Chapter 3
T he curricle whipped around a curve, and Portia slid right across the bench and nearly landed in the duke’s lap.
For a moment, he tensed, clearly needing to handle the horses. But then he passed one rein into his other hand, commanding both lines with one great, intimidating grasp. He pulled her tightly to him.
“Steady there,” he soothed her. “Steady.”
She laughed. “You could not shake me free of my steadiness, no matter how hard you tried.”
“Is that a dare?” he teased, his hand pressing into her side, spreading a delicious warmth that slipped through her veins and came to rest in the place between her thighs.
Her insides shook at that.
Who was this duke who was supposedly so quiet? Her cousins had made it sound as if he was a little mouse of a man. He was not. He was a giant. A lion.
Perhaps he did not wish to speak a great deal in other people’s company, but he did not seem to have difficulty in hers. The power of him next to her reverberated through her body. Her cousins were shouting at them, and she laughed at the looks on their faces!
“Oh no, Your Grace,” she said, still in his embrace, knowing she should push away lest they be spotted. But surely she could argue he was merely making certain she did not bounce out of the vehicle! Even so, their breakneck pace was everything she adored, and everything society might cluck their tongues at. Hence, her cousins’ dismay. “You are causing them apoplexy.”
“Then they never should have dared me to a race to begin with, not with you present,” he returned, his gaze trained ahead, focused on outpacing the Briarwood cousins. “Are you afraid?”
“How could I possibly be afraid when I’m with you?” she said merrily.
“Flattery,” he intoned, “will get you into the most interesting of places.”
“Do you promise?” she drawled.
His gaze slid to hers and crackled with intensity. “Oh indeed, I do, Miss Miller,” he said, “if that is what you want.”
They whipped around again, nearing the end of the road and racing ahead.
With just half a length between the curricles, they came to the end of the path first.
She cheered and then slowly slid away from his touch. His lips curled in a smile as his hand slipped from her waist.
“Will you crown me the victor then?” he asked, his voice a low gravelly sound.
“Us,” she corrected, her voice shockingly breathy to her own ears. What was happening to her? This morning she’d had her tea, her toast, and been prepared for a lovely but normal day in London. Now? She was flirting with a duke who evoked and fanned to life a desire in her and made her even bolder than she usually was. “ We are the victors.”
“Then I must find you a coronet,” he replied, his heated gaze searching her face, promising that he wished for much more than a simple crown.
Her heart slammed against her ribs at that. The excitement of the race and the way he spoke, so playfully, so full of what seemed to be his intention to single her out as a candidate for his duchess, or at least his desire, was a revelation.
At least she felt that was what he was doing. Surely, she was not deluded.
Nestor tied off his horses and then he and Calchas jumped down from their curricle. Nestor charged towards them. “My father and my uncle would dig a hole and thrust me in it if you’d murdered Portia with that mad driving.”
Calchas strode forward, his golden epaulets glinting in the sun. “That’s not actually true, cousin. After I explained to them what happened, they’d murder the duke there.”
The duke laughed. “No one’s going to murder me.”
“That’s what you think, but you’ve never seen a group of Briarwood men together.”
Portia groaned but sensed the silly male banter that was so common among their sex at work. “I confess, Your Grace, my uncles might indeed murder you,” she said. “I’m sure it would be a wonderful funeral. Would you be buried at Westminster?”
“No.” His lips pursed, taking this all in with surprising ease, as if he found the whole interaction to be a breath of fresh air. “My family plot is in the north,” he returned. “But I still have things to do. So, alas, I cannot allow such a thing. I need to get married after all and have children.”
“My goodness,” she exclaimed, waggling her brows. “That is a great deal of important work to do. And when do you plan to do it?”
He arched a brow at her. “This year,” he said before he cocked his head to the side. “Do you have any plans for this year?”
