Love Letters From a Duke (26 page)

“Tally picked the locks.”

He didn’t know why he was surprised—or even shocked—but there it was. The daughter of an English diplomat was a clever Kate, a lock pick of the finest order.

Still, he couldn’t quite believe it. “Your sister?”

Felicity nodded. “She’s quite adept. If you ever have need of a lock—”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t think—”

“Well, if you do,” she offered.

Oh, but there was more to this tale than just their larcenous entrance, he wagered. And demmed if he didn’t want to hear it. “And once you got in?”

“Mrs. Hutchinson has a cousin who put new locks in for us,” she admitted.

That harridan would have such a relation.

“And then,” she continued, “we moved in with what little we could bring from the house Pippin’s mother left her.”

“The one in Sussex?”

“Yes,” Felicity said with a delicate shudder. “We certainly weren’t going to make our way in Society out in the country! Sussex, I will have you know, is a veritable desert.”

“But whatever possessed you to think you could attempt all this? Did you ever once consider what would happen if you were caught?”

Felicity glanced up at him as if he had just questioned the color of the sky or the King’s paternity. “When in doubt, a lady always appears to be completely in the right,” she said with her usual air of supreme confidence.

“What?”

“When in doubt—”

He shook his head. “No, I know what you said, but wherever did you hear such nonsense?”

“Nanny Tasha.”

He was starting to wonder if an ounce of morality could be found amongst all these nannies of theirs. “I doubt she meant for you to steal a house.”

“Stealing? I prefer to think of our residency as maintaining the house’s character. Why, it would be going to damp if we weren’t here keeping it warm.”

He glanced around at the empty and shuttered rooms. It was a weak argument at best since they only had three rooms open, and with meager fires in those, but leave it to Felicity to already have her defense at the ready.

“Let me get this straight,” he said, pausing in his labor and ticking off on his fingers the points he understood thus far. “You’ve stolen this house—”

“Borrowed.”

“Fine. Borrowed this house.”

“Yes.”

“Haven’t any money for gowns or servants—”

“Or coal or food,” she admitted. “But the baskets the princess provided yesterday will tide us over for a few more days.”

The princess had provided? Thatcher didn’t bother to explain that her servant had instructed him to buy it all on credit as the lady was still waiting for her draft to clear with the bankers. “So you haven’t any coal or food, save what you can scrimp by on with your pin money—”

“Correct so far—”

“And you think you can pull off a Season for all three of you?”

“We only need one good betrothal,” she explained. “And I already have—”

“Hollindrake.”

“Yes, exactly.” She brushed her hands over her skirt and sighed. When she found him studying her, she quickly glanced away. “Really, this is all for Tally and Pippin, though they hardly appreciate my efforts.”

Was it him, or was her enthusiasm for her perfectly titled and noble spouse waning?

“Now that you know everything, can you finish getting that box open?” She was leaning over and looking into the crack he’d created. “I’m convinced this one shows some promise.”

Thatcher stepped back. “No, I don’t understand. Why do you have to sell yourself into marriage with a man you don’t love?”

“Whoever said I don’t love him?”

“Demmit, Felicity, you don’t love the man. And how could you love him? Didn’t you hear a word Stewie Hodges said yesterday? Hollindrake is a regular bastard, and here you are, ready to continue on with this betrothal like he’s some prince.”

“A duke—”

“Top a bastard with any coronet you want and he’s still a bastard.”

“I’m not going to listen to—”

“You will listen,” he told her, catching her by the arm. “Why don’t you deserve the happiness you insist your sister and cousin have?”

“Because…”

“Because what?”

“Because they believe in love!” she shot back. “And I never have, at least not until—” Her eyes widened, but it was her lips that snapped shut, cutting off her confession.

“Not until what?” he said, pulling her closer.

“Until nothing. I don’t believe in love,” she said, not looking at him. “All that passionate nonsense and…feeling helpless…and making one’s knees go weak and wanting…”

“Wanting what?” he growled.

“I don’t want anything from
him
.”

From Hollindrake. But that didn’t answer the real question between them. “What do you want from me?”

