Dashing Dukes and Romantic Rogues

by Caldwell, Christi

  “He’s returned to his chamber for a bath and a shave. The stubborn goat wouldn’t go until I promised I wouldn’t leave your side. All bloodied and stinking of mud from the excitement, he was, and refusing to do anything about it. He spent the entire first night watching over you. Didn’t even sleep a wink, I daresay.”

  Victoria had to suppress a smile at Keats referring to Pembroke as a stubborn goat. It was true, of course, but it really was the sort of thing one ought not to call one’s employer. Fortunately, Victoria was possessed of what some would consider rather odd sensibilities. She admired free thinking and candor.

  Keats seemed to think better of her words, for her cheeks flushed. “Begging your pardon, my lady. I should not have called his lordship a stubborn goat. I wouldn’t have done if he hadn’t acted the part.”

  She couldn’t stifle the small laugh that escaped her at Keats’ grudging apology. Heavens, her entire body still seemed to ache with the force of the fall she’d taken. She wondered if she was one plum-colored bruise from head to toe.

  “He does possess a rare tenacity, does he not, Keats?” she asked, mirth creeping into her tone.

  “That he does, my lady,” Keats agreed, fussing over the bedclothes, straightening them to her satisfaction. “There now. But if I may be so forthright, I have to say that I’m happy to see his particular tenacity being directed toward a good cause at last.”

  A good cause at last.

  Yes, so too was she. “Did he truly stay by my side for—oh dear, how many days have passed now?”

  “Three whole days, my lady,” Keats surprised her by revealing. “Aye, that he did.”

  Three days. She recalled Will telling her she’d been unconscious for two days, so that meant she’d slept away yet another day. He hadn’t even remained in her presence for more than three hours after their wedding vows had been spoken, and yet he had remained with her, the comforting warmth at her side, the hand holding the cup to her lips, the beloved voice urging her to survive.

  Fight, my darling. You must fight.

  It came back to her now in fragments. Will had been there at her side all along, the shadowy figure on the edges of her subconscious when she’d been in such devastating pain. He’d pushed her out of the way of the falling branch that day. One moment, she’d been in his arms, and the next, she heard a loud crack and there she stood, too foolish to move. He’d shoved her out of the branch’s most direct path, even suffering a blow to the head himself in the process.

  None of these actions belonged to a selfish man or a cruel man or a man incapable of emotion. He’d told her that she’d changed everything, even him. But that wasn’t true, for he had changed himself. Something had brought him back to her, and she still didn’t know precisely what that was, but she was grateful for it. Grateful for him.

  Her stomach grumbled loudly yet again. “I must insist on no porridge if you please, Keats. Just a muffin, perhaps, and some jam? Yes, that would do nicely.”

  Keats grinned. “Yes, my lady. I’ll be back in a trice.”

  Victoria scarcely waited for the door to close on Keats to throw back the bedclothes. She felt most unlike herself but good enough to have grown weary of lying about like an invalid. With a wince and considerably more effort than she’d thought the act would require, she hauled herself to the side of the bed, her bare feet brushing the soft carpet. Food would help to replenish her strength, she knew, but she wasn’t about to lie abed waiting. With another heave, she stood on the wobbly legs of a newborn foal. She shook out her nightdress and remained still, willing the abrupt thumping in her head to subside enough that she didn’t fear she’d cast up her accounts.

  So much for being strong, she thought grimly as she forced one foot in front of the other. Ah, yes. Walking now. She could do this. The nausea relented like an ocean wave being drawn back out to sea. She took a deep inhalation. Another step. Then another.

  The door joining her chamber to Will’s opened, and there he stood, more handsome than she’d ever seen him. He wore plain trousers and a white shirt without the formality of a waistcoat, and his feet were bare, his dark hair falling wetly to his collar. Their gazes collided. For a heady moment, it was as if the entire outside world was suspended. Only the two of them existed, their hearts beating in unison, their bodies attuned. He was her husband, her lover. He was the man she loved, and it was a deep love, strong and abiding. She’d thought she’d loved him before, but her old feelings were paltry compared to this new, all-encompassing rush.

