Anthony set out for the Chilcott home the following afternoon. He was tired, having suffered yet another restless night with thoughts of Miss Chilcott, and he still wasn’t sure of what he would say to Mr. Chilcott—how best to make his case so that he wouldn’t be turned away yet again. Pondering this, he trotted along at a leisurely pace, his horse’s hooves stamping the road that led toward Moxley when suddenly, in the distance, he saw someone walking toward him. As he got closer to the individual, his heart rate picked up in realization of who that person was.
It was Miss Chilcott—there could be no mistaking it, even though her face was downcast as they approached each other, leading Anthony to suspect that she’d determined his identity as well and was probably hoping he wouldn’t notice her. As if such a thing had been possible.
As he came closer to her, he pulled his horse to a complete stop and tipped his hat in salutation. “Good afternoon, Miss Chilcott.”
She looked up at him, her hand shading her eyes against the afternoon sun. “Oh, Your Grace—what a surprise!”
Did the color in her cheeks just deepen, or was he imagining things?
“What brings you all the way out here? You must be at least a mile from town.”
“I . . . er . . .” As if unaware of where she actually was, Miss Chilcott looked both left and right before returning her gaze to Anthony, who was trying his damndest to keep his expression straight. “I was on my way to visit my aunt with a pie.” She held a small basket up for him to see.
“Does she live far from here?” Anthony asked, a little concerned that a woman of Miss Chilcott’s beauty was roaming the countryside on her own. Had she no inkling of the sort of danger she was placing herself in?
“Another mile perhaps—there’s a turn up ahead that will take me straight there.”
Looking down at her, Anthony considered his next move. She looked dazzling with the sunlight casting a golden glow upon her hair. Her gown was simple and white, yet so much more enticing than the more elaborate ones he’d seen ladies in London wear. And then of course there was her bosom, of which he was afforded a very clear view from his vantage point.
His stomach was not the only part of him to tighten as he thought of what it might be like to bare it. Bloody hell, Casper was right—he might have stopped behaving like a rake, but his mind was not so easily controlled.
Taking a tight hold on the reins with his left hand, Anthony swung himself down onto the ground, landing right in front of Miss Chilcott. He turned to face her, noting the look of surprise and . . . was that dread in her eyes? “Allow me to accompany you.”
“I cannot possibly,” she gasped. “It’s . . . it’s not proper.”
Intrigued by her level of discomfort, Anthony leaned toward her. “How so?”
“We have no chaperone.” She looked around again, like a naughty child who feared being caught. “If anyone saw us together, it would make things quite difficult for me. You see, I am to marry Mr. Roberts, in case you were not aware. Whatever will he think if he hears I’ve been out walking alone with you?”
“I imagine he’d thank me for seeing to your safety,” Anthony said. As reluctant as she was for his company, he was enjoying their discussion. Determined to win, he added, “Besides, if anything were to happen to you—a sprained ankle perhaps, or, God forbid, something worse—I’d quite simply never forgive myself.”
Letting out a deep sigh, Miss Chilcott nodded. “Very well then,” she acquiesced. She started walking again while Anthony kept pace, leading his horse by the reins.
“Do you often go for walks like this? On your own?” he asked.
Turning her head, she met his gaze, her deep frown alluding to her displeasure at the question. “I suppose you’re about to tell me that you don’t approve.”
Sensing she would not respond well to overprotectiveness but feeling an elemental need to keep her safe, Anthony shrugged and said, “The world can be a dangerous place, Miss Chilcott. I merely mean to caution you.”
Looking at her, he could tell she was struggling with what to say. Her voice was low when she eventually spoke—so much so that he had to strain to hear her. “Thank you, Your Grace. I shall take your concern under advisement.”
Well, she’d certainly taken the high road, which of course only served to increase his admiration of her. “So, what sort of pie are you taking to your aunt?” he asked after a moment’s silence.
Miss Chilcott didn’t turn to look at him as she said, “Apple,” her eyes fixed firmly upon the horizon.
