My Last Duchess

by James, Eloisa

  “My cousin has no wish to take care of another woman’s children,” the lady continued. “Perhaps you will forgive my observation that you have too many of them. And as I said, she has no wish to marry again.”

  Over her shoulder, half the ballroom was gaping at them, fascinated. They’d missed his real intention; they thought he was flirting with this elegant young wife. Lord Penshallow was undoubtedly watching from somewhere.

  He stepped backward and bowed. “I wish you good evening, Lady Penshallow. I’m afraid that, like your cousin, I must leave before the dinner dance. Perhaps you will dance with me another time.” He felt a primitive desire to get out the doors before his lady managed to run away from him.

  That’s what she was doing.

  Running.

  She had taken one look at him from under those absurdly long eyelashes and headed for the ballroom door. That meant she felt something. Maybe not the same thing he did—not the same jolt of absolute certainty—but something.

  He could work with it.

  A butler, resplendent in red livery, handed him his greatcoat. The man was dignified, but given his raisin-sized eyes, not too dignified for a bribe. A moment later, Hugo had a name.

  Ophelia, Lady Astley, the widow of Sir Peter Astley.

  He turned it over in his head. Ophelia. One of Shakespeare’s heroines, and a melancholy one, if he had the play right. This Ophelia wasn’t melancholy. Her eyes were intelligent and fiery; he’d bet anything she had a temper that would blaze as hot as her hair.

  He walked through the door and saw with satisfaction that the street was just as snarled in carriages as it had been forty minutes ago. Carriages were taking a half hour to traverse the street before the house.

  When he arrived, he had jumped out and walked, telling his coachman that he would make his own way home later. Other guests remained in their carriages like a line of patient cows waiting to be milked. Likely some of them had been here then, and they were still here now.

  Night had fallen. Linkboys were milling about in front of the house and running between carriages, their flaming torches held high, biting circles into the darkness. Snowflakes were falling lazily into the patches of light, as if the white fluff popped into existence when light met the dark air.

  Ophelia was nowhere in sight, which meant her coachman had escorted her to her carriage—but he doubted the vehicle had gone anywhere. Traffic was at a standstill; two coachmen had descended from their perches and were shouting about a scratched side panel.

  Which carriage might she be in? To his left were three commodious family carriages, the doors picked out with crests. She wouldn’t be found in one of those. Sir Peter Astley had been a baronet, not a peer.

  If there was an elegant barouche, it would have gone to the heir, not to the widow. His brows drew together as he realized that many a young widow, especially one who hadn’t given birth to a male heir, might find herself in financial straits. Rational thought quickly asserted itself.

  Ophelia had been wearing emeralds, and a dress his sister called a sack gown. It had glowed in the candlelight of the ballroom, glittering with gold thread, but more importantly, with flowers. Hand-painted flowers on French silk.

  Louisa owned one gown made of hand-painted silk, the fabric imported from France. Characteristically, Louisa’s was bright with poppies. Ophelia’s gown had been painted all over with charming flower sprigs. It didn’t call attention to itself, and yet it must have been wildly expensive.

  His heart eased. His lady wasn’t worried about money. In fact, she must be swimming in guineas.

  Good for Sir Peter. He had died, leaving his wife and baby girl behind, but he’d made certain that they were comfortable, cared for.

  There were four carriages to his right. One of them belonged to the Dowager Duchess of Windebank. Two were hired rigs and one . . .

  That was it.

  It was small but exquisite, made of rich bronze-colored wood and fashioned with three windows to a side. The carriage body looked like a delicate egg trimmed in strands of twisted brass, the body painted with bluebirds.

  It was absurd, and absurdly lovely. It suited her, down to its curves.

  It wasn’t moving and wouldn’t until those coachmen stopped their squabble.

  Without haste, he walked toward it, his shoes splashing into the sludge on the streets; the first layer of snowflakes had already melted. Delicate silk curtains were drawn across the windows, and a soft glow from the inside told him that Ophelia had lit the carriage lamps.

