Chapter Fifteen

T he amount of money some people were willing to pay for books was truly a mind-boggling thing. Of course, Caro appreciated books. After all, she wrote them. Technically, they kept a roof over her head and fed the only family she cared about, through sales in the store and the occasional infusions of cash she contributed to the coffers under the guise of paying rent to her uncle. He fought her every time, but she did it anyway because she didn't want to feel too indebted to them for their generosity.

If the everyday customers kept the doors open, collectors and their niche interests allowed the store to grow and thrive.

Mr. Lipscomb was no different than many other collectors on their client roster. However, their other clients did not expect a personal visit to their home far from London, then corner her into conversation for three hours and supply her with enough tea to make her bladder feel as if it were floating. Only her return ticket on the mail and the coach's famous inflexibility regarding schedule allowed her to gracefully end the visit, collect the balance due on the books she'd hand delivered, and scuttle back to the inn. That she failed to mention her coach didn't leave until the following day must have entirely slipped her mind.

That was her story, in the unlikely event she was pressed for details, anyway. A bowl of stew as big as her head, a tankard of cider, and the warm bed in the room she'd taken at the inn would set her to rights again. Then, in the morning, she'd hire a mount and ride the considerably longer distance to the village where the Adams cottage was located.

She was grateful for the time away from London. Even if it meant traveling at the end of February, when March was batting away the icicles with its cold, soggy fingers.

However, as she followed the lane from Mr. Lipscomb's tidy cottage to the village, and thus the inn, the coins in her purse jingled loud enough to alert every thief within a mile. Around the bend ahead, an outhouse stood off the road, and she headed in that direction. Because tea. But also because the alarming amount of money on her person would make anyone nervous if traveling alone.

In the dark outhouse, she carefully separated each coin with a small section of her handkerchief, then rolled the fabric and pound notes around the metal until she was fairly certain she would not tempt thieves with every step she took. The resulting mass was lumpy and heavy, tucked between her cleavage at the top of her short stays. The boning of her undergarments on the bottom would keep it in place, and her breasts would serve her well to prevent the money from falling out. Finally her breasts were good for something. She rolled her eyes at the dark humor as she stood and shook out her skirts. That would be enough to get her to the inn and her room safely.

A fat tap tap tap on the roof made her sigh. Rain. Frozen rain from the sounds of it. Snowy, wet plops of slush falling from the sky. Just what she needed after a long day. More rain to create an even slipperier mess of the icy roads. If the weather didn't clear by the morning, her ride home would be miserable.

A ticket on the mail did not guarantee one a place inside the coach. And a woman traveling alone was not necessarily incentive enough for some men to give up their dry seat.

She stepped out into the rain and glanced at the horizon. Steely gray clouds smothered the sky. When she'd left Mr. Lipscomb's home, the sun had already been glazing the treetops with amber light, setting the rooflines of the distant village into dark shadows, deepened by fast-moving storm clouds.

At least she'd worn her heaviest cloak over a thick spencer, and a wide-brimmed bonnet to protect her face from the rain. Small blessings. The lane crossed the main road ahead, and she paused to get her bearings. Was the inn to the left or right? This village wasn't that large, so if she made a wrong turn, it wouldn't be the end of the world. But mercy, her feet were soaked and hurting from the cold; the layers of clothes were keeping her from catching her death but not preventing much else. If she walked into the inn this next second, it would be five minutes too late.

A gust of wind whipped down the street, tugging her bonnet back. The wet, knotted ribbon under her chin ensured it didn't fly into the nearest field. However, her hair was thoroughly soaked. So much for a bonnet protecting her head.

Through the rain, a traveling carriage rumbled like a mythical beast from one of Mr. Lipscomb's books, hunting its dinner. The coachman slowed and called down, "Miss, no one in their right mind should be out in this weather. Where are you headed?"

Holding her bonnet in place, Caro replied, "Bless you, sir! I'm bound for the Hawk and Fan on the far edge of the village."

