Outwitting the Duke Page 7

  “Miss Paxton,” he answered with a tinge of distaste.

  “Miss Paxton?” Her own aversion rang loud. “But she is already betrothed!”

  “So I gathered, yet she keeps showing up like a bad penny.” He maneuvered his team through the gates to the park.

  “I’d heard that the Earl of Ardman had gone to his estates.”

  “Well, I wish he would come back and take the girl in hand,” Hart grumbled. “I’m at Grillon’s and I swear, she dines there more than I do. She’s growing bold too, hinting that a betrothal is but a promise that may yet be broken.”

  Anger and protectiveness surged in her breast. That sneaky cat. She would not sink her claws into Hart. “It’s one thing for her to disparage me,” she said, furious. “But I will not allow her to pester you.”

  “Disparage you?” he asked.

  Emily rolled her eyes. “She is behind fully half of the rumors that circulate about me—definitely the ones that say I am too coarse to be your Countess.”

  Now Hart was riled. “That is ridiculous,” he began.

  But they had turned onto Rotten Row and the crowds descended. The phaeton was besieged with friends of his and acquaintances of hers, all wishing to exchange a few polite words. They barely moved for nearly thirty minutes, and through it all, Emily’s brain was churning. The sparkle of the Serpentine caught her eye through the trees—and inspiration struck.

  “Hart,” she said suddenly. “Would you walk with me along the water?”

  “If you wish.” He hesitated. “But my tiger will not be able to follow along.”

  She laughed. “That, my lord, is the idea.”

  He assisted her to the ground and they strolled off, leaving the throng behind. Very deliberately she leaned into him as they walked. Determination coursed through her. Moving casually, she turned to smile at him, but aimed herself so that she could see behind.

  Yes. As expected, a few people had followed their example. And Miss Paxton, dragging her maid along by the elbow, was one of them.

  Perfect.

  And it would be perfect, were their circumstances different. He felt so warm and solid beside her. Safe was not a feeling she’d experienced much since her papa died, but walking next to him, she felt . . . protected. As if nothing could go wrong.

  Except everything could go very wrong, if she did not take care. And if she did not keep Miss Paxton from becoming an even greater pest.

  She sighed.

  “You know, there was one other reason I wanted some freedom this Season,” he said, “in addition to the ones we’ve already discussed.”

  “Oh?” She glanced back again to make sure their followers were still coming.

  “Yes. I’d hoped to have a chance to look around at the young women at my leisure. You know, without worrying that a dance would be willfully mistaken for a proposal.”

  She swallowed. “And have you? Looked around at the young women? And found one you might not mind pursuing further than a dance?”

  “I believe I may have,” he said softly.

  She tossed her head. “But you don’t know?” It came out a bit scornfully.

  “I don’t know,” he agreed easily. “But I find I don’t know anything like I thought I did. For instance, I know the birds are singing. I know the breeze is rustling the leaves in the trees, but all I feel is your arm in mine and all I hear is the beat of my heart and the slide of silk over your skin.”

  She stopped and looked up at him.

  And there it was. Potential. Pull. Energy and almost a living temptation dancing between them—openly acknowledged at last.

  How she wished this was a real fork in the road. A place where she could choose to chase potential, chase him. But she hadn’t been born the lady he needed, and she wouldn’t allow herself to fill any other role in his life.

  So she breathed deeply, experienced fully the beauty of this moment—and then pulled it to a halt.

  “Very pretty, Hart, but save it for when we have an audience.”

  His expression stilled. She took the opportunity to steer him toward several stands of trees off to the left. He went along, but looked down at her with a very real question in his eyes. “What is it that we are doing, Emily?”

  She straightened her spine. “I’m showing Miss Paxton that I keep my promises.”

  She pulled him behind a tree and he went willingly. She positioned him so that his back was against a hickory and she was facing back the way they’d come. She edged an eye out, saw Miss Paxton hurrying in their direction, and ducked back.

