Page 3 of A Duke for Opal (The Carmichael Saga #2)

“ P our L’Amour de Dieu .” For the love of God!

It wasn’t oft Strathearn found himself wrong about something—or, for that matter, anything .

“ Tas de merde .” Pile of shite.

A sharp, biting, unforgiving, winter wind cut through Strathearn’s thick, woolen, fur-lined cloak.

He’d anticipated the polite, respectable house party Grimoire threw together at Strathearn’s own property would be crushingly boring. Upon his arrival a short while ago, he’d entered the drawing room to find a gathering of guests: ladies stitching away at their embroideries, chaps reading newspapers, gossips, gossiping—and confirmed his expectations.

Given he wasn’t an uncouth fellow, he donned a smile, greeted his guests, thanked them for attending, and promptly made his excuses.

Which also accounted for his hiding outside, in the gardens, amidst a rapidly growing winter storm. Alas, with several guests—young, unmarried, ladies doing readings for the guests, Strathearn far preferred the possibility of death by frostbite to the latter option.

He was more often than not—right. This time, with all his suppositions about Lady Glain’s winter house party, proved no different.

“ Fils de pute .” Son of a bitch.

Until now.

Now, Strathearn, in a shocking surprise, discovered he’d been egregiously wrong—but in the best possible way.

What do we have here?

He grinned.

Or, perhaps, more accurately, he should say ‘who’ did he have here?

At that particular moment, the colorful, enchanting beauty who’d chased away all Strathearn’s previous tedium in a crimson, white-fur-lined cloak bent down and collected a perfectly formed snowball from the impressive mound of them that lay at her feet.

Drawing her arm back, the enchanting imp hurled the projectile at the frozen watering fountain, with an impressive force.

Crack.

The long, thick, icicle, protruding from a stone Poseidon’s spare hand, split in half and hit the icy pond below the stone god’s feet.

Strathearn lifted his eyebrows. Well-done, Mon Tresor.

“… Putain de merde …” Fucking Shite.

It turns out, in his quest to avoid the determined mamas and elder brothers trying to push Strathearn at their painfully shy and innocent daughters, he’d discovered a like-minded, delectable, and fiery beauty—an artfully messy, black-haired French beauty of all wonders.

With every frenzied, heartfelt, and spiritedly creative curse to fly from the French beauty’s lips, so too did a snowball from the equally impressive pile of missiles at her feet.

Strathearn’s grin widened.

“ C’est le bordel !” This is a disaster.

To keep from giving himself away, Strathearn fought back a laugh.

A disaster ? Oh, he quite disagreed. In fact, he’d wager, she was the singular best thing to happen to Grimoire’s—Strathearn’s—house party since, well, since the librarian paid a visit to Forbidden Pleasures and enlisted Strathearn’s help.

It begged the question: which one of the guests had come with the diverting French relative? Perhaps she was an émigré, and by the precision with which she wielded curses that nearly made Strathearn blush, was no innocent.

Even more delightful…

The lady launched another snowball. “ Couilles !” Ballocks!

The mouth on her!

Strathearn’s shoulders shook with the force it took to keep from laughing aloud and giving himself away.

She was an utter delight, and without any doubt about it, before the house party was through, she would soon be Strathearn’s utter delight.

For months, he’d been filled with a concerning ennui not even the most skilled lover or mistress could conquer. Bed sport had become boring.

Just then, the minx who held him utterly and completely captivated, took out the remainder of the icicle that still clung to Poseidon’s stone fingers.

Another time he would have marveled at the ease with which she could toss a makeshift ball and hit her target.

Not, this time.

Strathearn lowered his lashes.

The entrancing woman’s ceaseless efforts set her loose, midnight curls billowing wildly about her narrow, regal shoulders. All the while she obliterated her chosen targets, her generously curved hips and well-formed buttocks swayed.

And while she alternately cursed and muttered indecipherable words in her low, sultry contralto, in Strathearn’s mind, a different image merged and twisted with the one before him—debauched imaginings.

One of the mesmerizing and still nameless la matiress naked, and riding him, while those same beautiful curls bounced about her. Of Strathearn, tangling his fingers in those luscious, blue-tinged locks, and drawing her down, and mating his mouth with hers.

His breathing grew more ragged and those increased respirations stirred puffs of white in the cold afternoon air.

Oh, yes.

Strathearn happened to be—or would be—the actual beneficiary of the delightful thing’s company.

“Baiser!” Fuck.

His breathing grew more ragged.

