My Unfair Lady (19 page)
Authors: Kathryne Kennedy
He froze.
She lowered her head again; another long, slow stroke.
"Don't you want it all?" she murmured.
Byron found himself nodding with silly, boyish eagerness.
He heard her chortle, and then those small hands pushed at the back of his thighs, raising them as he'd raised hers. He could do nothing but comply to her every wish. His feet lay flat against the bed, his legs opened at an improbable angle, his knees pointing at opposite walls. Bloody hell, the woman would surely kill him.
She continued the sweet torture of her tongue, a final sweep bringing him to the brink of his own internal explosion. Byron closed his eyes, his entire body tuned to the feel of her tongue and hands and silky hair.
She shifted. Warmth enclosed one of his nipples, and she suckled, shocking him with the realization that her actions aroused him even further in an entirely new way, for he'd never thought to have a woman pay them this kind of attention. One of her hands continued to stroke his shaft, and he growled with a force that shook the walls as his body convulsed in waves of sheer all-consuming ecstasy.
He'd never thought a woman could give him as much as he could give her. Never thought he'd find his equal in the bedroom. He felt like a bloody arrogant fool.
He distantly heard a knock on the inside connecting door, watched with a drunken detachment as Summer yanked up some bedclothes to cover herself when the door opened, and Maria poked her head around the corner, her green eyes wide with concern that quickly evaporated when she saw him. She sauntered into the room, brazenly scanning his body from head to toe. He couldn't have moved a finger to save his soul, so contented himself with rolling his eyeballs around to her and giving a wink.
Maria winked back. "Not bad," she said, hands on hips. Then she looked over at Summer. "Thought I heard a noise. I told ya' he'd take care of ya'."
"You don't know what you're talking about," snapped Summer. "Nothing happened."
"And I'm the Queen of England."
Byron snorted.
"You're not helping," said Summer, rising from the bed with a sheet wrapped around her like a toga. She grabbed his clothes from the chair and tossed them at him. "It's time for you to go."
He raised a brow. "Bloody hell, woman, give me a moment to recover."
Summer looked back and forth from Maria to Byron. "This is not funny. Maria, nothing happened that will… jeopardize my vow to Monte. And don't come into my room again unless I tell you to."
Maria crossed her arms across her ample chest. "Your Majesty."
"What?"
"Yore gonna have to call me Yore Majesty if ya' want me to believe that ya' didn't do nothing to this poor man. Wouldn't surprise me none if he rolled right over and started snoring."
The duke wished he could. He'd never felt so supremely drained in his life. But he looked at Summer's flashing eyes, watched her hand start inching toward her leg, and sighed. They'd have to discuss this later, when his brain started working again, and she wasn't in such a temper. He got up and started to dress under the appreciable gaze of both ladies.
He left the room without a backward glance.
"Now look what ya' did," said Maria. "Got him all mad at ya' again just when he was discovering how much he loves ya'."
Summer stomped her foot in sheer frustration. "He does not love me like that. I… I just needed him tonight, and he was there for me, like any good friend."
"Good friends don't do what ya' two were doing."
"How many times do I have to tell you—oh, never mind. Just go back to bed, Maria. You need your sleep. Aren't you leaving me, um, leaving to visit Lord Balkett tomorrow?"
She tossed her black hair. "We're leaving early, so don't worry about getting up with me. Ya'll need the extra sleep more than I will."
Summer pounced on the bed and buried her head beneath a pillow, but it didn't block out the sound of her friend's voice.
"Still got yore boots on," she said. "I'll have to try that look myself sometime." Maria left the room, closing the door behind her, mercifully cutting off the sound of her gentle laughter.
***
Maria had been right, for the next morning Summer woke to find that she'd slept so soundly, her friend had already gone. She sighed and stared at the ceiling, realizing for the first time that she was very far from home. She rolled over and buried her face in a pillow and smelled the lingering scent of him. The events of the night flashed through her mind, and the resul tant throb between her legs told her it had been real. Tarnation, what had she done? Her face flushed when she remembered what she and the duke had done to each other. For each other.
Summer groaned. Technically, she was still a virgin, yet she knew that she'd betrayed her intended, because she
had
been making love to Byron. With every stroke of her tongue and kiss of her mouth, she'd expressed her desire for him. And been disloyal to another man who really did love her. How could she be making love with one man, while still engaged to another? She wasn't like her mother, dadburn it! She'd never betray someone she'd sworn to love by leaving them.
had
been making love to Byron. With every stroke of her tongue and kiss of her mouth, she'd expressed her desire for him. And been disloyal to another man who really did love her. How could she be making love with one man, while still engaged to another? She wasn't like her mother, dadburn it! She'd never betray someone she'd sworn to love by leaving them.
She'd just have to stop these feelings she had for the duke. Thank goodness she hadn't done anything that she couldn't undo.
Then India leaped on the bed and started picking through her hair, and the baby fox whined, and Chi-chi yipped at her for the baby's milk, and she called for Maria. Summer shook her head with annoy ance and rang the bellpull for one of the servants.
Meg entered the room, already carrying a bottle of goat's milk for the fox, and completely ignoring Summer, she went over to feed them. "Where's the other one, Miss?"
The small mewling cries stopped and were replaced by the humming of the young girl. Summer sighed. Maria was right; the girl would be perfect for her.
"He… he didn't make it through the night."
The girl looked at her with wise eyes and nodded. "I'm right sorry."
Summer felt tears welling up and turned to splash water on her face from the basin. "Do you want to name that one?"
"Me, Miss? Oh, could I?"
"Mmm hmm."
Meg wrinkled her plain face in a frown. "How about 'Rosey'?"
