Deveric’s attention flew to Eliza as she and his sister walked out onto the lawn. He’d tried to convince himself he wasn’t thinking of her, wasn’t wondering where she’d been yesterday evening and what she’d been doing, wasn’t wrestling with everything she had told him the previous morning. Whom did he think he was fooling? How could his mind be anywhere else? Not only were the things she’d told him so wondrous they couldn’t be ignored, but she herself called to him like a siren to a sailor.
That in and of itself was disconcerting. He couldn’t remember having a stronger physical reaction to any female—and it’s not like he hadn’t had plenty of opportunities. Being a duke attracted women in droves. Being a youngish duke in possession of all of his teeth and, according to what a number of women implied, being of fine countenance, meant he never lacked for opportunity. Just interest. Until Mrs. James had appeared.
Part of him couldn’t help but still wonder—was he under some sort of spell? Who knew of what people were capable in this future of hers? She’d insisted she wasn’t a witch—but was it possible she had other sorts of powers, powers against which a man like him had no hope?
He shook his head. It couldn’t be. And yet, he couldn’t keep his eyes off of her. In truth, it wasn’t her physical person alone that drew him to her, though Lord knew he found her wildly, intoxicatingly, frustratingly attractive. No, though he’d only known her a few days, he already admired her spirit, her energy—and her keen mind. It was obvious from speaking with her this was no empty-headed, simpering miss. Indeed, she’d told him she’d been at university, working on being a doctor of literature, before she’d come to this place.
Women at university. It was hard to fathom, though he’d never held to the beliefs others of his ilk did, that women were naturally inferior to men. He’d seen the strength in his sister Amara as she’d weathered scandal, he’d seen the ferocity in his mother when she defended her family, seen the brilliance in Grace, with her literary creations he thought rivaled Ann Radcliffe or Fanny Burney. But his sisters at Cambridge or Oxford?
Eliza laughed openly at something Amara said, and the joy on her face brought an ache to his stomach. Or perhaps higher. Eliza was full of life. She was zest and exuberance and vitality. The opposite of how Deveric had felt for years. The opposite of Mirabelle, of many of the women of his acquaintance, who, if they had such vibrant personalities, dulled them down for the sake of decorum. This Mrs. Eliza James was a breath of fresh air in a very stale existence.
She drew him to her like a magnet.
Several times that afternoon, Arth and Em had ribbed him about his head being elsewhere. They’d trounced him at bowls. A number of the young ladies had pouted openly that the duke and his friends were paying them no attention, earning the women scoldings from their mothers.
It was true; he wasn’t paying attention. To anything. Thoughts of Eliza, this mystery woman, consumed him.
As the women neared, it surprised him to see Eliza link her arm with his sister’s. It shocked him even more that Amara didn’t resist, especially given her hostility that first evening. As far as Deveric knew, it’d been some time since Amara had shown interest in any female outside the family. And she well knew, if no one else did, that Mrs. James was no relative. How had Eliza won Amara over so quickly? Unease licked at his skin. What kind of magic did the woman wield?
No. No magic. No witchcraft. Those things were illogical, absurd. She was just a woman. A regular woman. He nearly snorted at that thought. Eliza James was anything but regular.
“Where have you been?” he blurted out when they were within earshot, his voice sharper than intended. Several guests looked at him. He shouldn’t be surprised at their interest, he supposed. A gentleman did not call loudly after women. He walked a few steps toward the women to ensure their conversation would not be overheard, glowering over his shoulder in the guests’ direction, lest they entertain the idea of eavesdropping. Many of them moved away. Satisfied, he turned his attention back to Amara and Eliza.
“Did you miss us, dear brother?”
“I merely wanted to check on our guest. She was not at dinner last night.” He hoped his tone conveyed polite disinterest. Nor breakfast, but he wasn’t going to admit he’d noticed. Amara’s sly grin and steady gaze told him he hadn’t fooled her.
“I’m fine. I was merely exhausted from ... traveling,” Eliza said. She leaned in and whispered to him. “I met your son.”
“Harrington? When? How?” What was the boy doing out of bed? He was in no condition to be up. Deveric’s heart constricted, his breath catching. Would Frederick worsen now? Sink back into delirium? “Is he all right?”
“Yes, he’s fine; he was hiding in my chambers yesterday afternoon, attempting to escape the nurse. Not that I blame him—once I met his nurse, I wanted to escape, too.”
