Duchess Material

Sixteen

A boring little spinster schoolteacher, my foot.

Will knew he should stop, or at the very least, slow down, but every time he tried, Phoebe merely urged him onward with an inviting tilt of her hips or the urgent press of her fingers.

I know you’ll make it good.

Good lord, how on earth was he supposed to resist that? He should have insisted she put her chemise back on. Perhaps then he would have been able to muster a shred of self-control. But now it was far too late. Phoebe slid his braces down one at a time and together they relieved him of his shirt. Will then stood up.

His hands stilled at the front of his trousers and he waited until Phoebe met his eyes. “You’re sure?”

She gave an enthusiastic nod. “Completely.”

Well, then.

Will let out a puff of breath and began to release the buttons. He felt Phoebe’s heavy gaze tracking every movement and he fumbled more than once, as if he was the virgin here. His trousers puddled around his ankles and he stepped out of them, then returned to the bed in only his smallclothes. He took her in his arms and brushed a strand of hair back from her face, letting his fingers linger at her temple. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks flushed and dewy. She was the very picture of an eager bride on her wedding night. A sharp, sudden desire tore through him so hard his mouth went dry.

He cleared his throat and pushed aside those inconvenient feelings to ponder later. “We’ll go slow.” She began to protest but he held a finger to her lips. “It will be better for you this way.”

She gave him a playful frown. “Your thoughtfulness is most irritating.”

Will laughed and kissed her mouth, savoring her full bottom lip between his teeth. She arched into him as her curious fingers trailed down his back. Will moved to cup one of her breasts in his hand. She fit his palm perfectly, so soft and full. He gently squeezed and circled her nipple with his thumb, having already learned what she liked. She let out a gasping sigh and her fingers dug into his hip. God what he wouldn’t give to explore every inch of her. To show her all the ways he could bring her pleasure. It would take years.

A lifetime.

But even if Will was tempted to do the impossible and throw his future over for her, Phoebe had made it perfectly clear she had no interest in being his duchess. He could understand that. It was a life of demands and duty, with limitations so very different from the one she had crafted for herself—and clearly loved. He didn’t want to take that from her. So if this was all he could have, Will planned to make the most of it.

He moved away from her enticing mouth and kissed down the column of her neck, stopping to worry that sensitive spot at her collarbone he had discovered back at Fleur with his tongue. She let out a rewarding moan and he continued southward, taking the time to lavish each nipple with deep pulling kisses. Phoebe had begun writhing beneath him once again and her mewling cries grew more urgent under his touch. He pulled her drawers off in one smooth motion and then moved on to her stockings. A smile played on his lips as he rolled the economical material down one leg.

“What is it?” she demanded as she pulled the rest of the stocking off and Will set to work on the other.

“Nothing,” Will said with an amused smile. He wasn’t quite sure how to explain that he found her plain drawers and cotton stockings far more alluring than anything made of silk or lace, so he kissed her instead. Then he dragged a hand to her bare hip and was about to push her thighs apart when she skirted past him and caressed his erection. Will came to a shuddering stop as she continued to rub his aroused flesh.

“Phoebe,” he gasped as she reached through the opening of his smallclothes and took him in hand. Her eyes had gone wide with wonder and her lips grew pinker.

“Stop stalling,” she said in a breathy voice that made his balls tighten.

He pulled off his smallclothes and fit the head of his cock against her entrance. But the feel of her wet heat nearly overwhelmed him and he had to shut his eyes.

After a moment her hands flexed against his back.

“What are you doing?”

“Thinking about cricket,” he mumbled by her ear.

She let out a startled laugh. “Now?”

“Yes,” he said tightly. “Unless you want this to be over in less than a minute.”

He felt her kiss his neck and smile against his skin. “I don’t mind.”

The tenderness in her words wrapped around his heart with such dangerous ease that Will gave up on recalling cricket statistics. No, better to get this over with. And safer.

He resumed his movements, making slow but steady strokes into her. At one point he felt Phoebe’s entire body tighten and he cast her a wary look.

“Are you all right?”

Her eyes were squeezed shut but she nodded. “Yes. Don’t stop now.”

He began kissing her neck as he rubbed her nipple with his fingertips and felt her slowly melt. Only when her body began to loosen beneath him did he continue. Then he thrust fully into her and lost his breath. She instinctively raised her hips, angling him even deeper inside her and Will moaned her name, clenching the bedsheets so tightly he worried they would rip.

