The Duke's Men [1] What the Duke Desires (30 page)

She paled, then turned to Vidocq. “Thank you, then we will use your coach.”

Vidocq was eyeing him suspiciously, but Maximilian didn’t care. To gain Lisette as
his wife, he would need plenty of time alone with her so he could court her.

And he’d just bought himself that time.

T
HE NIGHT PORTION
of their coach trip went better than Lisette expected, mostly because she was too
tired from all their traveling to do anything but sleep. Max also fell into a doze
as soon as they’d left Paris, and thankfully he stayed on his side of the carriage
all night.

But everything changed once the sun came up. First, she awakened to find the carriage
halted and Max gone. In a panic, she leapt out just in time to see him and the coachman
in rolled-up shirtsleeves preparing to push the equipage up a steep hill that the
horses were having trouble with. She could only stand there gaping as they put their
backs into it.

Last week she would never have imagined that Lofty Lyons could—or would—shove a carriage
up a hill. But Max did his part so admirably that long after the coach had reached
the top and they’d continued on their journey, she was unable to blot out the image
of
him with forearms flexing and windblown hair shining golden in the morning sun.

It got no better as the day went on. He was up to something; she knew it. He made
no mention of the conflict between them, but he kept
touching
her. At first, she’d thought it was accidental—his booted calf bumping hers in a
turn, his elbow brushing her thigh when he leaned forward to get something out of
his bag, which was stowed beneath her seat.

But the coach was not
that
small; there was no call for him to touch her. And when they disembarked to dine
at an inn midday and his hand lingered on hers while he helped her out of the carriage,
she realized what he was up to. He was subtly trying to seduce her, the sly devil.
He was still bent on trying to get her with child, so she would have to marry him
on
his
terms.

Very well. He would fight the battle his way. She would fight it hers.

So as soon as they climbed back into the coach, she drew out the ribbon embroidery
she’d brought with her but hadn’t had the chance to work, and began to ornament a
pillowcase. The next time he “accidentally” rubbed his knee up against hers, she “accidentally”
jabbed his knee with her needle.

“Ow!” he cried and scowled at her, rubbing his knee. “What the blazes was that for?”

She cast him an innocent glance and continued to work. “I don’t know what you mean.
It’s such close
quarters in here that you have to expect a bit of bumping up against each other.”

He eyed her suspiciously. After watching her for a few sullen moments, he asked, “Do
you do that often?”

“What? Stab randy dukes in the knee with my needle?” she quipped.

“Embroider. I noticed a great deal of it in your room and at Manton’s and on your
gown. Did you do it all yourself?”

She was surprised to find him so observant. “As a matter of fact, yes.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “It seems a rather domestic activity for a woman
who wants to be an investigator.”

“I had a great deal of time on my hands when I was a girl, and I was the restless
sort,” she explained. “So whenever I got too rambunctious, Maman would sit me down
with a needle and cloth and ribbons and teach me how to do ribbon embroidery.”

“That worked?”

“For me it did. It calmed the frenzy in my mind.” She paused to gaze out the window,
remembering. “I used to love those times with Maman. She’d learned the skill from
her
mother, whom I didn’t know, so I got to hear stories about my French family. Eventually,
I chose to do the embroidery for my own pleasure. I still do; it calms me when I’m
agitated.”

And she was certainly agitated around him.

Forcing that thought from her mind, she held up
what she was working on. “Of course, my subjects aren’t exactly . . . typical.”

When he caught sight of her silver ribbon rendering of a dagger Papa had brought back
from one of his trips, he burst into laughter. “Leave it to you to figure out how
to combine domesticity with a yearning for adventure.”

With a smile she went back to her work.

After a moment, he said, “My mother used to embroider.”

Something he’d mentioned a few days ago tugged at her memory. “Did she embroider that
handkerchief that you said was so distinctive?”

“She did, actually.”

Not wanting to pry, she bent her head over her work.

He watched her a moment, then said, “What makes the handkerchief distinctive is what
lies between the embroidery and the linen.” He pulled open his coat to reveal a hidden
pocket behind the lapel. Then he drew out a handkerchief of ivory-colored linen that
she hadn’t seen before.

He stared at it, softness spreading over his features. Then he handed it to her.

She slid closer to the window to examine it in full sunlight. At first it just looked
like a very fancy handkerchief, with the ducal crest embroidered in a variety of colored
threads, including gold and silver ones. But given what he’d said, she noticed that
the bits of the cloth that showed through the embroidery
weren’t creamy linen. They were white, possibly cotton or muslin.

When she looked at him in bewilderment, he said, “My mother took a piece of our christening
gowns and sewed it to a handkerchief for each of us, then embroidered over and around
it. It’s not the kind of thing anyone would notice without knowing to look for it.
It’s certainly nothing that Bonnaud would have noticed upon seeing my handkerchief
for a few moments years ago.”

“Why did you show it to him back then?”

Max took the handkerchief from her and gazed down at it. “When I was a boy, I was
more casual with it, carrying it about in the same pocket with my regular handkerchief.
But I was always reaching for a handkerchief and pulling out the wrong one, which
is what I did with your brother that day. Then I felt compelled to explain why I had
two, one of which was ornate. Of course, I didn’t tell him about the christening gown
fabric.” He lifted his gaze to lock with hers. “I’ve never told anyone but you.”

The fact that he trusted her touched her deeply. “I won’t tell a soul.”

He nodded, then tucked the handkerchief reverently into its secret pocket.

“The work on it is very fine. Your mother must have been talented with a needle.”

