Kiss Me, Duke: League of Unweddable Gentlemen, Book 5 Read online

  He liked her.

  “That would be delightful, thank you, Mr. Armstrong. I shall rest for the afternoon and see you at dinner.”

  He bowed, watching as she went up the stairs, admiring the sway of her hips in her pretty dress. He turned, rubbing a hand over his jaw and striding to his tablinum in need of a stiff drink. He’d offered protection for her for the few weeks she was in Rome. He wasn’t to molest her. Whitstone would beat him to a pulp should he seduce the chit, even so, sometimes, a good beating was worth it if the woman who warmed your bed was as delectable as Miss Clare certainly was.

  With such thoughts, was it any wonder he was banished from England.

  Dinner that evening was everything Molly missed from England. Mr. Armstrong's cook had outdone herself with a roast lamb, vegetables, and turtle soup. Dessert consisted of seasonal fruits along with jelly and cakes. Even so, no matter how delicious the fare, it did not make her one ounce homesick. She loved being here in Rome, visiting the ancient city and meeting its people.

  She glanced at Mr. Armstrong, so very imposing, intelligent, and too good-looking to be unattached. Not that she knew much about his past, only that he was the Duke of Whitstone's friend, and therefore someone she could trust. There was probably a gaggle of women waiting about Rome for him to call. For all that she knew, he may have a mistress who was missing him.

  Molly shifted on her seat, taking a fortifying sip of her wine. She didn't want to think of him with anyone else. The idea of Mr. Armstrong in a passionate embrace with another woman made her want to cast up her accounts. An absurd reaction since she'd only known him a day.

  But there was something about him she liked. He was kind and attentive and did not mock her many questions regarding life here or the treasures the city held. Their day at the Colosseum had been marvelous, and he'd been patient with her as she had taken it all in, no matter how long that took her.

  Not all men would be so thoughtful.

  "Shall we adjourn to the tablinum? I have two chairs that sit before a fire in that room. I know it is warm during the day, but I still like a little heat at night. I suppose you may take the Englishman out of England, but you cannot take England out of an Englishman."

  "That would be lovely, yes."

  Mr. Armstrong stood and came and helped her with her chair. "Bring your wine. We shall have after-dinner drinks together."

  She did as he bade, before he reached out, placing her hand on his arm to escort her from the room. The moment her fingers touched his shirtsleeve, heat threaded up her arm and settled in her stomach. She swallowed, schooling her features, not wanting him to see just how much he discombobulated her. He would think her a fool for reacting so, especially when they hardly knew each other.

  "You're very brave," he said, guiding her toward a part of the house she had not seen as yet. "Not many women would venture abroad with a companion and not much else. Whatever possessed you?"

  "Do you reproach me for such a journey, Mr. Armstrong?" she asked, sitting in one of the leatherback chairs before the hearth. Mr. Armstrong walked over to a decanter and poured himself a whiskey.

  "Not at all, but I am interested. Women do travel, of course, but they're either widowed or traveling with their husbands. I'm curious, that is all."

  Molly thought back on her cousin Laura, how she had suffered through the birth of her son and subsequently paid for that birth with her life. The child only hours later following his mama to the grave.

  "Many years ago, I was told never to wait for what I wanted. That if we laid all our hopes on those of others, we were destined for sadness. I promised myself I would not settle for anything other than love if I married, and if that did not eventuate that I would resolve myself to be fulfilled with only me for company. That I would not miss out on the world's gifts merely because I was unable to be someone's wife."

  Mr. Armstrong took a sip of his amber liquid, watching her over the brim of his glass. "Your friend sounds a little jaded."

  "She was and rightfully so. Although, I promised her that I would never be taken in by false promises and sweet words, and I haven't so far. Now at my age," Molly said, smiling a little. "It is becoming less likely each year."

  Mr. Armstrong cocked one brow. Her stomach twisted at the wicked, amused glance he threw her. "From where I am sitting, Miss Clare, you are far from invulnerable." He finished his drink, setting it down with a clink. "Would you like to attend a party with me this evening? They are acquaintances, business associates I deal with in Rome. They're not titled or whom you're used to socializing with back in London, but they are good company and would welcome you if you attended."

  Heat crept across her skin, and Molly took a sip of her wine, hoping her flush would not spread across her cheeks. She was not invulnerable? Whatever did he mean by such a statement? "I shall be safe enough. I have you to guard me. Have I not?" she said.

  He chuckled, nodding. "Of course."

  "Then I shall like to attend with you. If you're certain, it will be welcome." She studied him a moment, wondering about his past also. "You left London yourself. Why is it that you ended up in Rome?"

  He frowned, sitting forward, his attention lost on the burning wood in the grate. "I disagreed with my family and could not stay. They granted funds to start my life here in Rome, and I accepted. I shall never return to London."

  The thought that she would never see this man grace the floorboards of the great London homes left a pang of regret to lodge in her stomach. She didn't want to never see him again, and it was unlikely that she would ever return to Rome.

  "I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Armstrong. I'm not certain that I could be estranged from my family forever."

