She Tempts the Duke (6 page)

Sebastian studied him. It had been only a fortnight since he and his brothers had managed to reunite. He had left each of them with the command to meet at the abbey ruins near Pembrook in ten years on the date that they escaped the tower. But war and wounds had delayed Sebastian. The sea had thrown obstacles Tristan’s way and he, too, had failed to show at the appointed time.

Rafe had hired a man to live near the ruins until the brothers arrived. Not once had it ever occurred to him that they were dead. After months spent recovering from his devastating wounds, Sebastian finally made his way to the abbey. The man had provided him with the address to The Rakehell Club and a message from Rafe. Here he would be safe.

But rather than head to London straightaway, he’d spent a fortnight securing the estate. Then he’d come to London. He and his brothers had planned their return to London Society. They’d wanted a dramatic entry. He thought they’d achieved that end with a remarkable bit of success.

But the final curtain had yet to draw closed, and several acts still remained unperformed.

“I don’t want any more blood on my hands,” Sebastian said now.

“They’d be on mine.”

He didn’t much like the speed with which Tristan responded. “You’ve become quite bloodthirsty.”

“I’ve learned to survive, no matter the cost.” He shrugged. “I’ve also learned to take comfort where I can find it. Rafe has a charming girl working here who is very talented at giving comfort. So if you’ll excuse me, I believe I shall seek her out. I’m certain she has a friend if you’re interested.”

“Not tonight.”

Tonight he had far too much on his mind. After his brother left the room, he dropped into the chair and filled his glass with more brandy. He took a long swallow and leaned back. From his pocket, he removed the threadbare bundle. The yellow ribbon had faded with time, but it still managed to hold secure that which he treasured most.

He brought it near his nose and inhaled deeply. The rich scent of the soil tantalized him, spurred him on, made him yearn for home. He would return there soon—once his place in Society was firmly established.

I am the Duke of Keswick,
he told the fire. It merely snapped and popped, as though it didn’t believe his words any more than he did.

Chapter 4

F
ool! So close. You shouldn’t have waited so long.

“What choice did I have? I had to fend off suspicions.”

But twelve years? Fool.

Lord David Easton paced with agitation. So close. So close. So close.

Twelve years ago, he sent his man to the tower to dispense with his troublesome nephews. He was going to claim a hunting accident. It was a poor explanation. He’d known it at the time, but creativity had never been his strong suit.

Only the lads had somehow managed to escape. Search parties had no success in finding them. The boys had skillfully eluded Lord David until even he began to believe the rumors that they were dead.

He shouldn’t have waited to press his claim to the titles, but he hadn’t wanted to be suspected of foul play. Not that it would have done him any good. A half-blind man could see the twins’ remarkable resemblance to their father.

Only one of them does. The other is half-blind, which fosters a weakness, would make him easier prey.

“After tonight’s fiasco, you can’t think I can get away with killing them.”

You must. Lucretia will leave you if you once again become nothing—just as the lads’ mother tossed you over for their father, for Randall. She was yours. But it took only one smile from Randall for her to turn her favors toward him. She said she loved him, but all she wanted was the title. It’s all any woman wants.”

“But three murders—”

Accidents. Just as one befell their father. They are cursed.

“No one will believe it.”

They believed your father died of illness. You proved to him how clever you were.

Lord David stopped his pacing and stared into the fire. “You are not as clever as your brother,” his father told him over and over as he was growing up.

“I am clever.” His laughter echoed around him. “Even my father had to admit how clever I was in the end, when the poison had done its work and all thought he’d fallen ill.” But when he died, Randall became duke and stole David’s love.

He had to pay for his betrayal, for his thievery.

“I never should have listened to you,” he whispered to the shadows that had long been his companions.

And Eve never should have taken a bite from the apple. You have tasted vengeance. Surely you would not pass up a feast.

He licked his lips, already savoring the sweetness of it.

