Four Dukes and a Devil (20 page)

Two punctures marred the skin just above the half boot and wayward stocking. That vile reptile had bitten her. Of course.

“Hey…Are you all right?”

She looked up to find him there. Immediately lowering her shift and gown, she had the oddest dizzy sensation as she stood up.

“Is it a thorn? Here now, let me have a look.” He sat on his heels and reached for her boot.

She was so stunned, she let him. “I…I think it was a snake. Actually, I
know
it was a snake.”

In the blink of an eye he was carrying her into the gamekeeper’s hut, and she felt like some sort of foolish, improbable damsel in distress straight from the pages of her book of
Canterbury Tales.
It didn’t feel nearly as exciting as she had always dreamed, especially when he abruptly dropped her onto a rustic bed and yanked aside her skirting to examine her calf.

He bit out, “Stay still,” very unlike any of those heroes she sighed over. “What did it look like?”

The room spun, her vision blurring before the reality of the blood on her leg. “I didn’t see it very clearly.” Botheration, her flesh blazed with pain. Now there was no question about it. She truly, positively, absolutely
detested
everything about nature. “It was sort of tawny. Very, very long…And there was a darker pattern on it.”

His face became ashen. “A pattern? What sort?”

Her stomach roiled, and the most awful queasy sensation gripped her. “I think it was speckled…Or perhaps there were little dark diamond shapes? I don’t know, really. It disappeared quickly.” She shivered, involuntarily.

He was staring at her, his expression stark, his eyes hard. She had never seen him so serious. Only now, he was fishing about in his pockets.

“I’ve only heard of one instance of a harmless snake biting anyone,” he muttered. “They would have to be truly provoked.”

“I think I stepped on it. Is that enough provocation?” She was doing a wretched job of camouflaging the ball of fear growing in the pit of her stomach. “What are you doing?”

He extracted a small pocketknife and unfolded the tiny lethal-looking blade.

She backed away on her bottom to the end of the cot.

“I told you to stay still. Victoria, do as I say. Look, I promise I’ll never force you to do another blasted thing in your life ever again,” he said quietly, in complete opposition to the ironlike authority she saw in his face. Whatever he had in mind, it was going to happen with or without her permission. She thought the former might hurt less, and so she lowered her leg for his inspection.

When she saw the glint of the knife, she squeezed her eyes shut.

Two slashes of raw pain sliced through her, and she yelped a vile oath but remained very still.

“Good girl,” he bit out.

A warm pressure replaced the vicious blade, and she reopened her eyes to see his dark head covering her leg. Lord, he was kissing her leg.
My God
…she thought she might faint.

And then she felt him sucking the raw wound with a vengeance. “Oh please, stop…” she moaned, her leg throbbing.

He turned his head away and she heard him spit upon the earthen floor. “Hush,” he said breathlessly, before he reapplied himself to the task.

It wasn’t so awful after all, she thought, her head spinning on some unseen axis. Once the throbbing stopped, and the numbness settled on her flesh like a warm blanket, her mind rationalized the horridness of the situation. He efficiently drew the venom from her until she became worried he would be ill from it.

Finally, he lifted his mouth from her, but shaded the area from her view. Withdrawing a handkerchief, he wrapped it about her ankle and tucked the ends in place. “There now.”

He stared at her, his expression blank, his eyes glassy. “Here.” He reached into his coat and withdrew his ornate flask with a royal crest etched into its silver side.

And then she saw it. His hand shook, just the slightest bit as he extended it to her.

God.
She was going to die, and he knew it.
She was going to die from tromping about the so-called benign countryside. After all those years walking near the so-called lethal dangers outside of Mayfair in town.

She’d never drunk so much as a single drop of spirits in all her life. She grabbed the flask he offered and, without a pang of remorse, drank long and deep—which wasn’t nearly as long or as deep as she would have liked. A clog of fire engulfed her throat, and she coughed through the fires of hell. And drank a lot more.

“Victoria,” he whispered, despair lacing his words. “That’s enough.”

