Page 3 of Hot Duke Summer

“W here have you brought me?” Celandine asked as her captor dismounted in the stables behind what appeared to be a small hunting lodge, hidden deep within the woods.

They’d traveled far from the main road, and for a time, she’d feared they were hopelessly lost until the edifice had at last loomed before them, at once a welcome and forbidding sight.

“To a place where you can rest and I can provide that rumbling stomach of yours with some much-needed sustenance,” he replied, untying the rope binding her to the saddle with calm, efficient motions before securing Buttercup.

With the darkness in the stables bathing them in shadows, he remained an enigma. A dark figure, clad all in black. Tall and strong and lean. Was it her own desperate heart that so wanted Westley to come back to her that she fooled herself into seeing him in this harsh stranger?

Her stomach rumbled again, and she pressed her bound hands against it, shame heating her face. She was ravenous and thirsty, and she also needed to have a moment alone to tend to other needs.

“I’m not hungry,” she lied again.

“Hmm,” was all he said, a noncommittal hum as he finished his task and then reached for her, his strong hands settling on her waist.

She tried to dismount with as much grace as she could muster, but it was no easy feat, given the state of her legs. Their many hours of riding had left her muscles sore and weary. She slid from the saddle in a twist of riding habit and weak legs, falling.

Her captor caught her against him, settling her on her feet with a gentle care that was distinctly at odds with the morning’s kidnapping. “Steady, Lady Celandine.”

She grasped at the lapels of his greatcoat with her bound hands, struggling to keep from tumbling at his feet. Her head swam with dizziness; her stomach gnawed with hunger. For a moment, she feared she might swoon.

He scooped her into his arms, as if sensing her sudden weakness, carrying her from the stables and then across the distance to the hunting lodge. He shouldered his way into the door, and she was relieved to find the interior hall neatly swept and clean. Her captor carried her into a room that was lit from the meager light filtering through the windows from the sun high above the trees. He lowered her to a Grecian divan.

After so many hours of traveling in an unforgiving saddle, she couldn’t contain the sigh that left her at the cushioned comfort beneath her.

He loomed over her for a moment, frowning. “I need to tend to your horse. Don’t move from this spot until I return.”

He needn’t fear she would flee him. At the moment, in her weakened state and with her hands bound before her, she was incapable of it.

“I’ll have your promise, my lady,” he pressed at her silence.

And heaven help her, but his voice sounded more like Westley’s than ever. Perhaps her hunger was rendering her delusional.

“I shan’t move,” she reassured him. “At the moment, I rather think I’m incapable of it.”

And even if she weren’t, where would she go? She had no notion of where she was, she hadn’t eaten in hours, and her hands were bound.

He nodded and then swiftly quit the room, leaving her alone. She heard his booted footfalls in the entry hall and then the sound of the door opening and closing, followed by the crunch of his steps beyond. At least he was being kind to Buttercup, but then, his motives were likely selfish. He needed the mount to get them to wherever he planned to take her.

Unless this lodge was as far as he intended to go?

Celandine took in her surroundings. This room—perhaps a breakfast or sitting room—was as tidy as the entry hall. It was decorated with overstuffed furniture, the walls hung with pictures bearing scenes of the hunt. There was a hearth at the opposite end of the chamber, fire stacked neatly in the grate as if awaiting the hand that would set it aflame. The hunting lodge certainly didn’t appear abandoned. It didn’t smell of must or damp, as homes so often did when they were shuttered for a lengthy expanse of time.

The silence surrounding her told her that they were alone. No servants toiled here. But none of her observations answered the mystery of where he’d brought her and why. Nor was there any hint that might reveal who her captor truly was.

The door opened with a creak, telling her he had returned before his strides carried him over the entry hall and back to her side. He loomed over her, frowning, almost as if he were surprised to find she had kept her word and remained where he’d left her.

“Hold out your hands,” he commanded.

She did as he asked, extending her arms, tensing when he extracted a wicked-looking blade from his greatcoat and began sawing at the rope. To her great relief, he inflicted no harm, not even touching her reddened skin with the blade.

When the ropes fell, she flexed her fingers, relieved at the freedom of movement. “Thank you.”

“Your wrists are raw,” he said, sheathing the knife and returning it to its hiding place. “Why did you not say so?”

“Would you have cared if I had?” she asked tartly.

Her stomach gave another indignant rumble then.

“You’re hungry, despite your protests to the contrary. I’ll fetch you some food and something for your wrists.”

When he made to leave her again, she stopped him. “If you don’t mind, sir, I would like a moment of privacy.” And a chamber pot, but her ingrained manners refused to allow her to admit as much aloud.

“Of course. Come with me.”

He helped her to her feet and led her to a staircase. Her legs were more accustomed to functioning now, but every part of her ached. Still, there was no helping her current dilemma. It was either follow him or ask him to carry her, and her pride wouldn’t allow that.

He led her to a small bedroom that was every bit as neat and comfortable as the rest of the lodge. “You’ll find what you need on the other side of the screen.”

