Duke of Sin

by Adele Ashworth

  He glanced down to find her staring at him. Disconcerted, she smiled faintly and turned her attention to the garden. “Shall we walk?” she asked pleasantly.

  Quietly, he replied, “If you wish.”

  She could see two distinct paths from which to choose, and suspected there were more inside the floral array. But before she could take a step toward either of them, he reached down and covered her hand with his, so gently, his thumb grazing her knuckles. His touch surprised her, but she tried not to let that show as he began to walk forward, toward the path on the left.

  “Tell me about your husband, Vivian.”

  She paused in her stride, which he surely noticed, but he didn’t let go of her hand. After a second or two of nervous hesitation, she breathed in deeply of salty sea air mingled with the scent of flowers, and tried to relax. He couldn’t know anything about her past, which only meant that he was simply curious.

  “He was my cousin,” she revealed, strolling beside him once again.

  “Ah. An arranged union, then?”

  “Yes.”

  When she didn’t offer more, he asked, “Were you happy?”

  How could she answer that? It took everything in her to try to remain calm as she continued to walk beside him. “I was very happy on my wedding day, but then most ladies are, your grace. Since my husband’s unfortunate demise, I have learned to make a good life for myself and I am happy once more.”

  She hoped that vague reply would suffice. Apparently it did for the moment as he didn’t immediately comment.

  A sudden gust of wind blew loose strands of hair from her face, and she closed her eyes momentarily to the feel of it.

  “I adore Penzance, the weather along the coast,” she said without thought.

  Suddenly he stopped beside her, still holding her hand, and turned to face her.

  Vivian looked up into his dark eyes as he studied her, her heart suddenly speeding up at their closeness, the continuing tender touch of his skin, noticing that they stood fairly well secluded from the house behind four thick palm trees.

  “How did he die?” .

  Such a gravely asked question startled her as much as the swift intensity of his gaze. For a moment she couldn’t speak.

  He waited, watching her, his thumb rubbing her knuckles again in that particular way that made her face flush and her breath quicken.

  “I— He had a bad heart, your grace.”

  He frowned almost imperceptibly. “A bad heart?”

  “It’s not uncommon,” she murmured in quick response. “He was nearly forty years of age.”

  The duke nodded, thinking.

  Vivian grew nervous, afraid of the probing questions almost as much as their sudden seclusion. But she couldn’t move, couldn’t look away. A sudden uneasiness swept over her.

  And then it happened. Slowly, in shimmering sunlight and warm, fragrant air, he leaned over and faintly touched his lips to hers, just holding them there without movement.

  Stunned, Vivian couldn’t immediately react. Her breathing seemed to stop as a surge of heat shot through her, making her legs weak and her insides flutter with the gnawing anticipation of a marvelous unknown.

  He remained still, clasping her hand, his lips on hers, never probing for more, until a faint, deep moan escaped him and he pulled himself back.

  She began shaking, though she had no idea why, and raised her free hand to her mouth, covering it with her fingers. He kept his eyes shut for a second or two as she watched him, having no idea what to say or even if he expected her to speak.

  At last, he whispered, “You are so warm…”

  Burning with fire inside, she thought, but then she really didn’t understand his meaning.

  Awkwardly, she attempted to pull her hand from his grasp, but he didn’t let her go. He held fast to her, opening his eyes to gaze into hers.

  Vivian stilled from the look of utter longing he exposed to her in those few seconds of intimate, silent contact—far more intimate than his kiss had been.

  You are so warm.

  That’s when she knew. It was the purest touch of woman to man. A thoroughly human need to feel wanted and enjoyed, to feel accepted without judgment. No loathing, no fear. She had given him a brush of warm compassion without repulsion, and he had relished it in its simplicity.

  She lowered her fingers from her mouth and smiled at him, softly. He drew a shaky breath, then dropped her hand and took a step away from her.

  “Vivian,” he said, his voice controlled and low, “you are ever more than I imagined.”

