The Duke's Secret Seduction

by Donna Lea Simpson

  Lady Eliza was going out with her friend for the afternoon and had archly said she did not need a companion. There were times, now, in the last twelve hours, when Kittie did not even recognize Lady Eliza as the woman she had come to know. She seemed giddy, happy, like a younger woman.

  Kittie didn’t know the whole story and she would never ask, but it was enough to know that Lady Montressor was the “Harry” of Lady Eliza’s past. She heard a bustle in the hallway and cast her knitting aside. She was about to rise when her room’s door opened and Alban strode in, saying over his shoulder, “It’s all right, Millhouse, Mrs. Douglas will not object!”

  He turned and they stared at each other. “Tell the butler that you don’t mind my . . . my presence. Poor Millhouse is torn between bowing to me as duke and tossing me out of the house as an interloper. Put him out of his confused misery.”

  Kittie swallowed and looked over the duke’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Millhouse,” she said. “His grace may visit. Leave the door open, if you please.”

  “Being careful of your reputation?”

  She tried to decipher his tone but gave up. That was a pointless exercise with someone as infuriatingly opaque as the duke. She stayed silent and stared at him, drinking in his appearance, which always made her stomach flutter, and his intense demeanor. Finally, as he gazed at her with no apparent intention to ever speak, she said, “If you mean to disconcert me then you will fail.”

  “I didn’t mean to unnerve you, Kittie. I’ve thought about you so often over the winter and I’m just getting my fill. It was quite a shock seeing you in the ballroom last night.”

  Embarrassed, Kittie said, “I don’t know why Lady Eliza pulled such a hoax. If Mr. Lafferty did tell her you were to be in London, she didn’t tell me.”

  “She had her own reasons. Don’t you know what they are?”

  Stiffly, Kittie replied, “I am beginning to think I do. And I’m sorry. She’s wrong to . . . to think—”

  “Is she?”

  Kittie stared at him, perplexed by his behavior. She had seen him in many moods, but never with the combination of nerves and eagerness he betrayed by his jerky movements and intent stare.

  “You’re silent,” he said. “I can’t blame you. I was . . . the last time we were private . . . in the cabin in the woods, I was inexcusably forward and—”

  “You thought I would become your mistress!” She put one hand over her mouth. In her agitation she had to turn away from him and the look in his eyes; it was indescribable, as if he had been caught at something he shouldn’t have, and strangely, it attracted her. As compelling as she found him in his usual manner, very much a man who knew what he wanted and was willing to do what he had to to get it, this uncertainty was appealing. She longed to reach out and ruffle his thick hair, pull him to her, but it was a false sense of closeness, she thought, and she would not be fooled by it.

  “I did. And you called it something much worse last time we spoke. I’m sorry for making you feel as I did. It was wrong of me, and what was worse, I didn’t understand your anger.”

  She glanced at him. “But you do now?”

  “I think I do.”

  Not convinced, she crossed her arms over her bosom and said, “So, why was I insulted?”

  “You would never consider being anyone’s mistress.”

  “And . . . ?”

  His eyes widened. He thought for a long minute. “Uh . . . it offended your morals?”

  “More than that.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  She sighed and turned away, fussing with her knitting, bundling it and putting it into the cloth bag she carried it in. “I thought you knew me better than that. That was what upset me. And I thought you respected me more.”

  “But I do respect you! Why would becoming my mistress mean—”

  “Stop!” She whirled and stared at him. “How can you not understand?” She advanced on him and stood toe to toe with him, looking up, realizing how very much taller than she he was and backing away one step. She stuck her finger in his chest and prodded. “How can you not understand?” she repeated. “It’s so simple. If you really cared for me you wouldn’t want me as just a mistress. Mistresses are temporary; it means you don’t think enough of them to . . .” She stepped back more. “This is a waste of time.”

  “No, Kittie, don’t walk away.”

  “Why not? Your grace, I accept that you meant me no harm and no insult when you attempted to seduce me with the intent of making me your mistress.” His eyes widened, but she continued. “I know you thought that it was a good offer for one such as I, and in material terms, you’re probably right. I’m far down the social scale from you, and that is what determined your behavior.”

  “Kittie, I—”

  “I’m not done. I don’t accept that you had seen enough of my behavior to believe that I would come to you that way. You didn’t even consider your aunt! How could you do that? How could you think it?”

  “But Lord Orkenay—”

  “You are no fool, sir, and I think you knew the earl well enough to know he would lie if it suited him. I think you wanted to believe him because of the light it cast me in. I was available then, with no need for any commitment or caring on your part.”

  His expression was blank and she wondered if he would walk out and never speak to her again. Perhaps. But she had said what she needed to and would not start regretting it now.

