Duke of Pleasure

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  She didn’t know how to make her way as a woman. Well, aside from on her back, and she’d rather not, thank you very much.

  She started walking, her feet weary and sore. She was so tired, and it was cold and dark now. She just wanted a place to lay her head so she could think.

  Because she wasn’t sure she was the same person anymore. She’d spent the last weeks not only wearing a dress, but hoping and laughing and holding little boys who held her back. It was as if her heart had been a tiny seed, alone in a dark box, and Hugh and his boys had shone light on it. Her heart had grown right out of that box, thriving on all the love she’d felt, and now it was hard, so hard to try to shove her heart back into that too-small box. To try to forget what she’d felt. To forget the warmth and comfort of others.

  To be alone again.

  Strange, that once it had seemed easy to be alone. But perhaps she’d been deceiving herself before. Perhaps it had never been easy to make her way in the world, depending solely upon herself. But it wasn’t until she’d had the comfort of a warm strong shoulder to lean on—had that shoulder and lost it—that she felt her terrible solitude.

  She stumbled over a cobblestone and looked up.

  She was at Saint House.

  The windows of the house were dark, but two lanterns were lit at the door.

  Alf swallowed. She hadn’t been back since she’d spied upon St. John and his wife and babe in the nursery. Hadn’t spoken to him since she’d run away after their sparring lesson weeks ago.

  But he was a kind man. And she had nowhere else to go.

  She went to the front door and knocked. Then stood, shivering in the wind, waiting to see if anyone would answer. It was past midnight. They might not.

  But then a light shone at the cracks of the door, and an elderly and rather cranky-looking manservant in a nightcap and coat opened it. “Who might you be?”

  “Is Mr. St. John in?” she asked, realizing what a stupid question it was.

  “No, miss,” the butler said, and her heart plummeted. “He’s not returned from dinner yet.”

  “Who is it, Moulder?” came a woman’s voice.

  Alf was already backing away, but she wasn’t quite fast enough.

  “Stop!” It was Lady Margaret, St. John’s wife, looking quite fierce for a heavily pregnant woman in a pink-and-peach wrapper. “Don’t you run away, Alf.”

  Alf turned to stare at her. “Lady Margaret. How—?”

  Lady Margaret stomped forward and grabbed her wrist. “You come inside,” she said, pulling her into the house. “How do I know who you are? Don’t be silly. Godric talks about you all the time. He’s been worried sick over you. Not of course that he’s actually said much of anything. Oh no, he’s simply brooded. Where have you been? Oh, and do call me Megs, I feel we know each other already.”

  It might’ve been the big dim hall, it might’ve been all the scolding yet worried chatter, or it might’ve been that last. The offer of friendship.

  Alf burst into tears.

  Megs wrapped her arms around her. “Don’t worry. You’re here now.”

  THREE DAYS LATER Hugh sat in his dark library with his pounding head in his hands. He’d sent his men into St Giles. He’d spent hours scouring the streets, made inquiries of every informant he had, ducked into countless taverns and tiny shady gin shops and even checked at the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children.

  No one had seen Alf, and he was half out of his mind with worry for her. Had she gone back to St Giles and been taken by the Scarlet Throats? Was she even now some nameless corpse floating in the Thames? Or had she disappeared like so many others—like her childhood friend and protector, Ned? Had she gone out one day and simply vanished?

  He might spend the rest of his life never knowing what had happened to her.

  Then he truly would go insane.

  Two things only were keeping him in his right mind. One, that she’d survived on the streets by herself so long—she was strong, canny, and tenacious, his Alf.

  Two, that he was almost certain she was deliberately hiding from him, which was his own bloody fault. He’d gone over and over that last morning with her and damned himself for what he’d neglected to say to her.

  What he should’ve told her immediately.

  Stay.

  Don’t leave me.

  We’ll talk when I return.

  I care for you.

  I want you in my life.

  He groaned into his hands. He’d let his cynicism and fear make his words too cold toward her on that morning, and he’d driven her away.

  What a bloody damned idiot he was.

