She glanced away, her voice turning hollow. “By the time his wife died, Maman was well-established as his mistress. I think she really did believe they would get married after that, especially once Tristan was born. She clung to that promise all through the war, even when he said he dared not risk a scandal by marrying a Frenchwoman. And after the war, he kept saying that they would have a fine wedding as soon as Dom was settled into a law practice, or George had married. There was always some reason it wasn’t convenient.”
Her tone grew bitter. “Then he very inconveniently died, and that was that.” She sighed. “He was always worried about scandal or making things harder for his legitimate children. And I suspect he thought he had plenty of time. He was only fifty-three when he died.”
Fifty-three wasn’t exactly young, something she surely must realize. “For a man of that age to be so careless with his children, illegitimate or no—”
“Ah, but he was a careless sort, my father.” She sighed. “I loved him dearly, but he was the kind of man who preferred to roam the world looking for adventure. We only saw him when he got bored with travel. He would whisk in with presents and stories, and in a few weeks, he’d be gone again.”
Maximilian knew men like him, whose own needs and wants took precedence over their duty. He wasn’t one of them, and he felt a strange need to impress that upon her. “Is that why you don’t trust men of rank? Because they’re unreliable?”
“And because they have a tendency to lie.”
“I don’t.”
She eyed him askance. “Never?”
“Never. There’s no need.” He shot her a cocky smile. “I’m a duke. I say what I please, and everyone just has to put up with it.”
That made her laugh, as he’d intended. “Yes, I could tell from how you bullied your way into my house.”
“Ah, but you got the upper hand in that encounter.”
The minx had the audacity to smile. “True.” Her smile faltered. “But not for long. You would have left me today if either I or the Greasleys had told you where Tristan was. You already admitted it.”
“Yes, but I wouldn’t have left you destitute or without resources. I would have made sure you climbed back on a coach to London, and I would have paid the coachman to deposit you safely on the doorstep of Manton’s Investigations.”
She studied him a long moment from beneath incredibly thick black lashes. “Why didn’t you tell the Greasleys the truth about us? Is it because you realized they didn’t know anything anyway? Or . . .” She dropped her gaze. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter.”
“Do you really think I would have ruined you as easily as all that?” he said irritably. “Embarrassed you before your neighbors and made it impossible for you to live a respectable life in Bow Street again?”
She toyed with her fork, not looking up. “No, I suppose not. But you didn’t want this, and you could have taken the chance to get out of it.”
“Not like that. We’re not all your father, you know. Or your elder half brother.”
“I gathered as much.” The fire illuminated her tenuous smile. “You knew more about your imaginary estate than Papa ever knew about his real one.”
“That’s because it wasn’t imaginary. I actually do have one in Devonshire. And it does have a lot of sheep. You see? It’s as I told you—I never lie.”
Finally, she met his gaze, but only to shoot him a skeptical look. “You’re not really a land agent.”
“All right,” he grumbled, “but you can’t blame me for that lie. You pushed me into it. I told you from the beginning I was uncomfortable with playacting.”
“You did, that’s true,” she conceded. “And you were clever enough to see what I could not—that it made more sense for you to play a land agent than a cotton merchant. I was assuming that you would be as unaware of the inner workings of your estate as my father. And now George.”
“Rathmoor doesn’t take good care of his estate?”
She snorted. “After he inherited, he alienated all the competent people who’d worked for Papa, including the land agent, Mr. Fowler. Then George raised the rents, forcing several tenants to leave land they’d leased for years. Now the entire place is going to hell in a handbasket.”
That roused his curiosity. “How do you know all this? I thought you and your siblings hadn’t been there in a while.”
“Dom keeps abreast of it.” She thrust out her little chin pugnaciously. “If there is any justice in the world and George dies prematurely, Dom will have to pick up the pieces. So he has a spy keeping him informed of what goes on in Yorkshire.”
“Ah. Very wise of him.” He settled back against his chair. “You really are close to Manton and Bonnaud, aren’t you?”
A faint smile played across her lips. “Dom and Tristan are only two years apart, so they grew up together. Since Dom’s mother died in childbirth, my mother became a sort of second mother to him. The boys played together, and I . . . adored them both, so they let me come along sometimes. Papa didn’t hide us, you see. He actually encouraged us to be one big happy family. Perhaps that was wrong of him, but—”
“The Duke of Clarence, present heir to the throne, doesn’t hide any of his ten illegitimate children by an English actress, so I see no reason your father should have hidden his two by a French one.” He did some quick figuring in his head. “If I remember right, Bonnaud is two years older than you.”
