Four Dukes and a Devil (18 page)

“Darling,” he returned quietly as he trailed kisses to the sensitive spot near her temple.

And then without another sound and with the swiftness of a pickpocket in London, she grabbed his ear and sent him to his knees. “
What are you doing?
” she hissed.

“Let…go…of…my—” he rasped out.

“I should have known better than to trust you,” she interrupted in a harsh whisper. “All men are perfect scoundrels. My good friend always warned me, and I should have listened.”

He wrenched away from her and stood stiffly, his body trying and failing to take in the reversal of intentions. “And all women are incomprehensible.”

“Well, that’s not very nice of you to say given that I just woke up to find myself in
your
bed. You were trying to press your attentions on me.”

“No. I was offering what you seemed to request,” he gritted out. “When ladies whisper my name in the middle of the night, certain assumptions are made.”

“I did not do any such thing. I was sound asleep.”

He looked at her shrewdly. “I suppose you are now going to suggest I do the honorable thing?”

“Why, yes I am.” She shook that magnificent mane of hair back. “Get out of here. Or perhaps it would serve better for you to wait here while I cut a switch and tan your—shush…are you laughing?”

“So you’re not going to ring a peal and demand a proposal of marriage before the innkeeper and his wife?”

“Why on earth would I want to marry
you,
Mr. Varick?” she hissed. “And I would ask you to lower your voice if you don’t care to awaken anyone.”

“So, you’re not attracted to me?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Really? And what sort do you favor? Poor sods who grovel at your pretty feet?”

“No. Agreeable sods with better manners.”

He rubbed his sore ear. “I beg your pardon. I’ve been told I’m actually something of a catch, so to speak.”

“Is that what silly females say to get the coins in your pockets?”

“No,” he said with a low wolfish growl. “That’s what they say to get beyond my pockets.”

She did not miss a beat. “Vanity is not an attractive trait in a man.”

He choked on his pent-up laughter. She was impossible.
Impossibly alluring
—in an outrageous, spirited manner. No woman had ever dared to speak to him in such a fashion. He’d always managed to endear himself to the females of his childhood—the housekeeper, the cooks, the house-maids; and he’d been equally up to the task of erecting a polite distance—the size of the Roman Empire—toward the marriage-minded females of his adulthood.

In all his five-and-thirty years, he’d never found a woman who refused to be charmed if he chose it, or at the very least behaved with extraordinary politesse and god-awful fawning. Of course, he was fated to meet the first truly intriguing woman of his life only to find she would have none of him.

That hair of hers was a dark halo in the moonlight, framing her pale, beautiful shoulders. And he knew precisely what lay beyond that ridiculously flimsy shift.

Perfection.

“Madam,” he said quietly, “pardon me. I think I’ll retire for the evening. I find that considerable rest is required in one’s dotage.” He turned on his heel and strode to the door.

As he rounded the corner, he could have sworn he heard her utter something about the benefits of warm milk and honey…
for gout.
This was followed by the barest ripple of low, throaty laughter.

He decamped as fast as possible. To sleep in the stable. In the damned straw.

John Varick, the ninth Duke of Beaufort and well-documented Catch of the Century, withdrew a square of linen and sneezed. Across from him within the confines of his luxurious ducal carriage, Victoria noted it was about the twentieth time he had done so that day.

And she was perversely glad. Humor was the only thing that kept her from succumbing to an advanced state of anxiety as young Peter Linley, seated beside her, turned another page in her beloved book of
Canterbury Tales.

Not as lost in thought as Victoria had surmised, the duke glanced up at her from the intimidating pile of documents and letters on his lap. His impossibly blue eyes met hers, and for a moment, she felt in danger of drowning in their depths. He was so very handsome. He studied her until she felt heat crest her cheeks. Before he returned his attention to his papers, he formed just the smallest hint of a knowing smile. She nearly burst with frustration.

He had kissed her.

