My One and Only Duke--Includes a bonus novella by Grace Burrowes (30)

Adam fought down the instinctive fear he’d felt when Miss St. John had wobbled on the stairs. She hadn’t fallen. He’d caught her. There’d be no blood at the bottom of the staircase this time. He watched as Miss St. John’s breasts rose and fell beneath her fichu. The sight awoke the hunting instinct within him. She was ripe for the picking, so close and so innocent.

Innocent.

He blinked, pulling back enough to put space between their bodies.

He didn’t, as a rule, chase unmarried ladies. Ladies who were unused to the sport of passion—the pursuit, the sly dodging and weaving of the prey, the inevitable mutually satisfactory capture.

Miss St. John, for all her quick wit, her rapid verbal parries, was a virgin.

And he did not touch virgins.

Adam let go of her, his fingers lingering even as he withdrew—perhaps to steady her.

Perhaps to feel her in his grasp for as long as possible.

He inhaled, trying to calm himself. It was uncommonly hard, maybe because while his intellect told him this woman was forbidden, the male animal within him considered her his prize.

But man was nothing without intellect.

He forced his lips into a nearly civil smile and held out his arm. “You mentioned tea.”

Miss St. John blinked as if waking from a deep sleep. Gratifying, that. One’s pride always liked to see a female ensnared, even if she was to be let go.

Then Miss St. John’s eyes narrowed at him and any hint of enthrallment vanished. “Tea. Of course.”

She ignored his proffered arm and continued down the stairs, chin tilted at an imperious angle.

He bit back a smile and trailed her, watching the twitch of her skirts and the angle of her shoulders.

They made the lower floor and she turned a corner, continuing at a brisk stride that was no doubt meant to outpace him. In that she failed. She was, after all, a full head shorter than he and thus presumably had correspondingly shorter legs.

Legs.

He shook himself. Best not to think about Miss St. John’s legs, hidden so well under those swishing skirts. Were they shapely, with a generous curve from ankle to knee? Or did she have lithe thin calves, muscular from walking? And her thighs…

No, no, no.

This was incorrigible even for him. He needed to keep his eyes—and thoughts!—above Miss St. John’s waist.

She stopped at a door and gave him an amusingly stern look before opening it.

The sitting room was all that was considered wonderful in the Christmas season: a roaring fire, green boughs decorating the mantel, two dogs lounging before the fire, and a roomful of people.

Adam repressed a shudder.

“D’Arque.” St. John nodded at their entrance. “I hope all is well with your grandmother?”

“We shall soon see,” Adam replied, forcing cheerfulness into his voice.

“May I introduce you to my family and our house guests staying for the Christmas season?” Miss St. John asked.

“Please.”

She nodded. “You know my half brother Godric and his wife, Lady Margaret, who are visiting from London.”

“Half brother?” Adam looked with interest between Sarah St. John and Godric St. John.

“My mother was our father’s first wife,” St. John spoke up. “Clara”—here he bowed to Mrs. St. John—“was my late father’s second wife. Hedges is the dower house.”

Miss St. John cleared her throat. “If you don’t mind me continuing?”

“Do.” Adam waved a gracious hand just to see her eyes narrow.

Miss St. John nodded. “May I present my mother, Mrs. St. John, and my sisters, Charlotte and Jane?”

Adam bowed first to the younger women and then to Mrs. St. John, a pleasant-looking woman. “Madam. Thank you for your most gracious hospitality.”

The smile Mrs. St. John bestowed on him lit her face from within. “Think nothing of it, Lord d’Arque. I’m only glad that we could be of help.”

She had the blond hair of her daughters, though now dulled by gray, and red cheeks and chin. Both of Miss St. John’s sisters were pretty girls, though Charlotte St. John, with fine green eyes and a perfect oval face, was obviously the beauty of the family. The sisters sat close together like huddled birds, and Adam felt his lips twitch at the sight. They were obviously fond of each other.

Miss St. John turned to the remaining two members of the party. “My lord, may I introduce you to Sir Hilary Webber, our neighbor from the next county, and Gerald Hill, Baron Kirby, a second cousin twice removed of my sister-in-law, Lady Margaret?”

Both men were not much past thirty. The first was large and rather alarmingly athletic looking, as if he were a latter-day Hercules. The second was tall and thin and wore a neat white wig and spectacles.

