While the Duke Was Sleeping

  Poppy could scarcely draw a breath in the overheated room. “You want me to leave Town? With you? What of His Grace?”

  “We’ve secured Marcus in a coach and made him as comfortable as possible. He’s already left for the country.” The dowager explained this as though it were the most normal of things. Poppy blinked at the odd image of this—the duke in a coma, strapped inside a carriage and bumping along on the way to his country home.

  The dowager must have read some of her thoughts on her face. “Dr. Mercer said it was fine to do so,” she said with a touch of defensiveness.

  Poppy recalled the physician’s face. Of course he’d sanctioned such a thing. He behaved as though the duke were already dead.

  “Lord Strickland is with him. He will make certain all is well,” she added as though this made it all acceptable. “Strickland spends every holiday with us,” she explained. “He has no family himself. It’s just us. Has been ever since the boys attended Eton together.” The dowager’s eyes grew shiny with moisture. “It is for the best. Marcus belongs at home right now. I can’t help thinking it might help him recover.”

  Poppy nodded. Yes, the dowager was unconventional, but perhaps she was correct. Perhaps the duke would heal better at home. “Of course.”

  “And you belong there, too.” The dowager nodded once, bobbing her glossy dark head, her dark eyes gleaming with determination.

  “Poppy.” Bryony hissed her name and tugged on the cuff of her sleeve, clearly insistent on letting her know her thoughts on the matter. She wanted to go to Autenberry Manor. Of course. Who wouldn’t want to spend Christmas at a duke’s manor?

  “I can’t just leave. I have a position.” Poppy shook her head. They were quite busy this time of year at the shop. “I can’t hare off to—”

  “I’ve already spoken with Mrs. Barclay this very morning. She’s the one who told me where you live.” The duchess sniffed and paused to flick a disapproving glance around the shabby parlor, reminding Poppy of Struan Mackenzie in that moment when he had first assessed her home and so obviously found it lacking. “She insisted you come with us. She said for you to take all the time you need.”

  Now it was her turn to be speechless. Until logic settled over her. Of course Mrs. Barclay would want her to go. She valued the duke’s business. She would never refuse a duchess’s request for anything.

  “I—I’m not certain, Your Grace. We’d hate to impose.”

  Bryony inched closer and squeezed her elbow, communicating her desires. She, of course, wanted them to impose.

  The duchess stepped forward and closed her hands around Poppy’s arms, giving her a squeeze. “Poppy, first of all, call me Graciella. Or Ella. We are past formal titles, no?” She glanced at her daughters to confirm this. Young Clara nodded happily. The stoic Lady Enid offered a single nod that seemed to say: I’ve learned not to resist. “Now no more protests. It’s no imposition. Family needs to be together over the holidays and especially in times of hardships—”

  “But—”

  “Do not deny me in this. Back home, I had so many cousins, aunts and uncles. I could not count them all! I miss having a big family. I’ve longed to see our own grow and I’m thrilled it is finally happening.” The dowager duchess’s dark eyes took on a steely glint. “Think of Marcus. He needs you there. If he’s to recover, he needs the woman he loves at his side.”

  The Duchess of Autenberry—Graciella—was clearly a romantic at heart. And yet she was not without sense. The duke was gravely ill. He might not even survive. Of course his betrothed would want to be at his side. She should be there. That was only natural and right. Refusing to go would appear illogical and insensitive.

  And truthfully, she wanted to go.

  She was worried about the duke. She cared. She wanted to be at his side. A voice whispered through her: Wouldn’t it also be nice to spend Christmas with these kind ladies away from Town? It wouldn’t be just Poppy and Bryony anymore. They would be part of a family. At least for a little while. She couldn’t deny it would be a treat for both of them. For a short time, she could forget all about her responsibilities.

  She could forget about Struan Mackenzie and her unconscionable behavior with him.

  Her face heated and it wasn’t from the overly warm room. No, it was with the memory of Mackenzie and the liberties she’d permitted him. The delightful sensation of his mouth and hands on her. The memory of her wanton response to him.