It had been her first kiss, and she was fairly certain she had missed at least half of it. Of course, it would happen that way. She had decided recently that she would end up kissing the cheeks of St. Peter at the Pearly Gates before she would ever kiss a living, breathing man. Her station in life forbade it. And she had never really believed the romantic courtly rags-to-riches stories between the covers of the book Peter was reading. And so for many years she had had to be satisfied with her imagination.

His lips had been gentle, so very unlike what she had imagined. Warm and knowing…and
lazy
almost. She swallowed.

In the blink of an eye, she had woken from dreams of him and immediately deduced what he was about. In the haze of that poignant lime and bay scent of his, she had dragged herself away from the tide of his overwhelming magnetism.

Those same lips, which appeared to have been formed to drive all females to distraction, now tempted her less than three feet away. And with each uneven passage in the road, his long, muscled legs molded in biscuit-colored pantaloons, brushed against hers. She determinedly turned her attention out the window, where rain tapped a steady tattoo.

He had been reading the entire day. Not one word had left his lips, even when they had stopped for a midday meal. She had worried he would leave them behind when he strode into the private dining quarters. She had surely infuriated him to the extreme boundaries last evening. But no. Mr. Crandall had reemerged from His Grace’s private room and said dinner had been arranged for her and the boys in another chamber.

And after, the duke had reappeared and Mr. Crandall had bustled her and the boys back into the carriages.

And then it had started to rain.

For the last three hours she had been calculating to the minute how many more miles to Derbyshire as the drizzle turned into sheets of rain. If she could just get within a few miles of Wallace Abbey, she would relax. She and the boys could walk the rest of the way if need be. It had taken all of her patience to curb Peter’s curiosity and enthusiasm for the new sites beyond the carriage window, and to encourage him to read in complete silence.

Finally, she spied it, the distinctive weathervane of the Cock & Crown Inn at Middleton, which was supposedly very close to Wallace Abbey. It had been described in detail to her by her benefactor, the Countess of Sheffield and by the lady’s fiancé—a man for whom Victoria had carried an unrequited longing in secret for a good portion of her life. She shifted in her seat, determined to put such impossible thoughts from her mind. She had tried to squash those dreams the day she had befriended the lovely countess. And she had irrevocably buried those same dreams in a grave six feet closer to China the day the countess and Michael Ranier de Peyster had formally announced their engagement. There was not a person alive who could not love the extraordinarily compassionate Countess of Sheffield. They had never discussed Victoria’s sensibilities toward Michael, but somehow she was certain the countess knew. And yet, that had not stopped the beautiful lady from assisting the foundling home.

Victoria felt the duke’s gaze upon her once more, and she could not resist the challenge he unconsciously presented. She turned her face away from the sodden scenery. Even rain appeared more dreary in the country as opposed to the liveliness of town.

“And precisely where is this cottage?” he asked quietly.

“I believe it’s less than a mile from here, according to the directions given to me.” It was time to end this cat-versus-dog game. She had amused him to some degree for dozens of miles yesterday, and for her part, she had had the pleasure of experiencing about five seconds of pure, unadulterated lust last eve.

At least she had managed to retain her innocence—little good it would ever do her—even if she had lost a portion of her sanity. Truth be told, she would have enjoyed just a few more seconds…or perhaps a full minute or three of his kisses. “As I told Mr. Crandall during the last change of horses, it’s the small dower house a mile or less from the abbey’s ruins,
Your Grace.
”

His expression was impenetrable. “Your attention to protocol certainly makes a late appearance.”

“I beg your pardon if I’ve offended in any way. We are, all of us, most grateful to you for taking us up.”

“And?”

“And, what?”

He withdrew his handkerchief and sneezed.

She continued, forced gratitude edging her words. “Thank you, too, for arranging our meals, and…and for our
lodging.
”

“And?”

She snapped with the tension and ill ease. She had not slept above one half hour after their interlude. “I will not thank you for the use of the bed last night. I was not given the choice of refusing it! And I said I would repay you for all the trouble we’ve caused you.”

Peter’s eyes were round in his face.