  “What are you doing now?” Hart asked. He hadn’t let her avoidance upset him. In fact, he now looked amused.

  “I’m judging the best timing of the thing.”

  “This is a new side of you, Emily. Very martial.”

  “Yes, well, I’m the general in the campaign for your freedom, am I not?” She clutched his arms. “Wait. Wait. A moment longer. Now!”

  Stepping close, she pulled him down and kissed him.

  Hart stiffened. Then he put his hand on her waist and she jumped at the jolt that darted through her at the contact.

  “You started it,” he murmured.

  And then his lips touched hers again. And she was gone. Lost in a sweet, sharp ache that only grew as his arms slipped around her to gather her close. His mouth teased her, tempted her, coaxed with a questing tongue and she answered, melting against him as he seared her, claimed her with the heat of his kiss.

  Good heavens. They were molded together, her breasts pressing against his coat, his hands moving over her, across the small of her back, and over the curve of her hips. Fire flared between them. Her hands crept upward, clutched those broad shoulders close for one more long, delicious moment—then she pushed away.

  She stared into his dark eyes for the space of one heartbeat, two, then glanced over towards the water. Miss Paxton and her maid had moved away and joined the group of others at the shore.

  “There,” she said in a shaky voice. “We showed her, didn’t we?”

  Chapter 6

  Hart was in trouble. He’d hired Emily so that he could take his mind off of marriage-minded misses and concentrate on his work. Instead, as each day passed, he grew more and more focused on his faux fiancé—and it had only grown worse since that kiss in the park.

  He’d never met a woman like her. She was down to earth, kind, practical, a curvy goddess. Yet at the same time she was quick and witty and somehow fit seamlessly into her role as a Young Society Miss. And she felt protective toward him. Toward him. The novelty of it amused him almost as much as the sweetness of it touched him.

  Strangely, since all he’d wanted was to avoid the girls who longed to become mistress of Hartsworth, he kept thinking that he’d like to show it to Emily.

  He felt sure that she would love the Great Hall, with the galleries and the fireplace big enough to roast an ox. He could clearly see her rejoicing in the summer roses in the enclosed garden. Her practical side would be as aghast as his at the price of those custom windows, surely. But would she believe in the family ghosts? And would his great-great-grandmother visit her, as she did every time a new heir to Hartsworth was conceived?

  Oh, Lord. He was in so much trouble.

  Since he was currently unable to focus on the never-ending debate over the Corn Laws, he took himself off to White’s. He still needed to track down Peter Grant.

  He found his friend this time, poring over the papers in the Morning Room. Hart took a seat next to him, called a porter to bring a bottle of brandy, and poured two drinks.

  “A drink is the least I owe you, since I missed that lecture we planned to attend—and since I’d like to hear what you took away from it,” he said with a grin.

  “I should thank you for turning me onto it,” Peter said, raising his glass. “I’ll put what I learned to use at my mother’s estate in Yorkshire.”

  They talked of grain strains and planting techniques for the better part of the bottle, before Pe
ter claimed prior plans and left him. Hart drank on, and when a pack of Town bucks came by, offering a night of drinking and gaming, he threw his hands up and went along.

  He had sense enough to know that he’d already done too much of the former to be any good at the latter, so he continued the evening as he’d started, contenting himself with watered-down whisky and a role as cheerleader at the E.O. wheel.

  Even watered whisky has an effect, though, especially after half a bottle of brandy, and it was still early when he realized that he was properly soused—as far below the mahogany as he’d been since his school days.

  Intent on heading home, he got to his feet, only to stumble before he’d gone a couple of steps.

  One of his friends caught him. “Whoa! Easy now, Hartford. Where are you heading?”

  “Home,” he mumbled. “Need to sleep it off.”

  “Hold on a moment. You’re in no shape to get there on your own. Ho, Hamilton!” the young man summoned another one of the group. “We can stop off at Portman Square on the way to the hell, can we not?”

