Her Night with the Duke

by Diana Quincy

  “Was it strange?” Tori asked. “Could you communicate with them?”

  “At first it was quite a challenge. I engaged a dragoman, an interpreter and guide, to translate for me, but after the first year, I was able to communicate in Arabic, at least in a rudimentary way.”

  Mama would be aghast. Lady Brandon had constantly reminded Leela and Alexander that they were English through and through. Rather than Arabic, she’d insisted they master French, the language of the nobility.

  “I want to hear everything.” Tori leaned closer. “What was it like? Is it one big desert?”

  “Not at all. There are many trees of all kinds. Fig trees with broad leaves and silvery olive trees. Peach, plum and apple trees. And the ground is cultivated with maize, melons, lentils, beans and sesame seeds. I could go on and on.”

  “So there is grass?”

  “I saw a grass that is very tall and strong. It’s called broomcorn because they use it to make brooms. And the Arabs make fresh olive oil that is unlike anything I’ve ever tasted. Especially when one dips warm bread in the olive oil and then in za’atar.”

  “What is that?”

  “Never mind. I promise to tell you all about it, but first you must catch me up on your news.” Leela bit into the cake, savoring the sweet buttery taste tinged with notes of rosewater and orange blossom. “Mmm, I have missed rout cakes.”

  Tori smiled shyly. “I do have news.”

  “Do not keep me in suspense.”

  “You have been gone so long that you are unaware that I’ve been rather unsuccessful on the marriage mart. I’ve had two fruitless Seasons.”

  Outrage filled Leela’s chest. “Have all of the young men suddenly been struck blind? Or are they simply idiots who fail to recognize a true diamond when they see one?”

  “They are neither blind nor stupid.” Tori gave her a look. “You know I am not at my best among strangers.”

  She did know that Tori had never overcome her childhood shyness. “That does not change the fact that you are a lovely girl.” It was true. Especially at the moment. Tori’s primrose gown flattered the girl’s slender form, showing her radiant blue eyes and fine white-blond hair to excellent advantage.

  “I know I am passably pretty, but I am terrible at flirting. At balls, when I dance with young gentlemen, I cannot seem to form any coherent thoughts. Artful conversation completely escapes me. I just stumble along like a fool. I’m sure they think I’m touched in the head.”

  Leela considered the girl’s dilemma. Tori preferred the company of those she knew best. Whenever Douglas hosted house parties, the girl would retire to her bedchamber with a book rather than join the guests.

  Leela nibbled her cake. “I cannot be much assistance in teaching you the art of flirtation. We shall just have to find the appropriate match for you, a gentleman who is smart enough to appreciate you as you are.”

  Tori blushed. “I have found him.”

  “What?” Leela swallowed the last of her cake. “You have?”

  Tori’s face glowed. “I am to be betrothed to the Duke of Huntington.”

  “A duke?” Leela had never heard of the man, but she was predisposed to be fond of any person responsible for the glowing expression on her beloved Tori’s face. “That’s wonderful!”

  “Can you believe I am going to be a duchess?”

  “I absolutely can.” She set her shay down on the bedside table. “You have always had a bit of a managing nature.”

  Tori tossed a pillow at her. “I have not.”

  Leela caught it and tucked it behind her. “Any man would be fortunate to call you his wife. This duke is getting the better part of the bargain.”

  “Oh, to be sure.” Tori rolled her eyes. “After all, what does Huntington have to offer except for a title, too much money to count and a library collection to die for?” She paused, her expression growing more serious. “It is rather daunting to think of being a duchess, but His Grace says I will be perfect for the role. He prefers my more contained nature and does not care for coquettes.”

  “His Grace sounds like an insightful man. Do you love him?”

  Tori hesitated. “I like him well enough. I know you feel strongly about a love match for me. I imagine that I will grow to love His Grace. At the moment, I feel rather shy around him. I can barely manage to put two words together without stammering like an idiot, but he assures me that will change once we are wed.”

  “I look forward to meeting the man who is clever enough to know what a gem you are.”

