The Duchess of Love (8 page)

Drew closed the small gap between them and brushed Venus's mouth with his.

Lightning flashed through him to lodge in—

He jerked his hips back and his head up.

He was not a virgin—he'd accepted more than one invitation to dance in some high flyer's bed—but he'd never felt this overwhelming emotion before. It was more than lust, though it was definitely that, too.

He put a good foot of space between him and Venus. He might not be a virgin, but she was.

Venus blinked at him as if she were waking from a dream. He felt rather proud of himself until she opened her mouth.

“That's it?” She frowned.

“Of course that's it.” He frowned back at her. “What more do you want?”

“I—” She blushed. “I don't know. I just feel as if there
is
more.”

“Well, there's not.” Damn it, the randy part of his brain was picturing in maddening detail all the other things he could do with her. It didn't help that he'd seen her naked at this very pond—which he hoped was just as cold today. Once he deposited her safely at the vicarage, he might have to take a brisk, deflating swim.

“Oh.” She bit her lip. “I didn't mean to insult you. It was very nice.”

Splendid. Now she was criticizing his lovemaking skills. If only he could show her—

“Do you suppose we could do it again?”

His cock almost jumped out of his breeches.
“No!”

God give him strength. Here he was, trying to be noble even if it killed him—which it most likely would—and she was tempting him beyond any man's ability to resist. Not that she knew it, of course. She'd no idea the fire she played with, but he could feel it building, and it was hot enough to incinerate them both.

He should jump in the damn pond right now.

Venus's face had gone white. She turned away, but not before he saw the glint of tears in her eyes. “You don't have to shout.” She sniffed and then blotted her nose on her sleeve. “I'm not going to attack you or anything.”

His cock pleaded with him to encourage her assault. He reached for his handkerchief instead. “When we are married, I'm going to see you have a handkerchief for every day of the year.”

Her head whipped around, her jaw dropping.
“Married?”

His eyebrows shot up. “Yes, of course. What did you think I meant by kissing you?”

Venus's tears dried like magic as anger replaced mortification. She wanted to hit something, preferably this idiotic man standing in front of her, holding out his damn handkerchief and looking at her as if she were the insane one. Now that she'd recovered from the newness of the experience, she remembered how he'd jumped away from her.

“You kiss me and find the experience so repugnant you almost run to the other side of the pond, and now you talk of marriage?” She grabbed her skirts so as not to grab his throat and raised her chin to look down her nose at him. “Perhaps I don't wish to be married to a man who doesn't enjoy kissing me.”

He shoved his handkerchief back in his pocket. “Of course you'll marry me.”

“Of course I won't,
your grace
.”

“Don't call me that.”

“Why not? You're acting as though you own all you survey.” Venus stepped up to him and poked him in the chest with her finger. “Well, you don't own me, sirrah.”

“For the love of
God
, woman.”

His hands shot out and grabbed her, hauling her up against his body. One hand pressed her into a very large bulge below his waist and the other urged her chin higher. His mouth swooped down.

This kiss was nothing like the last. It was hot and wet, and somehow his tongue found its way past her teeth, plunging deep, sweeping through her.

Her knees gave out; if he hadn't been holding her up, she'd have melted into a puddle at his feet. Part of her
was
melting.

“See?” he said, lifting his head and brushing a kiss over her cheek. “I like kissing you. Now we should—”

“Again.” She stretched to reach his mouth, running her hands through his hair and wiggling against his body—and the interesting protuberance—as she did so. “Please, Drew?”

“No.” He straightened, but he didn't push her away. “We shouldn't.”

She could tell it was only his brain protesting; his heart—and other organs—didn't agree. She would persuade him. She kissed his chin.

“Stop that, Venus.”

“I don't want to.” She nibbled on his bottom lip.

He held out for another moment; then he made a small, guttural sound, almost of pain, and opened his mouth.

She tried doing what he'd done, probing his dark heat with her tongue.

Things got somewhat frantic then. His hands moved all over her—her back, her derriere … oh, they slid up to touch the side of her breast. Her nipples hardened into tight little peaks, and she leaned back, silently inviting him to continue his explorations.

He stopped. Damn it, his scruples must have reared their ugly heads again. Well, she would fix that. She slipped her hands down his front, aiming for the bulge in his breeches.

