Devil of a Duke by Kathleen Ayers

21

Jemma paced back and forth for the thousandth time, counting the number of roses adorning the rug beneath her feet. Tugging her dressing gown tighter, she shivered in the damp coldness of the room. England was so bloody frigid compared to Bermuda. Her uncle assured her that over time she would acclimate to the difference in temperature, but Jemma thought she would be forever cold.

A light rain rattled against the window and the sky had gone gray and dark with the coming storm.

Jemma moved before the roaring fire in the hearth, holding out her hands to chase the chill from her fingers. Two days. It had been two long days since she'd sent a note to Nick, asking to speak with him privately. She thought he would reply immediately, perhaps show up demanding to see her at the door of the Marsh town home. When he didn’t come right away, she tried to keep herself busy, reading books she had little interest in, pretending to care which gown Petra would wear to Lady Dobson’s ball and glancing at the door every five minutes in hopes that a message from Nick would arrive. Dinner came and went and still there was no messenger, no word.

She retired early.

After a sleepless night in which she repeated to herself over and over what she would say to Nick, she’d finally given up, rising from her bed to see the day had turned cold and gray. In spite of the weather, she’d walked around the garden, endlessly, thinking of her meeting with Arabella. Had Nick suddenly changed his mind about their marriage and had yet to inform her uncle? She could still see him moving through the crowd at the Cambourne ball and the blonde who trailed him, attaching herself to his tall form.

The longer she waited, the more muddled her thinking became until she now found herself wishing she’d simply appeared at Nick’s home. The sight of her on his front steps might force him to speak to her, or he might have her refused at the door. Arabella would certainly deny her entrance. Nick had been very angry the last time she’d seen him, and rightly so.

“Bloody arrogant man. He wishes to make me suffer.”

“Well, you deserve to, but then, any pain I cause you comes back to me ten times over.”

Jemma jumped, stumbling back over the leg of a wing-back chair. The husky voice seemed to emanate from her armoire.

“Goodness, Jem.” A shadowy form came forward. “How you became adept at weaponry given your propensity for tripping constantly amazes me.” The shadowy form revealed itself as that of the Duke of Dunbar, wet and dripping water all over her floor.

“Nick?” Jemma clutched her dressing gown closer, wondering if she had fallen asleep and Nick’s appearance in her bedroom was a dream.

“You are so very lucky another man's name did not cross your lips. It would be bad for all concerned.” He shook himself like some giant wet dog, his coat spilling droplets of water all over the rug as he made his way to the fire.

Although his tone was light, Jemma did not miss the underlying threat in his words. “There is no other man, and well you know it,” Jemma countered, her pulse quickening at the sight of the large man standing in her chambers. “Keep your voice down lest you awaken the entire house.”

“True,” came the husky voice. “If any other man had come near you, I would already have committed murder.”

“I am in a murderous mood myself, as it happens, should the reverse be true.” The blonde she spied trailing Nick the night of the Cambourne ball flashed before her eyes again for the thousandth time.

Nick stilled and looked at her. “Agreed. Although I find the thought of you challenging Lady Tomlinson to a duel over me to be highly erotic. You'd best her, of course.”

“Lady Tomlinson would not stand a chance.” She lifted her chin.

Nick shook out his coat and laid it before the fire to dry. He moved to hold out his hands towards the flames, blocking every bit of the fire's warmth with his body.

“You’ve no call to be jealous. I’ve not touched another woman since Bermuda. I want no one but you.”

Jemma shivered again from the note of possessiveness in his words. How like Nick to speak to her so bluntly. Instinctively she knew he spoke the truth. Unsure of how to proceed, she said tartly, “Move Nick. It is like a giant tree blocking the warmth of the sun. I’m freezing. The cold of London, I fear, is something I shall never grow accustomed to.”

He complied, stepping to the side.

Jemma sighed in pleasure as the warmth of the fire hit her skin. She could sense him watching her, waiting for her to say more.

“This is most inappropriate, to visit a lady in her bedchamber. I am outraged at your impropriety,” she murmured, watching the play of the fire against his features. “How did you get in?”

“I’m a witch, remember?” he said somberly. “I made myself magically appear at your request." He wiggled his fingers as if casting a spell.

“You are not a witch, nor are you cursed.” She bit her lip. “I am sorry for the words I spoke. I was angry, I was—”

“Trellis.”

She shook her head at the word. “What?”

