A Good Day to Marry a Duke Page 8

  Varmint. He was using her own impulses against her, hinting that he knew things about her, maybe things she didn’t know about herself. Well, she did know, all too well, how responsive she was to tall, dark men with bad intentions. But knowing didn’t stop her from turning to face him and looking up into those handsome autumn-forest eyes. What she read there surprised her; sensual gamesmanship, certainly, but also flat-out curiosity.

  And there was something else in his eyes, something that had nothing to do with his purpose here. It was desire. He truly wanted to kiss her, exactly the way she wanted to kiss him. Then she knew: this desire, this longing for a taste of the forbidden, was going to dangle between them until the deed was done and the impulse laid to rest.

  Damn it.

  Taking a deep breath, she tilted her head, raised her face, softening her mouth in an unmistakable offer. Down came his face, his lips parting as they met hers, and she plunged headfirst into a potent stream of sensation.

  Warm and soft and yet firm and responsive, his mouth made heat bloom in her core and streak down the backs of her legs. Sweet Nevada, it was perfect the way he fitted his mouth to hers and coaxed her lips apart. She swayed and shifted on her feet, widening her stance. Only their lips were touching, but her whole body responded with an urge to mold against him and absorb every sensation his tall, muscular frame could offer.

  His tongue traced the opening between her lips with light, tantalizing strokes that drew her deeper into the kiss. And suddenly her hands were sliding up his chest and gripping his lapels, hauling his mouth harder against hers. Tilting her head, she searched for more delicious variations and found them, soft, delicate pairings and firm, passionate matings with those lush contours. He tasted faintly of coffee with a hint of sweetness. It was lovely, unlike anything—anyone—she had tasted before.

  When his mouth slid from hers and across her hot cheek she was too intoxicated to think of ending it. His mouth glided down her ear, his breath hot, and he pressed his lips against the sensitive side of her neck. She had unbuttoned her collar and the top button of her blouse in the warmth of the stable and now he nudged it aside to explore the tender skin at the base of her throat. She had the vague sense of him releasing yet another button, and sagged against whatever was holding her up. He nudged aside her blouse and nibbled her skin, sending shivers through her that lodged in her breasts and started a fire in their tips. Closer—she wanted him closer—

  Sounds from outside the box stall penetrated her pleasure-stuffed senses as he straightened and looked toward the stall’s open door. Voices and the clop of hooves down the center alley jarred her back to reality. She was caught hard in Ashton’s arms and was pressing against him like she was trying to climb inside his skin.

  “Good God,” came a voice that with only two words managed to announce the officious nature of its owner. “Ashton Graham, is that you?”

  * * *

  Ashton released the delectable Daisy like she was a hot poker and for a moment almost panicked. Her collar was askew and blouse buttons had been loosed, her lips were kiss-reddened, and her eyes were wide and dark-centered. His own face was hot and his lips felt thick and conspicuous. Damn and double damn. Anyone who saw them now . . . He shoved her frantically behind the horse and turned just in time to face Reynard Boulton.

  The wretch had followed him to Oxford.

  “Whatever are you doing here?” Reynard’s voice carried a hint of accusation as he poked his head through the stall opening. “I thought you were headed to Sussex to attend Uncle Seward’s birthday fete.”

  Ashton forced a taut smile, knowing that Reynard’s gaze missed nothing when he was on the hunt.

  “Had to stop by my old mentor’s house for a chat, first,” Ashton said with a calmness that surprised him. “Huxley’s gone rustic, and I’d hoped to convince him to abandon such nonsense and resume his chair at Queen’s.”

  “And did you convince him?” Reynard stepped inside the stall and craned his neck to look around Ash, searching for whoever had been entertaining him moments before. Ashton folded his arms and leaned in the direction Reynard was looking, to interfere with his view.

  “Hardly. The old boy’s balmy. Donated his entire collection of source documents to the Bodleian. Now spends his days nursemaiding cows and spouting rubbish about ‘keeping’ the earth and the nobility of animals. A tragic waste. Annoying as hell to have to listen to.”

