The Duke's Secret Seduction

by Donna Lea Simpson

  “You do not reply,” she said. “I will infer from your silence that you disagree. But you must allow that I know Kittie far better than you, having observed her over the three years of our acquaintance.”

  “However, some latitude must be given for your understandable affection for her and your . . . absence from London these twenty years or more.”

  “Really, Alban, I thought I would get a better argument than that. My affection has never blinded me to a person’s faults—you should know that best—and yes, I know I said the word blinded, but without the slightest hint of other meaning. Nor can I believe London has changed so very much. It is likely the same treacherous, gossip-filled, inane, glorious, sparkling sewer it was when I left.”

  “Why does it matter if Kittie should grace a London ballroom or not?” Alban said. “She is unlikely ever to be in one. Her husband was a common gambler, from her own admission, and she is now a companion. I think that is the height she can expect to attain.”

  “I would never place expectations, or limitations, on Kittie Douglas, Alban. Given the right introduction to society, I think she could soar.”

  “Are you quite recovered, Aunt? Shall we go back?”

  Lady Eliza stood. “I’m not done yet,” she said with a grim cast to her lined face. She reached out her hand and caught up Alban’s. “I want to climb higher. I shall not get another chance this winter, with you going back home within the week.”

  Determined not to quarrel, Alban stayed silent and took his aunt’s arm. For the rest of the morning they concentrated on climbing and walking.

  • • •

  Later that day, back at Boden, Alban decided to confront Orkenay and demand a simple accounting of his relationship with Kittie Douglas.

  Nothing, though, was ever simple with the earl.

  Orkenay was randomly shooting balls in the billiards room, smacking them into pockets with rapid skill. Alban strolled in, watched for a moment, lounging against the doorframe, then picked up a cue stick.

  “Shall we play?” he said.

  “Certainly.” Orkenay racked the balls. “Will you break?”

  Eyeing the earl, Alban complied. A footman entered with a tray of glasses and the earl requested brandy.

  As the footman exited, Alban smacked the cue ball and the other balls scattered wildly. “So, Orkenay, we shall be leaving in a few days.”

  “Yes. I confess anticipation at the coming departure. Not that your hospitality hasn’t been all that it should, old man, but I have my reasons.”

  Stifling the instinct to badger the earl for information, Alban decided on a shot and took it, aiming deliberately to miss. “I can imagine,” he said, straightening, and watching his shot go wild, “that you have every reason to wish yourself back in London.”

  A smug grin on his lightly lined face, Orkenay examined the table and chose his angle. “If you are needling for information, Alban, you are to be disappointed. A gentleman does not divulge too much, and a lady never tells, you know.”

  And a gentleman also never broke his stick over the back of a guest, Alban thought. The earl’s shot went wild, too, and it almost looked like his hand shook. Despite his supposed calm, was he agitated about Alban prodding for information on his affair with Mrs. Douglas? Lining up his next shot, Alban decided a change of subject might be disarming. “I think Bart is serious about Mrs. Billings. I would not be surprised if he had an announcement to make before we leave.”

  “Fool. He could do so much better.”

  Alban took his shot, aiming carefully, and watched in satisfaction as his target snapped into the pocket. Lining up his next shot, he said, “You mean he could do better than a lady who obviously adores him and thinks he is the only man in the world worth gazing upon?”

  Chuckling, but with an expression devoid of humor, Orkenay replied, “No, I think that it is a bad match in every sense of the word. Marriages should not be made on the basis of fleeting feeling.”

  That it was much what he had been saying to Kittie Douglas lately did not escape Alban’s notice. From another man it sounded cruel, calculated and unfeeling.

  “I mean really, Alban, how many times in your life have you fancied yourself in love? And if you had married the first girl for whom you entertained that feeling?”

  “I would be wed to Maggie Shay, the village barmaid, who is now graying and portly and a grandmother.”

  “I think my point is proven.”

