Duke I’d Like to F…

by Sierra Simone

  Sundridge blinked at her. “Don’t care for cricket, do you?”

  Was that the topic on which he’d been rambling? “Our dance will end soon, and I wished to ask a question before we part.”

  “Oh. Has this to do with cricket?”

  “No, actually.” God help her. “It has to do with us. Are you . . . that is, our fathers . . .”

  “Yes?” He had the nerve to sound impatient.

  “Are you considering marriage? To me, I mean?” Two months ago, this conversation would have mortified her. Now, too much hung in the balance not to address it.

  “I . . . yes. I thought my intent was quite clear.”

  “Why?”

  “Why is it clear?”

  “No, why me?”

  He cleared his throat. “Well, why not?”

  Hardly a statement of ever-loving devotion. “I cannot see that we have anything in common.”

  “You shall come to like cricket, Lady Violet, I swear.”

  “It’s more than that. We hardly know one another.” She lowered her voice. “Wouldn’t you rather marry a girl with whom you are somewhat familiar?”

  He gave her a look that suggested she belonged in an insane asylum. “You seem like a nice, quiet girl, docile. I think we’ll get on just fine.”

  He made her sound like a cow. Her back straightened, anger burning her throat. “I am hardly quiet. I have opinions and thoughts of my own, which I cannot verbalize because you never cease talking!”

  Heads around them swiveled. The other dancers looked shocked at the outburst, and she pressed her lips together, chagrined . . . but not apologetic.

  Indeed, this was not the time or place for such a conversation, though she did intend to dissuade him from offering for her. Soon.

  “Excuse me, my lord.” Offering a quick curtsy, she dashed off the dance floor and headed toward the terrace doors. She kept her head down and hoped Max wouldn’t see her. She needed solitude at the moment, not Max’s insistence that all marriages were miserable or—God forbid—another offer to help find her a husband. How would she survive it if the only man she’d ever wanted arranged to wed her off to someone else?

  Violet would rather die.

  And what happened if she could not get out of a marriage to Sundridge?

  A light mist fell onto the empty terrace, the dreary type of precipitation London served in a never-ending supply. Violet didn’t mind the water. It felt cool on her overheated skin, a balm for the rawness in her chest. Was this her destiny? To marry a man she didn’t want and relive memories of Max for the rest of her life?

  She tilted her face to the sky and let the rain mix with the tears building on her lashes.

  What am I to do with you, my sweet girl?

  His words haunted her, even hours later. Love me, she’d wanted to tell him. Never let me go. But she knew what he would have said in response . . . and it would have broken her heart.

  Can I do this?

  Could she love a man who would never claim her publicly? Who would rather keep her hidden away in the darkness? Violet had once thought it wouldn’t bother her, that she would do anything the Duke of Ravensthorpe asked.

  But it hurt. Far more than she’d ever expected. She didn’t want to hide or pretend. She longed to be at his side, in the daylight. Bear his children. Be his wife.

  That would never happen. He’d made it painfully clear from the start.

  A sound near the door had her wiping her face. Was it Max? She didn’t wish for him to find her crying out here.

  “Lady Violet?”

  Sundridge. Her shoulders sank.

  Turning, she folded her arms and inclined her head. “My lord.”

  After casting an unhappy glance at the sky, he drew closer, stopping just within reach. His dark blond hair immediately lost its artful tousling thanks to the water droplets. “I sensed you were upset on the dance floor and I wanted to check on your welfare. And apologize, of course, for whatever I might have said to aid in your distress.”

  Perhaps Sundridge wasn’t so bad after all. “Thank you. I shouldn’t have raised the topic of marriage in such a public place, I suppose.”

  “I had assumed . . . Well, I assumed when I kept asking you to dance that you realized I was serious about courting you.”

  “Why me?”

  “As I said, I’ve found nothing objectionable about you. I think we shall get on quite well together.”

  “Is it the dowry?” Violet was aware that her status as an heiress would entice nearly any man. Save Max, of course.

