Chapter 15 #2
And then his hands were on her waist. Oh, there were plenty of layers between their skin, but just the strength of him took her breath away. He lifted her, and she felt the pressure on her rib cage, in her back. She went higher and higher, her feet dangling.
“Reach for the arrow!” he said.
She was shocked to feel the movement of his jaw against her backside as he spoke. Her trembling fingertips brushed the arrow.
“Higher!” she cried.
He groaned, but soon she had the arrow in her hand. She looked over her shoulder to see Stephen on his knees in the dirt across the meadow, not even paying attention anymore.
And then Mr. O’Neill was letting her down, but so slowly as to make her want to scream with frustration.
He was deliberately brushing against her.
Her backside slid down the length of his chest, and even lower, across his hips.
She was not a naive girl, unaware of a man’s hidden form, so she understood the protrusion just above his thighs. It should disgust her.
But when her feet touched the ground, she could not move for a moment.
She was overcome by a wave of longing and desire so fierce that it shocked her.
Everything she knew about him didn’t matter in that moment when they were still touching.
She wanted his attention; she wanted to be with him in ways she could hardly imagine.
“Stop it,” she whispered, not daring to look over her shoulder at him.
“I can’t. I won’t.”
She felt his lips against her head. His hand moved, sliding forward around her stomach—
Tossing an angry look at him, she pulled herself away and strode to Stephen. Every stable boy and groom on the estate had witnessed the duke’s crude assault. He could have shouted his lascivious intentions from the windows and reached fewer people.
He’d chosen her.
She was trapped.
At dinner that night, there were enough flowers to begin another conservatory. Stephen giggled at this new game. When she retired to her room for the evening, she found several new carpets and pillows, even a more comfortable chair by the hearth.
She collapsed into her new chair and put her face into her hands. What was she supposed to do? She still had no clue what the Imposter Duke’s intentions were—except for attempting to ruin her reputation.
And poor Stephen, who was so enjoying his father’s attention—he would never be the same when he discovered he was being tricked.
She picked up the letter she’d received in today’s post. It was from her new brother by marriage. He had sent her a generous allowance, which he hadn’t needed to do. It was enough for her to leave, to anticipate beginning a new life.
But she couldn’t.
Childishly, she pounded one foot on the floor.
After a second, someone pounded back.
Oh God, she’d forgotten that the master suite was right below the nursery. The man who haunted her days and nights was but a staircase away.
She tucked her feet beneath her and tried to concentrate on the other letter she’d received, from her sister Victoria, the new bride. More and more, Victoria’s optimism was proving well founded. She and her husband were slowly becoming happier with each other.
Meriel was relieved for Victoria—and selfishly sad for herself, trapped in a mystery she had to unravel for the sake of a little boy, drawn to the criminal himself.
~oOo~
But the next afternoon was no better. Meriel was forced to go along in a rowboat across a pond.
Again, she was treated to the Imposter Duke coatless, cravatless, and damp from splashing water.
Stephen sat in the bow so he could see where they were going, leaving Meriel in the back, an umbrella over her head, facing Mr. O’Neill as he rowed.
He didn’t bother to hide his interest. And he wasn’t looking at her face.
He smiled and let his gaze roam down her body as if she were a piece of art he owned.
And everywhere he looked, her skin sizzled.
She’d worn the plainest gown with the highest collar, and still it wasn’t enough.
Would she have to start binding her breasts just to keep them better hidden?
She deliberately dipped the umbrella so that her face was blocked from him.
But still his feet were on either side of hers in the tiny rowboat, just under the hemline of her skirt, she realized with dismay.
Then he lifted his toes, and her skirt rose a few inches, revealing her black shoes.
She gave him a murderous glare from beneath her umbrella, then drove her booted heel onto his foot.
He winced silently, grinned, and wobbled his eyebrows.
She had to wipe the smugness off his face somehow, and she recklessly didn’t care if she endangered herself to do it. “Your Grace, Stephen tells me he has an uncle. Why did you not have a portrait painted with your brother?”
His smile faded a bit, and he put more effort into his rowing. Now that she had the upper hand, she let herself admire how the damp shirt stretched across his muscled arms.
“The duke and duchess wouldn’t allow such a painting,” he said, in a voice as smooth as ever.
Was he truly so unruffled? “Why not?”
“Forgive the crudeness, Miss Shelby, but my brother was born on the wrong side of the blanket.”
If it still hurt him, he didn’t show it. He’d made a success of his life. He had nothing left to prove. So why was he here, pretending to be a duke?
“Father, stop so I can see the school of fish!” Stephen called, pointing into the water.
Mr. O’Neill put up his oars, then casually grabbed hold of the boy’s shirt as he leaned over the edge. The perfect father.
Yet he never took his eyes off Meriel.
“Your brother’s birthright was surely not his fault,” she said.
“No. And he never let it come between us.”
If only she could figure out the truth from the lies.
“Stephen tells me that his uncle grew up here with you. He was older, yes?”
“Five years.”
“A vast distance when you’re young.”
“Not so vast.”
“Did his mother live here, too?”
He rested one hand on the bench behind him and crossed his feet, his toes tangling in her skirt once more. She didn’t look down this time, knowing he wanted to distract her.
“No, my father gave her a house of her own, right here on the estate. That was more generous than most men would have been.”
“You admired your father?”
“Of course.”
“But how generous could he really have been, when he wouldn’t allow her son to live with her?”
She had to admire him, how perfectly normal he kept his expression, polite and amused. She realized she might be hurting him and found herself again sympathetic. It was the woman in her, when she should remain the detective.
“My father was generous enough to house and educate Richard,” he said about himself. “Fiona O’Neill knew it was for the best. The duke gave her son what he could, including an inheritance.”
She lowered her voice, glad that Stephen was so distracted. “But I heard Sir Charles say that you cheated him of it.”
He laughed. “And you believe that envious man?”
“Why would he be envious? He’s wealthy, isn’t he?”
“But he’s not the duke. I am.”
You’re not, she thought. Did Mr. O’Neill deliberately taunt her, suspecting she knew the truth?
He leaned toward her, and his eyes drifted down her bodice and back up again. “Are you accusing a duke of a crime, Meriel?”
She stiffened. “I have not given you permission—”
“Are you accusing me of a crime?”
“I heard you tell Sir Charles that it was a misunderstanding.”
“My brother would say the same thing.”
“Would he?”
Even she did not know which brother they were talking about now.
From the bow, Stephen asked plaintively, “Why are you fighting?”