Duke of Sin

by Adele Ashworth

  He broke the connection first, turning and striding around the tea table to sit comfortably on his leather sofa. Studying him, Vivian couldn’t help but be in awe at his presence. Strange, that she’d never felt so unusual around a man before, even her husband.

  “What can I do for you today, Mrs. Rael-Lamont?” he began formally as he returned to the point of her visit, helping himself to steaming coffee.

  She forced herself to breathe deeply. Gazing directly into alert, hazel eyes, she replied, “How is it that your household knew of me the moment I arrived, your grace? I didn’t even need to leave a card.”

  If her turn of phrase surprised him again, he didn’t let it show, though his forehead did crease in frown while he poured cream into his cup.

  She waited.

  Finally, sliding his spoon across the rim and laying it on the saucer, he admitted, “My staff are aware of you, madam.” He looked into her eyes once more. “And so am I, naturally.”

  That answer, however vague, gave her an instant, almost wicked sense of elation.

  She smiled triumphantly. “Naturally.”

  He took a sip of his coffee.

  “You do frequently buy flowers from my nursery, after all.”

  “Yes.”

  When he added nothing to that, she lifted her cup of tea and held it in front of her. “The arrangement in your foyer is lovely, although not mine.”

  She thought for a second that his lips pinched in amusement once more.

  “Professional rivalry, Mrs. Rael-Lamont?”

  She straightened and lifted her cup to her lips. “Not at all.” She sipped, then placed it back on the saucer gingerly. “Only an observation.”

  He nodded once. “I see.”

  He probably did, since her cheeks were undoubtedly pink again. She ignored that. “May I ask from whom you purchased the arrangement?”

  “I’ve no idea,” he replied, taking another drink of his own morning brew. “Wilson, or my housekeeper Glenda, purchases them. I’m not privy to their choices for the temporary decoration of my home.”

  Of course he wasn’t. She felt ridiculous in asking.

  “But from this day forward, I shall order my employees to buy only those you grow and supply, Mrs. Rael-Lamont,” he added quite casually.

  She blinked, astonished. “Oh, no, your grace, I didn’t mean:—”

  “I know you didn’t,” he cut in. For a second or two, a droll smile crossed his mouth. “Thaf’s irrelevant, really. When it comes to personal items, I buy what I like.”

  She laughed lightly, enjoying his mood. “Flowers as personal items, your grace?”

  “They can be, don’t you think?”

  “Like shoes or pocket watches?”

  “I suppose so,” he maintained.

  She shrugged. “And yet a moment ago you didn’t care about household decorations,” she said mildly, challenging him. “And household decorations can hardly be compared to the fit of a shoe or the expense of a pocket watch.”

  “True enough.” His grin widened a fraction and he lowered his voice minutely. “But you have changed my mind for me, madam. I imagine a flower arrangement is a display of creativity, or can be, and is therefore a reflection of the artist, the one who grows the flowers and then displays them.” He cocked his head a bit and assessed her, face and figure. “As in all artistic displays, from painting to sculpture, I buy what I like.”

  I buy what I like. He’d said that twice, specifically, and Vivian didn’t know exactly how to interpret his point, if indeed he had one. Deep inside, though, she felt a stirring of something warm and intimate, as if he’d touched a part of her she seldom revealed to anyone. An odd feeling, to be sure. Yet on the surface she was thrilled that he seemed to single her out among many, first with his knowledge of who she was, and then with his spontaneous decision to buy only from her. But it was his low, silky-deep voice that threatened to melt her into submitting to his every wish.

  Silence reigned for a moment, awkward in one manner, remarkably friendly in another, as they both took refreshment. At last, after finishing his coffee, he placed his cup and saucer on the tea table and relaxed against soft leather to regard her speculatively.

  “I don’t suppose you came calling on me today to discuss the floral arrangements in my home, did you Mrs. Rael-Lamont?”

