Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

T he next morning, Hazel paced back and forth at the base of the terrace steps, racquet and shuttlecock in hand, waiting impatiently for His Ducal Awfulness to show himself. August hadn't been present at the lavish breakfast buffet Maria had presented for her guests, though Hazel had taken her time sipping her tea, waiting for His Trollishness to appear.

She paused. Perhaps His Terrible Toadness.

Last night, as she'd lain in bed, Hazel had replayed every incident she could recall in which August had behaved terribly. She had to admit there wasn't a great number. It had only been one summer, and frankly, in looking back, Hazel hadn't been very kind either. But she could clearly remember Vicar Digby calling upon her father, along with his pointed suggestion that the Dartmont family was no longer welcome in Pensford as it displeased the duke.

She'd nearly forgotten all that, with her body tingling and humming whenever August got too close. Absolutely mortifying.

Hazel resumed her pacing.

If August didn't appear soon, Hazel would consider the game forfeited, which would be a shame, since upon trouncing him, she meant to announce that she was Stork. Then Hazel would return to the house, triumphant, and ask Mrs. Peasley, Maria's cook, for an entire plate of currant scones. Which she would then eat in the privacy of her room, basking in triumph.

"You're late."

August, dressed in an indigo coat and fawn-colored— far too tight —leather riding breeches, strolled out of the garden from the direction opposite the house, handsome features indignant. The small racquet he held appeared that much tinier when clasped in his large hand.

Good God, he looked bloody spectacular.

"Miss Dartmont."

She jerked her gaze back to his, as the blazing turquoise eyes trailed over first her mouth, then down between her breasts, then lingered at her waist. Or was it lower? He'd done this before, as if he could see through her skirts to her?—

She let out a growl of frustration.

August's brow arched. "Something wrong?"

Maybe if Hazel beat him soundly in this stupid game and took her revenge, no matter how petty, the attraction to him would fade.

"Not at all, Your Grace." Hazel lowered politely.

"Did you think I might forfeit, Miss Dartmont, if you hid from me?"

"Hid?" she sputtered. "I did no such thing. Does it look like I'm hiding from you?" Oh, the sheer arrogance of him. "I have been waiting for you since ten o'clock, just as we agreed."

August circled her in a predatory manner. "We were to meet on the other side of the garden." The leather grew taut along his thighs, and the outline of his…Hazel grew dizzy. She summoned up a memory of him as a child, sneering at her, the blue of his eyes barely visible over plump cheeks and his snout of a nose.

It helped. Somewhat.

"You failed to mention such to me, Your Grace."

"Nonsense. I was perfectly clear."

Hazel's hand jerked, wanting to hit him with the racquet. "I've been standing right here for a quarter of an hour," she replied, testy. "I assumed our duel would take place in this area."

"Contrary in nature," he said firmly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your nature. Is. Contrary." He enunciated every word, holding the racquet as if it were a saber. She doubted he'd be able to gently bat the shuttlecock about and keep it in the air. Doing so required a deft touch, and there wasn't anything remotely soft or forgiving about August. He was all arrogance and steel. No longer a pudgy little troll.

So bloody disappointing .

"Must be my lowly birth," she snapped back. "The cause of my contrary nature."

He jerked his chin in her direction. "Perhaps."

She didn't care for his quick agreement. "Are you ready? I assume you know the rules, Your Grace. We must keep this deadly weapon"—she tossed up the shuttlecock and caught it in her fingers—"in the air. If it touches the ground, the match is over. Or if I bruise your delicate skin in any way."

A growl came from deep in his chest. He sounded as if he wanted to strangle her.

Good . "First one to drop the shuttlecock loses."

"I believe I can grasp the concept, Miss Dartmont."

She strode smartly to a spot on the lawn. There was only a bit of a breeze today. Perfect weather for beating a duke. Knocking the arrogance out of him would make up for a great many things. Gently, she batted the shuttlecock up.

August bounced it back, his movements far too graceful for such a large man.

Which made Hazel wonder at what other activities he might move with such sensuous ease. Dancing, likely. Fencing.

Tupping.

"You should pay better attention, Miss Dartmont." He smiled at her.

"You are smug, Your Grace. A smug duke."

Hazel spun about and gently batted the shuttlecock, making sure it wouldn't rise too far from the ground. If nothing else, she'd make him work to beat her. Though he would probably lose interest long before that. Shuttlecock was a somewhat boring game.

