At The Duke's Pleasure

by Tracy Anne Warren

So that was the reason she’d never come to London. Although he had to admit he hadn’t given it much consideration before. Until recently, he’d always thought of her as a child, too young for beaux and parties—or marriage. But she was one-and-twenty now and well past the age when most aristocratic young women had their presentation to Society. He ought to have questioned her situation sooner and wondered over her absence from Town.

  “So your objection lies with me, then? You believe we would not suit?”

  Her lovely eyes widened before she glanced away, the room growing so quiet of a sudden that he could hear wind tugging at one of the windowpanes.

  “I believe, Your Grace,” she said, as her eyes lifted again to meet his own, “that we barely know one another. I have not the basis to judge whether or not we shall truly suit.”

  Abruptly, he relaxed, not realizing until that moment how tense he’d been. “Well, that’s a situation which can be remedied easily enough. And we need not set a wedding date right away. Many couples wait several months before they exchange vows, and we may do the same. During the engagement, we’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other better.” He paused again, studying her expression. “Unless you have taken a dislike to me.”

  Colour washed into her cheeks and she glanced away once more. “I do not dislike you, Your Grace,” she murmured in a low tone. “It is simply that I do not wish to…m-marry, as I told you before.”

  “You mean not marry at all?” His eyebrows shot up. “Now that would be a crime against humanity. Besides, a young woman in your position must marry, you have to know that.”

  “I know nothing of the kind. Can you not simply go to Papa and tell him you have changed your mind? That you do not wish to honour our betrothal after all?”

  “No, I am afraid I cannot,” he said in a serious tone. “I have considered this fully and a marriage between us makes excellent sense. I have my duty to uphold, as well as my lineage, and I believe you will make an admirable duchess. My father thought so and yours does as well.” He leaned forward and reached for her hand, noting that her fingers were cold and stiff.

  “You will not find me a difficult husband, Claire. I promise to make no untoward demands upon you and you shall always be treated with the utmost respect. I will want an heir or two, I admit, but not until you are ready. You may have as much time as you require to feel at ease in my company.”

  Which, he thought, is a great deal more than most young women are given. In the Ton, it was the rare couple who knew each other well before marriage, since unmarried men and women were permitted little opportunity to be alone together. They might meet a few times at a ball or party, share a walk or ride out in an open carriage, but their interactions were hardly the stuff of great intimacy. For many, that level of interaction came after the vows were said.

  Then he recalled her missed Season and their utter lack of a normal courtship. Mayhap it would please her to have her presentation at court, to be a debutante, however briefly, even if the exercise was, in many regards, only for show.

  “Why do I not speak with your father again and tell him that you must travel to London for the Season,” he said in a gentle tone. “That way, you may have your come-out, after all. Once the summer is over, we will be better acquainted and you may settle then on a wedding date.”

  Slowly, she pulled her hand from his. “And that is your final decision? That we shall marry regardless of my wishes? Is honouring this betrothal so very important to you then?”

  Is it? he considered, remembering again his mother’s urging to abandon the old promise and simply walk away. And yet he found he didn’t want to. He needed a suitable duchess, and the idea of starting the search afresh left him unbearably weary. He’d seen the crop of eligible ladies, and none of them stirred the least hint of interest within him. And as he’d already reasoned on his journey here, Lady Claire had been bred for the role and would make an excellent helpmeet.

  She might believe she didn’t want this marriage, but he was confident he could change her mind. Perhaps he didn’t have the same wild reputation as his brothers, but he well knew how to woo a woman. He didn’t believe it a boast to say that all Byron men were skilled in the art of seduction—a gift that seemed to run in the blood.

  As he studied Claire now, he forced himself to see her through a man’s eyes—not as the infant he’d once held, but as a woman fully grown. What he saw pleased him, more than he might have imagined.

  Her height, as he’d already noted, was slightly above the average, but that was only to the good for a tall man like himself. Her bone structure was delicate, with small hands and wrists. He speculated that her ankles and feet shared similar proportions and wished of a sudden that he could tug up her skirts a few inches to find out. Her figure was slender and pleasingly formed as well, with curves in all the choicest locations.

  As for her face, she was lovely, with an almost ethereal kind of beauty. Her oval features were very English, very refined, with luminous blue eyes, a pert nose and lips that were shaped like a bow.

  When the time came, making love to her would be no burden, but rather a delight. He knew he would enjoy teaching her that there was pleasure to be found, even in the midst of doing one’s duty.

  “You are correct,” he stated. “My mind is quite firm in this regard. I feel it incumbent upon us both to honour the wishes of our families, no matter the admittedly feudal nature of our alliance. But as I said, we have time. After all, we’ve been affianced for the past twenty-one years. What’s another several months, give or take a few?”

  Her bow of a mouth lengthened into a tight line. “Well then, I suppose you leave me little choice. We shall proceed as you suggest, Your Grace.”

  He smiled. “In a spirit of accord, I would ask that you call me Edward, at least when we are in private. I hope you will grant me leave to call you Claire?”

  “If you wish, Your Grace…Edward.”

  I cannot do this, Claire thought a few hours later, when she was once again alone in her bedchamber. I cannot marry the duke.

