Inigo blinked, stunned, only coming to his senses as Minerva’s gloved fingers curled around his.

  “I… I should be honoured to, your grace. Thank you,” he managed.

  The duchess nodded before chivvying the rest of the women up and herding them back towards the door. Her hazel eyes settled on him for a moment, considering. “I admire anyone who makes a success of their life, especially those who have struggled against adversity. I, for one, do not believe the act of being a gentleman is something one comes to by birth. I expect you to be a gentleman, Mr de Beauvoir. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Prue!” Minerva exclaimed, glaring at her cousin in exasperation.

  “It needs saying, Min,” Prue replied, perfectly calm and never taking her attention from Inigo.

  For his part, he felt like a scolded toddler. She was remarkably intimidating for such a slender young woman. Inigo squared his shoulders, scowling a little.

  “I’ve warned her she ought not come, she ought not be here with me,” he said, every bit as belligerent and irritated as he sounded.

  “And how is that working out for you?” Prue replied with the faint lift of one eyebrow.

  Inigo huffed and folded his arms.

  “Precisely,” she replied, clipped and cool, though her lips quirked a little. That ghost of a smile faded, and she took a step closer, lowering her voice. “Being married to a duke has certain advantages, Mr de Beauvoir. It gives me the power to do you a good turn, but hurt my cousin and I’ll hurt you where you’ll feel it most.”

  Inigo hadn’t been threatened since he was a boy, at the hands of those bigger and stronger than he was. It still felt the same. He was vaguely aware of Minerva groaning and putting her head in her hands. The duchess stepped back and gave them a broad smile.

  “Have a lovely afternoon. Min, we’ll collect you at four as arranged. Goodbye, darling.”

  The duchess swept out with a rustle of expensive fabric, leaving them alone. They heard the front door bang shut. Inigo sat on the edge of the workbench, uncertain what had just happened.

  Chapter 10

  I think it’s the right thing to do. I mean, you married a man you didn’t know at all, one that wasn’t even very nice to you, and look how that turned out. I know Mr Burton isn’t what I’ve dreamed of, but how many of us get to live our dreams? I don’t believe he would hurt me, and I’d have a lovely home, a family. The sensible thing is just to accept his offer when it comes and be grateful that he asked, and so that is what I shall do.

  Don’t you think it’s for the best?

  ―Excerpt of a letter from Miss Matilda Hunt to Mrs Ruth Anderson.

  Still the 21st January 1815. Church Street, Isleworth, London.

  “Inigo?”

  Minerva set the basket she was carrying down and move towards him. Inigo didn’t move, leaning his weight back on the workbench and watching her warily as she approached. She stepped between his open thighs, sliding her hands around his neck.

  “It’s all right,” she said, her voice soft.

  Inigo looked at her, indignant at her assurance when it was clearly nothing of the sort.

  “In what way is it all right? I’m being blackmailed by the Duchess of Bedwin. I’m just not certain what it is I’m supposed to do. I am to propose now?”

  There was a bitter note to his words which he didn’t entirely feel and regretted at once as Minerva withdrew her hands from his neck and stepped away.

  “Of course not,” she said, and there was something wistful in her eyes that made him want to cut out his tongue. “I’m so sorry, Inigo, truly. I… I couldn’t stop them, stop her. Prue is very headstrong and… and she’s protective of me. It’s a wonder she didn’t just lock me up or send me away. She’s not sneaky though, she won’t trick you into marrying me. She knows I’m pursuing you and that you are not to blame. I told her everything I’d done. It’s a mark of her trust that she’s let me stay here with you.”

  Inigo stared at her, uncertain of what he felt and with no idea of what to say. She was here and, no matter what else, he couldn’t find anything to regret in that fact.

  Her face fell as he continued to watch her in silence. “I’ll put the lunch things out.”

