Chapter 7

Elizabeth pressed her mouth against James's with an innocent ardor that made his blood surge in his veins, and his cock hardened even more. A hot clenching need scythed through him. He wanted Elizabeth Armstrong, perhaps more than he had ever wanted another woman. It was for that reason he held himself still, allowing her exploration because he did not wish to wound her with a rejection.

However, he would not participate, for he damn well knew a taste of her might tempt him to flick her gown up and take what she so innocently offered, fucking her to a glorious release. That stab of discomfort pierced him once again, and he brushed it aside with an annoyed grunt. She eased back, peering up at him. James could barely discern her features, but as they stood very close, he saw the pique.

"I thought a person should feel fireworks inside their bodies from a kiss."

An emotion he could not identify throbbed in her voice. Bemused, he asked, "Fireworks?"

"Yes."

"I am thirty years of age, and I have kissed many lips. I have never once felt these fireworks you speak about."

An annoyed sound slipped from her. "I wonder why Cassandra lied."

"Who is this person?"

"My dearest friend. She lives in New York with her husband. She … she felt fireworks in her body when she kissed William for the very first time. I never thought she would fib about something this important."

"What is important."

Elizabeth sniffed and gently admonished, "Do keep up, Your Grace. A lady's first kiss is terribly important."

"I was not aware of this," he said drily.

Somewhere upstairs a servant lit a lamp, and he was thankful for that small light for it allowed him to see more of her face. A rosy flush bloomed in her cheeks, and her lashes lowered briefly. "I cannot imagine why you would not know, considering you are a gentleman with much experience in debauchery."

What exactly did she hear about him?

"Only the first time is important?" James asked, wondering why the hell he was having this conversation.

"Hmm," she whispered, rose to the tips of her toes, and brushed her mouth across the underside of his jaw. "This is my first kiss, and it is supposed to feel wonderful."

"It is a crime you believed that we kissed."

"The rumors do say you are a rakish rogue," she said. "And I have you all to myself." Her eyes were bright with perhaps hope and nervousness.

"I have never heard such delight from a lady to be alone with a rogue."

He used his thumb to part her lips and then slid it against the inside of her bottom lip. That wicked need to ruthlessly seduce coiled in his gut.

"Hmm, I order you to make me feel fireworks, Your Grace," she purred without giving any more information.

The challenge tugged at something raw inside of James, and a shock of lust rammed inside his gut. He lowered his hand. She also had a sweet, wild beauty that was fuckable. He lowered his nose to the curve of her throat and inhaled. By God, he was tempted. James wanted to kiss her until she was soft and pliant in his arms, her pussy wet for his taking. This incredible want felt perilous, simply for the notion that it felt beyond his ability to control it. He gently raked his teeth, then sucked at the flesh of her throat where her pulse beat like a caged bird. James willed his heartbeat to calm, his cock to stop throbbing with want.

"When you are sober, Elizabeth, we can have this conversation again."

"You are a most peculiar libertine," she responded tartly, her words tinged with humor.

James chuckled, surprising even himself with the sense of connection he felt toward her.

She leaned back and stumbled, then laughed before a small hiccup stopped her. "Oh, drat!"

James caught her against his chest when she stumbled again, and to his shock, Elizabeth delicately covered a yawn and closed her eyes. "Are you sleeping?"

"No," she said drowsily. "I feel as if I am floating, and I feel so warm."

He hadn't anticipated such a turn of events but now found himself responsible for her well-being. Holding her securely in his arms, he maneuvered with her through the shadows of the back gardens, away from the eyes of the other guests still reveling inside the ball. The darkness thankfully provided a cloak of anonymity that James found useful.

As they reached the perimeter of the gardens, he stopped in the shadows and glanced around to ensure they remained unseen before guiding her quickly to where his carriage waited. The coachman, alert to the approach of his master, hurried to knock down the steps.

"You need to enter the carriage."

She peered up at him. "Is this a kidnapping?"

"No."

"My life is too humdrum," she muttered irritably. "Nothing thrilling ever happens."

James smiled, helping her into the carriage. The carriage lantern was brightly lit, the golden glow caressing over her face almost lovingly. His damn heart lurched. Elizabeth appeared delightfully flushed, her eyes soft and luminous, her cheeks rosy … and in her eyes … there was a spark of awareness. "Where do we go, Your Grace?"

"I am taking you to your brother's home."

"Thank you." She tucked a wisp of hair away, a small frown pleating her brows. "I do not think I want to see my aunt for the next couple of days."

As the carriage began to move, Elizabeth leaned back against the plush seat. A misstep in her attempt to find a comfortable position caused her to stumble slightly, eliciting a laugh from her lips, which was quickly cut off by another hiccup.

"I am never drinking whisky again," she said, a blush creeping across her cheeks from the mild embarrassment. "I feel out of sorts."

Without a second thought, he lifted her gently into his arms, intending to make her more comfortable. Elizabeth did not resist, once again snuggling into his embrace, her body relaxing as if she felt entirely safe in his hold. She was soft and pliant, her fragrance invading his senses, pushing his heart to beat much faster than he wanted. Her eyes fluttered closed, and within moments, she had fallen asleep against his chest.

