Duke of Renown

by Aston, Alexa

  “I greatly admire your courage, Mrs. Smith. You acted quickly and calmly. Thoroughly. Your stitches were as good—if not better—than any battlefield surgeon. I applaud your efforts on my behalf.”

  “Was the war so very hard?” she asked softly.

  He squeezed her hand. “It was. It’s something I do not wish to discuss. I saw enough of my . . . enough of my friends lose their lives.”

  Andrew had almost called them his men. He didn’t want her to know that he was an officer. An officer meant a gentleman. A naked gentleman in Mrs. Smith’s bed would lead to too many questions.

  He released her hand and she placed it on his shoulder. “You’ve had a busy morning, what with me dressing your wound and eating. Why don’t you try to nap for a while, Mr. Andrew? I’m sure you’ll feel more refreshed when you awaken.”

  “A splendid idea, Mrs. Smith.”

  “Let me help you.”

  She had him lean forward and lowered his pillows, plumping them. He lay back against them and she raised the bedclothes to just below his shoulders.

  “There,” she said and then smoothed his hair back, her touch gentle. “Have a nice rest, Mr. Andrew.”

  Mrs. Smith gathered her supplies on the tray and then left the room, her footsteps quiet. She was right. Weariness blanketed him. Andrew closed his eyes and willed himself to dream of his angel of mercy.

  Chapter Eight

  After Phoebe put away the supplies she’d used on Mr. Andrew’s shoulder, she tiptoed back to the doorway. He was already asleep, as she’d suspected. She had much to do while he napped, hopefully for several hours. Though his fever had finally broken, he was very weak. It would take a week or more to build his stamina. She quickly fed Caesar and then left the cottage, pushing the small cart that would hold her purchases, hoping the cat would curl up with their guest while she was away.

  Today was noticeably cooler though the sun was shining, peeking from behind the cloud-filled sky. She kept to a quick pace in order to reach the village sooner than she usually did. Her first stop was the Butlers’ shop. She removed her baskets from her cart and entered the structure. Mrs. Butler was with a customer so Phoebe loaded her baskets quickly and brought the goods to the counter just as the sale was concluded.

  “Ah, Mrs. Smith. I haven’t seen you in a few days,” Mrs. Butler said. “Have you heard about the duke?”

  “No. What duke? Is there one visiting the area?” she politely inquired, doubting it was anyone she knew since she didn’t move in lofty ton circles.

  “Why, the Duke of Windham, of course.”

  She shrugged. “No, Mrs. Butler, I have not heard of him.”

  “Why, His Grace has the most gorgeous estate in Devon called Windowmere,” the woman said dreamily. “And he’s supposed to be quite handsome.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Phoebe murmured and began setting her purchases out on the counter. She wanted to hurry Mrs. Butler along but knew the woman loved to gossip.

  “Well, he’s missing.”

  “Missing?”

  “Yes, missing!” Mrs. Butler declared. “He has an estate, Moreland Hall, here in Cornwall. It’s a little east of here. A good ten miles from Truro, along the coast.”

  “Uh-huh,” Phoebe said, her goods now all spread out, ready for Mrs. Butler to check the prices and total her bill.

  “He vanished.” The woman snapped her fingers. “Just like that!”

  “Oh, dear,” she said sympathetically. “I hope it’s not serious.”

  “No one knows. He’s been gone several days. Maybe a week or more, from what I hear. His poor brother, who’s quite close to him, came to visit him and then His Grace simply disappeared. How can a man—especially a duke—simply disappear, I ask you?”

  “I have no idea. Might you ring me up?” she asked politely.

  Finally, Mrs. Butler started doing her job but she kept up a steady stream of gossip the entire time. How the duke’s father rarely came to Moreland Hall and this was the first time his son, the new duke, had set foot in Cornwall. That he’d gone out for a ride and hadn’t come home. How his horse was found but no sign of His Grace was visible.