  “Victoria, what the devil do you think you’re doing?” The irritation in his voice dashed away her maudlin thoughts. “Where the hell is your lady’s maid? I told her not to leave you, damn it.”

  “I’m walking.” She held out her arms and beamed, knowing she must look a sight with her stale nightgown, hair a wild tangle around her shoulders, and a wan face, but she didn’t care. A ridiculous surge of joy coursed through her as she stood there before him. “I don’t believe I’ve ever felt better, Will.”

  “Jesus.” He frowned as he closed the distance between them and placed steadying, possessive hands on her waist. “She didn’t give you more laudanum, did she? I expressly forbid you getting another drop of that poison.”

  “No laudanum, I can assure you. My head is aching ferociously.”

  “Of course it is.” He began shepherding her back to the bed she’d just freed herself from. “You’ve suffered a serious injury, Victoria. You need rest. Bloody hell, I’m sacking your maid when she returns from wherever it is she’s gone.”

  “You cannot sack Keats.” She mustered the flagging strength she had remaining and put up resistance. “Will, stop. I don’t wish to be abed. I want to stretch my legs for a moment. She’s fetching me some muffins and jam at my behest.”

  “You’re to have porridge until the doctor deems otherwise.” His fingers tightened on her waist, and even in her diminished state, the heat of him through the fine linen of her nightgown was enough to affect her. “You must return to bed whether you wish it or not.”

  “I don’t wish it.” Her tone was mulish but she didn’t care. She’d been bursting with emotion, her love for him beating within her with the force of a heart, and he was doing his best to undermine it. “You’re being a bully.”

  “A bully?” He looked genuinely taken aback. “Good Christ, woman. If I must bully you to keep you from injuring yourself more by gadding about your bloody chamber like you’re on a promenade in Hyde Park, then I will. Have you any idea what these last three days have been like? I leave your side for half an hour, and here you are, ordering muffins and about to swoon.”

  Her head continued to pound, but the brightness of her spirits remained undiminished. She grinned. “Muffins shall always be preferable to porridge, and I wasn’t about to swoon.”

  “You’re deuced unsteady on your feet for a woman who wasn’t about to swoon. You need to gather up your strength. I won’t have you injuring yourself worse than you already are,” he growled.

  But she was undeterred. “Truly, I’ve never felt better. Your concern is misplaced.”

  With a long-suffering sigh, he bent and scooped her up into his arms in one swift motion. “You’ll be the death of me, woman.”

  She looped her arms around his neck. Well, if he must be an overbearing barbarian, at least let him be one who cared enough to stay by her sickbed for three whole days. “I don’t see any trees about, do you?” she asked, tongue in cheek.

  “All I see is one lovely, frustrating woman who is about to settle down with a nice, warm bowl of porridge before she gets some more rest.” He laid her gently on the bed and made a great show of arranging the covers over her.

  Heavens, he was more of a mother hen than Keats. She caught his hand. “Will.”

  He stilled, raising his head to look at her with those blue eyes that seemed to see too much. “Victoria?”

  “I would very much like to begin again with you,” she said simply. “Starting today. I want the p
ast to remain where it belongs.”

  A beautiful smile transformed his features then, softening the harsh lines of worry that had hardened his jaw and mouth. He touched her cheek with his free hand, then rubbed the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip as though he were committing it to memory. “I’d like that, sweet. I’d like that very much.”

  She kissed the pad of his thumb. “As would I.”

  Keats bustled back into the chamber before either of them could say more.

  Chapter Nine

  But the past was not destined to remain where it belonged. No indeed, and when the heavens decided to rake a man over the coals in retribution for his sins, they chose to do so in the form of the petulant opera singer he’d last thrown over. Will’s gaze traveled over the woman perched on the edge of the striped silk divan in his drawing room. Her dark beauty was unmistakable, her fashion sense as impeccable as ever. The cloying scent of French rosewater clung to the air, and it rather made him want to sneeze.

