The Duchess of Love by Sally Mackenzie Page B

the plants and insects under the surface.
    â€œYou see, Mrs. Edgemoor mistook Nigel—that’s my cousin—for the duke when we arrived; that’s what got the idea stuck in my head,” he said. “People forget dukes can be young.”
    She hadn’t thought of his age. “How old are you?”
    â€œTwenty-one.”
    Her heart sank. That was far too young for a duke to marry; even she knew that. He would want to sow his wild oats for many more years.
    â€œAnd then I came upon you, and you assumed I was Nigel, and I saw a golden opportunity, one I couldn’t let pass.”
    â€œA golden opportunity?” She sent him a sidelong glance. He’d turned to gaze out over the pond, too, his hands clasped behind his back. He was standing even closer to her, so close their sides almost touched. “What do you mean?”
    â€œA chance to not be Greycliffe for a while.”
    She tilted her head to look up at him. His face was unlined; his features still had the curve of youth, but his expression had hardened with knowledge beyond his years.
    â€œEveryone thinks I should be so bloody happy to be a rich duke,” he said, “but they don’t know what it’s like. They don’t know how often the title feels like shackles.”
    He turned to face her. His eyes were so blue and clear and … honest.
    â€œMy life changed when I was thirteen,” he said. He snapped his fingers. “Just like that, I was no longer me, Andrew Valentine. I was Greycliffe. Men wanted to befriend me and women marry me—or climb into my bed—just because I was a duke. I could have been mad, old, crippled, vicious—it didn’t matter. As long as they could call me ‘your grace,’ they wanted a piece of me.”
    He touched her then, just a light brush along her cheek. He’d lost his gloves somewhere between Hyndon House and the pond. His skin was warm and slightly rough as if he used his hands for more than reading and writing letters. “When I met you, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to be me again. Not a duke. Just a man. Can you understand at all?”
    She could. She wasn’t a duke, of course, but she’d spent her life wanting people to see her as herself, not as the vicar’s daughter or Ditee’s little sister.
    â€œY-yes.” She moistened her lips. She was suddenly breathless. “I suppose I can, y-your grace.”
    His brows lowered into a scowl. “Don’t.”
    â€œDon’t what?” He was so close she could see a faint, thin white line at the corner of his right eye, likely a scar from some childhood mishap.
    â€œDon’t ‘your grace’ me.”
    She put her hands on his chest. “What should I call you?”
    â€œDrew.” He bent closer so his lips were only inches from hers. “Call me Drew, Venus. Please?”
    His voice sounded oddly husky. Was he going to kiss her?
    She should pull away. She was only the vicar’s daughter. He was likely playing with her.
    But she didn’t think so. She could be wrong, but she would trust her heart in this. Better to risk pain now than spend her life wondering what might have been.
    â€œDrew,” she said, lifting her chin.

Chapter 8
    Drew closed the small gap between them and brushed Venus’s mouth with his.
    Lightning flashed through him to lodge in—
    He jerked his hips back and his head up.
    He was not a virgin—he’d accepted more than one invitation to dance in some high flyer’s bed—but he’d never felt this overwhelming emotion before. It was more than lust, though it was definitely that, too.
    He put a good foot of space between him and Venus. He might not be a virgin, but she was.
    Venus blinked at him as if she were waking from a dream. He felt rather proud of himself until she opened her mouth.
    â€œThat’s it?” She frowned.
    â€œOf course that’s it.” He frowned back