This Duke is Mine (17 page)

And not the duke she was marrying, either.

Worse yet, the duke her
sister
was marrying.

Obviously she couldn’t flirt with the duke. The sooner she got it in her head that Sconce was Georgiana’s future
husband
, the better. She actually gave a little shudder at the idea of flirting with her future brother-in-law. Only the most distasteful—not to mention disloyal—sister would do such a thing.

She was already feeling guilty enough. She had left Georgiana supine on a sofa, a wet cloth over her eyes. Olivia’s exchanges with the dowager over the midday meal—which she herself had actually rather enjoyed—had given her sister a migraine headache.

Lucy gave a little yelp and ran forward, wagging her tail furiously. An elderly gardener was planting some seedlings in the shade of an old stone wall that separated Littlebourne Manor’s gardens from the stables beyond. He was kneeling, back to her, the well-worn soles of his old boots cocked to each side.

“Thou art a hash little one, aren’t thou?” the gardener said, scratching Lucy between her ears. His voice was warm and smoky, and made Olivia think about the qualities of voices: the way the dowager’s voice was bright and cold, so different from her son’s deep, intent voice. The duke sounded as if each word was chosen carefully, whereas her own tumbled out any which way, and often in an unladylike fashion—
you have a lively sense of humor
, the duchess had said the day before.

She shook off that thought and walked a little closer to the gardener. “Good day. Are you from Wales?”

The moment he heard her voice, he struggled to his feet, his joints creaking loudly, and backed against the wall, doffing his cap. “My lady,” he said, eyes on the ground. “Not Wales.” He sounded disgusted. “Shropshire.” He was bowlegged and bent, like an apple tree on the ridge of a hill, fighting a blustery wind.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt your work,” Olivia said. “Please, go back to whatever you’re doing. That’s my dog sniffing your boots. Lucy, behave yourself!”

Lucy was dancing about, trying to lick the gardener’s hand. Slowly, he reached down and gently pulled one of the little dog’s ears. “She’s a fair one, bain’t she?”

“I don’t think she’s
fair
, if by that you mean beautiful.” They both looked down at Lucy. “She’s got very short fur, and there’s that bite on her eyelid.”

“O aye, she’s lost a bit of her eyelid. But her eyes themselves are a fair treat,” he offered. “Tail, too.”

“It’s a rat tail, though,” Olivia pointed out.

He knelt back down on the brown soil, shoulder to her. Then he said, as if to his plants, “There’s those as are decorative, like these flowers here will be. And then other flora that isn’t a bit pretty, not until the petals drop.”

Olivia came closer and peered past him. “Which flowers are unattractive until their petals drop?”

“Happen you walk in a cloud of petals jist dancing on the wind, then?”

She walked around so she was looking down at his weather-beaten cap, rather than his shoulder. “What a lovely description.”

“This little mistress,” he said, giving Lucy a nudge with his elbow that made the dog dizzy with delight, “is one of them as lift your heart when you’re ornery, though likely there are them as would prefer something feather-tailed and furred.”

Olivia found herself smiling down at Lucy. “You’re right, of course. I didn’t think much of her at first, but she’s dear to me now.” She bent over and peered at the ground. “What will those seedlings become?”

“Delphiniums.”

“The tall, purple ones?”

“Aye.”

Olivia frowned. “I thought those flowers need a great deal of sunshine. Will they get enough beneath this wall?”

“Her Grace likes them here, me lady.” Rich soil ran like rain through his fingers as he patted the ground around each little sprig.

“I hate to plant things that won’t live long. Perhaps the head gardener could teach Her Grace about delphiniums?”

He gave her a fleeting glance. “A lady likes her garden lush, neat, scented, sweet.”

“That rhymes,” Olivia said, thinking that Justin might learn from the gardener.

A warm hand suddenly touched her back. Olivia yelped and straightened.

“Miss Lytton,” the duke said, his eyes dark and unreadable. “I apologize for startling you.” He bowed. “I see you’ve met Riggle, our highly esteemed head gardener, who has been with us since I was all of six years old. Riggle, may I introduce Miss Lytton?”

