Desiring The Duke (Regency Romance: Strong Women Find True Love Book 4)

by Virginia Vice

  Copyright and Disclaimer Notice © 2018

  No part of this Book can be stored, reproduced, or transmitted in any form including print, recording, scanning, photocopying, or electronic without prior written permission from the authors.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  All characters are at least 18 years of age.

  Desiring The Duke

  By Virginia Vice

  Chapter One

  Anne Hatley sat by the side of the heavily carved, four-poster bed, holding her father’s hand. It felt so thin and frail, as if she would crack his bones if she squeezed too hard. It was not the strong, gentle hand that she remembered hoisting her onto her shoulders when she was a little girl. Those shoulders were still broad, but looked sickly and bony, and eighth Viscount of Roxborough appeared more a scarecrow draped in clothes than a man. His eyes still gleamed with intelligence and purpose, however.

  “Ladybug,” he murmured, using his pet name for his only child, “the doctors think I will be done by winter. You must find a husband by then, else you will be passed over in the inheritance.” A wet cough shook him, cutting off whatever else he was going to say.

  Anne grimaced as she watched her father work through the short coughing spell. And also at his words. In truth, she had little need for him to continue speaking on the subject. They had had this discussion daily since he had fallen ill some months prior. The cancer had worked remarkably quickly, spreading out from his lungs, so the doctors said. There was little to be done but to make him comfortable, which mainly meant increasingly large doses of opium.

  For several months, her father had refused to take the stuff, noting the addictive properties of opium, and not wishing to spend his final months on God’s Earth alternating between sleep and stupor. But now he took it daily, though not so much as he might have, for he always ensured his mornings left his wits unaddled as he attempted to tie up his affairs.

  Of course, Anne had been running the day-to-day operations of the estates for quite some time as her father had eased her into the responsibility. He would wax on and on about the ruin that many ancient families had come to by not ensuring their heirs could generate income as well as spend it.

  But that was the crux of the problem. Anne was not legally her father’s heir. At least, not for the Viscountship and the Hatley family estates. No, those by law and custom must be inherited by the oldest son, or barring that, the husband of the oldest daughter. Having no siblings, that meant Anne had a duty to marry, else the lands and titles her family had earned and enjoyed for generations would devolve to some distant cousin, of whom she barely knew anything. She would be left with a modest sum to eke out a modest middle-class life unless she managed to marry a man of appropriate social standing before her father’s death.

  Given Anne’s widely acknowledged beauty and intelligence, coupled with the well-run estates and titles of the Hatleys, she should not have lacked for suitors.

  Anne was utterly opposed, however, to a husband who would assume control of the estates she operated outright, to say nothing of a creeping dread that she would be relegated to frippery and balls and overseeing nothing more than the household staff.

  As if reading her thoughts, her father struggled to sit up in the bed. “Ladybug, I know you are not eager to marry quickly, and it breaks my heart for you not to have the time to find the man who would treat you as you should be treated.” He swallowed with visible difficulty. “But the time for choosiness has passed, and God has not seen fit to deliver the man you imagine you want. It is time to make the best of the possible choices. Otherwise, you will end up a spinster in a modest cottage, when you should be Viscountess of Roxborough.”

  Anne could not help frowning at her father. “I would rather be free and bereft of titles than to become imprisoned by marriage to a man who thinks a woman’s place is knitting socks by the fireplace,” she sniffed. At twenty years of age, she was old enough to think herself wise, and still young enough to be bold. It made for a tempestuous combination.

  Smiling as if he knew that very thing, the viscount squeezed her hand in return. Maybe today would turn out to be a good day and he could at least be taken out to the garden for some sun. “I blame myself. I spoiled you with attention and raising you as I would have a son. But I so wanted you to have the strength of your mother. She was made with a spine of steel, that woman. The most remarkable I’d ever met.” He chuckled lightly to himself. “I am just glad that no other man saw that quality for the asset it was, so that I could scoop her up.”

  Anne simply smiled at the old man. She could barely remember her mother. Her father spoke of her as if she were an angel – fierce and proud and loving – but as she’d grown older she’d learned that not everyone shared her father’s opinion of the viscountess. It had nearly shattered her world as a girl to find that other girls were taught to be obedient and provide entertaining conversation rather than how to increase the yields on their tenant farms or to inspect the books her family accountants kept. But it had made her even closer to her father, who insisted she learn the same skills that a brother would have.

  His sharp sapphire eyes met her own pale emerald ones. “Your happiness comes first. But I also care that you are not shut off from what is rightfully yours. Please at least spend effort tomorrow at the Earl of Carteret’s dinner party. Maybe Providence will see to delivering a man who is worthy of you.” Sighing, her father closed his eyes. “Now, let me rest, Ladybug. I feel as though this will not be a good day after all.”

  Kissing her father’s wasted hand tenderly, Anne ignored the twin tears working their way down her cheeks. Leaving him to sleep despite the midmorning hour, she quietly padded across the thick scarlet rug to the door.

