THE DUKE WEARS NADA
BARBARA DEVLIN
COPYRIGHT
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2016 Barbara C. Noyes
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Barbara Devlin
The Brethren of the Coast Badge is a registered trademark ® of Barbara Devlin.
Cover art by Lewellen Designs
Interior art by Dar Albert
ISBN: 978-1-945576-92-8
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to all the ladies who wear glasses. How does the old saying go? ‘Men don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses.’ Well, guess what, bespectacled women have fun, too.
THE DUKE WEARS NADA
PROLOGUE
The Ascendants
London
The Year of Our Lord, 1315
Beneath the dark stone spires of White Tower, the worst of the realm’s subversives—traitors, murderers, spies and the like lingered, along with a certain stubborn Nautionnier Knight. His crime, the most egregious imaginable, was that of civil disobedience. With grim resolution, Arucard climbed the narrow steps and drew his cloak about him, to ward off the dank chill. At a large portal, the guard produced a key, unlocked the door, and stepped aside.
“Lord Sussex, you may visit Sir Geoffrey.” The sentry bowed. “Mayhap you can talk some sense into him, ere His Majesty loses patience and sends your friend to the block.”
“That is wherefore I am hither.” Yet, Arucard feared thither was naught he could do to convince his friend to change his mind. In the musty, frigid chamber, light from the small hearth cast Geoffrey’s silhouette, and Arucard squared his shoulders and prayed that reason and rational contemplation won the day. “How do you fare, brother?”
“Never better.” Geoffrey huddled beneath a worn blanket and coughed. “My conscience is clear, and my soul is prepared to meet my maker.”
So much for reason and rational contemplation.
“You would rather die than wed?” Arucard shuddered at the thought, given the love he coveted for Isolde and the commitment to brotherhood he shared with Geoffrey. “When you have witnessed, firsthand, the happiness and blessings that Demetrius, Aristide, and I enjoy with our wives and our children?”
“Aye.” Geoffrey stood and folded his arms. “Because I have also seen how you yield your position of authority to Isolde, and I am embarrassed for you. Never will any woman control me, thus.”
“Ah, but that is your first err in logic, brother, because marriage is all about compromise, not control.” Just pondering the concept inspired a wicked shiver. “Trust me, whither ladies are concerned, you never want to mistake the two. And Isolde does not manipulate me anymore than I would attempt to manage her. Rather, we engage in mutual concessions to preserve amity in our union.”
“But you are the man, and she is but property, a vessel to take of your seed, render an heir, and naught more.” Glowering, Geoffrey shook his fist, and that gem of ignorance Arucard tucked away for future use. “It is your duty, not to mention the natural state, to govern her, yet you cede command.”
“Thither is much to be said for permitting the occasional lapse in dominance.” Ah, Arucard savored a sweet recollection, as Isolde woke him with an aggressive seduction just before dawn. “However, wedlock is, at its heart, a partnership. What affects one affects the other, as the two are inextricably intertwined. Indeed, the more you share with your mate, the more power you gain, such that you are all but invincible when you present a united front.”
“I care not, as I have no intention of finding out, because I will not marry—not now, not ever.” Smacking a fist to a palm, Geoffrey paced. “And I am prepared to surrender my head on a pike to maintain my vow of chastity.”
Just then, the guard returned, and Arucard peered over his shoulder.
“Forgive the intrusion, Lord Sussex.” To his surprise, the soldier none-too-gently thrust a lady into the cell. “His Majesty has decreed that if Sir Geoffrey does not wed, then he is for the block, and by association Lady Gertruda will suffer the same fate.”
“What?” Arucard studied the poor thing, as she hugged herself and bowed her head. “But she is innocent in the grand scheme, as she has voiced no opposition to the union. You cannot be serious.”
“Believe me, I do not enjoy this task, yet I am but a miserable fleak sent to fulfill the Sovereign’s bidding.” The sentry saluted and exited the chamber.
