The Duke Redemption

by Grace Callaway

  “Lisette, do you have a hand-held looking glass?” she asked.

  The other’s blue eyes widened in surprise. “Mais oui.”

  “Fetch it, please.”

  When the dark-haired maid returned, she handed Bea the requested object. Inhaling deeply, Bea held up the oval mirror and looked at herself. She hadn’t done so for a long time. After her injury, her papa had been determined to “fix” the damage. He wouldn’t let her hide in the country, insisting that she stay in London to be treated by the best physicians. As part of the quacks’ “treatments”—she shuddered, thinking of the caustic creams and ointments, poultices made of everything from duck fat to sand to ground-up parts of exotic beasts—she’d been forced to assess herself in the mirror daily and report any changes to the angry red mark.

  She’d known, far before her father had, that her scar was here to stay. She’d resented having to put herself through disappointment again and again. Even worse was the guilt of knowing that her ugliness had ultimately destroyed her parents’ marriage. After months of futilely trying to fix his broken daughter, Papa had given up. He’d stayed away from the house more and more; around a year after her accident, he’d been found dead…in his mistress’s bed.

  Mama hadn’t survived much longer, the pain of her broken heart too much to bear. Among her last words, she’d whispered to Bea, Don’t be foolish like me, my daughter. Don’t entrust your happiness to another.

  After the loss of her parents, Bea had used a portion of her inheritance to purchase Camden Manor. She’d wanted nothing more to do with her old life—or her scarred face that had wrecked so many lives. She’d focused on what mattered: what she could accomplish, what she could control.

  Now, as she looked at the reflection she typically avoided, she tried to see herself impartially, the way a stranger might. It wasn’t difficult: she was somewhat alien to herself after all this time. As she perused her own image, she felt a curious sensation in her chest. It felt like that first ray at dawn, breaking through the darkness, illuminating a thought that became a revelation.

  I’m not…beastly?

  The scar was there. A ridge of knitted flesh that started at the top of her right cheekbone, curving up before going downward, stopping a few inches shy of her mouth. It was visible, would draw attention, and yet…it was also somehow less than the scar of her memory.

  Less red. Less raised. Less glaring.

  The mark had flattened, she saw objectively, time weaving it into the fabric of her skin. Her cheek would never be perfect again. But maybe beauty wasn’t just about perfection?

  Wick’s life-altering words washed through her. Your scar is a part of you. Because of that, it is beautiful. Because beautiful, Lady Beatrice, is all you could ever be.

  Through his eyes, she saw herself as desired and special…and that was true beauty.

  The scar had defined her, but it had never been all that she was. She’d always known that; Wick had helped her to feel it. And she wanted her outside to match what she was feeling on the inside. Now that she was being courted by the most attractive man she’d ever met, was it wrong to want to look her best?

  She realized that Lisette was standing by, awaiting her instruction. When the maid had applied for a position several months ago, Bea had hired her on the spot, no questions asked. Not only because she’d liked the way Lisette had arranged her hair, but because of the fresh bruise on the maid’s cheek and the fear etched on the other’s delicate features. As the weeks passed, Lisette’s confidence had seemed to blossom—until that bastard Randall Perkins had tried to assault her.

  Bea thanked God that Gentleman Henderson had found the two in the stables. A weeping Lisette had told Bea that the butler had arrived and dispatched Perkins before anything had happened. Bea was grateful that the maid hadn’t been harmed and that the incident hadn’t caused Lisette to retreat into her former shell.

  Courage took many forms, one of them being the ability to carry on despite one’s past. To not allow old fears to become a prison…and to remain open to new possibilities.

  Bea exhaled. “Perhaps we could try something different? A coiffure that is more au courant, that might accentuate my favorable features?”

  “Oui, my lady,” Lisette said. “I know a style that has been made fashionable by the Queen herself, if you’d care to try it.”

  Bea smiled. “Let’s give it a go, shall we?”

  Supper went off without a hitch.