  “If you think that of me,” he said, his tone resentful, “then we have nothing further to say. I beg your pardon most humbly for taking your valuable time.” He bowed and turned to go, but stopped and didn’t walk to the door.

  She waited. Time hung, suspended, though it seemed to go on outside the door. Servants hustled past the door with barely a side-glance of curiosity. Millhouse’s stentorian voice could be heard directing workmen down in the great hall. The duke heaved a great sigh, his broad shoulders rising and falling.

  Then he turned back to her. “I almost let you drive me away, Kittie.”

  “I wasn’t trying to drive you away.”

  “Weren’t you? Are you sure?” His expression was different, his gaze more open, his eyes unclouded. He advanced on her and stood, looking down at her. With one large hand he caressed her neck and twined a stray curl around his finger, letting it spring away.

  “Why would I do that?” she asked, her voice breathy and almost unrecognizable, even to herself.

  “Because I hurt you,” he said. “And you don’t want to be hurt again. I know because that’s what I have done. It’s exactly why I have been avoiding the truth for so long.”

  She stayed silent. That he should see something she didn’t see in herself shocked her too much to speak, even to deny it.

  “I was callous and wrong to think I could have you that way. You’re right about that. But I had fooled myself into thinking it was all right.” He took in a deep breath. “That you should be flattered I wanted you so much.”

  She would have turned away at his words, but he put his hands on her shoulders and held her steady.

  “No, Kittie, I have to say this. I wanted you, and I deceived myself about it. I thought that having you as my mistress would be enough, but I was terribly wrong and I know that now. I underestimated how much I . . .” He stopped, his whole body trembling. He was on the edge of the chasm, the opening to the abyss, and if he said the words he could never take them back. But he was going to jump and be damned to the consequences. “I’ve been so selfish in every way. Kittie, I love you.”

  Her eyes widened and he knew she didn’t expect to hear that, of all things, but he had no desire to take it back. No matter what happened, he didn’t want to take it back. It was the simple truth and now it was in the open.

  “You don’t know what you’re saying,” she whispered.

  “I do.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. And I’m sorry I did what I did . . . treated you the way I did. Please, forgive
me?”

  He was appalled to see tears glimmer in the corners of her beautiful blue eyes.

  “Drat you,” she said, sniffing.

  “What did I say?”

  She just shook her head, mute.

  “Kittie, I’m just telling the truth. I’ve had a lot of time to think about it. The whole winter.”

  She stared at him. It had not escaped his notice that she hadn’t yet told him how she felt.

  “Kittie, look into my eyes and tell me you don’t feel the same.”

  She just shook her head again, but her whole body trembled. He could feel the tremors through his grip on her shoulders.

  “You do! I know you do. I love you and have since last fall. I was too proud, too stubborn and too . . . damn it! Too frightened to admit it. Kittie, say something!”

  “I’m afraid you don’t know what you feel. Before you say any more, I have something of yours that I want you to have back.”

  She pulled away from him and disappeared into her bedchamber, returning with a black velvet sack, which she handed to him. He took a seat in the window seat, undid the knot and spilled the contents out. A letter fell out and a small painting on ivory, a miniature. Of Catherine.

  He turned it over in his hands and picked up the letter. As he unfolded it, Kittie said, “I found these things some time ago in the drawer of a bureau in the guest room when I went looking for some stockings that you left at Lady Eliza’s . . . to find your size, you know, to knit you stockings.”

  He read the letter. How angry Catherine had been, and how bitter! He had forgotten all about this and the miniature, taken to Yorkshire when he retreated there after the awful news of her death reached him. He gazed at the painting.

  “If I had been a better husband she wouldn’t have left as she did. I let pride keep me from speaking of things. And if I had been a better husband, she would be alive now.”

  She sank down on the window seat next to him, and when he met her eyes, they were pleading for something, he knew not what.

  “You don’t know that. You were only one part of the problem. She could have fought for her marriage. I would have.”

  “Sad mementos,” he said with a sigh, and slipped them back into the velvet sack. “I cared for her so much, but in the end I couldn’t give her what she needed. If I had been a better man or she a stronger woman, we could have found a way.”

  • • •

  Kittie heard the sadness in his voice, but there wasn’t the pain that would have signified a heart still broken. Was there a chance for them? It was her turn to take a chance, the way she knew he had by telling her his feelings. She still couldn’t quite accept that he truly loved her, but maybe— “When you came to Boden last fall, I think I had . . . I had built you up to be someone beyond what any man could live up to. Your letters to your aunt were always so kind. I read them, and looked at your painting, and I . . . I fell in love with this perfect, loving, giving, kind man, this . . . this demigod who had been cruelly abandoned by the woman he loved.”