“Nothing.” A lie not even Felicity could gammon, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to try. “They can have their romantic matches, for I am not affected by—”

Oh, he’d heard enough. Thatcher swooped down and let his lips have the final say.

The kiss that had started as an impetuous stolen moment deepened until it became evident that the passion between them hadn’t merely been a passing lark.

“Circe, my dangerous little Circe,” Captain Dashwell whispered into Pippin’s ears. “You drive me mad.” And as his body pressed her into the stone wall of the garden, she realized just how far such madness could spread.

What was she doing? She was Lady Philippa Knolles, not some dockside tart to have her head turned by a rakish kiss.

But it wasn’t just her head that turned, it was her entire insides, as Dash tugged her up against him, the very heat of his body as tantalizing as a plate of fresh scones.
Her Dash.

“What are you doing here?” she managed to gasp once they pulled apart. Taking a guilty look up at the house, she added, “If you were caught, I could never—”

“Never forget me?” he teased.

Never
, she wanted to tell him, but she feared that would only encourage the reckless American. “If you are found, you’ll be hung.”

“That’s a large ‘if,’” he told her. “They have to catch me first.” Nuzzling her neck, he added, “Besides, you would come and rescue me, wouldn’t you, Circe?”

Pippin swallowed. It was like a scene out of her third play, “The Pirate and the Lady,” wherein the lady rescues the pirate from the hangman’s noose. But what if she couldn’t rescue him? On the pages of her plays it sounded easy, but her only brush with danger had been on the beach near Hastings, the same night she’d met Dash, and that had ended with her nearly getting her head blown off.

If Dash hadn’t saved her…kissed her…

As he was now, his lips eager and warm, beckoning her to open up to him, which she did, with a willingness that shocked her. And when the kiss deepened, his tongue sweeping over hers, her knees buckled beneath her.

He held her up, one arm wound around her waist, the other cupping one of her breasts, his thumb rubbing against her nipple, leaving it in the same torrent of fire that was brewing in her belly.

“You’ll come with me, won’t you, Circe?”

“Come with you?” she whispered.

“To sea. Come with me,” he asked. “I’ve thought of you, all these years. Thought of nothing but you. Never thought I’d find you again, my beautiful little goddess.”

“Me?”

He grinned at her. “Yes, you. Who else?” His fingers toyed with a stray strand of hair. “Come privateering with me. You’ll be my pirate queen.”

For a moment the smell of salt air piqued her imagination, tar and ropes and the flap of the sails. And every starry night, Dash. Dash kissing her. Carrying her off to his berth below. Teasing her, touching her, leaving her as breathless and reckless as she felt right now.

More so.

“Pippin? Pippin? Are you out here?” came Tally’s cry, breaking into her reverie, piercing the spell Dash had wound around her.

“I have to go,” she whispered. “Please, Dash, leave London. Tonight. Don’t stay for me—I won’t have you hung on my account.”

The handsome privateer laughed. “I can’t go, not until this bloody ice melts. But don’t fret, I shan’t be far. I’ll come back the night after next for you.”

She shook her head. “I won’t be here—there’s a ball. The Duke of Setchfield’s masquerade ball.”

“Setchfield? You mean Temple?”

Oh, demmit,
she cursed, using her brother’s favorite expletive. She shouldn’t have said anything. “Dash, you cannot go! You know who Temple is—and if he were to spot you—”

“He wouldn’t dare—we go back too long,” Dash told her.

“But you held him captive—he still holds you accountable for Mr. Grey’s death.”

“I can hardly be responsible for what—”

“Pippin, are you out here?” Tally called again. “Mrs. Hutchinson, are you sure she was out in the garden?”

“Oh, aye,” the housekeeper’s voice could be heard. “That fellow asked me to fetch her ’round.”

“What fellow?” Tally’s question darkened immediately with suspicion.

“Oh, dear,” Pippin whispered, pushing Dash away from her. “Go! Now! If Tally sees you, she’ll tell Felicity, and believe me, Felicity will call not only the watch, but the Home Guard and the entire 95th.”

