Never Deny a Duke

by Hunter, Madeline

  Left to herself, she turned her mind to her mission. The evidence she had gleaned from Mr. Portman in Caxledge gave her heart, even if Brentworth put little value on it. She did not expect him to capitulate unless undeniable proof were found, and after all this time, that was unlikely. However, she did not have to convince him of the rightness of her claim. She needed to convince Mr. Haversham and the king and, eventually, Parliament.

  She tried to plan her next steps. Clearly, she needed to go to the property, so it was wise to have undertaken this journey now. She considered how to find the proof she needed.

  She chose to forget about that kiss, just as she had recommended they both do. Only she did not forget it. The memory was in her head, at times distracting her down a path best not trod. After one long reverie that was far too vivid, she scolded herself and bent to find a book in her valise. This was why it had been a mistake. Here she was, planning her campaign, and a stupid kiss diverted her from clear thinking. A kiss from the man determined to thwart her, no less.

  Brentworth’s coach and four could travel as fast as the mail if he chose. He did not. They stopped more often than a mail coach would. They rolled more slowly, although still at a high speed, in Davina’s opinion. Most significantly, at nightfall they did not continue but sought out an inn.

  She had no say in the arrangements. Mr. Napier disappeared into the inn the first night and returned quickly to speak with Brentworth. The duke then came to her while she stretched her legs. “Two chambers have been hired. This inn is passably suitable, so you should be comfortable, I hope. I intend to dine in half an hour, if you would care to join me. Or you can have something in your chamber.”

  It would be cowardly to cower in her chamber. She needed to show him that she was the same formidable enemy she had always been. “I will come down, thank you.”

  That gave her time to wash and pace off her stiffness. At the appointed time, she went below, and the innkeeper brought her to a little private dining room where Brentworth waited.

  He tasted his soup. “I remember the fare here being better than typical, and it seems they have continued the standard.”

  Davina had to agree. She was hungry, and it looked as if he was too. They partook of most of the meal in silence.

  “I assume you have made arrangements for your stay in Edinburgh,” he said when forks moved slowly.

  “I am staying with Sir Cornelius and his wife.”

  “We will give Napier the direction and take you there at once. We should arrive tomorrow next midday.”

  “You know the timing well, and the inns on the way. Have you visited Scotland more than I realized?”

  “When I was younger I came here a few times. I have a good memory, that is all.”

  She did not think that was all, from the somewhat clipped way he responded. “If you take me to Sir Cornelius directly, you will be imposed upon to visit at least a brief while. Perhaps you should have Mr. Napier take you to your rooms first, then deliver me to them.”

  “I do not mind visiting a brief while. I know of Sir Cornelius and expect he is an interesting person to meet.”

  “I should warn you, Sir Cornelius’s wife is a free thinker.”

  “Do you think that will shock me?”

  “I think nothing much shocks you. I merely thought to prepare you. She is outspoken in her views too, and is sure to take advantage of the ear of a peer.”

  “Yet you speak warmly even as you warn.”

  “She is a wonderful woman and I admire her. She is like an aunt to me. The warning was for you, because you might not share my esteem of her.”

  “I do not dislike outspoken women. At least you know what you have in them. I might not want to marry one, but if given the choice, I would rather sit beside one at a dinner than beside an empty-headed beauty.”

  “What an odd thing to say. You would rather spend time with such a woman but would not want to marry one. What kind of woman do you expect to marry, if you marry at all?”

  He shrugged. “One like my father, and his father, and the duke before him.”

  “An empty-headed beauty?”

  “Not too empty, if I can help it. Nor all that beautiful, for all I care. But . . . appropriate.”

  She wondered if he had disapproved of Langford marrying Amanda. He probably considered Stratton’s marriage to the daughter of an earl far better. But even Clara was not truly appropriate.

  “You do not sound as if it appeals to you at all,” she teased. “You have not yet availed yourself of this wonderful opportunity to be just like all the dukes before you, so I think it does not.”

  “I had time to wait a while. It is not the union I avoid but the imposition on my time of arranging it all. Next season, however, I will do the dance and find a partner and fulfill my duty.”

  “An appropriate partner.” She leaned in. “Do you know what I think? I think you have avoided it because you do not relish being appropriate all the time. I think maybe you would prefer not being the most ducal duke in this matter, or in many others.”

  He looked at her, first in surprise, then with an interest that made her uncomfortable.

  “Miss MacCallum, I am not the most ducal duke. That is a public face. I was raised in a tradition of extreme discretion, trained in it, and discovered it creates considerable freedom to live the way I choose. The difference is, the world does not know about my private doings. Because my life is no one’s affair but my own, that suits me.” He in turn leaned in until they faced each other squarely across little space. “I am not appropriate all the time, as you well know.”

  She fought being absorbed into that gaze. “I doubt discretion alone gave you that name. You could not live in London, in society, and secretly be some wild rake or dissolute peer.”

  “I admit I am not a rake. I am glad I am not dissolute. As for London, however—it is not the whole world. When I leave it, I leave all those eyes, and gossiping mouths too. For example, had I taken one room for us up above, and not two, no one here would have cared or much noticed. It is so common an occurrence that I doubt the servants even comment about it to one another. Do not pity me my appropriate life. I daresay it is less appropriate than yours in the sum.”

