How the Duke Was Won (23 page)

 

Chapter 27

L
ies and trickery, trickery and lies,
the carriage wheels chanted mockingly as they ground along the worn cobblestones of Covent Garden.

James punched the leather upholstery, welcoming the pain that blossomed along his knuckles. He knew this area well. He and Dalton had misspent quite a bit of their youth drinking cheap ale in the basement taverns that doubled as brothels on Maiden Lane. By half past four this afternoon, there would be no respectable females left on the streets.

The woman he sought, this Charlene Beckett, was no respectable lady.

She'd impersonated Dorothea, clearly with the goal of cheating him into marrying a complete stranger, for reasons he had yet to fathom.
The countess must have been complicit. That was the only conclusion to draw about why she hadn't let him see Dorothea before the wedding.

But why?

Why was this happening to him?

Because every single time you allow yourself to care about someone, it all goes to hell. Haven't you learned that bloody lesson by now?

How would he explain to Flor that the woman she thought of as her new mother was a fraud and imposter? It would break her heart. Again.

James groaned aloud. The old duke had to be laughing from his special place in hell. James had managed to land himself in a tangled mess of grand proportions, proving his father right yet again.

Pieces of the puzzle fell into place: the fact that no gently bred debutante could possibly know professional wrestling moves. He'd known that but hadn't seen through the ruse. He'd been so blind. Also, the cryptic comments she'd made in the conservatory, after he'd given her the ring.

I have something I must tell you
. . .
I'm not her. The woman you're talking about.

He'd been so addled by lust that he'd completely ignored her warnings. There would be no more half truths, no more evasion.

The door to number fifty was ajar. He heard voices coming from a nearby room.

He heard
her
voice.

He walked swiftly down the hall, pausing outside the door of a small parlor. The first thing he saw in the room was a tangle of blazing gold hair falling around rain-­drenched blue eyes. Charlene was kneeling in the grip of two unsavory-­looking characters, and a man James recognized as Lord Grant was brandishing a glowing fire iron over her wrist.

What the hell was happening here?

“You won't be smiling when I'm through with you,” James heard the baron say. The tip of the fire iron pulsed orange.

James's stomach dropped into his boots.

She was in
danger.

Instinct took over, obliterating thought. He charged into the room and lunged at one of the men, smashing his fist into his nose. The man toppled to the floor with a crashing thud. The scar-­faced man came at James. James feinted right and swung with his left, impacting the man's jaw and snapping his head back.

He caught a glimpse of Charlene grappling with Grant. She blocked the burning iron with her arm in a surprising blur of motion.

Scarface lunged, and his fist connected with James's gut, momentarily knocking the wind from his lungs. James gave a gasp of wild laughter. It would take a lot more than that to fell him.

He lifted his head. Two brutes stared at each other.

Scarface didn't like what he saw. His face whitened, and he abruptly turned on his heel and fled from the room.

James flexed his stomach muscles and took a breath. Bruised. Not broken. He was well acquainted with the difference.

Now for Grant.

James spun around.

Grant was watching him, his elbow collaring Charlene, with the heated iron nearly brushing her cheek. “Don't come any closer,” he warned.

James stood still, not daring to breathe.

“James,” Charlene said, her lips twisted with anguish. “What are you doing here?”

Grant tightened his grip around her neck. “Not another word,” he spat. “Whoever you are,” he said to James, “this is a private matter . . .” He craned his neck, disbelief contorting his face. “Harland?”

“Seems we have a mutual interest, Grant. Release the woman. There's no need for violence.” James gave him a smile that told him in no uncertain terms what would happen if he didn't follow instructions.

“Bit late for that, wouldn't you agree?” Grant extended his boot and poked at the heap of flesh and muscle that had been his guard. The man remained down. “Is he dead?”

“He'll live,” James grunted.

Charlene tried to speak, but Grant's fingers closed around her mouth. James nearly lost control and made a move, but he had to wait for the right moment. The branding iron was too close to her face. She'd already been burned. He could see an angry red weal snaking across her bared forearm.

“I own this woman. She's mine to mark.” The baron's arm trembled, and the iron bounced near Charlene's face. She bent her neck away from the heated metal.

James sucked in a breath. He'd have to risk it. If he was quick enough, he could put himself between the iron and Charlene.

He took another step forward.

“Don't come closer,” Grant shouted. “Why do you care? What's she to you?” He squeezed his elbow tighter around Charlene's neck. Her fingernails clawed at his arm as she struggled for breath. “I knew you couldn't be as high and mighty as you pretended.” He bit her earlobe, and she cringed. “Deeper pockets opened her legs, eh, Harland?”

