She Tempts the Duke (5 page)

In the quiet recesses of the night, when slumber lulled her, she would sometimes dream of Sebastian. She would sometimes wonder: what if he returned?

And now he had. She had spent a good deal of time envisioning him growing into manhood. But the gentleman on the stairs more closely resembled something from her nightmares, not her dreams.

“W
e shall no doubt be all the gossip tomorrow,” Tristan lamented, sprawled in a chair in the living area that was part of the private suite of rooms on the top floor of Rafe’s gaming establishment. All three of the brothers had adjourned here after returning from their uncle’s. They were comfortable accommodations and Rafe had the finest of liquors at his disposal.

Sitting in a nearby chair, sipping his brandy, Sebastian stared at the writhing flames. He couldn’t get the image of Mary out of his mind. He’d thought of her from time to time over the years of course, but he’d always envisioned her as she’d been the last time he saw her: a young girl. Braided hair, gangly limbs, and a smile that filled most of her face. Freckles. So damned many freckles that he’d often teased her about them, even as he’d adored the way that they made her look like a little imp.

He thought of the way she’d not hesitated to speak up for him. She had always championed him, and in equal measure, challenged him. She was the reason he had climbed to the top of an ancient oak tree, only to take a tumble and break his arm. She was the reason he had learned to scale the castle walls. She was the reason that he and his brothers were alive to gather here now.

“I wonder why I do not feel more satisfied,” Rafe commented. He was only twenty-two but he’d done very well for himself in a short amount of time. When Sebastian had left him at the workhouse, begging to go with him, he’d feared the sheltered life they’d led would leave his brother vulnerable. Perhaps in the beginning it had. Rafe was quite tight-lipped about how he had come to own a den of vice. Tristan certainly couldn’t accuse him of whining now.

“Because the bastard still breathes,” Tristan said.

Of course Tristan was equally reserved when it came to discussing his life. Along the docks, Sebastian had managed to find a captain willing to pay for a cabin boy. The money had allowed him to purchase his first commission in a regiment. But he couldn’t help but wonder at what cost to Tristan. He’d seen his back. A cat-o-nine had done some nasty work. Tristan had always been more suited to being the one in charge rather than the one doing the work. It was little wonder he’d finally acquired his own ship. Carrying goods had made him a wealthy man. Sebastian didn’t want to consider that perhaps not all of it had been legally obtained.

“Mary grew into quite a beauty while we were away,” Tristan said now, sounding as surprised as Sebastian had been at first. Not so much that she had transformed into a butterfly but that she’d grown up at all. He realized that she was long past an age for marriage: four and twenty. Did she have a husband then? Where the devil had he been?
Who
the devil was he? Why hadn’t he been at her side?

“Perhaps we should have warned her of our plans,” Tristan continued. “She seemed quite unprepared for it.”

“Which no doubt saved her reputation,” Sebastian surmised. He downed his brandy and refilled his glass, refusing to acknowledge that it was because he’d still seen her as a child, had wanted to protect her, had not even considered how the shock of seeing them might affect her. In his mind, she had always remained as unchanged as Pembrook. Although time had its way with the estate as well, but the changes there were subtle. None of Mary’s changes had been subtle. It seemed inappropriate to consider all the dips and swells that her gown had revealed. The unblemished bare skin of her shoulders that some man would have the great fortune to touch.

How silky she would feel. How warm.

He imagined now what he hadn’t at Easton House: removing the pins from her hair and watching it tumble around her. How far would it reach? Was it as thick as it appeared? Would a man’s fingers become lost in it? As easily as a man might become lost in her?

Her eyes. Even her eyes had changed. Not the shade of course. They were still as green as the fertile land. But they no longer held a mischievousness. If eyes possessed the ability to laugh, hers would have done so when she was a child. Not so tonight. Although, unfortunately, tonight, there was very little to laugh about. But still, her eyes held too much knowledge. Wisdom perhaps. What had she seen in all the years he’d been away?

