My Fair Princess (17 page)

His hand came up to her chin, a leather-gloved finger gently turning her face to him. “You would fit in here very well. Even in London, if you gave it half a chance.”

Gillian stared up at him, trapped in a gaze as blue and endless as a summer sky. And just as warm. She had to swallow before she could answer. “Why do you even care?”

His gaze moved down to her mouth, then back up. “Because you deserve that people should care about you.”

No, no, no
.

No matter how handsome or good a man he was, or how sincere, she would not stumble again. He was a duke and she was . . . well, she knew exactly who and what she was.

She slid away from him to the stile that led into the field. “This is a very unusual sort of contraption,” she said brightly. “I don't think I've ever seen a stile like this before.”

“Yes, it is unusual,” he said in a husky voice.

She hadn't heard him move, but he was right behind her, caging her in between the stile and his big body.

“It's called a kissing gate,” he murmured in her ear. “Can you guess why?”

Chapter Fifteen

Gillian froze, the elegant line of her back as stiff as the fence post in front of her.

Charles cursed himself. He fully realized the danger she posed to his peace of mind. But this close to her, he could see the flush of emotion color the golden glow of her face, could smell the faint scent of jasmine drifting up from her glossy hair. It was madness, but he couldn't seem to step away. In fact, it took a mighty effort of will not to step closer, to press his inconvenient half erection against the pretty swell of her bottom.

What the hell was wrong with him?

Kissing Gillian was the worst idea he'd had in a long time. And now that the thought had taken hold, it seemed to be the
only
thing he wanted, as if every moment with her had been leading inexorably to this very point. But giving in to desire would lead to nothing but trouble for both of them, assuming he could even get that close before she slapped him. Or even stabbed him, knowing her.

He'd just worked up the will to step back when she slowly turned. She looked up at him, her extraordinary eyes as wide and startled as a fawn's. Through her slightly parted lips, he could hear the quick exhalation of her breath. That pink mouth and clear golden skin made him think of strawberries and honey. He wanted to taste her as much as he wanted to breathe. If he didn't move away, or if she didn't shove him away as she should, he would probably do just that.

Being Gillian, she did the opposite of what made sense. She seemed to sway a bit, closing the gap between them to a mere whisper of air.

“What an odd name.” Her voice held an exotic, enticing hint of sun-kissed, foreign lands. “Why is it called that?”

Charles propped one hand on the fence, caging her in. Her chest rose on a quick breath, brushing against him as lightly as an angel's touch. What a laughable notion. Gillian might be an innocent in all the ways that mattered, but she was hardly an angel.

His thoughts were certainly anything but high-minded and pure. And his body stirred in ways that had a great deal more to do with fire, brimstone, and sweet, dark sin.

Charles forced himself to answer. “Apparently, it's because only one person can pass through at a time. So if a man is taking a young lady out for a walk—”

“As we are right now,” she interrupted in a dreamy voice. Her eyes had gone heavy-lidded, and her mouth soft and tempting.

“Exactly,” he said hoarsely. “The gentleman passes through first, so he can hold the gate open. But if he has less than honorable intentions, he will hold the gate shut and demand a kiss before he lets her through.”

Her mouth curved up into a lush smile, pulling him in. “How devious of him.”

Almost unconsciously, he bent down to meet her. Her mouth grew softer, her eyes starting to drift shut.

Gillian let out a funny squeak and jerked away from him, bumping into the fence. Charles froze, caught between the desire to take what he wanted and an absolute sense of horror. She slid away from him in a hurry, practically stumbling over her own feet. Gillian was never awkward, at least not physically. He'd clearly rattled her.

“Perhaps it's because the arm automatically kisses the fixed part of the gate when it closes,” she said, shoving the gate open and passing through into the field. “What nonsense to develop a silly explanation for something that's perfectly sensible.”

If Gillian hadn't come to her senses, Charles would have kissed her and kept on kissing her until she melted in his arms. The girl had a great deal more self-control than he had, he was sorry to say.

Or perhaps she simply didn't want him to kiss her, which was a more discouraging thought than it should have been.

