How to Pursue a Princess (11 page)

“You need to perform them correctly, though, if you really wish to tell.” He slid his hands up her arms to her shoulders. “We should kiss. Just as a practice.”

A kiss? She blinked. “Wulf, that’s not—”

“You
must
know. You are young and vibrant. A marriage without passion would be a fate worse than death. Think about it.” He bent so his lips were beside her ear, his warm breath on her cheek. “Years and years, cold and alone, never touched, or worse, dreading it.”

She wet her lips nervously, torn between a shiver of intimate desire and the barren picture Wulf had painted.

But if I want, I can try it right now, this moment.
She closed her eyes, lifted up on her tiptoes, and pressed her mouth to his. He enveloped her, his arms slipping about her as he held her closer, his mouth moving over hers, teasing and tempting, opening her lips so that they were, finally, one.

At the touch of his tongue against hers, a flash of heat roared through her, a delicious mix of shock and desire. She couldn’t get enough of him, enough of his touch, enough of the intoxicating feel of his hard muscles as they slid under her seeking fingers, enough of his hands molding her to him.

His hands slipped from her waist to her hips and then lower, to cup her bottom. She moaned against his mouth as he lifted her, rubbing her body the length of his as he plundered her mouth, thrusting his tongue between her lips in an intimate dance.

She was awash in feelings she’d never before experienced, feelings that threatened to drown her, pull her under, lose her. And she thrilled to it, feeling so alive, so—

A servant’s voice called out to MacDougal, the sound splashing over Lily like a bucket of ice water. She broke the kiss, breathless and aching, her gaze flying to the door.

Wulf’s gaze followed hers and he stepped away, too.

MacDougal’s voice rose in the hallway. “Och, now, John, get the polish, fer the candlesticks need a bit o’ work.”

A servant replied, and then silence.

Lily took a deep breath. “Th-that was unwise.”

“Nonsense. Knowledge is necessary.”

She pressed a hand to her cheek, her fingers trembling. “You should go. Someone will find you here.”

Wulf’s hot gaze swept over her. “Are you sure, Moya?”

She wasn’t sure of anything, except that Wulf must leave now, or she might do something that would ruin her chances of a good marriage forever. She nodded. “I’m sure.”

He sent her a regretful look. “Are you certain? I can—”

“Go.”

“But I—”

“Please.”

His lips thinned and he looked as if he might say something more, but one look at her face and he let out his breath. “Fine.” He collected his cloak and tossed it over his arm. “But only because you asked me to.” He walked to the window, pausing by her to whisper. “When you next see Huntley, think about our kiss.”

He put a finger under her chin and lifted her face to his, their gazes locking. For a long time, he remained thus, looking deeply into her eyes. A wild rush of thoughts flew through her: Perhaps just one
more kiss— If only Papa hadn’t made such a mull of things— What if she didn’t feel anything at all with Huntley—

Wulf smiled and dropped his hand. “Think of me, Moya.” He turned and crossed to the window. He glanced outside to make certain no one was in the courtyard, and then, with a final heated look and a swirl of black cape, he was gone.

From the Diary of the Duchess of Roxburghe
The meeting has occurred, the introductions made, first impressions accomplished, and now all that’s left is to make certain our two lovely candidates spend a lot of time together . . . a
lot
of time together. Preferably
alone.

Two days later, Lily stepped onto the wide portico where the guests milled about, talking and laughing in small groups as footmen served trays of iced lemonade. She carried her bonnet by its ribbons as she strolled to the eastern edge of the terrace, smiling at those who greeted her.

The vista was breathtaking. The late-morning sun spread a golden glow over the lawn, which raced down to the lake on one side and the river on the other. A faint wind stirred the skirts of Lily’s blue walking gown, and she shivered.

The shiver brought on by a cool breeze was vastly different from one caused by being kissed by a green-eyed
prince. One type made one want to run for shelter, while the other made one want to beg for more.

Despite her determination not to, she glanced about, but he was nowhere to be seen.
Yet.
Over the last two days, he’d been at every amusement planned by the duchess: the opera singer brought in from London, a battledore tournament with lavish prizes, a late-night whist party. He was an amusing companion, his blunt assessment of every event sending her into giggles when she least expected it, but his presence had greatly hampered her ability to spend time with Huntley. Fortunately, today’s picnic offered a chance to remedy that.