“Drop the iron and give me the woman, or I'll kill you,” James replied. “Simple choice. Life. Or death.”

“You wouldn't dare,” hissed Grant. “You're the duke now. You can't go about murdering peers.”

“That's right, I'm the duke. And believe me, the arrogant despots glowering on my ancestral walls have nothing on me. My heart is darker, my fists bloodier. The only difference is I fight on the side of justice. I'd have no problem sending a coward like you down to hell to meet the other dukes of Harland.”

Grant blanched. His hand wavered, lowering the iron a fraction. It was all Charlene needed to swivel and break his grip. She put several paces between them, drawing deep, gasping breaths and clutching the mantelpiece.

Grant flicked the back of his wrist at her. “I don't want the duke's leavings. When he tires of you, and you're whoring on the streets for shillings, I'll spit in your face.”

He spat on the carpet, so intent on humiliating her that he didn't notice James stalking closer. James shattered his fist into the baron's long, straight nose with the full force of his fury.

The baron's nose wouldn't be straight any longer.

Grant tottered for a moment, a nearly comical expression of surprise frozen on his face, then he hit the floor with a thud that shook the floorboards.

A barrel-­chested older man with black hair and black eyes bolted into the room.

“Kyuzo,” Charlene shouted.

She seemed happy to see him so this couldn't be another of Grant's men.

Scarface lumbered to his feet, lunging at the newcomer, but was felled instantly with one perfectly timed blow to his jaw.

Charlene caught James's eye. “This is Mr. Kyuzo Yamamoto,” she said.

“You have an excellent left hook, Mr. Yamamoto,” James said.

“Thank you. And you must be Charlene's duke,” Yamamoto said.

“Kyuzo,” Charlene exclaimed, her voice hoarse and weak.

Yamamoto frowned down at the three large men sprawled across the carpet. The baron's nose bleed was turning the carpet red. “We should take these vermin back to the gutter where they belong, Your Grace.”

“Indeed, Yamamoto. My thoughts exactly.”

Yamamoto crouched down, hoisted the baron by the armpits, and began dragging him out of the room.

“I'll be right back,” James told Charlene.

She nodded. The depths of her blue-­gray eyes brought all the questions swirling back, like ocean waves closing above his head.

He wrenched his gaze away and dragged a slumbering brawler out of the room.

There would be time to seek answers later.

C
harlene rested against the mantel, leaning her head back in search of more air. She'd been about to attack Grant when the duke had appeared, huge and raging and lethal. And so distracting that she'd stopped for a split second to stare at him. That's when Grant had wrapped her in a stranglehold.

Why was the duke here? Shouldn't he be with Dorothea?

“Charlene?” her mother called.

“In the parlor,” Charlene croaked. Her throat still ached where Grant's fingers had severed her air supply for those endless, terrifying seconds.

Her mother entered, followed by Lulu and Diane. “Charlene, what happened? We heard such noises.”

Lulu ran to Charlene and hugged her waist.

Charlene winced when Lulu touched her burned arm.

“Are you hurt, Charlene?” Lulu asked, her eyes wide with concern.

Charlene smiled through the haze of pain, her legs wobbly. “I'll be fine,” she whispered.

The duke and Kyuzo reappeared. Suddenly the pink-­and-­white parlor seemed much smaller with the great beast of a duke standing in its center in his blood-­spattered linen.

“Oh,” Charlene's mother exclaimed. “Who's this, then?”

“James, Duke of Harland, at your ser­vice, madam.”

“That's your duke?” Diane whispered to Charlene with a sly, secret smile. “No wonder you were pining for him. He's dreamy.”

Charlene's mother recovered her aplomb. “Your Grace.” She curtsied skillfully, ever the fashionable lady, even pale and thin from her illness. “I'm forever in your debt for rescuing my daughter.” She fluttered her eyelashes. Then she nudged Charlene. “Offer His Grace some tea, Charlene.”

“I don't think he wants tea, Mama.”

She knew that what he wanted was answers. He'd found out about her deception. She'd seen the accusations in his brilliant green eyes as he'd entered the parlor. He'd come to demand answers, and instead he'd ended up rescuing her.

But the questions would come soon. She'd have to tell him the truth and face the betrayal in his eyes.

“I would love some tea.” The duke's deep voice reverberated in the small room. “Yamamoto, would you like some tea?”

“Love some.” Kyuzo grinned. Apparently he and the duke had bonded while hauling away the bodies of the men they'd pounded to the floor.

