Duchess Material

Eleven

A s Will gently set his lips against hers, Phoebe could barely leash her chaotic thoughts. He was kissing her. Will was kissing her. Lord it was even better than she had imagined—and Phoebe had whiled away a significant part of her youth doing just that.

Once she had fully recovered from her shock, Phoebe pressed her hands to his remarkably firm chest. Now was her chance to push him away and let him make some excuse. Blame it on the blood loss. The whiskey. Anything.

He was nearly engaged. He was a duke. He wasn’t supposed to want this. Want her . But all those very reasonable points slammed up against that tiny part of her that had never quite managed to let Will go, no matter how unreachable he became. Phoebe’s fingers curled against his cashmere coat and she parted her lips, as she finally relented to the furious storm of desire building inside her. A low moan rumbled through him as he kissed her harder, exuding an authority that would have been irritating in any other situation, but here it only drove her desire higher. It was clear he knew exactly what he was doing—far more than she did, anyhow—so for just this once Phoebe decided to follow his lead.

One large hand cupped the nape of her neck, drawing her closer and adjusting her head to a more comfortable angle. Something about the movement, the care in his touch, set off a swirl of unwanted longing. It was one thing to lust after him, which she had been doing since the moment he appeared in front of the music hall at her request, but this tenderness was too much. It wasn’t something she could contain. An old, familiar ache began to spread through her chest, growing stronger by the second, as the pain of an unrequited girlhood fancy mingled with whatever it was she felt for him now. The pain of lost opportunity and an impossible future. Those reasonable points grew louder and louder, badgering Phoebe to put a stop to this nonsense before she lost all control. Before she gave up her heart once again.

Just as his tongue tentatively touched her own, Phoebe reared back. They stared at each other for a long moment, their heavy breaths filling the quiet carriage.

“Sorry,” Will finally rasped as his hands slid down her body to settle at her waist. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t,” she insisted. Though it was quite gratifying to her ego to see he was just as breathless as she was, Phoebe lifted her chin and ignored the mess of emotions battling it out inside her. “Besides, I’ve kissed men before.”

The words were out before she had time to think. His kisses must have muddled her brain.

But Will merely raised an eyebrow at her admission. “Have you now?”

The hint of skepticism in his deep voice caused Phoebe’s cheeks to blaze, but she refused to play the ingenue with him.

“Yes. Several. So don’t flatter yourself thinking you’re the first,” she added.

Forget muddled. The man must have melted her brain. She was being outrageously rude in response to a few kisses, but he only smiled.

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare,” he murmured as his fingers flexed at her hips and his eyes grew even darker than usual. He was teasing her. And she liked that far too much. She should look away and return to her seat, but Phoebe simply couldn’t will her legs to move.

“Well, good,” she said flatly. “Glad that’s settled.”

Phoebe then shifted at the needy ache building between her thighs, and Will glanced down. When their eyes met again, his gaze grew even hotter.

He pushed the cap off her head and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Phoebe’s heart fluttered faster, but she couldn’t find the strength to pull away this time. Instead, she pressed her cheek against his open palm. As Will drew his thumb along her bottom lip, his eyes seemed to glow in the lamplight.

“Show me what you know.”

Phoebe’s heart stuttered at the low command.

It was true, she had kissed a few men. But two had been stolen kisses during her London season. Sloppy and, thankfully, quick. The third was from her friend Richard, who didn’t even like women. That had been nothing more than a friendly peck at a New Year’s party last year.

Will was still staring at her expectantly and Phoebe swallowed, but like hell would she admit to her inexperience. Nor give him the satisfaction of holding such power over her. She wasn’t a lovesick girl anymore. Bringing him down a peg was a good enough reason for her. Phoebe pressed her hands against his shoulders and straddled his lap.

His eyebrows rose in surprise, but before he could say anything, Phoebe cupped his insufferably beautiful face and kissed him. It was the kind of kiss she had always imagined giving him: wild and passionate and full of everything she felt but could never say. Will was stunned for a moment but then his arms wrapped around her and he hauled her against him, returning the kiss with even more fervor than before. The flimsy little wall she had managed to erect around her heart was decimated as she leaned into the pure pleasure of the kiss.