Chapter 5

T
he morning following the most interesting ball of the Season, Mary was sitting in the morning room reading
Jane Eyre
when the butler walked in and bowed slightly.

“M’lady, you have a guest.”

Inwardly she groaned. Lady Hermione had certainly wasted no time in seeking her out for gossip. “Inform her that I’m not at home.”

“Not ‘her,’ m’lady, but the Duke of Keswick.”

Her heart thundered as she rose quickly to her feet, patted her hair, smoothed her skirt. “Show him in.”

“He is in the library with your father. I’m to take you there.”

“Why did you not say? He’s here to see my father then. Not me.” And why? Why would he seek out her father? Why had he not come specifically to see her? Why did it pain her so that he hadn’t? Because they were friends, that was all. It was no more than that.

“My apologies, m’lady. I know only that I was sent to fetch you as the duke wishes to speak with you.”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so irascible.” And why the deuce was she apologizing to a servant? Because she was flustered by Sebastian’s arrival.

Not waiting for the butler to escort her—she was after all quite familiar with the location of her father’s library—she hurried from the room and down the hallway. She wasn’t certain why she felt such a need to rush or who it was that she thought might need protecting—Sebastian or her father.

As soon as she was near the library, the footman opened the door and bowed slightly as she glided past. Her father’s study was small. A wall of shelves, a few chairs scattered about, and his massive desk. When she was a child, she would sit on his lap while he read reports from his estate manager.

Now he stood by the fireplace, an empty tumbler in hand. She suspected he dearly wanted to refill it but Sebastian was gazing out the window near the table that housed all manner of spirits. His dark blue jacket was finely cut, outlined the broad expanse of his shoulders. Even at this distance, she could see that there was strength in his back. Tall and erect, he stood with a military bearing. Or perhaps it was simply a mark of self-discipline, although he’d come close to losing it last night. She didn’t want to consider that had she not stepped in, he might have never released his uncle. The fury distorting his features—while she understood it—had also been remarkably unsettling.

At the sound of her clicking heels, he turned in such a way that he could see her clearly but the disfigured portion of his face was not visible to her, and she realized that he’d deliberately chosen his position near the windows with that purpose in mind. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught her father’s shudder because he was able to view what she could not. He’d never possessed much in the way of a cast-iron stomach, but still his reaction irritated her. Based upon the small bit of information Sebastian revealed last night, he’d been a soldier. As such he was deserving of their consideration and gratitude. Coming to a stop only a few feet from her childhood friend, she curtsied. “Your Grace.”

“Come, Mary. Surely such formalities are not needed between us.”

His voice was rough, as though his throat had been scraped raw. She noticed it last night, but for some reason it seemed more so now. She couldn’t help but believe that a different life would have given a different timbre to his voice.

“It’s lovely to see you . . . Keswick.”

He released a low bark of laughter. “You are the first outside of family to address me by my title.”

She scowled at her father, who had the good grace to blush before shifting his gaze longingly at the decanters. She turned her attention back to their guest. “Rather appropriate, don’t you agree, that it should be I?”

“Quite. I was hoping you might take a turn about the garden with me.”

“That’s hardly appropriate,” her father said. “She’s betrothed, man.”

“Yes, so I heard,” Sebastian said, never taking his gaze from her. “While I’ve not had the honor of meeting him, I do know Fitzwilliam is a most fortunate man.”

She felt the heat burning her cheeks. “You’re very kind.”

Sadness touched his remaining eye. “No, Mary, I fear I’m not.”

“Being in service to the Queen changed you I suppose.”

“A good many things changed me.”

She nodded, suddenly at a loss for words, wishing her father wasn’t close enough to hear what they might say. “I must retrieve my wrap . . . and my lady’s maid. She may serve as our chaperone. If you’ll be so good as to excuse me for a few moments?”

“Naturally.”

“I’ll meet you in the garden.”

He gave a quick nod.

“You don’t mind do you, Father?” She thought he intended to object again but then his gaze swung to Keswick, and he did little more than mutter, “No, of course not.”

