The Duke's Stolen Bride Page 11

  Giving up, she examined the woeful status of their tea collection. They had been reusing their tea leaves to an embarrassing degree, much longer than customary, wringing out every bit of flavor possible. Much like her life of late. Her days had become all about wringing out what she could—squeezing out every bit of sustenance.

  She hoped he liked his tea weak. She set sugar and milk on the tray. Standing back, she gazed at the meager little tray and tried not to feel too inadequate over it.

  “Need any help?”

  She swung around, gasping at the suddenness of his deep voice in her kitchen.

  He stood framed in the doorway. She had seen her father countless times in that same spot. Never had he looked so imposing, so very tall and overbearing. Not like this man.

  Then it struck her. The Duke of Warrington was standing in her kitchen.

  The Duke of Warrington was standing in her kitchen.

  She doubted he had ever deigned to enter his own kitchens, but here he was. In her kitchen.

  “No. I am quite capable of handling this myself. I will be with you in the parlor in a few minutes.”

  “No need. It’s just the two of us, after all.” He sank down on a stool across from her, the worktable between them. “We can take tea and talk in here. We are well past formality, I think.”

  Her face heated. They were well past formality indeed. Formality had flown out the window the moment she placed her hand upon his manhood. Some might even argue that formality had fled the moment she hid beneath the table where he dined.

  Or perhaps it was the moment she asked him to tutor her in the art of seduction.

  There were several points where social constraints had dissolved between them. She supposed it had been that way from the start.

  “Very well,” she agreed.

  At least he would be spared her shabby parlor. The kitchen was much more to her liking at any rate. It might be small, but it was tidy, warm, and smelled of home. Dried herbs hung before the window, refreshing the room.

  She served them. “Milk?” she asked, sighing a small breath of relief when he indicated yes. Hopefully, it masked the weakness of the drink. Unfortunately, he declined the sugar.

  She watched his face closely as he took his first sip, but he showed no outward reaction. He lifted his gaze from the cup and glanced around her kitchen. She followed his gaze and winced when she saw that she had left the cupboard doors open in her fruitless search for biscuits. He could see just how very bare the shelves were. Before she could think better of it, she rose and hastily shut the doors.

  Too late, she realized that revealed her shame, drawing more attention to the emptiness of her cupboards than she wanted. Blast it.

  She added a hefty dollop of sugar into her own cup and stirred. She knew it was mostly sweet water with the slightest flavoring of bergamot. Still, she took a sip and feigned a look of complete contentment.

  In truth she was quite accustomed to the flavor. Whenever she took tea with Annabel and her mother, there was always a startled moment when she first sipped, no longer familiar with what hearty and strong tea tasted like.

  She took a bracing breath. “I confess, you were the last person I expected to see on my doorstep, Your Grace.”

  Indeed, the list of people she expected to see before him was long.

  “I thought we had unfinished business.” He eyed her expectantly, as though she should understand that.

  She did not.

  “I thought our business quite finished, Your Grace.”

  “We had an arrangement. We still have an arrangement,” he amended. “That has not changed.”

  She looked down into her cup of tea, her fingers playing along the edge of the rim. They still had an arrangement? She digested that. In his mind it was not over then. It was not finished yet. Butterflies rioted in her stomach as the full implications of that set in.

  She gave her head a slight shake. None of this made sense. He’d sent her away.

  “I confess some confusion. I thought we were done with . . .” Her words faded. Heat swamped her face at her unspoken words. Unspoken yet no less heard.

  His head angled as he considered her. “You are quite fetching when you blush.”

  She blinked in astonishment. Was he complimenting her? She thought she was not to his taste.

  “Am I?” she asked warily.

  “I owe you an apology.”

  He was apologizing? But that couldn’t be right. He was much too haughty, too arrogant, too . . . too much of a duke for that.

  “An apology for what?” she asked in a voice full of suspicion.

  “I might have been hasty sending you away the other night.”

  “You might have been?” She rolled her eyes. “You were a wretch.”

  “You were quite the apt pupil.” He looked down at the rough surface of the worktable. Almost as though he were nervous, which seemed totally improbable. “It is no excuse, but it caught me off guard.” He lifted his gaze back to her and she felt ensnared, trapped from the intensity of his stare. “I behaved badly.”

  “Yes,” she snapped. “You did behave badly.” He had humiliated her, sending her away as though she had done something wrong. Their lesson had just begun and he’d crushed her ending it so abruptly.

  “It won’t happen again.”

  Again? She shook her head. “You wish to resume our lessons?”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  He frowned at her quick retort, and she enjoyed that. Disappointing him felt good after how abysmally he had treated her.

  “Please reconsider.”

  “And why would I let you touch me again?” She arched an eyebrow at him.

  His gaze crawled over her, slowly, leisurely, leaving a wake of heat everywhere. “Because you want me to.”

  She sucked in a sharp breath and wished he was wrong, but he wasn’t. Of course he wasn’t. She should toss him out on his ear, but he spoke the truth. And she still had things to learn about becoming a skilled mistress. Things he could show her. Things she would enjoy for him to show her.

  He spoke again, adding, “Because I want to.”