How was it that he had managed to understand that
he
had grown to adulthood but had never considered her doing the same? Perhaps because he had stepped into a man’s boots the day his father died. She’d always been someone with whom he’d enjoyed exploring the world. Only now he thought of exploring her.

Damnation, but these thoughts regarding Mary were unsettling, not to be tolerated. Her role in his life was that of friend, not lover.

“Any notion with whom she was dancing when we made our grand entrance?” Tristan asked, breaking into his thoughts, and Sebastian couldn’t help but wonder about the path that his brother’s musings might be traveling. Surely not the same direction as his.

“You noticed her dancing?” he asked. He could well imagine how graceful she would be as she was glided across the floor in another man’s arms.

“How could you not?” Tristan challenged.

“I was occupied with other matters—convincing the steward that he was to announce us with our titles took a bit more cajoling than I’d anticipated.” The steward was not someone who had worked in their father’s household, so he’d not recognized them nor even been aware of their existence apparently.

Tristan suddenly appeared uncomfortable, taking great interest in the brandy that lingered in his glass. “Come to think of it, I believe she was on your blind side at the time. And we’ve strayed from addressing my concerns. We may have hurt her by keeping our presence here a secret from her. Without her—”

“I know what we owe her,” he snapped, not certain why he was so blasted irritated with Tristan’s inquiries, or the fact that she had matured into womanhood with astounding perfection. Perhaps because seeing her was a blatant reminder of years lost that up until now he’d not had to truly face.

“She’s spoken for,” Rafe said casually. When both brothers looked at him, he merely shrugged. “You two are carrying on like a dog with a bone. I see no point in arguing about what we should have done when the moment is passed. Whether you find her a beauty, whether we owe her is moot. She’s betrothed to Viscount Fitzwilliam. The gent with whom she was dancing. I saw the announcement in the
Times
.”

Rafe had noticed her dancing as well? Perhaps Sebastian was going completely blind.

“She’s a bit on the shelf to be only betrothed,” Tristan said, his words echoing the thoughts Sebastian had been veering toward.

“I can’t imagine our Mary settling for just anyone,” Rafe surmised. “So I suspect it took a bit longer to find a gent worthy of her.”

Our Mary.
She didn’t belong to all of them. She belonged only to—

The truth slammed into him. She didn’t belong to
any
of them.

“Perhaps,” Tristan said. “But still. A viscount? What do you know of him?”

“He’s unimportant. Mary is not our concern,” Sebastian snapped impatiently. He didn’t want to ponder her being with another man. He’d never laid claim to her. Had never even considered it. They’d been children when he was forced to run off. As a woman, she might no longer have anything in common with him. Might be entirely unsuitable to serve as his duchess. Without conscious thought, he ran his hand over his jaw. Stopped. The scars taunted him. It was quite possible no woman would consider serving as his duchess. That path was truly for traveling another day.

“Establishing ourselves,” he told his brothers, “ensuring that our claim to Pembrook is not questioned—that is where our energies must go. Did you not see the doubts in that room? We are far from done.”

“Mary might be useful to us,” Rafe said. “She remained in that world that cast us out.”

“You would use her?” Tristan asked.

“I would use anyone to get what I want.”

The cold words sent an icy shiver through Sebastian. Who was this unrelentingly harsh man whom he called “brother”? On the one hand a bond existed between them that could not be broken. On the other was the truth of the matter: he knew very little about him, yet he could not claim him to be a stranger because he trusted him completely. But still there was so much he didn’t know, wasn’t certain he wanted to know.

Silence eased in around them as though they each needed to ponder the ramifications of their actions tonight. Sebastian had expected a few of the lords to object quite vocally, but they hadn’t. Too dignified perhaps. Or perhaps they cared for his uncle as little as he did. Or perhaps they were just waiting to see how things sorted themselves out.

“What is your next step?” Tristan finally asked.

“To take up residence at Easton House as soon as the imposer has scurried away. You are both welcome to reside there.”

“I will remain here,” Rafe said without hesitation. “It is where I am most at home.”

“You have comfortable accommodations here,” Sebastian said. “Of that there is no question. But now that you are once again recognized as a lord, you might consider selling this place. Its ownership is hardly befitting a gentleman.”

