A Duchess in Name Page 6
If he’d been looking to reestablish some distance between them, perhaps waltzing had been a poor choice. Now she was in his arms, closer to him than she’d ever been before, the warmth of her body suffusing his own. That delicious spicy-sweet orange blossom scent he’d barely caught a whiff of the day before was making him nearly light-headed. And no wonder Sturridge couldn’t stop staring at her chest. Every time he glanced down, it was to see the perfect swell of her breasts pressed up against the pale pink satin of her dress. He couldn’t help but imagine what lay underneath.
He was a man, and men often imagined what an attractive woman looked like underneath her clothes. It was an idle fantasy that played out without any connection to reality. But with a start, he realized he’d see Victoria. He’d know her. He’d have her in his bed. When they married, they’d do much more than waltz. The blood that had been pounding in his ears suddenly rushed south and he was nearly swamped in a flood of desire. His mouth watered with it. He spun her around the room in his arms, imagining her stretched out beneath him in bed, and grew dizzy with want.
She was staring up at him, eyes locked with his, which wasn’t helping to dissipate the intimacy of this moment. Her lips parted slightly as she drew in a breath. Moisture gleamed on the lower and he wanted to lick it, to slide his tongue across her mouth and then inside. He wanted to pull down her mass of dark gold hair and plunge his fingers into it, holding her head tightly as he took her perfect mouth.
The couples around them had stopped moving and were applauding politely. He blinked. So did she. The waltz had ended. Of course. He stood frozen with Victoria in his arms for another moment, a moment too long. In his mind, he was dragging her out of here, onto some dark terrace or into an empty library. He was pushing her into a corner and pulling up her skirts. He was palming her breasts while he devoured her mouth and pushed between her thighs. In reality, he forced his hands to release her. He drew in a deep breath. He took a step back. She swayed ever so slightly on her feet.
“Thank you for the dance.” His voice was little more than a ragged growl, as if all his lust-filled thoughts had lodged in his throat.
Her hand rested on her chest as she swallowed. That should be his hand, feeling her soft skin under his roughened fingers and the thrum of her heartbeat against his palm.
“But of course,” she said politely. But there was nothing polite about Victoria’s voice. Even when she was asking how he took his tea, it was the sensual rasp of a woman in ecstasy. Now the sound of it sent a tremor straight to his groin.
“We should find your parents.”
Yes, find her parents, turn her back over to them and end this godforsaken night before another Society vulture swooped down to take a swipe at one of them. Or before he dragged her off into a dark corner and acted out the fantasies still unwinding in his mind.
“Yes.” Her reply was a breathy whisper. She wasn’t unaffected. Whatever her reasons for being here, for accepting him, a stranger, as her husband, she was now feeling the same spark he felt. Which made it all the more tempting to act on it. His hand tightened on hers as he led her through the crowd. His steps sped up. That empty library was beckoning. He doubted she’d even protest.
Hyacinth Carson’s too-loud laughter cut through the hum of the room, dousing his lust like a bucket of ice water. “Of course, when Victoria is a duchess...”
The rest of her speech was lost in the chatter around them. Behind him, Victoria stumbled. When he glanced at her, her eyes were averted and she was blushing, although whether that was because of her mother’s crass public gloating or because of the heated moment they’d shared, he couldn’t be sure.
Even though she was the last person he wanted to see, he followed Hyacinth’s loud voice until they found her, holding court with a cluster of Society dames, all of whom looked on her with a mixture of disdain and reluctant deference. Regardless of her tasteless display, Hyacinth was right. Her daughter would one day be a duchess, and it made Hyacinth socially unassailable, no doubt just as she’d planned. He hated having to play a part in this.
“Excuse me, ladies, but Miss Carson is feeling a bit tired.”
Hyacinth tittered and cast a glance at her audience. “That’s to be expected. We have been in such a whirl. Your father is in the card room, Victoria, and I do hate to drag him away. I’d be delighted if you’d escort us home, Lord Dunnley.”
More time in her unsettling company. Not what he had in mind, but he could hardly refuse. Victoria didn’t say a word as her mother bid her new bosom friends good-night. Chin up, eyes focused on the middle distance, she seemed to have slipped into some well-worn armor.
* * *
The carriage ride back to the Carson townhouse was anything but quiet. Victoria’s mother talked nonstop about the ladies she’d spoken to, the esteemed gentlemen who’d paid their respects. She didn’t say a word, too mortified to even attempt it. She kept her face turned away from Dunnley, too, looking out the window. She couldn’t bear to look at him and see what he thought of her mother written all over his face.
At the townhouse, her mother fluttered around him a bit longer, nattering on about visiting Dunnley’s “sweet, lovely mother.” The Duchess of Waring was the least “sweet” woman Victoria had ever met, and she was fairly certain at the ball, she’d seen her slipping out onto the terrace with Sir Gibbons, alone.
They were still standing in the entry way and he hadn’t taken his coat off when the footman offered. Everything about him said he was desperate to get away from her, but she spoke out of ingrained politeness. “Can we offer you some refreshment?”
As she expected, he shook his head. “No, I’d better go. But thank you.”
