The Dukes' Christmas Abductions Page 5

  At least she wasn’t the only one to feel the combustible heat between them. He frowned when she clicked it on and the display lit up. Opening up her internet browser she brought up the website for Haversham House, and with a triumphant snort shoved the phone at him.

  “Here, see. That’s the website for Haversham House, and that has me listed as the curator, and James and Brenda, as permanent caretakers.”

  “Impossible.” He sat down with a thump, and she gentled her voice as she guided his fingers across the screen. His breathing sped up and his knuckles turned white in the strangle hold he had on her phone, as she took him through the site.

  “And you see, here on the blog is the invite to the Regency Christmas Ball. We do this every year in an effort to find the heir, he…”

  His head came up at the mention of an heir, and the fine hair on her arms rose at his murmured response.

  “Through time and space…you don’t belong…hell and tarnation.”

  He got up so abruptly, she almost fell off the bed. Not that Daniel noticed because he paced up and down the length of the room like a caged tiger, and then almost yanked the bell pull off its mooring.

  “Erm, you’re not expecting that to work, do you, because…” She stopped speaking at his incredulous look, and held up her phone. “Let me text him. Cause they’re just decoration … I think anyway.”

  “You think? You’re the curator, and you think? Surely you would know what you’ve done with my house?”

  ****

  His cock tightened seeing Clara’s reaction to his words. She looked thoroughly roiled at him questioning her abilities, and he hid his smirk when she got to her knees and, hand on hips, glared at him. If looks could kill, he would have already met his maker, and he wasn’t entirely sure this whole episode wasn’t a wine fueled hallucination on his part. After all, he’d grown beyond wary at the machinations of his time, and the expectancy of the ton for him to settle down and marry, when nobody suitable for his needs had presented themselves. Daniel had always known he would never settle for anything but true love in a marriage and seeing Kit so much in love with his Lady Victoria had only cemented that belief.

  “How dare you? I’m perfectly capable of doing my job, or at least I would be, if this wing wasn’t locked away and my hands weren’t tied with the idiotic rules set by your ancestor, this Lord Reginald gay as a fence post Danvers, who thus died childless, and what?”

  Her ire increased in tune to his amusement, and he grew even harder. Damn it all, he would have to have her and soon, or explode. All this talking, as important as it was, was getting them nowhere fast, and he wanted, no needed to lose himself in her sweet body.

  Knelt on the bed as she was with the light of the oil lamp right behind her, his shirt was rendered transparent, and all her lush curves were on display, which made his cock behave like a champion race horse galloping toward the finishing line.

  “What’s so freaking funny about that?”

  Daniel reigned in his merriment with some difficulty.

  “I could ask you the same question. What has this Reginald being a very happy man have to do with him not leaving an heir? Dashed inconsiderate as that was of him.”

  Clara harrumphed, that was really the only word for it, and rolled her eyes.

  “Oh, for pity’s sake, he was gay as in homosexual, batting for the other team, and all that, jazz, not that there is anything wrong with being gay. Love is love after all, but you know, it doesn’t render itself to providing precious heirs.”

  Daniel had no idea what she was talking about. She might as well be speaking another language.

  “He wasn’t able to perform?” he guessed.

  Clara snorted. It should have been an incongruous sound but coupled with her wrinkling her nose, it was strangely erotic.

  “I wasn’t there, so I couldn’t possibly answer that, but it was more a case of he couldn’t get it up for women, if you catch my drift.”

  Daniel had no idea what snowdrifts had to do with anything, but he thought it wisest to keep that thought to himself. Really this woman had some strange sayings and even stranger beliefs. Suddenly her words registered with him.

  “You mean he preferred the company of men.” At Clara’s nod, he shrugged his shoulders and grinned. “That is not entirely surprising. A fair number of men in my family seem to be that way inclined. Even so, he should have put his personal preferences aside long enough to maintain his duty, and provided an heir to the estate.”

