All About the Duke (The Dukes' Club Book 4) (7 page)

Despite the wine he’d plied her with, she’d proven elusive and had, instead, started an informed, if slightly endearing, debate on Napoleon and his immense desire for power. She was a woman who longed to be heard and he’d listened. It was a pity so many men so firmly refused.

His wish to make her comfortable, to draw her out, and discover something about her true identity had backfired. She’d revealed nothing then fallen asleep from good food and wine. And perhaps, since he knew her secret, she’d simply felt safe.

Safe
! With him. The idea was almost laughable. But Alfred seemed to trust him. That, of course, only made him more suspect of her capacity for good judgement.

He’d helped her open up, certainly, but not quite in the way he’d intended. He was no hypocrite. He wanted Alfred. Last night, when she’d offered herself to him, he’d wanted to strip off her breeches, linen shirt, and unwind the bindings at her breast then show her what pleasure was. Somehow he knew that she wasn’t going to be some passive miss in bed but a woman that once she felt comfortable, made demands and also took the lead from time to time.

She was going to be a tigress.

Surely, she deserved a decent love affair before she tired of her experiment, ran home, and married. Yes, she deserved to know the delights of good bed play. He loathed the idea of some bumble-headed idiot member of the aristocracy looming over her on their wedding night. The damned fellow would pull up her night rail and
breed
her in a manner than would only make her think of England and not the fiery passion that should arise between a man and a woman.

But he was not the sort of man who was interested in taking a woman to bed who was incapacitated. Too many men of his acquaintance bore no such scruples and they disgusted him.

Still, it had been a hellishly delicious night with her pressed up against him. He’d conjugated at least five hundred words in Latin before he’d been able to find some semblance of comfort and ability to sleep, but he’d not had the heart to kick her out of his bed.

Which was deuced odd, because, in general, women did not
sleep
in his bed. They were there for a single activity. Slumber was not it.

What the Devil was happening? A slow smile curved his lips. Whatever it was, it was damned enjoyable. He looked down on her face. In slumber, no one could ever have made the mistake that she was a boy. No, there was too much femininity in the curve of her slightly defiant chin, her pert nose, and ever so slightly burnished skin.

Working out of doors had left her with a decidedly unladylike color to go along with her shock of red hair.

Perhaps he was mad to allow this. A young woman, pretending to be a man? It was a recipe for disaster but didn’t he love unpredictability? He did. Yes.

It didn’t matter that he’d been longing for the security he’d felt as a very little boy for years. He’d even almost proposed marriage to a young lady before realizing she was absolutely the wrong choice. He had no wish to have a
ton
marriage. He was not going to be content with polite platitudes over breakfast, dinner, and necessary nighttime congress.

Oh no.

If he longed for anything, it was the love his parents had shared. True, some claimed he could have few memories of his parents, but he’d never forget the way they looked at each other. He wanted to look at a woman the way his father had his mother.

He blinked, stunned by the train his thoughts had taken.

Alfred should be at the center of his thoughts, not his past or his possible future.

She was meant to be a good entertainment in a long, dry spell of life.

So, he should get to it.

He gave her a good shoulder prodding. She’d need it given the amount of wine she’d consumed if she was ever to face the day. “Shake a leg, Alfred. Time to start your duties.”

She groaned and buried her face into his pillow.

He didn’t even bother to hide his grin. Alfred was clearly suffering the worst head. Well, that happened when one consumed a bottle of good red wine on one’s own. Oh, but what a treasure she’d been.

He hoped she had no regrets.

“Alfred,” he coaxed. “No layabouts here. Servants don’t sleep in.”

She grumbled again then went stiff. She rolled over, opened her eyes and stared at him. “Y-your Grace.”

By God, her eyes were astonishing.

Blue really didn’t cover it. They were aquamarine. The color of the coves of Devon in high summer. The kind of sea a man longed to dive into and swim in until he felt completely renewed.

Which was an utterly stupid thought. Alfred’s eyes were not Devon seas. They were, indeed, blue.