  Bea had been worried about Wick and Severin Knight—the Duke of Knighton rather—but the two had been on their best behavior. Both had their own brand of charm, and she could scarcely credit that, after years of avoiding society, she had not one, but two such charismatic gentlemen at her table. They made easy conversation with Mr. Sheridan and Fancy, asking questions about the tinkering life.

  Having heard Mr. Sheridan’s colorful tales before, Bea sipped her wine and enjoyed the camaraderie. She noticed that Fancy seemed to be enjoying the evening as well. The latter had overcome her natural shyness enough to carry on a conversation with Knighton.

  After supper, Bea decided to forgo the formality of separating the sexes, announcing that the gentlemen could have their cigars and brandy in the drawing room. Mr. Sheridan took out his fiddle, and Fancy accompanied him on the piano, the two giving a rousing performance that ranged from country dances to a stirring Irish ballad.

  Afterward, Knighton invited Bea to take a turn with him around the drawing room. Since she wanted an opportunity to speak privately with her guest, she agreed.

  “May I compliment you on your looks, Lady Beatrice?” the duke asked.

  She smiled. “Thank you, Your Grace. I thought I’d try a new style.”

  Lisette had arranged her hair so that it no longer covered her face. Parted in the middle, the front of her hair was braided, then looped over her ears. The rest was arranged in a coronet and augmented with fresh flowers from the garden. Bea had donned a lilac gown that Fancy had made for her, but that she’d never had occasion to wear. The dress bared her shoulders, nipping in at her waist before cascading in frothy skirts trimmed with blond lace.

  Bea was rather pleased with the results, a feeling deepened by Wick’s smoldering look of appreciation when she’d descended the stairs.

  “You are irresistible, angel,” he’d murmured. “Prepare to be ravished later on tonight.”

  She wished she could be alone with him right now. Although he was seated beside Fancy playing a duet, he was keeping a close watch on her and Knighton, his gaze unmistakably proprietary. In the interest of peace, she’d better complete her business with His Grace posthaste.

  She’d had her reason for inviting Knighton to stay, and it wasn’t, as Wick had suggested, to make her lover jealous. Or, rather, that hadn’t been the sole reason. She wanted to learn more about the duke’s connection to Benedict. Knowing her brother, she had a bad feeling that trouble was brewing.

  “I hope you are finding your stay comfortable, Your Grace,” she said.

  “Indeed. You are all that is hospitable, my lady.”

  “Any friend of my brother’s is a friend of mine. Tell me, how do you know him?”

  “As I mentioned, Hadleigh and I had some business together.”

  “Does the business involve you owing my brother money?” she asked bluntly.

  Knighton frowned. “No. Why would you think that?”

  “Because I wouldn’t put it past Hadleigh to buy me a husband.”

  Her brother had always been wild. Her accident and their papa’s early death had given him power and wealth before he was ready for such responsibility. Benedict’s marriage soon thereafter had exacerbated the worst of his qualities, fanning the flames of his arrogance and pride. He’d been hell-bent on avenging Beatrice’s honor…even when she’d begged him not to.

  When she’d tried to stop him, they’d fought so badly that now, five years later, she was getting information about her brother from a virtual stranger.

  �
��That is an insult to him and to me.” Knighton’s eyes turned the chilly grey of London fog.

  “Then what is the nature of your association with Benedict?” she persisted.

  “I did him a favor once. In return, I asked him for an introduction,” he said in even tones. “No other promises were made.”

  They rounded a corner, and she asked, “Why would you want to meet me, Your Grace? Surely you could find yourself a suitable duchess in London? One without my unusual history?”

  “Yours is not the only unusual history, my lady.”

  “Oh?”

  “My recent inheritance of this duchy came as a surprise to me and the rest of Society. Although I am the legitimate issue of the prior duke, my mama, for reasons of her own, kept that a secret from me. I never knew that I was the heir of a duke until my father summoned me to his deathbed.” Ghosts flitted through Knighton’s eyes. “The title is now mine, and it comes with certain responsibilities that I am ill-equipped to handle.”