  “Papa?”

  The small voice was Peter’s, and Hugh looked up, though his eyes were damp with pain.

  His son stood in the doorway, Pudding in his arms. The puppy looked half-asleep even though Peter held her under her front legs, her back end drooping. The boy looked uncertain and lost.

  “Peter.” His voice was rough, and he cleared it. “Come here.”

  The boy stumbled over, the puppy swaying in his arms.

  “You have to hold her bottom, too,” Hugh said gently, showing the boy. Then he picked up both his son and the dog and settled them in his lap. “Where are your nursemaids?”

  “Getting tea.” Peter’s lower lip was trembling.

  “What is it?”

  “Where’s Alf?”

  Hugh inhaled, closing his eyes for patience. He’d already had this conversation with both boys—many times over the last three days. Kit was barely speaking to him. Peter had had two magnificent tantrums—and both boys had spent all three nights sleeping with him. His bed now smelled vaguely of puppy and boys.

  “I don’t know,” he said, “but I’m looking for her. I will bring her back.”

  “When?” Peter demanded, his lower lip beginning to tremble as he fingered one of the buttons on Hugh’s waistcoat.

  Hugh closed his eyes, knowing he was priming the cannon when he replied softly, “I don’t know.”

  “I miss her.”

  He looked at his son. Instead of the boy falling down and screaming, Peter’s blue eyes were welling with terrible, sad tears.

  He met his father’s eyes. “I want Alf.”

  “I do, too.” He laid his cheek against the boy’s soft head.

  Not long ago he’d not even known Alf. He’d met her only once and believed her an urchin boy. Now her absence was like a ghost haunting his and his sons’ lives. When he walked into a room, it seemed empty without her. When he heard a woman’s laughter he turned and sought her smile. When he sat down to dinner, he looked across the table and remembered her smearing jam on her bread. And at night, lying in bed, when he listened to his children breathing in sleep, he ached to be able to reach over and touch her shoulder.

  She’d left, leaving a hole in his very soul. He wasn’t sure a man could stagger on thus injured.

  “Your Grace.”

  He lifted his head and saw Jenkins.

  The gray-haired former soldier approached, his grave face looking uncharacteristically excited. “Riley has discovered one of the former Ghosts of St Giles. The man is in London now.”

  Hugh’s head was suddenly clear. He’d known all along that someone had taught Alf. Someone had shown her how to fight with swords and perhaps given her the Ghost costume.

  And maybe that someone knew where she was now. “Who?”

  “Godric St. John.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The Black Warlock screamed his rage and ran through the fire. But it was just as magical as the one he had cast twelve years before, and, like the White Sorceress, he burned alive.

  The Black Prince stood alone and knew that nothing his father had taught him could quell these flames.

  Then from the sky the Golden Falcon swooped down.

  “No, go back!” shouted the Black Prince.

  But the bird ignored him and landed within the fiery circle. At once she transformed into a golden-haired wo
man.…

  —From The Black Prince and the Golden Falcon

  Baby Sophie was simply adorable.

  Alf watched as the toddler, clad in a white chemise with a wide, sky-blue girdle, determinedly placed her fat little hands on the settee and pulled herself upright. She grinned at her accomplishment, revealing tiny perfect teeth in her chubby little face.

  “Well done, darling,” Megs told her.

  The three of them sat in Megs’s newly refurbished sitting room, taking tea. Well, she and Megs were drinking tea. Sophie had gummed a bit of hard biscuit—abandoned under the table now—and was making it her mission to explore as much of the room as possible.

  The baby placed her hand next to Alf’s skirt and carefully sidled toward her, keeping a grip on the settee the entire time. Her goal appeared to be the gold-edged plate on Alf’s lap, which held a slice of lemon cake.

  “You could become a governess of some sort,” Megs mused, rubbing her belly absently.

  Alf looked at her doubtfully. “All I know how to do is break into houses, gather information, and sword fight.” She thought. “Oh, and climb buildings.”