“You are no doubt correct,” he said in a brisk tone, following her through. She practically leapt away from him, as if to underline the point that she would not be extracting a toll for his passage. “There is no need to indulge in sentimental flights of fancy over a cattle gate.”

He had to admit that her eagerness to put distance between them was annoying. And that was demented, since he would no sooner marry a girl like Gillian than cut off his arm.

While her unfortunate parentage was a strike against her, it truly didn't bother him. Nor would it be an insurmountable impediment in a wife, although his mother and older sister would surely go into hysterics at the very idea. No, Gillian was unsuitable not due to her scandalous background but due to her scandalous behavior. She was trouble personified, and Charles had had enough trouble of the female persuasion to last him a lifetime. When he finally decided to relinquish his comfortable bachelor's existence, it would be for marriage to a mature woman who would never give him a moment's worry. Such a marriage would be rather like a well-made and dependable traveling coach, carrying them over the rough roads of life with an elegant and quiet sense of security.

His duchess would be the exact opposite of the girl who was standing before him, glowering at him as if he'd just offered her a carte blanche. Marriage to Gillian would be the equivalent of spending one's life dashing about in the highest of perch phaetons—exciting but dangerous, and ultimately more trouble than it was worth.

And still, he wanted to drag her into his arms and kiss her until she couldn't breathe.

“Are you making fun of me?” she demanded.

He frowned, caught by the suspicious tone in her voice and the wary, almost vulnerable expression on her face. It was the second time she'd asked him a question of that nature, which suggested she had a particular fear of mockery. She'd deny it, and claim that she didn't care one whit for what society thought of her. But Charles suspected that she cared more about the opinion of others than she wanted to admit.

And who could blame her? She'd spent a lifetime dealing with rejection and scorn. He knew how painful that could be, thanks to his father, for starters.

“Of course not,” he said gently. “Would you like to take my arm? The ground is rather uneven in this field. I would hate to see you fall and twist your ankle.”

She rolled her eyes, although she did lose the rigid set to her shoulders. “As if I would be so clumsy. I'm not one of your simpering girls with die-away airs, Your Grace. I'm more than capable of walking across a field without falling on my a—er, without falling.”

“Well done,” he said. “Hardly anyone would guess what you were going to say.”

Her mouth twitched, and then she burst into laughter, her suspicious demeanor evaporating like morning mist. No one would ever accuse Gillian Dryden of trying to hide what she was feeling. Her emotional honesty, as blunt as it could sometimes be, was refreshing.

“Except for you, of course,” she said.

“Naturally. I am your tutor. I see all; I know all.”

“Oh, la,” she exclaimed, giving him a flourishing and really quite respectable curtsey. “Like a god, come all the way down to earth to take pity on the masses.”

“Now you are the one mocking me, Miss Dryden. But I am magnanimous and will forgive this shocking display of disrespect toward your tutor.” He set off toward the stile on the other side of the field.

She fell in beside him, her easy strides well able to keep up with his. “Since you are all-knowing and all-seeing, then I think you must be the perfect person to tell me something I've been wondering about.”

“Which is?”

Her brief hesitation alerted him. “I want to know what the
ton
is saying about me,” she said. “After the unfortunate incident at the ball, as my grandmother calls it. I especially want to hear any nicknames.”

“You mean besides the Pugilistic Princess and the Savage Sicilian?” he asked dryly.

“Yes. I know there's more, and I know you're all keeping it from me.”

“Isn't that enough?” he hedged.

Gillian didn't answer, lost in thought as she stripped off a glove and brushed the palm of her hand over the tops of the wild lilacs growing in the field. He'd noticed that—the way she reacted to her surroundings, especially outdoors. More than once when they'd gone for walks in the park, Charles had been forced to remind her to put on her gloves or don her bonnet. Nothing seemed to give her more pleasure than the feel of the sun on her face or the breeze blowing her dark locks into a tangle. Most girls would be horrified to see their complexions darkened to a burnished bronze, or to have their carefully constructed coiffures destroyed by the wind.

Not Gillian. She was a veritable Diana, who clearly loved the natural world.