"And you are a smug spinster, Miss Dartmont."

Hazel gritted her teeth. "How did you become acquainted with Lady Talbot, Your Grace?"

"The same way in which you did, through her charitable endeavors." A short laugh came from him. "Of which this house party is not one. Isn't that what you do, Miss Dartmont? Drink tea and write thank you notes?"

"I donate loads of money." She shot back, taking three short steps to catch the blasted bit of cork before it could touch the ground. "For a worthy cause. To honor a sacrifice made. But I wouldn't expect you to understand, Your Grace. About worthiness or sacrifice."

"I wouldn't?"

"I'm sure the fit of your uniform was indecently tight, just like your breeches."

"You've been ogling me, Miss Dartmont. How flattering."

Hazel clenched her jaw so hard, she might break a tooth. "Did you strut about London in your uniform to show off your manly form? Or ride your horse through the park to be seen? I doubt you even made it to the Continent."

The light went from his eyes. The soft grin he wore faded. "You've no idea what you're talking about, Miss Dartmont," he said in a chilly, clipped tone. "Nor do you know me well enough to insinuate such a thing. So perhaps you should cease your chatter." He deliberately took two light swats at the shuttlecock, making it leap into the air. Hazel had to run to catch it.

"I'm sure it was trying, keeping your uniform clean while you attended all those balls and such. Given my low birth , I can't possibly understand your struggles."

"You take great delight in pointing out the deficits in your upbringing. None of which I even noticed until recently. You see, I didn't realize being born the daughter of a draper automatically bestowed upon you the wherewithal for rudeness. At least now I know better."

She nearly missed the shuttlecock at the rebuke.

The game had pushed them farther along the edge of the garden, near the line of trees surrounding the lawn. Her skirts kept getting snagged by the rose bushes to her right. The sun grew warmer by the minute, and Hazel felt the burn on her skin. She'd been so sure she'd rout him within a half-hour that she hadn't worn a bonnet. A dreadful mistake. Her arm was starting to hurt. And her poor slippers were ruined.

Wiping at a thin trickle of sweat at her brow, she glared at her nemesis.

"In need of refreshment, Miss Dartmont? You have only to say the word, and I will accept your defeat."

Hazel would sooner wed Hough than allow August to win.

"Never." She hit the stupid shuttlecock straight up and over his head. He'd never be able to lightly tap it back without running into the tree behind him. An unfair maneuver, but Hazel was desperate to end this match. They were at the very edge of the lawn, and a spray of gnats were diving about her head.

His chin lifted to follow the path of the cork and feathers before doing something Hazel had not anticipated—because it was incredibly dishonorable.

She should have known.

August smacked the bloody thing into the spray of bushes behind her.

Hazel lifted her skirts and ran backwards, unwilling to give him even this victory, but it was a lost cause. The shuttlecock went into the undergrowth, settling into the leaves and dirt.

"You did that purposefully." She spun about and stomped to retrieve the shuttlecock, her voice raised, not caring that he was a bloody duke. He didn't deserve the title. "Are you so self-absorbed," Hazel continued, "and in need of something to soothe your ego that you must beat a spinster at shuttlecock?" She went to her knees and started searching the ground for the stupid bit of cork and feather.

August came up behind her, his large, booted feet stirring up the leaves. "You don't like me, Miss Dartmont."

"How astute of you, Your Grace."

He kneeled beside her, brushing aside the leaves with his big hands. "You behave as if I've wronged you in some way. Name one thing I have done that offended you, Miss Dartmont."

Hazel took a halting breath. "Stealer of sweets." The words blurted out before she could stop them.

August sat back on his knees. "I steal— candy ? From whom, may I ask?"

She brushed a curl from her forehead before pressing her lips closed. "Never mind."

"I have been accused of a great many things. Admittedly, before inheriting the title I was not…the sort of gentleman whom anyone wished at their dinner table. Nor for a time when I returned from prancing about the Continent." Sarcasm laced his words. "But I am certain I have never stolen a bag of sweets."

Hazel found the shuttlecock and wrapped her fingers around the cork with a sound of satisfaction. "Winning by deceit is not winning at all." She glanced at him, thinking how beautiful he'd become. The old vicar in Pensford had often said the Devil is beautiful.

"The Devil?"

Goodness, she'd said that last part out loud. That was how angry he made her. She lost control of her faculties.

"You find me beautiful, Miss Dartmont?" There was conceit in his tone, and Hazel didn't care for it.