  Alban missed his next shot and strolled to the table to pour himself some brandy. He refilled Orkenay’s empty glass as the man took his shot. “So how should marriages be contracted? In the age-old arrangement? I can tell you from experience that that does not always work out well.”

  The earl pressed his lips together but wanted to laugh, Alban could see it.

  “Your mistake was not whom you wed but how you treated her. You were far too indulgent, Alban. Women are very much like children; they need to know their limits. You should have beat her the first time she spoke to you impertinently. It is the only way women know they are loved.”

  It was not the first time he had heard that theory and Alban should not have been shocked . . . but he was. The casual brutality of Orkenay’s words were like a cold slap. And this man would bed fair Kittie? This man would have the pleasure of taking her home and being with her night and day, or any time he cared? Alban tossed his cue stick on the table and faced the earl. “Orkenay, if I ever hear that you have hurt Mrs. Douglas or even raised your hand to her, I will come after you and kill you, I promise you that.”

  He turned and was walking away as the earl said, calling after him, “Alban, don’t be ridiculous . . . one doesn’t beat a mistress, just a wife!”

  Alban’s mood was black and thunderous and the servants scuttled out of his way, clearly preferring to let his rare foul mood pass unobserved. He retreated to his library as dark clouds filled the sky, piling up above the fells outside of his window. A few minutes or an hour later—he could not be sure which—Bart stuck his head in the door.

  “Do you have a moment, Alban? I have something to tell you.”

  “Come in, old friend, though I have a feeling I won’t be surprised at your news.”

  Bart strolled in and over to the window. He gazed out for a minute, then turned and stared into the gloom. “I say, is everything all right? You, sitting alone here in the dark . . . it rather reminded me of after Catherine . . . that is, after your wife—”

  “I should not continue, if I were you.” Alban took a deep breath and roused himself to sit up. He leaned over and turned up the lamp, shedding more light in the gloom inflicted on them by the lowering sky. Thunder rolled in the distance. “I’m not brooding, Bart. Come, sit and tell me your news, and whether I should order the butler to dust off some rather fine champagne I have in the cellar.”

  Bart obeyed and sat in a chair near his friend. Simply, he said, “I have asked Hannah to marry me, and she has said yes, provisionally, of course, for I have yet to meet her two lads, and she will do nothing that would upset them.”

  Sticking out his hand, Alban said, “Congratulations. I have every reason to think you will be happy.”

  “Though you don’t understand why,” Bart said with a return of that dry humor he only displayed on rare occasions. He took his friend’s hand and the two shook.

  “It is not up to me to understand it, my friend, only to be happy for you and celebrate your good fortune. I’ll ring and we’ll drink to your happiness.”

  “No!” He put up one hand to forestall the order. “I have sworn off alcohol of any kind, Alban. Hannah has noticed—and I have to agree that she is right—that my mood becomes more depressed when I drink, especially brandy. She would like me to try for a while to go without anything.”

  “No brandy nor even champagne? Then what shall you drink?”

  “She says she makes a wonderful lime cordial,” he said with a hint of laughter in his voice. “I say, I should take some of Mrs. Douglas’s
awful sweet cicely beer home with me; it would cure me of drinking anything alcoholic!”

  The two friends laughed together, but when they sobered Alban stared at him and nodded. “I’m happy for you, Bart. I’ve watched you two, and though she is not to my taste she is so well suited to you that I thank providence we came here.”

  “Alban, what about you? I have not been so blind that I haven’t seen the way you look at Mrs. Douglas. Is she not . . . that is—”

  “The future duchess of Alban? Don’t be an idiot, Bart,” Alban said, tiring of the subject before it had been canvassed. “I could never marry someone like her. Although . . .” He stood and strolled to the window, gazing out at the high fells and the dark clouds scudding over the top. Thunder rolled again and rain spattered the window, obscuring the view. Orkenay’s hideous words came back to him. If she was serious about going to London with the earl it could mean trouble for her. But how to warn her when she would not even admit she was going to become his mistress? There was one course of action he had until that moment thought was unthinkable, but which now seemed to promise pleasure for himself and protection for Kittie. It might be the best thing he did for everyone.