“Something tells me you’re not so fond of apple pie yourself,” Anthony prodded.
She gave him a wary look, held silent for a moment and then said, “To be honest, I’ve grown tired of the flavor. I enjoy variety in my food, you see, but this past year Mama has been particularly fond of serving apple pie for Sunday tea.”
“I’m more partial to blueberry myself,” Anthony confided. “Or something entirely different, like chocolate—I must admit I’m very fond of chocolate.”
Miss Chilcott finally relaxed and chuckled. “It appears I’ve just discovered one of your indulgences. Am I right?”
“I suppose so,” he said.
“What else do you enjoy, Your Grace, besides eating chocolates?”
Talking to you . . . better yet, kissing you.
“Many things, especially horseback riding, the company of friends, the opera—”
“The opera?”
“Does that surprise you?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been myself, but it’s always been my understanding that gentlemen went only for the sake of accompanying the ladies—not because they actually wanted to.”
Anthony smiled. “I think it’s an acquired taste—you either like it or you don’t. Believe me, Miss Chilcott, I’ve seen many sleepy-eyed ladies at the opera as well. One mustn’t generalize.”
“No, of course not,” she agreed.
Eyeing her, he took in the soft slope of her nose, her high cheekbones flushed a delightful shade of pink, and her deep, rosy lips. A lock of hair had torn itself free from its fastening and was presently blowing across her cheek, tempting Anthony to pull it away and tuck it behind her ear. He resisted the urge and asked instead, “What are your enjoyments, Miss Chilcott?”
She tilted her head to look at him. “As you already know, I love to read.” Her eyebrows rose a little as she added, “But if you want me to be more specific, then Romeo and Juliet is my favorite—I know it by heart.”
“So you’re a romantic by nature,” Anthony said and was rewarded with a smile.
“Undoubtedly, though it’s not always the most beneficial trait to have. I often wish I were more practically inclined.”
“You think life would be easier then?”
She brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes. “I have no doubt that it would. Romantics have a bad habit of dreaming of things they cannot have and later of what might have been had things been different.”
“And what are your dreams, Miss Chilcott?” He knew he was being bold, but he couldn’t help himself—it was too tempting.
She breathed deeply, her features tightening around the edges, and he knew that she was aiming for indifference. Shaking her head, she said, “That, Your Grace, is irrelevant.” And then, as if to deter him from pressing the matter further, she smiled brightly and added, “Did I mention that I can split an apple in half by twisting it?”
“Really?”
He must have sounded very dubious, for her smile turned to one of mischief. “You don’t believe me,” she stated matter-of-factly.
“I’ve just never seen anyone do something like that before, and frankly, it does sound a bit unlikely.”
Her laughter went straight to his heart, urging it to beat faster. “It has nothing to do with strength, you know, but rather with skill.”
“The skill of picking an apple soft enough, no doubt,” Anthony muttered.
She stopped walking, eyes narrowing. “Are you suggesting I’m a charlatan?”
“Not at all, Miss Chilcott—I wouldn’t dare.” But the memory of her deception at the ball hung in the air around them, and he knew that she had to be just as aware of it as he.
They continued on in silence for a few more minutes when she suddenly stopped, turned toward him and said, most seriously, “I know you came to my house hoping to find Miss Smith. I’m very sorry that you didn’t.”
Anthony steeled himself for a moment. Did she really wish to go on pretending that he didn’t know that she was Miss Smith? It was absurd to his way of thinking, and yet he found himself submitting to her game. “I couldn’t agree more, for I felt a true connection with her . . . as if we were meant to be together no matter what, but she obviously didn’t agree, or she wouldn’t have run off the way she did.”
“Perhaps she was scared?” Miss Chilcott suggested, her voice barely more than a whisper.
Scared?
“I cannot imagine what she might be scared of,” he said, hoping she’d say something more.
“You have done an admirable job of turning your life around, Your Grace, but be that as it may, your rakish reputation is not so easily forgotten. It would be difficult for any young lady to associate with you without tarnishing her own good name and that of her family in the process. No, I can understand Miss Smith’s way of thinking—she probably means to marry a reputable gentleman who can offer her respectability and comfort.”
