A Second Chance With a Duke

by Claudia Stone

  This need had led to some rather startling revelations, which pricked at Michael's conscience and left him with a burning feeling he could not name in his stomach.

  Through careful, discreet enquiries, Michael had managed to learn something of the late Lord Atwood and how he had treated his wife throughout their marriage. There were rumours of rakery, of unusual libidinous predilections, of violent outbursts against light-skirts, and much more besides. Infidelity was not so unusual amongst the ton, but Lord Atwood had appeared to have a vociferous appetite for lewdness and little respect for the female sex. One poor light-skirt, Michael learned, had suffered such a vicious beating at his hands, that she had lost the use of two of her fingers. Money had, of course, meant that the matter had not progressed past the bawdy-house to the court-house, but how many other women had the Viscount De Vere assaulted?

  It was lucky that Lord Atwood was already dead, for the thought of him laying a hand upon Katherine left Michael in a murderous rage. Was it possible that he had treated his wife to the same physical punishments?

  Information of Katherine had been a far more difficult to obtain; the dowager viscountess had attended only a few seasons in town with her husband, before she had stopped coming altogether. A mistress, who had birthed the viscount a daughter, was described as being the reason for Lady Atwood's reclusiveness. It was well known that when in town Lord Atwood had preferred the company of his illegitimate family than that of his wife, and what woman would wish to suffer the humiliation of knowing their husband was living with another?

  Michael's enquiries about Katherine had been met with veiled insults about her childless state and hints that her husband's philandering had been of her own making. Even now, there was still gossip circulating about Lady Atwood; the shame at having been bequeathed a home that had once housed her husband's mistress, the obviousness of the genteel poverty in which she lived, her brother's dire financial state...

  Michael's stomach churned with guilt; no matter what Katherine had done to him, he should not have added to the rumours which already abounded about her. He was filled with shame at his actions and remorse for the male-pride which had spurred him to declare an interest in her.

  "All done, your Grace," Powers said, as he stood back to admire his handiwork, his words pulling Michael from his reverie.

  "Until next week," Michael replied with a rueful smile; his hair was thick, dark, and grew quick as summer grass. Poor Powers spent most of his days attempting to tame it—though he often lost the battle. If left alone, Michael knew that his appearance would be far more rugged and wild than it was under Power's careful watch. Just another reason why he was not suited to the role which had been thrust upon him, he thought with chagrin.

  With his toilette now finished, Powers moved on to the task of dressing his charge. Black was de rigueur for a ball and over skin-tight black trousers—like those favoured by Brummel—Michael wore a black jacket, with an intricately tied, pristine white cravat at his neck. Upon his feet, he wore slippers for dancing, but he did not think he would partake, given that most young ladies regarded him with a mixture of fear and awe, and were apt to descend into fits of giggles in his presence.

  Once ready, Michael departed for the ball in his carriage. It would have been easier and far quicker to walk, given that Deverell House was located just around the corner from St James' Square, but one could not arrive at a ball on foot. It was a ridiculous edict, Michael thought mulishly, as he arrived three-quarters of an hour after he had left. The roads had been thronged with other vehicles making their way to the ball, and the jam had left Michael irritated.

  Still, once he entered Deverell House to effusive greetings from Lord and Lady Deverell, he felt his annoyance dissipate. It was replaced by a heightened awareness, which almost made him dizzy—though the dizziness could also be attributed to the two glasses of fizzy wine which he nervously drank in quick succession.

  He prowled the ballroom, the card room and the dining room, searching for any sight of Katherine. Each blonde-haired woman he passed was subject to close scrutiny, and several looked rather alarmed as they caught him watching them intently. He offered only passing smiles and nods to the friends and acquaintances who greeted him, reluctant to be drawn into any unnecessary conversation as he continued his search.

  As the hour grew late and Katherine had still not been sighted, Michael came to the reluctant conclusion that she would not be attending. With glum disappointment, he returned to the ballroom, where he took up residence amongst a circle of older, decidedly unfashionable gentlemen.

  It was easier to stand with them discussing politics and other such things, than to mix with the grandes dames of society, who were certain to try and foist one of their daughters upon him. Indeed, Michael became so engrossed in talk of Napoleon's impending defeat, that it took him a few minutes to realise that the atmosphere in the room had changed.

  The orchestra still played a tune and the couples still danced gaily, but despite this the hairs on the back of Michael's neck began to rise as he realised that he was being watched.

  He glanced away from Lord Edlington, an older gentleman with bushy white whiskers, to find that dozens of pairs of eyes were now surreptitiously observing him.

  Was there something wrong with his person, he wondered. Perhaps Powers, despite his diligent attendance to his duties, had accidentally tied his cravat in a most unfashionable knot, or had forgotten to button up his trousers...

  The reason as to why he was attracting so much attention, soon became clear when Michael spotted Lady Deverell gliding into the room with a blonde-haired lady upon her arm.

  Katherine.

  Although he knew that he should not be caught staring at Lady Atwood, Michael could not help but devour every inch of her with his eyes. Time had not stolen the rosy blush from her cheeks, nor aged her in any discernible way. In fact, time had been very kind to Katherine, lending her beautiful face an air of ethereal beauty which could only be attributed to maturity.