She blinked then said, “I seem to be in your bed.”

“Marvelous observation, Alfred. You should consider science as your profession.”

She arched a brow at him. At him!

He laughed. She was so easy to rile.

All that starch suddenly went out of her and her cheeks flamed a gorgeous pink.

She pushed back an errant bit of hair. “Why am I in your bed?”

“Couldn’t keep you out of it, my dear.” Which was only partially true. She had been eager to jump in it, but it had been he ultimately who had encouraged her to recline on the soft mattress. For the life of him, he couldn’t imagine why he’d thought that a good idea now.

He’d never thought he was a masochist.

“I did?”

“Oh yes.”

“And did, did. . . You see I don’t recall and I should like to remember if—“

He lifted a hand and gently touched her lips. “Never think it, Alfred. Villain that I am, I should never take advantage of young woman so happily influenced by drink.”

She blushed an even brighter shade if possible then buried her face in her hands.

He hesitated. He was unused to young ladies conquered by sudden embarrassment. “I thought you made of sterner stuff.”

She peeked up at him. “Did I behave a total fool?”

“Not a bit. You were most charming and showed a decided awareness of current political undercurrents.”

“I did?”

He nodded. “You did.”

After all, she had. In fact, she knew more about the state of the world than most men of his acquaintance.

She lowered her hands and any embarrassment vanished from her face. “I’m usually told to be quiet.”

“We have already established that neither of us is usual. Now,” he swung his legs over the side of the bed. “We must conquer the day.”

If they didn’t get moving he was going to keep her in bed all day and wouldn’t that be gossip for the servants? Besides, he didn’t think he could survive a day in bed with Alfred without attempting to further her woefully neglected education in animal husbandry. 

“Conquer the day?” she echoed.

“Either you run your life, Alfred, or it runs you, so, yes, we shall conquer this day.”

A good deal of skepticism was certainly responsible for her wrinkled forehead.

“Aside from such lofty contemplations,” he added, “it’s past seven and one of your duties is to see to my breakfast.”

His stomach rumbled appropriately.

“Oh. Right.” She scrambled off the bed, paused and groaned.

He bit back a laugh. “Overcome, Alfred. Overcome. When one drinks a bottle of wine, one must take the consequences.”

She nodded, squared her shoulders and headed for the stairs.

The very narrow, steep stairs.

In her present state, she might crack her head open.

He reached out and grabbed her hand. “On second thought, we’ll go down together.”

She eyed the stairs then his hand on her wrist, clearly trying to decide which might be the lesser challenge. “Your Grace, I think I can take the stairs.”

Hmmm. Perhaps she was still embarrassed and wished to be out of his company as swiftly as possible. Well, he was having none of that.

“I need help dressing,” he said suddenly. He nearly kicked himself. He did not need help dressing but now that he’d said it he wasn’t going to take it back.

Her brows rose, not in disdain, but in what appeared to be a mixture of anticipation and trepidation. “O-of course.”

He let go of her hand and pointed to a large chest. He kept his clothes in his traveling chest. One never knew when one might suddenly wish to head out into the world, after all. The last time he’d left in the middle of the night, he’d traveled all the way to Bombay.

She nodded absently then headed to the large travel chest, yanked the wide leather strap free and pushed the lid open.

She was a strong thing that was for certain. No delicate miss about his Alfred.

She dug around and he lifted a hand to his mouth to hide his smile.

Clearly, she was not used to taking care of her own clothes, let alone his. A real servant would have had apoplexy the way she was leaving shirts and breeches in a jumble.

“Do you need assistance, Alfred?”

She glanced back over her shoulder. “Of course not.”

Bending over, she shoved down to the bottom of the trunk.

While he was loathe to distract her again since his view was quite admirable, he feared he must.

But, oh, how her bum filled out her breeches. It was a glorious and stirring sight. He folded his arms over his chest and took a deep breath. This was going to be sweet torture. Every moment of it.

“Alfred?” he said.

“Your Grace?” came her muffled reply, nearly bent halfway into the chest.