  “We do need it,” he said. “I cannot pretend otherwise. That is not my only reason for choosing you, however.”

  Do I not get a choice, as well? She wished to shout the question into the cool night air, but what good would it serve? The answer was obvious, and everyone knew it. Still, she had to try. “What if I told you my heart was promised to another?”

  Sundridge lifted a bony shoulder. “I think we should focus on friendship and compatibility. A marriage is a partnership, sort of like a cricket team. You see—”

  “What about happiness?”

  “If you are asking if I’ll tolerate pursuits outside of our marriage, I won’t object. We’ll need children, of course, but that’s no hardship.”

  Violet wilted, unable to countenance what was happening. Her life was spinning out of control, her future full of nothing but misery and compromise.

  Sundridge gripped her arm and moved closer. “May I call you Violet?” Without awaiting an answer, he said, “Violet, I realize how young girls romanticize these things, but this is a time for strategy. Like in cricket, you might give up something now to gain a run or two later.”

  What in God’s name was he talking about? She tried to pull free, to no avail. “You aren’t listening to me—”

  A voice cracked through the night like the lash from a whip. “Release her.”

  The Duke of Ravensthorpe emerged from the gloom, looking like an avenging angel ready to lay waste to everything in his path. Violet’s heart clenched as he stalked forward, his eyes burning into the younger man at her side. “I said to release her, Sundridge. Now.”

  Sundridge held up his hands. “I—I didn’t hurt her, I swear.”

  Max glanced at Violet. “Are you hurt, Lady Violet?”

  “No, Your Grace.” She didn’t know what do. Why was Max here? Had he been worried about her? She bit her lip and tried to contain the urge to throw herself into his arms.

  You’re a secret. You’ll always be just a secret.

  Max rounded on the younger man. “You are lucky no one else caught you out here. Were you trying to ruin her reputation? I hadn’t thought you such a bounder, Sundridge.”

  “I came to converse with her. That’s all.” Sundridge sidled away from Max, his skin going pale. “I never meant any disrespect.”

  Max advanced, his hands curling into fists. “I saw her try to pull away when you grabbed her. Are you telling me I am wrong?”

  Sundridge’s back met the balustrade. He was trapped. Max didn’t stop, snatching Sundridge’s throat in a strong hand and leaning in. The younger man pleaded, “Your Grace, I swear. It was innocent. We were only talking. Tell him, Lady Violet!”

  “I know what I saw,” Max snarled and shook Sundridge once. “I ought to punch you in the mouth for lying.”

  Sundridge’s face started to turn purple and Violet panicked. She’d never seen Max this enraged, this out of control. Would he honestly harm Sundridge in the midst of a ball?

  Rushing forward, she put her hand on Max’s arm. “Max, stop. Let him go!”

  Max released Sundridge’s throat and the younger man began to cough in an effort to breathe. Not quite finished, Max jerked Sundridge by a lapel and tossed him in the direction of the terrace steps. “Go home, Sundridge. And if I ever see you near her again I’ll make certain you regret it.”

  Sundridge didn’t look back. He hurried down the stone steps and disappeared into the gardens, likel
y headed to the mews. Max smoothed his jacket and pulled on his cuffs. She frowned at him, shocked by his display of irrational behavior. “Have you lost your—”

  “What in the bloody hell, Ravensthorpe?”

  Spinning, she saw her father near the French doors—and he appeared livid.

  The rage-induced fog began to recede from Max’s brain, only to be replaced by dread. Violet’s father stood on the terrace, his mouth flattened into a furious line. Just how much had Charles seen and heard?

  Max decided to go with the easiest reaction, which was righteous imperviousness. “I was returning from the gardens, Mayhew, when I happened along Sundridge manhandling your daughter. I assumed you’d appreciate my lending her my protection to avoid a nasty scene.”

  Charles stalked forward, his dress shoes slapping on the wet stone. “You were not in the gardens, Ravensthorpe, because I saw you slip out the terrace doors a few moments ago. I followed because I wished to talk to you—and then I catch you nearly strangling a man to death and my daughter calling you Max.” He pointed in Max’s face. “So I’ll ask again, what in the bloody hell is going on?”