He felt her hand on his nape, stroking up into his hair. Will arched back into her touch and finally looked at her face. When her eyes fluttered open, it felt like taking a hard punch to the chest. Her lips, the deep flush of a summer rose, parted and she pulled him down for another hungry kiss.

He began to thrust harder, his movements growing faster and more careless as his release began to build. Finally he couldn’t take any more of this strange, sensuous torture. Will pulled out from her welcoming heat and grabbed his smallclothes, as he would not spend on her sheets.

As a powerful release washed over him, he collapsed beside her. He then immediately pulled Phoebe into his arms. Just as he had suspected back in Maude’s closet, her back melded perfectly to his front. But now he could allow himself to enjoy the sensation—at least for a little while. Phoebe let out a contented little sigh as she nestled deeper against his body. Will planted a kiss on the top of her head and together they lay in the near darkness, their heavy breaths filling the room. But instead of the relief that usually followed such activities, Will was left with a gnawing ache.

He wanted more.

He wanted the impossible.

And he was well and truly doomed.

Will was usually up at dawn, his mind already spinning with the tasks that lay before him. But today… today he did not want to wake up. He kept his eyes firmly shut against the midmorning sunshine streaming through the window and enjoyed the sensory pleasures of Phoebe’s bed, which smelled of clean linen, warm skin, and love-making. He knew he was supposed to feel like a blackguard for taking her last night, but she had been so absolutely certain about what she had wanted. Who was he to question her?

No, he would not feel any regret. She had reached for him again in the early hours of the morning. Though they had both been in a sleepy haze, they followed the lead of their bodies, already primed for each other. Afterward he had fallen back asleep with his face buried in her hair and their heavy limbs tangled together. It was heaven. Will had never experienced the intoxicating combination of enthusiasm mixed with surprising moments of tenderness. He had felt more himself in bed with her, naked and wanting, than he had in many years. Will couldn’t stop the smile pulling at his lips as his cock began to stiffen yet again. He was already going to hell. Why not make it worth it?

But as he reached an arm back to caress Phoebe’s sleeping body, he found nothing but empty space. Will blinked and looked over. A piece of paper lay where Phoebe’s head should have been. He sat up and grabbed the sheet. As his eyes scanned the irritatingly short note, his heart sank lower with each word.

I went to the school early to plan for the bazaar. Didn’t want to wake you.

There were no sweet words, no mention of the earth-shattering night of mutual pleasure they had shared. Only a sterile explanation of where she had gone and not when she would return, as she expected him to leave. Christ, she hadn’t even signed her name . But that was only sensible, given the risk she had taken with him. Even still, the tips of Will’s ears began to burn. He felt like her embarrassing secret.

I find the idea that I would be any man’s mistress appalling—let alone a duke’s.

Right. He was an idiot. And of course he would want the only woman in England who saw his title as a drawback.

Will grimaced. Phoebe had said nothing about her desire going beyond the physical and they had both agreed it would be a one-off. It would be silly to feel used and yet…

What use would I have for a husband?

He threw back the covers and stood. Enough. Perhaps it had been a blessing to have awoken here alone. Then he wouldn’t have had to face her dismissal whilst being naked. It was well past time for him to get the hell out of here. But first he needed to find his trousers.

After he had slunk out of her flat like a common burglar, Will returned to Mayfair and his fancy life of extreme privilege that held no interest for Phoebe Atkinson. He tried to put her out of his mind by spending the next few days occupied by the tedious work of running a dukedom. And yet, through it all, he could not stop picturing Phoebe at his shoulder like an avenging angel, making little remarks and pushing him to do more, more, more .

It was damned irritating—mostly because she was right.

So he gave raises to his steward and housekeeper at the estate in Derbyshire, doubled his annual contribution to a foundling home in Whitechapel, and approved a long overdue scheme to rebuild the roofs of some of his tenants’ houses. With every stroke of his pen, Will could picture the old duke on his other shoulder, glowering in disapproval. He had believed in pushing every man, beast, and building in the duchy to the absolute limit, but he was dead. And despite his frequent protestations that Will had neither the brains nor the blood to be the duke, here he was, in the duke’s house with the duke’s title and all the entrenched power and privilege that came with it. So Will would do whatever he damn well wanted with his feeble mind and watered down blue blood. Or rather, whatever this imaginary Phoebe of his would like.

