It's Hard Out Here for a Duke Page 12

  The match took place on the outskirts of London, but first they paused outside of the Bull and Bear, while the groomsmen saw to the horses and carriage. Fox and Claire walked ahead slowly, while James and Meredith stayed a few paces behind, which allowed them something like privacy.

  “Do you know what this reminds me of?” James asked.

  “One of the many English villages you have visited,” Meredith teased, knowing he’d been to hardly any.

  “No. Southampton.”

  “I fail to see how. Southampton is a bustling port city and this is a provincial village, nowhere near water.”

  “Yes, but it is you and me outside of London, away from all the gossips in society, where no one knows us. All those things together remind me of the night we met,” he said.

  “I hate to inform you, Your Grace, but this mob is likely littered with peers, and younger sons, and all their scoundrel friends. At least a few of whom are likely to recognize us and retain the memory of it in spite of the massive quantities of alcohol they will consume today. It is a truth little acknowledged that men gossip just as much as women, if not more.”

  “Are you telling me that we must be on our best behavior even here, in this little village outside of London?”

  “Well if not the best, at least not the worst. If the duchess were to learn of this . . .”

  Meredith glanced up at him with worry in her eyes. James detected real concern there, and he was reminded about that conversation he overheard. There was more at stake, he suspected, than mere obedience.

  “Shhh. Let us not think of any of that,” he said. “Let us enjoy each other’s company on this beautiful day in this place, wherever we are.” Dropping his voice, he added, “Let’s pretend that it is the morning after our night together and we have the whole day to ourselves to do whatever we like.”

  “And you have taken me to a boxing match with thousands of people,” Meredith said dryly. But he caught the slight upturn of her lips—she was teasing him. “Oh, the romance.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re too fancy for a little sport.”

  “To be honest, this is my first time at an event of this nature. You might be surprised to learn that this is not the sort of engagement to which I normally escort Her Grace.”

  “You don’t say.”

  They laughed. He wanted to hold her hand. Just take her hand, interlace their fingers, and carry on . . . but he knew that she did not wish to attract that sort of attention, and he respected her wishes. So he did not reach for her hand.

  “I shall tell you what I think after the match,” she said. “In the meantime, I shall endeavor to enjoy these half-naked boxers along with all these people. I daresay I’ve never seen such a crowd.”

  “If you wanted to enjoy half-naked men . . .” James teased, while pretending to tug off his jacket.

  “Don’t even say it! Or do it!”

  “You’re blushing.”

  She smiled, and laughed, and looked away. “Quick, do change the subject. This is a most awkward topic of conversation.”

  That, too, reminded him of that night in Southampton. When she would nervously engage with him, but quickly withdraw. It was modesty, to be sure, and merely being sensible. Yet, given what he’d overheard the other day, James had the sense that there was something else, something more to Miss Meredith Green than he knew—a real reason she kept a duke at arm’s length.

  “You know, you never did tell me why you were in Southampton that night.”

  “I was just passing through,” she replied evenly. “Like you.”

  “From where?”

  “Visiting family in Hampshire.”

  “I didn’t know you had family. I mean, that is to say, I hadn’t considered it. My apologies.”

  “Of course I have a family, though I can see why one might assume the duchess was the only person I had. Occasionally I go to visit Hampshire to see . . . them.”

  Like always, she spoke with care. Her words, so cultivated and deliberate, made her seem elegant and refined. But James couldn’t help but wonder if there was more she wasn’t saying. Something more between the duchess this and the duchess that.

  “How often do you go?”

  “Rarely,” she replied.

  “Perhaps I will join you on your next visit.”

  “That is a lovely offer, but it won’t be necessary. You have important ducal matters to attend to. Besides, I’m not certain when I shall go visit next.”

  He glanced her way and saw that she was looking off in the distance, staying quiet, and content to let the topic of conversation lapse. He decided not to ask more questions—for now.

  “Do let me know if you intend to make another trip there. I shall endeavor to be waiting in the common room of a tavern, leaning against the wall, ready to make eyes at you across the room. But not in an uncomfortable manner.”

  She gave a little laugh. She didn’t laugh often enough, he thought.

  “An illicit, secret rendezvous,” she said in a low voice. “Outside of London, away from the attentions of everyone we know, just me and just you, just James . . .”

  Hearing those words, murmured in her low voice, did things to him inside. Got his heart pumping, the blood rushing, and it intensified his wanting. He wanted to be able to touch her, and kiss her, and feel himself inside her once more. He wanted that space where they could just be and breathe together, to hold her hand if he felt like it, to be free with each other, all without fearing the stares and comments of other people. Without worry about what the duchess would think.

  This place might do, if it weren’t for a massive raucous and rowdy crowd pulsing and shoving around them, spoiling for a fight.

  Oh, the romance indeed.

  Once they were all settled at the match, James paid barely any attention to his sister, who seemed to be perfectly content with Lord Fox, a fellow James found himself liking more than he expected. Though Fox had a reputation for being concerned only with sport, and excessively so, his explanation of today’s match and the boxers was rather insightful. It was a battle, Fox had intimated, between logic and passion, the head and the heart.