“Lady Gertruda Marinova, I presume?” Arucard approached with tentative steps. “Permit me to introduce myself. I am—”
“I know who you are, Lord Sussex.” She sniffed. “Just as I am aware of Sir Geoffrey’s refusal to wed me, in defiance of the King’s edict, which imperils not only his neck but also mine, so it seems.”
“I apologize, Lady Gertruda.” To Arucard’s surprise, Geoffrey addressed the pawn in the games men played. “As I have no quarrel with you.”
That exchange boded well.
“How unfortunate, for I have a quarrel with you.” She stomped a foot, and Arucard winced, as he recognized the signs of a prime female temper. “How dare you place my life in danger to stand on some ridiculous, antiquated principle, with no basis in fact, when I have done naught to you?”
“It is not that simple.” Geoffrey stretched to full height, and Arucard could have guessed what would happen next. “And you will speak when I permit it.”
“I will speak when I please, you ill-mannered sack of horse dung.” Gertruda thrust her chin, and Arucard admired her spirit, which she would need to succeed, given Geoffrey was twice her size. “As I am not your wife, you have no power over me, and I answer only to my father or His Majesty.”
“Oh, what a lovely disposition you possess.” Geoffrey rested fists on hips. “And to think I pitied you.”
As the two sides prepared to clash, Arucard pressed his back to the wall.
“Do not waste your sympathy on me, as I have no need of it.” Aye, Arucard agreed with her assertion, as Gertruda stood toe to toe with Geoffrey. “Wherefore could you not simply utter the vows and have done with it? I could continue to reside, safe and sound, with my family; because all the Sire requires is that we take the sacrament. He mentioned naught about living together in wedded bliss, although I submit you are incapable of such conduct.” Then she snickered. “And I was told you are a gentleman of honor.”
“Have care, Lady Gertruda, as you level insults you cannot possibly defend.” Geoffrey bent his head, bringing his nose a hairsbreadth from hers, and a warning about the dangers of teeth, especially in regard to sensitive protuberances, danced on the tip of Arucard’s tongue, but he remained silent. “I ought to bend you over my knee and spank your bottom raw, for such foul language.”
“You try it, Sir Geoffrey, and His Majesty will have no need to put you to the axe, as I shall dispatch you to your maker, this instant.” She stiffened her spine and gained newfound respect, because Arucard had seen bigger men falter beneath Geoffrey’s steely gaze, yet she flinched not. “And I am not the one guilty of irrational behavior, so you may discipline yourself.”
“I refuse to converse with the rude and primitive likes of a scullion.” Shifting his weight, Geoffrey assumed a haughty air, as the noblewoman shrieked with unveiled, indignant dissent. “Brother, will you kindly inform Lady Gertruda, although I use the term lady as a mere formality owing to my
excellent upbringing as a gentleman and a knight, that she may return to her family with a clear conscience, because I release her from any and all obligations?”
It was an interesting but futile declaration, because only His Majesty could spare Lady Gertruda, so Arucard shrugged. “But you have no—”
“Lord Sussex, will you be so good as to apprise this ill-tempered, ox-headed fool that he cannot free me from the King’s sentence?” Folding her arms, she huffed a breath. “Owing to his obstinate rebuke of the Sovereign’s mandate.”
With a scowl, Geoffrey lorded over her. “Nag.”
“Mule,” she replied.
“Silence.” Geoffrey wagged a finger before her face, and Arucard tensed. “Lady Gertruda, you will calm—ouch.” As Arucard anticipated, she bit Geoffrey, and he retreated. To Arucard, Geoffrey said, “You saw that. The termagant assaulted me.”
“That will teach you not to menace me, Sir Geoffrey.” Absent a hint of contrition, she smiled. “I may be small in stature, but I have a mind and a will of my own, and I wager you will not soon forget.”
As Arucard stifled laughter at the absurdity of the situation, a simple realization dawned, and his prospects improved, because Geoffrey, for all his bluster, exhibited the flushed countenance and wide-eyed gaze of passion. And despite her refined style and garb, so did Lady Gertruda.