“Then
you
drink,” she said, summoning up false bravado.

“
Now
you want me to drink?”

“This is a wake, correct? It’s why you offered me your brandy, isn’t it?”

He didn’t laugh, which only served to make her even more scared. He put the flask on a table just out of her reach and surreptitiously glanced at her bound leg. Her ankle and calf throbbed with the sensation of hundreds of pins and needles poking at her.

“There, now. You’re just overcome. And no, I’ve given up spirits. Did you not say it’s bad for my gout?” With this forced amusement from his lips, which contrasted with the grave concern in his expression, she knew then, without a single doubt, that she was through with life.

“Oh…John,” she whispered again, her mind softening from the brandy. And then she couldn’t stop the words guaranteed to make her a fool. “I wasn’t supposed to die yet.”

“Victoria—”

“This is not the way it was to happen. I was supposed to live a long, dreary life, and become a gray old maid after raising hundreds of foundlings. And they would have put a plaque in the chapel in my honor.” She felt very light-headed as she rushed on. “Oh, I regret so many things. Worst of all, I’ll never experience…” She stopped abruptly, her mortification complete.

“Never experience what?”

“
Nothing.
Nothing at all.” If she could blush any deeper, fire would erupt from her veins.

“Tell me.”

“I’ll die a—a…Well,
you know
…”

He blinked.

“Darling,” he said, “don’t be ridiculous…”

“Ridiculous? I think I have the right to say or act any way I like when I’m dying. Was that or was that not a poisonous serpent that just bit me?”

“There are no serpents in England—only snakes—mostly grass snakes.”

“Don’t you dare change the subject, John. Was I or was I not just bitten by a deadly poisonous snake?”

“Perhaps.” It was better she didn’t know the conclusions he’d drawn. If the snake was a mature viper, which it most likely was, he would never reveal how painful and how very fatal it could be.

“Did you or did you not just extract venom?”

“Possibly,” he said reluctantly.

“Which snakes in England have venom?”

“The one that prefers shaded woody areas—the
V. berus.
”

She appeared near shock, her face and hands white and clammy. “Just because I spent my life within a foundling home doesn’t mean I can’t decipher Latin. Oh God, it’s
V.
as in
vipera,
” she moaned.

“Now, don’t leap to conclusions. The grass snake is speckled.”

“And, let me guess,” she said, her pupils dilated unnaturally. “The viper has dark diamond shapes.”

“Look, there’s a possibility you could become ill for a while, but there’s every reason to believe you will recover. You are young, and very strong and—” His words were bringing naught but more worry to her expression, and so he gathered her in his arms, and she finally gave in to the tears that had been slowly gathering in her glassy eyes. He prayed the last words he had spoken were well and true. And he also hoped his throat ached from tension and not venom.

He leaned over her and kissed her temple, then her wet cheeks, then her…God, he wanted to chase away those tears with every fiber of his being. He would do anything to wipe away the horror of the moment. He wanted to comfort her, assure her that she was cherished for once in her life.

“Oh, please, John…” she whispered, trembling. “
Lie beside me.
Kiss me. Hold me.”

He knew exactly what she asked and exactly what he could not do. He might want to offer her raw physical comfort more than he’d wished for anything in his entire structured, ordered, carefully constructed existence meant to distance himself from every last bloody conniving, marriageable female in England, but she knew naught of what she asked.

God.
She might very well be dying. Or not. Either way, this tiny hut in the middle of the wood was the last place he would deflower the woman he wanted as the future Duchess of Beaufort—if she lived through the next day and night.

He shook his head to clear it. What had he just thought? Christ, who was he trying to fool? Right here, right now, whether she was dying or not, he was going to stop avoiding one primary fact.

He adored her. Could not stay away from her no matter how hard he tried. She might just be the most impertinent female in all of creation, but hell, there was a certain charm to that, for there wasn’t a man or woman alive who had even dared to
think
he or she could manage him.

