buds. Oh, dear heavens, how was such a thing possible? To feel as if one’s very soul was being coiled up. He kissed her anew, sweeping her up, her gown falling away, and then he laid her down on the settee wearing only her chemise and stockings.

“You are the most beautiful creature alive,” he whispered, before his mouth caught hold of one of her nipples and be
gan to suckle at her, the rough surface of his tongue laving over her until that coil she’d thought impossible to endure tightened even further.

Then quickly, he tore her chemise open, exposing her to him. She should have been shocked, outraged, but when she saw the covetous light in his eyes, the way his breath stilled, she wished she had a hundred more of them for him to tear asunder.

His fingers trailed up her leg, over her thigh and delved into the curls there, stroking them apart. Her legs fell open shamelessly, for she wanted him there, to touch her as he had before.

And he did.

She moaned, without any thought of propriety, as his finger traced a lazy circle around her sex. Was such a feeling possible?

“Please,” she panted. “Do that again.”

“Do what?” he asked, even as his fingers drew that devilish circle once again.

“Oh, yes, that,” she said, her hips rocking upward.

“I think I would rather do this,” he told her, then lowered himself, letting his mouth blaze a hot trail over her stomach, down past the rumpled remains of her chemise.

Before she realized it, his lips nuzzled her, his breath hot upon her, and then his tongue made a long, slow swipe over her.

She trembled beneath him as she thought she was going to explode. And there was only one thing she could say. “Oh, yes, again.”

And he did. Again his tongue teased her, tormented her, in careless circles, coming atop her and suckling her. Her hips rocked and bucked and she thought she was about to fall from the very rooftop where they were perched.

How she ached, how she wanted…something…to end
this torment, to make it go on forever. And then she knew what she wanted.

“Thatcher,” she gasped as she felt herself growing tighter and tighter. But what she wanted wasn’t this hot and fast passion. No, she knew with a woman’s own reckoning what she wanted to end this ache, to fill her needs. “Thatcher, please make love to me.”

And so he did.

Thatcher had never heard those words uttered with such passion, such need. His own body was ready to burst, and if he got much harder, he had to imagine he would.

Felicity’s lush, gorgeous body tempted him like no other woman’s ever had. From her fair silken skin, to her round, firm breasts, to the curve of her hips, to the tantalizing taste of her sex. She was a woman of passion and he wanted her.

“Thatcher, please make love to me,” she whispered again, her hands coming to his breeches, tugging impatiently at the waistband.

He rose and tugged them off, his erection rising out. At first she stared at him, her eyes wide, but then a slow smile spread across her mouth and her hips rose up to taunt him. Her rosy nipples were tight and pointed, and her thighs parted just a little farther, as if opening the gates for him. He wasted no more time, and came down atop her, pinning her to the cushions, his penis thick and hard, and ready to plunge inside her and find the release they both craved.