  Chapter Two

  Lawrence Strauss, the fifth Duke of Amhurst, made his polite withdrawal from the young lady attempting to engage him. The drawing room was large, even by the standards of his own sprawling estate homes, and the Earl of Carteret was not shy about being ostentatious in both the size and quality of his surroundings. There was nary a furnishing that lacked gold leaf or intricate carving. And even the pieces that did – such as the inlaid marble chessboard that a pair of lordlings were dawdling over in an attempt to appear sophisticated – were crafted to the highest standard. Even the great black-marble fireplace, large enough for three men to stand in abreast if they were short enough, boasted a fire from exotic, scented woods. In the summer heat, it was entirely unnecessary, though it certainly served its purpose to demonstrate that the earl could quite literally afford to burn wealth.

  Lawrence found the scent cloying and the display wasteful, though. He was not a man to attempt to live as commoners did, but he was also not one for extravagant displays of wealth simply for the sake of the display. It screamed insecurity in one’s status to attempt to reinforce it in such a way.

  But then, he was likely not the intended audience. The earl had only recently inherited, and was still without a wife. The young man made no secret that he was available, at least in principle, and had encouraged any number of families with particularly beautiful daughters to present them to him for the summer season. Lawrence doubted the man was ready to settle down, though, judging from his boasts at their mutual gentleman’s club in London. The man was downright shameful in how he bedded women and then bragged in the lowest manner about it without even the sense to hold back the woman’s name to protect her re
putation!

  No, Lawrence was only here because it would not do for the earl to have invited a bevy of young ladies and no men. He was simply on the list because he was not seen as a rival for whichever girl or girls caught the earl’s eye tonight.

  The duke had to admit that there were quite a few lovely women here, including the creature he had just left by the open window looking consternated that he had slipped away. Every one of them were well-bred and educated in literature and the classics, ensuring they would make a wonderful wife and perhaps in time a wonderful mother. They were the cream of society.

  But despite being unwed himself, Lawrence was by not widely considered unavailable. Twenty-eight and never having been known to have courted a woman, there were increasingly whispers about his tastes being in a different direction. That was, of course, untrue. But Lawrence could just not fathom that he could be the husband any of these women would deserve. And having seen his own parents’ loveless, often adversarial marriage, he refused to marry until he was sure that he was ready. He would never have been able to live with the disappointment he saw daily in his mother’s eyes when he was a youth, not if it had been directed at him for husbandly failure. He would not be his father.

  “You have to talk to someone eventually, you know,” came the amused voice of his friend Charles. The man was slightly older than Lawrence, but still not the Earl of Southshire, as was his eventual birthright. Given the power and wealth wasted upon the young – such as their host, the Earl of Carteret – that irked him to no end. He was at least a baron in his own right, having that far lesser title of peerage come down to him through his mother’s sister, whom had never managed to produce a child. His mother had happily abdicated the title to him when he’d reached majority, as she was still the Countess Southshire with or without it.

  Despite the age and rank difference, and the not-insignificant fact that Charles was married with a pair of small sons of his own and a third child on the way, he and Lawrence were fast friends, having grown up on neighboring estates. Charles and his wife, who rarely went out at this late stage of her pregnancy, were half the reason Lawrence had accepted the clearly insincere invitation to the night’s events.

  “It would be selfish of me to monopolize the girl’s time and lead her on when I have no intention of pursuing her,” murmured Lawrence, raising the crystal goblet in his hand to his lips. The wine was perhaps the only thing in the room that seemed of poor quality. The earl’s estates produced vast amounts of mediocre wine. English wine never was very good.

  Charles stroked his beard – neatly trimmed with his upper lip bare, the latest in London fashion – with one hand, pretending to muse philosophical. “Ah, but tis better to have loved imperfectly than to have never loved at all!” He flourished his arm mockingly before laughing through a deep drought from his own goblet. Charles never cared much for the quality of drink, so long as he felt its effects. The slight pink already showing around his cheekbones suggested this was not his first cup. Hopefully dinner would begin before the man had too much.

  Shaking his head, Lawrence didn’t reply. Truth was that he was lonely. But it was impossible to shake the deep-seated fears that he would turn out to be a philandering, spendthrift drunk like his father once he’d settled into a marriage. No, it was best to maintain the discipline he’d built into his life. He couldn’t disappoint anyone if no one cared for him.

  Adopting a more serious tone, Charles gave him a sympathetic look. “I’ve seen the way you look at these fine young ladies, so I know you’re not sly, Lawrence.” He gestured with his goblet hand around the overlarge drawing room. Men and women were scattered around it in knots of three and four and five, some joking, some deep in serious-looking discussion, some sharing activities such as the two men who had finally settled in to play at the chess board. Brushing absently with his free hand at his double-breasted frock coat, Charles continued. “Maggie and I are worried about you, Lawrence. You are a better man than I, but look how happy I make Maggie!” He grinned somewhat foolishly. “Maggie says it would be a waste for you to remain a bachelor forever. Even if she has given up trying to match you with someone herself, she thinks you should give it a go with someone.” He took another swig of what looked to be a nearly empty goblet now. “Besides, she says you will be a bad influence on the boys as they grow older if you mope on about how perfect a man must be before becoming married.”

