The Duke (3 page)

Dolph rubbed his hands together and feigned a shiver. “Chilly out here today. Bet you’re hungry.”

“
Oranges
! Sweet oranges, here, fresh from sunny
Italy
!”

“It’s your last chance to change your mind about going to
Brighton
with me. I leave tomorrow. There will be other ladies present, if that’s your concern.” He waited, but she continued to ignore him. “The Regent’s mistress is giving a rout at the farmhouse by the shore. Me and my friends are invited—”

“
Oranges
, a penny apiece!”

He growled in exasperation. “Of all the women in the world that I could have, doesn’t it mean anything to you that you’re the one I pick?”

“If you’re going to come and bother me every day, you could at least buy an orange.”

“A penny, right? Sorry, I don’t carry such small change,” he said with a short laugh. “
Oranges
give me hives and besides, why should I help you? You are a naughty thing, always running away from me. How much longer do you plan to put me off?”

“Until it works,” she muttered, carrying her basket down the street.

Following her, Dolph laughed with gusto. His groom led the phaeton’s team after them, following them down the street at a respectful distance.

Bel looked away in desperation, longing to catch a glimpse in the crowd of a scarlet uniform and then to see her darling, wayward Mick Braden marching toward her, come home from the war. Why, he was
Captain
Mick Braden now since his gallantry on the fields of France, she thought with a rush of pride in the cocksure young officer from her tiny home village of Kelmscot—the man she had more or less planned on marrying since she was sixteen.

“Bel, sweet, you’re a noble quarry, but it’s time to give up the game. You’ve proved yourself as resourceful as you’re stubborn, as clever as you are fair. Every move I’ve made, you’ve countered with admirable spirit. I applaud you. Now, for God’s sake, stop this nonsense and come home with me. You’re disgracing yourself.”

“It is honest work,” she replied through gritted teeth. “
Oranges
, here!”

“Do you doubt my affection?”

“Affection?” She turned to him and set down her basket so harshly the oranges rolled about. “Look what you’ve done to me and my father. When you care for someone, you don’t ruin their life!”

“I took that life away from you so I could give you a better one! I’m going to make you a countess, you thankless chit.”

“I don’t want to be a countess, Dolph. I only want you to leave me alone.”

“Oh, I’m so sick of you and your airs,” he sneered, grasping her arm. “You
are
mine. It’s just a matter of time.”

“Let go of me this instant.”

His grip tightened with raw power. “Nothing is going to stop me from winning you in time, Bel. Can’t you see? My actions
prove
my love.”

“Your actions prove you are selfish beyond imagining.”

His eyes narrowed to angry slashes. “Be fair—”

“Fair?” she cried as he released her arm. She jerked back. “You had my poor father thrown in the Fleet. You got me fired from the finishing school. We lost our house!”

“And you can have it all back—just like that!” He snapped his leather-gloved fingers, staring lecherously at her. “Just surrender. Say you’ll be my wife. You can’t win this one, Bel. It’s not as though my offer is improper— anymore,” he added with a slight sulk.

“You are supposed to marry Lord Coldfell’s daughter.”

“What would I do with a feebleminded deaf-mute for a wife? I daresay I deserve better than that.”

“Dolph, that is unkind. You know I am engaged to Captain Braden,” she said, stretching the truth just a bit, because their long understanding wasn’t an actual, formal betrothal.

“Braden! Don’t say that name to me. He is nothing! He’s probably dead.”

“He’s alive. I saw the list in the
Times
after
Toulouse
.”

“Then where is he, Bel? Where is your hero? In
Paris
? Celebrating King Louie’s return with the French whores? Because I don’t see him here, if he loves you so much.”

“He’s coming,” she said with far more conviction than she felt.

“Good, because I can’t wait to meet the chap and thrash him. You’re not marrying him.”

“Well, I’m not marrying you. I know too well what you are.” With her basket tucked under her arm, she lifted her chin and walked on.

“Oh, you are a proud wench,” he said with a quick, dangerous sneer, but he schooled it to a taut, angry smile. “Very well. You still refuse to submit to me. Not today. Not yet. But soon.”

“Never. You are wasting your time.”

“Sweet, foolish, beautiful Miss Hamilton.” His gaze moved possessively over her body. “You claim to know my nature. Don’t you see that the more you run away, the more lusty I grow for the chase?”

She took a backward step, gripping an orange, half prepared to hurl it at him to drive him off.

With a gleam in his eyes and a smirk on his lips, Dolph took out another cheroot. “Until next time, sweet. I’ll be in
Brighton
for several weeks, but rest assured, I will be back.” He lit the cheroot, blew the smoke at her, then turned and climbed back up into his phaeton. With a roar, he whipped his cowering horses into an instantaneous gallop.

Flinching at the crack of leather, she stood at bay until his fancy phaeton had rolled away. The two costermongers across the way shouted mocking names at her that she was learning to dread with a whole new understanding. She ignored them, swallowed hard, and glanced down the street, praying to catch a glimpse of a smart red uniform, but there was still no sign of her rescuer yet.

After she had sold the rest of her oranges, it was time for her daily visit to Papa at the Fleet, where he had been incarcerated since Christmas for a debt of a little over three thousand pounds. The walk to the hulking, redbrick prison on

Her father was a gentleman scholar and admittedly a bit of an eccentric. Alfred Hamilton liked nothing better than to while away his days poring over the ancient illuminated manuscripts that were his passion, or haunting nearby
Oxford
University
’s awe-inspiring Bodleian Library. Papa and she had lived a quiet, placid life that moved at the stately pace of the river, but then Dolph had come along and bullied their creditors into prosecuting her father for his unpaid debts. Papa had always been absentminded about such things. Bel tried to mind financial matters in their household, but, like a guilty child, her father had concealed from her just how seriously he had compromised the family finances with his uncontrollable fervor for snatching up any illuminated manuscripts that crossed his path. Ergo, he soon landed in the Fleet.

