Four Dukes And A Devil Part 21

He looked at her shrewdly for a long moment.

"It's very rude to stare," she muttered.

"I'm debating the wisdom of informing you that there will be ten times as much drinking going on in that stable than in this room-what with the number of ostlers, drivers, and servants occupying the outer building."

She strode over to the table and retrieved the brandy bottle by pinching the neck with two fingers as if it were three parts distilled poison to one part pure evil. "Well, Mr. Varick, I must thank you for setting a better example."

"Miss Givan, has anyone ever told you 'no'?"

She hid the bottle of brandy he had spent a small fortune on, along with the nearly empty gla.s.s, in a rude armoire in the corner. "I've never put myself in a position to have to hear it."

"Who gave you those boots you're wearing?"

Miss Givan whipped around. The smallest crease of a wrinkle appeared between her brows. "A good friend."

A very very good friend, indeed, John thought as he ground his molars together. good friend, indeed, John thought as he ground his molars together.

John stared down at the sleeping form of Miss Victoria Givan on a pallet far from the innkeeper's wife in the kitchen. She had obviously been placed in his path to bewitch him.

The frayed hem of her simple s.h.i.+ft had risen above her knees; the thin blanket discarded completely in the balmy night air. He could not drag his gaze from the moonlit sight of her slender thighs and calves, and her pretty, feminine feet. No wonder her lover had given her those d.a.m.ned boots. The better to ogle her elegant ankles.

Christ, he had always prided himself on his ability to keep his baser instincts in check. He obviously needed to engage a mistress, just as Crandall was hinting. Of course, his driver probably suggested it to keep him in a better frame of mind. John had taken for granted the convenient arrangement he had had for so many years with Colleen, the beautiful d.u.c.h.ess of Trenton, possessor of three yapping dogs, two indolent children, and one husband old enough to be her grandfather. But she had become melodramatic of late, insisting they should marry when poor Trenton c.o.c.ked his toes. He had had to end it.

Miss Victoria Givan rolled onto her back in sleep, and his mouth became dry as chaff. The sc.r.a.p of her s.h.i.+ft eased off her shoulder, exposing one creamy breast to taunt him.

He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut. Surely he deserved a place beside the saints for not acting on the impulse. Heaven wasn't worth it, the devil on his shoulder shouted.

d.a.m.n it all to h.e.l.l. He leaned down and gathered the woman in his arms to carry her to the room. If he couldn't sleep, he might as well give her the bed. Without the brandy to fortify him, his manners had become far too accommodating, and he had invited the three boys to sleep in makes.h.i.+ft beds the innkeeper had placed in the tiny sitting room beyond. Unfortunately, he hadn't known boys made such a ruckus in slumber.

She was so soft in his arms. So different from the harsh angles she seemed to possess when she was wide-awake. She slept like a bear in hibernation. Must be a result of sleeping near a gaggle of snoring infants for decades in the foundling home.

His own life had been spent in the reverse manner. All alone for the most part. No brothers or sisters, no mother. Merely a father, who, while very kind, had not been much in evidence in their country home due to the demands on his time in London. But John had learned to enjoy the peace of solitude.

She muttered something when he placed her in the middle of the innkeeper's soft bed. He leaned close as he tucked the bed linens around her form, only to hear two blasted words. Well, only one was a true word...a name.

"Oh, John John..." she whispered on a sigh as she settled.

He straightened awkwardly, resolutely. No. He would not be gulled like some rich, wet-behind-the-ears buck first come to town. He knew better than to put himself in such a situation with an unmarried miss in an almost public place. He'd had enough brushes with the altar of late.

Why, in the last three months alone, an impoverished marquis had tried to sneak his daughter into John's sleeping quarters, and he had been forced to ferret out the truth behind a very determined widowed countess, who had deliberately planted scandalous rumors linking herself to him. She had made the mistake of thinking he would leg shackle himself to a pretty lady he had never even met-all in the name of honor. The last event had caused a new fever pitch in the gossip columns.

