Page 3 of Daring with a Duke (The Jennings Family #2)

3

Ash

S urprise was not a strong enough word, Ashley Stuart, the Duke of Devonford, decided.

To describe his shock at seeing Lady Felicity Jennings standing in his drawing room at midnight.

Seemingly alone.

And very wet.

A shiver wracked her delicate body. Bloody hell. It was the end of April. Nights were frigid enough without adding on a cold rain.

“Baldwin, blankets and towels,” Ash murmured to his butler.

“Straight away, Your Grace.”

Ash strode to the young woman. Where in the blazes was her cloak? She was wearing a thin slip-of-a-dress. There was barely enough material to constitute a dress. It looked more like a nightdress if he were being honest. The white fabric was so thin he could see the shape of her thighs as her legs quaked from the cold. He needed to get her warm. With haste.

“Lady Felicity, your visit has caught me quite unawares. You are going to catch your death in this cold.” He grabbed her hand—shite, it was like ice. “Come, we must get you in front of the fire, and I will get you a brandy. Baldwin is procuring towels.”

She shot him a tremulous smile through normally pink lips turned blue. He dragged her to the hearth, probably more roughly than was strictly proper, but his erratic heartbeat had his actions harsher than that of a gentleman.

He placed her just before the protruding white stone fireplace, a fireplace large enough she could easily walk inside, which hopefully would help heat her person quickly.

“Stand here.” He bent and briskly stoked the fire, turning the soft glowing coals into a blaze. “Now, brandy.”

And then he would ascertain the reason for her visit…and whether she was as alone as she appeared to be. His heart gave a hard, panicked thud. From her freezing state. Not from her being alone. Here. With him.

He strode to the sideboard on the side of the room, where she had been standing when he had entered. He quickly poured a glass of French brandy.

Plop, plop, plop.

What on earth was that dripping? He spun, nearly spilling the brandy, his gaze searching for the culprit, his movements jerky and jittery from the ghost-like shivering state of Lady Felicity. His gaze landed on a black cloak thrown over an armchair, a steady trickle puddling up on the floor beneath. Her thick wool coat was completely soaked through. Bloody hell, did she walk here from London?

He hurried back over to her and handed her the glass of brandy, but her hands trembled too violently to drink it. He clasped his hands over hers and slowly brought the glass to her lips, carefully angling the drink. After a few sips, some color suffused into her translucent skin.

He let out a burst of air with a whoosh. All right. He could breathe a bit easier now. And that’s when he truly noticed her dress. Fucking shite. The sleeves were almost non-existent strips of sheer fabric. One of which had fallen off her shoulder—a delicate, round, very soft-looking shoulder.

He swallowed. There seemed to be a protuberance in this throat all of a sudden. Because the dress also appeared to be a size too small. At least in the bosom. Her breasts looked in danger of toppling right out. And those were her—his eyes widened—oh God, those were definitely peaked nipples pressing against the fabric. Sodding ballocks.

He hastily glanced at the brown leather sofas that sat on either side of the fireplace, and then at an armchair, and then a settee, and then a sideboard, desperate for a safe place to gain purchase. Where in the blazes was Baldwin?

He focused on the flames in the hearth, every so often glancing at the frozen woman to assess her color, her tremors. When Baldwin had first alerted Ash to Lady Felicity’s arrival, Ash had thought he must be having another one of his dreams. He was a sick and twisted old man, he knew. He’d had one too many dreams about the woman standing before him. But he couldn’t control his mind once his eyes shut at night.

Lady Felicity’s teeth chattering echoed over loud around the drawing room and occasionally clanked against the glass of her snifter of brandy. Highlighting that this was no dream. It was a waking nightmare. His son’s fiancé—his son’s young, five-and-twenty fiancé—was standing before him, scantily clad, wet, and in desperate need of warming. Perhaps this was a test from the universe. If he failed, he would be sent down to hell. He would have finally committed one too many sins.

He glanced to the heavens. You are sick bastards, the lot of you. Was that laughter he heard in response? No, just thunder.

The clacking of teeth finally quieted, and he looked back at Lady Felicity. Her amber eyes, the same color as the brandy in her glass, examined him. He shifted back and forth on his feet.

