The Winter Duke (A Duke for All Seasons Book 1)

by Jillian Eaton

  Justin automatically looked down at her belly. “In the family way, are you? I knew it the moment I saw you.” And without a husband, he thought silently, noting her left ring finger was bare. The poor dear. No wonder she was beside herself. Although if she ever wanted to get a husband she really ought to learn how to cry in a way that was much more flattering.

  “Don’t worry, love. There are plenty of nice villagers who would be happy to raise a squalling brat. I can provide a list if you’d like,” he offered, always ready to play the part of gallant knight – when it suited him.

  “What? No!” Flattening her hands over her stomach, she stared at him in disbelief. “I’m not – that is to say, I am not pregnant,” she hissed, a blush overwhelming her cheeks. “And even if I were, I would not let my child be raised by strangers.”

  Justin rolled his eyes. “No need to be so dramatic, love. It is not as if they would eat the child. It’s a perfectly practical solution to an unfortunate problem. If you are not expecting–”

  “I am not.”

  “–then you have nothing to worry about.” His broad shoulders lifted and fell in an easy shrug beneath his impeccably tailored jacket. The woman pursed her lips.

  “Do you know where my sister is?” she asked.

  Justin blinked. “Why the devil would I know where your sister is?”

  The corners of her mouth tucked into a frown, drawing his eye to her bottom lip. And what a bottom lip it was. All plump and pink and begging to be kissed. A mouth like that would taste like sweet cream, honey, and sin. A mouth like that did not belong on a woman with a large nose or crooked teeth or blotchy skin. It was the mouth of a temptress, and as Justin forced himself to look past her tangled hair and red-rimmed eyes and runny nose he found himself tempted.

  Very tempted indeed.

  “Why wouldn’t you know?”

  He blinked again. “Because I don’t know who your sister is? Or who you are, for that matter.”

  But oh, how he wanted to.

  He didn’t need to know her name. Names were irrelevant and easily forgotten. But he wanted to know the taste of her skin. He wanted to know the scent of her perfume. He wanted to know if she came in silence…or if she screamed.

  Eyes glowing with rakish intent, he stepped further into the parlor. Staring longingly at that luscious bottom lip, he reached for a loose tendril dangling down over her shoulder…only to snatch his hand away in surprise when she slapped his wrist.

  “Your Grace!” she gasped, all big blue eyes and self-righteous indignation. “You are married to my sister.”

  “The devil I am.” Scowling, he rocked back on his heels. What sort of game was the chit playing? One he wanted no part in, of that he was certain. Jessica had played all sorts of games and only after it was too late had he realized they weren’t playing by the same set of rules. He had no interest in repeating the experience, lush bottom lip or no lush bottom lip. “Are you deaf or otherwise mentally impaired? I told you not two seconds ago that I didn’t know who the bloody hell your sister was.”

  “You should get some rest,” she said, speaking in the kind tone one might use with a senile pet or a doddering old aunt named Dorothea. “When my uncle becomes confused he often takes a nap and feels much better afterwards.” She smiled gently. “He also drinks a special tea, although I cannot recall the ingredients at the moment.”

  Over the years Justin had been called many things.

  Rake.

  Rogue.

  Bastard.

  Scoundrel.

  Best lover this side of the Thames.

  But no one had ever doubted his sanity, let alone a tiny slip of a wench that didn’t know who her own sister was married to. Because it certainly wasn’t him. He may have drank more than he should and the Good Lord knew he’d woken up in his fair share of interesting places without the foggiest notion of how he’d gotten there, but if there was one thing he’d never done – or would ever do – it was take a bride.

  “I am not confused,” he said between gritted teeth. “And I do not need a bloody nap or any of your damned witchcraft tea, for that matter!”

  Her eyes flashed. “It’s not witchcraft tea. And you should not use such vulgar language in the presence of a lady!”

  A lady?

  Ha!

  “When I see one I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” he sneered, his charming façade crumbling away to reveal a rare glimpse at the real Duke of Colebrook in all of his varying shades of gray.

