Can’t Buy Me a Duke by Bianca Blythe

CHAPTER SIX

Sturbridge’s throatdried. Women didn’t sneak into his library, display their drawers, however inadvertently, and pull gold from their bodices. Miss Banks seemed to have no idea of how distracting she was being. She leaned down, and Sturbridge averted his gaze, lest it linger on her rounded bosom.

Though Sturbridge generally had no opinion on colors, her umber dress made her face look more drained and her freckles more visible. A carriage might as well have sent a muddy puddle flying toward her face. And yet, despite all that, it was difficult not to contemplate her curves and the appealing floral scent that wafted from her.

Her dress was too tight, and he suspected she’d chosen it more for it being conducive to sneaking through courtyards than for any attempt at fashion. The curve of her bosom was impossible to ignore, and his fingers twitched, as if longing to pull her dress down even further. Would her peaks be dark pink? Or an equally appealing dusky rose color? Would they pebble beneath his touch?

Not important.

Harrison forced himself from such thoughts and eyed the gold scattered upon his desk. “You wish to pay me?”

“Indeed. There’s more where that came from.”

His eyebrows shot up. “There’s quite a lot here.”

“Yes.” She smiled proudly. “There is. Still, should you require it, there’s more.”

Harrison gathered the coins and stacked them, enjoying the different emotions playing on Miss Banks’s face. The gold coins clinked pleasurably against one another, and he built a tall tower that reached higher than the books perched on his table. Harrison knocked the middle coin down with his finger, and the coins collapsed.

Miss Lucy Banks leaned forward, and her emerald eyes sparkled. “It made quite a cheerful sound, didn’t it? Money does that.”

“Yes. The sound is satisfying.”

“You can keep the money if you pretend to court me.” Miss Banks scrunched her lips together. “I mean, obviously, you needn’t call it that. I wouldn’t even expect you to call at my house.” 

“How considerate of you. Still, you seem to be under the impression I require funds,” Harrison said.

“You needn’t worry. This will be our secret.”

Harrison continued to study her.

He took the money and slipped it back into the pouch. The coins clanged against one another as they fell. Then he took her hand, feeling a strange heat swirling from it, despite the lace gloves she was wearing. He pressed the satchel into her hand.

A disappointed look came over her face. “I thought . . . Perhaps it was a foolish idea.”

“You are under the impression I am in need of money.”

Her eyes darted to the side, then she gazed at him. A look of horror fell over her face, and her wide mouth fell open. She shut it hastily. “Are you telling me, Your Grace, that you do not require funds?”

“I am a duke, after all.”

“But you are a duke who lives at the Robertson’s Gentlemen’s Club.”

“Indeed.”

“It’s hardly a ducal setting,” Miss Banks continued. “Just various rooms.”

“The Duke of Framingham lived there.”

“But before he inherited the dukedom. He had hardly any money.”

“I am well aware of Framingham’s former financial status. It is indeed much improved of late.”

“Yes, he has that whole castle in Staffordshire. I didn’t think you had a castle in Staffordshire.”

“No, not in Staffordshire,” Harrison said, “though there is one in Cornwall. I have another castle in Surrey.”

“Oh.” Her faced whitened.

Her blatant shock was almost amusing. Finally, she straightened and jutted her chin out as if she were attempting to resemble the most patriotic portraits of Bonaparte. “Castles always require money. Surely you would benefit from some money.”

“I don’t want your pin money. Though that is a sizeable amount. Your father must be wealthy indeed.”

“Yes,” she said, “I will inherit much of it.”

“It must be nice to not have inheritances tied to an estate and title,” Harrison mused. “No sons, then?”

She shook her head, and the luxurious curls that feathered her face glinted like the flames found dancing in his fireplace. “No, no sons. Mama always said I was terrible enough.”

“Your sister Isabella?”

“She’s angelic, but by the time she’d grown old enough for them to be certain of that, it was too late for Mama to have more.”

Harrison studied her. For a wild moment, he considered going along with her preposterous plan. Naturally, he did not require any capital, but it might be entertaining all the same to pose as her besotted beloved. Dancing with her at her balls, chitchatting with her at dinner parties, might be enjoyable. Then he could rest his hand upon her narrow waist as they waltzed, and he could inhale that delicious jasmine fragrance that clung to her skin. He would be closer to her plump, red lips, and when she laughed, and he would be certain to make her laugh, he could hear that throaty sound from her long and slender neck.

Still, it was impossible.

He strode toward her, and hope darted over her face. He steeled himself. He was going to disappoint her. But first...

“You should go,” Harrison said.

Miss Banks’s shoulders slumped, and Harrison resisted the sudden urge to tell her that he’d changed his mind. Her alto voice was soft. “You won’t consider it?”  

