Falling Into Bed with a Duke (Hellions of Havisham) (18 page)

“Edward—”

“Relax. I’m not going to say anything. But I take it she’s the one you’re planning to marry.”

“If I can convince her that I’m not marrying her for her dowry.”

“But you are.”

Even in the darkness, he felt Ashe’s gaze bore into him. “Oh, I see. Wouldn’t it be better to be honest with her?”

“Every man who has ever approached her has wanted her dowry. She wants love.”

“Can you give her that?”

Ashe sighed heavily. “I don’t know. Having seen what love did to Marsden . . . How did Albert get past it?”

“Hell if I know. The thought of falling in love scares the bloody hell out of me. So I won’t do it. You know me. I always take the coward’s way.”

“Which is the reason you killed a lion with a damned knife.”

He shrugged. “My rifle jammed.”

“By the by, I’m not comfortable with the way you tell that story. If Locke had been at Lady Greyling’s, he’d not have allowed it.”

“But he wasn’t, now was he? So I could embellish to my heart’s content because you like my stories. Besides, you stabbed him as well.”

“You delivered the killing blow.”

“We can’t know that for sure.”

Ashe chuckled low. “God, you were a madman. I’m surprised your screech didn’t chase him off.”

“I didn’t
screech
. I bellowed. Like an ancient warrior.”

“Like a madman.”

“Well, when you’re raised by one, what more can you expect?”

Silence settled in around them, broken only by the steady clopping of horses’ hooves.

“Why did you dance with her?” Ashe asked quietly.

“I recalled Lady Hyacinth’s words at the roulette table. I like dancing with spinsters. They’re always so grateful for the attention.”

“You’re an arse, Edward.”

Edward smiled. Yes, he was. But he was a relatively harmless one. As long as nothing threatened those he cared about.

Chapter 14

M
INERVA had taken extra care in preparing for the day, choosing a pale pink dress that managed to draw out the red in her hair so it didn’t appear quite so dark. Her maid put it in a soft style that left tendrils curling along her cheeks, highlighting her eyes. She wasn’t conceited enough to think she looked pretty, but she considered herself more than passable.

Her nerves causing butterflies to alight in her stomach, she barely ate any breakfast, incredibly grateful that her father didn’t comment on it. She wasn’t accustomed to being anxious about a gentleman’s calling. She’d had plenty. But none with whom she’d lain. She knew the firmness of his muscles, the warmth of his skin, the way he moved against her—

She feared something was wrong with her moral compass because she felt no shame at all for knowing all these details.

While the hours ticked by until it was an acceptable time for a gentleman to call, she sat in the morning room trying to read. After scanning the same sentence a hundred times, she finally closed the book and walked around the outer edge of the room. A light rain had begun to fall, so she couldn’t go into the garden. She considered writing a letter to the
Times
on the need for more people to engage in charitable works, but she doubted she’d be able to concentrate enough to make it eloquent or convincing.

Her nerves were stretched taut when the butler finally entered and announced she had a caller. Still, she was taken aback by the joy—

“Lord Burleigh,” Dixon continued, his words slamming into Minerva and halting her progress across the room.

“Lord Burleigh?” she repeated as though she’d taken leave of her senses. The man had never called on her before, had never danced with her. They’d spoken in passing, but he certainly hadn’t indicated an interest.

“Yes, miss. I saw him to the parlor. Your mother is joining him there.”

Perhaps she should take out an advert announcing that she was no longer in search of a husband. On the other hand, she would be foolish to discount the possibility that she might find love late in life. Of course, any man now might have to accept her scandalous behavior. Not that Ashebury seemed to have any problem with it. “All right then.”

Lord Burleigh, whose physique suited his name, jumped up from the sofa as soon as she entered the room. “Miss Dodger.”

“My lord, how nice of you to call. I’ve rung for tea.”

“I’ll leave you two young people to visit,” her mother said as she picked up her stitchery and moved to a distant corner of the room to give them a bit of privacy.

Minerva sat on the sofa. Lord Burleigh joined her, keeping a respectful distance. She tried to imagine Ashebury doing the same and found it quite impossible.

“It’s a rather dreary day,” Burleigh said.

“I like the rain.”

“As do I. Many people don’t. It’s good for reflection.”

“It is that.”

“I enjoy the sound of droplets pattering against the pane.”

“That was rather poetic phrasing. Are you a poet, my lord?”

His cheeks turned red. “I dabble.”

“Bravo for you!”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Are you mocking me, Miss Dodger?”

“No, absolutely not. I think all creative endeavors are to be applauded.”

“Apologies. I’d heard—” He snapped his mouth closed, took out his pocket watch, glanced at the time, no doubt disappointed to discover not even two minutes had passed.

“You’d heard what precisely, my lord?”

