A Duke's Decision (The Duke''s Club Book 4)

by G. L. Snodgrass

  “Cold,” he mumbled again.

  Emily hurriedly threw two more logs onto the fire, then rushed back to his side. The man was shivering so fiercely that his teeth chattered. Her insides tumbled over themselves with worry.

  Without thinking, she rushed to the other side of the bed, the good shoulder side, and pulled the blankets back so that she could slip in with him. Anything to help him get warm again.

  She wrapped her arm around him and held him close, praying for him to use her heat. To use her strength. Anything for him to get well.

  The worry about being found in his bed never crossed her mind. All she could think about was the Major getting well.

  As she held him, she took in his scent, the strong juniper smell of his salve, but something more. Sandalwood, leather, wood smoke. All of it pulling at her as she curled herself around him, holding him while he continued to shudder like a sail spilling the wind.

  Chapter Eight

  Emily woke to the most glorious feeling of safety and security. As if she had found her perfect place in this world.

  An ember popping in the fireplace brought her back to the world. She was in bed. The Major’s bed she realized with a start. Even more, his arm was draped over her, his hand cupping her breast.

  Sudden fright filled her. What had she done? How had she allowed this to happen? The Major was holding her. His strong arm had trapped her in the most delicious position. Her heart froze in place as she frantically tried to understand what had happened.

  It was only after she calmed enough to realize he was still asleep, his breath strong and slow on the back of her neck, that she relaxed. While warm and safe, even through her robe, she could tell that he was no longer burning with fever. Her heart sent up a silent thank you as she sank back into him.

  God, what a glorious feeling she thought as she soaked up the sense of perfect safety. Her insides calmed as she tried to memorize every aspect. The feeling of his breath bathing her neck. The gentle caress of his hand on her breast.

  A moment later, she realized that something hard was poking at her rear. Her brow froze in a curious frown until she realized what was happening.

  Her world spun as she swallowed a squeal of embarrassment. How? No, surely not. But there was no doubt. The Major …

  Her body flushed, first with shame, then with excitement as he pulled her even closer and mumbled something under his breath. A sudden, unknown desire filled her. Her entire body grew soft with need. A delicious feeling of specialness began to engulf her as she imagined everything a young lady was not supposed to think about.

  Yet, there was no denying the pure female passion that filled her.

  NO, she suddenly realized as she endeavored to slide away from him. He could not wake and find her like this. It would embarrass them both. He would never forgive her. No, she must escape.

  He grumbled in his sleep as she gently lifted his hand from around her breast and softly placed it on the bed behind her. Only when she was free and again standing firmly on her own two feet did she breathe a sigh of relief.

  The Major still slept. “He will never know,” she whispered to herself with relief. But she would know, she thought with a smile. It would be a memory that she kept always.

  A soft tread outside the door made her jump. Scurrying, she was in place in the chair when the door opened to admit Jones.

  He raised an eyebrow, silently asking how the Major was doing.

  Somehow, she forced herself not to blush when she thought about what this man would think if he had arrived but a few minutes earlier. That thought was followed immediately by what it had felt like to have his arousal poking at her.

  Had it been her? Or, some dream of a pretty Spanish senorita. Someone he had left behind and to whom he hoped to return.

  “He is much better,” she whispered. “His fever has broken.”

  Jones sighed with relief. “The man is more bother than he is worth.”

  Emily almost laughed but a grunt from the bed grabbed her attention.

  “I am not dead yet,” the Major croaked. “And I can still get a new valet.”

  She gasped, first at the glorious proof that he was getting well, then at the Major’s misperception. Emily was preparing to tell him all that Corporal Jones had done for him. But the twinkle in the Corporal’s eye and the smile on his lips let her know there was nothing to fear.

  “How are you feeling?” Emily asked as she bent over him to make sure she caught every nuance of his reply.

  The Major lifted one eyebrow and then the other to examine her. His brow furrowed again as if trying to piece together a puzzle.

  “Water.”

