Читать книгу The Scandalous Love of a Duke - Jane Lark - Страница 8

Kent, Ashford, July

John leant back in his seat and flicked the reins, stirring his matching pair of chestnut-coloured horses into a gallop and letting the animals run.

The air rushed past him. It was hot. One of England’s rare truly summer days. It felt good, and he liked the sound of thundering hoof beats, tack and creaking springs, and the jolting of the carriage as it raced along the track.

Robbie had spent the last two months bragging about the day they’d bought this matching pair and curricle.

Thinking of Robbie made John remember the money he’d settled on his brothers. He’d told Edward it was to ensure his brothers would live in a fashion which would not embarrass a duke. The truth was it eased John’s conscience, because he’d had little to do with any of them since the day he’d taken Robbie to Tattersalls.

He did not feel a part of his family anymore. There was too much of a gap in years, and status. So he’d traded genuine affection for cold hard coin. He’d agreed to enhance his sisters’ dowries too.

Mary had hugged him when he’d told her and John had warned her of fortune hunters.

As he thought of marriage, his mind turned to Eleanor and Nettleton. They’d made an announcement before he’d left town. Their first child was due next year. A new generation. A generation John would play patriarch to.

It only added to his sense of isolation.

Life was busy setting him on a pedestal so others might not reach him. His grandfather had warned him it would be so, now he understood.

He sighed. He’d been too busy for family or friendships the last few months anyway. He’d spent them sorting out the old man’s estate and making his name in the House of Lords, fulfilling his duty as he’d been bred to do.

Yet, since leaving London and coming out to Pembroke Place, he’d been avoiding duty.

John saw a woman walking along the road in the distance. He did not slow his horses.

He’d come here to meet the estate manager, Mr Wareham, who not only managed Pembroke Place but also oversaw the stewards at all John’s properties. None of which explained why Wareham had approached an external lawyer, as Phillip had advised at the funeral.

The carriage drew nearer the lone woman.

Wareham was supposed to refer any legal issue to Harvey, who’d sworn he knew nothing of this. John believed him.

If there was one thing the old Duke had done well, it was manage his estate, and he’d have said something to Harvey if he’d known of this loan. So Harvey should know of it, if it was legitimate. Which meant – as Harvey did not – it was not.

John had reiterated to Wareham during their first meeting, on his arrival, that all business should be done through Harvey, without giving any indication he knew of the deal with Boscombe. There had not even been a flicker in Wareham’s eyelids, but his belligerence had put John out of sorts.

Since then, he’d evaded duty. He ought to be visiting tenants not racing about the country lanes.

John sighed.

He’d focus again tomorrow. Today he’d continue letting the weight slip from his shoulders.

The woman was yet nearer. He eased up a little, pulling on the reins.

Half his trouble was the bad memories haunting him here. They hung around him like shadows in the Palladian mansion. He’d already started changing things in town now his grandmother had retired to one of the smaller estates, redecorating the townhouse to dispense with the memories of his childhood. He was going to do the same here, to chase off the bloody desperate child who still lived in his head. He hated the house. He’d felt it the minute he’d returned and known in the same moment it was irrational. But no matter how many years he’d come here with his mother, the memories which pervaded were the dreadful years of longing he’d lived here without her.

The emotion made him feel weak, and then angry at himself for weakness.

He should just be getting on with his duty and visiting tenants and sorting out Wareham. What he was doing instead was running from the demons in his head.

The woman was now a couple of hundred yards away.

The other half of his trouble was that John was really beginning to understand his grandfather. The burdens of duty and expectation were making John more and more withdrawn. He hated the parasitical nature of people. No matter how much he did not wish to be like the old man, John could see no other way to cope with the barrage of falsehood and make a path through it. The only way was to shut it out.

The darkness which had always haunted him abroad had set its hood over him again.

He tightened his grip on the reins as he drew near the woman, slowing the horses to a trot, then realised he’d over-pushed them. The animals’ coats were slick with sweat. It was too hot for them really.

He was used to Egypt’s desert heat. His animals were not.

He decided to go back at the same moment he realised who the woman was. Katherine. He’d not seen her since the funeral, at least not in person; he’d seen her in his dreams. Vivid dreams, which would certainly make her blush if she knew of them.

Perhaps his guilt over those dreams was why he’d given Phillip the benefit of doubt and used him to develop the contracts for a business deal between John and his Uncle Robert; or rather the guilt John should feel. In fact, he felt only longing.

That longing returned now, in full measure.

He’d asked after her when he’d seen Phillip. Phillip only smiled and said she was the same as ever.

John had also heard Eleanor say Katherine had declined an invitation to stay. He hadn’t known if he was relieved or angry at the time. It was dangerous this obsession he was developing for her. But obsession it was beginning to be, the number of times he thought of her. Her image had become a sanctuary from the burden of duty. There was no harm in imagining. But here was the real Kate.

