Under A Duke's Hand (2 page)

“You aren’t in Paradise,” she said. “You’re
in Wales, a very pretty corner of it.”

“Indeed,” he replied.

He said only that one word, but the way he
said it made her slide down from her rock and go for her stockings
and boots. She knew she ought to leave without saying another word,
but he was so appealing to look at, and his eyes seemed kind.

“Where have you come from?” she asked, which
seemed a very safe and polite question to occupy him while she
readied herself to go.

He made a gesture toward the north. “I’ve
traveled down from Cheltenham.”

That explained his English accent. “Were you
there to take the baths?”

“Yes, and then I continued in search of
picturesque Welsh villages.” He held up his book. “I’m an artist,
and what a lovely subject I’ve stumbled upon. Will you allow me to
sketch you?”

She grimaced as she stuffed her feet into her
too-small boots. “I’m sure you could find a better subject than
me.” She picked up her bonnet, meaning to tuck her hair beneath
it.

He leaned forward. “Don’t.”

The authority in his tone made her go
still.

He smiled then, a rakish, disarming smile
that was so beautiful. “I wish you wouldn’t hide your lovely face
beneath that brim and run away from me. Please, let me sketch you.
It will only take a short while.”

Goodness, the way he looked at her.
Perhaps a handsome stranger will befriend me and fall deeply in
love with me, and secret me to his hilltop castle.
She wondered
if this man had a hilltop castle. Why, he was so masculine and
charming, she’d settle for a cabin in the woods.

Gwen decided she would let him sketch her
even though it was not quite proper, because he was her handsome
stranger and because she could amuse Tilda with the story later.
And here, at last, was a man who seemed to find her appealing. She
certainly admired
his
comely attributes. His steady gaze,
his broad shoulders, his lips...

Guinevere Vaughn, you want him to kiss
you.

Of course she would never let him, but there
was something exciting about a man finally wanting to kiss her.
Probably wanting to kiss her. Perhaps he only wished to draw her.
He certainly made a fuss about seating her in the best light, and
angling her chin just so, and arranging her hair so it fell over
her shoulders in just the perfect way.

As he did this, she thrilled to his nearness
and his uncommon size. He smelled wonderful, like soap and
sandalwood, and his eyes were a beautiful deep blue. He met her
gaze for a moment as he composed her hair. His regard was so
intense that she looked away. She stared instead at his lips,
pursed in concentration. My goodness, did all men have such
attractive lips, or had she fallen under some spell? Perhaps
he
was the angel in this meadow, come down from heaven to
tempt her chastity mere hours before she was to wed.

“Can you sit very still?” he asked. “And hold
this pose for me?”

“I’ll try.”

She wondered if he was a famous sort of
artist. His clothes were common, but his sketch book looked
exceedingly fine. She had heard of artists so obsessed with their
craft that they cared nothing for manners or appearance, and went
about looking almost as hermits, with dirty clothes and disheveled
hair. Not that this man was dirty or disheveled. He was exactly the
opposite, clean and attractive, and strong, and fine to look
upon.

Gwen, you goose. You’re to meet your
betrothed on the morrow.
She couldn’t lose her head over this
handsome stranger. He was not really going to fall in love with
her, and he was not going to take her to his hilltop castle, as
sweet as the fantasy was.

“How pretty you are,” he said, as his
charcoal scratched over the paper. “You have remarkable eyes.”

“They are like my mother’s.”

“She must be a beautiful woman.”

“She is...beautiful.” Gwen had almost said
she was dead, but then she thought,
there is no need for truth
here.
If he was only traveling through the area, he couldn’t
know she was Miss Guinevere Vaughn, daughter of a Welsh baron,
especially with the way she was dressed. She could be a village
girl who could be named anything, and who could have a beautiful
mother who still lived. “What is your name?” she asked, partly
because she wished to know the name of this handsomest of all men,
and partly so she could make up a name of her own.

“I’m called Jack,” he said. “And you?”

“Rose,” she said proudly. She had always
loved simple flower names, probably because she’d been named
Guinevere, which was long and cumbersome.

