The Duke’s Hidden Desire

by Blackwood, Gemma

  The Duke’s Hidden Desire

  Gemma Blackwood

  Copyright © 2019 by Gemma Blackwood

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  About Gemma Blackwood

  I love hearing from my readers! If you have any questions, comments, or just want to get in touch, please email me at

  gemmablackwoodauthor@gmail.com.

  Alternatively, you can find me on facebook - click here!

  Standalones

  The Duke’s Defiant Debutante

  Destiny’s Duchess

  Redeeming the Rakes Series

  The Duke Suggests a Scandal

  Taming the Wild Captain

  Let the Lady Decide

  Make Me a Marchioness

  Scandals of Scarcliffe Hall

  The Earl’s Secret Passion

  The Duke’s Hidden Desire

  The Lady He Longed For - coming soon

  The Baron’s Inconvenient Bride - coming soon

  Sign up to my mailing list to receive a free copy of the prequel novella to Scandals of Scarcliffe Hall and an additional romantic short story set in Regency England!

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  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Also by Gemma Blackwood

  Free Reads from Gemma Blackwood!

  Author’s Note

  This is the second book in the series Scandals of Scarcliffe Hall.

  You do not have to read book one to enjoy this one!

  However, there are some connections between the books which will reward readers of the whole series.

  1

  Scarcliffe Hall, England, 1820

  Of all the houses Anna Hawkins had visited with her father, Scarcliffe Hall was the most impressive. Tonight, of all nights, it made a particular impression upon her as their carriage trundled up the long driveway. An enormous building of pale sandstone, fronted by four round buttresses and crested by crenellations more fit for a castle, it was arrayed with glass windows which all blazed with light. The cost of the candles alone made her shudder.

  Theirs was not the only carriage to arrive that evening. The Marquess of Lilistone was throwing a ball, and everyone of any substance in the surrounding country was invited. As Anna’s father helped her from the carriage, she saw the feathered headdresses of the marquess’s guests bobbing as the fine ladies made their entrances. The doorway, when they reached it, opened on a blaze of colour and animation. Jewels sparkled in the candlelight; champagne fizzed in cut-crystal glasses; laughter bubbled through the air.

  Anna took a moment to glance down at her own dress, a practical brown muslin, and wished that her father had found time to leave her at home before attending this urgent call.

  The butler whisked them away upstairs, drawing not even a glance from the guests, and soon Anna found herself in the familiar half-darkness of a sickroom.

  A visit to a patient followed a similar pattern wherever they went – even if this sickroom boasted a carved mahogany sofa, curtains made from the finest velvet, and a set of furnishings that looked as though they alone cost more than her father’s entire house.

  “Ah! Dr Hawkins!” the marquess boomed from his seat. He was surrounded by a vast quantity of stuffed cushions, and his leg was propped up on a stool and swathed in bandages. “It’s very good of you to come out at such short notice! I would not have troubled you myself, but my sons do like to fuss over me!”

  “It’s always a pleasure to see you, my lord,” said Anna’s father, bowing deeply. “I will do all I can to get you back on your feet.”

  The marquess pushed himself up from his stack of pillows, craning his neck to get a better look at Anna. “Have you brought Miss Hawkins with you? Come closer, girl. Let me get a look at you.”

  “Good evening, my lord,” said Anna, making her best curtsey. The marquess shook his head, tutting.

  “I’m sure she’s indispensable to you, Hawkins, but I must say I don’t think nursing is a suitable activity for a young lady of such delicacy.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” said Anna’s father. Only she could hear the smile in his voice. “I can assure you that my daughter does not perform any medical duties. Anna and I were on our way back from a social call when your messenger found us, and I thought it best not to spare the time to drop her at home. Besides, I assure you that she is more than capable of tending to the sick.”

  “Each to his own,” sniffed the marquess. “It is good for a young woman to learn a useful skill, I suppose.”

  “Now, if you will permit me to examine you, my lord,” said Anna’s father, unperturbed by the marquess’s grumbles. “Then we will see what needs to be done. Is it a recurrence of the gout?”

  “Yes, and a dratted nuisance, too.” Lord Lilistone threw off his blankets and hiked up his trouser leg.

  “Step outside a moment, Anna,” said the doctor, pulling up a chair to the marquess’s bedside.

  “Good gracious, man, it’s only a leg!” said Lord Lilistone. “Since the young lady takes an interest, let her stay. I trust you do not intend to make as great a fuss over me as my sons have done. I have a ball to attend, you know. All I need is a tincture or two to relieve the blasted pain in my leg, and I’ll be dancing as prettily as any of them!” He fixed Anna with a steely stare. “I seem to recall that you were invited to the ball, young lady. Whose evening entertainment was deemed more important than mine, pray tell?”

