The Duke of a Thousand Desires

by Jillian Hunter

  “No,” Kieran said with vehemence. “I’ll go first. One of you can follow. The other should alert the rest of the house. Have the stables surrounded by the men you employ. Bruxton won’t expect anyone to appear from a false wall. Susannah said she never told him about the hiding place. I pulled the door tight behind me.”

  Simon nudged him forward and then ducked into the murky passageway. “I have no reason to trust you or your master. Deceive me and I shall not hesitate to make you sorry for the last time in your life.”

  As he reached the bottom of the abyss, Simon detected a blur of light and instantly dropped to his knees. Kieran had darted ahead. Simon could not restrain him without revealing his own presence. He wasn’t even sure that Griff was still at his back.

  By now the stable attendants would be leading the horses outside to the paddock to groom, water, and exercise. The kitchen maids would work the pumps and stoke breakfast fires. The estate roused in stages, a pattern followed every morning for over a century.

  In fact, it might have been any other peaceful day at Caverley, except for the young male messenger sprawled out by the hay manger, a shovel at his side, and the silhouette of the earl, his attacker, visible against one of the stall doors.

  Bruxton had not yet sensed Simon’s arrival.

  39

  Several horses remained inside the stable. Simon crawled on his hands and knees through an empty box; straw muffled his movements. He was so intent on Bruxton that he paid Kieran little notice. The groom had slipped behind a ladder, not an ideal place of concealment. The sun had broken through the loft window, dissolving shadows with imperceptible strokes.

  The messenger groaned. A sign that he was alive, at least. Simon would attend him as soon as he could. Surreptitiously he raised up on one knee and reached for the latch on the other side of the box door.

  Dammit. A padlock. He exhaled through his teeth. Kieran must have known which stall was unlocked. Simon would have to climb over the door, risking his chance to surprise Bruxton. He had to move swiftly.

  He studied Bruxton’s shadow. A boxed horse whickered. The earl inclined his head. Simon braced his palms atop the stall door, his body still bent at the knee; he swung almost soundlessly to the other side.

  “At last,” Bruxton said and fired one of the pair of pistols he gripped in his hands.

  Ravenna bit the inside of her cheek and ventured as close to the drawing-room door as Rhys allowed. “I can’t wait another second.”

  Rhys sighed. “Don’t test me. I am on tenterhooks as it is.”

  “You should have gone with him and Griff,” she said. “You are useless here with me. I’m useless.”

  “I gave my word.” He wheeled. “Someone is trying to turn the knob. Stand back, Ravenna. A servant would knock.”

  “It’s me,” Griffin said from the hall, and pushed his way inside as soon as Rhys unlocked the door. Isolde, drowsing in a chair, opened her eyes with a gasp and raised the gun she clasped. Indeed, Ravenna hardly recognized the dusty-haired man in the disheveled jacket as her older brother.

  “What in the world happened to you?” Rhys asked Griffin in astonishment. “Where are Simon and Kieran?”

  Griff pried a splinter from his shirtfront. “The blasted door to the stables closed on me before I could make it through. It was as heavy as a granite slab. I couldn’t call for help without revealing Simon and the groom. I’d no choice but to come back up the stairs and make my way through the house. I needed Rhys to know.”

  Ravenna brushed a coating of dirt off his sleeve. “Then Simon is alone with Kieran, and he might have been drawn into another ambush.”

  The report of a pistol fired from the stables silenced the conversation. She caught up her skirts and broke away from Griffin to rush for the door.

  Rhys beat her by seconds, blocking her way with his body. She pummeled her fists against his shoulders, begged and swore. He stood in grim resolve, until she exhausted herself and twisted away from him in frustration.

  “Go with Isolde to her room,” he said, holding her still with one hand. “Lock yourselves inside with Timpkins until someone comes.”

  Another shot resounded.

  “You should be with him, Rhys,” Ravenna said in panic.

  “No,” Griffin said. “I should. I’ll approach the stable from the main doors. Rhys is staying here until this is resolved. That is what Simon wanted.”

