How the Duke Was Won (15 page)

 

Chapter 16

A
re you going to marry Lady Dorothea?

How could he?

James positioned a log on the block and hefted an axe.

She'd just demonstrated why he couldn't marry her. She was actively encouraging Flor in her rebellious ways.

He slammed the blade into the wood.

Crack
.

She was impulsive.

Splinter
.

Irreverent.

Thud.

And worst of all? Impossible to ignore.

It was almost as if she was two ­people. One intent on meeting her exacting mother's standards, and, underneath the thin layer of propriety, someone fearless and outspoken, with passionate convictions and a decided disdain for social conventions.

He threw the newly split wood on the woodpile and paused, leaning on the axe.

The way they'd been tearing across the lawn, whooping and pretending to be shipwrecked boys.

The shock on Lady Vivienne's face.
Where are your
bonnets
?

He smothered a smile. It had been undeniably amusing.

No. Not amusing. Deplorable. Highly inappropriate.

Flor had too much of James in her. She was restless. She couldn't sit still in the classroom when there were lawns to run across, rules to flout.

Probably Dorothea had been exactly the same at her age.

He wasn't here to find a sensual goddess with a razor-­sharp intellect and a rebellious mind. He'd found that. And she was driving him insane.

He split wood until his arms ached and sweat dripped down his chest. He should go in and dress for dinner, but he wanted to exorcise Dorothea first.

He stood behind the old unused barns he'd converted into a workshop. He liked the large open space with no velvet draperies or ornamental plaster.

Most nights he slept in his workshop, on a pile of cushions. The nightmares were shorter out here. Less vivid. They seemed to fade the farther he was from his mother's chambers in the east wing. He hadn't visited that wing since he'd come back. Bickford had informed him that her chambers had been preserved exactly the way the duchess had left them. The household staff had loved his charming mother.

A shiver chased across James's shoulder blades.

He positioned more wood on the block.

He didn't want to revisit buried pain. He needed to follow the plan. Conclude things swiftly and return to Trinidad. But Dorothea did have a point. He'd had no idea there was corruption at the Banbury Hall manufactory. He couldn't be there to oversee every aspect of the business on two continents. Of course he would rectify it immediately, but it galled him that it had happened in the first place. He'd find a manager he could trust.

He was only one man. And he was being split along so many different fault lines.

He could still see the accusation in her blue-­gray eyes. He'd disappointed her. Why did that sting so much?

“Hiding, Your Grace?”

Dorothea rounded the wall of the barn, her cheeks rosy, fists planted on her hips. The riding habit was gone and she was wearing something pale pink and virginal, but her hair was a windswept cascade of golden curls escaping from a bright red silk bandeau.

He placed another log on the block and raised his axe.

“Well?” she said.

“What? What do you want from me?”

Crack.

“Go apologize to your daughter.”

Splinter
.

“I can't do that.”

Thud
.

“Why not? She's your daughter. Don't you love her?”

“You don't understand.”

“Try to explain.”

He sighed and set the axe aside. He turned his back to her and stacked the fallen wood on top of the pile. “It doesn't matter if I love her. I have to keep my distance. She can't become too attached. I'll be leaving soon.”

“You're very skilled at that, aren't you,
Your Grace
?”

Impressive how she made his title sound like a scurrilous oath. He rested his hands on the stack of wood. He knew her well enough by now to know that she wasn't finished giving her opinion, not by half.

“At what, Lady Dorothea?”

“You're so good at running away. At keeping your distance. Not letting anyone close to you.” Her smoky voice was getting closer. Soon he would smell fresh, lemony tea roses. Feel her warmth and fire behind him.

He gripped the wood hard enough to drive a sliver into his palm. Still he didn't turn around. He couldn't. If he turned around, he'd want to take her in his arms, kiss those full lips. Make promises that were impossible to keep.

“Flor needs you. You've no idea how much,” she said. “When was the last time you read her a story?” She didn't wait for him to respond. “And another thing. You need to send that governess away. Do you know what she makes Flor read?”

“I have a feeling you're going to tell me.” He turned around.

And almost fell to his knees.

She was haloed by golden curls ablaze in the fading sun. So achingly sweet. He clenched his hand into a fist, and the sliver pierced deeper.

That's what you get when you think about kissing her. Pain. Remember that.

She extracted a slim volume from somewhere in her skirts and read the title aloud. “
A Token for Children: Being an Exact Account of the Conversion, Holy and Exemplary Lives and Joyful Deaths of Several Young Children, in Two Parts
.”

