Page 12 of Hazardous to a Duke’s Heart (Lords of Hazard #1)

T ory couldn’t tell if the duke was just avoiding her questions or was genuinely keeping track of the time. But he’d agreed to take her with him to the solicitor, which was more than she’d expected, so she could hardly complain.

Besides, she enjoyed watching him attempt to sculpt. He seemed to have no qualms about getting his hands dirty, which was a surprise, considering his station. Then again, he had spent quite a bit of time in a dank prison.

Now, his hands moved more fluidly as he got comfortable with the clay, reminding her of how his fingers had felt beneath hers—all warm and firm to the touch. She’d dreamed of those masterful hands last night—having them touch her in the most intimate places while he kissed her even more passionately than he had at the museum.

She’d awakened wanting more, then had chided herself for such a foolish yearning, one he could never fulfill. Even if he desired her, he would never marry her, and she wouldn’t want him to, anyway. A duke was highly unlikely to let her bring Cyril with her when she married.

The thought depressed her, forcing her to turn her attention back to the matter at hand—his lesson in sculpting. With his brow furrowed, he seemed to be earnestly working on his pear now, although it still looked lopsided. She couldn’t yet tell if he would one day get better at this, but if he didn’t, it wouldn’t be for lack of trying.

While she went to the washbasin to wash her hands, he smoothed and shaped the clay for quite a while. At last, he pushed back from the table to eye his creation from several vantage points before turning to her. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s . . . er . . . interesting,” she said, wiping her hand with a towel.

“Yes, but is it any good?”

What a difficult question to answer. “That is entirely subjective. Do you like it?”

“It’s the best I can do, I fear.”

“Then it’s fine,” she said.

“Hmm.” He crossed his arms. “So, what do we do now? I mean, to turn my clay masterpiece into bronze.”

His dry tone as he said masterpiece made her chuckle. “It’s not like spinning straw into gold, you know.”

“Of course not, or everyone would be turning their clay into bronze, and then where would all the bricklayers be? I daresay bronze houses wouldn’t be the least bit practical.”

With great difficulty, she stifled a grin. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re quite mad, Your Grace?”

“No one would dare,” he said loftily, then grinned. “After all, dukes are allowed to be a bit daft, aren’t they?” He waggled his eyebrows, making her laugh. He was certainly not like any duke she’d ever met.

“People do tend to look the other way when a duke is involved, I’ll admit.” She flashed him a mock frown. “Now, do you wish to learn how to turn your clay into bronze or no?”

“By all means.” He gave a regal swipe of his hand. “Carry on.”

Fighting another laugh, she returned to her seat and described the rather complicated process of lost wax casting, surprised that he not only followed her explanation but asked pertinent questions.

Once she was satisfied that he understood the process, she said, “Before we can proceed with any of that, you must first be sure you’ve done all you wish to your creation. Is this the version you prefer to use as a model for your bronze?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Should I want it to be?”

“It’s up to you. Does it resemble the pear in your imagination?”

“I hate to tell you this, Tory, but my imagination has better things to do with itself than conjuring up pears.”

“Oh? What does it conjure up?”

His eyes turned a molten gold as he stared intently at her. “You don’t want to know,” he said in a husky voice that found an echo in her very blood, like the spell of a general issuing a call to arms. Then he smiled, breaking the spell. “The most I can promise is that my masterpiece vaguely resembles the real pear you have there on the table.”

Only Falconridge could put it like that. “What I’m asking is if you’re happy with the way you’ve sculpted it. Because if you go on to cast it, you can’t make many changes.”

“It’s a pear,” he drawled. “How many more changes could I make?”

She bit back a smile. “I give up. You are never going to take this seriously, are you?”

“Probably not. Or at least not until I’m sculpting something more interesting than a pear.”

“That’s fair.”

“Appropriate, since my rendition of a pear is merely fair. It’s a fair pear.” He cocked his head. “A pity you aren’t interested in poetry. I’m much better at rhyming than sculpting.”

“That’s not saying much.”

He thumped his chest with his fist. “You wound me to the heart.”

“I do try.” She softened the remark with a smile. “Do you even want to turn your pear into a bronze? You might prefer to see it as a practice piece and work on something ‘more interesting,’ as you put it.”

“That’s an excellent idea.” He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “But I fear we’ve run out of time. I told your solicitor I’d be there at one PM , and it’s past noon already. Besides, I haven’t eaten yet today, so before we set off, I must have something to keep me going until dinner.”

“You didn’t even eat breakfast?” she asked, surprised he hadn’t said anything.

“After poring over the account books until the wee hours of the morning, I slept late, I’m afraid. I only had time to down a cup of coffee in my room. Then I rushed up here before you could accuse me of ignoring my part of our bargain.”

