The Duke's Desire

by Erica Ridley

  “You didn’t read it?” she said in surprise, then gave a little shrug. “To be honest, I probably wouldn’t have, either. I make fun of the vague descriptions in my favorite books, but I would cry if they weren’t in there. I’m hoping Fanny Hill isn’t afraid to say what it means. I’ve borrowed it from a friend.” She held her book out toward him. “Here. You read it first, and let me know if it’s something I might like.”

  He would do no such thing. He couldn’t even if he wanted to. Not because even the mention of Fanny Hill was forbidden in polite company, but because it was a novel. Lucien could barely make it through the eight-page Cressmouth Gazette. Not that he would admit such a failure aloud. Better for her to think him scandalized than stupid.

  Lucien tried to assume his haughtiest, most condescending expression of disapproval.

  His neck and ears flushed with heat to spite him.

  “You can’t read it?” she breathed in wonder, then shook her head. “Of course you can’t read it. You’re French.”

  “French people… can read!” he ground out in offense.

  “Yes, yes, obviously I meant because it’s in English, which is not nearly as romantic as French.” Her eyes narrowed. “I’ll wager French novelists aren’t dipping their quills in ink only to waste perfectly good parchment with phrases like ‘redheaded champion’ and ‘prurient ivory mounds.’ But when all one has is English…” Her breath caught. “Oh, I’ll teach you! There are so many good books on these shelves. You’ve no idea what you’re missing. Come, sit by the fire and let me assess your level of—”

  “No,” he growled.

  Lucien turned and stalked from the library without another word. He didn’t need English, he didn’t need Miss Church, and he definitely did not need her pity.

  If he were fluent, he would have told her so.

  Chapter 3

  Meg lay in the center of her bed and sighed, doubly disappointed with Fanny Hill.

  First, because if she hadn’t experienced several of the referenced sensations firsthand, she’d have no idea how to parse many of its florid metaphors. Second, because the finer points of crimson swords in moist caves was precisely the sort of conversation she’d prefer to be having with Lucien le Duc, rather than alone in her head. Her stomach twisted.

  She’d insulted him; she could see that now. Although she still wasn’t certain whether the slight stemmed from suggesting Lucien didn’t know English or the presumption that he would want to. If Meg possessed an enormous private library filled with gripping French literature, she wouldn’t bother with the castle’s English selection either.

  She tossed the book aside. The sun was setting, which meant Jemima would be coming in from the dairy and Meg wouldn’t have to be alone with her thoughts anymore.

  “Thank God,” she muttered.

  Meg rolled off her bed and hopped over to the looking-glass. The side she’d been lying on was now an impressive mishmash of wrinkles. It didn’t matter. She’d be chatting with her cousin, not taking her curtsey to High Society. Besides, she didn’t have a better dress to change into. If most of Meg’s meager income didn’t go to rent, perhaps she could afford a new gown, but the best she could do was keep replacing frayed lace or worn hems on the items she already owned.

  Luckily, Jemima loved her just as she was.

  When Meg heard the front door open, she raced out of her bedchamber to greet her cousin. Moving to Cressmouth had been one of the hardest upheavals in Meg’s life, but Jemima and Allan had been a blessing. More than a blessing—a constant. Exactly what Meg needed in a time when everything was upside-down. Not only had they helped her start over, they’d given her what she craved most: family, friends, roots.

  “Mrs. Farrell,” Meg called out. “My, you look fetching. The wind has given your cheeks a remarkable glow. Come, join me in the sitting room so you can dwarf me with your beauty. How were the cows today? There’s a violinist at the castle tonight. Shall we go and practice country dances? Or should we just partake of the complimentary mulled wine?”

  Jemima burst out laughing and threw her arm about Meg’s waist. “Poor thing. Eve’s at her new post, isn’t she? You must be positively starved for conversation.”

  “How do you do it?” Meg groaned. “When the Gazette only consumed Eve once a quarter, we had plenty of opportunity to debate and philosophize. How can you spend all day with cattle? Granted, I don’t speak their language, but cows don’t seem like ideal verbal sparring partners.”