Yes, that is very much what I would like to do with you, ma tigresse…and what I will do, he silently vowed. And she’d love every, single moment. He’d leave her gasping, weeping, breathless, and then hungry for more.

“ C’est un putain de cauchemar !” This is a fucking nightmare!

To think he’d stayed away; a travesty he needed to rectify—right now.

Strathearn stepped forward for a long overdue introduction. “ Au contraire, Mon amour ,” he purred. “ Je dirais que c’est un rêve délici —”

Letting out a high-pitched, startled squeal, the beauty spun and launched a snowball. Precision marksman that she was, the hard, icy projectile hit Strathearn squarely—and painfully—in the face.

“ Oommph .”

And it marked the first time since his university days his seductive advances had been met with violence.

“ Ou j’aurais dit que c’est un rêve délicieux, ma minette ,” he drawled, through blurred eyes and a mouthful of snow. Pulling a kerchief from within the front of his cloak, Strathearn gave the crisp, satin fabric a snap. “Or I would have said it was a delightful dream—until this portion of our meeting.”

He wiped the remnants from his person.

His mystery woman possessed a sensuous oval face with delicate features that went through a series of emotions—luminescent joy that faded all too quick for Strathearn’s liking, to be replaced with shock. Confusion. Horror.

Certainly not the desired or preferred responses.

Bloody hell, if everything about this mystery guest and meeting didn’t make him feel more alive than he’d been in…in…maybe, ever ?

Strathearn couldn’t help it. Tossing his head back, he finally gave in and roared with laughter.

By the way his future lover stitched her arched and strong eyebrows into an angry line, his response was the wrong one. Strathearn knew that very well and the last thing he wanted to do was offend the mesmerizing chit and make his pursuit of her longer than need be. He needed her in his arms and bed immediately.

Knowing that to be fact didn’t help. He couldn’t keep from laughing all the more.

With an indignant gasp, she planted her hands on those ample hips, drawing his rake’s gaze—and appreciation—to those delicious curves.

“ Pensez-vous que c’est dr?le ?!” Do you think this funny?

The fire in her eyes and the coldness in her query only sent his desire climbing.

Donning a suitably solemn expression, he pressed a hand over his heart. “Not at all, Mon amour, ” he purred. “ I’d never be so foolish as to cross such a skilled markswoman.”

“ Va te faire foutre ,” she hissed. Go fuck yourself.

The feisty minx bent and hastily constructed a snowball, and hurled it with such speed Strathearn barely had time to duck.

This time, she knocked the top hat square off his head.

Perhaps he’d gone too far.

Strathearn and his tempestuous mistress-to-be locked gazes in a battle of the wills.

Nay, he had. For reasons he could not explain, he found himself remarkably refreshed at the woman’s spirited and honest responses both to him and in front of him.

When faced with his most daunting challenge yet, Strathearn went to his ultimate and most reliable palladium.

Then, with a slow, flick of his lashes, he winked.

Her eyes turned to thin slits, giving her the look of a fiery cat about to pounce.

And damned if he wouldn’t happily suffer her claws just to feel her in his arms.

Regretfully, Strathearn’s fiery companion, exercised greater restraint than he found himself capable of.

For the first time in his life, he the ultimate charmer, the skilled rogue who had women from ages eighteen to eighty-eight falling at his feet, found himself confronted by the one lady who remained wholly immune to him. Along with that, born to be a duke, from early on, he’d grown accustomed to everyone currying his favor and fawning over themselves.

Perhaps that explained his fierce hungering to possess her.

Oh, when she discovered his real identity, there’d be horror and frantic apologies, but for now, he was a stranger she’d treat no differently than anyone else.

“I’ve offended you,” he murmured. Taking one of her gloved hands in his, Strathearn tugged the article free, so that he could feel her naked skin upon his mouth. “You must forgive me.”

Her eyes widened.

Turning her palm up, he lowered his lips and pressed a slow, sensuous kiss upon her wrist.

The uninhibited temptress’s fingers trembled in his.

Oh, I’ve not even begun, ma dove.

Strathearn trailed his mouth to her silkily soft palm. He lightly licked her flesh.

A low, breathy moan escaped the beauty’s lips; the tell-tale sounds of her desire inordinately and deliciously loud in the growing winter storm.

However, a different, stronger, more explosive tempest raged between Strathearn and the woman who’d be his lover.

From where he still worshipped the lady’s hand, Strathearn stole a glance up.