“I am bleeding.” Geoffrey thrust his offended hand. “She wounded me.”
“Enough.” With a wave Arucard dismissed the reluctant couple. And although he mustered an expression of stoicism, on the inside he danced a jig, as he strolled to the door and pounded on the oak panel. “Guards, hither I am done.”
“Wait, brother.” With a countenance of unmasked shock, Geoffrey appeared quite hesitant. “You cannot leave me alone with this hellion.”
“Poor Sir Geoffrey.” She snorted. “Are you afraid of me?”
Ah, yea, they would make for an interesting marriage.
As the terrible twosome fought, Arucard ducked into the hall. When the guard secured the bolt, a loud crash echoed from the cell.
“Mayhap I should notify His Majesty of their quarrel.” Another startling boom rumbled through the corridor, and the soldier jumped. “Ere they kill each other.”
“Oh, I would not do that, as theirs is but a prelude to love.” Arucard smacked the sentry on the shoulder. “And it should provide ample entertainment.”
“Are you so certain?” Beyond the stone wall, the contretemps ensued, and the guard gulped. “But, Lord Sussex, she is going to drive him to the brink of insanity.”
“Only if he is lucky.”
THE DUKE WEARS NADA
CHAPTER ONE
The Descendants
England
March, 1816
Love proved a double-edged sword, which claimed its victim with lethal accuracy, without mercy, and absent care for the inherent consequences associated with such a vicious assault on the unfortunate, unsuspecting sop tangled in its snare. Once struck, the poor bastard could do naught but endure the accompanying ghastly agony that marked such exercises in lunacy, cease the battle, surrender to the victorious lady, and prostrate himself at the altar.
Would that his situation were so simple.
For Damian Sherborne Aristide Seymour, fifth duke of Weston, known throughout the ton as the voice of reason, the singular emotion posed a particularly complicated trap, because it failed to adhere to the precepts of a fair fight. Instead, the stuff of poetry played a cruel joke, because the lone woman to tempt his heart into falling hopelessly, helplessly, and, if he were honest with himself, hilariously into the abyss known as courtship happened to be his best friend’s sister-in-law, and that created all manner of potential hazards and conflicts.
“Weston, you are in trouble.” He chuckled.
Stretching upright in the saddle, he sighed and steered his stallion to the verge, as he approached the gatehouse of Pemberton, the ancestral pile and country home of Blake Elliott, duke of Rylan. Best friends since they wore shortcoats, Damian and Blake grew up in each other’s pockets, attended Eton and Oxford, chased merry widows, commissioned in the navy, fought side by side on the open seas, and returned home as victorious veterans of the war.
Then Blake met and married Lenore Teversham as was, and the lifelong friends’ paths diverged.
“And my world has not been the same, since.” Overset by unrest and uncharacteristic fear of the unknown, he resolved to walk the remains of the distance to the grand residence, if only to ease the stress investing his shoulders. In the shade of a massive oak, he slid from his mount, shook his head, snickered, sat, and reclined in the grass. As he studied the clear blue sky, he pondered his next move in a game often dictated by the fairer sex. “Yet, I would have it no other way.”
Indeed, if he closed his eyes, he could recall every detail of the first meeting with his intended target. The seemingly limitless exuberance. The unfailing spirit. The unrestrained inquisitiveness. The freckles. The glasses. A bespectacled hoyden destined to venture through life with her nose in a book, or trudging across the fields in search of some new insect specimen, Miss Lucilla Teversham possessed none of the qualities he always presumed necessary in his future duchess, and perhaps that was why he wanted her.
No, she was no one to fear—just a brash young girl endowed with unparalleled energy, so he guarded not his emotions, and she caught him when he least expected it, but not with oft-deployed winsome expressions, seductive stares, low-cut bodices, or provoking caresses. Oh, no.
In good sport, and to aid Blake in a humorous, if not frustrating, campaign to win Lenore, Damian distracted the younger sister, spending the better portion of the holiday plodding through the snow, in Lucy’s wake, as they explored Portsea Island, collecting various rocks, yes, rocks for her inspection.
