The Seduction of a Duke (16 page)

She relaxed a bit, enjoying his interest. “She was afraid her father would do just that; fortunately a frog came to her rescue.”

“A frog, you say?” He looked so puzzled, she was inclined to laugh. Then awareness lit his expression. “A most accommodating fellow.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” She couldn’t hold by her laughter any longer as his face had betrayed the exact moment he made the connection between the story and his choice of costume for the ball. “Indeed,” she said. “He was a most distinguished-looking frog, a king among frogs.”

“Not a duke?” His eyes crinkled in laughter. “Tell me more.”

Those three words triggered a flutter of appreciation in her rib cage. He wanted to hear more . . . from her! It was a simple concept and hardly the foundation upon which to build a marriage, but . . . perhaps a friendship?

She hadn’t many friends, much less male friends—except maybe Randolph. That thought brought her up short. She urgently wanted to deny the comparison. Randolph was more than a friend, she told herself. Bedford was a mere acquaintance.

Bedford is more than a friend,
a tiny voice whispered in her head.
He’s your husband.
She mentally shook herself back to the conversation at hand.

“The frog makes several requests from the little girl before he agrees to retrieve her ball.”

“I can’t image what sort of requests a frog would make,” Bedford said, fully engaged in the story. “New lily pads, perhaps? Another frog for companionship?”

“It’s companionship he desires, but not for another frog.” She caught the duke’s gaze and felt suddenly demure, as if she’d just revealed her wishes and not that of a storybook character.

“I feel a certain affinity for this frog king.” Bedford reached over and took her hand in his. That simple familiar act sparked a delicious warmth. “He made you laugh. That’s the first time I’ve heard your laughter.”

His thumb stroked the length of her fingers, raising her awareness to his touch and his close proximity. She lifted her gaze to his, finding a spark smoldering there as well. “I hope to hear more of it.”

Her breath caught. How could the telling of a children’s tale suddenly feel so incredibly carnal?

“This girl must have been very, very wealthy to have a ball of gold.” The quirk of his brow and the low timber of his voice made her wonder if they were still conversing about a children’s story. His fingers slipped in and out of the crevices between her own in a playful, teasing game. “I think she must be American.”

“She was a princess,” she answered, wishing she wasn’t wearing the lightweight jacket so he could play this wonderful teasing game up the sensitive skin of her arm. “We haven’t royalty in America.”

“Ah, a princess . . .” he said, his lids half lowering over his eyes in a sleepy, seductive gaze. “What did the frog request of the princess for retrieving this immensely valuable ball?”

A delicious tingling played in her rib cage creating an urgency for more—more touch, more closeness, more sharing of secrets—as that’s how the sharing of the story felt. She leaned a bit closer in his direction.

“He had three requests,” she said, while something akin to warmed honey spread upward from her fingers. It pooled in the vicinity of her breasts, making the very tips of them ache. She recalled that last night his fingers—those very talented fingers that now stroked and teased her hand—had explored her breast in much the same fashion. Instantly, those tips remembered as well. She felt them rub the satin of her corset in their plea for attention. The temperature in the railcar seemed to raise a few degrees.

“The frog wanted to share her meals.”

“Understandable.” His lips turned in an enticing smile, causing her to wonder if he were speaking of himself or the green amphibian.

“The frog wanted to share her pillow at night.”

“An assuredly intelligent beast, that frog.” The quirk of his lips made her want to laugh, and yet his implication that the sharing of one’s pillow was an intelligent request made her skittish deep inside. How would it feel to share her pillow with Bedford?

Had he moved closer? The distance between them felt reduced, and yet she wished it was reduced again.

“And he wanted to be kissed every night before bed,” she said, gazing pointedly at his full lower lip. The very lips that had explored her own that very morning. Her own lips dried to the consistency of an abandoned honeycomb. She moistened them with her tongue as she waited for his response.

His eyebrows barely raised while his gaze locked on her lips. His throat must have been as dry as hers as his normal low smooth tones turned scratchy. His hand stopped its wonderful torment and lay heavy on hers. “And did she?”

Fran was suddenly embarrassed to tell him the true end to the story, that the girl’s father forced her to comply with all the demands except the last. The little girl threw the frog against a wall rather than kiss him. It was just a children’s story, but one with the wrong ending.

Instead Fran pitched her voice low, leaned close and held his gaze. “She should have.”

 

 

HE WANTED TO KISS HER THEN. HE WANTED TO THROW her back against the pillows and kiss her senseless. Somehow she had taken a children’s story and turned it into an invitation to bed her. And bed her, he longed to do. The attraction had been there from the first, but not yet. Not till he knew.

He should never have touched her hand. That began his undoing. But how could he resist when he heard the yearning in her voice when she said
companionship
. He wanted to reassure her. He wanted her to know she wasn’t alone. He wanted to let her know he wished for the same. Simple companionship.

He should never have watched her lips. Yet it was difficult to resist when he had so recently tasted their sweetness. Impossible to resist when her tongue darted about leaving glistening honey in its wake. And when she spoke of pillows . . . did she not realize she was sitting on a bed? Every particle of masculinity in his body knew the temptation afforded by a mattress—and still demanded satisfaction.

He cleared his throat, averted his gaze, then reluctantly removed his hand from hers. “Right then.” He stood and turned his back toward her to hide his lamentable condition. He wished he’d brought his top hat in the car with him, but how was he to know his Frosty Franny could melt an iceberg? “I suppose I should see about dinner.”

“Will you be joining me, Your Grace?” Her voice held a hopeful lilt, much as he imagined the frog might have had in the sharing of pillows. For a moment he wasn’t sure the manner of joining she implied.