  Shit. Charles had seen and heard most all of it, apparently. Though his chest burned with regret, Max forced out a lie. “I am saving your daughter’s reputation, obviously.”

  “Violet, return inside,” Charles barked, not taking his eyes off Max.

  “But Papa—”

  “Now, Violet.”

  Max raised a brow, using calm logic to diffuse this disastrous situation. “She’s soaked to the bone, Mayhew. You cannot order her inside the ballroom in her current state.”

  Charles’s gaze, full of fury and resentment, narrowed on Max before shifting to his daughter. “Go around the side of the house and find our carriage. Now.”

  Max had to bite his tongue to keep from admonishing his friend for the way he spoke to Violet, who had done absolutely nothing wrong in this instance. Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back and tried to wipe any trace of emotion off his face.

  “No, Papa. If you are going to discuss me, then I have a right to stay.”

  “Absolutely not. Get to the carriage this instant, daughter.” Charles did not waver and Violet licked her lips, uncertainty creeping into in her expression.

  Finally, she addressed Max. “Thank you for coming when you did, Your Grace.” Her voice wavered slightly, making him long to pick her up and hold her, but he merely nodded instead. In a swirl of wet silk, she disappeared down the terrace steps.

  “I want to know what is going on between you and Violet,” Charles snarled. “You will tell me this instant.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Max drawled. “There is nothing going on.”

  Charles’s lips twisted. “She called you Max. She put her hand on your arm. I saw the way she looked at you, unafraid and adoring. There is a familiarity there, one that hasn’t existed before, and I want to know why, goddamn it.”

  Max clenched his jaw, his mind spinning on a plausible response . . . but came up empty.

  “My God.” With both hands, Charles shoved Max into the stone balustrade. Anger hardened his features into a mask of rage. “You bastard. Have you compromised my daughter?”

  There was no hope for it. Charles had seen too much and they knew each other too well. Max braced himself. “Yell a little louder, Mayhew. I don’t think they heard you in Cheapside.”

  “How could you? My daughter.”

  Charles stripped off his right glove and pulled his arm back. Max knew it was coming, so he waited, holding perfectly still, aware that he deserved it. The fist connected with his jaw, driving him into the stone railing once more. Bloody hell, that hurt. Max bent over and dragged in a breath, struggling through the pain. “That’s the only one you’ll get, Mayhew.”

  “You goddamn arsehole. My only child and you had to defile her. What, are there not enough women in London already for you? No doubt you’ve given Violet the clap, you prick—”

  Max grabbed Mayhew and reversed their positions, shoving the other man against the stone before leaning in. “I do not have the clap—and watch your mouth.”

  “She’s not much older than your son. You’ve known her since she was a baby.”

  Stepping back, Max swept the water off his face. “She is not a child anymore. She is a grown woman. Nevertheless, I did not plan this. It just happened.”

  “I never thought . . .” Charles shook his head. “You’ve never gone for the young ones before. I thought she was safe with you around.”

  “She is safe with me around,” Max growled. “I would never hurt her.”

  “She was an innocent, Ravensthorpe. By touching her, you’ve harmed her.”

  “I am discreet. No one knows of our association.”

  “Except for Sundridge. And now me.” Charles raked Max with a look full of disgust. “All these years you’ve been coming to my home, eating dinner with my family, and you’ve been lusting after her. I ought to put a bullet in your rotten heart.”

  Anger swept through Max at the indecent implication. He pointed a finger in Charles’s face. “I never lusted after her until recently. This all happened within the last month.”

  “Christ.” For a moment, Charles appeared like he might cry. Then he drew himself up. “Is she carrying your child?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Are you entirely certain?”

  Max paused, because how could one ever be entirely certain? “I am fairly certain.”

  He’d taken precautions over the years never to subject another woman to childbirth. The possibility of death was too great a risk, and the idea of Violet writhing in agony, bleeding to death because of his lust, sent a bolt of cold fear through his veins.