She couldn’t deny that Keswick could be quite intimidating. She suspected her father would be shaking in his boots if he’d witnessed the incident at last night’s ball.

She strolled from the room, hoping she gave no indication that her nerves were tingling. As soon as she was through the doorway and heard the quiet snick as the footman closed the door, she scampered down the hallway. She had a thousand questions for him, hoped he would provide a thousand answers, but she thought it unlikely. He was very different from the lad with whom she’d ridden across fields. But surely a small piece of him still existed somewhere.

In her room, she rang for her maid, then snatched up her shawl and draped it over her shoulders. She went to her vanity and dabbed perfume behind her ears. A silly thing to do, and yet she couldn’t help herself. She wanted him to look at her as though she were a woman, not a child. Not that she had any interest in him other than friendship, but if he didn’t see her as equal in maturity it was unlikely that he would share all he’d endured these many years. Once no secrets had existed between them. Now she feared there were a good many.

A
s Sebastian waited in the garden, he couldn’t help but think he’d made an awful mistake in coming here. Lord Winslow had looked at him as though he’d seen a ghost. Surely he’d been told of Keswick’s reentry into Society, so it must not have been his arrival so much as his marred features that had taken the earl by surprise. In truth, he wanted to simply escape to Pembrook and live out his life in solitude, but as he’d made a public appearance he’d decided to get another matter taken care of while he was in London. He would find a wife. Because God help him, he needed an heir. Which meant he’d have to keep himself on public display until the task was done. He did not expect her to love him. He didn’t think it would be possible when he couldn’t even love himself. But once she had seen to giving him an heir, he would grant her freedom. It would be her reward for enduring his presence in her bed.

He was a skilled lover. Or at least he had been before he’d awoken to discover that ignoring the call for retreat and further engaging the enemy in order to save a wounded man was a fool’s mission. The soldier had been beyond saving. Sometimes Sebastian wondered if it would have altered his decision had he known how gravely wounded the fellow was. Probably not. In the heat of battle, all men believed themselves invincible. Why else would they charge with such enthusiasm into hell?

He heard the soft footsteps and turned ever so slightly to greet Mary. She smiled at him, and his chest constricted. Yes, it was a mistake to come here. To have the opportunity to memorize every line and curve of her face, to search for the remembered freckles that had faded, to be disappointed that they were not to be found. To inhale the flowery fragrance—orchids, perhaps—that seemed stronger outside than it had in the study. Strange, he would have thought just the opposite.

He had deliberately placed himself so that when she joined him she’d have no alternative except to stand to the right of him. He did not wish to offend her delicate sensibilities by what remained of the left side of his face. Although the girl he’d known probably would have not been sickened by such a ghastly image, she was a lady now. And that made all the difference.

They began walking with the maid following discretely behind. He did not offer Mary his arm. Rather he planted his hands behind his back. Little point in touching what he could never hold.

“How long have you been in London?” Mary finally asked.

“A little more than a fortnight.”

“You did not think that I might wish to know you were alive?”

He heard the sharpness of her tone, the hurt. They had been friends once, and he cursed Tristan for being correct. They should have told her. “We thought it best to keep our presence here a secret until the right moment.”

“I would have held your secret.”

“But contacting you may have put us at risk for discovery. Rafe has been in London for some time, but he used a different surname and ran into no one who might identify him. Considering his age when we left, he was fairly safe from being properly identified.”

“But you and Tristan—twins.”

“Yes, we are a bit more noticeable.” Or at least they once were. He supposed it would take a keen eye indeed to notice their similarities these days, but it was a risk they’d not been willing to take.

Her bow-shaped mouth curled up slightly. “You were certainly noticed last night. I’m not sure I ever realized you had such a flare for the dramatic.”

“I would have thought you of all people would not have been surprised. Was I not Lancelot to your Guinevere? As I recall, I fought the enemy off quite daringly with my wooden sword.”