“Now you’ve done it,” the duke said, then looked at the boy. “Let this be a lesson to you, Peter. As some of the
Canterbury Tales
suggest, no good deed goes unpunished.”

The carriage rumbled to a stop, followed by the other two ducal conveyances.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” she said with a stab at sincere contriteness. “I truly am very grateful. I—I don’t know what I would have done without your coming to our aid.”

His eyes narrowed, and she had the oddest sensation that he didn’t take any pleasure from her show of solicitous gratitude.

He made a movement to remove the edges of his hat from the straps above them, and she stayed his arm with her hand. “No. It’s dreadful outside, and I’d rather not be the cause of any further inconveniences.” In truth, she wanted to remember him like he was now, ensconced in ducal plushness—or like last night in the moonlight.

He looked at her for a long moment, ignored her request by tugging his hat onto his head, and opened the door to jump out. Apparently chivalry could not be repressed in a duke.

It was pouring like the afternoon deluges of foreign jungles she had read about. Peter and she watched as he grasped the umbrella Mr. Crandall offered, then dodged mud puddles to reach the cottage door. The umbrella offered little protection from the storm.

A man who appeared to be marked with a great many stains on his clothing stood waiting in the already open doorway. Much gesturing and talk emanated from the man. None emanated from the duke.

It seemed an age before the man in the doorway bowed deeply, and the duke returned to Mr. Crandall. The noise of the rain drowned out their conversation, but Victoria used the moments to collect the book from Peter, button his plain coat, and straighten her gown in preparation for their descent.

And then, with a rush, the duke was back inside the carriage, water running in rivulets down every part of him. He was as wet as a school of fish in the River Thames. And he did not appear happy about it.

“Well, madam. It appears you are to move about all of England with an epic portion of ill luck.” He used one of the carriage blankets to ineffectively swipe at his large wet form, which seemed to take up more than half the carriage.

“Whatever do you mean?”

He glanced between Peter and her before picking up a walking stick to rap three times on the carriage roof. Before she could utter another word, the carriage jerked forward, and they reentered the roadway.

“Wait! Please stop the carriage. I assure you we don’t mind getting a little wet. The boys and I—”

“Miss Givan?” he interrupted, his face set.

“Yes?” she replied.

“Do you know the location of the closest structure with four empty beds?”

“Yes. It’s behind us.”

“No. That insult for a cottage features crumbling walls within and certainly not a single bed, cot, or pallet. There’s been a delay. Some sort of illness has forced most of the men from their labors. And those selfsame men lie abed in every last corner of every last inn in the neighborhood.”

She was speechless for the first time in her life.

“The nearest place with four empty beds is Beaulieu Park—
my
home, Miss Givan, which is miles from here.”

“I see,” she said, her voice low. “Well, we shall just have to make do.” She grabbed the walking stick from the corner where he had placed it and struck the carriage ceiling again three times. She fell forward onto his lap when the carriage came to an abrupt halt. “Please arrange for Mr. Crandall to turn around. We’ll sleep on the ground in the cottage. It’s really not such a hardship. We are not used to
feather beds,
I assure you.” She did not know why she had such an ungodly urge to provoke this man, who had shown so much kindness to them.

His face now as dark as the storm clouds in the sky, he grabbed the stick from her stiff fingers and rapped the ceiling yet again in rapid succession. The carriage jerked forward, and the duke’s head bumped into hers, causing her to see stars. She bit her lip to keep the tears from her eyes.

When she finally allowed their eyes to meet, she saw for the first time a flash of displeasure there—just the barest flicker before it disappeared. She had to give him credit. He had more command of every inch of himself than Wellington before the French army.

“The cottage has a quarter foot of water lining its floors due to the storm. And the second and third levels require better supports. It seems there are no doors or windows yet in the rear. And it stinks of the gutter inside. Now, Miss Givan, I have just one request.”

“Yes, Your Grace?” she whispered.

For a long moment he was silent. Peter’s fingers crept into hers. “You will not refer to me as ‘Your Grace’ when we are in private. For some insane reason it has the hollow ring of an insult coming from your lips.”