  “Alban?”

  Called back to the moment, the duke whirled and gazed at his friend, who had stood and stared at him with anxious eyes. “Again, congratulations, my friend. I have a few things to take care of this afternoon. If I don’t see you at dinner, forgive me. I have much to do before we leave.”

  “Certainly,” Bart said, moving toward the door. His words were understanding but his eyes still revealed his worry. “I have a few letters to write, to my family. I think I’ll retire to my room. Breakfast tomorrow?”

  “Don’t expect me,” Alban said. “I have some things to take care of tomorrow, too, and may be busy.”

  Sixteen

  The day had been dreary and thunderous but the clouds parted late in the afternoon and the sun came out briefly. After dinner, with the autumn light fading outside, Kittie knitted by the fire made necessary by the chill in the damp old house. Rebecca was playing the piano and Hannah was just sitting, staring raptly at the fire, though she was supposed to be reading out loud.

  Lady Eliza finally said, “Mrs. Billings, why do you not tell us whatever it is that keeps you so silent tonight?”

  Rebecca stopped playing and Kittie looked up. She smiled at Hannah’s disconcerted expression.

  “I . . . I don’t know . . .”

  “Hannah,” Kittie said gently, leaning over and taking the book from her drooping grasp. “I think we can already guess, but why don’t you tell us. Do you have some news that you can share?”

  Hannah burst into tears. Since it was not the most unexpected reaction, no one made a fuss. Kittie just supplied her with a clean handkerchief and they waited out the storm.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, sniffing and spluttering. “I’m just so h-happy!”

  Kittie set her knitting aside and knelt by Hannah, and Rebecca joined them. Lady Eliza listened intently, her head cocked to one side.

  “And you’re happy for what reason, my dear?” Kittie said.

  “I’m . . . I’m . . .”

  “Oh, Hannah,” Rebecca said, “just spit it out for once and don’t make us wait forever.”

  “I’m getting married,” she said, clutching the handkerchief to her bosom. “Or at least I think I am, for Mr. Norton has asked, and I said I would if my boys like him and approve, though I know I don’t need their approval, but . . .”

  The rest of her words were smothered by the hug that Rebecca and Kittie enveloped her in.

  “Congratulations, Mrs. Billings,” Lady Eliza said. “I believe we are about to be joined by someone, Kittie.”

  As Kittie looked up she saw the duke stroll in and her heart thudded. Hannah, overcome by the emotion of revealing her impending nuptials, was guided away from the light by Rebecca; she would need a few moments to recover, and since she was afraid of the duke for some strange reason, though he had never been anything but kind to her, his presence would not help in the slightest. Rebecca escorted her from the room and toward the stairs, perhaps to repair the damage her tears had caused her complexion.

  “Ladies,” he said.

  “Your grace.” Kittie dropped a curtsey, though such a formal gesture was not necessary. She had been flustered into awkwardness.

  He strolled over, kissed his aunt’s cheek, and sat down in the chair vacated by Hannah. “Have I interrupted anything?”

  “Only an excess of sensibility brought on by the momentous announcement of Mrs. Billings’s engagement,” his aunt said.

  “Ah, yes, Bart told me.”

  Lady Eliza held out her hand and the duke took it. It was in the moments of his interaction with his aunt that Kittie saw in the duke the softer side, the loving man he could have been given other circumstances. She watched them avidly and he caught her at it. He raised his eyebrows.

  “Are you happy for him?” Lady Eliza asked.

  His eyes still on Kittie, he said, “How could I help but be, Aunt? If I have discovered anything in this life it’s that love is rare, and should be snatched up whenever and wherever one finds it. He has found it in a most unexpected place, but Mrs. Billings’s good character and his own sterling worth will ensure their happiness, if not quite on this same ecstatic level, at least comfortably for some time.”