  Her knees started to tremble where she sat. She moistened her lips. “Well, then . . .”

  “Are you amenable to continuing our lessons, Miss Langley?” His gaze pinned her questioningly.

  This new, kinder, gracious duke bewildered her. She actually felt herself softening toward him.

  “Oh, um.” A confusing little thrill fluttered through her. She schooled her features into what she hoped resembled impassivity. She didn’t want to appear too excited. Or excited at all. This was supposed to be business. A matter void of emotion. “Well. Um. Yes,” she agreed. “I would be amenable . . . I suppose.”

  Tension swelled on the air. A palpable thing, creeping and expanding into a great balloon between them. His hands flattened on the table as though steadying himself.

  What happened now?

  He glanced around the kitchen. “You are home alone.” He stated more than asked.

  “Yes.”

  His gaze settled back on her rather meaningfully.

  “Oh.” Full understanding washed over her. “You are suggesting that we resume our lessons. Now? Right now?”

  “Is the time not convenient for you?”

  “Um. I suppose now would be fine, yes. My sisters should not be home for a good while yet.” It was her turn to glance around.

  Surely her kitchen was not an ideal location for carnal affairs. She cleared her throat nervously. “Shall we adjourn to my bedchamber?”

  He stood readily. “That sounds like a fine idea.”

  She nodded and copied suit, rising to her feet, grateful her skirts hid her trembling legs. “Well. This way.”

  This was happening, then.

  She preceded him out of the room and up the stairs toward her chamber. Her heart beat like a wild flock of birds in her chest as she moved down the corridor, his footsteps solidly behind her.
She was glad to be walking in front of him so that he could not read her expression, which must fully capture her panic.

  She was taking a man into her bedchamber. To her bed.

  She wanted to retch.

  She visualized herself losing the contents of her stomach all over him. That would be calamitous. The kind of thing one never recovered from.

  She turned the door latch with a shaking hand and entered her room.

  Her chamber was tidy and cozy. The bed loomed comfortable and welcoming with a hand-stitched afghan in soft shades of yellow and blue and green at the foot of the bed. Several hand-stitched pillows decorated the head of the bed.

  She motioned him to join her inside and then closed the door behind him.

  For however cozy the room, it was still much too chilly. The grate was empty, as was the dormant fireplace. She couldn’t remember the last time either had burned. Not since Papa had lived.

  He glanced to the fireplace. “It’s gone cold.” She winced. He made the comment as though that was a recent happenstance and not a constant condition of her life. “Would you like me to attend to it?”

  She wished he could. No sense circumventing the truth, though. He already knew of her low circumstances. There was no pretending otherwise. “That fireplace hasn’t been lit in months,” she admitted.

  He frowned, his expression puzzled. “Not even this past winter?”

  It had been an intensely cold winter. Spring had arrived gradually and the days were still chilly. “Sometimes we managed a bit of coal for the grate. On the worst of nights.” Hence the reason why they were so indebted to the coal purveyor. On the most bitter of winter nights they had all three shared a room.

  “You have no coal left?” he demanded.

  “We have none to spare for any of the bedchambers.” What they had was reserved for kitchen use, in order to cook their meals.

  He digested that, looking vastly displeased. She suddenly realized he must be cold. He was not accustomed to such deprivation, of course.

  “I’m sorry,” she rushed to say. “Are you chilled?” She had grown accustomed to the lack of warmth, coping with it by dressing in layers and piling on the blankets.

  “No, no. I’m fine.” He waved a hand.

  She nodded, still uncertain, suspecting he was being less than honest with her in order to spare her further embarrassment.

  She fiddled with the collar of her dress.

  His gaze went to her fidgeting fingers. “Second thoughts?” he queried.

  She lifted her chin a notch. “Not at all.”

  He moved toward her escritoire near the window. She had vague memories of her mother sitting there, penning her letters as she stared out at the world.

  He pulled out the chair from beneath the desk and lifted it, positioning it in front of the bed. She watched as he sank down upon the well-worn seat cushion as though this was the most casual affair and not a clandestine liaison.

  What was he doing?

  She swallowed against the lump in her throat. “I thought this was to be a lesson . . .”

  “Oh, it is.” He sat with a relaxed air, elbows propped on the chair arms. “It has begun. Even now as I sit here, we’ve begun.”

  She shifted her weight on her feet. She didn’t know whether to stand or sit as he was. The only place left for her to sit was on the bed, and that felt much too awkward. She couldn’t bring herself to do it.

  “You seem uncomfortable,” he remarked.

  “I suppose I am.” No sense lying to him. He could see how very awkward she was. “Temporary, I am certain. Once we begin I will relax.”

  “The thing you must remember is that reticence gains you no favors. At least in the profession you seek to undertake.”

  “Of course.”

  “You must know about all matters of intimacy and be at ease.”

  “Of course,” she said again and then wanted to kick herself for failing to contribute anything verbally significant.

  He continued, “You must be knowledgeable in all ways. You don’t want to appear frightened. A skittish female will not heat a man’s blood.”