  Jones lifted him gently while Emily held a cup to his lips. Her heart raced. He looked so much better. Much more like the Major that had held such sway in her imagination.

  “Why are you in my room, in your robe?” he asked her with a curious frown.

  “Miss Emily nursed you through the night, Sir,” Jones said. “Wouldn’t let no one else do it.”

  The Major studied her for a long moment. “A dream … “

  “You was half out of your head, Sir,” Jones said as he pulled up the blankets. “Probably debating with the devil again. I keeps telling you that you ain’t ever going to win that argument, Sir.”

  Emily’s insides clenched as the Major continued to stare at her, his brow creased in confusion. “No,” he said without taking his gaze from Emily. “This wasn’t the devil. No, this was an angel, soft and sweet. With the most perfect …”

  He obviously realized that he was in mixed company as he stopped himself from saying a word that would have embarrassed her.

  A thousand butterflies erupted in flight from deep in Emily’s stomach. Had he really been dreaming of her? No, surely not. Again, a Spanish princess most assuredly.

  Jones chuckled then looked at her. “He must be doing better if he’s dreaming about angels.”

  “Where are my clothes?” the Major said as he started to push back his blankets in preparation for rising.

  “No you don’t Sir,” Jones said as he gently stopped him from getting out of bed. “Besides, I hid them. I knew you’d be wanting to get up before you should.”

  The Major moved to sweep away the servant’s arm when Emily stepped forward, her hands on her hips. “No,” she said with a firm voice. “Major, … I mean, My Lord, you will stay in bed until the doctor has permitted you to get up.”

  Both Jones and the Major stared back at her with wide eyes. Emily cringed inside at all the boundaries she had stepped over.

  “God, she sounds worse than Sergeant Major Powel,” Jones said to his employer.

  The Major laughed, “It’s in the blood. A sergeant’s daughter.”

  Emily continued to stare down at him. She knew that if she gave an inch, he’d ignore her and make himself ill again. But his pride would never let him give in to her demands. Sighing, she let her shoulders slump. “Major, you are an important man. If you get sick again then you will not be able to accomplish what you want to achieve.”

  His brow creased as he fell back onto the bed. “What do you know about what I wish to accomplish?”

  Emily laughed as she fluffed his pillows. She had won, this battle at least. “Men like you always have something they wish to accomplish. It is what makes them unique.”

  He continued to frown as he pondered her words. Emily decided that perhaps this might be the best time to depart before the conversation returned to his dreams.

  “See that he stays in bed,” she told Jones. “And call me if he doesn’t.” Then turning back to the Major, she threatened, “If necessary, I will enlist the aid of your Aunt Martha.”

  The Major’s eyes grew big as he slumped down and pulled the blankets tighter.

  Emily smiled as she reached out to gently touch his hand again. The hand that had held her tight only a few minutes earlier. Their eyes locked for a long second before Emily swallowed hard and pulled away.

  He w
as well, she told herself over and over again. That was all that mattered. But deep down, she knew she would never forget what it felt like to be held in his arms. No one would ever be able to erase that memory.

  Chapter Nine

  Duncan fought against the rising anger as he was once again reminded that a one-armed man was rather useless. Especially in situations such as this. The first courses had been manageable. But roast beef needed two hands and damn it looked good.

  Sighing, he glanced up to find his hostess, Duchess Bedford, giving him a concerned, pitying look. The kind of look that made his anger jump three notches. She was probably regretting her choice of menu. A fact that drove his anger even more. He despised it when people made adjustments for his sake.

  As if a useless arm wasn’t enough, he was still weaker than a newborn kitten. It had been eight days since that dastardly malaria attack, and heaven knew between Miss Winslow and Jones, he’d been babied and dictated too. Another fact to add to the constant anger. Yet, he had to admit, it wouldn’t have taken much to have him flat on his back again.

  Tonight, however, could not be delayed. There was too much that needed to be done.