Riggle looked over his shoulder and said something along the lines of “bain’t it.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Riggle,” Olivia said. “Good morning, Your Grace.” The duke had changed for riding as well. Breeches clung to muscular thighs; one quick glance made her heart speed to a red-and-gold beat.

Desire—for Olivia was not one to pretend to a more dignified emotion if the proper word presented itself—was proving to be an overwhelming sensation. She could imagine that fleeting touch of his hand down every limb.

Brother-in-law, she thought to herself.
Brother-in-law
.

“Don’t tell me she’s got you planting delphiniums again,” the duke said. He bent over and looked closely at the plant. “Yes, those are palmate leaves. I told her not to, Riggle.”

“Her Grace is a fierce believer,” the gardener said, patting down another small plant.

“In what?” Olivia inquired.

“Her plans,” the duke answered for Riggle. “My mother is apt to think that if everyone will simply adhere to a plan—preferably of her making—the world will be a sane and ordered place.”

“To hope that a flower will bloom despite lack of sun shows an extraordinary confidence in one’s plan,” Olivia observed.

“I am surrounded by relatives with pretentions to divine powers.” There was a spark deep in his eyes that spoke to her like a burst of laughter. It felt flammable, dangerous.

She couldn’t
not
smile back at him, even though his face was—to outward appearance—serious enough. Still:
Brother-in-law
, she thought again.

“Riggle, we will take our leave of you,” the duke said, taking Olivia’s arm. “Miss Lytton, I’ve had two mounts prepared for us. Justin has already driven the pony cart around to the front to meet Lady Cecily, since her ankle is still unsteady.”

Olivia said her good-bye to Riggle, and then walked in silence next to the duke. She had to say something . . . anything. It was almost the first time in her life that her brain was unable to summon a single word.

After lunch, her sister had been quite certain that the duke had taken a great dislike to Olivia, given her hoydenish behavior. But the duke didn’t look as though he disliked her.

“Are you an enthusiastic horsewoman, Miss Lytton?” he asked, after a minute or two.

“Yes!” Olivia said, grateful to be given a topic of conversation. “I had a pony growing up, and nowadays my sister and I regularly ride in Hyde Park. Have you ridden there often yourself, Your Grace?”

“Not in some years,” he said. “Does your fiancé like to ride?”

“Rupert? He has some trouble staying in the saddle,” Olivia said, belatedly remembering that she shouldn’t tell virtual strangers that Rupert couldn’t stay on a horse until he was fifteen. “Though he’s much improved in the last year. He has a weak . . . a weak knee,” she added hastily.

“All the more reason to admire his decision to join the battle.”

“His father was quite dismayed, but Rupert has a very strong will. When he puts his mind to something, no one can change it.”

A fleeting frown crossed the duke’s face. “I suppose—” He broke off.

“Yes?”

“Your fiancé sounds like an excellent man all around. Loyal to his country, brave even with the encumbrance of a physical disability, and resolute in his convictions in the face of his father’s disapproval. I have met the Duke of Canterwick, and I would expect that he exerted considerable pressure on his son to remain in England. I look forward to meeting Montsurrey.”

Olivia nodded. She couldn’t say anything much without being disloyal to Rupert, and she had made up her mind that she simply wouldn’t do it.

But the duke was not finished. “Canterwick apparently told my mother that his son’s brains were as scrambled as an egg custard.”

“Ah,” Olivia said. Of course she agreed, but she had realized when the duchess was so dismissive of Rupert that she could either spend her entire life listening to sniggers behind her husband’s back, or she could make it clear that no one should dare to insult Rupert to her face.

“The duke shows a dismaying inability to recognize his son’s strong points,” she said, suiting thought to word. “Rupert’s thoughts are often remarkably clear.” That was true enough. Rupert understood precisely what he thought of Lucy, for example. Olivia glanced down with a rush of affection. The little dog was trotting beside her, waving her tail so briskly that it kept hitting Olivia’s leg.

“Parents are sometimes of that inclination,” the duke said. His face was impossible to read.

“Of course, Canterwick would have preferred that Rupert remain in England, given that he has no other heirs,” Olivia said. “But Rupert would not sacrifice his own and his country’s honor merely for something as ephemeral as a title.”

That drew a distinct frown from the duke. It may well have been the first time that anyone had envied Rupert; she felt quite sad that he wasn’t here to enjoy it.

