Daisy and the Duke Page 2

  Daisy sighed, looking at him with artless supplication. “Do you think you can convince him to see me?”

  Ian sprawled out beside her on the grass, reclining on an elbow. Tugging at her wrist, he coaxed her onto her back so that he was half leaning over her. Daisy’s clear blue eyes were filled with a mix of anticipation and apprehension. He traced a finger over her bottom lip, aware that he was treading a fine line between personal indulgence and a gentleman’s honor. But he knew from experience that behaving according to his station was often no fun at all.

  He lowered his head slowly, giving her a chance to protest. “I’ll do my best,” he promised, his voice husky. “But in the meantime, I’m going to kiss you.”

  Chapter Seven

  Daisy’s breathing slowed, her heart beating loudly in her ears as the English stranger bent to kiss her. She loved that he didn’t ask permission. Modern men were too amenable. This arrogant, boldly masculine man seemed like a throwback to an earlier generation, and it only made her anticipate his kiss more.

  She rubbed her fingertips over his sculpted chin, feeling a slight trace of stubble. “I don’t even know your name.”

  “Is that an observation or a complaint?” His crooked grin reminded her of a pirate.

  He was so close she could smell the warm fragrance of his skin. “Are you going to tell me what it is?”

  Now his lips hovered over hers, his breath mingling with her almost-silent whimper of need. “I could, but

  do you want reality, or fantasy? Your choice, Daisy.”

  It would not have surprised her at all to feel the earth tremble beneath them. Her world was shifting on its axis, revealing facets of her personality that shocked and excited her. She was Daisy Wexler. A librarian from Virginia. She did not play tonsil hockey in broad daylight with smug, audacious strangers.

  But perhaps she didn’t know herself at all. “Fantasy,” she breathed. “Kiss me before I change my mind.”

  His mouth was warm and firm, the press of his lips an immaculate blend of hunger and tenderness. “Daisy,” he muttered. “Daisy.”

  The way he groaned the syllables made her melt. Her arms encircled his neck, her hands unashamedly measuring the width of his shoulders, the tensile strength of sleek muscles beneath warm skin. He was everything she was not. Hard and virile. Supremely confident in his sexuality.

  “I like the way you smell,” she whispered. “It’s very English.”

  He chuckled, the sound reverberating against her breast. “You smell like sin, Ms. Daisy Wexler. I think you’re a seductress disguised as an innocent American tourist. You’ve come across the pond to lure unsuspecting Englishmen to their doom.”

  “Doom?” She gasped as his hand closed over her breast. “That’s not a very nice thing to say.”

  “But accurate.” He buried his face in her neck as he stroked her through thin layers of cloth, his big body trembling violently. “What are you doing to me?”

  She felt the press of his erection against her thigh. It had never been her intent to offer more than a kiss. But their embrace had segued from delightful to desperate need at warp speed.

  Between her legs, the practical cotton undies she’d purchased six to a pack were damp. She wanted him. In ways she had never wanted anyone before. The ferocity of the craving stunned and terrified her. Was this the kind of sexual madness that made fools of women? That left them brokenhearted in its wake?

  To have this man in her arms, wild with passion—for her—was the ultimate temptation. This beautiful, well-spoken, engaging man needed her as much as she needed him. But one last functioning brain cell told her to get up, to walk away. To remember why she was here.

  “Stop,” she said. “Let me up. I came here to see the duke.”

  Chapter Eight

  Bugger the duke. Ian froze, wondering if he had said that last bit out loud. Lifting his body away from Daisy’s slowly, he tried to regulate his breathing and regain the control that was expected of him.

  When he could manage it, he got to his feet. There was nothing he could do about the state of his sex. It was too big to hide, and too painfully swollen to simply pretend nothing had happened. He could barely breathe.

