The Ugly Duchess

Page 11

James stood back from the wall, wrapped an arm around her waist, and pulled her against his chest. “Kiss me back,” he demanded, low and fierce.
“How drunk are you?” Theo asked. “What are you doing?”
“You’re my Daisy,” he said, staring down at her. His voice was unsteady, his breathing harsh.
His eyes burned with an emotion that she didn’t recognize, but it sent an instant thrill through her whole body. She started to speak, but he bent his head again and silently demanded that she kiss him back. The problem was that she wasn’t sure how. At the same time, she rather desperately wanted to do whatever he asked, so she touched his tongue with her own. She expected it to be revolting, but instead . . .
Dimly, she knew that she should have laughed, or pushed him away, or called for help. Her mother—not to mention the Prince of Wales himself!—was only a matter of feet away, on the other side of the screen.
She should slap him, really. That’s what a well-bred young lady would do after being grabbed by an inebriated gentleman and kissed in public. Or in private, for that matter.
But she wanted more of the taste of James, more of the melting fire that was sweeping her body, more of the irresistible longing that made her move closer and closer to him.
“That’s it,” he said, his voice a thread of sound.
Giddy heat seared what little logic Theo had left. She took his face in her hands. She could kiss the way he wanted. It wasn’t really about tongues. It was a matter of possessing him. The way he was possessing her.
Once she realized that, kissing him was easy. Her tongue tumbled over his, and her fingers clenched his hair, knowing that the same flame that touched her singed him.
James made a kind of inarticulate noise, almost a groan, and pulled her closer. The sound of his growl was so heady that Theo shivered all down her body, a direct response to his tight grip and the sensual touch of his tongue. She had never thought of herself as particularly feminine—no girl who grew up with such pronounced features could do so—but in James’s arms she suddenly felt feminine, not in a delicate way, but in a wild, erotic way.
It was intoxicating. It made her tremble with desire, from an almost savage feeling of wanting more of him. She pressed closer and felt her breasts flatten against his chest; he made that sound deep in his throat again. And then he bit her lip.
She gasped and—
Found herself reeling backward, thanks to a hand pulling her free as if she were a dog in a fight. To her profound dismay, it was her mother. “James Ryburn, what in the name of heaven do you think you’re doing?” Mrs. Saxby demanded.
Theo stood still, breathless, her eyes fixed on James, feeling as if he’d somehow passed his intoxication on to her.
“And you, Theodora,” her mother cried, rounding on her, “what in God’s name do you think that you’re doing? Have I taught you nothing?”
A deep, cultivated voice said in a rather amused fashion, “They don’t call it the marriage mart for nothing, Mrs. Saxby. Looks like your girl will be the first of the season to tie the knot.”
James made a choking noise and Theo turned around, only to find a group of fascinated spectators that included the Prince of Wales, Lord Geoffrey Trevelyan, and the despised Claribel, who for once was not ogling Geoffrey but had a look of stark envy on her face.
Theo looked at James and saw confusion in his face at the same moment that she realized that her lips felt puffy and her hair was falling around her shoulders. She must look like one of those ravished maidens in a bad melodrama.
But she had to say something. “I— We were just—”
James interrupted, his voice overriding hers. He no longer sounded tipsy. “I love Daisy. I am going to marry Daisy.”
Theo’s mouth fell open. James was glaring at her mother, his voice grating a little. “You want to marry her to another man, but she’s mine, she’s always been mine.”
Theo drew in a breath, and he swung to her. “Do you remember when I had an eye inflammation when I was twelve and you were ten? And you read to me all that summer in a darkened room because my eyes were weak?”
She nodded, looking up at him in a daze, aware of their audience, and yet trying to ignore them.
“I didn’t know it, but you were mine,” he said, staring down at her almost as if he hated her.
“But I came out three weeks ago,” she whispered, her words falling into the utterly still drawing room. “You didn’t go to a single event until last night.”
“I thought you were just dancing,” he said, his voice ragged. “I didn’t think about it seriously. But if you are going to marry anyone, Daisy, it will be me. I don’t want you to even think about other men.” He shot a virulent look at Geoffrey, who fell back a step.
James turned back to Theo. A flash of uncertainty crossed his eyes. “I know you have other . . .”
“I do not know what I was thinking,” Theo said slowly, feeling a tremendous sense of rightness settle about her shoulders like a warm blanket. She reached out and took his hand in hers—his familiar, utterly dear hand. “You’re right. You are the only one.”
“Well,” her mother said firmly, from somewhere behind her. “I’m sure we can all agree that that was a most romantic proposal. But I think that’s enough for the night.”
Theo didn’t move. Her oldest friend, her near-brother—that person was gone. Instead there was a desirable, powerful man looking down at her. And the look in his eye made her flush straight down to her toes.
“It isn’t enough,” James growled, his eyes fixed on hers. “She has not accepted. Daisy?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice breathless and trembling in a fashion that she despised when other girls used it. “Yes, I will.”
“I suppose that’s settled,” the Duke of Ashbrook said from behind James, the cheerful approval in his voice making them both look up. “Very convenient, what? My son marrying my ward. Keeps it all in the family, so to speak. Mind you, it wouldn’t be proper unless it was a real love match.”
Mrs. Saxby said briskly, “I certainly agree with you.”
“But it looks as if we haven’t much to say about it,” the duke continued.
James met his father’s eyes, and his heart dropped into his shoes. He had lost his head, and what’s more, he lost it in service to the devil.
He had never experienced a kiss like that, never thought to feel such a searing wave of possessive passion in his life. But he had done it only because his bombastic, embezzling father had demanded it. That kiss . . . that kiss happened because he had been ordered to do it.
He felt like the dirt under his own shoe. And the aching pain in his heart said something even worse: that he had warped what could have been—would have been—one of the most precious moments of his life. He would give anything to have entered into that kiss with a pure heart and a clean conscience.
Mrs. Saxby drew Theo away, and his father came up to slap him on the back with a stream of inconsequential, patently false remarks directed at the people gaping at them. “I had no idea he was looking in that direction,” he told the prince. “I suppose parents are always the last to know. But Son”—this with a tone of genial disapproval—“I hope I’ve trained you better than to snatch a lady and kiss her in public. A gentleman doesn’t go about declaring himself in that sort of manner.”