The Duke Is Mine

Quin made himself say the words, forcing them out of his mouth. “Under the circumstances, do you still wish to marry me?”

She frowned at him. “Which circumstances? Rupert’s triumphs or the battering ram episode of last night?”

“Battering ram!” Her indelicate simile caused him to momentarily lose track of the point, but he recovered. “Because of Rupert’s triumphs. Because you could marry a duke who seems likely to be one of the greatest heroes the British Empire has ever known.”

A little smile touched her lips. “Why, that is true, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“I could spend the rest of my life discussing what Lucy ate most recently with a great national hero . . . or I could lie on a rug with you.”

His heart was pounding in his ears.

“Naked,” she added. Her eyes said everything. “Vulnerable to attack by a ba—”

“Don’t say that again.” The clench in his heart eased. He stood up and pulled off his boots. She watched him with heavy-lidded eyes.

He threw the shirt away, pulled down his breeches. “Olivia.”

“Mmmm.”

“A battering ram?”

He threw off his smalls and her eyes went right to the spot. “That is an accurate description,” she stated. “Just look at yourself.”

Quin looked down. He was rampant, so to speak. And yes, formidable. “We really shouldn’t make love again until Montsurrey is back in England and has been informed of the change of circumstances.”

With a thrill of pure pleasure, he saw her eyes change and her lower lip droop. It seemed the battering ram wasn’t all that terrifying.

He dropped to his knees and drew his fingers sensuously down the slope of her cheek, to her neck, slower . . .

“That doesn’t mean we have to be strangers.”

“No?” she whispered, winding her arms around his neck.

He lowered his head, a low groan escaping from his chest.

“No.”

Twenty-four

Gallic Mustaches, a Friend in Need, and the Spirit of Adventure

In later years, Olivia looked back on the evening she spent on the hearthrug, being ravished by a jealous, possessive, and altogether perfect duke, as a defining moment, the point that would forever separate her life “before” from that “after.”

It was the night when she learned how breathtaking life could be.

And it was followed by the morning when she learned how truly fragile and dear it is.

She and Quin had crawled into her curtained bed, slept in snatches, woken each other up, laughed and whispered, and explored each other.

He departed as the sun was creeping over the horizon, having first told her exactly why the dawn rays stealing through the window were soft pink and not blinding white. She didn’t even have to pretend to be fascinated; she genuinely was.

Although she fell back to sleep thinking of the light in Quin’s eyes rather than that coming in the window.

The next thing she felt was a hand shaking her shoulder. “Olivia, wake up! Wake up!”

The barely contained panic in Georgiana’s voice cut through dreamy half-sleep and snapped Olivia’s eyes open. “What’s the matter?”

Georgiana’s sense of urgency was briefly derailed by her sense of decorum. “Why aren’t you wearing a nightgown? No, I don’t want to know.” Georgiana hauled back the curtains with a jangle of curtain rings. “You must get dressed; Norah will be here in a moment, and she shouldn’t see you in that state.”

“What is it?” Olivia pushed the covers back, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and looked around for her robe. It was very peculiar to wake up naked, especially under the disapproving eye of her sister. “Has something happened to Mother or Father?”

“It’s Rupert,” Georgiana said, finding a discarded wrapper on the floor and throwing it at her. “Put this on, for goodness’ sake.”

“Rupert?” Olivia said, jumping up. “What has happened?”

Georgiana bit her lip. “He’s badly injured, Livie. There’s some question whether he will survive. I feel so—poor Rupert! Poor, poor Rupert.” Her eyes were bright with tears. “And that’s not all: the courier from Rupert’s company no sooner told his father than the duke fell to the ground.”

“Dead?”

“He’s not dead. But he is insensible. He hasn’t woken at all. The man arrived from Dover in the middle of the night, after we had all retired. Once Canterwick collapsed, the butler tried to find Sconce, but . . .”

“He was here with me.”

“I guessed as much. So Cleese woke the duchess, and she summoned a physician. But Canterwick has not moved or spoken, and I gather the doctor is not hopeful. The duke looks as if he were dead, but he still breathes.”

Olivia stood in the middle of the room, clutching the neck of her wrapper and thinking as hard as she could. “Is Rupert in London? I shall go to him immediately. He must be so frightened, and if his father cannot go to his side, then I must.”

Georgiana shook her head. “He’s in France. I think that’s probably what his father found most shocking.”

“In France?”

“I don’t know all the details, but the courier said his men were taking him up the coast of France, trying to bring him to Calais, where they were planning to cross the Channel with the first boat they could commandeer, but—Olivia, it’s just so sad—his injuries are too grievous. So one of his soldiers came without him, bringing the message for Canterwick, and was directed on from Dover to here.”

Olivia sank back onto the bed, feeling temporarily overwhelmed. “He is too injured to cross the Channel?”

“I’m afraid so.” Georgiana sat down as well and wound an arm around her.

“He must be terribly afraid. Unless . . . perhaps he’s insensible?”

“I don’t think so. Apparently he asked for his father.”

“I expect he asked for Lucy, too.”

“And you. He’s very fond of you,” Georgiana said.

“His father would have gone to him, if he had not suffered this attack,” Olivia said, her heart thumping miserably.

“One must suppose so. But it’s a terribly dangerous endeavor, given the war. Rupert got only as far as Normandy. He might be captured at any moment.”

Olivia stood up. “I must go to him. Now.” She hauled on the bell. “I suppose I’ll need a boat capable of crossing the Channel.”

“You would do better to travel by coach until you’re at a point directly opposite Rupert,” Georgiana said, and then gasped, “but of course you’re not going to France, Olivia! Don’t be foolish.”

Norah appeared in the doorway. “A bath,” Olivia stated.

Her maid had a rather smug smile on her face. “I thought as much.” She pushed the door open wider. Three footmen filed into the room, carrying buckets of water.

“And then a travelling gown, please,” Olivia added.

“You cannot even consider such a rash gesture! Do you have any idea what the relationship between France and England is at the moment? What if you—you—are captured by the French, Olivia?”