Blast! She offered an invitation that was difficult to refuse, but if he stayed . . . well, he would never know if the babe was his or that of another. No. He had the right of it when he counseled himself to keep his distance. Counsel he should have obeyed when he thought to check on her earlier.

“No. I believe not. I’ve heard that several men with money meet in the smoking car for games of skill and chance. I believe I’ll try my luck.”

He headed for the vestibule door, but spoke over his shoulder. “Sleep tight, my duchess. I won’t be disturbing your slumber tonight.”

He had opened the car door and was about to step onto the platform between cars when he thought he heard spoken quietly behind him, “But you should have.”

RECALLING THE TEMPTATION AFFORDED BY LAST evening’s brief interlude, William was hesitant to climb into the confined quarters of a carriage with his wife, even for the short journey to the White Star docks. At least this time she was dressed properly. The high-necked blue-and-white-striped bodice covered her chest completely. He should be pleased by that, he groused. Why wasn’t he pleased by that?

It was her fault, of course. If she hadn’t been so approachable last night, so inviting, he wouldn’t have spent so much time in that card game with the American version of Twiddlebody. He hadn’t especially enjoyed the game, but he wasn’t confident he could resist her if he went back to the sleeping car. Instead, he returned late to the parlor car and tried unsuccessfully to sleep on an overstuffed divan. Now that his wife was properly dressed in a stylized version of a sailor suit, he shouldn’t be tempted to stare indecently at her chest, and yet he fought the urge.

Her matching skirt was pulled tight on the sides, outlining her trim shape for all that looked twice. Once they reached the docks he imagined there would be plenty who would do just that. He rubbed the back of his neck, his ire starting to rise. Why should they have the pleasure of looking, while he had to avert his gaze to maintain his sanity?

Calm yourself, he counseled. As the new Duchess of Bedford, there would be many who would gawk after her. He was the Duke, after all, a pillar of society. Men would naturally be curious. Men would naturally pass judgment. He should acclimate himself toward such scrutiny. It just aggravated him that so many would assume he enjoyed the very husbandly privileges that he denied himself. The thought grated. He grimaced in her direction, but she never saw it. She was too busy watching the passing scenery.

The carriage slowed as they neared the wharf and rising cacophony of stevedores, immigrants, fine carriages, hackneys, wagons of luggage, wagons of produce, and all manner of man and beast swarming the docks. In the center of it all, massive and stationary like a slumbering beast surrounded by insignificant insects, waited the SS
Republic
bound for Southampton. With four masts and one funnel, she wasn’t the biggest steamer, nor the fastest, but she did provide the most extravagant services to her first-class passengers—he smiled—services worthy of a duke.

Transferring Francesca’s luggage from the Grand Central Depot to the rented carriage and wagon had taken more time than the entire trip to the White Star Line dock. Now the carriage rocked from side to side as the whole process began again. Already he could hear Mary and Hodgins, who accompanied the luggage wagon, shout directions as to the disposition of the trunks and boxes.

The driver opened the door and helped Francesca out a moment before William could escape the tight confines of the paneled interior. He eagerly stepped out into the bright light and invigorating atmosphere of adventure. He was going home.

He glanced at his bride, noting her stiff stance and wide, brown eyes. At first, he thought she looked overwhelmed by the activity surrounding them, then he reconsidered. She had tried to escape the engagement, she had tried to escape the marriage, and from the looks of her, she might still be scheming to disappear into the ubiquitous crowd.

Randolph. The name crept into his consciousness, bringing with it the taste of bile. Even though they were legally wed, she was perhaps thinking to slip away to rejoin her lover. In this crush, such a plan would be easy to implement given an opportunity. He set his teeth. No one was going to take from him what was legally his. No one.

He linked her arm with his, pulling her snug against him. She glanced at him in surprise, which only confirmed his suspicions. Now let’s just see her try to slip away. He congratulated himself on his swift analysis and precautionary measures.

With a thought to lead her toward the first-class boarding ramp, he stepped forward. She, however, remained anchored to the spot, pulling him back.

She appeared frozen, like the giant blocks of ice and sawdust currently loading into the ship’s massive hold. He glanced at her stricken face, quickly analyzing the situation.

“Have you not crossed the Atlantic before?” he asked, feeling a bit smug in his superiority. “There’s nothing to fear. The voyage here was my first crossing. I arrived fit as a fiddle.” The last was a lie as he remembered his battle with seasickness, but there was no need to scare her with that possibility.

His question startled her. Her blank gaze shifted to find his, reminding him of how she looked when they had exchanged vows. “I’ve crossed on several occasions,” she said. “My mother prefers to shop in Paris. We go every spring.”

He hadn’t expected that. He rather enjoyed the brief feeling of being the more experienced one, and now that fizzled. He frowned. “Then why are you so hesitant?”

“We always crossed on my father’s private yacht with just the crew.” He followed her gaze to the promenade deck where a small crowd had gathered by the rail.

“Yes, well, there are considerably more people on a transatlantic steamer”—he pulled her forward with a bit more authority—“but you needn’t be concerned. I’ve reserved a parlor suite. We won’t be in cramped quarters.” Unlike his previous trip, he mentally added, when a hasty sale of an heirloom vase afforded him a shared berth in a first-class cabin, not the luxury of a full suite.

He tried to pull her forward, but their progress was slow. “This particular steamship has an open promenade deck and running water for a private bath. The food is most agreeable.”

How lovely to have the money to pay for the finer comforts, like a suite that befit his status. Reassured he now had the means to enjoy the proper lifestyle of a duke, he took a deep breath and promptly launched into a coughing fit. The scent of sea air mingled with wharf refuse should never be taken in large doses.