The Duke's Secret Seduction

by Donna Lea Simpson

  Cover

  The Duke’s Secret Seduction

  Scarred and hardened by the betrayal of his late wife and his latest mistress, the Duke of Alban decides to withdraw from the depressing swirl of London for a trip to the north, where he can visit his beloved aunt and regain the composure that has deserted him. But his hopes for a serene retreat are dashed by the voluptuous beauty of Kittie Douglas, the young widow who serves as his aunt’s companion and stirs a deep longing—and a deep mistrust—within him.

  Kittie has long heard about the duke’s upstanding character and has imagined him to be a paragon of male virtue, but meeting the man leaves her with a distinctly different impression: though he’s strikingly handsome, his late wife’s duplicity has left him moody, taciturn, and even suspicious of her intentions where his well-to-do aunt is concerned. But perhaps most frustrating is that he’s blind to her own upright nature and tender inclinations, unaware that she harbors a deep wish to soothe his heart and make him whole again.

  As a war wages within Alban between his inability to trust Kittie and his overwhelming desire to possess her, she struggles to break through his bitter resolve, tempted all the while to abandon him and her hopes for a lasting romance. Until a startling revelation from Alban’s aunt shocks them both into realizing what’s at stake, and forces Alban to recognize that if he’s to have any chance at happiness, he’ll have to open his eyes—and his heart—to Kittie’s true beauty and the promise of unwavering love . . .

  Title Page

  Copyright

  The Duke’s Secret Seduction

  Donna Lea Simpson

  Beyond the Page Books

  are published by

  Beyond the Page Publishing

  www.beyondthepagepub.com

  This is a revised edition of a book originally published as The Duke and Mrs. Douglas, copyright © 2004, 2018 by Donna Lea Simpson.

  Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs

  ISBN: 978-1-946069-78-8

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Books by Donna Lea Simpson

  About the Author

  One

  “I hate Brighton. I despise Prinny. What am I doing here?”

  Though the Duke of Alban had not intended to say that out loud, being alone and not inclined to talk to himself, he found that he had, and his voice echoed against the cautioning hush-hush of the waves on the shore, invisible in the blackness of the night.

  But what was he doing in Brighton? He kicked at the pebbled beach and a single stone skipped and hopped down the bumpy slope, stopping with a splash as it reached the water. It had been an awful year or more, with a dismal, tedious series of melancholy events in the public sphere: first the Duke of Cumberland’s murder trial, then Princess Amelia’s death and the king’s sad descent into madness. For a man who had once been the intimate friend, almost another son, of the old king, it had been a terrible time of great personal sadness. His last visit to the king had been a horrible failure, resulting as it did in the gentle old man vociferously accusing the duke of attempting to poison him and the royal daughters in some mad Napoleonic scheme.

  Alban had come away from the king’s rooms with the despairing sense that nothing would ever be the same again.

  And then there was, in June, the Regent’s deplorably decadent and almost indecent celebration of his Regency; how could Prinny not see that any celebration was a scabrous assault on the dignity of the old man, his father, who raved in grand isolation at Windsor? Though in fact the reports had been encouraging, if one merely considered the health of the king. He was said, for a while, to be recovering from his prolonged weakness, but Alban had not personally heard anything for some time, and that was not encouraging.

  He very much feared his days of intimacy with the royal family were at an end—his only remaining ally was the queen, and she was increasingly fretful and frail, so he only made matters worse by remaining in contact with her. At thirty-four he felt old and weary. Following the prince to Brighton was de rigueur for someone in his position, but the seaside town had been hot all summer, so hot it was dust-dry, with not a blade of green grass to be seen anywhere. And the entertainments at the Marine Pavilion were overheated, crowded and tawdry, to Alban’s jaded eyes.

  The prince blew hot and cold where Alban was concerned, sometimes treating him as a trusted friend and confidant, sometimes making cutting and poisonously scathing remarks at Alban’s expense. They should have been like brothers, even though the prince was much older, but Alban feared that was impossible because of the king’s past clear preference for Alban’s company over that of his own firstborn son.

  Alban turned his head; was it his imagination, or did he hear footsteps on the scaly beach? Sound was deceptive on the beach at night, with the shush of the waves and the echoes of drunken laughter that seemed everywhere in Brighton. It was likely nothing, or at most some reveler looking for sobriety in the cooler air at the seaside. As if there was any cooler air. It was damper, certainly, than the dry breezes of the town, but cloying and sticky, like trying to breathe immersed in a treacle tart.

  God, he wanted peace! How he longed for green grass and cool breezes and uncomplicated people! How badly he craved cleanliness of spirit, something he couldn’t quite explain to anyone else, but which consisted of moral decency, a rectitude of action and thought and speech that he had not witnessed in a decade, he feared . . . or at least not in London or Brighton.

