Page 42 of The Duke's Rules Of Engagement
“I should like to see them sometime,” the duke said.
“I am sure she would love to show them to you.”
They walked on, crossing the square and turning into Hill Street, the location of the duke’s London townhouse. As they approached, the duke’s step faltered. Seeming to suddenly realize where they were, he turned to her, his mask temporarily forgotten.
“We are close to my house.”
She smiled at him. “I thought I’d walk you home.”
“That is the opposite of how it should be,” he said.
“How do you mean?”
“The gentleman should be escorting the lady to her front door.”
“Well, that wouldn’t have been a very pleasant walk, would it?” she asked. “Given the fact that we were just a step from my front door when we commenced walking.”
“I suppose not. Still, I feel as if I should walk you back.”
“Nonsense. Bess is with me,” she said. “Besides, I’ve some shopping to do on the way home.” That was a lie, but their business was done, and Jo needed space from the Duke of Crestmont. After all that had happened today, she had to reorient herself. Remember and solidify her priorities.
Crestmont turned to Bess, nodded at her, and gave her a small, surprising smile before moving his gaze back to Jo. “Very well.” He bowed stiffly. “Good day, Miss Porter.”
She curtsied. “I will see you at Lady Campbell’s ball on Monday.”
His nod was sharp. “Monday.”
Chapter Twelve
Matthew spent the next two days in a state of anxiety. The minutes seemed to drag on. Even rowing didn’t make the time pass any faster.
He couldn’t wait for this business to be over. The more he thought about meeting his future duchess, the more the weight of a ton of bricks seemed to press on his chest.
Once it was all over, he’d retire to Northumberland, where the air was not so heavy with coal smoke nor the streets so crowded with people. Where he could breathe and be out in the open and be free.
Where he’d have to do his duty and bed his wife until he impregnated her.
God.
He couldn’t think of bedding any of the ladies on that list Miss Porter had given him. He couldn’t think of bedding anyone.
Except her.
Joanna Porter. Jo—he’d heard her friend address her by that little nickname at the Dickersons’ soiree. It was a tiny name that packed a mighty punch. Sweet Jo, sharp-tongued and brightly innocent. That curved body and those beautiful, intelligent gray eyes that saw through the steel barrier of his title.
Yes, he could think of bedding her. And he did, often, the thoughts of her naked beneath him so raw and decadent, he had no choice but to slake his lust with his hand.
His hand was nothing compared to how her soft body would feel under him.
Those names on that list would be nothing compared to her.
No, he couldn’t think that. He would make one of those five women his duchess. He would make it work. Jo had said that if none of them were suitable, they’d try again, but he couldn’t do that. He didn’t have the time. Worse, it might just kill him, having to go through this again with her. Having to talk about the appeal of other women while thinking no other woman could hold a candle to her.
And so his thoughts went on Saturday as he rowed with Jameson on the Thames and then discussed the plan for a new boat over ale at a tavern, Sunday when he appeared at church and only just managed to refrain from falling asleep during the rector’s extra-long sermon, and Monday as he paced his study trying to focus on correspondence from his country estates, then sat through a droning session at Parliament, when all he could think about was seeing Jo that night.
What would she be wearing? It was true that at the last dance she’d attended, she’d been simply dressed compared to some of the other ladies there. But her body was made of sin, and the modest clothes only piqued his curiosity about what lay beneath the layers of fabric.
The hours dragged on until it was time to prepare for the ball. His valet, Timothy, stood by, towel at the ready, as Matthew shaved, and once he’d donned his stockings, knee breeches, shirt, waistcoat, and tailcoat, Timothy carefully tied his freshly starched cravat. When that was done, the valet turned around with a jar of pomade, but Matthew waved him off.