  “Well, I was worried there for a minute that you’d joined him.” Reynard slid around him to focus on the impressive beast behind him. “Damned fine horse, old boy. A new acquisition?”

  “It is not.” Daisy Bumgarten stepped around the horse with a brush in her hand and engaged Reynard with a tart look. “This is my horse, Mister—”

  “Boulton. Reynard Boulton, at your service.” The Fox nodded gallantly and looked to Ashton to complete the introduction.

  “May I present Miss Daisy Bumgarten of Nevada. That’s in—”

  “The States, yes, I know.” The Fox smiled a bit too broadly as he approached Daisy and accepted the hand she offered. “I’ve heard of you, Miss Bumgarten . . . that you’re something of a horsewoman.”

  “I would be pleased to answer to that description, Mr. Boulton,” she said, her smile warming over the wretch’s elegant features and striking eyes. She had managed to restore her buttons and smooth her hair, but nothing could have blanched the color from her lips. She looked like she’d been eating cherries all day and the juice could still be savored on her lips. Reynard’s gaze slid to Ash’s clamped mouth.

  “What brings you to Oxford, Reynard?” Ashton demanded, hoping to divert him.

  “I’ve a nephew—my eldest sister’s boy—being hooded.” He transferred his gaze back to Daisy. “She’s asked me to look in. I say, Miss Bumgarten, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Are you staying here at Holloway?”

  “I am. The countess insisted it was the best place to stay in Oxford.”

  “The countess?” Reynard stepped back to take her in, inspecting her behind a gentlemanly smile. “And which countess would that be?”

  “Lady Evelyn Hargrave, of course,” Daisy said, matching his scrutiny with a boldness that surprised Ashton. “Countess of Kew. An old friend of the family and my guide through the deep waters of London society. And how do you know Lord Ashton, Mr. Boulton? Are you a friend of his brother’s?”

  Ashton smiled at the brief flash of irritation in Reynard’s eyes. The Fox, heir to an old title, would not stoop to correcting her address, but he was vain enough to take umbrage at being termed a mere “mister.”

  “We were at school together, Ash and I, then at university,” Boulton said, retreating into superiority. “Though he lingered long after I left.”

  “Old friends.” She gave Ash an inscrutable smile. “Then you’ll have a dinner companion tonight.” She turned her back on the pair to finish brushing down her horse.

  Ashton schooled his face to a cultivated indifference and strode out of the stable. Inside, he was simmering. Damned high-handed of her to dismiss him like a stable boy after he’d just saved her from ignominy at the hands of society’s most ruthless gossip hawk. She should be kissing his—

  “So you see?” Boulton caught up with him on the hotel path. “She has set her sights higher than a ‘spare,’ after all.”

  “Damn you, Boulton, for barging in where you’re not wanted. You have the most abysmal timing.”

  And the bastard laughed.

  “It’s a gift.”

  Chapter Nine

  The countess was waiting in her rooms when Daisy returned to Holloway House. She looked Daisy over, took a sniff, and wrinkled her nose.

  “You smell like horse. I feared as much, so I took the liberty of having Collette draw you a bath.” She nodded to the little maid, who hurried into the tiled bathing chamber to add more hot water to the porcelain tub. “But before you bathe, I must have a word with you.”

  Daisy unbuttoned her jacket, wondering what she’d
done now.

  “You do know that Lord Ashton is no friend of your efforts to find documentation of your lineage?”

  “Of course, I know that,” Daisy answered crossly, though she couldn’t say who annoyed her more at the moment, the countess or herself. She tossed her jacket aside and started on her blouse buttons.

  “He’s a wastrel, a womanizer, and a high-liver,” the countess continued, “whatever his academic credentials.”

  “I know tha—What ‘credentials’?” She paused in the middle of disrobing, frowned, and fixed her gaze on her long-suffering mentor, who seemed pleased to have her undivided attention.

