The Duke’s Embrace: 12 Dukes of Christmas #7 Read online

  He was leaving. She was helping him go. Nothing mattered but Cressmouth and the Gazette.

  “Teatime,” Bastien shouted.

  Eve glanced around. There was no tea.

  The lads streamed out the open doors.

  “Where are they going?” she asked.

  “Home to tea.” He dragged a stool next to her and sat with his head leaning back against the wall. “Or to take a nap. Afternoon break is a half-hour. I definitely needed mine.” He pretended to snore.

  She thwacked his knee with her notebook just as Lucien walked past and shot her a ferocious scowl.

  He didn’t fool Eve. She’d seen him chuckle. But she glared right back out of solidarity.

  “So…” She turned back to Bastien. “There’s no tea?”

  “None,” he confirmed without opening his eyes. “Come back after we’ve sold the smithy.”

  She bit her lip and let herself gaze at him for a moment. His eyes were closed and no one but Duenna was there to witness her doing so for as long as she pleased.

  Bastien was pretending to be exhausted probably because he truly was exhausted, but didn’t want her thinking so. The rugged, irresistibly tousled blacksmith he was right now looked nothing like the perfectly coiffed, fresh-shaven dandy he presented himself as whenever he wasn’t in the smithy.

  Which was the real man?

  “Are you looking forward to selling the smithy?” she asked softly.

  It was not the same question as, Do you want to sell the smithy? That answer was yes. Eve didn’t doubt him. But she knew from experience that one could want a thing and dread its inevitability at the same time.

  At first, she thought he wouldn’t answer. Perhaps he really had fallen asleep. Or perhaps her question was too personal.

  Then he opened his eyes. “I look forward to returning to France.”

  Ah. So he did know what it was like to want a thing and not want it at the same time. Between the two choices, France would always win. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t miss some of the things he left behind.

  She gave him a half-smile. “You like Cressmouth.”

  “Do I?” He affected indignation. “Maybe I like breaking my back whilst covered in oil, sweat, and blisters.”

  Her smile grew wider. “You like the smithy, too.”

  She expected him to prevaricate. Instead, he shrugged and gave her a sheepish grin. “Right on both counts. Don’t put it in the paper.”

  Eve pretended to cross out her notes. “The article is much shorter now.”

  “The advert was a good favor.” His brown eyes held hers “But a feature article feels like more than I can afford to pay you .”

  “You’re not paying me,” she said quickly. “This is a mutual favor. I swear my motives are more selfish than philanthropic.”

  “Mine, too.” He frowned. “You still deserve to be paid for your work.”

  “Don’t you?” She pointed at all the projects and carriages waiting for his attention.

  His dimple flashed and he pushed to his feet. “Break’s over. Have to get back to my post before the lads think everyone can sit down anytime they like.”

  Just as she opened her mouth to ask What lads?, they came streaming back through the open door, laughing and snapping threadbare rags at each other’s shoulders.

  Lucien stalked back in, but didn’t bother to glare at her. He just went straight to work before the roaring hot forge.

  “See that?” she whispered to Duenna. “We’re positively growing on him.”

  But the truth was, Bastien was the one growing on Eve.

  She couldn’t get him out of her mind as she led Duenna out of the smithy and back up the winding road toward the printing house.

  Perhaps it was because he had been honest with her, even when it did not serve his best interest. Perhaps it was because he had let her see him at what he likely believed to be his worst. Perhaps it was because he had accepted her decision to write about his smithy without question or argument.

  Perhaps it was because they had been alone together for twenty-nine minutes and he had made no attempt to press unwelcome rakish advances upon her.

  Unwelcome was a strong word. A false word. An outright, barefaced lie.

  If he’d bothered to try, she would have grabbed hold of that tattered tunic and kissed him until she forgot her own name.

  Chapter 7

  Eve stepped back from the interior stone wall of the castle vestibule to admire her handiwork.