  A discreet cough behind him alerted Daniel to the fact that they weren’t alone anymore. Clara shrieked and, grabbing hold of the bed curtain, used it to shield her half naked state as much as she could. Why she should be that embarrassed to be caught in a state of undress in front of a servant was beyond Daniel’s comprehension. His own valet had seen him in all sorts of state of undress and compromising situations and never batted an eyelid, but the silver haired man dressed in full Regency butler attire wasn’t Jenkins of course. No, this was the man in the picture on the strange little black box Clara had shown him. Dressed as he was in full Regency attire, the likeness of this man to the butler of Faversham house in 1815 was startling to the extreme.

  This butler bowed his head, and with a hint of amusement in his grey eyes, smiled toward Clara hiding on the bed before he sobered and addressed Daniel.

  “My lord, if I may be so bold as to offer an opinion to this dilemma?”

  Behind him Clara snorted again, and Daniel was sure he heard her mutter some sort of expletive that would have made sailors blush in his time.

  “By all means do, if you know something to shed some insight into this dilemma as you put it.”

  James smiled again, and took a folded parchment out of the inside of his suit. Daniel’s heart beat faster when he recognized Kit’s seal on the back of the aged paper.

  “Lord Danvers did leave an heir. You, my lord.”

  Chapter Six

  Haversham House, December 1815

  Vicky wondered if she’d wake up any time soon. She clutched her dead as a dodo phone and stared at the condoms and the rest of the paraphernalia spread out around her. She had to be dreaming. Researching for a book sometimes did that to her. She seemed to remember a storm and a wedding. Of marrying a drop dead gorgeous guy who liked the same things as she did. Hell, she’d almost finished plotting the book. The only part of it she didn’t know was how it was going to end. Maybe this dream would show her?

  “And tonight?” she asked and cursed the apprehension that made her voice wobble.

  Kit gave her a shrewd look, took a deep breath and began to talk.

  Ten minutes later she had an incipient headache and her eyes were gritty. Come what may, she’d have to take her lenses out soon, and put on her specs. Would that freak him out? Somehow she doubted it. So far nothing she’d said or done had upset his even tone and his level attitude towards her and her stroppiness. Because, she was uneasily aware, stroppy was an understatement. But hey, surely she had good reason to be a bit bratty.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve riled you,” she began. “But ya know it’s a bit much to take in without a hangover.”

  “Riled? Do you mean roiled?”

  She shrugged. “Probably, whatever I apologize. It’s a lot to assimilate.” Somehow she’d have to bite her tongue, eat humble pie, and accept any punishment her Lord and master thought fit. Vicky acknowledged she deserved it. “However I’ll do my best. So, let me get this straight.” Not that she had any idea how. “I’m your wife, it’s 1815, and we were at a ball?”

  He nodded. “The annual estate ball. We were in the picture gallery.”

  “So why was I naked?”

  He blinked. “Ah. You like being naked? It’s what we decided on.”

  “Not good enough,” Vicky said, even though those words in his deep commanding tone made her pussy sting and goose bumps skitter over her skin. She tried to ignore how she felt and concentrated on what she needed to know. “I surely wasn’t nake
d at a ball?” That could have come from one of her novels. The one where the heroine had a dream and woke up in… Oh shit … I’m living my book. “Tell me I wasn’t.”

  He laughed. “No, that was after you screamed the place down when the storm was overhead. You were sweating so much I stripped you to towel you down. Then, well, you know the rest.”

  Do I? Maybe, maybe not.

  “We were at a ball in when, 2015?”

  He put his hand to her forehead. “You don’t feel feverish.”

  “I’m not. I’m not feverish, delusional or a crackpot. I don’t think.” To be honest she wasn’t sure anymore. “But will you cuddle me anyway?” More and more Vicky thought that, crazy or not, this guy loomed large and was important in her life. She’d always had premonitions and this one became ever more fixed in her mind. Why else did she know so much about the era without research? Why was she such a stickler for detail? Maybe there was something in this time travel thing after all. Either that or the mushroom quiche she’d had at lunch was suspect.

