The Last Duchess (The Lennox Series) Read online

  She returned the favor and lifted her own brow. “You can’t guilt me into silence, brother. Yes, you’ve worked hard to regain all that Papa lost, but you’ve done so a hundred times over. How rich must you be? There’s only so much money one can spend in a lifetime, and what is it for if you’ve no one to share it with?”

  “I will share with Lady Letitia. I intend to marry her, and there’s an end to it.”

  His gaze returned to Lady Jane. She was more than simply lovely. There was a charisma about her, an undeniable draw. Even her competition couldn’t dislike her, though perhaps they didn’t see her as worthy competition. A frisky puppy would be more adept at the pianoforte than Lady Jane. When it came to painting, no doubt an infant could claim a more advanced artistic ability. The lady’s attempts were terrible enough to draw laughter from her friends. She took it in stride and laughed along with them, telling a story of her watercolors instructor, a woman so worn down by her hopeless student, she retired to the country to grow turnips and was never heard from again.

  The art of polite conversation was also lost on Lady Jane. At times, she crinkled her forehead and became almost fierce in her discourse on matters not generally considered genteel, polite, or appropriate for the drawing room. Only last night, she debated the merits of crossbreeding sheep with young Lassiter and trumped him soundly. To his discredit, he didn’t appear offended in the slightest. On the contrary, he was besotted with her. They all were.

  Except Michael.

  She was to be disappointed, but would soon realize all was for the best. They wouldn’t suit. Not at all. Lady Jane required a younger man, one open to her lifestyle of riding neck-or-nothing, her mannish interest in farming, her tendency to shout unladylike curses in a hayfield.

  He still couldn’t figure out how, when, or why she’d developed such an infatuation with him. He’d scarcely met her before the beginning of the house party. If memory served, he was introduced at his wedding to Annabel. She was there with Annabel when she died, and he spoke to her for a few moments after the burial service. How did a woman develop an infatuation in such a short matter of time? It was a puzzle. Not to mention, most young ladies just out of the schoolroom were afraid of him. He didn’t doubt Letitia was afraid of him. At the very least, she was intimidated.

  Lady Jane was not afraid, or intimidated.

  She gazed at him far too long and too many times, her wide blue eyes filled with yearning. It was damned near impossible not to respond, but he was careful not to give her any encouragement. In less than a week, Lady Jane would return to her father’s home and come spring, another Season, when she would find a man able to fully appreciate her passionate nature.

  When she and her brother disappeared from sight, he turned to Lucy and realized she was staring at him. “Have I a smudge?”

  “Yes, quite. It’s just there, in front of your eyes, clouding your vision.”

  Unwilling to follow her lead, determined to kill any further conversation about Lady Jane, he nodded toward the north. “Shall we go?”

  Lucy shook her head. “I’ve lost the ambition, Blix. You go on and I’ll ride along the lane there before I retire to the house and check on breakfast.”

  He eyed her curiously. “Would you run, Luce?”

  She cocked her head and said thoughtfully, “It has been rather a long time. I believe I will.” Nudging her mare, she turned and headed toward the slope of the hill that led down to the lane. She called over her shoulder, “Care to join me?”

  For one mad moment, he thought he would. But he was to visit several of the Margrave Park tenants this morning and he didn’t think it advisable to procrastinate. He waved to her and turned the opposite direction. As he made his way down the edge of the back lawn toward the road, he heard the sound of hooves pounding the ground.

  Before he could talk himself out of it, he bent forward and murmured a command, gratified by the feel of the magnificent stallion’s muscles bunching beneath him, springing forward with breathtaking speed. There was only one thing more pleasurable than running a horse, and as his prospects for that activity were exactly none, at least for the foreseeable future, he’d take a run and enjoy it.

  Hell and damn. Five days left of this interminable house party. Five remaining days to avoid Lady Jane’s lovely blue eyes. Her yearning, lovely blue eyes. God save him from infatuated misses. Never mind that Lady Jane was the only miss ever infatuated with him. All the others saw only the title, and the money. Incredibly, Lady Jane appeared to have developed something of a tendre for him.