Lulu tilted her head. “You're ever so much handsomer than the Duke of Wellington, even with all those cuts and bruises, Your Grace.”

“Thank you.”

“I don't suppose you'd let me paint your portrait?” Lulu asked.

His lip quirked in the lopsided way Charlene loved. “I would be honored, Miss . . .”

“Luisa. But Charlene calls me Lulu.” She made a square with her fingers in the air, framing the duke's face. “Yes.” She nodded. “I'll paint you on a rearing black stallion. It will be my most magnificent portrait ever.”

“Lulu!” Charlene said. “His Grace doesn't have time for tea or portraits. Can't you see he's injured?” He was bleeding from a cut above his eye, and every time he took a breath, Charlene noticed he winced slightly. “Besides, he was married today. I'm sure he wants to return to his bride.”

The duke raised one eyebrow in that sardonic, expressive way of his.

He ran a hand through his thick black hair, his green eyes searching her face. “I did go to a church today . . . but the wrong woman was at the altar. And so I left.”

Charlene's heart pounded.

He hadn't married Dorothea.

The room started spinning. She clutched Lulu's shoulder for support.

The duke was at her side in two long strides. “You're the one who's injured.”

“It's nothing.”

He lifted her arm, examining the burn. His touch hurt her blistering skin. “This needs to be treated immediately. It could fester.”

“Oh, Charlene, sweetheart.” Her mother fluttered her hands.

“I'll send for a physician,” Kyuzo said.

“I don't need . . .” Charlene began, and stopped. Her mind thought the words, only her mouth wouldn't form them. She tried again. “I . . . don't . . .”

She didn't need to be rescued again. And she wasn't going to swoon in the duke's arms.

She wasn't the swooning type.

The room spun faster.

And then the world went blank.

 

Chapter 28

M
aids ran to fetch water. Footmen tore strips of cotton for bandages. The household whirred like well-­oiled clockwork, as it had for decades, regulating the lives of the dukes of Harland. James was grateful for the efficiency in a way he'd never been before.

Charlene was small and fragile in his huge bed, her face as pale as the linens, her determined chin slack as she slept deeply.

James ran a finger along the inside of her wrist, searching for a pulse. “Shouldn't she be waking by now?”

“Don't worry,” Josefa said. “She's had a shock. That's all.” She crushed herbs into a bowl of water and dipped cotton strips into the mixture. “Help me cut off her sleeve,” Josefa said.

James used his knife to slash the torn cotton sleeve from her arm, revealing the angry red burn that slashed from her elbow nearly to her wrist. Josefa dipped Charlene's arm in a basin, gently sloshing cool water over the burn. She dried her arm with a clean towel and pressed pungent comfrey leaves to the wound.

Charlene moaned when Josefa wrapped bandages around her arm. Her eyelids fluttered but didn't open.

Josefa passed a cool, wet cloth over Charlene's brow. There was the soothing smell of chamomile.

“I don't know anything about her,” James said.

Josefa shrugged. “She makes you happy.” She rearranged the cushions and drew the covers up Charlene's sleeping form. “What more do you need to know?”

It wasn't that simple. Nothing would ever be simple with a woman like Charlene.

James paced the room while a maid helped Josefa remove Charlene's dress beneath the covers and replace it with a clean cotton nightgown.

Josefa shook her head. “You need some rest. You are injured as well.”

“It doesn't matter, only a few bruised ribs.” He rubbed his hand across his eyes. “What if she contracts a fever?”

“Please don't worry, she's very strong and healthy. There's no danger.” Josefa's eyes twinkled. “She'll live to bear you sons.”

James frowned. “You don't understand. She's not the woman I thought she was.”

“Who is she then?” Josefa asked.

“I don't know. She's not Lady Dorothea.” He'd just rescued her from what was almost certainly a bawdy house. The most likely explanation was that she was a courtesan. But that wasn't what tied his stomach in knots. It was the fact that she'd lied to him, to his face, for days.

Had it all been an act?

“She's not from a respectable family,” he said. “There will be no lowering of the duty taxes.”

Josefa narrowed her eyes. “What's stopping you from staying here with her and lowering those taxes yourself?”

“She lied to me,” he said.

“She had her reasons.”

Whatever her reasons, she'd stormed into his life and laid waste to his careful plans.

He thought about that moment when she'd blocked the glowing brand with her arm. There was no frame of reference in his experience for a female that fierce and brave. Who was she?

Her breathing sounded normal now. He could see her chest rising and falling in a slow, regular rhythm. He'd witnessed too many ­people dying from fevers. Some of them from a small scratch they'd received that had gone on to fester.

