Forbidden to Love the Duke (8 page)

“Before or after you signed our contract?”

She moistened her lower lip with her tongue. He realized, in the midst of lusting for her, that she had come to him out of sheer desperation and that he could have been more bloody helpful. “Why didn't you ask me for the money? I would have been happy to give you an advance of your wages to cover whatever you needed.”

“I was afraid of what you would demand in return.”

“That isn't fair. Have I asked you for anything yet that you did not expect?”

“Yes. You're asking me for something right now.”

She had him there. “Anything you give me of yourself has to be given willingly.” And would be willingly and most gratefully accepted.

She raised her face. “Your Grace, you say that now, but your actions speak otherwise. Pardon me for saying this, but you are rather acting like a wolf.”

He frowned. “Would you like for me to give you an advance on your wages?”

“I shall have to be a better governess to Mary and Walker in order to deserve that, which reminds me. It's time for history.”

“History. My favorite subject.”

She rose and skirted the chair, curtsying twice while she backed away. “Mine too, Your Grace.”

“Recent years, I meant,” he said as she slipped into the hall, the jewelry box clutched in her hand.

He felt thwarted, aroused, infatuated. Both determined he would find out about her admirer and puzzled that she mattered enough for him to bother. She had taken care of herself for five years. She needed an income, not his personal interference. And he needed—well, so much more from her than
Aesop's Fables
.

*   *   *

Ivy didn't know how she managed to hide her vexation from the children until her day off. She avoided their uncle, although she could have sworn he kept her under his surveillance, and it was all the fault of that presumptuous poet who had made her appear to be a deceitful woman. One with a secret admirer, no less.

She left the house as planned before breakfast and headed toward the gates where Foxx was to pick her up for the drive to Fenwick. She hurried through the mist, feeling guilty for no actual reason. It
was
possible that Sir Oliver had only meant to send the necklace as an act of penance. The duke's insistence that he witness her opening the box had transformed a simple gift into an artful deed with covert motives.

Ivy had let the duke influence her.

She was afraid that, given enough time, he could influence her in any number of ways. But it had felt rather nice to have the masterful man make a fuss over her and show concern for her well-being, even if she knew what he had in mind. And she wasn't about to agree with him, but Sir Oliver had overdone his apology.

Still, what would a poet want with an impoverished lady? Was his conscience so sensitive that he would seek out her prior activity at the pawnbroker's shop and
attempt to redress a wrong with this flamboyant gesture? Ivy simply didn't know. And quite honestly she preferred to remain in her ignorant state.

One scoundrel of a duke was enough to deal with.

One scoundrel who sneaked up behind her in the mist with such stealth that the cry of surprise in her throat died to a gasp before he spoke in her ear. “I hope I didn't startle you again. The children wanted to wave to you from the front steps.”

She spun around to stare up into the duke's face. “I am merely traveling to Fenwick, Your Grace, not to France. I don't need a farewell party.”

His grin said that her forgiveness was assumed. “I know that. But they don't.”

And while she turned to wave at the two children who, looking utterly miserable in their nightclothes, had obviously been dragged from their beds as an excuse for the duke to—to search her carriage? “What
are
you looking for?” she said indignantly.

His dark eyes shone in the breaking light. “Blankets.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Blankets. Brrr. It's cold these mornings, and as you know, my coach is designed for comfort. Do be home by six. Mary and Walker tend to work themselves into a frenzy if they're left alone too long. They're too much for me to manage.”

“You underestimate yourself, Your Grace.”

He smiled. “Return to us safely, Miss Fenwick. We've come to rely on you.”

“It has only been a week.”

He motioned the footman out of the way to personally help Ivy into her creaky old carriage. She felt the
pressure of his hand upon her hip, the hardness of his body against hers.

“Ivy,” he whispered against her cheek.

She restrained the urge to turn her face to his. His closeness devastated her, filled her with reckless desire. “What?” she whispered back.

His mouth slid to the corner of hers. His fingers lifted to the underside of her breast, a sinful caress that fizzed her blood like champagne. “Do you have to go?”

“I'll come back.”