  A rather polite way of asking her to state exactly what she wanted with him, she supposed, though his return to the reason for her visit unsettled her momentarily after the lightness of the time they’d only just shared.

  “No, actually.” She cleared her throat and placed her teacup and saucer back on the small table at her side. Smoothing her skirts then folding her hands in her lap, she faced him directly, giving him a polite— and hopefully charming—smile. “Ifs interesting that we should be discussing art endeavors, your grace, as I’ve come with a personal proposition for you. From one collector to another.”

  “I see,” he acknowledged. “You’re an art collector, then.”

  She couldn’t read his suddenly insipid expression.

  “I hope that my unexpected calling is not at an inconvenient time,” she said quite properly.

  He frowned then, his eyes narrowing. “I’m not inconvenienced,” he said stiffly, his tone subdued. “I don’t receive many visitors, so having you here is a refreshing change.”

  It had bothered him that she’d returned to strict formality. She knew that instinctively. Perhaps it was only the words he’d used, perhaps the distant sound of the ocean beyond, but Vivian felt a tinge of the loneliness he likely experienced every day at being an accused murderer and forced to live outside the grace of polite society. She certainly understood that well enough. Then again, she really knew nothing about this uniquely handsome man sitting across from her. It was just as likely he enjoyed a self-imposed solitude.

  But it would do her no good to speculate on his troubles. She pushed her thoughts away to concentrate on the reason for her visit, as ugly as it was.

  “Your grace,” she began, trying not to squeeze her hands together too tightly, “I’ve been given some news lately which I feel obligated to explore to its fullest.”

  His dark brows shot up a fraction. “News?”

  She carried on; the faster she reached the object of her quest, the less time she had for panic to settle in and expose her.

  “It’s come to my attention, sir, that you are in possession of a rare Shakespearean document—a sonnet, I believe. I would be most interested in acquiring it.”

  For the longest minute he didn’t move or respond in any way, only watched her with a fierce concentration. Then his lips twitched, just once. She tried to ignore what immediately felt like a negative reaction and continued before he dismissed her outright.

  “I know this is rather… sudden, but I would like to suggest that perhaps we can come to some sort of satisfactory agreement for which you might be willing to sell me such a valuable piece of history.” She hesitated, looking quickly to her hands then back to his face again. “I’m very interested in the work and believe I can manage the expense, whatever that might be.”

  She knew at once how ludicrous that must sound coming from a woman who worked more or less for her own self-maintenance, and directed to a duke of unquestionable wealth. But he didn’t mention that. Instead, he remained quiet and still, studying her so intently now she grew cold beneath her stays and petticoats, even with the warm, moist summer air drifting through the room from the open windows beyond. Vivian wasn’t sure how to continue until she received some verbal response from him.

  She waited. So did he, apparently. Moments later, she murmured, “Your grace?”

  “Would you tell me how you became aware of such a treasure, Mrs. Rael-Lamont?”

  His tone had cooled, and she realized he suspected less than honest reasons for her request. She attempted a smile to convey confidence.

  “Actually, I came across the news quite by accident.”

  “By accident.
Really…” he replied, now leaning on his right elbow, finally shifting his large frame so that he could relax into the sofa. But he never took his probing gaze from hers.

  “Yes, indeed,” she continued, attempting to sound pleasant and congenial despite the solidifying dread at the center of her stomach. “But of course, as a buyer of fine art from time to time, I wouldn’t want to reveal where I get my good information.” She raised her brows in an air of sly, almost teasing defiance. “I’m sure you understand.”

  “Certainly, I do,” he said, tipping his head to her once. “But a manuscript isn’t exactly art, is it?”

  Vivian drew a deep breath and exhaled quickly. “Not exactly, no. But it can be a collectable piece of history.” She leaned toward him and added, “I’m also an admirer of the theater. A piece like this one would satisfy my desires on more than one level. I would take very good care of it, your grace, of that you can be most assured.”