Moving hastily to
London
to be near him, Bel had found work at Mrs. Hall’s posh finishing school in the hopes of mitigating their troubles, but then Dolph had contrived to have her dismissed. He had wanted her helpless and bereft of resources so she would have no choice but to turn to him for help. She shook her head to herself as she walked.
That
she would never do.

As the Fleet’s huge, arched entrance came into sight between the towering walls of the prison yard, she grew nervous and began mentally rehearsing her plea to the warden to extend her just a fortnight’s credit, at which time she could pay her father’s chamber fees in full.

Doubt gnawed her as she trudged toward the huge front doors. Realistically, she knew the chances were slim that any plea of hers would move the lumbering, scar-faced man. The Lord Himself writhing on the cross probably could not have moved the warden of the Fleet, who had been hardened, she’d heard, by years of overseeing prisons in the convict colony of
New South Wales
. He had even managed women’s prisons, it was said, so she expected no chivalrous treatment based on her status as a Lady of Quality.

The various jailers and guards knew her from her daily visits. One of them conducted her through the long, rectangular lobby. As they neared the warden’s office, she heard his deep, rough voice through the open door as he matter-of-factly abused one of his subordinates, citing codes and regulations like a true petty tyrant. She trembled at the thought of having to throw herself on the mercy of such a man.

As the guard led her past the office, the warden’s colorless eyes, devoid of emotion, flicked to her. He was standing behind his desk, a big, square, brawny man with skin as weathered and tanned as a saddle. He had a whitish-pink scar that scored his brow and cheek and ran all the way down to his jaw. A ponderous ring of keys hung by the pistol and bludgeon at his belt. He nodded to her as she passed, then she could feel his gaze following her.

She shuddered as the guard led her up to her father’s cell, though she knew the way herself by now. Arriving before the solid wood door, she wearily gave the guard the necessary coin. He pocketed it with a greasy smile, then turned the key and admitted her.

When she walked in, she found her father, Alfred Hamilton—dreamer, violin player, medieval scholar—in a state of absorption, poring over one of the rare and precious manuscripts that had landed him in debtor’s prison. His round spectacles were perched on his nose. His snow white hair, wild and woolly, stuck out in all directions from under his beloved velvet fez.

“Hello?” she called in amusement.

At her greeting, he looked up in surprise, startled back into the present century. Then his lined, rosy-cheeked face broke out in a wreath of smiles, as though he had not just seen her yesterday and the day before that.

“What light through yonder window breaks? Why, it’s Lindabel!”

“Oh, Papa.” She strode in and hugged him. He had called her Lindabel since she was knee high and it was typical of him, since he seemed to do everything backwards. He sat down on his stool again. She stood beside him and affectionately patted his shoulder. “How are they treating you today? Have you had your dinner?”

“Yes, a mutton stew. I fear I shall turn Irish with all the mutton I eat,” he exclaimed, clapping his thigh as he chuckled. “How I should love a good English steak. Ah, beef stew and a clutch of dinner rolls like you used to make—heaven!”

“Well, if turning Irish is the extent of your woes, I’m glad. You seem in good spirits.”

“Always, my dear, always, though not everyone around here can say the same. Why, just this afternoon, I went down into the courtyard and saw so many long faces that I took my violin and entertained the whole block with airs from the
North country
. Soon some even took to cutting a reel. I don’t mind telling you I received a rousing ovation!”

“Well done!” she said, laughing. She knew old Alfred had charmed most of the guards and all the other prisoners with his buoyant, gentle nature, his violin playing, and his tales of ancient chivalry, of dragons and knights and maidens fair, all of which helped to while away the hours of endless ennui for those imprisoned here.

For now, he had the stronger prisoners and some of the kinder guards looking out for him, but the Fleet was no gentleman’s club, and her gentlemanly father had never been exposed to such a place before. With such thoughts weighing almost constantly on her mind, her laughter ebbed away.

He lowered his spectacles on his nose and peered at her. “Now, now, I know that look. You mustn’t worry over me, little damsel. The clouds will part. They always do. You just look after yourself and your young charges. Teaching is the noblest profession in the civilized world. Mind you, after your silly debutantes have finished their proper posture and walking lessons, tell them it never killed any young lady to remove the book from off the top of her head and open it for a change. Just like I taught you.”

“Yes, Papa.” She looked away.

Her father was a hopeless optimist, but surely he would not be so cheerful if she had not kept the truth from him. Determined not to worry him, she had been keeping up appearances, putting on a brave face. She had not told him of her unjust dismissal from Mrs. Hall’s.

“Don’t forget your
Milton
,” he added. “ ‘The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heav’n of hell, a hell of heav’n. You look at these four walls and see a jail cell, but I see—an enchanter’s study,” he declared with a sudden grin.

“Oh, Papa. It’s just—I don’t know how I’m ever going to get you out of here. It’s such a lot of money. You are my father and I would never reproach you, but sometimes I just wish . . . that you had
sold
the manuscripts instead of donating them to the Bodleian Library.”

A rare, stern look of disapproval knit his bushy white eyebrows. “Sell them? Daughter, for shame! Think on your words. These are priceless works of art that I salvaged from the hands of unscrupulous dealers. Can you sell beauty? Can you sell truth? These books belong to all humanity.”