John studied the luscious morsel bathed in moonlight before him. She was all soft curves, rosy flesh, and tangled locks of shadowy plum hair. He couldn't resist touching those dark loose curls of a shade he'd never seen. Surely they would be silken. His palm stroked the glossy locks, bringing him closer to those irresistible lips of hers.

He closed his eyes against the sight, but his mind refused to be denied the remembrance of that full bottom lip below the lovely bow of her lush upper lip. And suddenly he noticed her scent of warm crushed roses. He couldn't have stopped himself from dipping lower to follow the trail of sweetness if his life had depended on it.

And then, he didn't want to be blind from the potency of the moment. He opened his eyes, only to encounter her sleepy, half-closed expression. She said not a word to stop him, and he inched forward at her silent encouragement. It would really be just a promise...of a hint...of a taste...of a kiss. Very innocent, of course. There were boys snoring in the closet-sized room beyond after all. And the innkeeper's wife in the kitchen.

He swept his lips across hers, side to side, feather soft. And then he molded his upper lip in the crevice where her lips met and teased the softness he found there. A soft moan came from her, and it was all he could do not to gather her again into his arms. Every part of him-well, the key parts of him-of any man, really-came awake at the sensuous sound.

And then she whispered it again..."Oh, John John-"

"Darling," he returned quietly as he trailed kisses to the sensitive spot near her temple.

And then without another sound and with the swiftness of a pickpocket in London, she grabbed his ear and sent him to his knees. "What are you doing?" she hissed.

"Let...go...of...my-" he rasped out.

"I should have known better than to trust you," she interrupted in a harsh whisper. "All men are perfect scoundrels. My good friend always warned me, and I should have listened."

He wrenched away from her and stood stiffly, his body trying and failing to take in the reversal of intentions. "And all women are incomprehensible."

"Well, that's not very nice of you to say given that I just woke up to find myself in your your bed. You were trying to press your attentions on me." bed. You were trying to press your attentions on me."

"No. I was offering what you seemed to request," he gritted out. "When ladies whisper my name in the middle of the night, certain a.s.sumptions are made."

"I did not do any such thing. I was sound asleep."

He looked at her shrewdly. "I suppose you are now going to suggest I do the honorable thing?"

"Why, yes I am." She shook that magnificent mane of hair back. "Get out of here. Or perhaps it would serve better for you to wait here while I cut a switch and tan your-shush...are you laughing?"

"So you're not going to ring a peal and demand a proposal of marriage before the innkeeper and his wife?"

"Why on earth would I want to marry you, you, Mr. Varick?" she hissed. "And I would ask you to lower your voice if you don't care to awaken anyone." Mr. Varick?" she hissed. "And I would ask you to lower your voice if you don't care to awaken anyone."

"So, you're not attracted to me?"

"Absolutely not."

"Really? And what sort do you favor? Poor sods who grovel at your pretty feet?"

"No. Agreeable sods with better manners."

He rubbed his sore ear. "I beg your pardon. I've been told I'm actually something of a catch, so to speak."

"Is that what silly females say to get the coins in your pockets?"

"No," he said with a low wolfish growl. "That's what they say to get beyond my pockets."

She did not miss a beat. "Vanity is not an attractive trait in a man."

He choked on his pent-up laughter. She was impossible. Impossibly alluring Impossibly alluring-in an outrageous, spirited manner. No woman had ever dared to speak to him in such a fas.h.i.+on. He'd always managed to endear himself to the females of his childhood-the housekeeper, the cooks, the house-maids; and he'd been equally up to the task of erecting a polite distance-the size of the Roman Empire-toward the marriage-minded females of his adulthood.

In all his five-and-thirty years, he'd never found a woman who refused to be charmed if he chose it, or at the very least behaved with extraordinary politesse and G.o.d-awful fawning. Of course, he was fated to meet the first truly intriguing woman of his life only to find she would have none of him.