  He was staring at her avidly, devouring every word. She couldn’t look in his eyes, for his expression was too raw, yearning, drawing her in.

  “But when I met you,” she continued, “I saw the cracks, the faults. I unfairly blamed you for being a man. And then that night . . .” She looked down at her hands, twisting together in her lap. She knew she didn’t need to say what night she meant. “I wanted to stay. I wanted to just make love with you and forget about whatever would come on the morrow. I still don’t know if I made the right decision. Should a woman give herself to a man that way, if that’s what she truly wants, or should she be strong and insist he make promises to her that in the heat of the moment he may make and regret later?”

  “Why should you have stayed when I wouldn’t be honest and honorable?”

  He understood; he truly did. “I love you!” she said, before she could even think, before she could remember to be careful.

  His eyes widened and he slipped off the window seat to one knee in front of her. “Kittie, I adore you. I love you. I trust you. Will you marry me and be with me always? Love me forever?”

  “I will!”

  He stood and pulled her up into his arms and enfolded her in love. She felt it thumping in his heart and emanating from his soul. He buried his face in her neck and whispered.

  She pulled away and gazed into his eyes. “What were you saying?”

  “I said my aunt is going to be relieved. I think she thought she might have to box my ears if I didn’t do the right thing.”

  “Do you really think she wanted this, us marrying?”

  He laughed out loud. “I think she might have asked you herself if she could have. The things she said about you, the praise! One would have sworn she was half in love with you herself.”

  She gazed at him. Did he know about his aunt and Lady Montressor? Interesting idea, but she thought not. He was not an imaginative man and it would likely never occur to him to think of his aunt that way, in love at all, but even more shocking, in love with another woman. They would have time to discuss it later, and as much as he loved his Aunt Eliza, his inevitable shock would soon give way to happiness for her, she felt sure, just as it had with her.

  “So,” she said, “was your proposal motivated by fear of your aunt, your grace?”

  “Please find something to call me other than ‘your grace’! Anything else.” He pulled her to him again. “I was always afraid of her, but mostly because I wanted to make her proud. I wanted to live up to who she thought I could be. I feel she might have passed on that expectation to you.”

  She framed his face with her hands, staring into his deep brown eyes. “You never have to be anything for me but honest and honorable. I don’t expect perfection. You’re a man, my love, just a man.”

  “Thank heavens,” he murmured, pulling her closer. “And I think I like your new name for me. I would rather be your ‘love’ than anything else. And just a man.”

  Molded against him, she could feel the very clear evidence of that statement, and sighed, nestling against him.

  Hoarsely, he whispered, “You won’t require a long engagement, will you?”

  “Not if you don’t,” she said, breathless.

  The next kiss was destined to be long, but neither of them had any reason to wish it shorter.

  Books by Donna Lea Simpson

  See all of Donna Lea Simpson’s

  books at Kobo!

  Classic Regency Romances

  The Viscount’s Valentine

  A Rogue’s Rescue

  A Scandalous Plan

  Reforming the Rogue

  Lord St. Claire’s Angel

  Noël’s Wish

  The Earl of Hearts

  Romancing the Rogue

  Married to a Rogue

  Taming the Rogue

  The Rogue’s Folly

  A Matchmaker’s Christmas

  Miss Truelove Beckons

  Courting Scandal

  A Rake’s Redemption

  Lord Haven’s Deception

  The Debutante’s Dilemma

  A Lady’s Choice

  An Eccentric Engagement

  The Chaperone’s Secret

  The Duke’s Secret Seduction

  Lady Anne Mysteries

  Lady Anne and the Howl in the Dark

  Revenge of the Barbary Ghost

  Curse of the Gypsy

  About the Author

  Donna Lea Simpson is a nationally bestselling romance and mystery novelist with dozens of titles to her credit. An early love for the novels of Jane Austen and Agatha Christie was a portent of things to come; Donna believes that a dash of mystery adds piquancy to a romantic tale, and a hint of romance adds humanity to a mystery story. Besides writing romance and mystery novels and reading the same, Donna has a long list of passions: cats and tea, cooking and vintage cookware, cross-stitching and watercolor painting among them. Karaoke offers her the chance to warble Dionne Warwick tunes, and n
ature is a constant source of comfort and inspiration. A long walk is her favorite exercise, and a fruity merlot is her drink of choice when the tea is all gone. Donna lives in Canada.

  The best writing advice, Donna believes, comes from the letters of Jane Austen. That author wrote, in an October 26, 1813, letter to her sister, Cassandra, “I am not at all in a humor for writing; I must write on till I am.” So true! But Donna is usually in a good humor for writing!