A Duke For All Seasons

by Mia Marlowe

“No man would see that as a detriment, I assure you.”

  “Probably not.” She shrugged. “But the trouble is, when a man has bedded an abundance of women, we all run together for you. We become a homogenous entity, expendable and interchangeable.”

  To be fair, she understood him. Those were his exact thoughts. A woman was a woman, some more pleasing than others, but for all intents and purposes, the same. “And I suppose you expect me to believe you haven’t bedded a great many men.”

  “No, Sebastian. I have too much respect for your intelligence to try to claim otherwise. I've had more lovers than most, I’m sure,” she admitted. “But not as many as you think. And let me assure you they all stand out in my memory as unique.”

  “And what makes you think it’s any different with me?”

  She ran her fingertips along his arm, up to his shoulder and then teased the hair that curled behind his ear. “Prove me wrong. What color were your last mistress’s eyes?”

  For the life of him, he couldn’t remember. When she wasn't trying to wheedle diamonds and pearls from him, Celeste favored . . . sapphires. “Blue,” he blurted out.

  “Too slow.” She put her other arm around his waist and pulled him close. “The point is when we kiss, I want you to kiss me. Not those others. If you cannot give me an honest kiss, you may as well call for your driver and equipage to be brought around because I must go home.”

  “And what constitutes an honest kiss?”

  “An honest kiss is a shared breath. Our souls mingle. It can’t be reduced to words.” She stood on tiptoe to nuzzle his neck and run her parted lips across his cheek. “It’s not something I can explain, but I’ll know if you do it. Kiss me as if you want to know me, not merely see my bosom.”

  He nearly trembled at the thought of her breasts. It was ridiculous. He was the 8th Duke of Winterhaven. He'd seen plenty of breasts.

  But he burned to see hers.

  “That’s not really fair, you know. Any man would want to see your bosom. You can’t hold that against me.”

  “I’ll do better than that.” She rubbed herself against him, catlike, and her bodice drifted downward almost baring the pink tips. His ballocks clenched. “I’ll hold them against you."

  None of his other women had spoken so frankly about the act of love. Her voice was like a caress to the groin. Just when he thought this trousers couldn’t fit any tighter.

  “But only once I’m satisfied that you want to see them because they are my breasts."

  Bloody hell! He didn’t just want her breasts. He wanted all of her. He bent to kiss her, tentatively this time, fearful he’d hopelessly muck things up. He kissed her closed eyelids. He ran his lips over her temples. Finally, he brushed her lips with his. She opened softly to him and he explored her mouth like the treasure it was.

  The kiss was sweet.

  God help him, needy.

  “Mmm,” she purred when they surfaced for air. “That was altogether lovely. And now I think you should send for your driver.”

  “But I thought you said—”

  “Do you need me yet, Sebastian?”

  He bit his tongue to keep from admitting it.

  “That kiss was as honest as anyone could wish. I tasted your heart, and you've sampled mine,” she said. “But if you can't admit you need me, we’ve had all the honesty you can stand for one evening.”

  He stomped across the room and pulled the bell cord. “You said you’d become my lover.”

  “I have,” she said. “But a lover is not like a mistress, at your beck and call, always available, always a sure bedding. Sometimes, a lover says 'no.' For now.”

  He knew he ought to cut her loose and seek a less infuriating female for his next mistress. But for the life of him, even though he was frustrated with her, he couldn’t remember a time when he’d felt more challenged, more intrigued by a woman. For now. His body latched onto those words of hope.

  “I’m leaving for a sennight at my country estate tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “Say you’ll come with me.”

  “I have two more performances to give before the end of the season.”

  “You have an understudy. Beg off.”

  She turned to let him drape her cloak over her shoulders. “Would it be just the two of us at your estate?”

  He wished. “For the first day, yes, but my family, Lord Granger and his fiancé and both their mothers will be arriving the next. We’d have one day in the country to ourselves.”

  “Will you take me riding?”