This was how she once imagined it would be between them. This was what she had once dared to want. And lord, it felt good.

Phoebe felt him grow hard beneath her and she immediately rocked against him. It was instinctual, the way their bodies knew just how to move together. Phoebe shivered from the delicious sensation and Will let out an answering groan. He sounded desperate, like a man on the brink. And Phoebe wanted more. Wanted every last bit of the stuck-up duke that remained within him to crumble under her touch. She ground her hips even harder and he turned his head away, breaking the kiss.

“Christ, Phoebe,” he said breathlessly, but the slight censure in his words cut through the dense fog of lust that had clouded her brain.

What was she doing ?

She shoved off him in one swift movement and sat down hard on the opposite bench, trying to hide her own heaving breaths.

“Are you all right?” His heavy gaze was on her, but Phoebe couldn’t look at him just yet. She had revealed far too much. It would be a miracle if he didn’t suspect how deep her infatuation went. Now was the time to put him off.

Phoebe crossed her arms over her pounding heart. “Of course,” she said, forcing lightness into the words, as if she debauched men in carriages all the time.

Will gave her a long look before he let out a sigh. She watched him out of the corner of her eye as he stared at the floor and pulled a hand roughly through his hair. Phoebe turned to him fully, unable to resist seeing him like this, all rumpled and raw. Because then that pathetic little part of her could pretend that he was still just Will Margrave. And that there was still a fighting chance for something more between them.

But as he glanced up and their eyes met, the vulnerability melted away. Phoebe’s heart sank as she watched Will quickly fix his hair and straighten in his seat until he regained the stiff bearing of the duke once again, albeit slightly more undone than usual. He then passed Phoebe her cap and she took it.

Will looked out the window. “We’ve nearly reached Mayfair. I should have had John bring you home first.”

The reason for this lapse went unspoken.

Phoebe nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” He turned to her sharply, his dark eyes now full of challenge, but Phoebe pressed on.

“I meant to say it much earlier, but then everything… happened.” She clenched her hands on her lap. God, this was excruciating. “I think I was too harsh with you the other night,” she continued. “About your support of Lord Fairbanks’s bill.”

But Will didn’t look at all appreciative. Instead he looked grave. And so very tired.

He shook his head. “No, you were right. I reviewed a draft of Lord Fairbanks’s bill and it is purely punitive. There are no provisions for the people who will lose their livelihoods. Only unfairly harsh consequences for those who dared engage in the practice in the first place.”

But Phoebe couldn’t focus properly on his admission, for at the mention of Lord Fairbanks she had immediately remembered Lady Gwen. Will may have kissed her first, but Phoebe had pushed things much further. No wonder he had stopped her. No wonder he had looked ashamed. The man was nearly engaged and she had, quite literally, thrown herself at him.

“… and I mean to change it.”

She blinked. “Sorry?”

“I mean to change it,” he said more urgently. “Or else he’ll lose my support.”

“Oh. That’s good.”

He furrowed his brow, clearly expecting her to be more enthusiastic, but Phoebe couldn’t focus on anything other than her mortification. She needed to get out of this carriage. Now.

Phoebe banged on the ceiling. “I can get a hackney from here,” she said as the carriage came to a halt.

“ What? Phoebe, no—”

But she had already put on her cap and moved to the door. “I’ll be fine.” She opened the door before John could climb down from his seat. Only once she was safely on the pavement did she look back at Will. He was staring at her with a mixture of confusion and concern.

“And don’t worry,” she said, then waved a hand between them. “I won’t say anything about this. In fact, it is already forgotten.”

He began to say something, but Phoebe slammed the door shut and disappeared into the night. It was well past time for her to walk away from Will Margrave.

Will awoke the next morning far too early after falling asleep much too late. After Phoebe bolted from his carriage, Will had John follow the hackney she hailed. It was only once he watched her enter her home that he could return to Mayfair, but even then he had been completely unable to relax. His mind refused to focus on anything other than reliving those few heated moments in the carriage, when Phoebe had straddled his lap with practiced ease and then kissed him like her life depended on it.