Even now, knowing she'd lied to him, he still wanted to touch her, comfort her. If her breathing changed, if she became restless, or her skin grew flushed, he would send for the Prince Regent's own physician to save her if necessary.

“You listen to me, you duke of a long line of dukes,” Josefa said. “I need to return to my family, my home. But you should stay here. With Flor. And this woman, whatever her name is.”

“Charlene.”

“You should stay with Charlene. She's a good woman with a big heart. Big enough to love Flor. Even big enough to love you.”

That made James pause. Love him? Did she love him or was she only a skilled actress?

Josefa shook her finger at him. “If you don't forgive her you will regret it the rest of your life. You will think of her always.”

“I could never trust her again.”

“Then you are a fool.” Josefa planted her fists on her hips. “A
bloody
fool of a duke.”

Now she was learning to swear in English. Wonderful. She stalked out of the room carrying a bowl of water-­soaked towels.

James sat and rested his head on the high-­backed chair. Watched the light fade from the sky to a faint purple bruise through the tall, mullioned windows.

Charlene slept on, her breathing rhythmic and regular.

She was under his skin, in his blood. Ignoring her wasn't an option. But forgiving her seemed impossible as well. He wanted to slip under the covers and hold her, bury his face in her tangled curls. Tell her how beautiful and strong she was, even when injured.

And then shake her until she told him the truth.

C
harlene's eyes flew open. She was in an unfamiliar room. A single beeswax candle had dripped over the wooden nightstand and was nearly spent. It was nighttime. She was in a large bed with whisper-­soft linens. There was a long, dark shape draped across an armchair by the fire.

The duke.

The pillows smelled like pine needles. She was in his bed.

“You're awake.” His voice rumbled from the chair. He shifted, stretching his long legs.

“How did I get here?” she asked. “What happened?”

“You fainted. I brought you here, and Josefa prepared a poultice for your burn. How does your arm feel?”

She flexed her arm experimentally. Not as much pain as she'd expected. “Surprisingly painless.”

“Josefa is very skilled.”

There was no avoiding their conversation any longer. Charlene pushed the covers down and swung her aching legs out of bed. Someone had clothed her in a modest nightdress that covered her from neck to toes. Dragging the counterpane with her, she sat in a chair opposite the duke, tucking her knees under the soft flannel and wrapping the covers tightly around her.

He added more logs to the glowing coals, and flames soon licked at wood. He was wearing a midnight blue velvet dressing gown over his trousers. Instead of making him more civilized, the sumptuous fabric only served to bring his brute masculinity into sharper contrast.

The immense breadth of his shoulders made her feel light-­headed, as if the fire had stolen all the oxygen from the room.

His jaw was dark with stubble. He hadn't shaved, or bathed. He looked tired, but dangerous, with bruises shadowing his cheekbones and a cut slashed across one eyebrow.

His expression was difficult to read in the dim light, but the way he sat, with rigid back and clenched jaw, told her all she needed to know.

The interrogation was approaching.

“I want to know how you could—­” he began, but she cut him off, rushing into her explanation before he had a chance to speak.

“My name is Charlene Beckett. I'm the illegitimate daughter of the Earl of Desmond and a courtesan. I was groomed for my mother's life, but I refused to follow in her footsteps. Mr. Yamamoto taught me how to defend myself.” She paused to take a quick breath. “I know you have no reason to believe me, but it's true. Lady Desmond paid me one thousand pounds to impersonate her daughter.”

Disbelief, pain, fury. Charlene imagined she could recognize each of the emotions grappling in his eyes, tightening his jaw and constricting his throat.

“But why?” he choked. “Why would she hire you?”

“Lady Dorothea was on a ship back from Italy when the countess received your invitation.” She hugged her knees closer, seeking protection. “The countess was desperate. And I'm her daughter's near twin.”

“One thousand. Is that all I'm worth?”

Was that a hint of amusement she heard in his voice? No, it couldn't be. It had to be bitterness. Sarcasm.

“I accepted the terms of her proposal in order to purchase my sister a painting apprenticeship and to repay a large debt to the baron. You saw the outcome of
that
.”

The fire crackled and popped, punctuating the tension in the room. Charlene stared into the yellow flames tinged with blue at the base and locked her fingers around her ankles.

“He's tried to brand me before,” she whispered. “It plays tricks on your mind. Makes you wary of everyone.”

James's huge hands gripped the chair arms. “I should have killed him.”

