Forbidden to Love the Duke (13 page)

“T
o be a writer is to suffer an incredible melancholy,” Oliver intoned, stroking his thin beard in contemplation. “It is as if I dangle from a frayed thread between life and my own tomb. I look up. I look down. I perceive neither light nor darkness, but a perpetual gloom. I ask myself, ‘Is this twilight state my fate?' Do you have the slightest idea what it is to suffer for art?”

Could Oliver's carriage have traveled any slower? Could she stand another moment in his company before she committed an act of violence? The duke would be livid. Ivy would be looking for another position. Without character references. Did she know what it was to suffer for art?

“No, I don't, Oliver,” she said, breathing an enormous sigh of relief as the carriage approached the private road to the park. “And quite frankly at the moment I don't give a fig. Your artistic suffering will have to wait for another evening.”

For an instant she saw a glimpse of malice in his eyes. But then his prattle had so benumbed her brain that she supposed she could be wrong. In the next moment the
carriage jolted to a stop. She slid forward and he caught her, holding her even as she struggled to open the door.

“You've tempted me all day. The least you can do is give me a kiss to hold me through the night.”

“Kiss you?” She laughed in disbelief. “You'll cost me everything, Oliver. Let go of my arm.”

“Not until you kiss me.”

She would have clouted him with her other hand if not for her stitches. The door opened, whether from her efforts or those of the footman, who'd become alarmed at the raised voices inside the carriage, she had no idea. There wasn't a servant at hand when she and Oliver tumbled down the steps together in an inelegant and accidental embrace.

“Behave yourself, Sir Oliver,” she said in frustration, and gave him a push against the carriage door. “I almost broke my ankle because of your antics.”

“I can't behave myself,” he said in a stricken voice. He pressed his pale hand to his heart. “I love you. No, really. Don't look at me in scorn. It's true. I can't quite believe it myself. What a hideous surprise. Marry me, Ivy. Let us be miserable together.”

She nodded and crept back from the carriage. He might be proposing to one of the garden statues for all she was paying attention. She'd stopped listening to him five minutes into her return journey to Ellsworth. “Good night, sir,” she said, and turned, only to discover him standing directly in her path. “Thank you for everything. And move out of the way. The duke will challenge you to a duel if he catches you misbehaving on his property. He was an officer in the infantry—an expert shot, I'll have you know. He'd put a bullet in your heart without losing a wink of sleep afterward. He isn't a person to cross, I promise you.”

“I've shot a couple of men myself, I'll have
you
know. Now tell me that you love me back or I will bay at the moon and run circles around the carriage.”

She gasped in horror, convinced he was conceited enough to carry out his threat. Had a light appeared in the salon window? Had that porter been standing against the wall during this entire wretched display?

The duke's manservant sent her a searching look. She shook her head, silently begging him not to make matters worse. He coughed, loudly enough to signal his disapproval. Sir Oliver glanced around and Ivy shot off into the darkness of the garden maze before he turned back to her.

Her heart sank when she heard the thud of unpoetic footsteps at her back and realized Oliver had followed her into the labyrinth. How he could see her was a mystery when she hadn't a notion where she was fleeing herself.

A moonless night eclipsed the estate. Perhaps fear made her faster, but it hadn't sharpened her instincts. She caught her heel on a gardener's spade. When she recovered her balance, she realized that she'd lost Oliver.

She had also lost her way. She slowed, took several hesitant steps, and collided with a hedge. How humiliating to think she might still be wandering through the maze at dawn when the dogs scented her.

An indefinable sound penetrated the tall yews that separated her from the next turn. Was she about to confront Oliver, the porter, or an animal? She rounded another boxwood with caution, breathless, her hair half undone. She wasn't much of a match for man or beast right now.

“Stop.”

The low intimidating voice rooted her to the spot. She couldn't make out where it had come from until the duke emerged from what must have been a secret path. How long had he been there? What must he think? She appraised his unsmiling face in disquietude.