She also urged him to send a note to Lord Tavistock, asking him to lunch at his earliest convenience. Though he was a member of the opposition, they had been together at Oxford and Will liked him immensely. Whereas Will had all but given up his radical ideals when he became the duke, Tavistock had the advantage of being raised from birth to inherit a viscounty, and thus hadn’t felt obligated to prove his suitability to anyone. That meant he had no qualms about embracing progress and publicly chastising his more narrow-minded peers every chance he got. It had earned him the moniker of “Tattling Tavistock” in some of the more ribald papers, but the viscount took it all in stride, for he believed in what he was doing down to the bone.

In short, Fairbanks found him absolutely appalling. But that only made Will more determined to seek him out. He wanted Tavistock’s opinion on forming a bill that could actually gain support and put an end to the absolute drivel Fairbanks was spouting. Despite all he had learned at Fleur, Will couldn’t entirely rid himself of the guilt he felt for going behind his mentor’s back. But he also knew better than most that once the earl set his mind to something, he did not deviate for anyone. All the more reason to join forces with Tavistock.

In the middle of all this came an invitation from Alex, asking him to join the family for dinner on Friday. They hadn’t seen each other since the meeting about the bazaar and had some catching up to do. Will asked the footman to wait, as he immediately responded with his acceptance, just as he would have even if he hadn’t slept with Phoebe. But as the young man left the room with Will’s response, a nagging sense of doubt began to prickle.

It could be horribly awkward if Phoebe was there. What if she assumed he came for her? He would look pathetic. But did he care? Will wasn’t even sure anymore. Besides, her attendance seemed unlikely, given the current state of her relationship with Alex. And yet, despite the possibility of an awfully uncomfortable evening, Will couldn’t help hoping she would be there.

He pressed his forehead to the surface of his desk and closed his eyes. He wasn’t used to feeling so out of sorts. Maybe he was coming down with something.

Yes, a case of lovesickness.

He let out a groan at the thought. That was the last thing he needed.

“Your Grace?”

He had entirely forgotten his secretary was still in the room.

Will lifted his head and cleared his throat, as if nothing bizarre had just occurred. Mr. Flynn didn’t look convinced. “Have you heard from Tavistock yet?”

The man blinked. “No, the note only went out an hour ago.”

“Very good,” Will said hurriedly as he pushed his chair back. “Do let me know when you hear from him. In the meantime, I think I’ll take a turn about the garden. Get some fresh air, check on the roses. That sort of thing.”

Mr. Flynn gave him an odd look, as if Will had just climbed onto his desk and burst into a rousing round of “God Save the Queen.” Couldn’t a man go look at his damned flowers? “Er… of course, Your Grace.”

Will then lifted his chin and hurried from the room before he could say any more ridiculous things.

Phoebe gazed up at the front of Park House. It was a misty spring evening and every window glowed with warm, golden light while the sound of guests enjoying her parents’ legendary hospitality could be heard from the pavement. Together, it created an invitingly cozy scene that anyone would long to be a part of and yet a little sigh escaped her. All she wanted was to fill her stomach and fall into bed. The last week had been exhausting, and to her increasing frustration she hadn’t slept well since Will spent the night.

It had been cowardly of her to leave while he had still been asleep, but when she had slowly awoken that morning, like a winter fog lifting off the Serpentine, to find Will’s warm body nestled beside her own, her heart had cried out to stay with him forever. And that alarming thought had spurred her to her feet.

Since then, she had made sure to stay as busy as possible, preparing for the bazaar and keeping her students on task. And yet, she had still thought of him every day. And every night when she climbed right back into that bed, where she would awake feeling a little more restless and raw each morning.

Though Phoebe had meant what she said about trusting him with her body, she hadn’t taken into account her foolish little heart which had burst open for him anew during the night they had shared, and would now have to stitch itself back together once again.

It will.

It must .

For she refused to walk that well-trodden path once more. Of wanting what she could never have. So Phoebe was determined to avoid Will as much as possible, but that should be easy enough. They had gone how many years with barely a meeting? Phoebe couldn’t remember. She wouldn’t .

As she entered the house, Alex rose from a chair in the antechamber. She looked her usual stern self but wore a rich green evening gown with a high neckline trimmed in matching lace. A small bustle in a cascade of perfect folds unfurled with her movements, while her dark hair was arranged in an elegant chignon.

Phoebe removed her hat and then cocked her head. “Were you waiting for me?”

“The Americans are here,” Alex grumbled in response and crossed her arms, which only emphasized the flattering cut of the gown.

Excellent tailoring, Phoebe observed with a flash of envy.

