While the Duke Was Sleeping Read online

  He flinched and then wondered at that reaction. It wasn’t as though the girl was attacking him. This had nothing to do with him. Poppy had made it clear they should have nothing to do with each other. He should turn and walk in the opposite direction as though he hadn’t seen her.

  Walk away, Mackenzie. Just walk away.

  Poppy’s shoulders slumped. She flattened her hand against the door and dropped her head, looking so forlorn that he couldn’t move. “Don’t be like that, Bry,” she said so softly he could barely hear her.

  More silence greeted her.

  She waited as though hoping her sister would change her mind and open the door to her. Nothing.

  She turned, wiping at her eyes. The fact that she was moved to tears made something shift inside him. Hellfire. He didn’t like it.

  She caught sight of him and froze. “What are you doing?” Accusation bit into each word.

  “Returning to my room.”

  Her chin went up and she wiped at her eyes as though trying to hide the evidence of her tears. “I was just checking on my sister.”

  He advanced on her. “How is she doing?” An innocuous enough question.

  She squared her shoulders. “Fine. Tired.”

  He stopped before her. “You’re a terrible liar.”

  Those tear-soaked eyes widened. “Very well. She’s upset with me.”

  “Why?”

  She shook her head and turned, striding away from him with quick, little steps, her bare feet a whisper on the plush runner.

  He followed. “What happened?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I assume it has to do with today in the stables. With me.”

  She spun around. “Because everything is about you with your stupid handsome face and your stupid brogue and your stupid . . . body.” She gestured to him furiously. Tears clogged her voice and glistened in her eyes.

  “I take it you had words with her about her boldness.”

  She sniffed back a sob. “Indeed. I had words with her about her boldness.”

  “And?”

  “She didn’t take it kindly. She had a few choice words for me in turn.” She shrugged as though it didn’t sting. “She’s fifteen. The world revolves around her.”

  “Except it doesn’t and you should make her aware of that.”

  She released a short laugh. “And you have a great deal of experience dealing with young, overwrought girls?”

  “I don’t,” he admitted. “But maybe you’re too soft on her.”

  “She’s all I have.”

  Her words struck him right in the chest with a pang. Until he remembered. “You have Marcus.”

  She glanced away, avoiding his gaze. “Yes. That’s right,” she remembered. “How could I forget that?”

  Why did she sound so unconvincing?

  He stepped forward and brushed a loose strand of hair from where it clung to her wet cheek. “You should make your sister realize that you’re a person, too. With feelings. And needs.”

  “I put those aside when my father died. My responsibility is to Bryony.”

  Her gaze drifted back to him and she looked so lost and sad that he couldn’t stop himself. He glanced around and identified the narrow door of a linen closet. With a quick glance up and down the corridor, he took her hand and pulled her inside.

  “What are you—”

  “I’m taking care of you, Poppy,” he said as he closed the door on them and doused them in the darkness of the closet, his blood pumping as he considered just how he would take care of her. “Trust me.”

  The soft scratch of her breath filled the space that smelled of fresh linens. He squinted, his vision growing acclimated to the darkness. A table full of bedding was propped against the wall. He knocked the blankets aside. Circling her waist, he lifted and plopped her down on the table.

  He gathered fistfuls of her skirts and dragged them up her thighs. Her hands flew to his wrists, locking around them as though to shove him away. He crouched down before her knees, looking up at the shadow of her face. “Put your needs first for once, Poppy,” he murmured, temptation laced in every word.

  He felt her hesitation. She was at war with herself, debating the right or wrong of this.

  “It will be all for you, Poppy.” His fingers deliberately grazed the outside of her knees.

  Only later would he acknowledge that it was just as much for him as it was for her. Tasting her was something he was aching to do.

  Her hands relaxed and fell away from his wrists in consent.

  With a growl of satisfaction, he shoved her nightgown and robe up to her hips. He cursed the darkness that prevented him from seeing her in her nakedness. He splayed her legs wider and pressed tiny kisses along the inside of her thighs.

