Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

H azel took a deep breath, now that she was free of the drawing room. She brushed her fingertips along the spray of roses in Maria's rather extensive garden, considering Everhurst's defense of August. She'd allowed Garland, and her own prejudices, to manipulate her.

"I'm as bad as Lady Leek," she whispered. Hazel was often judged by Lady Leek, deemed unfit, because of her low birth. But wasn't she doing the same to August?

Taking a deep breath of the rose-filled air, Hazel decided on at least one thing. She needed a garden, not that plot of poorly tended weeds and shrubs that lay behind her London home. The house itself, though small, was located in a fashionable part of London, but she could have afforded better. Elegant, but not lavish. Her staff was minimal. Hazel did not care to draw attention to her wealth, for obvious reasons. Being the mark of every fortune-hunting title in London wasn't the best way to spend her days. Lately, she'd been thinking of leaving town and moving back to her father's house outside of Bristol. The mansion he'd built had sat empty since his death. And Uncle Ralph was in Bristol, busy courting a much younger widow. When he wed, hopefully children would follow.

Hazel liked children. A great deal.

"I do wonder what you're thinking about, Miss Dartmont, out here among the roses." The soft timbre of August's voice filtered through the night air.

"Your Grace. Please cease lurking about." She may have misjudged August's service to his country, admittedly, but likely little else. He was still possessed of a poor reputation and a great deal of arrogance. "You're very quiet when creeping up on a person. Given your size." Hazel turned to take in his big form, gilded by moonlight, which made his pale hair gleam like silver.

"I wasn't always of a height. As a child I was quite round. Short. Far too fond of cake. And I learned early while doing my duty that you can hardly sneak up on the enemy if you are plodding through the countryside like an ox, Miss Dartmont. I can't do anything about the color of my hair or my height. But I can be quiet."

August would have been a target, with that head of blazing white hair, standing at least a foot higher than most of his fellow soldiers. So bravely stupid to go searching for trouble when you were a beacon for it.

Nearly decapitated .

Hazel wished for a glimpse of that scar beneath his ear, suspecting it was only the start of a much lengthier mark on his skin. "You did not escape unscathed, did you, Your Grace?"

August stayed silent a very long time. The fingers of one hand absently scratched at his neck.

"I didn't mean to pry, Your Grace. You do not need to answer."

"I'm only surprised, Miss Dartmont. Though given your charitable work, maybe not. You've likely heard stories, in your dealings with soldiers. Most young ladies don't care to discuss such things."

"Not a young lady." Hazel pointed to herself with a grin. "As you have informed me."

"I was teasing."

"I know, Your Grace," she admitted. But at the time Hazel had been far too convinced he thought less of her, as he had back in Pensford. "I lost my temper…and should not have."

Her skirts rippled as August's palm brushed along the silk in an intimate manner. "But I did only receive a scratch while prancing about various ballrooms." The hand drew back. "I was quite splendid, I'll have you know."

"Don't, Your Grace." Hazel whispered. "Don't make light of your service. I should not have."

He shrugged as if it didn't matter, though Hazel could see it did. "Your expectations of gentlemen in general aren't very high, Miss Dartmont."

"Only those with a title," she assured him. "I seem to attract the worst of fortune hunters."

A noncommittal sound came from him.

August's scent, the clean linen and lime, blended with the roses as he stepped closer. The heat of his much larger body brushed along her smaller one, warming her through the layers of her gown. The pull in his direction tugged at her skin.

What would it be like to have all that warm muscle curled around her?

Their fingers brushed together, sending a tingle up her arm. "I was quite terrible before I left for the Continent. The very worst sort of man. I indulged every one of my desires."

"But after? When you returned?"

"I — was worse," he murmured. "It wasn't the same and never would be again. I wasn't the same. Merely going through the motions. Nearly having your head taken off changes your perspective. As do…" His words trailed off. "Other things."

Hazel could see he was somewhere else, not here in Maria's garden with her. A place she would never understand, even if he wished to talk about it. Everhurst's brief recital had given her a glimpse of what had happened. She trailed her forefinger over the top of his hand and around his wrist.

A satisfied sound came from him at her touch. "Then I became a duke. A tedious responsibility. Heirs. Estates. Retainers. I was quite happy being just the rakish nephew." His fingers slid over hers once more, caressing her thumb. "My uncle died when I was abroad. Then my cousin, Edward, inherited, but he choked to death on a fishbone. As you can imagine, I'm not overly fond of fish."

"Even tonight?"