She thanked him and went inside, making haste to perform the necessary functions before straightening her riding habit again. The chamber had a large window, and for a moment, she hovered at it, tempted to open it and attempt an escape. But it was a rather dizzying height. The fall would leave her with broken bones at best. Her stomach reminded her that she had yet to eat.

A knock sounded at the door almost simultaneously. “Lady Celandine, are you finished?”

She froze.

That voice.

It was his, she was sure of it. Westley’s voice.

But if her captor was Westley, why had he not simply made himself known to her? Why the mask, the ruse? Why the bitterness in his voice? Why take her captive at all? He must have known that she would go with him willingly, anywhere he chose to take her.

The latch moved. The door opened.

He spied her by the window, and his lips settled in a forbidding line. “I wouldn’t, were I you, my lady. Humberton won’t want a bride with a broken neck.”

“Of course,” she said, moving toward him. “Will you not take off your mask, now that we are away from the road?”

“And why should I wish to do so? I can’t have you describing me to your beloved after he comes charging to your rescue.”

She stopped before him, holding his stare, so sure those were the same eyes she had gazed into hundreds of times before. “I have only one beloved: the Duke of Westley.”

Celandine said it firmly, watching him for a hint of recognition. For the tiniest betrayal of emotion. But he gave her nothing.

“Come, my lady,” he said dispassionately. “Let us find some sustenance.”

*

Their repast was a modest one, but Celandine ate heartily nonetheless. Crusty bread and jam, cold tongue, buttery cheese, and to wash it down, a bottle of wine. As she took another sip from her glass, watching her captor over the rim, she plotted.

At the first opportunity she had, she would tear the mask from his face.

And she would either prove to them both that he was, indeed, her Westley returned from the dead. Or the last, fragile hope that had been summoned from the darkest depths of her heart would crumble into dust.

“Are you going to tell me why you’ve taken me captive?” she dared to ask him now that she was sated.

There was a tense silence as he said nothing, merely took a draught from his own wine goblet, watching her with an intensity that threatened to steal her breath. At last, he lowered the glass.

“I’ll be asking the questions, my lady. Not you.”

Fair enough. Although it galled her to admit it, he was the one who held all the power. Her presence here was a testament to that fact.

“Then perhaps you should ask them,” she said, emboldened.

“Fine.” He sat back in his chair, surveying her coolly. “Why are you marrying a louse like Humberton?”

“He’s not a louse,” she felt obligated to say, even if she wasn’t particularly fond of her betrothed.

“The earl is known for certain predilections that an innocent like you undoubtedly isn’t privy to,” her captor said grimly. “Still, I cannot fathom why you would bind yourself to him forever, particularly when you claim to be in love with another.”

“I don’t claim it.” Her chin went up in defiance. “I am in love with another. But my father has debts the earl is willing to pay, and it falls upon me to protect my younger siblings. I have no choice but to marry Lord Humberton and save them all.”

Her voice trembled on the last, much to the dismay of her pride. She had vowed that she should be strong today. That she would marry the earl despite her every misgiving and the protestations of her heart. But the longer her captor kept her with him, the less likely her chances of Humberton accepting her as his wife. And if the earl refused to marry her, he could choose to call in Papa’s vowels, which would mean utter ruin not just for Celandine, but for her family as well.

“I didn’t know your father to be a wastrel,” her captor said then, his tone gentling. “I was unaware he had debts.”

“Gambling debts,” she clarified bitterly. “They’ve been steadily mounting, unbeknownst to us all, and the Earl of Humberton holds all his vowels. But how do you know my father, sir, if you are indeed the stranger you claim to be?”

“Perhaps I’m not a stranger after all,” he said.

Hope returned, a fervent ache that would not release her from its grasp. Could it be that he was truly Westley?

“Then lower your mask,” she urged. “Show me your face.”

He inclined his head. “If it pleases my lady.”

Her hand trembled on her glass, overturning it and sending wine spilling across the table linen. But she paid it no heed, because those words —good heavens, those sweet, wondrous words.

She had heard them uttered so many times before. In the same smooth, deep voice that could be softer than velvet when he wished. Those words had charmed her. Lured her. Those words and the man who had spoken them had claimed her heart as his. And her heart recognized him now. Her heart knew.

“Westley,” she whispered. “It is you.”

He untied the mask and allowed it to fall.

Celandine found herself staring at a ghost.

A ghost who possessed the same angular, well-defined jaw, the same sky-blue eyes and high cheekbones. Only, he wasn’t a ghost at all.

He was real.

Somehow, she was on her feet, and so was he. They collided halfway around the table, and she threw herself into his arms, where she belonged. Her captor, her stranger, her love, her Westley. They were all the same. And he was somehow, miraculously, alive .

He held her tightly, lifting her feet from the floor.

She clung to him, burrowing her face into his neck, half afraid she was dreaming and she would wake, trembling and alone in her lonely bed, only to realize that Westley was still gone and that she would have to marry the Earl of Humberton.

But she wasn’t asleep. She was awake. And breathing in his scent, leather and crisp country air and spice.