“I never claimed to be a gentleman.”

“But you are,” Sebastian insisted.

Rafe shot to his feet. “Trust me, brother, I have done things that no gentleman would do. Polite Society would find me . . . not quite so polite. My wealth, my more questionable resources are at your disposal. I have already sent two men to keep watch over Easton House and its current resident. I will do all in my power to ensure you hold your title, but my place is here.”

He made to leave and Sebastian stood. “Rafe.”

His brother stopped but did not turn around.

“I could not take you with me. Not twelve years ago. I can take you with me now.”

“It’s too late.” Rafe’s voice carried no emotion, yet the words slammed into Sebastian with the force of cannon fodder. “Perhaps you can regain what you lost, but I cannot. Nor do I have any desire to. Make yourself at home.”

He strode from the room, never glancing back. Sebastian took a step forward. He would catch up to him; he would make him understand—

“Leave him be,” Tristan ordered.

Sebastian didn’t want the wounds that marred his relationship with Rafe to fester, but he suspected his obstinate brother was in no mood to listen. So instead, he studied his twin, still lounging in the chair. It was difficult to look at him and see what a handsome devil he himself had once been. With great reluctance, he wandered back to the fireplace and pressed his arm against the mantel. “Do you know what happened to him?”

“He talks to me as little as he talks to you.”

“I thought they would keep him clothed, fed, and housed within the workhouse.”

“Whatever he went through it is not your fault. All the fault rests with Uncle. Which is the reason that I do wish you’d bloody well let me kill him.”

“So you could hang?” Mary had issued a similar warning, but somehow accompanied by her sweet voice it had held more power. He wondered if she realized how close he’d been to not releasing his uncle. He wondered if she’d be disappointed to meet the darkness he harbored inside him.

“I have a fast ship. And the sea suits me,” Tristan said.

Sebastian pressed his thumb to his brow, rubbed just above the despicable patch, and stared into the fire. “Will you join me at Easton House?”

“I don’t think so, no. I’ve been on my own far too long. I prefer it, Keswick.”

Sebastian jerked up his head and met his brother’s unflinching gaze. From the moment his uncle’s henchman had escorted him to the tower, he’d not been addressed by his title. He’d whispered it to himself every night before he went to sleep—a quiet reminder, a solemn vow. He did not want to forget who he was, what he was, what was owed him. Everything he’d done from the moment Mary slipped the key into the lock to free him had but one purpose in mind—to see that he regained what belonged to him, and in so doing provide a place for his brothers.

His throat tightened. He’d paid a dear price to once again be duke. But then so had they.

They did not need him now. It left him feeling unworthy, as though he had failed them. Like him, they should have been gentlemen. They should have lived leisurely lives. They should have been like the gents in Rafe’s club who had little more required of them than indulging in their vices. They should not have born scars—both visible and hidden.

He watched as Tristan slowly rose and approached him. “Make no mistake, Brother. The desire to see you standing rightfully in Father’s place burned within me with a vengeance. I would endure it all a thousand times, with no regrets, to ensure that you are once again duke.”

Sebastian released a bitter laugh. “I am humbled, Tristan. By your devotion and Rafe’s. I have been blessed with brothers who would do anything to see me hold my title. Our father was cursed with one who would do all in his power to see that he did not.”

“You still believe he killed him?”

“Without doubt.” He shook his head, regretting the truth that lay before them. “But to prove it will be nigh on impossible. Justice cannot be left to others to consider. I have spent years plotting how best to serve as judge, jury, and executioner. Tonight I feel as though we at least killed his place within Society.”

“We may have achieved that, but there is more we can do. We do not need proof to make his life miserable.”

“That should happen soon enough once he moves out of Easton House. I doubt he has anywhere to light.”

Tristan grinned. He’d always been quick to smile, but this one was more wolf than cub. “Then we should put him out of his misery and kill him straightaway.”

“I’ve killed. It is not a pleasant undertaking.”

“As have I, although I am not at all adverse to sending to the devil those who deserve it.”