"Especially tonight. Those strangely bitter peas in the sauce put me off."

He was quite beautiful in the darkness, with only the low rolling timbre of his voice floating softly about the garden. "Capers, Your Grace. Surely you knew what they were."

"Bitter peas." August leaned forward, trapping her between him and the tree, his arms on either side of her.

"You don't like…" Hazel breathed. "Tart, salty things, Your Grace?"

"Hmm. I like you, Miss Dartmont. Though you are a bit shriveled, like all good spinsters."

At her gasp of outrage, August leaned in, bringing all that delicious heat with him, tongue flicking out to trail along the seam of her parted lips. His nose fell to the slope of her neck, breath wafting over her skin until she shivered.

"I should like to taste you."

A small, stinging bite just below her ear had Hazel arching into his chest as broad palms circled her waist. The pads of August's fingers pressed into the silk of her gown and the flesh beneath.

"Your Grace." Every nerve in Hazel's body was flaring. "This is unseemly."

"I hope so. Now be a good girl and lift your skirts. I have a desire to sample something that's been on the shelf for a time."

Hazel swatted weakly at his shoulder. "I object."

"You won't in a moment. I'm good at kissing. Exceptional, in fact." August's palm landed possessively on her stomach, holding her in place. "I have some experience."

"I don't doubt it." Jealousy nipped at her for all those nameless, faceless women. But Hazel still leaned back against the tree, conscious of the scrape of the bark against her hair and neck.

"Lift them," he commanded in a voice that turned her legs to jelly. "Now."

She grabbed the edges of her skirts at his command, feeling the cooler air splash along her stockings as she drew up the silk.

"Beautiful." A kiss was pressed to the inside of one knee. "Your legs are magnificent." His mouth moved up the side of her inner thigh, his tongue painting her skin.

"There is something I should tell you, Your Grace." Hazel tilted her hips, wanting this. And him. But August deserved to know, given their intimacy, that she was Stork. That they knew each other.

August pinned her more firmly to the tree with one hand. He inhaled softly, nose brushing along the soft hair of her mound. "Instruction?"

Hazel gripped her skirts tighter, the lower half of her body taut with anticipation, all thoughts of anything but pleasure pushed to the back of her mind. She enjoyed physical relations a great deal and felt no shame in it. "No. I doubt you require any."

A finger circled her entrance and she gasped. "Have you had many lovers, Miss Dartmont?"

"Have you?" she returned.

Another soft chuckle vibrated along her thighs. "Well played, Miss Dartmont." The tip of his tongue trailed along her sex in a deep languid stroke, forcing a soft moan from her. Teasing at the small bud hidden in her folds, August grabbed her hip, keeping her immobile.

This particular act had been practiced on Hazel only one other time. She'd found it mildly enjoyable. Pleasant, but nothing more. Not like this sensual assault with tongue and hands.

A growl came from him, his fingers parting her flesh, while the tip of his tongue flicked across her swollen bud.

"Your Grace," she panted at the press of his mouth.

"August. I think the situation merits the use of my name, don't you?" His tongue dragged over her flesh, dipping to her center before teasing her once more.

Hazel bit her lip to keep from crying out. Her pleasure built to a feverish pitch in a matter of moments, urged along by the touch of his mouth and tongue. The first tremor zigzagged up her legs, threatening to shatter Hazel to pieces.

Two big fingers eased inside her, curling along her inner walls.

She jerked violently, writhing against the tree. The hold on her skirts disappeared. She weaved her fingers through the shining moonlit hair, the sight of his head between her thighs forcing another wave of pleasure to ripple across her skin. Her head fell back, gazing up at the dozens of stars above her head as each bit of bliss was torn from her body until the sensation finally abated. Hazel struggled to catch her breath.

Teeth nipped at her inner thigh.

"That will leave a mark," came her trembling admonishment.

"Good." His fingers drew away and he carefully smoothed down her skirts before once more caging Hazel against the tree. Palms cupped her cheeks, fingers sinking into her hair, daring to pull it free from the pins. Savagely, he claimed her mouth, tasting of brandy and a musky scent that could only be her. He pressed his hips into Hazel's own, so she could feel how much he wanted her.

"You are more delicious than I expected, Miss Dartmont," August whispered against her mouth. "Well-aged."

"Hazel. The situation merits it." She used his earlier words.

August leaned back, tucking a stray piece of her hair behind her ear. "I prefer Stork."