  All the more reason to stay well clear of her.

  Only five more days.

  ***

  From a dark corner of the vast front hall at Margrave Park, a stately clock chimed the hour of two. The house was asleep, including the servants. Confident she wouldn’t be discovered, Jane made her way down the stairs and crossed to the library, a candle lighting her way. She carefully opened one side of the double doors and slipped inside, closing the door behind her. The fire had long since died, leaving only the faint glow of embers to dimly illuminate the room. Holding her candle aloft, Jane glided across the floor on bare feet, straight to the third shelf of the east wall. She scanned the titles, searching for one book in particular. Mr. Paisley’s Discourse, In Three Parts, of Australian Aboriginal Tribes, With Accompanying Etchings. Ah, there it was. Turning, she set the candlestick on the small table to her left and just behind before reaching for the book.

  It was shockingly naughty of her to look, but her curiosity managed to get the best of her. Not to mention, she was positively dying for some diversion –something, anything that could be considered exciting.

  Lady Bonderant’s house party had become exceedingly tiresome. The past three days, Blixford had cooled considerably toward her, and she rather thought her chances of betrothal to him were narrowing to somewhere near nothing. She was at a loss how to go on. She tried harder, and the result was such a strain she thought she’d go mad. Just this morning, she’d gotten up before dawn, dressed in her habit, and went for a run, all by herself, hopeful that some new method of attracting Blixford’s attention would come to her.

  It did not.

  He was clearly set on Lady Letitia, and Jane was left out in the cold.

  Her heart would surely break when an announcement was made. She would return home with Robert and Sherbourne and nurse her disappointment until the start of the Season. Then she supposed she would return to London and see if she could make a go of it with another suitor.

  What else could she do? Living her life on the shelf was unthinkable. She would not be a doddering, maiden aunt to her brothers’ children, if and when any of them finally married and had any.

  For now, she was certain she was bested, and had decided to have what bit of fun she could while suffering through the remainder of what had become a detestable house party. If she could pull it off without severe rudeness and ill-mannered consequence, she’d pack and leave, straightaway.

  The book was terribly disappointing. Letitia had lied. Or perhaps Letitia’s expectations were less than Jane’s. She expected ‘horrid masculinity of the sort no lady should ever look upon.’ Jane was determined to look. Squinting in the dim light of the single candle, she peered at the etchings. How very curious. Her sole experience with a male member was limited to horses. She was intelligent enough to realize a man would not be so large as a horse, but the men in the etchings seemed hardly adequate. Proportionately, it was confounding. She continued turning the pages, but each etching was less impressive than the last. Nothing resembling horrid. Not even particularly masculine. The etchings might be of breastless women with appendages smaller than her fist between their legs.

  She yawned. How tiresome. She’d stayed up late for this.

  Then she noticed a slip of paper peeking out from the back spine of the book. With a tug, she withdrew it and her eyes widened considerably. This was well worth losing sleep over. She stared down at a charcoal sketch of a nude
man, his member extraordinarily large. Oh my. It was a bit awkward, wasn’t it? How peculiar to have something like that between one’s legs.

  What was between her legs made itself known and she shifted her weight from one bare foot to the other. Surely she would be torn apart by a man whose maleness was that spectacular. Was the duke thusly endowed? She blushed furiously, but didn’t replace the charcoal in the book. She laid it there, on the table, while she replaced Mr. Paisley’s dry discourse upon the bookshelf.

  When she turned back toward the table, she let out a squeak of alarm.

  The Duke of Blixford stood just to the other side. He was still in his evening clothes, looking devastatingly handsome. In his hand, he held the charcoal of the nude man with the imposing member.

  Jane rather thought she’d like to die.

  “Well,” he said. “Well.”

  He managed to give a sermon in two words. One word, actually. Spoken twice, undoubtedly for effect.

