Chapter Thirteen
Flushing, Daphne waited for the duke’s reply. It had been a simple and innocent enough question, especially given their present circumstances. But somehow her voice had gone all breathy and the question had sounded more seductive than it had light-hearted.
And yet, given the way the duke’s breeches clung to his muscular thighs and tight rounded buttocks, her breathy tone may have been more appropriate than she originally thought.
His Grace spun toward the fire, giving her full view of his distracting and well-proportioned backside. Clearing his throat, he croaked, “Ladies, first. And Daphne, please call me Edward.”
Her heart warmed at the sound of her name on his lips, the organ near pounding out of her chest. “Yes, right,” she replied, working her fingers into the cord he had so easily unknotted. Her cheeks burned at the memory of his hands in so intimate an area. How would it have felt if his hand had not slipped in its task, but had intentionally touched her breast? Had gently cupped her with the palm of his large hand?
She shook her head and began to wiggle out of the stiff and wet confines of the short stay she had worn to complement her butter yellow gown. She glanced down at the floorboards to where the dress, now more brown than yellow, lay in a sodden heap, the delicate lace trim on the sleeves tattered. Setting her stay beside her on the bed, she reached for the white linen shirt the duke had scavenged from the trunk. “Almost finished,” she called, pulling the soft, dry cloth over her head.
The shirt smelled of him. Of cloves, spice, and a manly musk scent that reminded her of the duke and the duke alone. Glancing over at the fire where he still stood motionless, his back facing the room, she couldn’t help but smile. He was a man of his word. Honest. Sincere. And one she could trust.
He also held her heart. Daphne inhaled, her breath catching at the revelation. As silly as the sentiment seemed, she knew it to be true. She had fallen in love with an Englishman, in particular, one very handsome and patient duke.
“There is no need to rush,” he replied, his hands at his sides. “Standing by the fire has helped immensely.”
She was certain that the fire’s heat was, indeed, beneficial but she still fumbled with the buttons in her haste to make herself decent. It was only fair that he, too, find comfort outside of his clothing as quickly as possible. Taking care with her ankle, she pulled on a pair of breeches, and wiggled under a pile of blankets the duke had placed on top of the bed.
“Finished,” she cried, her voice muffled by a layer of cotton. “My eyes are closed should you wish to undress.”
She was a horrible liar, but with the quick removal of his breeches, His Grace didn’t appear to know that. Had he not continued to face the glowing embers and dying flames of the fire, he would have seen two very open and very wide eyes peering over the edge of a quilted blanket, contradicting her words, and making them very false, indeed.
She really ought not to breach his trust. After all, Daphne would have been furious had he snuck a peek while she was disrobing. But she had never seen a man undress, let alone the anatomy revealed by his lack of clothing. Though she had been raised by three men, all had taken great lengths to maintain modesty while in her presence.
Perhaps if she had been exposed to such things, her curiosity of the male form would have been sated and she would not be so entranced by the example before her. With lean legs, muscular arms, and a taut backside, the duke appeared the flesh and blood counterpart of the marble statues placed throughout the estate, as if the Italian or Greek masters had used him as their model for masculine perfection. He was, without question, a breathtaking example of the male sex.
And with a sudden flick of his eyes and twist of his body, he was also very aware of her appreciative observation.
Surprise flitted across his features before amusement wrinkled his face and colored his voice. “Might I trouble you for a blanket?”
He stood without shame, his hands at his hips, his male anatomy fully exposed.
And all Daphne could do was stare.
It was as if the connection between her head and limbs had stopped working. She had heard his question, had even processed his request, and yet, she could not will her eyes to close or her hands to move.
“Daphne?” A wide grin split his face. “Is there something amiss?”
If her mouth were able to shape around the words swirling in her head, she might have been able to snap off some indignant or witty retort. Or even blush at her unabashed gawking. But all she could muster was, “No.”
“Then I don’t suppose you could hand me something to cover myself? While the fire is warm, I believe it won’t last much longer. There is no more wood left in the box.”
