An Inconvenient Duke

by Anna Harrington

  “Oh.” She frowned with chagrin, feeling like a goose for thinking he’d sought her out. Most likely, he hadn’t given last night’s kisses a second thought, when they’d been practically all she’d been able to think about. “So if we’re here, and Claudia is upstairs with Pippa, then poor Mr. Trousdale—”

  “Is alone in the drawing room with the viscountess,” he finished as he removed two glasses from the cabinet.

  Poor Mr. Trousdale indeed. “By all means, you should return and rescue him.”

  “I think Trousdale can fend for himself against an old woman for a few minutes.”

  “Then you don’t know Auntie very well. At any moment, she’s likely to launch into her story about Napoleon.”

  “Let me guess.” He poured the dark port into both glasses. “Boney had a pet pig who helped him invade Russia.”

  “A greyhound named Pierre, actually.”

  He froze for a beat, then replaced the bottle. “You are making that up.”

  “I wish I were,” she sighed.

  He sent her a pleading look over his shoulder. “Don’t make me go back there.”

  “Well, you cannot stay in here with me.” Alone.

  “Why not? I think we have a lot of things to discuss, don’t you?”

  “And I think I’ve said all that needs to be said about those things.”

  “Not even close.” Walking back to her, he held out one of the glasses.

  She glanced down at the port, recognizing it for what it was. Not a drink but a challenge. And not to see if she would dare to take it or decry that proper ladies didn’t drink port but if she were bold enough to remain here with him.

  But she’d never backed down from a challenge in her life and accepted it. “Thank you.”

  With a knowing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, he crossed behind his desk and gestured toward the pair of wingback chairs across from him in invitation for her to sit.

  Dani hesitated. She knew she shouldn’t. In fact, she should have already left to rejoin the others in the drawing room. Sitting would only invite him to delve further into her secrets and to chastise her once again for the dangers of Nightingale. Yet she couldn’t help herself. This was her opportunity to put an end to all his prying…and other things he had no business doing with her.

  “This is a first.” She sat gracefully, then raised the glass to take a small sip of the sweet liquid. “I’ve never been invited to join the gentlemen after dinner for port.”

  “What a shame.” With an amused smile, he leaned back in his chair, kicking out his long legs in a position of complete ease and relaxation. Yet behind the desk, he somehow looked even more masculine and powerful. And drat her heart, that the foolish thing leapt into her throat and beat a wild tattoo at the sight. “Those other men don’t know what they’re missing.”

  Her fingers tightened around the glass in irritation. “You really mustn’t—”

  “Beautiful company, biting wit, interesting conversation,” he mused, studying her over his glass. “Or at least, I hope there will be interesting conversation, especially as you’ve been avoiding speaking to me all evening.”

  “I have not been avoiding you. We had a perfectly pleasant conversation over dinner.”

  “Surrounded by family,” he corrected, “when we couldn’t say what needs to be said.”

  “There’s nothing to be—”

  “Such as what happened in the carriage.” His voice turned shiveringly intense. “We kissed last night.”

  They’d done a lot more than simply kiss, and the memory of it tightened all the tiny muscles in her lower belly. She took another sip of port to calm her fluttering nerves. “I’m sure you’ve kissed quite a few ladies since your return.”

  “Just one, actually.” His dark eyes gleamed. “You.”

  “Well, we all make mistakes.”

  His sensuous lips twisted in amusement, and he murmured a bit too huskily for comfort, “Didn’t feel like a mistake to me.” He kept his gaze locked on hers as he raised the glass to take a sip. “We kissed last night, and I strongly suspect that we both want to do it again.” His head tilted slightly as he studied her. “If I came around this desk and took you into my arms, would you stop me?”

  With that question, it wasn’t her belly that he made ache.

  She had to put a stop to this. Now. “I don’t wish to discuss this.”

  “All right, then. So tell me more about Elise and what she was doing in the days before she died.” He hadn’t changed position, hadn’t moved a single muscle, but she sensed a hardening in him. The intensity turned deadly. “Tell me how I can find John Porter and the men responsible for her death.”

  “I don’t wish to discuss that either,” she whispered from behind the rim of the glass, raised to her lips to give her something—anything—behind which she could hide. Yes, she was keeping secrets from him. So had Elise. But she wasn’t prepared to be treated like an enemy under interrogation.

  “Then it’s back to why you keep kissing me whenever we’re alone together.”

  Indignation sparked through her. “I do not—”

  “You kissed me first over the music box.”

  “And you kissed me in the carriage!”

  A rakish grin spread across his face as he drawled, “Yes, I certainly did.”

  A hot blush seeped into her cheeks, and she had to look away before he glimpsed it. Drat the devil! No wonder so many French soldiers wanted to kill him if he battled like this. “This conversation is improper and wholly unseemly for a duke.”

  “Dear God, I hope so.”

  Her gaze darted back to him in surprise. He’d meant that as a sarcastic reply, but the sincerity beneath it struck her like a slap. “You don’t want to be a duke?”

  His smile tightened. “We’re not talking about me.”