  “Okay, just for supposition’s sake, let’s say it is 1815, and I’m married to you,” she said, rapidly thinking things out as she voiced her thoughts. “We went to a ball and it thundered. I imagined it was two hundred years in the future, grabbed some things and now we’re back in your—our time. I know what I brought back and you have no idea what they’re for. Have I got that right?”

  He nodded. “Essentially, yes. Except I joined you after you’d gone.”

  “Okay so to go on from there. How did I get into 2015 anyway, and how come you were with me?" She was half talking to herself but he heard her, because he grunted in what? Agreement? Dissent? She didn’t ask. “Why didn’t you hold on to me when I… well whatever I—we—did to get there? And how come I’ve got my lenses and stuff with me? How did I know what to get?” She pointed at him and poked him in the stomach. “Ha, you don’t have an answer, do you?” she finished triumphantly.

  He took hold of her hand and bit the flesh part of skin just above her thumb. Vicky gasped. “What the?” Oh my. That sweet sting was too much sensory overload for her at that moment. She had enough to assimilate with the fact her life could well not be what she thought it was, without a pussy going into overdrive and a need for some lady pads. Did they even have anything vaguely like them in Regency times? The most she’d ever found in her research was sponges and vinegar for birth control and one very discrete paragraph about a wad of linen inserted inside as, she guessed, a very rudimentary tampon for that time of the month. Was that to be her life from now on?

  “You talk too much,” Kit said. Funny how now his name came into her mind naturally. “And what you said? Well a lot of that doesn’t make sense, ma petite. Earlier today you went out on your horse. A storm got up and you were thrown. You only lost consciousness for a short while, and seemed fine. We went to the estate ball.” His diction was clipped and terse. “Entered the picture gallery and you changed in front of my eyes.” He gulped, so unlike his normal self that Vicky gaped at him in amazement. Her next thought hit her like a ton of bricks.

  Hold on, how do I know what his normal self is like? This is shit stirringly scary. “Um, in what way changed?”

  He shrugged. “It’s hard to say. You just left me for a while. Then, well, we had more thunder, you screamed, grabbed hold of me, and I dragged you out of the gallery and into here. Back to our room where I held you, and you know the rest.”

  Well, actually, no she didn’t, but one thing seemed to be clear. It was 1815, she was married and this hunk was her husband.

  Where was the gin when you needed it?

  “Then if this is 1815, and we’re married and I don’t live in 2015, how do I have my contacts in, a box of condoms, a packet of tampons, and designer glasses to change into? And where is Clara?”

  “Clara?”

  “The curator of the house. The girl I was with when that bloke … that bloke he looked like you … who was he?”

  Kit turned a nice shade of white, and mumbled something under his breath. Vicky stared at him as he swayed and visibly collected himself.

  "What?” she asked urgently. “What is it? What do you know?"

  "Hockwell? The tall blond man with me? He's my cousin, and tarnation. I haven’t seen him since we got back. I’m certain he didn’t follow us. Do you think he's gone back, forward or whatever with this Clara?"

  “What do you mean?” Gah, I’m doing the repetition crap again.

  "Well, do you recall always saying that he struck you as odd?" At her blank look he ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Well, you did. Called it female intuition. You said, and I quote, he doesn't really seem to fit here, does he? And come to think of it, you're right. Oh, Daniel could play the game as well as the next person, but I thought it was just because of that strange prophecy he got as a child."

  "Prophesy?" Vicky echoed.

  "Yes, we got a royal telling off by our governesses, but we'd sneaked away to the travelling fair, and into the hut of Mistress Allure." Kit smirked as he remembered. "Her only allure consisted of having seemingly managed to have lived to one hundred, if you counted the lines on her face. Anyhow, she read us our fortune. Mine was the usual, as befitting my station. His? Well, she smiled, turned his hand over, patted his head and said 'Poor child, your place is not here. Fear not, because all will become clear when you follow your heart and cross space and time’."

  Vicky was transfixed. “And you? What did she say to you?”

