Chasing the Duke: Steamy Second Chance Regency Romance Read online

  After a prolonged silence, Camille looked back to find him frowning as he knocked his boot against a wooden cart currently housing straw to be spread about the estate. “Don’t tell me you’ve never considered it, Tris. You must deliver an heir someday. You’re thirty now or thereabouts. It’s time.”

  He paused, and she realized she’d uttered a nickname only her brother had used. It brought them closer than they’d ever been—with both of them finally of an age to do something about it.

  “Thirty-one, June first.” He took the last bite of plum with little enthusiasm. “And…I’ve thought about it. Running for my life through muddy fields in Belgium, I thought about a lot of things.”

  “Well, there. That’s good. You’re ready,” she said and snipped the end of a plumeria branch off with more force than required, hating every suitable woman in England. “Excellent.”

  Tristan glanced from her hands to her face with an assessing look that sent a quiver of trepidation through her. His smile started small but grew as the seconds slipped between them, the sigh of the wind against greenhouse glass the only sound besides their hushed breaths.

  “Oh, no.” She shook her shears at him, a stabbing get-back motion. “I don’t care who you pick. It’s none of my affair. Nothing, nothing at all, to do with me. I’m taken, my decision made. Remember us rowing our own boats.”

  With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the plum pit into the rubbish bin in the corner and advanced on her. “You know, once upon a time, Edward believed you rather fancied me.” He scrubbed his wrist across his lips, his grin disappearing behind his starched sleeve. “Of course, I was too old for you, already away at Cambridge. What is it between us? Nine years?”

  Camille bumped back into the bench, rocking it into the wall. “Eight.”

  He danced his fingers over a gerbera leaf, a tea rose’s stem. “Even better.”

  “There is no better,” she rushed out as he closed in on her. “There’s nothing.”

  He halted before her, trying mightily to contain his amusement, but his mouth kept turning up. She ground her teeth and dug her bootheel into the stone floor. What amused him, she’d love to know.

  “How did you test old Ridley anyway?”

  “Test? What test?”

  Gingerly removing the shears from her hand, Tristan laid them aside and pressed his lips together, cutting hideously appealing groves beneath his cheeks. Who should have a face such as this and it not be carved in marble, she wondered furiously? “A kiss. Was that it? To decide if Ridley was the man for you. It must have been a good one. Surprising, because he doesn’t seem the persuasive type.” He trailed his index finger along her cheek and into her hair. “A spiderweb.” With a light tug, he pulled the silken thread out and flicked it loose—and her knees went weak with yearning.

  She watched it flutter to the ground with an escalating sense of dread.

  “There was no kiss,” she whispered, her voice frayed with a needful edge he was not likely to miss. She exhaled softly, defeated. “No good kiss.” Rather, there’d only been a mediocre one. No, two. A mediocre two. But admitting this was like throwing a gauntlet of some sort at Tristan’s feet when he already had the cunning look of a man trying to solve a puzzle.

  He tipped her chin high with a laugh that sent a plum-scented puff sliding across her cheek. “I notice you didn’t deny the fancying me rumor, Princess.”

  She swayed, placing her hand on his chest to steady herself. His placid expression disguised his violent heartbeat.

  The theory ripped through her like a harrowing winter gust. He’s affected by me, too.

  Finally.

  “What’s that look?” He moved to frame the nape of her neck, stepped in, knee bumping hers, his other hand going to her waist, gently pulling her in without a hint of ownership. Loss of control she’d have fought. His pupils flared, flooding his eyes black. “It almost looks like triumph.” He leaned in as his lids fluttered. “Now, why is that?”

  Camille realized lifting on her toes to reach him, the one man in the world who could break her into a thousand pieces, was a mistake. Realized skidding her hand over his broad shoulder, into his tousled strands, and drawing his lips to hers was another one.

  She wasn’t even sure who kissed whom first.

  She wasn’t sure what to do.

  But he knew. And she followed.

