How to Lose a Duke in Ten Days (5 page)

“Neither you nor your father ever mentioned a previous engagement.”

“It’s a secret. We haven’t told anyone.”

“Who is he?”

She swallowed and shook her head. “I can’t tell you that.”

Lucas sifted through the list of possible gentlemen in his head and could think of only one likely candidate. Charles Hurst. He was her childhood friend, and an alliance between them would benefit them both—combined, they had wealth and property in spades.

A stab of
something
shot through him at the thought of Miss Welby with Hurst. Lucas clenched his hands into fists, every muscle drawn tight as a bowstring. No way was she marrying Hurst. 

He advanced, moving across the room so quickly, she didn’t have time to dart away.

Reaching out, he took her chin in his hand and smoothed his thumb along the curve of her jaw. There was something about her, something in the way she stared up at him, brave and unflinching, that made his heart clench.

He dipped his head, his lips bushing lightly against hers. Her breath hitched in response, then eased out slowly. He drew her breath into his lungs, savoring her sweet, sultry essence.

“Can your mystery man give you this?”

In one fluid motion, he captured her mouth with his, sweeping his tongue into her mouth. She moaned, her arms twining around his neck, pulling him closer. The kiss was hard, rough, untamed. He poured everything into it—his anger, frustration, the urgent, desperate need to claim her as his own.   

He should end this right now—toss her onto the bed and fuck her until she was dripping with his seed, begging for more.

But he couldn’t. Not now.

He had Mr. Vaughn waiting in his parlor and a scandal to prevent. 

Pulling back, he gripped her shoulders and set her away from him. Her eyes were still closed, her lips still parted, as though she expected him to return to her. Finally, her eyes opened, and what he saw reflected in those deep green pools stole the breath from his lungs. Desire, need,
hunger
. She wanted him as fiercely as he wanted her.

Drawing in deep breaths, he forced himself to take a step back from her. He turned on his heel and strode toward the door. He placed his hand on the latch, not daring to turn and look back at her.

“You will remain here until I come for you,” he said. “Leave this room and I swear you will regret it.”

Then he walked out of the room, closing the door firmly behind him.

*   *   *

Pippa sat on the bed and stared at the back of the bedroom door for a full thirty minutes, berating herself. Not only had she failed to catch him with another woman, but like a fool, she’d allowed him to
kiss
her. Again. Indeed, she’d practically melted into a puddle at his feet. It was deplorable.

And unfortunately he didn’t seem the least bit perturbed by her plans to redecorate. She could redouble her efforts and ask Mr. Vaughn to redecorate the rest of the house, but all Arlington would have to say was
no way in hell
and that would be that.  There wasn’t a decorator this side of the Thames who would go against a duke’s wishes. 

Pippa sighed and leaned back against the headboard, her thoughts cast back to the moment he’d stepped out of bed, the white sheet clinging to his hips.  Seeing him in such a state…Her knees had suddenly gone weak, and her heart had nearly skipped right out of her chest. 

It was ridiculous, really. She’d seen plenty of other men in similar states of undress. Well, perhaps
plenty
was stretching it, but at least one man. Throughout the years, she’d seen Charles’s bare chest on occasion—swimming in the lake at her father’s estate in Yorkshire during the summer months. And never, not once, had it ever sent white-hot flames licking through her veins.

Then again, Charles was whipcord thin and Arlington was most certainly
not.
He was tall, muscled, and undeniably powerful. Tight, knotted muscles had lined his chest and stomach, which had flexed sinuously, deliciously, as he moved.

He was, in a word,
glorious
.

And the way he touched her…

Pippa shook herself. None of it mattered. He was still a callous, unfeeling cur, and she would never again be in a position to see his unclothed body, or feel his lips as they skimmed across her collarbone…

And indeed, when he strode back into the room half an hour later, he was fully clothed—his perfect body concealed by a gray waistcoat, dark blue tailcoat, and tan breeches. Hessians molded to his calves like a second skin, which only served to accentuate his muscular thighs.

She rose to her feet instantly.

When he spoke, his voice was even, controlled, no hint of the man who’d nearly seduced her earlier. “What in God’s name were you thinking?”