Harrison shook his head and refused to ponder the fact they were close enough to kiss. Since when had he thought about kissing Lucy Banks? But her succulent lips were only inches away, and he had an odd urge to delve between them. His cock was also contemplating that possibility. It strained against his tweed breeches, optimistic for release. It thrummed and pulsed and jutted up.

Egat.

“I’m sorry,” he said gruffly. “You should find someone else. Or not. I wouldn’t like to see you get hurt. Finding a faux suitor is not a good idea.”

“But my sister—”

“It is admirable to consider her,” Harrison said, “but you could be ruined if your scheme were exposed.”

“I won’t be exposed.”

“But you could be harmed.” He narrowed the distance between them still further. He could count every long dark eyelash and every delicious freckle that dotted her satin skin.

“I could?” Her alto voice faltered, and her eyes darted from his eyes to his lips, then settled to the side of the room.

He smirked and nodded solemnly. “For instance, a man might put his arms around you.”

“Oh.” Her verdant eyes widened, and her thick lashes swooped upward.

He rested his hands on her slender waist. The fabric of her dress was coarse, no doubt chosen more for its advantages for clambering through library windows than elegance. It lacked the allure of some ball gowns, but his fingers still sparked, as if touching the finest silk, spun from expensive caterpillars on the other side of the world.

“What might a man do then?” Her voice wobbled, and he smirked. He knew exactly what a man might do then.

He leaned nearer her and tightened his grip on her waist. Her soft bosom pressed against his chest, and the urge to pull down that dreadful dress overcame him. Would her breasts bounce were he to delve inside of her with his cock? But of course they would bounce. He itched to feel her rounded mounds with his hands. He yearned to see the exact shape of her bosom, to see the exact color of her forbidden peaks. His aching manhood jutted upward, evidently confused to be in the presence of so much magnetism and not be called to enter and thrust and explode. 

“A man would kiss you,” he whispered.

Lucy’s luscious red lips parted, and a small breathless sigh escaped. Her lashes flickered downward.

Harrison released her from his grasp and turned away abruptly. “It will behoove to be careful.”

Lucy blinked, and her cheeks flushed. Harrison resisted the urge to sweep her into his arms again, to feel every curve against his body, and to actually breech her tantalizing mouth.

She looked like she might want to say more, but finally she turned to the window and scrambled through it.

He stared after her.

The woman was unbelievable. Utterly unbelievable. 

His cock still throbbed, and he glared at it. Now was not the time for it to attempt momentous endurance records.

Harrison paced the library, imagining Miss Banks would return. Even though she was no longer in the same room, the same house as him, her presence remained distracting.

Her audaciousness was almost appealing. He smiled, thinking about how she’d tumbled into the room.

Still, he could not volunteer to be her suitor. The idea was ridiculous.

Whom would she pick instead of him? There weren’t many dukes about. There was, of course, the Duke of Dorchester, but he lived in Cornwall and was reclusive despite the fact he had not yet reached the age of thirty.

Harrison glanced at his desk. It was impossible to sit and gaze at his ledgers, even though he’d normally always considered that a pleasurable task. Even his estate manager had been impressed with the utter care he’d taken managing his estate’s money, saying he’d never seen any aristocrat keep an estate so well-managed. Clearly, his estate manager was under the impression that the greater the title, the less care one took in money management.

Harrison exited the building. At some point, it had decided to rain, and large wet drops pattered on the pavement. Normally, he would have returned for his umbrella, but he continued on, smiling as the rain fell upon him.

Finally, he arrived at Benedict’s house. He rapped on the door, and the butler showed him to Benedict’s library.

Benedict gazed up at him, startled.

Harrison shifted his legs awkwardly. He was not prone to visiting Benedict in the afternoon. “I—er—came to call on you.”

“How nice.” Concern filled Benedict’s eyes, as if he expected Harrison to announce the doctor had just told him his mother was dying.

“What are you doing now?”

“Oh.” Benedict put aside his quill. “I’m writing letters.

“Very good. Good to keep correspondences going and know what’s happening around the country.”

Benedict’s cheeks turned an unusual pink color, as if he’d just smeared rose petals over his face.

“You’re not writing a letter to someone outside London,” Harrison said.

Benedict shook his head. “I’m writing a letter to her.” 

“Miss Isabella Banks?”

“Yes.” A blissful smile spread over his face, and his eyes took on a dewy look as he stared into the middle distance. “Isabella is the loveliest name in the world. Don’t you agree?”

“It has a nice ring to it.” Harrison settled into the armchair opposite Benedict’s desk.

Benedict shook his head firmly. “No. Isabella sounds like angels’ melodies.”

“Quite,” Harrison said politely. “That’s a better way of putting it.”

“Beethoven himself could not create music with one-tenth the sweetness of the simple sound of her name.”

“Er—yes.” Harrison nodded. “Well, he wouldn’t attempt that anyway.”