  “She doesn’t spend all day talking to cows,” said a gruff male voice. “She spends all day talking to me.”

  Jemima sent a fond expression over her shoulder as Allan walked in the door.

  “That’s what husbands are for,” she protested, then turned back to Meg. “You—”

  “If you tell me I should get one, I swear I shall scream,” Meg interrupted. “I like being in charge of my own life. The freedoms of spinsterhood disappear when one is no longer a spinster. As long as I remain unwed, I have rights.”

  She’d had a guardian once.

  Never again.

  Jemima looped her arm through Allan’s and rested her head on his shoulder, eyes twinkling. “Marriage has its advantages.”

  Meg sniffed. “Name one.”

  Jemima and Allan exchanged a knowing glance.

  “Fair enough,” Meg grumbled. “Name another one.”

  “That’s actually something we’d like to talk to you about.” Allan led his wife to the sofa and motioned for Meg to take the chair opposite.

  She did so with trepidation.

  “Is it the wrinkles?” she asked. “I know about the wrinkles. I borrowed a new book and I was only going to read the first chapter, but then the next thing I knew—”

  “It’s not the wrinkles,” Jemima assured her. “I smell like cow. I can abide a few wrinkles.”

  “What she cannot abide is smelling like cow,” Allan said meaningfully.

  Meg frowned. “You’re going to sell the dairy?”

  “We can’t sell the dairy. It’s our only income.”

  “You’re going to have a dairy without cows?”

  “We’re keeping the cows.” Jemima leaned forward, eyes shining. “Meg, I’m pregnant.”

  Pregnant.

  Meg flew off her seat and wrapped her arms about them both. “This is the best news I’ve heard in my life! Congratulations, both of you. I cannot wait to be an aunt. I can be an aunt even if I’m a cousin, can’t I? I’m going to be the best aunt a baby could ever have. Or maybe the worst. Does spoiling make me good or bad? Cressmouth is always so cold. I’ll buy wool tomorrow so I can knit a little hat for the baby.”

  Jemima pulled away, laughing. “You don’t know how to knit.”

  “I’ve several months to learn, don’t I?” Meg pointed out. “What else am I to do with my time?”

  Jemima’s smile fell. This time, the glance she shared with her husband was not playful, but anguished.

  Sudden fear clogged Meg’s throat. Her muscles tightened. “What is it?”

  “We love you very much,” Jemima said quickly. Meg’s sense of dread only intensified. “And we absolutely want you to be an everyday part of our son or daughter’s life. But this cottage only has two rooms. The one you’re in now was always meant to be a nursery one day, if we ever needed it.”

  “And now you need it.” Meg’s words were almost too soft to hear.

  She knew better than to believe in something lasting forever. In permanent. In home. As soon as she had what she wanted, something always came to take it away. Her friends, her parents, her home. She’d been silly to believe that just because she found a new home, she’d ever be allowed to keep it.

  “We know you don’t have anywhere to go,” Allan began gently.

  This wasn’t entirely true. Meg had somewhere. A tiny plot of empty land an ocean away. It was the only reminder she had left of everything she’d once had and lost, and it was utterly useless.

  She didn’t have e
nough money to travel, and even if she went, then what? There was no family there. No house to live in. No crops to eat. The only income Meg had was the few coins she earned from letting a neighbor graze his cattle on her grass. For all Meg knew, that was destroying the land—yet she couldn’t afford to stop. Without that revenue, she’d have nothing at all.

  If her small income was barely enough to get by here in Cressmouth, she’d be even worse off anywhere else. At least with the castle’s public offerings to supplement the villagers’ incomes…

  “I’ll find something,” she assured them. “Something close by, I promise. Just a stone’s throw away. I’ll be fine.”

  “There’s no need for haste,” Jemima said quickly, patting her still flat stomach. “We just thought you should know, so you would have time to… plan.”