  “Well, it would certainly make for an interesting curriculum.” Megs took a sip of tea. “Really, you don’t have to look for work at all. I quite like having you here, and with the new baby coming soon, I’ll need the extra help.”

  Alf tried to smile at the generous offer, but it was hard. She was heartbroken, plain and simple. She’d told everything to Megs and then St. John after she’d arrived on their doorstep three nights ago. Even their kindness and the sweet adorableness of little Sophie couldn’t replace what she’d lost.

  She wanted Hugh. She wanted Hugh and his boys, and she wanted…

  She caught her breath as Sophie reached her lap and laid a tiny hand on her knee, grinning up at her with infant charm.

  She wanted a child of her own. A child with Hugh.

  Alf bent her head and hid her face as tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision. That wasn’t going to happen. Ever.

  She had to somehow make herself understand that, not only in her mind but in her heart as well.

  She had to find a way to give up hope.

  There was a crash and a terrific shout from downstairs.

  Sophie startled, her hand hitting the plate on Alf’s lap. The plate slid to the floor and smashed.

  The baby opened her mouth and let out a loud wail.

  Megs moved very fast for a woman with an enormous belly and snatched her child up. “What was that?”

  Alf was already on her feet. She caught up her skirts and ran into the hall.

  The sitting room was on the floor above the entrance hall, and the staircase was open, with a balcony rail running around the upper floor. She leaned over and looked straight down. St. John had his hands fisted and was facing Hugh, who was sprawled over one of the hall tables. Behind him a mirror on the wall had been smashed to pieces.

  Alf felt her heart expand and suddenly start beating fast, as if it’d been frozen for days.

  “Bother,” Megs said from beside her. “I liked that mirror.” She hoisted a sniffling Sophie on her hip. “I take it that’s the Duke of Kyle?”

  Alf nodded, unable to speak.

  He’d turned his head at Megs’s voice and was staring up at Alf now, his eyes black and intense. She could only stare back, her heart pounding in her ears so loudly she couldn’t think. Why had he come?

  “You may return, Your Grace, tomorrow at a more convenient hour,” St. John said to Hugh, sounding cool and collected. Only those who knew him well could tell how furious he was. “I believe we are to sit down to dinner soon and I am not used to receiving guests without prior introduction or invitation.”

  Megs cleared her throat. “I don’t think dinner is all that soon.”

  “I don’t particularly care what you have to say to Alf,” St. John continued.

  “I do,” Megs muttered.

  “But you will keep in mind that she has many choices, and I am not entirely certain that you are the best of them.”

  There was a short silence.

  Hugh had never taken his gaze from Alf during all this time. She could feel herself trembling under that intense black stare. She wanted to talk to him, but if he was here simply to tear her heart apart again…

  She wasn’t sure she’d survive a second time.

  “Let me speak to you, Alf,” Hugh said.

  She swallowed, feeling as if her heart had climbed right up into her throat.

  Megs gave a gusty sigh. “Oh, Godric, it makes me quite faint when you come over all lord-of-the-manor and master-of-the-circumstances, but you really shouldn’t do it to a lady in such a delicate condition as I am.”

  St. John made an irritable sound under his breath and glanced up at his wife.

  Who smiled beatifically at him. “Have I told you that Sophie was trying to say bombast today? I think that quite an advanced word for a one-year-old, don’t you?”

  “Meggie, it seems very unlikely that she’s trying to say bombast.”

  Lady Margaret’s smile didn’t waver at her husband’s gently chiding tone. Instead it grew slightly wider. “Do you think so? Perhaps you ought to help me put her to bed and hear for yourself. And in the meantime His Grace and Alf can have a short discussion in my sitting room.”

  St. John’s lips thinned as he locked gazes with his wife. They seemed to have some sort of wordless exchange, at the end of which St. John nodded abruptly. “A half hour only.”

  Megs took Alf’s arm and quickly led her into the sitting room, still carrying baby Sophie.