  “Struan,” she sighed, her fingers lacing through his hair and sending ripples of sensation down his spine.

  “Poppy,” he breathed directly against her sex, his hands sliding around to grip her bottom and pull her toward his face. He tasted her with a slow, savoring lick. She was exquisite. Sweet and earthy and he wanted to dive into her. Drown himself in her essence.

  She jerked, clearly startled at the sensation of his mouth on her. “Struan, I’ve never done this before . . .”

  “Relax,” he murmured, pausing only for a moment as her words sank through him with a shudder.

  She’d never done this before.

  Autenberry had not been here before him then. In this, he was her first. He pushed the gratifying thought away, relegating it for later pondering. Right now there was only this. Tasting Poppy, feeling her shake and rock against his questing tongue. He settled himself deeper between her thighs, nestling his face close, adjusting his hands and lifting her higher for him.

  “Oh, this is wicked,” she gasped, her fingers tightening in his hair as he increased his mouth’s pressure, his tongue finding her sweet spot, playing with it and sucking the tiny nub between his lips.

  She cried out, pushing into his mouth wantonly.

  “Shhh,” he said against her as he brought his fingers to that small pleasure button. He rolled it, pinching and then taking it between his lips again, scraping the nub with his teeth and thrumming his tongue over it until she released a muffled shriek, convulsing all around him.

  He slipped a finger inside her, pushing deep, curling inward, reveling as she came apart a second time for him, her channel tightening around him and making his cock swell against his trousers. It would be so easy, so sweet. He need only free himself and ease inside her. She was wet and ready. She’d take him.

  This was for her. That was your promise. It’s not about your needs.

  He lifted himself up. She shook, clinging to his shoulders. Her gleaming eyes locked on to his in the darkness.

  She wasn’t the only one shaking. His hands trembled and his jaw locked tight against the ache to take her, finish this and slake his lust for her.

  “Struan,” she whispered, her hand lifting to fall on his chest, fingers splaying wide, each one a singeing imprint that he felt through his clothing.

  He straightened, brought her to her feet and yanked her nightgown back down, covering her limbs. “Go to your room.”

  She stiffened and he cursed himself. His words came out too harsh. He’d hurt her feelings. She didn’t understand.

  He grabbed her hand and forced it between them over his swollen member. “Go to your room before I break my word to you and make this about me . . . about my pleasure.”

  She gasped. Even in the darkness, he could identify the shock in her eyes, the tremor of her hand on him.

  Her lips parted on a hitched breath. “I—I did that to you?”

  He said nothing for a moment. Just let the sound of his labored breath crash between them. “Kitten, you have no idea what you do to me.” He forced her hand to rub up and down against him.

  He dropped his head with a groan as she curled her fingers over him through the fabric of his trousers, exploring
his shape as much as she could. She squeezed him and he jerked.

  She yanked her hand away. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

  “It’s only the sweetest torment.” He took a step back and inhaled a shuddering breath. “Go, Poppy.”

  She hesitated, and he knew she was considering breaking her resolve. He glanced around the darkened closet. He hadn’t brought her in here for a quick romp. He’d wanted to make her feel better, to give her something with no expectations for himself.

  “Go,” he barked.

  She vaulted from the closet. The door clicked shut after her. He stayed in the closet for several moments after she left, taking bracing breaths, fighting to compose himself and willing his raging erection away.

  He clenched his hands into fists. Since when was he in the habit of giving and not taking? Especially when it came to a woman he wanted. Especially since he’d never wanted a woman as much as he wanted Poppy Fairchurch.

  For the first time, he entertained the notion of leaving her alone—even if her responses to him had been ardent and welcoming and seemed in direct opposition of wanting such a thing.

  He had not lifted himself from the dregs of poverty by turning away from every challenge.