“I almost thought you were going to. You had a murderous look in your eyes.” Charlene shivered despite her warm wrappings.

“So you needed the money to pay Grant.”

“Yes. I was going to close my mother's business and open a respectable boardinghouse, a refuge for vulnerable young girls.”

“Are you sure you're not lying again? That seems an unusual goal for a woman who was raised to be a courtesan.”

Why did her dream sound so flimsy and unrealistic when she spoke it out loud? She'd thought it all through carefully, how she would repaint the house, purchase all new beds, how she would go out into the streets of Covent Garden and search for the newly arrived girls, the ones driven there out of desperation. It was solid and real in her mind. But now, with the duke's sharp gaze slicing through to her soul, it sounded implausible, impossible.

“Why didn't you tell me the truth at Hatherly's?” His voice made her shiver again. “You had every opportunity.”

“Believe me, I tried, so many times. Every time I started to speak you kissed me, or my throat closed. I just couldn't bring myself to say the words.”

“You should have told me. Given me a chance.”

“A chance for what?”

“To make my own choices.”

“You never made me think there was a choice to be made. What did it matter if you never met Dorothea before you married her? The message was that you didn't care who you married, as long as the bride met your requirements for lineage, propriety, and the political influence of her father.”

He stood up abruptly and tightened the sash on his dressing gown. She had to close her eyes, because he was too beautiful, standing there in front of her.

She heard him walk to the fireplace. Heard the thud of metal striking wood as he jabbed at the half-­burned logs.

They were in the same room yet worlds apart. The feeling was palpable and heavy, like coal smoke smothering London streets, lodging in eyes and throats, choking out the sun.

He hated her for lying to him.

She hated herself for loving him.

“When I arrived in Surrey, I thought you would be like all the other peers I'd encountered,” Charlene said, keeping her eyes squeezed shut. “Arrogant and selfish. You
did
invite four women to your house to compete for you, after all.”

More thudding iron against wood.

“And when I met Lady Dorothea, I wanted to hate her, too,” Charlene said. “I was envious that she'd lived the life I never had. But she's sweet, kind, and intelligent, and she's willing to protect Flor. You have to take her back, James.”

Iron scraped against stone this time. “Take her back?” he asked. “Are you honestly asking me to marry your sister?”

Humiliating tears gathered in the corners of Charlene's eyes. She squeezed her eyes closed even harder to keep the tears from spilling. “Yes. She will be the perfect duchess. Go to her.” It cost her dearly to say those words, but it was the right thing to do.

“You want me to marry her.” The sense of betrayal in his voice made the tears gather faster. “Was it all an act then? Was I only a means to an end for you?”

She swallowed. She hated being vulnerable. She never allowed anyone this much power over her. But whatever he said to hurt her, whatever he did, it couldn't be worse than the last twenty-­four hours, when she'd believed he was marrying Dorothea.

“It started as an act,” she whispered. “But you were so different than I expected. You played your guitar for Flor, you acknowledged her . . . and you cared about the laborers in your factory. It wasn't an act in the end, Your Grace.”

“James” was the answer.

She hesitated. She'd vowed she would never think of him as James again.

All of a sudden she sensed that he was there in front of her. She opened her eyes. He dropped to his knees and buried his head in her lap.

“Say my name,” he said, threading his arms around her hips.

“James,” she whispered. She stroked his head. She couldn't not touch him.

“And your name is . . .” He caught her good wrist in his fingers and kissed the sensitive inner skin. “ . . . Charlene.” It was the briefest of touches, but that one soft kiss, and the way he said her true name, made her melt with longing.

“James.” She pulled her wrist away, finding a hidden source of resolve. “We need to talk. I have more to tell you.”

In one sweeping movement he stood and lifted her out of the chair and into his arms, silencing her with kisses. He wasn't going to let her breathe, let alone speak.

He carried her to the bed and laid her gently down, lowering himself beside her. He kissed her eyelids, her nose, her tightly closed lips, shaping her body with his hands, loving her until her lips opened and his tongue entered her mouth.

They kissed for so long that she stopped breathing; he was breathing for her, filling her so completely.

“We can talk later,” he said when he finally broke away. “I need you, Charlene. Now.”

Hearing him say her name rendered her protests useless.

There was a swift intake of breath, a hiss like a pot of water boiling over, and then his hand was behind her neck, pulling her into the tempest of his lips. It lasted a minute, or an hour, and there was no time for thought.

The stubble on his chin tickled her chest, and his lips moved inside her bodice, seeking her breasts. A light touch on her nipple, and then an ache that tugged sweetly and made her arch her back.