  Lawrence frowned at his friend. Charles had known his parents, and was always there cheer him up after fleeing a shouting match between them. But that was not the same as understanding. He did have to admit that Charles and his wife appeared to be deeply in love, and as such a close family friend, Lawrence was sure he would have seen if that were a charade by now. But Charles was also a warm-hearted fellow who never seemed to work at bringing a smile or lending a helping hand. Where Lawrence was widely known for his philanthropy, Charles was talked about as a truly generous man who everyone took an instant liking to. There was no way that Lawrence could replicate that.

  Stroking his unusual beard again, his friend appeared on the verge of saying more, but the sound of a small gong announced the dinner hour, and everyone began to meander toward the dining room to find their assigned seats.

  Chapter Three

  Anne bustled past the valet even as he was announcing her arrival. She was far beyond fashionably late, and the only reason she’d still come at all was that she’d told her father she would. Her expectations for the company at the earl’s dinner party were low and she had every intention of making a polite exit as soon as the men withdrew to smoke cigars and imbibe brandy.

  With a murmured thank you to the serving man who held her chair for her, she gathered what little grace she could in her flustered state to sit with a smile. Her seat was quite good – nearly across from the Earl of Carteret himself. The sandy-haired young man wore the standard outfit that nearly all the gentlemen at the long banquet table were clothed in. Anne had never much liked how most men wore nearly identical and very somber looking frock coats and waistcoats to these affairs, though she suspected the menfolk were removed from having to dither in front of their wardrobe as the lady’s maid attempted to dress them to the nines.

  Turning from a pair of obsequious beauties to his left, the earl nodded her a greeting and flashed her a smile. She had to admit he was handsome, and was comfortable enough with herself to recognize a twinge of interest from down below. But the man was a rake of the worst sort, from the rumors she had heard. And unlike many of the other social climbers present – she could not help but notice not a single woman who was not stunningly beautiful aside from a few wives with their husbands – Anne had no interest in trying to reform a man with a reputation for youthful indiscretions. In her sole previous interaction with the man earlier in the season, he had made clear in conversation that he held a very conservative attitude even amongst the nobility for what a woman’s role was to be. The likes of the Earl of Carteret valued “obey” over the “love” and “honor” mentioned in a woman’s wedding vows. In short, he would never do for a husband, even in her current desperate straits.

  Returning his nod politely, Anne settled in to meet those seated by her. In a more sophisticated host, placement would have been a mixture of social precedence and conversational skills. But whomever had set the places for the earl had obviously prioritized putting the youngest and prettiest around the host with a few married men scattered to keep it from being too glaring to ignore.

  “Good evening, Madam Hatley,” intoned the man to her right, with a glance at her place card to ensure he spoke the correct name and style of address. Already Anne was annoyed. Had she been styled analogous to a son who could inherit in his own right, she would have been Lady Roxborough. But her courtesy title extended only as far as “Madam.”

  Sighing under her breath, Anne pivoted in her seat, smoothing her skirts to return the greetings to the man. He looked old enough to be her grandfather, and alone wore a color that wasn�
��t black or close enough to it to be called black. His antique suit and pince-nez were a bit jarring until she realized it must be a fashion from his youth. Eyes flicking down to his name on his place card, she amazed to learn that this was none other than Sir Gilbert Tamblyn, a man of some modest renown even now for eking out a desperate victory against Napoleonic forces in a battle whose name was long forgotten by Anne and most people who had only read of the whole terrible wars in books. The man must be more than ninety years old!

  “Sir Gilbert, it is a deep honor to meet you. I –“ Her smile faltered as the older man waved a hand and cut her off.

  “Don’t bother with all that frippery, Madam. I’ve no intention to spend what years, weeks, days, or hours I have left dancing around formalities. I’m a man who likes things straight and direct.” He gave her a sly smile. “And from what I’ve heard on my other side from yet another useless person,” he gestured to a young woman who was very actively turning away to avoid eye contact, “you feel the same way.”

  Anne’s eyebrows rose in surprise. But perhaps she should not have been shocked that other girls were gossiping about her. After all, she was an easy target with her “unwomanly” reputation, but also one with enough standing and wealth attached to her hand in marriage that she was still a rival for most of these women.

  The older man removed his pince-nez to inspect a spot on them. Waving them absentmindedly toward the table beyond him, he soothed, “Oh, don’t worry about what useless people say, Madam. For what it may be worth, were I sixty years younger, I would court you based on solely upon what the gossipmongers spread about you amongst themselves. I can only hope,” he continued firmly, “that you do not judge yourself by what these peacocks say. They are pretty to look at, but as a man who made the mistake thrice of marrying one, “ he leaned in to say, “they are a real pain in the ass!”