The Duke's Holiday (39 page)

Really, she was quite merciless. What a time to call him by
his given name! It was … rather lovely. Horrible, but lovely. And it made him
want her even more earnestly, if that were possible. When she began to rise up,
meeting his thrusts, he lost all semblance of control. He groaned. She was in
all of his senses, pulling him under until he hardly could distinguish where
his body ended and hers began. He didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to stop.
He’d never felt this way before, so tangled up in another person, body and
spirit. He squeezed her hips, pulling her up to him, and stroked into her
frantically, over and over again, frightened at the intensity of his emotions,
his body’s helpless surrender.

He felt her tip over the edge, her body trembling, her
voice crying out against his ear. He thrust harder, longer, feeling so close,
and filled with trepidation, the way a climber must feel at the summit of a
mountaintop, the atmosphere thin, coherent thought impossible.

She seemed to pull him further into her, dislodging
something that could never be put back. He came in a torrent of white heat and
raging emotions. His body convulsed into hers, and he gripped her hips between
his fingers so hard he was sure to bruise her. And even though he was quite
done, he stayed within her, thrusting upwards, chasing the ecstasy that still
had his limbs quaking and his blood thrumming. He had never felt so blissfully
alive. Nor so terrified.

It was too much.

He wanted more. Even as he slumped against her, exhausted,
sweat-soaked, and utterly squeezed dry, he wanted more. And more and more. He
would always want more, and he would always want her.

He rolled onto his side and pulled her with him because he
could not be parted from her. She had no words left, and she let him hold her,
for once doing precisely as he wished. He kissed the top of her head and tried
to catch his breath as he formulated a plan to keep her forever.

Mine, mine.

He was going to marry Astrid Honeywell.

The thought was as unsettling – and as spectacularly
brilliant – as her eyes.

MOST
OF Miss Anabel Honeywell’s far-fetched tales were fabricated, though a couple
of the more outlandish ones were true. She had, in truth, actually been at the
court of Versailles, and had, in truth, actually sailed the seas with a genuine
pirate years before the Revolution. She had been a hoyden in her youth, and a
skilled lover in her prime. She had taken a number of
cher ami
into her bed on the condition they take her on their
adventures.

The Yorkshire countryside of her birth had been quite dull
for someone with her appetites and intelligence, and to escape a proper
marriage with a proper gentleman who loved his hounds more than her, she had
run away at sixteen with the handsome butcher’s son. It was a bad decision, for
she had soon discovered that he had loved cards more than her. He had lost her
in a roll of dice in a gambling palace in London to a scurrilous pirate, for
which she was profoundly grateful. She’d liked her scurrilous pirate. Until she
discovered he liked the sea more than her. A bounder of a French aristocrat had
picked her up in Marseilles, where she had washed ashore, and introduced her to
the bawdy Bourbon court, in which she had thrived on petty intrigue and
decadence until the peasantry began chopping off heads. Her French aristocrat’s
had rolled in the first round.

Life back at Rylestone Green was quiet by comparison, but
occasionally it could be quite interesting indeed. It had not been in the least
boring since the young Duke had come to call. He was a bit stiff, and a total
idiot, but then most men were. He’d taken it into his thick head to manage them
all, and had yet to catch on that
he
was the one being managed. Anabel had little doubt that her eldest niece could
have him eating out of her hand. But the girl was a bit of an idiot herself.
She had no conception of men and their foolishness, and if she weren’t careful,
she’d have them all on the streets before she came to her senses.

Anabel intended to help things along. She had learned her
craft well. One always got rid of the hard evidence first, to level the
battlefield. It had taken some time poking about the Duke’s possessions before
she located the book. It was at the bottom of a chest packed full of cravats.
She liked a man who knew how to dress, but a hundred cravats for a jaunt to
Yorkshire seemed to be a bit excessive, even for a Duke.