  She sucked in a sharp breath. It wouldn’t hurt to remove herself from Town for a bit and any chance encounters with him. Indeed not. Perhaps that would be the wisest, safest course of action.

  She shot a quick glance at her sister, whose eager gaze fixed on her, pleading and conveying her most fervent wishes.

  Poppy sucked in a breath. “Yes, thank you for your most kind invitation,” she heard herself saying. “We would love to join you for the holidays.”

  Chapter 15

  The coach was crowded with the five females and it quickly became apparent that five was too many. Clara and Bryony were incessant chatterboxes. Seated to the left of Poppy, their animated discussions spilled over into their actions. It wasn’t long before Poppy was pressed up against the carriage wall, jostled from the movements of their bodies.

  When they stopped to lunch at a village en route to Autenberry Manor, Poppy practically tripped down the steps in her eagerness to be free of the coach. The duchess was right. Bryony and Clara had become fast friends.

  “I need a cool compress.” Lady Enid pressed fingertips to her temples. Clearly Poppy was not the only one overcome from the girls’ constant babbling. She grimaced. Enid should try sitting beside them. She’d need more than a cool compress.

  “Don’t sound like such an old lady,” the dowager admonished. “You’re still young. You should be giggling with the girls.”

  “I’m not that young,” Enid said as they were escorted into a private dining room where they took their seats and ordered drinks and food.

  “I don’t think Enid has ever giggled,” Clara snickered.

  Outside the wind howled, and Poppy watched small flakes of snow churning in the air through the large mullioned window. Winter had arrived in earnest. They would have snow by Christmas.

  “Wait until you taste Cook’s mint jelly and roasted lamb,” Clara was telling Bryony. “It’s divine. She prepares it every Christmas eve.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” Bryony exclaimed. She met Poppy’s gaze. Flags of color marked her cheeks, partly from the cold, partly from her excitement. She was happy and the sight made Poppy’s chest swell a little. It had been a long time since Bryony looked truly happy. “Does it not sound wonderful, Poppy?”

  “Indeed it does.” She opened her mouth to comment further, but her gaze was snared by the gentleman who suddenly entered the room. The innkeeper escorted him to a smaller table near the crackling fireplace.

  Everything inside her seized hard. She couldn’t breathe. No. No. No.

  Struan Mackenzie in the flesh. Every hard inch of him. His moss green eyes prowled the room and landed on her.

  What was he doing here?

  “Struan!” the dowager exclaimed, although there was no actual surprise in her voice. At least not to the degree that Poppy felt at seeing the duke’s half brother stroll into the room. She motioned him over with an elegant wave of her hand. “How nice that we’ve bumped into each other. I’m so glad you accepted our invitation to join us for Christmas.”

  She had invited the blasted Scotsman, too? Her stomach plummeted. He would be spending the holiday with them at Autenberry Manor?

  Suddenly the delight she had been feeling at leaving Town behind and spending the holidays in the country vanished. Mackenzie would be there for every moment of it. Watching her with those pirate’s eyes. Scowling at her. His big body swallowing up all the air in every room and drawing her attention in a manner entirely inappropriate—especially considering she was to marry another man.

  How would she bear
it? Surely the others would notice. Her sister, the duchess, Lady Enid . . .

  Dear heavens. Her lungs felt suddenly too tight. Air impossible to inhale. Just being in the room with him was disconcerting her.

  Her gaze strayed to the large mullioned window as though contemplating escaping through it.

  Struan Mackenzie approached, his boots scraping the floor as he stopped and bowed slightly at the waist, nodding to each of them. She forced her gaze back up to him.

  “Ladies.” Did she imagine that his gaze lingered on her? “Good to see you all again.”

  Bryony leaned into her where they shared a bench seat, her bright eyes traveling over Mackenzie, missing nothing. “It’s him,” she whispered indiscreetly.

  Poppy rolled her eyes and did not bother answering her.

  The dowager motioned to the table. “It’s growing frigid out there. They recommend the stew. It sounded quite reviving. I imagine it will warm you right up.”