  She picked up the basket and left him feeling as uneasy and wrong-footed as her visits always did. After a moment, he stirred himself. There was little point in pretending he didn’t want to see her, didn’t want this time with her, so he’d best make the most of it. He went to the parlour, seeing it through Minerva’s eyes and grimacing. There was a threadbare rug in front of the fire, two mismatched chairs—one of which was losing the stuffing from a rip in the cushion—and not a great deal else. Well, it wasn’t as if he’d pretended to be a rich man. He’d told her he’d been born in the slums, orphaned and dragged up among the desperate. This house had always seemed a palace to him, a mark of his success; he was damned if he’d feel ashamed of it now. Yet an uneasy sense of inadequacy set him all on edge.

  Inigo went to the hearth and lit the fire, sweeping up the ash and making sure it was burning merrily. There was no point in pretending he would ignore her presence and go back to work after lunch. They could sit in here and… and what? Make polite conversation? Drink tea? He knew what he wanted to do, and he knew that Prue’s warning had not been an idle threat. She’d cut off his balls if he overstepped the mark. The trouble was, he did not know where the mark was. What were they expecting of him? Surely the duchess wasn’t condoning a marriage between them. So was she just allowing Minerva to enjoy a love affair before she settled down to marriage with a suitable choice? Some chinless nobleman with pots of money, no doubt.

  He told himself that was fine, that it was the perfect arrangement. He got what he wanted with no strings attached, no guilt. Yet jealousy simmered beneath his skin, much as he tried to pretend it was nothing of the sort. You couldn’t own another human being. You could not have a hold on another person or keep them all to yourself. Everyone belonged to themselves alone, and should live their lives as they saw fit with minimal interference from anyone else. What people did in the privacy of their beds, with whom, how many times, or with how many lovers was their own affair. He told himself that, told himself he had no claim to Minerva, and she had none on him, but the sick churning sensation in his gut strongly disagreed.

  “Here you are.”

  His head jerked up as he discovered he was kneeling in the dust, still staring at the flames.

  Minerva came in, smiling at him. “What a charming room,” she said, looking about her.

  Inigo frowned, wondering if she was being polite or facetious but it appeared she meant it.

  “It must be cosy in here when the fire gets going.”

  “I like it,” he admitted, a little grudgingly but realising it was true.

  Despite his misgivings about what she might think of it, besides his laboratory, it was his favourite room in the house.

  “Will you come and eat now?” she asked, holding out her hands to him. There was a glimmer of uncertainty in her eyes which he realised he didn’t like.

  “Did you bring cake?” he asked, knowing she would have.

  “Of course I did,” she said. She reached out and stroked his hair from his face, carding it through her fingers as if she was stroking a cat.

  Inigo closed his eyes and restrained the urge to purr.

  “You look tired,” she said, as her hand moved down, cupping his cheek.

  Inigo covered it with his own hand, turning into it and kissing the palm as relief surged through him. Oh, God, yes, this. Her hands on him, her touch… he’d been longing for it, aching for it, and yet he’d not known how much until this moment.

  He heard her breath catch, and he chased the sound by tracing a circle on her palm with his tongue, wanting it again. She obliged, the little gasp increasingly breathless as his lips moved to her wrist. He could feel her pulse against his mouth, beating madly, like a tiny trapped bird beneath her skin. It was exhilarating.

  “Come and eat first,” she said.

  He looked up at her, knowing his eyes must be dark with wanting, but holding onto the most important part of the sentence… first. Before. Anticipation would not kill him, he supposed, though in this moment that didn’t seem a certainty.

  Inigo stood, staring down at Minerva as she returned his gaze, too trusting, too certain of his ability to behave as he ought. Foolish girl. He was halfway mad with wanting her. Nonetheless he followed her back to the kitchen, meek as a lamb. She’d lit the stove and a lamp burned on the table, giving a warm glow that illuminated the room against the grim, leaden sky outside. Strange how the place had seemed so barren when he’d come foraging for breakfast this morning. He’d managed tea, at least, and found some biscuits. It occurred to him then it wasn’t the lit stove or the lamp that changed how his house felt around him, it was her. He ought to be nauseated by that idea, but that reckless, dangerous feeling rose inside him again. Hope.

