A Duke of Her Own (25 page)
Authors: Lorraine Heath
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Do you think she’ll say yes this time?” Louisa asked.
“She damned well better. There is no greater pleasure in life than having at your side the one you love.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in love.”
“
That,
darling, was before I came to know you.”
Sated and content, languid, and barely able to move from the thorough loving she’d just received—and given—Louisa lay nestled against her husband’s side. He’d carried her straightaway to his bedchamber and proceeded to prove, once again, that when it came to passion, he was exceptionally skilled.
“Dear God, but you are so beautiful.”
“Not like Jenny,” she murmured.
He lifted his head, looked down on her, and she did wish she’d kept her thoughts to herself.
“To me you are beautiful. Ask me the color of Jenny’s eyes or the shape of her mouth, and I could not tell you. But your eyes I see in all things blue.”
Reaching up, she combed her fingers through his hair. “You took my advice and began reading poetry.”
“No. You deserve words that have been uttered to no other.”
She felt tears sting her eyes. “For so long, I have vastly misjudged you.”
“Considering your original opinion of me, I could not ask for a kinder compliment.”
He lay back down, drawing her up against his side. “You said something earlier that is only just now becoming clear in my mind,” he murmured, as he pressed his lips to the top of her head where it was nestled in the crook of his shoulder. “You said it was Jenny I thought was in the library.”
She tilted her head back. He was looking down on her, his eyes dark as they met her gaze. “Well, yes. Hawk, I am fully aware you thought you were compromising Jenny, and you married me to spare my reputation—”
She released a small squeak as he rolled them both over until she was lying beneath him, his body raised up above her, his dark eyes searching, the knuckles of one hand grazing her cheek tenderly.
“Louisa, do you honestly believe I did not know who was in the library with me?”
“You were expecting her, and it was dark—”
He lowered his head, and she heard him inhale deeply. “I would know your scent anywhere.”
He pressed a kiss to the sensitive spot below her ear. “I would know the softness of your cheek against my fingers, the press of your small body against mine.
“You think I didn’t realize I had to dip my head a quarter of an inch more in order to press my lips to yours?”
Her heart was pounding so hard she barely heard what he said.
“You think I didn’t recognize your voice when you spoke my name?”
“It was but a whisper.”
“That’s all I needed. A whisper.” He kissed the column of her throat.
“A scent.” He kissed behind her ear again.
“A kiss.” He covered her mouth with his, his tongue imploring her lips to part. Cradling her face with his large hands, he angled her head so he could deepen the kiss.
He lifted his gaze to hers. “I knew full well who was in that room with me. I was well aware of the risk I was taking. But I could no more resist you then than I could cease to breathe.
“‘I shall take her once,’ I thought, ‘and be done with her.’ And each time I have you I only want
you more. When I wake up, I watch you sleep, and a fierce possessiveness I have never experienced with any other woman takes hold of me. You are mine.
“Do I wish I had the financial settlement that would have followed Jenny Rose to the altar? I cannot deny it would have made various aspects of life easier. Do I wish she were in my bed? Do I wish she were the one I wake up next to in the morning, the one whose breathing lulls me into slumber at night? Do I wish it were she who pricks my temper and challenges me at every turn? I absolutely do not.
“Never doubt, for one second, that I knew full well who was with me in the library.”
“I don’t understand. If you knew, then why—”
He pressed his thumb against her lips, silencing her words. “Because you were the one woman with whom I knew I would never grow bored. I do not know when I first realized that I loved you—”
“You love me?”
“With everything I have.” He smiled sadly. “As little as that is.”
Smiling wickedly, she reached down and wrapped her hand around him. “My dear husband, I think you are unaware of exactly how much you have to offer.”
Sometime later, after he’d again given her everything, she lay snuggled against his side.
“Hawk?”
“Mmm?”
“Jenny and Kate are always arguing about which comes first, passion or love.”
“And?”
“So which do you think comes first?”
“In our case, sweetheart, I suspect they arrived at the same time.”
“I
can’t believe you kept the box all these years,” the dowager duchess said, as they—she, Hawk, Caroline, and Louisa—sat in the drawing room of the London residence. They’d just returned from an evening at the opera.
“I wanted it available to you in case you ever did return to London,” Hawk said, his hand stretched out along the back of the couch, his fingers toying with strands of Louisa’s hair.
Although she always wore her hair up, she also always left strands dangling down, because it ensured that he constantly touched her.
“It was so frightfully exciting,” Caroline said, sitting on a smaller sofa beside her mother. “I daresay there is not a thing about London that I have yet to love.” She looked at Louisa. “You are
going to have a party to celebrate the book coming out, aren’t you?”
“Of course,” Louisa said. “But that won’t be for a while yet.”
