What A Duke Dares

“Stop sniping. I’m struggling to do what’s best.”

She regarded him with dislike. “You always do.”

Her ironic tone nettled him. “Our circumstances are trying, but not impossible.”

“Glad to hear it.”

He plowed on. “I’ve always tried to be honorable.”

Of course he had, she thought wearily. Another snide remark rose, but his expression stifled it. “That’s good.”

“Pen, I have to keep my hands off you.”

Pain crunched her heart. “Because I’m an unsuitable bride?”

Waiting for agreement felt like the pause before someone punched a bruise.

He shook his head. “Because I’m courting another lady.” He stared over her head as if the crucifix on the wall provided enormous interest. “When I return to England, I’m marrying Lady Marianne Seaton, the daughter of the Marquess of Baildon.”

Chapter Eight

Hyde Park, London, February 1828

After that miraculous encounter in Lord Chetwell’s cupboard, Harry was too restless to sleep. Too restless and too happy. Sophie mightn’t love him yet, but she was interested. To the point of defying her powerful brother.

Harry had wandered home from the ball in a daze. The memory of Sophie’s kisses fizzed in his blood. The sound of her voice filled his ears like music. Her scent haunted him.

He was head over heels, madly in love. And he didn’t give a tinker’s curse.

Anticipation had him saddling his horse—he wasn’t selfish enough to wake a groom so early—and riding to the park before dawn. He settled his mount under a tree with a view of Rotten Row. There was a special luxury in being here on a misty February morning, knowing that his beloved might appear any moment. The sun just peeped above the horizon, shooting long golden rays through the bare trees.

Into this magical glade trotted his Sophie, controlling a fine gray mare with a light touch. She wore a neat dark blue riding habit, and the jaunty angle of her hat made him want to kiss her.

Harry straightened from his slouch, an uncontrollable smile spreading across his face. His heart performed a jig.

She smiled back. “Mr. Thorne, what a surprise,” she said in an unnaturally lilting voice for the benefit of the groom plodding behind.

Stifling a laugh, Harry doffed his hat and bowed. What a hopeless conspirator she was. “Lady Sophie, a delightful chance.”

“The park is quiet this morning.” She glanced at Harry under her long lashes. “Are you alone?”

“Yes. Perhaps we could ride a little way.”

“Your ladyship, I’m not sure—” the groom began before Sophie cut him off with a laugh. A very unconvincing laugh.

“Mr. Thorne and I are old chums, Jones. Why, we danced together only last night.”

“Very well, my lady.” The man settled into the saddle, his stare unwavering. Leath had chosen a diligent guardian.

Harry had hoped for more kisses. What man wouldn’t? But he saw that a brief and decorous conversation was all he could expect. “It was quite a party, wasn’t it?”

He wheeled his horse to amble in the same direction as Sophie’s. The park must contain other people, but as far as he was concerned, he was alone with his beloved.

“I enjoyed myself immensely,” Sophie said with another sideways glance. “A memorable occasion.”

Harry was more convinced than ever that she was a minx. He liked her all the more for it. The thought of her harnessed to a dry stick like Desborough made the gorge rise in his throat. “Is this your first visit to London?”

“No, my brother always comes up for parliament. The last few years, he’s brought me too.”

Leath was touted as a future prime minister, wasn’t he? Or at least he had been, until his uncle’s criminal activities had stained the family name. The marquess must be seething over the gossip, and all of it so public, thanks to Sedgemoor’s intervention.

Leath would place Harry in the Sedgemoor camp. After all, the Rothermeres and Thornes had grown up together. Years ago, there had even been talk of marriage between Cam and Harry’s sister, Penelope. What a disaster that would have been. Pen was headstrong and unconventional, whereas Cam was the model of gentlemanly restraint.

“That explains the town bronze. Most young ladies are wide-eyed with wonder during their first season.”

She giggled delightfully. “I’m quite the sophisticate now that I’ve seen Astley’s Circus and the menagerie at the Tower of London.”

Color brightened Sophie’s cheeks. She had the most exquisite skin. Harry’s blood heated when he imagined that skin bare to his exploration. As his hands tightened on the reins, his horse shifted.

