The Art of Duke Hunting (20 page)

His solid weight moved close to her in the darkness, and he pulled up the covers. He arranged the heavy weight of his body alongside hers and then, very gently gathered her into his arms, taking care with her head to place it in the cradle of his shoulder.

He was so warm, and he smelled of soap and exotic spices. “Are you all right, like that?” His voice rumbled through her.

“Yes. Perfect.” She sighed.

“Good. Now let’s sleep.” He gently placed a kiss on her brow.

“All right,” she replied. She knew better. There was not a chance of her being able to sleep.

He loosened his grasp a little, and within a few moments, she heard the hitch in his breathing that signaled he was falling into slumber’s grasp.

She wanted to cry. She really did. But she worried the wetness of her tears would wake him. Instead she regulated her breathing and tried to sleep.

A moment later, his strong arms clasped her closer to him for a moment before relaxing again. “Are you all right, March?” he asked sleepily.

“Yes, thank you. Better than all right.”

“Good,” he said and drifted again toward sleep.

She wasn’t sure if she could sleep in his arms. She had never slept in anyone’s arms. Oh, she had always slept in her marital bed. On the left side. The indentations on each side of the bed were fairly deep. She had thought she enjoyed being sprawled out on her side of the bed. She snuggled closer to Roman.

“March,” he asked with weariness.

“Yes,” she whispered, surprised he was awake.

“I won’t sleep unless you do.”

“I’m not sure I can,” she replied. “I’ve had too much rest, I think.”

“Are you certain you’re comfortable like this?”

She nodded as she couldn’t speak.

“Good.”

He waited a moment before he continued. “Then just rest, my love. I am here if you need anything. Anything at all.”

“Thank you, Montagu,” she whispered. He had called her
his love
. Again, when he had not been terrified for her safety. And it warmed a very small place in her heart that she did not know existed.

She joined him in slumber within moments.

F
or seven days and six nights, Esme’s convalescence passed thusly. During the day, she was coddled by her mother, and Verity, who refused to discuss anything about Abshire.

The problem was that Verity was just as good as she at concealing her thoughts and sensibilities. Usually, Esme could wheedle it out of her given enough time, and energy. But, she was depleted of the latter, and her mother rarely left them alone.

William was allowed to visit for an hour each afternoon. He was very dutiful in his attentions, encouraging her more than ever to begin planning the revised trip. He was so very kind to her, even suggesting he would accompany her since she might need his physical support due to her ankle. Something kept her from agreeing to his suggestion.

Toward the end of the week, the doctor consented to her drawing as long as she remained in bed.

During the nights, Roman came to her, and held her all through the darkness. He never spoke of the day in the maze or what he had told her and she didn’t dare raise the subject.

Instead, over the course of the week she gradually succumbed to the strong, silent comfort of his arms. After that first night, she slept solidly, and recovered more quickly than anyone could have predicted, most especially the doctor.

Esme was most surprised by the Duke of Abshire, who condescended to visit the last day she was confined to her room.

“I see you will live, then.”

“If only to go fishing with you again, Your Grace.”

“How absurd.” A sly smile slid onto his face. “Is Norwich taking care of you?”

Esme could feel a blush overtake her.

“Oh, we’ll have none of that,” Abshire snorted. “Well, is he? Shall I thrash him if he is not?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, hiding her amusement. “He has been enormously kind.”

He stared at her, and she could see an internal debate clouding his face.

“Is there something you want to say to me?” she asked.

“No. It’s the opposite,” he admitted. For the first time ever, she watched a rueful expression cross his features.

Amusement filled her. “How about this? I’ll look the other way, and you can just spit it out and leave. Then we’ll both pretend you never said anything.”

He threw back his head and roared with laughter. She was so pleased he had actually made the effort to see her.

He winked. “Agreed. Turn the other way.”

She did as he bade, and stared at the blank wall.

