Chapter 2
W hen it came to kissing, Leander was rather good at it.
As a matter of fact, when he kissed ladies, they swooned. Well, some semblance of a swoon. They certainly enjoyed it. He prided himself on that. So he was not expecting the sudden pain lancing through his body at the reaction of Miss Miller.
It was true that Miss Miller was a surprise. There was no question. She always had been from the moment that he’d met her, which had not been that long ago.
Despite the sharp pain and his wince, he admired her for her determined action.
She was no wilting flower.
“I beg your pardon,” he managed through gritted teeth. “I did not mean to cause you such ill humor or displeasure that you should—”
“Assault you?” she broke in, her face a mask of horror. “Forgive me, Your Grace, I did not mean to do it.”
“Your skill and enthusiasm rather contradict that statement,” he pointed out, lifting his booted foot off the ground and shaking it.
“Fortunately,” he continued, “my shoemaker is excellent, and the structure of my boot is formidable. Therefore, you have done little damage, except perhaps to my feelings. But my feelings are most certainly capable of bearing the brunt of such humiliation. One should never kiss a young lady who does not wish to be kissed.”
Her eyes had flared wide, and her dark, curling hair was still wild about her face, and her perfect rose mouth parted. He waited for some tart reply. She was so good at it.
“No, Your Grace. Forgive me. I did not stomp on your foot because it was not pleasurable,” she stated.
He straightened his shoulders, trying to make sense of her words. “I beg your pardon. I feel most confused by this.”
She wrung her hands and then blurted, “Your Grace, I am not accustomed to being kissed. I am not a young lady who has ever put pleasure on my list of needs. You see, I have very specific needs. I eat, I sleep, I require some comforts, but very few. I need a printing press, my mind, the ability to write, and, of course, paper to print the opinions of people I admire and ensure that they are distributed into society. I put very little into my own wishes… Or desire. I do not eat or drink to excess. I do not laugh to excess. I do not dream to excess. My life has been such that I have largely eschewed delight.”
His lips quirked at this admission. “You found the kiss delightful.”
Her mouth pressed into a taut line for a moment. “It pains me to admit it, though not as much pain as you likely feel from my blow, but yes. I stomped upon you because I was so surprised and wished it to stop immediately.”
“You wished to stop it because you liked it,” he said, now truly amazed.
“I am not accustomed, Westleigh,” she blurted, “to being out of sorts or out of control of my humors. I always manage myself. I am always in control of myself.”
Her description of herself was such a shocking echo of his own thoughts about his person that he nearly reeled.
The world thought him a bon vivant. The truth was he was always managing his rather difficult brain. He had but one goal in all of life and society, and that was to ensure the happiness of his family. And he sought it at the cost of everything, including his own personal wishes, desires, or…darkness. Well, in spite of his darkness, really.
His only goal in life was to do as good a job as his father had done, to make certain that every member of his family was, well, happy, and she was about to be a member of his family.
If only through the marriage of her brother to Leander’s sister.
It struck him then that that was why he had asked her to marry him. To ensure her happiness, which would bolster his whole family’s happiness.
He shoved the thought away.
“So, if you enjoyed it,” he began, his lips curving into a slow smile as his desire began to spark again. “Would you be amenable to trying it again?”
She was more than beautiful. It was hard to describe what she was. Her face was not traditionally beautiful. It was bold. As if it had been cut from stone. It reminded him of the famous Greek statues at the Parthenon. She was stunning. Striking. And there was nothing frothy or delicate about her.
Her lips parted as if to reply, but then he felt the need to add, “I do not enjoy being stomped upon though. I must admit this. If you feel the need to do so, we should not make the attempt of another kiss.”
She laughed deeply at that, and then she appeared struck with surprise that she had laughed. “How is it possible that you make me feel so strangely, Your Grace?”
His smile grew to one of triumph, even if he had not won as of yet, and he gave her a bow. “Because I am the Duke of Westleigh. And when you accused me of madness earlier, you were not entirely wrong. To society, I am mad, Miss Miller. My family is too. But it all depends on your idea of what madness is. I personally think we are the sanest lot within thousands of miles. For we do not act in ways that society thinks we should, because we, as a collective, understand what life is for. Life is for living. Life is for loving. Life is for enjoyment.”
“That’s not true,” she rushed, clearly appalled. “Life is for purpose. Life is for discipline. Life is for helping people.”