  “Some would say his match is not very worldly.”

  “And they would be right, but in his case, I’m glad. He doesn’t live much in society, Aunt. You know Bart; he prefers his books and his estate and his dogs. He will be a complete country gentleman, and her two sons will be the gainers for his solidity and kindness.”

  “So you think all the benefit on her side?” Kittie could not restrain comment.

  “I don’t think I said, nor even implied that, Mrs. Douglas. On the contrary, I think he very definitely benefits. He has shown a great deal of self-knowledge in his choice. He said himself that they’re stronger for each other than they ever are for themselves.”

  “I wish that everyone had so much self-knowledge,” Lady Eliza said.

  The duke finally stared at his aunt, giving Kittie a reprieve from his searching look. What was he thinking? His dark eyes had never left hers, and he looked to be searching her soul for some answer. But she didn’t know the question.

  “I know you’re speaking of me,” he said to Lady Eliza, “and we’ve talked of this subject before. I think I have made myself amply clear in every way possible.” His expression softened and he laid one large hand on her arm. “Aunt, I promise I shall take steps to ensure my own happiness, but you must let me do so in my own way and my own time.”

  Lady Eliza sighed. She put her free hand over his and rubbed it. With a final pat, she said, “I am very tired, Alban, after that vigorous walk this morning. I enjoyed it very much, but I am weary. Would someone ring for Beacon for me? I think I shall leave you two to talk, if you will excuse an old woman.”

  Alban stood, raised her to her feet, and commanded the footman to call Beacon to her mistress’s aid. “Old woman! I never thought to hear you call yourself that. You’re just past sixty, ma’am, and that, for someone of your vigor, is a mere child.”

  She patted his cheek. Kittie rose, too, and Beacon bustled into the room, fully recovered from her chill other than a red nose and tendency to sniff.

  “I had hoped to steal your companion away for a walk, Aunt, if I have your permission.”

  Kittie gaped at him in alarm. What did he have to say to her that he couldn’t say in front of his aunt? And why were they continually out walking and arguing? It made no sense and they hadn’t advanced a whit, she sometimes felt, since they first met in understanding each other. Even despite him kissing her.

  Lady Eliza had gone still. “You have my permission. Kittie, take a shawl; it is getting cold outside.”

  “Do I have no say in this? Perhaps I would prefer to accompany you upstairs, ma’am, and see
you safely to your bed!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. My nephew is a handsome rascal and you are a pretty young woman. Even if all you do is walk and talk you will enjoy it far more than watching me snore, which is what I believe I shall be doing in about five minutes. Go! That is an order. I shall tell your friends on my way to bed.” On Beacon’s arm, she walked toward the door. She summoned Alban to her for one moment, whispered something to him and then gave him a little push. “I shall see you tomorrow, Kittie,” she called as she walked from the room.

  “Oliver,” Alban said to the waiting footman, “Mrs. Douglas’s shawl, please.”

  “I’ll get it,” Kittie said with an exasperated sigh.

  • • •

  She wanted him and he wanted her. She was leaving his aunt’s employ anyway with the earl, who would be cruel to her eventually, no doubt, and who would certainly not treat her well when he was done with her. Alban knew all these things, and they had aided his final decision. It was a happy case that his inclination and her good were best served if she abandoned her plan of going with the earl to come to him instead. She was not a fickle woman, though, and would need to be convinced.

  As they strolled outside, he said, “I have something to show you. Something you may never have seen, even in three years of living here.”

  Twilight was advancing, but Alban knew the way well. He guided her down a long dark path through the wooded glade, taking a path not well traveled. She shivered at his side and he pulled her closer, within the protection of his arm. The cabin was tiny, just one room, really. It was a huntsman’s shack once, but years ago he had had it fitted for comfort as a retreat after Catherine’s death. And then he had never taken advantage of it, seeing it for the first time with Mr. Lafferty just that afternoon. Now it beckoned to them, candlelight in the windows showing a warm golden glow.