  “Imagined?”

  “I’ve imagined everything where you are concerned,” he acknowledged at once without reservation.

  Her smile faded as she grew uncomfortable again, confused. “Your grace?”

  To her complete astonishment, he shook his head negligibly and chuckled. “If you don’t start calling me ‘Will,’ Vivian, I won’t kiss you again.”

  It was her turn to take a step back. “You presume I’d want that?” she challenged.

  He briefly glanced to his right, then back to her again. “I would presume.”

  “Your logic baffles me completely,” she quickly retorted.

  “As your perfect kiss did me, my dear lady.”

  Heat suffused her face again, but she said nothing. She couldn’t possibly after that comment since he turned everything she said into something intimate.

  He cocked his head to study her, though the amusement never left his features. At this moment, standing so casually in a garden of brilliant color, he looked more handsome than any man she had ever seen, and it took all that was in her not to tell him so.

  “I wish you would smile more often,” she confessed instead, almost contemplatively.

  He pulled back in surprise. “Oh? Why?”

  Was he really so dense? More likely just rarely around women.

  She sighed and crossed her arms over her breasts. “I will consent to calling you by your given name, your grace, if you will consent to smiling for my pleasure.”

  He clasped his hands behind his back, his mouth curling into a smirk of satisfaction. “I think that after tasting those sweet lips of yours I will consent to just about anything for your pleasure, madam.”

  She soiled a gasp, pulling back a bit in surprise, which made him chuckle again. Lowering his voice, he whispered huskily, “You know you want me to kiss you again.”

  His teasing liquefied her but she was reluctant to deny it. “And you know this conversation makes no sense.”

  He took a step in her direction, his head blocking the sun as he towered over her. “It makes perfect sense, ‘Vivian, when you consider how well you enjoyed our first very fleeting contact.”

  She wouldn’t have called it fleeting, exactly, for the simple press of his lips to hers seemed to last for minutes. But then maybe that was her imagination. She hadn’t been thinking clearly at all.

  “Did you enjoy it?” she asked wryly, though knowing instinctively, and fully well, that he did. Vanity made her want to hear it.

  He glanced down to her breasts, then back into her eyes. “You know I did.”

  However amused he was by his clever turns of phrase, he certainly put her in a difficult position, which he likely relished. Of course she wanted him to kiss her again, and he seemed to be more aware of it than she. How absurd.

  Tipping her head back and lowering her arms to her sides, she acquiesced. “Very well, Will. I succumb to your ridiculous demands.”

  For a slice of a second, she could have sworn she saw relief in his eyes, and perhaps a tinge of returning desire. Then he straightened and nodded once. “I’m looking forward to your next visit then.”

  “And when will that be?” she asked rather perfunctorily.

  “Next Wednesday, for dinner.”

  Her brows rose. “Next Wednesday?”

  He very nearly smiled again. “Is that not soon enough for you?”

  Once again the reason for their newfound as
sociation came crashing back into her thoughts, but mentioning the manuscript right now would break the lovely mood between them. This intimate moment with him suddenly, and quite irrationally, mattered to her more.

  “I’m at your command, sir,” she returned, her tone subdued. She felt a certain dread take hold in the pit of her stomach, yet she had no choice but to persevere. “But I must ask you now when I might be able to acquire the manuscript?”

  His smile faded as he stared down upon her, his gaze holding hers for a long moment before he lifted his fingers and brushed the back side of them along her cheek, startling her with his gentleness. Before she could react, however, he dropped her hand.

  “In due time. I’ll look forward to Wednesday, Vivian.”

  He was dismissing her without answers that satisfied, and she had no choice but to leave.

  “Thank you for a delightful luncheon, Will.”

  He nodded, very formally, hands behind his back once more. “Wilson will show you out.”

  “Of course.” She curtsied, then brushed past him, controlling the need to touch the skin on her cheek where she could still feel him, and more than a little dismayed to be leaving his company.

