The Duke (Daughters of Dishonour #2)

Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

E lsie was pleased to report, if only to herself, that over the next two weeks she had managed to grow closer to Lady Flora. Which was not an easy task since the young girl was still almost entirely silent, refusing much in the way of conversation. However, Lady Flora clearly felt comfortable with her and hung around, clinging to Elsie’s elbow on occasions. The girl’s confidence seemed to be growing by the day. His Grace was not to be seen—since that moment of dancing in his arms, the duke had rarely been in Elsie’s presence—their deal, if still in place, seemed forgotten. Every time she went to look for him—to ask about the post, returning to London, the plans for the party—the duke would be busy or away from the manor. She knew she could no longer call him Kit.

There were, however, a few signs of progress around the manor. Not so much in terms of how many cobwebs there were , or dust covered surfaces, but Elsie had received several bolts of material and patterns to make up dresses for both Lady Flora and herself. With little else to do—except stifle a mounting feeling of annoyance—Elsie had set about creating two evening gowns for the pair of them .

On her way up the stairs to visit Lady Flora, having finished the soft lilac and cream gown for the girl, Elsie paused in the lonely hallway, the end of a conversation catching her attention. In part because it was so rare to overhear anything within the grim and isolated manor and the other aspect was the topic of the whispering pair’s talk. As she drew nearer, she saw it was her own maid, who had her arms wrapped around Clary’s neck, hidden although poorly, in a small alcove. The two had clearly been kissing, and from the way their bodies were angled against each other’s—Elsie had no doubt they meant to do far more.

She should walk on, but Samson’s giggle had her frozen in place, her gaze wide and her cheeks flushed at the sight.

“The others were talking about Lansdown as a most respectable place for a dance.”

“Oh, aye.” Clary seemed far more interested in the underside of Samson’s ear than in whatever might be happening at the Lansdown.

“Yes—there is even the occasional tradesman, and member of the gentry who attends. They dance there.”

“What makes you such an expert on the local parties?”

“Well.” Whatever Samson had been about to say was lost when Clary started kissing her most seriously.

Elsie had overheard enough, in fact in good conscience she had heard too much. But as she watched the couple before her, twisting closer, their eager hands exploring each other, their hungry mouths desperate for each other, she found she could not tear her eyes away.

Clary pressed Samson against the alcove’s wall, his hands pulling loose her dress, Elsie felt desire run a finger down her back, a need she had thought she had managed to banish from her body. As she watched, telling herself all the time to dart away to leave, her stubborn feet would not move her an inch. Deep within her, there was a pulse of sensation that felt as if it was tugging at her limbs, crying out to be touched. No matter how far she travelled, that craven part of her seemed to burn bright still.

Samson’s neck was arched back, her pale brown hair tugged out her cap, and there was a warmth which discoloured her chest. Perhaps it was from Clary’s unshaven whiskers or from her own want, but whatever the case, maybe Elsie needed to know if the colour went farther, dipped any lower. Clary’s hands parted the material at the top of Samson’s dress, and it dawned on Elsie, if she did not force herself to leave then and there, she would witness her maid’s breasts, and how mortified the girl might be.

Blinking away her own wanton thoughts, Elsie moved away taking several steps as quietly as she could before breaking into a run. She just hoped her feet were quieter than the turmoil her thoughts were in. Reaching the safety and peace of her chamber had to be the first thing she did. Unsteadily, her hands grabbed at the handle of the bedroom, flinging it open, the dresses she carried with her discarded as she entered, all her attention focused on the sensation that burnt and writhed within her.

Surely her experience in Edinburgh had taught her enough. And yet it seemed, despite this, the mere sight of those two in the alcove had been enough to trigger a wave of need through her. In the sanctity of her chamber, her body shielded in the semidarkness, Elsie let out a sigh, the weight of what she wanted settling in the space between her hips. She leant back into the shadows, pressing herself against the wall, not daring to move away, desperately willing those memories out of her mind. Still, they came, and this time it was her gown being torn asunder, her breath robbed by all-consuming kisses, herself up against the wall…

Against her better judgement—hell perhaps even against her own common sense—Elsie lifted the bottom of her dress up, pressing her fingers over the shift until her legs parted, so that her own hand could cup her core. The pressure helped but even as her fingers slid inside her, she knew she wanted more.

Bending her head back, she played through the sight she’d witnessed on the staircase, but it wasn’t Samson and Clary she imagined there, no, now the image she conjured was the duke. His kissable mouth was smiling as he tasted her body, his hands everywhere all at once. All his brusqueness over the last few weeks vanished as she projected her desire and lust into him. Gone was the hard, stilted man he presented to the world. Elsie told herself this hunger within Kit would be similar to the occasionally seen element of laughter she saw within him, but it ran hotter, and it was all for her. As her finger stroked herself higher, a small sigh slipped out of her mouth—half formed and partly resembling his name. She wanted him with a ferocity she had not realised herself capable of and could not entirely explain even to herself.