  40

  The second pistol shot echoed in his ears. Simon ducked and threw himself at Bruxton’s advancing figure. They crashed together like a pair of dancing bears. Simon stumbled over a wheelbarrow he had not noticed in the semi-darkness.

  “Why don’t you oblige me and die quickly like your sister?” Bruxton muttered.

  A mare in the back of the stable kicked against her door. Voices shouted in the outer yard. One of the chickens in the loft fluttered its wings, sending feathers and hay into a downward spiral.

  Simon regained his footing. What the devil had happened to Kieran? To Griff? Bruxton pulled out a third pistol from inside his riding coat. No time to think. Simon torqued his upper body and pulled free.

  “You murdered Susannah and think I would not avenge her?” he said through his teeth. “You threaten my family and think I’d allow you to live?”

  Bruxton grunted and slammed the barrel of his pistol down on Simon’s unmarked cheek. “You have no proof of anything. Your sister was a slut who betrayed her vows. Between the both of you my life is ruined. I would have done good for the country.”

  A rivulet of blood slipped down Simon’s face. “Save your story for the court.”

  “I’ll never go to court.”

  Simon crooked his elbow and rammed it into Bruxton’s throat. Bruxton coughed and came back at Simon like a wrestler, using his weight to force Simon toward the wheelbarrow. Simon reached down for one of the barrow’s handles and propelled the manure-laden vehicle into Bruxton’s knees.

  The earl flailed for balance. Simon lunged for the gun and missed. Bruxton had recovered at the last moment.

  “Your grace! Stand out of the way!”

  Kieran’s voice. Simon scanned the stable and saw the groom rise from behind a bin of oats. Kieran’s eyes blazed. “Stand back, your grace,” he said again and leveled a flintlock pistol at the earl.

  “For God’s sake,” Simon said under his breath. “Aim more accurately then you did at the party! Or -- ” He broke off as the muzzle of Bruxton’s pistol burrowed into his back.

  Bruxton cocked the trigger. “What are you going to do now?”

  Confronted with the possibility of a bullet in his spine, Simon judged it was time to move.

  He wheeled, dove headfirst into a bale of straw, and shot at Bruxton over his shoulder. Bruxton fired. So did Kieran.

  One bullet pinged against the wheelbarrow. Simon’s ball struck Bruxton above the elbow, wringing a growl of pain from the earl. Kieran fired the lethal shot.

  Bruxton pressed his hand to his heart and dropped to the straw. Simon scrubbed his face with the back of his hand, dimly noticing blood on his knuckles.

  The silence of death lasted only an instant.

  The stable doors splintered open under a barrage of heavily wielded axes. In the glare of sunlight Simon made out Griff, Timpkins, and a swarm of male servants. Kieran rushed over to attend the injured messenger, who had revived sufficiently to swear a blue streak at Bruxton’s fallen body.

  “You are hurt?” Griff asked Simon anxiously, transferring his ax to his other hand. “The secret door to the stable stuck on me. I had to return to the house and rally the staff. Ravenna is frantic but fine.”

  Simon nodded and swayed to his feet without help. He wanted his wife, a wash, a brandy and his bed, in that order. “Where did Kieran go? He was with the messenger a moment ago.”

  “Worry about him later.”

  He nodded again and walked swiftly outside into the brightness of the yard. Clarity. A normal morning at Caverley. Life as it should be. Where
was his wife? Kieran was calming a distraught horse at the mounting block. Simon would not have chased the groom even if he’d run off.

  He looked to his right. Rhys stood at the kitchen door. Ravenna, his pretty mirror, paced in front of him.

  Her gaze lifted to Simon. She smiled and flew over the flagstone path into Simon’s outstretched arms.

  “You’re bleeding,” she said. “Look at you.”

  “It really is nothing,” he said. “Thank you for doing what I asked. It was one less worry on my mind.”

  “Did you kill him?” she asked in hesitation, dabbing her sleeve across his cheek.

  “Not for lack of trying.” He glanced back at the stable yard. “He’s dead, though. Kieran took care of the particulars.” There was no need to give a gruesome description. She had lived under Bruxton’s shadow long enough.

