Falling Into Bed with a Duke (Hellions of Havisham) (2 page)

A cold, icy shiver skittered down Nicky’s spine. He looked toward the door, the windows on either side of it revealing the darkness descending, and he feared it would claim him as well, that when he could finally leave this place—like his parents—little of him would remain except ash.

Chapter 1

London

1878

E
TIQUETTE dictated that a gentleman caller did not extend his visit beyond fifteen minutes, so it was that Miss Minerva Dodger knew that her time in the company of Lord Sheridan would be drawing to a close within the next one hundred and eighty interminable seconds. Sooner, if luck was on her side, but the gentleman sitting to her left on the sofa in the front parlor was apparently determined to eke out his maximum stay. Since she had handed him a cup of tea shortly after his arrival, he seemed to have forgotten his purpose in coming here. The fine bone china with the red roses hadn’t once left the saucer that he balanced so expertly on his thigh.

This visit was his third within the past seven days, and all she’d really garnered from their time together was that he used a little too much bergamot cologne, kept his fingernails well manicured, and periodically released sighs for ostensibly no reason whatsoever. And that he cleared his throat to signal the end of his calling upon her.

She now welcomed the harsh gurgle as he set aside his cup before standing. Placing her own cup and saucer on the low table in front of her, she pushed to her feet and fought not to look too pleased that the ordeal was finally over. “Thank you so much for coming, Lord Sheridan.”

“I hope I may call on you tomorrow.” The earnestness in his brown eyes alerted her that he was not truly asking for permission but was merely stating his intent.

“If I may be so bold, my lord, allow me to ask if this is truly how you want to spend the remainder of your life—sitting about in heavy silences with only the ticking of the clock to remind us of the passing of time?”

He blinked. “Pardon?”

Now she was the one to sigh, hating that she was forced to be blunt because he refused to acknowledge the truth of the situation. “We are not suited, my lord.”

“I’m not certain how you’ve reached that conclusion.”

“We don’t converse. I have tried to engage you in several topics of conversation—”

“On the wisdom of England’s expansion in Africa. It is not a subject that should concern a lady.”

“It is going to concern a great many ladies if war erupts, and they find themselves catapulted into widowhood. Not to mention the financial toll on the country—” She held up a hand. The man looked positively horrified. “My apologies. You didn’t want to discuss it earlier, and I’m quite certain you don’t wish to now as you are preparing to leave. It’s simply that I have opinions and believe I have the right to voice them. You seem to have no interest in hearing my view on anything other than the weather.”

“You will be a countess.”

Now it was her turn to blink. “What has that to do with anything?”

“You will be Lady Sheridan. As such, you shall be too busy overseeing your duties and your charitable endeavors to be sitting about in the parlor with me during the afternoon.”

“And in the evening?”

“I have an extensive library that will be at your disposal. Although surely you do needlework.”

“I don’t, actually. I find it tedious. I much prefer a rousing debate on social reform.”

“I will not tolerate a wife who engages in
rousing debates
. It’s unseemly.”

“Which is why, my lord, we are not suited.” She said it kindly when she yearned to ask him why he thought any woman would want to be his wife.

“I have a very large estate, Miss Dodger. Granted, it does need some upkeep, but your dowry will set it to rights.”

And there it was, spoken at long last: the reason for his presence in her parlor.

“But you see, Sheridan, I come with my dowry. Furthermore, I come as I am. With my own ideas, not necessarily my husband’s, with my own interests, again, not necessarily my husband’s. But I want him to respect my opinions and interests. I want to be able to discuss them with him and know that he is listening.”

“I’ll give you children.”

What did that have to do with his listening, which he obviously was failing to do. She felt rather like a mule being tossed carrots in hopes that one would get the beast to move along. And while she desperately wanted children, she wasn’t willing to pay any price in order to obtain them. If she wasn’t happy, how could they be? “Will you give me love?”

He tapped his front teeth together. “It is possible that, with time, my affections would grow.”

She gave him a tolerant smile. “I think you would find living with me to be quite challenging.”

“I have two estates. Once I have my heir, I see no reason that we must live at the same residence.”

It took everything within her not to laugh hysterically. The man refused to heed what she was saying—which had been the problem from the beginning. “Call on me if you wish, my lord, but know that under no circumstances will I ever marry you.”

“You won’t get a better offer.”