She closed her eyes and shook her head in an effort to reclaim her thoughts. Willing her mouth to open and her hands to move, she felt around for the nearest edge of the blanket. “Yes, yes, of course.”
His cool fingers brushed against hers as he lifted the cloth from her outstretched hand. “If you are not warm enough on the bed, you are more than welcome to join me by what is left of the fire.”
Daphne swallowed. Hard.
He was nude, for heaven’s sake, save for the soft layer of cotton that was surely wrapped around him. And she—well, she might have been naked herself for all that she wore. Sitting in front of glowing embers while huddling together for body warmth would test the self-restraint of even the holiest of saints.
And with the image of his naked body fresh in her memory, she was most definitely not a saint.
With her eyes still clenched shut, she mumbled, “The blankets are quite sufficient.” And they were. At least to a degree. Their warmth, along with the change of dry clothing, had helped ease the deep chill that had begun to settle into her bones. The sort of chill that still chattered her teeth at the most inopportune moments. Such as now.
Silence filled the room before strong arms wrapped around her stomach and under her bottom, lifting her with relative ease. “I do believe you are telling me a falsehood, Daphne Farrington.”
“I am not!” she gasped, her eyes fluttering open. “What in heaven are you doing?” He had her tight against his chest and at least four feet above the ground.
“Making use of what is left of our poor excuse of a fire.”
“I told you,” she insisted, clutching his neck as he moved a little too swiftly toward the hearth. “The blankets are quite sufficient. They simply need a moment to warm.”
“Which they can do more effectively in front of the grate.”
Daphne rolled her eyes as he gently lowered her to the warm panels of floorboard just outside the reach of the flickering flames. The fire might be dying, but the heat emanating from both him and the hearth was instant, and she was immediately grateful for his stubborn persistence.
Not that she would ever admit to it.
He sat down beside her, his own blanket wrapped around his waist. “Our clothes will likely not dry before the flames burn out. I fear you will have to ride back to Thornhaven in a wet gown.”
Daphne shrugged and angled her bottom a bit closer to the fire. “It will be in keeping with the truth. I will not deny that I went for a walk and was caught out in the rain. Or that I sought shelter during the brunt of the storm.” She huddled under the blanket and smiled. “I will simply not elaborate on the details. They needn’t know that you…assisted me to such lengths.”
The duke glanced toward the small window where rain still slapped against the panes. “The best lies carry an element of truth.”
“That would be true if I were, indeed, telling a falsehood. But my explanation is truth. I am simply omitting key details.”
He brought his eyes to hers. “I was referring to myself.”
Daphne lifted her chin. “Were you planning to lie about our encounter?”
His face sobered. “No. You have my full protection, Daphne. Should any questions arise, I would not hesitate to offer for you.”
But only then. Not before.
The words were unspoken, but loud enough for her to hear them. One needn’t read minds to see the conflict in his eyes or the discomfort in his voice.
She was, after all, a nobody from the former colonies. An American girl who had, prior to yesterday’s outing, never been kissed, much less courted by a man, especially one of such high standing. Who was she to think, with her impetuous nature, and off-putting manners, that she was worthy enough to garner the attentions of a duke?
“I doubt such drastic measures will need to be taken,” Daphne replied, pulling the blanket tight across her shoulders. “We have both behaved decorously.” Well, at least he had. She doubted taking long and admiring views of a man’s naked body lay within the boundaries of proper manners.
The duke leaned over and tucked a wet strand of hair behind her ear. “But I don’t want to.”
“Don’t want to what?” she asked, sucking in her breath. Marry her? Invest in her family’s company? Be in the same room as her?
His thumb trailed along the curve of her jaw. “I don’t want to behave decorously.”
Her heart hammered. She was so close to him. Close enough to see the golden swirls of hair dusting his chest and feel the heat of his hands on her face. A torrent of curiosity, anger, and desire stirred within her, their forces a tempest of emotion she no longer had the strength to control.
“Then don’t.”
The words were hardly out of her mouth before his lips seized hers with greedy abandon. His tongue, hot and sweet, flicked across her mouth with a hunger that demanded entrance. And dear God, she gave it to him.