  “I did some checking while you were dillydallying with that beast of yours. Apparently he has been awarded degrees by the university; they’ve actually made him a doctor of philosophy. He studied further at the Sorbonne in Paris and at Heidelberg University. Each place, he cut a wide swath through the local society. I fear he may try to use his glib tongue and fancy education to worm his way into your confidence. Or worse.” She wrung her hands, looking quite unsettled. “There are those who say he is utterly without morals or conscience.”

  Daisy stood stock still, staring at the countess but seeing Ashton Graham’s slow smile and I-know-what-you-want look. She scowled.

  “You needn’t worry about me, Countess. Once bitten, twice shy.” She stalked into the bathing chamber and closed the door forcefully, but not before she heard the countess’s anxious voice.

  “You’ve been bitten? Where?”

  The bathtub was steaming nicely by the time Collette left her to soak in deliciously rose-scented water.

  “Idiot,” she muttered. She’d come within a hair’s breadth of scandal earlier. What if his old school friend had walked in on them kissing? Her eyes widened. Or was that the plan? Let someone catch them kissing, and ruin her reputation. In the eyes of upper crust society, a girl who would kiss a man she wasn’t engaged to would do any number of immoral things. How could she have forgotten? How could she have been so . . . so . . . susceptible?

  She looked down at her bare body and answered that one.

  She just was. It was the way she was made, whether her mama and fancy-pants society liked it or not. It was her burden to bear, the flaw in her body and soul: vulnerable to temptations of the flesh. Was it marked on her somehow? She often wondered that. She ran hands over her face, shoulders, and arms. How did he know? And he knew. She was certain of it.

  The last thing she needed was that velvet-tongued devil hanging around, occupying her thoughts and haunting her senses. And he was—after that kiss—haunting the edges of her thoughts and expectations. And desires.

  Continuing her self-examination, she admitted that her moment of decision in the barn had been a fraud. Down deep, she had known it wouldn’t settle anything between them, that it would only tempt her and encourage him to more of the same. She had enjoyed it, damn it, just like she knew she would. She had reveled in it, right down to the way her toes curled in her boots.

  And it danged-well couldn’t happen again. Ever.

  * * *

  The Bodleian Library was a warren of stone-clad buildings that nestled near the Radcliffe Camera, an ornate circular building that had come to represent the collections that made the library one of the scholarly prizes of the Western world . . . so they were informed by the countess on the ride over. They led a reluctant Uncle Red into the arch and column-lined reading room that now occupied the main floor of the Radcliffe. Professor Huxley was waiting and led them out and down the street to the main entrance of the venerable Bodleian.

  “More walkin’,” Red grumbled, trudging along the ankle-turning cobblestones. “All just to sit in a room with a bunch o’ books.”

  “This is necessary, Uncle Red,” Daisy said, slipping her arm through his. “We have to prove whose blood runs in my veins.”

  “It’s yer blood, girl.” Red glowered. “How could it be anybody else’s?”

  The Radcliffe they had just left, the professor explained, had become little more than a reading room. The major collections were now housed in the halls and storerooms of the buildings Bodley himself had endowed . . . which turned out to be a fancy way of saying he’d paid for them.

  It was something wealthy people did on both sides of the Atlantic: pay to put their names on buildings.

  They rambled through hall after ornate hall while the professor narrated the history of each. Even the countess’s hat feathers were drooping when they finally came to a plain rectangular hall crammed with ranks of bookshelves jutting from the walls. Oak reading tables and glass cases holding open books and documents were clustered in the center of the hall. Shaded windows and the few overhead lamps provided inadequate light. It was a dim, quiet place with a musty, old-book taint to the air.

  “These are the historical collections,” Huxley said quietly, requiring them to lean in to hear him as he beckoned them along toward one of the glass cases. “Where my source material resides.”

  He peered into the case, squinted, and craned his neck to scan the documents under glass. Then he snapped upright, looking distressed.

