What the Duke Wants (20 page)

“Bryans, gather everyone and send them on ahead to London.”

“Very good, Your Grace. But where are you going?”

“I am going to Oxford. Follow when you can. I’ll take rooms at the Oxford Arms.”

Aaah…To hell with logic.

* * * *

Oxford…

The next morning…

Grace walked along High Street and peered into every shop front along the way. Not that she needed to buy anything, mind, and she was certainly staying away from the end where her father’s shop had been. No, the window shopping was all a ploy, really, to distract herself from herself—or her chaotic thoughts at any rate. It wasn’t working. She looked in the storefront windows and tried to focus on the items on display, but they didn’t really register in her mind. Other thoughts obsessed her.

Could my life turn any further upside down?

Two years ago, she had been blissfully happy, having never been touched by trauma. Even a month ago, though having suffered heartache with the death of her parents, she had settled into her new life with some semblance of normalcy and some measure of contentment. It hadn’t been blissful by any stretch of the imagination, but there had always been a future to look forward to, and it had sustained her through the rough times.

But today? Not only was her future uncertain, but her emotions were all a jumble over men—of all things. Curious creatures that they were. Who would have guessed it? A month ago, no men danced around her in her mind. Now, she was bombarded by thoughts of two.

First, she was inappropriately consumed at all hours of the day (or at least it seemed that way at times) by a handsome, wildly attractive duke: Stonebridge and all his brooding glory. And now, as if she needed any further complications in her life, there was Dansbury. And his sweet kisses.

Dansbury was handsome and steady, a fine man, and she enjoyed her time with him. He made her laugh. He was safe. He was perfect. And she should be shouting with glee over his obvious interest; though realistically, as with the duke, he was way too high for her, socially.

She had never before considered Dansbury in any sort of romantic light, though. He just didn’t consume her thoughts like Stonebridge. She didn’t tingle all over with just a look. She didn’t feel like throwing her reputation and her life away should he even hint…Well, it was frightening to even think about it, really, how much she might risk should she forget herself with the duke.

Stonebridge was moody and a little bit cruel. To her anyway. And he was altogether too unpredictable. Definitely not the stoic man everyone else portrayed him to be, at least in her experience. Yet he constantly occupied her thoughts. It was pitiful. By all accounts, she should rejoice in Dansbury, not yearn for a fickle duke.

And it wasn't that Dansbury was unattractive, for he was undeniably handsome, and she was attracted to him in a general sort of way. As any woman with eyes would be.

And yesterday, when she realized Dansbury was about to kiss her, she didn’t stop him as she ought. She was curious. She had never kissed a man, romantically, before the duke, and she had wondered if the experience would be the same, or at least similar.

It wasn’t. Oh, Dansbury’s kiss hadn’t been bad or unpleasant at all. In fact, she had responded to it. She wasn’t dead, and it had been awfully naughty of them to engage in such behavior. It hadn’t been a kiss of fire or thunder, like with the duke, but more gentle, like a soothing rain. She hadn’t slapped him as she probably should have done, either, and her heartbeat had quickened, for she had felt nervous; after all, what they were doing was all taboo. But at the same time, her thoughts had been actively cataloguing sensations throughout it all.

Unlike with the duke and his kiss.

With him, her thoughts scattered like the wind. She was on fire with passion, and the world about them fell away into oblivion. And afterwards, she relived the kiss over and over and over. For days. And nights. In her dreams. Where she awoke overwhelmed with sensation and touching herself…

She stopped, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. She looked about. Oh, it really was a good thing one’s thoughts were one’s own. Goodness. If the people walking by had even an inkling of what she was thinking, they’d be mortified and expire on the spot. She laughed at the thought. It was odd what things she found funny these days.

But her chuckles died in her throat as she caught sight of the very man who occupied her mind day after day: Stonebridge.

Her hand rose to her chest as if she could physically steady her racing heart. He was so mind numbingly handsome and her heart literally ached with the knowledge that he would never be hers. It was so ridiculously unfair.