Hazel went rigid. Her fingers dug into the bark of the tree at her back. Heart pounding fiercely, she managed to gasp, "What?"

" Stork ." He claimed her mouth again, ignoring her attempts to push him away.

"How long have you known?" she cried, slapping at him. "Answer me."

August took hold of her wrists. "Stop that, Stork. Next, you'll be punching me in the stomach. I can't have that. Bad manners to assault a duke."

"When did you know?" Her chest heaved, small breasts pushing upward, tempting August as she gulped in a mouthful of air.

"Not until today, after I kissed you in the leaves. Your temperament gave you away." He was only half joking.

"And you still—" She blustered. "But I'm Stork."

"I'm aware."

"I thought you would be disgusted." She ducked beneath one arm and walked a few paces away. "If you ever recalled me," she choked out.

"Come here." He reached for her, and she spun away. "I don't think about Pensford a great deal," he admitted with a sigh. "Nor that summer. But obviously, you have."

"Somewhat."

"I'm not sure I recalled your father was a draper. Admittedly, it took me longer than it should have to remember."

She eyed him warily. "Not for me. The instant I saw your hair. Your eyes. I knew you."

August willed his cock to stop twitching in her direction, mainly because they'd once more descended into muted hostility. At least on Hazel's part. But that did not put him off.

"After what you did to my family, the least you could do is remember me." Her fists were clenched as if she meant to fly at him once more.

"What I did?" Granted, August's memory was far less clear than hers. But now that he'd realized who she was, a great many things came to mind. Mud. Pebbles. Tripping each other. She'd snorted like a piglet whenever he was near. Stork had given as good as she got.

"Yes. You had your uncle, the duke, force my family to leave Pensford. Demanded he do so because of the insults I dealt you." She raised her chin. "As if punching you in the stomach merited my family being told to leave."

"I did not." August had done no such thing. "You greatly overestimate the influence I had over my uncle."

"You threatened me the day of the picnic." She glared at him. "Stealer of sweets." Hazel paced back and forth. "Vicar Digby said our presence displeased the duke, so we had to leave Pensford for Bristol." She stopped and glared at August. "I hated Bristol. My mother died there and?—"

"Stork."

"Stop calling me that." Her fists clenched.

"I've had my mouth on your quim. I'll call you by whatever pet name I wish."

They glared at each other in the darkness before she bit out. "Fair enough."

August ran a hand through his hair, wanting to touch her but knowing he'd get slapped for trying. "There are two times in my life when I have wanted to forget," he finally said.

"Quatre Bras," she murmured.

Hearing her say the name brought the coppery scent of blood to his nostrils. The screams. The desperation of knowing he couldn't possibly save his men. The lone daisy he'd seen while crawling across the grass. He locked the memory away once more.

"And that summer in Pensford is the other. My parents and younger sister had just died. A fever swept through the entire household, leaving only me and our butler alive. I was sent to my uncle, the duke. My father was his younger brother, and they detested each other, so you can imagine the welcome I received."

She took a shaky breath in the darkness. "I'm sorry."

"It was a long time ago." He barely remembered the faces of his mother and sister. But there were times when he could hear the voice of Bennett Wade, his father.

"My uncle barely noticed me roaming about Windhaven, so I doubt he cared about the village draper or his daughter. Or any insult you might have dealt me. His only concern was the scene I'd made that day. If it makes you feel any better, I was punished for embarrassing him. I'm sure that pleases you."

"But the vicar came to our home," she protested. "And yes, it pleases me somewhat."

August's lips twitched. "The vicar was a weasel. He would have done anything short of murder if he thought it would make my uncle happy. He wanted my uncle's patronage. Perhaps he thought forcing your family out would ensure it."

"He didn't care for me," she said quietly. "Vicar Digby."

"Stork, I?—"

The crunch of footsteps sounded on the path nearby, interrupting the rest of August's words. One of the other guests. Possibly their hostess. Or Garland. Everhurst. It occurred to August that if he wished to create a scandal capable of forcing Hazel to wed him, now was the perfect time.

"I think I will return inside," she said.

"As you wish." Yet another missed opportunity he might later regret, though August surmised that even a scandal might not force Hazel to the altar. Not given their shared past or her accusations.

But affection would. Love .

August was struck by how much he wanted Stork to care for him.

"I bid you good evening, Your Grace." Her voice trembled only slightly, before she sped off, her slippers making little sound as she skirted around the rose bushes.

"Good evening, Stork," he said, even knowing she was too far away to hear him. "And I'd prefer you call me August."