They’d moved ahead of Jones, who seemed prepared to give Harry the benefit of the doubt. For now. Harry leaned to pat his horse’s gleaming neck and spoke in a murmur. “I want to touch you.”

She responded in a whisper. “I couldn’t get away on my own.”

“Neither you should. London’s full of scoundrels.”

“Including you?”

“Yes, including me,” he said gloomily. Then more loudly for the sake of Jones who edged closer, clearly suspicious, “Do you live in the country the rest of the year?”

“I’ve been at school in Bath. Now I live with my mother at Alloway Chase in Yorkshire.”

“Your mother doesn’t come to Town?”

“She isn’t well.” She stared at his black armband. “I’m sad to see that you’ve recently lost someone.”

“My brother died in January. I’m surprised you hadn’t heard.” If Leath had warned Sophie away, surely he’d mentioned Peter’s financial woes. Peter’s calamitous mismanagement of the already sparse Thorne coffers threatened the family’s ruin, making Harry an even more unsuitable match for this lovely girl.

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” He met her compassionate blue stare and his love, already powerful, deepened into something richer. “He was marvelous company and he’d go to the wall for the people he loved.”

“He sounds wonderful.”

“He was.” Harry found himself saying what he hadn’t said to anyone else since Peter’s lonely death. “I’ve lost my taste for pleasure. The whole world is gray.” Except when he was with Sophie.

“I felt like that after my father died.”

The late marquess had passed away four years ago. The nation had mourned the loss of a brilliant politician. As with his son, there had been talk of him becoming prime minister. Just up from Oxford, Harry had paid little heed. He’d been too busy kicking up his heels and adding a few more smears to the family reputation.

He reached to comfort her before Jones cleared his throat. Winning Sophie from the dragons who protected her wouldn’t be easy. For the first time in his shallow life, Harry burned to meet a challenge.

He glanced around and noticed that full day had broken. Riders emerged for their morning exercise. To save Sophie from talk, he must ride on. “It was a pleasure seeing you.”

She bent her head with a grace that hinted at the grand lady she’d one day become. Under the brim of her stylish beaver hat, Harry caught a gratifying flash of longing in her eyes. “I’m engaged for Lady Carson’s ball tonight.”

“Perhaps I’ll see you there,” he said, not meaning perhaps at all. He bowed. Jones’s watchful expression warned him that a kiss on her hand would take things too far, damn it. “Good morning, Lady Sophie.”

Hills above Genoa, early March 1828

Pen stood on the inn’s terrace and stared at the rugged coastline below. The night was clear and she easily made out Genoa’s lights in the distance. Around her bloomed pots of spring flowers. After the frozen wastes, this seemed nothing short of miraculous.

The grueling journey drew to a close. Tomorrow, they embarked for home. This last week had been almost easy. The weather had been kinder and the roads in the more heavily populated areas showed considerable improvement from the goat tracks higher up. Even the inns were more luxurious, saving her from sharing a room with Cam again. Thank God. She still remembered lying awake, eaten with useless jealousy, while he’d stretched silently beside her, no more asleep than she.

The announcement of Cam’s marital plans should have eased the tension between them. She’d always known he’d marry, and now that his bride had a name, she should finally be able to crush her painful longing.

Instead, since that endless night, the atmosphere had weighed heavier and heavier. Until tonight it had become so unbearable, she’d barely finished dinner before rushing outside to escape him.

She flattened her unsteady hands upon the stone balustrade and stared blindly into the night. She wore a favorite gown, a sea-green silk purchased last year in Florence. Even as she’d asked Maria to find it, she’d recognized her pathetic purposes. She flaunted herself, taunting Cam. This will never be yours, however much you want it.

Definitely pathetic.

“Has my conversation driven you to throw yourself off a cliff?” a low voice asked behind her.

Slowly Pen turned. She should have guessed that Cam would follow. Lamps lit the terrace, lending enough brightness for her to see him in the shadows near the doorway. He’d dressed with care too, as if aware that tonight marked some kind of ending.