"I do not."

"I heard it from your own lips."

"I said the Devil was beautiful, Your Grace."

His hand closed over hers, the warmth of his fingers nearly forcing Hazel to drop the stupid shuttlecock. "You haven't yet told me the reason for your dislike, besides that I am a thief, of sorts. I may have to use other methods to make you confess."

Hazel stilled at the unexpected sensation of August's lips lightly brushing against her own, moving sensually over her mouth with the barest touch, igniting a flood of sensation. When she didn't back away, his mouth more firmly claimed hers, tasting of mint and sin. He nipped at her bottom lip, coaxing her to open for him.

The shuttlecock fell from her hand as he pushed her down into the leaves, lips never once leaving hers. His tongue teased at the seam of her mouth, licking along the edges, gently nipping at the corner.

A small sound came from the back of her throat. Hazel pressed her palms to his chest, molding her body to his.

He wedged himself atop her skirts, careful to keep from crushing her, only putting pressure on the spot where their hips met.

She twisted just slightly, enough so she could feel the press of his cock through her skirts. Big , like everything else about him. There wasn't any doubt he wanted her. His arousal wasn't cause for concern, but the sheer… enormity of the appendage gave her pause. Well, she supposed that was what had helped make him such a successful debaucher of women.

Bending her knees, Hazel twisted her legs around his without a thought to what she was doing or with whom she was doing it. All that mattered was the fire igniting across her skin and the ache between her thighs, desperate to be assuaged. A moan escaped her.

"Not so contrary now, Miss Dartmont." August's palm cupped her cheek, those marvelous eyes dark with purpose. "Are you?"

"I suppose not," she replied, lifting her hips, satisfied when August made a low sound of pleasure.

His hand dropped, cupping Hazel's breast. When she didn't object, he rotated his wrist so that his fingers brushed lightly over the peak of her nipple, toying with the tiny bud until she gasped.

"You may moan your dislike of me while I pleasure you. Does that suit?"

" Condescending debaucher of women." She had to bite her lip to stay quiet as he pinched her nipple.

"Is that a yes, Miss Dartmont? You must use your words. Speak clearly."

"Yes." Her heel dug into his thigh.

August's mouth returned to hers, no longer gentle. He held her trapped so the entirety of Hazel's body fused to his. She slid her fingers through the thick, silky strands of his hair and her thumb caught on a scar just below one ear.

Voices echoed just beyond the thin spray of trees. A giggling Lady Coraline, followed by one of Lady Pierce's daughters. The lower laughter of Garland and possibly Kent.

Their merriment just on the other side of the trees had the effect of a bucket of ice water being tossed over Hazel. What was she doing, allowing August to kiss her? In a pile of leaves? Had she lost all her senses?

"Get off of me, Your Grace."

His eyes regarded her, far too thoughtfully for Hazel's taste. One hand squeezed the small mound of her breast again. "A perfect size."

"Your Grace." Hazel tried to keep the whimper crawling up her throat from passing her lips. The most delicious sensations were trickling down from her breast to settle between her thighs. "I must insist. Lady Talbot would be most put out with me were I to cause a scandal. And you don't wish one either."

A shadow passed over his features. "I suppose not." Fingers fell from her breast and trailed down across her stomach in a possessive manner, as if Hazel belonged to him. Or would.

Dear God.

"I won't apologize, Miss Dartmont."

"Unsurprising."

"You were so delectable in your fury over that stupid bit of cork and feather." His nose was nearly touching hers. "I find you even more so now." He tilted his hips, pressing his cock into her. "Are you aroused, Miss Dartmont?"

Hazel drew in a slow, shaking breath. August was… blatantly carnal. Sexual. And unapologetic about it. She found it to be rather stimulating, all things considered. His eyes, now that she could see them up close, were a contrast of color. Striations of blue, green, and gold all melded together beneath darker lashes.

His mouth tipped closer to hers once more, tongue lashing out to touch the corner of her lips.

The buds of her nipples tightened in response.

"I see you earned your reputation, Your Grace." She made a disgruntled noise. "I wish you smelled of horse or pomade."

"I don't think it would matter, Miss Dartmont."

"Possibly not," she breathed.

"I wish to clarify a point of our earlier conversation. I do consider you beneath me. It is all I have thought about since you hit me with that bloody shuttlecock." He ground his hips against hers, the brush of his mouth teasing her own. "In this same manner. With those long legs wrapped around my waist."

Oh.