“I have all those things,” he countered easily. “And enjoyment too.”
She swallowed, taken aback.
He studied the line of her delicate throat. It was a beautiful thing to behold. How he adored her intelligence, her fire, but how he wished he could take the idea from her that she must go through life without pleasure.
Slowly, he held his hand out to her. “Would you not prefer to enjoy life?” he asked softly.
“I don’t know,” she replied quietly, her brow furrowing as she studied his offered hand. “I have never truly allowed myself. You see, for years now, years ,” she repeated to make her point plain, “I have been doing work. There is nothing else.”
“Then perhaps,” he said softly, “you’ll allow me to show you something else.”
And with that, he urged her closer before he lifted his hand and stroked back her midnight locks. “Would you like that?” he queried.
“I don’t know,” she said honestly, her gaze a riot of emotion. “This all seems utterly absurd. You’ve asked me to marry you. I don’t think that—”
“Shh,” he said softly. “Let us not think. Let us enjoy,” he broke in. “You do not have to say yes to me right now. You can wait. I think you should say yes. I think you will like it a great deal being a duchess, especially my duchess,” he said, “but nothing says you must reply immediately. In fact, with you, I can tell it would be better if you did not. For you must go and tot up all the pros and cons of being wed to a man like me—an American revolutionary married to an English lord,” he teased.
Her cheeks flushed. “You are not mistaken,” she said. “That’s exactly what I will go and do.”
“Then,” he said, “let us add to your arsenal of information.”
“My arsenal of information?” she echoed breathlessly.
“Yes, exactly,” he teased. “Isn’t that what you need? You can collect all of the information you wish. For however long you need. You’re going to live in my house while your brother waits to be married to my sister, and you can decide what you wish. What you truly want.”
He winked. “No rash decisions for Miss Mercy Miller.”
She swallowed then. “I shouldn’t allow myself…”
“Oh,” he said softly, “but you should.”
And with that, she tilted her head back, nibbling her lip. “Well, then I suppose… If a kiss is merely for the collection of my arsenal.”
“Most certainly,” he replied, his blood heating at the promise of kissing her again. At a chance of winning her. Of winning a woman so unique, so marvelous.
And with that, he lowered his head and touched his lips to hers again in the softest most teasing of kisses. He did not wish to alarm her. He had no wish to experience her foot coming down so expertly upon his own again.
Only this time… This time, he could not deny the intense desire he felt for her. He swept her into his arms, arching her back.
And much to his pleasure, she gave in to her research and embraced him.
Her lips parted, and she wound her hands at the back of his neck.
That gesture fanned the flames of his hunger for her, and he teased the line of her mouth with his tongue, tasting her. Delving into her mouth as he longed to delve into her body. The way he desired her was all-encompassing. Without logic. Purely instinct. And he longed to give in.
But he could not. Not if he wished to win her. And so, slowly, agonizingly, he pulled back.
And once the kiss was completed, he took a step back. “And?” he rasped.
She gazed up at him, her eyes hot, her cheeks colored, her hair even more wild about her face. She licked her kiss-swollen lips. “I suppose I like it very much indeed.”
“Well, you’re a very logical sort,” he managed, desperately trying to tame his thoughts and cool his need. “Surely you would like to have more of what you enjoy.”
“Clearly, you do not know a great deal about the ideas of reticence and puritanism.”
He laughed. “You are no Puritan, Miss. Miller. I’ve seen the way you read all sorts of books. A Puritan? Never.”
“Perhaps you are mistaken,” she whispered.
“Then it shall be a great deal of fun,” he said.
She shook her head. “Fun?”
“Tempting you,” he rumbled.
And with that, he turned and left her to her own devices. He knew when to leave a lady wanting more and when not to push her further. He headed out into the hall and down to the river, in search of his brothers.
The day had been quite something. He was quite pleased that his sister Juliet had found love, and he had never expected that his sister finding love might lead him to find a duchess.
But he was absolutely certain that that’s exactly what was happening. And he would not let the opportunity slip from his fingers. Not because of Mercy’s reticence, and not because of society.
Oh, no.
For he knew deep down that Mercy was the one for him. It was a gift in their family, that knowing. His father had known the moment he saw his mother, and he had pursued her without stopping.
And Leander would make certain that Mercy understood that life could be absolutely wonderful with him.