Romancing the Duke (17 page)

This will all sound so familiar to you. Am I not just like Cressida in the thirty-fifth installment, when her father betrothed her to that horrid Lord Darkskull? Excepting the windowless tower and the helpful mice, of course.

And, in the same way as Cressida, my heart has belonged to another for years. Oh, Miss Goodnight. I wish you could know him. Like Ulric, he comes from humble circumstances. But he has proved his worth time and again, displaying such understanding and devotion as I have never known from my closest friends and family. I love him with everything in my soul.

I face a fearsome choice. But I have sought the counsel of my heart and come to a brave decision.

I will follow Cressida’s example and escape. With or without the helpful mice.

Doubt not. Tomorrow I shall be with my true love, and together we will embark on our life’s adventure. All thanks are due to you, Miss Goodnight, and to your dear father, who lives on in his tales and in a nation’s hearts.

A tear burned at the corner of Izzy’s eye as she lifted her head. “And it’s signed, ‘Yours in boundless gratitude, Lady Emily Riverdale.’ ”

She lowered the letter on a note of victory. There, now. He couldn’t possibly listen to that letter and be unmoved.

He was moved, indeed.

Without a word, Ransom rose from his chair. He loomed at the head of the table, big and dark and ominous as a human thundercloud. His hands were clenched in fists. She expected at any moment he would start launching lightning bolts.

The hairs on the back of Izzy’s neck prickled.

Ever-proper Duncan was waving both arms in a frenzy, gesturing for Izzy’s attention.

“What is it?” she whispered to the valet. “What’s wrong?”

Duncan’s eyes widened as he pointed at the letter in her hand and mouthed,
That.

This?

As the duke stormed from the room, she searched the letter again, trying to find the words that would cause such dramatic offense. Nothing, until . . .

Until her eye landed on the sender’s name. Her heart and her stomach switched places.

Oh, no.
No.

Emily Riverdale.

Lady Shemily Liverpail.

Chapter Sixteen

L
ord, but she was an idiot.

The letter in Izzy’s hand was from Ransom’s own intended. The flibbertigibbet. The same woman who’d run off with a farmer, leading to the duke’s disfigurement and brush with death. And she’d just read this letter aloud to him as proof of everlasting love.

Izzy gave the letter to Duncan in passing. Then she picked up a candlestick in one hand and her silk skirts in the other.

“I must go after him.”

Moving as fast as she could in her sausage casing of a gown and corset, she chased him down the corridor. “Ransom, wait.”

He didn’t break stride, firing a warning over his shoulder. “Not now.”

The words hit her square in the sternum, stopping her in place. His wasn’t a tone one could easily ignore. Eleven generations of ducal authority rang out in that command.

He was angry, hurt, and on a very short fuse to explosion.

Izzy gathered her nerve and followed anyway.

She struggled to keep pace with him. He knew these rooms and corridors so well, having walked them every night in the dark.

At last, he turned into a room, and Izzy knew she would have him cornered.

He’d ducked into the library.

Ironically enough, the library was one room Izzy had avoided thus far. Though the vastness of the space and the floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves were grand, for a true lover of books, the scene was unbearably sad. A cursory glance on the first day had revealed that any books of interest or value had been removed or looted. The only volumes remaining were dry agricultural treatises or outdated almanacs, and even those had been mildewed or chewed to the point of being unreadable.

Someday, Izzy had told herself, she would find the money to clean this out and fill it with lovely books again. Books bound in every available shade of rich, buttery leather: green, blue, red, brown. Someday, she would pass a rainy day sitting by that massive stone hearth, cuddled up in an overstuffed armchair and caught in the grips of a thrilling gothic novel.

Tonight, she would have to settle for living in one.

She stopped in the center of the room and placed the candlestick on a forgotten, dusty table. “Ransom, I—”

He held her off with an outstretched hand. “I’m warning you, Goodnight. Don’t push me right now.”

“Please. I don’t want to argue. Just allow me to apologize. I’m so, so sorry. It was terribly thoughtless of me to read that. I’ve had the letter for ages now, and I never drew the connection. I had no idea she was
your
Lady Emily.”

Rage flared from him. “So you
know.
”

“Yes. I know.”

He took two confrontational steps in her direction. The candlelight sent fearsome shadows playing over his scarred face. “You’ve been gossiping about me. Or maybe it was somewhere in my stack of correspondence. Have you been snooping through my letters on your own?”

“No,” she hastened to say. “Nothing like it. I learned about it from Duncan.”

“
Duncan.
He told you.” He cursed violently as he turned away. “That’s it, then. There’s not a soul remaining on this earth I can trust.”

“No, no. Please don’t take it that way.” As she talked, she drifted closer, erasing the gap between them step by cautious step. “Duncan worries over you so much. He didn’t want to gossip, I promise. And he didn’t, exactly. He told me about a Duke of Mothfairy and a Lady Shemily, and I had to extrapolate the rest.”