“You’re alive,” she choked out, overwhelmed by emotion—so much of it, swelling like a raging tide within. “You’re here.”

There was joy. There was love. Sheer amazement commingling with relief.

“Yes, my love. I’m alive.” He stroked her hair, holding her as if she were made of glass, and in that moment, she felt as if perhaps she were.

That at the slightest touch, she might shatter into a thousand pieces. Because the man she loved had returned from the dead, and yet she was still promised to marry another.

“How?” she managed, tipping her head back so that she could see him again, her eyes roaming hungrily over his handsome face, committing each masculine angle, every detail, to her memory. “How are you alive? I thought you had drowned at sea.”

“I nearly did,” he said. “On the passage to France, there was a man who had been sent to kill me. He tried to push me overboard, but I was stronger than he expected, and I managed to fight him off. He confessed to me that he had been hired by my uncle to murder me so that my uncle would inherit the title, being the heir presumptive. I paid the man to send word to my uncle that the deed had been done, and I plotted my return.”

Horror filled her at his revelation, her heart clenching painfully.

“Dear God,” she whispered, trying to make sense of the unimaginable evil his uncle must possess to have wanted him to drown at sea.

To pay a man to have him killed.

Westley stroked her cheek reverently, his gaze roaming her face as if he too were trying to memorize every detail should they be torn apart again. “I’m damned lucky I survived the attempt on my life. I was meant to be thrown overboard and never seen again so that my uncle could be the next Duke of Westley.”

“How could he do something so evil, so wretched?”

“I cannot speak for my uncle.” Westley’s countenance was grim as he paused, as if the weight of what had happened to him was almost too much to bear, before continuing. “It would have been the perfect plot. Unfortunately for him, I survived. But he doesn’t know that just yet.”

“Does anyone know?”

Westley shook his head. “Only you, my love. I painstakingly made my way back to England, but I had to take great care in keeping my identity a secret. If he discovers I’m alive before I have sufficient proof of his plot against me, I fear he’ll try to kill me again. It’s been best for everyone to believe me dead.”

“Is that why you were masked?”

“In part. When I learned of your impending marriage to Humberton, I was devastated. I told myself that perhaps you were better off without me, that if you were in love with a scoundrel like the earl, you weren’t the woman I believed you to be. But the thought of you marrying him kept me awake at night, plaguing me, until I knew I had to speak with you. I needed to understand why, but I couldn’t allow you to know who I was.”

“You feared I would betray you.”

“I didn’t know what to think, Celandine. When we parted, you promised you would wait for me forever when I left on that blasted Grand Tour my uncle insisted upon, but not even a year had passed and you were marrying another.”

“And I would have waited forever for you. I intended to. Surely you see that I had no choice. All the world believes you’re dead, and I believed it too. I had to do something to save my family. I convinced myself marrying Humberton was for the best—I already knew I would never love again. That my chance for happiness had gone to the bottom of the sea with you.”

“But I’m not at the bottom of the sea, my darling. I’m right here. I understand the terrible circumstances you found yourself in, and I’m sorry I couldn’t have come to you sooner. If I had known—”

“No,” she interrupted. “Don’t say it. You came for me when you could, and just before I gave myself to him forever. I’m still yours, Westley. I’ll always be yours. Nothing and no one can change that. Not time, not death, not Humberton. I love you with all my heart.”

“And I love you. Marry me, Celandine,” he said hoarsely. “Don’t marry the earl. Be my duchess.”

They stared at each other, faces close, breath mingling, wonderment and long pent-up yearning burning fiercely between them.

She didn’t hesitate in her response. “Yes, my love.”

“Thank God,” he growled.

His lips found hers then, hungry, hot, and demanding. She needed no urging. Nor did she need wooing. Celandine was every bit as desperate for him as he was for her. And he kissed her boldly, with a commanding passion that made her knees tremble and sent desire crashing over her like the waves in a storm-tossed sea.

This was not the sweet kiss of her beloved suitor she had known before. It was the kiss of a man who had cheated death and returned to her. It was the passionate, consuming kiss of a man who was laying claim to her. And she wanted that claim.

Wanted him.

Celandine’s arms, already twined around his neck, tightened. She rose on her toes to press herself more firmly against him. Still, it was somehow not enough. She wanted to wrap around him, to hold him close, to never let him go.

She opened for his questing tongue, tasting wine and Westley, a most divine flavor she’d thought up until that morning she would never know again. He was alive. Not just alive, but here, in her arms. He had rescued her.

Her Westley was alive .

Her tongue moved with his, and he groaned, the sound low and rough, as if it were torn from him. His hands flexed on her waist, holding her possessively, drawing her against him, the straining ridge of his erection rising thick and hard against her belly. She should have been shocked, and yet she wasn’t. She wanted more.

There was an ache inside her, a restless need that grew increasingly demanding by the second. Each press of his hungry mouth over hers, every place their bodies made contact, only served to heighten that feeling.

He ended the kiss abruptly, staring down at her, his breathing ragged. “Not here, my love. Come with me upstairs.”