The Duke's Secret Seduction

by Donna Lea Simpson

  The others entered then. He watched Kittie, wondering if he could get her alone and ask her outright what was going on, and make his offer. She wouldn’t meet his eyes. Lady Severn did, though, and glared at him severely. Only Hannah Billings was her own dithery self in his presence.

  The other gentlemen soon joined them and he watched Orkenay and Kittie for any sign of collusion, but by the end of dinner he was in as much of a quandary as before. And Lady Eliza was still not aware of her companion’s future defection.

  When was she going to tell Lady Eliza? And when would he get Kittie alone to ask her to leave with him instead of Orkenay?

  • • •

  They were all spending the afternoon of their last day there together. Lady Severn and Sir John were giggling together in the corner, and Hannah and Bart had retreated to Bodenthorpe’s gloomy library to work out the details of their impending separate travels, when they would see each other again, and how they would introduce him to her boys.

  Lord Orkenay, Lady Eliza, Kittie and the duke were left, then, in an uneasy group, ostensibly chatting, but really suffering more silences. Finally Alban could stand it no longer. He stood and said, “Mrs. Douglas, I have a wish to speak to you privately. Will you come with me?”

  “I say, Alban,” Orkenay said, bolting to his feet. “That is the outside of enough. You cannot just—”

  “I think he can, Orkenay,” Lady Eliza said. “Sit down, if you please, and regale me with some of your scandalous gossip. Kittie, go talk to Alban.”

  Alban saw an obstinate expression tighten Kittie’s lovely face and she was about to deny him, he knew. “Please,” he said, finally, his voice hoarse. “Please, Mrs. Douglas. I have something of the utmost importance to speak with you about.”

  She would rather have done anything than be alone with him. As she rose, she darted a glance over to Lady Severn. The two exchanged looks and Lady Severn shrugged and mouthed a word; Alban couldn’t make out what that word was. But she went with him. As he led her out of the house and toward the garden, he tried to take her arm but she pulled it away. Really, she was taking her odd resentment to ridiculous heights.

  Once outside, with the cool breeze riffling over them and the sky threatening showers any minute, he wondered how to go on. With the night the conflict had begun, he supposed. “If I offended you in any way the other evening, Mrs. Douglas, I beg your pardon.”

  She stiffened and her hands clenched to fists; he thought she was going to turn and go back to the house, but instead she stared at him searchingly. “If you offended me? If? You truly don’t know why I left?”

  She was controlling her ire with great difficulty, and he scrambled in his brain to think what to say. “I know it was . . . well, I was precipitate, I suppose, in my haste to be with you.”

  “Not precipitate,” she said, biting off the words like pieces of thread. “Deluded.”

  He frowned. “I don’t think I understand.”

  “I’m sure you don’t,” she said and sighed. She strolled to the garden wall and gazed over it, up the slope, past the woods, to the ridge of the high fell beyond. She turned back to him. “I suppose I shall have to put this in simple words so you will understand. I know there are many women who would have accepted your eloquent invitation to bed, but I am not one of them.”

  Ah, now he understood. It was as he thought. “Mrs. Douglas . . . Kittie,” he said, moving toward her and putting out one hand. She moved away again, walking over to a stone bench. “Kittie,” he said, approaching her again. “I suppose I didn’t make myself clear. I was devastated that what I did made you feel like a . . . what you said that night. This was not an invitation to one brief interlude.” He knelt by her side and took her hand. She would have pulled it away, but he clutched it to his breast.

  “No, Kittie, hear me out.” He stroked her palm, and for the first time understood how much he wanted her, and how much he hoped she would take his offer. Kittie and him, together, in a little cottage away from London; he could make love to her finally. But more than that, they could walk and talk and laugh by the fire, and argue passionately and then make love again.

  She stilled, sighed and then said, “I suppose I should listen.”

  He blurted it out. “I want you to leave with me instead of the earl.”

  “What?”

  Good, that was encouraging. She wanted to hear more and had not pulled her hand away. “I know your scheme to leave with Orkenay; he told me all about it. But I want you to reconsider; you don’t know him very well, Kittie. He’s not a good man, not a kind man. He—”

  She wrenched her hand away, stood and stormed toward the door, stopping only when she was several feet away. She turned and glared back at him. “How dare you even imply, how can you believe . . .” She shook her head and whirled to go into the house, but changed her mind. Slowly she turned back and stalked toward him. “I am not your whore; I am not anyone’s whore.”

  “I know that. But, Kittie, I never said—”

  “Then what else would I be? Oh, yes, you have a delicate name for it in your upper-crust circles, don’t you? Courtesan. Is that not what you call them, the ladies you pay? The ladies you use and trade among you, or discard once they become too old for pleasure? Cyprians? Birds-of-paradise? And do you think I know nothing of that life that I would voluntarily subject myself to the indignities of the position, of being solely dependent upon you and your continuing desire for my body?” Her chin went up and her mouth tightened. “I was a society wife once, your grace, and I saw much more than I ever acknowledged, and heard much more than I ever wanted. I heard about the children of such squalid arrangements, even the royal dukes and their army of unnamed offspring.”