“Well.” Her mother gave an overly dramatic yawn. “I am bone tired. Victoria, I’ll leave you to, ah, say good-night to our esteemed guest.”
Could she be more obvious? Her mother would probably be perfectly all right with the earl violating her right there in the drawing room, as long as she emerged as a countess. That thought made her blush. He wouldn’t try it, of course, but it summoned back all those feelings, all that unexpected heat, from the waltz.
Bizarrely, she found herself almost wishing he would try it, or something like it. No man had ever made her feel this way, like her skin was too tight for her body, like her bones had gone molten. She wanted him to touch her, to see what it felt like, if it would set her on fire as she suspected it might. He wouldn’t, of course. They were strangers, and it was perfectly clear he did not want to be here with her, marrying her, despite that flare of attraction on the dance floor.
“Thank you for a lovely evening,” Victoria said by rote.
“Of course.”
They stood facing each other in awkward silence.
“I had a nice time,” she continued.
He grinned. Finally, an expression reflecting a little genuine emotion. “Yes, Miss Ponsoy and Lord Sturridge made for scintillating conversations.”
“All right,” she conceded with a smile. “Perhaps not those parts, but the rest was nice.”
Confessing how much she’d enjoyed talking to him seemed a curious intimacy, one she wasn’t sure she was ready to risk. She’d never imagined wanting to forge any sort of closeness with Sturridge, or any other man who’d vied for her hand. She’d have been happy to let those men be strangers. That wasn’t what she wanted with Dunnley, so she gathered her courage and forged ahead.
“I very much enjoyed talking to you about your work. It was fascinating.”
Dunnley smiled softly, his eyes dropping to the floor, and he reached up to scratch the back of his ear. In moments like this, when he was unguarded and open, he seemed sweet, almost gentle, and she found herself liking him so much it scared her. Caring for her spouse, wanting him to care for her, would make her vulnerable, which was never meant to be a part of this negotiation.
“I enjoyed it, too. Quite a bit. Not many ladies in London ballrooms would have found it interesting.”
“I don’t see why not. Everything—” She was about to blurt out “everything about you is fascinating,” but that was far too much to confess. “Everything you told me was so interesting. You must have seen a great deal of the world.”
He shrugged. “Not as much as you might imagine. I left for Italy immediately after finishing at Cambridge and I’ve been there ever since.”
How curious. He hadn’t been home in all this time? There must be some reason. “You haven’t come home since then?”
“Only for my brother’s funeral.”
“Of course. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Another enigmatic shrug, and his expression told her he hadn’t been at all close to the deceased brother. Perhaps that was the reason he’d stayed away.
“You like to travel?” he asked, adroitly steering the conversation elsewhere.
“I can’t say, as I haven’t been anywhere. I like the idea of it. There are so many places I’d like to see one day.”
Of course, any travel she would do in the future would be at his side, since their lives were about to be joined forever. That seemed to occur to him as well, and they sank into yet another awkward silence.
It was probably time to say good-night. Past time, really. Usually her innate sense of social graces would have told her the exact moment when she should have said something to move them toward parting, but somehow she’d missed her cue and let this moment linger too long.
A kiss good-night was perfectly allowable now they were engaged, although such a sweet, romantic gesture was laughable in the face of their stilted arrangement. Still, shaking his hand seemed equally strange. Too formal, too cold.
He reached out his hand. Very well, a handshake it was. Her twinge of disappointment was ridiculous.
“Good night, Miss Carson.”
“Good night, Your Lordship.”
He held on to her hand for a beat too long, that delicious roughness of his palm heating hers. Her stomach erupted in butterflies. Utter romantic nonsense. It was a handshake. She glanced up at his face and their eyes met. The butterflies vanished and her stomach dropped clean to her feet. Her feet were rooted in place, but her body swayed slightly, as if being tugged toward him by an invisible thread. A muscle in his cheek twitched. Then, to her shock, he leaned in and kissed her cheek.
Her skin warmed beneath his lips and a delicious tingle shot down the back of her neck. It was only a moment, a brush of his lips against her cheek, but it heated her all the way down to the soles of her feet. Well, there was her answer about his touch. That tiny kiss was ricocheting through her body, laying waste to her good sense.
He drew back two scant inches, his eyes meeting hers in the dull gold glow of the gaslight wall sconces behind her. She could feel his breath on her mouth. There was only his beautiful, strong face and those shockingly blue eyes and his lips, which had made her feel so much at the slightest touch. She swayed toward him again. His eyelids lowered, his gaze dropping to her mouth.
What would it feel like, if he closed the space between them and kissed her lips? She wanted to know, with a longing that left her aching inside. She didn’t plan to do it. How could she ever plan something so shocking? Perhaps she didn’t actually do it; perhaps it just happened. It seemed like all she’d done was think about kissing him and then the space between them had vanished and their lips met.
He froze. For a horrifying moment, she feared everything had been ruined. Mortification swept through her. She should draw back, make some apology, escape up the stairs...perhaps hide for the rest of her life. Then he moved, caressing her mouth gently with his, and her embarrassment melted away under the heat of his kiss. He parted his lips slightly, urging her to do the same. It was the most natural thing in the world to do it, to feel his slow exhale slip past her lips and down her throat.