  It was only Katherine's eyes which were altered; before they had danced and sparkled with joy, but tonight they were veiled, wary, and sad. Her dress—a pale lilac which befitted her state of half-mourning—hugged her slender frame, and she moved with an elegant grace.

  "She's still quite the beauty," Lord Edlington whispered, as he caught Michael staring across the room. The elderly gentleman gave Michal a ribald smile, which intimated that he too had heard of Michael's declared interest in the beautiful widow.

  "Indeed," Michael replied curtly, "If you'll excuse me."

  With a nod to the astonished Lord Edlington, Michael took his leave. Any sense of decorum or discretion seemed to have vanished from his mind as he made a bee-line toward Katherine. He could sense people watching him with interest, no doubt hoping to witness some sort of scandal, but he did not care.

  In a few moments, he was standing before her and an astonished Lady Deverell, offering them both a bow.

  "Lady Atwood," he said, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips.

  For a second, Michael feared that Katherine would snatch her hand away, thus humiliating him in a most public manner. It would be no more than he deserved and, in fact, would put an end to the ridiculous rumour—the one that he had started—about them.

  But Katherine did not snatch her hand away; she silently allowed him to raise it to his lips, her green eyes veiled, her beautiful face expressionless.

  "Your Grace," she said simply, once he was finished, "Allow me to offer my sincere condolences on the passing of your father and brother."

  "Thank you," Michael bowed slightly again at her words, though his mind and body were in a state of confusion.

  How could she be so calm? Even though he had only brushed his lips against the satin of her glove, his whole body was in a state of turmoil. His knees were weak with desire, a heady mix of anger and longing coursed through his veins, and his eyes could not help but devour every inch of the woman before him.

&
nbsp; The woman who remained cool, aloof, and determinedly unreadable in the face of his scrutiny.

  "If no one has yet claimed your hand, may I humbly request the first dance?"

  When he had thought of the ball, at no stage had Michael envisioned himself asking Katherine to dance, though neither had he envisioned himself throwing himself at her the moment she arrived. His poise had deserted him and his pride was not too far behind, but still, he was so drawn to her that he could not help himself. Tomorrow he might regret his actions but tonight, he wished only to be near her.

  "I am afraid that tonight I will not dance, your Grace," Katherine replied, with a vague wave to her sombre lilac dress, "I have only recently emerged from mourning, I do not think it would be proper to stand up so soon."

  Or to stand up with him, of all people.

  Michael was not a mind-reader but he could sense the rebuke in her tone, if not her words. For a moment, her green eyes flashed with emotion and Michael was reminded of the spirited girl that he had loved, before Katherine once more donned her mask of indifference.

  She would not make a scene, or embarrass him in any way, but it was clear as day that she did not wish to renew their acquaintance as he did.

  "We must not monopolise your time, your Grace," Katherine said by way of dismissal, slipping her arm through Lady Deverell's, "I am sure that there are many more people who wish to speak with you and Caroline has promised me a turn around the ball room. Good evening."

  Lady De Vere and Lady Deverell both offered Michael a brief curtsy, though the latter looked mutinous as she did so. Katherine may have been able to mask her feelings toward Michael, but her companion was not so talented at hiding her ire. There was no doubt that whispers of his misguided declaration had reached Katherine's ears, for Lady Deverell's protective glare as she passed him confirmed it.

  Michael let out a sigh, as he watched the two women sashay away from him; had they been alone Michael would have reached out and taken Katherine into his arms to prevent her from leaving. He would have held her close as he tried to explain himself, he would have...

  "Lud, Elsmore, I've never seen a man look more pained in my life. Crack a smile, you're at a ball, for heaven's sake, not a funeral."

  Jack, with a glass of ratafia in hand, appeared at his side, wearing a congenial host's broad smile. His friend appeared so happy, relaxed, and content, that Michael was pierced with envy. In one year, the marquess had turned from a hellion gadding about town to a leg-shackled husband, who oozed delight at his new-found domestic bliss. Though Michael was happy for his friend, he could not ignore the stirrings of jealousy deep within him.

  He wanted what Jack had; a loving wife with whom he could build a life and a family. The only problem being, that he knew now that he wanted that with Katherine.

  "Nothing inspires pain in a man like being snubbed once again by the woman who broke your heart," Michael replied laconically, offering Jack a wry smile.

  "Did Lady Deverell give you the cut?" Jack sounded as astonished as he looked.

  "No," Michael was quick to clarify, "Not the cut, she's far too polite for that, but she let me know, in no uncertain terms, that I hold no interest for her."

  "Good," Jack took a sip of his drink, "Then you can forget about her and move on with your life, Michael. There's plenty of young ladies here who might make you a good bride—no point in pining over someone you can't have."

  The advice Jack offered was both simple and practical, and if Michael were a rational man, he would have paid heed. Alas, when it came to Katherine, Michael lost all sense of rationality; manners, education, and even centuries of evolution seemed to flee his mind at the sight of her and he reverted into a wild, possessive being. He left Jack to his hosting duties, loudly purporting that he wished to mingle but, in reality, he merely wished to keep a keen eye on Katherine.