“Look, I’m telling you this because I like you, Esme. Norwich is another story. I’ve never been able to make heads or tails of the fellow, to be honest. Oh, he’s a good enough sort to be sure.” He stopped short.

“And?” she resolutely kept her face toward the wall.

“And you were forced to marry. And you will either live together or live apart. I wanted to warn you that he is the sort who will choose to live apart from you in the end. I tell you this so you will guard your heart. I once knew someone very like you and I do not want to see you hurt.”

She swallowed.

“It has nothing whatsoever to do with you. You must, please, understand this. Even if he cares for you, he will choose a solitary life.”

“Why?” she said, trying very hard to sound casual.

“I’m not certain. I am breaking every bloody rule between the sexes by what I’ve advised you. But, there is nothing wrong in reminding you of recent Norwich history if you are not aware of common knowledge.” He paused for but a moment before continuing. “His elder brother, who would have been duke, died when the ship he and Norwich were sailing sunk off the coast more than a decade ago.”

“I remember hearing a little about it,” she acknowledged.

“Everyone admired the elder. The old duke adored his heir. The mother and sister doted on him, and the two brothers were inseparable. The elder was the golden one and when he perished, the family changed. The father never recovered. Roman and the old duke were . . . well, I will not go on. I’m beginning to sound like a scandalbroth-sipping magpie.”

She turned to finally face him and caught sight of his sly smile and hooded eyes.

“But I’m willing to appear a sodding idiot for a quarter hour to warn the best fisherman this side of Christendom not to place her heart in his hands.”

She pursed her lips. “Thank you. Thank you more than you know. But you see, I think it’s rather too late.”

Abshire shook his head. “I thought as much. Well, I’ve done my duty by you. It’s really too bad you weren’t born a man. I think we would have formed a fine friendship. Instead, we are forced to dance on far too many levels. And I hate to waltz unless there is something to be had after the ball.” He winked again.

He really was the most entertaining man she knew. And she never would have guessed how kind he could be under all his many jaded levels of reserve. But now she would turn the tables on him.

“I feel it necessary to return the favor of concern. But to do so, I must first ask your intentions toward my very dear cousin Verity Fitz—”

A light tap sounded at the door. Esme felt like cursing as much as she was certain Abshire suddenly desired to escape.

“Yes?” she called out.

“May I?” Roman’s deep voice returned.

Abshire jumped from the chair and strode to open the door.

The two eyed each other warily.

“Where is my wife’s maid?” Roman asked, annoyed.

“Oh, shut up,” Abshire replied. “It always comes down to a maid, doesn’t it?” With that nonsensical remark, he walked past the door and slammed it behind him.

Esme had not the slightest idea what Abshire meant by his odd remark, but she would wager her last gold guinea that it had something to do with Verity Fitzroy. Or her maid—or rather, her abigail.

And Esme realized she had not once seen Verity’s ever-present lovely Scottish abigail, Amelia, since arriving in Derbyshire.

Chapter 13

“J
ust tell me he didn’t cause you any worry. I know the scoundrel only too well,” Roman said coming toward her. “Shall I thrash him for you?”

Esme smiled. “I have the oddest notion you two are of the same mold. He offered to do the same to you, by the way.”

He set the beeswax candle down on the table. “So, I must keep on my guard, then?”

She paused and remembered Abshire’s advice. How on earth was she supposed to guard her heart when she was afraid the man standing in front of her might have already stolen a large part of it? She swallowed. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” she said softly.

“How is your head?” He sat on the edge of the bed and she moved away to give him more room.

“Everyone keeps asking me but no one believes me so what is the point of a reply?” she said wryly.

“I shall believe you.”

“I am perfectly fine. I might limp a bit, but my head is healed. I am leaving this bed at dawn and going outside. I cannot bear another day of coddling.”

He was staring at her with an odd light in his blue eyes.