  Yet circumstances were rapidly leading her down that path, and if she could not find a way to prevent the nuptials, she would find herself standing with him at the altar taking vows.

  Wrapping her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, she paced across the room. At least he hadn’t accepted her mother’s invitation to remain for dinner, sparing Claire the necessity of acting the happy fiancée in front of everyone. Instead, he’d closeted himself with her father for another brief exchange, then taken his leave, promising to call upon her again soon.

  Now here she was, wondering what was to be done.

  She paced a few more steps across the hand-loomed, brown woollen carpet, then sank with a tremulous sigh onto her bed. Resting her elbows on her knees, she covered her face with her palms.

  The duke’s countenance rose instantly before her mind’s eye, every crisp feature and well-defined plane, replaced afresh over the earlier memory of him that she’d carried within herself these past five years.

  Edward.

  The man she was supposed to marry.

  The man she loved and wished to God she did not.

  For therein lay the problem. Edward Byron might want her for his wife, but he didn’t want her—Claire Marsden. He didn’t love her, and deep in her soul she knew he never would.

  The remembered scent of honeysuckle teased her senses for the flicker of an instant, just as it always did when her thoughts turned back to that warm August night so many years ago…

  Claire floated down the hallway that led to the gardens planted along the east side of the house. Or at least it seemed as though she were floating, since today was one of the most glorious days of her life.

  And why should it not be? she mused, when she was sixteen years old and in love with the most wonderful man in all of England. Likely all of Europe too. For that matter, the whole wide world!

  She giggled to herself at the notion, feeling half-drunk even th
ough she’d been allowed to sip only a single glass of wine at dinner, and watered wine at that.

  Edward Byron was a dream and not just because he happened to be an incredibly handsome, immensely wealthy duke. Rather it was because of who he was as a person. Strong, thoughtful and intelligent, he possessed an intensity that made one feel uniquely special. When he set her in his sights, it was as though she’d been singled out to bask in a radiant beam of sunshine.

  Or perhaps the munificence of a god.

  Not that he was a god; she wasn’t so foolish as to believe that. He was simply a man with the same faults and foibles as everyone else—although to date she had yet to glimpse a single flaw. Regardless, she was sure he must have some imperfection hidden away somewhere. Whatever the case, he was an amazing man with a charm and magnetism that had the power to send shivers racing over her skin even now. Her mouth grew dry at the thought, her step slowing as she paused to press a fist against her frantically beating heart.

  Two days ago, when he’d first arrived at the house for her parents’ weekend country party, she’d been a little afraid to meet him. After all, she hadn’t seen him since she was a child, and even then he’d been an adult, being nearly a dozen years her senior. What if he thought her awkward? What if he decided she was plain? Or worse, a bore?

  But the instant they’d met again, she’d been enchanted, his every word and gesture setting her completely at her ease. By that first evening, she’d been well and truly smitten. And continually amazed that the man to whom she’d been betrothed from infancy could turn out to be such a perfect match for her.

  Of course he made no romantic overtures toward her, seeing that she was far too young yet for such declarations—at least not in front of her parents. But in two more years she would be a grown woman. In two more years she would be ready to take her place as his wife. Their fathers had agreed to the union, and so long as the duke still wished it, she was to be his bride! She could hardly wait, could scarcely catch her breath for the excitement and anticipation of being his to have and to hold forever.

  Which was why she’d decided to follow him to the garden. Outside, where there would be an opportunity for them to be alone. Where the balmy darkness might tempt him to see her as a desirable young woman and maybe, if she was very lucky, coax him to steal a kiss.

  A fresh rush of longing filled her, goose bumps rising on her bare forearms as she opened the door into the garden and padded through on slippered feet. Following the path most gentlemen took when they wanted to indulge in a cheroot, she hurried into the darkness. Her step slowed when she heard voices.

  Immediately, she recognized the low, silvery tones of the duke, identifying the rumbling cadence of his words rather than their exact meaning. Then another person answered, a second voice that was higher and lighter—and distinctly female.

  Claire drew to a halt, her movements soundless on the crushed shell path. She waited, hesitant about whether to withdraw. Then she heard her name.

  “Pray do not tell me the rumours are true about you and that Marsden chit,” the woman said. “Why, the girl isn’t even out of the schoolroom. When Paula Syberton told me there is some understanding between you and that child, I was sure she must be having me on. Tell me I’m right so that I may give her a sound thrashing with my handkerchief when next we meet.”

  Very softly Clybourne cleared his throat. “As it happens, Lady Syberton is correct, at least in so far as the existence of an understanding. It is of very long standing, however, and not of my design. Nothing between the young lady and myself is settled. She is, as you said, scarcely out of leading strings.”

  Leading strings! Claire thought, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. He makes me sound the veriest child when I am nearly a woman full-grown!

  “So she is,” his companion agreed. “Still, some men like their females young and innocent. Have you no desire to take a bride?”

  “A bride, yes, when the time comes, since the continuation of my line demands no less. But an infant? I think not,” he retorted with an obvious shudder in his voice. “Don’t mistake the matter, she’s a nice enough little girl and pretty in her way, but I’ve no interest in taking her to wife.”