  “He’s Scottish,” Enid chimed in. “I am certain he is accustomed to far colder climes than this.”

  Clara motioned to the space at the end of the table, directly beside Poppy. “Join us, Struan. Plenty of room.”

  Poppy stiffened. There was not plenty of room. A child’s body could fit in that scant space, perhaps. Not a body the size of his. Still that did not stop him from sinking down on the bench beside her—his thigh pressing against hers.

  “Yes!” the duchess added in her gushing tenor. “We are so looking forward to becoming better acquainted. It’s thrilling that our family had suddenly grown in size. In Spain, my family was quite large. I’ve missed that dearly.” She gestured dramatically to Poppy. “Once Marcus awakes and you are married, we shall work on expanding our number ever more, yes?” She smiled blindingly at Poppy.

  Poppy managed a single nod, achingly aware of Mackenzie’s stare on the side of her face. The crawl of his gaze felt like a beam of heat on her skin. His thigh against her practically burned.

  She scooted as close as possible to her sister, but his great, muscled thigh seemed to follow her, pressing alongside her skirts. Unfortunately, the wool of her dress wasn’t as thick as she would have liked. She felt the heat of that leg distinctly bleeding into her. She shivered.

  “Chilled, Miss Fairchurch? You are trembling.”

  “A bit, yes. It’s far colder here than in Town.” A plausible explanation.

  Conversation flowed around them. For that she was grateful. She acted interested, contributing very little and taking great interest in her stew when it arrived, which was as warming as the proprietor promised. A fact that only made her feel more flushed and uncomfortable as she sat beside Mackenzie.

  When everyone finished eating and rose to their feet to resume the journey, Lady Enid groaned. “I am not looking forward to returning to that cramped carriage for the remainder of the journey.”

  Poppy blinked and resisted pointing out that she was the one squished on the seat with Bryony and Lady Clara.

  “Crowded are you?” Mr. Mackenzie inquired.

  “Extremely.” The dowager duchess sighed and then perked up. “I’ve an idea. Why don’t one of you ride the rest of the journey with Struan so that we have more room?”

  Her mouth dried as the duchess scanned all of them. Clara and Bryony clung to each other as though the idea of being separated terrified them. The dowager duchess laughed at the picture they made. The proprietor appeared to help the dowager slip on her cloak. “Have no fear,” she assured. “I wouldn’t dream of separating you two, nor would I punish Struan by sticking him with you both.”

  Don’t look at me. Don’t suggest me.

  Her gaze stopped on Poppy. “Poppy,” she proclaimed.

  Poppy winced. She had been afraid she was going to be called out. It was just her misfortune to be stuck with the one man she had vowed to avoid.

  “Why don’t you join Mr. Mackenzie for the remainder of the ride?” Even though she posed it as a question it did not feel as such.

  “Uh—”

  “Excellent idea.” Lady Enid nodded. “We shall have more space now.”

  “That sounds like a splendid idea,” Bryony seconded as though her opinion held any weight.

  “That would be fine,” Mackenzie’s deep voice intoned, his gaze falling unerringly on her, but there wasn’t a flicker of reaction on his face. “My carriage has plenty of space.”

  Poppy avoided looking at him. She feigned great fascination with everyone save him.

  “We shall follow directly and see you all there soon,” Struan rumbled in that gravelly burr of his.

  Poppy knotted her hands together in front of her in an attempt to quell their shaking. This couldn’t be happening.

  The dowager duchess nodded. “Very good. Tell your driver to mind the bends in the road as we near the manor. If the weather worsens he needs to be especially careful.” As they stepped outside, she tugged on her fur gloves and squinted up at the snow falling gently from the overcast sky.

  “I’ll do that,” Mr. Mackenzie agreed, his hand very properly coming to rest on the small of her back.

  The ladies waved cheerfully at them as they made their way to the waiting carriage. “See you soon!” Bryony called.

  Poppy watched helplessly as her sister trotted alongside the Dowager Duchess of Autenberry and her daughters. She swallowed thickly as Mackenzie’s hand at her back increased its pressure, turning in the direction of his carriage.