  “You will not have to wait long.” Tori’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “He arrived this morning.”

  “I shall have to make certain he deserves you,” Leela declared. “And in the meantime, you must take this time to become better acquainted with the duke to see if he is a man you can fall in love with.”

  “Well, you will not be able determine whether His Grace deserves me, as you put it, if you stay abed all day. We are all meeting on the terrace in an hour when the gentlemen return from hunting.”

  Leela set her tea down. “I suppose I shall be forced to make myself presentable.”

  “Excellent. I will meet you there.” Tori scooted off the bed. “In the meantime, I will send my maid in to assist you.”

  Twenty minutes later, Leela was soaking in a hot bath, thinking of Tori’s duke and hoping he was worthy. Surely the man was more of a gentleman than Elliot Townsend. What a hamar the man was. Only a donkey would behave so rudely. The lout had no manners. Leela had never engaged in a liaison before, but surely the rules of engagement included parting in a respectful, civilized manner. Or writing a note at least.

  She sighed long and loud. Closing her eyes, she attempted to push Elliot out of her mind. She tried not to think about his energetic lovemaking, the appealing terrain of his well-formed body, or to imagine him touching her in all of the intimate places where the warm bathwater now lapped against her skin.

  Elliot was in the past—a quick, mostly pleasurable interlude that was now over. Between her books and Tori’s duke, Leela had far more important matters to attend to.

  “You are unusually quiet this afternoon,” Thomas Ellis, Viscount Griffin, remarked to Hunt.

  The two men picked their way along the muddy edge of the cornfield. The rain had cleared, but the air remained thick with moisture and the ground was a boggy mess. “Are those pre-marital nerves that I detect?”

  Before Hunt could answer, the cocker spaniel trotting ahead of them paused, signaling his discovery of a wild pheasant camouflaged in the thick brush. The fowl burst into flight and Griff raised his hunting rifle to take aim.

  Hunt wasn’t thinking about his impending betrothal, but he was thinking about a lady. He couldn’t get the memories of glistening waves of sumptuous dark hair draped over smooth, bare honey-colored skin out of this mind.

  Lost in thought, he narrowly avoided stepping into a particularly mucky spot and took a moment to stamp his mud-splattered boots on the grass. His black hessians, ringed in brown at the top, were a mess. Before joining Lady Victoria and the other guests on the terrace, he’d need to change into the fine new boots he’d recently acquired from Hoby’s at the corner of St. James and Piccadilly.

  “Why were you late?” Grimacing, Griff lowered his rifle without taking a shot. Although the viscount rarely complained, Hunt knew his friend was in almost constant pain from an old war injury to his shoulder. “Devon said you were meant to arrive last evening.” The Earl of Devon, their host, was the brother of Hunt’s soon-to-be betrothed.

  The two men started to circle back to the main house. “I was forced to take shelter from the rain,” Hunt said. “I stayed at a ramshackle inn.”

  “That sounds dreadfully uncomfortable.”

  “You would think so, but it was the most enjoyable evening I can recall in years.”

  Griff stared at his friend. “And why was that?”

  “I had company.”

  “You?” Griff asked dryly. “D
allying with a woman without first signing a contract?”

  “Shocking, I know.”

  “I cannot believe it.” The two men were longtime friends who’d attended Harrow together. That prolonged proximity gave Griff unique insight into the precise manner in which Hunt conducted his life.

  “She was remarkable.” A hint of melancholy clung to Hunt’s words. “And I seem to be unable to get her out of my head.”

  Griff’s icy sapphire gaze settled on Hunt. “Surely, you are not thinking of throwing Lady Victoria over?”

  “Of course not. The widow I spent the evening with is not the sort of woman who could fill the role of duchess.” He smiled at the memory of Leela wielding her curved dagger, prepared to take on a taproom full of ruffians. “I seriously doubt she would even care to.”

  “I doubt there’s a woman alive who wouldn’t jump at the chance to become a duchess.”

  “I feel certain this one would not. She is a singular woman.”

  “I suppose that means you’ve arranged to see her again.”