“I can hear it now. One day, we will recount for our children how she conquered me with a pocketful of cold, wet stones.” And it served him right, given his ridiculous assumptions about marriage and wives. “Then she was kidnapped.” Revisiting that awful day, he gritted his teeth. “And never have I felt so helpless in my life.”
At the time of the horrid crime, he supposed he cared for her as a sister, in much the same fashion as he fretted for Alex, his younger sibling, and he knew not when it became something else. Something altogether more remarkable. Perhaps, it was when the gawky long Meg emerged from her captivity a changed woman, which did not escape his notoriously fickle interest.
“And I have persisted as the lovesick fool, ever since.” Yawning, he resolved to enjoy a nap before continuing to the house, because he suspected he would get no rest once he reunited with Lucy. Just as he relaxed, a flirty little ditty brought him alert.
“Oh, she wore a frilly bonnet on her head, so her swain might dance with her instead.”
In an instant, Damian jumped to his feet and followed the serenade of the less than elegant songstress.
“But when they met that night, another maiden he did sight.”
Stifling a chuckle, he spotted the source of the awkward melody and smiled as she frolicked, sans slippers, in a chalk stream.
“So she punched him in the nose and stomped his toes.”
Sunlight cast its golden glow upon her crown of brown curls, and a pale yellow sprig muslin morning gown accentuated her shapely curves. When the lady bent at the waist, he smiled.
“I would know that derriere, anywhere,” he remarked, in a low voice. Folding his arms, he savored the show, as Lucy hiked her skirts and kicked the water. “My, what lovely calves you have, my dear.”
How he ached to trail his tongue along the sensitive inner side of her long, slender legs. As usual, myriad naughty thoughts swirled in his brain, and he wrestled with a temperamental arousal, and that he could not ignore.
For some strange reason that resisted his every effort to decipher, she viewed him not as a nobleman or a Nautionnier Knight. Instead, she saw through the polished veneer, tailored garb, and rational convers
ations to the man that hid beneath. Whenever they met, it was as though she stripped him bare of fortune and title, and yet she wanted him. Above all others, she sought his company. Thus, he did not want to be a duke, around her. Rather, he wanted to be hers.
“Now where did I put my glasses?” With both arms, she reached and flicked her fingers. “I swear, I would lose my nose if it were not attached to my face.”
When she teetered on the slippery banks, imperiling her graceful neck, he leaped into action, caught her about the waist, and swept her into his secure embrace. “Easy, Miss Teversham.”
“Damian.” To his unutterable delight, Lucy’s usually animated expression brightened even more, and she kissed him with a loud smack, hugged him in equal measure, and nuzzled the crook of his neck. “How I missed you.”
“Then you should have allowed me to fetch you from America.” It still bothered him that she refused his offer of passage, and he wanted to know why, as he tightened his hold and inhaled her characteristic honeysuckle scent. “We could have enjoyed the sail, together.”
“But I had much to think about during the crossing.” When he attempted to set her down, she clung to him, so he carried her to a large rock, where he spotted her spectacles, which he quickly pocketed. “And you muddle my thoughts, such that I often cannot compose two coherent sentences in your presence.”
“Really?” Sitting, he turned her in his lap. Although her customary frankness should not have surprised him, never had such honesty directly influenced his plans for the future. Then again, guile never impressed him. “Why do I distract you?”
“Because I care for you, but you know that.” With a sigh, she rested against him, and he skimmed his palm down her back. “Yet I cannot see beyond the trial, and I dread confronting the past and Sheldon.”
“Do you fear him?” Sorrow belied her calm demeanor and concerned Damian, and her melancholy struck him as a savage punch to the gut, because Lucy feared nothing—yet, she feared something. “Because he cannot hurt you, sweetheart. The villain is imprisoned, and never again can he harm you. And I will be there, in the courtroom gallery, to support you when you offer testimony, when he is convicted and sentenced, and when he is executed for his crimes.”
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