  “Then if you are not here to renew this old alliance of yours, why did you come for the weekend?”

  “Edgewater and I have business, estate matters concerning rights usage of some adjoining lands. I thought it would be simpler to meet in person and resolve the situation amicably rather than get the lawyers involved.” He sighed. “Besides, he’s been sending invitations my way for ages. I thought it was time I finally accepted one and have done.”

  Claire hugged her arms around herself, suddenly cold in spite of the balmy evening air.

  “Of course, the earl and countess have been pushing Lady Claire in my direction from the moment of my arrival. I’ve tried to be pleasant to her for her parents’ sake, but I’m a grown man. What interest do I have in a sixteen-year-old girl?”

  “What indeed?” agreed his companion in a sultry tone. Claire now recognized the voice as belonging to Lady Bettis. Beautiful, raven-haired, Society darling Lady Bettis, who was well-known for the interesting, influential lovers she took. So well-known that even she—sheltered, naïve Claire Marsden—had heard whispers of the woman’s exploits.

  “You’re right that you’d be bored with a girl like her. Only a woman will do for you, darling. An inventive, experienced woman who can satisfy all your needs,” Lady Bettis continued.

  The duke chuckled softly. “Do I take it you’re applying for the position?”

  Felicia Bettis’s laughter rang through the air like bells. “Oh, I know all sorts of positions. Care to try a few?”

  Quiet descended. For a moment, Claire wondered what they were doing.

  Oh stars, are they kissing?

  She swallowed against the rush of bile that scalded the lining of her throat. She knew she should turn and hurry back to the house, but her legs refused to work, as immobile as one of the shrubs that were concealing her from view.

  “So, you won’t be marrying her then, not even in the future?” Lady Bettis murmured.

  “Why do you care, Felicia, whom I may marry? Particularly since you already have a husband.”

  “Curiosity. No more. No less.” She paused. “Oh, don’t be disagreeable. Go on. Do tell.”

  “There’s not much to tell, since I am far from certain of the answer. The only thing I know for sure is that I’m in no hurry to give up my bachelor status. But if I ever do decide to follow through on this betrothal to the Marsden girl, it will be for duty’s sake alone. She has the bloodlines to make a proper bride, and luckily love isn’t a requirement for the begetting of sons.”

  And that’s when Claire turned and ran, when she could stand to hear no more over the sound of her own shattering heart.

  She’d hated him for a long while after, determined to drive him from her mind and emotions. And as time passed, she’d nearly succeeded—hours elapsing during which she scarcely thought of him, then days, weeks and eventually months.

  When she turned eighteen and her father decided not to give her a London Season, she’d made no complaint, inwardly relieved that she wouldn’t have cause to encounter the duke. And when another year, then two, and three passed without any contact from Clybourne about the betrothal, she’d convinced herself that he’d rejected the idea of a marriage between them for good.

  Then two weeks ago she’d received his letter.

  And his visit.

  The instant she’d watched him stride into her parents’ drawing room and heard the rich, rounded tones of his mellifluous voice, she’d known that time had made no difference at all. A part of her might resent him, even hate him, but love lingered as well; the spark was buried deep but still burned improbably strong. All it would take was the faintest whisper to fan the flames back to life.

  And that she could not allow.

  A silly, girlish crush had nearly broken her. Wh
at would be left of her if she married him and fell truly and irrevocably in love? How would she survive knowing he cared nothing for her? That she was simply a duty and a convenience. A wellborn broodmare capable of giving him heirs and serving as his hostess and the chatelaine of his homes.

  He might provide her with an easy, pampered existence. He might even be kind to her in his own way. But no amount of material pleasure could replace the one thing she needed the most. The one thing she was certain he would never share.

  His love.

  Some might argue that she should fight for his attention, his affection. And perhaps she might win. But what if she did not? What if she gave everything, only to lose? She knew enough to realize that the defeat would destroy her. That she would die inside one slow, small piece at a time, until all that remained was a ghost of someone who used to be Claire Marsden.

  I cannot take that chance, she thought now, as she lifted her head and gave a sigh. Not when he speaks of alliances and obligations. Not when he gazes at me with appraisal in his eyes, but no affection.

  No love.

  Before she gave herself further opportunity to consider, she sprang to her feet and crossed the room. Marching out into the hall, she took the stairs at the quick clip. Her footsteps slowed, however, when she reached the door to her father’s study.

  Briefly, she hesitated. Then, straightening her shoulders as though preparing for battle, she raised a hand and knocked.

  “Come.”

  At her father’s softly worded command, she entered the room, careful to close the door behind her. She found him seated in an armchair near the fire, reading a newspaper by the light of a single candle. The meager illumination provided scant defence against the night-shrouded interior, leaving the room draped in thick shadows.

  As she moved forward, the earl peered at her over the tops of his silver-framed spectacles. “Claire, what are you doing back downstairs?” he asked. “I thought you’d retired for the evening.”

  “I…um…I was going to, but I found that I could not sleep.” Walking farther into the room, she sank into a nearby chair.