Mad About the Duke (22 page)

Elinor heard him groan, his body going taut for a second and then quickening, thrusting wildly into her. It was just the devilish cadence that took them both over the edge in a dizzy, wild burst of passion.

He continued to rock inside her, driving her release to continue, over and over, until she could only cling to him, hold him.

And as the waves began to reside, he pulled her close, kissing her forehead, murmuring soft, quiet
words in her ears, and stroking her body, as if memorizing every bit of their scandalous diversion.

Elinor flexed and stretched beneath him, smiling up into his stormy gaze. He grinned at her, sharing this moment, their moment. This soft descent from the heights they'd reached. An interlude that was theirs to hold in their hearts, and theirs alone.

Scandalous as it was, Elinor reached for him. Pulled him closer and kissed him anew.

If this was scandal, if this was ruinous, she only hoped he would ruin her once again.

And then again after that.

 

James dozed happily in the aftermath of their lovemaking. No, make that makings. What had it been—twice? Three times? Quite frankly, he'd lost count.

He'd never felt such a languor. It had crept into every part of his body. In his arms, Elinor drowsed as well, relaxed and sated, for she felt as if she were made of silk and velvet.

“Hmm,” he sighed as he nuzzled the nape of her neck. “And to conclude our tour of Colston,” he teased, “this is the nape of your neck.” He took a little nibble there and she laughed, swatting playfully at him.

“Do you give these tours often, sir?” she asked.

He rolled a bit, bringing her so she lay atop him, her hair spilling over her shoulders. It was on the tip of his tongue to make a teasing, light remark, but there was almost a hesitant note to her question, so he paused, reached up and gently brushed the stray strands of hair out of her face.

“No, never,” he told her.

She smiled and lay her head atop his chest. “I am glad of that, St. Maur.”

“James,” he told her.

Tipping her head up, she gazed at him. “Pardon?”

“Call me James,” he said. No one did so. He was always Your Grace, or Parkerton, but never James. Plain, ordinary James. But he had to imagine from her it would be anything but.

Biting her lip for a second, she smiled. “James,” she whispered before she lowered her head and kissed him anew. “And you must call me Elinor,” she said after a few minutes.

“Is that an order, my lady?”

She laughed. “Does it need to be?”

“You should know I don't take orders very well.”

“So I've noticed,” she teased back and then she shivered a bit, for the sun was starting to fall low on the horizon and its warmth was fleeing the Summer House.

“We should get dressed,” he said, rising reluctantly from the warmth of the settee.

“Is that an order?” she said, curling into one of its corners.

“No, but I daresay it is going to get cold very soon and I'd hate for you to catch your death or end up like your sister, confined to the parlor.”

She sighed and took her dress and shift, which he had sifted from their discarded clothes. “I believe Tia's ailments were a ruse so as to send us off alone,” Elinor said. “She fancies you.”

“And I her, for I very much approve of her methods.”

Elinor laughed. “You will make her incorrigible.”

“I believe, madame, she already is.” He'd gotten on his shirt and trousers and was helping Elinor lace
up her gown when across the garden he spotted a movement at the same moment her dogs set up a cacophony of barks and howling.

Fawley! His footman.

He let go of Elinor quickly, distancing himself from her, and hoping the man hadn't seen too much.

Demmit! Why did his servants have to be so efficient? Since Fawley had already been in the village, it had seemed quite a simple remedy to arrange for him to fetch them back home.

But in the bliss of the afternoon he'd nearly forgotten the man was due to arrive.

Then Elinor spotted Fawley as well. “Do you know him?”

“Yes,” he said. “I engaged him to bring around a carriage to take us back to London.”

“So soon?” she said, glancing back at James, her eyes once again giving off that come-hither fire that beckoned so temptingly.

“I fear so,” he said. “If we are to return before nightfall.”

“How terribly efficient of you, St. Maur,” she said, a tremble of something that sounded like regret in her voice.

Oh, yes, he knew that well. It was coiled up in his chest like a giant spring. And he didn't miss that she hadn't called him James.

She went over to the basket and began to pack up the last of the food and dishes. “Honestly, I hadn't thought of how we were going to get home.” She paused, then glanced up at him. “I suppose I wished this day wouldn't end.”

And what he should have said to her was something so simple, so perfect.

It needn't, my lady
.

But unfortunately, with Fawley looking on from across the garden, it wasn't so easy to confess the words that sat so deeply wedged in his heart.

To tell her he was the Duke of Parkerton and that he could make every day like this.

How could he? When plain old ordinary James St. Maur had already stolen the lady's heart.

 

Mrs. Oxton, Cantley and Winston sat in the kitchen awaiting the duke's return. Each had their own reason for being anxious.