  Most visitors passed through this entranceway. Marlowe Castle wasn’t just Cressmouth’s largest and most iconic landmark, it was their lodging-house, their pub, their assembly rooms, free meals thrice daily in the common rooms. Every local passed through this entranceway multiple times per month, if not every day.

  And now it contained a community posting wall for signs and bills. Eve had secured permission from Mr. Thompson, the castle solicitor. Since she was the first to know about it and therefore the first to use it, the community posting wall was currently one hundred percent covered in identical bills she’d printed by the dozens to advertise the sale of the le Duc smithy.

  Reaching thousands of wealthy patrons was one thing. Finding someone as competent and caring as the le Duc brothers was quite another. If the entire village worked together, perhaps they could perform their own Christmas miracle.

  Satisfied for now, she exited the castle and headed back toward the printing house with Duenna prancing right beside her.

  Only a fortnight remained before the Yuletide issue went to print. Not a moment could be wasted.

  Outside, the crisp autumn day had turned gray with thunderclouds. A freezing wet raindrop hit the middle of her forehead and slid down the side of her nose. She’d worn her pelisse, but had no umbrella. If the heavens opened, she was going to get soaked.

  Head down, Eve sprinted down the main road and took the shortcut through the trees to use the leaves as cover. When she burst through the other side, she came to an immediate standstill.

  Bastien le Duc was standing beneath the branches of an apple tree beside the printing house, impeccably dressed in touchable soft gray superfine, the brim of his beaver hat pulled low to shield his eyes from the occasional drop of rain.

  His face lit up when he saw her.

  Eve’s heart flip-flopped in response. She forgot about the printing house and walked to him instead.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He stared back at her, his gaze inscrutable. “The smithy is closed on Sundays.”

  “So you thought you’d spend your one free day here in my garden?”

  “I never said I intended to be here all day.” His eyes dropped to her mouth. Her throat went dry. “Is that what you want?”

  It was definitely what she wanted.

  To give her hands something to do other than reach for him—and to occupy her mouth with something safer than begging for kisses—she plucked an apple from the tree and took a bite out of pure self-preservation.

  “Teatime?” he asked politely.

  Eve nodded. She would stay three paces away and gnaw every apple on this tree like a one-woman flock of squirrels if that was what it took to keep from complicating a friendship that was doomed from the beginning.

  He took a step closer.

  She yanked an apple from the tree and all but chucked it at his waistcoat.

  He caught it one-handed and shined the rosy flesh on the ivy superfine of his greatcoat. “Thanks.”

  There. Now they were both busy with apples. All they could do was talk.

  “Why didn’t you go home sooner?” she asked.

  A flicker of confusion crossed his face.

  Blast. She hadn’t meant it like that.

  “Not that I wish you would have,” she babbled quickly. “It’s just, if you’ve been dying to return to France, and nothing stopped you from going there other than selling off the smithy—”

  “Nothing else is stopping me now,” he corrected. “Un
cle Jasper was leasing the smithy. After he brought the three of us here, he needed somewhere to put us. He made an agreement with Mr. Marlowe for the land you probably think of as ‘the le Duc farm.’”

  Eve froze in alarm. The article she’d written about their mercurial founder hadn’t included everything she’d uncovered about his sometimes capricious way of “helping” people.

  Her stomach twisted. “Not a good arrangement?”

  “Not a good arrangement,” Bastien confirmed grimly. “But the best arrangement we had. The only arrangement. Repay Mr. Marlowe’s quoted price with interest within twenty years, or have every inch of the land beneath our feet revert to the castle’s ownership overnight.”

  She winced. “And you did it?”

  “We did it.” He thrust his shoulders back, his brown eyes gleaming with pride. “As of a fortnight ago, the le Duc family is debt free, and Uncle Jasper owns that farm outright.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Eve said, and meant it.

  Or maybe she meant he was wonderful. Staying in a place he longed to leave, working his fingers to the bone, in order to pay off land he didn’t intend to live on or ever see again, just to make sure his uncle’s future was secure.