Adam bowed to both.

“Good to meet you, my lord. Awful business, your carriage wrecking on the high road,” Sir Hilary said in a loud voice that was surprisingly high pitched. “Roads are terrible hereabouts. Happens in the country, I’m afraid.”

“It’s true,” Lord Kirby said. “My carriage nearly wrecked as well, and we were driving in fair weather.”

“Lord Kirby traveled from Edinburgh, where he is well known as an expert on exotic flora,” Miss St. John explained with a small smile at the fellow.

Adam’s own eyes narrowed before he remembered: she wasn’t his. She wasn’t even potentially his. If Miss St. John had an interest in Lord Kirby and his boring plants, then it was no concern of Adam’s.

Still. He rather felt like growling.

“My lord.”

The call came from the doorway where Dr. Manning stood.

“Excuse me,” Adam murmured to the ladies, and strode to Manning. “How is my grandmother?”

The doctor gestured him into the hall and Adam clenched his jaw against possible bad news. Grand-mère was three and eighty, and though she seemed an indomitable force, she was only human.

Manning turned once they were out of earshot of those in the sitting room. His broad country face looked grave. “Lady Whimple is beset by pleurisy,” he said bluntly. “She told me she has pains in her chest and a shortness of breath, not to mention a persistent cough.”

It was a moment before Adam had himself under control enough to speak. “Can you do anything for her?”

“I can give her such medicines as I have at my disposal,” Manning said slowly, “but the most important treatment is bed rest. It’s imperative that Lady Whimple not be moved for at least the next fortnight.”

Adam stared. It appeared that he and his grandmother were to be uninvited guests at Hedge House for Christmas.

The next morning dawned with the kind of bright, clear light that occurs only when the sun reflects off snow.

Sarah threw back the coverlet of her bed and rose.

Her maid, Doris, was already busy stoking the fire. “Good morning, miss. I do hope you slept well?”

“Yes, thank you, Doris,” Sarah replied, making for the pitcher of fresh hot water on her nightstand. “And you?”

“Oh yes, miss, despite all the bother over the viscount’s servants come to stay.”

Sarah wet a cloth and began to wash her face. “Were you able to find beds for everyone?”

“We did indeed, miss.” Doris gave a final brush to the hearth and stood. “Mind, we was crowded already due to the valets comin’ with the gentlemen and o’ course Lady Margaret’s maid, but there. I’ve shared a bed often enough as a wee thing it’s no worry now.”

Sarah glanced at her maid. “That sounds crowded.”

Doris shot her a smile. “It might be, but it’s Bet the scullery maid who’s my bedmate. We bunked together so as to give Lady Whimple’s maid her own bed. Bet always has a jest or two, not to mention all the best gossip.”

“Well, I’m glad everything’s worked out,” Sarah said.

“Yes, miss. Will the pale-blue dress do today?”

“Please.”

Doris helped Sarah with her toilet and then curtsied and left the room with a handful of linens for mending.

Sarah inspected her hair in the mirror one last time, decided to change her earrings to a pair of blue enamel drops, and then left to make her way to the breakfast room.

The house was quiet this morning, many of the guests perhaps still abed, so when she came to a corner of the hallway she could clearly hear a masculine voice talking.

“There you are, sweetheart. What a lovely thing you are. I wonder what your name is?”

For a moment she froze in outrage. She knew well that voice. How dared he…? Sarah set her chin and walked briskly around the corner to confront the brazen oaf.

But as she rounded the corner she found Lord d’Arque crouched over Harriet, one of their two dogs. The spaniel was shamelessly splayed upon the floor as he rubbed her belly.

His lips were quirked up, his eyes intent upon the happy dog, and his long fingers burrowed through her fur.

Sarah felt a bit warm at the sight. Something about the lazy, sensuous slide of his fingers, the gentleness in his face…

It was as if she had caught him unawares, as if his sharp, cynical walls had lowered for a moment and she saw a different man within. The intimate glimpse of the man caught her by surprise. Made her insides soften and tremble. Was this the real Lord d’Arque? The man who cared tenderly for his grandmother and apparently had an affection for dogs? Had she truly been wrong about the viscount all along?