  As he grew closer, he made out her silhouette. She was leaning back against the cushions, reading a book. Hugo paused for a moment, savoring his reaction to finding her.

  His life had jerked to a halt with Marie’s death. In the years since, he took care of the estate, went through the motions of being married to Yvette, tried to be the best father he could to the children.

  But now, unexpectedly, strangely, with no more than the sight of a tantalizing woman . . .

  His heart was thumping in a rhythm he’d forgotten.

  Feeling the prickle of eyes on him, he looked up and discovered that her coachman was watching him closely. The man looked like a good fellow, strong and loyal, with the tenacity and skill to fight off anyone who threatened his lady’s well-being.

  A groom in livery was perched behind, his gaze as hard-eyed as the coachman’s.

  Hugo tilted his head in a silent question.

  After a moment, the coachman nodded, so Hugo sprang up beside him. The conversation took longer than he would have thought and necessitated pulling his sword out of its sheath, displaying the ducal crest set into the hilt, and finally handing it over.

  They had moved approximately three carriage lengths down the street before Hugo leapt down again, having made it clear to Mr. Bisquet that, if she agreed, the lady was to become a duchess.

  If she rejected him, he meant her no harm.

  Now he just had to persuade the lady herself.

  Chapter Four

  Ophelia was humiliated to realize how long it took her breath to calm after leaving the ballroom. It was only, she assured herself, because she hadn’t been in society for some time.

  A man hadn’t looked at her with interest in years. Peter had never looked at her like that.

  The duke’s gaze made her feel overheated. Almost feverish, which was absurd. Thinking about her dear husband steadied her.

  She and Peter had approached the bedchamber the way they had their entire life together: with a frank conversation and a generous ladling of respect. Over the years of their marriage, they had come together many times, not merely because they were determined to have children—and surprised by how long it took—but because they genuinely enjoyed each other’s company.

  Ophelia took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders, trying to focus on the book she was reading. The Life and Adventures of Mr. Francis Clive. It wasn’t a restful book; the poor housemaid who found herself part of Francis Clive’s “adventures” was now in the family way.

  Any sensible woman could have told her that he was a rake from the first few pages of the book. As opposed to Peter, for example. Once again, the remembrance of Peter’s steady love and respect made Ophelia feel calmer.

  Her late husband would have understood how shocking it had felt to come into contact with the duke, a man who had palpable power and erotic . . . well, erotic something.

  Promise, maybe.

  The duke looked at her with a promise in his eyes, and his promise had nothing to do with respect.

  Undoubtedly, every woman encountered a man like that during her life: a bad man, her mother would have said. A rake, no doubt. One who made all sorts of promises he didn’t—

  No.

  The Duke of Lindow’s steady gaze came back to her. If he made promises, he would keep them.

  She had the feeling he was offering her pleasure. Possibly a different kind of pleasure than the measured joy she and Peter had shared. Something altoge
ther more overwhelming.

  The door of her carriage swung open, followed by a blast of chilly air and the clean smell of fresh snow. Ophelia frowned, reaching toward the door. She adored the little carriage that she had helped design herself, but it wasn’t the sturdiest vehicle in the world. Bisquet hadn’t wished to take it this evening because of the weather, but she insisted.

  Broad shoulders blocked the doorway as a man climbed into her carriage.

  Ophelia shrank back, suddenly aware of how alone she was. Her heart stuttered, and a scream caught in her throat as she flung her hand to the roof, intending to yank open the trapdoor between herself and her coachman.

  “I apologize.” His voice filled the small space like one deep note from a cello: calm, resonant, safe.

  Air slipped out of Ophelia’s lungs. Her hand fell back and she leaned, boneless, against the back of her carriage seat.