Still kneeling beside her, he rested his forehead against hers. Sometime within the next two hours to two weeks he was either going to bury her or marry her. Either option seemed better than keeping himself from this ball of fiery woman and even her battalion of boys who had entered his refined domain.

John repressed a groan. God, he was going to give her everything she had never asked for…and more. So much more. He would give her his name, something he’d thought he would never do before years of careful reflection, and even more painstaking negotiation with a score of solicitors.

But what he dared not give her was what she asked for now. However, he could give her a taste of what was to come if she lived through this wretched afternoon. The idea held five parts despair to one part passion. He prayed his body would obey his mind.

He cradled her head with one hand and dipped down to drag a trail of kisses on her feverish cheeks. Victoria’s ragged breath caught in her throat as he valiantly tried to chase away her fears with a kiss designed to enchant. A slow kiss, and a slow stroke along the inside of her arm, down the side of her rounded, perfectly shaped breast.

She was so damned responsive. After long minutes, her obvious panic receded slightly, and he wrestled with the first spark of desire igniting between them
.
She was gripping his arms, urging him closer. “Oh, John, do hurry. I feel faint—so hot, so cold. Shivery…”

She must be near delirium. “It’s best not to rush on so,” he murmured.

“But if we don’t rush,” she said breathlessly, “I might never experience it.”

He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Instead, he tucked kisses under her high collar as he worked the buttons free down the bodice. He would shower her with just the smallest bit more pleasure, before a long retreat. Settling his mouth over the coral-fleshed peak that had plagued his thoughts day and night, she immediately moaned. Her excitement drove him to the brink of madness, and he unconsciously bunched the skirting of her gown high above her slender thighs.

Surely she was dying. Victoria’s head was spinning, and dimly she thought it was from the venom or from the brandy she had consumed—probably both. And all she could think with dark humor was that this was a perfectly lovely way to die even if it wasn’t honorable. It was probably going to weigh heavily against a lifetime of pious living.

But it was worth it.

She could barely breathe when she looked past half-closed eyes to find his lips encircling the sensitive tip of her breast. His mouth tugged at her, and her body arched toward him. A well of longing…and something else spiraled within her as she stroked the dark locks on his head. She would have liked to have had a child with those long, black lashes, and that raven hair of his. And those eyes that were so deeply blue they reminded her of the candied violets in the forbidden bakeries of her childhood.

And suddenly, he was moving his lips back to her neck, his deft fingers covering her bared breast with the edge of her gown. He whispered all manner of lovely words meant to soothe her. Lord, he was retreating.

“John, I swear that if you stop now, I shall never, ever forgive you,” she whispered.

“Victoria,” he groaned, grasping her face. “You don’t understand.” He stilled her lips with his fingers as she tried to argue. “I don’t want to hurt you further. And certain things must be said. I would insist we—”

“Don’t you dare say another word.” She pulled on his neckcloth until he was forced to lie atop her on the small bed. The feel of his overly starched shirt and coat against her breast was unbearably erotic. And then she suddenly noticed that, just as she asked, he had stopped speaking. His expression had grown primal, and stark—all raw man. A man whose last ounce of control staggered on a stone precipice that broke away as he leaned down to possess her lips once again with his own.

The haze of passion ebbed but a moment, when she realized he had risen slightly, and the rustling was the sound of him unfastening his breeches. All thoughts of flowers, and lashes, and the children she would never see flew from her. He moved above her, and she instinctively opened her legs to accommodate his body. Oh, this should be beyond embarrassing, if it were not so shockingly elemental, and right…as nature intended. It was as if fate had ordained that she would bind her body and soul to his on this very day.

Her body ached for him to press closer to her. But just as she thought she might die from craving his touch, from wanting the mystery of him, he stopped. Again.

She opened her eyes to find a guilt-stricken look in those now dark eyes of his. She spoke before she could even think. “Would it help if I told you I forgive you in advance? Or perhaps a touch of anger would spur you. Just think of the headlines…Catch of the Century—CAUGHT!”

“Victoria…” he rasped. “You are the most confounding…plaguing…irresistible woman.”