She watched as he entered a nearby building. He hadn’t seen her amidst the crowd, of course. Once out of sight, she was able to walk again. She strode forward hesitantly. Honestly, she should flee to the safety of the hotel, not loiter outside, dying with curiosity and the desire for just another, quick glimpse, but alas, she couldn’t make herself leave.

She passed the building he had entered and tried hard not to be so obvious as to ogle the door, but she did look and made note of the sign identifying the place as the offices of Tolley and Brinks, Esquire.

She passed a few more shop fronts, then turned. Her face was warm with embarrassment.

What am I doing?

She walked past the solicitors’ office again and passed a few more shops before shaking her head, resigned.

“Extra! Extra! Read all about it! Prince Regent plans Grand Jubilee in London!” called out a young boy, hawking broadsheets nearby. She heard him above the general din of horses, carriage wheels and people bustling about their business as she maneuvered her way through the throng of carriages to the opposite side of the street.

Once there, she purchased a paper, then made her way to a nearby bench which happened to be situated directly across the street from the duke’s solicitors’ office. Convenient, that. She sat, only for a moment, mind. To read the paper. Honestly.

Oh, who am I trying to fool?

For half an hour, her heart missed a beat every time the door to the solicitors’ office opened. Really, what was she planning to do once he did come out? Dash into his arms? Call his name from across the thoroughfare? Run away and hide? She asked herself these questions, over and over again, the entire time; she certainly was no more aware of the latest news than from before she’d bought her paper.

Finally, at long last, he came out of the building, and he saw her instantly. She stood on reflex and looked back. For an eternity but only a minute, they stared at each other across the avenue, and her heart thundered faster than ever. Before reality intruded. This wasn’t wise and just as she recognized the truth of that, she saw his expression change from surprise to murderous.

Right. Time to go.

She tried to go around the bench at the same he stepped out onto the street.

Zounds! He was coming.

But in her haste to leave, she rounded the bench too carelessly, only to have her reticule catch on the bench’s arm, jerking her to a stop. Unfortunately, her nerves, along with the bench, conspired against her, and she stumbled to her knees.

The hand holding her bag came down hard onto the bench seat, over the arm rest. She’d have a bruise under her arm tomorrow from that. The straps of her reticule, still caught, pulled tight on her wrist, turning her skin white, then red and puffy. Her other hand, which had whipped out reflexively, hit the ground. It just stopped her from cracking her chin on the bench.

Why, oh why, did I even get out of bed this morning?

She closed her eyes in humiliation. All around her, people fell silent; even the boy no longer peddled his papers. She could make out the occasional horse and carriage, but even the whinnying of a nearby horse sounded like laughter to ears colored with embarrassment. She could hear the sound of running feet, boots striking on cobbles, and she knew that Stonebridge was dashing across the street—coming to rescue her.

He arrived a moment later, slightly out of breath, and she smiled at the thought that he’d run all that way…in public. For her.

“Grace, are you all right? Here, let me assist you, please.”

How ridiculous that all things considered, her heart leapt over the fact that he had used her given name rather than Miss Radclyffe, as was proper.

“I’ll be fine, thank you, Your Grace.”

After he helped her up, he worked to untangle her bag whilst she evaluated the state of her dress. It was dirty, of course, so she made to brush off the loose gravel and dirt as best she could. She could feel her knees burning as her movements made her stockings rub against the scrapes. They were bruised as well; she could feel it every time her hand brushed one. In addition, her left hand was throbbing from where she scratched it on the pavement as she attempted to catch her fall. Even the fabric of her dress hurt her as it caught on her wounds, but the pain was good in that it distracted her from the imposing man beside her.

He untangled her reticule, and handed it to her before taking her right hand, and placing it firmly on his arm. She could see his emotions warring between concern and anger. Dansbury had warned her to stay with Aunt Harriett, and of course she had disobeyed.

