An Innocent Maid For The Duke. Ann Lethbridge
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arm went around her, bringing her to her feet, her body flush with his. She twined her arms around his neck, floating on a cloud of hot sensation, her breasts feeling heavy and full, her heart pounding against her ribs, her whole body melting into his.
One large hand cradled her face, warm, strong. When had he removed his gloves? Why did she care? Feeling his skin warm against hers, his strength held under control yet supporting her with a sureness that made her feel weak, was heavenly.
He nipped at her bottom lip, teased with his tongue until on a sigh she opened her mouth and let him taste.
A Florentine Kiss. She’d always thought it sounded nasty, but this was lovely. It created hot shivers across her skin, wicked pulses low in her abdomen, an expanding sensation of joy that made her heart feel too large for her chest.
A groan rumbled up from his throat and his fingers speared into her hair.
One of her hands had, of its own volition, settled on his chest. It trembled in time to the beat of his heart. The sensation seemed to travel all the way from her fingertips until it took up residence deep inside her stomach.
Her head spun with the onslaught of heat and cold and lightning seemingly happening all at once.
His free hand cupped her hip, pulling her close to his lovely lithe body, so firm against hers. The ridge of his arousal pressed against her belly. Her dazed mind sounded a warning. She pushed at his chest, felt resistance, then, to her relief, he eased away, their lips continuing to cling for a fraction longer. He stepped back.
He was breathing hard.
As was she.
What must he think?
Wanton. Just like your mother.
She covered her mouth with her hand before she said something stupid. Like, thank you. Or, again, please.
With horror she realised her hair had come down and was now a mess of lopsided curls. ‘I should go.’ She looked around for the bonnet. It wasn’t hers to lose.
‘Rose.’ He held out a hand to her, a careful smile on his lips. ‘Sweetheart.’
The sound of the endearment made her want to weep. Couldn’t he see, she could never be his sweetheart? She wanted a home. A family. A husband. If she didn’t leave now, that dream would be over.
While he had been kind and very sweet, that kiss meant he knew she was no lady. Knew she was not his equal in any respect and he had as good as said he would be marrying soon. A lady. A woman of his own class.
There was no sign of the bonnet. Darnation, she would buy Diana a new one. ‘I’m sorry. I cannot do this.’ She picked up her skirts and ran.
The crunch of his feet on the gravel followed. Got closer.
She spun around. Backed into the gate. Hands pressed flat against rough wood behind her. ‘Don’t.’
His expression was puzzled. Perhaps a shade angry. And he had her bonnet dangling from his fingers.
She put up a hand to halt him. ‘Please. Let me go. This was a mistake. I’m sorry.’
He froze, his body rigid. ‘I beg your pardon, Rose.’ He bowed.
The hurt in his eyes stopped her breath. The urge to stay wrenched at her heart, perhaps even her soul, she felt such a pang. Staying would make things worse. If he knew what she was, then it would ruin everything. Spoil the memories.
She whirled around. In seconds she was out of the gate and running. At the end of the alley, she collided full tilt with someone. She let out a shriek.
‘Rose!’ Flo’s voice.
She had waited, despite Rose telling her not to. She almost collapsed with relief.
Flo held her by the upper arms, her eyes blazing as they search her face. ‘The bastard. Wot did he do?’
‘No, no. He didn’t do anything. It was me.’
Flo’s gaze went back up the alley. ‘Blasted toffs.’
‘Please, Flo. I want to go. Now.’
Clearly torn between wanting to seek out the man and needing to help Rose, Flo hesitated.
‘Flo, I need to go home.’
With a curse, Flo put an arm around her shoulders and turned down the street heading for Cheapside.
Heavy-eyed and muzzy-headed, Jake lifted his gaze from the numbers dancing across the page of the ledger and stared at the straw bonnet sitting on the corner of the desk.
What had he been thinking? He was the Duke, not the carefree second son any longer. He had responsibilities and, as his father had reminded him with his dying breath, a duty to the Westmoor name. A duke didn’t go about importuning ladies in a hidden garden. Surely even he had too much pride to abase himself before an unwilling woman. His brother would never have considered such a thing.
Besides, even if she was not a member of the ton, Rose was innately a lady in every respect. The rake in him had recognised her innocence from the first and he had come so close to scaring her to death, she’d had to run from him. It did not bear thinking about.
After swearing to his father to do his duty by the title, at the first temptation to come his way he’d returned to his old careless impetuous ways. Shame flooded him to the core of his being.
Thank heavens Rose had more sense.
And yet something inside him kept urging him to seek her out.
He could do it. He could find her. A widow or wife living on the edges of society in search of a bit of harmless adventure would be known to someone. As a duke, he had unlimited resources. And he could bend her to his will, make her want him if he put his mind to it, too. He’d charmed enough ladybirds and widows in his salad days to know his appeal to the ladies. A charm he’d never given a second’s thought. Until now.
Not that he would. It wouldn’t be honourable.
He really ought to apologise, though.
Those last moments with his father floated through his mind.
‘You swear you will give up your rakish ways and give the title its due? For my sake.’
‘No!’ he’d yelled. ‘You are not going to die. You must not. I do not want this—’ His voice had broken.
A heavy sigh. ‘Do your duty, my son. That is all I ask. Care for Eleanor and my mother.’
Fingers, clammy and cold, had clenched on his hand.
‘Swear it.’
His throat had felt raw. His eyes had burned.
‘I swear it, Papa. On my life.’
‘I trust you, my son.’
The grey eyes had closed for the last time.
Trust was a heavy burden. Jake squeezed his eyes shut and prayed for respite, for an hour or two of sleep before he returned to the house where his father had placed a life of duty and honour upon shoulders ill-prepared to bear them. Burdens he had never wanted.
How many times during his youth had he rejoiced that the dukedom was his brother’s destiny and not his, while he went his merry way.
‘You here again, Westmoor?’
He looked up at the impatient tone.
Frederick loomed over him, glaring down. ‘Do you not have a home to go to? Oh, wait. You do. A ducal mansion.’ He inhaled and curled his lip in distaste. ‘God, how much wine have you drunk?’ He whisked the decanter off the desk and deposited it back on the tray on the console between the shuttered