The Inconvenient Duchess

twitched the too-short skirts of the dowager’s habit down to cover her feet, but they covered his hands as well and it made the situation worse because she could not see what he was doing.
    ‘You are right. And that is why we must finish quickly before someone finds us. Laugh for me and I’ll let you go.’
    ‘St John, stop this instant.’ She tried to sound stern, but the effect was spoiled by the breathiness of her voice.
    He trailed his fingers along the sole of her foot, ‘When you know me better, Miranda, you will find it impossible to oppose me. Save yourself the trouble and give me what I want. Then I’ll help you back on to your horse and we can return to the house.’ He was massaging now, alternating firm touches with light, and the sensitivity was increasing with each stroke.
    ‘St John…’ She wanted to lecture him, but the feeling of his hands on her was delightful. And he was so devilishly unrepentant. And the situation so absurd. Air escaped her lips in a puff, and then she gasped, as the feeling became too frustrating to ignore and a last featherlight touch of her toes reduced her to a fit of giggling. She lay back in the grass and shook with laughter as he took his hands away and smoothed her skirt over her feet.
    ‘There, you see. It was not so awful, was it, giving in and taking a little pleasure?’
    She shook her head, dropping her eyes from his, and feeling the blush creeping up her cheeks as she smiled again.
    ‘Good. For I would have you be happy here, Miranda. There is much to be happy about here. My brother…’ She looked up at him as he frowned, trying to find a way to complete the sentence. ‘My brother was not always as he is now. When we were young he was not so cold. So distant. If you cannot find the man that he once was, then know that youwill always have a friend in me and need never be lonely or afraid.’ He stood. ‘Now, take my hand and I will help you mount. If you are strong enough, that is. You could always ride in front of me on the saddle and I could lead your horse.’
    It was such an innocent offer. Too innocent, she suspected. His eyes were the clearest blue and there was not a hint of guile on his face as he said it.
    And yet, she felt the heat of his hand as he helped her from the ground, and her mind drifted to the thought of them, together on the saddle, the gentle rocking of the horse between their legs, and him, close behind her, rocking against her… ‘No. I am quite all right. I’m sure I can ride alone.’ She stumbled in the direction of her horse.
    ‘Are you sure? You look unsteady. Let me help you.’ And his hand burned through her clothing as he lifted her easily up into the saddle. She kept her face averted from his, so he couldn’t see the crimson in her cheeks.
    There was something wrong with her. There must be. Some wickedness brought on by too much knowledge. She wished that she was as naïve and innocent as she pretended to be. But Cici had told her everything and had been so matter of fact about the pleasures of the flesh. Perhaps that was why she responded so quickly to a man’s touch. And the touch of a man who was not her husband. The fact that the man in question was her husband’s brother made it even worse, for she would have to be in close proximity to him, probably for the rest of their lives. She must master the feeling. Gain control of herself so that no one would ever know. Not the duke. And certainly not St John.

Chapter Twelve
    M arcus looked at the house in surprise. Not what he had expected. Not at all. He’d imagined a quiet cottage where two ladies might spend their years in modesty, waiting for an improvement in position. Genteel poverty.
    There was nothing genteel about his new wife’s old home. It was poverty, pure and simple. Smaller than the homes of his tenants and packed cheek by jowl between other similar houses. He strode to the door and knocked.
    The woman who answered dropped a curtsy, but looked at him with undisguised suspicion. ‘Lost your way, milord?’
    ‘Lady Cecily Dawson?’
    She glared back at him. ‘The “Lady” is long retired from her profession, and you’d best seek your amusements elsewhere.’
    ‘If I could see her, please.’
    ‘Come to get a look at her after all these years? What are you, then? The son of one of her clients, come to be initiated? A bit old for that, aren’t you?’
    ‘I beg your pardon.’
    ‘You take my meaning plain enough. Get yourself off, in