  As he didn’t strike her as a man who’d be ill-equipped for anything, she canted her head. “Those being?”

  “I have four younger half-siblings, all of them bastards.”

  Her eyes widened at his concise reply. “I see.”

  “While my father provided for them materially, he did not instruct them in the proper way of living. They are…unruly,” Knighton said tonelessly. “Be that as it may, they are now my responsibility, and I plan to launch them into the ton. For that, I need help.”

  What he needed was a miracle. “Why do you think I could help you?”

  “You are a duke’s daughter with an impeccable pedigree. You are mature, seasoned, and you’ve survived the worst of Society.” He reviewed her qualities the way one might when selecting a broodmare. “Meeting you in person confirms my assessment of you.”

  “What is your assessment, precisely?”

  “You have the strength and spirit that I am looking for in my duchess, Lady Beatrice. To be frank, I believe you will not wilt in the heat of Society’s disapproval of my half-siblings, nor will you back down from the challenge of keeping them in check. Moreover, you possess the maturity to understand the sort of marriage I’m proposing.”

  She raised her brows.

  “A partnership,” Knighton clarified. “One unclouded by sentiment, based rather on respect and shared goals.”

  It was strange how, not long ago, such an arrangement might have appealed to her. But not now. Not after Wick.

  He was, she noted, no longer at the piano with Fancy. He stood with an arm resting on the mantel, a glass of whisky in hand. His casual posture belied his brooding expression. She couldn’t blame him; she’d feel the same way if he was having an intimate tête-à-tête with a female who had intentions for him.

  To Knighton, she said, “You do me an honor with your offer, Your Grace, but I cannot accept.”

  “May I ask why?”

  Because the only man I’d consider marrying is Wick.

  “When it comes to marriage, I am looking for more than mutual respect,” she said.

  Knighton surprised her by taking her hand. “It is not only respect I offer, my lady. I am open to other delights of marriage,”—he brushed his lips over the back of her hand with startling warmth—“which, I assure you, can be thoroughly enjoyed without complicating emotions.”

  Wasn’t it strange that this precise idea—that tupping could be enjoyed without sentiment—had led her to the masquerade? And that fate had seen fit to pair her with Wick, the one man who could make her realize the truth?

  Emotionless coupling could indeed be pleasurable. But intimate coupling was far better.

  “Lady Beatrice, I believe it is my turn to escort you around the room?”

  Wick’s low, lethal tones broke her reverie. He’d approached, looking none too pleased.

  She pulled her hand from Knighton’s grasp.

  “Yes, of course,” she said, flustered. “If you’ll excuse me, Your Grace.”

  Knighton inclined his head, a flicker of amusement in his grey eyes. “I look forward to continuing our conversation at a later time, my lady.”

  15

  Nearing midnight, Wick opened the panel from the servants’ hallway and entered Beatrice’s bedchamber. He saw that his lover’s private domain was as well-appointed as the rest of her home. Airy and high-ceilinged, the room had celestial blue walls and white moldings, which suited the angelic beauty of its occupant…who, as it turned out, had a devilish streak.

  Beatrice was waiting for him in her bed, a canopied white confection that made him think of clouds. Ordinarily, the sight of her with her white-gold hair loose and shining, dressed in a simple white nightgown, would have made him instantly randy.

  Come to think of it, he was randy. But he was angry too.

  He stalked over to her side. “What the devil does Knighton want from you?”

  She peered up at him with those rare lavender eyes. Eyes that had been focused on the bloody duke all night. Eyes that ought to have been turned toward Wick, her lover and husband-to-be. It had taken all of Wick’s willpower not to call Knight—Knighton, damn the duke’s eyes—out.

  He hadn’t wanted to look like a jealous fool, although he’d felt like one. Which irked him further. How did Beatrice manage to tie him up in knots when no lady ever had before?

