A Duke For All Seasons

by Mia Marlowe

  “But I can’t leave my post.”

  “I will stay in your place, if you like,” Fernand offered. “But if his lordship gives you a guinea, I expect half.”

  “You think he will?”

  “My Lord Granger has been known to be quite generous to those who please him,” Fernand said.

  A round of applause and shouted “Brava’s” echoed from inside the hall.

  The diva has made her entrance.

  The first percussive chords of the piano introduction signaled that Arabella’s recital had begun. Fernand recognized the beginning a song cycle of several German lieder. Since each individual song was considered part of a larger composition, there would be no more applause again until she reached the final note in the set.

  Plenty of time.

  “I trust you know where Lord Granger’s box is located,” Fernand said. The other footman rolled his eyes. Of course he did. “Oh! Do not intrude while the music is ongoing. Lord Granger would be most displeased. Wait for the applause.”

  The Winterhaven footman gave Fernand a withering glance. “And see to it that no one disturbs His Grace, even during the applause.”

  “I assure you,” Fernand said smoothly as the other footman headed down the long curved corridor. He drew the piano wire garotte from its place of concealment in his capacious cuff. “No one shall get past me.”

  Sebastian leaned forward to watch Arabella. Statuesque and regal, she was every inch a duchess.

  At least in a perfect world, she would be.

  Her voice rang through the hall, expressive and voluptuous. He warranted most of the attendees would never know she had anything on her mind but her art. However, each time she swept her gaze in the direction of his box, the footlights caught a glint of terror in her eyes.

  He was determined never to see that glitter of fear again. After this night, he hoped she’d have no cause for it.

  Sebastian leaned back in the tufted velvet and crossed his long legs. He might project an image of repose, but every muscle in his body was tense. His ears pricked to any stealthy noise, waiting for de Lisle to show himself.

  Sebastian had always been athletic. He rode like a demon and trained regularly with a fencing master. His skill with a pistol gave his enemies second thoughts about issuing a challenge for a ‘polite exchange of bullets.’

  But he’d never killed anyone.

  He thought he heard the faint rustle of velvet behind him that might be a curtain parting. He drew his boot knife surreptitiously, careful to keep the blade close to his thigh and uncrossed his legs, but didn’t turn around. Surprise was his friend. He would lure de Lisle close before he made his move.

  Then the piano stopped. Arabella had missed an entrance and blanched pale as foolscap. She shrieked, a blood-curdling cry of such force and magnitude as only an operatic soprano could produce.

  Sebastian leaped to his feet, but not quickly enough to escape the thin wire slipping over his head and choking off his wind.

  * * * * *

  Beyond the footlights, the dark hall was a void. She knew the audience was there. She could feel them breathing with her during the long phrases.

  Then Arabella had missed her entrance when she saw one of the few things she could make out from the stage—a flicker of light from the ducal box that meant the curtain over the door had parted. Someone had joined Sebastian there in the dark.

  She reached for the highest pitch in her range and screamed, long and primal, with the full force of her lungs behind it to warn Sebastian. When she went silent, grunts and curses and the noise of a scuffle turned every eye in the theatre to His Grace’s box.

  Arabella ran to the edge of the stage, but the gas footlights were too bright for her see past. A masculine cry of pain rang through the hall and the audience gasped as a body tumbled out of the box and landed in the aisle a few rows back from the orchestra pit.

  “William, bring up the house lights,” Arabella shouted as she ran to the wings and sprinted down the stairs leading from either end of the proscenium. Her heart nearly choking her, she shoved her way through the throng to reach the broken man on the floor.

  He was wearing Lord Granger’s livery, but she recognized Fernand’s pale eyes staring sightlessly under the white wig. The hilt of a dagger protruded from his chest. A debutante in a salmon pink gown swooned, but relief washed over Bella in waves.

  She jerked her gaze up to the duke’s box. There were several men jammed into the space, all with their backs to the main hall, but she couldn’t see Sebastian. The crowd around her began to surge toward the exits and Arabella was lifted off her feet, swept along like flotsam on a river in full spate.