  Fool.

  “Sit down,” she said, smiling at him and pulling out a chair.

  “Isn’t that my job?” He ignored her, pulling out her chair instead, wishing his chest didn’t react so oddly every time she smiled at him, chipping away at the armour he’d built to protect himself from wanting things he couldn’t have.

  She sat down and Inigo fought the proprietary sensation it gave him to see her seated at his table.

  “I heated some soup,” she said, lifting the lid on a large pot as Inigo noted the delicious scent curling about the room. No wonder that basket had looked so heavy. “And there are fresh rolls and butter, and I asked Cook to put in some of the game pie she made, as you enjoyed the chicken and ham one so much.”

  “Thank you,” he said, watching her ladle soup into a bowl.

  She handed him the bowl before serving herself, and he was aware of the way she watched him, the weight of her gaze on him like a caress. It made his body grow tight, desire simmering beneath his skin.

  “Is it good?”

  He nodded, too unsettled to speak, worried he’d say something he ought not. They ate in silence, as though she felt it too, this uncertainty, this anticipation, this terror of wanting something that he knew he wouldn’t be allowed to keep. All the while reminding himself he didn’t want it at all. Temporary, it was only temporary. She was playing with him, enjoying herself and indulging her own desires before she married to please her family.

  No.

  The force with which his emotions rebelled at the idea shocked him. No. Not temporary.

  His.

  You cannot own her. You cannot keep her. She is not yours.

  Inigo ate because it pleased her, even though it wasted time, took it away from the moment he could put his hands on her, touch her, kiss her. He couldn’t deny her because of the way her eyes lit up with pleasure. She seemed to enjoy taking care of him and that was a novel experience.

  ‘I’m glad you liked it,” she said, looking far too pleased with herself.

  “I feel like a Christmas turkey,” he grumbled, not meaning it.

  “Well, you’ve got a way to go,” she said, laughing as she stood and then giving him a critical once over. “Though I think perhaps you have put on a little weight already.” Her gaze travelled across his shoulders, his chest, making him hot and restless. “I keep thinking I ought to arrange a housekeeper for you, but I’m too selfish.”

  Her words faded as she walked away and took the leftovers to his pantry, storing them for him.

  “Selfish?” he queried once she returned.

  “Yes,” she said, giving him a quizzical look as she collected the dirty plates and utensils. “I don’t want anyone else here. I want to have you all to myself.”

  Oh, God.

  “Leave that,” he commanded, getting to his feet and taking hold of her wrist.

  The knives and forks she’d been holding clattered onto the table and he tugged her, forcing her to follow him back to the parlour. He slammed the door shut and hauled her into his arms, kissing her like he’d been starved and would devour her. Her cousin’s threats rang in his ears, but he was deaf to them, out of control, and she did nothing to dissuade him, nothing to tell him no, to halt his assault on her mouth, though she damn well ought to.

  Somehow, he forced himself to break the kiss, aware he was trembling. They both were. Minerva stared up at him, dark eyed, her lips red and swollen and oh, god, he wanted her.

  “You ought not let me,” he said, his voice all scratchy and odd. “You’re supposed to say no, remember?”

  She gave a shaky laugh. “I will, if I want you to stop.”

  Inigo groaned. They were both doomed. The duchess would have him chopped up and dropped in the Thames, and Minerva would be ruined. It was inevitable.

  “Stop looking so anguished.”

  He looked back to Minerva to see such an expression of bemused affection in her eyes that his throat grew inexplicably tight. Sighing, he moved away from her and sat down in the chair by the fire. She dropped into his lap a moment later, like a ripe peach, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if she belonged there. Oh, yes, she belonged there.

  “Your cousin will have me castrated if you don’t go home in the same state you arrived,” he stated, too aware of her soft behind pressed against his arousal.

  She shifted a little in his lap and he bit back a groan.