  “Kiss me,” she said, turning his head back to hers. “If it doesn’t hurt too much. Oh, Simon, now both sides of your face are marked.”

  “Am I gruesome?”

  “My very own beast,” she said with a tremulous smile.

  She tasted his blood on her lips, a trace of salt from her tears. He crushed her to him until she couldn’t breathe. But he needed her now more than ever. He had found his revenge. It was time for him to grieve what he had lost and be grateful for all he’d gained. They could concentrate completely on being husband and wife. She would not have to worry about flying bullets or strangers at soirées. He could properly mourn before they had a new family to fret over.

  41

  The aunts arrived and spent four days at Caverley Hall. In that flurried interlude they inspected and praised the staff, introduced themselves to the neighbors and left a scroll of instructions on how to refurbish the nursery. Not unexpectedly the new duchess became an object of curiosity in the village. Ladies and gentlemen, families large and small, trundled in dog-carts and chariots to Sunday church to make her acquaintance.

  They flattered her. They gave her flowers on bended knee. They expressed their concerns about her husband’s frequent absences. She said she understood and promised to use her influence on Simon. She was a country lady born and bred who rode and fished and had brought the scowling duke home to take care of them.

  Unfortunately she and Simon needed to return to London to greet her new nephew and atone to her cousins for the trouble she’d inflicted on the family. But her loyalty belonged here now.

  The magnificent estate included seven hundred acres of arable and pasture land, a pleasure garden, a hothouse, an ice-house, and a brewery. There were shaded paths for summertime rides and walled gardens for winter airings.

  Best of all, there was Simon.

  The swaying of the great carriage enhanced the forbidden urgency of their coupling. Simon had received the luxurious low-hung vehicle the day before he left Essex. The silk-lined interior provided ample room to indulge in amorous interludes during country travel. The interior lamps provided light for Simon to read his newspapers, Ravenna her novels.

  It was a relief not to worry about banging his head against the roof during unbridled exertions. Nor was he forced to hold up his arm like a handrail to keep Ravenna from sliding off the seat.

  He was deeply indebted to the coachmaker for his skill as well as his perception.

  He was also deeply embedded in his wife; she had locked her strong legs around his waist like a vise. At the moment neither of them were liable to go anywhere without the other.

  “Sinful,” he heard her whisper as he withdrew from her only to reapply himself with renewed vigor. She was the most enticing travel companion he could imagine, her shift untied to reveal her soft breasts, her corset -- he wasn’t sure she had even been wearing one. Everything would be sorted out by the time they arrived in London.

  Her nipples glistened from his kisses. He breathed in the potent aroma of sex and French soap on her skin. “What if Griffin’s coach overtakes us?” she asked belatedly.

  “He is a married man,” he muttered. “I assume he understands what it means that I have closed the blinds.”

  “That isn’t humiliating.” She flexed her left foot. “My back is cramped, Simon. Restrain yourself.”

  “The heel of your slipper is digging into my rump.”

  “What do you expect when you disturb me from a deep slumber to sate your desires?”

  “Satisfaction.”

  Which he received and returned in full measure, although it did cross his mind that his pummeling might send the carriage off the Great Northern Road and into a ditch. “Did you not do the same to me a few days ago?” he said. “You did not hear me complain.”

  “It wasn’t a complaint, Simon.”

  “I often forget myself when we are alone,” he said, sliding his hands under her posterior for leverage.

  He did not hear her response. In his preoccupied state, the only sounds he discerned were the rumble of dished wheels on the road and his own labored breathing as she tightened in climax, encouraging his own release. He spilled inside her with a shudder that tore down his neck to his back.

  “Wife,” he said and lowered his mouth to hers, kissing her until she nudged him off her with a rueful smile.

  “That was invigorating,” she said.

  “I have paid a price.”

  “Oh?”

  “Your shoe dug a hole in my bum,” he replied placidly and angled up to rearrange his rumpled attire.

  “Explain the reason why to the surgeon,” she said without sympathy. “What if we had been beset by highwayman at the height of our unseemly lust?”