“Katherine!”

The girl jumped half out of her skin and spun about. She must have been completely lost in a world of thought.

God. He’d been craving air and sky, and nature, in his desire for escape the last couple of days, and here was his quintessential English rose, a woman with modesty who could still blush, for heaven’s sake.

The she-wolves had begun stalking him again in town, and he’d even been moderately tempted, knowing he needed some form of release from his burdens. But his dream was for Katherine, simplicity and innocence, and they were not that, they would not assuage his hunger. Katherine would.

His gaze clung to her, sweeping over her figure. She wore a thin muslin dress beneath a faded light-blue spencer. Her arms were slender. His gaze trailed upwards from her narrow waist to see her bosom lift and fall as though she was short of breath.

Her face was in the shadow of a broad-rimmed poke straw-bonnet, while her hands were covered by the same kid leather gloves she’d worn in London, which must feel excruciatingly hot in this heat.

He halted the animals, set the brake, looped the ribbons across the rail and jumped down.

He had come out in unseemly dress; he’d not intended speaking to anyone. His black waistcoat hung open and his shirtsleeves were rolled up. He probably looked like a labourer, but he had wished to be the man from Egypt again today and not a duke.

“Katherine?” he said again, approaching her.

She hadn’t said a thing, or even moved since she’d turned, but as he neared, she took a step back.

She looked as though any minute she might turn and run.

He reached out and caught her forearm to stop her.

“What on earth were you wool-gathering over?”

Those wide blue eyes, which did not show their true colour when hidden in the shadow of her bonnet, questioned his existence.

His hand slid down her slender arm and felt her muscle judder from the intimacy. Then he gripped her fingers and lifted them to his lips.

He would rather have kissed her skin than her worn leather glove.

He let her hand fall.

“You should have heard the horses yards back.”

She was blushing again, and her eyes glittered with a starry look, as though she was shocked, or…

The air left his lungs.

Or…

He knew that look of want. He’d seen it in a hundred women’s eyes.

Without thought, one hand released the bow securing the ribbons of her bonnet, while the other cupped her nape. Then as her bonnet tumbled down her back and fell into the dust, he kissed her mouth.

He burned for her, and the uncertain pressure of her fingers gripping his shoulders was sublime as she opened her mouth under the pressure of his lips. His tongue invaded, taking as she gave, claiming what he suddenly desperately wanted to be his.

She arched against him and his other arm came about her waist to pull her body nearer.

A tender, desperate and shocked sound came from her mouth and then she was pulling away, and pushing him back. An instant later she gave him a stinging slap across the cheek.

Damn!

His hand covered his cheek, but instead of feeling regret or guilt it was laughter which rose inside him and a feeling of relief, as though a cork had just blown from an effervescent bottle and let emotion spew out.

She was clearly not amused by his laughter and her cheeks flamed red, while her eyes burned a bright turquoise. It was a look of insulted pride.

Yet, a moment ago, her eyes had said quite clearly “kiss me”, and far more, and she’d been pliant and willing when he’d accepted that unspoken offer.

His heart thumped steadily. He had been too long without a woman.

He dragged in a deep breath and smiled, genuinely. He could not remember the last time he had smiled from emotion and not merely made the correct face.

The horses whickered behind him.

Both his hands gripped her waist.

She stepped back, out of his reach, almost treading on her bonnet.

He bent and picked it up.

Katherine’s heart raced. What had she done? What had she let him do? Why had he done it?

She had not even known John was there. She had not even known he was in the county. His only greeting had been her name.

She took another step back, longing to distance herself from the tug she felt towards him as he stood straight again, gripping her bonnet in his hand.

Why had he kissed her? She was mute with anger and embarrassment. She felt appalled. Why would he do that? Why had she let him?

“John!” she said as his hand reached out towards her again, while his other gripped her bonnet. She stepped back once more, avoiding him, but at the same time lifted her hand to claim her bonnet.

He pulled it out of reach.

“What did you think you were you doing?” she thrust accusingly at him.

“Saying hello.” He laughed again, as though kissing her on a public highway was a joke.

There was warmth in his eyes, though, which had not been there on the day of the funeral, and her heart ached to see it, no matter that she was angry. She saw a glimpse of the old John there.

“Let me have my bonnet!”

He lifted his arm so she would never be able to reach it, and merely smiled.

“John! Do not be a brute!” She didn’t understand what was going on, and she lifted her hand to slap him again, but his free hand caught her wrist. “The weather has touched you in the head, John!”

“Not the weather, Katherine.” He grinned. But then his smile slipped away and an austere look came over him.

Her heartbeat rang like a hammer on an anvil. Did he think it was acceptable to kiss a woman like that?

A dark light suddenly glowed at the heart of his pale eyes.

Her hand shook as she reached out for her bonnet again. She felt sick.

When he lifted it away once more, she said, “Let me have it, John,” feeling suddenly desperate and a little afraid of him.