  “I’m not skittish.” With her arms still crossed, she brought a hand up to her collar, again plucking at the fraying edge. Her gaze darted toward her bedroom door as though she might make a dash for it. Just an impulse. Naturally, she would not.

  He noticed the direction of her gaze, and lifted an eyebrow that seemed to say: See? Told you. Skittish as a hare . . .

  She squared her shoulders and reminded herself that she had initiated all of this. He was here at her request.

  It was difficult to remember that with her nerves running amok, but this wasn’t about her. This wasn’t about what she was feeling.

  She thought of Charlotte’s face, her devastated expression when she saw William with another. That was something Marian could fix. It wasn’t too late if she was able to restore her sister’s dowry. Then she could also continue to fund Phillip’s schooling and give Nora a grand come out, too.

  He continued, instructing in a flat voice. “A man wants a mistress to do things a wife will not. She needs to be enthusiastic as well as knowledgeable. Otherwise what would be the reason to keep her? To go to her at all?”

  Marian nodded. That made sense. Although with her knocking knees, it was difficult to imagine herself as enthusiastic. “Very well. Teach me those things.”

  “I do not believe I can while you stand there tense as a slat of wood. I cannot teach one not to be reticent. Confidence is something you have or you don’t.”

  “This is simply nervousness. I can overcome it.”

  For some reason she felt even more anxious than she did the first time she was alone with him.

  Probably because now she knew.

  Now she knew what his kiss tasted like, what his hands felt like on her skin, how hard his body was against her own.

  Now she knew this man had the power to make her muscles melt. He knew how to reduce her to hot pudding.

  He eyed her skeptically.

  “I will overcome it,” she repeated firmly, insistently.

  Still studying her, he looked decidedly unconvinced at her insistence.

  “I wasn’t the one to call a halt to our last lesson,” she reminded hotly.

  “No, you weren’t,” he allowed. “But in this moment you’re looking a little ill . . . hardly a bedmate to tempt a man, and that is what you’re trying to learn here, yes? How to tempt a man?”

  She pressed a hand against her churning stomach. “I am quite well, I assure you.”

  “Your face is green,” he pointed out in that exasperatingly even voice of his.

  One of her hands flew to her cheek as though she could verify this with a touch. Blast. Her skin did feel clammy.

  “Nerves, as I said. Nothing more. I’m ready. Let’s begin our lesson, Your Grace.”

  He sighed and propped one ankle over his knee in a thoroughly relaxed pose. “You hardly look ready to be touched, or to touch in turn, for that matter.”

  She stomped her foot on the well-worn rug. “I’m ready.”

  Their eyes locked in silent challenge. She didn’t need to see herself to know that determination was writ all over her face.

  In his face was something else.

  Something out of her scope of knowledge. She thought she read admiration there. Male appreciation, even though he had stated she was not to his preferred tastes.

  She had been on the receiving end of male attention before. Obviously, there was Mr. Lawrence, but there had been others, too. Members of the staff when she was in Lady Autenberry’s employ. Grooms, valets. Even Clara’s suitors had made overtures, the wretched cads. She never gave them a moment of her time, but this man demanded all of her attention.

  He was the sun to her universe, sucking everything toward him—including her.

  “Tell me what to do,” she whispered.

  He eased back in his chair, the wood creaking slightly beneath the adjustment o
f his weight. Suddenly, he did not look quite so relaxed. His eyes glittered hotly.

  “Take off your clothes.”

  Chapter 14

  Take off your clothes.

  Nate uttered the words with a great deal more calm and authority than he felt. Desire for her hummed just beneath the surface as it had since the night she’d turned the tables on him and left him aching for her. For her.

  That had not been in the plan, but he’d come to terms with the unexpectedness of it. Now he was prepared.

  He was prepared and would not be losing the wager he’d made with Pearson.

  He was not weak. Not ruled by his body or baser impulses.

  Certainly, he did not live as a monk. He took his share of women to bed. Since his wife died, he’d been active in that regard. Marian Langley was simply a female with the same parts as any other female. Nothing extraordinary.

  Except she hid under tables and called on him late at night in the hopes that he would train her to be a proper mistress.

  Very well. Fairly extraordinary behavior that.

  He’d do her a favor, help her out, have a bit of fun in the process and win a wager.

  “Undress?” she asked as though there could be any confusion in his words.

  He nodded. “You cannot be ashamed of your form. Shame should never enter into any of this. Your lover will want to know your body. He will want to know your body better than his own.” He looked at her intently, trying to appear detached and not as though he didn’t desperately want to know her body for himself. “Now undress yourself.”

  With shaking fingers, she obliged, starting at the buttons along the front of her dress.

  They were little fabric-covered fastenings, but she didn’t have any trouble with them.

  Nate held still, willing himself not to move, not to react. He willed himself to make no movements that might startle her.

  It was harder, however, to will his cock into obedience. Hopefully, she did not notice from her position. He didn’t want to frighten her with the sight of his raging erection.

  She shrugged out of her gown, easing it over her slim shoulders. Too slim. He’d have to rectify that. He’d seen her bare cupboards. Tasted her weak tea. As far as he could discern, her kitchen was poorly stocked.