  The Duke of Lindow closed the door behind himself and sat down opposite her, his intense green eyes fastened on her face. There wasn’t a shred of shame in his expression. There was regret for having frightened her, but the fact he’d invaded her carriage without an invitation?

  No, he had all the bravado of a pirate boarding a ship and informing the captain that he had every right to be there.

  She felt a welcome spark of anger at the base of her spine and sat up straight again. She was a dowager baroness. He might be far above her in England’s hierarchy, but that didn’t give him the right to frighten her.

  To invade her carriage.

  “I did not invite you to join me,” she stated, adding, after a pointed pause, “Your Grace.”

  The duke had stuffed his gloves into his pockets, and now he shrugged out of his damp greatcoat without answering. The beautiful wool was speckled with dark spots where snowflakes had melted.

  Ophelia was well aware that the person who talks most in any confrontation loses power, so she held her tongue.

  He had remarkably broad shoulders. Even his neck looked powerful. He was a male animal, lithe and powerful—but one who meant her no harm. She knew that instinctively, in her bones.

  His Grace was no Francis Clive, running around looking for adventures and woe betide any young woman who got in his way.

  Once out of his heavy outerwear, he shrugged, apparently uncomfortable in his closely tailored, extravagant coat. But then, in one swift movement, he crouched in front of her.

  Ophelia could feel her eyes rounding as she looked down. He didn’t touch her, but she felt as if his gaze settled around her like a warm blanket. A sharp sense of vertigo gripped her.

  Men like this, dukes, had nothing to do with women like her. She had been considered tremendously lucky that Peter chose her. She was rounded, short, and not particularly beautiful. That wasn’t even taking account of the pointed chin Maddie had mentioned.

  What’s more, she wasn’t seductive or flirtatious. Not that she had ever flirted with this man before.

  “Your Grace,” she said. “I gather that you have formed some sort of interest in me that is groundless and unrequited. I must ask you to behave like a gentleman and return from whence you came.”

  A smile tugged at his mouth. “From whence I came?”

  “My meaning is clear,” Ophelia said, scowling at him. “Go. Back to the street, if you prefer plain speaking. You are not welcome in my carriage.”

  She had the absurd idea that she’d hurt his feelings, but the emotion flashed by so quickly that she wasn’t sure.

  “I apologize,” he said again. “I just saw you for the first time.”

  Ophelia waited, but he didn’t continue, so she said, “The fact that we are unacquainted is scarcely reason for this intrusion.”

  “How long were you married to Sir Peter?” he asked.

  This was such an odd conversation. He hadn’t touched her, and she didn’t know him, and yet they were looking at each other with an intimacy that—

  She pushed the thought away. She probably shouldn’t answer him, but she did, because what was the harm of it?

  “I married in July of 1759,” she replied.

  “I married Yvette in May of the same year.”

  Clearly, that meant something to him, but nothing to her. “Is that why you’re following me?” she asked, a dash of humiliation suddenly turning scalding.

  She’d got it wrong; he didn’t desire her. He wanted something from her. Or had she known his previous duchess? She couldn’t recall anyone by that name.

  His lopsided smile appeared again. “If I hadn’t decided that Yvette looked like a good mother—a decision so misguided as to be comical—I would have gone to a few more balls, and I might have met you before you were betrothed to Sir Peter.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps you think that your presence would have affected my feelings for my late husband, whom I loved dearly? You do yourself too much honor, Your Grace.”

  His smile broadened. “I deserved that.”

  “Yes, you did,” she said tartly. “Now, please stop hovering at my knee or whatever it is you are doing and take your leave before I shout at my coachman and ask him to remove you, pistol in hand.”

  “Bisquet confiscated my sword,” the duke said with a grin.

  With a start, Ophelia realized that the silver hilt that had sat so easily at his hip was no longer there. “He did?”

  “You have an excellent coachman. It took me the better part of ten minutes to persuade him to allow me to speak to you.”

  Ophelia instantly made up her mind to speak to Bisquet herself and quite sharply too.