The door of her bedroom opened, and Elsie had barely enough time to release her skirts as she looked into the face of the man she had been picturing standing in her room, gazing at her with concern, and what she hoped was absolutely no idea what she had been doing.

Clutching at her skirts Elsie studied Ashmore’s face. The heat of embarrassment flooded her face, but she hoped the dim light made it hard for him to make out what she had been doing or note the tingle of pinked cheeked shame. At least she thought as she edged away from the wall, he would never know what she had been visualising as she touched herself.

Ashmore had turned a little on his heel to give her space and was gazing around her chamber. Whilst it might have been taboo and wrong for her to be acting in such a manner, it was hardly appropriate for him to come barrelling into her bedroom without so much as knocking.

“Your Grace?” she asked. Hoping that her question hid any of her shame. However, she had initially assumed he might feel… indifferent, but then she had questioned this, given the hours teaching Flora her steps. She’d caught a smile on his face she believed to be entirely genuine. So, what did he feel towards her? Th e lust she felt towards him might be one sided, but the situation dictated that they continue to interact.

“I heard a noise, and there was the…” Even in the darkness, she could clearly see the flush on his face. “There were the dropped dresses.” He bent down and grabbed the forgotten gowns, one of which had clearly been sticking out of the door, visible to him. “I feared…”

“That something had happened to me?” Elsie took an unsteady step away from the safety of the wall. She was still twisted and raw with want despite his untimely interruption. Perhaps even driven a touch wilder because of it.

“In this house”—he moved into the chamber and deposited the gowns onto the nearest armchair—“I do not trust anyone in this house to remain safe.”

The movement caused his normal level of stiffness he had spent the last few weeks displaying, but it also allowed Elsie to see more of his features, and there was something in his eyes which made her draw nearer—it reminded her of their stolen, isolated moments in the cave.

The duke’s lips drew together as he saw her approach him, and he promptly moved his hands behind his back. “Madam.” His tone was harsh, as precise as it had been on their first meeting together. “Once this party has been celebrated, you will be leaving us.”

“Won’t we all be heading for London?”

“A brief sojourn,” he replied, “but then I will return here. This is my home,” he said, as though it was in fact less of a home and more of a curse. “No one else should have to remain here in such a place, but since I am obligated to remain, I will make sure that Flora leaves.”

He was punishing himself, Elsie realised. She was not certain if she believed in curses, but it was clear that Ashmore did, and that he meant to punish himself.

Boldness filled her, a sort of bravery born from a mixture of boredom and lust, as well as a strange need to confront Ashmore and have him be convinced she was not a coward. She was not scared of this strange old house. There was nothing within these walls that scared her, at least not in the way he meant. In truth, whatever desire had driven her to imagine him as she touched herself was clearly a bizarre one. But Elsie was worthy of his attention, at least over the next few weeks. Whilst that might sound desperate in her head, Elsie knew that, unless he did pay some mind to her, she would never be able to shake the grip that this silly, unnecessary lust had on her. Unless she broke this hold, she would be forced to carry this desire all the way back to London with her.

“I do not find myself as scared as I was initially of the manor.”

“That is simply because you do not know all its secrets.”

“Lady Flora has started speaking a little more to me. I believe she is excited to see Town. The servants, it is true, are not the friendliest I will admit, but I have found a way.” This was a lie. She was still bereft of letters from any of her family members, but at least the maids would bring her trays of tea now and then. Elsie continued, “I can ignore the cobwebs. It is only Your Grace who remains inscrutable…”

A small awkward grimace appeared on his face, which Elsie thought resembled an attempt at a smile, but one which could not entirely be arranged by Ashmore.

“It is not inscrutability I wished to project.” There was a pained look on Ashmore's face as he spoke, almost like the words themselves were a burden to him, “but you Miss Keating…”

“Me?” For one brief, bright moment Elsie glowed under what she hoped would be praise. She had brought this irascible, difficult duke out of his shell, and he was about to praise her. Then he moved slightly nearer, and Elsie saw his expression more clearly, but she had no time before his barrage began.

“I have tried my damnedest to be polite. Hell, I have risked my life to ensure your safety, but you continue to be… a plague.” He waved his hand towards the dresses. “You leave clothing dotted around my house, and whilst I know my sister appreciates your presence, my servants do not.”

Elsie wanted to break in and point out she had been making a dress for his sister, but Ashmore was not giving her enough time to form, let alone make, a reply. Besides, he was towering over her, and his presence was robbing her of all common sense. Darn this blasted infatuation with him.