Stonebridge, surprisingly, kept his counsel the entire way back to her hotel. No inane pleasantries. No inquiries into her health, the weather, Napoleon, the state of the kingdom. And she didn’t bother to question how he knew where she was staying. He nodded politely at the people who attempted to waylay them, but made it clear he was not prepared to stop for a chat.

Once inside her hotel, he guided her to the main staircase and simply said, “To your room.”

Succinct and abrupt as usual.

At least he hadn’t already known which room was hers. When they arrived, Bessie was there, packing away their belongings for the return trip to London.

“Madam, Miss Radclyffe is injured. Please go downstairs and bring back whatever suitable liniments they have to treat minor scrapes and bruises.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

After Bessie left, Grace sat on a chair, and watched, bemused, as he patrolled the floor. After a minute, he turned to face her, and as usual, got right to the point.

“Why were you out on the streets alone? I’m quite sure Dansbury told you to stay with Aunt Harriett…er, Lady Ross.”

He was mad; she could see that. Not only did he speak with an angry tone, but his hands opened and closed as if he only just stopped himself from shaking her. She was surprised by the contradictory look in his eyes—which showed concern, worry, possibly desire if she were not mistaken, and ire. That thought of his desiring her thrilled her as much as the sight of him surprised her earlier. A dangerous feeling to say the least.

She smiled wryly, which only served to intensify the look of desire part about him before saying, “Well, good morning, to you, Duke. What brings you to Oxford?”

“Don’t try to change the subject, Grace. Don’t you realize? Actually, forget that. I see you’re packing for London. Good.” He continued to pace the floor and as he did, ran his hands through his hair in agitation. She was pleased.

No one said anything further before Bessie arrived with the requested supplies. He relieved her maid of it all and without pause or even asking permission, bent to the task of tending to her hands.

Grace was astounded. What was he doing tending her wounds? It simply wasn’t done, but she was too astonished and pleased to stop him, either. His touch was surprisingly gentle, yet sure, and she was taken aback. She just couldn’t believe he was there, on his knees before her and unaware of the shocked expression she wore. Grace looked over at Bessie. Her maid didn’t appear surprised in the least; she simply stood there, smiling serenely, as if his behavior weren’t odd at all.

Grace hissed in a breath as he swiped over a particularly deep scrape. She refocused on the man knelt before her. He hesitated, and his shoulders tensed briefly at the sound of her indrawn breath before he relaxed and resumed his task.

She could see him clearly for he was so close, and the room was bright with morning light streaming in through the window. And she relished being able to study him uninhibitedly. This close, she could make out the tiny things. Like the shape of his ear: she had the sudden, inappropriate urge to kiss the shell. She saw the beginnings of fine lines around his eyes; he looked tired, yet intent on his task. She saw the shape of his brows and the direction of which the small hairs lay shaping his eyes. She saw his eyelashes, inky and black and far too long for a man.

He had a small, round scar on his temple, and she had yet another craving to kiss it…weird. It was odd the details you noticed in an intimate setting such as this, the minutiae you didn’t see on a quick glance and the proper distance between you. And she saw him then, on a human level, as a man, real and alive. It shook her to the marrow of her bones.

Unexpectedly, he stood, startling her out of her silent study. He had finished cleaning and applying the liniment to her hand. It was not appropriate for him to see to her knees to tend to them, and they both knew it. He would leave that task to Bessie. Though she wished he wouldn’t.

She stared at him standing there proud and confused. Happy and angry. Frustration surging out of every pore. Finally, he simply turned and headed for the door. “Grace, I’ve got to go; I’ll see you in an hour. Be prepared to depart for London at that time.”

Chapter 15

The Stonebridge Mansion in Mayfair, London…

The Next Evening…

Stonebridge entered his home in Mayfair, tired and dusty from his frantic ride to London from Oxford. He had not ridden to Town with Grace and Aunt Harriett despite every cell in his body desiring he do so. He knew he had to travel on ahead, at a faster pace, so he could meet with Cliff before Grace arrived in Town as she would expect delivery of the lockbox’s contents upon her arrival, assuming the box did indeed belong to her father.