  A flare of anger ripped through the duke and he stood, his ire controlled for the moment, but not willing to bear much more of her harangue. “I was doing you an honor.”

  “An honor? By being willing to pay for my favors? I hardly think so. And that you thought I would abandon your aunt—”

  “Orkenay said—”

  “I don’t care what he said. What about the evidence of your own eyes and ears?”

  “I saw you kissing him,” Alban said, pushed beyond endurance. “I saw you kissing him passionately in the meadow, and then again, more sweetly, by the garden gate. What was I supposed to think?”

  “Why didn’t you just ask me?”

  “I did.”

  “You merely asked me if I was going away with Lord Orkenay.”

  “And you wouldn’t answer.”

  They glared at each other across a yawning chasm of mistrust and harsh words. Kittie saw in his eyes the residue of old pain and past betrayal, but that was his burden to bear. It was not her task to help him see that unless he could let go of that old hurt, he would never have happiness again. She wished him well, but she was not in a position to come to his aid.

  She took a deep breath, calming herself. “Perhaps I should have just told you outright when you asked that I would never have considered going away with the earl. I didn’t think I should have to, and I know I shouldn’t have to now. If you had just told me what you had seen, had asked me what it meant . . .” She pressed one hand over her left breast. “If you had listened to me as we spoke, every time we spoke, you would know my heart now. I care for Lady Eliza and would never abandon her like that. Not for the earl. Not even for you. I don’t know how you could even have imagined I would.” With that, Kittie turned and walked into the house and retreated to her room.

  Eighteen

  The air was heavy with the promise of rain and the scent of roses dying. Alban sat alone wondering at his sense of desolation. Nothing was different in his life. He would be leaving on the morrow and not a thing had changed. Or everything had changed. Which was the true statement?

  Perhaps it was just that he was accustomed to feeling that he was in the right about things, that he was taking the moral road. But now he had hurt someone he cared for. Cared for deeply. And worse, made her
feel that he didn’t respect her, though he did.

  She wasn’t leaving with Orkenay.

  His aunt, on Beacon’s arm, was guided out to the garden and Alban, coming out of the fog of his contemplation, moved to take her arm.

  “Come back in half an hour, Beacon,” she said. “Alban, guide me to the bench and let us talk.”

  The maid gave one long, cool look through the evening shadows at the duke and then moved to reenter the cottage.

  “You didn’t have to come out here after me,” Alban said. “I would have come in eventually.”

  “What I have to say would not wait. You have hurt Kittie unforgivably. She wouldn’t say how, but she is very upset.”

  “Why do I have the feeling I’m about to be chastised for some failing?”

  “Because you know me well,” she replied.

  “Let’s not argue. It’s my last day.”

  “You are not dying, just going back to London. Or wherever.”

  “You sound angry at me. Why is that?”

  “Because I am.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you are a fool. And not just any kind of fool, as my father used to say, but a damned fool.”

  “Aunt,” he said with warning in his voice. He would not be spoken to by anyone like that, not even her.

  “No, do not try that tone with me. I am very angry with you, Alban, and you will hear me out.”

  He sighed. There was nothing to do but listen, and she would not let it go until he had.

  “When you came, what did you think of Kittie Douglas when first you met her?”

  “That she was very beautiful and had a sweet, country manner.”

  “And what do you think of her now?”

  Alban couldn’t answer. How could he? How could he say that she had left him in turmoil, that she had made him reevaluate every moral he had ever thought he had, and some he had never considered? And that he was ashamed to be thrown into such disorder by a woman.

  But more ashamed to have hurt that woman.

  “You will not answer.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say the truth; say you love her.”

  He shook his head, stood and paced away, glaring off into the dark woods. “Don’t be ridiculous!”

  “Why do you not just be a man, admit your feelings and ask her to marry you?”

  Enough. It was enough and more than enough. He came back, sat down and took both of her bony hands in his own. He restrained his ire, reminding himself that this was his aunt, the woman who had a right to tell him how to live his life, if anyone did, by virtue of her steadfast support and love. “I know how you feel about her, so I will not say things as bluntly as I could.”

  “Why not? You should ever be honest with me, Alban. I am with you.”

  “Then I will; she is not of an appropriate class to be my wife.”

  “Is that why you have tried to make her your mistress?”

  “Is that what she told you?”

  “Fool!” Lady Eliza shook her head. “You don’t know her in the slightest if you could even think that. She would never divulge such a thing, and would never tell me anything that would make me think less of you. I always knew you were blind in some ways, but I thought that at least you could be honest with yourself. You are the Duke of Alban. If you cannot marry where you want, who can?”

  “Perhaps you have a point, Aunt, or at least you would if you were right about the rest of it. But I’m not in love with Kittie Douglas, and I never will be. I care for her, but I am not in love.”

  “Then this conversation is over,” Lady Eliza said, standing. “If you would be so kind as to call for Beacon I will go back inside.”

  “Aunt, don’t leave this way. We’ll be going early tomorrow morning. This is the last we’ll see each other for some time. I’ll try to come up next summer, but it will depend on some things.”