  Daisy seemed shocked by what she saw. Which made him rather angry, truth be told. Did she seriously not realize how close they had come to carnal relations? A few seconds more, and she would have found her skirt pushed up to her waist and her knickers dragged down to her—

  Damnation. He turned his back and bent forward, putting his hands on his knees. After taking several labored gulps of air, he finally managed to regain a modicum of equilibrium.

  But still he couldn’t face her. He inhaled sharply and spoke with his back still to her. “The duke should be home any moment,” he said curtly. “I’ll go now and determine whether or not he can meet with you this afternoon.”

  From behind his shoulder, Daisy spoke, her voice subdued. “That’s very kind of you. I’m sorry that I

  “

  He whirled, cursing his own weakness. He should have sent her on her way immediately. “That you what?”

  She stood up as well, and with her arms wrapped around her waist, she was the picture of discomfort. “That I let you think I was willing to

  um

  fool around.”

  “Is that what you Americans call it?” He scowled. “How many euphemisms can you invent for having sex?”

  Daisy frowned. “I was trying to be polite.”

  “I don’t feel particularly polite at the moment,” he growled. Merely looking at her, all disheveled and alluring, was getting him revved up again. “I feel more like finishing what we started.”

  When she opened her mouth to speak, he put a hand over her lips. “Don’t worry,” he said roughly. “I’m clear now on your priorities. You want to see the duke.”

  Daisy grasped his wrist and pulled his hand away, her pretty eyes beseeching him to understand. “You’re a lovely man,” she whispered. “But I was sent here for a very important reason. I can’t allow myself to get sidetracked.”

  “They must be paying you a lot of money to purchase such devotion.”

  She flushed, visibly wounded by his sarcasm. “Money isn’t the issue.”

  He stepped away, unaccountably depressed. “Money is always the issue,” he said bluntly.

  “Is that how you judge people? By the money they have? I would think a man in your position might have a more democratic outlook on life.”

  “A man in my position?”

  She shrugged awkwardly. “Someone who works with his hands.”

  Damn, everything she said made him think of sex. He, the only remaining male scion of the house of Wolffhampton, had come perilously close to shagging a perfect stranger in broad daylight. Good Lord. Clearly, it was time to end this. “Goodbye, Ms. Daisy Wexler. I hope you find everything you’re looking for.”

  Chapter Nine

  Though the day was still sunny and clear, a cloud settled over Daisy’s emotions. Watching the handsome stranger descend the hill with long, loping strides made her want to weep for some unaccountable reason.

  She’d likely never see him again

  unless she happened to run across him as she was leaving the duke’s estate. Though, given his current mood, he’d probably hide out until she was gone.

  In theory, Daisy was not opposed to a holiday romance, particularly with a man who sounded like one of her favorite British actors but was far more blatantly virile and sexually intense. A vacation fling was not, in essence, a mistake.

  But Daisy was not on vacation; she was employed. And that employment was going to enable a project of her own, one that could change her life.

  Glancing down at her watch, she surmised that enough time had elapsed to warrant approaching the enormous, fortresslike house. She tromped down the incline, across the meadow, up the tree-lined path and onto a stone apron that fanned out from the gigantic oak doors. The ornate iron knockers looked ancient.

&nbs
p; Palms damp, she reached out a hand, grasped one of the heavy circlets and rapped it three times. In her imagination, the sound reverberated inside the house. Shifting from one foot to the other, she waited.

  The interval was no more than a few seconds, but it might as well have been eons. At last, the door swung open, and an older man, clad in the traditional garb of a butler, greeted her with a slight inclination of his head. “Good day, mum.”

  Daisy hesitated, abashed at his formality. “My name is Daisy Wexler. I’m here to speak to the duke.” She thought about mentioning her go-between, but decided against it.

  As she fidgeted, the majordomo assessed her rumpled clothing and lack of transportation. “I will see if His Grace is ready for visitors,” he said stiffly. “Perhaps you’ll be so kind as to wait in the parlor.”