Even the less attractive parts of the animal kingdom didn't bother her. One afternoon on the trip into Lincolnshire, an enormous spider had crawled through a window gap in the coach. Charles had been about to kill it—after his eardrums had been all but shattered by the shrieks of his sister and the contessa—when Gillian had scooped the creature up in her hand and gently deposited him outside the window. She'd then gone back to reading her book, as if nothing untoward had happened. The average country girl would have grimaced and killed the thing as a pest, while most of the fashionable ladies he knew would have reacted with well-bred hysterics.

He found it interesting that Gillian could be so ruthless yet also so gentle with the weak or vulnerable, whether it was her mother, a shy girl at a ball, or even a hapless spider who'd wandered across her path.

“I know you're all trying to protect me,” she finally said, glancing up at him. “But it's not necessary.”

“I would disagree. But I must admit to feeling some curiosity about why you don't think you need—or deserve—my protection.”

“That's hardly the point.”

“Then what is?”

“Your Grace, I can fight my own battles,” she said in a tone that clearly labeled him as feeble-minded. “I've been doing so for quite a long time. And very successfully.”

“With the exception of that bullet hole in your shoulder.”

She batted that away with an insouciant wave. “A mere technicality. You might also remember that I achieved what I set out to do.”

He couldn't repress a flare of anger at her reckless disregard for her own safety, and at the inability of her family to take better care of her.

I would have, and I will.
“The consequences were quite severe,” he said. “Or have you forgotten that?”

Gillian stopped to glare at him. “Of course I haven't forgotten that. I am, as you point out, the one with the blasted hole in my shoulder, and I had to leave the only home I've ever known because of those consequences. Possibly never to return.”

“And was it worth it, then? Achieving what you set out to do?”

She turned and stalked off.

Oddly, her refusal to answer seemed like progress to Charles. If she had to think about the question, then clearly she was starting to ponder the sacrifices her actions had forced upon her.

“You do know that you're not alone anymore,” he said when he caught up with her. “You never were. The contessa and Lady Marbury have always been in your corner.”

“I know that,” she said, sounding less snappish. “But there were some fights they couldn't take on. I had to do it for them.”

“Your fighting days are over. I will take on any problems from now on.” Or, at least he would until she found a suitable husband.

“Well, that's very kind of you. But, as I said, not necessary.”

He tried a different tack. “Let's say I suddenly found myself in a foreign country. Sicily, perhaps. And let's say I inadvertently encountered a bandit problem. Would it not make sense to ask for help from a local person well versed in dealing with that particular situation? Someone with intimate knowledge of the problem and someone who could defend me?”

Her mouth twitched. “That would be sensible.”

“Then think of me as your guide and defender in
this
foreign country, Miss Dryden, much as you would be my guide if I appeared on your doorstep in Sicily.”

She laughed. “I suppose that means the English
ton
is the equivalent of Sicilian brigands
,
does it not?”

“You must admit they can be rather terrifying.”

“Unfortunately, though, I can't shoot them,” she said. “How very inconvenient.”

He smiled. “As much as I sometimes share that sentiment, I would beg you to refrain. Instead, seek my help the next time you find yourself in trouble.”

“All right, but under one condition,” she said.

“Which is?”

“That you answer my question. What is being said about me in London?”

Well, she'd probably hear about it eventually, and better she hear it directly from him. But he hated the idea of hurting her more than she already had been.

“Just tell me,” she said in a resigned voice. “I assure you I've heard worse.”

“That saddens me, but very well.” He had to force himself to say it. “You're being referred to as ‘the Doxy Duchess.'”

He thought he detected a flinch. But then she frowned. “I don't quite understand.”

“Ah, you do know what a doxy is, don't you?”

She cast him an impatient glance. “Of course. I just don't understand the duchess part.”

“It's because you're the daughter of a royal duke. Princess, of course, would make more sense, but accuracy is hardly the point, I suppose, when making up insulting names.”

She threw him a wry glance. “I now understand why you sent me back to the house with Griffin and Justine that day in Hyde Park. You must have worried how I'd react. You probably thought I would mill poor Mr. Stratton to the ground for being the bearer of such unfortunate news.”