  He spent the rest of the evening discreetly observing her as she went about the business of socialising. Lady Deverell was never far from her side, acting as Katherine's champion and introducing her to this person or that. Despite the marchioness' obvious dislike of him, Michael could not help but feel warmly toward the woman who appeared so keen to ensure Katherine's social success.

  As the night wore on, Michael began to despair that he would not get another chance to speak with Katherine, but then he caught sight of her slipping away from a group of chattering women and making her way for the door which led to the hallway.

  Michael cast his eyes around the room, to ensure that no one was watching him before he followed her from the room.

  Once outside in the hallway, he paused to consider his next steps. It was entirely possible that Katherine had stepped out to the ladies' withdrawing room, and as desperate as he was to speak with her, even he knew that he could not follow her in there. He allowed a sigh to escape him as he pondered what to do next, then started as his piteous exhalation was matched by an almost identical one from further down the hallway.

  Michael ventured forth down the hall and found a door half-ajar, which thankfully did not lead to the withdrawing room, but rather Jack's library. He stepped inside and found Katherine standing with her back to him as she contemplated the bookshelves before her.

  "I doubt Whitethorn would notice if you borrowed a title or two," Michael called gently, "I'm well informed that he uses the library for napping rather than reading."

  Katherine's shoulders stiffened at the sound of his voice and she stilled for a few moments before turning to face him.

  "As low as some people may think I have fallen, even I would not stoop so low as to steal from a gracious host."

  Katherine lifted her chin proudly as she cast him a glare so cold that Michael almost shivered. Curses; he couldn't have picked a worse opening line if he had tried.

  "That's not what I meant," he began, but he was cut off by a bitter laugh of disdain.

  "And I suppose you did not mean to announce to the whole of White's that you wish to make me your mistress?" Katherine asked, though he was not given time to answer. "I am aware that I have fallen on hard times, your Grace, and I am worldly enough to know that there are men who would seek to exploit that, but I never imagined that you would be one of them."

  "I was not trying to exploit your situation," Michael replied fiercely, whilst at the same time the beast within his chest growled at the thought of these "other men" she spoke of. Who were they? He would call each and every one of them out if they had done anything to harm her.

  "Perhaps you were trying to sully my reputation?" Katherine continued, "If that was your intention, your Grace, you needn't have exerted yourself. My late husband made certain that I would not be left to enjoy my widowhood in any state of respectability."

  "I was not trying to sully your reputation," Michael crossed the room to stand before her, desperately resisting the urge to take her in his arms. "I was trying to protect you."

  "Protect me?" Katherine arched her eyebrow again as she echoed his words and Michael squirmed at her disbelieving tone. He could not well tell her that she had been the subject of a ribald conversation between young bucks in the club, for that would upset her even further, though he could think of no other way to exonerate himself.

  "I merely wished to announce to certain parties that I have a particular interest in your well-being," Michael said delicately, shame filling him as he read the hurt, anger and disbelief in her eyes. "In order to protect you from men with more nefarious aspirations than I. If I, in any way, compromised your reputation then I am honour bound to make it right. We can be married in the morning, if that is what you wish."

  Of all the things that Michael had planned for the evening, an impromptu marriage proposal was not one of them. But, once the words had left his mouth, he found himself rather taken by the notion of marrying Katherine. It would solve a multitude of problems; his infatuation with her, his worry for her wellbeing, the all consuming desire which filled him at the sight of her.

  Now that he thought
on it, it was the perfect solution to their current predicament—though the outraged look on Katherine's face rather told him that his intended did not see matters in the same light.

  "How can you propose marriage when we have not spoken in more than a decade?" Katherine whispered, her face pale, "How can you propose when I know—for I know you, Michael—that you are still angry with me for marrying another?"

  Michael's jaw clenched at the mention of her betrayal and years of anger, long suppressed, came bubbling forth. It was true that he was still hurt, true that he still wished in some way to punish her for the pain that she had caused, but, oh, he wanted to take her in his arms, bury his head in her blonde curls, inhale her scent and forget everything.

  "Do you remember when I swore that I would always protect you?" he asked gruffly, his mind drifting backward to a summer evening long ago. "I meant it then, Katherine, and I mean it now. If marriage is what it takes to make things right, then I shall be waiting for you tomorrow with a special license and a reverend."

  Silence filled the room as Katherine quietly took in his words. One-hundred emotions seemed to pass over her beautiful face as she contemplated her reply, before her eyes finally settled on sadness.

  "I promised to always protect you," Michael repeated roughly, for he could see the refusal that was forming on her lips.

  "I'm afraid you're a little too late for that."

  Katherine stepped forward toward him and reached out a gloved hand to stroke his cheek. Her eyes scanned his face, as though she was trying to remember each and every angle and line, before she snatched her hand away and took a step backward.

  "For years, I have been longing to tell you how sorry I am for the hurt that I caused you," she said quietly, "It probably makes no difference now, but I would like you to know that I did not wish to marry another, but circumstances demanded it. Thank you for your offer of marriage, your Grace; it was most kind, but for both our sakes I must refuse."