He grabbed her fingers before they could reach their target. “Careful, Venus. We are rapidly approaching the point where it will be impossible for me to stop.”

She grinned. “Why would you want to stop?”

“Because you're a virgin, damn it.”

“I imagine you can fix that.”

His face looked strained, as if he were fighting an inner battle. “We should wait until our wedding.”

“No.” She loved him with a fierce, true love that filled her with courage. “I don't want to wait.”

“But we've known each other only four days.”

“It doesn't matter. It could be four days or four years or forty years—I know that I love you, that I will always love you.” She searched his eyes. “Don't you feel that way, too?”

“Yes,” he said, and she could see he was telling the complete truth this time. “I'm sure everyone will say we are mad, but yes, I feel it. I love you, too.”

She laughed, tugging his shirt free of his breeches. She was going to explode with happiness. “Then show me.”

Drew was obviously more adept at getting women out of their clothes than she was at getting men out of theirs. She got her arms tangled up with his more than once. Finally he made a growling sort of noise and grabbed her hands.

“It will be faster if you let me do it.”

Venus was all in favor of speed so she acquiesced, and in another moment, she was as naked as when she'd first met him. More importantly, he was as naked.

“Oh.” Now she could touch everything she'd only seen before. She ran her hands over his hard, warm chest and followed the springy blond hair down to—

He grabbed her hands again.

“Hey!”

“Another time.” He picked her up and laid her on their clothes. “If you touch me now, it will be over before it's begun.”

She didn't understand, but he sounded as if he knew what he was talking about—and he started to kiss her. Mmm. His clever mouth moved to her shoulder and then to her breast. “Oh!” His lips closed over a nipple. “Should you be … ahh.”

She didn't care if he should or he shouldn't; what he was doing felt so good. His mouth and tongue played with one nipple while his fingers teased the other and then wandered lower, stroking down her side to her hip.

She moaned. Her body was awash in strange, wonderful sensations. Every part of her that Drew touched grew hot and desperate. But there was one very desperate part of her he hadn't yet touched; his fingers lingered just a few inches away. She spread her legs and arched her hips to encourage him to proceed in the right direction.

He took the hint.

“Ohh.”

His finger slowly, delicately, slid around the small point. Her hips jerked.

“You are so wet, so ready for me, Venus.” He sucked on her nipple as his finger continued to tease her.

“Ohh. Drew. Please.” Her hips twitched and wiggled as if she was doing some very odd dance. She should be embarrassed—the vicar's daughter, naked outdoors, moaning with lust, begging to be taken—but there was no room for embarrassment in her heart.

“Your wish is my command, my love,” Drew said, his voice breathy and strained. He lifted himself over her and came slowly into her body.

“Oh!” She felt a brief, burning pain, and then Drew was deep inside her, filling the part of her that had been so empty just moments before.

“Are you all right?”

“Mmm,” she said. “Yes.” She shifted her hips. Her body had already got over the shock of penetration; now it wanted him to move.

And move he did, being careful to keep his weight on his forearms so he didn't crush her. In and out.

She grabbed his hips. The spot that had been so tense before was tense again. Each time he moved, he pulled her tighter and tighter …

“Drew. I-I need—”

Nothing. He slid deep one last time, and she felt something hot and wet pulse into her just before a drenching pleasure took her breath away.

She felt wonderful.

Drew slid free and moved to the ground beside her, pulling her up against him.

“Mmm.” His body and the sun were warm on her naked flesh. She could barely open her eyes. “What did you do?”

He chuckled. “Magic, my dear duchess.”

“I'm not your duchess yet.”

“But you will be shortly. Very shortly. By the time we make it to the vicarage, your parents will be home. You will look well and truly compromised, and I'm sure your father will wish to marry us on the spot.”

She drew a lazy circle on his chest. Drew was probably right. Mama and Papa would be terribly shocked.

She waited to feel embarrassment, but she'd become a complete wanton. She felt nary a drop of remorse. “That would be fine.”

“Good.” He laughed and kissed her nose. “You'll be my duchess, Venus, but more importantly, you are my love.”

She grinned at him. “I'll be your duchess of love, and you'll be my duke, no matter how much you dislike the title.”

He put a slow, lingering kiss on her lips. “As long as I have you by my side, my dear duchess-to-be, I can bear being Greycliffe.” Then he kissed her again.