Still, Wulf had been true to his word and no longer importuned her with outrageous declarations. But while he was on his best behavior verbally, it seemed that he never lost an opportunity to touch her. They were seemingly innocent touches—a brush of his hand over hers, his chest against her arm, his foot by hers under the dining-room table—so she could hardly protest, but each one reminded her vividly of their embrace in the library.

Before that day, the few kisses she’d shared had been shy, timid, and decidedly chaste. She now realized they’d also been passionless. But then she’d kissed Wulf, and now she knew what to look for. Now, all she had to do was entice Huntley into a kiss.

Sadly, the earl was far more polite than Wulf, who would never let a thing like propriety stand between
him and the woman he wanted. If Lily wanted a kiss from Huntley, she’d have to win his confidence and then maneuver him into a private meeting. If he didn’t come up to the mark and sweep her into his arms, then unladylike as it might be, she might have to kiss him. But at least then she’d have the reassurance she sought—that passion lurked between her and Huntley, too, but was just more subtle than the roaring sensuality that Wulf enjoyed sparking.

She was certain that, with time, she and Huntley would have the same passion that Wulf inspired.

The wind stirred again, and she rubbed her arms vigorously and glanced at the door. Perhaps she should run back to her room and fetch the red cloak Dahlia had lent her. Lightly lined, it was the perfect wrap for early spring. She walked toward the door, but just as she reached it, the duchess came sailing out.

Her grace was dressed in a fitted habit, an impressive riding hat pinned to her red wig, a white gauze scarf wrapped about her neck and floating behind her. She was followed by a swirl of pugs who barked madly and jumped up in the air, as if trying to entice her to pick them up.

She caught sight of Lily and brightened. “Miss Balfour, how serendipitous! I was going to seek you out and see how you were faring. I didn’t get the chance to speak to you at all yesterday, although I noted that you and Huntley were paired together in the battledore contest.” The duchess gave Lily an arch look. “I saw
him giving you instruction in how to better use your racket.”

Lily hid a grimace. It was the one time Huntley had said or done something that had irked her. She was a good player, but for some reason, before he’d even seen her play, he’d assumed she knew nothing about the game and had taken it upon himself to explain every possible swing in detail.

She’d borne it with a smile, although she’d been irked.
Which is silly, for he was just trying to be helpful.
“His lordship was very instructive.”

“He seems very fond of you. He even told me that— Oh!” One of the pugs had launched itself high enough to paw one of the duchess’s leather gloves. She examined the glove and frowned at the dog. “Look what you’ve done, Meenie! You tore it.” She turned. “MacDougal!”

As if he’d been hiding inside the door, the butler instantly stepped outside. “Yes, yer grace?”

“Meenie tore my glove!”

The butler turned an eagle stare on the offending pug, who promptly threw itself on its back and pawed the air in a pathetic manner.

Lily covered her mouth in an attempt to keep from laughing.

The duchess chuckled with her, her blue eyes twinkling. “They’re terrible, but just look at those angelic eyes. How can I say no?”

“It’s impossible,” Lily agreed. The swarm of dogs, all of them now on their feet, looked eagerly at the
duchess, ready to follow her anywhere but where she ordered them. They were as fat as Christmas geese, their bellies round, their little legs splayed to hold their weight. But it was the expression on their faces that made Lily smile—they all looked upon the duchess with adoring eyes and wide grins, their tongues lolling in a variety of directions, completely and utterly in love with her.

The duchess peeled off her riding gloves. “MacDougal, I have another pair in my bedchamber.”

The butler bowed, took the gloves, and then handed them to a nearby footman.

The young man started to dash back into the house but Lily stopped him. “Would you mind also fetching my red cloak? It’s in the wardrobe in my bedchamber.”

“Yes, miss.” The footman bowed and hurried off.

The duchess eyed the pugs. “When I have my new gloves,
none
of you will mar them. Do you hear me?”

The dogs didn’t answer, though Lily thought that one or two of them grinned even more broadly.