She waved the book at him like a weapon. “Joyful deaths. Of
children
.”

“Doesn't sound very cheerful.”

“And another thing.” Dorothea advanced toward him. “Miss Pratt smears lemon juice on Flor's cheeks to make her skin lighter. It's abhorrent. I won't have it.” She tossed the book onto the woodpile. “That's what I think of Miss Pratt.” She wiped her hands on her skirts. “
Your Grace
.”

“I didn't know about the lemon juice. I'll certainly command that to stop, but I did give her license to select the reading materials she thought best suited to teach my daughter to rein in her temper and become a proper young lady.”

“A
proper young lady
.” She spat the words like an obscene oath, direct kin to
Your Grace.
“
Proper
is another word for prison, if you ask me.”

“I don't recall asking you.”

“A proper young lady shouldn't run on the lawn, or cry because she needs attention, or read adventure books. A proper young lady should walk sedately, keep her chin up, and read insipid morality tales. Is that it?”

This was definitely striking close to home. She must have hated her governess as a child. James pictured her plaguing a steady stream of governesses. Goading them into unbecoming fits of temper. Putting toads in their beds. Sending them screaming for the nearest mail coach.

“I don't want to take the joy out of her life,” he said. “That's not my aim. I'm only trying to protect her, to guide her. I was sent down from school, disgraced forever because of one impetuous,
rebellious
decision.”

“You will transform your vibrant, healthy, curious child into a model of silent, docile propriety. I say that's too bad.” She narrowed her eyes. “Too
damn
bad. Do you think that if she speaks softly and never runs that the rest of England will let her forget who she is?”

“It will ultimately be for her own good.”

Dorothea shook her head. The red bandeau slipped. She brushed curls away from her cheeks impatiently. “That's no excuse. She needs to be included in your life. Let her come downstairs tonight.”

Any other young lady would have been begging him to keep his scandalous by-­blow hidden. The marchioness's reaction had been typical of the reception he expected from the pious ladies of the
ton
. “It would antagonize my other guests.”

“Only for a moment? She's so very lonely.”

“Absolutely not.”

“She needs love and acceptance. Don't abandon her.”

“She needs to learn to control her emotions.”

“Not every word that comes forth from your mouth is scripture, and not all your decisions are holy commandments.”

“You're quite free with your criticism. You disapprove of the way I conduct my business and the way I educate my daughter. Tell me, Lady Dorothea, why you would possibly wish to continue your stay in my home a moment longer?”

There, that had silenced her. But only for a moment.

“Because you're sorely in need of reform.” A glint appeared in her eyes. “And I've never been one to shirk a nearly impossible challenge.”

Damn her for making him smile. “And I suppose you're precisely the irascible girl to attempt such a fool's mission?”

“I am.”

She walked toward him. “You don't fool me. You cared about those girls at the factory. You hate the evil of enslavement. And you love your daughter. Somewhere deep inside that murky heart of yours, you want to do the right thing, but you're afraid of losing her, as you lost the rest of your family.”

She went too far. So why did he want to kiss her so badly?

In his defense, the red ribbon tied around her curls was taunting him. It kept slipping down, threatening to loose a flood of silken temptation.

They stared at each other like a matador and bull. He could almost feel steam rising from his nostrils.

Somewhere a crowd roared for blood.

Hang it all. He was His Disgrace. The exiled scoundrel.

He'd show her how badly in need of reform he was.

He closed the distance between them with one long stride and buried his fingers in her hair.

The silk bandeau finally lost the battle and slipped loose, sending honey and sunshine curls cascading around her shoulders.

Like a man who'd been wandering the desert for days, he found the wellspring of her lips, all the reasons he shouldn't kiss her disappearing like footprints in shifting sand.

Her soft, encouraging little moans destroyed his control.

“Dorothea,” he groaned into her hair.

He took her mouth, crushing her hips against him, kissing her as if they'd been the last two humans on earth. As if the fate of civilization depended on this moment.

There was this.

Her heat burning through his linen. The urgency of her mouth moving beneath him, unconsciously mimicking the act of love. Opening for him, welcoming him inside.

He dipped his fingers into the edge of her bodice, skimming across the tops of her velvet-­soft breasts. She shifted back in his arms, instinctively giving him better access.

If he slipped her bodice a few inches lower and lowered his head, he could feast on rosy nipples.

Instead, he buried his face in her curls, inhaling the fresh, innocent scent of tea roses.

He couldn't ravish a trusting debutante outside by the woodpile. No matter how saucily she goaded him to it.