“That was so long ago that I’d almost forgotten.” Her smile withered. “Why did you not have him arrested for what he did to you?”

“What exactly did he do, Mary? He locked us in a tower. He could argue that we’d misbehaved and were merely being brought to task.”

“I could tell the courts or the house of lords or whoever I needed that I heard your uncle order someone to kill you,” she said.

“You were a child. Years have passed. He could argue that your memory was faulty. It would become a battle of words, Mary. I would not subject you to such unpleasantness.”

“But it is not right, what he did.”

“I’m well aware of that. My brothers and I will deal with him.”

“What have you in mind?”

“Your gardens are lovely.”

“Sebastian!” She stopped walking and he watched the familiar mulish expression cross over her features. “Why will you not reveal your plans?”

“I will not have you put in harm’s way when there is no need.”

“I want revenge as much as you.”

“It is not revenge. It is retribution.” And he doubted anyone could want it as much as he. “To be quite honest I’ve not finished mapping out my plans, and I did not come here to discuss my uncle.” He longed for one conversation that did not revolve around the man.

“What of his wife?” she asked.

“What of her?”

“My heart goes out to her. You might have been a bit kinder to her.”

“Twelve years, Mary. There is no kindness left in me.”

She glanced away and he wondered if she feared what she might see in him if she looked too closely. He had taken to avoiding mirrors whenever possible. It wasn’t so much the scars that bothered him any longer but rather what he saw in his eye. If eyes were truly the window to the soul . . . he did not fancy what he saw within his.

“When confronting your uncle last night, you said that you were a soldier,” she said after several moments of reflection.

“Yes. I did not mean to stay away so long, but there never seemed a good time to sell my commission. Then we declared war on Russia, and to have left then would have shown me to be a coward.”

“I suspect you were anything except a coward. Shall we sit?”

She indicated a wrought iron bench. He would have preferred walking, but he nodded and followed her over. In her youth, she’d been a bundle of mischievousness—which was part of the reason she’d uncovered his uncle’s plot. And now she sat on the side of the bench that would give her the clearest view of his mottled flesh. She was no fool, so it had to be a conscious decision on her part.

“Scoot over,” he said. “I fancy sitting in that spot.”

He was not facing her directly, knew she had a limited view of him, but she studied him with an intensity that made him think she could see all of him, clear through to the center of his darkened soul. “Were you wounded in battle?”

He gave one brisk nod. To his horror, she rose and walked toward him. He should have stepped away, but the challenge in her eyes held him immobile.

“You don’t have to hide from me,” she said, her voice a whisper on the waning breeze. She placed one of her delicate hands on his shoulder, and ever so slowly as though he were a skittish stallion, she glided her fingers up until they rested against his jaw. He could feel the pressure but not the softness of her skin. He wanted to shove his fingers into her hair, tear it down, watch it unravel over her shoulders. The need to wrap his arm around her waist, draw her up against him, press her close until her every curve had made an indentation against his body, and blanket his mouth over hers astounded him. He wanted to get lost in the sensuality of a kiss. He wanted the heat of her flesh to brand him. Even as he had these tumultuous thoughts, he was repulsed by the savagery of his desire. Dear God, this was Mary. She deserved more than uncontrollable lust from him, but he’d not been with a woman since before he was wounded. He longed for the gentle touch, the silky skin moving sensuously over his. He longed to be held, and to hold, to skim his fingers—

Then he saw the tears welling in her eyes. They achieved what his own thoughts couldn’t, dampening his desire with unerring swiftness.

“Do not weep,” he ordered through clenched teeth.

“It must have hurt terribly.”

Unbearably. If not for his need to reclaim Pembrook, he’d have succumbed to the allure of death. But he’d not admit that, not reveal that weakness, not even to her. “Others were worse off.”

“Your eye—”

“It’s gone.” Left on a godforsaken battlefield. Although he had not memory of it or the specific pain that might have been associated with it. The agony had encompassed all of him. It had been months before he’d been able to identify where specific points of pain originated.