“We should never have done it,” Mrs. Oxton said, sniffing at the tears that had been falling ever since the news had arrived that the duke's (well, Mad Jack's) curricle had been wrecked. They'd never meant for the wheel to fall completely off or to put the duke in danger, but unfortunately their handiwork had been too efficient.

Truly, if the duke's brother would just maintain some semblance of proper working carriages…

But far worse, there had been no word from the duke, or Fawley, other than news of the wreck, and Parkerton's loyal servants were suffering from their own guilt.

What had they done?

All they'd wanted to do was put a quick end to the duke's outing. Not to the duke himself!

But then, sometime after dark, the bells upstairs rang, signals from the maids who had been standing watch in nearly every available window.

The three of them scurried upstairs, while Richards came racing down from the duke's dressing chambers. He'd hidden away in His Grace's dressing
room, ironing the duke's cravats over and over “in this great time of crisis.”

Dutifully they lined up and waited for their master to come through the door, which he did, bounding in and whistling as he headed straight for the stairs.

He didn't spare a single glance at them but took the stairs two at a time and was gone in a flash, without so much as a question about supper, his schedule or whether his bath was drawn and waiting for him.

It was, but it didn't seem the duke cared.

Then the door opened again and this time Fawley came in. There was no whistling there, no happy steps, just his gaze planted in front of him and his boots falling in a leaden beat.

“What happened?” Cantley asked the footman the moment he was assured the duke was out of earshot. “Did the carriage—”

Cantley couldn't bring himself to say the whole of it.

“—crash like we'd hoped?”

“Oh, aye, it did,” Fawley said. “And he caught her like a regular whip. Saved her, he did.”

Mrs. Oxton sniffed. “Well of course he did. His father would have done the same.”

“Just never thought of Himself as—,” Fawley began. “Well, not like that.”

They all nodded. None of them would ever have suspected that their dull duke could be so…well, dashing and heroic.

“At least he's alive and unharmed,” Winston said, breathing a sigh of relief.

“Oh, he's alive alright,” Fawley said with a huffy smirk.

Mrs. Oxton's sharp ears caught the hint right off. “What do you mean by that?”

“When I came to fetch him like he'd asked, I found him and her—” Fawley shook his head.

“Found them what?” Richards asked, oblivious to what the others already suspected.

“Oh, saints above,” Mrs. Oxton gasped. No one needed to spell out to her why the man was whistling like a May-smitten rogue.

Fawley's brows rose. “You know…they'd been…”

Richards paled and muttered something about finding more cravats to iron.

“We're done for,” Mrs. Oxton said with a loud sniff before she once again retreated into Mr. Cantley's open arms. “I'm too old for a new mistress in this house.”

“She hasn't arrived yet,” Cantley vowed, glancing up the stairs after his madcap employer.

T
ia, are you coming along or not?” Elinor called up the stairwell.

There was a long sigh, and finally an “If I must,” as she padded down the stairs and came to a stop next to the vase of hothouse roses the Duke of Longford had sent over.

“You must. These dogs need to be walked, and I prefer you come along with me.”

Since she'd lost sight of her sister at the market, Elinor had kept Tia close at hand.

Lord Lewis's threats—including the note that had arrived this very morning—only added to Elinor's fears that the man would steal the girl away and marry her off to some aging roué to settle some wretched debt of his.

No, her sister deserved the sort of happy, passionate marriage that came from finding one's heart and soul.

And what about you? Why shouldn't you wake up each morning to Mr. St. Maur's kiss?

Elinor's fingers went to her lips, as they did every time she thought of those incredible, scandalous hours in his arms. Of his lips covering hers, how he'd claimed her, tasted her, brought her to life.

Around her feet, her dogs shuffled and tugged at their leads. They were anxious to be off, just as much as she was anxious to hear from him.

From St. Maur.

There hadn't been a single note from the man, and here it was Friday already. Nary a word from him since their trip into the country three days earlier.

Since they'd made love.

Was he dismayed by her wanton behavior? Repulsed at a lady who all but threw herself into his arms?

“Do I have to go?” Tia asked. “Minerva promised to show me how to knit the lace pattern she used in her shawl.”

“Yes, you do have to go,” Elinor told her, tugging at her own gloves and flitting a glance at the dogs to make sure they were all still in the foyer. “I can't keep all three contained on my own.”

Bastion had a terrible habit of bolting off whenever she turned a blind eye to him, despite the fact that right now he sat obediently at the hem of her walking dress, his narrow greyhound face turned up to her, politely waiting for the word to proceed.

“I don't know why you insist on keeping all of them,” Tia said.

“They were Maman's dogs,” Elinor reminded her. “You know they would have been turned out in the streets after she died if I hadn't taken them in.”

“Or worse,” Tia said grudgingly. She took Bastion's lead and reached over to scratch behind his ears. “Good boy, Bastion.” The dog tipped his head and looked as if he were smiling.