  Meg nodded. She was good at planning, at making things work and making do, at being boisterous to hide the flailing inside.

  She’d had a lifetime of practice.

  Chapter 4

  Lucien yanked weeds from the family garden with more force than usual.

  Not that anything was “usual” anymore. Until his petite sœur had left home and got married, Lucien had never even visited the family garden. In fact, he distinctly remembered forbidding Désirée from working in the dirt because it was unseemly for a lady of her soon-to-be-restored stature.

  She hadn’t listened. The family had to eat. And now that Lucien could finally afford to visit the village market and purchase everything in sight, here he was stabbing at frozen soil with a trowel because he had absolutely nothing better to do with his time.

  The smithy was overrun with clients and employees alike. The Harpers’ new “representative to the public” had hung sprigs of mistletoe and boughs of holly on every post and wall. His sister-in-law was in the drawing room playing vingt-et-un with Uncle Jasper.

  And Lucien… was out back behind the house, stabbing at a dead garden. Demoted from head of household to irrelevant. He yanked up his gloves. After years of refusing to accept their temporary lodgings as “home,” now that everything had changed, he could no longer deny that a home was exactly what it had become.

  He missed the smithy, blast it all. Missed it and hated it. He missed being the one his uncle depended upon, the one his petit frère and petite sœur looked up to, the one who spent thousands of sleepless nights worrying about making the best possible decisions for the well-being of his family. The responsibility had been suffocating. But he’d loved it, because he loved them. Protecting his siblings was more than a duty. They were part of his soul.

  And now they didn’t need him.

  He should be thrilled. What better sign could there be that he’d fulfilled the promise he’d made to their parents? His siblings were safe and happy, in love and beloved.

  They also weren’t going anywhere on the sixth of January. When Epiphany came, Lucien would have to sail for home without them.

  He touched the waistcoat pocket that hid the tickets. Bastien had purchased boat passage believing the two brothers would make the trip side-by-side. Now he was working fewer hours and earning greater dividends than ever at the smithy. His wife Eve had gone from being an unpaid workhorse on her father’s gazette to being in charge of the castle’s public communications and well-compensated. They would still visit, Bastien said. All of them.

  It wouldn’t be the same, but it would have to be enough.

  Lucien would fulfill his final promise and restore his siblings’ birthright. It would be there if and when they wanted it, but more importantly, all the opportunities that had been taken from them would be there for future generations. Lucien’s children would never be laughed at, pointed at, or whispered about because they were too different from everyone else. They would grow up in a single, happy home, speak the same language as their neighbors, be treated with compassion and respect.

  They would never have to doubt their place in the world. They’d be born into the life Lucien’s parents had wanted to give their own children.

  Which meant, of course, that as soon as the family assets were restored, Lucien’s next priority would be securing an appropriate bride.

  An image of laughing blue-gray eyes flashed through his mind.

  He shook his head. Could there be a less suitable woman than Mademoiselle Church? No wonder she was a spinster. She was brash and boisterous, inappropriate and ill-bred, wicked and witty, surprisingly clever…

  “Nether regions” reminded her of the Batavian Commonwealth? Why would anything remind her of the Batavian Commonwealth? “Redheaded champions” should make her think of… cow teats, perhaps. Something innocent. Didn’t she live in a dairy?

  What’s more, how had she seen through him so clearly? She’d talked through the entire encounter and yet somehow managed to glean information he’d spent years concealing.

  He hadn’t really let her nuzzle his chest, had he? Lucien rubbed the back of his neck. He’d known it wasn’t a real swoon, and yet he’d already caught her in his arms. It was too late. What was a gentleman supposed to do with a damsel in distress, even if her weak knees were the result of playacting? His flesh heated.

  Part of him couldn’t help but wonder what their encounter might have been like if their fortunes were different. If Lucien were a lord, and she une dame. Would he have been appalled by her scandalous behavior and given her the cut direct in a fancy ballroom? Or would he have waltzed with her beneath a crystal chandelier and out through a garden door in order to steal a kiss beneath the moonlight?