Alex always insisted she cared nothing for clothing, but that was easy when one possessed her striking natural beauty and a mother who studied fashion plates. Phoebe, still wearing her school clothes, suddenly felt like a hopeless dowd. No , she reminded herself. Her clothes were functional, not frivolous. Even still, she couldn’t help one last longing glance at the dark emerald beading that ran along the hem of Alex’s gown. Perhaps she should take up her mother’s offer for an afternoon of shopping. Just for one nice dress, so she could stop borrowing ill-fitting gowns from Freddie…

“Did you hear me?”

Alex’s sharp voice cut through her meandering thoughts. “Sorry, yes.” Phoebe pursed her lips as she unbuttoned her coat and handed it to the waiting footman. “The Americans.”

As they headed toward the formal drawing room, Alex filled her in. “They’re horribly vulgar, which Father thinks is hilarious. Mother is appalled, but doing her best to be hospitable. The son is already infatuated with Freddie and she is encouraging him, of course.”

Phoebe hummed in agreement. Freddie was a terrible flirt—not that anyone needed more reason to fall in love with her.

Alex then hesitated right before the drawing room entryway. “And I invited Will.”

Phoebe nearly tripped over her own feet before she recovered. “Oh? That’s nice,” she croaked.

Alex watched her carefully, but otherwise her expression remained neutral. “Yes. Almost like old times, isn’t it?”

Phoebe managed a weak hum of agreement. If Alex noticed her reticence, she did not comment on it and tugged Phoebe into the room. The guests all turned to them, but Phoebe kept her eyes on her father. She could not look at Will just yet.

Mr. Atkinson had always been a tall, hulking man with a heavy beard and a full head of hair. And though his figure had grown more portly with age and his hair had long gone gray, he was still a commanding presence in any room. As her mother often said with great fondness, he was the very picture of a lion in winter.

But as Phoebe well knew, a lion had sharp teeth.

“Hello, Father,” she said as she rose on her tiptoes to kiss his bristly cheek. “How was your trip to New York?”

“Profitable,” he grunted, then immediately turned to the older man beside him. “This is my middle daughter, Phoebe.”

The elder man extended his hand. He was a head shorter than her father and his hair pure white, but his blue eyes twinkled with kindness. “Hank Ericson. A pleasure to meet you, dear.”

Phoebe smiled as she shook his hand. “Good evening.”

“And this is my son, Hank Junior,” he added, gesturing to the younger man next to him. He was slightly taller and blandly handsome, with light blond hair, and blue eyes to match his father’s. Hank Junior immediately stepped forward and took her hand with another firm shake. “The pleasure is all mine.” Phoebe returned his rather forward grin even while the hairs on the back of her neck rose. One could never trust a man who smiled quite so much.

“And how are you enjoying London?”

“Well, it’s no match for New York, of course,” Hank Junior said with a shrug. “But it has its charms.” His gaze then flitted to Freddie, who was by the hearth chatting with Will and wearing a periwinkle gown just as flattering as the one on Alex, though with a much lower neckline.

Phoebe could practically hear Alex trying not to roll her eyes.

“So, Miss Atkinson,” Hank Junior began in an overfamiliar tone that had already begun to grate. “Do you work for your dear old dad too?”

“No, I—”

Her father barked a laugh. “Phoebe insists on working as a schoolteacher.”

“And we are all very proud of her,” her mother added with a smile before shooting her husband a chiding look.

“My grandmother was a schoolteacher before she married,” Mr. Ericson said approvingly. “A damned hard job it was too. Good on you for doing your part.”

Phoebe raised her eyebrows, both at the unexpected curse and the man’s admiration. “Thank you.”

“I think it’s always better for young people to strike out on their own rather than ride on the family coattails into a position they aren’t qualified for,” Mr. Ericson added.

Alex stiffened beside her while Hank Junior simply rolled his eyes and took a sip of champagne. Phoebe looked at her father, waiting for him to respond to the obvious dig at Alex, but all he did was grunt.

“I assure you, no one in our family is riding on anything,” Phoebe said with a dangerous smile. “Especially my sister.”

Mr. Ericson’s white eyebrows rose. “Oh, of course,” he quickly amended as his cheeks turned red. Her father shot her a scowl that Phoebe pretended not to notice.

Will chose that moment to join them. He had shaved off the beard, she noted with a pang of disappointment.

“Good evening, Miss Phoebe,” he said politely, as if he hadn’t been in her bed only days ago. “You are looking well.”