  “I didn’t offer a bribe, and he wouldn’t have taken one,” the duke said. “May I call on you in the morning?”

  “I see no reason for that,” she replied.

  He was too handsome, too witty, too everything. There was a hint of sadness at the backs of his eyes, and a ruefulness in his tone when he mentioned his wife Yvette. He was nuanced.

  Men were so rarely nuanced.

  The word reminded her that he was something else as well: divorced. Any woman associated with him would become notorious, and not merely if Ophelia became his third duchess. Everyone would watch to see if she too would find him insufficient, run away, or carry on a flagrant affaire.

  Yvette had been, presumably, as passionate in her search for adventures as Francis Clive, and as immoral as well, since she had run away with another man. Leaving not just her children but this man behind. Ophelia had heard about the scandal, of course, but she hadn’t seen him.

  Who could leave him?

  Yvette likely had very good reason. For example, because her former husband was the type who leapt into strange women’s carriages and demanded to be heard.

  “Would you deny entry to me if I paid you a morning call?” he asked.

  “I am too busy for calls,” she said. Which was a polite way of saying: Yes. Yes, I would.

  He looked surprised, which was good. Men of his rank were likely never refused entrance.

  “I don’t know you,” Ophelia continued, “and I have no reason to wish to know you. You are frank, Your Grace, so I shall be the same. As far as I can remember, I had no acquaintance with either of your former duchesses.” She raised an eyebrow.

  “Not to the best of my knowledge.”

  He was looking at her, eyes intent, seeming as comfortable on one knee as he was in the ballroom.

  “And certainly not with you, so what in heaven’s name are you doing, kneeling on my carriage floor?”

  “Asking you to marry me.”

  For a confused moment, Ophelia thought she’d lost her hearing. “What?”

  “You’re the one for me,” he said, his voice deepening to a rumble.

  “The one?” To her own shock, Ophelia heard herself laughing. “One, Your Grace? What about your other two wives?”

  He rocked back on his heels and grinned up at her.

  “You!” she said, rapping him on the shoulder with her closed fan, as if he were a naughty schoolboy. “Ha
ve you lost your mind? You don’t know me. I am not your ‘one.’ Get up, if you please.”

  “I wish to marry you.”

  “I don’t wish to marry you!” Ophelia said tartly. “I don’t even know you. And even if I did . . .”

  She would never want to be a duchess. Duchesses were forever being gawked at. Gossip columns described what they wore, and what they said, and whom they smiled at. As Sir Peter’s relict, she had slipped out of that ballroom without anyone taking notice of her.

  No duchess walked from a room without people tracking her movements.

  He nodded, eyes on hers. “Indeed, duchesses are always in the public eye.”

  “How did you know what I was thinking?”

  With a swift movement, he rose and sat next to her. Practically on top of her skirts.

  “Watch out!” she cried.

  He waited while she rearranged her skirts, taking her time because her fingers were trembling and she needed to regain control.

  “Your Grace,” she said at last, raising her face to his. “I am not of your world, and I don’t wish to be. I do not reference your divorce,” she said swiftly, when he opened his mouth. “’Tis an infamous thing, but I understand that your wife left under—she left with . . .” Tangled in words, she stopped.

  “The second part of this particular private act is the only one that matters,” he said. “The act dissolved our marriage and specifically enabled ‘the said Duke to marry again.’ I would not have petitioned for divorce if it hadn’t been for our—” He caught himself. “For my children.”

  “I see,” Ophelia said, feeling desperately sorry for him.

  “In case you are wondering, I did not refuse to allow the children to go with their mother. I’m not sure what I would have said, had Yvette asked for them, but she did not. She left a letter explaining that our marriage was a mistake and that she felt English children should stay on English soil.”

  Ophelia’s gaze fell to the duke’s hand, clenched on the carriage seat.

  “She spelled Joan’s name wrong,” he said.