  Cradling her jaw, he tilted her head, arranging, like he’d done it a thousand times before, walking her back into the bench with a swift step. His ragged sigh, needful and anguished, dispelled her uncertainty like dew in harsh sunlight. Deliberately, gently, his mouth molded to hers, coaxing, pleading without words, a query not a demand, his tongue sweeping inside when she parted her lips on a low, surrendering gasp.

  It was a tender kiss, a slow burn. And when it started to move faster, his arm circled her waist, and he swept her against his long, hard body.

  Swept her into a miraculous world she’d dreamt about but never experienced.

  His scent surrounded her as his taste became hers. The smell of frost and plums, cinnamon and tea, the flavor of passion, promise, yearning. She tangled her hand in his hair and arched into him, seeking more. More. She even whispered it, a breathy pant into his mouth that seemed to make him crazy, make him clutch her, hard, devouring her like he was parched and she cool, sparkling water. Sparks danced behind her eyelids, as bright as the pop of magnesium. From shoulder to hip, they were one. His pulse dancing beneath her questing fingers, the rock of his hips, a pleasure punch generating a forbidden, heavy pressure between her thighs.

  She’d never imagined anything like this.

  But she’d been right about her attraction even if her craving had begun long before she could satisfy it.

  His hand trailed from her waist, and she purred when he reached her ribcage, her nipple pebbling in anticipation of its first caress. Yes, there. Maybe she even whispered that, too.

  Tristan pulled back just enough to gaze at her, his breath ripping from his lungs to bat her cheek. Her fingers were twisted in his hair; her other hand clenched around the cambric covering his shoulder. He looked wild, his eyes glowing the deepest green she’d ever seen them, his skin flushed, his lips rosy-red and abused.

  Power of a variety unknown to her until that moment streaked through her.

  “Don’t,” she whispered when he pulled away. Not yet. Don’t let this end yet. She pressed her lips to his jaw and nibbled, softly, without reason, only knowing she wanted him, wanted this.

  “I can’t think,” he rasped and took her by the shoulders, forcing her back in a startling move unlike his usual grace. For five hushed breaths, they stared, collecting reasons for staying, for going.

  For breaking promises or making them.

  Suddenly, like the shocking jab of a needle, she grasped what she was doing.

  She was chasing the duke.

  And thanks to her brother, the duke in question had always known she was chasing him.

  She turned in a fury, presenting her back, considered sweeping the row of ceramic pots on the bench to the ground. “Go, Mercer. Leave, now.” She pushed the heel of her hand against the thumping pulse at her neck. She’d never been so provoked in her life, never imagined the like. Her body aflame, vibrating with each beat of her heart. Her knees threatening to betray her.

  And Ridley, dear heaven, what to do about Ridley?

  Tristan sighed and stepped back. His footfall cracked the straw scattered over the stone floor. “May I have a moment to catch up without you getting angry? The kiss…I didn’t know…I didn’t expect…”

  “Oh, bother, please. Considering your reputation, I assumed you’d be better at the après portion of this.”

  He sighed again, this sound less forgiving, for which of them, she’d no clue. “Is it true, what Edward said? About you fancying me? That’s all I’m asking. I’m trying to put the pieces in place with, admittedly, half a mind at present.”

  Glancing over her shoulder, she scho
oled her features into what she hoped was a bland expression while blood sprinted violently through her veins. “It was. Does that make you happy? And why, pray tell, at this late stage of the game, should it matter? You were my childhood fantasy of the perfect man. My heart galloped when you were in the same room. I staged a thousand silly plays with you as the hero.” She smiled, and she had no mirror, but it felt bitter. “But it was long ago, Your Grace. I grew up. And you left.”

  His eyes flashed, his hands going into fists at his side. “I had to leave. And I’m no one’s hero.”

  She lifted her head to stare out the streaked, stained greenhouse glass. “I suppose you’re right. Or we’re both wrong, take your pick.”

  “Somehow, I’ve gone from wanting to tear your clothes off to wanting to spank you.” He laughed harshly and banged his boot against the bench. “Which can be done in the same session actually.”

  “That’s revolting.” Wasn’t it?

  “Princess, don’t judge until you’ve tried it.”

  Goosebumps danced along her skin at his velvet tone and the lurid images flooding her mind. She dropped her head to her hand. “Go away, Tristan, go away and leave me in peace.”

