Desperate Duchesses (18 page)

It didn’t quite hit the sapling, but it went further than any of Damon’s.

“How in the hel did you know how to do that?” he said, a gratifying shock in his voice.

“Your sister may be the best chess player in two countries,” she said, pul ing off her soiled gloves, “but I shal claim the title of best cowpat thrower.”

“It’s yours. So where did you do your training, Lady Roberta?”

“No training,” she said, grinning at him. “Just the ability to assess the mistakes of those who went before me.”

“Piss on that,” Damon said, finding a disc-shaped cowpat for himself. Of course, when he tried the spinning method it went past the buoy. “Stil , you were there first,” he said, very fairly. “I think that’s cleared a spot for a rug; what you do think?”

“I think we should walk through the woods and see how Teddy is swimming.”

“You don’t want to lounge in the dappled shade with me and practice your kisses? I could quote some poetry and ply you with wine.”

“I’ve heard enough poetry in my life,” she said wryly.

“Ah, but this is—with excuses to your father—a different brand of poetry.
Come live with me, and be my love
,” he said, with exaggerated emphasis.
“You will be my buttercup and I will be your
—
your
—
parsnip.”

“I don’t want to be your love,” Roberta said, giggling.

“You could give it a try.” He put an arm around her waist and before she knew it she had her back against an old apple tree. His mouth looked very delectable, but—

“Are you real y trying to seduce me?”

“Of course,” he said, leaning over to brush his mouth against hers.

“You smel a little bit like a cowpat,” she said.

“I could say the same to you.”

“Don’t. I prefer to think of myself as perfumed.”

“I prefer to think of you as naked,” he said, his voice a husky murmur against the sound of birds singing.

She let him kiss her. Why not? He was a rogue, but such an enjoyable one. She relaxed against him, letting him slip into her mouth, start a game that made her heart pound. He had his hair tied back, so she pul ed on the ribbon until al that loose silk fel into her hands, the way it had the previous night.

He was kissing her with a breathless intensity now, his mouth slanting over hers, invading her, retreating. His lips were hot and beautiful y ful . She licked his lower lip and he let out a little noise, like a muffled groan.

It was so odd that she pul ed back to stare at him.

That was a bad idea because Damon seemed to have shed his friendly exterior. He snatched her back so quickly she lost her breath, and kissed her hard, so her knees buckled. He had her against the tree trunk, and she could feel every hard curve of his body.

“Don’t push at me,” she gasped. “This tree has bumps on it.”

“We can lie down.”

“No.”

“Then I’l have to protect you from those evil bumps,” he said, sliding his hand over the curve of her bottom and pul ing her against his body. He had bumps of his own, and her body welcomed each of them with feverish delight.

It made her feel weak and sil y, capable of col apsing against him and squealing,
take me,
or something foolish of that nature. That dim suggestion was just enough to bring her thoughts together.

She pul ed back and this time he let her go, bracing his arms on the tree on either side of her. Kissing made her feel delicate and fragile, al those things she wasn’t and never could be.

“Are you trying to seduce me?” he demanded. “Because, damn it, Roberta, you’re about as close to success as I’ve ever come with a marriageable young woman.”

“No, I’m not,” she said, pushing his arms away. He had no reason to look quite so shocked at the idea that she might be seductive. “You know I’m not.”

He straightened. “Because you’re in love with Vil iers, right?”

“Among other reasons,” she said, straightening her skirts.

He stil sounded a little stunned. “If you weren’t in love, you stil wouldn’t want to seduce me?”

Roberta looked up at him. He had a look of utter disbelief on his face. He stood there, muscled and lean in his white shirt, his hair tousled by her hands, and his eyes narrowed. She started laughing.

“I’l kiss you silent,” he threatened.

So she sobered. “It’s just that—wel , you
will
fal in love someday, Damon, and then you’l see what I mean. You’re awful y handsome and very sweet, funny and al the rest of it. Just not for me.”

“Sweet and funny?” He ran a hand through his hair and it looked even wilder. “Damn it, what happened to my ribbon?”