He nodded towards the window. "Trellis. Didn't think it would hold me, but it did." He grinned, clearly not wishing to accept her apology yet. “Not sure it will on the climb down. What a ruckus that will cause if I fall.”

“Yes, rather like the giant and the beanstalk. My windows are locked.” She made her way to an overstuffed chair before the fire. She sat, shifting just enough so that her wrapper slipped down one shoulder exposing it and the top of a breast.

Nick’s eyes flickered to her bared flesh, then back to her face. “Locks? Easily picked. I should speak to your uncle about the security of his home. It is quite poor. The rosebush barely put up a fight as I climbed.” The ring on his thumb caught the flames of the fire and winked at her.

Her thoughts were neither on the trellis nor the abused rosebushes. Shamefully, all she could think of was Nick and the intensity of their joining in the conservatory. Her intentions to clear the air regarding her family and Arabella’s knowledge of the past receded from the allure of the Devil of Dunbar.

“I’ve wondered,” she said casually, “what the ring is that you wear.”

Nick shrugged. “Surely you’ve heard the stories by now?” He turned his thumb towards her. “The damned one wears it.”

“You are not damned, Nick.” It made her heart hurt to have him think such a thing. How many people had mocked him or shriveled from him in fear because of that story? A rush of protectiveness for him came over her even as she acknowledged that he had little need of her protection, or did he?

“We must talk.” His lips curved upward. “Then I will permit you to take liberties with me.”

She looked away, wondering why she was so transparent. Because I love him, and well, he knows it.

“No more anger between us, Jem. I cannot bear it.”

The pain and longing in his words echoed her own feelings. “No more anger, Nick.” She held out her arms.

“I did not leave you in Bermuda of my own accord. I would never have left you to face all of that alone had I been given a choice.” The husky words, spoken with so much feeling, warmed her more than the fire. “I would never harm your family or hurt them. Surely you know this?”

Jemma nodded, her arms still open to him, the tears welling in her eyes. “I do. I am a reckless, foolish girl from Bermuda who does not place the blame for the past at your feet.”

“Your friend Wren, sent by Corbett, jumped me after I left your father’s study. I wasn’t paying attention, you see, I was—”

“Worried for me.” Her hands fell to her lap.

“Well,” he gave her a sad half-smile, “I hadn’t meant for you to see me, I meant to confront your father and leave. But actually I was looking up at the windows, trying to figure out which one was yours.”

“Whatever for?”

“I planned to kidnap you and take you with me.”

“Kidnap me?” Jemma said in surprise.

“I did not think that after eavesdropping in the hall you would come willingly, thinking I was a cad and a blackmailer.” He shrugged. “At any rate, Corbett paid the ship’s captain to throw me to the sharks once the ship was far enough out and there was no risk to my body washing back to Bermuda.” He came forward and knelt at her feet. “Once the captain saw my eyes,” his voice trailed off, “he knew who I was.”

“And that you were worth more alive than dead to him,” Jemma finished.

Nick placed his hands on her knees. “Yes. But Henry, my grandfather died. I couldn’t get back to Bermuda, to you. I couldn’t—”

“Rescue me.” Jemma laced her hands through the dark mass of his hair, still damp from his climb up the trellis.

“I sent one of my men, Hotchkins, to bring you back, because I couldn’t leave London.” The deep baritone lowered to a tortured whisper. “He was told you were dead. When I received Hotchkin’s letter, I—” He swallowed. “I thought you were lost to me. That I had destroyed the thing I love most.” Nick looked up at her. “I think the worst was the knowledge that you died thinking I used you and discarded you after that day on the beach. My heart—”

“Stop.” A tear ran down Jemma’s cheek. She pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “I did not die. I am here. I will never leave you.” Her throat felt raw. “My uncle told me everything. My parents. The treason. He was my father, and I loved him, but he was a weak man, Nick. He lived a life he didn’t deserve.”

“I never wished for you to know.”

Jemma cupped his face. “I was to be your revenge, wasn’t I?”

Nick closed his eyes for a moment, refusing to look at her. “In the beginning.” His eyes fluttered open, one blue, one brown, both filled with remorse and regret. And painful honestly.

She fell apart completely then, as much from the emotion of the moment as the relief that the telling of the horrible tale was over. For so long she had cursed him, loved him and wondered what possessed him to come to Bermuda. Now she knew. Corbett cost she and Nick dearly. She wept bitterly as he stood and gently lifted her from the chair.

“My entire life has been a lie.” Her chest shook with the force of her tears. “All of it.”