His lips turned up in amusement. He’d often thought the same of Nurse Pritchett, but she was a fixture at Clarehaven. She’d been Deveric’s nurse when he was a small lad and was terrifying then, as well. He was sure one of the reasons he’d been so healthy all his life was his fear of being physicked by the nurse.
Eliza returned his smile. “He seems like a nice boy. Not too fond of me, though.”
He lifted an eyebrow.
“Seems to think I’m trying to take his mother’s place.”
At that, his eyebrow shot up even farther. Amara made a noise in her throat, and Arth, who, damn him, had moved closer, noticeably stumbled at her words. Whispers echoed behind him. Others must have heard her, too.
Deveric studied the luscious woman before him. There was no comparison between Eliza and Mirabelle. His wife was as different from Mrs. James as night from day. There were times he could hardly recall his wife’s face, much to his shame, but he’d never forgotten her frailty. So small, so thin. He’d often worried he’d snap her in half.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that like it sounded,” Eliza stammered. “I just meant he was disappointed to see me in his mother’s chamber.” Her cheeks flushed a becoming pink.
The whispering behind him increased, but he quelled it with one backward glance. He knew why they talked, knew everyone was aware no one used Mirabelle’s chamber, ever, but no one should dare gossip in his presence. He was the duke, after all.
His eyes returned to Eliza and then fell to her full bosom, his loins tightening. He liked her rounded figure, liked that she was more a sunflower than a reed, all full blossom and heavier shape. She was sturdy, solidly built. She would never crumble, not the way Mirabelle had. In the short time he’d known Eliza, he’d witnessed the fire in her spirit and optimism to her outlook that he sensed were hard to dim.
“Are you o—are you all right?” she asked.
He nodded, a sharp motion, trying to douse the desire running through his veins. He was no school lad, incapable of controlling himself. With great effort, he slowed his breathing, his eyes now anywhere except on the tempting widow.
“A pleasure to see you again, Mrs. James,” Arthington commented from his side. “You are looking well.” The words were innocent, but the tone was not. Before he knew it, Dev edged closer to Eliza, in front of the other man, as if to shield her from Arth’s view. Arthington might be one of Deveric’s closest friends, but he had quite a well-deserved reputation as a rake, and a young widow such as Eliza would be easy prey. It was Deveric’s duty to protect her. Was it not?
Arthington coughed, acknowledging the strangeness of Deveric’s behavior. Eliza moved out from behind him to his side.
“Pay no attention to my brother, Your Grace. He seems not quite himself today,” Amara said, her lips twitching.
“We have something in common,” Arthington drawled to Eliza, disregarding Deveric. At her confused look, he added, “James. My given name. A fine name. I am the seventh James in our family.” He paused, his eyes falling to her mouth. Deveric stiffened as Arth’s lids lowered, his mouth pulling to the side, revealing that snaggletooth. Deveric knew that look, had seen Arth use it on numerous women, to great effect.
Arthington stepped closer to Eliza, ignoring Deveric’s glare. “Would you like to stroll with me in the gardens? Perhaps with Lady Amara and Emerlin? I’d love to hear more about the wilds of America. I’ve never been.”
“She’s promised a walk to me,” Deveric bit out. Amara’s mouth fell open.
“I di—” Eliza began, but Deveric grabbed her by the elbow, leading her away before she could finish her protest. Over his shoulder, he called out, “Emerlin is over there surrounded by debutantes. He could use some rescuing.” He didn’t look back to see Arth’s response.
“Where are we going?” Eliza stumbled to keep up with his large strides. “And you don’t have to be so rough,” she snapped, pulling her arm free from his grasp.
He slowed. “I’m sorry,” he offered, taking a deep breath. What was wrong with him? He never behaved this way. Who was this woman, and why did she have this effect on him?
Undoubtedly, Amara and the others were wondering the same thing, having never seen him drag any woman off from another man, not even his wife. Not that many men had wanted Mirabelle; she hadn’t exactly been a beauty.
His marriage had been a marriage of convenience, a union agreed on between his father and his father’s neighbor as a way of consolidating wealth and property. Because of their marriage, Clarehaven now extended as far as the eye could see.
Deveric understood why his father had made such an arrangement. He’d gone along with it, figuring one woman was as good as another. He certainly appreciated a fine figure but had never had romantic notions about marriage. A Claremont does his duty. He’d expected to marry someone of appropriate rank and rearing, regardless of attraction or affection between the two of them. And Mirabelle had been kind-hearted at first if nothing else.