  Anna knew that she had to speak carefully to avoid offending the marquess, but she was not frightened by his accusing tone. Her father had attended him many times over the years, and she knew that his bark was worse than his bite. “We were only visiting the Widow Johnson, my lord. Of course, it was nothing compared to your ball. But you know, I am sure, that my father also attends the Duke of Loxwell –”

  “Hmph!” Lord Lilistone’s snort of disdain made his opinion of the duke perfectly clear. The two were old enemies, embroiled in a bitter family feud that had lasted for generations. “Yes, yes, you are right to remind me! No doubt you could not offend him by attending my ball. What nonsense! Is the man so thin-skinned? Oh!” This last exclamation was a sharp cry of pain. Anna’s father had lifted the marquess’s leg gently to move it into the light. The knee was badly swollen and had turned a painful-looking red.

  “There has been no injury to the area?” Dr Hawkins asked, as the marquess shifted uncomfortably.

  “No, no. Only this inconvenient swelling.”

  “And the pain has recently increased?”

  “Haven’t been able to walk on it since this morning!”

/>   “See, Anna, we have here the classic symptoms of gout –”

  “Redness, swelling, and pain in the joints of the lower leg,” she said immediately. Her father smiled.

  “And what treatments are preferred?”

  “The affected limb must be bandaged and elevated. In addition, the patient should avoid eating red meat, and drinking port wine.”

  “Just so,” said her father. “You see, my lord, Anna is in perfect agreement with me. A tincture will do you no good. You must rest the leg, keep it propped up, and avoid –”

  “Avoid everything that brings me pleasure in my old age!” grumbled the marquess. “It’s too much, Dr Hawkins, too much entirely.”

  “Nevertheless, my lord, the cause of gout is in the diet,” said Anna. “If you wish to cure it, you must adjust your dining habits accordingly.”

  Lord Lilistone pushed himself up from his stack of cushions, craning his neck to get a better look at her. “You are very sure of yourself, Miss Hawkins.”

  “I have studied hard to become so.”

  “Studied! You have a bluestocking on your hands here, Hawkins! Well, Miss, you were lucky to get yourself betrothed despite this penchant for study. I did hear, did I not, that you were recently engaged?”

  “I am, my lord.”

  “Pleasant fellow, is he? Treats you well?”

  An image of Mr Gilbert Jackson, the man in question, flickered across Anna’s mind. She supposed he was pleasant enough, but that was not why she had agreed to marry him. “He treats me very well, my lord.”

  “Good. A bright young thing like yourself deserves a kind husband. Well, Hawkins, I am persuaded. I will take your daughter’s wise advice. Do excuse us a moment, Miss Hawkins. Your father will want to leech this blasted leg, and that is not a sight fit for a lady’s eyes.”

  Anna curtsied and left the room. She had accompanied her father often enough to know that when a patient wanted privacy, it was given without question – though she did smile at the thought that the sight of a few leeches might offend her.

  She withdrew into the corridor, where the sounds of the party downstairs were just audible. Lively music was playing. Anna found her foot tapping a rhythm against the marquess’s thickly-carpeted floor.

  A short way down the corridor, a door stood ajar. Anna struggled with her own curiosity for a few moments, weighing up the potential embarrassment of being caught snooping through Scarcliffe Hall against her desire to get a look at the richly-clad guests.

  Curiosity won. Glancing around to check that no-one was watching, Anna crept into the open room and found, to her delight, that it had a large window overlooking the grounds.

  It seemed to be some kind of private sitting room, with a few doors leading off to what were presumably the bedroom, the dressing room, and the water closet. Anna took a moment to look around and take in the wealth on display. The sitting room was larger than her father’s kitchen and contained much more open space. An intricately-pattered rug lay on the floor. Plasterwork fruits and vines twined in opulent patterns around the edges of the ceiling. A huge mirror hung over the fireplace, making the room seem even bigger than it was. Anna caught sight of her own reflection and immediately wished she had not. Her dress, serviceable as it was, hardly matched her surroundings. Even the long auburn hair which she considered the only really beautiful feature she possessed was pinned away beneath a plain white bonnet. She did not have even a ribbon or a piece of lace to soften it.

  It was all very well to dress sensibly when she was accompanying her father around Loxton town. Anna wished for a moment that there had been time to stop at home and change into something fit for the eyes of a marquess and his guests… but of course, if there had been any time, her father would simply have left her at home.

  Anna moved to the window and was immediately disappointed. The largeness of the house had confused her sense of direction. The window did not look out over the part of the gardens where guests mingled under bright candlelight at all, but over a dark and empty topiary garden.