“Come now,” Elinor announced, and the dogs all came to attention with yips and happy barks. Tightening her grasp on the other two leads she held, she flung open the door, only to find Mr. St. Maur standing there with his hand in midair reaching for the bell.

“Mr. St. Maur!” she exclaimed in surprise.

“Lady Standon,” he said, bowing low. “And most excellent. You are right on time.”

Elinor took a step back. “On time? For what?”

“Our walk,” he said, reaching out and taking the leads from her. “As I said in my note.”

“What note?” she sputtered. Good heavens, she was in no state for an outing with him. She had on her old pelisse and a barely presentable gown. It being so early in the day, she knew the park would be mostly deserted.

“The note I sent around Wednesday morning. I think I am going to have to start delivering these myself,” he said with a grin. “No matter, for it said that I would be calling on you this morning for a walk in the park. And it appears, most fortuitously, that you are ready.”

From behind her, Tia, ever the traitor, shoved Bastion's lead into her fingers and all but pushed Elinor out the front door and onto the steps. “Most fortuitous indeed, Mr. St. Maur. Now I can go find Minerva.” Then the girl closed the heavy door, leaving Elinor with nothing left to do but to take Mr. St. Maur's outstretched arm and follow him down the steps.

Oh, gracious heavens! It had seemed so natural to be in his arms in the Summer House. But now…she glanced over at him and spied something odd in his hand that she hadn't noticed before.

“Is that a kite?”

“Yes.” His answer implied that everyone in London strolled about with one.

“Whatever for?”

“Why, to fly in the park, my lady,” he said, winking at her. “What else?”

Elinor opened her mouth to say something, but she couldn't find anything to say. Well, certainly not the first thing that came to mind.

Sir, have you gone mad?

Then again, she knew he was utterly mad. And she supposed that was why she had…had…oh, bother, fallen in love with him.

Which made about as much sense as this outing to the park.

Glancing down at her gloved hand sitting atop his sleeve, she did her best not to curl her fingers into the wool of his jacket, did her best to ignore the way her skirt brushed against his leg.

For that was a path to another sort of madness.

As it was, her distracted thoughts came to an end when Brook Street intersected with the thick traffic moving around Grosvenor Square, for the dogs were all a tangled mess.

“Oh, this will never do,” Elinor said, reaching out and taking the leads from his grasp. Deftly, she straightened them out and handed him the leads for Ivo and Bastion, the two greyhounds, while she kept hold of Fagus, the little terrier. “Now we will have some order,” she told them.

The greyhounds looked grateful, while Fagus gave a happy wag, as if he was conceding for now.

Elinor knew better.

“Well done,” Mr. St. Maur said. “As I recall, that
one is the troublemaker.” He nodded to Fagus, whose lead she had clenched in her hand.

“Yes, Fagus. He likes nothing more than darting between the other dogs until the poor greyhounds are completely befuddled.”

The dog glanced over his shoulder as if he knew of his faults and found them quite charming.

“Would you like me to take him?” Mr. St. Maur offered. “I have a lifetime of experience with troublemakers.”

Elinor stopped herself from asking the first question that sprang to her lips.
Am I one of them?

Instead, she shook her head. “No, I am quite used to his tricks.”

Taking one of the paths that bisected the giant green, they continued on, the dogs happily leading the way.

Elinor had never been walking with a man before, for Edward had abhorred such practices as beneath him, and there had never been any other gentleman to ask her.

Now here was James, having sent a note around and inviting her for a walk in the park. Certainly he could have made his report in the parlor and left.

Or kissed her again…

Yet here they were strolling along in such a public setting.

Then a wry thought occurred to her. Had he chosen this venue so as to avoid another
private
meeting?

She slanted a glance at him and found him digging in his coat and drawing out a watch.

“Nearly half past,” he mused. “We should be right on time.”

Elinor stared for a moment at the watch in his
hand, for it was too fine a piece for a mere solicitor, or a man of business, or whatever profession St. Maur claimed.

Perhaps a gift from a grateful client. Perhaps even a female one. Elinor did her best to tamp down the stab of jealousy cutting through her. Yet it was an expensive timepiece, so who could have given it to him?

Before she could puzzle it out, his entire statement registered.
“We should be right on time.”

On time for what?

“The dogs are a nice touch,” he noted.

“Excuse me?” Elinor had the growing sense of panic that there was more to the outing than just a walk in the park.

“The dogs,” he said, nodding down at the trio before them. “I suspect Avenbury will be overjoyed to see them.”

Elinor pulled to a stop. Truly, she couldn't have heard him correctly. Yet the cold pit in her stomach begged to differ. “Avenbury?” she managed to get out.

“Yes, Avenbury,” he said. Then the realization must have hit him. “Oh, yes, that's right. You didn't get my note.”