  Hamilton tossed a sour look over Hart. “Aye. If he’s not going to gamble, then we might as well drop him off before he starts to puke. Come on lads,” he called. “We’re off!”

  The crowded hackney ride was naught but a blur. Hart only knew it was over when he found himself standing on the pavement before his house, listening to the whoops and hollers of the others fade as the hack moved on.

  He stumbled to the door and stood frowning at it. Why did it not open?

  “Wait.” Only then did he realize his friends had dropped him at Herrington House. “I’m not staying here.”

  He turned to catch them, but the coach had already rounded the corner.

  He turned back and blinked stupidly at the door—and thought longingly of his bed upstairs, so much closer than Grillon’s.

  He shouldn’t. Even in his cups he knew it was a bad idea. But the world was spinning and if it didn’t stop he was going to cast up his accounts on the stoop. Spreading his arms, he leaned against the door to steady it—or himself. Either would do.

  He misjudged the distance, though, and thunked his temple on the wood.

  “Ow.” It was all he got out before the world shifted—or the door opened. Same difference. He stumbled into his entry hall and onto his knees. The trip was more than his addled brain could take, and he groaned and sunk the rest of the way down.

  “My lord?” It was Williams. “Are you all right?”

  Instead of answering, Hart rolled over and blinked up at him.

  “We weren’t expecting you,” the footman fretted. “The ladies decided on an evening in tonight and everyone is abed.”

  “Don’t wake them.” Oh, Lord, had he shouted that? “Wrong house. Don’t worry. I’m leaving.”

  Williams pushed and pulled and managed to get him upright. “Perhaps you’d better rest here tonight, sir.” He struggled to catch his breath and prop Hart up at the same time.

  “Yes! Just a rest.” He hoped that came out in a whisper. “Just a moment to stop the spin and then I’ll move on.”

  “Shall I help you upstairs, sir?”

  Hart snorted. “No, for then I’ll have to navigate my way back down and no one wants that.”

  “No, sir.” Williams shook his head vigorously.

  “I’m not staying. Just get me to a chair for a few moments.”

  He leaned heavily on the man and in moments the parlor sofa loomed comfortingly ahead. “Ah. Just the thing. Good man.” He stretched out and closed his eyes.

  “Just for a moment . . .” he murmured.

  How decadent she had become. Past midnight and she could not sleep because she’d become used to late nights.

  Her stomach growled. And late suppers.

  She hadn’t wished to stay in tonight. She hadn’t wanted to have any quiet time in which to reflect on that kiss. But the countess had pleaded a headache and here she was, with plenty of time to think of Hart’s sweet words, the electric shock of his hands at her back and the wicked temptation of his mouth on hers. She thought of the incredible breadth of his shoulders and the unyielding strength of his body pressed against her. She imagined it happening again. Imagined a lifetime of such kisses—and she wanted to cry.

  But she would not.

  She was having a magical, once-in-a-lifetime-Season. She was helping a worthy man. She was being paid handsomely for it, which would enable her to make her mother’s life comfortable once more.

  She refused to cry.

  Her stomach rumbled again and she decided to eat something instead. Cook had made a huge batch of that delicious baked rice with truffles. Surely there was some left in the kitchens?

  No need to wake anyone. She went down the back stairs, rummaged around and helped herself. Once she was pleasantly full, but still not sleepy, she decided to wander to the study in search of a novel.

  She was reaching for the knob on the study door when a sudden, snorting snore came out of the darkness. It repeated, then settled into a steady rhythm.

  She froze.

  A servant, asleep at his station? Most likely. Still, she whirled, intending to retreat to her room, and ran straight into an occasional table with her shin. She swore under her breath and dropped her candle.

  And with another snort, the snoring abruptly stopped.

  Something woke him.

  A thunk? A crash? A gasp?

  He hardly knew—but he was happy to wake to clarity. The alcoholic fog had lifted. He felt remarkably alert—as if his life had suddenly snapped into focus.