  Choosing to ignore the obvious atrociousness of the situation, Jane reached for the candlestick with one hand and clutched the neck of her dressing gown with the other, straightening her spine until she grew another inch, composing her features into one of haughty formality. “My sympathies, Your Grace. You are similarly afflicted with insomnia. I shall bid you good night, then, and pray you sleep well.” Moving around the table, she struck out for the door, certain she would faint of embarrassment. Why had her curiosity got the best of her? Oh, how she wished she’d gone straight to bed after the evening’s entertainment was done, instead of reading until the hour grew late enough to slip down to the library.

  “Will you not wait for my reply, Lady Jane? It’s customary to delay departing until you’ve heard an answering good night.”

  With her hand upon the door-knob, she waited, counting each beat of her heart. She got to twenty before she realized he wasn’t going to say good night. He wouldn’t allow her to escape this humiliation. Seeing her hopes of marriage to her duke disappear altogether, she turned, slowly. “Was there something you wished to discuss, Your Grace?”

  He moved toward her, the offending charcoal in his long fingered hand. His black breeches fit him like a second skin, highlighting the strength of his muscled thighs. Broad shoulders filled his elegant, superbly fitted evening coat. She was made further aware of her state of undress by the contrast of his clothing to hers. Her feet were bare. Curling her toes beneath the hem of her dressing gown, she truly wished the floor would open up and swallow her.

  The picture was there, between them. She would not look at it again. She could not. Her gaze remained on his face, noting that his lips were perfection, not too full, not too thin. His eyes were dark, as was his hair. Winged brows rose above those eyes. The duke had an unnatural ability to move them about, making his wishes clear without making a sound. It was said that entire armies of servants and underlings jumped to the command of one single set of eyebrows.

  The only feature he possessed that was not handsome was his nose. Slightly on the long side, it was a true Roman nose that otherwise marred the perfection of his face. Jane loved that part of him best of all.

  At the moment, he stared down that length with a firm look that neither approved, nor disapproved. “You will, of course, explain to me how you knew this charcoal was hiding in Mr. Paisley’s boring discourse.”

  “I should be only too happy to explain, if I had prior knowledge of it.”

  “You did not?”

  “I did not.”

  “Then you will tell me when your interest was sparked by the societal study of Australian aboriginal tribes.”

  She’d really rather not. If she lied and claimed a true interest, he might see her as a bluestocking. But to tell the truth, that she was desirous of seeing for herself what a male member looked like, would surely cause him to look upon her as a naughty woman. Or worse, an inquisitive child. Her mind cast about for possible explanations, but she realized, as he stood there staring at her, he already knew. Lying could only make the situation worse –if that were possible. Blushing so fiercely, she feared her face must surely catch fire, she murmured, “Mere curiosity brought me to the library, Your Grace. I can only plead your pardon and indulgence in not judging me too harshly.”

  He stepped closer and held the charcoal so that the candlelight shone on the man. And his member. “It’s not a very good sketch, is it?”

  Jane cleared her throat, never taking her eyes from his face. “Having no point of reference, Your Grace, I wouldn’t know.”

  His gaze met hers. “You’re mortified, are you not?”

  “Quite so.”

  “It occurs to me that your embarrassment extends only to this badly rendered drawing of a naked man. That you are wandering about Lady Bonderant’s home, half dressed, in the middle of the night, appears not to bother you at all.”

  “On the contrary. It’s only that the picture in your hand is of such breathtaking humiliation, my state of dishabille and the late hour pale in comparison.”

  He stared at her again. After a time, he said in a low, modulated voice, “You wish to marry me.” It was baldly stated.

  “Yes, Your Grace. Above all things.”

  “And you believe this episode has ruined your chances.”

  She dropped her gaze to the floor. “I am quickly coming to that conclusion, yes. You’re known for your insistence upon decorum, and this can hardly be considered decorous behavior on my part.”

  “No, it cannot. It’s shocking, actually.”

