If I Only Had a Duke(26)

"That's a good word for it." He held up the bottle. "This is fine triple-distilled malted barley Irish whiskey."

"Is it very strong?"

"I wouldn't say it's Thea-strength."

Thea frowned. "What does that mean?"

"Only that young ladies usually prefer sipping a light sherry. No shame in that. I enjoy a fine sherry myself occasionally."

She straightened in her chair. "I'll have some whiskey, please."

May as well. The novel experience might help her ignore the firm planes of his chest. And how large his hands looked surrounding the tiny glass as he poured her a finger's width of whiskey.

She took a tiny sip, proud that she didn't even sputter. Then another. It settled in her belly, warming her and loosening the knot between her shoulder blades.

"Beef stew and whiskey. My how the lady is coming down in the world," he teased.

"I suppose I am." Thea glanced around her at the plain furnishings. "Definitely the inn art has lowered a notch."

"Inn art?"

"You know, the same five reproductions of classic paintings on the walls of every inn across England. There must be hundreds of apprentice painters madly copying those same five paintings, day after day."

He shook his head. "Can't say I've noticed."

She waved her whiskey glass at the wall. "A Gainsborough, of course. It never fails. Inns always choose the most innocuous landscapes. Fluffy clouds. A church spire in the distance. Puffs of grazing sheep on a hillside. It's comforting, wouldn't you say?"

He narrowed his eyes at the landscape and Thea took the opportunity to pour more whiskey and drink it down.

"I don't like it," Dalton pronounced. "Not enough goddesses."

Thea laughed. "You didn't like the Titian on the ballroom wall, either. Are you truly not a connoisseur of art?"

"Haven't thought about it much."

"Have you thought any more about your art collection at Balfry?"

"I may be coming around to the idea." His eyes glowed in the candlelight.

There was knock at the door and Thea rose to collect Dalton's fresh shirt and cravat-wouldn't do for him to answer the door half-naked. Might give Betsy heart palpitations.

Though it truly was a shame to cover him up, she thought as he slipped the shirt over his head.

Obviously, that was the whiskey talking.

He tied his cravat only loosely.

"I find I like whiskey," Thea said. "Truly a marvelous invention."

Whiskey gave her the courage to do things like this . . . She piled her hair on top of her head, arching her back until her bosom thrust forward.

He watched hungrily and she reveled in the power she held over him.

She dropped her hair and shook her head, loving the weight of her hair against her back, its soft brushing against her neck.

There was more than one way to convince a duke to unveil his art collection.

The wayward thought settled through her mind like the whiskey warming her belly.



Dalton clenched his fork, attempting to ignore her and failing miserably.

She shook out her hair, and the firelight teased it into flame.

Despite his best efforts to relegate her to that part of his mind reserved for Problems, Perils, and Plagues, he found her too desirable, and too intriguing.

Her conversation sparked with wit, and a natural, easy sensuality infused her every movement.

He admired her courage as well. Defying her fire-breathing dragon of a mother and leaving her safe, cosseted life behind was a very brave thing.   





 

"Oh, look," she said, lifting the lid off the last silver dish. "Trifle!" She dipped her finger into the dessert in a decidedly unladylike fashion and then . . . oh, God, then she licked her finger.

And Dalton was lost. Maybe they could sleep together on the same bed. Have just a taste of fun. Not too much.

"Mmm," she said, closing her eyes. "Sponge cake." She licked her finger again. "Apricot jam. Sweet cream flavored with sweet wine." She licked the last morsel away. "A hint of lemon, and frothy egg whites. Luscious."

She was luscious. Her eyes closed, her cheeks flushed from the whiskey and the heat of the fire. Those apricot and lemon curls spreading across the red velvet back of the chair.

She scooped a spoonful of trifle directly from the dish. "I'm going to devour this."

The trifle, he amended for the benefit of his ever-ready and ever-hopeful prick.

"Oh, that is . . . there are no words." She took another bite and this time her eyeballs fluttered beneath her eyelids.