  He should go away.

  The idea seized him with a fierce longing that ripped through his soul.

  He should go north, where it was cooler and greener . . . north, where life would not be complicated by the capricious whims of Prinny and the sad spectacle of a distracted king, frail queen and wearying political atmosphere of distrust and treachery.

  North to Swaledale and his hunting box and his Aunt Eliza. It had been months since he had seen her or . . . no, not months, years. In fact, he had not been back since that dreadful time three years before when he retreated north after the news cam
e to him that his runaway wife and her noble lover had drowned off the coast of Italy near Ravenna in a storm on the Adriatic.

  How remiss of him. It was not that he had not been in touch with his aunt; he wrote often. But he had not been back. Perhaps it was time.

  “There you are, Alban! You disappeared; I thought perhaps you had found someplace more entertaining, but instead I find you alone on the beach gloomily kicking up stones.”

  “Orkenay!” Alban greeted his friend, the Earl of Orkenay, with mixed feelings. The earl was an entertaining companion at the gambling table, and no one knew the insides of the hells and brothels of London better than he, but he was not a companion with whom to while away the hours in solemn contemplation. “I had thought you would be back with the rest, listening yet again to Prinny’s fabulous tales of his successes on the Peninsular battlefields by Wellington’s side, or of his famous exploits in the boxing ring.”

  “Careful, old man,” the earl said pleasantly. “Spies everywhere, you know.”

  In the dim silvery light of the quarter moon, Alban could see Orkenay glance around. “What, are you afraid Prinny’s toads will see you talking to me? Better to return to the Pavilion then.”

  “What is eating your vitals, Alban?” Orkenay gazed steadily up at him—Alban was taller than the earl, who was of average height, by almost a foot—his drawn, lean face pleasantly vacuous, as always. “You seem . . . overset.”

  “I’m just feeling captious and gloomy, I suppose. Leave me to my malaise.”

  The older man studied his superior in rank as best he could in the Stygian gloom. “Peculiar atmosphere, Brighton this year, what?”

  “I thought it was just me,” Alban conceded. “It seems excessively tawdry this year.”

  “Always was, you know. You are just seeing it afresh, as it were.”

  “I suppose.” Alban kicked again at the pebbles.

  “It’s true; it is always so. But this year after that spectacle in London—the Regency celebration, I mean—some of us are finding Prinny a bit much.”

  Finding his own thoughts echoed so closely, Alban blurted, “I have been thinking of going north.”

  “North?”

  Alban glanced sideways at the earl. “Swaledale. I have a hunting box there, and it is almost the season. Hunting starts earlier up there.”

  “Brilliant idea, Alban. You’re right; this place is growing tiresome. I would be glad to get away as well, and Yorkshire sounds . . . refreshing.”

  Was that an acceptance of an invitation that had not been extended? Alban gazed at the other man and chuckled. “Ork, old man, you do have a way of intruding yourself where you have not been asked.”

  “That,” the earl said lightly, “is because I know that wherever I go I am welcome, for I am excessively good company. You don’t want to go north alone, old chap, for you will brood. Not to be thought of.”

  Alban threw back his head and laughed outright. Orkenay was right; he was good company, and after all, a man could neither hunt nor visit with his maiden aunt twenty-four hours of the day. Even if he had not just released her, Alban would never in a thousand years have taken his latest mistress there; it would be an insult to his aunt. But still, a man needed a companion with whom to drink and gamble, and Orkenay was perfect in so many ways.

  “All right,” he said, moving toward the earl and clapping him on the back. His arm over the other man’s shoulders—given their disparity in height, they likely made an odd pair—he turned and together they strolled back up the beach toward the town. “North we shall go. I’ll go back to my room and write a few letters. You, sir, must go take leave of the prince, for he will miss your company much more than he will miss mine. He has hated me ever since he got it into his head that I wished to marry poor Amelia . . . as if I ever would have when she loved her Fitz to such distraction.”

  “You don’t do enough to curry favor, old man,” the earl said. “No one seriously ever thought you wished to marry the princess.”

  “No, but Prinny pretended to think so, and pretended that it offended him gravely. And she in love with the king’s equerry! Ridiculous. I never will curry favor with him, Orkenay,” Alban said, his voice becoming flinty. “I never will. Not after his behavior to his father.”