  Not a prince or a pauper. Not a sinner or a saint. Not a beacon of hope or a harbinger of misery.

  Justin had as many layers as scales on a trout, although he preferred to be known only for his handsomeness and dry wit. When someone did not expect much out of you then you did not have to give much in return.

  Superficial emotions. Faux smiles. Excellent fashion. That was all anyone expected of the Duke of Colebrook because that was all he wanted them to expect.

  He’d learned his lesson, hadn’t he? He’d made himself vulnerable once. He’d opened himself up. He’d exposed his true heart. And a vicious bitch with red hair and green eyes had gleefully torn it to shreds.

  But if there was one good thing about having his heart ripped into a hundred pieces it was that, just like any other muscle, it had eventually healed itself. Except it was no longer the same naïve organ it had once been. Oh no. It had come back hard, and it had come back cynical, and if there was a weak spot in the pulsing flesh and tissue he didn’t know where it was. Which was why he was so surprised to discover the crying woman had managed to slip under his skin with all the precision of a skilled surgeon. Just as he’d slipped under hers.

  “Oh!” she gasped. “You are the most wretched, appalling, arrogant–”

  “Finally, a woman who sees you for who you truly are.” The Duke of Wycliffe smirked at Justin as he entered the parlor, his slight limp only noticeable to those who knew to look for it.

  A tall, lean man who occasionally tended toward gauntness, the duke had bold features cut from stone and a defining scar that ran from his right ear all the way down to his chin. He’d gotten the scar – and the limp – in a riding accident when he was only a lad.

  The woman’s gaze flicked to Wycliffe, lingered for half a beat too long on the knotted tissue embedded in his jaw, and then flew accusingly to Justin. “You’re not the Duke of Wycliffe.”

  Justin shuddered. “Bloody hell, I should hope not.”

  “Miss Fairchild, might I introduce you to my temporary houseguest, the Duke of Colebrook. He is staying here while his estate undergoes renovations. Miss Cadence Fairchild is my wife’s sister, visiting us from London.” As Wycliffe introduced Cadence, his stare never wavered from Justin. The message in those cold black eyes was unmistakable. She isn’t for you, so bugger off.

  Well that explained the confusion. Now that he knew Cadence and Hannah were sisters, Justin could see a vague resemblance between the two women. They were both beautiful, albeit in very different ways. The Duchess of Wycliffe had a wholesome beauty. The sort that brought to mind warm pies in the middle of winter and song birds welcoming the dawn.

  Cadence was the dawn.

  Even wet and bedraggled, there was no hiding her exotic allure. It shone through in the tilted corners of her piercing blue eyes and high cheekbones and full, sensual lips. Full, sensual lips Justin had no intention of leaving unexplored, Wycliffe’s silent warning be damned.

  He’d been wondering what the hell he was going to do with his time. A man could only sleep and drink so much. Now the answer had presented itself in a most delightful way and he had every intention of rising to the challenge. Figuratively and literally speaking, of course. It had been a long time since he’d met a woman who had resisted his charms. A long time since one had looked at him with as much revulsion in her gaze as Cadence. The challenge of winning her favor was both exciting and daunting; precisely the sort of thing he needed to get him through the long winter months.

 
“I would say it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Your Grace,” she said with an icy toss of her head. “But my mother always told me it was impolite to tell a lie.”

  Wycliffe’s mouth twitched in a rare smile. “Allow me to show you to your rooms, Miss Fairchild.”

  Justin waited a beat before following them out into the hall. He watched the teasing swish of Miss Fairchild’s bustle as she climbed the curving staircase, and when she paused at the top to glance back down he met her gaze without blinking.

  For an instant their eyes locked. What should have been nothing more than a flirtatious exchange quickly turned into something more, for in that moment Justin felt an unwelcome and unfamiliar pang deep inside of his chest, as if a screw had suddenly been loosened. A screw that was holding something very important. Something that he could not, under any circumstances, allow to be set free.