“Would you have liked to have joined His Majesty’s Service, Your Grace?” she asked.

“Of course.” He said it rather gruffly. “But I am already the duke, and a duke without an heir. I could not in good conscience leave my responsibilities in the hands of others.”

“Rupert has no responsibilities as yet. He felt in his heart that he had to go.” The duke really did look grim around the mouth, and Olivia started to feel a bit sorry for him. “He probably won’t have any effect on the war effort,” she offered. “He only has a company of one hundred men.”

“As I understand it, the number of men is important, but not as important as one’s strategic planning,” the duke said.

Olivia didn’t even try to imagine Rupert engaged in strategic planning.

“Are you worried about his safety?”

“Yes,” Olivia said. And she was, oddly enough. For all her bleating over the marriage, something had shifted within her by the time she’d said good-bye. Rupert was not undamaged, but he was hers, for better or worse.

She hesitated a moment and then decided that she had better be absolutely straightforward. “You and I, Your Grace, have fallen into something of a flirtation.”

He turned his head, rather slowly, and looked down at her. The flare in his eyes couldn’t be described by a word as innocuous as flirtation. “I would not describe it as such,” he said, echoing her thought.

Was he trying to shame her? If there was one thing Olivia hated, it was people who hid their emotions behind a mask of propriety. She’d had enough of that from her family. Though she loved them dearly, she’d long ago concluded that greed dictated her parents’ relationship to her.

“I understand if you wish to pretend that the feeling isn’t there, but I cannot agree with you,” she said.

“In fact, I have described it to myself as being in the grip of compulsive lust,” he said bluntly. “I assure you, Miss Lytton, that I have never kissed a strange woman in such an impetuous manner before you appeared at my front door.”

Olivia felt a sudden flush break over her entire body. Her heart was pounding. She did not dare look at him. Part of her wanted to protest: didn’t he realize that she was plump and unattractive? She peeked at him.

“You are betrothed,” he said, his voice coming out in a growl.

“Since childhood,” she said, nodding.

They were walking along a lilac hedge. The perfume of the blossoms floated in the air all around them. He stopped, dropping her arm, so she had to look up at him. A strong hand tipped up her chin. Their eyes met. “Olivia,” he said. And that was all.

She was in his arms, and his lips came down on hers. For a moment they kissed the way they had in the silver room: a bit tentative, gentle, a sip and a taste. But then his arms tightened and she tilted her head just so, and the kiss changed. Her lips opened and he was there, tangling with her.

The fragrance of the lilacs faded. Instead, she smelled spice and soap, a mingling of gentleman and highwayman that was the duke.

He was right. This wasn’t flirtation; this was craving, so deep and intense that Olivia’s whole body vibrated with the need to be closer. She wrapped her arms around his neck, stood on tiptoe, allowed his hand to press her body against the hard planes of his body. The other cupped the back of her head, cradling it in a position that tilted her head so that he could kiss her hard, a hungry, smoldering kiss that told her without words that he didn’t think she was plump and unattractive.

His hair fell from its ribbon and brushed her cheek. His eyes were closed, which made him look like a different man. Open-eyed, he was fierce, hawk-like, somewhat cold. With his eyes closed, he was someone else entirely.

A man in the grip of pleasure, her instinct told her.

His lips slid from hers, seeking the tender sweep of her neck. She gasped and shivered; his eyes opened.

“This is not flirtation.” His voice rasped as his lips lit a trail of heat across her cheek.

“No,” she whispered, trembling against him.

“It’s a bloody forest fire,” he said, dropping one last short, hard kiss on her lips and then putting her away from him.

Olivia swallowed.

“Yet you are betrothed.” It was a statement, but those dark eyes were asking a question. Olivia felt as if the world peeled away from around them, as if there were only the two of them in the whole of the windy garden: this tall, hard man, his eyes searching her face, and Miss Olivia Mayfield Lytton, betrothed at birth to a marquess. Her heart thudded against her ribs, but . . .

There was Rupert to think of, and Georgiana.

She steeled herself and willed the words aloud. “A forest fire is no reason to betray the two people I . . . to betray my fiancé.”

“Two people.” He paused. “Georgiana?”