Dark Duke (4 page)

Edward looked for her all afternoon, with no success. He
found the rest of them though, repeatedly. Violet in the kitchen chatting with
Mrs. Murphy as she baked—the little ones, Hamish and Taylor, pilfering biscuits
and gorging themselves beneath the table. Malcolm and Ned in the billiard room
sneaking his whiskey and smoking his cheroots. Violet once more, with Aunt
Hortense, rearranging furniture in the Blue Salon and babbling on about a
Poseidon
Motif
or some such nonsense. The middle boy, Dennis, uprooting orchids in
the conservatory. Hamish again—or was it Taylor?—eating worms in the garden.
The one that really frightened him was Sean, the quiet one, a surly
seven-year-old, whom he found in the dining room, hiding a saw behind his back
with a guilty look on his face.

But of Kaitlin, there was no sign.

By dinnertime Edward was positively petulant. Where had she
gone?

He wanted, rather desperately, to talk to her about what had
happened between them that morning. Even more desperately, he wanted to finish
it.

It stuck in his craw that she was hiding from him, because
he didn’t know if she was just afraid of him—of the power of what they had
experienced together—or if she was regretting it. Both prospects soured his
mood.

So, though it had become his custom to take his meals in his
suite since the
invasion
, he decided to go down for dinner. He found
everyone in the drawing room awaiting the gong. Everyone, that was, but
Kaitlin. Hovering at the door, he scanned the assembly again and again, hoping
he’d overlooked her auburn head in a sea of black, but she was not there.

Damn. Damn and blast.

He should escape now, before anyone spotted him—

“Halloo! Moncrieff.” Aunt Hortense, girded as she always was
in her breastplate of pearls, waved at him from the divan. Her upper arms
wobbled with the vigorous motion. “Are you joining us for dinner?”

He straightened his waistcoat and entered the room.

“Oh, how lovely, Edward.” Violet smiled. “We’ve so missed
you at the table. Boys?” She clapped her hands. “Boys! You must be on your best
behavior. His Grace is joining us for dinner.”

Naturally, they all ignored her. The twins, Hamish and
Taylor, were engaged in a battle—using his finest chess men, bashing them
together and making “
cuhss
” and “
pkoo
” noises. Malcolm plunked
out sour notes on the piano. Sean jabbed viciously at the fire with a poker.
Ned stood at the mantel with a large glass of amber liquid looking for all the
world like the lord of the castle.

Come to think on it, this probably
was
their best
behavior.

By the time the gong sounded, a headache had begun to ping
at Edward’s temples. He was certain it wasn’t the din in the drawing room. It
probably was the conversation Aunt Hortense had begun. About preparing for
Violet’s season.

Not that the prospect of a season for Violet gave him a
megrim. He rather liked the idea. For he rather liked Violet and wanted the
best for her. It was the assumption that
Edward
would be the one to
escort her to the balls and soirees and musicales.

He would rather be tortured on the rack in the Tower—if they
did that anymore—than attend Almack’s in a fussy suit and stiff collar.

So when the gong rang, he leapt to his feet. He hadn’t
completely forgotten himself—although at the moment, he wished he could—and he
offered his aunt an arm.

“Thank you, m’boy,” she said, patting his hand. Then she
launched into a plan for a ball for Violet’s coming out, for which he would
pay, of course. The litany of his responsibilities went on as they made their
way to the dining room, the boys and Violet following along behind, chattering raucously.
While such hubbub had never been part of his life—a duke was staid, quiet,
decorous—Edward found himself beset with little pings of envy. How fun it would
have been to grow up with boisterous brothers. To have someone to share the
mischief.

Dukes didn’t get to have fun. He’d learned that from his
father. The first Edward Wyeth had been an extraordinarily reserved and
somewhat sad man. Edward always supposed it was because he’d mourned the loss
of his wife. Although why he would pine so, considering how often they’d
fought, Edward couldn’t fathom. He remembered his mother as a brittle, bitter
woman married to a man she detested.

She had died when he was a young lad.