“Precisely.” Benedict stood, as if Isabella’s mere name were energy inducing. “Beethoven knew there would be no point even in trying. No word is lovelier than Isabella, just as no woman is fairer, sweeter than—”

“Miss Isabella Banks?” Harrison finished for him.

Benedict looked at him seriously. “I’ve never heard you mention a romantic interest, Harrison.”

“Me?” Harrison looked around, as if Benedict could possibly have addressed a footman who’d just entered the room.

Benedict had not.

“Oh, there are many women.” Harrison shifted in his seat. The leather was not as comfortable as he’d anticipated when he sat down. 

“True,” Benedict said. “When you dance, you always dance with many different women, but there doesn’t seem to be one who’s really made an impression on you.”

“You find that odd?” Harrison asked.

Benedict nodded.

Harrison swallowed hard. “You exaggerate.”

Indeed, it wasn’t true. There had been women who’d made an impression. Women he’d admired tremendously. And there had been other women—opera singers, actresses—whom he’d also spent time with, particularly during his younger days out of university, when such goings-on were common.

Now the prospect of seducing an actress lacked the enticement it once held. When Harrison developed a tenderness for a particular woman, he’d always made a point of staying far from her. He didn’t require melancholic thoughts at night. Love was clearly overrated, given the number of poets who’d experienced it and written about aches in their hearts.

“Perhaps you should meet someone,” Benedict said.

“Meet someone? I meet plenty of women.”

In fact, Harrison had met one of them today in his library, though he could hardly share that with Benedict.

Benedict sighed. “I would love you to have the happiness I share with Isabella.”

“You’re not even allowed to court her.”

“And yet I’m still happy simply knowing she’s alive. It’s wonderful that such perfection exists. It’s marvelous.”

Harrison furrowed his brow. He doubted he would want to be married to perfection itself. He could always just hire some painter to make a portrait of Venus so that he might regard it all day.

Harrison bit his lip. There was a question he wanted to ask Benedict: an embarrassing question, but the answer to it might be of importance. 

“Do others discuss the fact I haven’t been paired with anyone? When I’m not around?”

Harrison’s eyes fell on a portrait. Judging by the subject’s blond cherubic curls and old-fashioned attire, he was one of Benedict’s ancestors. The room heated, as if someone had swathed him in a scratchy woolen blanket.

“Oh yes. Everyone talks about your perpetually unattached status.” His face sobered. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry. I definitely shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, no, it was a question,” Harrison said. “I wanted to know the answer, and you told me. Thank you very much.”

Benedict’s shoulders relaxed, and he beamed. “I am your best friend, after all.”

“Yes,” Harrison said, “you are.”

Benedict was right. He was Harrison’s best friend, especially now Mr. Rupert Andrews had gone and married a princess. Rupert was now blissfully living at Laventhorpe Castle. He only occasionally sent letters musing about the idyllic landscape, the superior livestock that roamed there, and the utter brilliance of his wife.

If even Benedict considered it odd Harrison had not been paired with someone else, might other people be thinking that? And if they did, would one of them uncover the reason?

Harrison stiffened. That couldn’t happen. He’d made a vow long ago to the duchess and wasn’t going to break it now. He’d chosen a path, and he had to stay on the path, whatever happened. Perhaps, after she died, things could be different. Now, she was his only family.

“What do you think about Isabella’s older sister?”

“She’s hopeless.” Benedict chuckled. “One wonders they’re even related. Pity too, of course, since I’m not allowed to see Isabella formally until her older sister is courting someone. They know it will be difficult for the older sister to marry. I have the impression they’re quite a clever family, despite all the signs to the contrary. They do speak with a deafening volume.”

“Perhaps people in the United States have weaker ears.”

“I hadn’t considered that.”

“It was a joke, Benedict,” Harrison said.

“Still, something to ponder.”

“There are several things to ponder.”

Benedict raised his eyebrows, but Harrison quickly bowed and left the room.

Every year, the jokes magnified, and every year, Harrison grew more uncomfortable. His friends had married, and they all extolled the institution. They spoke about their children with more joy than they’d ever directed to cigars or brandy.

He couldn’t let anyone suspect. Perhaps it was odd at his age to still live in a club. Could he do that ten years from now? Twenty years? Most of the people who lived in the club did so because they were in London for short periods or because they couldn’t afford townhouses. Everyone knew neither situation applied to him.

Perhaps he should go abroad to halt more questions. They could assume him so passionate about travel that he had no desire to settle down. They could declare him irresponsible, even though Harrison showed responsibility in every other facet of his life. When his friends had made themselves sick when they were younger from downing alcohol at too great a speed and too great a quantity, Harrison had taken care of them.

Perhaps a faux courtship with Miss Lucy Banks would be beneficial.

Unfortunately, he’d sent her away. Harrison had made a horrible mistake.