Never Deceive a Duke
Antonia’s breath was still hitching like a frightened child’s. But when her lashes dropped half shut, and her face tilted ever so slightly, he did it. Gareth kissed her. And in that surreal moment with the rain pounding down all around them, and thunder rumbling ominously in the distance, it seemed as if that was what she begged him for.
He had meant it as a gentle kiss. A kiss of comfort and of reassurance—or so he told himself. But when she opened her mouth beneath him, inviting him to deepen the kiss to something more, he accepted, sliding his tongue deep into the warmth of her mouth as if he, too, were desperate. Perhaps he was. Gareth had not kissed a woman with this sort of irrational hunger in…well, perhaps never.
He had forgotten the rain which still drenched them. He had forgotten that anyone, as he had done, might look out from one of the second floor windows. His breath was coming roughly now. His head was swimming with the need to keep her close; to draw her into him somehow. To bind her to him.
“Hot and sexy, just how I like them! Romance fans will want to remember Liz Carlyle’s name.”
—Linda Howard,
New York Times
bestselling author
THREE LITTLE SECRETS
“In her usual brilliant fashion, Carlyle brings her Sins, Lies, and Secrets trilogy to a splendid conclusion with a dark, deliciously sensual, richly emotional story…. Exquisitely complex characters and luscious writing…simply superb.”
—
Booklist
(starred review)
TWO LITTLE LIES
“With effective, emotional writing and a complex heroine, Carlyle’s story stands out in a crowded field of Regency-era romances.”
—Publishers Weekly
ONE LITTLE SIN
“All of Carlyle’s signature elements—deliciously clever dialogue, superbly nuanced characters, gracefully witty writing, and sizzling sexual tension—are neatly placed.”
—
Booklist
(starred review)
THE DEVIL TO PAY
“Intriguing…engaging…an illicit delight.”
—Stephanie Laurens,
New York Times
bestselling author
“Sensual and suspenseful…[a] lively and absorbing romance.”
—Publishers Weekly
A DEAL WITH THE DEVIL
“Sinfully sensual, superbly written…nothing short of brilliant.”
—Booklist
THE DEVIL YOU KNOW
“Sweep-you-off-your-feet romance, the sort of book that leaves you saying, ‘More, please!’”
—Connie Brockway,
award-wining author of
Bridal Season
“Rich and sensual, an unforgettable story in the grand romantic tradition.”
—Christina Dodd,
New York Times
bestselling author
NO TRUE GENTLEMAN
“One of the year’s best historical romances.”
—
Publishers Weekly
(starred review)
“Carlyle neatly balances passion and danger in this sizzling, sensual historical that should tempt fans of Amanda Quick and Mary Balogh.”
—Booklist
A WOMAN OF VIRTUE
“A beautifully written book…. I was mesmerized from the first page to the last.”
—The Old Book Barn Gazette
LSO BY
L
IZ
C
ARLYLE FROM
P
OCKET
B
OOKS
Never Lie to a Lady
Three Little Secrets
Two Little Lies
One Little Sin
The Devil to Pay
A Deal With the Devil
The Devil You Know
No True Gentleman
Tea for Two
A Woman of Virtue
A Woman Scorned
My False Heart
 | Pocket Books |
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2007 by Susan Woodhouse
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-4634-4
ISBN-10: 1-4165-4634-0
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http://www.SimonSays.com
T
he strange saga of the Ventnor family began with the tale of a traitor, then rambled on aimlessly for better than a century before coming to a near end. They were an arrogant, noble people of mostly Norman blood, and so thoroughly taken with themselves that they rarely married elsewhere. Mathilde Ventnor was no exception, and at the advanced age of fifteen, she dutifully married her second cousin, the third Duke of Warneham, then began to bear him children at a rate so prodigious that even the Ventnors were impressed.
All was well until a cold November’s day in 1688, when the duke, long known as a hardened loyalist, made a calculated decision to betray his king—and, depending upon whom one asked—his country. With bloody rebellion looming, the king was on the verge of being crushed by the Protestants, who had been breathing down his neck since his contentious coronation. The Ventnors were not Catholic. They were devout opportunists, who worshiped in the Church of the Impertinent Presumption. And seeing the way of things, the duke turned tail somewhere just north of Salisbury—as had many both higher and lower than himself—and bolted to the other side. The
winning
side.
Warneham had much to live for. His ducal holdings were amongst the grandest in England, though they were not secure, for despite her remarkable fertility, Mathilde had thus far had the ill luck to bear naught but daughters—six of them, all very pretty in their own way. And all perfectly useless. Warneham needed a son, and he needed a victory.
Morally confident in his decision, Warneham rode out ahead of the pack of turncoats, crested a leaf-strewn knoll, and beheld with relief the Protestant banner of William of Orange snapping smartly in the breeze. Beneath it stood William’s noble supporters, shouting out Warneham’s name and waving for him to come down. So gratified was the duke by this welcome that he did not see the burrow which some industrious fox had dug near the foot of the grassy slope. Spurred to dramatic action, his horse caught the hole full on, stumbled, and pitched Warneham headlong into the encampment. The duke landed on his skull, snapped his neck, and promptly breathed his last in the service of his new king.
England’s Glorious Revolution ended almost as summarily as Warneham. William of Orange was easily victorious, James fled to France, and nine months later to the day, Mathilde gave birth to twins—strong, lusty boys, the both of them. No one dared point out, however, that the babes looked not remotely alike—with the elder his mother’s miniature, a pink, plump cherub, and the second-born a knobby, long-legged creature with a shock of golden hair—and neither looked remotely like their dead father. No, it was a miracle. A godsend.