“I do not mean to sound rude, so please forgive me. But what on earth are you doing here? Where is your brother, your mother,”—he looked around the room—“or anyone?”

“There is no one with me, Your Grace,” she said softly, the flames of fire reflecting in her warm brown eyes. “I came alone.”

He stepped back. Alone? Why would she—his son’s name in the recent edition of The Morning Post flashed in his mind. Bloody hell. What had his foolish son done now? Ash grimaced. Well, besides the obvious.

“Does this have anything to do with Colborn?” he ventured hesitantly.

At that moment, Baldwin appeared with a pile of thick white towels. “Here you are, Your Grace.” Effectively cutting off Ash from uncovering the reason for Lady Felicity’s visit.

Argh . Bloody lovely timing.

Ash took a towel and directed Baldwin to place the rest on a leather sofa. “Thank you, Baldwin. Ensure a room is readied for Lady Felicity and her things are brought up.”

“It has already been done, Your Grace. We have put her in the usual room across from Lady Pandora.”

Excellent.

Lady Felicity’s face lit up at the mention of Ash’s daughter. A warmth, like the first sip of whisky, slid through Ash. Pandora wasn’t a normal duke’s daughter. But she had always gotten along with Lady Felicity. And that meant the world to Ash—for his daughter to have a friend, another woman to act as confidant. Since she had never had a mother. The warmth fled. Because of him.

He stepped back up to Lady Felicity. “May I?”

She nodded, water dripping off her soaked, sagging coiffure onto her neck, chest, and arms. It shouldn’t be possible to be so beautiful when sopping wet. One drop ran tantalizingly slow down her clavicle, heading straight for—he hastily started rubbing her arms with the towel.

The elusive woman watched him, studied him, as he warmed her, her skin turning a healthy shade of pink which he hoped signified her chill was subsiding. Either that or he was rubbing her skin raw.

He threw the damp towel on the sofa and grabbed another. He stepped forward and wrapped it around her shoulders. Pushing her directly into him. Pushing her breasts directly into his chest. He froze, as if all the cold that had been in her seeped into him.

That was a very stupid thing to do, Ash.

She blinked up at him beneath soft, frilly, brown eyelashes. Her slowly-pinkening lips parted. Did he imagine she just stepped closer to him? What was happening?

He hastily stepped away, grabbing another towel from the sofa and handed it to her. “For your coiffure.” He waved his free hand in the direction of her head. “And the dripping.”

She dabbed at her hair, darkened to a deep brown from the rain, a soft smile playing across her face. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

He had always been enraptured by her hair. It was brown, but it was also auburn. When the light hit it just right, it lit up with streaks of mahogany. It was warm and rich like brandy. Like her eyes.

Bloody hell. He needed to find out why she was here and get her out of this room. Before he completely lost his wits. And his cock got too many ideas. Control yourself, he ordered his prick.

He cleared his throat. “I believe you were going to tell me why you are here? Does it have something to do with my son?”

“I suppose, in a way…yes.” She neatly laid the towel she had used on her hair over the roll-arm of the sofa.

Everything she did was so bloody graceful. Every movement like a dance. He knew, from betrothal contract discussions with her brother, that she had been bred for this, bred to be a duchess. But it didn’t cease to amaze him how innate her grace was, even now, freezing cold, shaking from cold, everything she did was poised, refined.

He tilted his head when she didn’t elaborate. “In a way…has he done something?”

She stepped toward him, and unease skittered over him like a moist breath against the back of his neck.

Her gaze latched onto his. “His escapades are no secret, as I am sure you are aware, Your Grace.”

She took another step. Inches, bloody inches, separated them.

“I confronted him. I wanted to know if it would ever stop—his having relations with other women. At first, I thought perhaps all I needed to do was…sleep with him myself.”

She paused, and so did his lungs. His son ruined her, then. Colborn had—he swallowed roughly—slept with the woman standing before him. He tried to let out the breath, but it came out uneven. Something sharp seemed to be perforating his lungs.

Everything would be well. They would settle on a date for the wedding, finally. His stomach turned over. All would be well. So very well. Had he said that things would be well?