He drew himself upright. “You'd better.”

“Good day, Your Grace,” she said.

He glanced back at the house. “One can hope.”

S
ir Oliver was as unimpressed by the exterior of Fenwick Manor as he was unprepared for the impact of its interior. With obvious reluctance, Rue Fenwick, recognizing his name, had invited him into the great hall. He managed to overlook her loveliness for several minutes as he cataloged the interior of the house.

In his mind he heard drums and cymbals, the music of revels and whispers of Tudor political rivalries. His imagination caught fire.

How could four young women have spent their lives in this splendid ruin and not have found the hidden treasure? They must have heard of it. And how would he delicately approach the subject without appearing to come across as the fortune hunter he was?

Poetry, of course.

Words of flattery. He made his living writing sonnets to noblewomen who in turn supported him with little baubles, which he sold and professed to have lost.

“Darling Oliver, how can you be so careless with your watches?” his last countess had asked him as she lay naked and squashing him to the bed.

“Perhaps because time flies when I am with you.”

“You adorable cad.”

Yes, he was a cad, and were he a more talented cad, he wouldn't have to write poetry to wealthy ladies of the beau monde in order to survive. He wasn't much of a gambler. But this endeavor, a treasure hunt, inspired him. He disregarded his stirrings of guilt and allowed Rue to introduce him to her sisters.

Naturally, he would share in whatever hidden fortune he discovered. But what a complex puzzle of a house. It could take months to search every nook and cranny, and how was one to do so without appearing obvious?

“Sir Oliver, please come into the drawing room and take refreshment,” said a tall, dark-haired lady whose stare, he swore, pierced his innards.

“Lady . . . ?” he asked, hinting for a first name.

She gave him a vague smile. “Sometimes.”

“Oh, yes. Of course.”

Arrogant woman. She hadn't even properly brushed her hair for his visit, although neither had he. But then Oliver found the look of tousled artist appealed to most females, and God knew it wasn't as if he lived on Park Lane and had a reliable valet to keep him in style.

She didn't appear to be a typical daughter of the nobility. Neither of the two other sisters, Lilac and Rue, were dressed to receive guests, but with their natural beauty, what did clothes matter?

The unfriendly siren led him into a sunlit room and to a hard chair that sat beside a large golden lyre. It looked like something a giant might own; he wondered when the golden hen would appear so that he could snatch it and run. But on closer inspection the lyre's strings were so worn that Oliver doubted it would play a chord.

“Is Ivy—
Lady
Ivy—at home?” he asked when he realized the women awaited an explanation for his appearance. “I do have the right day this time? I sent a box here last week and received a letter in return that she would be at home on Wednesday.”

The statuesque lady whom one of the sisters had referred to as Rosemary gave him a curt nod. “We sent the box to her place of employment, which we shouldn't have done. She hasn't been gone from home all that long. I'm not sure she'll be ready to receive callers the minute she walks in the door.” She crossed her arms. “You are the poet Sir Oliver?”

He warmed. “You know my work?”

She sniffed in reply.

He glanced at Rue for support, only to find an impassive expression that indicated she wouldn't take his side over her older sister's. “But I owe her a personal apology, don't you agree?” he said. “I've thought of nothing but her since that day in the street. I can't write a decent verse. I'm rather hopeless. I have to see her.”

“This sounds like more than an apology,” Lilac said candidly. “Are you hoping to court her?”

He lowered his gaze. Odd. At a soirée in London his looks could melt stone, but these women appeared to be made of the stuff. He'd feel a damned fool if Lady Ivy refused him as a suitor.

Beggars couldn't be choosers, and after the scandal her sire had created, she ought to be grateful that a man of Oliver's renown would consider reintroducing her to society. True, it was half-world society, and his motives might be tainted, but if by his deep thinking he discovered in this house a fortune, then everyone would benefit.

He shuffled his feet, staring past the sisters, who were studying him as if prepared to torture him with one of the weapons on the wall.

Where in this house would he began to search for a treasure?

A half minute later Ivy stood before him, looking not as grateful as he would have hoped. He had rescued a family heirloom. Perhaps she did not remember him? He rose, bowed.