His father had raised him with the strictest expectations—he
was to be a duke one day, after all—which was probably why, when Edward turned
eighteen, he rebelled. He ran off and joined the army, a decided taboo for the
only son and heir of a peer. It had taken his father three years to find him.
It had taken that long because when Edward joined the army, and later worked
for the Home Office, he had done so under a false identity.

But his father finally found him.

In France.

In prison.

France in those days was a particularly dangerous place.
Especially if one was branded a spy.

In retrospect, Edward was quite thankful his father had
worked it out and rescued him. He hadn’t cared for captivity in the slightest.
Although, to this day, he was still friends with the men who had shared his
fetid cell, and always would be. He owed them a great debt.

He nodded to Transom as they passed. His old friend shot a
look at the following brood and rolled his eyes.

Silence fell as they approached the table and Edward pulled
out Aunt Hortense’s chair. She was still going on about the ball—which would be
done in sea-foam blue, to complement Violet’s alabaster complexion, don’t you
know—but Edward wasn’t listening. So he was free to notice the eerie stillness.
The younger boys gathered around the far end of the table, their eyes trained
on their aunt as she shifted her bulk into her seat.

He should have known.

He should have suspected.

They were far too silent.

As Hortense sat, a loud crack shot through the room and her
chair collapsed.

Edward caught her just in time. But he could hardly hold her
for long. Between the two of them, he and Transom managed to heft her to her
feet. Glaring at the now howling imps, he called for another chair.

The footmen swarmed in to set an un-shattered chair at the
table and remove the Chippendale sticks from the floor—dear Lord, that chair
had been in the family for years. Then they reformed their ranks and, like a
battalion facing battle, served the soup.

The incident had one positive benefit. Aunt Hortense stopped
talking altogether as she recovered. At least for a while.

The meal was half over, and Edward was sorely regretting his
decision to emerge from hiding, when Kaitlin appeared in the doorway. She was
breathless. Her dress was rumpled. Her bun was slightly askew.

“Oh Kaitlin, darling,” Violet cooed. “Wherever have you
been?”

She took her seat down the table, between Hamish and Sean.
“I’m sorry. I was…” She cleared her throat. Flicked a glance in Edward’s
direction. “Reading.” She tucked her napkin into her lap. “I fell asleep.”

“Must have been a boring book.” Malcolm passed her the
sauce.

She blinked behind those spectacles. “Um, yes. Of course.”
Her gaze danced over to Edward again.

Something simmering in those lovely orbs lit a fire in his
belly.
She’d been reading
. He knew at once, exactly what.

Oh. Excellent.

His evening went from miserable to downright promising in a
heartbeat.

He spent the remainder of the meal surreptitiously studying
her, listening in on her conversations and interpreting every gesture. Also
dodging carrots, as Sean and Dennis were flinging them at each other using
their spoons as catapults, continuing their ongoing battle.

Aunt Hortense’s warbled admonitions fell on deaf ears.

Though, by the end of dinner, deaf ears would have been a
blessing.

Still and all, when the company rose and made their way to
the drawing room, he followed. Because Kaitlin went with them.

At Violet’s urging, she sat at the piano and played
accompaniment as his cousin sang several songs in a lovely soprano. Then they
switched places and Kaitlin sang. Edward sat in the wingchair and watched,
oddly enchanted. Her voice was a rich, sultry alto. When the two sang a duet,
it was downright delightful.

Edward was struck with the knowledge that he was attending
an impromptu musicale—and rather enjoying it. Quite unexpected, that.

The boys then coordinated a rollicking game of
Bouts-Rimés
and then, of course, Rhymes with Rose. He found himself howling at some of the
verses they came up with. He suggested chess and, after a hunt for the missing
men, they sat around the table and partook in a tournament, with the winner of
each game playing the next challenger.

Most games ended quickly. Hamish beating Taylor. Sean
triumphing over Hamish, Dennis and Aunt Hortense. Malcolm squashing Sean and
then Violet. Ned trouncing Malcolm.

The game between Ned and Kaitlin took much longer. Edward
could tell she had played before, and many times. In the end, she won. Which
delighted him. Because he was the only remaining challenger.