He tried reading, drinking, exercising, and then drinking some more until he finally collapsed into bed from sheer exhaustion and sank into the sweet relief of unconsciousness. But as he sat up with bleary eyes and a sore head, his thoughts immediately—and deviously—returned to Phoebe: the feel of her lush, inviting mouth, the sound of her feather-breath sighs, and the press of her firm thighs as she rocked against his cock.

Dammit. He was as hard as granite. Again. He tried recalling her awkward goodbye, but it did little to cool his ardor.

Meant nothing, my foot.

Her words had been a messy act of self-preservation, Will was sure of it. And he understood the impulse, as this entire situation was bordering on farcical. But what he had felt last night was exceptional. Extraordinary, even. And he was quite certain it was the same for Phoebe, though she seemed reluctant to admit it.

Will winced as he climbed out of bed and rang for his valet. It would be a cold bath for him this morning.

After spending a very long time sitting in an Italian marble tub full of chilly water, Will was feeling mostly refreshed. He spent the first half of the morning with his secretary, reviewing reports from his various estates and deciding which pressing problem to throw money at first and which could wait. Such was the business of the duchy.

Then it was on to his social schedule. If given the choice, he would have reviewed a thousand agricultural reports rather than discuss which invitations he should accept, decide who he needed to call on this week and who he could put off, and, most mind-numbing of all, which events he was obligated to attend.

Will hadn’t realized he’d groaned aloud until his secretary, Mr. Flynn, raised an eyebrow.

“Would you like me to cancel your afternoon ride with Lady Gwen?”

Will hesitated. Even before he had met up with Phoebe last night, he had decided against pursuing things further with Lady Gwen. She may have been perfect on paper, but it was becoming ever clearer that they just didn’t suit. And while there were a great deal of things he was willing to sacrifice to the dukedom, a wife he didn’t feel more than a slight attraction to was no longer one of them. Besides, Will reasoned, she might very well have her own reservations about him. It had never been a love match between them, after all. But regardless, it was still the kind of conversation one must have in person, however much one was dreading it.

“No,” he sighed. “Do I have anything on for next Thursday evening?”

Mr. Flynn flipped through the schedule and shook his head. “Good. Keep it free.”

Once the last invitation had been responded to, Mr. Flynn took his leave. Will leaned back in his chair and stared up at the elaborate plaster ceiling. The room, nay, the entire house was a monument to excess. Nothing but marble, gold, and, occasionally, silver. It may have cost a fortune, but the effect was cold and sterile. Will always felt like he was walking through a museum, not a home. He had wanted to redecorate this house since he first crossed the threshold, but decided it was better to wait until he married so the future duchess could have some input. He then smiled to himself at the thought of Phoebe marching in here and casting one of her withering looks of disapproval around the room. She’d probably suggest they burn it all down and start anew.

And God, didn’t that feel right.

A knock at the door interrupted this rebellious little reverie and Mr. Flynn appeared again with a mortified look on his face.

“Sorry to bother you, Your Grace, but… your mother is here.”

Will sat up abruptly. “Did we forget she was coming?”

“We did not,” his secretary said with just a hint of indignation. Mr. Flynn never made a mistake.

“Of course,” Will soothed. The last thing he needed was Mr. Flynn in one of his moods. He stood and pulled on his coat. “Better show her in then.”

As the man left to fetch his mother, Will rang for tea and began to pace. After a few minutes, the door opened again and Lydia Margrave sailed into the room. Never one to miss making an entrance, she threw open her arms. “Darling!”

“Hello, Mother,” Will said as he submitted to a cheek kiss. “Is everything all right?”

She looked affronted. “Do I need an excuse to visit my own son?”

“Of course not,” Will said with a tight smile and took her hand. “But I wasn’t expecting you in town until next week.”

He led her to her favorite chair by the hearth that also looked out over his back garden.

“I thought I’d come a bit early and see how you were enjoying the season,” she said as she gracefully took her seat. For the last few years, the front of her dark hair had slowly turned white. But instead of attempting to mask it, she had artfully arranged the long streak to striking effect. Leave it to his mother to find a way to make aging fashionable.

