The Duke's Men [1] What the Duke Desires (14 page)

“Why didn’t your mother teach you?”

“She could only read French. Papa spoke French well, so . . . I suppose she saw no
reason to be proficient in English. Plus, Papa was always saying he would send me
away to school.” Her voice hardened. “Once the war was over and they married. Which
never happened.”

He knew how it felt to be lied to over and over by the parents you trusted, but he
couldn’t imagine a parent so careless as not to make sure his own daughter could read.
“Couldn’t he send you to the local grammar school?”

“Tristan went, but there was no school for girls thereabouts.” Her voice lowered.
“Besides, Maman didn’t want me going into the village when they were calling me the
‘daughter of the French whore.’ Tristan was better at putting up with the names the
townspeople gave us.”

Maximilian choked down an oath at the thought of a little girl being reviled for a
simple accident of birth. “English villagers can be small-minded,” he bit out.

She gave a Gallic shrug. “Especially when the whole country is at war with France.”
A sad look entered her eyes. “Besides, after Papa’s wife died, every unattached female
within twenty miles hoped to catch him for a husband. The fact that he was faithful
to his ‘French whore’ annoyed them exceedingly.”

“I imagine it did.”

“We never belonged there, that’s all.”

“And did you belong in France?”

Pushing her wineglass away, she rose and began to tidy the table. “Not really. Here,
I’m half French. There, I’m half English. I don’t belong anywhere.”

He certainly understood that. He’d been the second son until Peter’s death, when he’d
abruptly become the duke-in-waiting. Then his father had gone mad, and he’d become
the heir to a terrible legacy that weighed on him more by the year. The day he’d ascended
to the title had been bittersweet. But at least back then he’d known for certain that
he was the Duke of Lyons.

And now?

Now, once again, he didn’t know who he was. That was why this whole affair with Bonnaud
angered him so.

“So you’re from Devonshire, are you?” she ventured as she scraped and stacked plates.

“Not exactly. I don’t live at my estate in Devonshire, though I do visit it occasionally.
I live in Eastcote at Marsbury House.”

She cast him an arch glance. “When you’re not at your London town house or one of
your many other properties, you mean. I suppose you have quite a number. You would
need at least five estates to be a proper duke.”

He thought about telling her that most people considered it rude and vulgar to discuss
wealth so blatantly. But she probably knew that and obviously didn’t care. Which rather
intrigued him. “The Duke of Wellington has only one,” he pointed out.

“The Duke of Devonshire has eight, not counting his London mansion.” She stared coolly
at him. “So how many do you have? Ten? Eleven?”

“Seven, not counting my ‘London mansion,’ ” he said irritably.

Everyone else was awed by his riches.
She
acted as if they were a flaw in his character. Then again, what could he expect of
a Frenchwoman whose poverty-stricken mother was raised during the Revolution?

“How bad was it in France after the war?” he countered, wanting to get off the subject
of his filthy lucre. “Were the three of you able to manage on your own in Rouen?”

She shot him a dark look. “I never lived in Rouen.”

“Paris, then,” he said pointedly.

Crossing her arms over her chest, she glared at him. “You just asked me not to lie
to you. So stop trying to find out where I’m from, or you’ll leave me no choice.”

“Ah, but then I’d get another kiss,” he couldn’t resist reminding her.

“Only if you
know
that I’ve lied,” she retorted, eyes gleaming.

“Excellent point,” he said with a chuckle. She was the only woman he’d ever met who
gave as good as she got. Or at least the only one who also made his blood pound in
his veins.

As it was doing now. Watching her busy herself with domestic tasks reminded him that
she was a woman and he was a man. That they were attracted to each
other. And that they were alone in this room, with no one but themselves to dictate
their behavior.

As if sensing his thoughts, she colored and renewed her efforts at tidying up.

“You can leave that for the servants, you know,” he said.

“Assuming that one of them ventures up here again before morning,” she said testily.
“The inn is packed, and their staff doesn’t appear to be in any hurry to accommodate
us. And I don’t like having everything so messy.”

He rose. “Yes, they do seem inattentive. They should have come by now to find out
if we need anything else. I’ll have to go remind them who’s paying for all this.”

She burst into laughter.

“What’s so amusing?” he snapped.

“You’re a land agent, remember?” she pointed out rather gleefully. “I don’t think
they’ll be quite as receptive to
Mr. Kale’s
bullying as they would be to the duke’s.”

Damn. He’d forgotten about their masquerade. “They will be if I give them enough gold.”

“And that will draw even more attention to us than you already have by taking a suite
of rooms.”

He snorted. “This hardly qualifies as a
suite
of rooms.”

“No? When Dom and I traveled to London six months ago, I shared an inn room—and a
bed—with an elderly woman I’d never met, and he shared one with her son.”

“Holy God,” he muttered. “People do that?”

“All the time.” A mischievous glint shone in her eyes. “Except, apparently, for the
rich Mr. Kale, land agent, who can afford a suite of rooms for him and his wife, even
though he claims he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself.”

He narrowed his gaze on her. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’

“Immensely,” she said with a grin. “Though I shouldn’t tease you about it. I
like
having my own room and my own bed.” Then her face fell, and she turned wary again.
“That is, my own place to sleep, for of course you’ll want the bed, and since we are
definitely
not
sharing that—”

“Oh, for God’s sake, what kind of gentleman do you take me for? I’m not going to make
you share a bed with me, and I’m sure as blazes not going to make you sleep on the
settee. I’ll take this room; you take the bedroom.”