  Chapter 5

  Tourists might find it too cold outside for a picnic, but Cressmouth’s residents didn’t let a minor detail like the weather keep them cooped inside on a sunny winter’s day.

  Meg, her cousin Jemima, and a hundred tourists and neighbors dotted the castle park. Some had come for a stroll, some had come to skate on the frozen lake, and the most intrepid of all… tossed a thick blanket onto the hard ground from which to sit back and comment to each other about everything around them.

  “Look, there’s Gloria.” Meg gestured toward their friend. “I wonder if she’s entertaining tourists this evening. Her Star Walks are so much fun.”

  Jemima tilted her head toward the village jeweler. “Did you see Angelica? She looks stunning. The way that cluster of pearls stand out against her gorgeous dark hair and skin… If I had money, I’d give it all to her so she could fashion me something with sparkles to distract from my soon-to-be huge belly.”

  “Your future belly will make you even more beautiful than you already are,” Meg assured her cousin. “But if you want a distraction, I’ll knit a hat for you, too.”

  A streak of gray atop the hill caught their eye. The corner of Jemima’s mouth quirked. “Tiny Tim looks… wide awake.”

  They both watched in amusement as the castle’s indefatigable pygmy goat leapt around the park in hircine delight.

  Meg tried not to be melancholy at the idea of no longer living with her cousin. She loved spontaneous moments like these. Her throat grew thick. She was leaving the cottage, but it wasn’t as if she was leaving Cressmouth, Meg told herself firmly. She’d still see her cousin every day. Jemima just wouldn’t be right down the hall.

  Perhaps Meg would spend more time here, on the castle grounds. There was always a surfeit of tourists eager to chat with the locals. Sure, their camaraderie would last for a week or two at best and a moment or two at worst, but if Meg was destined to gradually lose everyone she cared about anyway, what was the difference? At least she’d still be in a place she considered home.

  “Do you miss France?” asked Jemima, her gaze soft.

  “No,” Meg said flatly. Usually her answers tended to the verbose, but when it came to France, there wasn’t much Meg wanted to say.

  She’d been dragged there against her will at age ten. She’d liked their comfortable home in Berwick-upon-Tweed, loved her pretty bedchamber and her neighborhood full of friends.

  We’ll come back, her m
other had promised. You’ll make new friends, her father had said. Some cousin of a cousin was involved in an investment arrangement that was going to make them all wealthy beyond their wildest dreams.

  Their carriage was the first thing to be lost. No more trips into town; no more Sunday promenades. Then her mother’s jewels. Earrings, necklaces, wedding ring. Then the house. They moved into the attic of a new business associate. Just for a while. Just until they got back on their feet.

  Then Father became ill. Something about the coal in the mines filling his lungs with black dust, day after day. He wasn’t supposed to be in the mines, Meg had protested. He was an investor, not a miner. Yes, but that had been Before. Father wasn’t an investor anymore. He’d spent every penny they had, save for a small plot of land that had been in Mother’s family for generations, and now formed the entirety of Meg’s dowry.

  Not that there was much chance of meeting eligible gentlemen. Meg spent her days up in the attic sewing noble ladies’ luxurious gowns with her mother, and a half dozen other impoverished women in the neighborhood. They wouldn’t suffer like this if the world were more equitable, they said. No wonder there was a revolution in the streets. Some people were born to dine with silver spoons, and others were born to choke on black dust and sew with bleeding fingers.

  “I’m not going back,” was all she said aloud.

  She knew what awaited her there. Nothing. Precisely what had awaited her parents. She’d sobbed on their graves during her one free day each month and swore to never fall for someone else’s grandiose ideas ever again.

  “I’m sorry.” Jemima’s expression was stricken. “I should not have brought it up.”

  Meg forced a sunny smile. “You should bring up anything you like. Of course it was on your mind. You worry about where I’ll go, now that I can’t stay with you. But you needn’t worry. I always find a way. I found my way here to you, didn’t I?”