He wrenched away, cursing himself for a lust-­addled fool. “I'm sorry. We shouldn't . . .”

She looked up at him, breathing heavily, her blue eyes hazy. “That was . . . most definitely a ten.” She smiled shakily, adjusting her skirts. “I knew you had it in you.” She tossed her head but failed to sound truly flippant.

“Dorothea . . .” he began, not sure where he was going.

“I must return. Mother will be worried about me. You
will
apologize to Flor, won't you?”

“Of course. I was always going to.”

She nodded. “Then we're even,” she said, and left.

James watched her walk away, hips swaying, hair spilling down her back. He could chop down this entire forest and it wouldn't erase the memory of what had just happened.

Maybe she was right. Maybe he was scared of losing Flor. He'd chosen solitude over connection a long time ago, after his mother died and his father tried to beat the rebellion out of him and then banished him to the West Indies.

That wasn't something that would ever change.

But he was going back to Trinidad and leaving his wife in England. He'd only return when it was absolutely necessary, for business, or to father more spares.

Dorothea was a female who would always follow an unpredictable path. He admired her mettle, but he wasn't looking for strength of spirit. He required a wife who would be his emissary of propriety and respectability, soothing gossips and investors while he remained overseas.

Lady Vivienne would never wrestle him to the floor.

Or throw his library books on the woodpile.

He needed to make a decision. Before he did something truly depraved with Dorothea and the choice was made for him.

 

Chapter 17

T
here they were. His two remaining duchess candidates. Seated side by side in the salon after another interminable dinner, as different as two women could be. Fire and ice. Propriety and passion.

The mounded tops of Dorothea's breasts glowed above pale pink velvet, and diamonds gleamed in her hair, her ears, and at her throat, enough to finance an entire battalion.

He couldn't be in the same room with her without an overwhelming urge to throw her over his shoulder and claim her. He wanted her in his bed, wearing those diamonds and nothing more. He wanted to strip away the thin veneer of propriety and delve into the passion he'd glimpsed simmering beneath her genteel façade.

Her fire heated his blood, and her intelligence and wit dared him to imagine new possibilities.

“Perhaps Lady Vivienne might play the pianoforte, Your Grace?” the marchioness suggested.

James tore his gaze from Dorothea and nodded his assent. Lady Vivienne took a seat at the polished maple pianoforte. She wore a modest white gown and simple pearl jewelry that set off her dark hair and eyes. She was elegant, reserved, and the obvious, prudent choice.

She'd soothe the gossips and rehabilitate his reputation. Everyone knew his father had nearly disowned him. No doubt many questioned his fitness to assume the title. That last stunt at Cambridge had been the culmination of an illustrious career of transgressions, ranging from brandy binges to tupping a don's wife. And staying abroad for ten years hadn't won him any hearts.

He needed to prove them wrong, win them over, and Lady Vivienne would be an excellent weapon.

The Scarlatti sonata she chose had been written for harpsichord and lost something when played on the pianoforte, but it was a virtuoso piece and required an expert touch. Her nimble fingers flew over the keyboard, her left hand crossing over her right to perform the trills. It was a flawless performance, calculated to dazzle and impress.

The music she played was meant as a minor-­keyed frenzy of frustrated longing. While she hit every note, it left him unmoved.

The thought of bedding her was uninspiring . . . but that had been his aim. He'd wanted a business arrangement, a marriage of convenience.

James imagined proposing to her.

“How do you feel about marriage, Lady Vivienne?” he'd ask.

“It's what one does, I suppose,” she'd answer, yawning.

And on their wedding night.

“Shall we go to bed?” he'd ask.

“It's what one does, I suppose.”

At the pianoforte, Lady Vivienne frowned slightly, completely focused on her task, ruthless in her single-­mindedness. Was she
too
cold and detached? She had treated Flor with disdain when they caught his child running on the lawn. Would she learn to love Flor with time?

After her daughter finished playing, the marchioness turned to Dorothea. “Would you care for a turn on the pianoforte, Lady Dorothea?”

“I'm afraid Lady Dorothea can't play this evening,” said Lady Desmond. “She . . . had an accident with her jewelry box this morning. Crushed her finger.”

The marchioness raised her quizzing glass and trained it on Dorothea. “Is that so?”

“Only a slight injury. I might sing a song instead,” Dorothea suggested.

The countess startled. “No, I'm sure the duke wishes to play his guitar again. Would you honor us?”