  And his focus was on Emily. On her loyalty, her sweet, protective nature. On how she saw people so clearly. On how her generous mouth felt under his and those voluptuous curves felt pressed to his chest.

  It wasn’t enough. He wanted more. All of her, to be his now and forever. It was utterly apparent—they were meant to be together.

  If only he hadn’t painstakingly created the situation that made it impossible.

  Another thunk and a whispered curse had him turning his head. A faint glow shone from the hall.

  It would be her. Down here. With him. Of course it would.

  The universe and the heavens and fate—they were all trying to tell him something. He would listen—especially as it was so ardently what he wanted to hear.

  She was fiddling with her candle outside the study. “Oh, it’s you.” It wasn’t relief in her tone.

  Good.

  “I meant to fetch a candle . . . I mean, a book. A novel to help me sleep.”

  Her hair was down. Just like in his fantasies. She had it loosely gathered into a thick, ebony braid that snaked over her shoulder and pointed the way down to her glorious bosom. “Which one?” he asked.

  “I . . . uh . . .” The candle finally straight, she glanced up at him. She seemed nervous.

  Good.

  “Which book? If you could have your choice?” he clarified.

  “Oh. Ah, Ivanhoe, I guess.”

  “A good choice.”

  “Young James reminded me of how much I enjoyed Lady of the Lake . . .” her words trailed away and her chin lifted. “I had to sell my books when my father’s business failed.” She bit the words out. “The strain of it killed him and my mother and I have had no money for such things since. The few books I’ve read in the last years have only come by the kindness of Mr. Finch, a fence who gives me first crack at the volumes pawned in his shop.”

  She was trying to emphasize the differences between them. Hart shook his head. He only admired her more. “I don’t have a copy of Ivanhoe in Town. Only stodgy history and agriculture here. All of my novels are in the library at home.”

  “Oh.” She turned away. “Goodnight, then.”

  He grasped her arm to keep her from going. Pulling her back, he took the candle from her, set it on the table and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Her head tipped back—and there was no resisting her. He let his fingers drift up to caress her jaw, then he brushed her
mouth with his, and lingered.

  With a small sound of surrender, she kissed him back. His hands drifted, caressing her neck and shoulders before traveling down the curve of her back and pulling her closer.

  The kiss deepened. Desire built steadily, stirring up a flaring sense of want. Need.

  Her hands slipped under his coat, burrowed further beneath his waistcoat. The feather-soft touch, so brave and shy at once, made him wild. He buried his face in her neck and breathed her in.

  “Hartsworth is an estate,” he said thickly.

  “What?” Her back had arched and she made a lovely offering, just waiting for the guidance of his touch—and his lips and his teeth.

  No. Not yet. But she would be his.

  He lifted his head and gazed into her eyes. “It’s my estate. Not a jeweled crown. A castle, really—given to one of my ancestors—a knight who defeated a dastardly villain and won a beautiful bride.”

  “Oh.” She sounded dazed. And like she didn’t much care.

  “Every age has seen a famous love story at Hartsworth. Before this is over, I’m going to take you there,” he vowed. “I’ll tell you all the stories. I’ll show you everything. All the things that I love. All the eccentricities and the extravagances that drive me mad. I think you’ll love it as much as I do.”

  He kissed her again—hard, demanding and quick. Then he smiled down into her wondering face, brushed her cheek, whirled on his heel and left.

  Chapter 7

  He was not living in her pocket, still, but Hart had begun to show her a good deal of consideration. He sent her a huge bouquet of glorious pink roses and a note saying no other flower could do justice to her hair and eyes. He took her driving twice more. He still did not partake of many of the Season’s entertainments, but he visited her box at the theatre during intermission and he showed up to walk through the Egyptian Gallery of the British Museum during her visit there with the Carmichaels.

  “Is Hartsworth really so lovely an estate?” she asked the Countess at breakfast one morning. “I can’t see that it could be so impressive as to make the young ladies act so foolishly—not when Hart himself is about.”