Four Nights With the Duke(61)

       
           



       

"I was desperate," he said simply. "But I have another plan in reserve as well, in case verse isn't persuasive enough."

Of course he did. "What is it?" she asked.

"Here." He handed her a letter. It was stamped and sealed and looked entirely ducal.

Mia crooked an eyebrow at him, and then broke it open. She read it once. Three times. "You're blackmailing me?"

He nodded. "If you leave me, I will send that letter to The Times. The  entire world will know Lucibella Delicosa's real name. Everyone from the  king to the littlest scullery maid reading by the kitchen fire."

She laughed, and let the letter fall.

"Do you know what I want most?" she whispered.

"I will give you anything I own, Mia. Anything you desire."

He meant it.

"A kiss," she breathed.

Vander surged forward, taking her mouth as he pushed her backward onto  the carriage seat. His body felt wonderful on hers, and her blood sang  with the pleasure of it, so much so that tears came to her eyes. Her  arms curled around Vander as if her life depended on it.

"I love you," he told her again, just as one of his hands slid down and  cupped her breast. Madame duBois's bodice gave way and Mia's breast  spilled into his hand.

Vander bent his head and took her right nipple in his mouth. It felt so  good that Mia whimpered, and her body went liquid, boneless. One of his  hands had pulled up her skirts and was roaming, leaving quaking trails  of fire, coming closer to where she most wanted him to be.

"I want you," he bit out.

A moan broke from Mia's throat. "Take me, then," she whispered. "I'm yours, Vander."

He stilled. "Say that again."

His eyes had changed from tenderness to something infinitely wilder.  Still, he hesitated. "I do want you, Mia, but mostly I love you."

"You can have me," she said, giddy with the joy of it.

"Forever?"

"Forever."

There in the carriage, on a too-narrow seat, Vander came to her in heat  and love and laughter. He came to her with respect and adoration.

After a while, things had become hot and sweaty. Mia's tangled hair was  spilling onto the dirty floor. She was sweating behind her knees and  other places too. She was gasping because Vander kept taking her mouth  again, as if he could never have enough of her.

"I can't-not again. I-" she pleaded.

"Come, Mia," his voice was raw again. "Come with me."

She did.





A POEM WRITTEN BY THE DUKE OF PINDAR, WITH THE INVALUABLE AID OF MASTER CHARLES WALLACE CARRINGTON





Roses are Red, Violets are Blue.

Your duke respects you, and he loves you too.





Epilogue




The following morning, Gaunt had a terrible shock when he opened the  front door: Jafeer was grazing on the front lawn below Mia's bedchamber  window, riderless, his reins trailing.

Later that day, the sheriff paid a visit, reporting that Sir Richard  Magruder, who had been erroneously released from custody, had stolen a  horse, and was a fugitive from justice, had been thrown into a ditch in  the midst of his flight, and had died instantly of a broken neck.

Jafeer, it seemed, had not enjoyed having Sir Richard on his back.

In fact, he much preferred his own herd; as long as his family was near,  Jafeer was the most amenable of animals. In the year that followed, he  went on many a painfully slow walk, during which he pranced around  Lancelot and Mia. Yet no matter how ardently Jafeer courted her, Mia  adamantly refused to ride a horse that size.

The following spring Her Grace changed her story, announcing that she  didn't want to risk her unborn babe by riding a mount more energetic  than Lancelot.

Two years after that, she declared that Flora became very irritable if  separated from her mother for long periods, and so she meant to bring  her on her daily ride. No one would trust Flora-who had her father's  tumbling black hair and her mother's laugh-to a horse other than  Lancelot.

Flora was followed in rapid order by Cuthbert (named after a beloved  great-uncle) and by Edward (named after a special friend of his  mother's); thus the Duchess of Pindar successfully avoided being thrust  onto a monstrously tall horse for a long time.

By that point, Jafeer had won every race there was to win in all Great  Britain, and he'd retired to stand at stud, a task which he took to with  great enthusiasm.