  People shouted and shoved and more than one elbow connected with her ribs. Before she knew it, she was outside the theatre.

  “Make way,” Lord Granger bellowed and four men pushed past, bearing the body of a fifth between them. Arabella was too far away to catch a glimpse, but they bundled the man into Sebastian’s elegant coach. Lady Moorcroft and Lady Hermione were handed in after him, their faces taut with concern. The driver snapped the ribbons over the backs of the matched bays and the brougham rattled away over the cobbles, dragging Bella’s heart behind it.

  The long row of private carriages before the theatre meant Arabella had to make her way against the throng to a side street where a string of hackneys waited for fares. She gave the driver orders to take her to the duke’s townhouse, offering him one of her earrings as payment since she had no money with her, if he would only hurry.

  Once she reached Sebastian’s townhouse, she was met at the door by the butler. She had no right to demand to be taken to His Grace, so she asked for his aunt, Lady Moorcroft. Instead she was ushered into the parlor where Lady Hermione received her.

  “Oh, Miss St. George, you are kindness itself to come at this dark hour.” Sebastian’s sister greeted her with outstretched hands and led her to the sofa. Hermione plopped down, her angelic looks marred by weepy eyes and a reddened nose.

  “What news of His Grace?”

  “I know nothing. He was insensate during the ride home and the doctor hasn’t allowed me into his chamber since. He was so pale.” Her chin wobbled. “Isn’t it awful? Do you think Sebastian knew something like this was going to happen?”

  “Why do you think he might have?”

  “Well, he wouldn’t let me sit in his box with him. He insisted we join Lord Granger’s party instead,” she said. “And to be honest, I thought it was because . . . well, I thought he was ashamed to be seen in public with me.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true.”

  Despite her tears, she dimpled in a small smile. “My aunt has told you all, I understand.”

  “Enough to know that His Grace cares about you, obviously enough to protect you,” Arabella assured her. “The duke has never spoken of you as his half-sister to me. Only as his sister.”

  Hermione erupted in fresh tears at this as the butler entered the room.

  “His Grace is asking for you, Miss St. George,” the man said. “Then he wishes to see Lady Hermione.”

  Relief flooded through Arabella as she squeezed Hermione’s hand and followed the butler out of the parlor and up the long stairs to the ducal suite of rooms.

  Sebastian was sitting up in his bed, pillows propped around him. As Hermione had said, his color was poor, but his eyes focused on Arabella with a reassuring sizzle.

  “Out,” he said, his voice a rasping shadow of its former booming timbre. Bella didn’t care. He was alive. That was all that mattered. “Everyone but Miss St. George.”

  After the door latch clicked behind the doctor, Lord Granger, and the rest of the people who’d crowded the space, Arabella didn’t wait for an invitation. She ran to the bed and climbed in beside him. Sebastian kissed her, on the mouth this time, a blessed rain after her heart’s long drought.

  “Oh, Sebastian.” Bella pressed a string of feather-light kisses on the angry red ligature mark on his neck. “I love
you so. If you still want me to sign your contract, I will.”

  “Actually,” he said, “I’ve changed my thoughts about that. I have in mind a contract of a different sort. Marry me, Bella.”

  The dizzying leap from commoner to duchess stole her breath, but the chasm from lover to wife seemed even farther. “The world will not understand. Are you sure?”

  “The world can go chase itself. I didn’t give a damn what Society thought when I took four mistresses a year. I care even less what it thinks of my choice for a wife.” His fingertips traced the curve of her cheekbone. “Oh, Bella, I thought I had things figured out. My life was laid out in neat quarters, the whole lot ordered just so. But then you came along and upended everything.”

  “Sound as if I’m not very good for you, then.” She kissed him, suckling his lower lip for a moment. “I’ve stolen your former life from you, Sebastian. Do you wish me to say I’m sorry?”