She’d been so reluctant to travel with him. It seemed absurd to be sad that their time together was nearly over. “You don’t talk enough to drive me to self-harm.”

He approached with the loose-limbed stroll that always set her heart racing. She really was a besotted idiot. He passed her one of the glasses of red wine he carried. “Let’s toast old acquaintance.”

For once, prickling hostility was absent. Instead, Cam seemed like the kindhearted boy she’d known years ago. Her determination to maintain her distance faltered. She raised her glass. “To friendship.”

“Our journey ends,” he said musingly.

“We have the voyage ahead.”

“We’re safe from scandal on the Windhover. My crew is paid to keep their mouths shut.”

How he must want this marriage with Lady Marianne. Unworthy chagrin cramped Pen’s heart. She wanted to tear every hair from the woman’s no doubt perfectly coiffured head. Pen had devoted too many futile hours to wondering about Cam’s choice. Beautiful, Pen was sure. Impeccably behaved. Circumspect.

“We’ve made it.” She tried and failed to sound happy.

Thankfully Cam didn’t appear to notice her glumness. He sipped his wine and stared out to sea with a pensive expression. “Yes. And without killing each other.”

“We’ve come close.”

He studied her. “I wish you well, Pen. I’ve only ever wished you well.”

She knew that. Her rejection of his proposal might sting. Her independence and obstinacy undoubtedly infuriated him. Perhaps he even regretted that they’d never explore the desire simmering between them. But the bonds of childhood affection persisted.

“I wish you well too, Cam,” she said softly.

“What do you intend to do when you get home?”

“Settle my aunt’s affairs.”

“After that?”

She shrugged. “Return to Italy. I have friends here and places I’d like to see.”

“You won’t stay in England?”

And witness, even from afar, Cam’s wedded bliss? Cam becoming a father? She’d rather cut out her liver with a paperknife. “No.”

“Elias and Harry would love to have their sister home.”

“They have their own lives. They’re used to doing without me.”

“Now they have to do without you and without Peter.” He flinched at her distressed inhalation. “I’m sorry. That was insensitive.”

She stared at him. “Goodness, Cam, was that an apology? I thought you’d lost the knack.”

His lips firmed, but he remained calm. Pity. Her longing was so much easier to control when dislike crackled. Except what vibrated between them wasn’t exactly dislike.

“I’ve been a brute.”

Her laugh was wry. “Not by anyone’s definition but your own.”

His gaze remained unwavering. “You know why I’ve been difficult.”

“You told me.”

Then he’d retreated to silence on the subject. Thank heaven. It was excruciating, knowing that he wanted her, but knowing also that only a fool would succumb.

“I’d hoped honesty would simplify things.”

“It didn’t.” The air tautened until she felt suffocated. Would he kiss her? Just one kiss to last a lifetime wasn’t too much to ask. Except she already had too much to remember.

“Is that because you don’t want me?” The flickering light was more deceptive than true darkness. She could almost imagine desperation in his eyes. Cam was never desperate. He’d never let himself become desperate. “Or because you do?”

She jolted back, spilling wine over her hand. “Cam, I—”

“God knows this is wrong. I’m courting another woman. You’re my friend’s sister. We grew up together.” His voice shook. “But tell me you want me. Not knowing is driving me mad.”

She didn’t want to hear this, partly because a wicked, wanton part of her burned to fling herself into his arms and beg him to do a thousand wild and forbidden things to her. She retreated against the balustrade. Fear beat high and fast in her throat.

The threat of betraying her secret hovered close. He must never know she loved him. His pity would be worse than death. “There’s no point to this.”

Cam took her glass and placed it with his on the balustrade. “I need to know.”

“No, you don’t,” she said, then groaned when satisfaction flooded his face. On this breezy terrace, with his usually immaculate dark hair ruffled and his eyes glowing with passion, he was the handsomest man she’d ever seen.

He grabbed her hand. “If you don’t want me, you’d say so.”

She knew to her bones that if he kept touching her, she’d lie in his bed tonight. “Someone might see.”

“I don’t care. Tell me.”