  He nodded. “I have a sweet-tempered mount that might suit you.”

  She grinned wickedly. “What makes you think I need a sweet-tempered mount?”

  Sebastian's driver rapped on the door to signal that he was ready to collect her.

  “Oh, a thought just occurred to me,” she said, turning back to him. “Do you have that libretto I gave you?”

  He glanced around the room. “I’m sure it’s somewhere around here.”

  “Well, I want to sign it for you. Now that I know you better, I want it to be a personal gift.” She leaned into him and he kissed her once more.

  Perhaps she was right. Delay might mean more delight once he planted his flag on Mt. Arabella. He was willing to explore the possibility. He told her when to expect him to come by on the morrow.

  “Be sure you find the libretto and bring it with you when we leave for the country then,” she said and disappeared into the soft night.

  Sebastian poured himself another brandy and settled before the dying fire. This was merely a temporary setback. Arabella was an intelligent woman, perhaps too intelligent. Once he had more time to present his case, she'd see the wisdom of a contract for both their sakes.

  A rap on the door brought him to his feet in an instant. He rushed toward it with the school boyish hope that she’d changed her mind and come back. Instead, he opened the door to find Neville pacing before it.

  “Has she signed your damned contract?” he demanded.

  “No, but don’t count on that case of port just yet, old son,” Sebastian said as his friend barged into the room without an invitation. “The vixen is merely giving the hound a merry chase.”

  “She’s gone?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Good.”

  “Look, if you want the port that badly, I'll—”

  “No, it’s not that. I came to warn you to steer clear of Miss St. George.”

  Sebastian snorted. “In case it's escaped your notice, you all but introduced me to her.”

  “That was before I read this.” Neville handed him the Don Giovanni libretto. Sebastian noticed this time that there was an envelope sticking out from its pages. “I thought you'd sent me a note and opened the seal before I realized it wasn't yours.”

  “What's in it?” Sebastian pulled the envelope from the libretto.

  “Treason.”

  “A perfect mistress has no interests beyond her protector. If she does, a gentleman would do well to consider carefully whether she is worth protecting.”

  ~ A Gentleman’s Guide to Keeping a Mistress

  Chapter 5

  “Treason? The devil you say.” Sebastian snatched the envelope and read the curlicue script. The directive was in French on fine grained foolscap. “Good Lord. Names, likely places where the individual may be found, an offer of payment . . . this is an assassin’s list of targets. Members of Parliament, a Major-General, the Prince Regent’s cousin . . . what was Bella doing with it?”

  “What indeed?” Neville said with a quirk of his brow.

  “No, she couldn’t possibly—” He caught himself. When she handed the libretto to him, what was it she’d said? He’d find what he sought between its pages. Sebastian’s gut roiled. She knew the envelope was there and had mistaken him for the person to whom she was supposed to give it. “The seal was unbroken, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  His senses were still awash in the woman’s scent. She was sensual and slick and had manipula
ted him as neatly as if he were a green lad. Anger crept up his neck like a rash. But even now he couldn’t conceive of her being involved in a series of political murders. “She may have been unaware what the envelope contained.”

  “But she was in possession of it,” Neville stubbornly reminded him.

  And she was trying to get it back, Sebastian realized with a jolt. Perhaps her kisses, her looks of promise, nothing of this beguiling, bedamned evening was real. Arabella St. George was merely trying to recover an incriminating document that had gone badly astray.

  “Shall we wake the magistrate?” Neville asked.

  Sebastian crumpled the foolscap in his fist. “No need. I’ll deal with this myself.”

  If she was guilty, he’d be far less merciful than the magistrate.

  * * * * *

  The next day, Sebastian was an hour late to collect her in his fine coach. Arabella was mildly offended, but decided to ignore the slight since he didn’t even trouble to apologize. There was no point in antagonizing him since she needed to recover that envelope and quarreling with Sebastian over a minor faux pas seemed an inefficient way of doing it.