“Sir Oliver,” she said in a hoarse voice that sent a prickle down his spine. “How unexpected to see you at Fenwick.”

He straightened in surprise. Her condescending manner challenged him. It was a good thing she was fair on the eyes. He might enjoy this match. “Lady Ivy,” he said, flicking back his coattails. “I am enchanted to see you again.”

She turned and inhaled as if to breathe in—what? The odor of mildew rising from the floor? Did she think he would be dismissed that easily? He stood back in amusement. Her sisters divested her of her cloak, revealing a figure that took no deception to appreciate. A smattering of servants appeared in the passageway to rejoice at her return.

“Lady Ivy,” he said, clearing his throat. “If this is not a convenient time to call, I understand.”

She glanced back at him as if she had forgotten his presence. In a fortnight's time, he swore, he would have her eating out of his hand.

*   *   *

Ivy had been dying for a private welcome and a chance to divulge all that had happened to her at Ellsworth Park. Now she had to entertain Sir Oliver—and was she
supposed to repay him for the necklace? Yet, after an hour of small talk, when she broached the subject, he became incensed.

“That was atonement for the accident, and a chance to deepen our friendship.”

“So you
do
want to court her,” Lilac said gleefully from her chair in the corner.

“Honestly, Lilac,” Ivy said, choking on the bite of biscuit she had taken. “Must you always speak your mind?”

“It's quite all right,” Sir Oliver said with a laugh. “I don't have a family of my own. I was an orphan, you see. This is quite pleasant for me.”

“It's pleasant for us, too,” Lilac said. “Some people think the four of us are dangerous, if you can believe it.”

Sir Oliver glanced at Ivy. “Dangerous to the heart, they must mean.”

“No, no,” Lilac said, shaking her head. “‘Dangerous' in an unpleasant way.”

He smiled thinly. “I assure you, no one will insult you in my presence with impunity.”

“How unpoetic,” Rosemary murmured.

Lilac frowned at her. “Were you really an orphan?” she asked Oliver, returning her attention to him.

“Yes. But don't waste your pity on me. How can I regret my life when it has brought me to this present place?”

At that point Rosemary excused herself to work and left the hall without looking at Oliver.

“Work?” he said into the silence that followed her departure. “Is she a seamstress?”

“She's a writer,” Lilac said.

Sir Oliver's remark reminded Ivy of her other
“family.” What if the duke's soon-to-be mistress had arrived during Ivy's absence? She might gratify the duke, but her arrival would also pique the children's curiosity. Ivy ought to be there to act as a moral barrier, so to speak. Of course Ivy didn't care if His Grace diddled a spoon while she was gone. But she had promised to oversee Mary and Walker's upbringing.

She frowned, trying not to picture what the duke might be doing while she drank tea with an attractive rascal who had just scooted his chair closer to hers. She flinched at the unsubtle scrape of wood against stone. Oliver's eyes moved languidly over her face. He started to talk about London. She didn't listen.

Surely the duke would wait until dark to bed that woman.

What a naive assumption.

He had kissed Ivy just after sunrise on his study floor.

“What time is it?” she asked in alarm, noticing the lengthening shadows on the carpet.

Sir Oliver consulted his pocket watch. “It's not gone six yet.”

“Six o'clock? I have to return to Ellsworth before it's dark.”

“Is the duke that strict?” Rue asked in sympathy.

No. He was that unstructured. “It's the children, you realize,” she explained, handing Lilac her cup and rising for the cloak and gloves she'd removed what seemed only minutes ago.

Sir Oliver stood at her side. “What a shame. Do you think it would help if I put in a word? On your behalf—you know, explain to him that you had been in the company of a well-known person?”

“Don't you dare,” Ivy said quickly. The last thing the duke would appreciate was knowing that she'd spent the afternoon with Oliver.

“And I was hoping for a tour of the house.”

“Come next May, Sir Oliver,” Rue said, her shadow falling between him and Ivy. “You can admire the gardens at their finest. You will be inspired.”