She picked it up and watched as he pul ed his hair back and tied it off his face. The style suited him; it made his cheekbones even more prominent.

“Haven’t you ever been in love?” she asked.

“Of course I have,” he said, smirking at her. “Many a time.”

“No, real y in love.”

He pul ed on his waistcoat. “Of course I have been, you wench. The first time was a lass named Susan, and I’l have you know she was lovely.”

“Someone from the vil age?” she guessed, thinking of him as a young lad with a buxom barmaid.

“Lord Kendrick’s daughter,” he said, pul ing on his coat. “Married a squire and lives in the country.”

“Real y? And did she love you back?”

“Oh, she did.”

“Wel , then—”

“For at least a week. She sent me a letter drenched in scent. Which brought us to a tragic close, because our butler informed my father that I was receiving mail from a lady, and he cut off our friendship.”

“Goodness. He didn’t want you to marry your Susan?”

He grinned at her. “I was fourteen. And he’d arranged my marriage already, though the poor lass died before we got to the point.”

“How old was Susan?”

“An ancient woman of seventeen.”

“Quite precocious on your part.”

“I shal watch Teddy like a hawk. Speaking of which…”

They walked across the buttercups to a smal grove of spindly trees. They were about half way through when Damon said suddenly, “You never told me why you wouldn’t wish to seduce me if Vil iers wasn’t in the picture.”

“Because I intend to marry. And unlike Susan I have enough sense to see that you are not the husband for me.”

“I’m not fourteen any longer. I have a title. Why would I be ineligible?”

For some reason she felt like reassuring him, even though it was obviously al a jest. “You’re very good looking. And very skil ed at kissing.”

He grinned down at her. “Thanks for those words of praise. But?”

She shrugged. “You don’t want to marry me; you explain it.”

“I’m a man. No good at explaining things.”

“The moment I saw Vil iers, I
knew
he was perfect for me.”

“Because he’s an old stick who wil never embarrass you?”

“I like you hugely, Damon. You can tel that I do. But I feel as if you are a family member, a cousin.”

“If you were real y my cousin I wouldn’t be kissing you under an apple tree.”

“It’s just that it’s al easy with you. And funny.” She stopped, hands on her hips. “Do you real y think that you’l find yourself having a cowpat throwing contest with your bride?”

He raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“Absolutely not. When you fal in love, your heart wil pound so much that you won’t be able to throw a mouse, let alone a cowpat.”

“I don’t think I could throw a mouse now. I dislike the idea of scrabbling little feet in my palm. Unless they were yours, of course.”

“That’s just what I mean. You wouldn’t be so sil y if I were the right person for you. You’d be too afraid to do or say the wrong thing.”

“Whereas with you I don’t give a damn?”

“That is my distinct impression,” she said, walking a little faster because there was sunlight just a few trees away.

“Wel , in that case,” he said, and a moment later she was spun around against a tree again and he was kissing her. Hard.

When Damon kissed, there was nothing cousinly or funny or sweet about him.

At first she struggled a bit; had he no concern for the fact that she was marrying another?

But Damon was the sort of kisser who claimed mastery. Lord of his realm, etc. There was no fighting him when he—

She lost the thought. His fingers were warm on her back and his touch was singing through her dress.

Plus he was pushing against her again. Dimly, she realized that pushing was definitely part of male strategy. Mating strategy, one had to assume.

Fine.

She liked it.

She wiggled a bit in response, and then noticed that his breathing got a little ragged, and she thought,
aha,
and did it again.

The trouble with Jemma’s too-tight gowns was immediately clear when Damon wrapped his hand around the part of her breasts that plumped above her bodice. The bodice promptly lost its moorings and took her corset with it, leaving her whole breast open to his caress.

Dimly, Roberta knew that this had to stop.

For some reason Damon was taken with the idea of kissing her, and acting as if he wanted to seduce her—al right, she was wil ing to admit that he
did
want to seduce her. But he wasn’t the man she was in love with.

She jerked away from him.

He made an odd little groaning sound, and then: “I was enjoying that.”

“Do you real y want to kiss a woman who’s thinking of another man?” she asked him, angry for some reason.