"Bloody hell," James whispered under his breath, a mix of concern and bewilderment coloring his tone.

The carriage rolled quietly through the streets, and he held her carefully, ensuring not to disturb her sleep. As they arrived at her brother's residence, James instructed the coachman to wait. Given Brandon's usual activities, he should be at his office at these hours, or at the home of his lover. Carefully, James carried Elizabeth to the door, his mind racing with thoughts about the implications of arriving with her in his arms.

"Elizabeth," he murmured.

Her lashes fluttered open, and beautiful blue eyes ensnared him. What were these feelings as if he was being sucked under? He gritted his teeth until his jaw ached. "We are at your brother's home."

An impish smile curved her mouth. "I will sneak inside."

Setting her down, James ensured she was steady on her feet. She walked around to the servants' entrance with surprise stealth. He suspected the lady was intimately familiar with slipping in and out of a townhouse.

Assuring her safety, he went with her, and she tossed him a teasing smile. "Do you mean to sneak inside with me, James?"

"No. I only mean to assure you enter without mishap."

"Thank you." Elizabeth smiled, opened the door and darted inside. Assured that she was safely at home, he returned to his carriage, replaying their interactions, her trust in him, and his unexpected reaction to her vulnerability.

You are refreshingly different, Elizabeth Armstrong. James leaned his head against the squabs, wondering what to do about this particular interest that had pierced his indifference with such ease.

* * *

The following morning,Elizabeth bit into her toast, the sweet tartness of the strawberry preserves barely registering as she sat at the breakfast table surrounded by her family. The lively conversation buzzed around her, full of the trivialities and gossip that her aunt, mother, and brother relished, yet she found herself disconnected, merely nodding and offering the occasional smile rather than partaking fully. She was only present because her brother had pleaded with her earlier to return to her aunt's residence and mend their argument.

"It cannot be mended," Elizabeth had cried. "She was thoughtless and inconsiderate of the hopes I have for my future, yet Aunt insists that she did this for me!"

"Please, Bette, we are a family. It is best to confront it head-on instead of avoidance."

Those words were a frequent lesson from their father, and it was for that reason she relented. Her mother and aunt had been surprised when she arrived with Brandon, believing she had run from last night's ball and was in her room. Her aunt's husband, typically a central figure in these morning discussions, had gone riding earlier and had not yet returned, which left the others to fill the conversational void with even more enthusiasm than usual. Elizabeth understood their intentions. It was their way of not addressing the issues at hand. Her mother glanced at her occasionally with deep concern in her eyes but did not mention what Aunt Sally did.

The viscountess chatted animatedly about the latest on-dits from the social whirl of London, each piece of gossip more trivial or scandalous than the last.

The memory of last night's encounter with the Duke of Basil hovered at the edges of Elizabeth's thoughts, intrusive and disquieting. Their dance had been unexpected and thrilling, yet it was their private conversation in the garden that haunted her. The snatches of memory were torturous. One moment, she felt a flutter of excitement at the remembered touch of his hand; the next, a pang of apprehension about what he thought about her behavior.

What is this?

My cock.

Why is it so hard and thick?

Elizabeth suppressed a groan of mortification. I had my fingers around it; oh, what was I thinking? I will never drink whisky again … at least with the duke!

"What did you have your fingers around, dear?" her mother asked.

Elizabeth choked on her drink, caught off guard by her mother's words, and alarm stabbed through her chest. "I beg your pardon?" she sputtered, wiping her mouth with a napkin as embarrassment flushed her cheeks.

"You were muttering to yourself," her aunt chimed in, a smile playing at the corners of her lips, no doubt thinking she was catching a private daydream about a potential suitor.

Embarrassed, Elizabeth felt the heat travel from her cheeks down to her throat. "Forgive me, I had not realized I spoke my thoughts aloud."

"Is all well? I have never seen you so preoccupied," her aunt pressed, exchanging a knowing glance with Elizabeth's mother.

"Is it because of the duke?" her mother added, tilting her head slightly, a speculative gleam in her eye.

"I am certain it is because of the duke," her aunt said, "or Lord Jenson. You looked beautiful dancing with them. I wish you had not left the ball early. Many more gentlemen would have asked you to dance. Did you form a favorable impression of the earl?"

Elizabeth directed a cool stare at her aunt. "You will forgive me, my lady; you will no longer be privy to my private thoughts because you have shown your disregard and contempt for them."

Her aunt's eyes widened in shock.

"Elizabeth!" her mother gasped, her voice sharp as she tossed down her napkin. "You will not speak to your aunt in such a tone."

"Forgive me, Aunt," Elizabeth murmured, softening her voice. "I was not aware my tone was uncivil. Please reimagine I said those words as sweetly as possible."

Her brother closed his eyes as if in pain, clearly discomforted by the tension at the table. "It was good of His Grace to dance with Bette," Brandon interjected, attempting to steer the conversation away. "However, Aunt Sally, Mother, please remove all matchmaking thoughts. The duke is not for marriage. Aunt, you should know more than mother of the duke's reputation about town."

"What reputation is that?" Elizabeth asked, feigning nonchalance.