  For several long, tense moments, she candidly held his gaze, noting that sunshine from the windows cast a light upon his irises that made them appear deeper in hue, almost forest green. So striking, and if it were any other time she might think—

  “How old are you, Mrs. Rael-Lamont?” he asked very quietly, gently rubbing his chin with his fingertips.

  Her mouth dropped open a fraction as her shoulders shot back. “I—I beg your pardon?”

  He leaned all the way forward with that, resting his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands in front of him. “How old are you?” he asked again without pretense.

  “I’m middle-aged, as I suspect you are.”

  “Ah.” He grinned. “Not a proper question to ask a lady, am I right?”

  She fidgeted, crossing and then recrossing her ankles beneath her skirts. “You know that, sir,” she said in reply, trying to sound a bit more playful in her response, hoping he didn’t see through the sham. Her cheeks were hot again as she grew ever more uncomfortable in this home, in his presence, and God willing, he would consider her rise in color part of her embarrassment, not fear of exposure.

  “In your thirties?” he pressed.

  Oh, what did it matter? She sighed. “I will be thirty-five years of age in November, your grace,” she revealed with only a hint of annoyance.

  He continued to stare at her, nodding vaguely as if piecing together a puzzle.

  She needed to get back to the point of her visit. “And how old are you, sir?” Vivian closed her eyes briefly as soon as the words were out of her mouth.

  She absolutely could not believe she asked him that. What the devil was wrong with her?

  His head shot back a bit in obvious surprise. “We have so very much in common, Mrs. Rael-Lamont,” he drawled. “I’ve been thirty-five for well nigh two months now.”

  So much in common? She ignored that. “Your grace—”

  “And what of your husband?”

  “I—” She blinked, feeling a sharp, stabbing shock. Twice in one week the man she’d married had come up in conversation, and this time it made her shiver to her toes. “My husband?” she murmured thickly.

  Much of the humor left the duke’s expression as his eyes roved over her face.

  “What happened to him, madam,” he clarified, his voice calm and controlled.

  She squirmed in her chair. “He died.”

  His brows rose fractionally again. “Yes, I would imagine so if you are a widow.”

  “I am a widow, your grace.” Flustered, Vivian added, “I’m not sure how my personal affairs have anything to do with the reason for my visit, however.”

  “I’m not sure, either. But I find you fascinating.”

  Vivian’s lips parted with a shallow gasp. Her heartbeat suddenly thudded against her chest as her eyes opened wide. He simply watched her, certainly noting her reaction of shock to such a personal disclosure. Or maybe it wasn’t the actual words but the manner in which he expressed them that made her mind and body feel charged with energy. It had been years since a gentleman had been so very forward with her, and she couldn’t, for the life of her, recall a proper thing to say.

  He sat up again, leaning casually against the sofa back. “Would you like to see it?”

  She swallowed. “Your grace?”

  The right corner of his mouth lifted wryly. “The manuscript, madam. Would you care to see it?”

  She shook herself. “Right here? Now?”

  He shrugged minutely. “Of course. I imagine you’re curious, and where else would one keep a document of such value but in one’s library?”

  Her first reaction was to reply a safe. But instead, she attempted a smile again, regaining her composure. “Where else, indeed?”

  Immediately he stood, towering over her as he offered his hand to help her rise.

  The thought of touching his physical person, even for something as innocuous as this, filled her with a most peculiar dread. She decided to ignore the feeling as she gently placed her palm in his.

  His skin felt rough and warm, his hand large and solid, and just as she raised herself to stand beside him, she grew acutely aware of the heat radiating from his body, even though his fingers only faintly brushed hers. She pulled away at once, realizing he felt all too human and real—not at all like a murderer should feel.

  The side of his mouth lifted with a hint of a smirk, as if he’d read her thoughts and dared her to comment. Then suddenly, he bowed his head slightly and gestured to his left.

