Unmasking the Duke, page 21
“Because Mr. Renwick is prepared for him?” Martha suggested.
“So was Johnny,” Aline noted. “And yet, here he is. I imagine you will find out everything now.” She considered. “Unless they kill him.”
A gurgle of shocking, hysterical laughter tried to escape Kitty. She swallowed it back, but not before Aline had seen her.
“Well, I suggest we walk casually toward the window,” she suggested. “And make occasional forays on to the terrace. We may see nothing, of course, but at least Lady Martha and I can amuse you with the story of the last time we attended a ball together…”
At last, it seemed, she was to hear the story of Johnny’s deadly duel four years ago. And at any other time, Kitty would have drunk it in avidly. Now, her fear for Johnny was so real that the words barely penetrated.
“I suppose Johnny was not quite the hero of that story,” Aline finished judiciously, “but he did take the blame.”
“So did you,” Martha reminded her.
“Ah, but I am a scandalous foreigner and therefore not subject to the same rules. Look.”
Kitty had already seen the torchlit crowd emerging from the wood and crossing the lawn in the direction of the stables. She bolted across the terrace, and would have run across the lawn after them, had Aline not suddenly seized her arm in a strong grip.
“You’ll ruin your dancing slippers and fall in the slush,” she said mildly. “Besides, our heroes are coming this way.”
Trying to shake her off, Kitty peered at the approaching figures. She could hear their laughter, which was surely a good thing. They wouldn’t laugh if someone was hurt or worse… Would they?
But one of the men was most definitely Johnny, for his long, casual stride was strangely distinctive, and the lantern light played across his golden hair and his thoughtful face. He wasn’t laughing, but that he didn’t appear to be hurt almost made her weep with relief.
“I might have known,” Lord Peter said, catching sight of them. “Go back inside before you bring everyone out behind you.”
“Don’t be bossy,” Martha retorted. “We just came to see that you were unhurt, though I’ve no idea why we bothered.”
Kitty barely heard that interchange either, for though she didn’t remember moving, or even Aline releasing her, she fell suddenly into Johnny’s arms and was crushed to him, his lips on her hair.
“Did you find him?” Aline asked prosaically.
“Closed in on him from all sides,” Lord Calvert said cheerfully. “Just as Johnny brought him down.”
“Flew through the air like a dashed monkey,” Sir Keith said proudly. “Felled him to the ground like a stone and made him squeal. Just as soon as he could breathe again.”
“Is he dead?” Aline inquired.
Johnny raised his head. “No. But he’s tied and on his way to Dearham gaol.”
“My compliments,” Aline drawled and strolled back inside the ballroom.
Kitty pulled herself together, resolutely drawing away from Johnny’s solid comfort. “Mine, too,” she said lightly. She looked him up and down. “I believe you will have to go and change before your mother sees you.”
“The story of my life,” Johnny remarked with a grin that was much more like himself. “But I’ll be back for the next waltz.”
He kissed her hand before he walked away.
In the end, it was after supper before she saw him, for a mud splatter had transferred itself from the duke to Kitty’s gown, and Martha whisked her off the deal with it. By the time they returned, they had missed the supper dance, and Kitty’s worry had been replaced by urgent curiosity.
She had to wait through supper, seated with the duchess and the dowagers, and return to the ballroom before she saw the duke, at last, standing with a group of friends, who he was entertaining with some story or other. Although he caught her eye and immediately smiled, he stayed among his friends until she couldn’t stand it anymore.
She stood abruptly, excused herself to the duchess, and walked straight across the floor to Johnny.
“Ah, our dance,” he said as she blatantly took his arm to drag her away. “Quite right.”
She knew from the way his eyes laughed and from the amusement of his companions that she had broken some minor rule or other, but no one seemed to care, least of all Johnny, for he excused himself to the group and swept her off. As they passed the orchestra above them in the gallery, he exchanged some kind of signal with the musicians, who were tuning up after their break.
“Johnny!” she exclaimed. “What is so bad that you won’t tell me?”
“Nothing,” he said in apparent surprise. “It’s just more convenient talk while waltzing than dancing some Scottish reel.”
She blinked. “You made them change the dance? Won’t Her Grace be angry?”
“Why should she be?” Johnny took her hand as the orchestra did indeed strike up a waltz and led her onto the floor.
Waltzing with Johnny would always distract her from anything else, and for some time, she allowed it, simply letting his nearness and the pleasure of the dance wash over her, mentally calming and yet physically exciting.
Then, because she had to know, she asked, “Was it indeed Alf Smith, the man who lived with my mother?”
“It was indeed Alf Smith,” he replied, “and I think he’s probably a little mad. To be honest, I couldn’t persuade him to say very much, but I’m pretty sure he told the truth when he maintained he acted alone. For one thing, there was clearly no one but him camping in the nearest hayloft.”
Her eyes widened. “He was sleeping in the hayloft?”
“He must have made it out from London before the bad weather closed in, and then, of course, the snow kept everyone from moving around.” He scowled. “And from doing what they were instructed. Clearly, I did not keep you as safe as I promised.”