  “We are now.” She sat forward, balancing the glass of port on her knee, and critically assessed him across the desk. “If you don’t want to be a duke, why did you accept the title?”

  “I had no choice.”

  “Of course you did. Prinny could have given you a lesser title or a knighthood and an estate to go with it. You still would have been well rewarded and—”

  “I had no choice,” he repeated.

  She stared at him, unable to fathom the inscrutable expression that fell over him like a veil. Why on earth would he put himself through all these changes, all the pressure of running a dukedom and sitting in Parliament, if he didn’t—

  “You damn fool,” she whispered as the answer pulsed icily through her. Claudia’s earlier pleas regarding her brother now made terrible sense…why he seemed so lost, why he lacked purpose. He hadn’t accepted the title for his own gains, had never wanted it or the obligations that came with it, had hated every moment of it—“You did it for Claudia and Pippa.”

  “To give them the protection and wealth of a dukedom? Of course I did.” He sat forward himself, placing his glass onto the desktop. “What wouldn’t you do, Danielle, to protect the ones you love?”

  He meant Elise, and a burning formed behind her eyes. Apparently, she hadn’t done enough. “I would do all that I could,” she breathed, the sound little more than the brush of a feather. “All that I could.”

  He rose from his chair and circled the desk to stand in front of her, to be closer and catch every whispered word from her lips. “Me, too.” He leaned back against the desk in a casual pose, but she knew every muscle in his body was tensed and alert. “What else do you know about the days leading up to Elise’s death? What else are you keeping from me?”

  “Nothing.” She leaned back in the chair and out of his reach. “I’ve told you all I know about your sister.”

  “And the men and women who might have been working with her? You’ve said almost nothing about them.”

  “B
ecause I don’t know.”

  “I’ve got men tracking down John Porter.” He pulled at his cravat as if it choked him. Although it might very well have been the turn of conversation that pained him. It was certainly distressing her. “But there were women involved, I’m sure of it. If Elise had created her own network, one modeled after Nightingale, then she would have made use of her friends for some of the same tasks that you do. Perhaps even the very same women.”

  “I will never give up their names,” she resolved firmly. She would go to her grave before she shared their identities. “If you value your sister’s memory, do not ask me again.”

  “All right then.” He pushed himself away from the desk and stopped directly in front of her. “It’s back to the kisses.”

  Not this again! “I will not—”

  “Did you enjoy them?” He placed his hands on the arms of the chair and leaned in over her, bringing his gaze level with hers.

  She kept her lips closed. Any answer to that would only provoke the rascal to keep discussing it. Or worse, attempt to kiss her again right here.

  “Surely you did,” he answered for her, a knowing smile pulling faintly at the corners of his mouth. Then he leaned in to brush his lips against her temple.

  Dani closed her eyes against the sweet torture. Even now, she trembled at his nearness, unable to hide the effect he had on her.

  “I certainly did,” he murmured.

  “Stop staying things like that.” But her order emerged as an unconvincing, throaty rasp.

  “Then tell me your last secrets, Danielle.” His warm lips caressed down the side of her face to her jaw. “Share the names of the women with me.”

  “I won’t tell you that.”

  He placed his mouth against her neck, to lightly nibble at the tender flesh just below her ear and send a shivering heat sparking out to the tips of her fingers and toes. She put her hand against his chest, but she couldn’t find the willpower to push him away.

  “John Porter?” he pressed in a low murmur.

  “I know nothing about him.” She knew what he was doing, teasing her with kisses that weren’t true kisses, hoping she would crave the inevitable reward of his mouth on hers that he would give if only she named the women. But she wouldn’t, no matter how much her traitorous body longed to be back in his arms, and she stifled a whimper. “Neither do any of the women in Nightingale.”

  “And Scepter?”

  Her heart stopped. In that moment’s brutal stillness, she felt her blood turn cold.

  “Porter cautioned Elise about it in his note,” he murmured against her ear, not realizing that every word stirred icy fear inside her.

  She swallowed. Hard. “John Porter gave good advice. You should heed it, too.”

  He shifted away from her, just far enough to look down into her face. “What is Scepter? Is it a person or a club—a network like Nightingale?”

  “I don’t know exactly. An organization of men from London’s underworld with ties to all kinds of crimes. Smuggling, fencing stolen goods, running brothels, extortion—” She shook her head. The rumors of what Scepter had been doing, the ruthlessness of the men behind it—God help her, why was he asking about them? “No one knows how large it is, how far-reaching.”

  “How do I find them?”

  His appearance hadn’t changed; his expression was still sober and hard. But she felt the change in him, a yearning so subtle that she nearly missed it—Revenge.

  “Stay away from them,” she rasped.

  “If they’re responsible for Elise’s death—”

  “Then they’ll kill you, too.”

  He stiffened at her warning, his body tensing beneath her hand as it rested on his waistcoat.

  Under her fingertips, his heart beat strong and steady, and she couldn’t resist the urge to curl her fingers into the hard muscle of his chest. He was warm and alive, and she fully intended to keep him that way, no matter how many secrets she had to hide from him.

  “Leave them alone, Marcus. They’re not the kind of men you want to bother.”