  “Don’t put it in the paper.” He gave a self-deprecating smile.

  She shook her head. “I wasn’t thinking about the paper.”

  He took a step closer. “What were you thinking about?”

  Where was his apple? Where was her apple? Somehow she’d eaten it, stem and all, or else it had fallen unnoticed from her fingers, because right now there was nothing at all in her hands. They were perfectly free to reach for his lapel, or slide their way up his shoulders to where his hair curled against the back of his cravat.

  Bastien’s eyes didn’t leave hers. “It’s raining harder.”

  Was it? She stepped closer. “I don’t mind.”

  The tips of their boots grazed.

  “I should warn you,” he said, his voice husky. “I am leaving. Nothing can come of any mutual attraction between us. In fact, I have tried very, very hard to banish you from my mind.”

  Her breath and his heartbeat tangled together. “Did it work?”

  The corner of his mouth quirked up. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “Not close enough,” she whispered.

  He cupped her face in his hands and slanted his mouth over hers.

  She felt his kiss everywhere. Her heart clanged, her toes curled, her flesh tingled. Had she thought the day cold? The heat of his mouth stoked a fire in her core. She wouldn’t be surprised if every raindrop evaporated into puffs of steam around them.

  Boldly, she ran her palms up the hard muscles of his arms as she’d dreamed of doing, then plunged her fingers into his hair.

  His hat lurched askew, then tumbled off his head entirely. Bastien didn’t reach for it. Instead, he reached for her, spanning his hands on the curve of her hips, pulling her close.

  The thunder roaring above them barely masked the clanging of her heart. She pressed herself against him, wet bosom to wet chest, and returned each kiss with a wantonness she hadn’t known she possessed.

  He tasted tart and sweet like the apple, but also as dark and forbidden as he’d warned her. Perhaps that was why she’d thrown caution to the wind. Kissing him was safe. It didn’t mean anything. He couldn’t disappoint her. He was leaving. This wasn’t romance. This was elementary. Iron, smelting in a forge. Lightning, streaking across the sky. Thunder—

  No, not thunder. That growl belonged to—

  “Duenna, no!” was all Eve managed to gasp before her overprotective bullmastiff launched her full eight stone of solid muscle into the man she believed to be mauling her owner.

  Because they happened to be locked in an embrace, Eve splashed into the rain puddle right with him.

  His shocked eyes met hers. “Was that an elephant?”

  “Close.” Their noses brushed. “Bullmastiff.”

  “Will she do it again if I try to rescue you?”

  She pushed a hunk of wet hair from her eyes. “Let’s find out.”

  “Come on.” Eyes sparkling, he pulled her to her feet and raced with her through the driving rain to the printing house’s awning.

  As soon as they tumbled through the doorway, Eve shut the door firmly behind them.

  Duenna howled her displeasure from the other side.

  “You likely gave us pneumonia!” Eve shouted against the sound of the rain.

  “Now we’re giving it back,” Bastien added.

  They looked at each other and burst out laughing.

  “This way.” Eve led him to a small fireplace at the rear of the one-room outbuilding. “I never light this when we’re printing, but I think ‘soaked to the skin’ counts as a valid reason.”

  “It’s an excellent excuse for a lot of things,” Bastien agreed, his quick gaze taking in the room about them. “Or it would be, if there was furniture.”

  She widened her eyes. “There’s a very lovely printing press.”

  “Not what I was thinking.” He flashed her an unrepentant grin. “And probably for the best.”

  Eve shrugged out of her wet pelisse and hung it by the fire, then placed her boots before the grate to dry.

  Following her lead, Bastien pulled off his boots and placed them next to hers, then hung his sopping coat and waistcoat on the opposite side of the fire. His linen shirt was all but transparent in the firelight, revealing every muscle of his chest. She swallowed hard.

  His intense gaze met hers. “Now what?”