His touch set her blood ablaze, shooting hot and urgent to the pit of her belly. “What use is this?” she asked in angry despair, struggling to withdraw. “You’re marrying Lady Marianne.”

His gaze focused on her lips, making them tingle as if he kissed her. “Once, I wanted to marry you.”

Bitterness welled. “When you thought you could mold me into what you wanted. Before my family’s eccentricities tumbled over into full-scale scandal with Peter’s ruin.”

She’d cut off her right hand to hear him deny her assertions, but of course, he didn’t. He wouldn’t lie to her. She respected that even as she loathed it. “Lady Marianne will make the perfect duchess.”

Pain lanced through her as she acknowledged that he’d never have said that about Penelope Thorne, even before her bohemian wanderings. “Do you love her?”

He snatched his hand free and his jaw hardened with the rejection familiar whenever anyone mentioned love. “You’re mistaken to think that love is a requirement for a happy marriage.”

“You’re mistaken to think that it’s not,” she snapped back.

“My parents were in love. For a short time.”

“Your parents were always children dressed as grownups.”

He glared down his daunting nose. “You venture on dangerous territory.”

She drew herself to her full height. Temper made her speak in a rush. “Why? You speak freely to me.” Her tone eased. “Cam, I know this … attraction is a pest. But it’s not so surprising. We’re two healthy adults confined to each other’s company. It would be unnatural not to demonstrate a little curiosity.”

A bitter smile twisted his lips. “That’s a facile explanation.”

For a sizzling interval, their eyes met. She knew that, like her, he remembered her standing naked before him.

Then the shutters crashed down over his expression. She felt disoriented. He’d lured her up to a door, then slammed it in her face.

Still, she was grateful when Cam’s fierceness ebbed. It had been torture to hear him speak his need aloud and know that it wasn’t enough, it could never be enough.

As if by common consent, they turned toward the sea that tomorrow became their highway. Somewhere down there his yacht lay at anchor. If winds were favorable, they’d be in England within a fortnight.

A silence descended. At first, it was heavy with suppressed passion, but gradually it became something softer and kinder. As his voice was softer and kinder when he spoke. “Pen, why are you so determined to go into exile? What are you running away from?”

You.

She’d spent the last nine years fleeing this man she loved but who could never love her. Despite excitement and adventure, despite playing a sophisticate in a sophisticated world, she hadn’t run toward anything. What a lowering admission.

“I enjoy my life.” Apart from a constant ache that no spectacular scenery or charming admirers or glamorous intrigues banished.

“You’d enjoy London.”

“I doubt it. People at home are more conservative than here. English society won’t accept me with open arms.”

“I would.”

Pen couldn’t help herself. She laughed. It was either laugh or cry. If she cried, he might guess how it would crush her to leave him. “No, Cam. I’m not throwing myself into your arms under any circumstances.”

He didn’t laugh. He looked disturbed and angry. That dangerous hum in the air returned. Fatalistically she recognized that it had never gone away. “Pen, I’m trying my best to remember that I’m an honorable man.”

She sobered, telling herself that she couldn’t allow him to compromise his principles. But how easy it would be to ignore what was right when for the sake of a little sin, he could be hers. However briefly. Physically if not emotionally.

She could cross a mere foot of space and kiss him. If she knew anything about men—and at twenty-eight, she should—the slightest encouragement would shatter his restraint.

“Unfortunately,” she whispered before she could stop herself.

The hum rose to overwhelm every other sound.

Then he stepped back and bowed. Even as hunger darkened his eyes, he spoke with the chill politeness she’d heard too often on this journey. This evening, they’d spoken like friends. Or lovers. Now she watched Cam draw the shades over that intimacy. “I won’t act the cad. My family’s reputation is at stake. If I tumble you, I prove that all my work to restore the family honor has been in vain.”

She’d known that. Still, rejection hurt. She bent her head, not wanting him to see how he wounded her.

A couple emerged onto the terrace from the inn. The lady paused and spoke with joyful recognition. Even worse, in the clipped accents of an upper-class Englishwoman. “Miss Thorne, what a wonderful surprise.”

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