That hair of hers was a dark halo in the moonlight, framing her pale, beautiful shoulders. And he knew precisely what lay beyond that ridiculously flimsy s.h.i.+ft.

Perfection.

"Madam," he said quietly, "pardon me. I think I'll retire for the evening. I find that considerable rest is required in one's dotage." He turned on his heel and strode to the door.

As he rounded the corner, he could have sworn he heard her utter something about the benefits of warm milk and honey...for gout. This was followed by the barest ripple of low, throaty laughter. This was followed by the barest ripple of low, throaty laughter.

He decamped as fast as possible. To sleep in the stable. In the d.a.m.ned straw.

John Varick, the ninth Duke of Beaufort and well-doc.u.mented Catch of the Century, withdrew a square of linen and sneezed. Across from him within the confines of his luxurious ducal carriage, Victoria noted it was about the twentieth time he had done so that day.

And she was perversely glad. Humor was the only thing that kept her from succ.u.mbing to an advanced state of anxiety as young Peter Linley, seated beside her, turned another page in her beloved book of Canterbury Tales. Canterbury Tales.

Not as lost in thought as Victoria had surmised, the duke glanced up at her from the intimidating pile of doc.u.ments and letters on his lap. His impossibly blue eyes met hers, and for a moment, she felt in danger of drowning in their depths. He was so very handsome. He studied her until she felt heat crest her cheeks. Before he returned his attention to his papers, he formed just the smallest hint of a knowing smile. She nearly burst with frustration.

He had kissed her.

It had been her first kiss, and she was fairly certain she had missed at least half of it. Of course, it would happen that way. She had decided recently that she would end up kissing the cheeks of St. Peter at the Pearly Gates before she would ever kiss a living, breathing man. Her station in life forbade it. And she had never really believed the romantic courtly rags-to-riches stories between the covers of the book Peter was reading. And so for many years she had had to be satisfied with her imagination.

His lips had been gentle, so very unlike what she had imagined. Warm and knowing...and lazy lazy almost. She swallowed. almost. She swallowed.

In the blink of an eye, she had woken from dreams of him and immediately deduced what he was about. In the haze of that poignant lime and bay scent of his, she had dragged herself away from the tide of his overwhelming magnetism.

Those same lips, which appeared to have been formed to drive all females to distraction, now tempted her less than three feet away. And with each uneven pa.s.sage in the road, his long, muscled legs molded in biscuit-colored pantaloons, brushed against hers. She determinedly turned her attention out the window, where rain tapped a steady tattoo.

He had been reading the entire day. Not one word had left his lips, even when they had stopped for a midday meal. She had worried he would leave them behind when he strode into the private dining quarters. She had surely infuriated him to the extreme boundaries last evening. But no. Mr. Crandall had reemerged from His Grace's private room and said dinner had been arranged for her and the boys in another chamber.

And after, the duke had reappeared and Mr. Crandall had bustled her and the boys back into the carriages.

And then it had started to rain.

For the last three hours she had been calculating to the minute how many more miles to Derbys.h.i.+re as the drizzle turned into sheets of rain. If she could just get within a few miles of Wallace Abbey, she would relax. She and the boys could walk the rest of the way if need be. It had taken all of her patience to curb Peter's curiosity and enthusiasm for the new sites beyond the carriage window, and to encourage him to read in complete silence.

Finally, she spied it, the distinctive weathervane of the c.o.c.k & Crown Inn at Middleton, which was supposedly very close to Wallace Abbey. It had been described in detail to her by her benefactor, the Countess of Sheffield and by the lady's fiance-a man for whom Victoria had carried an unrequited longing in secret for a good portion of her life. She s.h.i.+fted in her seat, determined to put such impossible thoughts from her mind. She had tried to squash those dreams the day she had befriended the lovely countess. And she had irrevocably buried those same dreams in a grave six feet closer to China the day the countess and Michael Ranier de Peyster had formally announced their engagement. There was not a person alive who could not love the extraordinarily compa.s.sionate Countess of Sheffield. They had never discussed Victoria's sensibilities toward Michael, but somehow she was certain the countess knew. And yet, that had not stopped the beautiful lady from a.s.sisting the foundling home.