Following her instincts, she raised her hands to his shoulders. He slipped his arm around her waist, drawing her into him. The slick, warm shock of his tongue against her bottom lip pulled a gasp from her throat. His tongue slipped inside. All the dizzy, confusing heat from the waltz came rushing back in. It felt as if they were waltzing now, even though they stood still. There was the same rush, the same rapid beat of her heart. She didn’t care who he was or who she was or how they’d found their way to this moment. There was only his mouth, his tongue and the fire licking through her limbs.
His hand came up to grip the back of her neck. She shivered, her hair prickling and—under the layers of corset and gown—her nipples tightening. His tongue touched and tasted her with a decadent thoroughness. Good heavens, how could a meeting of lips be felt over every inch of her skin?
Maybe he would do it. Maybe he’d drag her into the drawing room, press her down on the sofa, slide his hands under her dress and take her. Right now, she wasn’t entirely sure she would stop him. Part of her mind knew she had to. But it was a small part, a faraway voice, whispering into a storm, and the storm was him, this kiss.
The hand on her waist tightened and she leaned into him. He was so large and solid. She’d never experienced a male body so intimately. Her anxiety was at war with her desire. If he drew her into the drawing room, if he wanted to touch the rest of her, she’d let him. He held her utterly under his spell and she couldn’t stop this if she tried.
She wasn’t called on to put a stop to it, however, because he did. Dunnley drew back suddenly, releasing her mouth, panting as he stared down at her.
“I apologize,” he said, his voice a rasp. Then he wrenched himself away from her, releasing his hold on her neck, his hand on her waist pushing her away instead of pulling her closer. She almost staggered at the shock of it. In a daze, she raised her hand to her mouth. Her lips felt swollen and they still tingled with the fire of his kiss.
“I had no intention of... I’m sorry, Miss Carson, forgive my forwardness.”
That was not the expression she expected to see on the face of a man who’d just kissed her. Quite the opposite. The fire burning in her stomach snuffed out. She began to feel cold in its absence, wrapping her arms around herself.
“It’s all right.” She heard herself say it calmly, politely, as if from a great distance.
“It’s late.” He dragged a hand through his hair, sending it into disarray. “I should go.”
“Good night, Your Lordship.”
He winced at the title, the corner of his mouth hitching up in a humorless smile. “Good night again, Miss Carson.”
He turned and walked out the front door, leaving her shaken and quite stunned in the middle of the marble floor.
* * *
“Well?” Genevieve pressed. “How did it go?”
Victoria worried her bottom lip with her teeth. “Not well, I think.” That was putting it mildly.
There was no way to easily sum up all that had happened. And some of it, the kissing in the dark entry hall...she couldn’t—wouldn’t—describe that to anyone. It was starting to take on a dreamlike quality in her own mind. Could it have really happened?
Amelia, Grace and Lady Grantham had come for tea, and her mother was out dealing with a hundred details for the wedding and wouldn’t be back for hours. She could finally talk about her engagement honestly, but perhaps she’d keep a few details to herself.
“Why do you say that, darling?” Genevieve leaned forward. “What happened?”
“Well, to start with, I’m not sure he likes me.”
“That can’t be true,” Grace reassured her gently as she reached for the teapot. “I’m sure he likes you.”
“Is he as handsome as the engraving of him in the papers?” Amelia asked, dark eyes eager.
Leave it to Amelia to focus on that and forget she was marrying a complete stranger.
Amelia flopped back against the settee. “Figures you’d land a handsome duke, Vic. I always knew you’d marry high. Lord, but I do love your cook’s shortbread.”
“A handsome future duke. A future duke who doesn’t like me.” She passed the plate of biscuits. “Here, have another.”
Amelia took another biscuit and bit into it with a happy sigh. “Why do you think he doesn’t like you?” she mumbled around the crumbs.
“How can anyone not like you?” Grace passed a cup of tea to Genevieve. “You’re far too kind for anyone to dislike.”
“Stop serving everyone, Grace. You’re my guest. I’ll do the serving.” Victoria worked the teapot out of her hands. “The day we met—when he proposed—was most uncomfortable, but that’s to be expected. Things were still a bit stilted when he took me out to walk in the park, but he was polite, very considerate. We didn’t get much chance to talk, but it was pleasant enough. But at the Longvilles’ ball, things seemed to be improving.”
“In what way?” Grace asked.
“Well, we talked about his work for a while, and he was quite enthusiastic. It was the first proper conversation we’d had and it was going so well, and then he...” She remembered the way he’d suddenly turned off, like a light going out. “He withdrew. Just like that. We went from having the most lively conversation to speaking like strangers again.”
Genevieve took a sip of her tea before speaking. “This whole thing is no doubt as much of a surprise to him as it was to you. And being compelled to marry a stranger for money would make any man feel put-upon. Perhaps he hasn’t had enough time to come to terms with the situation. Once he has a chance to get to know you, he’ll become less uncomfortable in your company.”
She scowled. “That’s what I thought at first, too. But I don’t think he’s uncomfortable, precisely.”