If I Only Had a Duke(21)

A lady certainly never knocked a gentleman's hat off his head. Or imagined ripping his coat off to expose the powerful chest she'd seen last evening.   





 

My heavens. She was becoming a wanton.

And she loved every second of it.



Most of the time a kiss was just a kiss for Dalton. Lips meeting, seeking invitation, claiming acquaintance. A prelude to the act of lovemaking. A conversation that didn't require words.

Sometimes, very rarely, it became something more, a glimpse of heaven, of redemption.

And then there was this.

Dalton was lost from the moment his lips touched hers.

Lost to danger, lost to thought.

Her clever tongue matched him stroke for stroke as she opened wider, allowing him more access.

The noises she made. Soft little surprised moans. The way she pulled him toward her with her fingers threaded through his hair.

Where was the repression, the prudishness, the passivity? Weren't vestal virgins supposed to be timorous and unsure?

Thea took to kissing with an enthusiasm that had him harder than the carriage wheel spokes. All that repression must have primed her for this moment. And she was letting go.

Flying free and swift into passion.

He'd kissed her to stop her from talking. To distract her. Maybe even to frighten her a little. Take her out of her safe world of theoretical danger and into reality.

Stop that quick mind from uncovering his secrets.

And then he hadn't been thinking at all because she'd licked those plump, pink lips, so close to his, and he'd needed to taste, drink, claim.

He trailed the tip of his finger along the pulse in her neck, the hollow where his thumb fit perfectly in the depression.

She moaned and shut her eyes. He nibbled at her lip and she opened for him and then he slid inside again, tasting that sweet mixture of innocence and abandon.

Maybe this was his first kiss, not hers.

The strange thought came, unbidden, and wouldn't dislodge.

If there'd been enough room he would have pulled her onto his lap, but he couldn't, and the restriction acted as an aphrodisiac.

He cupped her cheek with his hand and stroked his thumb down across her lower lip while he kissed her.

Sensation without emotion.

The release of physical gratification without the need for intimacy.

Those were the principles that governed his dalliances.

He never truly gave himself to a woman. There was always a part of him watching from someplace outside his body. Observing. Remaining separate and untouchable.

But all that talk of the Hellhound . . . and Dalton had become him. The primal warrior. Balanced on the knife's edge of lust.

Full of raw, visceral need. The need for victory. For dominion.

His body had created some twisted idea that claiming her was his new purpose in life.

The window fogged over.

He nudged her lips apart with his thumb and deepened the kiss. Her soft breasts pressed against his chest.

She rubbed her velvety cheek against him like the brush of a cat's tail as it swished past him.

Hell, he wasn't strong enough to resist that invitation.

He kissed her neck, her flushed peach-colored cheeks, the delicate skin behind her ear.

His belly tensed and his cock strained against his breeches' flap.

Her small hands settled on his cheeks.

He thought she was stopping him, but instead, she leaned her head up and kissed the corners of his mouth. Then she kissed the indentation in his chin. "I've been wanting to do that since we waltzed," she breathed.

He closed his eyes.

She could teach some widows he knew a few lessons.

The carriage shuddered-or did he shudder? No, it was the carriage.

They slowed to a halt with a squeaking of wheels and a shouted whoa, there from the postilion.

Dalton drew away swiftly, calming his erratic breathing with an effort, and retrieved her bonnet from the floor.

The door opened and Con's face appeared, his nose red from the cold.

He took one quick look at Thea's rumpled hair and swollen lips and raised his thick eyebrows.

Dalton cleared his throat. "Ah, why have we stopped?" And when had it grown so dark? How long had they been kissing?

"Why don't you come see for yourself?" Con grunted. "It's the damn queerest sight I've seen in some time, begging your pardon, my lady." He lifted his cap to Thea.

"Quite all right, Con." Thea tied her bonnet ribbons, restoring at least a thin layer of propriety.

"I-I could use some fresh air," she said.

Con held out a hand to stop her from moving. "Best stay in the carriage, my lady."

"Why, what's the matter?"

"Your money or your life," came a thin voice from the side of the carriage.

Really? A highwayman? Dalton thought.

Didn't the fellow know those days were long past? It was becoming increasingly rare to encounter highwaymen with all the guarded turnpikes along the road.