“But I’m fine, and you captured Smith,” she said warmly. Then, “But I don’t understand why he was so determined to hurt me. Just to get at Uncle Bill?”
“Mainly. Your continued existence seems to offend him. I suspect he feels it unjust that you are returned to your wealthy family while he has nothing—which is entirely his fault since he appears to have been drinking himself out of work for twenty years.”
Johnny’s thumb stroked her fingers. “Kitty, don’t be distressed. He was a vile man who beat Maggie and you. And stole from your uncle, though I suggest we don’t inquire too closely into the true ownership of the objects in question. I won’t even bring up what he has tried to do in the last two months.”
She shivered, and Johnny drew her a fraction closer, concern in his gaze.
“I’m not distressed,” she assured him. “I’m entirely glad and grateful he is captured and locked up. It just makes no sense to me.”
“Nor to me,” Johnny agreed. “I suspect it was simply bad luck that brought you and Renwick to his notice again. Without hearing your names, he’d probably have just gone on quietly drinking and starving himself to death.”
He gave her a moment, then danced her more exuberantly backward and around so that her skirts swished against her legs. “Forget him. He’s done with. Dance with me and plan our wedding. You had better write to your uncle tomorrow.”
Her stomach twisted with a sense of loss. For every happiness, there was a price. “If I am to be a duchess, things will never be the same at Maida.”
He smiled ruefully. “Things rarely stay the same. Whoever you had married, you would have gone away, lost something of the old closeness. But there will be no question that you see them whenever you wish, however you wish.”
“And if word gets out that I was brought up by Bill Renwick?”
“A man of property,” Johnny said at once. “Trade, of course, but everyone knows Margaret was banished because of an unsuitable man. The important thing is, you have Winter blood and are therefore a gentlewoman.” He leaned closer, causing her breath to catch, “My gentlewoman.”
*
Despite the excitement in the middle, at the end of the ball, Johnny found Kitty tired but happy. As he escorted her on her slow, sleepy way to bed, they discussed banns and special licenses, and an awed look spread across her face, as though becoming his bride, his duchess, suddenly became very close, very real.
Johnny wanted it done quickly with a desperation fed by tonight’s events. He wanted her beyond question, beyond her doubts or anyone else’s. And that was quite beside the lust thrumming through his body. And the little devil sitting on his shoulder who said quite suddenly in his ear, You don’t need to wait.
She was his, she would marry him, in no more than three weeks—less, if he could possibly arrange it—and anything that would bind her to him now was desirable, necessary.
She held his arm as they climbed the stairs, and as the rest of the family and guests separated to find their own couches, he held back just a little so that they found themselves alone, turning into the passage that led to her chamber.
He covered her hand with his, and the faint trembling of her fingers, her clear awareness of him and the possibilities ahead, fed his lust like wind to a wildfire.
Johnny had always enjoyed his desires—and their satisfaction—with uncomplicated pleasure. But this, this was different. It had always been different because she was. In a way not even Aline had been. From the beginning, something in Kitty had spoken to something in him, melded with him until she was part of him. But there was little spiritual about the effect of her nearness, the curve of her jaw, the slightly parted lips, which had given him such a sweet taste of what passion would be like with her.
While she walked beside him, her breathing quickened, he let his gaze sweep down over her slender neck to the swell of her breasts. He felt something very like a growl form deep in his throat and deliberately dropped his gaze further down the elegant line of her gown over slender waist and hips, imagining the length and softness of her legs…
Even so, he might have fought the fire and let her go, had she not halted at her door and turned to him, lifting her face to his with those luscious lips already parted for his kiss.
And so, he stared down at her for two, maybe three beats of his heart, and then he bent and took her mouth voraciously. He held nothing back, showing her in that one deep, utterly sensual kiss what he wanted of her and how badly. And how sweet and pleasurable it would be.
And when, gasping, she came up for air, he kissed her again, sweeping his hand down her back to her hips and hauling her closer against his hardness. With his free hand, he opened her bedchamber door, and he walked her inside, his mouth fused still to hers.
“No good nights,” he whispered against her lips, kicking the door shut behind him. “Not this night…”
By the lamplight, her eyes had clouded with passion. Her mouth was eager beneath his, her body responsive to his every touch. The softness of her breasts, the delicious curves of her waist and hip drove him on. And when her hands found their way under his shirt to caress his shoulders and back, his whole being rippled in response.
He unlaced her with practiced ease, let her stays fall to the ground, and nudged her gown and her chemise together off her shoulders with his lips. And now he could worship her breasts with his eyes and hands and mouth.
She clung to him, breathing wildly, her body adorably flushed and willing.
“My bride,” he whispered, between kisses. “My wife…”
“I’m not yet,” she gasped, her fingers in his hair as he straightened to lift her out of the gown and carry her to bed.
He smiled, “Not quite yet, but you are mine. Tonight, I’m making you mine.” And kissed her mouth again while his own words repeated in his ears. You are mine. I’m making you mine.
She loved him, he was sure, but she was not yet his before the law or God.