He was only having trouble breathing because Colborn had anticipated his vows, it had nothing to do with who Colborn had anticipated his vows with. That and Felicity was possibly now in the family way .

Oh God. His gaze flew to her stomach. He might be sick.

“I tried that three years ago,” she continued, and his eyes snapped to hers. “And as you can see, it didn’t have the desired effect. It wasn’t desirable in the least, if I’m being honest.”

Relief allowed his lungs to finally work again. Not in the family way. Thank the bloody gods. He was relieved purely because it was one less mess of his son’s to clean up. Her last words didn’t give him any satisfaction. Keep telling yourself that.

She traced her finger over the rim of her brandy glass and coasted it inside, wetting her finger with the liquor. And placed the digit in her mouth. And sucked the brandy off.

Bloody fucking buggering hell. Fortunately, he didn’t groan. But it was close.

What were they discussing again? His son bedding her. His stomach revolted. He told himself it was just the thought of his son being with a woman. It had nothing to do with how much he hated the thought of her with another man.

He didn’t hate the thought.

Because he didn’t even think the thought.

Obviously.

“Since bedding him hadn’t worked—”

His stomach churned again.

“—I asked him if he would stop once we were married. Perhaps we could settle on a date. Four years is a very long time to be betrothed, Your Grace. People gossip.”

Something heartbreaking flashed across her face, and he thought he might understand why. He had heard the whispers. Weak, pitiable, pathetic, never-to-be-wed. And he was rarely ever even in London. He couldn’t imagine what she faced because of his son’s carousing.

“I can speak with Colborn. We can secure a date on the calendar. As soon as you’d like.” He knew he should have pushed Colborn to set a date, to stop stringing the lovely woman in front of him along. Ash and the young woman’s brother, Lord Bentley, had decided it would occur within the next year. But Ash hadn’t been able to bring himself to discuss it with Colborn. For reasons he wasn’t ever going to let see the light of day.

She laughed, and his chin jutted back at the hardness in her usually soft, angelic face. Her shoulders were rolled back, her chin lifted defiantly, her amber eyes flashing fire. He had never seen her look so—

Dangerous.

And she was the epitome of dangerous. To him. She was a goddess. The Norse goddess Freya. Goddess of love and beauty, but also war and death.

“I don’t want a date, Your Grace. I don’t want a wedding. I confronted your son, and he does not plan to be faithful.”

Ash winced.

“But that is fine.” She said the words, but the caustic note in her voice suggested she felt otherwise. “I have learned recently that sometimes that is the way of things. I would just find love elsewhere.” She lifted a shoulder and let it drop.

And for a moment, Ash thought he witnessed defeat, sadness in the way her thin frame sagged, the way the light in her eyes disappeared. But then it was gone, and she was talking again, amber eyes an inferno he very much feared would consume him.

“But Colborn informed me that would not be the way of things. Apparently, your hypocrite of a son can bed every woman in England, but I belong to him. I am not to be sullied by another man.”

There was a sharp bitterness in her tone. And that same bitterness coated his tongue. It was his fault. His fault that his son was turning into this despicable, arrogant, and presumptuous version of a man.

After Ash’s wife had died—after Colborn had lost his mother at the age of twelve—Ash had given the boy anything and everything he wanted. Guilt had eaten away at Ash, at being the reason his sons and daughter had lost their doting mama. So, he had never told them no. And now, Colborn was a young man who believed it was his due to be given everything he wanted.

Which included the young woman before him.

“I will speak to Colborn,” he said, his voice carrying only a faint trace of hoarse self-reproach. He would fix this.

She stepped forward again, and this time she was close enough that her breasts pressed against him. Hard, pebbled nipples searing him through the thin fabric of his lawn shirt. Which only drew his attention to the fact that he was wearing quite little clothing himself. Stockings, trousers, and lawn shirt unbuttoned at the neck. He should step back.

Feet, move.

They didn’t. Traitors.

“I don’t want you to speak to Colborn,” she murmured. “I don’t want your son. I want you, Your Grace.”

What? That had his feet moving. He took two giant steps back.

She nodded. “Yes, I want you.”

Apparently, he had asked the question aloud.

“I want revenge, Your Grace. I want Colborn to know, not only did I sully myself with another man, but it was with his own father.”