  Daisy perched on a cushioned settee that looked as if it might have supported the fannies of knights and ladies down through the ages. Her heart rapped against her ribs and her knees felt like jelly even though she was seated.

  She’d flown across an ocean to request information from a duke, and until this very moment, she hadn’t actually contemplated what form such a conversation might take. Perhaps she should have rehearsed. Under normal circumstances, she never had any trouble with shyness. But even for someone reared on the precepts of equality for all, the idea of actually meeting nobility was daunting.

  Her throat was completely dry by the time the starchy retainer returned to fetch her.

  The man looked down his nose. Or so it seemed to Daisy. “He will see you now.”

  Chapter Ten

  Daisy followed her escort along one hallway and then another. To call this place a house was a misnomer. Castle was the more correct term. It was surely next to impossible to adequately heat the enormous chambers with their vaulted ceilings and stone floors.

  Finally, the butler halted in front of a set of double doors. Grasping both knobs and pulling them open with ceremony, he stepped aside and spoke to someone beyond Daisy’s line of sight. “Ms. Daisy Wexler to see you, Your Grace.”

  Again, her knees trembled. Glancing at the servant beside her, she found neither sympathy nor assistance in his blank gaze. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she entered the room.

  For a moment, awe overtook her. The chamber in which she found herself was like something out of a movie. Enormous mullioned windows shone in the afternoon sun. Though the glass was immaculate, millions of dust motes danced in the beams of light, no doubt courtesy of the heavy gold-brocade and crimson-velvet draperies that flanked the wavy antique panes.

  A priceless Oriental rug, faded but lovely, lay on the floor beneath her feet, adding to the impression of old money and exquisite taste. As a librarian, she couldn’t help but also be impressed by the walls of bookcases, laden with leather-bound volumes.

  But before she could do more than glance at them, something else, or rather someone, caught her eye.

  The man had his back to her, his gaze trained on the view beyond the curved bank of windows. Standing behind an impressive antique desk, the silent figure projected an air of absolute authority. Suppressing an insane desire to curtsey, Daisy moved into the room, hoping to see him more clearly. Framed as he was in the alcove, the sun blinded her.

  As she walked toward him, expecting him to speak at any moment, she took stock of her host. He wore a navy suit, obviously hand tailored to fit his broad-shouldered, lanky frame. Dark brown hair showed evidence of dampness, as if he had showered recently. The faint, pleasant scent of aftershave lingered in the air.

  Her toes curled in her canvas espadrilles. Curiosity and anticipation warred with nervousness in her stomach. “Thank you for meeting with me,” she said quietly. “I’d like to ask you some questions, if I may.”

  “Be seated.” The words were low and terse, barely audible.

  Feeling like a recalcitrant schoolgirl, she glanced at the choice of seats on her left and right before deciding on a Louis XIV needlepoint chair. Unfortunately, it was more impressive than comfortable. She squirmed to settle herself, set her tote on the floor and took out a pad and pen. Laying them on the edge of the highly polished escritoire, she sat back and folded her hands in her lap.

  The silence lengthened and deepened. “Your Grace?”

  Perhaps her verbal prompt was considered a social faux pas, because those wide, impressive shoulders stiffened. “Patience is not really an American virtue, is it?” he said, the syllables curt and aristocratic.

  Something about that gravelly but cultured voice raked across Daisy’s nerves like a kitten’s claw on silk. She swallowed hard, unable to speak.

  Finally, the duke turned around to face her. Daisy’s breathing stumbled. “You?” she cried. “You’re the duke?”

  Chapter Eleven

  The man stood with one hand in his pants pocket, the other resting on the back of a carved chair. His fingers were long and masculine. He was cool, collected and remote. Neither a smile nor any sign of recognition marked his expressionless face. No indication at all that just minutes before he had coaxed her into breathless intimacy on a hilltop.

  “I am,” he said. “Ian Furchess. We don’t stand much on ceremony these days, so you may call me Ian. Tell me, Ms. Wexler, what brings you to the Lake District?”