  Today, for James, the heart was winning.

  It had something to do with being out of London, away from the attentive eye of the duchess and the curious glances of servants. He felt more at ease knowing he wasn’t being watched so closely.

  It certainly had something to do with Meredith being near; he might not have been able to hold her hand or otherwise demonstrate affection, but he didn’t have to force his gaze away or observe some restraining protocol. As a result of all those things, he felt himself sliding into the old version of himself: relaxed and happy with the simple pleasures of a beautiful woman and a pleasant day. He hadn’t a care in the world.

  Then the fight began. The two boxers circled each other, fists raised. Minutes passed, then a half hour, then more, as the opponents swung and missed and jabbed and connected.

  It was all so base. And elemental.

  Yet studied and practiced all the same.

  The crowd was riveted, cheering and groaning and roaring with each move.

  James was aware of it all: the energy of the crowd, thousands strong, the hot sun beating down on them all, the sweat of the boxers and those watching. The fighters went too long without a hit; the crowd grew restless as they clamored for more action.

  All at once, it seemed the thousands of them surged forward in a hot mass of humanity, lifting people off their feet. Some stumbled and others fell.

  Meredith glanced at him, eyes wild with panic.

  He pulled her close, using his size and strength to protect her and keep her steady on her feet.

  She melted against him. Her body fit against his perfectly.

  Wanting rocketed through him.

  Lust and desire and the rightness of this feeling.

  All of a sudden he was taken back to that night . . .

  . . . holding her against him, feeling her breasts
against his chest, his arousal hard and pulsing against the vee of her thighs. Her face, tipped up to his so he could kiss her. And kiss her deeply he did, sinking his fingers into her hair to hold her close. All the while holding her, never wanting to let her go . . .

  This memory, this feeling was followed by an overwhelming sense of helplessness. He didn’t know how he was supposed to forgo this, or her. And by all accounts he must.

  He couldn’t go back to that night, but he couldn’t go on as things were in London. He couldn’t take bloody courtship lessons from Meredith, lessons he was supposed to apply to other women.

  No, it was intolerable.

  “Is everything all right?” Meredith asked.

  “I should be asking you that,” he replied.

  “I’m fine.” With you, her eyes seemed to say. Or was that just wishful thinking?

  “Are you all right, James?”

  His name on her lips. Like it should be.

  No, he wasn’t fine. He was in an untenable position of wanting what he couldn’t have—a romance with a certain girl—when anyone would think he had everything. No one wished to hear his laments. He couldn’t bring himself to completely disregard the rules, either, given that his sisters’ happiness depended in part upon how he conducted himself.

  The lot of it just made him so damned lonely.

  Even here, holding her, in a crowd of thousands.

  “As long as you’re safe,” he answered.

  “And Lady Claire . . .”

  “She has Lord Fox to watch out for her.”

  James glanced over just to make sure that was correct. And clearly, she had Fox, who held her protectively and possessively. Her cheeks were flushed bright pink—the heat, probably.

  One thing was plain: his sister was finding a match. A proper match.

  This prompted a selfish thought: If his sisters were properly settled, would he be more free to marry whom he wished, or less? Would he sacrifice their happiness for his? What kind of person was he for even considering it?

  But one more glance from Meredith’s big doe eyes, the slightest upturn from her lips and the slightest caress of her hand against his, and there was no way he wasn’t thinking about it.

  Later that night

  They arrived at Durham House much later in the evening to find that the duchess had taken Amelia and Bridget to some ton function. Claire pleaded exhaustion and retired.

  That left James and Meredith alone, at the top of the stairs, lingering in the corridor.

  Meredith knew why she delayed: she didn’t want this day to end. This day, which had been different than all the others before. It wasn’t the boxing match, or the travel or any of that. It was feeling equal, all day long, to her company: a duke, his sister, and a marquess. She acted as a gently bred lady, as she’d been raised to act, and the others treated her as if she was. There were no little tasks requested of her, however benign, to remind her of her place.

  Today, she didn’t feel any less.

  Today, she felt more.

  She felt like a girl, just a girl, flirting with a handsome man. One she’d given herself to and who still wanted her, plain as day.

  So, no, she wasn’t in any hurry for the day to end, which is why she lingered with James at the top of the stairs. He didn’t seem to be in any rush, either.

  “I’ll walk you to your room,” he offered.

  “Thank you, Your Grace. Though my room is just there.”

  They both looked in the direction she pointed—her door, one of many in the family wing. Just right there. So close.

  “One never knows what dangers might befall you on your way. Pirates, murderers, highwaymen . . .”

  “Rogues and scoundrels,” she continued. And then, because she was feeling daring and different today, she added, “Or handsome, tempting dukes.”

  He grinned at her and leaned against the wall.

  “You think I’m handsome?”

  “Are you scrounging for a compliment?”

  “From you, yes.”