She grinned, her eyes lighting up, and he thought it might be from pride? Excitement?

“It is a perfect plan, you see?”

No, he most assuredly did not. And he feared he would permanently not be able to breathe after this interaction.

“If I sleep with you, Colborn would never marry me. He couldn’t possibly marry a woman who had bedded his father. And he couldn’t exactly allow that to become public knowledge now, could he? Oh, the shame! Being passed up for his own father.” She laughed, low and sultry and laced with triumph.

Her gaze slowly caressed every inch of him, and he steeled himself, blanked out his mind. Because that gaze set his blood ablaze.

“Could anyone blame me?” she added, her voice pure, soft sex. The slow, slick, sensual kind. “He could never compare to you.”

Dangerous. She was very, very, very dangerous. And his cock liked that very much. Down, boy.

“So…” she continued. “We would have to discreetly end the betrothal. I get my revenge and my escape.”

“Why would you ever think I would agree to this?” he asked, his voice climbing in pitch at the absurdity of the notion. Because the idea that he would agree to this was absurd. It was . Was, was, was.

You will not sleep with her, Ash.

It was one thing for her to haunt his dreams, but not his physical bed.

Lady Felicity’s thin, delicate brows furrowed, and she truly seemed confused, as if his refusal was something she could have never comprehended occurring.

“Well, you are his father.” She looked up at him and waved her hand casually at him. “Like father, like son; the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree; cut from the same cloth…”

Ah. She assumed he would sleep with her because his son, if he had been in Ash’s shoes, most definitely would have. He shouldn’t be disappointed by the fact she felt that way. That she believed that about him. He shouldn’t. But he was.

“I regret I must thwart your plans, Lady Felicity. But my son and I… different cloth, different fabric entirely.”

She worried her lip, now fully pink again. “Perhaps that is not a bad thing.”

She said it so softly he wasn’t sure if the words were meant for him or if she was just speaking to herself. Regardless, it was time for him to send her off to her room. This conversation had taken a treacherous turn.

She started walking toward him again, and he took a step back for every step she took forward until she finally halted. They stood just beyond the sofas now, in the small walking space in the enormous drawing room. The room really was cluttered with much too many furnishings. Which worked out well, because he could focus on all of those instead of her breasts spilling out of her dress.

“Do you remember the country party held here last September?”

He sucked in a breath. A vision of Lady Felicity in nothing but a nightdress on a ladder in the library came rushing back, as clear as if they had been transported there just now. The way the light from the candelabras on the walls had shone through her dress, causing the fabric to turn sheer. She was slim, but she was curved in all the right places. All woman.

He swallowed—his tongue. His blood, already heated, rushed south.

“There was a night,” she was saying as she stared at her fingers tangling with her white skirts. Her hands trembled, her shoulders shaking beneath the towel still wrapped around her. “I was having trouble sleeping. I had somehow managed to walk in on Colborn once again tupping another woman.”

Lady Felicity laughed, and oddly enough, Ash thought she was truly amused.

“I have no idea how I manage to always catch him, Your Grace.” She looked at him, and it was amusement dancing in her eyes. “This castle is enormous, like its own living, breathing natural order. And I still managed to walk in on him with another woman. It is like the fates were screaming at me.”

She shook her head. “Anyhow, I was angry and frustrated and possibly feeling a bit poorly for myself. So, I went to the library in search of a book and a nip.” Amber eyes searched his. “And you saved me.”

“I mean, I did not save you exactly,” he said gruffly, rocking back and forth on his feet. “I had surprised you. I was the reason you needed saving in the first place. It was only gentlemanly of me to catch you before you fell.”

It was true. She hadn’t known he was in the library. And after his guilt had eaten at him for drinking in her naked limbs, too visible beneath her sheer night rail, he had made his presence known. Frightened her, and she had nearly toppled off the ladder before he had caught her, steadied her.

His hands flexed at his sides. He could still feel the dip of her waist against his palms, the curve of her arse.

“I can still feel your hands,” she whispered. “Large, strong, steadying. A shock went through me, straight to my lungs, and made it impossible to breathe. I would have fallen if it were not for your hands. But not because I lost my balance.” Her eyes sparked, an ember bursting into flame. “Because your touch affected me in a way no man’s had ever before.”