He glanced up and it was as if she could see those walls rising, shielding whatever—or whoever—lay at his core. “Miss St. John. Good morning.”

She blinked, still a little dazed. “Harriet.”

He raised his brows, looking amused. “I beg your pardon?”

She inhaled, mentally shaking herself. “The dog you’re petting and who is making a regrettable display of herself is Harriet.”

“Ah.” He looked down at the dog, who had become so debauched her tongue lolled out of her jaws. “Harriet. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.” He gave her a last rub and then uncoiled slowly, standing much too close to Sarah.

She inhaled and stepped back, her heart—silly thing!—insisting on beating fast. She wasn’t a young girl anymore—a girl who’d once fallen under the spell of a cad. She was too intelligent, too experienced for this.

Lord d’Arque smiled, his eyes alight with something wicked. “I’m afraid I’m rather used to females making themselves shameless for me.”

Sarah was very proud of herself for not blushing at his risqué comment—he was so obviously trying to shock her.

“Are you?” she asked, infusing her voice with just a smidgen of doubt.

She turned and continued toward the breakfast room.

If she’d thought to set Lord d’Arque in his place, she failed. He immediately matched his stride to hers, walking along beside her. Harriet scrambled to her feet and followed along, panting happily.

“Oh yes,” he said, as if she’d truly been asking a question. “I don’t wish to seem vain, but it’s rather embarrassing, truth be told, how often ladies make a play for my attention.”

“How awful,” Sarah said with mock sympathy. “You must be tripping over them constantly.”

“Oh, indeed,” he replied, his voice lowered to a rich timber. “That’s why you are so utterly refreshing, Miss St. John. You resist my charms so completely, you might as well be a maiden hidden in a tall tower.”

For some reason that rather hurt. Was he saying she was without passion, without interest to the male sex?

The thought made her grumpy, which was ridiculous. She didn’t want the viscount’s attention. She was glad he thought her unattainable.

Still she might’ve opened the door to the breakfast room with a little more force than was absolutely necessary before marching in.

“Good morning, Miss St. John,” Dr. Manning said as he rose along with Sir Hilary and Lord Kirby. The three gentlemen were at the long breakfast table, various foodstuffs piled before them.

“Good morning,” Sarah replied, consciously making her tone cheerful.

She crossed to the table and began to take a seat, but Sir Hilary pulled out the chair beside him. “Will you not sit here, Miss St. John, where the light will not hit your eyes?”

Since the sunlight outside wasn’t yet coming in the windows, this seemed a rather silly argument, but Sarah smiled and diverted her course toward Sir Hilary.

She sat in the indicated seat and couldn’t help noticing the triumphant look Sir Hilary gave Dr. Manning and Lord Kirby, who were on the other side of the table.

“You’re quite right, Webber,” Lord d’Arque said from her other side. Sarah turned to find the awful man lowering himself into the chair beside her. “The sun is much better here.” He picked up a basket and turned to Sarah. “Bread?”

“Thank you,” she murmured, taking one of the still-warm buns.

“Tell me, Webber,” the viscount continued, buttering a piece of a bun. “Are you a married man?”

“Ah,” Sir Hilary said, and unaccountably blushed. “No, no. Not as yet.”

The viscount raised his eyebrows. “Indeed? And you, gentlemen?”

“I have not achieved that happy state,” Lord Kirby said.

Dr. Manning simply shook his head.

“Three bachelors,” Lord d’Arque mused. He snapped his fingers. “Oh, pardon me. Four bachelors, for of course I haven’t a wife or even a fiancée.”

Sarah stiffened, waiting for the viscount’s next words and dreading them.

But it was Lord Kirby who spoke up. “Do you know that my father had four bachelor brothers? And my grandfather three? In fact there are quite a number of gentlemen who eschew the fairer sex.”

Oddly, this provoked a lively discussion among Lord Kirby, Dr. Manning, and Sir Hilary.

Sarah looked on bemusedly as she sipped her tea.

However, she was glad for their distraction when Lord d’Arque reached across her rudely to pick up a platter of gammon.

He was too close to her, she could feel his heat, smell the faint scent of sandalwood on him.

It was distracting.

So she was utterly unprepared when he asked, “Tell me, Miss St. John, are you on the hunt for a husband?”