  “Where is it? The charter? The king’s restoration document—it was right here. The roster of nobles signing to pledge allegiance to the crown—” He bustled off in search of “that cursed librarian,” leaving them to cool their heels.

  The countess sat down primly at one of the tables, and Red groaned and sprawled beside her in a chair, propping his feet on the table. The countess narrowed her eyes and nudged his shoe to insist he remove his feet from the table. It took a second, more forceful push to make him comply.

  Minutes passed before the professor reappeared with a nervous-looking minion of the library who kept trying to explain that the Huxley Collection had been removed to secure storage. The professor was having none of it.

  “I gifted this institution with the work of a lifetime,” Huxley said, drawing himself up in outrage. “The crème de la crème of British historical scholarship. The empire’s intellectual lifeblood. You cannot simply lock such documents away in a vault!”

  “A vault?” Red sat up with a jerk. “Fer what?”

  “Papers dealing with the monarchy and empire,” the countess informed him in clipped tones. “Apparently some documents are considered too precious or too delicate to be stored on mere shelves.” She gave a dismissive wave at the overburdened bookcases around them.

  “Papers. Humph.” Red slouched back into his chair in disappointment.

  “Surely, Professor, you could ask that some of your papers be brought out for us to have a look?” Daisy entered the fray, turning her best smile on the library assistant, who was wringing his hands. “If the professor asked for certain documents, you could get them for him, right?”

  The little assistant swallowed hard and glanced over his shoulder, caught between the professor and another dire but unnamed force.

  “Of course he could,” came a deep voice from the entrance.

  Daisy’s heart sank toward her stomach. Him again. Ashton strode straight into the middle of the threesome and turned the assistant by the elbow. “I’ll be pleased to help.” He propelled the little fellow quickly down the aisle between the ranks of bookcases. “I know my way around the historical collections. I can pick out exactly the things the professor will need.”

  “Really, Mister Graham—” Daisy snapped, taking several steps toward them before he and the librarian disappeared around a corner. The sound of a substantial door slamming stopped her from following.

  Professor Huxley seemed relieved to have his former student pursuing a solution to the problem, muttered, and seated himself to wait. Daisy paced between the bookshelves, glancing at the leather-bound books, ribbon-wrapped folios, and collections of journals all around her. Somebody had put numbers and letters on everything, and out of sheer boredom she pulled a book from the shelf to inspect.

  The typeface was ornate and difficult to read. She was still trying to make sense of it w
hen the sound of a door opening and heavy footsteps drew her back to the center of the hall.

  “This is a disgrace.” Ashton strode down the aisle carrying armfuls of leather folios tied with ribbon. Behind him came the gray-faced assistant laden with books and more folios. When he reached the table where the countess, Red, and the professor sat, Ashton laid the documents out carefully, then turned to Huxley. “You won’t believe where they’ve put your collection. A charwoman’s closet. In with the mops, buckets, and brooms.”

  “Shelf space is at a premium—” The assistant was overwhelmed.

  “A charwoman’s closet? Priceless documents—the writings of kings and details of the monarchy itself are treated like discarded penny papers?” Huxley bounded to his feet and glared at the trembling assistant, who hastily emptied his arms of items and wisely gave no excuse. “I must see the head librarian,” he roared at the assistant. “Now!”

  As the professor stormed out with the assistant in tow, Ashton turned his attention to the folios he’d rescued and ran a hand over the heavy covers. He stared in horror at the residue left on his fingertips. “Mildew. Dear God.” He opened one packet and gingerly slid the documents out onto the table. His eyes widened. “Look at this. There should be cotton weave between each page, and you can smell the must. Damn fortunate we came today—another two months and the damage would have been irreversible.”

  Daisy leaned in to pick up one of the documents and he quickly blocked her hand with his. “Not without proper gloves.”

  “I’m wearing gloves,” she said, glaring at him, recalling their first, shocking encounter. “I always wear proper gloves.”