Three of Hawk’s faerie stories were going to be published. They would include pictures Louisa had drawn. Hawk had been correct when he said they’d never become rich from his writings, but it was a start.
And Louisa was certain once she finished her obligations to the Rose family—Mrs. Rose was insisting the new duchess find suitable husbands for her daughters and a wife for her son—she would be able to secure other positions. As she’d once told Hawk, his title was currency. It seemed so was hers.
Louisa couldn’t be happier, although on occasion thoughts of Denby would sadden her. She didn’t understand Hawk’s mother’s refusal to marry the gardener, but the man seemed to accept without rancor that he’d never take her to wife.
Sometime later, she stood out on the terrace, looking off into the night. She heard her husband come up behind her. He slipped his arms around her and pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck.
“Come to bed,” he whispered in a voice that promised pleasure.
“In a moment.”
He drew her closer against him. “Are you thinking of your brother?”
She nodded.
“One day he’ll come ask for your forgiveness, but not until he’s finished fighting his own demons.”
“I will forgive him in a heartbeat.” She turned around and wound her arms around his neck. “Because in a strange way, he is responsible for my happiness. His actions ensured that I marry you.”
“Are you happy?”
“Incredibly.”
“At the opera I noticed you took the Duke of Blackburn aside.”
“Yes, I was making an inquiry regarding his oldest son.”
“For Jenny?”
“Yes.”
“Mmm.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “And what, pray tell, is wrong with the son who will one day become a duke?”
“An addiction to garlic.”
She laughed. “I don’t believe you.”
“’Tis true. I spoke with him at the club just last week. His breath was overpowering.”
“Keep finding fault with every man I consider for Jenny, and I’ll begin to think you have an interest in her.”
“Never. But it is my responsibility in this chaperone endeavor of yours to ensure you make no errors in judgment.”
“Then tell me what you know about the Duke of Hawkhurst.”
He lifted her into his arms. “The man is perfection—”
She giggled.
“Passionate.”
She couldn’t deny the truth of those words. With a sigh she snuggled her head against his shoulder as he carried her into the house.
“And they say he is madly in love with his wife,” Hawk finished.
“Do they also say she is madly in love with him?”
He started up the stairs. “Indeed they do.”
D
ear Readers: As a writer, I know most have an uncanny ability to weave fact and fiction so that it is often difficult to distinguish between the two. As a reader myself, when I read a story, I wonder what is truly fact, what is fiction.
Social chaperones did indeed exist, and while they were to keep a watchful eye, their main purpose was to evaluate the rank and character of the gentlemen who were giving attention to the ladies under their supervision.
Titled ladies chaperoning wealthy American heiresses during the last twenty years of the nineteenth century is a fact. Many discreetly advertised their services in
The Times
or in ladies’ magazines.
By the 1880s young ladies were insisting on
more freedom, and chaperones were seldom required when they participated in outdoor events.
The Rational Dress Society, begun by Viscountess Haberton and Mrs. King, did indeed exist and put forth the notion that the weight of women’s clothing should be limited to no more than seven pounds.
Smaller, more intimate balls that did not include dinner and ended at midnight were referred to as Cinderella dances or balls.
I hope you enjoyed Louisa and Hawk’s story. I’m looking forward to bringing you Kate and Falconridge’s story next.
Sources:
Not Without a Chaperone
by Cecil Porter
Daily Life in Victorian England
by Sally Mitchell
BOUT THE
A
UTHOR
L
ORRAINE
H
EATH
always dreamed of being a writer. After graduating from the University of Texas, she wrote training manuals, press releases, and articles, but something was always missing. In 1990, she read a romance novel and became not only hooked on the genre, but quickly realized what her own writing lacked: rebels, scoundrels, and rogues. She’s been writing about them ever since, for both adult and young adult readers. Her work has been recognized with numerous industry awards, including RWA’s RITA
®
, a HOLT Medallion, a
Romantic Times
Career Achievement Award, and several Texas Gold Awards.
Lorraine loves hearing from readers. You can write her at
[email protected]
or visit her website at
www.lorraineheath.com
.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
A D
UKE OF
H
ER
O
WN
• P
ROMISE
M
E
F
OREVER
A M
ATTER OF
T
EMPTATION
• A
S AN
E
ARL
D
ESIRES
A
N
I
NVITATION TO
S
EDUCTION
L
OVE
W
ITH A
S
CANDALOUS
L
ORD
T
O
M
ARRY AN
H
EIRESS
T
HE
O
UTLAW AND THE
L
ADY
N
EVER
M
ARRY A
C
OWBOY
• N
EVER
L
OVE A
C
OWBOY
A R
OGUE IN
T
EXAS
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A DUKE OF HER OWN
. Copyright © 2006 by Jan Nowasky. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Epub Reader October 2006 ISBN 9780061762628
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