“Ah,” he replied as he took the seat across from her. “How was the train?”

Will’s mother still lived in his childhood home in Surrey with Cal, but she came to London often.

“It was fine. Uneventful.”

Will cleared his throat. “And how is Cal?”

She glanced away and fiddled with her skirt. “Also fine. You know how he is,” she added softly.

It had been five years since the carriage accident that took the life of Cal’s best friend Ned, Lord Edward Manning, and left him with a broken shoulder that hadn’t healed properly and debilitating headaches. It had also effectively ended his budding career as a portraitist.

Though Will had paid for dozens of specialists and all manner of cures, Cal insisted that the peace and quiet of the country gave him the most relief. But Will suspected it was the whispers about the true nature of Cal’s friendship with Ned that swirled in the wake of the accident that had led him to largely withdraw from society. Will protected his brother’s reputation as best he could, and being out of the ton’s crosshairs had helped, but it wasn’t enough.

Last fall, after their mother had gone off to bed and they stayed up enjoying a generous nip of port, Cal admitted that the worst thing he could imagine was becoming the duke.

“We both know they would tear me to pieces,” he said, unable to meet Will’s eyes. “And you wouldn’t be there to protect me.”

Will had been silent with shock. He had no idea Cal was carrying around this worry, all while Will had been off dallying with widows.

“That won’t happen,” he finally said. “I’ll make sure of it.”

So a-bride-hunting he had gone. An arduous task that would become even more difficult once he rejected Lady Gwen.

Will’s mother looked past him out the window, lifting up just a bit in her seat. “Your roses are looking well.”

“I’ll be sure to tell my gardener.”

The words came out sharper than he meant them to, but he wasn’t in the mood for small talk. His mother was here for a reason and it certainly wasn’t to take tea and admire his roses. Just before the moment could grow even more tense, a maid entered with the tea tray.

She visibly perked up and set about pouring their cups. “So then,” she began briskly once they were alone again. “ Are you enjoying the season?”

“As much as any man does.”

She gave him a scolding look. “Could you at least try to sound a little more enthusiastic? You’re here to find your duchess, the future mother of your children. Why, this should be exciting for you!”

Absolutely nothing about this was exciting, but Will managed a weak smile that seemed to satisfy his mother.

“I hear Lady Gwendolyn Fairbanks is very popular,” she continued breezily. “Though I always found her rather dull myself. She’s too much like her mother. The countess is always blathering on about something tedious, like wallpaper or shoe buttons.”

And there it was. He should have guessed that she was here to check up on him. Her casual tone didn’t fool Will. His mother may have just arrived in London, but she had amassed a large circle of aristocratic friends in the years since his elevation to the dukedom. Friends who no doubt had been keeping her abreast of all the latest gossip.

He narrowed his eyes as she took a sip of tea. “If you have something to ask me, I’d rather you just come out and say it,” he said curtly.

It had been many years since Will had spoken to his mother in a manner that couldn’t be described as coolly polite. He really must get some sleep.

She raised a dark brow the same shade as his own and set down her teacup. “Fine.” As his mother folded her hands on her lap, the afternoon light caught on her dazzling emerald engagement ring—a pointed reminder that she had married for love despite the fervent opposition of his father’s family. “Are you going to propose to her?”

It was a perfectly reasonable question, but Will felt the urge to rear back. He rolled his shoulders instead.

“I haven’t decided.”

It was a bit cowardly of him, perhaps, but it didn’t feel right to tell his mother he wouldn’t propose before Lady Gwen herself.

Her lips pursed at his evasive response and he had the distinct sensation she knew the truth anyway. “The earl won’t like hearing that.”

Will was finding it harder and harder to give a damn what Lord Fairbanks thought. “Well, it isn’t up to him, is it?”

“No, it isn’t.” His mother’s eyes softened. “I only want your happiness, darling. Whatever you do decide, I’ll support you.”

Will’s cheeks heated. “I know,” he muttered and turned away from her sympathetic gaze. They were rarely affectionate toward each other. And certainly not since he inherited.