“You should have said something! I could have gone down to fetch you breakfast while you worked on your sculpting. You must be starved by now, you poor man.”

Something glinted in his eyes. “Starved, indeed,” he said in a husky murmur, his gaze dropping to her mouth.

A shiver danced along her skin as she realized he was no longer speaking of food. In an attempt to dispel the charged air in the room, she picked up the real pear and thrust it at him. “You could eat this.”

Instead of taking it from her, he caught her by the wrist. Keeping his gaze locked with hers, he bit off a piece of pear. “Mmm,” he said as he chewed, his eyes gleaming.

Her breath seemed to thicken the longer he held her by the wrist. But when juice ran down her thumb and he licked it off, her breath got stuck in her lungs.

Heaven help her. What was he doing to her? Had he read her dreams somehow?

Because his rough tongue lapping at the juice made her ache to have it other places—the spot on her wrist where her pulse now beat wildly . . . the tender inner skin of her elbow . . . between her lips.

Then, as if he at least read her thoughts, he bent forward to take her mouth with his. Her heart hammered in her chest as he began to feed on her lips the same way he’d fed on the pear. Oh, he was very good at the kissing, curse him. She couldn’t help but respond.

He tasted of fruit and smelled of shaving soap as his mouth plundered hers. Dropping the pear to the floor, she slid her hands up into his hair, marveling at how thick and silky-soft it was as she speared her fingers through it.

That only made him kiss her more ravenously until her knees felt like jelly and her blood ran hot.

“Tory,” he whispered against her lips.

She uttered a long sigh. “Didn’t we say we mustn’t do this?”

“I don’t remember that,” he rasped.

Next thing she knew, he had hauled her over and onto his lap. “Stop that!” she hissed. “Someone might see.” Yet she couldn’t bring herself to leave his lap.

“No one knows we’re up here, do they?” He settled his hands on her waist and started kissing along her cheek to her jaw, then down the side of her neck, where another pulse beat madly.

When he pressed a kiss right against that pulse, she let out a ragged breath. “I-I hope not,” she murmured. Still, she looped her arms about his neck to hold him there.

“I’ve wanted you on my lap from the moment I came up here,” he whispered in her ear, then tugged her earlobe with his teeth. “If I had any artistic ability at all, I’d sculpt you. ”

“Clothed, I hope,” she whispered, and nuzzled his jaw with its wonderful masculine lines.

He chuckled. “I thought you liked nudes in motion.”

The thought of posing for him naked made her breath quicken. “Other nudes than I,” she said in his ear.

“That’s a pity. I could sculpt you sculpting.”

She drew back to eye him askance. “I hardly think you’re ready for that.”

He smirked at her. “After a few more lessons, I might be. You’re an excellent teacher.”

“Flatterer,” she said.

With a chuckle, he kissed her mouth again—softly at first and then hard and hungrily, with a kind of urgency that made her want to swoon, if she were ever inclined to do such a ninny thing.

Then she felt a hard bulge against her bottom, and her cheeks heated, along with certain hidden parts of her own body, as she realized what that substantial bulge must be. Her mother hadn’t raised a fool, after all. Once Tory had turned eighteen, her mother had told her everything about how babies were made. But when Mama had said the man put his stiff penis inside the woman, Tory hadn’t realized . . .

Good Lord, that felt like a rather . . . fierce piece of male flesh he was sporting.

Before she could react, he kissed a path down her jaw to her throat, then murmured, “I would love to sculpt your elegant neck . . .” He kissed along her collarbone. “And your bare shoulders . . .” Then his hand covered her breast through the fabric of her gown, corset cup, and chemise. “And this, too, along with its mate.”

“Jon . . .” she murmured, “you really . . . shouldn’t.” But even she could hear the breathy excitement in her voice as he molded her breast with his hand. How could such a wicked thing feel so very good? “Heavens, Jon . . .”

He uttered a soft groan. “I love the sound of my name on your lips,” he said as he fondled her breast shamelessly through the layers of material.

She could feel her nipple tighten and prayed he couldn’t feel it, too, through all the fabric, but when he ran his thumb over its point repeatedly, she feared he had somehow managed to do so.

Then just as she was thinking she’d lost her mind, the sound of boot heels on the stairsteps came to them as the voice of doom echoed up the stairwell. “Tory, are you in the art room?”

It was Chloe, of all people.

Stifling a cry, Tory sprang up from his lap, then bent to whisper, “Hide! She cannot find you here alone with me.”

For a moment he hesitated, his eyes bearing a glazed look to them, and she nearly despaired of making him understand.

Then he shook off his torpor to rise and look around. “Hide where , for God’s sake?”

“Quick! Behind the door. But quietly!”