“I wished to thank you for the lovely flowers?” She smiled sweetly, hoping her flighty, feather-brained act was convincing.

“By storming into my bedchamber—with Mr. Vaughn in tow—as I slept. And planning to redecorate my bedroom in lace, no less.” 

His tone was rising again, and she found she couldn’t look directly into his eyes. Glancing down, she smoothed her hands down her muslin skirt and bit her bottom lip. “Your butler said you weren’t at home.”

He shoved a hand through his hair and turned away, frustration bleeding off him. Several seconds ticked by before he turned back to face her. “I wasn’t home to
visitors,
as you well know.” He tipped his head back, and held the bridge of his nose between two fingers. Finally, after several long seconds, he lowered his head and glared at her. “Mr. Vaughn has been warned. If he dares breathe a word of this to anyone, his life will be crushed. I believe he was sufficiently terrified.”

Pippa let out a breath. Of course he would just jump right in and mend everything. “Yes, we mustn’t risk your sterling reputation.”

“It was
your
reputation I was protecting!” he snapped. “If anyone discovers you were in my bedchamber this morning, your name and your character will be damaged beyond repair. Society would naturally assume we are lovers.”

Heat infused her cheeks.
Lovers.
Two days ago, she would have dismissed the thought entirely. But Arlington had awoken feelings within her that she’d never known existed, except in novels. Indeed, just moments ago, she’d nearly
begged
him to take her. Even now, she longed to feel his strong hands gripping her as his lips glided across her bare skin…

Squeezing her eyes shut for a moment, she forced the image away.

“It’s not true,” she said. 

“Whether it’s true or not means very little in my world, love. The gossip rags would print it as sure as if it were gospel.”

She blinked up at him. Now that she’d been thrust into the duke’s sphere, every step she took, every word she spoke would be bait for gossip. But coming here this morning was a risk she’d been willing to take.

“They will not speak against you, Pippa, you have my solemn vow.”

Her given name rolled off his tongue, soft and seductive. She had a mind to admonish him for using it, but couldn’t bring herself to. She liked the way it sounded on his lips.

Pippa swallowed. “But your servants will surely—”

He shook his head. “They will say nothing. I will make sure of it.”

There was a charged silence until at last he stepped forward and hooked a finger under her chin. He tilted her head up, forcing her to look into his blue, crystalline eyes. His lips were close, so close she could almost feel them skimming across her own. And heaven help her, she
wanted
to feel them, as desperately as she wanted her next breath.

Her eyes drifted shut as she held her breath, waiting…

Nothing happened. 

Her eyes snapped open and he was staring at her. “I will pick you up for the theater tomorrow evening.” He brushed his thumb across her lower lip, his gaze hungry, intent. “Be ready.”

The next morning, Lucas sat at his desk, gazing down at the card that had been delivered just moments before. It was his own card, one of the many he’d instructed the florist to include with Miss Welby’s bouquets. He’d had a note written on the front and back of each card, and this card had a response from the lady herself—scrawled across his words in elegant lettering was the one word that never failed to set him on edge.

No signature, no explanation. Just that singular word that rang like a battle cry in his head. She was throwing down the gauntlet, challenging his authority, and there was only one way to respond. He would meet her challenge.  

A sharp knock sounded on the door.

“Come in,” he called out.

The door to his study opened and closed quietly. “Are you at home for Lord Stephen Crawford, Your Grace?” Benson asked. 

Lucas didn’t glance up. “Send him in.”

Seconds later, the door opened to reveal Crawford. Lucas had only met him on one occasion, two months ago, at one of the countless dinner parties he’d attended in Guildford.  The man was amiable, if he remembered correctly. His father was the Earl of Durham and very ill. As his only son, Crawford stood to inherit both his father’s title and his sizeable fortune.

Lucas placed the card in his pocket and sat back in his chair, eyeing Crawford carefully. Standing at the door with his jaw clenched, the man looked rather formidable. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and large enough to fill the entire doorway.

“Crawford.” Lucas indicated the chair directly in front of him. “Have a seat. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Crawford took the seat across from Lucas’s desk. “I won’t waste your time with useless preamble. My visit concerns your sister.”