“No, I didn't,” she stammered.

“Then you don't know,” he said as he paused and looked up ahead to the wide lawn before them.

“Know what?” she asked, following his glance, but nothing up ahead appeared out of the ordinary, just the usual assortment of nannies, tutors, and their charges taking their requisite morning ramble.

“Oh, how demmed disconcerting for you not to know,” he complained, glancing back the way they had come. Any direction other than directly at her.

“Not to know what?” she nearly shouted at him.

“We are meeting Avenbury.”

“Avenbury?” Elinor said weakly, her knees wobbling.

“Yes.”

Good heavens, he needn't sound so nonchalant, like they were taking tea with some maiden aunt of his.

She shook her head and glanced around them. “Here? Right now? In the park?”

“Yes, I do believe he's—”

Elinor reached over, snatched Ivo and Bastion's leads out of his grasp, and started back in the direction from which they'd come.

Fleeing
would have been more accurate.

“Where are you going?” he said as he came after her.

She whirled around on him. “Home!”

“But we are to meet His Grace.”

“You may meet him, but I cannot.” She went to make her escape, but he caught her by the arm and held her fast.

“Why not? You asked me to arrange—”

“Yes, arrange a meeting, but not like this. I am not fit to meet the Duke of Avenbury.” She shook off his grasp. “In this gown? This bonnet? Why, these boots are barely presentable! I look a fright.”

St. Maur reached out, took her by the shoulders and held her fast. His hands were warm and strong, even through her pelisse, and they stilled the panic rattling through her. He gazed at her, from the top of her third-best bonnet right down to her barely presentable boots.

And then he smiled, the sort of warm, appreciative gaze that says a man likes what he sees.

“You look perfectly delightful to me.” He reached out and tucked a stray strand of her hair back under her bonnet.

Then he leaned forward and kissed her softly on the forehead. “Avenbury will find you as presentable as I do.”

“St. Maur, you don't know what you are saying. He's a duke. His expectations are far above—”

“Ssh,” he soothed, stroking her cheek and gazing into her eyes. “You would look lovely in sackcloth.”

“Hardly,” she told him, trying to look away, trying not to move closer, move into his arms.

“Better sackcloth than that gown you bought Sunday. I can assure you, Avenbury would never approve.”

“Avenbury or you?” she shot back.

“Both, I imagine,” he told her with all the conviction of a newly minted vicar. “You would age him beyond his years if you turned up in his presence wearing that dress.”

She shook her head, then slipped from his grasp yet again.

“I cannot do this,” she said over her shoulder, towing the dogs along. “Not like this.”

She heard his aggrieved huff, and then his boots as he pounded after her.

“Not like what?” he said, matching her hurried strides.

Elinor came to a stop. “Without being prepared. Without knowing what to expect.”

“You can expect to meet the man you asked me to introduce to you.”

“Yes, I know I asked you to do that, but I also asked you to discover what he is like. I cannot meet him without knowing some particulars.”

Yes, St. Maur. Tell me all about him. Please tell me he is exactly like you in every way.

But even if he was, he wouldn't be the man before her.

Not in the ways that mattered.

Elinor came to a stop. “Tell me about him, St. Maur,” she pleaded. “What sort of man is he?”

He took his hat off for a moment and ran his hand impatiently through his dark hair before slamming his hat back on his head. St. Maur looked utterly exasperated with her.

Why didn't men understand why these things were so important?

“If you insist,” he said.

“I do.”

He sighed. “But we must be on time.”

“Yes, yes, but there is much I must know first.”

“What do you want to know?”

Elinor bit her lip for a moment. “What does he look like?”

He huffed a bit and then said, “Fair-headed, even features.”

She nodded and waved her hand for him to continue.

“Oh, yes, when I met him, he was reading
The Odyssey
. Apparently he's currently doing a protracted study of the classics. You should approve of that choice,” he said with a smirk.

Elinor ignored his barb about her costume at the Setchfield ball. She hadn't heard him complaining that night. “A scholar?”

“Of a sort, yes.”

To her ears, it sounded like St. Maur was hedging. Not telling her the complete truth. “Really?”

“Yes, indeed,” he said, looking affronted to have
his report questioned. “Why, he spoke of using this morning's time in the park to…to…to study wind currents.”

Elinor paused and looked back in the direction in which they'd been heading before.

Better a scholar than a drunken sot who preferred the company of his equally top-heavy companions and the young Court-cards who happened to catch his eye.

Elinor reached over and caught hold of St. Maur's sleeve, clinging to it. “Is he kind?”

“Kind?” St. Maur's brow furrowed as if he didn't understand the question.

“Yes, kind,” she repeated and then elaborated by saying, “Good to his servants, generous with his people.
Kind
.”

She would have added to that,
Will he be good to me? Protect me? More importantly, protect my sister?