"The groom's perch is available, or I'll kick the mite back there and you can share the bench up here. Whichever you like, miss. We'll get you to the Hawk and Fan right enough." The younger servant in question sat huddled next to the coachman, rather than standing on the step on the back and hanging on to the strap, so they must have been driving for a longer distance. Gratitude nearly made her weep, but she couldn't spare the extra seconds in the cold and wet to indulge in emotions.

She didn't want to make the lad move, so she said, "I'll take the perch on back. Thank you again, gentlemen." She sent them a wave and hurried toward the rear of the carriage. A gilded crest decorated the door, thoroughly splattered by the awful gray sludge of mud, ice, and other things on the road she'd rather not contemplate. However, when the door opened, she paused. Of course the gentry cove inside would want to be thanked as well. Hopefully they were kind and weren't about to yell at the coachman for stopping.

"Caroline? Why are you walking through Kent in bloody February? Never mind. Get inside where it's dry."

Warm hands grasped her upper arms and none too gently urged her inside the carriage. The Duke of Holland collapsed on the seat beside her and knocked on the roof to signal the driver. "Why you insist on walking across this cursed country when any reasonable person would at least hire a hack, I'll never know. Do you have any idea the dangers on the road for a beautiful woman like you? Hell, for anyone? But especially for a woman like you."

The navy velvet interior smelled like him. A heady combination of bergamot, peat smoke, and fresh rain filled her nose, and she wanted to bottle the scent. The carriage seemed like a luxurious cave, where she might be warm and eventually dry. But at the moment, every inch of her was wet and turning blue with cold and making her cranky in the face of a lecturing, pampered duke. "I'm terribly sorry if my low-class ways offend your delicate sensibilities, Your Grace. We can't all travel with armed servants. As to the weather—" She glanced at the window, streaming with half-frozen droplets collecting in a slushy dam at the bottom of the glass. "I have no control over that. I do, however, have a dry room at the Hawk and Fan waiting for me, so it behooves me to get there, even if it means walking."

Silence grew between them, until she broke it with a reluctant, "All that said, I'm grateful your coachman stopped. Thank you for the ride to the inn."

"Miss Danvers," he began, then stopped. "Caroline." Holland's voice grew husky on her name. "I believe I owe you an apology. Several, probably." Thunder rumbled overhead, and he scowled out the window as if the sky had personally offended him. "I am a pampered aristocrat, but I prefer to grovel where it's warm and dry. Will you join me for a meal at the Hawk and Fan?"

Caro crossed her arms. In part because she was feeling a bit belligerent, but also because shivers were beginning to rack her body in a way that would make Holland feel he was right to fuss. He scooted closer and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Despite herself, she leaned into the warm solid side of him and tried not to look happy about it.

Dipping his head to see beneath the rim of her bonnet, he nudged the hat higher on her forehead, then dropped a kiss between her eyebrows. Another on the bridge of her nose, then her cheek. "Have dinner with me. Please?" His mouth hovered at the edge of her lips until hers started to tingle in anticipation.

However, his high-handedness still rankled. "As I said, Your Grace—"

"Please don't ‘Your Grace' me when I'm rather desperately trying to kiss you." Blue eyes lit with teasing, skin crinkling at the corners near thick, straight lashes.

Damn the man and his infernal appeal. Irritation gave way to reluctant humor. Just to annoy him, she quickly pecked his lips, then pulled back. When he growled, she ignored the sound and asked, "What shall I call you, if not Your Grace?"

"My Christian name is Dorian. Or Holland if you prefer."

Caro tilted her head, considering. "What did your wife call you?"

"Holland. She said Dorian didn't fit me as well as the title."

Caro scrunched her nose. "What utter rot. You are far more than your title. I shall call you Dorian when we are alone. You may continue to refer to me as Caroline or Caro."

"I like Caro. Although to be honest, I always thought you looked more like a Guinevere."

Her laugh wrapped around them in the velvet-lined space, like a cozy hug, and she leaned into his side once more. How was he so warm? "What, pray tell, does a Guinevere look like?"

"Like a woman capable of both leading and taking down an entire nation based solely on her charm, wit, and good looks."