  “I can’t believe I’m going to say this, I can’t believe I feel it…” He blew a breath between his teeth. “But I don’t want to. I think I want to talk. About, well, us.”

  “There is no us. I’m marrying Ridley, or have you forgotten? The creditors have left me no choice, or virtually none, regarding the timing.”

  He twisted a barberry leaf from the bush at his side and traced his finger along the vein. “I have another question. Just one, and I’ll leave you to your plants. Was his kiss anything like mine?”

  She curled her arm around her belly and leaned into her amusement. “You must be joking. That’s not a fair assessment. The man has kissed one woman to your one hundred! An amateur compared to a master.”

  “You’re exaggerating the state of affairs. And you don’t need to make excuses for him. Or me. Although in a roundabout way, I suppose your response answers my question.”

  Turning to face him, she dropped to rest her bottom on the wide window ledge. The glass was warm from the sun when she leaned against it. A golden ray pocketed the opportunity to trip across Tristan, turning the tips of his hair amber, shooting unneeded brilliance into his startling emerald eyes. It was a crime to be so handsome, it honestly was. “I don’t need kisses that kill, Your Grace. In fact…” She picked at her gown’s ratty hem and shrugged. “I don’t even want them.”

  He glanced away, chewing on the inside of his cheek, his jaw ticking in anger. “Is this punishment because I didn’t know about your infatuation? You were too young. I’m glad I didn’t heed Edward’s chatter. God knows what I might have done the first time I got a true look at the grown-up you.”

  “I made a promise when you left that I wasn’t going to chase you anymore. In my mind, in my heart. I’m sorry you’re only now finding out about it. Perhaps the timing is inconvenient.”

  His gaze came back to hers, the leaf dropping from his hand. “So you’ll marry Ridley with this between us? Without even questioning what nearly happened here? I can’t explain it, either, but I think it might mean something. Maybe we take a step back to reflect?”

  She tilted her head in question, truly curious. “Are you offering another option?”

  Yanking his fingers through his hair and leaving it in charming spikes, he snapped, “I don’t know what the bloody hell I’m offering. When you so neatly bit my jaw with your lovely little teeth, thought raced from my mind like a runaway stallion. I’m stunned, dumbfounded, brainless, Lady Bellington, because this was supposed to be a tranquil Yorkshire Christmas!”

  The sound of a hinge squealing had Tristan taking a fast step back with a muttered ‘brilliant’ sliding in beneath his breaths. Countess Milburn and Viscount Ridley stood in the conservatory’s entrance, similar banal expressions on their faces.

  Camille retrieved her shears and snipped a length of plumeria. “Certainly, Your Grace. After the holiday, I’ll schedule a consultation to look at Tierney Hall’s gardens. I’m sure, even if it’s only providing replacement shrubs and trees, I can work with your gardener to get the estate in better shape.” She flicked her fingers at him as she would an errand boy as his fist clenched at his side. “Thank you for considering me. You’re right, I do good work.”

  “Very good,” he whispered, gave her a tight bow that said, this isn’t over, and strode through the greenhouse’s back door without speaking to her intended or the countess.

  “Uncivilized beast, isn’t he?” Ridley strolled down the center aisle. He didn’t stop to look at anything, passing the plum tree Tristan had taken such delight in without a glance. Camille understood there was meaning in this comparison, but her heart wasn’t up to the tally. “War ruined him, ruined them all. Not fit for society. It’s better if he inhabits his crumbling ducal estate in the next village and never leaves. Plenty of work for two lifetimes getting that place in shape from what I’ve heard, although he has the blunt, lucky man. Town certainly doesn’t need such boorish behavior. We have too much as it is.” He grasped Camille’s hand when he reached her, a proprietary touch bringing none of the fever Tristan’s had. “Darling, we need to talk about this botany business.”

  Camille looked him in the eye, refusing to cower. Although her family needed funds, she would provide an heir, so they were negotiating critical elements on both sides. “I’m happy you finally agree it’s a business.”