“Ah, a fitting name for a lady in bloom. It’s
very nice to meet you, Rose,” said the man. “Please sit still.”

Again, she heard that resonance of authority
in his voice. She supposed he must be very serious about his art.
She studied him as he went back to scritching and scratching at his
book. He drew very confidently, as if it were easy for him to do
it. It felt strange to be scrutinized so closely by
someone—especially someone so blatantly virile. She tried not to
blush and flutter when their eyes met.

“Have you a sweetheart, Rose?” he asked the
next time he looked up from his book. “I imagine a pretty girl like
you has many suitors. Or perhaps...” He paused in his sketching.
“You are already wed to some fortunate fellow?”

“No,” she said, feeling embarrassed that she
had neither suitor nor husband. Then she remembered,
No need for
truth.
“I’m not yet wed, but I am being courted by a wonderful
young man named...Thomas.” It was as good a name as any.

“Lucky chap. Will you be married soon?”

“I don’t know. Yes. Perhaps. We have become
ever so fond of one another. We’re so much in love that I call him
Tommy instead of Thomas.” She was painfully aware that she must
sound like an idiot.

“And what does he call you?”

Gwen blinked. It was a consuming task to make
up all these lies. “I... I would rather not say.”

“It must be something scandalous then.
Precious
, or
darling
, or
honeycake
.”

Honeycake?
This talk of marriage and
suitors was growing uncomfortable. His charcoal pencil had gone
still on the page.

“Are you almost finished with your sketch?”
she asked.

“For the most part.” He leaned back and
examined his work. “Why don’t you come have a look?”

When she arrived in his vicinity, he pulled
her right down on his lap. She knew she ought to protest, but he
wasn’t being rude or rough. On the contrary, his arms encircled her
very gently as he held the book before them. His cheek touched
hers. He was so large, so warm.

She tried to concentrate on his sketch, which
was quite impressive for the short amount of time he’d taken to
draw it. It was mainly her face and shoulders, and breasts. Oh, she
didn’t know why she should feel this sketch was all about her
breasts, except that her nipples had gone alarmingly taut now that
he was near. Was this how Tilda felt when Drustan held her? When
Drustan kissed her?

“Do you like it?” Jack asked. His soft hair
brushed against her cheek. “It’s only a quick study. I could draw
you for hours and not capture all your bewitching charm.”

Such flattery, and his gaze was
so
intense
. He must be falling in love with her, to look at her
that way. She wished Tilda had come with her, because Tilda would
have known how to flirt and play along with this man.

“Would you like to see some other things I’ve
drawn?” he asked, as she gawked at him like a hooked fish.

“Yes, that would be lovely.”

He shifted her in his arms. Shifted her
closer
, she noted, as he flipped back through some of the
pages. She did not know much about art, but she knew the drawings
had some boldness that made them attractive to her. He’d sketched
elegant horses and great city buildings, and a variety of persons,
both ladies and gentlemen. In the middle of the book, he skipped
past a few pages. Gwen thought she saw a flash of large, round
breasts and naked legs, but she wasn’t sure.

“I’m especially proud of this.” He showed her
a sketch that covered two pages, a detailed rendering of a huge
manor and courtyard, and a fountain with water spraying from the
middle. It brought to mind King Arthur’s Lady of the Lake.

“How beautiful,” she said. “I’ve never seen a
real fountain. Not like that.”

“Haven’t you? Many grand houses and parks in
England have them.” His arm eased closer about her waist. “They’re
pretty to look at, aren’t they? Like you.”

She turned to him with a shy smile, and he
chuckled.

“You’re blushing pink as a rose, Rose. How
modest you are, for a wild meadow nymph.”

“Oh, I am not a nymph.”

She looked back at his drawings, trying—and
failing—to ignore the subtle caress of his thumb beneath her
breast. The blush in her cheeks seemed to be spreading to other
parts of her body. “I can’t believe how talented you are,” she
blathered, to fill the silence. “You made a lovely likeness of me
in such a short time. Really, you are a commendable artist.”

“It’s easy to make art when one is inspired.”
He shifted her on his lap, so she was turned more toward him, and
then he tilted up her chin. “I suppose it is shocking to say, but I
would like to kiss you.”