What he was doing was taking advantage, taking away her choice, by means of his own much greater experience of fleshly pleasures. He was rushing something that should be perfect for her. This was no light, impulsive, one night of dalliance. She was under his protection and his mother’s, and he was deliberately seducing her to bind her…
He tore his mouth free and hugged her to his galloping heart.
“What am I doing?” he whispered.
“Making love to me,” she said unsteadily.
He squeezed his eyes shut, slowly forcing back the beast of his lust. It wasn’t exactly contained, but at least his mind was clearer. “I want to. Very badly.”
“I want you, too,” she whispered. Her lips whispered against his throat, threatening his newfound control.
He drew in a shuddering breath. “I will make it perfect for you. Not tumble you when you are too weary to enjoy it, and I am too tired and desperate to do it as you deserve. Forgive me.” He kissed her forehead and her stunned lips and slowly forced himself to release her.
Then, feeling her hurt, abandoned gaze boring into his back, he walked a little stiffly to the door and left her alone.
*
Many things bothered Kitty as she lay sleeplessly in bed, gazing up at the ceiling. The sudden, flaring passion between her and the duke, his decision—not hers—to leave unfinished what he had begun. And yet he had begun it with the full intention of taking her to bed. She knew that from every kiss and caress, which had been different from anything that had come before. There had been definite, predatory intent, and God knew she had gloried in it.
And they were to be married quickly.
So why had he stopped? The rake who had known so many beautiful and experienced women. When it came to the point, was she not desirable enough? Not pleasing enough? Or had he really just decided that she was special enough to wait for? She didn’t mind that. In fact, she quite liked lying in bed, remembering the intimate feel of his hands and lips. But it was a poor second to his actual presence.
Although her aroused body still hummed with frustrated desire, at least she could smile into the pillow and long for the night, surely not so far away, when he truly would make her his.
Her mind drifted back to the ball and to the other matter that bothered her. The capture of Alf Smith. Which, of course, was a huge burden off her mind, and the fact that it had been accomplished without harm to Johnny was a relief that still made her stomach dizzy. And part of her wished she had seen the flying leap from the trees that had brought him down.
She smiled again, remembering that despite his claiming of the next dance after that, she had been the one to approach him, to ask the questions she needed answered. And she remembered now that he had not wanted to talk about it.
Well, they were at a ball celebrating Christmas, and dancing together had its own attractive distractions. But now she remembered again the faint worry that had flickered and died at the time, that he was keeping something from her.
“Was it indeed Alf Smith, the man who lived with my mother?” she had asked.
And he had replied, “It was indeed Alf Smith.”
And then, a little later, he had said of Smith, “He was a vile man who beat Maggie and you.”
He hadn’t said, “It was indeed Alf Smith who lived with your mother.”
And he had called her mother Maggie. Not Cousin Margaret.
Tiny things, unimportant things, so why they stuck in her tired, overwhelmed mind, she did not know.
But they did.
Her stomach began to tighten, the constant butterflies no longer pleasant. Because in an unpleasant way, everything would fit together, if Alf had told him something he did not want to pass on to her. Something that had, in the end, reminded him not to bed her when he had so clearly wanted to. When she had so clearly wanted to be with him.
She sat up against the pillows. Dear God, there will be no sleep now…
But she was being foolish, her exhausted, over-excited mind playing tricks, reading false interpretations into things that were perfectly harmless and could easily mean exactly what she had first assumed.
He did not want to talk about Alf because the man was unrelievedly vile. And why should he not call her mother Maggie when that was how Alf had known her? He had not taken her to bed because he refused to rush her, because they would have the rest of their lives. She was making a fuss about nothing.
And yet still, she did not sleep.
With the first light of morning, she knew what she had to do. She had to speak to Alf herself. Just to be sure.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The household would sleep late today because of the ball, so all was still quiet when Kitty rose, shivering, washed, and threw on her old gown for ease of fastenings. She wrapped her hair into its old, simple style, put on her boots, shawl, and cloak, and walked out of the house into the rain.
In the stables, she found only one sleepy groom, yawning prodigiously, though when she asked him, he hastily went to wake the under-coachman and prepare the horses. In just a few minutes, they were bowling down the drive and along the slushy, grubby-looking road to the town of Dearham.
A blast of fresh, cold rain had done wonders for her perspective. She went now to set her own mind at rest, not to find out the imaginary secrets her betrothed had kept from her. All the same, she did not want the duke’s staff to know where she was going. So, she bade the coachman to let her down in the town square, which was quiet because it was early still and because it was Boxing Day.
Still, she found a housewife to tell her where the town gaol was and walked into the front office.
A sleepy watchman leapt to his feet. “Ma’am! What can I do for you?”
“I understand a prisoner was brought to you last night from Dearham Abbey,” she said calmly. “I would like to speak to him.”
The watchman scratched his head. “Not sure I can allow that, ma’am. ’Specially as he’s violent. Or was last night. Trust me, you wouldn’t want to go near him. I certainly don’t.”
“I don’t want to hold his hand,” Kitty said dryly. “I want to speak to him, preferably at a safe distance. I am,” she added, “a guest of the duchess.”