“Except, of course, when you indulge me,” she said, her eyes unable to meet his. “It’s ridiculous to admit, but I will never be able to thank you enough for coming to me each night. It is a great comfort.”

“May I?” he asked, reaching toward the bandage on her head.

She nodded.

He unwound the small strip of linen and felt the injury on the back of her head. “The swelling is down. And the cut?”

“Is nearly healed. It’s so silly. Everyone knows that there was so much blood because it was a head wound. But I am perfectly fine now. Please do not worry.” Abshire’s caution overshadowed the words Roman had told her in the maze. He was not a man who would be steadfast in the end. It would be better to try to stop her intense sentiments, if she could. “Really, I do not want you to feel any obligation to stay here tonight. If I need anything, I shall call my maid.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

She couldn’t bear to lie to him even if it hurt her more by telling the truth.

“No.”

He removed his coat. She drank in the sight of him as he undid his waistcoat, and pulled one end of his neckcloth. He always undressed in the same elegant, efficient manner—as if he had deciphered long ago the most scientific means to an end.

She tried to memorize the way his eyes watched her as he undressed, and how he placed his clothes on the back of the chair. This was the last time she would allow him to come to her bed. It would just be too hard to leave or to watch him leave if it continued like this.

He paused, his thumb and forefinger hovering near the candle’s flame. He looked at her with a question in his eyes.

She wanted to see him. She didn’t want to be in darkness as in the past. “Please, no,” she whispered.

He nodded and climbed into the bed.

“May I help you with your shirt?” she asked tentatively.

He sat up and removed it so quickly it was a blur. And then he took her in his arms, in the fashion she had grown to want more than anything. His flesh touching hers felt like two halves coming together.

“March,” he whispered in her ear, “I want you.”

“I want you, too,” she responded.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to cause you any pain.”

“Please.” She just could not resist him, even if he would break her heart in the end. And there was something in his eyes . . . something that spoke of such need for tenderness and love—two things she wanted to give him so very much.

It was all the encouragement he needed. With a gentleness bordering on indecision, he removed her bedclothes, and undid her simple long braid. She refused to be embarrassed by her nakedness. She had this one night to give and take before she would put a stop to something that would only become more painful as time went on.

His fingers soothed her shoulders, and drifted down her back, as she mirrored his actions. He moved her to the center of the bed, and lowered his mouth to touch her breast. She bit her lips to keep from making a sound.

There was something about the way he suckled her, and licked the crest that made her want to cry out. She tried desperately to hold back the moan in her throat.

But he must have sensed her pleasure for he would not stop. She had no idea how much time had passed but then she felt the warm slide of his hand on her thigh.

She wanted to tell him how much she desired him, but she did not. His hand moved to her waist and cupped her breast as he licked it once again.

She shyly traced her fingers down his sides, all the way down to his buttocks. He was so solid, each muscle defined along his back and hips.

He shuddered as she brushed his ballocks.

“Dear God,” he murmured. “Do that again.”

She drew her fingers gently along his broad spine and drifted down to linger on his large ballocks. The sound of pleasure he made allowed her to be bold.

She touched him as she had always wished to do—without any reserve. Over and over she stroked every inch of his back, and lower, while he kissed her flesh, and ministered to her every need.

When she thought she would die from wanting, his fingers caught the back of one of her knees and drew it high. He released it only to slide his hand down to the juncture of her thighs. She could not hold back the sound in her throat any longer.

“Yes, my love,” he whispered. His fingers stroked her, and she felt an embarrassment of wetness. And then he entered her with his finger, and she nearly rose off the bed.

What was happening to her? Never had she felt the incandescent torment of sensations coursing through her body at this moment—except the night with him on the ship. Her body pulsed where their skin touched.

And he was doing something with his finger that was causing it. Inside, he was motioning for her to come closer. At that realization, a thousand shards of light burst within her. She turned her head into the pillow and released a sound of such intensity it nearly frightened her.

“Yes,” he murmured. “Don’t stop.”