A Duke Of Her Own-[Rogues and Roses 01]

by Lorraine Heath

  Was it possible for a writer not to include a small portion of himself in his chosen words? Her drawings always contained a reflection of herself. Even the rose she’d watercolored in the conservatory had been more than a flower, the dew drop representing a tear as she left behind the world she’d always known.

  She’d been terrified, her bravado simply a front so no one would realize how much she feared failure, how much she longed for success. Was Hawkhurst any different?

  She closed the book and stared out the window at the sheets of rain pouring down, slashing against the pane. What did she truly know of this man whom she’d married?

  That he enjoyed wicked nights…and brandy balls. That he would compromise a wealthy woman in order to ensure marriage to her and access to her funds…

  No, he would do anything, including compromising a woman, tarnishing his own reputation as a gentleman, in order to ensure he had the means to protect his family. And when he’d found the wrong woman in his arms, he’d become her champion.

  “At what cost to his family?” she whispered to the rain. “At what cost to himself?”

  What man could write so convincingly of villains, heroes, sacrifice, and love if he did not possess at least a small measure of each within his own heart?

  She set the book on the table beside her, picked up her sketch pad, and began to draw what he had so beautifully described. A world where good always prevailed. A world she’d not expected him to believe in, much less care about creating. A world designed to keep a lonely girl from experiencing loneliness.

  She stilled her hand, remembering Caroline’s declaration that Hawkhurst had been lonely. She’d found it difficult to believe, yet his villain’s life reflected a poignant loneliness. Was it based on experience?

  His sister obviously adored him. For that bond to develop, he had to have spent time with her, time away from Society, away from friends because she was a secret carefully guarded.

  Louisa thought of all she’d done without while Alex had bought baubles for his mistress. She thought of the rumors that had quickly circulated, rumors intended to ensure that Jenny was not available to Hawkhurst, rumors instigated by her brother.

  She’d done Hawkhurst a grave disservice. It wasn’t he who was the bad influence. Rather it was her brother. How was it that she’d failed to see Alex for the selfish, self-centered man he truly was?

  She’d always attributed those characteristics to his friends. Yet, here she was finding evidence of a generous heart in a man whom she’d always thought heartless.

  Passion was not achieved merely by caressing. Rather it required reaching deep within. She touched the book. It was putting someone else before oneself. Sacrificing love for duty, happiness for obligation and responsibilities.

  She’d never considered the unfairness of Hawk’s situation or the unfairness of her own, and she couldn’t help but wonder, if she were with child, what stories he might weave for his son. For surely, he would give as much to his own children as he’d given to his sister.

  That was an aspect to him she’d not considered: He might be a truly wonderful father.

  But how long before he began to resent the woman who had given him the children? The woman who had altered his plans with her impulsiveness, shattered his dreams with her own weaknesses?

  Enough recriminations. They’d both exercised poor judgment. And while she might never possess his heart, she did believe they could take matters into their own hands, reshape their destiny.

  Once again, she began sketching a faerie princess in a glade with a unicorn. When she was finished with this drawing, she thought she might give sketching the villain a go.

  Once she began sketching in earnest, she became quite lost in the endeavor. Finally, she stopped only because the sky had become much darker, the shadows of evening arriving to alert her that dinner would soon be served. She wanted a few moments alone with her husband before the family gathered for the evening.

  After much searching, she found him in a bedchamber in the east wing, studying the contents of the room as though he’d never before seen them, lifting a vase to the poor lighting, then making a note in the ledger before moving on to a delicate figurine—a woman sitting beneath a tree, a book set in her lap.

  He wore no jacket, no waistcoat. Only his shirt, with three buttons undone, a relaxed dress, and yet he seemed anything but relaxed. She caught glimpses of dirt and dust on his sleeves. His hair contained furrows where his fingers had repeatedly plowed. As she watched, he took another swipe through the thick strands, a melancholy sigh accompanying his actions.

  Turning from his examination of the figurine, he came up short at the sight of her. He had the look of someone caught doing something he shouldn’t have been doing. She’d always assumed it would be a common, natural look for him—a man she’d believed was always engaged in acts he shouldn’t be.

  But writing stories for a lonely child, striving to ensure her happiness…

  “I suppose it is your wish to see me into an early grave,” he said. “Appearing when unexpected could very well stop my heart.”

  “You’ve never struck me as one easily frightened,” she said, curling her mouth up ever so slightly, wondering at the joy she felt by simply being in his presence. It was a dangerous thing to hope this marriage of theirs could ever be anything other than punishment for misbehavior. Clutching her sketch pad, she stepped farther into the room. “What are you doing?”

  “Attempting to decide which objects have the most financial value and the least sentimental value.”

  “So you might sell them,” she stated quietly.

  “I have always strived to keep my debt at a minimum. It bothers me immeasurably that someone’s generosity in extending me credit might cause his family to do without. Exceptions are made for aristocrats that are not made for the common man.”

  “You don’t see it as your right: to be held above others?”

  “I don’t see as I’ve earned it.”