“Go on,” Lucas said, his voice slow, terse.

Crawford cleared his throat and tugged on his cravat. “I would like to offer for her hand.”

Christ,
another one.

Evelyn had been out in society for two years, and while she’d received several offers of marriage, she’d yet to seriously consider any of them. The gentlemen in question were either too stout, too rakish, too idiotic, or too arrogant for her liking. She was inordinately fastidious.

Perhaps he’d been too lenient with her. Over the years, he’d indulged her need for independence—fostered it, in fact. She had wealth, position, and the luxury of choosing a husband whenever it suited her. She wasn’t in danger of becoming a spinster anytime within the next several years.

And perhaps, he admitted to himself, he feared letting her go. She was the reason he hadn’t spiraled into a dark pit of despair upon their parents’ deaths. She was the only reason he’d kept going, that he hadn’t surrendered to the darkness that had engulfed him all those years ago. He’d had a responsibility, a purpose: to care for Evelyn, to give her the life their father had failed to give Lucas.

For months, years, Evelyn’s need of him was all that had kept him going.

Yes, perhaps he’d been indulgent, but he owed her everything. 

“I fear you have wasted your energy, Crawford. My sister is quite particular, and not inclined to marry.”

Crawford didn’t flinch, as though he’d anticipated Lucas’s refusal. “She has all but consented to be my wife already.”

Lucas narrowed his eyes. “Is that so?” 

It wasn’t the first time such a claim had been made. Last year, Lord Warwick, a man of sixty, claimed Evelyn had agreed to be his wife, not with words, but with her “sincere and expressive gaze.” It was preposterous, of course, but men desperate for a wealthy bride would stoop to any level.

Lucas knew his sister better than anyone. She was quiet, respectful, and would not have formed an attachment without Lucas’s knowledge or consent. She did nothing without seeking his approval first. 

“There is an understanding between us.” The man swallowed, and shifted in his chair. “We are in love, Your Grace.”

In love
?
Unlike most ladies of their acquaintance, Evelyn approached life with a refreshingly pragmatic view. He’d never heard her utter a word about love, romance, or anything of the sort.

“You are quite certain you refer to
my
sister, Lady Evelyn? Brown hair, green eyes, obstinate to a fault?”

“The very same.”

No. It wasn’t possible.

There was only one way to settle this. Standing, Lucas moved around his desk to the door. He called to one of the servants and asked that Lady Evelyn be brought down immediately.

Minutes later, with a soft knock, Evelyn appeared. Her hands were folded in front of her, her eyes cast downward, avoiding Lucas’s stern look of disapproval. Indeed, something was amiss. His sister never failed to look him straight in the eye.

Could Crawford’s claim be true?

Lucas leaned against his desk, and indicated a vacant chair next to Crawford. “Sit with us a moment,” Lucas said, his voice tight. “I believe you’re already acquainted with Lord Crawford, or shall I make introductions?”

Her eyes flicked to Crawford only briefly, but that mere second spoke volumes. Crawford flashed her a warm, reassuring smile, and Evelyn, in turn, smiled back. The familiarity between them was unmistakable.

Evelyn lifted her chin, looking directly at Lucas for the first time since entering the room. “Introductions won’t be necessary.”

“I thought not,” Lucas said dryly. “Lord Crawford tells me there is an understanding between the two of you. When, may I ask, were you planning on informing me of this…arrangement?”

“We are informing you now,” she said, unflinching.

So it was true. God help him.

Lucas tapped his chin, attempting to remain calm. “You’ve never shown any interest in marriage.”

Evelyn shrugged. “You haven’t shown much interest in it, either, until recently. Now that you are going to be married, I find I am more agreeable to the prospect myself.”

Crawford reached over and took her hand—a moving display, if it hadn’t been Lucas’s sister he was touching. “I will take good care of her.”

The idea of turning Evelyn over to anyone else’s care was profoundly unsettling.  For years, it had been the two of them, and now this gentleman had designs to snatch her away. But the look on Evelyn’s face—damn it all, she looked truly happy for the first time in years. Could he dash that happiness for the sake of his own selfishness?