  She expected him to attempt to seduce her during the carriage ride. There were plenty of adventurous possibilities in a small, but well-padded space.

  But he was distant as they bounced along in his equipage. When she tried to engage him in conversation, he rapped on the coach’s ceiling and signaled a halt.

  “I’m inclined to ride,” he said simply, as if no more explanation were required and climbed out of the carriage to mount the bay gelding one of his outriders had been leading.

  “Beastly manners. No wonder he secures his mistresses by contract,” she murmured. “Why else would they tolerate him for three months?”

  She regretted sending notice to the opera company that she’d be unavailable for the final two performances of the season. If not for the need to recover Fernand’s blasted envelope, she’d order the driver to return her to London.

  He’s discovered the envelope. That’s why he’s so changed toward me.

  She shoved that thought aside. If that were the case, she’d be under arrest instead of rattling along toward a sennight at the duke’s country seat.

  Whatever was bothering Sebastian seemed to have been resolved by his ride. When they pulled to a stop before the gracious manor house at the end of a tree-lined drive, he handed her down from the coach with every courtesy. All the servants queued up to greet their returning master and he introduced Arabella to the butler and housekeeper as a celebrated operatic diva and his special guest.

  “Once you refresh yourself, Miss St. George, I'll show you over the rest of place if you'd care to go riding.”

  “That would be lovely.” After the stifling trip in the enclosed coach, Arabella’s muscles ached for a chance at some exercise.

  Sebastian fished out a stack of books from the boot. With a sudden prickle of awareness, Bella noticed the Don Giovanni libretto on top. “I only have to deliver these to the library and then I’ll see to your mount. Mrs. Wiggins will show you to your room.”

  The housekeeper dropped a shallow curtsey.

  “Cobb.” Sebastian nodded sharply to his butler. “When the lady is ready, bring her to the stables.”

  Arabella smiled at Sebastian, hoping to rekindle some of the spark they’d shared at The Peacock’s Tail. “You know how I look forward to seeing you ride, Your Grace.”

  He inclined his head in a stiff gesture that thanked her for remembering the servants were watching, but his sensual smile showed he'd caught the double entendre in ‘ride.’

  Ever correct. Ever lordly. Even in his amours, the duke was mindful of his station. Once in bed, would he still maintain such tight control or would he lose himself in heat and friction and animal passion? Just once, she wished she could see him driven beyond his ability to be in full command of himself.

  He disappeared into the great house, leaving her in the care of Mrs. Wiggins and Cobb. She trailed them through the big double doors.

  Sebastian’s country home was as elegant and formal as the man himself. The foyer was tiled with Italian marble, clearly designed to impress. Arabella followed Mrs. Wiggins up a curved staircase to the guest quarters, asking about the general layout of the great house and the great people who’d lived in it as they went. The chamber she was assigned would have suited a princess.

  “Ring for an abigail when ye’ve the need of one, miss.” Mrs. Wiggins indicated the bellpull on one side of the sumptuous four-poster.

  Bella thanked her as the woman left, but she was perfectly capable of dressing herself. She stripped out of her traveling ensemble and pulled on the forest green riding habit, whose shoulders were graced with epaulets a la militaire. Her fingers flew to hook the gold frogs marching down the bodice. She had to hurry if she was going to find Sebastian’s library and filch the envelope.

  She stole out of the guest suite and padded down the staircase, wary of servants. She had to locate the library before she was discovered by Mr. Cobb and ushered out to the stable. Fortunately Mrs. Wiggins had given her a detailed description of the ground floor and Bella was able to slip unnoticed through the long hall bedecked with fading tapestries. She padded into the sun-splashed library at the far southern corner of the house.

  The room smelled of must and books and vaguely of Sebastian’s unique scent. She spied the stack of books on the edge of the massive burled oak desk. Without hesitation, she skittered over to it and opened the Don Giovanni libretto. To her dismay, the seal was broken and the envelope empty.