  He went red and muttered something under his breath.

  “Pardon? I didn’t hear that.”

  He muttered again. This time Vicky caught some of the words. Mainly, married, seven and offspring. She poked him on the arm.

  He winced and glared. “Violence is never the answer.”

  “Don’t you believe it, mate. Sometimes it’s the only answer. Did you say what I think you did? That you reckon we’re having seven kids? In your dreams, buster, think again. Or violence might well be the result.”

  “It’s written,” Kit said in a voice that brooked no arguments.

  “Typical male. In the stars I suppose,” Vicky said sarcastically. “Not a scooby. Stars, charlatans or charts, and it’s written, bloody well hold no truck with me. If I write, Kit has his bollocks chopped off with a rusty pen knife would you say okay, it’s written?”

  He moved his hands swiftly to cover his cock and balls and Vicky nodded with satisfaction.

  “Ha, exactly. Hence if you think I’m going to lie back, think of England and shell out seven kids like peas popping from a pod you’ve got another think coming. What do you imagine these are for?” She upended the supersized box of condoms over his head and threw the now empty box after them, followed by three tampons and, just because they were handy, her contact lens case and the wet wipes.

  His eyes widened as one foil covered condom hit him on the nose, and a tampon wedged behind his ear. It looked so like a sketch in an anarchical TV program her parents had raved about, Vicky bit back a giggle.

  “What in Hades, woman?” His look of rage gave her pause. Vicky took a step away from him, towards the door. “Ah... I er…” She didn’t get any further. Kit pulled her back and tipped her chin up.

  “What was that for?” he asked levelly. “Seven is not excessive. I need some heirs.”

  “Some yes.” She understood that. “Surely not seven?”

  “Why not?” He seemed genuinely perplexed. “You’ll have help.”

  Everything was going much too fast. Seven was six more than she’d ever envisaged having. Grief, she knew enough about either of her personas to know she was no earth mother.

  “Well, if you use those,” she waved a condom at him. “I’ll have even more help. And hopefully less kids.”

  ****

  “Oufft! What the—”

  “Enough.” Kit tucked his wife under his arm and dropped her onto the bed before he followed her and kept her in place by the simple expediency of putting his leg
over her waist. Unfortunately, at the angle he’d landed that put his cock in line with her cunt.

  Down, boy, not yet. He willed his wayward pego to behave and concentrate on his wife.

  Her cheeks were delicately flushed, her lips were slightly apart, and her skin slicked with the sheen of arousal. She took a deep breath and he braced himself for her ire.

  It didn’t come.

  “You see that little thing you have in your hand?” she said quietly. “That will prevent children.”

  He stared at a tiny square packet made of some material he’d never seen before. Surely she jested? “How on earth?”

  She stretched up and plucked it out of his fingers. As Kit watched in amazement she tugged and the packet fell to bits.

  “See?” Victoria took out a tiny almost see through… see through what? and shook it. “Now you put this on and lo and behold no little wrigglies get through and think aha a nice warm womb to spend some time in. Instead they get caught up and flushed away, not to live another day.”

  “On where?” With a bit of luck it would cover his big toe or his thumb, but even he knew neither digit produced children.

  “On your cock.”

  Kit narrowed his eyes. “My cock is not a bantam. That whatever it is wouldn’t even cover a puppy’s prick and I’m no puppy.”

  Victoria rolled her eyes. She was very good at conveying so many different emotions in that one small gesture. “Men and their bits. Take it from me it’s guaranteed to fit. Hot dog eh? From a chipolata to a Cumberland. Okay neither of those fit the bill.” She chuckled. “Well I don’t think so. Argh, that sounds as if I’m dissing your attributes and I’m not. After all who wants a Cumberland in them? A long curly cock’s not much good.”

  What on earth was she talking about? Kit decided it was high time to wrest the initiative back from her before she really confused him. He wanted to sink his cock into her, not discuss its non-human like attributes.

  “My cock is happy as it is, not squeezed into, well whatever that is.”