Of course, kind-hearted hadn’t proven enough. Watching her turn away from him after they’d consummated their marriage had told him it wasn’t enough for her, either. They’d got along tolerably well, as long as he hadn’t pressured her in the bedroom. He’d learned to sublimate his baser instincts.
His thoughts were anything but pure now, he admitted, looking down at Eliza’s bosom, which was rising and falling rapidly due to her efforts to keep up with him.
“My apologies again.” His friends would wonder if he’d gone mad, offering two apologies in the space of less than a minute. “I felt you might need protecting from a man like Arthington.”
She laughed out loud. “You think I haven’t encountered men like him? I know perfectly well he’s a player.”
“A ... player?”
“Yeah. I guess you’d say rake or rogue. Or roué? A charmer. Rapscallion.”
Deveric nearly choked on his own laughter. Player. How perfectly that encapsulated his friend.
He looked back at Arth, who was winging toothsome grins at the women surrounding Emerlin in an attempt to woo them away. “Good to know you are not some doe-eyed female likely to fall under his spell, then,” he said.
“Nah, he’s not my type.”
“Your type?”
She looked at him. “Yes, type. You know, the kind of person you tend to be attracted to. Maybe tall redheads, or short brunettes. What do you call that here?”
He stared at her. “This is hardly an appropriate conversation.”
“Oh, come on. Play along. What’s your type, Deveric?”
Hearing his Christian name on her lips was delicious, though in truth they ought not to be so familiar with each other. She wasn’t family. He didn’t know what she was. Beyond ... his type.
His eyes trailed over her figure. How could she look so delicious in that silly morning gown? Amara had surely been only too willing to rid herself of the dress; it was the one his mother insisted his sister wear often after her scandal. Covered from head-to-toe, as if clothing itself could keep one from temptation.
This American tempted him, whoever she was and whatever she was wearing. The fabric of the dress stretched tightly over her breasts, emphasizing them in a way he could hardly complain about. He ran his fingers through his hair.
“A gentleman of good breeding doesn’t think in such ways.”
“Oh, baloney,” Eliza said. “You can’t tell me that out of that gaggle of girls over there, not one of them interests you more than the others? Come on, I see a couple of blondes, a brunette, a redhead ...”
Why was she pushing him on this? Was that a gleam in her eye? Was she deliberately provoking him?
The only woman here who interests me is you, he wanted to shout. You, with your strange ways and odd manner, with your lips that make me long to taste them again. You, with that delicate bit of flesh showing between that ridiculous dress’s neckline and your ear, you with the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.
“This is a pointless, and inappropriate, conversation.”
“Who knew you’d be so stuffy? Are all dukes this stuffy? I should have told Cat, no stuffy guys.”
“Stuffy?”
“Yeah, stuffy. Pompous. Rigid. Uptight. Overly proper.”
“You think I’m stuffy?” His blood burned, his eyes searing hers. He pulled her into the garden and around the hedge, in the place they’d stood the previous morning, out of sight of the other guests.
His hand reached up and hovered in mid-air, over her breasts, without touching them, before he put it back down, clenching it in a fist at his side.
“Do you have any idea how far from stuffy I feel at the moment, Eliza James?” he ground out. “I’ll tell you who’s my ‘type,’ as you put it.” He ran his fingers up into her hair, fixing her head between them. “Bizarrely endearing widows with unusual ways of speaking.” He swooped in to kiss her. “American women who claim,” he nipped at her chin, “to be from the future, who bewitch me with their flashing blue eyes and swishing derrieres and lovely breasts.” His mouth found hers again, and his tongue traced a path across her upper lip. “Who make me doubt my own sanity. But if this is madness, I want—” He pulled her face toward his again. “—it all.” He took her mouth with his in a fierce duel, lips meshing against lips, tongues exploring, tasting, testing.
The chatter of voices approached, but he ignored it, wanting to lose himself in this woman, to give in to whomever, and whatever, she was, without thought, without remorse, without consequences.
There are always consequences. His mother’s voice rang in his ears. He pulled back from Eliza, fighting to catch his breath. She stared at him with those big, wide, impossibly sapphire eyes, and he wanted to immerse himself in her again, pull her down to the ground, bury himself in her depths.
A man of high station had to watch every step he took, however, lest he be trapped, or entrap others, by his own foolish actions. Panting, he retreated further, running his hands along his waistcoat and through his hair, endeavoring to regain his composure, and an appropriate distance, before anyone found them.
Amara’s tinkling laughter hit him first. “I’m sure they’re not far, Mother,” she said as she entered the maze. “See? Here they are.”
His mother whipped around the corner, all ferociousness and fire.