The laughter of the group on just the other side of the trees grew louder. Footsteps sounded. The snap of twigs.

Hazel twisted and pushed her knee up, dangerously close to his male anatomy. "If you do not let me up this instant, Your Grace," she murmured, "you may find yourself unable to stroll arrogantly about in your tight-fitting riding breeches. Ever again."

"I entice you, Miss Dartmont."

"You do not." He made a whoof ing sound as she moved her knee to his stomach and pressed.

"Contrary once more, I see." August fell back, the heat in his eyes flaring as he took her in. "Why am I a stealer of sweets?"

Hazel didn't answer as she sat up, hurriedly coming to her feet and brushing leaves and twigs from her skirts. "I misspoke. I was annoyed."

August attempted to pull her back down to him, but she smacked him with her hand. "Stay back."

"We are not done, Miss Dartmont." He came to his feet, plucking the shuttlecock from the ground. "I believe this is yours."

She snatched it out of his hand, careful to avoid his fingers. One touch, and Hazel might well find her skirts up around her ears. Not a completely disagreeable idea.

"You cheated, so I've won. Trounced you soundly. Because you have little honor," she announced, walking in the opposite direction from the sounds of Garland and the others, trying not to smile. Today, this entire stupid shuttlecock match—ending with the most splendid kiss of her entire life—had made her unexpectedly happy.

Not only strangely happy, but heady. Intoxicated. She wanted to bathe in the sensation.

Hazel tipped her head. "Good morning, Your Grace."

August had nearly seduced her in the woods atop a pile of leaves, part of him hoping someone would come upon them. Not only would he have vastly enjoyed it—he looked down at the tight stretch of his breeches—but the scandal would have expedited things.

He brushed bits of leaf and dirt from his coat.

But August had found he couldn't do it.

Important information had come to light while he'd restrained himself from fucking Miss Dartmont silly in a place where they were certain to be discovered. Knowledge that had nothing to do with her fifty thousand pounds or the fact that Miss Dartmont was no stranger to physical pleasure. Not with the way her silk-clad legs had wrapped around his hips.

Miss Hazel Dartmont, textile heiress, the woman August meant to coerce into wedding him because he needed her fortune, was Stork .

Childhood thorn in his side. Bossy manner. Long limbs, elbows and knees jutting out. Freckles. The very last woman in the entirety of England, or even the world, who would want to be married to August.

Stork .

He'd been so bloody astonished. So incredibly aroused…he'd kissed her again.

August rarely delved into the memories of the summer he had been sent to live with his uncle, a man who'd neither loved nor wanted him after the death of his parents. There was nothing but unpleasant memories attached to the village of Pensford. August had been furious at the world that summer.

"Your Grace." Lady Coraline's high-pitched voice interrupted his thoughts.

Smile pasted on his face, August stepped out of the trees to see Coraline and that insipid twit Garland. Kent was with them, along with one of Lady Pierce's daughters, Sarah. No, Anne. He couldn't tell them apart.

Coraline, fetching as always, glided towards him in a simple dress of rose, curls dancing gently along her cheeks. She came right to his side, ignoring Garland's sputtering indignation.

Coraline was a very pretty girl. No freckles. Petite. Barely reaching the middle of his chest.

Yet August didn't think of her when he took his cock in hand, as he had every night since meeting Hazel Dartmont.

"Good morning, Lady Coraline. Garland, Kent. Miss Anne."

The girl smiled. August had gotten it right.

The group walked back to the house, August pretending interest in the topic at hand, which seemed to be a trip to Appleton, a small village nearby that boasted scores of scenic landmarks and quaint shops. He had little interest in going and would find a reason to beg off. There were other things that required his attention, namely a certain spinster who had once punched him in the stomach as a child with righteous indignation.

Stork, damn her, sat on the terrace sipping lemonade at their approach, no sign at all of the tiny racquet or the shuttlecock. She eyed him defiantly until he shot a pointed look to her swollen lips, turning the tops of her cheeks a delightful pink.

He liked that he could make her blush. Make her moan and writhe beneath him. August meant to do a great deal more. Leaning close, he murmured, "You've a leaf stuck to your bosom."

Her mouth tightened, dark eyes murderous as she flicked the bit of leaf away.

August straightened, humming to himself. He would eventually admit he remembered Stork, but not just yet.

At least he no longer wondered at Miss Dartmont's dislike.

"Stealer of sweets, indeed," he said under his breath.