  Lady Eliza sighed deeply and said, “I know, Alban. I have enjoyed your visit here, and I hope you will continue to write, even though . . . well, you know Kittie reads all of your letters to me. And writes my words to you. I hope that won’t stop you from . . . from writing.”

  “Of course it won’t.” He engulfed his aunt in a rare hug and felt her bony frame as she clutched him to her. He hated the tension between them, but her suggestion that he was in love with Kittie Douglas was absolutely ridiculous, almost as ridiculous as her urging him to take her as a bride.

  But she wasn’t leaving with Orkenay, and it made him happier than he would like to admit. Why had the man lied so steadily and convincingly about her plans? What did he hope to gain? He hugged his aunt fiercely. As he looked over her head, he saw, through the window, Kittie gazing out at them. It was a rare moment of absolute clarity.

  She stood hugging herself, her arms wrapped over her stomach, and her expression wavered between pain and acceptance. He had lied to his aunt; perhaps he was a little in love with Kittie Douglas. But it was nothing the winter season and gaiety of London wouldn’t cure. It was the merest preference and the lingering desire to make love to her. That was all it was.

  His aunt said as she turned and took his arm, “I still think you are a damned fool if you do not marry Kittie.”

  “You are entitled to your feelings, Aunt, but I must do what I feel right.”

  • • •

  The house felt so lonely, Kittie thought, drifting disconsolately from room to room. Rebecca and Hannah had stayed on a few days after the men, but then Rebecca traveled south with Hannah to help her get ready to introduce her sons to Mr. Norton. Poor Hannah badly needed the bracing effect of Rebecca’s presence, because without her friend she would have sunk under a morass of fears and tears.

  Autumn had closed in, and though it was just October the first snows had already fallen. She stood and stared out at the garden where she and the duke had argued so passionately the last time she had seen him.

  “Kittie,” Lady Eliza said, coming into the room and feeling her way over to her favorite chair. “I have had a thought. If you would like to go to your friend’s wedding, I can make shift with just Beacon for a few weeks.”

  “No,” Kittie said, turning away from the window. “I have no desire to go to Hannah’s wedding.” Especially not since the duke was sure to be there, as Bartholomew Norton’s best friend. “And there is no surety of a wedding yet, after all. Hannah will marry no one without the approval of her sons, and the boys might not like Mr. Norton.”

  “Then they would be great fools, and she more so for not grasping happiness.”

  Kittie didn’t reply. Grasping happiness sounded rather desperate, but maybe that was what one needed to do in this world. If that was the case she would stay unhappy, because she was not the grasping type.

  • • •

  Days passed. Then weeks. Life settled back into a steady rhythm, and though she and Lady Eliza got along just as well as ever, she knew that within herself there was a restlessness, and her employer felt it, too. The letters came steadily from the duke, but they had a stilted quality that Kittie regretfully concluded was because he knew she was reading them to his aunt.

  She didn’t send him any more knitted stockings or singlets.

  Snow came and stayed, and Christmas passed.

  And in those weeks and months, Kittie acknowledged what was wrong with her. She did want to marry again. When Rebecca had first offered to matchmake, she had dismissed the notion out of hand, but from there the idea had taken root. The desire had started as an itch and grew to an almost unbearable urge. Lady Eliza, sensitive to much more that went on around her than that which one could see, seemed to know something was wrong, and one day in February, with a determined expression on her strong-boned face, she badgered Kittie until finally she was forced to admit what was bothering her.

  They were sitting together in the drawing room, and at her employer’s urging, Kittie finally said, “I’m so envious of Hannah! Isn’t that terrible? I have never known her to be
so happy as she is now, in her letter, now that she and Mr. Norton are finally wed.”

  Lady Eliza nodded and sat back in her chair. “Thank God you are finally being honest with me, Kittie. I thought you would never just say it. There is nothing wrong with a woman your age wanting to be married.”

  “But it sounds so ungrateful, my lady. I have such a good life here, with you, and . . . and I love you sincerely!”

  She had never said it before and she saw Lady Eliza’s lips tighten, as they always did when she was trying to deny emotion.

  “And I, you, my dear, but just as a child’s love for their parent does not preclude the desire for an establishment of their own, so this does not mean you are ungrateful, just a normal woman. The question is, what do you want to do about it?”

  “Do? Why . . . there is really nothing to be done, ma’am. My situation is the same as it was when I took this position four years ago.”

  “I know that. But you have an ally now. Let us talk about it and think about it. I think you will find I have a few ideas for your future.”

  Nineteen

  Alban shrugged himself into his greatcoat, held by one of the exemplary footmen his club employed, and accepted his hat and stick from two others. Another had been dispatched to ensure that his carriage would be at the front when he descended the marble steps in a couple of minutes from the dimness of the wood-paneled hallway. “Is it raining still, Manchester?” he asked of the senior footman.

  “No, sir. It has cleared and promises to be a marvelous evening for so early in spring.”

  “March is so often indecisive,” Alban said. He heard a voice he recognized and turned. The back of the fellow just receiving his hat from yet another footman was familiar. Was it— “Sir John Fitzhenry! What are you doing here?”