King William and Queen Mary decreed the babes be brought to court, and the king himself pronounced them both the very spit and image of the dead duke. No one dared gainsay him because—well, because this is a tale of romance. And what is romance without a touch of drama and a dash of deceit?
To Warneham’s firstborn son, of course, William reaffirmed the ducal coronet. But to the youngest, he promised command of a regiment—for him, and for his heirs ever after, in acknowledgement of his father’s bravery. And thus, according to family legend, was the family’s fate forevermore divided.
The boy who now stood in the center of Warneham’s vast library was all too aware of this legend. Indeed, after more than two hundred years, it was no longer a division which separated the family but an unbreachable black chasm. And now he was going to puke. Right on the duchess’s shoes.
“Stand up straight, boy.” The duchess circled him, her tiny heels clicking neatly on the marble floor as if she assessed a piece of statuary.
The boy swallowed hard, the bile burning in his throat. As if this morning’s miserable five-mile journey in a lurching farm cart had not been torment enough, the duchess now bent forward and gave him a sharp poke in the belly. His eyes widened, but the boy stood as straight as he was able and forced his gaze to drop subserviently toward the floor.
“Well, he looks sturdy enough,” mused the duchess, cutting a glance at her husband. “He does not appear to be wormy. He seems appropriately humble. And at least he is not
swarthy
.”
“No,” admitted the duke churlishly. “He is Major Ventnor made over, thank God—those gangling legs and that gold-colored hair included.”
The duchess turned her back on the old woman who had brought the boy. “Really, Warneham, what choice have we here?” she murmured. “We must ask ourselves, I think, what is the
Christian
thing to do? Your pardon, of course, Mrs. Gottfried.” This last was tossed carelessly over her shoulder.
But the old woman was watching the duke assessingly from her corner. His handsome face was contorted with doubt and distaste. “The Christian thing!” he repeated. “Why is it always the Christian thing which wants doing when one is faced with an unpleasantness?”
The duchess folded her hands primly before her. “You are quite right, of course, Warneham,” she agreed. “But the child is of your blood—a
tiny little bit,
at least.”
The duke seemed to take umbrage at this suggestion. “Barely at all!” he said brusquely. “And he cannot very well stay here, Livie. We cannot have his sort sharing the schoolroom with Cyril. What would people say?”
The duchess hastened to her husband’s side. “No, no, of course not, my dear,” she soothed. “That would not do at all.”
Mrs. Gottfried rose on arthritic knees and curtsied again. “Your Grace, have mercy,” she begged. “The lad’s father died a hero’s death at Roliça fighting for England. Gabriel has no one else to whom he can turn.”
“No one?” said the duchess sharply as she cut another condescending look over her shoulder. “Really! Have you no family in England, Mrs. Gottfried?”
The old woman bobbed humbly. “No blood kin, Your Grace,” she murmured, preparing to lay down her only trump. “But my people will take Gabriel, of course, and raise him as one of their own—if that is indeed your wish?”
“No, by God, it is not!” Warneham jerked abruptly from his chair and began to pace the floor. He was an elegant man, still young and vigorous, and he strode about like one born to the purple. “Damn Ventnor for putting us in such an untenable position, Livie!” he continued. “If a man is going to make an unsuitable marriage, then by God he has no right to go off and get himself shot in foreign parts, king or no king. That’s what I say.”
“Quite so, my dear,” cooed the duchess. “But it is too late for remonstrance. The man is dead, and the child must now be dealt with.”
“Well, he cannot live here at Selsdon Court,” the duke said again. “We have Cyril to think about. And what would people say?”
“That you are a decent Christian man?” his wife gently suggested. Then she paused and clapped her hands together almost girlishly. “Warneham, I have it! He shall live in the dower house. Mrs. Gottfried can attend to him. We can have that odd little curate—oh, dear, what is his name?”
“Needles,” huffed the duke.
“Yes, yes, Needles,” said the duchess. “He can come round and tutor the child.” She urged her husband gently back into his chair. “It will not be so bad as all that, my dear. And it will be only for a time. Why, in another ten years or so, the boy can be bought a commission. He may go into the army, as his father and grandfather did.”
“The dower house, eh?” The duke seemed to be considering it. “The roof leaks and the floors are rotting. Still, we could repair it, I daresay.”
In the center of the room, the boy stood as quietly and as rigidly as he could. He tried very hard to look like a soldier. Like his
father
. And this meeting, he knew, was his only hope. Had he not known it, his grandmother’s tears and prayers before leaving their shabby wayside inn this morning would have told him so. He swallowed his nine-year-old pride and his roiling bile and pushed back his shoulders.
“May I speak, sir?” he piped.
The duke’s head jerked in his direction, and a deathly silence settled over the room. For the first time, the duke actually eyed the boy up and down. “Yes,” he finally said, his voice impatient. “Speak up, boy.”
“I…I should like to be a soldier, Your Grace,” he offered. “I should like to go to the Peninsula, sir, and fight against Napoleon, like Papa. Until then—well, I shan’t be any trouble to you, sir. I promise.”
The duke eyed him almost nastily. “No trouble, eh?” he said. “No trouble! Now why do I somehow doubt that?”
“No trouble, sir,” the boy echoed. “I promise it.”
He could not know—indeed, they could none of them have known—what a dreadful lie that was to be.
