The Duchess of Love (2 page)

Nigel made an odd, strangled sound and sneezed violently. “Damn it, you need to warn a fellow before you say something so preposterous.”

A servant scratched at the door and entered, carrying a tray with bread and cheese and a jug of ale. He looked almost as nervous as the housekeeper and fled as soon as he'd deposited his burden.

Nigel poured a mug and offered it to Drew. “You must be thirsty from the ride. You aren't thinking clearly.”

Perhaps he wasn't, but the notion of getting out from under his title, even for only a few days, was damn appealing. “It shouldn't be difficult to manage.”

“Difficult? It's impossible. I won't do it.” Nigel drained the mug he'd offered Drew.

Nigel didn't understand. He'd likely never wished to escape his life. “But I might never get this opportunity again.”

“I said no.”

Nigel's face didn't yet look as unyielding as the cliffs of Dover, so perhaps Drew could wheedle him into agreeing. “It wouldn't be for long.”

“No!” Nigel scowled at him. “I don't know why you would want to do something so ridiculous.”

To get a brief taste of freedom.
“At least think about it, will you?”

Nigel grunted. “Oh, all right.”

Drew laughed. “Splendid. I'm off for a stroll. Do you want to come exploring with me?”

“Good God, no. I've just ridden two days to get to this godforsaken place. I intend to rest—and see if the house has something more sustaining than ale in its cellars. But you go ahead. Youth is full of energy.” He tossed him some bread. “Here. We can't have you expiring in the fields somewhere.”

Drew caught the bread in one hand. “Thanks. I'll see you later.”

Nigel snorted. “Hopefully you'll be thinking more rationally then.”

Drew grinned and let himself out onto the terrace, taking the stairs down to the gardens. He followed one of the manicured paths away from the house. It was hot in the sun; he'd left his hat on the table in the entry. He should go back.

But it felt good to stretch his legs. He'd walk as far as the woods. He popped the rest of the bread into his mouth and lengthened his stride.

Nigel was likely right—pretending he wasn't the duke was a dunderheaded idea, but damn, he wished he could do it. It might be different if he'd been born to the title, but he'd become Greycliffe courtesy of an early morning fire at one of London's most exclusive gambling hells. His uncle—the fourth duke—his uncle's two sons, and his father had all died in the flames.

He frowned. He'd never forget when word of his sudden elevation spread through Eton. Boys who'd looked straight through him the day before suddenly fawned all over him. Bah. At least it was practice for when he got older and went up to Town. The toadying there was beyond nauseating, and the London women were worse than the men. Whores, actresses, widows, debutantes—they all wanted to get their hands on his purse and, if they could manage it, their name with his on a marriage license.

He was almost at the trees now. Was that barking he heard? And splashing? He grinned. He was hot and sticky. He'd wade into the water and wash the dirt of the road off. He started untying his neck cloth as he followed a narrow path down through the dense pine trees.

Ah, there was a large rock to the side of the path. He sat down to jerk off his boots as likely many men before him had. He could just see the pond through the tree branches; he didn't yet see the dog, but it sounded as if it was having a wonderful time. He couldn't wait to join it.

He shed his coat, shirt, breeches, and drawers quickly and stepped to the edge of the woods. Now he saw the dog, a brown and white mix that was obviously part water spaniel, running back and forth on the bank, barking up at—

He jumped back behind a tree trunk.

The girl hadn't seen him. She was standing on a large rock on the other side of the pond, looking down at the water about ten feet below her, clad in only her shift. Her long chestnut brown hair fell in waves to her waist, hiding her face.

She'd best take care or she would fall.

Concern tightened his gut. She didn't intend to jump, did she? He should stop her, but catching sight of a strange, naked man coming out of the woods might well frighten her into losing her balance. What should—

Bloody hell.

The girl was pulling off her shift.

His jaw dropped as another part of him sprang up. His eyes followed the cloth up her body past the well-turned ankles; the long, pale thighs; the lovely nest of curls, so dark against the white of her belly and hips; and the slim, curved waist to stop at the two small, round, perfect breasts almost hidden by her hair.