Interesting. The countess didn't want her daughter to perform. Now James's curiosity was piqued. Was she worried her daughter would do something outrageous? Sing a bawdy song and embarrass her?

“You've had enough of my guitar. I would rather hear Lady Dorothea sing,” he said.

Dorothea smiled at him and his heart skipped a beat.

“I shall perform something current,” she announced, rising from her seat. “From Mr. Bishop's
The Libertine,
which I . . . we . . . recently had the pleasure to see Miss Catharine Stephens perform at the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden.”

Lady Desmond half-­rose from her seat, as if she wanted to run and silence her daughter. She dug her nails into silk brocade.

The curve of Dorothea's hips settled into the deep arc of the pianoforte. Drawing a breath that made her bosom rise and fall over pink velvet, she knotted her hands in front of her waist.

One more breath like that and they'd be staring at her rosy-­tipped breasts again.

Please God, no more nipples,
he prayed. He wouldn't be responsible for the consequences. Not after he'd spent every second since their kiss this afternoon imagining what might have happened if his fingers had slipped two inches further into her bodice.

He might have to grab one of the footman's silver serving trays for cover.

Thankfully, everyone was looking at Dorothea as well, her mother with an anxious expression, the marchioness with a condescending half sneer, and Lady Vivienne . . . no, her gaze had wandered to the window and she was suppressing a yawn.

Dorothea began to sing. “Pretty lasses love's summer, remember, ever flies upon gossamer wing; Suffer not then, life's chilly December, to destroy Cupid's bow and his string.”

Her voice wasn't opera quality, but it was strong and true. The tune was simple, adapted from Mozart's
Don Giovanni,
if he wasn't mistaken, but it was the way she sang that arrested everyone's attention.

She slowed the melody, and, instead of warbling in a high soprano, drew the marrow from the notes in a husky contralto that tingled along his spine.

The simple song became fraught with poignancy—­a young girl realizing her beauty would fade, her gossamer gowns no protection from winter's sting.

“Make haste, and be happy, like me,” she sang. But instead of the blitheness of youth, every note was infused with heartache.

He studied her face. How had an untried debutante learned to sing with such subtlety and emotion?

The countess stopped clutching her chair arms and relaxed back into her seat, smiling with relief.

Dorothea caught his eye, singing directly to him now. “And ye lads, who are constantly changing, for a time though 'tis pleasant to run, from this beauty to that, ever ranging, yet, at last, pray, be constant to one.”

The marchioness flapped a carved ivory fan. Lady Vivienne didn't yawn.

Dorothea was nearly whispering now, her eyes speaking of heartbreak and longing, almost as if she had a reason to doubt the constancy of men. His mind reverberated with questions. Had she been in love with someone else, and been jilted?

Mine,
his traitorous mind declared with primitive possessiveness. She couldn't love anyone but him.

“Make haste, and be happy, like me . . .” she finished.

The room fell silent.

What had just happened? He'd been expecting something saucy and provocative, and instead she'd taken a standard drawing room ballad and made it ring with truth.

Where did these depths come from?

Dorothea resumed her seat, and Lady Desmond cleared her throat. “Lady Vivienne,” she said with a hint of triumph in her cultured voice. “Will you honor us with another performance?”

“Certainly.” Lady Vivienne settled onto the seat and launched into a Chopin sonata that was as serene and unflappable as she was.

James attempted to concentrate on the soothing technical expertise of her playing, but it was nearly impossible with all those enigmatic diamonds glittering in his peripheral vision.

L
ady Vivienne played on, the notes flowing flawlessly. The duke stared at her, seemingly entranced. Charlene had to admit she was skilled, but there was something missing from her performance. It didn't make Charlene
feel
anything.

“Psst, Lady Dorothea.” Flor's sleek head poked between a footman's legs.

Charlene shook her head. “Not now,” she mouthed.

Flor held up the wooden discs she'd played the night before. What had she called them? Castanelas? She clicked them in her little fingers, a mischievous grin tilting up the side of her lips.

Charlene had seen that grin before. On the duke. Right before he bent to kiss her.

She glanced around the room. Everyone was watching Lady Vivienne, including the duke. She turned back to Flor and held up a finger. “One moment,” she mouthed.

Flor's head disappeared.

Charlene leaned over to the countess. “I feel a bit faint,” she whispered. “I'm going to slip outside for some air.”

The countess nodded, and Charlene rose as silently as possible and tiptoed out of the salon. Flor was waiting on the balcony outside.

Charlene lifted her up and kissed her soft cheek. “You're going to land me in trouble, you little imp.”