  Giving her a wide berth seemed like a sound plan. For her. For him. He couldn’t promise her forever. He needed to kill this hunger for her once and for all. Forget it before they reached a point in which neither one of them could return.

  Chapter 23

  It was a perfect evening.

  The kind of Christmas she had when Papa was alive and they would sit in front of the fire and sing carols. Just the three of them—Poppy and Bryony and Papa. They’d eat oranges and mint scones and read from the Bible, a tradition Mama had started and they maintained even after her passing. Her present reality felt like an echo of those times and made her feel warm and fuzzy inside.

  Those were good times. They were by no means well-off then, but she didn’t have to worry about money. She didn’t have to worry about how she and her sister were going to survive. She didn’t have to worry about any of those things at all. Just as she did not have to worry about them right now, sitting with this wonderful family. True, it would all come to an end, but for however long it lasted, she would enjoy her time here and evenings like this.

  This was the kind of evening Poppy had imagined for herself when she was a girl weaving fantasies of a life with Edmond and a gaggle of children gathered before the fire at Christmastime. It hadn’t taken long for her to replace that fantasy with another image—one of her with the Duke of Autenberry. Only that image was so embedded in fantasy it embarrassed her now.

  Sitting in the drawing room and listening as Lady Enid played carols on the pianoforte, she wasn’t sure what perfect was anymore. She rather suspected that perfection did not exist. She only knew that in Struan Mackenzie’s arms, she had felt something far more real than anything she ever had with Edmond or the Duke of Autenberry.

  Lady Enid’s performance came to an end. The dowager duchess, resplendent in an emerald green gown that set off her dark hair, clapped happily. “Beautifully done. You’ve improved so much, Enid. A shame your brother is not present to hear you.” It was as though she was determined he not be forgotten.

  “Indeed,” Lord Strickland said. “The only thing missing is Autenberry hale and hearty and overseeing the festive occasion.”

  For some reason his stare fell on Poppy. She smiled and held his gaze, struggling to show no reaction when he swung his gaze to Struan. Lord Strickland’s eyes narrowed and turned far less kind as he considered the Scotsman. Almost as though he knew something had transpired between them.

  Struan stared back at him unflinchingly, his stare bold, as usual, and unapologetic. One corner of his sensual mouth tipped in a smile. She felt an answering clench in her stomach. The man was in her blood. As alarming as that was, it was even more troubling to think he also knew that fact.

  He’d met Poppy’s gaze directly when she first faced him over breakfast—and every time since. Even so, his presence didn’t detract from the pleasure of the evening. He gazed on her more than once as they nibbled on desserts and sipped their after-dinner drinks, adding to their much too full bellies. The meal had been unimaginable excess. Roasted pheasant and goose. Savory pies. Sauces and puddings and decadent breads. She could quite happily never eat again.

  Struan had been quite civil with her on their rare moments of conversation. His gaze at times lingered, but as long as he didn’t touch her she could maintain composure. His hot-eyed stare didn’t fill her with the previous panic or frustration. No, indeed it did not. It filled her with longing. She didn’t feel nearly so hunted by him. The game he had made of pursing her had evidently come to a halt. At that, she felt oddly disappointed. Gone were the long stares in which she felt herself sinking into his pirate’s eyes.

  Ever since their tryst in the closet, they’d reached an unspoken truce of sorts. He kept his distance. Their conversations were limited. He was polite yet distant, cool. It was everything she had demanded of him.

  And yet she missed it all. She missed him. It was damnably bewildering and made her feel the most contrary of creatures. She had demanded he leave her alone, and now that he had, she was forlorn for the loss of him.

  For once she wished he would stare at her with that feral look in his eyes. Oh, what a terrible contrary creature she was. She had warned him off time and time again and yet now she missed his attention.

  “Marcus shall be with us soon,” the dowager duchess proclaimed to the room at large.