Warmth lit her core and crept toward her heart. A dangerous trajectory. She peeked up at him, admiring the dark stubble dusting his chin. "I can't tell if that is complimentary or damning. Should I thank you or slap your cheek for thinking I have a destructive bent?"

Reaching around her, Dorian pulled her onto his lap, then tucked her against his body until they fit together like puzzle pieces. "I would rather you kissed me."

"You are quite persistent, aren't you?" she teased, brushing a wavy lock of hair off his forehead.

"With you, I am," he said in a serious way that sent entirely different shivers down her spine. "Now, care to tell me what you are doing in the wilds of Kent?"

"I was making a delivery. Three of your mythology volumes found a home with a collector. When I get back to the shop, I will draw up a copy of the bill of sale with your portion of the proceeds."

A deep V appeared above the bridge of his nose. "Why did your uncle let you travel alone? In this weather?" Outside, the rain turned from a splat splat splat drizzle into a downpour that sluiced against the windows in icy sheets.

"I'm thirty, Dorian, not a child. And as you said earlier, I'm no stranger to travel."

A slow, devastating smile grew as she watched. "Say it again."

"What?"

One hand cradled the back of her head, pulling her close enough to feel the warmth of his breath against her mouth. "My name. Say my name again, Caro."

"Dorian." Her voice was breathy, lips parted to welcome his kiss. The tip of his tongue flicked against the slick inner edge of her bottom lip.

"Again. I want to taste it on you."

"Doria—"

Mercy, the man could kiss. The taste of him was both familiar and new. Warm, earthy, with the faintest trace of peppermint. She wondered if he kept a tin of mints in his pocket, then stopped wondering altogether. Against her hip, the hardness of him grew and firmed, confirming exactly how much she affected him and stealing the last of her rational thought.

There was something so marvelous about knowing beyond the shadow of a doubt that you were desired. The feeling inspired a reckless giddiness in her.

With the carriage swaying under them, their bodies pressed together and rocked with the movement. One of his arms anchored her to him, while the other explored, caressing her bottom, then the curve of her thigh.

"Will you invite me to your room at the inn, sweet Caro? Feel free to say no." The heat of his body was already warming away her shivers, but a quiver of an entirely different nature came alive inside her. When he spoke again, his rumbly voice sent a frisson of heat down her core. "If you have even a speck of doubt, we can eat a warm meal together in the public room, enjoy one another's company, and you can send me on my way. I don't want you to feel pressured, or like I'm taking advantage of you traveling alone. Well, not taking advantage with nefarious intent anyway." His grin was infectious.

Caro plucked at the wet ribbon knotted under her chin as she returned the smile. "You don't have nefarious intent? Pity. I'd hoped you were suggesting doing something wicked in my room." Against her hip, the long line of his cock jumped between them.

"I'm dying to be wicked with you. Aching with it." His lips crushed hers in a kiss that quickly spiraled into moaned encouragements as hands wandered and teeth nipped. "How far away is this bloody inn?" His breathing was ragged.

Reaching for her inner Blanche was easy under the circumstances, as if that boldness lingered closer to the surface the longer she spent in Holland's company. Not Holland. Dorian. "If it were farther away, I would unbutton your breeches and have you here." Caro outlined the hardness of him at her hip. "But we can't possibly have time for that. The village isn't large."

He opened his mouth, paused, then snapped it closed. Caro tilted her head and grinned wide enough that she felt her cheeks rise under her eyes. "You wanted to make a play on words about the village being large, didn't you?"

He thumped his head back against the seat and laughed, even as a red blush crept up his neck. Well, that was adorable. Caro never would have imagined she could make the Duke of Holland blush.

"Tell me. I'm right, aren't I?"

"Yes," he groaned, still laughing. "I was going to leer and say the village isn't large, but I could offer things that were."

She threw her head back and cackled. "I knew it! Naughty duke." An expression crossed his face she hadn't seen before. "What is that look for?"

He winked. "Are you asking to be let into my pauses, sweet Caro?"