Flor wrapped her arms around Charlene's neck. “You don't want to listen to that, do you?” She wrinkled her nose in the direction of the salon.

“Chopin is exquisite, silly. What are you doing out here, anyway?”

“Practicing my
castañuelas
. Miss Pratt won't let me play them in the nursery.” She held out the wooden discs. “Do you want me to teach you now?”

It was a warm evening, with the lingering smell of sunlight and bee pollen on the breeze. The piano music was faint out here, a tinkling accompaniment to the moonlight.

Charlene set Flor on her feet. She should go back to the salon, but she felt such a kinship with this girl. It hurt dreadfully to think she'd never see her again.

She put her arm around Flor's shoulders and squeezed her slight frame. She hoped with all her heart that Lady Dorothea would feel the same way, that she would nurture Flor's independence instead of taming it in the name of propriety.

“No matter what happens, please remember that you are strong,” Charlene said. “England can't change you unless you let it. There are some changes you might choose to make, and others that you can refuse.”

Flor tilted her head to one side. “What do you mean?”

“Well, even if you don't like Miss Pratt, and she doesn't like you, it's important for you to listen and receive an education. Knowledge gives you power, Flor. I want you to promise to read as many books as possible, to never stop reading and thirsting for knowledge as long as you live.”

Nodding solemnly, Flor crossed her heart with her finger. “I swear.”

Charlene smiled. “I'd better have that lesson now.”

Flor placed the two wooden discs in Charlene's hand and wrapped the red silk cord around her thumb. “Now open your hand, and then shut it again.” She demonstrated the motion.

Charlene tried, but the wooden discs wouldn't cooperate. They flopped from her fingers, soundless.

“Here, watch me.” Flor clicked the two pieces of hollow wood together, controlling the motion with her fingers.

This time Charlene managed to make a clicking sound. It wasn't so difficult. A few controlled flicks of her fingers. Soon she was lifting her arm and clicking along to Flor's delighted laughter.

“Wait,” Flor said. “You need this.” She unloosened her mother's red shawl from around her shoulders and draped it around Charlene's hips, tying it in a side knot. She ran to the balcony railing. “And this.” She plucked a late summer rose from the vines twining through the iron railing.

Charlene bent down, and Flor tucked the rose behind her ear.

Flor stepped back to survey her handiwork. She nodded. “Now you are ready to dance.”

O
f course James found Dorothea dancing in the moonlight. She couldn't possibly sit demurely in the salon, and she'd obviously exceeded her quota of polite conversation during dinner. He'd pretended not to notice that she'd slipped away, and he'd waited a decent interval before following, on the pretext of hand-­selecting a port from the cellars.

He couldn't help himself. He was the moth, and Dorothea was lit by a thousand dancing diamond flames as she twirled in Flor's red silk scarf, with a red rose tucked behind her ear.

If her red bandeau this afternoon had been maddening, the ember-­colored silk knotted around her hips, hugging her tempting arse, was the equivalent of an army of matadors flourishing an entire line of capes.

Flor directed the dance, her dark hair absorbing the night, her small wedge of a face furrowed with concentration. She struck a pose, hip thrust to one side, back straight, neck held high, arm raised gracefully. “Follow me,” she called.

Dorothea followed Flor across the balcony, easily imitating the steps and adding her own sensual flourishes into the dance.

James shut his eyes, but the enticing vision of Dorothea's full hips outlined in red silk continued rippling across the inside of his eyelids.

Turn around. Return to the salon. Propose to calm and cultured Lady Vivienne.

None of this reckless dancing in the moonlight.

Yet . . . Dorothea was so good with Flor. Even if she wasn't the most proper of young ladies, she obviously cared for Flor and would be kind to her.

He stood on the edge of the balcony, hovering between the two possibilities.

Damn it all. Moth. Flame.

He cleared his throat. Both females spun around with the same guilty expression on their faces.

Flor ran to him, but instead of flinging herself into his arms, as she normally would, she hesitated, stopping short, hands hanging by her sides.

What had he done?

He touched her hair, intensely aware of Dorothea glowing behind her. “You're supposed to be asleep, Flor.” His voice was gruff and harsh to his ears.

“I know, Papa. I'm sorry.” She took his hand, and the feeling of her soft little fingers brought back a memory. Standing on the deck of the ship back to England, Flor's small hand in his. Her sad eyes. The way the sea breeze whipped her hair around her face and she pushed it out of her eyes impatiently, not wanting to miss anything.