  What was the phrase? Ah, yes. Curses are like young chickens, they always come home to roost. Here then, was his curse. But she rather resembled a raven at the moment more than a young chicken.

  “Signora Rosignoli,” he greeted her coldly. “You must know you aren’t welcome at my home.”

  “Amore mio, this can’t be true.” She rose and came toward him, her gloved hands outstretched. “I’ve missed you. Tell me you’ve missed me.”

  He hadn’t missed her. Had scarcely spared her a thought, engrossed as he was in his wife and his fragile, newfound sense of happiness. “If you had but written with your intentions, you could have been spared the time and expense of your trip, madam. As it is, you must leave at once.”

  “Per favore, do not treat me with so much ice.” She swept closer, her skirts brushing his trousers, and laid a hand upon his chest. “Remember what we shared, my lord. Ti voglio tanto bene.”

  He stopped her hand when it would have roamed lower, holding it in a firm grip to still further explorations. “You must go, Signora. I’ll see to it that you have the means to return to London at once. Do not seek me out again.”

  “But my lord.” She cupped his jaw with her free hand. “Look at me and tell me I mean niente, nothing. This I do not believe.”

  “Believe it.” He caught her wrist, his patience waning. Damn it, he hadn’t wanted to see her at all, but she’d refused to leave when Wilton had informed her he was not at home. He’d been shocked she would travel to the country to see him. Even more shocked she’d have the temerity to appear at Carrington House and demand an audience with him. More than anything, he hadn’t wanted Victoria, who’d yet to come downstairs for the morning, to have any knowledge of Maria’s unwanted presence. “You must leave, Maria. Our understanding is at an end.”

  “No, amore mio.” She pouted. “I refuse to believe it. What can this grim old place hold for you? Come to London with me. I’ll do anything you want, qualsiasi cosa.”

  Her sexual promises held no appeal for him. He felt instead oddly repelled, both by her and by himself. “The only thing I want you to do is leave. Lady Pembroke is in residence here, and I’ll not have your presence dishonor her another moment.”

  “Lady Pembroke.” Maria scoffed. “Your wife means nothing to me.”

  “She bloody well means everything to me,” he snapped. “Now kindly leave before my thinning patience deserts me entirely.”

  “Mascalzone!” She tugged free of his grasp. “I denied the Duke of Hathaway for you.”

  “Yet you’re now free to pursue him,” he observed drily.

  “Bastardo! He already has taken the French nightingale as his mistress.” She spun away from him and stalked toward a large portrait of the first Duke of Cranley.

  He followed her, intercepting her before she could do any more damage to his family history. How had he ever thought to entangle himself with such a creature? “Damn you, Maria, do I need to throw you over my shoulder and haul you out of here, or will you go on your own two feet?”

  Maria’s thunderous expression eased suddenly as her dark gaze lit on something over his shoulder. A feline smile curved her red lips. “Bene.”

  Maria possessed a true bloodlust for the destruction of his personal property. For her to so easily be distracted from her quarry meant only one thing. With a grim sense of inevitability, he turned to find Victoria on the threshold.

  She wore a maroon silk day dress with gold silk underlay and a velvet bow pinned neatly on her trim waist. Her hair had been schooled into an elaborate braid atop her head with a riot of curls falling down her back. She was lovely, a study in contrast to the tempestuous woman he’d been attempting to remove from their drawing room and his life both.

  His wife held herself stiffly, the color draining from her pink cheeks as she took in the tableau he and Maria surely presented. Damn it to hell. “Lady Pembroke,” he bit out.

  But she either failed to hear him or ignored him, for in the next instant, she spun on her heel and left in a hushed swirl of elegant skirts. Somehow, her silence was more deafening than any cutting verbal condemnation could have been.

  He turned to Maria. “Leave at once, madam. You’ve done enough harm.”

  And so too had he.

  * * *

  Victoria stood at the window in her chamber, staring out at the vast, sprawling acres that unfurled before Carrington House. This morning, its breathtaking beauty was lost on her. Her fingers trembled as she pressed them to her mouth, trying with all the determination within her to squelch the sob that threatened to rise from her throat. She would not cry. She would not shed a single tear.