“Moth-
what
?”

Izzy slapped a hand to her brow. “Never mind. Please forget I said anything about that part.”

Before she knew what was happening, he was upon her. He caught her by the waist and pressed her up against the nearest wall—one lined with empty bookshelves.

“I warned you,” he growled. “I warned you not to push me. Now I’m going push back.”

He braced his hands on the shelves, caging her between his arms. One hard ridge caught her along the back of the thighs. Another scored the small of her back. The smell of wine was overpowering.

He had her trapped, and her body responded like any trapped creature’s would. The hairs on the back of her neck lifted. Her diaphragm worked like a bellows, pushing air in and out of her lungs. Her pulse accelerated to a mad, frantic thunder in her chest.

“I’m s-sorry,” she stammered. “So very sorry.”

“Sorry for what? Sorry you read me that letter? Sorry for my pain? Sorry that you had a hand in destroying my life?”

Oh, Lord. So he
did
blame her.

“I’m sorry,” she said carefully, “that Lady Emily never understood the kind of man you are.”

“Really.” One of his hands moved to her waist. His palm slid up and down over the liquid-smooth silk, idly tracing the curves of her breast and hip. “And what kind of man is that?”

“A good one. One who’s gruff some of the time, and off-puttingly arrogant a great deal of the rest. But loyal and protective when it counts. You went after her, Ransom. You rushed after her, when you could have let her go.”

“Yes, I rushed after her. And if you think that made me the hero in her little story, you have it all wrong. Everything she wrote was the truth. I didn’t love her. I never would have loved her. To her, I was always the villain.”

I didn’t love her.

The words should have made her relieved for his feelings. Instead, Izzy was selfishly relieved for her own.

“You have no idea.” He leaned close. The heat of his breath rushed over her ear. “You have no idea how tempted I am to ruin you. Right here and now. The revenge would be so damned sweet. England’s precious little innocent, spreading her thighs so wide for my cock.”

At his carnal words, her knees went weak. She couldn’t draw enough air. These wretchedly tight corset laces. With every shallow breath, her breasts pushed higher against the restrictive red silk. The exquisite friction chafed her nipples to hardened peaks.

“You wouldn’t do that.” She swallowed hard. “You’re not the sort of man to take advantage.”

“I don’t need to be a man who takes advantage.” He sent one hand to burrow under her skirts. “Just one who takes an invitation.”

He hooked a hand under her knee and lifted, drawing her leg to the side and propping her heel on the first shelf above the ground. Using the weight of his own knee, he pinned her in this lewd position.

Her heartbeat stalled as he pushed the folds of her petticoats and shift aside. She wasn’t wearing anything but stockings beneath. But she couldn’t bring herself to protest or shy away. His possessive touch excited her, and she found herself growing aroused even before his hand moved to cradle her sex.

She didn’t want to scurry back to the dining room and continue pretending. She wanted to be here with him, raw and craving. Her flushed, breathless response to his touch . . . This was honest. The need gathering between her legs . . . It was real.

His thumb slipped over her crease, parting her gently for his explorations. Pleasure shuddered through her, and she gripped the nearest shelf for strength.

“Yes.” He groaned. “I knew it would be like this. I knew you’d be so wet for me.”

The crude words made her wild. He slid a finger inside her, and she bit her lip to keep from crying aloud.

Yes.

He knew just what she needed. He worked in and out, stroking a fraction deeper every time.

And still she craved more. She rocked her hips back and forth, trying to draw him deeper, deeper. She needed him. She needed him so deep inside.

“No one else has any idea, do they? What a naughty, wanton girl you are. No one else sees what I see. No other man makes you twist and pant and moan.”

She arched off the shelves, gasping. “No.”

“Only me.” His fingers thrust deep. “Say it.”

“Only you.”

With a soft groan of approval, he bent his head to lavish kisses on her breasts. Using his teeth, he tugged her bodice downward. Before she could protest that the gown was borrowed and already stretched to its seams, she felt the small rip of fabric.

Her breasts spilled forward, and a dizzying rush of air flooded her lungs.

“Yes.” He eased her breast from her stays and circled her nipple with his tongue. “I know what you need.”

He slid both hands to her hips. In one swift motion, he lifted her six inches off the ground, setting her backside on the next shelf up. Nudging her skirts to her waist, he moved between her legs.

“If you don’t want this, tell me.” His voice was hoarse. “You don’t have to scream. You don’t have to push me away. You’ve only to say it.”

Izzy didn’t know what to say. Her body wanted his. That much was certain. But was this going to be her first—and possibly only—experience of lovemaking? A furtive, angry tupping against a dusty shelf? He wouldn’t be making love to her. He’d be striking back at the very idea of love.

“I . . .” She worked for breath. “I’m not saying no.”

He moaned and lifted her, so that she straddled his hips.