Shrugging off the warm confines of her blanket, she thrust her fingers into his hair and pulled his body against her. His bare chest rubbed the thin layer of her shirt, eliciting a deep growl from his throat.
“Daphne.” His mouth left hers to make a trail of feather light kisses down her neck. “You severely test a man’s limitations.”
A flood of yearning, of a deep and carnal desire, surged through her with every swipe of his tongue and nip of his teeth. Heat moistened the intimate place between her thighs, fueling a craving for more than just kisses and tender embraces.
She wanted him. Not the title, his riches, or the protection of his name.
Just him. Just Edward.
Daphne lifted his face, gently tugging on his hair, as she took one full lip between her teeth. His answering moan attested to her efforts.
“Daphne, I”—the duke swallowed, his heavy-lidded eyes dark with desire—“I—”
Whatever words he was about to utter, she silenced with her mouth over his, tasting him as his hands brushed over her exposed left shoulder, slipping the overly large shirt down and exposing her breast.
Her breath caught, her back arching her chest toward him and into his warm grasp. She wanted him to touch her, to hold her where no man had ventured before. “Edward,” she whispered, testing out the sound of his name. “Please.”
And God Almighty. He complied.
His thumb brushed over her nipple, the small motion bringing forth a new wave of heated desire that made her breath catch and her body tremble.
“God, Daphne, you make this so damn difficult.”
She ran her fingers over the corded muscles of his arm, pausing after they dipped over each ripple. “Then perhaps I should make it a tad easier for you.” She slipped her hand behind his head and pressed her lips against the cool flesh of his ear.
His sharp intake of breath and shuddering chest bolstered her confidence and sent her well of desire to overflowing. Flinging one of her legs over his lap, she straddled him, reveling in the freedom brought by the baggy set of breeches slipping off her hips. The hard length of his arousal throbbed against her thigh, emboldening her to rock her hips against it.
“Does this help?”
Edward’s entire body went rigid, his skin bristling against her touch. With firm hands, he grabbed her around the waist and detached her from his lap to set her squarely on the floor.
“No,” he grunted. “It doesn’t help at all.”
…
His knowledge of French, Greek, and Latin aside, Edward could not think of a language with which to better express his present frustrations than his preferred and native King’s English. So it was, with the very tongue that had only mere seconds before been occupied in tracing the delightful curve of Daphne’s neck, he uttered his sentiments.
“Bloody hell.”
What the devil was wrong with him? He had a beautiful woman sitting half-undressed on the floor, ready and willing to offer herself, and his conscience chose now to assert itself?
Bloody hell.
“Have I done something wrong?” Her whispered words brought his eyes to hers. God, she was beautiful.
And young. And far too trusting.
“No,” he assured in a pathetic attempt to soothe the concern and vulnerability in her gaze. He rocked back onto his heels and shoved a hand through his hair. “I, however, have behaved indecorously and need to apologize for my transgression and the abuse of your trust.”
“Indecorously?” she repeated, staring at him as if he had not only spoken in French, but had lost his damn foul mind because of it.
Perhaps he had. Perhaps exploring her soft curves and tasting of their pleasures was not altogether wrong. He could make allowances for their desires, convince himself that he was simply giving her what she demanded. What he knew she yearned for.
But then, he would only be proving her earlier assumptions about ducal arrogance correct.
“Indecorously,” he affirmed, hoping the repetition of the word would somehow strengthen his resolve and make the whole damn mess of things a little less awkward. “I am sorry for my lapse of judgment.”
And he was. For even if every inch of his skin screamed for her touch, and his body demanded to be joined with hers, she deserved better than a quick romp on a dusty hard floor. She deserved what she had demanded from him since their first meeting in Burnham’s dank office—his respect.
Daphne pulled the frayed edge of the blanket to her chest. “You wish to apologize?” Disbelief clung to every syllable, confusion tainted every word.
It was no wonder. He was having a hard time making sense of all this himself. But if everything else was a little hazed and not quite focused, one ideal stood crystalline clear. He was a gentleman. And he would remain one. Even if a goddess incarnate sat before him with her lips slightly parted and her shirt pooled around her waist.