The pond water had better be ice cold or he'd never get his breeches back on.

She turned to throw the shift behind her, and he got a glimpse of her lovely, rounded arse.

Zounds, he was going to die of lust.

And then she turned back and wobbled. Her arms flew out—Good God! She was falling.

He sprinted for the pond, hitting the water at the same time the girl did.

Venus managed to right herself as she fell so she went into the pond feet first. She plunged down, the water rushing over her skin. It felt wonderful—exciting and a bit sinful.

But she needed to breathe. She kicked and pulled, stopping her descent and making her way back to the surface. Her hair wrapped around her like weeds. She fought through it, but by the time she popped up above the water, her lungs were screaming for air. She opened her mouth—

“Aa-urg!” And took in water. Something strong and hard had grabbed her waist. Her heart flashed into a wild, mad beating. She was going to be pulled back under. She clawed at the thing.

It was an arm—a rock-hard, muscled, naked, male arm. It hauled her up against an equally hard, naked chest.

Oh, God! If she didn't drown, she'd be raped.

She thrashed and kicked, but she couldn't move. She was pinned to the villain as if by an iron band.

“Steady,” an educated male voice, slightly breathless, said by her ear as they moved toward the shore. “I've got you. You're safe.”

Safe? Ha! She renewed her efforts to break free.

“Stop struggling,” he said, annoyance sharpening his words. “You're making this harder.”

She would make it very hard. She would struggle tooth and nail. He might have his wicked way with her, but she'd inflict as much damage on him as she could. She opened her mouth to tell him so and took in another wave of water.

She was coughing and choking as he hauled her out of the pond. Archie ran toward him, barking, but he ignored the dog as he bent her over his arm and whacked her on the back. Water gushed out of her mouth.

She should try to escape now, but she was too busy struggling to get air into her lungs.

“Breathe, damn it,” he said.

She'd be happy to. She attempted to tell him that, but apparently air was also necessary for speech. She couldn't even croak.

“Bloody hell. I'm not going to let you die.” Suddenly she was flat on her back on the grass and his mouth was over hers. His warm breath forced itself into her lungs.

She didn't know much about rape, thank God, but this didn't seem like a prelude to it.

He lifted his head and air whooshed out of her.

“Aurgh.” She started to cough again.

He turned her immediately to her side. “Breathe,” he ordered again, rubbing her back and shoulders.

She breathed. Such a simple thing, automatic until one couldn't do it. In and out. Her heart slowed to a normal cadence.

The sun warmed her as the man's hands moved over her … naked skin.

She flipped onto her belly.

“Hey, I don't think that will help.” He turned her to her side once more, handling her as if she weighed nothing, his hand on her shoulder and hip. Her naked hip.

She might stop breathing again. And now she was facing him, looking at his knees and—

She squeezed her eyes shut.

“What's the matter?” He pushed her hair back from her face. “Does something hurt? You didn't hit your head when you fell, did you?”

“N-no.”

“Let me see.” His fingers combed through her hair, pressing on her scalp. His touch was gentle, but firm. “Does this hurt? Or this?”

“No.” She kept her eyes firmly closed.

He tilted her face up. “Look at me.”

“Why?” But she felt a bit like an ostrich with its head in the sand, so she gave up and looked at him.

She must have died. The man staring down at her could only be an archangel. He had eyes as blue as the pond on a cloudless summer day, fringed with long dark lashes any woman would die for. His dark blond hair—if he wore powder, it had been washed out in the water—had come loose from its tie and fell forward to frame his face—high cheekbones, straight nose, firm lips, strong chin.

Who was he? She'd certainly never seen him before.

“Your eyes look clear. I don't think you hit your head.”

“I told you I didn't.” He certainly wasn't a servant or a farmer or a laborer. He had the tone and diction of a nobleman, but noblemen didn't come to Little Huffington, unless …

Oh, dear.

“You aren't with the Duke of Greycliffe, are you?”

A faint flush colored his cheeks. “Ah, yes. I, er, am.”

The duke was here already? She hadn't yet formulated a plan to bring him and Ditee together. “But you aren't supposed to arrive until next week.”