Then, early one morning as the duke and duchess were lying about in bed  after behaving in a fashion that would have shocked their nearest and  dearest, His Grace pointed out that Lancelot was growing elderly, and  probably would be happiest remaining in the stable.                       
       
           



       

Since anyone in the world could tell that Lancelot would, indeed, be  happy never to leave his stall again, the duchess offered no counter  argument. His Grace added that Jafeer wasn't terribly tall, and besides,  all three of their offspring were dashing around on horses twice the  height of the duchess.

Mia was draped halfway across her husband, tracing circles on his chest  with one finger. "I simply can't believe the children all turned out to  be such giants," she said with a sigh. "They were tiny babies, and now  look at them."

Vander kissed her forehead. "They have your beauty and my height."

"Do you know, I think Bertie might become a novelist? He told me a story  about something that happened at Eton with a perfect sense of timing."

Later that morning, Vander helped his wife onto Jafeer's back, much to  Mulberry's astonishment. Though Mia showed a lamentable tendency to  cling to the pommel and close her eyes-and Vander felt very strongly  that all riders should keep their eyes open-they finally ambled down the  path that led through the wood.

After that, there was never another horse for Mia.

If Mia had spent a great deal of energy avoiding Arabians, the same  could not be said for Charlie. Just as Vander had predicted, Charlie  quickly became the finest equestrian in five counties. He was fearless  on the back of a horse, and could handle the most intractable of  stallions.

At Eton, he had special permission to miss classes for various races,  which at first caused not a little envy. But once the other boys came to  understand that as long as young Lord Carrington rode for the  equestrian team, Eton would not lose the Steeplechase Cup-a silver  goblet that had been traded back and forth between Eton and Harrow for  years-well, after that, no one begrudged him the missed classes or ever  dared to call his lordship "Limpy" or "Peg-Legged Pete."

In fact, as Mia confided to her editor, Mr. William Bucknell-who had  ceased to be Mr. Bucknell and become simply "Will" a few years before-it  was as if her nephew had taken one look at the duke and decided to  become Vander.

"Charlie has grown so muscled wrestling half-trained horses that he even  looks like my husband; no woman notices his limp," Mia said. "And he  talks like Vander as well. By all accounts, Miss Alicia Gretly, who is  pretty enough to be one of my own heroines, is pining away for love of  my nephew. But when I mentioned it to him, Charlie winced and said that  when he took a wife he planned to chase her, rather than the other way  around." She wrinkled her nose. "Precisely what Vander would have said  at that age!"

Will Bucknell couldn't help laughing. It was the first day of his annual  monthly visit to Rutherford Park, during which he edited the duchess'  latest manuscript; that month was invariably the happiest of his year.  "If he follows His Grace's pattern, Lord Carrington has a good ten years  in which to find the right woman," he pointed out.

"It seems like only yesterday that he was a tiny boy, hopping around  with his crutch," the duchess said with a sigh, picking up her quill. "I  suppose we ought to start working; we've been gossiping for at least an  hour."

Before Will could reply, the duke poked his head in the door. "Might I  lure my wife away for a brief consultation on a matter of grave  importance?"

Will watched with some interest. In his opinion, one of the reasons why  the duchess' novels were being compared, in some circles, with Miss Jane  Austen's, was because she took the joy that was so evident in her  private life and shared some of it with her readers.

But Her Grace was shaking her head. "Off with you," she told her  husband, blowing him a kiss. "No consultations until Will and I have  finished at least ten pages."

After the duke closed the door behind him, Her Grace turned back with a  wide, impish smile. "Did you see how peaceably he left? If you can  believe it, my husband used to think that he could always get his way.  It took me at least a year of marriage to disabuse him of that notion."

Will couldn't think of an appropriate response, so he tapped the pile of  manuscript pages that lay before him. "I suggest that before we look  closely at any given scene, we discuss the fact that your hero, Lord  Xavier Hawtrey, loses his memory after being thrown from a horse and no  longer remembers his own wife."