  “This way.” His free hand gestured to the carriage sitting on the other side of the yard. This one was even more magnificent than the dowager’s carriage. Poppy knew that he was a gentleman of some means, but it had not occurred to her that he might be wealthier than Autenberry. Not that it mattered. It wasn’t the duke’s pocketbook that attracted her. The man’s character and inner qualities drew her.

  None of which Struan Mackenzie possessed.

  But Struan’s good looks were certainly equal to the duke’s. Some might even favor Mackenzie’s looks. If one preferred the rakish Viking effect. Not Poppy, of course. She inhaled through her nose. No. Not at all. Not in the least.

  Her face and throat suddenly burned. She pressed the back of her gloved fingers against her flushed cheek as she strode through the cold.

  To be certain, the Duke of Autenberry had never pressed her against a wall and wrapped her legs about him. He had never touched her throat. Never kissed her. Never bit her neck. Never said bold or shocking or rude things. No, that was reserved for Struan Mackenzie alone. She frowned. All reasons he should repel her. He should.

  She suddenly felt hot and achy inside. She called a halt to such provoking thoughts, desperate to banish them. It was wrong to compare the two brothers. They were night and day. She walked a bit faster so that his hand fell away from her back, severing their contact.

  Only one man deserved her affection and he was lost to a coma.

  Chapter 16

  Struan imagined this was what it felt like to be a spider when a tasty bit of prey stumbled into its web. He watched Poppy settle herself on the seat across from him. She shifted several times as though she could not find a comfortable position—all the while avoiding his gaze. It almost made him smile.

  He had her alone again. He knew she had not anticipated his arrival—she especially did not anticipate he would be joining them for the holiday at Autenberry’s family seat. He’d seen the brief flash of shock on her face when he entered the room, followed by panic.

  She thought she was done with him. She thought she wouldn’t have to see him again. She had hoped that. Even if she didn’t want it.

  She stared out the window, fidgeting and pushing an errant strand of hair back off her cheek. She might think she wanted that, but he knew better. Last night had not been a chance occurrence. It had been real. She’d wanted him as much as he wanted her. Tension still hummed between them. Even now, watching her, his gaze narrowed on the madly thrumming pulse at her neck. She was aware of him. She only wanted to appear una
ffected. He simply had to show her that pretending around him wasn’t going to work.

  She might belong to Autenberry, but she wasn’t immune to Struan.

  And Autenberry wasn’t here. He was.

  He cleared his throat. Her gaze remained fixed on the window.

  “Miss Fairchurch?”

  He scowled. She still didn’t look his way. Stubborn chit.

  If he didn’t want her to look at him so very much he would find humor in the situation. His irritation grew. She’d avoided looking at him during lunch, but he thought that would come to an end once he had her in his carriage. He had plans for them during this carriage ride and it didn’t consist of silence between them. Deciding to provoke her into looking at him, he said, “I imagine spending Christmas at Autenberry Manor will be quite the treat for you, Miss Fairchurch.”

  He succeeded.

  Her gaze snapped to his and he felt a hot zing of triumph.

  “Whatever do you mean?” she demanded hotly.

  “Just what I said. Christmas at Autenberry’s family estate . . . quite the coup for a girl who works in a flower shop.”

  She released a huff of breath. “I am sure it will be quite lovely. Not as lovely as it could be if the duke himself were present for it.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “I agree. That would make it far more . . . interesting.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Indeed. I can just imagine the two of you together. Singing carols. Trimming the tree. The best of friends. Brothers.”

  He chuckled at her sneering tone. She meant to bait him in return. Little did she know that he had ceased to suffer years ago at the hands of his family—if he could even call them such. His father’s rejection had been the deepest cut. What was one half brother’s rebuff?

  “It would be an occasion, to be certain,” he agreed mildly, his gaze sliding over her. She was modestly attired, covered in that worn and threadbare cloak. He remembered the weight of her thighs in his hands, even through all the voluminous fabric of her dress, and felt a stirring in his cock. “We shall have to endeavor to have an interesting time while he recuperates.”