  Well, at least he could drink his wine. As he lifted his chalice, he looked down the long table. His friends and their wives. Aunt Martha, Miss Winslow, and next to her, Baron Riverstone. The Duchess had obviously wanted an even mix around her table and invited an extra man to round things out.

  The cup was paused just before his lips as he studied the man. Handsome he supposed. Young, but with a look of maturity without being stuffy. Miss Winslow obviously found him interesting as she laughed gently at a comment.

  Duncan forced himself to place the cup down as he pulled his gaze away from Miss Winslow. It wouldn’t do for the Duchess to get the wrong idea. If she was like every other woman he had ever known, she was a matchmaker at heart.

  Was that why she had chosen Lord Riverstone? Was she hoping to make a match between the Baron and Miss Winslow? The thought sent a cold shiver down his back. But why be upset? After all, he wanted the girl to make a good match. Didn’t he? In fact, as her guardian, it was his responsibility to ensure she did so.

  Yet the idea ate at the edges of his soul. First Hawley, that idiot McIntyre, and now this Riverstone. He grumbled deep in his throat, obviously, none of them were good enough.

  “Your Grace,” his Aunt Martha said addressing Duchess Bedford. “I am contemplating taking on a Lady’s maid. I believe I should have done so before we started the season. For myself and Miss Winslow. I have been gone from London for so long. Fashions have changed, what women are doing with their hair. It was so much simpler when we wore wigs.”

  “Why?” Duncan snapped. “I like Miss Winslow’s hair.”

  Down at the far end of the table, Miss Winslow’s cheeks grew pink. Was it because they were talking about her? That was one thing he believed he had learned about her. She did not enjoy being the center of attention. Not unless she was seeing to his nursing, in which case she didn’t seem to mind if everyone looked to her for direction.

  Aunt Martha raised an eyebrow at his comment. “You are not the one I am concerned about.”

  “I might have a perfect candidate,” Duchess Bedford interjected before he could challenge his aunt. “Lizzy, our chambermaid has filled in and helped for years. I will hate to lose her, but It is time for her to have her deepest ambition realized. Besides,” she added as she looked at her husband with tenderness. “It is because of Lizzy and Mrs. Thompson that I am even here.”

  Aunt Martha smiled at him, now if he tried to stop this, he would upset their host and even worse, his friend’s wife.

  Duncan shrugged his shoulder and nodded to his aunt, silently acknowledging her victory. Really, it wasn’t important. John would be paying for it. What did he care if his aunt had additional help.? Then it hit him, the woman was anticipating the loss of Miss Winslow. She knew the young woman would be married off within the year and was already preparing.

  For some unknown reason, his stomach clenched. The thought of Miss Winslow no longer being available was disturbing. He had come to rely on her even in such a short period. Not just for her nursing skills. But there was more. A connection that he found intriguing. The way she looked at the world. Her ability to stand up for what she thought was best. Even her smile was addicting.

  “So, tell me, My Lord,” Duchess Bedford said. “What was my husband like as a young man?”

  Duncan smiled as he glanced down to the head of the table where the subject under discussion scowled at him, silently advising him to tread carefully.

  “Some,” Duncan began, “would say that His Grace was industrious, kind, a model student and the epitome of a British Duke, even at his young age.”

  Both Ian and Jack coughed as they tried to hide their surprise.

  The Duchess frowned, obviously disappointed. The Duke’s shoulder’s slumped in obvious relief.

  “I, however,” Duncan continued, “knowing the truth, would never describe him in that way.”

  The Duchess smiled as she leaned forward, wanting to catch every word.

  “I would describe him as good at math but poor at languages. I will never forget when Mr. Chesney called him to the front of the class to translate a passage from Caesar’s Commentaries. Our teacher hung his head and groaned at each attempt. Finally shooing him off and calling on Ian to do the job correctly. It was so refreshing to see Brock fail. Rare, but refreshing.”

  “If Caesar were of any importance,” The Duke of Bedford said with a dismissive shrug, “we would still be speaking Latin, not the King’s English.”