  Chapter 5

  Clement Hastings was a rather short, round man in his late forties whom Will could only describe as squat. He sported a fairly large nose, small beady eyes, a balding head, and he wore only the most eccentric of clothing. Will often wondered how the man made a living wage as an agent of inquiry, although it appeared quite true that the wealthy and noble frequently needed some sort of pampering for which they willingly, and handsomely, paid. Or perhaps pampering wasn’t the correct word. Hastings wasn’t the type to pamper. The man possessed a remarkably shrewd intellect and was considered by most to be the best investigator in Cornwall. Will had used his services on occasion, though most notably before his trial nearly six years ago.

  Walking into his library, Will found the man gazing at one of his shelves of books next to the mantel. Hastings wore another atypical suit—a striped gold and white silk shirt tucked into green and white large, plaid pants, all covered with a lime green waistcoat that pinched his stomach like a corset. Perhaps this was the style in the city, Will didn’t know, but he sure as hell wouldn’t be found dead in such garb. Then again, perhaps the man’s wife dressed him and his choice of clothing was no fault of his own.

  “Have you found anything, Hastings?” he asked, heading straight for his desk, hoping the man had come with news today. He’d only been looking into this matter since early in the week, so Will knew the chances for good information were slim. Still, he wanted a report every two days, and so far Hastings had obliged him.

  The investigator turned his attention to him and bowed once, a thin smile displayed across his lips. “Good morning, your grace,” he said properly. “I do indeed have something. It’s not much, but it’s a start, I think.”

  Will gestured to the opposite chair. “Please.”

  Hastings nodded again and walked toward him, arranging his plump form in the chair, his legs stretched out in front of him as he reached into the pocket of his waistcoat for his notes.

  “Well now,” he started, flipping through several small sheets of paper, “my men in London are starting their investigation into Mrs. Rael-Lamont’s background, and about that, I have no news.” He cleared his throat. “However, from my own discreet questioning about town I’ve learned she’s lived in her Penzance home, alone aside from a small number of servants, since ‘forty-four, apparently moving here after the death of her husband. There’s nothing to suggest he ever came to Cornwall while still alive, although I think…” Hastings frowned and turned the sheet over. “Ah, yes. The property, I believe, is in her late husband’s name, though that has yet to be verified. So it looks as if he purchased it without ever seeing it, and I suppose that’s not too odd if he’d planned to vacation here and then died unexpectedly.” He looked up to Will, his features forming a pleasant, relaxed confidence. “I’ll have more information, your grace, within the week, as soon as I get news from the city. She’s evidently got a trust set up there from which she’s drawing income.”

  Will sat back in his chair, rubbing his fingertips along the top of the secretary, his mind churning with possibilities that so far added up to nothing substantial whatsoever. Except that she also drew income from selling and arranging flowers. And she had the most delicious tasting lips. “Anything else on her husband?”

  Hastings shook his head. “Nothing here, sir, but again, I’ll have more to report later in the week.”

  “Very good.” Will moved to stand, when the investigator turned another sheet of paper.

  “One last thing, your grace, and perhaps this is totally insignificant.”

  He remained in his chair, eyeing the investigator speculatively. “Yes?”

  Hastings frowned, this time deeply enough to form creases in his forehead. “You asked me to check for people she’s seen recently, and I’ve found one meeting she had that’s rather odd and unlike the others.”

  Will said nothing, just waited.

  Hastings looked up again. “It seems she does a good business selling flowers and floral arrangements to the local well-born, and most of them either send for her to come to their homes for consultations, or call on her for appointments.”

  This seemed very trivial to Will, but he decided against that remark. It was the man’s job to take note of the ordinary, he supposed.

  “Apparently,” Hastings continued, “according to one of her neighbor’s scullery maids, early last week Mrs. Rael-Lamont had a visitor whom she did not expect and who was apparently so low-born he was taken ‘round the back of the cottage to meet her in her nursery. He was there only a few minutes, and when he left, she immediately closed the house up and refused visitors, customers, and social callers, and she does have a good many lady friends in the community. That was the day before she came to see you, your grace.”