Anthony gritted his teeth. He’d been the perfect gentleman toward her at the ball—well . . . almost perfect. He hadn’t planned on kissing her. Surely that had to count for something. Besides, it could have been worse. He could have submitted to his urges and had her right there in the library.
Recalling how lost she’d been in their kiss, he felt certain she wouldn’t have stopped him. The thought of it sent a wave of heat surging straight to his groin. He winced as he felt himself harden. “I have behaved most honorably since becoming a duke and without the least bit of wrongdoing.” It was the truth. What surprised him was how much he enjoyed this new way of life he’d chosen. For the first time since he could remember he felt a calm togetherness, as if his life was finally on the right track, though he was certain that it would be much improved with Miss Chilcott at his side. She was also the only person who threatened to bring out the rake in him, not for the sake of ruining her but to win her, and he heard himself say, “But after meeting Miss Smith . . . I find my resolve wavering.” He paused, watched as she sucked in a breath, and then took a step closer. “She encourages me to abandon all thoughts of propriety, to stop acting like the decent gentleman who never thinks of what it might be like to hold her . . . touch her . . . kiss her in the most wicked way I know how. If anything, Miss Chilcott, it is I who should fear Miss Smith, for I do believe it is she who poses a threat to my reputation, and not the other way around.”
“How can you say such things?” she gasped. “It’s entirely inappropriate.”
Keeping his eyes trained on hers, he began removing his gloves with slow deliberation. Reaching up, he then touched his hand against her cheek, allowing his fingers to trail along the soft skin until they reached her lips. Her eyes widened, her breathing turned shallow, and a deep flush rose to her cheeks.
But she did not turn away, or even move as he ran his fingers over the plump, strawberry-colored flesh. And when he pressed her lower lip down, suggesting she grant him entry, her eyes closed and her lips parted, letting him in. It was the most erotic thing he’d ever experienced, watching her take his finger in her mouth . . . feeling the wetness of her tongue as it brushed against him. Heaven above, he couldn’t believe he’d been so forward—could not believe that she had accepted such an advance. What on earth were they thinking? This was an act she would surely regret.
They weren’t exactly kissing, and yet there was something far more intimate about it . . . something very suggestive that led to thoughts of tossing her on the ground and burying himself inside her until this unbearable yearning went away.
He knew better though. The sort of need he felt for her was not the kind that would ever go away even if he was fortunate enough to act out his every fantasy with her. No, it was only going to grow stronger—become more and more demanding. Pulling his finger away from her mouth, he tugged her against him, his arms encircling her in a tight embrace. She opened her eyes but said nothing—just gazed back at him with eyes that begged, Kiss me.
So he did. His mouth closed over hers, and he was delighted to discover that she was ready to meet him, her lips parted to allow him immediate entry. And as their tongues swept over and under each other, Anthony heard her sigh, whimper and groan. He heard himself groan too, the pleasure she offered so rich and full that it was impossible for him not to.
There was a soft thud against the ground and Anthony realized she must have dropped her basket, for in the next moment, her arms came around his neck, pulling him closer—urging and enticing him. He ran his hands slowly down her back, pausing at her waist before allowing them to roam lower still, across her bottom. She responded with another groan as he gently squeezed and forced her up against him.
Abandoning her mouth, he kissed his way along her jawline until he reached her ear. Allowing himself the pleasure of pushing up against her, he held her firmly in place as he whispered, “You were correct in your assessment of me, Miss Smith, for though I may appear to have abandoned my sinful ways, my thoughts of you are most wicked indeed.”
Isabella did not doubt him for a second. She could still feel the proof of his desire as it pressed against her. The worst of it was that she liked it. Good Lord! It was deplorable, unseemly, scandalous and about a dozen other awful things. To her horror, she couldn’t stop her errant mind from thinking it absolutely wonderful as well. Heaven help her, she was no better than a doxy—whatever must he think of her? Based on what they’d just done and what he’d told her, that she was the sort of woman whom he could take some rather alarming liberties with. The thought did not sit well with her at all. Placing her hands against his chest, she gave him a small push.