  "Sometimes," he said, "estrangement is necessary for one's sanity. In any case, I have lived here for many years and love it as much as I loved my life before leaving London. I no longer miss it too much."

  "May I ask one more question?" she asked, finishing her drink and placing it, too, on the table before them both. His gaze met hers, and she fought the urge to fan her face. He was so very intense. His attention fixed on hers with such fervor that one couldn't help but think he was reading her mind. No gentleman had ever paid so much attention to her or spent so much time.

  "If you wish to?" He leaned back in his chair, waiting.

  "What is your given name?" she asked.

  All tension fled his features, and he chuckled, his smile just as devastating as the sound of his deep, rich voice that was suggestive as hell.

  "Hugh. My name is Hugh, Miss Clare. And yours?" he queried.

  "Molly," she said, feeling oddly embarrassed by their admissions. "May I ask one more question?" she continued, daring herself to be bold. To seek what she wanted. Not that asking for a man's name was so very scandalous, but women were taught not to be so forward. A lesson hard to unlearn.

  "Yes," he said.

  "May I call you Hugh instead of Mr. Armstrong when we're alone, such as we are now? Or when we're looking about Rome?"

  "So I'm to accompany you about Rome more than once?"

  "Well, I ah…" Molly wasn't certain what to say. There was no guarantee that Mr. Armstrong was even staying in Rome during her stay here. He may only be here a day and then traveling back to Naples.

  He stood, coming over to her and pulling her from her seat. His hand was large and strong, his fingers entwining with hers. Heat licked at her core, her body unlike its steadfast, no-nonsense self it always was. He made her want things she'd never wanted before. He made her want him. She looked up at Hugh, unable to step back and give them the necessary space to be proper.

  "It would be a pleasure to be here in Rome for the duration of your stay, to be your tour guide, and yes, you may call me Hugh, but only on one condition."

  "Condition?" She cleared her throat. Why did she sound so breathless? He would imagine her fascination with him in no time if she did not get a hold of her emotions. She was being a silly chit, and would start to sound like an adoring de
butante soon if she did not guard her heart. She was not in Rome to lose her head to a man. She was here to tour the city. He was merely a polite host. A gentleman determined to make her stay here a happy one. A memory that would last a lifetime once she returned to England. "What condition is that?"

  He lifted her hand to his lips, kissing her fingers. His lips were soft. So very smooth and warm, and her mind imagined where else those lips would feel so sweet. She bit her lip, fighting to stem her wayward thoughts.

  "That I may call you Molly in turn."

  She nodded, unable to form words right at that moment. If she were as bold as her friend Evie or Willow, she would close the space between them and take what she wanted. A kiss. Her first kiss. But she could not. She had never been bold, not in that way, at least. "I would like that," she said at length, taking a welcome breath as he nodded once and started for the door.

  "We leave in an hour for the party. Are you able to be ready by then?" he asked, stopping at the threshold of the room.

  "Of course," Molly said, watching him go and taking a moment to compose herself. Heavens forbid, she had almost swooned at his attention. What an intoxicating man he was, and a little mysterious. She had not heard of the Armstrong's in London, and it was interesting that he went to school with Whitstone and was of that social sphere and yet not titled. A mystery, and one she would untangle if she were able while she was here.

  But tonight was reserved for dancing and fun. Experience what society was hundreds of miles away from the one she graced in England. And if she were lucky enough, perhaps Mr. Armstrong, Hugh as she would forever think of him, would offer his hand for a dance. A waltz in his arms sounded quite the perfect end to a most assuredly ideal day.

  Chapter 4

  The party was an opulent affair. The society in Rome was varied, and he was glad the social sphere he graced now knew nothing of his true identity or the family in which he came from.

  Even so, their host’s villa that sat overlooking Rome was grander and larger than his own. The family had made their wealth in wine and had houses all over Italy.

  Tonight the atrium was the location of the entertainment, to the side in the tablinum sat an orchestra that played both modern and ancient tunes. Similar to his home, the atrium here was tiled in mosaic flooring, a central pond the main feature. This villa, however, being on a larger scale, the opening in the atrium was large enough that one could look up to the heavens and see the night sky in its full glory. Millions of stars framed just for them.

  Servants carried around platters of drinks and supper, no need to stop the festivities to sit and eat like back in London. Hugh stood beside a Grecian statue, sipping his wine as he watched Molly speak with their hostess. Her laughter carried to where he stood, and he could tell that she was enjoying their conversation.

  She was a beautiful woman, and the more time he spent with her, the more he looked forward to the next time they met. While getting dressed for this evening’s reception, he’d thought of what they could do tomorrow, where to take her and what to see. He hoped that she would like his choice and continue to allow him to be her escort while in Rome.

  For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine that he’d never left London, that he’d been able to meet Molly in society and court her as he liked. She certainly brought a calmness wherever she went, and he found himself wishing they had met before the scandal that sent him abroad broke.

  His mother and brother conspiring for him to take the fall for his brother’s indiscretion ensured he was no longer part of that family. It goaded his pride that he’d had to live on the funds his brother sent to ensure his survival for some years, but for the past eight, he’d not had to. Out of spite, perhaps, he still cashed those checks from London, but turned around and donated the funds to the women of Rome, who found themselves enceinte and without a protector or husband.