“She certainly spent enough time at it. Before Father . . . grew ill. After that,
she was too busy to do much but take care of him.”

“How old were you then?” she asked.

“Twenty-one. I had just come of age.”

“Tell me about it,” she said softly.

When he tensed, she thought for certain he would retreat into his self-imposed prison.
But then he began to talk. And her heart broke a little more for him with each word.

By the time they neared Calais, she began to understand why he was so afraid of letting
anyone too close. Perhaps she would be, too, if she’d watched her father forget her
name, make wild accusations about her mother, and run amok from mad delusions that
people were trying to murder him. Worst of all were Max’s tales of holding his father
down to keep him from hurting his mother or himself. Those made her want to cry.

Clearly he was telling her all this to convince her that his idea of a marriage was
the best. But it made her even more determined never to abandon him to the indifferent
care of servants and doctors.

They reached Calais after nightfall. The inns were teeming with passengers headed
for England the next day, and they had to go to three hotels before they found lodgings.

As soon as they entered their small room, she groaned. It contained only a bed, a
dresser, and a spindly chair.

Max came to take her cloak. “We’ll share the bed. We both need a good night’s rest.
There’s no telling what we’ll find once we reach London.”

“But—”

“I promise to be a gentleman,” he cut in. “Trust me, I’m too tired to be anything
else.”

Though she cast him a skeptical glance, she knew he was right about them needing their
sleep. “All right.” She forced a lightness into her tone. “Just stay out of the taproom
tonight, will you?”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he said irritably, “I’ve gotten drunk in a taproom only once
in my entire life, and you happened to be around for it. I suppose I’ll never live
that down.”

“I beg your pardon, but what about when you were sixteen and sneaked down to the taproom
at that inn in Dieppe?” she teased. “Didn’t you get drunk then?”

He flushed. “That’s not why I sneaked down those stairs. I was going out to the garden
to meet with a maid who’d flirted with me at dinner. I was feeling my oats, that’s
all.”

Her heart tightened as she imagined a young Max, full of youth and vigor, trying to
steal a kiss in a back garden. Before his life was ripped away from him by responsibilities
and duties and tragedy.

“After all, isn’t that the second son’s job?” he joked halfheartedly. “To be a rapscallion?”

“Well, you’re not a second son anymore, so you’d better keep your hands to yourself
tonight.”

“If I don’t, you can always stab me with your embroidery needle,” he said dryly. “You
seem to have mastered that technique.”

She managed a smile. “I doubt that will be necessary.”

An uncomfortable silence descended upon them. Muttering something about seeing to
their supper, he disappeared.

The rest of the evening was as difficult as she’d expected. Sharing a room with him
felt distinctly different now that she’d shared his bed. Conversation at supper was
stilted, and preparing for bed was awkward since she had to have his help in taking
off her corset.

His hands undoing her gown felt intimate, his fingers unlacing her corset felt intimate . . .
just feeling his breath on her neck felt intimate. He didn’t do a single thing that
was improper, yet it didn’t matter. Everything he did made her want him.

He climbed into bed wearing only his shirt and drawers and faced away from her. She
sat on the bed and took her time brushing her hair, waiting to hear the even rhythm
of his breathing. Thankfully, it came soon.

Only then did she slip off her loosened gown and corset and petticoats, leaving her
in her shift and drawers. She wasn’t about to change into her nightdress; that would
be tempting Fate.

She carefully slid under the covers to avoid waking him, but he didn’t even rouse.

That ought to have made her relax, yet she lay there for a long time thinking about
what he’d told her, wondering if she was making a mistake to be so insistent about
how they should go on together. He had offered her marriage, for pity’s sake. Was
she being foolish to turn him down?

When at last she fell asleep it was to dream of Max, strong and hearty, shoving Vidocq’s
carriage up a hill. Except that in her dream Max wore nothing but a hat. Though she
told him he should be careful—since he was naked and all—he merely tipped his hat
to her and went right back to shoving the carriage.

Suddenly, the carriage began slipping backward and Max started sliding down the hill,
unable to control it, and she tried to scream, but she couldn’t, and she ran toward
him down the hill and ran and ran—

She came awake with a start. She was gripping something warm beneath her. Still half
asleep and disoriented, she stared about her and realized she was using Max as a bed.
Again.

Then she felt something hard pressing into her belly, which seemed to grow harder
by the moment. As she caught Max’s gaze glinting up at her in the gray light of dawn,
he drawled, “If you want me to keep my promise to be a gentleman, dearling, I suggest
that you retreat to your side of the bed.”

For a long moment, she just stared down at him—at his tousled hair and his whiskered
chin and his tight jaw. At the face that became dearer to her by the day. Then she
kissed him.

He tensed as if in shock, then swiftly rolled her beneath him. His hands bracketed
her shoulders, and he lowered his mouth to within a few inches of hers. “Tell me you
want this,” he growled.

The rampant heat in his eyes made her swallow, but she’d already decided what to do.

Perhaps it was the lingering memory of her dream. Or the feel of his body so warm
and real against hers, or the way he’d lain perfectly still the whole time she’d been
sprawled across him. Perhaps it was the fact that she knew they might not have another
chance to be alone like this.

Whatever the reason, she had to feel his mouth on hers once more, had to touch him
and be with him. Really
be
with him.

She slid her hands up beneath his shirt. “I want this. I want—”

He smothered the word
you
with a hard kiss.

After that, there was no turning back. As he plundered her mouth, she put her hands
all over him, pressed her body against him, filled her senses with him. She couldn’t
get enough of him.