“So you can cover up that pretty face. These things are a crime. Someone ought to make a law against poke bonnets. Perhaps I shall propose it in the house – every woman’s bonnet must let a man see her face.”

He was being ridiculous. “John!”

“Katherine,” he mocked.

She could not believe he was doing this. Nor that he had kissed her so crudely.

She had done nothing but worship him for nearly a decade and he was busy ridiculing her. She hated him suddenly. “Give me back my bonnet, John, and let me go, and you are not to come near me again. I am not something for you to play with, Your Grace.” Fool. You fool, Katherine.

His manor changed almost instantly and his hand let her arm go, as his other fell to offer her bonnet.

“It was not an insult, Katherine,” he said as she gripped it.

“Then you kiss every woman you see walking alone on a road, I suppose?” Of course he would not. Only the ones who were foolish enough to love him, and only the ones who had no family to protect them.

His fingers tightened on her bonnet again, crushing it, before she could free it from his hand.

“Not every woman, Katherine, just the ones who look at me with azure-blue eyes that say they long for it – just you, Kate.”

She felt herself turn pink but refused to play tug of war for her bonnet and let it go again.

“Give it to me,” she stated gruffly.

“No, not until you admit you wished it so.”

“No!”

“I’ll not beg your forgiveness,” he answered in a hard pitch. “You wished for it.”

“And you’ve grown arrogant, John Harding.”

“Perhaps so,” he said in a low harsh voice. “But you wished for it. You did. I know.”

“You cannot know.” There was anguish in her voice and, in answer, his eyes softened again and he held forth her bonnet once more.

“Katherine, you held me and kissed me back, you cannot deny it.” The words were gentle but they cut into her heart. She still craved him. It was almost desperation which she felt.

Tears rushed into her eyes. She had longed for it. But not like this.

His pitch softened further. “Your eyes expressed desire before I even kissed you.”

She lifted her hand to slap him again, but he caught it once more and raised his eyebrows.

She felt ashamed. They both knew what he’d said was true. She had turned and faced him, and her heart had leapt into her throat. His attraction was fierce today. He was half undressed, unshaven and he wore no hat, and he was simply, essentially, masculine – tall, strong, agile and assertive.

Was this what her natural mother had felt for her father, this desperation?

Katherine had wanted to be kissed, and if that desire was to be fulfilled, how else might it be done if not like this? He would hardly choose to marry her. There was a world between them, not simply miles. If she wanted kisses from him, they would have to be kisses like this.

She did not try to pull either her arm free, or her bonnet from his hand, she felt calm suddenly. “Give me back my bonnet, Your Grace. Please?”

“Say that you wished for it?” There was a cold hard look back in his eyes.

“No.”

“Say it.”

When she did not, his grip firmed on her arm, though it was not painful. “Say it!”

His voice rang with determination.

“No, John.”

His hand suddenly left her arm and then it was back at her nape bracing her neck and holding her firm as he pulled her mouth to his.

His kiss was a hard pressure against her lips. She had not imagined kissing to be like this. Her heart raced, and her fingers clawed into the muscle of his arms to steady herself. She felt faint and hot and liquid-boned.

It was brief, barely an instant long, but when he pulled away his pale eyes shone like glass with triumph. “You wished for it,” he whispered over her lips. “Say it.”

“Yes,” she answered, knowing she turned crimson as she did so. She felt the provincial idiot she was; gauche, weak and base-born.

He said nothing, his eyes boring deep into her soul.

What must he think of her?

“Here,” he said, letting go of her nape and her bonnet at the same moment. “I’ll give you a lift home.”

She felt disorientated and dizzy. She shook her bonnet, trying to get it to recover its shape, while she also tried to recall who and where she was.

Her hands trembled as she tied the ribbons and her legs felt weak, too weak to walk home.

She hadn’t looked at him since he’d let her take her bonnet. She looked at him now and saw questions in his eyes as he lifted his hand to take hers.

She accepted it, to climb up into his curricle, and said nothing. He climbed up beside her once she had slid across the seat.

Her throat was dry.

He released the brake and flicked the reins, setting his fashionable, expensive horses into a trot.

She hated herself.

His gaze turned to her.

She looked at him.

“I’m sorry, Katherine, I should not have kissed you, no matter that you wished for it.”

She felt like crying. Had he not even really wished to do it? Had he only done it because he’d realised he could?

A dark humour suddenly shone in his eyes once more. “But, then again, maybe I am not really sorry.” He looked back at the road.

“You have changed,” she answered, staring at him, not understanding him at all, and yet loving him.

His eyes turned back to her, a look of granite in them. “Life has changed me, Katherine. But you are not changed. Perhaps you can make me remember who I was?”

What did she say to that? What did she say to this stranger?

He looked back at the road ahead and flicked the reins again.

She gripped the side of his curricle and hung on.