They took their positions, each sizing up the other. He knew
more about her than she did of him, because he’d watched her play. He deliberately
made a few foolish moves at the beginning, to throw her off her game. But she
quickly caught on to his ploy.

She was a clever girl, his Kaitlin. She soon had him in a
corner.

But he was a master at chess, and wiggled out of the hole.

Their game went on and on, advance and retreat, loss and
triumph, until only a few pieces remained on the board.

The boys lost interest after a while and drifted off to
explore other pursuits. Violet and Aunt Hortense became engaged in a meticulous
discussion of the ball. That left Edward and Kaitlin alone together in the
corner.

He smiled at her as he moved his queen. “So, you were
reading this afternoon.”

She started. Her gaze flicked warily to his face. “Yes.”

“Anything…interesting?”

She tried to hide her smile with a pucker. It didn’t work.
“Perhaps.” She moved her king out of danger.

“Did it involve a harem girl, by chance?”

She tipped her head to the side. “Do you intend to win the
game by distracting me, Your Grace?”

“I think you should call me Edward now, don’t you?
After…this morning.”

She colored, a lovely rose. “So you do intend to distract
me.”

He moved his lone pawn.”Does it?” He glanced at her,
investing heat and promise in the look. “Distract you?”

“Perhaps. A little.” She took his knight. “Quite sad,
though, that you feel you have to cheat to beat me.”

“Cheat?”

“Hmm.” She studied the board as he took her bishop. “One
would hope you could play without resorting to such base tactics.”

“Oh, I will win.”

“Will you?” He loved the way her lips curled. They were perfect
lips, ripe for suckling. He’d love to have her suckling on him. His ardor
stirred.

“Do you fancy a wager?”

At her words, her tone, her look, his cock shot straight up.
“Most definitely. What shall we play for?”

At the same time he said “A kiss,” she suggested, “Money.”

He steeped his fingers and studied her. “What do you need
money for?” Good God, whatever it was, he’d be delighted to provide it for her.
A new dress? Ribbons? Furbelows? Done.

But she didn’t answer him. She sat back and folded her hands
in her lap. “Do you want to wager or not?”

He did. “All right. A kiss if I win. Ten guineas if you
win.” He was definitely winning.

“Twenty.”

He winced, but only in play. Twenty guineas was a fortune to
a girl like her. To a duke, it was a fart. But it would be worth it. Because he
was going to win. He could see it on the board. “Fine. Twenty guineas wagered
against a kiss. Play on, Macduff.”

She snorted a laugh and hunkered over the board,
determination written on her face. It was adorable. She was rather fun to
watch.

He should have paid more attention to the game.

Five minutes later, she had his king in check. Six minutes
later, in mate.

Hell. She’d won. He stared at the board. How had that
happened?

“I will accept a bank note,” she murmured, arranging the
pieces in their velvet nest.

He stayed her hand. “One more game. Double or nothing.”

She smiled at him and shook her head. “I will have the
twenty guineas, thank you.”

“Fine. They are yours. But I would like another game.”

“Would you?” She glanced about. With the exception of
Malcolm, sitting across the room in the wingchair and staring into the fire,
they were alone. “It’s getting late.”

“One more game. Thirty guineas against a kiss.”

She gasped.

“No.” For that much, he should get more. “Thirty guineas against
thirty kisses.”

“Thirty kisses?” Her brow quirked. “Your Grace, your lips
would be sore.”

He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Who said anything about
lips? That’s the part of the wager I forgot to mention. I get to choose where
those thirty kisses fall.”

She stared at him. Her lips worked. Ah, that they were
working on him. “Your Grace, I cannot help making the connection to selling
one’s soul for thirty pieces of silver.”

He grinned. “Nonsense.” He began setting the pieces on the
board. “Guineas aren’t silver.”

Kaitlin stared at the board as Edward arranged the men.
Fifty
guineas.
In one night. Lord. That was an opportunity she couldn’t dare to
miss. It wasn’t by far enough to wipe out the debt weighing on her soul, but
she would be fifty guineas closer to freedom. And if she lost—