To her surprise, he disengaged himself from her immediately and stepped back, leaving her with a sense of abandonment that failed to allow the feeling of relief she’d been hoping for to take root. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but what we just did . . .” She looked around, fearful that someone might have seen them, but there was nobody else on the road. She let out a deep sigh. “I hope you’ll try to forget this ever happened. I am to marry Mr. Roberts, and I will not have you ruining the chance of that happening.”
“He hasn’t even proposed!” The duke sounded well and truly agitated as he crossed his arms over his chest and stared back at her with defiance.
“He will,” she said. “It’s only a matter of time.”
He stepped toward her again, looming over her with his broad shoulders, dark eyes and tousled hair. “Don’t do it, Miss Chilcott. Don’t marry him.”
“I must, for the sake of the security he offers to me and my family.”
Something deep and dangerous ignited in the duke’s eyes. “He cannot offer this.” And before Isabella knew what was happening, she was in his arms again, his lips were on hers and her arms had found their way around his neck once more. It was the safest course of action really, considering she’d probably collapse on the ground if she didn’t hold on to him with all her might. No, she couldn’t imagine Mr. Roberts being so seductive. In fact, she couldn’t imagine him being seductive at all.
Their intimate encounters with one another would probably be meticulously scheduled, and whatever they would do, it would not have anything to do with passion but everything to do with the production of a child in mind. Pushing the thought aside, Isabella tried not to think of it, willing herself to enjoy the kiss the duke offered instead. But then it ended—much too abruptly for her liking—and she found herself standing alone once more with a decent amount of space between them.
“Marry me,” the duke said, a raw longing emanating from his eyes. “Marry me, and I will promise to give you this every day for the rest of your life.”
Swallowing hard, Isabella blinked. She felt faint. Had she just received a marriage proposal from the Duke of Kingsborough in the middle of a dirt road? Her mind reeled at the possibility of his offer, even though she knew, sadly, that she could not accept. Instinct told her to fling herself into his arms and say Yes, with all my heart, yes, but instead she just stood there, until slowly, she shook her head. Her throat closed at the look of anguish and disappointment that filled the duke’s every feature at her rejection, and it was sheer willpower that forced the words from her throat. “Forgive me,” she said, choking back the tears of despair that she feared would overcome her.
“Why?” His words were softly spoken, but when she found herself unable to answer for the knot in her throat, his voice rose to a near roar as he repeated the question. “Why?”
“My father has made an agreement with Mr. Roberts—it is the honorable thing to do.”
He stared back at her in disbelief and eventually shook his head. “It is a stupid thing to do—an action you will come to regret many times over.”
“You cannot possibly know that,” she said, annoyed by his accusation.
“Of course I can,” he insisted. “For the minute you marry him, you’ll find yourself waiting on him hand and foot. He doesn’t give a damn about your needs or your desires, but only about his own. I believe your question yesterday about reading will attest to that. You like to read, but he doesn’t. Consequently there will be no more reading for you once you marry him. Is that really the sort of life you desire? One where your husband will dictate each detail of your existence for you just so he can take you out in public on occasion, the way other men might take out their horse?”
Shocked by his statement and pained by its accuracy, her hand flew across his face in a hard slap. Her blood was boiling she was so enraged—at Mr. Roberts for wishing to deny her freedom, at her parents, who’d made the match, at herself for being too honorable to reject Mr. Roberts’s attention and at the duke for making her doubt a decision she’d long since come to terms with.
For a moment they just stood there staring at each other, their breathing coming hard as they fought for control. “I will not allow you to speak of Mr. Roberts in such a manner,” she said. If she was to hold on to her sanity, then she had to believe that marrying Mr. Roberts would not be as bad as she feared, and the duke was not being the least bit helpful in that regard. “Being a duke has obviously led you to believe that you can toy with people’s lives as you see fit, that you can have whatever you wish for regardless of the consequences.”