Victoria felt the duke's gaze upon her once more, and she could not resist the challenge he unconsciously presented. She turned her face away from the sodden scenery. Even rain appeared more dreary in the country as opposed to the liveliness of town.

"And precisely where is this cottage?" he asked quietly.

"I believe it's less than a mile from here, according to the directions given to me." It was time to end this cat-versus-dog game. She had amused him to some degree for dozens of miles yesterday, and for her part, she had had the pleasure of experiencing about five seconds of pure, unadulterated l.u.s.t last eve.

At least she had managed to retain her innocence-little good it would ever do her-even if she had lost a portion of her sanity. Truth be told, she would have enjoyed just a few more seconds...or perhaps a full minute or three of his kisses. "As I told Mr. Crandall during the last change of horses, it's the small dower house a mile or less from the abbey's ruins, Your Grace. Your Grace."

His expression was impenetrable. "Your attention to protocol certainly makes a late appearance."

"I beg your pardon if I've offended in any way. We are, all of us, most grateful to you for taking us up."

"And?"

"And, what?"

He withdrew his handkerchief and sneezed.

She continued, forced grat.i.tude edging her words. "Thank you, too, for arranging our meals, and...and for our lodging. lodging."

"And?"

She snapped with the tension and ill ease. She had not slept above one half hour after their interlude. "I will not thank you for the use of the bed last night. I was not given the choice of refusing it! And I said I would repay you for all the trouble we've caused you."

Peter's eyes were round in his face.

"Now you've done it," the duke said, then looked at the boy. "Let this be a lesson to you, Peter. As some of the Canterbury Tales Canterbury Tales suggest, no good deed goes unpunished." suggest, no good deed goes unpunished."

The carriage rumbled to a stop, followed by the other two ducal conveyances.

"I'm sorry, Your Grace," she said with a stab at sincere contriteness. "I truly am very grateful. I-I don't know what I would have done without your coming to our aid."

His eyes narrowed, and she had the oddest sensation that he didn't take any pleasure from her show of solicitous grat.i.tude.

He made a movement to remove the edges of his hat from the straps above them, and she stayed his arm with her hand. "No. It's dreadful outside, and I'd rather not be the cause of any further inconveniences." In truth, she wanted to remember him like he was now, ensconced in ducal plushness-or like last night in the moonlight.

He looked at her for a long moment, ignored her request by tugging his hat onto his head, and opened the door to jump out. Apparently chivalry could not be repressed in a duke.

It was pouring like the afternoon deluges of foreign jungles she had read about. Peter and she watched as he grasped the umbrella Mr. Crandall offered, then dodged mud puddles to reach the cottage door. The umbrella offered little protection from the storm.

A man who appeared to be marked with a great many stains on his clothing stood waiting in the already open doorway. Much gesturing and talk emanated from the man. None emanated from the duke.

It seemed an age before the man in the doorway bowed deeply, and the duke returned to Mr. Crandall. The noise of the rain drowned out their conversation, but Victoria used the moments to collect the book from Peter, b.u.t.ton his plain coat, and straighten her gown in preparation for their descent.

And then, with a rush, the duke was back inside the carriage, water running in rivulets down every part of him. He was as wet as a school of fish in the River Thames. And he did not appear happy about it.

"Well, madam. It appears you are to move about all of England with an epic portion of ill luck." He used one of the carriage blankets to ineffectively swipe at his large wet form, which seemed to take up more than half the carriage.

"Whatever do you mean?"

He glanced between Peter and her before picking up a walking stick to rap three times on the carriage roof. Before she could utter another word, the carriage jerked forward, and they reentered the roadway.

"Wait! Please stop the carriage. I a.s.sure you we don't mind getting a little wet. The boys and I-"

"Miss Givan?" he interrupted, his face set.

"Yes?" she replied.

"Do you know the location of the closest structure with four empty beds?"