She sucked in a sharp breath, stunned. It was tantamount to a wedding proposal. Almost. And she had just been thrust into his arms a moment ago, arms she found quite appealing.
“Oh,” she mused carefully, determined not to appear flustered, “I am about to have my first ball of the Season,” she said. “I have already been presented to the queen.”
“Then perhaps you met my sister,” he said. “Lady Margery?”
She thought back but knew she’d remember becoming acquainted with a duke’s sister. They were so rare, and she knew the particular challenges of being so close to such power. “I confess, there was a sea of young ladies, and I did not meet her,” she said, “but I would like to meet her very much if she’s anything like you.”
“Not a whit. She’s far better than me, and far younger,” he replied with a smile. “But I’m sure we can arrange it. Your first ball, you say?”
“Yes,” she said.
The duke gave the horses more head, allowing them to eat the grass along the edge of the road. “And your goal, Miss Miller?”
“To find a husband, of course. Why else would I be in London?” she said easily, though a part of her—a growing part—thought perhaps he could be her husband. “Isn’t that the point of a Season for a young lady? If I didn’t wish one, I would’ve stayed in New York City.”
Her cousins stood by the curricle, their gazes going back and forth, watching the exchange unfold. They’d been stunned into silence, which was a complete rarity for a Briarwood.
“You’ve come all this way for a husband?” the duke drawled. “There are no suitable men in the United States?”
“Oh, many more suitable men,” she said confidently, “but my family is here, and I will not be parted from them.”
“You like family, do you?”
“Well, I like my family,” she said honestly.
“ And you like to win.”
“Who doesn’t like winning?” she sallied.
Nestor and Calchas, though good sports, grumbled at that.
“To wed well is to win, is it not?” the duke asked.
“I suppose it depends on what one means by well ,” she breathed.
“Doesn’t every lady wish to wed a duke?” he asked.
She sat a little straighter, leaned slightly towards him, and said quite seriously, “I’m not every lady.”
“Clearly,” he replied.
Yes, this duke was interesting. He was someone who would keep her on her toes. He was someone who didn’t mind a merry exchange. Quiet? She didn’t see it. No. She saw someone who knew how to command, someone who was powerful, someone…
“You like the power, don’t you?” he said so softly only she could hear.
“Of the horses,” she replied louder, even as her heart skipped a beat. This exchange was daring, exciting, on the verge of scandal. And she could not yet leap into scandal. So, she evaded. “Yes, they’re absolutely magnificent. I enjoy their withers. They know how to move, to run, to take control.”
He cocked his head to the side. “You like that they take control, do you?”
She narrowed her gaze at him for a moment. “I like to be in control too,” she said.
Her cousins both coughed and cleared their throats.
“Hmm,” he said, ignoring the younger men. “We shall see.”
With that, the duke offered his hand. “Regretfully, I must hand you down to your family. I have a great deal of work to do, you see, but we shall meet again.”
“Well, it is London,” she said simply. “Will you be attending any balls, since you are in want of a wife?”
“Oh, I attend them anyway. It’s what a duke does, you know, whether I enjoy them or not.”
“I think I should make them more enjoyable for you,” she ventured. “You seem to like my company a great deal.”
“You’re intriguing, that’s for certain, and not at all like the ladies I am accustomed to.”
“Poor things,” she sighed. “It’s bred out of them, you know, the ability to speak to a duke like this, but in my family, it’s different. You know my mother is an actress.”
“And your grandmother too,” the duke drawled.
“And that’s not off-putting?”
He arched a brow. “Should it be? Are you not the granddaughter of a duke? Are you not from a powerful family?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, “but we don’t do things the way other people do.”
“Do I look like I do things the way other people do?”
“No,” she breathed, “you certainly don’t.”
“Good.”
And the strangest thought slipped through her head—that he might expect her to do things the way he did. She wasn’t certain she could do that, but he was certainly intriguing. His hand slipped around hers, that powerful, capable hand, and then, with utter ease, he guided her down the side of the curricle and to her cousins.