He shrugged. “We came early.”

She was distracted by the movement of his shoulders. Well, not the movement so much as the shoulders themselves. They were very broad; surely too broad to fit into a proper coat. Blond hair dusted his chest; muscles shaped his arms. He was strong; she remembered that clearly from his grasp in the water.

“Like what you see?” he asked. His tone had changed. Instead of concern, it held heat.

“What?” Her eyes flew back to his face. His gaze had dropped to examine …

“Ack!” She slapped her hands over her breasts. “Don't look.”

The right corner of his mouth turned up—Lord save her, he had a dimple. “
You
were looking.”

“I was not.”

He grinned—he had
two
dimples. “Liar.”

Oh, the man was clearly a rake of the worst sort. She should shove him away, but then she'd have to take her hands off her breasts. She jerked her chin instead. “Move back.”

“Is that any way to thank your rescuer?” he asked, but he moved back. “I expected a kiss.”

“You deserve a slap—and close your eyes. You didn't rescue me; you almost killed me.”

He frowned, but he did close his eyes. “You were drowning.”

“Not until you grabbed me. I'll have you know I've been swimming in this pond since I was a girl.” She scrambled to her feet. His shoulders and arms could have been stolen from a Greek statue. They certainly were as hard as marble, but they weren't cold. They were warm—very, very warm.

He cracked open one eye. “Am I getting my kiss, then?”

“No!” Where had her wits got to? She sprinted for the nearest tree. Fortunately its trunk was sufficiently thick to serve as a shield. Once she was safely concealed, she peered around the edge. The man was still kneeling in the grass, but Archie had come up to him, blocking her view of his lower parts.

Which was a good thing, of course.

The fellow was scratching Archie's ears, and Archie was licking the man's face.

Who was he? He couldn't be the duke; dukes didn't go about naked like this. They were far too grand. He must be the duke's cousin, Mr. Valentine.

An insect of some sort decided to take a stroll on her bare backside. She jumped and swatted it away. Good God. Here she was, naked as well. She needed to get dressed immediately, but her clothes weren't within reach, and she was not about to expose herself to Mr. Valentine's interested eyes again. Her interested eyes, however …

“Mr. Valentine.”

The man kept patting Archie. Perhaps he hadn't heard her. She spoke louder.

“Mr. Valentine!”

His head snapped up then, and he gave her an odd look.

What was the matter? She glanced down. No, she was still completely concealed. Perhaps he was just not terribly bright. A pity, but often the most beautiful people were the thickest—which was another reason Aphrodite was such a prize.

She looked at him again. “Fetch my clothes, Mr. Valentine, if you will.”

He stared at her a moment longer—was he going to refuse to do her bidding? No, now he was smiling and standing, putting all his male glory on display.

“Where are they?”

“Uh.” He
did
look like a Greek statue, all hard planes and chiseled muscles. The blond hair dusting his chest continued down in a narrow line over his flat belly to a nest of curls from which …

That part was
much
larger than any sculpture she'd ever viewed.

Good God, she'd swear the organ grew even larger as she watched.

“Your clothes?” His voice sounded a little strained.

She tore her gaze away from his nether regions. “Up.” She cleared her throat. Her heart was pounding, and her own nether regions felt oddly swollen and achy. She was very afraid they were even a trifle damp. What in the world was the matter with her? “They are up on the rock.”

“Right.” Mr. Valentine strode off, giving her a delightful view of his backside in motion. His muscles bunched and shifted as he climbed the rock. Unfortunately—no, fortunately, definitely fortunately—when he came back, he carried her clothes in front of him, obscuring her view.

“You may put them down there,” she said, pointing to a spot about ten feet away.

“Very well.” He laid the clothes down and paused. “May I borrow your bonnet?”

She choked back a nervous giggle. “I don't believe it will suit you, sir.”

“I think it will suit me very well.” He straightened, holding her hat in front of his male bit like a shield. “Unless you'd prefer to admire my natural state longer?”

Thank God most of her was hidden behind this tree, because she very much feared all of her turned red. “I see far too much of your person as it is. Where are your clothes?”