“But we are not, Jem. We are not a lie.” He held her close to his heart and whispered nonsense words of comfort into her ear, gently rocking her until she settled.

“Nick.” His name came out as a hiccup. She ran a fingertip over his nose, stopping at the bump. “You will have to tell me how this break happened. Her hand fell to his stomach, and she felt the muscles contract under her palm. “And of the scars you bear.” Her voice grew fierce. “I will not allow anyone to harm you again.”

A wry smile crossed his lips. “I accept your protection. I’ve no doubt that should I require it, you will rescue me.” He moved and the chair wobbled to one side. “Another poorly made chair. I don’t understand why I cannot find a sturdy chair in all of London.” He paused and cupped her face in his hands. “No more tears, Jem, not for the past and especially not the sins our parents have visited upon us.”

She nodded as he wiped a tear from her cheek.

“There is one more thing.” A large hand clasped hers. "You know of my reputation, my family’s past. We are cursed and most of my ancestors, particularly those that bear my affliction, have come to a bad end. The last Devil of Dunbar went raving mad, clawing at her face and tearing at her clothes."

“Do you seek to dissuade me?”

“Perhaps, warn,” he murmured in her ear, the tip of his tongue circling the outer edges of her lobe.

Jemma shivered at the press of his lips against her neck. She moved her hand further down his stomach until it lay between his legs. She could feel his arousal beneath her fingertips. “I don’t believe that you are damned and cursed.” Her hand tightened and Nick’s chest rumbled with a soft growl. “I see I will have to convince you of the suitability of our match.”

“You are making an excellent start.” He pushed up against her. “Remember, I once told you that this was the wanting.”

“Yes, the wanting. I don’t believe it will ever go away.”

“God, I sincerely hope not.” Nick jumped as she gently squeezed the hardening bulge beneath her hand.

“I will not be parted again.” She whispered against his ear, loving the way he tightened beneath her.

"You'd best mean it." His mouth fell forcefully against hers, urging her lips apart until their tongues intertwined. “Wanton. I knew you would wish to take liberties with me.” He pulled her up and held her in his arms.

Playfully, Jemma swung her legs to and fro. “I suppose I am.”

* * *

Joy,that most elusive of emotions, coursed through Nick’s veins. He marveled that only this girl, over all the women he’d known, ever evoked that feeling in him. He thanked whatever entity, God or the Devil, allowed him a second chance.

“We really mustn't.” She swatted at him as he carried her to the bed. “You cannot possibly mean to take advantage of me in my uncle’s home? Again?”

She smelled of lemons and sunshine and a chocolate. He spied the empty tray near the bed. A plate sprinkled with crumbs lay on it next to a small pot of tea. “Of course I do even though you’ve already had your bedtime snack.” He nodded towards the tray, feeling the heat of her body beneath the wrapper.

“I should lock the door,” Jemma said primly. “I do not wish for my maid to walk in unannounced. The sight of the Duke of Dunbar in a state of undress would cause Anna to scream the house down.”

Nick tossed her atop the coverlet, and she bounced against the down mattress, hand pressed against her mouth as she stifled a giggle.

The dressing gown fell open, and her long slender legs parted, giving Nick a view of the delicacy that awaited him. “A prudent thought.” Nick quickly turned the lock then approached the bed, pausing only to shed his shirt. He tossed the fine lawn on the floor to be followed by his boots.

Another giggle, this time seductive, floated up from the feather mattress.

Nick put one knee on the bed and splayed his hand across her stomach, marveling at the warmth of her skin beneath the silk. “Finally, I will have you in a bed.”

“You will have me always, in a bed or not.” Her hands ran up his arms.

“I will make you happy.” He crawled onto the bed, ignoring the creaking springs, and hovered on all fours above her. He bent his head to trail his tongue up her neck to the tender flesh below her ear. “I swear it. In fact, I will begin the task immediately.” He nipped at her earlobe.

Grabbing the waist of her dressing gown, he tore the belt open to expose her nightgown. The fabric of the nightgown was so sheer he saw clearly the dark tips of her breasts and crevice between her thighs. “This garment,” he tried, and failed to untie the ribbon holding her nightgown together with one hand, “is in my opinion,” he tore the fragile cotton in frustration, “completely unnecessary."

“How should I explain that to my maid?” Jem gasped, watching him toss the remains of her nightgown to the floor.

“Shoddy workmanship,” he muttered, ignoring her.

“Yes, the same as the bed and the chair. You are plagued, Your Grace, with mediocre craftsman. That may be the true curse you are under.”