  As Phoebe helped place the items into her baskets, Mrs. Butler said, “The duke is said to enjoy walking. Could he have been attacked by wild animals in the forest and his body dragged off? Or what if he encountered highwaymen—or even smugglers—and they’re holding him for ransom? Oh, his poor brother must be distraught, indeed.”

  Since it was obvious Mrs. Butler had never met the duke, Phoebe couldn’t quite understand why the woman was so worked up over the matter. Yes, it was unusual that a duke had vanished without a trace. Maybe he’d tired of being in Cornwall’s quiet and simply up and left for one of his many estates. It didn’t matter a whit to her. She needed to get home to her patient.

  “What do you say to that, Mrs. Smith?” Mrs. Butler demanded.

  Since she didn’t want to admit to woolgathering, particularly because it had involved thinking about her unexpected guest and his good looks, she said, “I have nothing I can add, Mrs. Butler. You have said it all.”

  “I have, indeed,” the woman said, nodding sagely. “Mark my words, something rotten has occurred. Why, they’re talking of calling out the magistrate and hiring men to search for His Grace. I’ve even heard that his brother wishes to bring in the Bow Street Runners, all the way from London. He’s that upset about his dear, missing brother.”

  “Well, I hope they find His Grace.” Phoebe gathered her baskets and made for the doorway.

  Mrs. Butler sniffed. “I am praying daily that they will. What is the world coming to when a duke goes missing from his very house?”

  “Goodbye, Mrs. Butler,” she said, glad to have finally made her escape.

  Transferring the goods to the cart from her baskets, she stopped at the bakery and butcher shop and ended at the fish market. By the time she left Falmouth, the cart was heavier than it had ever been. Thank goodness no rain had come for a good week and the path was smooth.

  She arrived at the cottage and parked the cart next to it. Going to the well, she drew water into all four buckets and toted them to the door. She would need to bring in enough not only for drinking and cooking but she was desperate for a bath herself after days of nursing Mr. Andrew. He, too, could afford to sit in a tub and soak, as long as he kept his bandage dry.

  Phoebe nudged open the door to the cottage and carried two buckets inside.

  “Where the bloody hell have you been?” an angry voice shouted.

  *

  Andrew awoke, this time knowing where he was. His eyes immediately went to the chair, where the lovely Mrs. Smith was usually stationed. She was missing, though. He lay there, his thoughts drifting idly as he waited for her to check on him.

  And waited. Then waited some more.

  Frustrated, he decided to call out.

  “Mrs. Smith?”

  At once, he heard how weak his voice sounded. It hadn’t projected but a few feet from the bed. The noise had awakened Caesar, though. The cat, who sat next to him, stretched lazily and began cleaning his front paw. Andrew stroked the gray furball. He wished he had something to drink. His throat felt clogged. He cleared it and tried again.

  “Mrs. Smith? I say, are you there?”

  No one replied. This time, he was certain his voice could have been heard in the next room. From what he remembered, the cottage only had the two rooms. Guilt swept through him, knowing he’d taken his angel’s bed from her and that she’d slept in the chair the past few nights. Having done the same thing himself as he watched over various soldiers under his command as they slept in hospital, he knew her back must be aching and that a good night’s rest was the last thing she’d had. Especially since he’d been feverish and she’d constantly bathed him the last several days.

  Where on earth could she be?

  She might have gone outside, dumping the chamber pot. Or be drawing water from a well. It was obvious the woman had no help and mu
st do everything for herself. Andrew couldn’t imagine being responsible for washing his clothes and preparing all his meals and cleaning his rooms. Or his many houses full of rooms, lest he forget he was now a duke and had more estates than he knew what to do with.

  He wondered what the staff at Moreland Hall had done when he hadn’t arrived home. Had the authorities been notified? Were search parties with dogs sent out to look for him? Of course, he’d fallen into the sea so if any dog traced his scent, it would be to the edge of the cliffs.

  Would people think he’d jumped?

  If they did think him a suicide, they must be looking for his body to wash up. Mrs. Smith was right. People might come questioning her as they looked for him.

  The thing is, he wasn’t ready to go home just yet.