She eyed him skeptically. “Are you sure? That settee doesn’t look terribly comfortable.”
Her tone hardened. “And if you come crawling into bed with me in the middle of the
night—”

“I wouldn’t do that. Lock the bedroom door if you don’t trust me.” He drew himself
up. “I can sleep somewhere other than a bed for one night.”

“If you say so.” She turned for the bedchamber, then paused. “There
is
one problem, however. I’ll need help . . . um . . . unfastening my gown and my corset.”

“Confound it all to blazes,” he muttered under his
breath as a stark image of peeling her out of her clothing sent a jolt of hot need
through him.

She faced him, her cheeks scarlet. “What?”

“I’ll go fetch a servant for that.” He hurried for the door.

“That would be good, thank you,” she said with obvious relief. “Though they might
wonder why you aren’t helping your wife yourself.”

“Let them wonder.” With that, he fled the room.

But downstairs he found a scene of utter chaos. Apparently some rich baronet had arrived
with a slew of friends to enjoy Brighton, and the inn’s staff was scurrying to make
them all comfortable. It rapidly became apparent that he and his “wife” were of minor
importance compared to Sir Somebody. The irony of it didn’t escape him.

After trying to catch someone’s attention and being put off time and again, he resigned
himself to the torture of attending to Lisette himself. As he climbed the stairs,
he wondered how often he’d thrown an inn’s staff into confusion when he’d traveled.
Granted, he usually stayed with friends or at one of his own residences along his
route, but occasionally he had to make do at an inn.

That was a vastly different experience. His servants were sent ahead to make everything
ready, he walked into a true suite of rooms already prepared for his arrival, his
meal was perfectly ordered, and he had only the inconvenience of a different bed than
he was accustomed to.

Entering their room here, he looked around and
suppressed a grimace. All right, so perhaps he’d been a bit spoiled in the past. Because
that bloody settee looked more uncomfortable by the moment.

There was no sign of Lisette—she must already have retired to the bedchamber, weary
of awaiting his return. He knocked at the closed door. No answer. When he tried the
handle and it turned, he felt a surge of satisfaction. At least she trusted him
that
much.

He opened the door and warned, “I’m coming in, Lisette.” Then he walked in to find
her fast asleep on the bed, fully clothed.

She lay on her side with her back to him. As he approached, he noticed that her hands
were tucked up beneath her cheek like a little girl’s. An unfamiliar tender emotion
twisted in his chest. She looked peaceful, angelic even, with her breasts rising and
falling in an even rhythm and her hair lying disordered across the pillow. She must
have taken it down, for it seemed devoid of pins.

A sudden fierce urge to caress it seized him, and he choked back an oath.
None of that now
. It would only increase his disturbing attraction to her. Which was also why he shouldn’t
be standing here gawking at her like some besotted greenhead. He should leave.

But lying there in her clothing couldn’t be comfortable for her. At the very least
he ought to help her undress. Though it seemed a damned shame to wake her when she
slept so peacefully.

Fine, then he just wouldn’t wake her.

With that decision made, he walked to the end of the bed, where he removed her shoes.
Her feet were
daintier than he would have expected for such a tall, buxom woman. She had trim ankles
and slender calves, what he could see of them. Her stockings had been darned a number
of times, and he scowled at the sight. It wasn’t right that a woman so intelligent
and beautiful should have to live without something as basic as new stockings. If
she were his . . .

But she wasn’t, and he didn’t
want
her to be. Any woman who married him would have a life of misery ahead of her, and
Lisette already saw marriage as a prison. She’d also made it clear that she had no
intention of being any man’s mistress.

So there was no future for them. Which was why he shouldn’t be standing here, drinking
up the sight of her asleep, wondering what it would be like to slip into bed beside
her and kiss her senseless.

Suppressing an oath, he moved to stand next to her back. He had to finish this and
leave, before he did something he regretted.

But now came the tricky part. Kneeling, he smoothed her hair aside so he could unbutton
her gown. Her breathing altered its rhythm for a moment, then resumed. He undid her
laces, and the fabric parted to reveal a wrinkled linen chemise that made his breath
catch in his throat. She would be naked beneath that chemise. It would be so easy
to run his hand inside the corset along the curve of her spine. To slip it down over
the full hips that were inches away . . .

With a groan, he rose and strode from the room, shutting the bedchamber door firmly
behind him.

He scrubbed his hand over his face. Clearly the family tendency toward madness was
seizing him early. Otherwise, why would he be contemplating caressing the woman’s
body while she slept?

Why would he be standing here hard and aroused, with no possibility of getting any
satisfaction for it?

Cursing whatever impulse had made him loosen her gown and laces, he contemplated the
settee with a scowl. He’d need a bit of fortification to be able to get any sleep
on
that
ungodly piece of furniture, especially in his present state.

So he headed out the door to the taproom.

L
ISETTE LAY THERE,
tense and waiting, until she heard the duke leave their rooms completely. Then she
released a long breath.

She’d been sound asleep until he’d started on her buttons. At first she’d thought
it was a servant, but then she’d smelled his cologne water and realized who it was.
Resisting the urge to reveal she was awake, she’d waited to see just how far he would
go. And she
had
asked him to help her, after all. He was just doing as she’d requested, just being
polite.

Except that there was nothing polite about the brush of his hand along her spine,
nothing polite about the long moment he’d spent apparently contemplating her back
after he’d undone her laces.

And there was nothing polite about the way her heart was still racing. Devil take
him for that.

Well, at least now she could get undressed. She briefly considered locking the door,
but she doubted
he would return anytime soon. Besides, if he hadn’t done anything when he had the
chance, he wasn’t likely to do so later.