It was another half hour before they finally made their way to the vicarage.

The Duchess of Love is just getting started!
Jump forward a generation as the Duchess of Greycliffe,
an inveterate matchmaker, is busy finding a wife
for her handsome and most eligible second son, Ned.
Read on for a special preview of Sally MacKenzie's
delightful new historical romance,

 

BEDDING LORD NED.

 

A Zebra mass-market paperback and e-book
on sale in June 2012.

Miss Eleanor Bowman stood in the Duchess of Love's pink guest bedroom and stared at the scrap of red silk spilling out of her valise, her heart stuttering in horror. That wasn't—

Her brows snapped down. Of course it wasn't. She was letting her imagination run away with her. The red fabric was merely her Norwich shawl. She distinctly remembered packing it, as she did every year. It was far too fine to wear to darn socks or mind her sisters' children, but it was just the thing for the duchess's annual Valentine party. It was her one nod to fashion, the small bit of elegance she still allowed herself.

She snatched the red silk up again, shook it out—and dropped it as if it were a poisonous snake.

Damn it, it
wasn't
her shawl. It was those cursed red drawers.

She closed her eyes as the familiar wave of self-loathing crashed over her. She'd made these and a matching red dress to wear to Lord Edward's betrothal ball five years ago, desperately hoping Ned would see her—really see her—and realize it was she he wanted to marry, not her best friend, Cicely Headley. But Mama had seen her first, when she'd come downstairs to get into the carriage, and had sent her straight back to her room.

She glared down at the red cloth. Thank God Mama had stopped her. If she'd gone to the ball in that dreadful dress, everyone would know she wasn't any better than a jezebel.

It was no surprise Ned had chosen Cicely. She'd been everything Ellie wasn't: small, blonde, blue-eyed—beautiful—with a gentle disposition. And then when Cicely and the baby had died in childbirth …

Ellie squeezed her eyes shut again, the mingle-mangle of shame and yearning twisting her gut. She'd mourned with everyone else—sincerely mourned—but she'd also hoped that Ned would turn to her and their friendship would grow into something more.

It hadn't.

She snapped her eyes open. Poor Cicely had died four years ago; if Ned were ever going to propose, he would have done so by now. She'd faced that fact squarely when she'd turned twenty-six last month. It was time to move on. She wanted babies, and dreams of Ned wouldn't give her those.

She picked up the drawers. She'd dispose of this ridiculous reminder of—

“Ah, here you are, Ellie.”

“Ack!” She jumped and spun around. Ned's mother, the Duchess of Love—or, more properly, the Duchess of Greycliffe—stood in the doorway, looking at her with warm brown eyes so like Ned's.

“Oh, dear, I'm sorry.” Her grace's smile collapsed into a frown. “I didn't mean to startle you.”

Ellie took a deep breath and hoped the duchess couldn't see her heart banging around in her chest. “You didn't s-startle me.” If she looked calm, she'd be calm. She'd been practicing that trick ever since her red silk disgrace.

And what was there to be anxious about after all? The duchess's house parties were always pleasant.

Ha! They were torture.

“I was going to look for you later.” Ellie tried to smile.

“Then I've saved you the trouble.” The duchess had an impish gleam in her eye. “I thought we might have a comfortable coze before everyone else arrives.”

Ellie's stomach clenched, and all her carefully cultivated calm evaporated. There was no such thing as a “comfortable coze” with the Duchess of Love. “That would be, ah”—deep breath—“lovely.”

“Splendid! Come have a seat and I'll ring for tea.” Her grace grasped the tasseled bell-pull and paused, her gaze dropping to Ellie's hands. “But what have you there?”

“W-what?” Ellie glanced down. Oh, blast. “Nothing.” She dropped the embarrassing silk undergarment on the night table; it promptly slithered to the floor. Good, it would be less noticeable there. “I was unpacking when you came in.”

The duchess frowned again. “Should I come back later then?”

“No, of course not.” There was no point in putting this interview off. The sooner she knew the woman's plans, the sooner she could plan evasive—

She clenched her teeth. No, not this year.

“You're certain?”

“Yes.” Ellie moved away from the incriminating red fabric.

“Excellent.” Her grace tugged on the bell-pull and sat in the pink upholstered chair, her back to the puddle of silk. “I told Mrs. Dalton to have Cook send up some of her special macaroons. It will be a while until dinner, and we need to keep up our strength, don't we?”