He didn’t respond, but there was no mistaking the dangerous glint in his eyes as he stood there staring back at her. Clenching and unclenching his jaw, he finally said, “I advise you to think very carefully about your decision to marry Mr. Roberts.” His anger abated and his voice grew softer and gentler as he spoke. “I should hate to see you sacrifice yourself in such a meaningless way.”
“There is nothing meaningless about it, Your Grace.” Whether he wished it or not, his words riled her.
“Yes, there is.” He reached for her hand, and she was powerless to pull away as the heat of his touch seeped under her skin. “You have an alternative in me. As you have just pointed out, I am a duke, Miss Chilcott. Don’t tell me I do not trump Mr. Roberts’s offer any day. Whatever reason you think there is for having to choose him over me—the agreement he has with your father as you claim—is exaggerated, I assure you. But the matter will not be made easier once he makes his offer, which is why I would strongly urge you to make it clear to him now that you will not accept him.”
“Why?” she asked, unable to believe that he would be willing to sacrifice himself for her—a mere nobody—when he could have any woman he desired. “Why would you wish to marry me? We hardly know one another.”
Tilting his head to one side, he appeared to consider her question quite thoroughly. “True.” He paused for a moment before saying, “May I speak plainly?”
“I would encourage you to do so,” she said, curious about what he planned to confide.
“Very well then . . . to be quite blunt, I am seven and twenty years of age. My experience with women has not been . . . limited.” Isabella felt herself blush, but, sensing the importance of what he was about to divulge, she kept her eyes on his in spite of her embarrassment. “But then I met you, and I felt something different than what I’ve felt for all the rest—a connection that made all my prior experience inconsequential. I know that it may sound strange to you, but trust me when I tell you that whatever it is that binds us together is rare. It’s not something that I can turn my back on with ease, for I know I’m unlikely to find it again with someone else.”
What on earth could she possibly say in the face of such a declaration? This was the fairy-tale moment she’d always dreamed of, and yet, tragically, it couldn’t be hers. She shook her head with sadness. “Even if I turn Mr. Roberts down, my parents will never allow me to marry you.” She didn’t have to look at him to know he had to be thoroughly confused.
“What are you talking about?” he asked, confirming her thoughts. “Any other parent in the world would be thrilled at the prospect of a duke paying court to their daughter. Why would they possibly be against it?”
She couldn’t look at him as she spoke, her words reflecting her sadness. “It is my mother, to be precise. She hates your kind and will never allow me to wed you.”
Silence filled the air with a crispness that crackled around them. Unable to stand it any longer, Isabella looked up at him and saw the incomprehension in his eyes. He shook his head and blinked. “She doesn’t approve of my history as a rake.” He spoke as if this had to be the obvious meaning behind Isabella’s words. “Surely she must know that I’ve given up on that life, but if not, I shall just have to prove myself to her.”
“It’s not that,” Isabella said, eliciting a frown from the duke. “She hates the nobility and everything it stands for.”
“Well,” he said, bringing her hand to his lips and placing a tender kiss against her knuckles, “then it is fortunate that your father shall be the one making the decision. I will speak to him.”
And I will pray for a miracle, Isabella thought, keeping silent this time, reluctant to say anything that might instigate another argument. She knew that he was right—that it was her father he would have to speak with, but that was only a matter of convention. When it came to actual decision making, her mother had some very firm opinions, and her father never resolved anything of importance without consulting her first. No, in order to marry the duke, she would have to elope with him, and that was something she could not do.
One late-night escapade behind her mother’s back was one thing, betraying both of her parents’ trust in her was entirely a different matter. She nodded, but there was no conviction behind it. “Get his approval, and you shall have mine.”
She watched him smile—the smile of victory close at hand. If he only knew the obstacle that awaited him in the form of her mother. He had no idea. Reluctant to ruin his good mood, however, she accepted the arm he now offered her and recommenced walking. They had lingered enough already. It was time she delivered the pie to her aunt.