  It wasn’t only because he needed more time for his injury to heal. To be back at full strength would take him several weeks. Andrew didn’t want to confront Francis unless he could thoroughly thrash him. He pictured himself beating the whippersnapper to a bloody pulp. It would take brute force to do so. His rage would do half the job but he needed his fists to do the rest.

  Should he go to the authorities? Or challenge his half-brother to a duel? Andrew was a crack shot before the war and years of battle had only honed his skill. Could he actually pull the trigger and kill his own flesh and blood?

  Without a doubt.

  But what really held him back was the delectable Mrs. Smith. His growing attraction to the young widow needed to be fed. She might not agree to couple with him but he wanted—no, needed—to kiss her. Thoroughly. As if she’d never been kissed. He wondered what her husband had been like. Mrs. Smith looked to be a couple of years younger than Andrew. How old had Mr. Smith been? Was he more her contemporary or closer to her father’s age? What had caused the man’s death? Had she wed the man willingly or was she forced to do so by her family?

  And had she loved her husband?

  Andrew had so many questions to ask her and doubted she would answer a one of them, especially since she thought him a man who broke the law. He would like to break through the prim and proper wall she’d managed to erect about her and kiss her all day and into the night. Something told him she’d never experienced passion—and he wanted that for her. He wanted to be the man who brought it to her.

  God, he wanted her.

  Andrew enjoyed women. He had good looks and easily had many women over the years. Yet there was something about the lovely Mrs. Smith that made her different from all the others. Maybe because she had gone against her nature and better judgment and taken in what she thought was an outlaw, nursing him back to health.

  Oh, he truly wanted to kiss her.

  Where the bloody hell was she?

  He moved to toss the bedclothes back and found that was hard to accomplish. It took three tries before he untangled himself from them. Caesar hissed and jumped from the bed, tossing Andrew a malevolent look as he strolled from the bedchamber. He sat on the edge of the bed, a bit dizzy, trying to center himself.

  Gradually, he rose, unsteady on his feet but determined to walk. He found the chamber pot and pissed the longest stream of his life. Bracing his hand against the wall, he glanced around and saw his breeches neatly folded, his stockings atop them. His worn pair of boots rested next to them. He wondered where his shirt had gone. He’d left Moreland Hall without a coat or cravat. If the beautiful Mrs. Smith had found him in those or what he usually wore, she would definitely have known he wasn’t a smuggler.

  Stumbling to his clothes, his decided the breeches were all he could handle at the moment. He snatched them and then fell to the bed. It took some minutes before he worked them up his legs and over his hips. They were a bit loose on him. Not eating for several days made him realize he’d lost some weight.

  Finally, he stood and fastened them. Taking halting steps, he made his way to the doorway, which wasn’t far away at all but took a good while to reach. He entered the outer room and he was right. It was the only other room in the humble cottage. Looking around the room as he clung to the doorway, he saw a table and its two chairs in the kitchen portion of the room and a small settee and table on the other side. A simple desk sat under a window, pages scattered across it. He was too tired to make it that far, only managing to get to the settee. He collapsed onto it and then raised his bare feet, propping them upon the table. Andrew leaned back, sweat beading along his brow, and waited for Mrs. Smith to come inside.

  What could be taking her so long?

  The more time passed, the more concerned he grew. The cottage was isolated. Had someone come by and taken her? By God, he would hunt them down and rip out their throats.

  He chuckled. Where had all this anger come from? He barely knew a thing about his benefactress, other than she was kind and beautiful and very caring. And that he longed to kiss her in the strongest of ways.

  Suddenly, he heard a noise from outside. He was too weak to walk to the window but he peered out it from where he sat.

  Mrs. Smith was pushing a cart filled to the brim. How heavy was it? Where had she been? He saw her coming closer and placed his feet on the ground, sitting up expectantly.

  She didn’t enter the cottage.

  Next, he saw her pass by again. She must have put down the cart. She walked to a well and began drawing water. Four times, to be exact. It hurt him to see her laboring as a servant. She deserved to be waited on hand and foot, wearing fine gowns.