“I'm afraid I'm not hungry.” Ellie would almost rather dance on the castle's parapets naked—or wearing only those damn red drawers—than put anything in her mouth at the moment. She perched on a chair across from Ned's mother.

“Oh.” The duchess's face fell.

“But, please, don't let me keep you from having something.” It was a wonder the woman stayed so slim; she had a prodigious sweet tooth.

Her grace smiled hopefully. “Perhaps you'll feel hungrier when you see Cook's macaroons.”

“Perhaps.” And perhaps pigs would fly. Ellie cleared her throat. “You had something of a particular nature you wished to discuss, your grace?”

“Yes.”

Damn.

No,
good
. Very good. Excellent.

The
ton
hadn't christened Ned's mother the Duchess of Love for nothing; she'd been matchmaking for as long as Ellie could remember, usually with great success. Ellie was one of her few failures, but this year would be different. This year Ellie was determined to cooperate.

“I was chatting with your mama the other day,” the duchess was saying, her eyes rather too direct. “She's quite concerned about your future, you know.”

Ellie shifted on her chair. Of course she knew—Mama never missed an opportunity to remind her that her future looked very bleak indeed. She'd been going on and on about it while Ellie packed, telling her how, if she allowed herself to dwindle into an old maid, she'd be forced to rely on the charity of her younger sisters, forever shuttled between their homes, always an aunt, never a mother.

Perhaps that's why she'd brought those damn drawers instead of her shawl; she'd been so distracted, she could probably have packed the chamber pot and not noticed. “I believe Mama likes to worry.”

The duchess laughed. “Well, that's what mothers do—worry—as I'm sure you'll learn yourself some day.”

“Ah.” Ellie swallowed.

Her grace leaned forward to touch her knee. “You do want to be a mother, don't you?”

Ellie swallowed again. “Y-yes.” She wanted children so badly she was giving up her dream of Ned—her ridiculous, pointless,
foolish
dream. “Of course. Eventually.”

The duchess gave her a pointed look. “My dear, you are twenty-six years old. Eventually is now.”

Ellie pressed her lips together. Very true. Hadn't she just reached the same conclusion?

“And to be a mother, you must first be a wife.” Her grace sat back. “To be a wife, you need to attach some gentleman's—some
eligible
gentleman's—regard. I believe you spent a little too much time with Ash last year. That will never do.”

“I like Ash.” The Marquis of Ashton, the duchess's oldest son, was intelligent and witty … and safe.

“Of course you like Ash, dear, but I must tell you more than one person remarked to me how often you were in his company.”

Ellie narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Only that you appeared to be ignoring all the other gentlemen.”

She'd been trying so hard to ignore Ned—to hide how much she longed for him—that she hadn't noticed the other gentlemen. “Certainly you aren't insinuating … no one thought …” She shook her head. “Ash is married.”

The duchess sighed. “Yes, he is, at least according to church and state.”

“And according to his heart.” Ellie met the duchess's gaze directly. “You mustn't think he encouraged any kind of impropriety. He still loves Jess; I'm sure they'll reconcile.”

The duchess grunted. “I hope I live to see it. But in any event, I don't believe anyone truly thought there was something of a romantic nature between you—”

“I should hope not!”

“However, people are so small-minded, you know, and they love to gossip, especially about Ash's awkward situation.”

“I know.” Ellie hated how the marriageable girls and their mamas clearly hoped Jess would magically vanish and thus cease to be an impediment to Ash's remarriage. Some had actually said they doubted Jess existed. “It makes me so angry.”

Her grace waved Ellie's anger away. “Yes, well, Ash can take care of himself. What really matters is the fact you
were
ignoring the other gentlemen, Ellie. It quite discourages the poor dears.”

Ellie snorted.

Her grace gave her a speaking look. “I assure you most men … well, I wouldn't call them timid, precisely, but they hate to be rejected. If you wish a gentleman to court you, you must give him some encouragement—a smile, a look, something to let him know you would welcome his attentions. You cannot be forever scowling and dodging.”

“I don't scowl or dodge.”

