Page 13 of Good Duke Gone Cold

“Gregory, delighted to see you this afternoon. How did you fair last night? As it was the first dinner with guests in a while, I was pleased to see you resume your host duties without fault.”

“Thank you mother. I regret to say I cannot answer your question in due diligence as I fear I may have overindulged. I cannot remember beyond the gentleman’s port.” He was purposefully avoiding Mary’s gaze. Despite not wanting to think about him, his intentional distance nettled her.

Gregory raked his hand through his hair. “I vaguely recall a suggestion for hide and seek, but that cannot be.”

“Oh it was!” Margaret chimed in. She slowly turned to look at Mary. Whatever she saw in her eyes, she did not need more reason or persuasion to drop the subject. “But it was just a silly game, over before it started, really. Mary had a headache, and we went to bed quite early.”

Mary was burning a hole in the paper on the desk in front of her. If he didn’t want to remember the kiss, then she certainly wouldn’t either. Was it possible he was that drunk? She had seen him three sheets to the wind before, but only that one time. Maybe he didn’t remember. That would make more sense anyways. For why would he kiss me? He must have been that drunk. Yes, I suppose he doesn’t remember. Well, I will not remind him.

And then inspiration did pop up, so Mary began writing the next scene in her play.

She could feel Gregory’s eyes on the back of her head, but she feigned indifference and continued writing. She continued writing as she heard his inane comments about the weather and his intentions to go riding again.

Gregory could not remove the image of Mary’s pain-stricken face from his mind as he rode across the estates. When he alluded to being drunk and not remembering the passion-filled, arousal-inducing kiss, he saw her eyes turn pale and droop ever so slightly. That was Mary’s version of crying in public and it tore at his heart. But he didn’t want someone else close to him, especially not this girl. Everyone close to him deserted him, his father, Jonathan. He was lucky his mother and Margaret were still around, but even they he held at arm’s length. No need to form attachments too secure.

The sun was out and warming his face. It wasn’t just inane chatter when he mentioned the weather and riding again. This was his meditation and release. He could think, or not think, as the situation required. He would just ride Apollo for hours until his legs ached and he had expunged whatever life’s torment had foisted upon him this time.

He had no real direction or intention except to remove himself from Mary’s presence. Distance was needed. It wasn’t like distance made the heart grow fonder or anything. No, whoever said that had obviously never kissed the wrong girl and needed space.

For the next several days, Gregory threw himself into the work of the estate. He visited tenants, reviewed leases, discerned renewals, adjudicated disputes, authorized new wells and irrigation systems on the two hundred acres devastated by a forest fire, and all in all had been very productive. Very productive that is with estate business, but utterly unproductive in exorcizing Mary from his mind.

Every time he passed the broom closet, which was at least every day three times a day, once to breakfast, once on the way out, once back to his room, etc. he relived the feel of her softness pressed against him. His hands itched to hold her again and his right hand was jealous of his left for having spent more time on her body. His left hand was resentful for having had to hold the door shut.

Damn that broom closet. Damn a clean house.

Chapter 5

Gregory’sthoughtsweresquabblinginside his head, leaving battle scars and wounds in excess. Distance wasn’t working. Maybe proximity would. Keep your enemies close and all that. That, and he just could not assuage the guilt he was attempting to appease in his conscience. For the past week, Gregory had gone to great lengths eschewing Mary, and especially Mary’s play.

Every day he maintained tunnel vision and intentionally averted his eyes so as not to see Mary. Yet every time he closed his eyes he felt the heat of her body against his, and the heat was spreading. He need only think of her soft lips against his to trigger his arousal.

All the while he pushed away both Margaret’s words laden with guilt to trip him into working on the play and Mary’s eyes beholden with confusion and pain at his obnoxious claim of forgetting their kiss.

He could not, would not give in to either party. He had to draw the line and trust in his own discretion. It would do no good to be near Mary. He didn’t want a wife, and she, like all women, naturally wanted a husband. She was probably already thinking wedding bells and rice. He must deter her, rebuff her, forget her. It was only right to pretend that the most sensual kiss of his life had never happened, for it happened with the wrong girl.

Avoiding her was working perfectly fine. He could live with the unpredictable arousals as long as he could predict when Mary might sporadically spring to mind. Like when he smelled cinnamon, vanilla, tea, or air.

Then one afternoon, while in his study, Gregory could hear workers banging loudly in a nearby room. He went in search of a quieter place to assemble his thoughts and forecast his investments. Grumbling through the halls, when Gregory finally realized he could no longer hear the banging, he steered himself into the first available room.

As far as mistakes went, this wasn’t quite a mistake yet, but it had all the harbingers of being one.

Upon entering the room, he caught sight of Mary and Margaret at the far end reviewing what looked to be pages of her play.

He should have left. He should have slowly backed out of the doorway, slipped away, and not committed the mistake. At the very least, he should not have gazed longingly at her bosom augmented, unnecessarily, by her corset. And he most definitely should not have walked into the room and cleared his throat to gain the women’s attention.

Mary’s hands grew clammy against the quill. It was as if she could feel Gregory’s eyes roving up and down her ribs, brushing lightly on the underside of her bosom. How could his presence feel so real when it was just her imagination conjuring up memories from the broom closet.

Gregory had always been the most upstanding man, nay person, she knew. He always knew what to do, and he always did the right thing. When the four of them had accidentally left some of the stable doors open and some horses had escaped, Gregory took responsibility and told his parents so that the stable hands were not wrongfully blamed. When the four of them used the formal dining ware for props in one of their plays and accidentally broke several dishes, Gregory was the first one, and only one, truth be told, to steadfastly require the four of them to confess to his mother immediately.

It was odd that the four of them could hang out, almost as friends, given the mixed company and age gap of six years. But Gregory was their leader, and since he approved of it, the other three didn’t question it. Jonathan was usually off pulling pranks on Margaret, teasing her, or provoking her to no end. But Margaret didn’t take it lying down. She got her pranks in as well, the dead fish in his school bag, sewing his shirt sleeves closed one time, and even pushing him into the pond a couple of times.

Even though Mary would have been viewed by everyone else as the pesky little friend of his younger sister, he never treated her that way. Nor was he ever dismissive. Even when the two girls had asked the boys to teach them to fish, Gregory had sat patiently on the bank hooking a wriggly worm on for bait, casting the line, and then sitting comfortably in the silence while they waited. He was always that way, comfortable and confident in silence or in chatter. Mary was envious of his confidence. She never felt fully confident in her decisions. She wasn’t determined like Margaret and Gregory both were. Until now that is. Now she was determined to focus on her play.

Suddenly, she heard the object of her reverie clear his throat. Now it made sense why just a few moments ago she was having trouble maintaining the pace of her breathing and discouraging her sweat glands from working overtime.

He was in the room. His presence, without being acknowledged, invaded her space and body. She looked at him standing in the middle of the room with all the aplomb and dignity of a man born to be a duke. She couldn’t help her eyes from taking their fill of hessian boots, dark breeches, gold brocade waistcoat, to black velvet coat and white cravat. His clothes contoured to his broad shoulders, lean waist, and strong legs. As she remembered the hardness between those strong legs, she could feel the heat rising in her face.

I do not care how dashing he looks with the sunlight illuminating his determined, enticing mien. His capable comportment will not weaken my resolve to focus exclusively on my play. I am a woman born for more than to just be a wife, besides I wouldn’t be his wife if he was the last man on earth. Well, if he was the last man, I might consider it. If he was the last of one hundred men, he might stand a chance.

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