  • • •

  In the ordinary and yet agreeable routine of every day, a letter from Lady Eliza’s nephew, the Duke of Alban, was a pleasant distraction, Kittie Douglas thought as she handed the reins of the pony cart over to Jacob, the groom, after her weekly visit to the village. She retrieved her basket from the seat and, carrying it over one arm, strode into the gloom of the front hall of the house, sniffing appreciatively the aroma of freshly baked bread that mingled with beeswax polish and freshly laundered linens. Though she would have to watch her consumption of bread over the coming winter, she thought ruefully, looking down at her rounded form. Not enough exercise in the winter months and she would be as round as a plum pudding come next spring. She would not give a fig if it were only her looks that suffered, but excessive girth left her short of breath and she enjoyed her walking and gardening too much to make it a discomfort rather than a pleasure.

  All of life was a balance of pleasures and pains, she thought, taking off her bonnet carefully and handing it to Prissy, the maid. Too much of the first and one was sure to suffer the second. “Where is her ladyship?”

  “In the morning parlor, ma’am,” Prissy said with a curtsey.

  “Could you see that the packages Jacob will be bringing to the back door are handed directly to Cook, Prissy? There is some fresh tongue and a ham for tomorrow’s dinner.”

  “Yes’m.”

  Kittie moved serenely to the parlor and opened the door, pausing as she always did on the threshold. There was Lady Eliza Burstead, sitting near the window, her face turned to the warmth of the sunshine coming in through the gauzy curtains. The knowledge that she had a letter to read to her from her beloved nephew, Alban, was a distinct pleasure; Lady Eliza had been so very kind and was now more friend than employer, though Kittie was careful not to presume on that friendship. Any pleasure she could bring her was a blessing.

  “My lady, you should have come into the village with me. Mrs. Connaught was asking after you.”

  Lady Eliza turned toward her companion. “Then she must have another letter from her daughter,” she said tartly, “for all she wants to ever do is discuss young Jemima’s confinement. I am sick to death of the subject.”

  “I think you’re right. She looked out her window as I passed, and I was not able to move on for at least fifteen minutes. Jemima is still not delivered of her child, but Mrs. Connaught is convinced it will be a boy this time.”

  “She has been convinced of that for the last eight times.”

  “How true.” Kittie moved toward her employer. “I have more wool from Judy Boxcroft. Her dyes are a little thin this time, but she has managed a lovely blue that I have never seen before.” She set her basket down and pulled out the letter, turning it over and tracing the ducal seal.

  “Blue, yellow, green, it matters little to me.”

  “I know. But I have something here that will matter to you.” She placed the letter on Lady Eliza’s lap.

  The woman picked it up and turned it over and over in her hands and then traced the seal on the back as well, her sensitive fingers finding the grooves in the lion rampant. “It is from Alban,” she cried in satisfaction, handing it back to Kittie.

  “It is!”

  “What does he say?”

  “Tea first, and then the letter.”

  “Tyrant,” Lady Eliza said sharply.

  “Nevertheless, unless you plan to try to make it out yourself, you will have to await my pleasure, and my pleasure will come once I have a hot cup of tea before me.”

  Tea procured, she settled at the table by the window from which she had drawn back the curtains to allow in more of the early September sunshine. She broke the seal on the letter and read out loud the salutation
, but skipped over the duke’s thanks for the latest knitted stockings his loving aunt had sent. Lady Eliza did not need to hear that.

  She read on. “He says, Brighton has been tedious and blistering hot this summer, and I have decided not to stay into the autumn. In fact, by the time you read this I shall be . . .” Kittie squealed and jumped in her seat.

  “What is it? What is wrong, Kittie?” Lady Eliza reached out and touched Kittie’s face, tracing the lines of her mouth and eyes. “What is it?”

  Kittie leaned forward and let her employer trace her smile. “It is good news, my lady. Very good news indeed. His grace is . . . well, let me read you his own words. Where was I?”

  “In fact, by the time you read this I shall be . . .” Lady Eliza repeated verbatim.

  “Ah, yes. By the time you read this I shall be on my way up to Swaledale. I have decided to open the hunting box this fall and am arriving with a group of friends. We shall be spending at least a month, and perhaps longer.”

  Lady Eliza was silent for a few moments and Kittie looked up from the rest of the details of the letter, concerned by her employer and friend’s silence. Her breath caught in her throat. Trailing down Lady Eliza’s cheeks were two fat tears, and that from a woman who never cried, not even to mourn her quickly eroding sight.

  “My lady, are you . . .”

  Turning her face away, Lady Eliza mumbled something, and then said, more clearly, “If he is bringing friends, then we must prepare for a couple of dinners at least here. Tell Cook. Alban likes beef and mutton, and has a special fondness for trout.”

  “My lady . . .” Kittie hesitated.

  “What is it?”

  “I . . . I suppose . . . remember we spoke of this? I was having friends come in the next couple of weeks; remember my two widowed friends? I should go and write letters to postpone their visits.”