The duchess's brows rose. “No? What about Mr. Bridgeton last year? I was certain you two would be extremely compatible and made every effort to throw you together, but whenever I looked to see how things were progressing, you were chatting with Ash, and Mr. Bridgeton was crying on Miss Albert's shoulder.”

Which one had been Mr. Bridgeton? The sandy-haired man with the receding chin or the tall, thin fellow with the enormous Adam's apple? “There was no one crying on anyone's shoulder.”

“Figuratively speaking, of course.” The duchess shrugged. “I confess Miss Albert was my other choice for him. I do usually have more than one match up my sleeve, you know, since I've found young people can be somewhat unpredictable.” She smiled rather blandly. “They married last summer, by the by, and are expecting an interesting event this spring.”

Ellie felt a momentary twinge of envy. Mr. Bridgeton—she was almost certain he was the sandy-haired one—had been pleasant. His only fault was he hadn't been Ned.

Well, whomever she ultimately married wouldn't be Ned, either. “Whom have you invited … I mean, have you invited any gentlemen that I might … er, men who might …” Oh, blast, her face felt as if it was as red as those damn silk drawers. “You know.”

Her grace beamed at her. “Of course I've invited some gentlemen who might be suitable matches for you.”

Ellie willed herself to keep smiling. It would get easier with time … it had to. She cleared her throat. Her mouth was infernally dry. “Who?”

The duchess leaned forward. “First, there's Mr. Humphrey. He's a little younger than you and very, ah … earnest. He's just inherited a small estate from his great aunt; rumor has it he wishes to start his nursery immediately.”

“Ah.” Mr. Humphrey sounded terribly dull … but dullness was fine. She wanted babies, not conversation. And he apparently wanted babies, too. Excellent.

“And then there's Mr. Cox. He's one of the Earl of Bollant's brood, the fourth—or perhaps the fifth—son. He's very popular with the ladies and a trifle wild, but he's shown some signs of being ready to settle down. He's to go into the church, so you could be very helpful to him, your papa being a vicar.”

“I see.” Taking charge of some silly sprig of the nobility was not especially appealing, but the man did have some brothers. With luck he would be equally skilled at procreating, though it would be nice to have a daughter or two as well.

The duchess was smiling at her, a rather expectant look on her face. Did she want her to pick one right now?

“I… er, they both sound very … pleasant, but …”
Remember, she wanted children.
“Well, I suppose I will have to meet them.”

“Yes, indeed.” The duchess glanced at the door. “Ah, here is Thomas with the tea tray.”

One of the footmen came in, a large ginger cat, tail high in the air, strolling along behind him.

“Reggie!” Ned's mother bent to scratch her pet's ears. “Did you come for a treat?”

Reggie meowed and butted his head against her hand.

“Cook sent up Sir Reginald's dish, your grace,” Thomas said, putting down the tray.

“Excellent. Please give Cook my thanks.”

“Very good, your grace.” Thomas bowed and retreated while the duchess poured Reggie a generous saucer of cream and put the dish on the floor.

Ellie kept one eye on the cat, who was lapping delicately, as she prepared the tea. Reggie looked harmless, but he'd caused quite a commotion last year, stealing feathers and other items from the ladies—and at least one of the gentlemen—and hiding them under Ned's bed. He'd even snatched the stuffed pheasant from Lady Perford's favorite hat. Lady Perford had not been pleased.

“Has Reggie given up his thieving ways, your grace?”

“I don't know, as he hasn't had another opportunity to misbehave.” She snorted. “As you well know, Greycliffe hates having any of the
ton
underfoot and grumbles from the moment they arrive until the last one departs.”

It was true the duke rarely looked happy during the Valentine house parties. “How does his grace bear your London balls?” Ellie asked, handing the duchess a cup of tea. She used to read the London gossip columns, but as she only ever saw Jack, the youngest of the Valentine brothers, mentioned, she no longer bothered.

“With as much patience as he can muster, which is not very much, but since people expect dukes to be annoyingly haughty, it just adds to his consequence.” Her eyes twinkled as she sipped her tea. “And it makes people toady him all the more, which infuriates him further. No, once a month for four months a Season is the very limit of what he can tolerate. And a ball is only one evening. This …” She shook her head and sighed. “But it is the boys' birthday and he knows it is important to me, so he grits his teeth and endures. You can imagine how much he's hoping Ned will remarry and Jack will wed soon so I have no more need to have these gatherings.”