  “Now…” She tugged the sole rug before the fire and pulled him close to join her. “We keep our cold toes on this warm carpet until our clothes are dry and the rain has stopped.”

  He wiggled his brows. “Let me make sure I understand the rules. As long as we keep our feet on this two-foot-square scrap of carpet, we can do anything we wish?”

  “And stay vertical,” she added. “Anything we wish whilst also vertical.”

  His eyes sparkled. “That… doesn’t limit things quite as much as you seem to think.”

  Her face flushed hot. He was right; she had no idea how much wickedness one might enjoy whilst standing upright before a fire. Until him, she’d never wanted to find out.

  “Kissing,” she blurted desperately. “I’m asking you to kiss me.”

  But as he enveloped her in the heat of his embrace, she couldn’t help but suspect that before long, she’d be begging for much, much more.

  Chapter 8

  Bastien poked his head into his brother’s open doorway. “Ready?”

  Even before Lucien lifted his dark gaze, it was clear that, no, Lucien was not ready. Well, not for their usual wind-in-their-hair, hell-for-leather dash through the woods in their beloved racing phaeton.

  Lucien was on his knees in the center of the room, wiping down a battered leather valise with a clean rag.

  “Non,” he answered. “I’m packing.”

  Bastien shifted his feet. “I haven’t sold the smithy yet.”

  “If you have faith in Miss Shelling and her newspaper, then so do I. But more importantly…” Lucien’s eyes met Bastien’s. “I have faith in you. If you swear we will be on a boat by Epiphany, then we will be on a boat by Epiphany.”

  Normally, such a statement of unconditional confidence from his brother would have filled Bastien with pride. Or, at least, a frisson of excitement at the thought of their upcoming journey home.

  Today, something restless deep inside him needed that wild, reckless ride in an open phaeton all the more.

  “I’ll be back in an hour,” he told his brother.

  Lucien didn’t even look up. The valise before him might still be empty, but clearly Lucien’s mind was already eight hundred miles away.

  Bastien had already readied the horses and carriage. All that remained was to leap up onto the waiting bench and take the reins. Without Lucien, the carriage would be lighter; the horses even faster.

  But without his b
rother, the seat beside him just felt… empty.

  Dawn was still breaking. Their favorite time to fly through the village. No one in the street, and a beautiful sky all around them.

  He gave the horses their heads, as he always did. The phaeton was the one thing in their lives that made them feel free. Soon, they wouldn’t need to pretend. They’d be back home in France, untethered from England forever.

  Bastien concentrated on the wind unraveling his cravat and rumpling his hair to keep himself from identifying the strange emptiness hiding deep within his chest.

  The streets weren’t completely empty. A woman in the distance was out walking her dog.

  Not just any dog. A bullmastiff.

  He slowed, the emptiness in his chest forgotten. How many times must he and Lucien have flown past Eve and her dog in the wee hours of the morning? Hundreds? Thousands?

  They’d never once slowed. Her presence was just another pretty component of Cressmouth’s picturesque background, like snow-capped evergreens or mistletoe growing on oak trees. Except oak trees had never made his heart beat faster.

  He pulled up beside her. “Good morning, Duenna.”

  Eve’s face jerked up toward his, her mouth wide with faux offense. “And me?”

  “Oh, you too, Eve.” He grinned at her. “I didn’t see you there.”

  She pointed at his chest. “Now, Duenna. Attack!”

  Duenna sniffed beneath her tail.

  “Maybe I have to be kissing you for that to work,” he suggested, making a wide-eyed, earnest expression. “Should we try it?”

  The glances she sent over her shoulders were almost comically horrified. “Shh. Someone might hear you.”

  Comical, perhaps, if he hadn’t spent the entire night dreaming of pulling her into his embrace again.

  He patted the empty seat next to him. “Come on up.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Are you summoning me like a dog?”

  “Oh, Eve, you’re still here. Of course, you can come, too. Don’t you agree, Duenna?”