  “Not exactly.” Remorse filled Hunt at the manner in which he and Leela had parted ways. He’d thought to make a clean break after a delightful interlude. But he now regretted leaving her as though she was a common whore he’d paid for a night of pleasure. If only he’d learned her full name, or at least discovered how to find her.

  “I suppose the lovely Georgina’s tenure is about to come to an end,” Griff commented.

  “When I wed, naturally.” Hunt had all but forgotten about his mistress. He’d intended to part ways with Georgie shortly before taking Lady Victoria to wife. But now he contemplated releasing her earlier. He had no desire to visit Georgie again.

  “You are obviously taken with this woman you spent the night with,” Griff said. “I assumed you planned to make her your mistress.”

  “Have you forgotten that I am to be wed within a matter of weeks?”

  Now that he’d made the decision to take a wife, Hunt saw no reason to delay matters. In a fortnight, Devon would host a ball officially announcing his sister’s betrothal to the Duke of Huntington. Exactly one month after that, Hunt would wed Lady Victoria at St. George’s Hanover Square. His staff was already deep into planning matrimonial festivities fit for a duke.

  “You are not married yet,” Griff pointed out as they trudged up the hill toward the main residence, “nor even officially betrothed in the eyes of society. Your tasty piece could fill Georgina’s role until you are wed.”

  The prospect of stealing a few more pleasure-filled nights with Leela prompted Hunt’s heart to go a little faster. Just imagining that smoky laugh and silken skin sent a shiver of desire through him. Hope pierced the quiet gloom that had enveloped him since he’d left her.

  Griff had the right of it. Until Lady Victoria officially became his duchess, Hunt was technically free to do as he pleased. And nothing delighted him more at the moment than the prospect of locating Leela and enticing her back to his bed.

  “I don’t even know her full name. Or how to find her.”

  “You’re a duke, man. Why not put all of the vast resources at your disposal to work in order to run your temptress to ground?”

  He brightened. “Why not, indeed?” But where to start? He’d send word to his man of affairs in London to immediately begin the search for his mystery lover. Hunt would retain a Bow Street Runner if necessary. Once he found Leela, they could resume their affair long enough for him to get his fill of the way her stunning eyes glowed with satisfaction when he brought her to the peak of pleasure.

  By the time he married Lady Victoria, he and Leela would have parted ways and the mesmerizing adventuress would be out of his system for good.

  Freshly bathed and feeling rested, Leela approached the open doors to the terrace, where many of the guests had already gathered.

  She ran a light hand over her hair. Tori’s maid had done an admirable job corralling Leela’s unruly mane into an array of pretty curls atop her head. She shook out her skirts. It had been a long time since she’d worn such a fine dress. There certainly was no need for pink silk gowns with ruffled sleeves while trudging across Wadi Rum in the Jordan Valley.

  Leela stepped out onto the stone terrace, which covered the entire back width of the house. It had always been one of her favorite spots at Lambert Hall. When the weather allowed, she and Douglas often took their morning meal here overlooking the gardens. Leela paused, scanning the crowd for Tori. She smiled when her stepdaughter came into view.

  Tori’s entire face lit up. “Why, here she is now.”

  The finely dressed man with dark amber hair standing by Victoria’s side turned to greet the new arrival. Leela’s gaze traveled from the gentleman’s pristine midnight boots over muscular thighs to a trim waist. Wide shoulders were encased in a deep blue tailcoat with gilt buttons. A cream waistcoat, topped with a snowy cravat, covered the broad expanse of his chest.

  Her gaze floated upward until Leela locked eyes with the man who somehow felt as familiar to her as an old and dear friend. Her stomach dropped when she met Elliot’s horrified expression.

  They stared at each other from across the terrace, the rest of the people receding into silent, indistinct shapes as if this were all a dream. Or a nightmare. The only sound Leela could hear was the thick dull throbbing in her ears.

  Surely, it was impossible. Someone’s idea of a terrible joke. None of this made any sense. Victoria was betrothed to a duke. Elliot was no duke. Although, at the moment, he was certainly dressed like one.