He darted that direction just in time, for a few moments later, Chloe appeared in the doorway. “Did you not hear me calling you?” she asked petulantly. “We’re supposed to go to Wood for your shoes this afternoon, remember? Your slippers for tonight are supposed to be ready.”

“Oh! Right.” Tory moved over to hide the half-eaten pear beneath her skirts. “I completely forgot.” So much for going with Jon to the solicitor’s. “I was so caught up in my work that my mind was elsewhere.”

Chloe looked past Tory to where Jon’s clay pear sat on the table. “What on earth is that ghastly thing? Surely you didn’t sculpt that , did you?”

“Of course not,” Tory said indignantly, and thought quickly. “A lady in my neighborhood asked me to do a casting of it.”

“For heaven’s sake, why? It’s hardly worth putting into bronze.”

“Yes, but she can afford it, and I agreed to cast it as a favor. It can wait until later, though. I can’t take it to the foundry until tomorrow anyway.” She hurried toward the open door before Chloe could advance too far into the room. “Let’s go to Wood. I’m eager to see my new slippers.”

They headed down the stairs. Halfway down, Tory paused. “I forgot my shawl. You go on. It will only take me a moment to fetch it.” And before Chloe could point out that there were any number of shawls downstairs in the coat closet, Tory hurried back up the stairs.

She entered the room to find Jon at the table, staring at his clay pear. “It’s not really so bad, is it?” he asked.

“Oh, for pity’s sake, I wouldn’t worry about it,” Tory whispered. “Is there any way you could change your appointment with the solicitor to tomorrow, so I can go with you?”

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he said in a low voice, “but I have other meetings set for then.”

The word sweetheart both delighted and exasperated her. “I suppose it can’t be helped. But you’ll tell me everything he said?”

“Of course. We can talk about it tomorrow morning during our lesson.”

She blushed, thinking of everything they’d done during today’s lesson. “It must not involve any sort of... misbehavior, you realize.”

He turned to fix her with a remorseful gaze. “No, it must not. I swear I will keep my hands to myself tomorrow. And I should really apologize for getting carried away today. You shouldn’t have to endure my . . . attentions.”

“Good. I mean, thank you.” How could she tell him she could endure them quite happily if she knew they meant anything more than a moment’s dalliance to him? She didn’t dare say such a thing. She refused to be one of those women who wore her heart on her sleeve.

Then she groaned. Not her heart. Never her heart. She couldn’t be that foolish, surely. Might as well be a deer longing for a duke. “I have to go,” she said, and whirled toward the door.

“Wait,” he said softly, and walked to where her shawl hung from the hook. “You’ll need this.”

“Yes. Right. Good.” Lord, but she sounded like a fool.

He brought it to her and settled it over her shoulders. “There you go.”

“Thank you,” she said, cursing herself for wishing she could just lean back against him for a moment. That they could just return to what they’d been doing before Chloe had interrupted them. “I-I’ll see you this evening.”

Then she fled.

Jon stood staring at the open door for a long time after she left. Then he collapsed into a chair and cursed a blue streak. He’d clearly lost his mind. Had he really just treated Tory like some dockside whore, yanking her onto his lap and putting his hand on her breast?

Yes. Yes, he had. And that was after telling her a mere two days ago that he would not treat her as his brothers had.

He banged his head on the table. He wouldn’t blame her if she wanted nothing more to do with him. Or perhaps came to their next lesson armed with a few hatpins.

Rising from the chair, he fought to compose himself, then waited until he was sure they were gone before heading downstairs. Chloe’s unexpected appearance had been far too near a miss for his comfort. The only good part about that was he now got to speak with the Morris family solicitor—a man named Trimnell—without Tory.

Once Jon ate and set off, he had no trouble finding the fellow’s office. After determining Jon was indeed the executor of the Morris estate, the aging attorney was surprisingly forthcoming. Trimnell revealed that the family coffers had run dry during Morris’s extended absence, and that the lease on the cottage was set to expire in two months. Which, to Jon’s mind, made it even more urgent that Tory find a husband and soon.

Trimnell was also delighted to hear that Morris had left his daughter a substantial dowry. He barely looked at the codicil to the will and took at face value Jon’s assertion that Morris had entrusted the money to Jon to set aside for Tory’s dowry. Clearly, Trimnell wasn’t going to prove an obstacle to Jon’s scheme.

Meanwhile, Jon made no mention of Tory’s desire to use it for a school. He still considered that endeavor doomed to failure but told himself that if she couldn’t find anyone she liked well enough to marry in a decent amount of time, he would make sure her school was properly funded. He and the attorney parted ways as amiable business acquaintances.

His meeting with the accountants and land steward was more trying. While they seemed to have done their jobs as well as they could, he didn’t entirely trust any of them. That was probably because of his life in France, where everyone seemed to have some hidden reason for their behavior. He was finding it hard just to accept things at face value.