  “What’s this about Mercer hiding out for the rest of his life in the country?” Countess Milburn saddled up next to Ridley with a knowing simper. “Stunning, wealthy dukes are welcome anywhere and everywhere, Ridley dear, and they always will be.” She winked and laid her finger atop the bow of her lip. “Isn’t that right, Lady Camille?”

  Camille looked into eyes the exact color of an English oak’s bark and wondered what the countess had seen on her face as the Duke of Mercer stalked from her conservatory?

  Heartache? Regret?

  Because she’d wanted nothing more than to beg him to stay.

  Chapter 3

  Where a tree is slain and an attraction suppressed.

  Camille didn’t want a kiss that killed.

  Tristan tugged his gloves on and flexed his fingers inside the supple, black kidskin. Well, he did. And as of this morning, ten minutes after rising and guzzling his first cup of tea, he’d decided he wasn’t leaving Yorkshire as soon as he’d planned after receiving one.

  Not with that honest, raw, beautiful moment they’d shared jabbing him in the gut and shouting, good God, man, go get her.

  He’d never been more shocked by his reaction or a woman’s response. A most delicious and unexpected surprise. The two of them, he and Camille, why, they’d been like that preposterous chemistry experiment that had blown up in his face at Eton. Except this had been a successful endeavor, an explosion of the best kind. A sizzle beneath his skin and in his blood he’d been unable to tamp down. The compulsion to touch, without plan, without purpose, had been overwhelming and instantaneous. One moment, he’d been diving into eyes the color of the North Sea, the next, he’d found himself with an armful of delectable, orange-blossom-scented woman.

  His dreams the previous night had demonstrated he was on the right track with this kissing business. They’d featured Camille and Camille only, alabaster skin flushed, head thrown back as she cried out his name, legs, long ones he’d noticed while sucking on a plum in her conservatory, wrapped firmly about his waist. Tris, she’d called out. A name a lover had never spoken. He wouldn’t have allowed it.

  For the first time in months, dreams of war hadn’t been part of his slumber.

  Consequently, here he was, standing in the foyer of Lady Fontaine’s country manor, waiting on a group of people to go on a hunt for a Christmas tree, whatever that was, his mind full of a kiss and those dreams—his cock hard as stone beneath buckskin, a circumst
ance, if it did not soon diminish, he’d be forced to hide.

  All because of a woman he’d not known he needed.

  A woman who’d wanted him once, when he hadn’t known to want her back.

  An intelligent, beautiful, spirited woman recently engaged to a bloke Tristan felt sure he didn’t like.

  Tristan had no idea what to do about that. About any of it. But he wasn’t leaving Isabel Fontaine’s home until he figured it out.

  “Still here, Mercer? No one to debauch in London?”

  He turned to find Viscount Ridley tottering down the grand staircase, a bulging portmanteau clutched in his fist. Tristan grinned. This day was getting better and better. “No, I’ve determined a longer visit at Longleat Manor is in order. Family friends and all. You know, I spent many a day here with Lady Camille’s brother, Edward.” He yawned, then nodded to Ridley’s luggage. “Looks like you’re haring back to Town, however.”

  Ridley halted alongside Tristan, dropped his bag to the faded Aubusson, and snaked his gloves from his pocket. “My mother,” he said and jerked them on with a grunt. “I have to get back to her before Christmas, you know.”

  “And leave your intended?”

  Ridley paused, his smile dimming. “Well, Lady Camille’s with family. And she has her plants,” he muttered the complaint with less volume. “Plenty to keep her occupied. Countess Milburn’s ball, festivities in the village, and so on. I’ll see her soon. We’ve got to make plans, you see. Have the banns read. Plan the parties.”

  “She has me to entertain, or be entertained by, you could also say.” A smidgen like stepping into a ring, this admission, a ring Tristan wasn’t sure he wanted to step into. In all honesty, he didn’t know what this meant for him, Camille, or Ridley, his deciding to stay for the holiday. Still, he wanted the man to acknowledge he was leaving his betrothed with a family friend, sure, but not a brother.

  A family friend who’d found he carried an undeniable attraction for the betrothed in question. A family friend who, at times, had been correctly labeled a bounder.