  “Say whatever you like. Just don’t try to give my old life back to me. I love you.” He tugged her close and she felt his heart beating against her chest. “And I won’t be content until you’re mine.”

  Tears of joy pressed against her eyes and threatened to spill over her lids. “Then my answer is yes. I am yours and you are mine, today, tomorrow . . . and for all seasons.”

  THE END

  About the Author

  Award-winning author Mia Marlowe learned much of what she knows about writing from singing. A classically trained soprano, she gleaned the elements of storytelling while performing operatic roles. She describes her stories as a cross between Grand Opera and Gilbert & Sullivan . . . with sex!

  Mia's work was featured in PEOPLE magazine and one of her books is on display at the Museum of London Docklands. Her books have been translated into German, Dutch, Italian, Japanese, Polish, Russian and Spanish. She regularly receives fan mail from around the globe and loves to hear from readers. Connect with her via www.Twitter.com/mia_marlowe and www.Facebook.com/MiaMarloweFanPage or drop by www.miamarlowe.com and leave a comment on her very active blog. Mia Marlowe and her husband have lived in nine different states, but she now makes her home in the heart of New England.

  Mia hopes you enjoyed A Duke for all Seasons and will look for her other titles. Happy Reading!

  Also by Mia Marlowe:

  Touch of a Thief

  Improper Gentlemen

  A Duke for All Seasons

  Distracting the Duchess

  Vintage Reads written as Emily Bryan:

  Stroke of Genius

  Vexing the Viscount

  Pleasuring the Pirate

  Coming soon from Mia Marlowe:

  My Lady Below Stairs (November 2011)

  Sins of the Highlander (January 2012)

  Touch of a Rogue (March 2012)

  Touch of a Scoundrel (July 2012)

  Lord of Fire and Ice (August 2012)

  Visit http://www.miamarlowe.com for Mia’s latest news!

  Try a taste of…

  TOUCH OF A THIEF

  By Mia Marlowe

  Chapter 1

  November, 1856

  Amjerat, a principality of India

  On any given day, someone writhed in exquisite pleasure at the home of the most sought-after courtesan in Amjerat. Unfortunately for Captain Greydon Quinn, on this day it wasn’t him.

  “Very good, Quinn-sahib,” Padmaa cooed as he lowered his mouth to her neck. She smelled of jasmine and musk and warm, roused woman. “You are fast becoming a master of the teachings of Vatsyayana.”

  He was fast becoming too much for his trousers, but this exercise was about giving bliss to the woman, so only Padmaa was gloriously naked. When Quinn set himself to learn the ancient pleasuring techniques from an obscure Sanskrit text called Kama Sutra, he realized there would be times during his sensual odyssey when sacrifice was required.

  This was one of those times.

  His groin ached in unrelenting need, but he concentrated on Padmaa’s hitched breathing, on every shivering muscle beneath her golden brown skin.

  “You are the best student I have ever taught,” she said, her tone breathless. She took one of his hands and guided it over her belly to the soft, sweet delights between her legs.

  By some oriental magic, Padmaa always removed all the small hairs on her body, even the ones covering her sex. Quinn found her smooth pudenda exotically erotic.

  “Many of your countrymen come to me for training in the sensual arts, but so few complete the lessons.” She made a soft purring sound and tilted her pelvis into his questing fingers. “Why do you think that is so?”

  The way his body throbbed for release, Quinn was having difficulty thinking much of anything.

  “Attend, Quinn-sahib,” she said, when his fingertip slipped away from the spot Padmaa called her ‘little pearl.’ “You can do two things at once.”

  He drew a deep cleansing breath and resumed his intimate caress. Padmaa gave a soft moan of approval.

  “I think it’s a matter of time that keeps them from completing the training,” he said through clenched teeth as he struggled with control. Her skin flushed hotly, sending a message of desire straight to his groin. It was all he could do not to yank down his trousers and bury himself in her soft wetness.

  “Do we not all have the same length days, the same . . . heartbeats while we . . . live?”