“I only ask that you let me know once you do find your bride. I’d hate to learn about my own son’s engagement in the newspaper.”

“Of course.” He titled his head and took his teacup.

While she chattered away about her circle of friends and her London plans, Will listened politely, offering an “Oh?” and “Naturally” every so often. They were back to their usual routine, and though it wasn’t exactly comfortable, it was familiar.

Their relationship had never been the same after Will’s father died. She had been too distraught to do anything other than lay abed, so everything had been left up to fifteen-year-old Will. He worked very hard to make sure they could keep the house, even when it would have been far more cost efficient to sell up and move them all to London. But Margraves never took the easy route, it seemed. When she finally emerged from her cocoon of grief months and months later, Will still continued to act as the head of the household.

His mother was generous with her thanks and always deferred to his judgment, until Will was named the heir a few years later and the old duke demanded he come stay with him. She had readily agreed, even insisted he go to live with a strange man he had never met in a part of the country he had never visited.

Will had tried to argue, but her mind was made up and he couldn’t deny the duke without her support. So away he went, filled with the kind of righteous indignation at her betrayal only the very young could sustain for any length of time. The pain had faded a great deal over the years, settling into more of a muted antipathy, but it never truly went away.

Will absently rubbed his chest. How easily he could still call up that old wound. When he inherited the dukedom, Will made sure she had a lovely summer home in the Lake District, an elegant town house in London, and a generous allowance, but refused to share a roof with her ever again. When he visited her and Cal in Surrey, he always made sure to return to London the same evening no matter the hour. And if she had ever noticed this pattern of behavior over the years, she never said a word to him about it.

“… Mrs. Atkinson hopes to raise at least fifty pounds.”

Will perked up. His mind had been wandering for the last five minutes, at least.

“Oh, really?” He had no idea what his mother had been saying, but this seemed like a reasonable response.

“Well, naturally, darling. Lady Montgomery’s garden party used to bring in twice that much. And it’s for such a good cause. I’m going over there this afternoon for tea with her and Phoebe to discuss their plans for the bazaar. They need to hold it before the end of the month, so we will have to act quickly.”

Will blinked, still lost. “Yes, of course.”

“I know I haven’t always approved of Alexandra, but what Phoebe is doing is admirable. You can’t deny that. Those poor girls have so little. If they lose the school too, who knows what will happen to them.”

Will’s breath caught. Phoebe’s school was in trouble? Why the devil hadn’t she said anything? He frowned. “May I help?”

“Of course! I’m sure a donation would be very welcome.”

“Certainly, but perhaps more can be done.” He wasn’t just a bloody checkbook. “I do have some sway in Parliament, you know.” Will managed a teasing smile that was completely lost on his mother.

Her mouth dropped open for a moment before she recovered. “I… I can ask.”

“Actually, might it not be better if I joined you? Then I can find out exactly what is needed.”

And Phoebe wouldn’t be able to dodge him so easily in her mother’s home.

“You want to come to Mrs. Atkinson’s,” she said slowly, as if Will had spoken to her in Latin. “For tea.”

“Yes, if you think she’ll have me.”

“I’m sure she would be delighted.” Then she narrowed her eyes. “Does this have something to do with Alexandra?”

Will let out an impatient huff. “ No. ”

She would probably go to her grave certain that he was in love with Alex.

“All right.” His mother didn’t look convinced, but she changed the subject anyway.

As Will sat back in his chair and once again pretended to listen, his heart fluttered with anticipation. He was supposed to be finding a duchess, not gallivanting around London with someone who possessed the complete opposite qualities he needed in a wife. But all he could picture was the look of surprise on Phoebe’s face when he entered the Atkinsons’ parlor. For that moment alone he would suffer through a hundred awkward conversations with his mother. No, a thousand. He smiled and took a sip of tea.

“You’re in an awfully good mood all of a sudden,” she noted.

For once Will ignored the instinct to hide his true feelings from her behind a stoic facade. “As a matter of fact I am,” he replied. “I think it will be a lovely afternoon.”