It's Hard Out Here for a Duke Page 2

  Yes to another drink.

  Yes to more conversation.

  Yes to everything else that would follow.

  Just as she had predicted, that one yes led to another and another and another and to this . . .

  Later that night . . .

  A kiss. There were sparks when his lips touched hers later, much later, that night, in the privacy of the darkened corridor upstairs.

  Meredith felt like she was finally being sparked to life with this kiss, as in the fairy tales she always hated. Life wasn’t like that for most girls who lived and breathed in the real world, she knew that well.

  But this kiss on this night with this man had her reconsidering heroes and fairy tales and kisses that woke a girl up. There was a spark between them, and she chased it like it was the only light in a world of darkness.

  “I don’t even know your name,” he murmured, hours after they had met. They had chatted for hours and names hadn’t seemed necessary.

  “Just a girl.”

  He didn’t need to know her name because names were for knowing each other, and this would only be tonight.

  Lips parted.

  A gasp.

  A reach for more of him, of her, of this ember smoldering between them and slowly but surely bursting into flame.

  Those flames were like hope, like life, like the warmth that had always eluded her.

  “I’m James. Just James.”

  Meredith wrapped her arms around him and murmured, “Just kiss me, Just James.”

  One kiss led to another, which led to the soft click of a door closing behind them, shutting out the rest of the world. What was before and what would come after ceased to matter. There was only this man, this girl, this moment.

  She heard the rustle in the dark as he lit a candle, and then saw the soft glow of a single flame.

  “I want to see you,” he explained.

  It made her eyes feel hot. No one ever wanted to see her, really see her. She was inconvenient, she didn’t fit in, she was too much of this or too little of that. But this man wanted to see her; his hunger for her was plain in his eyes. God, it felt good to be seen and hungered for.

  It made her feel strong. Bold.

  Like the night was just beginning.

  There was the soft sound of fabric rustling as she undid the lacings on her dress and let it fall to the floor, revealing herself to him.

  There was the sound of his sharp intake of breath when he saw her in next to nothing, opening herself up to him, laying herself bare.

  There was the sound of her pounding heart, roaring in her own ears as she let herself feel, really feel, his touch. Her skin tingled in the wake of his caress.

  His touch was gentle as he reached for the curve of her waist, above the flare of her hips and below the swells of her breasts. His touch explored all those curves, slowly, gently, achingly, deliberately.

  As if he wanted to know her. Or memorize her for later.

  One night. Just this one night.

  She stood still, breathing deeply, savoring the trail of heat in her skin, left in the wake of his fingertips. Meredith willed herself to remember this sensation, this man, this night.

  One night. Just this one night.

  Their mouths met for another kiss. Open lips, tasting each other.

  Growing bold, she reached for him. Skimming hands over his chest, feeling the linen of his shirt bunch up beneath her hands. Wordlessly, he lifted it off and cast it aside. For a second, he seemed shy. Or perhaps it was just something in the way his hair fell forward into his eyes.

  Now she pressed her bare palms against his warm skin, feeling the ridges and planes of his muscles and the smattering of hair across his chest. She imagined she felt his heart pounding hard beneath her palms.

  She imagined it beat for her.

  But she wouldn’t allow herself to imagine that it meant anything, that this could be anything more than one night of passion.

  He pulled her close, and his mouth found hers for another kiss, one that blurred the lines between where he ended and she began. He was hungry for her.

  She wanted him, too, with an intensity that did not surprise her. She so often felt shut away, alone, unseen and untouched. Which is why she was here, taking this chance, and giving herself up to this mad passion. And mad was not a word she used lightly.

  James cupped her breasts, teasing the pad of his thumb across her nipples. A sigh escaped her.

  He pressed kisses along her neck. And when his hot mouth closed around the dark centers of her breasts, she moaned with the pleasure of it, especially when his tongue went to work teasing her.

  This pleasure he stoked in her made her bold. Meredith reached for the waistband of his breeches, stroking her fingers along the edge where fabric met his skin. Dipping her finger beneath, wanting but unsure.

  She felt his lips curve into a smile even as he kissed her.

  Then he removed his breeches.

  The next thing she knew, they were entwined on the bed, fevered skin against fevered skin. Only for a moment—certainly not forever—it felt like heaven.

  Chapter 1

  All of London is breathlessly awaiting the arrival of the new American Duke of Durham. He is expected in town any day now, though Her Grace, the Duchess of Durham, has been remarkably tight-lipped about him.

  —Fashionable Intelligence, The London Weekly

  London, 1824

  A few days later

  As their carriage rolled closer and closer to London, James thought about her. Just a girl, she had said, before she kissed him deeply, opened herself up to him, invited him in, wrapped him around her fingers, teased him to unknown heights of pleasure, made him forget, made him feel alive, made him fall half in love with her.

  Just a girl. Ha.

  He didn’t even know her name.

  He thought of her when Amelia insisted on not only stopping at the ruins of an old castle she’d read about in her guidebook, but also finding a knowledgeable local person to provide a tour, which may or may not have been accurate, but certainly made for a lengthy afternoon activity that delayed their trip.