“That may well be true, but I seriously doubt that I shall receive a worse one.”

Jerking his head around, he glared at her mother, sitting in the corner with her needlework as though she were responsible for the words spewing from Minerva’s mouth. “Your Grace—”

“Mrs. Dodger,” her mother interrupted succinctly.

Sheridan released a frustrated sigh. “You are the widow of a duke.”

“I am the wife of Jack Dodger and prefer to be addressed as such.”

He tapped his front teeth together several times before clearing his throat. “Very well, if you insist.”

She smiled sweetly. “I have from the moment I married him a good many years ago, but I don’t believe you’re here to discuss the choices I’ve made in my life.”

“You are quite right, madam, I am not. Will you be so kind as to explain to your daughter why she should not be so quick to dismiss my suit?”

Her face serene, she bestowed upon him an indulgent smile. “To be quite honest, Lord Sheridan, I think your afternoons would be better spent elsewhere.”

Harrumphing, he pinned Minerva with his glower. “I intend to have a wife by the end of the Season. I shall not wait for you to come to your senses, Miss Dodger. I shall move on.”

“I think that would be most wise.”

“You’re foolish to give up what I can provide.”

“With the help of my dowry.”

The tapping of his teeth again. In time, the habit would no doubt drive her mad.

“Good day, Madam, Miss Dodger.” With that, he spun on his heel and strode from the parlor without so much as a backward glance.

With a deep sigh releasing much of the tension that had accompanied Minerva with his visit, she rolled her shoulders before wandering across the room and dropping unceremoniously into the chair beside her mother’s. “Strange, but I’d have felt more foolish if I’d married him.”

Reaching across, her mother squeezed her hand. “You’re not foolish at all. You know your own mind. Somewhere, there is a man who will relish that aspect of you and view you as more than an ornament.”

While Minerva wasn’t prone to pessimism, on this particular subject she couldn’t dredge up her mother’s optimism.

“I just passed Lord Sheridan going out as I was coming in,” Grace Stanford, the Duchess of Lovingdon, and Minerva’s dearest friend, said as she walked into the parlor, her two-year-old son perched on her hip. “I daresay, he bore the look of a storm cloud.”

“What a marvelous surprise to have you drop by,” Minerva’s mother said, her smile brighter than anything the sun could produce as she rose and crossed over to their newest arrivals. “How is my grandson?”

The boy reached for her, and she took him into her arms. “I swear, you have grown so much since last I saw you.”

“You saw him a few days ago,” Grace reminded her mother-by-marriage.

“Too long.”

Approaching, Minerva tried to read her friend’s expression, but Grace was known for never giving anything away. It made her an extremely skilled opponent at cards.

“So, Lord Sheridan?” Grace prompted.

With a sigh, Minerva shrugged her shoulders. “He thought we were well suited. I didn’t.”

“He has considerable debt,” Grace said.

“Precisely.”

“He is rather nice-looking and can be quite charming.”

“He sat here for fifteen minutes staring at his teacup as though hoping to catch a glimpse of his tea evaporating.”

“Oh dear.” Her eyes held sympathy and understanding. Before her marriage to Minerva’s half brother, the Duke of Lovingdon, Grace had been navigating the sea of fortune hunters as well.

“So what brings you to our door?” Minerva asked.

“I simply wanted to visit with you for a bit.”

“I’ll leave you girls to it,” her mother said distractedly, pinching the child’s chubby red cheek. “Come along. Let’s find your grandfather. He’ll be delighted to see you.” She looked at Grace. “That’s all right, isn’t it? If I take him off for a bit?”

“Of course. I’ll find you when I’m ready to leave.”

“Take your time,” Minerva’s mother said, before wandering from the room in search of her husband. If Society ever saw Jack Dodger playing peekaboo with his stepgrandson, his fierce reputation would be shattered.

“She does love him,” Minerva said, ignoring the ache in her chest because she might never give her parents a grandchild.

“I know. Furthermore, I knew his presence would ensure we had some time alone when we wouldn’t be disturbed.”

A mixture of anticipation and dread coursed through Minerva. “You acquired the address?”

“Let’s have a seat, shall we?” As though she could outrun the conversation, Grace moved swiftly to the sofa and sat.

Minerva joined her there, the excitement over the possibilities drowning out any of her initial trepidation. “Do you have it?” she prodded impatiently.