  Lud, but the man’s blue eyes had some sort of sparkle. Even in the dim light of the sconces above, she could see that mischievous, flirtatious glimmer. And it was directed at her—and, she had noticed, often just her.

  Since he was so unabashed in showing his feelings to her—if one knew where to look—Meredith, emboldened by the day, decided to flirt right back.

  Just this once.

  “All right. I think you’re handsome. And tempting. But I can’t believe you need to hear me say it to know it.”

  “Maybe I didn’t need to. But what man wouldn’t want to hear a beautiful, intelligent, and sensual woman complimenting him?”

  What woman wouldn’t want to hear herself described thusly?

  “So you’re just like any other man?” Meredith replied. She took a step toward him, closing the distance between them.

  “I’m nothing special,” he said, his voice husky. A little vulnerable, even.

  “You are, but not for the reasons you might think, and not for the reasons anyone will tell you.”

  And then she touched him. Just a small, gentle caress along his jaw. At this hour, it was a little rough with stubble. If he hadn’t cut his hair, she would have pushed a lock of it away from his face.

  He caught her hand. Held it against his cheek. Then his heart.

  When he said, “I don’t want this day to end, Meredith,” she was undone.

  She was done.

  Done resisting. Done denying herself. Done feeling second-rate. At least for tonight.

  “Maybe it doesn’t have to?” she whispered.

  “What are you saying, Meredith?”

  “One kiss can’t hurt, can it?”

  He tugged her darker into the shadows, where they wouldn’t be seen. He tugged her right into his waiting arms, which folded around her, holding her close to the warmth of his chest.

  Meredith tilted her head back, waiting for and wanting his lips on hers. She had only to wait a second before his mouth claimed hers.

  This. Like souls connecting with each touch and taste and back and forth and give and take. This, passion fusing them together in binds that were invisible but that felt unbreakable.

  This was not just a kiss.

  “I wanted to hold your hand all day,” he whispered, interlacing his fingers with hers. “Just hold your hand. Like I was yours and you were mine.”

  I want to live a life and live in a world where we can, she thought. But words were beyond her now, so she just squeezed his hand to let him know she wanted nothing more than to hold his hand, too.

  There was little talking after that.

  Just lips touching and tasting.

  Hands roaming and caressing.

  Hearts beating, hard and steady.

  Soft sighs, sweet exhalations of bliss.

  Closer and closer they became until there was no space between them, nothing but stupid layers of fabric and fashion.

  Meredith threaded her fingers through his hair.

  James cupped her cheeks in his hands.

  Her back was up against the wall, her world reduced to her and to him, to this little universe they created out of shadows and kisses.

  She couldn’t think of should and should not when he lovingly caressed the curve of her jaw, pressed a kiss on the curve of her neck, or when his hands skimmed along the curve of her thighs, ruffling the fabric, and swells of her breasts.

  The whole house, the whole city, the whole damn country ceased to exist when she felt his weight against her, and felt the evidence of his desire of her pressing at the vee of her thighs.

  When he sighed “Oh, Meredith,” nothing else mattered. Nothing.

  Until it did.

  Until the illusion that they were alone was shattered.

  Until the duchess and the sisters entered the house and climbed the stairs, leaving just enough time for their entry to pierce their little world, just enough time for them to reluctantly part, putting a suitable distan
ce between them.

  “Ah, good evening,” the duchess said, eyeing them both.

  Meredith, foolishly, pressed her fingers to her lips, full from kisses.

  The duchess’s eyes narrowed.

  James was breathing hard.

  The duchess’s lips flattened into a thin line of disapproval.

  Meredith discovered that, yes, one kiss could hurt.

  Chapter 9

  A duke will occasionally encounter the consequences of his actions.

  —The Rules for Dukes

  The next day

  The drawing room

  When one’s very existence was at stake, there was really only one thing to do: pretend everything was absolutely normal and focus on one’s embroidery. The next morning found Meredith, the duke, his sisters, and the duchess in the drawing room.

  She and James locked eyes immediately.

  What do we do about last night? she asked, wordlessly.

  He shook his head as if to say, don’t worry about it. Act normal.

  Then he picked up a newspaper. He leafed through the sporting section while the duchess continued her perusal of the gossip columns.

  Lady Bridget was writing in her diary—if Meredith was curious about the contents, she need only to wait until Lady Amelia read it and informed the rest of the family, as she was wont to do.

  Lady Amelia was browsing through her London guidebook, occasionally folding down a page or circling something that struck her fancy. Meredith admired her optimism that she would have a chance to explore the city, beyond the ballrooms and drawing rooms. She stuck the needle through the fabric, and pulled. When had she given up on her own adventures?

  Lady Claire was busy at work on a mathematical problem—she was a genius with numbers, as Meredith witnessed when she chaperoned her to lectures at the Royal Society.

  The lectures were, as one might expect, frightfully tedious to one who was not passionate about that sort of thing. But they gave Meredith a chance to wonder at what talents she might have and what she might do with her brain besides merely being a companion, if such an opportunity ever presented itself. As a young girl of limited means, she hadn’t been encouraged to dream.