Shaking his head, he stuffed his watch back into his pocket just as the tea arrived. Thank goodness. Minerva set about preparing him some.

“Three lumps of sugar,” he said. “A dash of cream.”

She handed him his cup, which he expertly balanced on his thigh.

“Mother?” she asked.

“No, thank you, darling.” She barely looked up from her needlework. Minerva could never become so absorbed poking and pulling thread through cloth although she certainly envied those who were able to create such lovely tapestries.

After preparing her own tea, Minerva glanced over at Burleigh to find him studying her. She gave him what she hoped was an encouraging smile.

Drawing his brows together, he cleared his throat. “I saw you at the Lovingdon ball last night.”

Her heart gave a little stutter. Hopefully he’d not seen her in the garden. “Oh?”

“I realized that we’ve never really gotten to know each other.”

“I do wish you’d asked me for a dance.”

“My size makes me somewhat clumsy in that regard.”

“I suspect you’re a bit hard on yourself, but in either case, I think we could have managed.”

He blinked several times. “You’re kind to say so.”

“You say that as though you’re surprised I’m kind.”

He touched his teacup, released it. “I’d heard you were . . .” He cleared his throat.

“A termagant?”

Giving a little nod, he furrowed his brow, wrinkled his nose. “Difficult.”

“And yet you’ve come to call.”

“My father recently passed.”

What had that to do with anything? “Yes, I heard. I should have offered my condolences when I greeted you.”

“No need for that. He was up in years; had a good life. But I must see to my duties now. I’m in want of a wife, and so I thought to call on you.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“I’m a bit older, and so I don’t have a lot of patience for the silliness of young girls.”

This reasoning was one that she hadn’t encountered before. While it was refreshing, she also found it a bit insulting. “So my age appeals to you?”

“You don’t giggle.”

“Not as a rule, no, although I have been known on occasion to laugh.”

“Not loudly, I hope.”

“Depends, I suppose.” She thought she heard the door knocker. She’d welcome Lord Sheridan at this moment.

She glanced over as Dixon walked in, holding a silver salver. He extended it toward her. Lifting the card, she read it and tried to tamp down her joy. “Please show in the Duke of Ashebury.”

Minerva didn’t miss the speculative look in her mother’s eyes as she lifted her head from her work nor the disappointment in Burleigh’s. Everyone rose as Ashebury strode in. He headed straight for her mother, took her hand, and kissed the back of it.

“Madam, how wonderful you look.”

“Thank you, Your Grace. It’s a pleasure to have you visit.”

“The pleasure is all mine, I assure you.” Turning, he zeroed his gaze in on Minerva, completely ignoring Burleigh, as he crossed over. She halfway hoped he’d brazenly take her hand as well, but he merely tipped his head to the side. “Miss Dodger.”

“Your Grace.”

He shifted his gaze slightly. “Burleigh.”

“Ashebury.”

“Hope I’m not interrupting.”

“You are never an interruption,” Minerva said. “Would you care for some tea?”

“I would love some. One lump of sugar, no cream. I lost an affinity for cream on my various journeys away from civilization. Quite impossible to transport.”

Minerva took her seat, aware that Burleigh sat just a little nearer to her. Ashebury took the chair closest to her. “You must have missed having tea on your travels.”

“On the contrary, a gentleman always takes tea with him, even into the wilds.”

“I don’t see how one could properly prepare tea in the wilds,” Burleigh said.

“Oh, it can be done,” Ashebury said. “You must read
The Art of Travel
, Burleigh. Fascinating. You’d be surprised what one can and is willing to do out of necessity.” Taking the cup Minerva offered, he sipped the brew. “Darjeeling. Excellent.”

“I’m not certain I’ve ever had a gentleman identify the type of tea before.”

“I have a refined palate. I can distinguish the flavors of almost everything that carries a unique taste: wine, spirits, tea.” His eyes darkening, he lowered his gaze to her lips, and she realized what he had left unsaid: a woman’s kiss, her mouth.

Shifting in her seat, Minerva took a most unladylike swallow of her own tea. Silence began to ease around them. She noticed the teacup resting on Ashebury’s firm thigh, thought how much more delicate it appeared there than it did on Burleigh’s thigh. While Burleigh was broader than Ashebury, Ashebury seemed larger. Perhaps it was because his clothes fit so well, leaving no doubt that he didn’t possess an ounce of fat. It could also be that she knew the feel of that thigh beneath her sole, knew that it provided a very secure place upon which a saucer could rest.

“What were you discussing before I interrupted?” Ashebury asked.

“The merits of age,” Minerva said, hoping he wasn’t aware of where her gaze or her thoughts had drifted.

“Of wine?”

“Of ladies.”

“That seems rather inappropriate. The ladies I know are so secretive about their ages.”

“We were discussing that older ladies don’t giggle like silly younger ones,” Burleigh said impatiently.