  So he did what he did best. He shoved his feelings back down into the battered little box where he’d learned to keep them. Then he grinned, and he winked, and he bowed. And when he straightened and Cadence was still staring at him he brought his fingers to his lips and blew her a kiss. Wycliffe murmured something in her ear and they walked away down the hall leaving Justin staring after them…his grin slowly fading from his lips.

  Chapter Four

  After soaking in a warm bath and washing the grime from her skin, Cadence felt marginally better. Her mood improved further when she slipped into a clean gown of cerulean blue overlaid with Chantilly lace, and it took yet another turn for the better when Hannah’s maid fashioned her long hair into a high coiffure that left her nape and the top of her shoulders exposed. A pair of pearl earrings, a matching necklace, and she almost – almost – felt like her old self again.

  Cadence knew appearances weren’t everything, but there was something to be said for looking your best. And she’d be lying if she said there wasn’t a part of her that didn’t want to make the Duke of Colebrook’s jaw drop.

  Just a little, she told herself as she studied her reflection in the looking glass hanging beside her bed. Just to get that smug smirk off his face.

  How appallingly arrogant he’d been! Yes, the mistaken identity had been her fault, but he hadn’t needed to be such a beast about it. She’d only been trying to help. How was she supposed to know he’d been telling the truth when he said he didn’t know Hannah? It wasn’t as if he’d had the common courtesy to introduce himself. If he had, she never would have suggested the tea. Admittedly not her finest moment, but he deserved at least half the blame.

  More than half, if she was being fair.

  “What do you know about the Duke of Colebrook?” she asked her sister on their way to the dining room. Outside the manor darkness had already fallen, a grim reminder that winter would soon be upon them.

  “Colebrook?” Hannah’s head tilted thoughtfully to the side. She’d dressed for dinner in a plain muslin gown with brown striping, her auburn hair plaited in a simple coil at the back of her neck. “We were only introduced recently. He owns the estate that borders this one. It’s currently undergoing renovations, which is why–”

  “He’s here.” Cadence’s mouth thinned. “Yes, I heard as much. Do you know how long he will be staying?”

  “I couldn’t say, although I do not imagine very much work will get done once the ground has frozen. Why?” Given her intuitive nature, it was no surprise that Hannah immediately sensed something was amiss. “Has he done something untoward? Colebrook is a bit of a rogue. Although I really wouldn’t worry. He’s perfectly harmless.”

  “A bit of a rogue?” Cadence said with an uncharacteristic snort. “He could have written the book on them.”

  And there is absolutely nothing harmless about him.

  She thought of how boldly he’d reached for her hair, as if his hand had belonged there. As if he had every right to touch her. As if he had been born to touch her. And the part of her that wanted to make his jaw drop couldn’t help but wonder what might have happened if she’d let him.

  “I take it your first impression was not a favorable one,” said Hannah.

  “You could say that,” she said dryly.

  “Well, fortunately Wycliffe Manor is very large and my husband has banished Colebrook to the third floor.” Hannah’s brow creased. “For some reason he doesn’t like him very much.”

  “He and I both,” Cadence muttered under her breath. Her sister shrugged.

  “He has always been very kind to me. Either way, aside from a few dinners here and there, you shouldn’t have to see him.”

  “Good,” Cadence said with an emphatic nod. “Because I don’t want to.”

  “That solves that, then.” Hannah’s gaze softened. “How are you feeling?”

  “I believe I just made my feelings on Colebrook very clear. I think he is arrogant, entitled, and conceited. Not to mention–”

  “I meant how are you feeling about Lord Benfield?” Hannah interrupted, looking at her oddly.

  “Oh.” Truth be told Cadence hadn’t given her almost-but-not-quite fiancé a second thought since her little tête-à-tête with Colebrook in the parlor. “I feel sad, of course. And disappointed.” Her mouth twisted in a wry grin. “And foolish for having wasted money on silk handkerchiefs with LCB stitched in the corner.”

  “Well, I for one feel relieved. I know you fancied yourself in love with the earl, but I always found him to be…”

  “Dreadfully dull?” Cadence suggested. “It’s all right,” she said when a flicker of guilt passed over her sister’s countenance. “I know you never held him in very high regard. I don’t know if I did either, truth be told.”