  She resented the way he had turned things around. “No doubt. I am a woman. I am not permitted to be free without being ruined. I would think if a man had your privileges, he would explore his freedom fully, not live behind a public face except when he left Town. Have you never been stupidly indiscreet and inappropriate and . . . and mad? What a shame if you have not, considering you are one of the few people who can be so without consequences.”

  He altered subtly right before her, becoming the Brentworth she first met. Something in that public face nudged at her. An explanation of the reaction Amanda said he inspired in women. She felt its power. Fear was the wrong word. It was too alluring to be called that.

  “You do not know what you are talking about.” His vague smile of tolerance hardly softened his face. “There are always consequences to madness and passion. Often serious ones.” He pulled out his pocket watch. “I intend to retire now. You should too. We leave at eight o’clock.”

  * * *

  Damn the woman.

  He sat in the dark in his chamber, hearing the muffled sounds from below as Miss MacCallum prepared for bed. He had not wanted this particular chamber, but of the two it would have been rude to take hers instead. Another flight of stairs for this one. It was smaller and poorer too. Not that Miss MacCallum would care about that. Still, he had wanted her to be comfortable.

  The reasons why did not interest him right now. Instead, her probing insights echoed. You should have told her that you have been mad, drawn into it like a moth to a flame. Hopelessly so. You should have put her in her place by saying she was an ignorant innocent when it came to the madness of all-consuming passion.

  As for consequences—hell, he knew about those. Not the petty little ones she spoke of. Real consequences. The kind that
made you curse the world, and yourself.

  No more of that, he had sworn. No more. And yet—here he was with that stirring in him again, after all these years, with another inappropriate woman. Far different than the last time, but still a mistake. Langford, damn him, had noticed first. The interest, he called it. The curiosity. The fascination. His own essence had slowly seen it too. His attention to detail. His worry for her friend, a person he had never met. Hell, he had climbed a damned slate roof for her.

  That kiss they should forget.

  Damnation.

  It would not be the same. She was not mad herself. She did not want to consume him. She did not want his soul. She saw him as an enemy. And yet—

  The sounds from below ceased. She had gone to bed. He realized he had been listening for that, before he rested himself.

  * * *

  “I should take Davina above and settle her in, then let her rest,” Lady Ingram said to her husband, leaning low and giving him a kiss and an embrace. They both had red hair, so in that kiss they all but merged together. “You can catch up on all the London news at dinner. Come with me, dear, and I’ll show you your chamber.”

  Davina had been enjoying her time with her father’s friend and wished she could continue. However, she left Sir Cornelius and followed his wife out of the library. It was only late afternoon, and she really did not need rest. The sight of Edinburgh alone invigorated her, and she had intended to go for a walk now that Brentworth had departed.

  He had indeed been pressed to sit a while, as she predicted. Lady Ingram had indeed bent his ear about her reform interests. Sir Cornelius had told some amusing stories about the university. Brentworth had been gracious and friendly.

  That was a change. Ever since their dinner that first night, he had been most unfriendly with her. Last night, there had been such frost in his manner, she took her meal in her chamber. She had gone too far in her words, she knew. She doubted a duke thought it appropriate for others to criticize him.

  Not that she had done so. Not really. She just found it strange, almost perverse, that a duke should have less freedom to be true to his nature than she had, or Sir Cornelius. Yet that was how it seemed this duke had been raised and trained, and he believed it a good thing. So next season he would find that appropriate wife who hopefully was neither wild nor empty-headed, and they would have an appropriate marriage and life and bring forth appropriate heirs.

  It all sounded very dull to her.

  “Here we are.” Lady Ingram opened a door. “I thought you would like to use this chamber instead of the one you had the last time.”

  “That was thoughtful.” Sad memories lived in that other chamber, from when the Ingrams had given her safe harbor after her father’s death. This chamber had nice prospects of the crescent on which the house was built, one of many new and identical, tall, pale stone houses lined up side by side in a long arc. Its long windows filled it with light, and the chintz drapes displayed happy festoons of flowers.

  Although they had servants, Lady Ingram herself helped Davina unpack. When they were finished, the lady did not leave. Instead, she set her stout body down in a chair and looked up quizzically. “Have you and the duke come to a meeting of the minds about your claim? I ask because you journeyed here with him. Alone, I believe.” One pale orange arched eyebrow accompanied the last sentence. “From the conversation as he left, I think the plan is to do so again when you visit Teyhill.”

  “I had planned to take the mail coach from Newcastle, but after the ordeal with Louisa he insisted I travel in his coach so as not to be overtired.” She explained the situation she had found at her friend’s home. “He was above with the coachman the whole way. Nothing inappropriate happened, I assure you.” Except one kiss. “We have no agreement on my claim. Far from it. He has no sympathy at all on that matter.”

  “None at all, you say.”

  “Yes. None.”

  “Well, he has sympathy about something concerning you. It was in how he spoke to you and how he looked at you. In fact, I think it important that you no longer travel with him. Such a man can turn a woman’s head. Even I felt giddy.”