He froze for a second. “I suppose not. Particularly, I must admit, if you were thinking of Vil iers. Al that passion for chess.

Al that white hair. No, thank you. I like my hair as it is, and I find chess deadly boring. Don’t you?”

“I’ve never played.”

He shuddered. “My father made Jemma and myself play for hours and hours when we were children. Some pieces go one way and others go the other way. It’s al about the queen, which”—he grinned at her—“I found tedious and Jemma did not.”

“I shal learn to play.”

“No point. Vil iers wil find it monotonous to play you, since you’re a beginner. And he’s not the type to suffer fools gladly.”

“I shal think of ways to make it interesting for him,” she said obstinately.

He looked amused but said nothing. A tale one of her father’s courtesans had told her came to mind. “We’l play naked,”

she said.

He stopped short. “Roberta St. Giles!”

She dimpled at him. “Reeves breed true,” she said, and took off with a toss of her head. They walked through the spinney to discover that Teddy was swimming like the proverbial fish, and Mr. Cunningham had taken an unlucky spil into the water.

“Do you know what I found?” Teddy shouted. And he pranced out of the water, his little pizzle waving for al the world to see, uncurled his fingers and showed her his discovery.

“A treasure?” she asked. For a little boy, he was real y quite beautiful. He had his father’s tawny hair but his eyes were darker, and shot with amber specks.

His treasure was a piece of bottle glass, worn smooth.

“Hmmm,” she said.

“Do you think it’s beautiful?” he asked.

“Not particularly. Do you?”

“Yes, because”—he stuck a plump finger at the middle of it—“a star is there, just there. Do you see?”

Roberta leaned over and sure enough, in the very middle was a tiny, lopsided etching of a star. She thought about correcting his sentence structure and dismissed it. “That
is
beautiful,” she said.

When he smiled, one noticed that he was missing several teeth, which was a surprisingly attractive look. “I expect this piece of glass was owned by a smuggler,” he said. “That’s what I expect.”

“Where did the star come from?”

“That’s a mystery,” he said. And ran away.

W
hen Jemma took a bath, she invariably thought about chess. Once, six years ago, a Frenchman joined her in the bath and diverted her attention, but general y speaking, chess and the pleasures of warm water were intimately connected.

But this evening she couldn’t seem to focus. Of course, both games had just begun, and there was much to think about.

She had no idea what Vil iers would play next, since they both made conventional pawn openings. Nor could she say what Elijah would do, though she could presumably hypothesize based on the games they played in the past. Jemma remembered every game she had played, and if she paid some attention, she could visualize the chess pieces moving, as if the years hadn’t passed. Yet she and Elijah had played only three games, al in the first month of their marriage, before she discovered him tumbling his mistress.

She had won al three, but not easily. He played with a bril iant sense of forward strategy, but he was far more protective of his pieces than she was.

She played through one of their early games in her head and then leaned back with a sigh and wiggled her toes. She would beat him again. In al likelihood, he hadn’t picked up a piece for years. Unless his mistress played.

One had to wonder whether his mistress was stil
au courant
, as it were. Was her husband a man of loyalty? Did he have the pleasant, if foolish, habit of keeping to one mistress these many years, or had he moved on to a younger, fresher version of the same?

The thought made her feel sad—stupid emotion!—so she shook her head. “Brigitte, did you get a chance to speak to any of Vil iers’s footmen?”

Brigitte smiled the dimpled, triumphant smile of a Frenchwoman who eats English footmen for
son petit déjeuner
. “I have met a certain Joseph,” she said. “He is not terrible. Red-haired, which my
maman
always cal ed the mark of Cain. But not terrible. He is taking me to a certain gardens next week, where I wil ask him the correct questions.”

“You are bril iant,” Jemma said. “I do hope you enjoy your evening.”

“He has nice shoulders,” Brigitte said. “But here is a question. The butler, that ungraceful one by the name of Fowle—an abhorrent name—asked me to inform you that he has received several solicitations to disclose the state of your various chess games.”

“The games with Vil iers and my husband?”