  Vivian nearly had to brush up against him. She avoided that as much as possible, even as he seemed to expect it, though she did catch another delicate whiff of his cologne.

  Nerves rattled now, Vivian clutched her reticule to her waist and allowed him to lead her as he walked with swift, purposeful strides toward the glass-covered bookshelf at the northwest corner of the library, the farthest from the open windows, she noted, as sea air was undoubtedly bad for the preservation of books, especially valuable and very old copies.

  As they approached, Vivian noticed that one side of the bookcase was locked; presumably this particular side of shelves held the priceless work she sought. Not exactly a safe, but adequate protection, she supposed.

  The duke reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a key. He inserted it, turned the lock, and opened the glass door.

  The shelf was replete with books, including an old family bible, which the Duke of Trent reached for without hesitation. With careful hands, he pulled the large, black, leather-bound copy from the shelf and balanced it against his outstretched arm.

  Apprehension, coupled, oddly enough, with a surge of excitement, overwhelmed her as he opened the hard cover, its fragile, worn pages crinkling as he turned toward the middle. She stepped closer so that her skirts couldn’t help but brush his legs. She regretted that, but she wanted to be near enough to get a good look at the piece of history that could ultimately—if fears became realized—bring her social degradation.

  “There is no place safer than this, Mrs. Rael-Lamont,” the duke maintained, his voice low and grim. “This book in itself is more than one hundred years old.”

  “Remarkable,” she replied, glancing up to his face, now only inches from hers. “A family treasure, is it not?”

  His gaze shot briefly to her lips. “Indeed.”

  A piece of stray, dark hair now hung low across his brow, his eyes narrowed and surprisingly intense as he worked to find the manuscript between fragile pages.

  At last he stopped at what appeared to be a piece of sheer cloth. Gently, he unwrapped it until the work she sought lay exposed.

  Vivian stared at it. Written in scrawled handwriting, she could barely make out the words of the short sonnet, time had taken its toll on the fragmented parchment, but the signature was undoubtedly written by the hand of William Shakespeare.

  “Incredible…” she whispered.

  “Yes,” he replied, his breath touching her ear and cheek.

  She shivered, despite the warmth of the room.

  “May I ask you somethi
ng, madam?”

  She crossed her arms over her breasts, eyeing the sonnet because she found herself unable to look at him. “Of course.”

  “Why are you really here?”

  Her gaze shot up to his face. Staring into probing eyes of dark hazel, her first thought, absurdly enough, was how very polite he was in asking a question that implied nothing but the knowledge of deception on her part. It also caught her completely off guard, and for a moment, rendered her dumbstruck.

  He carried on as if he expected no immediate answer from her. With a light chuckle and a shake of his head, he said, “Forgive me for being blunt, but I have such trouble believing you’re a collector of rare documents, that you have the means by which to purchase this should I want to sell it, and that, in the end, you learned of this particular priceless sonnet by accident.” Huskily, he revealed, “Only ten or twelve people in all of Great Britain know it still exists in original form, and of those, only five or six know I own it.” He watched her intently. “So you can understand my curiosity as to how a middle-aged widow who sells flowers in Penzance became aware of something so unique.”

  Vivian didn’t know whether to laugh or scream, but her insides felt like crumbling, admitting all and to the devil with propriety and a future of relative ease and contentment. And yet somewhere deep within her she couldn’t let go of her dignity. She had made a good life for herself, tucked away in the safety of Cornwall, and nobody, least of all a thieving, lowly actor, would take it from her without a fight.

  But she couldn’t fight the Duke of Trent. She knew that instinctively. She could, however, play his game.

  Standing rigidly, she lifted her chin slightly to the side and smiled at him coyly, hoping he didn’t take note of the boiling fear within her.

  “It happened exactly as I said, your grace, though I now understand why you don’t need a safe,” she intimated, trying to keep her tone warm and teasing. “And yet, under the circumstances, I find it odd that you showed this to me anyway without reservation. Why?”