Sanctuary or banishment?

She shivered at either possibility and waited for James to decree which was to be her fate.

*   *   *

“Who are you running from, Ivy?” he asked, slowly walking toward her. “Is it necessary for me to search the grounds for an unwanted visitor? Do we have a prowler in the park?”

She remained still, even though her heart was beating harder than when she had been evading Oliver. Despite his show of concern, the duke's shadowed face showed no sympathy at all. She had taken advantage of him today, and not the other way around.

“I was late,” she said, seeing no reason to lie. “I didn't realize that my—my companion had sent your carriage home. As soon as we reached the park, I rushed toward the house and ended up here, going in circles.”

The duke considered her explanation for a few moments. “This is a maze.” He surveyed her disheveled hair and flushed cheeks. “It is meant to deceive and delude. Perhaps my garden is taking its revenge on yours. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

The lambent heat in his eyes wilted the remnants of whatever composure she'd salvaged from her tussle with Oliver.

She held firm under his scrutiny. “Not really.” All his cold manner conveyed was his displeasure. He wasn't
anything like the playful scoundrel who'd interviewed her for the job. Still, he was perfectly within his rights to admonish her.

“This maze is designed to lead one astray,” he said.

“Did you draw the original plans?”

He seemed to grow taller. “Do I look to be over a century old?”

“It's difficult to judge your age without decent lighting.”

“It is rather dark, isn't it?”

“What is it they say about the devil on a moonless night?”

“I haven't a notion,” the duke said with a smile. “But I have a feeling you're about to find out.”

Her lips parted at his words. His knowing smile promised sin and punishment. And it lit a spark within her. In fact, Ivy was certain that invisible flames jumped from his wicked spirit to hers.

He wanted to engage her in a dangerous battle, one she might never win. The female in her rose to the war cry all the same. “I would have thought the maze was for children,” she said.

“Certain adults like playing games with each other, too.”

She reminded herself that it wasn't appropriate to show disrespect to one's master. Nor was it proper for a governess to secretly desire him, and yet she did. “I wouldn't know, Your Grace.”

“You are very cool for a woman who could be discharged for breaking the rules of her employment.”

Ivy braced herself for the inevitable. She might be dismissed before midnight. She pictured herself trudging home in the dark and Rosemary saying, “You had to lose your head, didn't you, Anne Boleyn? All these
years you were supposed to be the sensible one. How could you, Ivy?”

“Don't you have anything to say for yourself?” She started at the duke's voice. “I'll have you know that I was worried sick about you when you didn't return on time.”

She examined his face. Had anxiety been one of the dark emotions lurking behind his anger? The duke worried sick over her? “I apologize, Your Grace. Is—” She blinked in surprise as he grasped her by the shoulders. “Is something wrong with one of the children?”

His answer flayed her with guilt. “Mary was beside herself. I did my best to comfort her. But she wanted you.” He paused to allow time for emphasis. “Not her mother. Not me. Not Cook. She wanted Lady Ivy, and Lady Ivy wasn't here.”

Ivy shrank inside. She
had
been derelict in her duty. “Your Grace, I'll go to her right now.”

He wasn't finished. He wanted to flog her conscience one last time. “Lady Ivy was playing peekaboo in the maze with a man.”

Ivy cringed. “I'll explain to her that it wasn't what it appeared to be—that it was nothing.”

“Good. Because even though I sent her off to bed, I thought I saw her peeping down through the curtains a moment ago. I don't believe she can see us from where she's standing. But just in case, you might explain to her when you go upstairs that
this
is nothing, too.”

He lifted his hands from her shoulders and cupped her chin. Ivy stood motionless, mesmerized by the intensity on his face. She couldn't move. She couldn't raise a finger to resist. He bent his head to hers and when he kissed her, the invisible moon could have fallen out of
the sky, and she wouldn't have cared. He swept his tongue across her lips, slowly penetrating her mouth. Desire like steam enshrouded her. She didn't understand how a man's kiss could feel wondrous and wicked at the same time, or how she could want something when reason argued it would only fade to ashes.

