Chapter Three
Lillian felt as if her mind and body had separated. Like part of her floated in the air.
The duke looked down at her, pure terror reflecting in his eyes. She didn’t mean to scare him so, but she had simply reacted.
A ghost. She had seen a ghost! They were real! And it had been the scariest experience she had ever had in her entire life. Thus, her running away. Then realizing she had left him behind.
Pain and worry pulled at his face as he framed hers with his gloved hands.
No one had ever cared for her like this before.
Of all of the English men she had met over the past few months, she knew for a fact none of them would have run after her like he had.
None of them would have protected her from a ghost, putting themselves in front of her, risking their own lives for her.
In fact, none of her acquaintances back home would have, either.
The duke probably thought nothing of it, too.
And what had he called her? ‘My darling’? Where had that come from?! He had never called her that before. He had called her ‘love,’ but that seemed like some British turn of phrase; she had not thought it to mean anything. But it sounded meaningful now.
Her heart swelled as she looked up into his handsome face. There was no one else like him. How could she not hold an affection for him? Despite her feigned irritation toward him, there was something else deep in her heart. A warm, glowing feeling that grew whenever he was near.
Could it have been love? It seemed quite possible.
But how could she realize this mere days before she and her father were scheduled to depart for America?
If only she had realized this months ago!
The tickets were already bought. Her summer luggage was already at the port and probably already on the ship.
And was she supposed to admit to her feelings to an English duke with only days to spare?
Nothing could possibly happen between them in such a short amount of time.
And that was assuming a bachelor duke even wanted marriage.
Despair washed over her.
However, her body turned into warm honey as the duke angled his face down. His lips brushed soft, gentle over hers, giving a whisper of a kiss. All despair melted away.
She breathed back hard. “You called me ‘Lillian.’” She decided not to mention the other words he’d called her.
“You weren’t answering to anything else.” His voice was deep velvet.
She swallowed. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t hear you. I was quite scared and it appears my focus was entirely on escaping.”
He still held her face in his hands, their mouths only centimeters apart now. She could smell his cologne, woodsy and masculine. “You are safe. You are always safe with me. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she whispered. She looped her arms back around his neck to pull him back to her.
This time, there weren’t gentle sweeps or whispered touches of their lips.
Their mouths crashed together, as if months of yearning and wanting had finally come to a head.
Lillian was three and twenty and had been kissed before, but never—never—like this.
Never had a man gripped her as if she could fall away. Or caressed her. Or moaned against her.
The duke opened his mouth and turned his face to fit hers perfectly, his tongue moving in a slow, sultry dance that she followed.
Desire pooled in her belly. Though she had not been with a man in the fullest way of intimacy, she had heard giggled whispers from enough matrons to know the basics of what it entailed.
The duke’s age, which had seemed too much for her previously, now teased her, comforted her, with the experience it promised.
Lillian had always been intimidated by the thought of such intimacy.
Fearful of it, in truth. But the way he seemed to hold himself back from taking more when younger men had tried to lift her skirts until she’d stomped their foot, the feel of his fingertips digging into her hips with desperation, their shared groans when she pressed the entire length of her front against his, she couldn’t help but imagine being with him in such a way: their bodies mimicking slow, rolling waves, his hard and hot muscular form over hers, not a stitch of clothing anywhere.
It didn’t scare her. Not when she thought about him.
She broke the kiss, panting, but didn’t pull too far away. “Your Grace—”
“Quinton.” He dragged his lips along her neck to the shell of her ear. “You and only you may call me ‘Quinton.’”
Pleasure caused her to smile. “Only me?”
“Yes,” he breathed back, the hot breath sweeping over her neck. “Only you, and always only you.”
Sparks danced along her skin as the realization of what this might mean hit her.
How did she feel about it? Despite the overwhelming desire for him, he was closer in age to her father than to herself.
Such an age difference between groom and bride wasn’t as common in America as it was here, though it wasn’t wholly unheard of, either.