  “Go on,” the Duchess encouraged.

  “He hates spiders,” Duncan told her. “He woke once with a rather large one on his face. Biting him. Screamed so loud sixteen boys jumped from their bed, positive it was the bugles announcing the second coming.”

  “So that is why,” she said half to herself.

  “He was quick to anger, especially in the face of injustice...”

  “I’ll say,” Jack, The Duke of Oxford interjected.

  “But most of all,” Duncan continued, “his Grace is the best strategist when it comes to making mischief that I have ever known. Every possibility is analyzed and dealt with. The man is a genius at the fine art of causing trouble. Which of course makes him the best of friends and the worst of enemies.”

  The Duchess of Bedford smiled to him, silently thanking him. “In other words, a scamp.”

  Duncan laughed, raising his glass to her in agreement then returned to his fish course.

  The Duke of Bedford grunted with disapproval and shook his head. “The only reason those escapades ever worked was because you were the best thief in the county.”

  Miss Winslow gasped as she twisted to stare at the Major.

  Duncan laughed again. “The cook’s meat pies were too good. We couldn’t let them be wasted on the headmaster and his lot.”

  The four friends laughed as they shared a common memory of better times.

  Duncan sighed. It had been better times he realized. It had been the four of them against the school and its tyrants. Now, it seemed as if it were the four of them against the entire world.

  Sighing again, he returned to his meal. As he ate, he glanced up to find Miss Winslow looking at him strangely. As if trying to decipher a puzzle. His heart shifted at something in her eyes.

  For some unknown reason, he recalled the fevered dream he had during his recent bout. Something about a soft angel in his arms that made the world feel as it should.

  He dismissed the thought and focused on finishing his salmon, thanking the powers that be that it did not require a knife. But, buried deep in his mind, the dream would not leave him.

  Later, after the ladies had departed for the parlor, Duncan sat back and sighed as he drew on his cigar. “Really rather good,” he said to Brock, the Duke of Bedford. “Cuban, I take it?”

  “Of course,” Brock said. “Cuban cigars, Span
ish port, and English beef, what more can a man want?”

  Duncan scoffed, “And what would your wife say if she was to discover that she was not included on that list?”

  The Duke’s eyes got a faraway look, “There is a difference between a list of wants and a list of needs. A fact you will learn someday I am sure.”

  Deciding not to pursue the matter, Duncan lifted his port and glanced across the table at Lord Riverstone. Jack caught his questioning brow.

  “Riverstone works in the War Department,” Jack said, answering all questions with that brief statement.

  “We thought he might be able to help with that matter we discussed earlier at Whites.” Ian, the Duke of Suffolk added.

  “I really don’t know what assistance I might be,” Lord Riverstone said. “I am but a small cog in the logistics side of things. I don’t deal with strategy or plans.

  Duncan scoffed. “As Napoleon learned on the long march back from Moscow, logistics are perhaps the more important aspect to war.”

  Lord Riverstone simply nodded. Duncan realized immediately that the man understood. He might be humble about his importance, at least openly, but he knew the truth. In fact, he wouldn’t be surprised if that was why the man had chosen that part of the War Department to help manage. Leaving the warfighting decisions to the generals.

  “In our … investigation,” Ian said as he poured himself another port. “We seemed to have ruffled more than a few feathers.”

  Jack scoffed, “Overturned a hornet’s nest if you ask me.”

  “I say,” Brock added, “your friend Hawley …”

  “He’s not my friend,” Duncan snapped. “The man’s poor decisions and … lack of bravery … cost me a dozen men in Portugal. He and his company were to protect my flank. But he wasn’t where he was supposed to be and the French almost rolled us up.”

  A sharp bile rose to his throat when he thought of that day. The day he had lost so many good men. So many friends. All because a British officer had failed at his job.

  “Yes, well,” Brock continued, “he seems rather interested in our line of inquiry. Yet tried to dismiss the reports as silly rumors.