Captain Thomas Dashwell leaned over and stole another quick kiss, and whispered in her ear, “Tomorrow night. You’ll recognize me quite easily.” He dashed across the yard and vaulted atop a barrel, up the toolshed and then atop the wall. With a wave and a flourish of his hat, he said, “I’ll be dressed as a…” But he jumped before he said the final word.

But Pippin didn’t need to know what it was. It was burned into her imagination.

A pirate.

And for some inexplicable reason, his departure tore at her heart, for despite all Dash’s confidence, she knew something terrible was about to happen to him. So it was that when Tally found her, Pippin burrowed her face in her cousin’s shoulder and cried.

Felicity’s world tilted the moment Thatcher’s lips touched hers. Everything she’d planned for, studied for, lied and borrowed for, fell from the perfect platter of propriety she’d constructed and shattered as if it had hit the fine Italian floors beneath her stocking-clad feet.

And along with it, every desire she’d ever held to be a duchess. Would a proper and lofty duke ever kiss her thusly?

For today Thatcher claimed her with a ravenous hunger that sent her senses reeling, even as he swept her across the room, carrying her to the curtained window seat. He’d deposited her onto the cushions and come crashing down atop her.

Thank goodness the shutters are drawn, she thought, for they would be giving Brook Street a spectacle she doubted the top-lofty residents had ever seen.

Even so, her hands balled up, ready to protest such liber
ties, but all too quickly, as his tongue swept over hers, inviting her to join him in this passionate foray, her fingers unfurled and then splayed across his coat, finally ending up tugging at his lapels and pulling him closer.

Their mouths fused in a torrent of a kiss. Like the snow swirling outside, Felicity felt her insides whirl about, chased on the relentless winds of passion he was unleashing.

Whatever it was he was doing to her, there was no stopping it. It was as if he’d uncorked these desires and now she’d never be able to cap them back into the tidy bottle from which they’d come. She should be cursing him, stopping him, but oh, how she loved the way he felt atop her, covering her, devouring her. Here in this little enclosed world of theirs—with the shutters cutting them off from the city beyond and the curtains behind them giving them privacy from the household.

Her nipples puckered as his hands roamed over the tips of her breasts, her hips rose in invitation—as if begging his touch to come lower. And in the very heart of her desires, in that place between her thighs, she ached. Ached and twisted with need. Need for this man, and this man only.

His fingers twined in the hem of her gown, skimming past her red socks to her bare knees, slowing only to tease her now quivering thighs.

Oh, gracious heavens, he was going to touch her
there
.

Oh
,
yes
,
please
, she thought most improperly.
Please.

His fingers parted the way, stroking first her nether lips, then delving deeper until he came to the nub and ran his finger over her, leaving her breathless at such a sensation. She would have moaned loudly, but his mouth covered hers in a kiss that matched what his fingers were doing, exploring and stroking her.

A wisp of cold air wafted over her, and she realized he’d found a way to free her breasts, having opened her gown with his other hand.

Dear heavens, her footman wasn’t just honorable and nearly noble—he was also a devilish rake!

His mouth pulled away from hers and for a moment he looked down at her. Oh, the wicked light in his eyes left no doubts he wasn’t done making his case—or that she’d lost her argument, utterly and completely. And for once, she didn’t care, especially not when his lips covered her nipple, his tongue running over it, his hand cupping it from beneath.

Her body turned languid and tense at the same time, her hips rising to meet his fingers there and the rest of her stretching like a cat, seeking her pleasures wherever she could. His fingers slid over her, and she was wet and slick. Then he slid a finger inside her, and she arched and knew what she wanted.

For all he did was make her ache. Ache for more.

Touch him
, a wild, provocative voice whispered inside her head.
Touch him.

Tentatively, her hands left the safety of his lapels and began to follow the lines of his arms, thick and strong, across his chest and down over his stomach. She reached the top of his breeches and stopped.

She couldn’t. She couldn’t do this. Then he kissed her again, and she found herself lost in the wildness of it, his mouth fused to hers, his fingers sliding over her pulsing nub, inside her, awakening every desire a woman could possess, and she knew she had to answer in kind.

Over the waistband her fingers forged, and down until they came to the hardened length of him. Oh, it was so hard and stiff…and ready.