  She dug her fingers into her sketch pad. “I wasn’t aware you held those feelings.”

  “I suspect, dear Louisa, where my feelings are concerned, you are unaware of a good deal.”

  She took a step closer. “Enlighten me.”

  He glanced down, trailing his finger over the bonnet worn by the lady in the figurine. “It is not an easy matter to bare them, and I suspect doing so will not raise my esteem in your eyes.”

  “Is it important to you what I think? I’d always thought you had no care for others’ opinions.”

  “If I did not care, I would not have married you.”

  The words came out sharply, biting into her tender heart. He’d swung his head around, to gauge her reaction perhaps, although she thought it more likely to apologize for his outburst, for his eyes held regret.

  “My apologies. You weren’t deserving of that outburst, and the words spoken did not adequately convey the sentiment.”

  “It is a wonder that a man who can use words to portray beautifully a story has such difficulty expressing himself in conversation.”

  He furrowed his brow, in confusion, but she also feared as a prelude to anger. “Pardon?”

  His voice was cautious, and she suspected he wasn’t going to be pleased to learn his sister has shared his stories.

  “I did not come here to torment you,” she said. “Rather I wanted to share something with you.” Taking a deep breath for fortification, realizing she’d come too far to turn back now, she marched across the short distance separating them and presented her sketch pad. “While the rain has been falling, I’ve been drawing. I’d like your opinion.”

  Warily, he set his ledger beside the figurine on the small round table and took her sketch pad. He studied the first sketch, a muscle in his jaw jumping sporadically as though he fought to keep himself from speaking. He turned the paper back and scrutinized the next drawing. Very slowly, as though in a daze, he walked to the window where the light was better. Turned slightly, he presented
little more than his profile as he looked at the third drawing. When he was finished with the fourth, he gazed out the window, as still and silent as stone.

  “Do you find them displeasing?” she dared to ask.

  He shook his head. “How did you come to envision this world?”

  “Caroline gave me the honor of reading one of your stories this afternoon.”

  He closed his eyes, his jaw again ticking.

  “Don’t be angry with her.”

  “I’m not angry. It is simply that they were never meant to be shared.”

  “Why ever not?”

  He opened his eyes, but still refused to turn around and meet her gaze. “They were merely a poor attempt to ease her loneliness.”

  “And perhaps a bit of your own?”

  He snapped his head around. “Do not attempt to read more into these silly stories than exists.”

  “They are not silly. At least not the one I read, and I can scarcely wait to read the others. Why have you never sought to get it published?”

  He released a bitter laugh. “As I said, they weren’t written to be shared.”

  “Is it because you’re afraid, afraid of the rejection, afraid of failure?”

  “It is not fear that prevents me from seeking publication.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “It is not fear,” he repeated. “I simply have no desire to be published.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “Believe what you will. You do not know what it is to bare oneself and risk being turned away.”

  “Do I not? My hands shook when I penned my advert. My entire body quivered when I faced the dragon. I’m not brave or bold, but I’m quite decidedly determined I shall not go through life as my mother, merely an ornament on display. You have a gift for storytelling. You should not fear sharing it.”

  “You are making much of nothing.”

  “You should take those drawings and your stories to London, to a publisher—”

  “Enough! I am a duke, charged with overseeing the responsibilities of my family and my estates, not with writing some fanciful stories to keep a child entertained.”

  “You would be paid for the stories.”

  “A pittance, a mere pittance.”

  “It is something, at least. But more than that, it is sharing your vision with others. Your earnings would be secondary.”

  “The stories were written by a young man who was once as innocent as his sister. I’m no longer that man.”

  “Then I pity you.”

  “Because I have grown up and grown wiser?”

  “Because you take no joy in life. You resent your responsibilities, and I fear each of us knows it.”

  “I do not resent you.”

  “But you will in time if your financial situation does not improve.” She walked across the room and stood in front of him. “I have been thinking—”

  “An admirable undertaking.”

  “Do not make sport of me.”

  Reaching out, a warm smile on his lips, he cradled her face and stroked his thumb over her cheek. “I do not know why I take such delight in doing so.”

  She was again reminded of Mr. Rose’s assertion that teasing equaled affection. Could it be possible that affection would grow between them?

  She eased a little closer to him. “As I was saying…I see no reason why I cannot continue to be a social chaperone.”

  “You are my wife.”

  She gave him an impish smile. “A fact that has not escaped my notice.”

  “God, I love that smile,” he said, shifting his thumb down to her mouth, stroking it softly.

  She couldn’t help but experience joy because he loved the smallest thing about her.

  “Do not seek to distract me from my purpose,” she admonished him.

  “Could I?”

  “You know very well you could, but I am attempting to explain what I am envisioning here.”

  “I will not allow my duchess to work.”

  “When you asked for my hand, you assured me that you would not interfere in any ventures I wished to pursue.”

  She saw the anger flare in his eyes a moment before he turned away from her and strode to the center of the room. “I didn’t expect those ventures to include employment as a social chaperone.”