Con's weathered face split into a grin. "We're being robbed at pistol point."   





 

"And that's amusing because . . . ?"

"You should see the highwayman. Or should I say, highway lad. Can't be more than fifteen. Voice hasn't even changed yet. Sounds like a damned choirboy."

He'd rather face a dozen highwaymen than more of Thea's questions.

And her kisses were even more perilous.

Dalton turned to Thea. "Nothing to worry about, my lady. This will be over swiftly."





Chapter 10





God damn it, Dalton mentally kicked himself. You're a beast. A rutting beast.

Too occupied kissing the lady entrusted to his care and protection to notice they were being robbed by a highwayman.

A sorry excuse for a highwayman, but he held a pistol nonetheless and appeared to believe he might convince them to part with their money.

The hapless fellow couldn't be more than sixteen, with a round face covered in freckles, and fierce brown eyes. No doubt the son of an impoverished farmhand, driven to the act by hunger. A tall lad, but skin and bones. Hardly any shoulders to speak of.

"Hand over your coins," the lad said. "Don't want your bank notes."

Con had been right, the highwayman sounded like a girl. Poor fellow.

"Easy now," Dalton cautioned Con under his breath. "We don't want to frighten him. Pistols and jumpy, scared lads are never a good combination."

"Now then, my fine lad," Con said jovially. "No need to wave that thing about."

It was a rusty old pistol. Might not even be loaded.

But they had to assume it was.

Dalton and Con exchanged a quick glance.

Dalton would distract the lad, while Con moved to disarm him.

The hired postilion wisely stayed silent atop the carriage seat, attracting no attention.

Dalton fumbled for the coins in his waistcoat pocket. "Here you are, lad. More than enough for you." He held out a shiny guinea and the boy's eyes followed his fingers hungrily, while Con edged closer.

"Don't call me lad." The highwayman raised the pistol higher, aiming straight for Dalton's chest. "I'm the Dread Dark Baron, Knight of the Roads."

Dalton would have laughed if that pistol hadn't been staring him down.

"Why don't you lower that," he said soothingly. "We're armed to the grinders and twice your size. Take these coins and run back home to your mother."

Con was nearly there now, moving silently, preparing to strike. One quick jab with his wrist and he'd knock away the pistol.

In three . . . two . . .

"Why, you ought to be ashamed of yourself," an indignant female voice pronounced.

Thea. Of course. She'd exited the carriage and appeared to be marching toward the highwayman, her fists stuck onto her hips and her face forbidding.

Con wavered, unsure whether to strike.

"We're handling this, my lady," Dalton said, tensing in preparation to wrestle Thea out of harm's way when Con attacked.

Now what was the unpredictable female doing? Instead of following orders, she walked right up to the highwayman.

"Don't you know you're doing it all wrong?" Thea asked indignantly.

The highwayman gave her a guilty glance. "I . . . I am? I'm sorry."

Had he just apologized to her?

"You're supposed to wait until the cover of true nightfall," Thea said. "And you're most definitely supposed to wear a kerchief tied around your nose and mouth so that people can't see your features."

Was she lecturing the highwayman?

He should have Thea ride postilion with a pistol. She obviously didn't need his protection. "My lady," he warned sternly. "Con and I are in control of this situation."

Which generated about as much response as he'd assumed it would.

She marched to the highwayman and stuck out her open palm. "Give me that pistol."

The highwayman hung his head. "I'm sorry, my lady. I was that desperate."

"Give it here."

To Dalton's astonishment the lad placed his pistol in Thea's palm. She held the handle gingerly between her thumb and forefinger.

The highwayman's unlined face softened into a near smile. "I'm sorry, Lady Dorothea. I didn't know what else to do. And I never thought I'd see someone I knew. You're the first carriage I tried, honest."

Dalton and Con exchanged puzzled glances. Had the highwayman just called her Lady Dorothea?

Dalton turned to Thea. "Do you, perchance, know this highwayman?"

She leaned forward and snatched off the highwayman's cap and two long black braids tumbled out. "Highway hoyden, more like. This is Molly. We met in Ireland. How on earth she ended up as a highwayman outside of Bath, I am sure she will enlighten us. Now come along, Molly. Into the carriage. Before anyone else sees you."