“On the other side of the pond.” He grinned. “Did you think I made a habit of strolling about outdoors nude?”

“Of course not.” His skin was far too pale to have been exposed to the sun.

She
must
stop looking at his skin. “Thank you, sir. You may take yourself off now. Go fetch your things and be about your business.”

“Oh, no. I won't leave until I know you are safely clothed.” His damn dimples flashed at her. “I wouldn't want some scoundrel to come along and find you this way.”

“Some scoundrel already—” Wait a moment. Mr. Valentine was her ticket to the duke. If she managed to gain his friendship, perhaps he would help her bring Ditee to Greycliffe's notice. “Very well. Then turn around so I can get dressed.”

“Yes, madam.” He bowed slightly before giving her his back. His lovely, lovely back. His shoulders tapered down to a slim waist and a pair of beautifully muscled—

“Are you always so managing?”

She shook herself out of her fog of admiration and reached for her clothes. “I'm not managing.”

“You are. You're a bit a shrew, actually.”

“I am not. How can you say such a thing?” She snatched up her shift and threw it over her head. At least now she was covered if anyone else happened by. “Is your cousin likely to follow you, sir?”

“I doubt it. He said he wanted to rest from our trip.”

“Oh.” Damn. “So he is old and gouty?” Perhaps she would have to focus on Mr. Valentine for Ditee.

For some reason that thought was most unappealing.

Mr. Valentine laughed. “Oh, no.”

Thank God! She struggled into her stays and dress. But how was she to bring the duke and Ditee together?

She would definitely need Mr. Valentine's assistance. “Mr. Valentine,” she said, stepping out from behind the tree. “I have a proposal for you.”

He whirled around, her hat still held before him. “You do? Splendid!”

She could see he was teasing her, but she still flushed. “Not that kind of proposal!”

“No? You're certain?”

“Of course I am. You should not joke about such things.”

Drew studied the girl—what was her name? She'd raised her chin, but she sounded a little unsure for once.

He bowed again, careful to keep the hat shielding his cock, which was finally resuming polite proportions. “My apologies.”

Her long wet hair was soaking her shapeless, colorless frock. He much preferred her naked, but she'd be beautiful dressed in an elegant gown or an old sack.

His cock bobbed in agreement.

“Do you suppose you might gift me with your name, madam?” He stepped closer, into the shade of the trees.

She stepped back. “Stay where you are.”

“If I continue to stand in the sun, my entire body, except for the poor bit I'm shading with your lovely hat, will be sunburned.”

“Oh.” She turned bright red herself. “Very well. You may stand there, but no closer.”

“Thank you.” Had no one taught this girl any sense? She was obviously not a servant or country miss looking for some friendly sport. “You took a substantial risk coming to such a deserted place by yourself, you know.”

“I have Archie with me.”

“That vicious animal?” The dog was on his back, wiggling in the grass. “I suppose he might have come to your rescue if I'd tried to rape you.”

She drew in a sharp breath and turned an unpleasant shade of greenish white. Well, it was about time she heard some plain speaking.

“But he would have been of very little use if you'd hit your head when you fell into the water.”

“I told you I was a strong swimmer.”

“Even strong swimmers should not swim alone.”

She glared at him; he glared back at her. This time the silence stretching between them wasn't charged with attraction. One of his friends had drowned swimming in just such a pond a few years ago. He had a point to make.

Finally she looked away. “You may say I am managing, but I suspect you can be very overbearing. How does the duke put up with you?”

He grinned. “I don't know.” At some point he would have to tell her who he was, but he wanted to put it off as long as he could.

And if someone had told him he'd be standing naked by a pond in bright daylight with only a lady's hat to provide any sort of cover, conversing with a woman about swimming and dogs and not beds and bodies, he'd have laughed himself silly. “Your name, please?”

She looked down her nose at him—while still darting glances at his chest and shoulders. “Miss Venus Collingswood. My papa is the vicar.”

“I see.” Vicars' children were often rather wild, but not candidates for dalliance. He would probably have to marry her.