  James didn’t mind. He was in no rush to get to London.

  He thought of her when Bridget and Claire insisted on traveling to one more town over so that they might stay at a nicer inn. Would she be there? Or was she at the one they’d left? Where was she going anyway? So many questions he hadn’t asked, because he’d kissed her instead, assuming that she would be there still in the morning.

  He thought of her while his sisters alternately chattered amiably and then bickered (over what, he could not discern). Claire provided a lengthy and tedious explanation of Euler’s equation, then they all sang songs for hours and hours on end. Lord help a man trapped in a carriage for days and days with three sisters.

  And now they were closer, closer, closer with every turn of the wheel.

  Closer to London.

  Closer to Durham House.

  Closer to a future his father had abandoned and a future James wasn’t sure he wanted.

  James was a simple man, a country boy, accustomed to wide open spaces and expansive blue skies.

  The buildings rose up tall, reaching into a sky gray with smoke and smog, and towering over everything.

  He enjoyed the solitude and spaciousness of their farm in Maryland, with endless green pastures and cool, quiet forests.

  In London, the narrow roads were thick with people, some dressed meanly and some dressed in a finery rarely seen back home. The lot of them combined to make a thick, pulsing mob.

  Their carriage was moving at a glacial pace through streets thickly congested with carriages, cattle, and people. His lungs constricted. He couldn’t breathe.

  And now the carriage was slower, slower, slower.

  Stopped.

  The Cavendishes had arrived in London.

  James looked up at the house. The stately building seemed to soar toward the sky, and the limestone seemed to glow in the afte
rnoon light. This was no mere house; it seemed like a concrete ray of light from Heaven, ordained by God Himself.

  It was a grand residence designed to impress and intimidate. Success, James thought wryly. This was his now and it terrified him.

  James swallowed hard as a fleet of servants exited the house from the large front doors and decorously lined up on the cobblestones. So elegantly and expertly did they do this that he wondered if they had practiced and if they had been watching and waiting for his arrival.

  The women wore dark dresses pinned with starched white aprons and caps. The gentlemen were dressed in blue-and-gray livery, which happened to be of a finer style and quality than the clothes he wore.

  He thought of her, again, and her comment on his plain attire. It hadn’t bothered him then, but he was keenly, awkwardly aware of it now.

  The lot of them just kept coming, lining up and waiting to serve him.

  But not yet. Not yet.

  James had promised himself that none of this became real until he set foot in London, and, as he was currently ensconced in the carriage, he technically had not done so.

  Therefore, he could still flee.

  His sisters were exiting the carriage, one after another, spilling forth in a mass of skirts and petticoats and bonnets and curls and girlish chatter. Bridget dropped her diary on to the cobblestones, Claire tripped on the carriage step, and Amelia gaped openly at all of it, her loosely tied bonnet tipping off her head as she looked up and up at the huge house.

  He could go.

  And God, he wanted to.

  His heart was pounding, blood roared in his ears, something was lodged in his throat, and he couldn’t breathe. The city was closing in on him, all these people were waiting for him, expecting things from him that he didn’t know if he could deliver.

  He was a simple man, of simple pleasures. He was happiest on his farm, with dirt on his boots and the company of his horses.

  He wasn’t . . . this.

  James could order the driver to take him away, anywhere. At this moment, he had half a mind to. More than half. They could drive straight to the docks, where he could board a boat for America, back to the land that was green and beautiful and his.

  Back to the horses he’d trained from birth. He’d had to say goodbye to them, their big brown eyes somehow knowing that he was leaving them forever, his friends, his life, the things that made him him. And for what?

  Everything in him urged him to flee, to turn and to run. Like a wild horse running from a wolf.

  But then he caught sight of a familiar face. One that had made him look twice, then a third time, then he couldn’t stop. It was a face of beauty and mystery that had haunted him ever since he woke up expecting her and found she’d vanished.

  She was just a girl, she had said.

  But she was also here.

  James stepped out of the carriage.

  Oh, hell . . .

  An elegant older woman dressed in a blue gown stepped forward to greet him. She was fair and of slight stature but held herself in a manner that suggested an ability to command armies with nothing more than a politely worded order. James recognized her demeanor from his work with horses; dominance needn’t be displayed with size or brute force. It was a subtle energy conveyed through a look, a word, and self-possessed confidence.

  “Your Grace,” she said. He started to turn to see to whom she was speaking but quickly realized she addressed him. “Welcome to London.”

  “You must be the Duchess of Durham,” James replied to Josephine Marie Cavendish, the Duchess of Durham, daughter to the Earl of Cambria, and God only knew how many other titles or royal connections she possessed.

  Was he supposed to bow to her? Shake her hand? He was acutely aware that an entire phalanx of servants watched his ignorant behavior.

  “Presently, yes,” she said with a pointed smile. And so it begins. “I trust your journey went well.”

  “Yes, very well . . .”

  James looked past the duchess to her, his Just A Girl who by some twist of fate or the grace of God happened to be here. He couldn’t quite wrap his head around it, but he was glad. He couldn’t quite wrench his attentions away from her, either—though she steadfastly refused to look at him.