  “Looking for this?” Sebastian stepped from behind the door, dangling a sheet of foolscap before her. His eyes were dark and hard.

  And sad. And in his sadness lay her only hope.

  “If a prospective mistress presents troubling aspects, end the association at once. If a gentleman wishes a life filled with complications, he should seek a wife.”

  ~ A Gentleman’s Guide to Keeping a Mistress

  Chapter 6

  “Let me explain,” Arabella said, backing toward the desk. “It's not what you think.”

  Sebastian looked at the crumpled missive. “Oh? What do you think it is, then? A guest list for Napoleon's next ball?”

  “I mean ...” Her thoughts darted furiously, more florid than a Mozartean cadenza and as damnably difficult to get a handle on. What could she possibly say that wouldn't make the situation worse? “You don't understand.”

  “Pray enlighten me.” He approached with the stealth and menace of a hunter. “But be warned, madam. I will suffer no more lies from you.”

  “I haven't lied.” The edge of the desk bit into the back of her thigh just under the crease of her bottom. “I'm only the courier. I know nothing about the contents of the envelope.”

  He leaned forward, trapping her between his body and the desk. “But you know enough to know possession of such a document would be considered aiding and abetting enemies of our country at the very least.”

  “I don't care,” she cried angrily. “I had no choice.”

  Sebastian shook his head. “An independent woman like you who flouts convention because it amuses her? I find it difficult to believe you ever do anything because you must.”

  “I don't care what you believe.” She lunged for the note, but he caught her in his arms, pinning hers to her sides. She struggled, but was no match for his strength. “Please, Sebastian. I'll do anything if you'll only give it back to me.”

  A corner of his mouth twitched. “Anything?”

  She felt his body quicken, but his eyes were harder than the bulge in his trousers. He was close enough that his breath feathered hotly across her lips. If she tipped up her face, he'd probably not be able to resist the invitation to claim her mouth. But she sensed the tension in his body wasn't all sexual. Arabella couldn't tell if he struggled with the desire to ravish her or wring her neck.

  Or both.

  “I’ll sign your contract. I’ll do whatev
er you like,” she babbled. “Truly, it’s not what you think. You’d help a man who found himself in these dire straits. Won’t you help me?”

  He shoved her away and paced the length of the room to put some distance between them.

  “No. I wouldn't betray my king and country for any man,” he said, tugging at his jacket, but it was the cutaway sort and the line of his trousers left no doubt of his roused state. “Or any woman either.”

  “Would you do it for a child?”

  He stopped pacing at that. “Explain yourself.”

  “If I don't deliver that envelope, he'll...” Arabella twined her fingers together, the picture of nervousness. Sebastian tamped down any feelings of empathy for her. She was a talented actress. It would behoove him to remember it. “You have no idea what he's capable of.”

  “Since I have no idea who 'he' is, I'm sure I don't,” Sebastian snapped. “Start by telling me who you're dealing with and how you became involved.”

  She turned and gazed out the tall windows, as if she'd like to leap out, run over the rolling hill, and never look back.

  “I first met Fernand five years ago when I was in Paris.”

  “What were you doing in Paris then? In case it escaped your notice, we've been at war with France off and on, for more or less forever.”

  “Yes, but even in wartime the French still love their opera and our troop of players had safe conduct.” A sad smile tilted her mouth. “I realize now that Fernand planned this from the start when he approached me. Performers and diplomats are almost the only ones who can travel freely when there are hostilities between countries and no one takes an artist seriously off-stage. We'd never be suspected of involving ourselves in clandestine matters.”

  “Who is this Fernand?”

  “Fernand de Lisle, Vicomte Gimois. His family lost their estates, their fortune, almost everything during the Revolution, but Napoleon reinstated his title,” she said. “Estates and fortunes are more difficult to retrieve.”

  “Gimois?” Sebastian frowned. The name niggled his memory. “Ah, now I recall. Isn't he an attaché to the French ambassador in London?”