  Her heart sank. She was doomed. Letitia Rawlings would marry her duke and Jane would die of a broken heart.

  “Though not at all surprising.”

  Eyes wide, she jerked her gaze to his. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I daresay curiosity concerning the opposite sex is a natural thing, perhaps more pointed in yourself because of your nature and your advancing years.”

  “I am eighteen!”

  Something glittered in his dark eyes. Not humor. The duke was not a man for humor. What then? She swallowed.

  “You might have waited merely a few months, Lady Jane, and put your curiosity to rest in the same manner as all gently bred young ladies who become brides. As it is, you’ve put yourself into a compromising position.”

  “I am not compromised. Beyond we two, no one need ever know I was here, in the library, in my dressing gown.”

  “Looking at a naked man.”

  His disapproval began to nudge aside her crushing disappointment of certainty that he would not, after all, ask for her hand. “He’s but a one-dimensional rendering, Your Grace. A few strokes of charcoal.”

  Did he move closer still, or was it only her imagination?

  “Ah, but the charcoal man is not the only one in the library, is he? There is me, Lady Jane, and I am far more than a few strokes of charcoal.”

  He was definitely closer. She caught the vague scent of brandy on his breath and the lovely odor of his cologne. And him. Musky, and male. Her back was against the library door. “You are a gentleman. I’m not afraid.”

  “Suppose I were not a gentleman? I might ravish you there on the sofa and you would be ruined.”

  She’d never know what possessed her to say it, but before she gave it an instant of thought, she whispered, “Then I would delight in my ruination.”

  He kissed her then, touching her with only his lips. She still held the candle. He still held the charcoal. A shot of desire pierced her center, far stronger than the faint quiver she’d felt when she first saw the sketch. Oh, my. His lips were soft, yet firm. He turned his head slightly and deepened the kiss, touching his tongue to her lips, gently forcing them open that he could slide it into her mouth. Oh, heaven. She tentatively touched her own tongue to his, some part of her brain wondering why such an odd thing could have such a powerful effect. The shot of desire became a demand. She lifted her free hand to rest it against his shoulder. He was warm beneath the coat. Solid. Hard.

  His large hand slip
ped beneath her hair to close around the nape of her neck, holding her there as his mouth moved across hers and made her dizzy with longing.

  Abruptly, he stopped. Stepping back, he raised one dark brow. “Just as I thought, Lady Jane. You’re a woman ruled by your passions. Most unfitting for a duchess.”

  He’d sought to prove a point, and so he had. What he didn’t know was that she loved him. Otherwise, she’d never have allowed him to kiss her. Certainly she would not have responded with passion. She debated telling him, right out, but knew it wouldn’t help her in the slightest. A declaration of love would only further damage her already tattered chances, for it was surely not at all decorous to tell a man he was loved before the gentleman expressed the sentiment first.

  The game was up. She had lost.

  Anger replaced disappointment. Raising one brow, she stared him down. “Inexperience explains my response to your forced attentions. I daresay most women find their first kiss . . . stimulating.”

  “You are wrong.”

  “Am I to assume then, that other young ladies do not respond in kind, but rather, turn and run screaming into the night?”

  “Not quite so dramatic an exit, but something like that.” He stepped close again. “They don’t allow a gentleman to open his mouth, nor do they answer by opening their own. Lady Jane, you have the disadvantage of being raised in a houseful of males. I would counsel you, for your own sake, to have a care where gentlemen are concerned. When you receive your second kiss, do not part your lips. The results could be dangerous.”

  “You’re hardly in a position to give me counsel, Your Grace, considering it is you who just forced me to do what you advise against. I’d not thought you a hypocrite.”

  “Ah, but I did not force you, Lady Jane. That is the point.”

  “And you always make your point, Blixford, do you not? You’re a tiresome man.” Talking about the kiss was almost as stimulating as the kiss itself had been. He would not marry her, but she sincerely wished he’d kiss her again. Just once more. She moistened her lips with a swift swipe of her tongue.