  Will sat forward in his chair, leaning one elbow on the armrest, growing ever more intrigued. “Do you know who it was who called on her?”

  Hastings scratched his jowls with wide, puffy fingers. “Well, now, that’s what’s so odd, sir. Seems it was an actor.”

  He could feel his heart thud against his chest. “An actor?”

  The investigator chuckled, shaking his head as he glanced back to his notes. “I know, sir. Very odd, but yes indeed, an actor from the Shakespearean touring group—the lead actor, I believe. Name’s Gilbert Montague, but that’s all I know about him for now. I’m working on more information.”

  Will ran his fingers through his hair harshly and abruptly stood, walking with purposeful strides toward the conservatory windows. He didn’t know any actors, and as far as he could remember, had never met one in his life. But Hastings was right; this meeting between the widow and an actor at her home was far too unusual and coincidental to the moment to ignore, especially since a Shakespearean actor might be well informed about Shakespearean works not generally known to the public.

  “I want him checked thoroughly,” he said, staring out the window to the coast beyond. “Can you look into this immediately?”

  He heard the rustle of clothing behind him and it occurred to him that Hastings was no doubt trying to stand in his male corset. How utterly uncomfortable, but then again, the man’s unusual taste in fashion was none of his concern.

  “I can begin this afternoon, your grace. Shall I return two days from now, same time?”

  Will pivoted to look at the man directly again. “Yes, and sooner if you have news of some significance.”

  “Understood, sir,” the investigator agreed with a tip of his head. “Is there anything else?”

  “No, that’s all for today.”

  Hastings retrieved his hat from a bookcase shelf and nodded once more in Will’s direction. “Good day to you, your grace.”

  “Good day, Hastings.”

  Chapter 6

  The pub gradually filled
with the oncoming darkness. Most of the faces this night were regulars, but from time to time a new person or two would wander into The Jolly Knights to escape the wench at home or the oppressive summer heat. He came to escape the theater, the mindless actors and all their pitiful doubts and ridiculous problems, whenever he possibly could.

  Gilbert sat back in the little chair he had for himself in the far corner of the dimly lit, dank room. He’d been like that for nearly two hours, uncomfortable in a chair far too small for his large frame, wondering if he shouldn’t ask the little blond wench for another jaunt to the filthy bed upstairs to relieve his boredom. He allowed himself the luxury—if one could call it that—of coming in almost every Friday evening, as he had for the last two months, now that he wasn’t on stage in London and suddenly had plenty of money. He laughed again at his flawlessly brilliant planning.

  “Thank you, Vivian Rael-Lamont,” he said aloud in a mock toast as he raised his glass to his lips, taking several long swallows of surprisingly decent ale. He was nearly drunk already, but feeling so fine, he wanted oblivion tonight. Besides, he wasn’t to perform again for two days. Who the hell would care if he slept on a bench?

  His mood blackened at once as he lowered his almost empty glass to stare trouble right in the face. She stood there so casually, not two feet away, smiling down at him with complete intolerance in her pretty blue eyes. He nearly choked.

  “Well, if it isn’t Gilbert Montague,” she purred.

  “Dammit Elinor,” he choked out. “What the devil are you doing here? How did you find me?”

  Her brows shot up. “How did I find you? It’s a pub. Besides, I’m not as frail and helpless as I look,” she added, her lips curled in a sarcastic smile.

  “Someone is going to see you here, you idiot,” he spat, nervously looking around him. He reached out and grabbed her arm. “Sit down.”

  With deliberate slowness, she pulled out the chair across from him, and after rather intricate adjustments to her full, silk gown, sat on the hardwood most gracefully. “Relax,” she breathed through an exaggerated sigh, “I’m covered from head to toe in these dreadful rags, as you can very well see, and nobody knows I’m here except Wayne.”