  “If he goes to Teyhill, I must too. I suppose I can hire a coach. More likely a wagon, with my purse.”

  “Do you not trust him to report what he learns? Is he so dishonorable?”

  “I do not trust him to hear what is being said. You know what I mean. We tend to hear what we want to hear, unless someone is so clear and certain that we cannot deny the truth.”

  Lady Ingram’s brow furrowed while she thought.

  “If you are determined to go, and he intends for you to go with him, I will have my husband’s aunt come as a chaperone.”

  “I understand your concern for my reputation and how it will look, but I don’t think—”

  “Allow me to be clear and certain, Davina, so you hear the truth. I do not care how things look. I am saying that Brentworth has a man’s interest in you, no matter what you are claiming about your family and that land.” She stood. “You must not travel alone with him again. I will not hear any arguments on the matter.”

  Sir Cornelius’s maiden aunt arrived at the house two mornings later with two valises. One held clothing and the other contained a variety of books. It was the latter she insisted stay in the carriage at her side.

  She proved to be the best travel companion, which meant Davina barely knew she was present. The same concentration her brother brought to bear on his experiments, Miss Ingram gave to her reading.

  Other than some pleasantries when the door closed on them both and the coach rolled, they spoke little. Miss Ingram’s half of the short conversation alerted Davina to the woman’s failed hearing, as well as her somewhat scattered perceptions. Davina suspected the old woman of having one foot into her second childhood. She doubted Sir Cornelius would agree, but it was something, in her experience, that family members were not quick to acknowledge.

  Soon, the peculiar conversation, such as it was, ended, and Miss Ingram pulled one of those books from the valise. Spectacles perched low on her nose and her cap hiding most of her pale, wrinkled face, she tilted the book to the light of the window and immersed herself in a world Davina guessed still made good sense to her.

  Davina had her own book but spent a good hour chewing on her brief visit home. Lady Ingram normally was not a stickler for propriety, especially with a woman of mature years. She believed the marriage laws must be changed, and that women were burdened with too many expectations set by men. Her insistence that Davina have a chaperone, therefore, was out of character.

  If it had not been Brentworth, but some ordinary gentleman of little note, would Miss Ingram be sitting with her now? A duke would draw attention in ways other men did not. Perhaps Lady Ingram merely wanted to spare her from gossip should word spread about this journey.

  She did not think it would, however. They had left town, heading west, and already the environs of the city thinned and the countryside asserted itself. Soon they would pass many more sheep than people.

  She discarded Lady Ingram’s belief that Brentworth had an interest in her. He might have kissed her once, out of sympathy or—well, he might have done that, but an interest implied much more. She hardly needed some other woman to protect her from dastardly intentions on the duke’s part.

  Miss Ingram chuckled at something she read. Davina considered how ineffective a chaperone this would be. Maybe that was Lady Ingram’s intention. To fulfill the letter of the propriety’s law, but in reality spare her from the full effects of it.

  They stopped at an inn so Mr. Napier could rest and water the horses. Davina climbed out of the coach when he opened it. Miss Ingram remained inside with her book, unaware the coach no longer moved. Davina felt obliged to reach in and jostle her and say bluntly that now was a good time to use the necessary.

  Together they found it, then Miss Ingram returned to the coach. Davina strolled around the inn’s yard, tucking her wrap close to warm her in th
e chilled weather. She inhaled deeply through her nose, so she could smell the Scotland she and her father had traveled so often.

  “Is Miss Ingram as given to confusion as Sir Cornelius warned?”

  She turned. Brentworth walked up behind her.

  “He took me aside while the baggage was loaded,” he explained. “He apologized for burdening me with his aunt, because her mental condition is not the best. She was the only one they could find quickly, however.”

  “She will not be trouble, if that is what you fear. I daresay you will not even notice she is with us.”

  “The perfect chaperone, then.”

  “For my purposes, she is. I feared I would have to entertain another woman, one I did not even know. I don’t think I could bear to make small talk for hours on end. Inside a carriage, one is thoroughly trapped.”

  They continued their stroll around the inn’s yard.

  “Did you request a chaperone?” he asked.

  “Why would I do that? If I did not have one on a very public road from Newcastle, it would be strange if I decided I needed one for show now.”

  “They are not only for show. They are supposed to be protection.”

  “I need no protection besides Mr. Napier and you.”

  “Do not pretend you don’t understand what I mean. You are not good at dissembling.”

  They had reached where the walls of the yard met, far from the busy activities of carriages and guests. A tree grew in the corner, its leaves now gold and red. She pivoted to retrace her steps and found her nose almost in Brentworth’s waistcoat. She retreated a step, and her back rubbed the wall. She darted a look to her right, to see if she could slip away. His arm stretched and blocked her. He pressed his hand against the stones right next to her head.

  “I ask again: Did you request that Lady Ingram find you a chaperone?” His voice, low and quiet, flowed over her like a caress.

  He seemed very close, so near that his warmth affected the air between them. She dared not look up at him. Those eyes of his would probably turn her into a tongue-tied fool. She kept her gaze steady on his cravat, with its perfect creases.