Especially because it quickly became obvious Alban had done the bare minimum in managing the dukedom after Father’s death. There were stacks of papers waiting to be reviewed and signed, letters piling up concerning various aspects of the estates, and reports of investments Alban had considered and never acted upon.

Those were only the documents that had piled up before Alban’s death. The ones afterward filled an entire room. Indeed, it took them a couple of hours just to discuss a plan of attack. Then after Jon looked over the most urgent of the papers, he signed them and left, promising to return the next day.

He considered telling Tory he had to stop the sculpting lessons for a week at least, but if he did, she was liable to refuse to go to any social affairs. The Season was almost over. If she was to find a husband, he had to hold to their bargain. That left him little choice—he could deal with the estates in the afternoons and evenings, as long as he made sure she went out into Society with his mother and sister, even if he didn’t go with her.

That was probably just as well. His reckless behavior this morning still weighed on his conscience. She deserved better. Some time apart wouldn’t hurt, and he wouldn’t mind staying out of Society for a while, anyway. Except, of course, for tonight. He wasn’t about to bow out of going to the theater when he’d already promised to invite his friends there.

To that end, after leaving the accountants and land steward, Jon dropped in at both his friends’ London homes and left a note inviting them to the theater and apologizing for the short notice.

Then he stopped at Beasley’s house, pleased to find him there on what ought to be a business day. Since Beasley had insisted on not being paid until Jon was certain the codicil passed muster, Jon felt it only right that he pay the fellow in due course. Besides, yesterday he’d noticed that Beasley, his wife, and his four children were living in rather hard circumstances, and Jon meant to do what he could to change that.

“Your Grace!” Beasley cried as Jon was shown in by the man’s unsmiling wife. “Why are you here?” Beasley’s face fell. “Was something wrong with the codicil?”

“Actually, no. The attorney found it utterly convincing. I’m grateful to you, and though Miss Morris will never know of it, I’m sure she would be grateful, too, if she did.”

That was an exaggeration. She might not appreciate him going to such lengths to gain her a husband.

“I’m right happy it worked out,” Beasley said.

Jon drew out a bag of guineas and handed it to the man. “I know we agreed on ten pounds, but I was so pleased with the outcome, I threw in a few extra.”

Beasley frowned as he hefted the bag. “Quite a bit more than a few extra, I daresay. I can’t accept this, Your Grace. It’s too much. I don’t want charity.”

“It’s not charity, Beasley,” he said. “You’ve done me a great service, and I know you risked much to do it. Forgery is punishable by hanging, after all. But if anyone asks about what I had you do, you must tell them I forced you to do it. They’d never hang me .” There were privileges to being a duke, to be sure.

“Oh, mum’s the word, sir. I would never tell anyone about it. You can count on my discretion.” He stared at the bag, then added, “To be honest, Your Grace, I would rather have your help with another matter than take the money.”

“Keep the money, please. You earned it. And of course, I’ll help you with whatever else I can do.”

Beasley rubbed the back of his neck, looking suddenly nervous. “Well . . . you see . . . I haven’t been able to get work since my return to England. I was hoping Your Grace would be willing to put in a good word for me with some of your friends or family—”

“Are you looking for engraving work?”

“If I could get it, that would be wonderful, sir. But with so many soldiers returning home and so little work to go around . . .”

“I understand.” Jon thought a moment. “Actually, I own a number of engraved prints that require valuation, since I mean to insure them. Might you consider that sort of work?”

Beasley brightened. “Anything, Your Grace, would be welcome.”

“Excellent! I’ll send you a note once I’m available to show you my prints. In the meantime, I’ll ask around about printmakers who could use good engravers. Miss Morris is an artist and so was her mother before her death, so she might know of someone requiring your services.”

That cheered Beasley even more. “She might indeed. Professor Morris’s wife was the daughter of an engraver, or so he told me at Verdun.”

Jon hadn’t even known that. How many other things did he not know about Tory? That made him wary. “Very well, then I’ll speak to Miss Morris about it and let you know what she says.”

“Thank you, sir. That’s most kind of you.”

Jon was about to take his leave, then paused. “Beasley, are there many returned détenus who need work?”

“Quite a few, Your Grace.”

“If you’ll give me a list of names and occupations when you come to Falcon House, I might be able to find them work at one of my estates or those of Lord Heathbrook. Captain Scovell might be aware of work at his brother’s estates, too.”

“I’ll do that, sir, thank you.”

After Jon took his leave, he drove his brother’s phaeton back to Falcon House and considered what he’d just offered. He’d said it primarily because it had become painfully clear during his meeting today that he would need more staff. But now he realized it would also accomplish something else—allow him and his friends to reestablish ties to the détenu community in London so they could unmask the person who’d betrayed their escape plans.

All in all, a good afternoon’s work.