Phoebe swallowed hard as her heart tried to make an escape up her throat. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Hank Junior let out a laugh. “Is that what you’re supposed to go by? I get all the rules about your fancy titles confused. In America every man is mister , unless you’re in the service and have actually done something with yourself,” he added with that smirk Phoebe was starting to hate.

Will tilted his head. “ Your Grace is the formal address, yes, but seeing as we are all friends here, please call me Margrave.”

Hank Junior grinned. “All right, Margrave it is then. Tell me, are you one of those broke fellows who has to marry one of our dollar princesses to fix the roof of your leaky castle?”

Will took a slow sip of his whiskey. “I am not,” he replied, as if the offensive question was incredibly boring. “My predecessor was a forward-thinking fellow, not a broke one. While others refused to give up their bloated properties after grain prices went flat in the seventies, he sold off nearly everything that wasn’t entailed and put the profits back into the duchy. The remaining estates are now self-supported.”

Mr. Ericson raised an eyebrow. “Impressive.”

“I am very lucky,” Will acknowledged. “Most men in my position inherit titles that come with massive debts and crumbling estates. But even then, few are willing to make the changes necessary to survive. My father was a country barrister, not a duke, so I do not have the same attachment to the trappings of the aristocracy.”

Hank Junior gave a thoughtful nod. “Interesting. I didn’t know that could happen.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Atkinson said. “Will had no idea he was even in line to inherit. It was the most wonderful surprise,” she added with a laugh.

Phoebe watched as Will’s polite smile tightened slightly. She probably wouldn’t have noticed the subtle change if she hadn’t grown so familiar with his face these last weeks.

“My God,” Mr. Ericson marveled. “How old were you?”

“Eighteen. It isn’t a terribly common occurrence, but every now and then a man has a title dropped onto his lap,” Will explained, that easy smile returning once again. “I also had the great fortune to know this clever lady here,” he said as he raised his glass to Alex. “And she has helped me invest the dukedom’s profits wisely.”

Phoebe’s chest burned with pleasure as Alex tilted her head. When she met Will’s eyes this time, she couldn’t help giving him a beaming smile.

“I understand you enjoy the theater, Mr. Ericson,” Mrs. Atkinson chimed in. “Have you been to Covent Garden yet?”

The lady of the house continued to steer the conversation toward safer waters, until Munson announced dinner. Upon entering the dining room, Phoebe was stunned to find herself seated on her father’s left side with Alex directly across from her.

She tried to catch her mother’s eye as she headed to the other end of the table on Will’s arm, but was pointedly ignored.

Phoebe hesitated a moment before taking her seat.

Into the frying pan, then.

Hank Junior was to her right, but the man was already preoccupied with Freddie to his right. Only one empty seat remained…

Phoebe’s breath caught as Will settled in next to Alex. He glanced over and their eyes met. Phoebe, having blatantly been caught staring at him, looked away only to find Father now eyeing her. He cleared his throat, then addressed Will.

“Haven’t seen you at the club this week, Duke.”

Ever since he inherited, Father only ever called Will “Duke.” Phoebe now strongly suspected Will must hate it. How much he hid from the world behind that polite smile.

“I’ve been busy with something that has taken up a great deal of my time.”

“Well, it’s always good to be busy with business,” her father replied. “Anything I’d be interested in?”

“No,” he nearly barked, then gentled his tone. “That is, this was… personal.”

Phoebe immediately looked down at the steaming bowl that had just been placed before her. No one had ever been so interested in cream of celery soup.

“Of course, of course,” Father chuckled. “I’ve heard you’re to marry the Fairbanks girl.” The warm approval in his voice made Phoebe’s stomach turn to ice.

Will choked a little on his water. “I’m afraid not,” he said once he had recovered. “That is only gossip.”

Phoebe couldn’t help the soft sigh of relief that escaped her while Father frowned. “Hmm. The earl won’t like that.”

“Oh, leave him alone, Philip,” Mother said from the other end of the table. “Lord knows no one approved of you when we married.”

To this he let out a booming laugh. “And I think they’ve all eaten a sufficient amount of crow ever since, haven’t they darling?” He then raised his glass. “To Mrs. Atkinson. The finest woman in London.”

Phoebe raised her glass along with everyone else and once again she found herself ensnared by Will’s dark gaze. She forced herself to look away and hoped her cheeks weren’t as red as they felt.

It promised to be a long, long meal.