MacDougal cleared his throat. “Pardon me, yer grace, but perhaps we should lock the puir bairns in the sittin’ room until ye’re gone. They’ll wish to go wit’ ye, and ye know how they like to worry Lord MacTavish’s bull.”

“Lud, yes. I’ve asked MacTavish to move the bull out of the south field, but he’s ignored my requests. I thought for certain we’d lost Teenie the last time they got into that blasted bull’s way.” The duchess stooped
and picked up the two closest pugs and handed them to MacDougal, who turned and handed them to a waiting footman to carry them off.

The duchess turned back to the pack and began collecting the remaining dogs, who—having seen the way the wind was blowing—were now dancing out of her reach. Lily was surprised when neither the footmen nor the butler offered to catch the remaining pugs, but stayed where they were, politely looking the other way as the duchess scrambled about, huffing and puffing with her efforts.

Just as Lily started to help, the duchess caught two more dogs and passed them to the butler. Once again, the pugs were carried into the house, squirming and barking as they went.

“May I help you catch the last two?” Lily asked.

“What? Oh no, dear.” The duchess shoved her hat farther back on her head, her wig sliding with it. “The footmen have chased the poor things until they’re quite nervous, so it’s best if I collect them myself.”

“Ah.”

The duchess set off after the last pugs, but they had been well warned of their fate by their wiggling, barking brethren and began a series of evasive maneuvers, spinning out of reach, running between the legs of two nearby footmen, and dashing in circles around the duchess.

Her grace leapt first left and then right, trying to grab one, and then the other dog, but to no avail.

Lily bit her bottom lip to keep from giggling as one
dashed under the duchess’s skirts and then out the other side, his tongue flying out the side of his mouth.

The duchess was now panting. “Roxburghe vows that chasing is good exercise for them, and so he encouraged the footmen to dash after them pell-mell, but all it’s done is teach them how to escape.” She glared over her shoulder at the footmen as she spoke. “There are
better
ways to exercise the dogs.”

The footman closest to the duchess nodded smartly. “Yes, yer grace. Chasin’ is bad fer the dogs, it is.”

“Exactly.” The duchess lunged forward and finally caught one of the pugs. “There!” She handed the dog to the footman and looked about for the final one. “Ah, Feenie! Come to Mama.”

The final pug ran a safe distance away before turning to face the duchess, his tail spinning in a circle, his front feet splayed as he readied to hop out of the way.

The duchess took a step forward.

The dog hopped backward.

“Blast it! Hold still, you—” The duchess dove for the pug.

The dog turned and ran past the duchess, grabbing her gauze scarf as it went.

Lily reached out to help, but before the dog could get more than a foot away, MacDougal stepped on the scarf, pinning it to the ground. The dog tugged and tugged and, in doing so, allowed the butler to scoop him up.

MacDougal removed the end of the scarf from the
dog’s mouth. “Feenie, ye spalpeen. Stop yer yappin’.” The butler inclined his head at her grace. “Pardon me, yer grace. I’ll deposit this bundle in the sitting room and return.”

The duchess blew out her breath and adjusted her hat. “Thank you, MacDougal.” She watched the butler leave, the little dog licking the butler’s chin in an attempt to get back into the old man’s favor. Fanning herself, she said in a breathless voice, “My, but that took some doing.”

“Yes, it did. Are you well?”

“I’m fine. Just a bit out of breath.”

As the duchess spoke, Huntley stepped out of the wide doorway and paused on the threshold, one foot on the step. Every female eye instantly locked on him, and Lily couldn’t blame them.

The earl was dressed for riding in well-fitted breeches, his white-topped Hessians shining like mirrors, his coat smooth over his lithe frame. His neckcloth was snow-white and framed his square chin, complementing his handsome face.

He cut quite a dashing figure and Lily couldn’t help but stand a little straighter when his gaze passed over every woman present and alighted on her. Instantly, he brightened and came her way.

The duchess couldn’t have looked happier as she murmured to Lily, “That’s a promising sign.”

He reached them and bowed. “Your grace. Miss Balfour.”

Lily curtsied, while the duchess inclined her head in a gracious manner. Her grace took in his riding clothes. “I take it that you will be riding.”