He ran his hand down the swath of flesh gleaming on the bed before him. “Lovely.” He pressed a kiss to the valley between her breasts and made his way to a pale pink nipple. Nick gently sucked the peak into his waiting mouth.

Jem arched beneath him like a cat, a soft moan escaping her parted lips. She wound her fingers into his hair, pulling him closer to her breast. “Nick.”

His fingers found the wet, silkiness between her thighs. Rubbing one finger against her, he lightly stroked the tender flesh, delighting in the way her body tightened in response.

“I am a lucky man.” His mouth left her nipple, instead circling the tip with his tongue. “I will become exhausted in my attempts to satisfy you.”

Jem pounded a fist against his shoulder in mock indignation. “Bloody, arrogant, duke,” she panted, her legs splaying wider. She reached for the buttons of his trousers.

Dear God, he would not be able to take much more of her questing fingers. The seams of his breeches were about to burst. He rolled to the side and off the bed abruptly, leaving the bed shaking.

Jem bounced about on the mattress. "Lord Nick, do you mean to make me seasick?" One hand languidly reached out to him.

Nick jerked at his trousers, wondering if he would need to instruct his tailor to leave a bit more room in the future. Lust for his wife would keep him from sitting a horse properly, and it was undignified for a duke to go around with split seams. A thought occurred to him. “You will have your own suite of rooms, next to mine but you will sleep with me, in my bed. Unfashionable though it may be.”

“I shall wear breeches to ride,” Jem slid her glorious legs against the coverlet, “under my skirts. I do not care to ride sidesaddle.” She looked at him with defiance. “Unfashionable though that may be.”

“I do as I wish.” Nick climbed into bed next to her, turning her body so that she lay partially on her side, partially on her stomach. “And so shall my duchess.” He ran his lips down her spine, all the way to the crack of her buttocks. “You have a most lovely arse.”

Jem moved her backside against his lips. “Mmm.”

“You will breakfast with me every day.” He moved her top leg forward and pressed a finger inside her warm wetness. “And dine with me at night.”

“Oh,” Jem panted. “I will have,” she pushed against his questing finger, “back that stallion.” Her breathing came in soft gasps as he thrust another finger inside her. “He—was lovely.”

“Lovely.” He wrapped his arm under her neck and brought her face back to his for a lingering kiss.

She groaned again. “I wish to name him Cyclops, in memory of a former beau."

Nick nosed the nape of her neck. He lifted her leg higher, baring more of her to his purpose. His fingers moved in and out slowly, wishing to draw out her pleasure.

Slowly, he eased his fingers out to replace them with the tip of his arousal. “A former beau? And you wish to name your horse for him?” He entered her, slowly, easing into the tightness of her, reveling in the sensation of her body grasping his.

“Oh. Yes.” Her breath caught. “I was quite fond of him.”

He held on to her hip, pushed into her fully, his swollen arousal forcing her to widen for him. Unhurried, he pulled back and deliberately thrust again, this time harder, to bury himself fully.

She cried out his name and turned her face into the pillow.

“God.” He gritted his teeth and thrust into her again and again with a slow, measured stroke.

“Please, Nick,” Jem whimpered, pushing back with each thrust. “I want you so badly.”

Her words roused him more. All thoughts of his pledge to be gentle fled. Reaching down between her legs, he stroked the taut nub as he moved roughly to satisfy them both.

Jem’s breath came in quiet gasps as she matched his rhythm. She grabbed his hip, holding him tight against her.

“You are bound to me,” he whispered to her.

“Yes.” Her nails bit into his thigh as her body grew taut like a bow.

He felt the peak between his fingers begin to pulse. “I love you,” Nick breathed into her ear.

They climaxed simultaneously, their bodies locked together in one long expression of pleasure. The bed beneath them creaked and bounced against the wall as Nick buried his face in her neck, trying not to cry out his release.

After, he didn’t leave her, but stayed inside of her, their limbs twisted about each other's on the bed. Whispering his love for her, he rained kisses down the freckles across her cheeks and into the dampness of her hair. He wished never to leave this bed, not tonight, not ever.

Reluctantly he let her go and she immediately turned to snuggle next to him, her chin propped up on his chest. Her fingers ran across his torso, lightly twisting and pulling at the hair until she found one of his nipples. The tip of her finger circled round and round as if she were thinking.

“What do you wish to ask me?”

“Reading my mind again. I find that most distressful that I am like an open book to you.”

He wished he could see her freckles in the flickering light of the candle. He wanted to count them. “You look like a child about to beg for a sweet.”