  If Anna had been hosting the ball, she would have opened up that maze of mysterious dark trees to her guests. It looked the perfect place for all manner of intrigues and secret liaisons…

  Perhaps that was the precise reason the marquess had chosen not to use it. Reputation and honour meant everything to the peerage, after all. A masked ball was already ripe for mischief – better not to invite it further.

  As far as Anna was concerned, the sheer cost of the masquerade was already scandal enough. The expense of all those silk and lace dresses! The endless flow of French wine! The musicians, the liveried footmen, the food, the decorations! She was glad she had not accepted her own invitation.

  Anna often felt caught between two worlds, spending most of her time among the very poor, but being a gentleman’s daughter. Her father’s profession gave her the opportunity to peer beyond the gilded curtain which the gentry used to obscure that which they didn’t care to see. She was as much disgusted by the extravagance of the masquerade as she was, despite herself, intrigued.

  A flicker of movement among the bushes below interrupted her chain of thought. Anna was just leaning closer to the window to get a better look when she heard the part-open door slam closed behind her.

  Anna whirled around to find herself confronted by a masked man wearing the costume of a Venetian gondolier. He looked her up and down with undisguised amazement.

  “Well, well,” he said softly. “It seems we have an intruder.”

  2

  Benjamin Colborne, Duke of Beaumont, attended balls only on sufferance.

  It was not that he did not enjoy dancing. Beaumont had been given the finest education money could buy, which had included an Italian dancing master whose tongue was as sharp as his footwork. In fact, Beaumont flattered himself that he was among the most graceful denizens of any given dancefloor.

  Champagne was one of his favourite beverages. Witty conversation was his pastime of choice. Late nights, pretty women, and a lively atmosphere were very much all right by him.

  For lesser men, Beaumont knew, there was nothing so delightful as a ball, for all the reasons he had just listed. But, sadly, it was not a pleasure in which he could indulge.

  He was a duke. Not only a duke, but a young, unmarried duke with a face he judged reasonably attractive and a temperament designed to please. His life was replete with blessings and, as a result, he was the chief object of every matchmaking mama in England.

  Who, after all, was more eligible, more popular, more desirable among the ladies, than the Duke of Beaumont?

  Beaumont rarely passed an evening in society without having at least three pretty young girls thrust to his attention. It was an experience that he found as mortifying as the girls found exciting. Even supposing one of them happened to catch his eye, what was he supposed to do with her? Marry? Marry, and relinquish every pleasure of his happily unattached lifestyle? Anchor himself once and forever to a duchess who would police his late nights and languid mornings, demanding more of his attention than his dogs, his horses, his tenants and parliament itself?

  The thought was enough to make a man shudder in his boots. No, Beaumont was not for marriage. He had a very extensive family of male relations, all of whom seemed to be eminently qualified to marry, produce heirs, and take over the dukedom when he was gone. While he remained on this earth, he intended to pass time as he desired it. In all his thirty years, no man – more to the point, no woman – had been able to convince him otherwise.

  It was, therefore, only as a favour to his particular friend Robert, the Earl of Scarcliffe, son of the Marquess of Lilistone, that he had agreed to attend the ball at Scarcliffe Hall.

  The fact that it was a masquerade made his decision much easier. Beaumont had a connoisseur’s appreciation for intrigue which his well-known face rendered difficult to indulge. To lose himself in a crowd of lavishly-dressed social butterflies, masked and disguised and entirely unrecognised, was a rare pleasure.<
br />
  “Well, signor,” said the young lady he had recently whisked about the dancefloor, a little breathless. “I must thank you for a most exhilarating dance!”

  “The pleasure was entirely mine, Miss Somerville,” he answered, bending low to kiss her hand. Somerville, of course, was not her real name. The girl laughed prettily, sending the blue feathers she wore in her peacock mask bobbing. “Allow me to fetch you some refreshment?”

  Rather than accepting his offer, the peacock-feathered girl drew him aside with a finger pressed to her lips. “I rather fear you may wish to disappear, Signor Gondoliere.” With a subtle nod, she indicated the group of giggling girls watching them from a distance. “I am afraid the identity of the noble waterman of Venice has been discovered.”

  Beaumont recognised the look those women wore. It was the same expression that might be found on his own face when he approached the unlucky fox out on the hunt. “Blast! What gave me away?”

  The peacock girl smirked beneath her mask. “Nobody dances like the Duke of Beaumont, Your Grace… ah, I mean, Signor Antonio.”

  Beaumont kissed her hand again. “Then my dancing is done for the evening, I fear. May I press upon you to join me out on the balcony for a glass of champagne? Once we are out of the light, you know, we may speak to each other quite freely.”

  The peacock girl tilted her head to one side. “Pray excuse me, signore. I find my own dancing is not quite done.”