  “I’m not afraid of them, Danielle.”

  Of course he wouldn’t be. Not this man, who had charged into battles against the enemy in some of the bloodiest fighting the world had ever seen, repeatedly putting his life at risk.

  Yet she warned, “You should be.”

  His eyes flickered darkly, but she couldn’t tell if he would pay heed to her cautions or dismiss them outright. Marcus Braddock was just infuriating enough to do either.

  “Just one more question,” he pressed.

  Her shoulders sagged with exasperation. She pushed at him to shift him away, but he didn’t budge. “Marcus, please—”

  “Have they threatened you?”

  Her throat tightened at the concern in his voice. “No.” But then, why would they come after her? She admitted, so softly that her voice wasn’t even a whisper, “I’ve been cowardly enough to avoid them.”

  “You’re not a coward.” He cupped her face between his hands. “You’re the bravest woman I know.”

  Brave. She wasn’t that at all. But for this moment at least, with the heat and strength of him there for the taking, she could let herself believe that she was.

  “You need to stop your work with Nightingale.” The firm warning was tempered by caresses of his fingers across her cheek and a brush of his thumb over her bottom lip. “Before you get hurt.”

  “Never,” she countered breathlessly.

  She closed her eyes, knowing he was going to kiss her. None of those half kisses either. This time, he would be just as hungry as he’d been last night, just as—

  A scream tore through the house.

  Fear seized her as she looked up into his startled face. “Claudia!”

  Eleven

  Marcus raced up the stairs toward the upper floors, taking them three steps at a time. The screams continued, chilling his bones with terror. Not Claudia—please, God, don’t let her be hurt! How would he survive losing another sister?

  “Claudia!” he bellowed as he reached the second floor landing. His lungs burned as he sprinted down the hall toward the bedrooms in the east wing. The door to Elise’s room was open, the light from the hallway lamps spilling inside—

  He halted, freezing in midstep as two forms emerged from the shadows…Claudia and an intruder who stood behind her, holding a knife to her throat.

  “Marcus!” she cried, but the man held her by her hair and yanked hard to silence her. Tears spilled down her pale face.

  “Let her go,” Marcus ordered. He widened his stance and balled his hands into fists, preparing to attack.

  “Let me pass,” the man shot back as he dragged Claudia with him as he circled the edge of the room, making his way toward the door and escape.

  “Don’t hurt me, please,” she whispered. “Please…”

  With no other choice, Marcus stepped to the side. Helplessness seared the inside of his chest. Christ! He couldn’t do anything to help, not as long as the man held the knife to her. If he attempted so much as a small move in the man’s direction, he would slice her throat. All he could do was watch and wait for the exact moment to pounce.

  And then he would kill the bastard with his bare hands for daring to harm his family.

  Step by slow step, the man circled the room, keeping Claudia in front of him like a shield. She was so terrified that she shook violently, most likely still on her feet only because the man held her up by her hair, his fingers twisted painfully into her curls. They reached the doorway. With his eyes never leaving Marcus, he backed deliberately toward the hall.

  “Marcus!” He heard Danielle rush down the hall, not seeing the intruder until it was too late.

  Startled, the man spun around to face her, leaving his side vulnerable to Marcus and lowering the knife in surprise.


  Now. Marcus drew back his leg and kicked. His boot slammed into the man’s knee, which buckled beneath him with a loud groan of pain.

  The intruder shoved Claudia to the floor and staggered back into the hall. He brandished the knife at Marcus to force him to stay back, then at Danielle as she pressed herself against the hallway wall less than ten feet away. She snatched a lit candle from the wall sconce and threw it at him, forcing him to duck.

  Marcus pivoted on his foot and twisted around to kick with the other, landing another strike, this time hard into the man’s chest.

  A flash of motion at the top of the stairs caught his attention. Pippa.

  In that moment’s distraction, the intruder thrust the knife. The sharp blade sliced through Marcus’s jacket and sleeve, cutting into the hard muscle beneath. Flinching at the searing pain, he jerked back, his punch missing the man’s jaw and flying through empty air.

  The man swung the knife again, and Marcus dropped his shoulder as he dove forward. He hit the floor and rolled, popping back onto his feet and snatching up a silver candlestick from one of the tables lining the hall. Brandishing it like a sword from his uninjured arm, he positioned himself between the intruder and the stairs, keeping Danielle and Pippa behind him.

  White-hot fury burned inside his gut. Never. That bastard would never lay another hand on the women he loved.

  “What on earth…?” The viscountess’s panicked cry surprised him. He glanced over his shoulder to see the older woman kneeling behind Pippa to take the child protectively into her arms and a flash of motion as Trousdale barreled down the hallway at the intruder.

  The man turned and sprinted for the rear stairs to flee the house, too fast for Trousdale to catch him.

  The candlestick fell from Marcus’s hand and banged onto the floor as he fell back against the wall, bruised, bleeding, and exhausted.

  “Uncle Marcus!” Pippa cried and shoved away from the viscountess and past Danielle to launch herself up into his arms and cling to him.

  Marcus winced at the blinding pain, but he would never drop her. Never.