“Indeed. I should not have impugned your honor.”
“You didn’t impugn anything,” she said, irritation replacing her earlier disbelief. With her back stiff, she burrowed beneath the protective layer of the quilt she had gathered around her. “I would have voiced an objection had I felt it necessary.”
“Good,” he stated. Only it wasn’t good. It was clear that she had misinterpreted his botched appeal. She might even think that he didn’t want her, that she was the problem, and not his bloody honor. He shoved another hand through his tangled strands and groaned. “Bloody hell.”
Daphne snorted. “That is the only thing you’ve said that makes any sense.”
“Yes, well, I’m afraid I’ve made a whole damn mess of things.”
“Quite,” she quipped, a hint of a smile tugging on her lips.
Edward moved beside her, one hand still cinching the blanket around his waist. “I am attempting, in my own idiotic way, to be a gentleman, Miss Farrington.” He gave a flourished wave of his free hand and half bowed before her.
Her forehead creased as her brows lifted. “Please expound on that theory, Your Grace,” she replied, her voice mimicking his formal tone. “For I’m afraid I fail to see how not fulfilling a lady’s request is anything less than roguish.”
Edward sighed and let out a small laugh. “Under other circumstances, specifically those tied to the bonds of matrimony, I would heartily agree that to deny a lady would be quite fallacious. But I made an arrangement with you”—he paused, and nudged his elbow against her blanketed side—“and I’m doing my damnedest to uphold it.”
Daphne frowned. “And what arrangement would have you deny me? I do not recall agreeing to such a thing.”
He rubbed his hand over the white knuckles of her fingers clutching the blanket’s edge. “I have no intentions of denying you anything, Daphne. I am simply restraining them until more suitable conditions are made. Unlike most of my peers, I strive to be worthy of the title of gentleman.” Even if being a gentleman meant keeping secrets. Secrets he needed to tell her before someone else did.
But now was not the time to tell her. Not now when she was on the verge of seeing him for the man he was beneath the trappings of his title. Not when his hard efforts to sway her mind were bearing fruit.
Daphne’s lips lifted as her eyes lowered. “I cannot fault you that.”
Smiling, he gave her another nudge in the side. “You are most gracious, my lady.”
“Yes, among other things, one of which is warm, though it seems your fire has lost its flame.” She nodded toward the hearth.
He glanced at the glowing pile of white ashes in the grate. Whatever moisture remained on their clothing would have to be tolerated on the ride back to the house. They could not wait in a cold and dark cottage for clothes that could easily dry on one of the racks at Thornhaven—even if that meant returning in the middle of a storm. A short absence was easily forgiven; a longer one would not be so readily overlooked, despite heavy summer rains—or his good intentions.
Edward rocked onto his heels and stood. The rattling winds had ceased, but the rain continued to fall, its cadence on the roof having settled into soft patters and not the earlier drenching ones. They would be soaked and thoroughly uncomfortable upon their arrival to the manor house, but their presence would silence any murmurs of gossip that may already be spreading.
“Here.” He lifted her wet and heavy stay off the floor. “It would be best if you were to return in your clothes rather than mine.” He gave her an apologetic smile. “The rains have let up a bit and dinner will be announced soon. There may still be time to hide our absence.”
Daphne gave a long, drawn-out sigh. “I suppose you’re right.” She plucked the undergarment from his hand and stared at the tangled laces with a look of loathing. “It seems such a shame to put this back on when you spent so much effort getting it off.”
Now, however, with Daphne’s pert little breasts jiggling through her near transparent shift as she maneuvered her way into the confines of her sodden stay, was definitely not the time for deep revelations and conscience cleanings. Now was the time for admiration.
“Edward,” she mumbled, her hands in the air, her face covered by the stay. “Might I trouble you for some assistance? It seems the stay and I are at an impasse.”
Tugging up his breeches, he barely fastened them in his haste toward her. “It would be my pleasure.” And with a quick pull down and over the tops of her breasts it was all that and more.