“But I’m saying, not like this. I want emotion. I want tenderness. I think you want those things, too.”

His fingers dug into the flesh of her backside, and he ran his tongue across her chest. “Curse tenderness. To hell with emotion. I’m not the man to fulfill your heart’s desires, but I can give you everything—
everything
—your body’s craving.”

“Just because . . .”

He sucked her nipple into his mouth, and she lost her voice to another wave of bliss.

She wove her fingers in his hair and tried again. “Just because she ran away, it doesn’t mean a woman can’t love you. Ransom, I . . . I know there’s more to you than this.”

“There’s a great deal to me.” He rocked his pelvis against hers, and the hard ridge of his erection stroked her core. “You could have it all. Just as long and hard and deep as you need it.”

Oh. Oh, how she needed it.

He ground against her in a firm, delicious rhythm. The warmed, weathered buckskin teased over her thighs. Izzy whimpered and clung to the shelving, helpless to do anything but hang on for the ride.

With every roll of his hips, he was pushing her higher. Closer to release.

And he knew it.

“Come for me.” He slid his hand between their bodies, and his fingers filled her deep again. As he worked them in and out, the heel of his hand rubbed against her pearl. “I need to feel it. I need to hear it.”

A thin whimper of pleasure caught in her throat.

“My name.” He stroked deeper. “Say my name. I want you to know it’s me.”

“
Ransom.
” Her grip tightened on the shelf.

And then suddenly—

Something gave way.

With a creak and a whoosh, her whole world turned on its axis. Plunging them both into the dark.

“W
h-?” She panted for breath. “What happened?”

Damned if Ransom could say. One moment, he was in paradise. Izzy gasping his name, all that tightness and heat surrounding his fingers . . . Victory, right in the palm of his hand.

A moment later, they were in hell. The entire section of wall, bookshelves included, had swung on its axis, depositing them here.

Wherever “here” was.

He couldn’t tell. He just knew that everything in it was close. And dank. The air smelled of rot and the mustiness of centuries.

“Is it some kind of secret passage?” Izzy asked, still breathing hard.

He withdrew his hand from her quivering flesh and lowered her skirts as much as he dared. However, he held her pinned against the shelving with his hips, keeping her feet well off the floor. God only knew what muck or misadventures lay at his boots.

With his free hand, Ransom felt around the space. “More like a secret closet. If this was ever a corridor, it’s been closed off now.”

“It must have been a priest hole. A hiding place. They built them in the sixteenth century when Catholicism was made illegal. There should be a way out of here. A lever, or—”

“Let me.”

He scouted the shelves, pulling and pushing on each ledge. Nothing. He tried throwing his weight against one side of the panel in an attempt to make it rotate back the other direction. Nothing.

“Duncan and Miss Pelham are certain to come looking for us,” he said. “When we hear footsteps, we’ll shout for help.”

She caught his coat. Her breathing was a labored rasp. “Just don’t let go.”

“What is it? Are you hurt?”

He felt her head shake no. Her hands found his coat lapels and curled in fists. “It’s just . . . so dark, and I . . .”

“And you’re not fond of the dark. I recall.”

She ducked her head, burrowing into his shoulder.

Gods above. She hadn’t been exaggerating. This was not merely fear but terror. He could feel it in the tremors that raced beneath her skin. He could hear it in the quickness of her breath. The same woman who stood defiant in the face of bats, rats, ghosts, and dukes was utterly petrified . . .

Of the dark.

Ransom couldn’t bring himself to tease or gloat. All his angry lust had dissipated into the murky gloom. Sliding his arms around her back, he pulled her against his chest and clutched tight. Because he understood that fear, as well as he knew his own heart. He’d been that miserable soul, alone and terrified in the fresh hell of darkness.

“It’s all right,” he told her. “It’s dark, but you’re not alone. I’m here.”

Her quaking continued. “It’s s-so embarrassing and childish. It’s been this way since I was nine.”

“What happened when you were nine?”

That seemed rather late in life to develop an aversion to darkness. Maybe talking about it would banish the fear. At the least, it would fill the silence.

“I used to spend summers with my aunt in Essex. She had no daughters. Just a son, Martin. I might have mentioned him.”

“The one who tossed you in a pond?”

“Yes.” Her chest rose and fell with her accelerated breaths. Her story came in short bursts of words. “That’s the one. Miserable, horrid boy. He was jealous, hated me. He wanted me gone. Whenever he caught me alone, he would strike me and call me cruel names. When his casual tormenting didn’t work, he tried throwing me in the pond. And since that didn’t get rid of me either, he caught me in the garden one day, dragged me into the root cellar, and locked me there. It was some thirty paces from the house, and, naturally, underground. No one heard my screams. A full day and night passed before they found me. And Martin got his wish. I cried so hysterically, Aunt Lilith sent me home. I’ve hated the dark ever since.”