  “Good luck,” she murmured, kissing her on the cheek. “Remember, he might be a duke, but he’s a man, too. Just a man. I’ve found that they can make terrible asses of themselves sometimes.” Megs stood back and regarded Alf seriously from eyes that matched her daughter’s. “And Godric was right, you know, you do have choices. I wouldn’t mind if you stayed with us for a very long time. Don’t let that duke talk you into anything you don’t truly want with his pirate mouth.”

  And then Megs was gone from the sitting room. Alf could hear her in the hall, saying something about bombast as her voice and St. John’s faded.

  She breathed in and out, feeling as if all her life, before and after, had narrowed to this one point in time.

  Hugh walked in.

  He looked horrible. He hadn’t bothered with his wig, his eyes were shadowed, and he’d forgotten to shave. His right cheekbone was red and beginning to swell where St. John had hit him. He’d most likely have a black eye in the morning.

  She wanted to run to him and wrap her arms around him and never let go.

  Instead she clasped her hands together tightly so they wouldn’t do anything daft. “Would you like to sit down?”

  He ignored her invitation and kept walking toward her, big and broad and here.

  “Alf,” he said, just before he took her face between his palms and kissed her.

  She couldn’t keep her hands confined then. She sobbed and ran her hands over his shorn hair, his dear head, his neck, his shoulders.

  “Why did you leave me?” he muttered against her lips as if he couldn’t stand to pull away long enough to hear her answer.

  “You paid me,” she replied, her tears running into their open mouths. “You were done with me.”

  “I’ll never be done with you, imp. Never.” He crushed her against his chest, so close she wasn’t sure if it was his heart or her own that she heard beating. “I paid you because I thought it was the honorable thing to do. And I thought you would like to go shopping while I was with Shrugg.”

  She pulled away—or tried to; he scowled and wouldn’t let her move. “Shopping?”

  Both of his cheekbones were reddened now. “You only had the clothes on your back. I thought you might like…something.” He glowered at her. “I never meant for you to leave. I want you to stay with me forever.”

  He seemed sincere, but…“You were so stiff th
at morning. So strange and cold.”

  He closed his eyes. “I’m not like you.” He laughed under his breath, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “You grew up in desperation and squalor, and yet you’re able to hope and dream. I don’t quite know how you can, but I love you for it.” He opened his black, black eyes, and she saw in them wonder and pain and vulnerability. “You’re much more courageous than I am, imp. I’ve had everything material handed to me on a golden platter, and yet I find it… difficult to hope as you do. Even more difficult, I think, to trust.”

  “To trust me?” she whispered, feeling hurt.

  “No, never,” he said fiercely. “To trust myself. To trust in the future, I suppose. To open my hands and let go of the reins of control and simply trust that things—my life, my family, our happiness—will turn out well.” He frowned down at her. “Do you understand?”

  “No,” she said simply, but she smiled to take away the sting of the word. “No, because if you say you love me then I believe everything will turn out well. It simply must. For I love you, too.”

  He laid his forehead against hers. “I do love you, heart and soul and body, Alf, my imp. I love you now and forever, and I will trust and I will hope in your dreams and hope.”

  “That’s all we need, really,” she whispered.

  He kissed her, so sweetly, like a promise, and when she opened her eyes he asked, “Will you marry me, Alf?”

  And she said, “Yes, guv.”

  Which was when Megs burst in and clapped her hands and said, “Oh, good! I do love a wedding.”

  APRIL

  OAKDALE PARK, NOTTINGHAMSHIRE

  Iris smiled as she climbed the stairs to the nursery in Oakdale Park, carrying a small bag. It was quite early in the morning, and yet the big country house was buzzing with activity and excitement.

  But then, it wasn’t every day the Duke of Kyle was to be married to his true love.

  Few knew of the secret wedding and fewer still had been invited. Aristocratic society could be very cruel and when Iris had realized that Hugh actually intended to marry Alf, she suggested a very tiny white lie. Iris and Hugh would simply not announce that they no longer had an understanding. After all, there had never been an official engagement. If others assumed that they still intended to be wed, well, that was their affair wasn’t it? Alf had moved into Kyle House, but as she was a nobody, no one in society really took any notice.