“Good day, Briarwoods,” he declared, then he whipped up his curricle team and raced off, no doubt to rule the world in the House of Lords, in some unseen back room where the true deals were made.
“My God,” she said. “The duke is something.”
“ Something is not the word for it,” Nestor ground out. “I’ve never seen him act like that. Have you, Calchas?”
“No. Usually he walks into a room and doesn’t speak to anyone. He acted like we were wallpaper and spoke a great deal.” Calchas swung his gaze to Portia. “To you.”
“Maybe that’s because there’s no one worth talking to,” Portia replied, shrugging.
“Well, that’s a bit arrogant,” Nestor scoffed. “But yes. He liked speaking with you, Portia.”
Her breath caught in her throat. Did he? Did he like her so much more than others? Surely, she shouldn’t believe it and so she said lightly, “Well, we’re different, aren’t we?”
Calchas and Nestor both narrowed their eyes.
“And he clearly wants something different,” she added.
Nestor let out a bleat of alarm. “You’re not thinking—”
“Why not?” she cut in. “I like a challenge.”
“That man is not a challenge,” Nestor warned.
“That man is a fortress,” Calchas added. “That man is as powerful as our father.”
Nestor nodded. “And I’m not really sure—”
“I think that a fortress could be fun to climb,” she rushed.
“This is not 1066, Portia,” Calchas said, alarmed. “You don’t wish to launch an invasion.”
The truth was she wasn’t entirely sure who would be invading whom. She was rather curious. But it was also slightly dangerous. A man that powerful? Would he let her be herself? Yes, he would, because it was her boldness, her audaciousness, which clearly attracted him to her. Yes, this was perfect.
He was perfect.
She’d come to London knowing the Season would be wonderful. Oh, she knew she wasn’t going to be admired by everyone. Most of the ladies in London did not like her. After all, there were all the whispers about her mother, who was a bit of a scandal, marrying an American without a title. And, of course, she acted upon the stage.
But there was her grandfather, her uncle, a long line of people closely linked to the king. She had a great deal to bargain with if she wanted a duke.
But the question was… Did she want a duke?
She had thought she would come here not hoping for anything in particular. Perhaps she would not set her cap at Ferrars. Perhaps that was the best thing. Perhaps it would be wisest to wait and see what he had in mind, but she could not deny the excitement coursing through her.
Nestor and Calchas both groaned, a habit they’d developed as small children. The twins often did exactly the same thing at the same time.
“This is not how we thought your first Season would go,” Nestor said, thrusting his hand through his dark hair, leaving it curly and out of sorts.
A look that endeared him to many a lady.
“And how did you think it would go?” she asked, folding her arms just beneath her bosom.
Calchas snorted. “We assumed we’d be able to bully anyone who wished to marry you, put them in their place, and ensure that no one could do anything to harm you.”
Her eyes widened. “You think the duke would harm me?”
“No,” Nestor said carefully, “but we’re not going to be able to put a man like that in his place. He knows it well. But if we get enough of the family together, we might be able to—”
“Stop,” she countered, throwing up her hands. “You two are being ludicrous. He hasn’t asked me to marry him. He might not even be thinking of marrying me. Perhaps he will find this whole episode horrifying upon reflection, and he will run a mile the next time he sees me.”
Nestor and Calchas stared at her for a long moment. Then both of them started to laugh.
“Run a mile,” Nestor echoed, wiping at his eyes.
“Ha,” Calchas said, nearly choking on his laugh. “Men like that, when they see what they want, they don’t wait. They take it.”
“I’m not going to be taken,” she said, though the idea of it sounded rather interesting.
“No?” Nestor replied.
“No,” she said. “Briarwood women aren’t taken. They lead the charge.”
And with the Duke of Ferrars, one would need nerves of steel. Would he be worth it? She did not know. Only time would tell.