Grace shifted uncomfortably. “Are you certain about this, Minerva? Once it’s lost—”

“I’m well aware how virginity works, Grace.” She snapped her fingers impatiently. “Give over the address.”

She didn’t dare say aloud the name of the establishment. No one did. Rumors of the existence of the secretive Nightingale Club had been floating through London for years, but its location was a closely guarded secret because its owners were supposedly ladies of the aristocracy—married ladies who had established a place for others such as themselves to bring their paramours for discreet rendezvouses, their husbands none the wiser regarding their illicit affairs. Its purpose had evolved over the years so that even those who had no lover might secure one for a night. That was all she wanted. One night.

“Your brother will kill me if he learns that I assisted you with this endeavor.”

“He won’t do any such thing. He adores you to distraction. Besides, he isn’t going to find out. It’s not as though I’m going to announce it, but you know full well the sort of life he led before he married you. Why is it acceptable for men to be naughty but not for women to partake in the same liberties?”

“It’s simply the way of it. What if you fall in love—”

Minerva couldn’t help it. She laughed out loud at that. “I’ve seen six Seasons, Grace. I’m on the shelf gathering dust, except for the occasional fortune hunter. I have no interest in a marriage that is a business arrangement. I want to be loved for who I am. My immense dowry doesn’t aid me in finding love. I’m not particularly pretty.”

Grace opened her mouth to protest, and Minerva cut in before she could speak. “You know it’s true.” Based upon the dowry her father—one of the wealthiest men in London—had bestowed upon her, she had not wanted for men’s professed affections, but not a single one had carried an ounce of truth. She wasn’t particularly beautiful, couldn’t even classify herself as pretty or endearing in the looks department. “I have too much of my father in me. His dark eyes, his common features. And I’ve his head for business. I’m smart, and I speak my mind. I’m not demure or biddable. I want passion and fire, not the coldness of silence and sighs as we wait for the minutes to pass until we’re no longer in each other’s company. Do you have any idea how often I have sat in this very parlor with a gentleman who did little more than hold a teacup on his lap and comment on the biscuits and cakes as though they are the sum of my life? I’m intimidating. I know that. I consider holding my tongue, but I don’t want to give a gentleman a false impression of whom he is courting. I’m not shy about spouting my opinions, and men find such behavior intolerable.”

“You simply haven’t met the right man yet.”

“It’s not as though I’ve taken to hiding behind fronds. I’ve been visible, seen by everyone. My dowry is attractive; I am not. Men do not seek me out with passion in mind, but rather purse strings. It’s grown wearisome.”

Grace studied her quietly for a few moments. “What if you should get with child?” she finally asked, and Minerva nearly groaned at the tedious questioning, but she appreciated that her dear friend meant well.

“I’ve researched. I’ll take precautions.”

Grace slumped back, nibbling on her lower lip. “The act itself is incredibly intimate, Minerva. I can’t imagine engaging in such actions with someone I didn’t love.”

“I’m well aware that it won’t be perfect, Grace, but at this point in my life, I want to feel desired. I’ve heard that most of the men who frequent the place are of the aristocracy. So it’s quite possible it will be someone I know, possibly someone I favor. I fancy many of the gents; they simply don’t fancy me.”

“But after all that you’ll share, won’t it be awkward when you see him in the future?”

“He’s not going to know it’s me. I’ll be masked.” The mask she’d purchased in anticipation of acquiring the location of the infamous club covered two-thirds of her face, leaving only her eyes, lips, and chin visible.

“But
you’ll
know. Everything he did. Everywhere he touched. Everywhere you touched.”

Warmth and a bit of discomfiture coursed through Minerva as she imagined being caressed with large, strong hands. She took the images to bed with her every night even though they did little except leave her aching for what she’d never experienced. Her greatest fear was that she might actually weep if a man ever fondled her with bare hands. She’d been touched by men before, but always with cloth—gloves at the very least—serving as a barrier. “I’ve thought about the ramifications long and hard, Grace. It’s not something I decided on a whim. Do you have any idea how lonely it is to have never felt so much as the stroke of a man’s finger along forbidden flesh? During dinners, no one sneaks in an errant touch beneath the tablecloth, out of sight of others, when my gloves are resting on my lap and my hands are uncovered. No one does anything untoward where I’m concerned.”