Did the woman have to act like the trifle was bringing her to ecstasy? "I gather you like it," he said harshly.

"It's perfect." She frowned. "You don't want any? You really should try it." She took another bite and her tongue darted out to catch a stray bit of fluffy egg whites.

His cock danced hopefully.

"Here." She scooped up a gooey bite of trifle and held it out to him. "Please try some."

He shut his lips tightly. "I don't like trifle."

"Have you ever tried trifle?"

"No."

"Just one bite."

And that's how all the trouble in the world began. He had to open his mouth, if only because of the fact that she held the bite toward his lips and he wanted to taste something she offered . . . even if it was only her spoon.

She took another sip of whiskey and giggled softly.

"What's so humorous?" he asked.

"Remember when I walked on your back? ‘Harder, Olofsson,' you said. ‘Do your worst.'"

"I remember," Dalton said. "How could I forget?"

"And then, you should have seen the look on your face when you realized it was me and not Olofsson. You wanted to strangle me."

His frown only made her giggle harder.

"I think you've had enough." He reached for her glass but she pulled it away and swallowed the rest in one gulp.

"If you only could have seen your expression."

"I see myself every morning in the glass and that's quite enough," he growled.

She laughed harder. "Admit it was funny."

"It may have been." He was trying to hide a smile but it broke through anyway. "I'm man enough to admit it."

"What you did today." She sighed. "Agreeing to convey Molly to Bristol. Staying here tonight so she can recover." She twirled a long buttery curl around her fingers. "You're very sweet."

No, he wasn't. What he was thinking about doing to her right now wasn't sweet at all. It was primal and nearly uncontrollable.

"And Molly does need our help," she said, sobering.

"How did she come to be standing in those bushes on the side of the road with that rusty old pistol?"

"I can't tell you all the details but there are . . . extenuating circumstances. She was driven to attempt robbery by a series of unfortunate happenings. She needs our help to go back to her family in Cork."

"Molly may ride with us." Dalton leaned back in his chair. The whiskey was starting to work its magic now, spreading a warm, sleepy languor through his limbs. "As long as the pistol stays with me."

"Oh, you." Thea grinned mischievously. "You grumble but you don't really mean it. It's true what Con said."

"What?" he asked suspiciously. "What did Con say?"

"Only that you were soft and sweet inside, and only wanted a good cracking."

"That meddling son of a . . . I'll kill him with my bare hands," he fumed.

"But it's true." She stared at him with that smug tilt to her nose. "All this gruffness and heartlessness. It's only an act. I've been watching you on this journey, you know."

She took another bite of trifle. "Something rings false. Or should I say it rings true . . . as if you do have a heart, and you want to do the right thing."

Now she needed to stop talking.

Dalton shifted in his chair.

Maybe he should sleep in the stables. That would be the only safe course of action. She'd been under her mother's thumb too long and was beginning to test her powers . . . of seduction and deduction.   





 

He relinquished his spoon and threw his napkin down. "I'd best be-"

"I'm also beginning to think you have a secret reason for going to Ireland," she announced, waving her spoon in the air.

He forced himself to stay still, not to move a muscle, or twitch even a corner of his mouth. If he ran away right now it would be too suspicious.

She couldn't possibly be going to say that he was a duke by day and a crusading justice fighter by night.

"Oh, I have secrets," he said, sitting back down, smiling carelessly. "You caught me." He lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I have a secret reason for going to Ireland."

"You do?" Her eyes widened and she leaned closer.

"I'm not going to Ireland to visit a widow."

"What's the reason then?" She slid to the edge of her seat, breathless with anticipation.

Why was he going to Ireland? Think, Dalton. Make it plausible. And distracting enough to deflect her interest. "I'm going to find a . . . wife."

She nearly dropped her spoon. "A wife?"

"That's right." Dalton sat back in his chair and crossed his ankle over his knee. "It's a tradition for the Dukes of Osborne to take an Irish bride. I'm the age my father was when he married."

She snapped her jaw shut. "Uh."