  She set aside the book she’d been reading. “Hello to you, too.”

  “You didn’t want to talk about it in the drawing room, said we would do so later.” Crossing his arms, he informed her, “This is later.”

  She sighed. “The gist of it is, along with his title, Knighton inherited four illegitimate half-siblings. He wants a duchess who has the pedigree and wherewithal to launch them into Society.”

  Wick narrowed his eyes. “And he asked you to fulfill this role?”

  She toyed with the coverlet. “I do meet the requirements.”

  “I’m going to kill him.”

  “There’s no need.” She gave him a smile that was probably meant to be pacifying. “I declined the offer. Told him that I wanted more than a marriage based on mutual goals and respect.”

  “And he let it go?”

  “Actually, he said he could offer more than that,” she hedged.

  “What exactly did he offer?”

  She bit her lip.

  “Spit it out, Beatrice.”

  “The, um, delights of marriage,” she muttered. “Minus emotional complications.”

  His hands balled at his sides. “Knighton’s a dead man.”

  “Wick, I turned him down.”

  “I don’t give a damn,” Wick ground out, pacing alongside the bed. “The bastard knows you’re mine, and he’s going after you anyway. I’m going to wring his bloody neck.”

  “Will you always be this much of a troglodyte?” She sounded exasperated.

  “Will you always attract this much male attention?” He shot her a glance—then nearly groaned at her puzzled expression. “Devil take it, you have no idea, do you?”

  “No idea of what?”

  “Of how goddamned beautiful you are.”

  From her furrowed brow to the way she sunk her teeth into her plump bottom lip, he knew that she didn’t. It was precisely that vulnerability mixed with her physical charms and passionate spirit that made her a magnet for male attention. And she had no clue about the extent of her desirability and probably never would.

  He’d have to spend a lifetime convincing her.

  “You make me feel beautiful,” she ventured softly.

  “You should feel that way because you are.” His irritation was no match for the luminous wonder in her eyes. Going to her, he tipped up her chin. “Inside and out, Lady Beatrice Wodehouse, you are the most irresistible woman I’ve ever met.”

  “I feel the same way about you,” she breathed.

  “That I’m an irresistible woman?”

  She blinked, then rolled her eyes. “No, you idiot. Just the irresistible part.”
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br />   “An irresistible idiot, am I?” Smiling, he tucked a silky tress behind her ear. “Have a care love, or all that flattery will go to my head.”

  “I think it has already.” She directed her gaze to the bulge in the front of his robe.

  “Minx,” he said with a grin. “You’ll be taking care of that soon enough. Now be a love and move over.”

  She made room for him, and he settled into the pillows, gathering her in his arms. With her head tucked against his chest, the fresh, flowery scent of her hair in his nostrils, he felt oddly content…even though he was as hard as a rock.

  “Wick?”

  “Hmm?”

  “There’s something I have to tell you…that I meant to tell you when you first came in.”

  At her hesitant tone, his sense of peace fled. “If Knighton said anything else to you, I swear I’ll—”

  “It’s not about him. It’s about us, and our, um, plans for tonight.”

  Feeling her tense up, he rolled them over. He lay atop her, his weight braced on his arms, and looked into her face, which was as red as an apple. “What is it, love?”

  “I can’t make love tonight,” she blurted.

  He frowned, not because of what she was saying but because of her obvious distress.

  “That’s fine, of course,” he said gently. “I want you to tell me when you don’t feel like making love.”

  “It’s not that I don’t feel like it.”

  The misery on her face made his chest clench. “What is it then? You can talk to me.”

  “I can’t…oh, dash it. It’s that time. Of month.”

  Understanding flooded him. So that was what had ruffled his little termagant. With his knowledge of female biology, he ought to have guessed, but the truth was the topic had never come up with past lovers. His partners had all been experienced; he’d assumed that they kept track of such things and simply didn’t schedule rendezvous during those times. Whatever the case, they’d never discussed such intimate feminine matters with him.