  He reached his hand over her head to open the blinds. “Not a varlet in sight.”

  “Except for you.” She swung upright to comb back her hair with her fingers and straighten her petticoats. “I must look frightful. Did I really stab you with my slipper?”

  “Yes.” His throat went dry as he studied her, overwhelmed by the warmth he felt, the closeness. “Do you fancy cucumber by any chance? Sprinkled with salt and sugar?”

  She regarded him in chagrin. “Is cucumber a euphemism for your appendage? It is not very romantic if it is, and I shall refuse to think of our having relations as … making a salad.”

  “My what?” He laughed and tucked his shirt into his trousers. “I hope my manhood is more impressive than that. I was wondering if you were hungry. I worked up an appetite myself.”

  “I’m unusually ravenous,” she admitted. “But not for a cucumber. Shall we tuck into the pies and cider that Cook packed in the hamper?”

  “If you like. I wish we weren’t returning to town.”

  “We’ll only stay until November,” she said. “It’s time for me to come down from my turret. There’s no longer a danger in presenting myself to the public. In fact, we have an obligation to use our rank for the benefit of Society.”

  “I make large anonymous donations and support social reform. I have not shirked my duty in that regard.”

  “But I have to do my part. Anonymity is all very well, but how do you encourage benevolence in others if you don’t set an example? Every member of my family sponsors a charity or the arts. My cousin Chloe is a passionate supporter of a female penitentiary.”

  “Good God. What is wrong with Chloe? You are not going to gaol. Why do you put me through these trials? Haven’t I fretted enough? Do you think I want you socializing with thieves and prostitutes? Can’t you amuse yourselves with corsets instead?”

  “Jane and Grayson host suppers for the impoverished and fund charity schools. The idea is to assist lost souls.”

  “We shall have to compromise.” He did not add that a trace of his concern for her lingered. He trusted that in time his misgivings would subside, and he’d be free to dedicate himself to love and duty. Marriage might not be an ethereal cloud on which husband and wife floated above the world’s turmoil. Nevertheless, it was a promise to enter the fray together and stand back to back until the end. And while Simon concluded that striving for the good of mankind was
a noble cause, he saw no reason why he and Ravenna could not first devote their energy to the necessary pleasure of producing a family.

  In all truth, he had done nothing to prevent a natural occurrence.

  From the evening they arrived in London, they were drawn back into the smothering bosom of the family. As one of the brood, Simon was subject to the same rules the Boscastles seemed to obey only when necessary. Everyone demanded answers, from the aunts and Harriet to Heath, who seemed not entirely satisfied by Simon’s recount of the story, as if a piece of a puzzle were missing.

  Simon wasn’t sure why. Perhaps Heath had other concerns on his mind. All Simon knew was that he and Ravenna were benumbed after three days of explaining every Who, What, Why, and Where of their ordeal to the family. Finally, the duke and duchess received a blessing to resume a normal life -- if one considered intrigue and sophisticated pleasures standard fare.

  The Earl of Bruxton’s death caused little comment in Society. It emerged that he had not been well-liked even by his political supporters or racing cohorts. The nephew who inherited his worldly goods did not so much as bother to arrange a memorial service for his uncle.

  Nor did this heir seem curious about the circumstances of Bruxton’s death. He made arrangements to move his household to the manor as soon as legalities were settled. The local authorities had accepted Simon’s claim that the fatal shooting was an act of self-defense. Kieran was not charged. Determined to atone for his past, he brought Susannah’s horse to Caverley House.

  “It is calm for once in our lives,” Simon told Ravenna as he reclined in bed, smiling at the sight of her slipping out of her cherry-silk robe behind the curtains.

  “You’ve cursed us now,” she said and slid naked under the coverlet to settle in his waiting arms.

  Indeed, two days later Heath shared a secret with his siblings and closest cousins that sent a jolt of unprecedented excitement through the House of Boscastle: The Home Office had confirmed that Heath’s youngest brother Brandon had been seen riding on the beach in Edinburgh.