“A bad start to the festivities, Mon amour ?” he purred. “If it is any consolation, I was of the same opinion.” Strathearn lowered his lashes and fixed a smoldering gaze upon the startled beauty. “Until now.”

His husky murmurings had the desired effects.

The anger faded from the young woman’s eyes.

“ Je suis désolé ,” he said, making his apologies. “ Parles-tu anglais, ma minette ?”

Her enormous eyes formed an even bigger circle. Those eyes. Never mind, forgetting them. They were cerulean pools a man would happily drown himself in to be nearer to. Not a living, breathing, red-blooded man— especially not Strathearn—could forget those eyes, and yet, they were familiar.

He scoured his mind but could not place them. Worse, he could not place her .

“ Vous ne savez pas qui je suis ,” she whispered her husky voice a blend of hurt and shock.

Oh hell.

No. He didn’t have a bloody clue as to the saucy and fascinating beauty’s identity.

Rubbing his hands distractedly together in a bid to get warmth into them, he frantically tried to place her. When he still came up empty, Strathearn opted for that which had never failed to charm and distract a woman.

He employed silky, seductive, tones. “As if I could ever forget a woman of your beauty, ma cherie .”

She snorted. “ Comme c’est banal, Strathearn .”

How trite, Strathearn?

He bristled.

Well, I never. And he hadn’t ever been accused of such an offense.

Through his indignation, something more important, registered.

Strathearn. The lady used his title with an ease that bespoke their familiarity. His mind raced even faster as he tried to sort out how they knew one another.

Strathearn slid closer and reached up. He brushed the backs of his knuckles along her right cheek.

“I would like to, ma petite ,” he said huskily. “I would like to know you in many ways.”

The minx curled her slightly fuller lower lip up into the perfect pout. “ Ah, tu dis ca à toutes les femmes, Your Grace. ”

Yes, yes. Strathearn did say that to a vast, many, women. This was the first time he meant it, however.

“Your Grace,” he echoed. There it was again. “You know me, ma belle ?”

“ Immensement .” By the frosty, contempt-filled once-over she gave him, she found him less than wanting, and…damned if he didn’t feel himself besieged by a powerful self-loathing.

His all-powerful desire forgotten; he frantically contemplated the woman who’d so fascinated him.

Her porcelain white skin possessed a vibrancy and silky, soft quality. Her unscalable high cheekbones denoted royal bloodlines. A heart-shaped birthmark at the corner of her crimson, cupid’s bow lips called a man’s focus and demanded his attention.

He knew her. But God help Strathearn, he had absolutely no idea who she was.

He gave her a lazy smile. “Alas, you have me at a disadvantage. Let us rectify that with introductions, ma belle .”

“ Je n’aime pas les presentations .” I do not care for introductions. She gave him another scathing once over. “ Duc pompose .”

Though in French, this exchange bore the hint of some long ago, distant remembrance; a hazy memory shrouded in a cloud, as thick as any heavy London fog.

“…Don’t care for introductions…”

“Who are you?” he demanded.

The lady’s graceful shoulders sagged. The fiery spirit seemed to go out of her, and she sank onto on the snow-covered fountain bench.

“I’m disappointed in you,” she said softly, in crisp, flawless, King’s English .

The stunning beauty briefly lifted accusatory eyes to Strathearn, before returning her focus to the frozen watering fountain.

The wheels in his mind raced, careening out of control as he strove to place her.

“You are disappointed in me?” he asked carefully.

His mystery woman nodded.

Who is she? Who is she?

“I’ve even said that in front of you, Strathearn.” The lady directed that reminder at the snow she now brushed from the bench, onto the ice. “But that was when I didn’t know you and those words were intended for another.”

She lifted her luminescent eyes to his. “But this time,” she said softly, sweeping her mesmerizing gaze over his face. “This time, I meant them for you.”

“…Don’t care for introductions…I just want to make sure he’s not some pompous fellow who’s going to take exception if I call you out in front of him… I don’t need him trying to shut down your library…”

Strathearn went stock-still.

Absolutely not.

Impossible.

And yet, as he scoured a panicky gaze over the lady who’d bewitched him, those details he’d not previously been able to place, came glaring into focus.

She was no daughter of some émigré.

The fascinating, experienced, beauty he’d been covetously and opening admiring was none other than Grimoire’s innocent, polite, proper sister-in-law, Lady Opal Carmichael.

All the air left Strathearn on a sharp, explosive hiss and the earth fell out from under him.

Baiser.