  Everyone nodded and murmured agreement, for once appearing to mean it. And with good reason. That very afternoon, Lord Strickland had reported that Marcus stirred and even mumbled a few words. Heartening signs, according to the physician, and the dowager duchess couldn’t stop talking about it.

  It was yet three days before Christmas and the dowager was hopeful that the duke might yet awaken and join them for the celebration.

  Lady Enid finished at the pianoforte and they moved into a game of charades.

  “Poppy! It’s your turn! Your turn!” Lady Clara clapped excitedly from where she sat after Bryony finished her turn.

  Poppy stood from the chaise lounge, dusting her lush purple skirts free of invisible lint. She selected a slip of paper from the bowl, studied it, folded it back up and then set it down on the glossy wood table that held their cups of steaming chocolate.

  She moved to stand before the fireplace, her mind already feverishly working on how she would perform this charade when the doors to the drawing room burst open.

  All heads swiveled at the intrusion, wide eyes staring at the breathless maid. “It’s the duke! His Grace! He’s up!” She shook her head as though jogging loose the proper words. “He’s awake! Awake!”

  Precisely five seconds of silence met her vivid declaration before the room exploded into chaos.

  To describe everyone as joyous would be a gross understatement. There were tears and laughter and hugging. The dowager duchess, someone Poppy never suspected as being particularly devout, clapped her hands together and began praising and thanking God with all fervency and sincerity.

  The somewhat taciturn Enid was wiping tears from her eyes and Clara was bouncing with more vigor than usual even for her. Even Bryony, who had never met Marcus, participated in the happy melee.

  “Let us go!” Lady Autenberry exclaimed. “Come, everyone!”

  “Wait!” Lord Strickland waved his hands in the air. “He might not be quite ready for a bombardment of such biblical proportions.” Lord Strickland’s gaze seemed to land on her, conveying some manner of message. He was the only one present who knew the truth of her ruse, after all. He had to know the duke would want an explanation for suddenly finding himself with a stranger for a fiancée.

  “Oh.” The dowager’s hand fluttered to her mouth. “Yes, I see your point.” She glanced around the room, gnawing on her lip thoughtfully. “Yes, that would be a bit much.”<
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  “Overwhelming indeed.” Enid nodded in agreement. “Strickland, you should go.”

  Everyone else nodded, too. Except Poppy. She couldn’t move. And neither, evidently, could Struan. He held himself stiffly. Only his eyes showed any movement, looking only at her, sliding over her face, assessing her expression.

  “I’ll just start weeping. Yes, you go and explain what has happened.” The dowager waved him on. “You’ll be the most levelheaded and you can best assess whether or not he can cope with the lot of us.”

  “Very well, then.” Lord Strickland strode from the room, addressing the maid. “Send someone to fetch the physician from the village.”

  As soon as he left, merriment returned again.

  The dowager duchess grabbed Poppy and pulled her into her embrace. “Oh, Poppy! I knew he would wake. I knew it.”

  She nodded, a lump lodged in her throat, threatening to choke her. “Yes, you did.”

  The duchess pulled back to look at her, her hands cupping her cheeks warmly. “You believed it, too, my dear girl.”

  “Yes.” Poppy nodded, blinking suddenly stinging eyes. “I did believe it. I knew he would be well.”

  Then they were hugging again and Poppy’s heart was breaking. Not because the duke was recovered. For that, she was elated, her chest lighter, expanding with relief. She’d prayed for his recovery.

  No, it was because this would all come to an end now. The duke was awake. He would tell everyone that she was a fraud, that she was no one to him. They would all know she was no one.

  She and her sister would have to leave this place and this family for whom she had come to care. Worse than leaving them, worse than never seeing them again, was knowing that they would hate her—despise her for the liar she was.

  She looked over the duchess’s shoulder to find Struan Mackenzie staring at her intently, his gaze unreadable as his eyes drilled into her.

  Soon he would know, too. He’d have the truth at last. Not that he ever thought she was good enough for Autenberry in the first place. He always thought her a liar.