  Signora Rosignoli was as lovely as she’d imagined. Perhaps even more so, with her glossy jet hair beneath a handsome hat and a deep blue silk gown that emphasized her flashing brown eyes and her tiny waist to perfection. Even her voice was lovely, though she supposed that ought not to come as a surprise. The woman was a celebrated opera singer, after all.

  When Victoria had come upon Will and the elegant, exotic woman in the drawing room, she’d been stunned. His hands had been upon the woman’s arms. They’d been speaking lowly, their exchange animated and heated. Damn you, Maria, she’d heard him say. And Victoria had known. She’d known the identity of the stranger in her husband’s arms without needing to ask.

  She realized with painful clarity that doubt and fear weighed a great deal more than any falling branch ever could, and when those twin monsters walloped a woman, they were enough to immobilize her. The silken skirts and undeniable beauty of Signora Rosignoli was the embodiment of her worries. Indeed, the Signora was the flowering vine of every small seed of misgiving Will’s actions had planted deep within Victoria’s heart.

  What a fool she was. What a pathetic coward. She’d stood on the threshold, taking in the scene before her, and so many witty setdowns had tumbled over themselves in her mind. Yet she’d not spoken a single word. Instead, she’d turned and raced back to her chamber to hide as though she were a scullery maid who’d been caught filching a silver spoon.

  The door to her chamber rattled, indicating someone attempted to gain entry. She’d locked it on the chance he may tear himself away from his paramour long enough to attempt to placate her. But that he’d followed so closely on her heels still surprised her.

  “Victoria.” His voice was muffled, bearing an unmistakable tinge of desperation.

  No, she wouldn’t answer. Would not let him in. She hugged herself, eyes trained on the green expanse below. “Go away, Pembroke.”

  “Would you care for a scene? I’ll break down the goddamn door,” he warned.

  “You would only do so at your own expense.”

  A loud bang echoed in the silence. Perhaps it was his palm slamming against the door. She heard muffled footfalls. Very likely he was returning to his mistress’s side now. Maria, he had called her. Jealousy was an unforgiving beast. It made her hate the woman in the drawing room below. Just the notion of Will touching another woman in such tender pas
sion, of doing to her what he’d done to Victoria…she couldn’t bear it if he wanted to carry on with a mistress. She didn’t care what was expected of the wife of an earl. Being a future duchess held no appeal for her. She had wanted only his heart, and that was a dear commodity indeed.

  The door joining their chambers together rattled next. She’d locked it as well. Never let it be said that she was not a woman of preparation. “Leave me be, Pembroke. Go back to your strumpet.”

  “Open this door, Victoria.” It was an imperious command, one that expected obedience.

  Also never let it be said that she was a woman of obedience. “No,” she called, not moving from her watch.

  “Open. The. Damn. Door.”

  More pounding ensued. It suggested vehement determination. Dear heavens. Was that the sound of splintering wood? At last, she tore her gaze away from the window to find the door flying open and crashing against the wall.

  He stalked into the room, his expression hard, jaw tense. In a breath, he stood before her, tall and fierce and handsome, the cad. She tipped up her chin in defiance and faced him, locating her mettle after all.

  “You’re quite the actor, Pembroke. First you played the regretful husband, then the charming lover, and now the angry brute.” Her voice was devoid of emotion, and her bravado pleased her. “Tell me, which one of these roles suits you best? I confess I don’t particularly care for the angry brute, but I suppose ruining doors is preferable to being a lying reprobate.”

  He caught her when she would have spun away from him, hauling her against him. “The only role that interests me is that of your husband.”

  Did he think her an imbecile? She dug the heels of her palms into his chest. “You cannot expect me to believe that after I came upon you with your mistress in the drawing room.”

  He refused to release her, his gaze pinned to hers as though he could make her believe him with the sheer vividness of his eyes. She looked away, fixing her vision on the window once more.