  Hannah’s brow creased. “Then why–”

  “–did I want to marry him?” She chewed on her bottom lip. “For all the usual reasons, I suppose. He was titled, and wealthy, and not unpleasant to look at. He was also kind and thoughtful.” And boring, a tiny voice interceded. He was terribly, terribly boring. You know it. I know it. Even his buttons know it.

  “Surely you can find someone to marry for better reasons than those. Or not marry at all, if that’s what you want.”

  Cadence’s nose wrinkled. “Not marry? Who wouldn’t want to get married?”

  “Anyone with a brain in their head.” Having snuck up on them from behind with all the stealth of a large jungle cat, Colebrook flashed his teeth in a rakish grin and ran a hand through his hair, sending golden locks tumbling down over his brow. He’d changed his attire from earlier and was now dressed in a black jacket and amber waistcoat. A gold pin accented with a small sapphire held his cravat in place, the deep color bringing out the cobalt in his irises.

  “Are you implying my sister is dimwitted?” Cadence said coolly.

  Colebrook’s smile deepened as his gaze shifted to her and she felt a flush sweep up across her chest when his stare lingered far longer than was appropriate. “There are always exceptions. But I’ve found those who do not seek marriage are generally the better and wiser for it.”

  “And what is wrong with wanting to get married?”

  “Aside from marriage being an outdated institution that is worth less than the parchment it’s written on?” The duke shrugged. “Absolutely nothing. Marry and be merry, if that is what you want to do. I, for one, have absolutely no interest in tying the knot.”

  “And why would you?” Cadence asked with sugary sweetness. “When it is so very obvious you’re already happily married to yourself.”

  “Who is ready to eat?” Hannah said brightly. Taking hold of Cadence’s arm she all but dragged her into the dining room where Wycliffe was already seated at the head of a long table formally set with lace cloth, ivory China, and crystal glassware. He rose to greet them and then everyone took their seats. To Cadence’s annoyance, Colebrook sat down directly beside her, pulling his chair in so close she could feel the heat radiating from his thigh.

  His very hard, very muscular thigh.

  “Are you implying I am arrogant, Miss Fairchild?” he murm
ured as their first course was replaced with the second, a savory white soup accompanied by a thick crust of bread still warm from the oven.

  “There was no implication, Your Grace. You are arrogant.” Lifting her long-stemmed wine glass, she took a slow, deliberate sip. “I know your type.”

  “Oh?” Colebrook challenged. “And what type is that, pray tell?”

  The type I should have absolutely nothing to do with.

  Colebrook may have been a duke (and heaven knew every debutante’s dream was to be a duchess) but he wasn’t the sort of duke a girl set out to marry. In five or six years, perhaps, when age had curbed his rakish inclinations and he’d stopped staring at everything in a skirt. Until then, a lady of good breeding was asking for trouble just by being in the same room as him.

  Let alone living, albeit temporarily, under the same roof.

  “You think only of yourself and your own needs.” Normally Cadence would never dare insult someone of superior rank – or lower rank, for that matter – but what did she have to lose by speaking her mind? Her reputation was already in tatters. Her good name besmirched. Her prospects nonexistent. If ever there was a time to say what she really wanted instead of demurely biting her tongue and batting her lashes, it was now.

  “You don’t believe in marriage because you don’t believe in women.”

  “Don’t I?” Colebrook asked, lifting a brow.

  “No. You see us as objects to be used and discarded on a whim. You are a scoundrel through and through, and when you finally take a bride – as much as your type hems and haws and complains, they always take a bride – you’ll choose her for her obedience and submissiveness, for heaven forbid you marry a woman who sees herself as your equal instead of your underling.” Cadence drew a sharp breath. She hadn’t meant to say all that. But she couldn’t deny the truth of her words, even if some of them had been intended for Lord Benfield.

  Cobalt eyes gleaming, Colebrook leaned in close and said huskily, “Your claws are quite sharp, Miss Fairchild. Maybe you can scratch me with them later.”