“What’s wrong with giggling?” Ashebury asked.

“It’s irritating. I don’t want a wife who giggles. Miss Dodger is not prone to giggling.”

Ashebury’s gaze came to bear on her. “Is she not? I wager I could make her giggle.”

“Why would you want to?” Burleigh asked.

“Why would you not?”

“As I mentioned, it’s irritating.”

“On the contrary, Burleigh, it’s a joyous sound. A woman should giggle at least once a day.” His gaze never left her.

She noticed a faint tinkling sound, Burleigh’s teacup rattling slightly on the saucer, as he was growing agitated. He was her guest. She couldn’t let Ashebury unsettle him so. “How does one make tea in the wilds?” she asked.

Ashebury gave her a slow smile, and she knew he was fully aware that she was attempting to defuse the situation. “A fire, a kettle, a teapot, and tea.”

“The same way one makes tea in civilization,” Burleigh said.

“A little variance here and there. We did end up giving our kettle, teapot, and some tea to a tribal chief. He was rather fascinated by the process. I’m not sure where he’ll obtain tea once he’s used up all that we left. Would you like to see a photograph of him?”

“No,” Burleigh answered as Minerva said, “Yes.”

“I cannot deny a lady her desires,” Ashebury said, setting aside his cup before shifting his body from the chair to the edge of the sofa cushion.

Minerva slid over quickly to prevent his landing on her, which only served to nestle her up against Burleigh. She was acutely aware of the man stiffening, couldn’t imagine Ashebury reacting in a similar manner. If he found a woman up against him, he would no doubt curl around her.

A small smile played over Ashebury’s lips. The bugger was enjoying manipulating them, making Burleigh uncomfortable. She shouldn’t find herself drawn to him when he was misbehaving so, and yet, she couldn’t seem to work up any annoyance over it. Burleigh hadn’t done anything wrong, but neither had he done anything right. She wasn’t attracted to him. His suit of her would go nowhere. She should probably tell him. Later. When Ashebury was no longer here.

He slipped a large hand inside his jacket pocket, removed a packet tied with string, and placed it in her lap. “You may do the honors.”

He was as close as Burleigh, if not closer, his thigh resting against hers, their hips touching, and yet she didn’t feel crowded on the right side. She couldn’t say the same for her left. Was it because she’d been incredibly intimate with the man, because of what they’d shared? Or was it simply his way to be completely comfortable against the female form? Probably the latter. She didn’t want to consider how many ladies he might have been this close to.

Pulling the ends of the bow, she released the string from the wrapper and set it on the low table before her. Then she slowly peeled back the paper. She was greeted with the sight of the chimpanzees. Soul mates, she’d bet her life on it. The pyramids were next, dwarfing the humans who stood around them. She was familiar with the structures, had seen other pictures, had always wanted to visit them. No longer on the husband hunt, she was free to go wherever she wanted. She could go touch them in person if she so desired. The next picture revealed some sort of stone shrine barely visible through the foliage. She had no idea what it might be, and yet it seemed so lonely, as though waiting to be of use again.

Moving that picture aside, she was greeted by a man with long white hair and what appeared to be white paint in various designs on his dark, wrinkled face. Grinning, he held in his hand a dainty teacup that seemed remarkably out of place.

“That’s him,” Ashebury said.

“He looks so happy.”

“He bargained me out of my teacup,” he said grumpily.

She looked at him. He was close, so very close, his shoulder nearly touching hers. “What did you get?”

“Two of his tribesmen to escort us farther into the jungle.”

“What did they get?”

“The privilege of accompanying us, I suppose. They have no need for money. They’re self-sufficient.”

“They’re savages,” Burleigh said.

“What exactly is a savage, Burleigh? I’ve met quite a few within England’s borders.”

“You know what I mean. They’re not civilized.”

“Not like you and I, perhaps. They can’t quote Shakespeare, but I assure you that they hardly qualify as savage. As far as we could tell they live a peaceful existence. Welcomed us.” He winked at Minerva. “Drank tea with us. Doesn’t get much more civilized than that.”

Moving that photograph aside, she caught her breath at the sight of a woman dressed in her native clothing, what little there was of it. But it wasn’t the bared breasts that held her attention. It was the woman’s face: so proud, with such a noble bearing. No embarrassment, no shame. How could anyone be offended by this remarkable image? It was simply . . . life. And Ashe had managed to capture the essence and beauty of it.

He was right. The human form in all its natural wonder was exquisite.

Although Burleigh apparently didn’t agree. He was making gasping sounds as though the tea he’d swallowed had taken a wrong turn. Snatching the photo from her fingers, he went to his feet. “You can’t show photographs like this to a lady!” It was a wonder that his indignation didn’t cause the chandelier above his head to shake.