Amanda McCabe - A Regency Duchess's Awakening - The Shy Duchess / To Kiss a Count

“I would not want you to feel obligated in any way, just because I had too much punch and acted like a fool.”

“Lady Emily, I do not feel obligated. But I must say—”

Emily leaned back in his arms and uncurled her hand from his waistcoat to reach up and press her finger to his lips.

“I don’t want to talk about this any longer,” she said. “It is over and past.” “No, I must—”

She didn’t know what else to do, so she went up on tiptoe and kissed him. It was soft and tentative, a way to make him be quiet. But the taste of him, the way his mouth felt on hers—it sent her back to the Vauxhall woods and she fell down and down into that blurry abyss of need.

His hands closed over her shoulders, as if to push her away. Then he groaned, a wild sound deep in his throat, and his arms came around her again and dragged her against his body.

His mouth hardened on hers, his tongue tracing the curve of her lips before plunging inside to taste her deeply. The fire of her anger turned to desire, and she wanted more of his kiss. More of him.

He pressed her back against the window, his open mouth sliding from hers to trace her jaw, her arched neck. He lightly nipped at that sensitive little spot just below her ear and then licked it when she moaned.

How did he do this to her? She was never herself when she was with him! She wasn’t even sure she liked it—it was too wild, too uncontrollable—but she couldn’t seem to stop it.

She twined her fingers in his hair and dragged him up to her lips again. He went most obligingly, eagerly, kissing her with a heated artlessness and need that ignited her own.

She pressed herself even closer to him, wanting to be ever nearer and nearer. Wanting she knew not what. But her sudden movement sent him off balance, and he stumbled backward into the bank of potted palms.

Emily landed hard atop him, and the impact, along with the crash of plants to the floor, shocked her awake. It was like a cold rain suddenly falling over her head.

“Your Grace?” someone said in a hushed, shocked voice.

Emily, still lying prone on Nicholas’s chest, peered up through the loosened skein of her hair. At least ten people stared back, including Nicholas’s brother Lord Stephen, Jane and Mr Rayburn, and their hostess. Lady Arnold covered her open mouth with a trembling hand, looking as if she was about to faint at this terrible disruption to her elegant ball.

This was a nightmare. It simply had to be. It couldn’t be real, couldn’t be happening to her. Not to the Ice Princess, the most proper lady in all London.

She closed her eyes, tugged her rumpled sleeve back up on to her shoulder, and prayed for deliverance from the bad dream.

But when she opened her eyes it was all still there. She was trapped, frozen.

Nicholas lifted her off him and rose to his feet in one smooth movement. He held on to her hand and kept her firmly by his side.

“Lady Arnold,” he said. He sounded only the merest bit unsteady. “I am sorry to disrupt your ball. Lady Emily and I were going to announce our betrothal at a small family dinner, but I see we should do so now. Lady Emily has made me the happiest man in England by agreeing to be my wife.”

“Oh!” Lady Arnold exhaled. Her dismay vanished in an instant, replaced by utter delight. Her ball’s fame would be assured by such a momentous announcement. “Oh, Lady Emily. Your Grace. Let me be the first to wish you happy.”

Emily suddenly found herself clasped in Jane’s arms as her friend rushed forwards to kiss her cheek. “Emily! Why did you not tell me? Oh, my darling friend! When is the wedding to be? Shall I be your bridesmaid?”

Over Jane’s shoulder, Emily saw Nicholas swept into the jubilant crowd, which had suddenly swelled in numbers. His brother clasped his hand. Lord Stephen smiled, but Emily saw the strained look on his face as he whispered in Nicholas’s ear.

Mr Rayburn, her erstwhile suitor, stood off to one side, not even trying to smile. His face was dark with anger.

And, curse it all, her mother and brother appeared in the terrace doorway, looking absolutely, disgustingly jubilant.

Emily did not know how she felt at all. One instant, she was kissing Nicholas, all thought flown away, and now she was engaged to him. Engaged. To the Duke of Manning.

“Now, your Grace, you must dance with your fiancée,” Lady Arnold cried. “I absolutely insist.”

And now she had to dance, too? Emily’s legs were so weak she was sure she couldn’t take a step let alone dance. “No,” she whispered.

Nicholas took her hand again, holding her close as if he sensed her stunned state. The look in his own eyes was also quite disbelieving. There would be no escape among the stars for either of them, not now.

“I think my bride is a bit tired from all the excitement this evening,” he said. “Perhaps a glass of water and a place to sit down is more in order.”

He smiled at her, and she forced herself to smile back. Yes—no escape indeed.

Nicholas lunged forwards with his sword, driving his opponent back in a furious volley of attacks and blows. The clash of steel rang loud in the humid air, echoing and reverberating like thunder. Sweat dripped down his brow and into his eyes, hot and stinging. His linen shirt clung to his back. Yet still he fought on.

It was as if a demon rode him onwards, driving him with an angry frustration that would not be defeated. His opponent could only raise his own blade in an attempt at defence, trying to hold his ground.

Nicholas swung his arm in a wide arc, knocking the other man’s blade out of his way as easily as if it was made of paper. He bashed against it for good measure, relishing the loud clang, the reverberation of impact up his arm, before pressing the tip of his sword to his opponent’s throat.

The other man dropped his blade to the floor and threw his arms wide. “A hit, your Grace! Very well done indeed.”

Nicholas fell back a step. He wiped at his damp brow with the back of his arm, sucking in a deep breath as he tried to push away the remnants of that blood-lust. It still pounded in his veins, a loud rush in his ears.

“Thank you, Mr Watson,” he said. “The exercise was just what I needed today.”

“Your form was a bit off, if I may say so, your Grace,” Mr Watson said, stripping off his heavy leather gloves. Watson was the fencing master at Gerard’s Saloon for Gentlemen, and had been tutoring Nicholas in the art of swordsmanship for many months.

The Saloon was a great retreat from his ducal duties and the demands of society. It was a place where Nicholas could box or fence, could feel the raw physical life in his muscles and forget everything else. The rest of the world could be left at the doorstep.

Usually. Today, the world insisted on following him inside and riding on his shoulder as he fought. He was betrothed. To Lady Emily Carroll.

Every time he swung the sword he remembered that fact. He saw her pale, stricken face in his mind, felt her cold hand in his as she stood beside him and faced all those deluded well-wishers at the ball. She had said scarcely anything for the rest of the ghastly evening, and she never looked him in the eye.

Was that only last night? It felt like a century ago. That ball, so full of happy smiles and congratulations from everyone but the prospective bride, seemed to last a decade in itself.

He and Emily would not have chosen each other in a perfect world. She would certainly never have chosen him, as her frozen, statue-like demeanor last night showed all too clearly. And he, despite the strange way he seemed drawn to her despite his better judgement and prudence, would never have married at all. The title of Duchess of Manning seemed cursed after the fates of his mother and stepmother.