The Hazards Of Hunting A Duke (13 page)

“I am a bold man,” he said, and kissed the top of her other breast. “I generally take what I want.” He paused, and looked up. “And I want you.” He straightened suddenly, his body brushing hers as he rose, and then leaned down, and kissed her temple.

“Dear God,” Ava whispered, but he caught her whimper by covering her mouth with his.

She made another small sound of alarm at the wave of sensual hysteria his words and the touch of his lips shot through her. He lifted his hand to her face, touching the corner of her mouth with his finger as he kissed

her. Everything in her screamed to push away, to obey at least some level of decorum, but she couldn’t, even if she’d tried. She’d already fallen, had plummeted into that cloud of pleasure and desire, and in

fact, her hand had wrapped around his wrist, holding tightly so that she didn’t float away.

He slipped his tongue between her lips as he pressed his body against hers, pressed against her the evidence of his growing desire for her. Ava had never felt anything l ike it, and it stirred something very

deep and primal inside of her. His hand drifted to her breast, cupping it, squeezing it. She answered him

by running her hands down his shoulder, then up his chest, the hard, muscular plane of him.

Her body strained for air. Her breasts pressed against his chest, her heart slammed fitfully against her ribs

as his lips moved expertly, smoothly on her hers, his tongue tangling with hers, sweeping her teeth, the valleys of her cheeks, his hand reverently cupping her face while his thumb stroked her cheek.

A pressure was building in her, a need for air or to scream or to fling herself headlong down whatever

path he was taking her. He pressed tightly against her —or perhaps she pressed tightly to him—but it was

an incredible sensation, the feeling of being swept under by a tide, of rolling and spinning weightlessly into

an ocean of pleasure.

But then the tiny mewl of a woman’s cry of surprise brought reality crashing in like the tide crashes against the rocks on shore. A va gasped, tried to pull away, but he held her fast with one arm.

His hand fell away from her face and he looked over her shoulder. “Ah. Miranda,” he said, as if he was expecting her.

Mortified, Ava cried out and forcibly pushed away from him. She was ru ined now, completely ruined.

Yet Middleton wasn’t as quick to let her go —he seemed to have no care for her or her virtue. He smiled reassuringly, swept his thumb over her bottom lip, and then for some inexplicable reason, he kissed her tenderly on her fore head. “Your sister will wonder what has become of you,” he said softy, and let her

go.

Ava stumbled away, took a moment to get her breath, then turned reluctantly to face Lady Waterstone, who stood in front of the door.

The woman was glaring at her. “Go on, then,” she said curtly, gesturing toward the door.

“Run to your sister.”

Ava needed no more encouragement —she walked quickly past Lady Waterstone, through the doors, into the darkened corridor, where she flung herself up against the wall, gripped her hands together and

pressed them to the roiling in the pit of her belly as her chest heaved with each frantic breath.

She couldn’t seem to catch her breath, couldn’t seem to think anything except, God in heaven, what had she done?

If Lady Waterstone, or Middleton for that matter, dared to breathe a word, she’d be ruined.

T wo days after her astounding lapse of judgment, Ava was still waiting for the ax to fall.

She wondered what Mother would have done in her shoes —if she would have given in to passion, if she’d have taken what fate handed her and made do. Ava would have given the world to talk to her mother today.

She didn’t tell Phoebe what had happened, although Phoebe suspected something was amiss. But

Phoebe was completely occupied with her plan to clothe the entire ton, and was toiling away,

hand-beading two of her mother’s gowns, cut and sewn together to make a new one.

Every time

someone knocked on the door, Phoebe went into apoplexy, jumping about and shoving fabric and thread here and there, and kicking sewing baskets beneath the bed or table, while Ava rushed to see who was invading.

It all served to increase Ava’s anxiety.

On the third day, the day before the charitable auction, Ava missed a meeting of th e auction committee

by claiming she had a headache.

“But the auction is on the morrow,” Phoebe said, looking askance at her.

Ava said nothing. She couldn’t face the expressions of women who might have heard about her scandalous behavior.

The afternoon was particularly gloomy, both inside and out.