No. She shouldn’t be saying such things. He desperately wanted to shove his fingers in his ears like a child. Maybe even throw in a little lalalala . Her words were slaying him. Goddess of war and death. Death by seduction.

She stepped toward him again, and this time he didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

“Even after I left the library that night, I could still feel the heat of your hands on me.”

Her hands were on the dip of her waist now, exactly where he had held her just over six months past.

His hands itched to feel her again, but he brought them behind his back and clasped his hands together. Denying himself the temptation.

“That night as I lay in bed…I wondered…what would your hands feel like elsewhere on my body.” Her hands coasted down, trailing in front of her, down the V of her hips. “Such thick, sure fingers.” Her fingers dug into the tops of her thighs. “I ran my hands over my body, between my thighs, pretending they were yours, Your Grace.”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck .

His pulse picked up a wild thrumming, drowning out all sound as it raged through his blood.

He tried to convince himself—based on her admittance of seeking revenge earlier—that she was merely fabricating this whole story as an attempt at seduction. But the harsh pink dusting her high cheekbones, the constant swallow of her throat, the way her fingers trembled, just barely, on her thighs—she was either the most talented liar in all of England or there was truth in her words. Vulnerability. And damn him if that didn’t make her words all the more excruciating.

He needed to get her out of this drawing room. Immediately. Because his cock was starting to get all sorts of fanciful ideas. Like bending her over the roll-arm of the sofa and fucking her until she was screaming his name.

No. That wouldn’t do at all. Time to send her to bed. He groaned. Bed. Shouldn’t think about her in bed. He hastily walked toward the door of the drawing room and waved his arm for her to follow.

“I believe it is time for you to retire to your chambers.” He cursed himself at how thick and husky his voice came out. It made his words sound suggestive, sound like he was affected by her.

And he wasn’t.

He was getting quite good at lying to himself.

He cleared the arousal from his voice and turned to face her. “I will have a carriage readied for your departure first thing in the morning.”

A brief flash of something—panic? Fear?—stole over her person, freezing her movements for the briefest of moments that he nearly missed it. But then it was gone, and her gaze was back to scorching, back to hungry, back to eating him alive.

He needed to get her out of this room before he let her. And oh, how a deep, dark part of him wanted to let her devour him.

“I believe you would do better to revisit your strategy before you attempt something like this again, Lady Felicity,” he said sternly. “It is never wise to give away your plans to your opponent. Please make your way to your rooms. I believe you remember where they are?”

She nodded and headed toward him, a sly smile on her lips. A smile that inspired trepidation to simmer under his skin and at the same time lust to pulse demanding in his groin.

“Oh, but it is the opposite, Your Grace. Revealing my plan was all part of my strategy.”

She stopped before him, and he stared out the door into the cavernous entry, refusing to look at her. But he couldn’t refuse to hear her words.

“You will lie in your bed all night long,” she whispered, her soft breath like a knife against his skin. “Knowing the reason I’m here is because I want to be in yours. Knowing that all you have to do is come to me to get what we both want.”

She paused, and he clenched his fists.

“I’ll be ready, warm, willing…”

His gaze snapped to hers involuntarily, everything in him desperate to hear the rest, dreading hearing the rest.

She held his gaze, her amber eyes blown black. “But if you don’t… Just know, Your Grace. If you don’t come to me, I’ll be coming to thoughts of you.”

And with that, she gracefully glided from the room.

Ash blew out a breath and leaned against the wall, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling. Fuck, he was in trouble. His hands trembled against the smooth, centuries-old, stone wall.

It was one thing to keep his unseemly desires under control when she was happily involved with his son. But to know that she wanted him—desired him—instead? That she wanted out of her betrothal? It made his mind make all sorts of horrible excuses.

His resolve, his restraint, was painfully thin. He had been too long without a woman, he told himself. Tried to convince himself that was the reason. It was—God, two years now? That had to be the reason for his reaction to her.

Liar .

It didn’t matter the reason. Because first thing in the morning, he was packing her in a carriage and shipping her back to London.