  Leela could not tell how long she stood there, as frozen as the statuary in Lambert Hall’s extensive gardens, before Tori came over and looped her arm through Leela’s, gently tugging her in Elliot’s direction. “Come my dearest Delilah. Come and meet the duke.”

  It was all Leela could do to force her feet to move alongside Tori, fighting the urge to break away and run as fast and far as she could in the opposite direction. As they drew closer, perspiration trickled down Leela’s back. She resisted the urge to blot the perspiration beading on her upper lip.

  “Your Grace . . . this is my stepmama . . . Lady Devon.” Tori’s voice brimmed with buoyant pride as she nervously fumbled through the introduction. “But as you can see . . . she is hardly ancient. She is more like a sister and one’s dearest friend . . . in all the world . . . rolled up into one exceptionally beautiful person.”

  Elliot stood stock-still, glued to his spot. Escape for either of them was impossible. It was like watching a carriage speeding straight toward her and being unable to leap out of the way. All she could do was stand still and brace for disaster.

  “Delilah . . . this is the gentleman . . . I told you about,” Tori stammered once they came to a stop before him. “Meet His Grace . . . the Duke of Huntington.”

  Sweat dampened Leela’s armpits. She didn’t feel well. A gentle gust of wind swept the veranda, threatening to topple her. She watched through a haze of horror as Elliot recovered himself enough to make her a bow.

  His deep blue eyes were guarded, his features contorted into passivity. “Lady Devon.”

  Leela opened her mouth, but no words came out. A violent heave shook her body. Then she bent over and cast her accounts all over the Duke of Huntington’s shiny new boots.

  Chapter Six

  “Are you feeling better?” The pillow over Leela’s head failed to muffle the concern in Tori’s voice. “You’ve been in your chamber since yesterday afternoon.”

  Leela swallowed, her mouth dry and foul tasting, and forced herself to turn over in the bed to face her stepdaughter. “I’m much improved,” she lied, unable to meet the girl’s gaze. Her heart raced. It felt like a manic rabbit was bounding around inside her chest. “I must have eaten something on the road that disagreed with me.”

  Leela was sick to her stomach. Disgust swamped her again. She’d bedded the man Tori intended to wed. Searing pain chased after the bunny stomping on her heart.

  She fought to draw a full br
eath. What a catastrophe. Leela didn’t even know how to put into words just how abhorrent her current predicament was. Citi, her Arab grandmother, would call it a fatheeha—a mortifying combination of scandal, disgrace and outrage mixed into one. Sometimes you could find the perfect word in Arabic that did not have an English equivalent. And Citi would be right.

  Leela couldn’t bear to imagine how devastated Tori would be if she ever learned the truth. Yet how could Leela keep it from her? She and Tori were always honest with each other. From the beginning, Leela had vowed to shield the motherless girl from harm. She never imagined she’d be the one to ruin Tori’s happiness.

  If Leela’s dalliance with Elliot was made public, Tori’s name would be forever tied to scandal and ridicule. The sweet girl’s reputation would be ruined. The undeserved notoriety would be a severe blow to someone with Tori’s sensitive nature.

  “Darling, please do go and enjoy yourself,” Leela implored, while trying to hide the anxiety making her short of breath. “I assure you, all I require is a bit of rest.”

  “You never stay abed until noon unless you are truly ill.” Tori refused to budge. The girl could be as immovable as a stone wall when she set her mind to it. “And you don’t seem to be improving. Your breathing is strange and your skin has the most alarming tinge of gray to it.”

  That was because sleep had eluded her last night. And when Leela did manage to doze off, disjointed images of Elliot, naked and aroused, or with his lips trailing down her belly, drifted in and out of her jagged dreams.

  “I am going to ask Devon to call for a doctor,” Tori said.

  “No, absolutely not.” Leela dragged herself upright in bed even though it felt like thick mud was sloshing around inside her head. She gingerly settled back against the pillows and waited for the throbbing in her head to subside. “I’ll be better in no time.”