The post, which Mr. Morris brought Ava, included a handful of letters and the Times.

Ava sorted through

the letters, and felt a surge of happiness at the sight of familiar handwriting. “At las t!” she exclaimed. “It’s from Greer!”

“Greer!” Phoebe cried, putting aside her work of repairing Ava’s camisole. “What does it say?”

Ava handed the rest of the letters to Lucy, broke the seal and unfolded the vellum. “It is written from

Ledbury. Where is Ledbury?”

“I don’t know—read the letter!” Phoebe urged her.

“Dearest Ava and Phoebe,” Ava read. “I am writing to you from Ledbury. The weather has been quite dreary and wet, and the public coach was forced to stop, as the roads are presently impassable with all

the rain. But Mr. Percy assures me it is not usually given to rain quite as much as this, and it should clear any day now, at which time we shall resume our journey.”

“Mr. Percy? Who is Mr. Percy?” Phoebe demanded.

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Ava said, and continued to read. “I must deliver the most peculiar piece of news. In discussing my family history with Mr. Percy, I learned that my good Uncle Randolph passed just

last spring. He was kicked by a horse he was gelding. The injury was quite severe, and though he apparently lingered for days, he did indeed succumb to it. Naturally, I was saddened to hear such distressing news, but Mr. Percy took great pains to assure me that there is still plenty of the Vaughan family about in these parts.”

“What?” Phoebe cried, hurrying to Ava’s side to read over her shoulder. “Her uncle has passed and yet she goes on? Who is this Mr. Percy? What if he is diabolical?”

“Listen to this,” Ava said, reading on. “I have very much enjoyed the journey, although Mrs. Smithington does poorly in the carriage and remarked that Wales is rather far from London. However, Mr. Percy

kindly soothed her nerves by assuring her that should the weather hold, we shall arrive in Bredwardine by

Monday of next week. I shall write you then. I apologize for not writing ere now, but this has been a rather bumpy ride, making it quite difficult to pen a letter. My love to you both. Fondly, Greer.”

Ava lifted her gaze from the letter and looked at Phoebe, who returned her gaze with a wide-eyed look

of horror. “Who in God’s name is Mr. Percy?”

“I don’t know,” Ava said, and folded the letter. “We can do nothing but wait for her next missive. But I

assure you, if there is a level head among us, it is on Greer’s shoulders.”

“That is very true,” Lucy said with a firm nod. “She’s very bright, that one.” Ava smiled thinly at Lucy. “She is.”

“You might find this interesting,” Lucy said, holding up another l etter. “It is from Egbert.

He says he shall

be home within the month.”

Ava’s heart sank. “Does he say aught else?”

“Just that he’s looking forward to tidying up here. Would you like to read it?”

“No, thank you,” Ava said quietly. She couldn’t bear to lo ok at Phoebe, who had grown so still that Ava could almost hear her heartbeat.

She picked up the newspaper and tried to focus on the words printed there, and when she could find

nothing of the parliamentary news to interest her, she turned the page.

“Shouldn’t pay that wretched thing a bit of mind,” Lucy piped up. Ava glanced over the top of the newspaper to look at her. “Gossip is the work of the devil.”

“I shall do my best to keep the devil from your ears,” Ava said, and raised the newspaper again, as she had no such tender sensibilities about gossip.

The door swung open and Sally struggled through, carrying a bucket of coal. “Mr. Morris says you’re to have this,” she said, awkwardly lugging it to the hearth.

“If Mr. Morris says we are to have it, then why doesn’t he bring it in?” Lucy demanded.

“Dunno, mu’um,” Sally said, huffing and puffing. She put the coal down, then braced herself against the mantel and wiped her brow with her apron. “Had a caller, mu’um,” she said to Ava. “But Mr. Morris turned him away.”

“Who?” Ava asked, her hopes rising for one spectacular moment.

“Sir Something or such,” Sally said, and Ava’s hopes were dashed to pieces. “Came to call on your stepfather, but Mr. Morris says he ain’t within. So the gent asked for you, and Mr. Morris told him he wasn’t permitted to change his call. The gent said that wasn’t the rule at all, but Mr. Morris said it was, and besides, it was too early to call on ladies —”

“That blockhead!” Lucy cried, and came to her feet, storming out of the room as quickly as her girth would allow.