A strange calm had descended over the castle premises as
she made her way down the corridor towards her private chambers near the north
tower. Those two young bucks of Montford’s seemed to have managed to get the
pig in hand at last. It appeared they
could
do more than drink other people’s port. Not that she was complaining. The
thin, continental-looking one with the devilish smile could drink all of their
port and be as useless as he pleased, as far as she was concerned. It was a
pleasant change to have someone like
that
to look at. If she were forty years younger, she’d make sure he looked at her
as well and had plenty to occupy his energies besides a bottle.

She hated being old.

She turned into her boudoir and shut the door behind her
with her cane. She crept over to the fireplace, where the coals were still
smoldering from the morning fire and stirred them up with a poker until a flame
caught. She added a few more coals for good measure, until a nice fire was
burning, then retrieved her contraband from the folds of her gown. She tossed
the estate ledger onto the flames. It struck the coals in the center, then
bounced off to one side.

“Damn and blast,” she muttered. She took her cane and
attempted to reposition the book. It fell off behind the fire, and she sighed
in irritation and bent down, her old bones creaking.

When had it become so difficult to burn a book?

She reached her hand around the fire and tried to grab the
recalcitrant volume, but it was too far away. She reached further in, caught
the edge of a page, and tried to drag it out. The page tore and she cursed
again.

Something began to smolder, the stink of singed hair
burning the back of her nose. It took her several moments to realize her favorite
wig had caught fire. She jumped to her feet – or she would have jumped if
she could – and knocked the wig off of her head. It rolled onto the
carpet at her feet, and it was more than smoldering. It was a ball of fire.

“Oh, dear,” she muttered, attempting to beat out the flames
with her cane.

This made the situation worse. Pieces of burning hair
floated in the air, landing on the carpet and setting it on fire. Quite by
accident, the end of her cane caught the underside of the wig, and as she
brought up the cane, she brought up the wig as well, sending it flying across
the room. It landed on the draperies covering the windows. The fire spread up
them at lightning speed.

In less than a minute, her boudoir was flickering with
flame and filling with smoke.

“Oh,
hell
!” she
muttered, backing towards the door. She had liked that wig.

And despite her youthful rebellions, she rather liked the
castle.

Astrid was not going to thank her for this one.

“OH
HELL,” Astrid muttered, attempting to roll away from the Duke and pull the
edges of her shirt together. It was a bit cold, for one. For another, the hay
was scratchy and was poking her in places hay had no right to poke. She
wondered that barns and stables were such popular places for seductions. It
seemed maids and swains were always getting into mischief in them, as if dead
wheat piled in a room decorated with livestock and riding equipment was in some
way romantic. It wasn’t.

Well, perhaps it was a little, she conceded, glancing
reluctantly next to her, where Montford lay, looking astounded, his eyes
sightless, his extraordinary body still shuddering from what had occurred.

But it was damned uncomfortable.

Montford seemed to agree on this point, for he shifted
restlessly, reached behind him, and pulled out what looked to be a tree root
from the hay. He tossed it aside and turned his head in her direction and
watched her attempt to refasten the buttons on her shirt. His eyes were opaque,
molten silver. They seemed to cut directly to the center of her heart and attempt
to extract her soul. Those eyes wanted everything of her. Even her body had not
been enough, and already that was too much to have given.

She could not regret it. Some things were inevitable. But
she could wish she’d never met him. She could wish he’d not taken off his
clothes like some brazen tart. She could wish
it
had been a disappointment. She could wish
it
had not felt so perfect and astonishing she would never be the
same. For then she could regret it and walk away laughing at them both. She
could not laugh now.

He reached out and undid the work she’d just accomplished,
his hand brushing over her breasts, drawing a response from her body that was
alarming. She was embarrassed how much she wanted him again. Already. She could
not be natural.
This
could not be
natural.