Summer blinked water from her eyes and stared at the innocent face of the girl. Did she know about the rosebush where they'd buried the other baby, or was it just a coincidence? She shrugged. "That's a fine name. Rosey it is. And if he's full now, I need help dressing."
Summer chose a riding habit from the armoire and grinned. "It's my last day at Sandringham, and I need to make a good impression. We're going hunting for birds today. What about this chocolate-colored one? With pants."
"I'm sure that'll be fine, Miss. Will the duke be joining you?"
Summer started again. Had she heard another hint of wisdom in the girl's voice? Tarnation, she'd have to stop jumping at every little thing. She had nothing to feel guilty about. Well, not much, anyway. She dressed hurriedly, since she'd already overslept and didn't want to be left behind to drink tea, and had a breathless Meg escort her down to the courtyard at almost a run, skipping the breakfast that the other guests had already finished.
The duke had been waiting for her, slapping his tall polished boots with a riding crop, and froze when she came around the corner. God, she looked lovely this morning, her cheeks flushed pink and her golden brown hair already escaping the confines of her hat, the strands shining like liquid silk in the sun. And it'd felt that way, too, he remembered, as it slid down his body last night. Byron shifted where he stood.
Summer met his eyes and felt sucked into them, unable to look away, unable to stop the flood of visions that overwhelmed her. His desire for her was tangible, a living thing that wrapped around her body and drew her closer to him without a single thought of resistance. The intimacy they'd shared had given her a taste of what it felt like to be in his arms and made her want even more.
The other guests in the courtyard stilled, staring at the couple who stood like frozen statues, until Prince Albert coughed, and they mounted their horses, but not, Byron noticed, some of the older, more staid guests. The ones who lived by the Queen's strict standards of conduct—no matter that they socialized with his son and his circle.
They didn't dare say a word against her, thought the duke, not while he was present. He broke the magic of Summer's gaze and turned a baleful eye on the crowd, reminding them of his reputation for wielding his tongue like a sword, letting them know with a sardonic lift of his brow that he wouldn't hesitate to use it to counter any rude remarks directed at Summer. Lady Banfour quickly averted her gaze, pretending to be absorbed in petting her black horse, who snorted and shivered at the unexpected attention.
He handed Summer the reins of her unsaddled horse, watched her leap up unassisted, and they rode with the others across the fields of Sandringham, barely saying a word to each other until they reached an area where a group of servants waited.
"What are they doing?" asked Summer, startled from her new shyness around him by the actions of the servants. It helped if she didn't look directly into his eyes.
"They're the beaters," replied the duke, as the men began to form a line in front of the riders. "They'll beat the bushes and draw up the birds for us to shoot."
"Well, that makes it easy."
Byron gestured at a liveried servant who'd ridden out with them. "This is our loader. When your shells are empty, hand the gun back to him, and he'll replace it with a newly loaded one."
The loader handed her a shotgun. Summer stared at it in consternation. "Well, now. This makes it too easy."
The duke glanced around and lowered his voice. "Be grateful they don't have the nets. They trap the birds as they fly up, allowing those less skilled to bag a greater number."
Summer tried to keep a smile plastered to her face. "This is slaughter, not sport. Tarnation, it's worse than the foxhunt."
Byron rolled his eyes. "Will it make you feel better to know that many of the poor will benefit by having fresh game on their table tonight?"
"Not much. Besides, I'm used to shooting with a rifle anyway. Can't I use one instead of this thing?"
"You know you'd blow the bird apart," he chided.
"Not if you shoot the head off. And then you don't have to go picking buckshot out of your kill."
Byron gaped. "Are you telling me you've only hunted with a rifle?"
Summer shrugged. "Pa had a pistol and a rifle, and we could barely afford the ammunition for those. So if I wanted dinner, I had to make sure I hit my mark every time."
The unwelcome voice of Lady Banfour interrupted them. "Are you telling His Grace that you can hit a bird from every shot of a rifle?"
Summer cringed. She hadn't said any such thing; she'd just been telling Byron about her childhood, and now the woman made it sound like she'd been bragging. "Fortunately, it's been a long time since I've had to shoot for my supper. I don't know if I could do it now."
"Hmph!" she replied, as if she'd known Summer had been exaggerating.
"I say," cut in the foppish man who always seemed to be popping up at Lady Banfour's side. Summer still couldn't get all their names straight, they were all Lord something-or-other. "What say we put up a wager on how many birds Miss Lee can shoot with a round of six?"
And before Summer knew it, bets were being laid, a rifle procured, and she was again at the center of attention.
How does she manage to do it?
thought the duke.
Every time we go somewhere, she winds up doing or saying
something that sets her apart from the other ladies. And
instead of her conforming to gentle society, she just manages
to change their attitudes about her.
It was going to take a miracle to get her presented to the Queen, and it confirmed his decision that only marriage to him would bring it about.
Summer accepted the rifle, relieved that it looked very similar to the one she'd used in her youth, and a few of the beaters swept a path through the tall grass, startling a flock of pheasants up into the air.
One, two, she mentally counted. Three, four—oh, missed—six. Still, Summer felt satisfied, for she knew they were all clean kills.
The beaters brought back her birds. Byron grinned. He'd bet on her missing only one and took in the largest payoff. Prince Albert had bet that she wouldn't miss any, and the few men who had pulled her arrows from the target the other day had bet she'd hit at least half. The rest had used their good sense and bet that she wouldn't bring down any at all.
The Duke of Monchester realized that he'd lost his own good sense where this American girl was concerned. She'd said she was out of practice, so he figured she'd miss just one. He didn't feel guilty in using the advantage he had over the others; he knew how good she was with a knife, and that exaggerating or lying just wasn't in her nature. At this point, if the woman told him she could walk on air, he'd wager she could.
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