“What the Devil are you doing?” he drawled.

An impatient and audible sigh came from the trunk. “Looking for your smalls.”

“I don’t wear them.”

She stilled.

She seemed locked in her task, hands in the trunk, bent over.

He shouldn’t be enjoying himself as much as he was. But good God it was fun.

“Right,” she said then stood, a pair of buff-colored breeches in hand. “You’ll need these then.”

He stood, arms still crossed and gave an approving nod. This was going to be deliciously amusing. She was a young lady playing at being a servant. Now, it was time to make it a reality. She wanted to be his manservant, well. . . she’d have to come up to snuff.

She held the breeches out. “Your Grace?”

“Alfred, I don’t cover distance over to you. You come over to me. You’re
my
servant, remember.”

“Oh.” She stared at the breeches then blew her short hair away from her eyes. “Right.”

Alfred cleared her throat then strode towards him. Again, she held out his breeches.

How far would he push her? It was so tempting to make her writhe with maidenly discomfort.

“Alfred, dukes don’t dress themselves.” Which was an absolute lie. He dressed and undressed himself every day. He hated having a servant fuss about him.

She eyed him slowly as if contemplating having to be in such close proximity to him and there was another marvelous blush. Oh, yes. This was going to be marvelous.

Surely, she was about to protest and cry off?

But no. Alfred gave herself an encouraging lift of her chin then reached straight for his waist.

He almost let out a most unmanly yelp. “What are you doing?”

“Divesting you of your trousers, Your Grace. You must take those off before you can put these on.”

She reached again, this time getting hold of his waistband.

Well, this was another surprise.

He held out his arms, giving her access and peered down at her. She was so much shorter than he, it was difficult not to feel imperious but she was working with such perfunctory movements, he felt deuced awkward.

She tugged at the buttons.

Just as she was about to undo his trousers, her head down, he found himself becoming ridiculously aroused.

She wasn’t doing anything in particular. It was her simple proximity. Her red hair was glinting with gold as the morning light peered in and her fingers were skimming his waist as she sought the buttons.

He was about to confront her with a hard cock that very much wanted her fingers to wander its way. That was a bit much even for him at present and this was supposed to be about him teaching her. Not her leading him on a merry dance with her unskilled but effective touches.

“Steady on, Alfred, you’ll rip the fabric,” he said abruptly, turned and shoved down his breeches leaving her with a sight of his buttocks. He held out his hand. “Give me my damned clothes.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” she piped, her voice remarkably high.

If he hadn’t been so irritated by his own impassioned response, he would have grinned. Alfred was staring at his bum. And she clearly had no idea how to respond.

It seemed they were capable of stunning each other. And that, he supposed, might be a very dangerous thing.

***

A
lfred clutched the smooth and supple breeches in her hands, trying desperately to breathe with a sense of normalcy. She’d never seen a man’s naked behind. Yes, of course, there were statues, but there was no comparison to the present event. That was cold stone. This was hot, living flesh and, my goodness, her fingers ached to reach out and trace the hard curve.

He was glorious. From the width of his muscular waist to the hardness of his buttocks, to the sinew of his strong thighs, he was perfection.

She stood transfixed.

“Alfred,” he barked.

She blinked then jumped to attention. “Yes, Your Grace?”

What was he going to think of her? That she was the worst servant ever. That’s what. She’d been fine in the stables. She knew how to go about her duties there, having spent such a significant portion of her life hiding away amidst the horses.

Here? She’d really no idea what she was doing and the Duke of Roth already made her feel off center as if she were teetering on a cliff’s edge about to plunge into uncertainty. Oh, but what a fall it would be! Exhilarating. Falling with him would be positively exhilarating.

“Did the wine muddle your senses?”

She swallowed and shoved his breeches forward.

Why did he sound so terse? There’d been an amused note in his voice before, but now, he sounded brusk.

“I must say, I’m a bit at sea, Nicholas,” she finally admitted.

She didn’t know where she got the courage to use his name, but she hadn’t forgotten he’d given her permission the night before.