  And being made love to. By him.

  Suddenly, Andrew knew he had already come to a decision. He needed to wed. Why not this woman? She may not be from Polite Society but she had more attributes than a majority of the women he’d tried to get to know during the past Season. Yes, it would shock some that he took a woman as his bride from her station in society but, by God, he was a bloody duke and could do as he pleased. Mrs. Smith would never want for anything again. She would make for a fine duchess.

  The door slowly opened and she came in.

  “Where the bloody hell have you been?” he demanded.

  The buckets fell from her hands. Water spilled everywhere. She looked tired and frightened—and in need of comfort.

  Pushing himself to his feet, Andrew somehow took the few steps needed to close the gap between them. He clasped her shoulders and lowered his mouth to hers.

  Chapter Nine

  Phoebe froze as Mr. Andrew clutched her shoulders. Suddenly, his mouth was on hers. She ought to pull away. She must. He was a stranger. An outlaw.

  But the slow brushing of his firm yet soft lips against hers felt utterly delicious.

  She’d only been kissed once. At the close of her vows when she’d wed Borwick seven years ago. Her husband had never kissed her after that. Everything that had occurred in the bedroom between them had been focused on his needs. Not hers.

  Not that she would have known she needed this. Goodness gracious. Her first thought centered around what she had missed out on during all those years of marriage. That kissing was a magical experience between a man and a woman when they pressed their mouths together.

  Heavenly . . .

  Coherent thought ceased after that. His arms held her firmly against his bare chest. Her palms pressed against it. She’d meant to push him away but now the heat beneath her fingertips drew her in. It wasn’t the heat of a man struck by fever. No, this was the body heat of a man who desired.

  And he desired her.

  His kiss grew more urgent, more demanding. Almost harsh. Yet Phoebe reveled in it. Then his lips moved, drawing away, and his teeth sank softly into her lower lip. A frisson of warmth swept through her. He held her lip prisoner and a throbbing began between her legs. Then he released it, brushing his tongue lightly over it, soothing it. He nipped at her again several times, causing the throb to beat wildly. The unknown feeling caused her body to tingle. She slid her hands along his chest, feeling the ridges of muscle dance beneath her fingertips.

  Then his tongue traveled lazily along her bottom lip and to
her top one, outlining her mouth in a sensual move that had her knees buckle. He must have sensed her shift and held her closer. Her hands slid around his waist. Her breasts pressed against his bare chest, causing the nipples to pucker as her body went hot all over.

  This was too much. Her senses were on overloaded. She needed to pull away. Stop this madness.

  Yet even as her mind told her to do so, her body betrayed her. Her hands began to stroke his sleek back. Her breasts brushed against his chest. Her mouth never protested, not even when his tongue teased it open. Suddenly, his tongue swept inside, causing a delicious ripple of something to run through her. She couldn’t name it because it was unfamiliar.

  Phoebe didn’t know things like this could happen. He leisurely explored her mouth and she found herself answering his call, her own tongue playfully joining his and tangling for control. Her breath caught and the pounding between her legs became a hard, insistent beat. His mouth. His tongue. The beating of that drum. That was all her world consisted of.

  The kiss went on and on. She wanted to wrap herself around him until they were as one person. She couldn’t remember anything that had come before this moment. There was only him. His taste. A masculine scent. His heart beating against her breasts.

  His arm tightened about her waist and his hand traveled to her nape, massaging it. A moan escaped her as her bones seemed to melt. He tugged on her hair, forcing her head back, and the kiss deepened. Her fingers kneaded his back just as Caesar kneaded his paws against her sometimes. He continued kissing her until all thought had been driven from her mind. Only a pulsing need to get closer to him existed.

  Then he withdrew. His forehead rested against hers as they each caught their breath. Slowly, Phoebe came back to reality.

  What had she done?

  She’d kissed a man. A half-dressed man she barely knew.

  And it had been the most moving experience of her life.

  She became aware that he now clung to her as much as she did him. He’d been shot and could barely stand.