Then of course, there was his abject eccentricity.
Yet she found herself clinging to him and replying, “You may continue calling me ‘Lillian,’ then.”
“Good, because I planned on doing so anyway.” Mischief glinted in his eyes.
She breathed out a laugh before remembering where they were.
Afraid the others had somehow seen them, she glanced around quickly but realized they were still stuck in the dense, gray fog.
She looked up at him through lowered lashes.
“I am surprised an English duke would kiss a plain, American woman. I have not been a favorite of your peers this year.”
“‘Plain’?” his voice whispered deeply. “That is not a word I would ever use for you. Lillian.”
Lillian studied his face. There were permanent lines at his eyes, and faint ones beginning to show on either side of his mouth. The fragility of life struck her. If she allowed this to continue, she could end up being a young widow.
This seemed to be the hope of many women here, especially those forced to marry men they didn’t love.
Women talked about this with each other easily over tea, as if it were another fact of life.
But Lillian felt only despair at the thought.
Confused and unsure, she broke their embrace and made a show of looking around. “The fog has still not lifted.”
He stared at her for a prolonged moment—oh, how she wished she knew his thoughts—before making his own show of searching around. “I wonder if we should try to head back? Or stay put and see if it lifts.”
“How long could that take?” she asked. “I don’t even know which way to go. We could get lost.”
“I don’t know,” the duke admitted. And then he rubbed his chin in thought. “I’ve noticed that the fog seems to come with ghost sightings.”
Fear caused her heart to skip a beat, but there was no sight or sound of the ghost that had scared her moments ago.
“Or it could just simply be a coincidence.” He gave her a roguish grin.
But Lillian had had enough for one day. “Let us grab the horses and see if we can find our way back. I grow weary of ghost hunting.”
The pair decided to walk the horses back instead of riding and they went in the direction the duke thought the house was located.
They walked in silence, as they seemed to do often, while she listened to the wind that had gentled for the moment, focusing on her surroundings to hear or see any further signs of ghosts.
Lillian thought she heard galloping, faint and far away, and halted. “Did you hear that?” she said, fear sliding through her again.
“I didn’t hear anything. What was it?” The duke stopped beside her as his horse snuffled his shoulder.
Lillian swallowed. “I thought it was a horse galloping.” But she immediately began to doubt herself. “I do believe I am scaring myself into hearing phantom noises.” She added a chuckle, but it was too shaky to be convincing.
The duke angled his head in a way that told her he was doing his best to listen. Before she could say something else reassuring, though, the fog started to thin out.
She felt elated at the change. “Quinton, look! The fog is lifting!” She did a spin of joy and could finally see the house. “And the house is exactly where you thought it was.”
There was a gentle kindness in his eyes as he looked down at her. “Perhaps I should steal one last kiss while I can, then.” He lifted her chin and kissed her slow and passionately. She allowed herself to be wrapped up in his arms and inhaled his masculine scent.
Lillian stepped back from him with a coy smile and waited for him to say something.
They clearly were fond of each other. They had moved on to using given names to address one another.
Would he say he must find her father? Or perhaps suggest they discuss the future, or something else equally vague yet promising?
But the duke said nothing and instead continued leading his horse in the direction of the house.
Her shoulders had the urge to droop. But she still followed him, anyway.
*
The following days of hunting were nothing but disappointment to Quinton. There were no further ghost sightings, no possible ghostly noises, nor any fog. There was even one dreadfully sunny day, which would not do.
This forced him to spend more time with the other guests. Too much time, he thought. He wanted to be hunting, not socializing. It taxed him.
But at night, he could not sleep. He would lie awake, wondering what to do about Lillian.
His ploy to get her to himself the other day by pairing her father with Mr. Brainard, a friend’s youngest brother, had ended up working against him.
It was clear her father was enamored by the younger man’s attentions to his daughter and kept directing her that way, making it hard for Quinton to approach her.
He may have been eccentric, but he wasn’t rude and wouldn’t interrupt others.