She turned on her side. He turned her back to him and
climbed on top of her. He kissed her, his rough beard scraping her cheeks. The
weight of his body pressed her into the hay, which chafed and itched at her
backside. She was only distantly aware of it any more, because he was touching
her again and doing things to her body she was sure were illegal.

She willed herself not to throw herself into the wild fever
that had gripped her last time. She averted her head so that his kiss landed on
her ear. “I think we must stop,” she said.

He didn’t seem to hear her. He set about making love to her
ear.

“Cyril!” she hissed, reluctantly pushing him away.

“I told you, don’t call me that,” he murmured, tweaking one
of her breasts with his fingers.

She yelped in shock and renewed desire. Damn. He was good. “Get
off me, you oaf,” she cried, punching his shoulder.

He sat back on his heels and glared at her.

She blushed at the sight she must present, sprawled out
before him, tangled in her mangled clothes. She felt like a mound of quivering
jelly, all bulges and odd angles. She picked a piece of hay out of her mouth
and tried to shift her hips for some semblance of modesty. Though it was rather
too late for that, she supposed.

He held her legs in place, his glare fading, his molten
glance pouring over her body, lingering on the one place she would have rather
he didn’t see at the moment. He seemed to be fascinated by it, and it was
titillating and mortifying all at once. What was so fascinating? Her hair was
red. He’d complained about it often enough to leave no doubt that he knew its
color. Did he expect it to be different on the rest of her? Blue, perhaps, or
striped?

She glanced down at his lap, though she probably should
have restrained herself. His breeches were halfway down his hips, and his … his
Male Part was as exposed as she was. It was bigger than she would have thought,
and at the moment, it seemed quite eager to further their acquaintance. A
bubble of pure heat sparked in her belly, and a shiver of apprehension went
through her. She didn’t see how he had fit the first time. She was certain he
would not fit again.

His hand splayed over her stomach, and his expression
softened, as if he had read her mind. A flush stained his cheeks, the bridge of
his nose. He rose on his knees and pulled his breeches up, fastening them, a
look of extreme discomfort flickering over his features.

To her embarrassment, he helped her legs back into her
trousers and pulled them up her body. She swatted his hands away and buttoned
them herself. She kicked him away and sat up, pulling her shirt around her. She
was shivering. He reached out to her, but she shied away, climbing onto
unsteady feet. He watched her tuck in her shirt and attempt to tame her hair
behind her ears.

“Oh, stop gawking at me,” she snapped. She wanted no
tenderness. She crouched down, retrieved his shirt and waistcoat, and hurled
them at his head.

He stood up, swaying slightly as if drunk, and began to
dress in silence. She resisted the urge to go to him and pick the hay out of
his disheveled hair. Instead, she slumped back down into the hay and buried her
face in her hands. She was aware of him moving about, of him kneeling down next
to her. He gathered a clump of her fallen hair in his hands and held on to it.

Her heart was breaking. “I’ll not be your whore,” she bit
out.

“No,” he agreed.

“This cannot happen again. This is utter madness.”

“
No
.” The fierceness
of his voice sent fire through her loins and rage and despair through her
heart. She had no idea what he meant, but she recognized that tone. She should
jump to the ground floor. She should do anything but let him take her again.

Which was what he intended, despite having taken the
trouble to have dressed. He gathered her up in his arms and kissed her until
her head swam, and before she knew it, she was in the hay again, tumbling about
with him, tugging at his clothes. She was mad. Completely cracked in the head
to give in to her desires.

He clutched at her breasts and nuzzled her neck, groaning,
kicking her legs apart. He ground his hips against hers, and she gasped and
pulled him closer. He was so warm and hard and big and overwhelming. He could
make her do anything, and the realization was terrifying. It was unfair that
she should love him yet he feel no more than this animal need for her.

And she
did
love
him. Stupid child that he was.

She would have ripped off his clothes again when she became
aware of footsteps beneath them and voices raised in alarm. Montford lifted his
head from her breast in a daze when he heard his name being called.