"Are you speaking about that ghastly business of that young lady trying to trap the duke into a marriage?" her aunt inquired.

"Yes, Aunt. There are truths to the rumors. Basil is so decided against marriage that he did not marry that young lady even to save her reputation," Brandon said. "I also heard she was not the first to try such a wicked scheme."

Elizabeth remembered the gossip she had overheard the first night she saw the duke.

Her aunt delicately dabbed her mouth with a napkin before saying, "You cannot be absolutely sure that—"

"I am certain of it," Brandon said firmly. "The duke dancing with Bette was an apology for the duchess's harsh words. Please do not read much into it and allow unrealistic expectations to grow for her."

Elizabeth allowed her mouth to quirk in a small smile. "Do not be silly, Brandon. I would never delude myself about the duke. Furthermore, I am no longer seeking a husband this season, and as I will abstain from attending balls, it is unlikely we will meet again."

Silence fell over the table. Elizabeth picked up her hot chocolate again, sipping as if her heart wasn't quaking with pain.

"Elizabeth," her aunt said softly after a moment.

Taking a deep breath, Elizabeth gripped her cup, letting the heat from it warm her and glanced at her aunt. "Yes, Aunt?"

"I am deeply sorry, Elizabeth," her aunt replied, her tone earnest. "I did not mean for you to give up. That is not how I wished for you to interpret my actions!"

"What exactly did you mean, Aunt?"

"I only meant to help you to find your happiness."

She took a sip from her cup, staring at her aunt over the brim. "With a gentleman who only wishes to know me because of my wealth?"

Her aunt waved a hand dismissively. "You are overthinking that. Many marriages in the ton are formed due to—"

"I do not care about other marriages in the ton, Aunt. I care about mine. And given that I will never be assured of a man wanting me because he cares for me, I no longer have any interest in trying."

Elizabeth pushed back her chair and stood. "If you will excuse me, I did not rest properly last night, and I am exhausted."

She hastened from the dining room, down the hallway, and then climbed the stairs to her bedchamber. Once there, Elizabeth tossed herself onto the bed, hugging a pillow to her chest, hating that tears once more pricked behind her lids.

A gentle knock sounded, the door opened, and her mother entered. She closed the door softly behind her and walked over to sit on the edge of the bed, her face etched with concern. She reached out, her hand resting gently on Elizabeth's arm in a comforting gesture.

"Bette, you must keep attending the balls. You might meet someone entirely unexpected and find love and happiness," she urged gently, her voice soft but insistent.

Elizabeth sat up, facing her mother. "Mother, I am decided," she replied firmly.

The resolve in her voice left little room for argument, but her mother was not so easily dissuaded. She frowned. "It is not like you to give up! I have always known you to own a spirited and determined nature; why must you now be stubborn in this?" her mother said, her tone a mix of bewilderment and exasperation.

"I'm not giving up, Mama," Elizabeth countered, her voice rising slightly with emotion. "I'm choosing not to continue something that brings me no joy. These balls, the endless scrutiny, the whispering behind fans, the conversations that feel more like interrogations than genuine interactions—it's all so tiring."

Her mother sighed, taking a moment to choose her words carefully. "I understand it's tiring, darling, but don't you think you might be closing yourself off too soon? Not everyone will now be interested because of your wealth."

"Truly?" she drawled caustically. "They were absent before; could there be any other reason now to flatter me with their regard? I am not interested in that kind of attachment. It's transactional and superficial. I want more than that."

"Love is not something that happens at our convenience, and sometimes, it's found in the most unexpected places, even in a marriage that did not start that way. I fell in love with your father after I married him. I want you to keep that in mind. Your father would hate to see you so disheartened."

"I know," Elizabeth whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

Her mother sighed. "I can see the stubbornness that has been defining you more and more of late in your eyes." Finally, she nodded slowly, a reluctant acceptance crossing her features. "Then, my dear, you must do what you feel is right. But promise me this—if, at any moment in time, you felt a spark of connection when you danced with the duke or the earl, let me assure you, it is worth finding out what it might lead to. For the chance at the happiness you deserve, enjoy the rest of the season."

Elizabeth felt a tear slip down her cheek, quickly brushed away by her mother's thumb. "I promise, Mother," she said, her voice steady despite the storm of emotions inside her.

Her mother kissed her cheek and departed her room. Elizabeth lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling.

A spark of connection. She had felt it for the first time in her life with the Duke of Basil. Only her brother was so certain the duke would never marry. The longing for something wild and exciting in her life had always seemed so elusive. Somehow, sitting in the dimly lit gardens, sharing whisky and conversation, had been an incredible experience. There had been something deeply comforting about his presence, a feeling that was inexplicable considering she hardly knew him.

Given the duke's reputation, he did not fit into the expectations she had.

Yet he makes my heart ache for … something. The ambiguity of his interest and her own conflicting feelings left her uneasy.

I must never be so foolish as to ever be alone with the Duke of Basil again. Elizabeth felt a surge of guilt, for she knew her logical reasoning was not enough to keep her away from the duke.

Or, since I know life in England is not for me, perhaps I should chase the spark before I return home.