  “I think we could be quite successful at it.”

  He spun around. “We? You cannot for one moment honestly believe I am going to serve as a chaperone.”

  “No.” She took a step toward him. Oh, this was so difficult. “This is terribly hard for me to admit, but I have come to realize that I vastly misjudged your suitability.”

  “Indeed?”

  “You are not the blackguard I thought you were.” She sighed. “I may have misjudged others. Well, not my brother. Well, yes, I did, but I misjudged him in the opposite way; he is far worse than I realized.” She held up her hand. “I digress. My point is, you have knowledge about the gentlemen to which I am not privy. If we were to pool what we know, I believe we could have a rather successful enterprise arranging introductions.”

  “You are talking matchmaking.”

  “To a degree yes, but it would involve a bit more. I don’t have all the particulars worked out. We wouldn’t be fabulously wealthy, but it would bring in a bit of income.”

  He tossed her sketch pad into a chair and came toward her with the predatory stride that she’d seen him use on more than one occasion.

  “We would have to pretend to have a very successful marriage,” he said.

  Swallowing hard at his use of the word pretend, she nodded. Was pretense all they would ever have? Or could they, over time, have more, could pretense turn into reality? “Yes.”

  He cradled her face between his large hands. “Oh, my little dreamer, if it is what you wish to do, then do it. Ask of me what you will. I can no more deny you than I can deny my want of you.”

  Before she could curb her thrill at his use of the word want in association with her, he was kissing her, and she was kissing him back, wondering how it was that having tasted passion, anyone could turn it aside. Little wonder Jenny had feared wanting to consume the entire meal if she sampled but a morsel of the offerings.

  Hawk was terribly skilled at making Louisa forget her surroundings—they weren’t in her bedchamber—or the time of day—it wasn’t yet night. He made her forget she needed to prepare for supper. He made her forget everything, everything except the feel of his hands stroking her body, the hard press of him against her.

  Her world narrowed down until it was simply he and she, and within this small cocoon he wrapped around them, no one else mattered. With his attentions so fervently delivered, she could pretend for just a few moments that he desired her. She could pretend he’d never made love to anyone with the enthusiasm he did her. She could pretend he was doing more than stirring passions; he was awakening hearts to the possibility of love.

  She heard the light clink of her hairpins hitting the floor only a few seconds before her hair tumbled around her shoulders.

  She dropped her head back, lost in bliss as he trailed his hot mouth along her throat. He groaned low in his chest. “I love how quickly you melt in my arms.”

  “I’m perhaps too easy.”

  “No, you are perfect, and I wish to relish every inch of your perfection.”

  He removed her clothes with the ease of a man accustomed to doing so. She refused to think of the other women he had bared for his pleasure, but a small part of her felt sorrow for them because he had not remained with them. She could not imagine knowing his touch, then suffering through the devastation of being without it.

  She was barely aware of her own fingers working to remove his shirt.

  “How quickly you learn,” he murmured near her ear, sending warm chills traveling along her skin.

  Then she was falling back onto the bed, relishing his weight pressing her farther into the mattress.

  It was insane, Hawk thought. How badly he
wanted her. Yet from the moment she had walked into the room, he’d had to concentrate on her words to stop himself from remembering how wonderful every inch of her body felt beneath his fingers.

  Her drawings had effectively distracted him, not only because they were so incredibly well done, but because she had managed so perfectly to capture the imaginary world he’d created for Caroline. He was halfway tempted to do as she suggested: bundle them up with his story and take them to a publisher, but like everything else in this house, they were a secret, belonging only to those who lived in the manor.

  Secrets, so damned many secrets. And his wife had her own share that he couldn’t help smiling at. Hidden places that, when he ran his tongue over them, easily unlocked passion’s door. Her moans were music to his ears, her writhing was a dance he thought he would never grow tired of engaging in.

  It made little sense to him. He was skilled in the bedchamber, and yet never before had he taken such delight in bringing pleasure to a woman. He’d never left a woman wanting, had always considered himself a considerate lover. But with Louisa, bringing her pleasure was more than trying to prove his prowess. With her, it was a resounding joy to give, each touch of his fingers, each stroke of his tongue a gift, her appreciation so apparent in her sighs, her languid eyes as she looked at him.

  Bedding her was unlike bedding any other woman, and at moments its intensity terrified him, the thought of not having her…he would not think of it.

  “You are mine,” he rasped, as he moved up and plunged inside her.

  “I’m yours,” she murmured, placing her hands on his backside and urging him deeper.

  She was not a woman to take without giving. She was what he’d never had before: a true partner. She was as eager and anxious to pleasure him as he was her.

  Rising above her, he held her gaze, rocking against her, relishing her cries, sensing her body tightening around him. Her calling out his name in ecstasy triggered his own release, a release so intense that for a heartbeat he thought he might die from it. Little wonder the French called it the little death.

  Collapsing partially, supporting his weight on his elbows, he buried his face in the curve of her shoulder, kissed the dew at her neck, and smiled in wonder, because already he was anticipating having her again.