  “Prue isn’t a fool. She knows I will kiss you, that I want to be with you for a reason.”

  He did groan this time, closing his eyes and resting his head against the chair back. He stilled, hardly daring to breathe as nimble fingers undid his cravat and tugged it free. A warm hand slid inside his shirt and he gasped in concert with Minerva as her hand moved over his bare chest.

  “You’re so hot,” she marvelled. “Silky, too. I think your skin is softer than mine.”

  She smirked as Inigo grunted, too aroused to do anything but let her explore. She found the coarse hair on his chest and raked her fingers back and forth through it, making him shiver.

  “Take off your shirt,” she whispered. “I want to see you.”

  Inigo stared at her, wondering if he’d imagined her words, but she tugged at the offending item impatiently, making her desires plain enough.

  “Let me up.” His voice was gruff, betraying his urgency as she stood and then stole his place in the seat, watching him intently while he stripped off his coat and hauled the shirt over his head.

  The way her breath caught, the heated look in her eyes, made him feel unhinged, teetering on the edge of what he knew to be acceptable. Though how he could know what was acceptable in this situation, he couldn’t fathom. She wasn’t some lightskirt he could pay for a quick tumble. She had no experience at all, and he ought not be the one to give it to her, that was for her husband to do. That thought got pushed away fast. She wanted him, wanted this, and he was going to meet that desire. He didn’t think there were rules for this though, like there were for choosing the right fork or spoon.

  Inigo knelt before her, fighting to keep his breathing under control as she reached to touch him. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes fever bright as she put her hands to his skin. He did his best not to react but still jolted liked he’d been shocked as her soft palms smoothed down his chest. Her fingers traced along the lines of muscle and sinew and he shivered with pleasure, so hard for her that she had to be aware of his arousal, pressing as it was against the confines of his clothes, desperate for her touch to shift lower. He held her gaze as he curled his hands around her ankles, watching her lips part, hearing her breath hitch as his hands slid up, lingering over her calves, pushing up the froth of skirts and petticoats as she went.

  “Come closer,” he said, his voice dark with want.

  She inched towards the edge of the chair and he leaned in, kissing her softly. His hands found the tender flesh at the top of her stockings, stroking back and forth with his fingertips, enjoying the way she trembled against him.

  “You definitely have softer skin than I do,” he murmured against her mouth. “And I’ve not even found the softest places of all yet. Shall I find them?”

  She was breathing hard as he drew back to study her, but she nodded her agreement, allowing him to slide his palms higher, his thumbs to dip into the silky crease at the juncture of each thigh.

  “Like satin,” he murmured, wondering how he’d ever find his way back to sanity, back to a place where his mind could focus on anything but this, the feel of her beneath his hands, the warm, feminine scent of her arousal intoxicating him.

  He was desperate, holding on by a thread to keep from frightening her away when he wanted to taste her, devour her, make her his in every way. It was a ridiculous urge, primitive and possessive, but as much as he told himself he wasn’t a bloody caveman, he couldn’t reason away the need to make her his, to mark her in some way that showed the world she belonged to him and him alone. Madness. It was madness, but he couldn’t pretend he wanted sanity ever again when this was so sweet.

  He leaned into her, kissing her again as his thumbs stroked up and down the satiny path, tantalisingly close to where he wanted to be as he deepened the kiss, pushing her to lay back in the chair.

  “Show me,” he demanded, staring at the buttons that closed the demure neckline of her gown.

  Her fingers trembled as she reached for them, fumbling and taking an agonising amount of time as she slipped each one free to expose her chemise and the corset that held her breasts high and plump.

  Inigo held his breath as she pulled the ribbon that tied the chemise.

  “Show me,” he said again, with more force, sounding demented and out of control, which was all too true.

  She tugged at the corset, forcing it down before peeling back the chemise to expose her breasts to him. He groaned, the sound ripped from him as he lowered his mouth to her, covering the ample curves with kisses as her hands sank into his hair, holding him to her.

 

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