Goodness, he meant it. As much as she had
craved to be kissed, she knew it wouldn’t be proper to allow it.
“You shouldn’t, sir.”

“Why not?” Their lips were almost touching.
His eyes were
so blue
. “Call me Jack, won’t you? We’re
friends, you know, sitting here together in this pretty meadow on a
sun-filled day. Why not have a little kiss? Especially when you’ve
been flirting so shamelessly.”

She opened her mouth to protest this
accusation, and that was the moment he took advantage, brushing his
lips across hers. She went very still, shocked by the whispery
warmth of contact. He made a low sound of encouragement and cupped
her face before she could pull away.

Oh my.
He was not just kissing her
once, but many times. His lips tensed and molded to hers as his
fingers wove into her hair. She’d dreamed of being kissed on
countless occasions, but her dreams had never approached this heady
reality. He grasped her face between his thumbs and flicked his
tongue inside her mouth, at the corner and along her lip. After a
moment of flailing, she tried to respond and kiss him back in the
same sensual fashion. And she thought,
take me away to your
castle, dear sir. Thank you, flowers and trees. Thank you, heaven
and earth, and Jack, for granting me this last adventure before my
wedding to the duke.

He moved her again on his lap, setting her
off balance so she was obliged to open her hands upon his chest.
How hard he felt, how very solid. Her palms slid up to his
shoulders as he deepened their kiss. She ought not to grope this
stranger, and she certainly shouldn’t allow him to kiss her this
way, but she couldn’t find the power to stop him. Every aspect of
him compelled her, from his wild artist’s hair to his manly chest,
to the firm, muscled thighs that supported her. He opened a hand
over her breast, and she didn’t even think of telling him no. His
thumb brushed across her nipple through the coarse wool of her
dress, a teasing pleasure that resonated all the way down to the
private place between her legs.

She should tell him not to do such a thing.
She knew it was wicked, but it felt so good. He whispered something
to her, some endearment, but all she could think was how excited
and full her middle felt. She gave a needful little sigh, her lips
trembling against his. His hand traveled down and molded around her
bottom, caressing and squeezing as boldly as she’d squeezed his
shoulders. She pushed back from him.

“Please, sir,” she said. “You should
not.”

He was handsome, yes, and maybe falling in
love with her, but the castle was a fantasy. Too soon, she would
have to leave this meadow, and return home to prepare for her
wedding to the Duke of Arlington.

Jack released her, though he did not put her
off his lap. His gaze burned hot as ever as he took her hand. “I
apologize if I offended you. I forgot myself for a moment.”

“So did I. It’s this meadow, I suppose, and
the fact that you are...” She ducked her head, touching her lips.
“That you are very handsome.”

“Ah, Rose. There you go, flirting with me
again. What a naughty girl you are, when you have a young man named
Tommy in love with you. How unfaithful you’ve been.”

She looked up sharply. “No, sir. Not
unfaithful.” She stared over his shoulder, thinking how to keep up
the fiction and still explain how she’d lost herself in his arms.
“I... I know I said he was my fellow, but the truth is... Tommy and
I are only...mostly...friends.”

Jack gave a gentle tsk. “Then you lied to me
about having a beau. If you were my lady, I believe I’d spank you
for such behavior.”

It was impossible to tell if he was joking,
or serious, or bemused, or actually, truly disappointed in her.
“You wouldn’t really?” she said. “You wouldn’t spank a grown
woman?”

“I have and I would. Some naughty misses
require an occasional bottom-reddening to keep them in line.
Nothing vicious, you understand. Just enough sting to make them
feel remorseful for their misdeeds.”

He moved his hand over her knee, the movement
animating the muscles in his chest. A spanking? Rose, the village
girl, felt her breath come faster with a squalid sort of
excitement. Gwen, on the other hand, was scandalized. “I can
hardly...believe...”

“Don’t men spank their women in Wales, then?”
he asked in surprise. “Have you never been spanked, Rose?”

She shook her head quickly. “No, never. Not
since I was a child.”