And yet—it had to be her imagination—she felt a shudder go through him, too, as they kissed.

Perhaps he couldn't control himself any better than she could. Where was the consolation in knowing he was also at the mercy of this lust?

“We can't stay here,” he murmured, locking one hand around her waist to draw her against him. “Let me take you inside.”

How melodious his voice sounded in the darkness of the maze. “You mean us—together?”

His hand pressed against her spine until she felt the heat and hardness of his body. “Yes. In private.”

His next kiss sought to subdue her, to remind her that domination could be sweet and gentleness could feel like torture. Her knees trembled as his tongue entwined with hers. His hand stroked the contours of her hip until her heart pulsed through her body.

When he broke away, breathing hard, she was bereft, too dazed to disagree to his request. “Come inside the house. It's time to revisit the rules.”

She hesitated. “Shouldn't I see to Mary first?”

He didn't even pretend to consider her suggestion. “You can look in on her later.” He reached for her good hand. “How is your wrist?”

“It's all right, thank you.”

“Stitches didn't get torn from slapping someone in
the face?” A cynical grin crossed his features as he guided her through the hedge with unerring expertise.

“Not yet, Your Grace. Where are you taking me?”

“To the Chinese Room.”

She pictured furnishings with a Far Eastern influence, perhaps even a peacock motif, and said, “That sounds pleasant.” If she could make it there. His kisses left her feeling shaky. Hurrying through the labyrinth with his hand grasping hers gave her little chance to compose herself. “I must say, you know this maze rather well.”

“As well as you know Fenwick's gardens.”

“It's all different now,” she said softly, breathless to keep apace. “You could ride a horse to the door and nothing would stop you.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, clearly distracted, too intent on their destination to understand what she was trying to explain.

They didn't talk again until after they had sneaked through the house and he opened the door at the end of a long hall onto the Chinese Room. Dragons writhed and breathed fire on the scrolled panels covering the wall. But Ivy's gaze went immediately to the room's central decor—a startling replica of a pagoda that enclosed a blue silk couch that would have comfortably seated five people. Or a pair of recumbent lovers.

*   *   *

He closed the door and caught her in his arms again. At an indistinct point between his dizzying kisses and her tentative attempts at questions, he led her to the couch. She sat for only a few moments before he lowered himself beside her and bent her backward, stroking her cheek. “Ivy.”

“It's so dark in here. So quiet. Is this the room where you bring your
friends
?”

He shrugged out of his jacket. “Would you believe me if I told you that I've never been in here with another woman?”

“No.” She gave a firm shake of her head. “I'm sorry, but I would not.”

He arched his brow. “Then I won't bother to confess that right now I can't remember the name of my last lover.”

“How romantic.” She rolled onto her side. “Why don't I leave you here alone to see if your memory returns? I'll ask Carstairs to bring you some writing material.”

He bracketed her inside his arms. “I don't want Carstairs. And I don't want to be alone. I want to be with you. Alone with you.” He threaded his fingers through her hair. “You broke a rule tonight.”

“We're breaking one of mine now.”

“Then why don't we make a pact to abandon all rules while we're in this room?”

She frowned. “What does that mean?”

He dipped his head, whispering to her as he kissed a path from the corner of her mouth to her neck. “We do whatever pleases us.”

She went still. He waited, afraid he'd moved too fast, frightened her. As soon as he felt her body relax again, he grazed her collarbone with kisses. Then he traced his hand down her side and lifted her skirt to her knees. She tensed again, her eyes seeking his, and he murmured, “I'll only do what you want.”

She bit her lip. “What if I don't know what I want?”

“Then give me what I want.”

She glanced down at the skirt he was slowly raising to her waist. “Is that a quote from the Book of Scoundrels?”