The Duke Is Mine

Then he swallowed hard and shut the box on that kite.

“I have three for us,” he said, turning. His voice came out tense and dark, and he saw Olivia’s eyes fly to his face. He forced himself to smile, grim though it probably was.

Justin hopped over. “I never liked that red one,” he said cheerfully, as if the kites had no history. “Too frisky. I’ll take one of the others.”

“You have to tie the spool on,” Quin said, handing it over.

Olivia snatched the cherry kite. “I love this one!”

“It matches your hat,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’ll tie on the spool for you.” And then he bent his head to the task, avoiding her eyes. For whatever reason, he could read Olivia’s eyes, and it seemed she might have the same power over him. He could have sworn that she saw his desolation, caught a glimpse of the black monstrous silence that lived within his chest.

“Now,” he said briskly, after tying both their spools, “we’ll walk to the top of the ridge.”

It took time, and a great deal of laughter—not on Quin’s part, but that was only because he rarely laughed—until all three kites were loose and free, bobbing in a current sweeping overhead.

“I love it!” Olivia shouted. She was running back and forth, her slippers twinkling under her hem.

As if it had been only five minutes, rather than five years, the cherry kite slid below the current, plunged down, jerked its way back up. Whereas Quin’s kite reached its zenith and then stayed there, a solid scrap of white, bobbing far above his head.

Justin had flung himself on his back and was maneuvering his kite from there, indifferent to the possibility of soiling his magnificent mossy green riding costume.

But Olivia ran along the ridge, following her kite’s erratic flight.

Justin looked drowsily comfortable, his eyes fixed on the distant speck of his kite. “You’d better go after Olivia,” he said, throwing a lazy glance at Quin. “I can’t see her anymore.” With a sigh, Quin reeled in his kite.

Olivia had chased her kite somewhere . . . down or up or into the stand of trees at the end of the ridge. He glanced back and saw that Aunt Cecily was fast asleep, her jaw sagging comfortably.

He put down his kite and strode along the ridge. England was laid out before him, neat fields marked by hedgerows, a tiny carriage trundling along in the distance, the serpentine curl of the river over to the right. The wind smelled as if scythers were cutting grass, with a faint smoky undertone that suggested a bonfire.

For a moment joy bubbled up in his chest, and then the familiar old feeling presented itself, as if for review. Guilt. Yet when he pushed it away this time, he felt different. Cleaner. More peaceful.

Perhaps it was time.

Suddenly he caught a flash of crimson that had to be Olivia’s skirts. She had followed the ridge down the lee side, and was now standing under a tree, gazing up.

The cherry kite invariably found a tree to plunge into. He slowed and savored the walk toward her. His entire body was tight, fierce, as if he were barely in control. Which was absurd because he was always in control, and always had been.

Even five years ago, when he had turned away from the pier, knowing he was too late . . . he hadn’t lost control. No. That wasn’t entirely true; he shouldn’t rewrite history. He had tried to throw himself in the water, bellowed for a boat, had to be restrained by the harbormaster.

But after . . . after, he walked away without a word. One foot before the other foot.

This was a different sort of emotion, like wildfire in his blood. Olivia had her hands on her hips, and as he watched she unpinned that silly little hat and put it to the side. He quickened his pace. She couldn’t be thinking . . .

She was.

She unbuttoned her coat and placed it neatly on the ground.

As he watched, she reached up for the lowest branch and then scrambled up the trunk, placing her slippers against the bark with the agility and confidence of someone who has climbed a tree before. Indeed, many trees.

She was on the first set of branches, then the second, by the time he arrived at the trunk.

“Olivia Lytton!” he bellowed, standing below her. “What in the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”

She peered down at him through bouquets of green leaves. “Oh, hello,” she called. “I’m rescuing my kite, of course.” She was standing on a sturdy branch, looking as tidy as when she set out, like some sort of incongruous bird.

“Don’t go any higher!” he ordered.

The sound of her laughter filtered down through the leaves, but Quin had already taken his coat off. He pulled himself in one smooth lunge onto the lowest branches. She was heading up again, so he maneuvered himself until he was below her and could catch her if she fell.

Which gave him a clear look up her skirts. She had one leg flung over a branch, and he saw a scarlet garter, and above it, a creamy thigh. His heart gave one ferocious thump and then settled into a faster rhythm.

For a moment he couldn’t even breathe. Olivia’s stockings were white silk and ended just below her knee. Above he could see a delicate line of lace . . . her smalls, he had to suppose.

Interesting. He hadn’t known that ladies wore undergarments of that sort. Evangeline hadn’t.

A wry thought flashed through his mind: Evangeline wouldn’t have cared to waste the time. He dismissed the idea as beneath him.

“Miss Lytton, I can see your legs,” he called, realizing as the words came from his mouth that the observation was also beneath him.

Olivia froze. But she had just thrown her weight onto that leg. So she pulled herself up on the next branch, almost slipping, but catching herself. Once on her feet again, securely holding on, she frowned down at him. “Peering up a lady’s skirts is not the act of a gentleman.”

“I’m not sure but that climbing a tree disqualifies one for the title of gentleman—or, I might as well add, lady.” He nimbly pulled himself onto the branch she had just deserted. “How much higher are you going? This tree won’t take my weight above the height where you are now.”

She pointed. The kite hung just out of her reach, caught by a loop of string. Quin tested the branch she stood on. “Move onto that branch next to your foot,” he ordered. “I’m coming up.”

Olivia hopped over to a nearby branch, as steady as if she were on ground. A second later Quin stood beside her. Up close, he could see that she was flushed with exertion, her bosom moving up and down. The bodice of her habit was made of fine linen, and her breasts strained against the cloth.

His hand clenched on the branch above their heads. Hopefully, she wouldn’t glance at his breeches. “How can you climb a tree with a corset and all those petticoats?”

Her eyes shone with mischief. “It’s a secret.”

He leaned back against a handy limb, knees feeling a bit weak. “I am very good at keeping secrets.”

“No corset,” she said, half whispering, half laughing. “I learned long ago that it is simply impossible to climb a tree while wearing a corset. Not that I had tree climbing in mind when I dressed today. But I thought it was possible that flying a kite was a rather energetic sport as well. And it has certainly proved to be so.”

“Just when did climbing trees become part of a lady’s education?”