  Quinn was encouraged that Padmaa, an expert in the sensual arts, seemed to struggle with control as well.

  “Yes, but we Englishmen divide our days up into nice, practical little hours and minutes.” When Quinn first arrived in India, he’d railed at the Asiatic disregard for punctuality. Since then he’d realized there were times when the eternal ‘now’ could not be regimented into a western schedule.

  “No, I think it is because most Englishmen seek only their own satisfaction, not ways to please . . . their . . . women . . . oh!” Her dark eyes rolled back into her head and her body stiffened in preparation for release.

  As she came in shimmering waves, Quinn glowed with reflected pleasure. It made a man achingly alive to bring a woman to such a peak.

  And he was sure she’d demonstrate her gratitude by returning the favor just as soon as she stopped convulsing.

  There was a soft rap on the door. Quinn cursed under his breath. Padmaa rose shakily from their bed of cushions and wrapped a length of silk around her body. “Come.”

  “That was my plan,” Quinn muttered. Pleasing a woman was all well and good, but a man had needs too.

  It was Sanjay at the door, so Quinn rose to his feet.

  “A thousand pardons, my friend.” No one would suspect the man in threadbare leggings and tunic was the Crown Prince of Amjerat, but Quinn had accompanied Sanjay on several incognito adventures whenever his friend evaded his guards and slipped out of the palace. This was the first time Sanjay had interrupted Quinn’s visit to Padmaa. “There is trouble at the temple.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “A Thugee band entered the outer court,” Sanjay said. “Already they have killed one of the priests.”

  Not all devotees of the destroyer goddess Kali practiced ritual murder, but Quinn had heard a group of Thugee were traveling south on the Grand Trunk Road, leaving offerings to their goddess all along the way. Quinn usually practiced tolerance when it came to the beliefs of others, but garroted corpses left a particularly unsavory trail of breadcrumbs. Each kill was considered an act of pujah, a veneration of Kali.

  The British had attempted to quash the cult, but obviously some persisted. Now that this new band had reached Amjerat, Quinn could act against them.

  He kissed Padmaa’s cheek. “My apologies. I must go.”

  “Then your training is complete.” Her musical voice was tinged with regret. “To give bliss without thought of receiving is the goal of the enlightened soul.”

  “I’m not all that enlightened.” Quinn growled in frustration as he shoved his Beaumont-Adams revolver into his belt. “Believe me, I bloody well t
hought about it.”

  * * * * *

  At a brisk trot, Quinn followed the prince into the sultry night and down a narrow alley toward the imposing temple in the center of Amjerat’s capital. They approached the temple’s side door in case the Thugs had posted a guard out front.

  “What do they want in the temple?” Quinn whispered as he and Sanjay drew near. Most victims of thuggery were caught stumbling home from the local opium den, too wrapped in their lotus-eating haze to put up much of a fight.

  “I fear it is Baaghh kaa kkhuun.”

  “Blood of the Tiger?” Quinn translated for himself as he ran toward the small side door.

  Sanjay followed. “Oah, yes. It is the red diamond that makes up the eye in our Shiva. It is said to contain immense power. In the wrong hands, the energy of Baaghh kaa kkhuun turns to evil.”

  “Then let’s make sure it stays in the right hands, shall we?” Quinn drew his revolver, wishing he’d reloaded after target practice that afternoon. He’d been in too much of a hurry to get to Padmaa. Now he only had four shots instead of twelve.

  Quinn kicked open the door and bellowed at the gang to stop. When one was outnumbered, a bit of bravado rarely went amiss.

  This time, it only served to put the gang on alert. The Thug perched on two of the four arms of the massive statue at the far end of the temple tossed them a glance and continued prying out the eye of the god with a wicked-looking dagger.

  Quinn raised his pistol and dropped four Thugs as they ran toward him and the prince, their long, curved swords glittering. He considered trying for the one clinging to Shiva, but the other four were closer. Besides, Prince Sanjay would take it badly if Quinn accidently put a bullet through his god.