“Oh dear Lord,” Phoebe muttered. “Ava…”

“I know,” Ava whispered, and looked again at the newspaper. Her eye caught a particular on dit halfway down the page.

Few have had the privilege to view the beauty of St. James’s Park from the private terraces of the

palace, by the light of the sun or the moon, but one good lord was inspired to gather orphans under his wing to see it. The viewing, however, was met by some disdain from certain widows who believe the

park is not a proper place for poor orphans.

She felt the burn of shame in her cheeks and the race of her pulse. It was only a matter of time before names were put to the on dit, if they hadn’t been already, and she’d be the object of much untoward speculation. If she wasn’t already.

Sally put her hands on her waist and bent backward slightly. “What’s got you so glum, mu’um?”

Ava started. “Me?” She forced a smile, folded the paper and tucked it into the seat next to her. “Nothing

at all. I was thinking of a charity auction I must attend on the morrow.” And yes, she had to attend it. Her absence would cause even more speculation.

“Oh? Who’s the auction to benefit?” Sally asked innocently. Ava looked at her lap. “Poor orphans.”

T he day of his auction dawned cold and wet, matching Jared’s mien in general. He wasn’t surprised by

the weather, really—as of late, it seemed as if the universe was conspiring against him.

He stood at the window of his town house that overlooked Grosveno r Square, watching the rivulets of rain run down the paned glass, the letter he’d received from his gamekeeper at Broderick Abbey crumpled in his hand.

He didn’t know what to do with the information in the letter. He didn’t know how to make things right anymore. His entire life, he’d believed himself invincible, above the earthly bonds so many men felt. Now

he felt at sea. He was drifting, his direction unknown, unable to see a harbor on any horizon.

With a weary sigh, he put the letter into the pocket of his dressing gown and returned to his desk, where another letter sat, awaiting another answer he did not have.

He’d first read it last night when he’d arrived home. But he’d been a little in his cups and had tossed it aside. This morning, however, he sca rcely had the heart to pick it up again.

Dearest, the letter began.

Please forgive me! I cannot bear to be without you —I cannot sleep for dreams of you, and each day

seems endless without you in it. I was wrong —I know you must do the prudent thing for the sake of your family, but please, I beg of you, do not abandon me for it. I shall wait for you, darling, my every breath a hope for you.

Yours forever, M.

He crumpled the letter and threw it in the fire behind him, then fell back in his chair, his face in his hand.

He was sorry for her, but it didn’t sway his thinking —there had never been an understanding between them, particularly not since Miranda had made her feelings known that she valued his title above him.

And now he had to face his destiny, but he was like a blind man, stumbling toward it through darkness.

He wasn’t ready for matrimony, but it seemed that the holy state of matrimony was ready for him. Lord God, what a remarkably mixed -up world he lived in.

He glanced at the gold clock on the mant el. In a few hours, he would be expected at the Prince’s

Pavilion in Vauxhall Gardens to auction off the accoutrements of the ton, the proceeds of which would go

to support the Foundling Hospital. He stood up and walked numbly through his study and up to his suite

of rooms to prepare for the day, for this event was, as everything else in his life, his duty.

Rain did not deter the ranks of the Quality, for it wo uld be remarked if one of their member was not in attendance when everyone else had braved the weather to donate to a worthy cause. Jared groaned

when he saw the throng crowded inside the Prince’s Pavilion to avoid the rain instead of the main promenade around the orchestra tower, which had been the planners’ intent. It was so crowded that there was not a breath of air to be had.

Jared paused just inside the entrance, surveying the finely dressed crowd. It was an excellent turnout given the weather, and ev eryone seemed in fine spirits —no doubt with help from the ale he had

suggested be made available. He had noted through the years that on average, men tended to be more generous with their purses when they’d been drinking.

He entered the room with an ea sy smile on his face, practiced in dozens upon dozens of such gatherings

in his life. He greeted and thanked the patrons who had braved miserable weather to support the

Foundling Hospital, and accepted their congratulations on the success of the auction.