  Charles slapped the stone with his palm. “Goddamn you, Ravensthorpe.”

  “Even still, I won’t marry her.”

  Charles’s jaw fell. “You think I want my daughter married to you?” He gave a bitter laugh. “You killed your first wife. Do you actually believe I’d give my sweet and trusting daughter over to the likes of you?”

  Max folded his arms across his chest and worked to remain calm. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t told himself, but it stung to hear it out of his friend’s mouth. “No, I suppose not. Fortunately, no one knows of my association with her. Sundridge will assume my friendship with you to be the reason I intervened tonight. Her reputation remains pristine.”

  Charles acted as if he hadn’t heard a word Max said. “Now the rumors about you and Wingfield make sense. I heard you accosted him at Brooks’s, but I hadn’t believed it. That was over Violet, wasn’t it?”

  “Do not make this into something it isn’t, Mayhew.”

  Charles dragged a hand through his wet hair. “I cannot believe, after all our years of friendship, that you would do this. That you could care so little for my family. That you could be so callously cruel.”

  The moment stretched, the steady drizzle of rain continuing to soak them both, but neither moved. An awful sensation swept across Max’s skin and burrowed into his chest like talons—a sensation he suspected was guilt. However, no promises had been hinted at between him and Violet. He hadn’t lied—she’d known his intentions at every turn. He hadn’t whispered pretty words merely to get under her skirt. He hadn’t needed to.

  Still, he didn’t relish exposing the affair and hurting her. Damn Mayhew for forcing him to do it.

  It’s for the best. She was never meant for me, anyway.

  The world believed him vicious and selfish. A monster who drove his first wife into the grave. It was past time to prove it.

  Drawing himself up to his most menacing height, he drawled, “You are overreacting. I haven’t hurt her or ruined her chances at marriage with Sundridge. ’Tis a lark between us. Nothing more.”

  “It had better be, because I’m betrothing her to Sundridge, if he’ll still have her. As for you, I hope you rot in hell, Ravensthorpe.”

  Charles shoved Max out of the way and
headed for the steps. “Oh, and Ravensthorpe?” He glared at Max. “If I ever see you in the vicinity of my daughter again, death sentence or not, I’ll shoot you right between the eyes.”

  Then he disappeared and Max was alone, the sound of the raindrops his only company. He stared at his shoes and tried not to drown in his regrets.

  I did the right thing.

  There had been no choice but to tell Charles. Violet wouldn’t agree, certainly, but she’d thank Max one day after she married some young lord and had a passel of children. A cantankerous, cynical duke such as himself had no right to a vivacious and optimistic young woman like Violet. She had years of joy and discovery ahead of her, while he had long crested that particular hill.

  He rubbed the center of his chest, where a dull ache had set up residence. Yes, it was definitely for the best.

  Chapter Ten

  Violet couldn’t move, her back stuck to the stone as rain slithered into her bodice and behind her neck. Her stupid heart oozed misery, as if it had been sliced open to bleed out on the grass.

  A lark. He’d called her a lark. Dismissed and diminished her.

  That is what you get for eavesdropping.

  Yet how was she expected to leave when her father and Max were discussing her? Of course, she had stayed—though a big part of her now wished she hadn’t.

  Chest tight, she lifted her face toward the sky, longing to start over again, back before she’d romanticized thoughts of a dark-headed duke with eyes like midnight.

  It’s better to know how little you mean to him.

  She would never be more than a secret, a diversion he used to the pass the time. He would never love her, not as she loved him.

  Indeed, she’d thought she could handle an affair, that having a piece of him was better than nothing at all. What foolishness. What hubris. Turned out it hurt to settle for scraps. She wanted every bit of Max, his body and his heart. His soul.

  ’Tis a lark between us. Nothing more.

  Goodness, she couldn’t breathe. She tapped her sternum with her fist, reminding her lungs to function. It must have worked because she was still standing when her father came storming down the stairs.