"Yes, I think I am." Reaching out a finger, she drew along the line of his dark eyebrow, then down the angle of his cheek and jaw to the mouth she was coming to adore. "No one has ever looked at me like that. What does it mean?"

"I was thinking how much I enjoy seeing you laugh. Makes you glow a bit." An odd quirk of his lips followed that last part, but she couldn't ask after it, because he pulled her into a kiss that threatened to unravel her from the inside out. Warm desire bloomed, then flowed into a lust with such sharp edges it sliced the tethers of self-restraint she'd lived with for so long.

His fingers deftly finished unknotting her bonnet ribbon—a task she'd begun, then abandoned. As he sank his fingers into her hair, he pulled back enough to murmur, "I can't wait to see your hair spread all over my pillow. I've dreamt of it."

Caro clung to him, and her damp gown grew almost unbearably constricting on her skin.

Blanche would use words to tease them both, knowing they couldn't act on them right away, and she'd revel in the anticipation. Caro gave her those words, so surely she could find them for Dorian. "What else? What else invaded your dreams or kept you up at night?" Those fingers in her hair tightened, tugging at her scalp and making her moan. "I like that," she told him.

With his mouth against her neck, he murmured, "I want to bury my face between your legs until the taste of you fills my mouth. I've imagined the way you'll look when you come." Those long fingers she'd spent so much time imagining curved over her breast. "The number of nights I've spent wondering what your breasts look like is impossible to count."

Every word made her body slick and hot. "I've fantasized about your hands and fingers. I want them on me, in me. I want to suck you, to make you moan my name. I want to know how you feel inside me, how tightly I can grip you when I hit my peak."

Dorian dropped his head against where her cleavage would be if she weren't wearing so many layers. "One more word, and I'm going to take you right here. Have mercy, I beg you."

Oh, the thrill of that. As if her latest heroine, Phoebe, had taken over, Caro purred, "I like it when you beg. I wonder what else you will beg me for before morning."

His eyes were hot and nearly feral. "Do you already have a key for your room, or will you need to speak with the innkeeper? Do you want me to enter the inn with you, or wait and join you?"

Caro smirked, then dug into the pocket of her cloak and pulled out a key on a brass ring. "Top of the stairs, turn right. I'm at the end of the hall. Knock twice and I'll let you in."

Although his cheeks were flushed with desire, Dorian framed her face with his hands and firmed his lips into a serious line. "If at any point you're uncomfortable, tell me."

"I will. I promise." Suddenly a little shy, she toyed with one of his waves, forming it into a perfect curl in the middle of his forehead. "Will you stay the night? Or continue on to London this evening?" She stopped, frowning. "Wait—why are you in Kent? You never said."

"I was in a village called Tippering, looking for information on the Sherman fellow from the letters you found."

"And you were going home?"

"Until I stumbled upon a delicious reason to delay my return to London, yes." His hand traced a line from shoulder to hip and back, making her more aware than ever of the many layers of fabric separating them.

"I'd offer to go back to London and enjoy a few hours in this carriage with you, but I have another delivery to make tomorrow." She cupped one hand at his nape, because having the ability to touch any part of his bare skin was a heady thing. "The delivery is farther afield, so I'd planned to hire a mount at the inn, then return in time to catch the mail."

"If you'll let me stay tonight, I can accompany you tomorrow, then transport you home."

"But I already have a mail ticket."

Dorian's tone softened, coaxing. "You don't really want to climb aboard that death trap with all those people, when this fine carriage is available, do you?"

She sighed. Of course she didn't prefer a crowded, wet public coach to his well-sprung carriage. It had velvet upholstery that wouldn't leave mysterious stains on her gown and probably even had warming bricks and a lap rug stored under one of the seats. However, she hated to see the money spent on a mail ticket go to waste.

As if reading her mind, he said, "I'll reimburse the shop the cost of your ticket."

Finally, she nodded. "Very well. We travel together."

The coach noticeably slowed, and they locked gazes. His smoldering look made her squeeze her thighs together in an attempt to relieve the ache between them.

"But tonight, you're mine. And I'm yours. Tomorrow can wait," her duke said.