  “And these must be your sisters,” the duchess said, gesturing to the pack of girls standing behind him.

  “What? Yes.”

  Right. He was the duke now. He had to set an example. Manners, et cetera. Paying attention to the business at hand and not staring like some gawking schoolboy at the girl he thought he’d lost forever. His Just A Girl was here, standing with the line of servants, but not quite a part of them. She did not wear a uniform like the others, but she wasn’t standing with the duchess, either. He didn’t understand how she fit into the household.

  Claire elbowed him and muttered something like, Pay attention.

  James straightened and introduced his sisters, awkwardly aware that there was probably some protocol he didn’t know for this situation, and thus he was probably doing it wrong and everyone would laugh about it later, behind his back.

  The duchess then performed introductions to the staff.

  There was the butler, Pendleton, who appeared to be approximately six hundred years of age. Down the line they went, and James was introduced to the gray-haired housekeeper, a French cook, upstairs maids and downstairs maids, footmen and groomsmen.

  Each and every one curtsied or bowed and murmured something about being honored to serve His Grace. He mumbled a reply, hoping it was the right thing to say. Not only had James no training in How To Be A Duke, his father had rarely spoken of upbringing in England and the ducal household. He was at a disadvantage from the start.

  But James did his best to focus on the people speaking to him and not the one woman who did her very utmost to avoid meeting his eye. There was no trace of the coy gaze, sweet smile, or laughter from the other night. Today she refused to even look at him.

  Why wouldn’t she look at him?

  Meanwhile, he was waiting for an introduction to her, the Just A Girl who had made love to him and left him to wake up alone.

  She hovered behind the duchess like a shadow.

  They were all about to enter the house when James couldn’t let this continue.

  “Wait. You missed someone.”

  He didn’t miss the flash in her eyes.

  “Oh, but of course,” the duchess replied. “This is my companion, Miss Meredith Green.”

  Bloody hell . . .

  Their entire house in Maryland could fit in the damned foyer of this place—James hesitated to call it a house when castle or gilded fortress might be more appropriate. It was obviously designed to impress and intimidate, what with masses of marble and gold covering every available surface. It worked; this all belonged to James now, but even he felt like a small boy with his mother nearby hissing, don’t you dare touch anything.

  The drawing room was just as bad, or grand. It was a large, airy room with windows overlooking a garden, delicate bits of furniture scattered about, massive paintings hanging on the way, and delicate, fragile breakable things on every available surface. Excess was the theme—everything was patterned, engraved, or gilded, or all of the above.

  James had never felt so huge and hulking, like he would inadvertently break one of those chairs or accidentally knock over a precious porcelain vase.

  And he was supposed to live here. Ha.

  But none of all that could hold his attention for long because she was here. It was some miracle to have found her again—and so soon and so close. He would have taken it as a sign if he believed in those sorts of things. Perhaps he would start.

  The duchess indicated that they should all sit.

  Miss Green sat by the duchess, behind her slightly. When he last saw her, her honey-hued hair was spread out on the pillow; now it was parted in the middle and pulled back. Her complexion looked just as lovely in the light of day as by candlelight. But her mouth was set
in a firm, discouraging line. She now boldly met his gaze with those doe eyes and ever so slightly shook her head no.

  Then she resolutely looked away.

  The message couldn’t be clearer.

  We never happened.

  I don’t know you.

  We will never happen.

  Forget about me.

  But that no was an acknowledgment that he wasn’t imagining things. She had been real. What they had shared had been real. James felt his breath still, his heartbeat slow, his brain getting stuck on one thought: But . . . why?

  He knew his reasons for that night, but what of hers? He knew he was a duke now, and probably had vastly more important matters to attend to than the matter of a woman, but tell that to something deep inside that craved her and wanted to know the mystery of her. She hadn’t seemed like the sort of woman who dallied with strangers in taverns, and this all but assured it.

  “How was your journey?” the duchess inquired.

  “It was quite long,” Claire said.

  “I found it very hard,” Amelia added.

  “The motion of the ocean had me quite . . . overset at times,” Bridget said.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” the duchess murmured. “But I am so glad that you have all arrived here safely.”

  “We are also glad to have arrived safely.” Leave it to Claire to be diplomatic. In truth, they all had mixed feelings about leaving home and embarking on this journey. James now had the sense that the crossing wasn’t even the half of it. That’d been merely an interlude and now, now, the real journey was truly beginning.

  “Do we call you Josephine?” Amelia asked.

  “We do not.”

  “Josie?”

  “You may address me as Duchess or Your Grace,” she said graciously.

  “That’s awfully formal. And we are family,” Bridget pointed out.

  “Indeed we are.”

  Her Grace, the duchess, not to be known as Josie, had long ago married their uncle, the fifth Duke of Durham. When he expired, the title went to his younger brother, Henry—their father, who had long ago bucked all expectations and left England to marry an American woman he’d met and fallen in love with during the war. The four American Cavendish siblings, presently ensconced in a London drawing room, were the result of that union.