His strained smile intimated that he hoped for more than a horticultural tour for inspiration. “My traveling carriage will be quicker than that antique which brought you here, Ivy. Honestly, my dear, you'd have been faster gliding on a sleigh without snow.”

“That's not the vehicle that almost ran me over?” Ivy could not resist teasing. “Oh, forgive me. I shouldn't have mentioned it again.”

His smile transformed his face. For the first time Ivy saw past his superficial veneer to the charisma of the poet who sent the ladies of upper-crust London into raptures. Yet Ivy didn't feel the least tug of attraction toward him. “But of course you should. Tease me all you like. It is the reason I am here.”

*   *   *

Ivy rushed through her good-byes to her sisters, even though she felt unsure about abandoning them to a man as ingratiating as Sir Oliver.

“I feel responsible for him,” she whispered to Rue as they embraced beside the straggly hollyhocks.

Rue smiled rather wickedly. “Don't worry. Rosemary is keeping her eye on him.”

“What about Lilac?” Ivy asked under her breath.

Rue laughed. “She considers him useful for some odd reason.”

Ivy considered Oliver to be an annoyance. He'd
wasted the precious hours she'd wanted to spend at Fenwick with his aimless flirtation. Yet on the bumpy ride back to Ellsworth, she managed to forget him entirely.

She promised herself she would make up the time she'd wanted to spend with her sisters on her next visit. Perhaps by then, she thought, as the carriage drew into Ellsworth and she hastened through the house, she would have collected a few more anecdotes about the duke to share with her siblings.

She walked into her bedchamber and peered at the clock on the mantelpiece. Half an hour late. The old carriage horses couldn't travel these country roads as they had done years ago. The journey to London had taken its toll on the faithful bays. She stripped down to her shift. Well, at least the duke hadn't caught her.

She bent over her washstand, splashing water over her face, and stared in the mirror. She froze, not at the cold, but at the reflection of a man sprawled across her tidily made bed. The duke might not have caught her.

But she had caught him, sleeping, in
her
bed.

She lifted the pitcher, counted to ten, and reconsidered. She set the jug down silently and picked up a towel, draping it over her bare shoulders.

She looked at him again in the mirror. He hadn't moved.

She turned, water slipping down her breasts, and walked to his side. She wondered if he was dead drunk or flagrantly courting an invitation. Clearly the woman he awaited had not made her eagerly anticipated arrival, which meant that while Ivy was envisioning the duke engaged in unspeakable sins, he had been
here
 . . . snoring softly on Ivy's bed.

What was she to make of this?

Why on earth had she rushed back to the park, terrified of being late?

“Your Grace,” she said, nudging his big stockinged foot. “Are you in your cups?”

“Cups.” He opened his eyes, perusing her semiclad figure like a man who'd never tasted a drop of liquor in his life. He was alert, keen, a waking beast. “I couldn't find you at the appointed time, so I came in here to check. I must have dozed off. The children exhausted me. Did something happen at Fenwick to keep you?” He glanced at the clock. “You're late. We can't allow that. A governess should be prompt.”

Her temper simmered. She hadn't been able to enjoy a decent visit at home with her shoes off and now this—this—intimidating spectacle expected her to behave as if it were acceptable for him to await her return in her bed.

“Your Grace, I might not have moved about in high society as often as you. But we both know that a duke doesn't nap in the governess's bed. I am in the act of undressing.”

“Don't let me stop you.” He sat up, crossing his legs in the middle of her bed. “I'll cover my eyes.”

“You shall leave the room.”

“You could use the screen.”

“Excellent idea.”

He folded his arms behind his head, giving Ivy cause to appreciate the breadth of his shoulders beneath his crisp linen shirt. “Except that Mary knocked the screen over chasing Walker through the house and Carstairs removed it for repairs.”

“I thought something was missing.” She reached around in annoyance for her cloak. “I should also have realized that something was here that didn't belong.”

“Sit down,” he said somberly.

“No.”

“Sit down on the bed. This is important.”

She wavered. Perhaps something had happened during her absence. Perhaps he had an excuse for his presence.