“But like all unwelcome guests, I am certain of some good intentions on your part—despite how it has manifested. And as for your dog?—”

It was enough. Quite enough. Especially after everything Elsie had tried to do. How frequently she had been thwarted and all to end being insulted? A burst of anger swelled with Elsie, an unfamiliar emotion but one she felt quite entitled in this moment. All thoughts of how this man—this duke—was the one who was supposed to help her sister, fled from her mind as she closed the remaining distance between the two of them, jabbing a finger into his chest. Hard .

“I disagree with your assumptions. I have seen neglect and poor parental decisions before, known all too well the cruelty of a harsh word and hardship that comes from a tight budget.” This was true. Not from her parents, but from her grandmother, Elsie was all too aware of the consequences of unpleasant behaviour. She had suffered from it first-hand, yet it would not see her bury herself away from the world, too frightened to experience a few little wonders. “I do not believe we should let the words and actions of others bother us.”

A small twist of guilt ran through her when she said this, after all she still recalled with vivid clarity the vile words her grandmother had thrown at her, and it seemed not entirely able to be discarded. Was she being a hypocrite as part of her would be forever humiliated by her grandmother's words? Still, she was trying her best to battle these memories, what was Ashmore doing? When he had all the advantages with which to fight—sex, wealth, position—how dare he back down and hide away?

With a scoffing sound at the back of her throat, Elsie gazed up into Ashmore’s face hoping to read something beyond cold disinterest in those hardened features. A small twitch in his jawline was all she saw. She had tried her best for weeks in the manor, even making some progress with Lady Flora, but he would not bend an inch for her or let her further in.

Or whenever he did give her something, say when they’d danced together, he’d immediately withdrawn—it was infuriating. “But that is all I am left with—rank speculation. Which festers and rots and I do believe half of the stories that run through the house. No, there are no such things as ghosts. Let me tell you this talk does not make for good bedfellows.”

A flash around his eyes at the mention of bedfellows was the only indication that Ashmore had heard what she’d said. Boosted by fear of what he might reply, Elsie continued, although she felt less confident, “I’m not the coward here. I know what your family is like—for goodness’ sake there was a murderer in your uncle’s home the night we arrived—my sister had to chase the braggart off while I…”

To this revelation Ashmore responded by clasping her arms roughly in his grip, his fingers nipping at her shoulders through Elsie’s gown. “Why the hell didn’t you mention this earlier? Were you in danger?” The force of questions and the profanity further stirred Elsie, not to mention the fact that Ashmore had lifted her off her feet to press her frame against his body as he looked furiously down at her. He was so tall she thought in girlish fascination. It was too much, from what she’d witnessed in the hallway, to her own fevered touch earlier against her innards, to all her colourful imaginings of him. So, her desire got the better of her again. Elsie raised her own hands, cupping his face so he could not escape, and pressed her lips against his in one quick heady move.

In part, she realised as she held her mouth there, it had been done to shock Ashmore. In part because of her own desire. But the latter was taking over, running rampant over the initial ideas, as a yearning built within her, fed as he responded hungrily to her kiss.

It wasn’t Elsie’s first kiss.

In fact, in Edinburgh, she had kissed five different young men, three of them officers. Which in her opinion meant there could be no surprises saved up for when she kissed Ashmore. That was her theory.

How wrong she was.

She was surprised when one of his hands dropped from her arms to wrap around her waist, curling her closer. The other hand lifted to her own face, tilting her chin for better access, and it was then, as his mouth pressed more fully against her lips, Elsie started to think her experience had not prepared her for the taste and feel of him.

When his tongue pushed her lips open, it wasn’t a curious touch but more like possession—there was no hesitation in Ashmore as he backed her up against the wall whilst continuing to rob her of her wits. His mouth was all-consuming, molten temptation moving from greedy kisses to lighter ones, hardly giving her time to catch her breath. Let alone gather her senses.

Ashmore could kiss, kiss better than she ever imagined possible. Surely a grumpy, isolated recluse could not be this practised or skilled at kissing? But it seemed that he could in fact, leaving her breathless, alert, and keen. The touch of his tongue inside her mouth drove her wilder while his hand on her chin feathering out over her skin as they kissed before moving up to tangle in her hair, sent sensations racing through her body pooling between her legs. With all her prior experience forgotten, Elsie leant into the rush of feeling he created in her, of those boundless, pulsing tingles that made her want to scream and rub her body closer to his. If she thought she wanted him before this kiss, it was nothing to how she felt now .

Ashmore pulled back away from her, and Elsie hoped he would admit something of a mutual longing that was burning between them.

Instead, he simply stared down at her, his expression forbidding before whispering, “Never again.”