  It was the least he could do to try to honor Laura in some way, make recompense to the woman his brother had ruined.

  “Why are you not dancing, Mr. Armstrong? You look well enough that I do believe you will survive a turn about the dancefloor.”

  He chuckled, reveling in her bright eyes and smiling mouth that he had an overwhelming urge to lean down toward and kiss. To test his theory that her lips were as soft and willing as he suspected. Or at least hoped.

  “We’re back to Mr. Armstrong? I did hope you would call me by my given name as we agreed.”

  She shrugged, taking a glass of champagne from a passing servant before taking a sip. “We’re not alone, which was part of the agreement. What if someone should hear?”

  “No one shall hear with all the noise of this party.” He wanted to hear his name on her lips. For all his fleeing of England had left a sour taste in his mouth, having Molly here, an English woman who was sweet and kind, to hear his name spoken by her did odd things to his soul. Warmed it after ten years of being chilled.

  “Very well,” she said, smiling at him, the loveliest blush speckling her cheeks. “I shall do as you ask, but should anyone step nearby or other guests join us, we must revert to our formal names.”

  “Agreed,” he said, turning back to take in the guests lest someone spy his marked attention on the woman who was lodging under his roof. He ought to leave, go to a hotel and stay there for the duration of her stay, but he could not, and for reasons he’d not think too far upon at present. “You have not danced as much as I thought you would.”

  “Oh, I’ve danced plenty, and you very well know it. Why I just finished a dance with Lord Brandon, whom I know from London. Do you know him?”

  Hugh schooled his features as a knot of anxiety lodged in his gut. Was Lord Brandon in Rome? How did he not know? His attention slipped over the crowd, and it did not take him long to spy the earl, who was mutual friends with Duke Whitstone. A peer who was fully cognizant of why he’d fled his homeland.

  “How do you know the earl?” he asked.

  “Through the Duke and Duchess of Whitstone.”

  Hugh kept surreptitiously checking to see where Lord Brandon was situated. He was happy to see that within a few minutes of spying him, the gentleman and his handsome Italian wife were taking their leave of their hostess. He breathed deep, thankful his night had not ended with a confrontation between him and his lordship.

  “Tell me how you came to know the Duchess of Whitstone? From the correspondence from His Grace? You’re very close friends.”

  “We went to school with each other in France. Each of us was sent away from home for various reasons. I, because my parents feared that I would throw myself away on some rogue for reasons I shall not bore you with. Even so, we all met at Madame Dufour’s Refining School for girls. Our friendship has never waned over the years, and although our lives do take us on different paths, we always are there for each other when needed.”

  Hugh wished he had such friends. He’d lost so many of his set when his brother had forced his scandal onto his shoulders. In hindsight, he should have made his brother clean up his own mess. Face the matrons of the ton looking down their noses at him for his ungentlemanly behavior. But they had not. Oh no, the future Duke Henry could not be besmirched by a woman of loose morals, even if that woman had been a childhood friend and neighbor.

  “They sound like the best of people. You are lucky to have such friends.”

  She threw him a small smile, and the concern of him being outed to her for his brother’s sin lessened. “I believe I am.”

  The strains of a waltz drifted across the warm night’s air, and Hugh placed down his glass of wine, bowing before Molly. “May I have this dance, Miss Clare?”

  Without hesitation, she placed her silk-gloved fingers onto his palm, closing them tight about his hand. “I would like that very much, Mr. Armstrong.”

  Hugh led her out onto the dancefloor beside the central fountain. They took their places on the makeshift ballroom floor and waited for the music to begin.

  His fingers closed about her waist, the tulle th
at sat over her emerald-green gown shimmered under the stars and hundreds of candles that the Costa family’s servants had placed about the room. He pulled her close, not missing the moment her eyes flared at his action. As close as they now stood, it was not as close as he would like.

  The gown was soft under his touch, her waist small and delicate. The music started, and he whirled her into the steps, spinning them before waltzing about the room. The scent of jasmine teased his senses, and he studied her hair a moment, wondering if that was why she smelled so damn good.

  “You dance very well, Mr. Armstrong. I suspect you had dance lessons as a young man.”

  He’d had dance lessons for a lot longer than that. As a duke’s son, no child of his father would be lacking in ballroom etiquette or grace. He’d known how to dance and dance well since he was in short coats. “I do try to ensure I never tread on any of my partner’s toes. I hope not to disappoint you, Miss Clare.”

  She glanced up at him, their gazes clashed, and for the life of him, he could not look away. Her eyes, sharp and quick, watched him with utter conviction. He realized he never wanted to be looked upon any other way from Molly.

  “Now, I only have to fear that I shall tread on yours. I do hope that is not the case,” she said, laughing a little at her quip.

  She was all womanly curves, tempting and a stark reminder of all that he’d lost by fleeing to Rome all those years ago. Had he stayed in London, there was little doubt that he would have married by now. Settled down with a woman such as the one in his arms and had a handful of children. He’d always wanted a family, his father had been loving, and he wanted to be just like his sire.