  Her mouth hung open. Did he seriously think she didn’t recognize him? The cognac-colored eyes were the same. The thick, wavy chestnut hair. Was she losing her mind? Perhaps this sophisticated nobleman was related to the fellow she’d met outside.

  But no

  it wasn’t possible. She had kissed him passionately only moments ago.

  Hadn’t she?

  “You were feeding pigs,” she blurted out. “But you’re a duke.”

  At last the hint of a smile lifted the corners of his beautiful mouth. “In case you haven’t noticed, Ms. Wexler, we are having an extraordinarily lovely dose of early spring. Even dukes have been known to play hooky on such occasions.” With complete calm, he sat down at the desk and rested his hands on the arms of the chair.

  Forcing herself not to gape, Daisy backed up mentally. If this was how he chose to play their official encounter, she would go along with it. “Call me Daisy,” she said firmly. As if he hadn’t already. “I’m here on behalf of Victor and Vincent Wolff.”

  Ian’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “Surely you’ve heard of Wolff Enterprises.”

  “Indeed. They’re a multinational corporation, well-respected even outside the States. But again, what does that have to do with me?”

  “My employers are in their early seventies and semiretired. One of the younger Wolffs is at the helm of the organization now, and with more spare time on their hands, the two older men have taken up studying the family tree. Recently, they came across a document that suggests a connection with your ancestors. Obviously Victor and Vincent aren’t interested in money. They have plenty of their own. But they are extremely invested in finding out whether or not their family has roots here, in the seat of the Wolffhamptons.”

  She took a deep breath and sat back, realizing that her palms were sweaty and her stomach churned from being so close to him. Ian appeared unruffled. Perhaps he dallied with wandering tourists frequently.

  He picked up an expensive pen and rapped it lightly against the leather blotter. It was the first time she had seen him exhibit even a hint of agitation. “Why you, Daisy? Why did they send you?”

  “Because I’m very good at what I do. I’m a research librarian at the University of Virginia. The Wolffs hired me to come here and examine some of your family records. If you give your permission, that is?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Ian frowned inwardly. All he had to do was say a definitive “no” and send her on her way. But he couldn’t. Not yet. He didn’t want to. He could only think about lying beside her on a grassy hill and acting like a man and not a duke. For a few short moments with Daisy, his life had seemed full of possibilities.


  He sighed. “I assure you, Daisy, we take genealogy very seriously here in England. And I can also tell you with absolute certainty that my dear grandmother and I are the only remaining members of the Wolffhampton family. Period.” He hated disappointing her, but her employers had sent her on a fool’s errand.

  She leaned toward him, her heart-shaped face earnest. The passion and conviction in her voice seduced him as surely as her beautiful spirit. “But your family may have been misled,” she said. “A bastard son, Octavius, who shamed your ancestors with his antics, didn’t die at sea, as it was claimed. He survived being thrown overboard, showed up in America, took Wolff as his surname, started a family without bothering to get married, and made a fortune in railroads.”

  Holy hell. “How do you know this?”

  “Victor and Vincent found a journal.”

  “And you have this for me to examine?”

  “Well, no. It’s far too valuable to travel with

  but I photocopied some pertinent passages. All I need to do is see your family Bible and any other records you may have from that time so I can cross-reference the information in the journal. You can call the Wolffs if you want to verify my identity.”

  He shook his head in bemusement. “I doubt you’re here to steal the family silver. And I suppose there’s no harm in letting you poke around. But why on earth are you staying in a hostel? Surely the Wolffs could have sprung for more upscale accommodations.”

  Guilt etched her expressive face. “I’m trying to save money. When I’m done here, I hope to take a few days and visit Scotland. Do you know if it’s true what they say? That the men go naked beneath their kilts?”

  His lip curled in exasperation. “What is it with you women and Scotsmen? An Englishman is worth two of those barbarians any day.”