“I’m not good at begging.” At Nick’s raised brow she said, “At least not for sweets. I wanted to ask, and you must not laugh.”

“I promise to remain solemn and serious.” He kissed the tip of her nose, thinking how precious to him she was.

“Do you really have an estate called The Egg?”

Nick held back the laughter that rumbled in his chest, lest he shake the rafters. “Do you not find that a most mysterious and foreboding name for the Devil of Dunbar's seat? Now he did laugh, turning his head as his shoulders shook.

“So it is true.” Jem wound a bit of his chest hair around her finger and pulled.

“Ow.”

“You promised not to laugh.” She looked across his chest and her brow wrinkled. “You are very hairy.”

“That bothers you?” He sincerely hoped not. Some women were horrified by an expanse of male chest and swooned upon seeing a man’s bared arms. He glanced at Jem. She didn’t look the least horrified—in fact, she rolled her eyes.

“Don’t be an idiot, Nick. I was simply making an observation.” She tentatively stuck out her tongue and touched it to his nipple.

His manhood, exhausted from its previous exertions, immediately came to life at the touch of her tongue.

“Tell me how it is that your ancestral estate came by a ridiculous name. I did not believe Petra when she told me.” She flicked out her tongue again and watched for his reaction.

“Stop doing that, else you’ll never hear the tale.”

Jem smiled innocently at him. “Continue.”

Nick cleared his throat, attempting to ignore the hand roaming towards his waist. “My ancestor, the first duke, was an English bastard who was gifted land, a days ride from the border in Scotland. The area was remote and inhospitable, owing to the fact he was a bastard. The town there still bears our name.”

“Get to The Egg, Nick.” She stretched, rubbing her body against his.

He rubbed back and continued with his story. “The keep and the surrounding wall were made of dark, almost black rock. The first duke’s given name was Robyn. He was a redhead.”

Jem tugged at a curl of Nick’s hair, rubbing it between her fingers. “Mmm. I see. Go on.”

“Robyn Tremaine possessed a large army, a very fierce army, but he was known as much for being a leader of men as he was being wise in his dealings with the Tudor’s. He protected Henry Tudor’s interests well and the king granted Robyn many favors. So many favors in fact, that Henry’s court whispered that Robyn’s influence was more than wisdom.”

“The Devil’s work.” Jem’s fingers moved to trace the outline of Nick’s ribs. “The start of the curse.”

Trying to focus on the story at hand he said, "Henry was guardian to a young woman, thought to be a witch. She was promised to another, but Tremaine wanted her. Henry elevated him to duke so that he would be of proper station to marry the witch. She was a countess in her own right, you see.”

“He married her to be made duke?”

“No.” Nick brought her wandering fingertips to his lips, kissing them gently. “Theirs was a great love match. I have her eyes.”

Jem looked up at him intently. “No wonder they thought her a witch.” Her hand moved lower and encircled his hardened arousal. “But,” she squeezed gently, and Nick sucked in his breath, “you still have not explained why your family seat is called ‘The Egg.’”

He turned suddenly, rolling her onto her back. “Robyn tore down the old keep and built his bride a beautiful house made of brilliant white stone.” He held her hands to her side and made his way down her stomach with his mouth and tongue. Dear God, would they ever leave the bedroom once married? Nick thought not.

“And?” Jemma’s voice dropped an octave, and she arched her back as his breath fluttered between her thighs.

“And,” he nipped at the inside of her thigh, “the house is so white, and it sits amid the dark rock of the cliffs. I suppose it rather looks like an egg in a nest, and well,” he kissed the downy softness of her womanhood and heard her moan, “the court mocked Robyn behind his back by calling it The Egg and the name stuck.”

“Oh.” Jem said as he hooked her leg over his shoulder and took that most delicate, sensitive part of her into his mouth.

“Yes, indeed,” he breathed against her.

And they ceased talking.

* * *

Hours later Jemma,half asleep, watched Nick dress in preparation for his climb back down the trellis. She hoped the lattice would hold. They had talked and made love at intervals all night, and Jemma thought she would likely sleep past noon. A delicious ache filled her as she watched him climb back out the window and blow her a kiss. Drowsily, she thought of Arabella’s accusations. She’d completely forgotten to ask why he’d told his sister about Jemma’s parents, but possibly he did in his grief and anger. What did it matter anymore, she thought as her eyes closed, and she snuggled under the covers. The past was the past, and she and Nick had the future together.