“Three, actually.”
“And fond of wreaking havoc on his siblings’ lives, I take it.”
“I know it looks that way,” she countered, “but he isn’t who you think he is.”
“I’ve yet to see any evidence to convince me otherwise.”
She turned belligerent. “When I was four and frightened of dogs, it was Tristan who lifted me onto his back whenever some mangy cur ran toward me. When I was seven, it was Tristan who fought three village boys for drawing a vile picture on my best cloak. When I was eight, Tristan was the one who taught me how to read and write.”
“Why didn’t your mother teach you?”
“She could only read French. Papa spoke French well, so . . . I suppose she saw no reason to be proficient in English. Plus, Papa was always saying he would send me away to school.” Her voice hardened. “Once the war was over and they married. Which never happened.”
He knew how it felt to be lied to over and over by the parents you trusted, but he couldn’t imagine a parent so careless as not to make sure his own daughter could read. “Couldn’t he send you to the local grammar school?”
“Tristan went, but there was no school for girls thereabouts.” Her voice lowered. “Besides, Maman didn’t want me going into the village when they were calling me the ‘daughter of the French whore.’ Tristan was better at putting up with the names the townspeople gave us.”
Maximilian choked down an oath at the thought of a little girl being reviled for a simple accident of birth. “English villagers can be small-minded,” he bit out.
She gave a Gallic shrug. “Especially when the whole country is at war with France.” A sad look entered her eyes. “Besides, after Papa’s wife died, every unattached female within twenty miles hoped to catch him for a husband. The fact that he was faithful to his ‘French whore’ annoyed them exceedingly.”
“I imagine it did.”
“We never belonged there, that’s all.”
“And did you belong in France?”
Pushing her wineglass away, she rose and began to tidy the table. “Not really. Here, I’m half French. There, I’m half English. I don’t belong anywhere.”
He certainly understood that. He’d been the second son until Peter’s death, when he’d abruptly become the duke-in-waiting. Then his father had gone mad, and he’d become the heir to a terrible legacy that weighed on him more by the year. The day he’d ascended to the title had been bittersweet. But at least back then he’d known for certain that he was the Duke of Lyons.
And now?
Now, on
ce again, he didn’t know who he was. That was why this whole affair with Bonnaud angered him so.
“So you’re from Devonshire, are you?” she ventured as she scraped and stacked plates.
“Not exactly. I don’t live at my estate in Devonshire, though I do visit it occasionally. I live in Eastcote at Marsbury House.”
She cast him an arch glance. “When you’re not at your London town house or one of your many other properties, you mean. I suppose you have quite a number. You would need at least five estates to be a proper duke.”
He thought about telling her that most people considered it rude and vulgar to discuss wealth so blatantly. But she probably knew that and obviously didn’t care. Which rather intrigued him. “The Duke of Wellington has only one,” he pointed out.
“The Duke of Devonshire has eight, not counting his London mansion.” She stared coolly at him. “So how many do you have? Ten? Eleven?”
“Seven, not counting my ‘London mansion,’ ” he said irritably.
Everyone else was awed by his riches. She acted as if they were a flaw in his character. Then again, what could he expect of a Frenchwoman whose poverty-stricken mother was raised during the Revolution?
“How bad was it in France after the war?” he countered, wanting to get off the subject of his filthy lucre. “Were the three of you able to manage on your own in Rouen?”
She shot him a dark look. “I never lived in Rouen.”
“Paris, then,” he said pointedly.
Crossing her arms over her chest, she glared at him. “You just asked me not to lie to you. So stop trying to find out where I’m from, or you’ll leave me no choice.”
“Ah, but then I’d get another kiss,” he couldn’t resist reminding her.
“Only if you know that I’ve lied,” she retorted, eyes gleaming.
“Excellent point,” he said with a chuckle. She was the only woman he’d ever met who gave as good as she got. Or at least the only one who also made his blood pound in his veins.
As it was doing now. Watching her busy herself with domestic tasks reminded him that she was a woman and he was a man. That they were attracted to each other. And that they were alone in this room, with no one but themselves to dictate their behavior.
As if sensing his thoughts, she colored and renewed her efforts at tidying up.
“You can leave that for the servants, you know,” he said.
“Assuming that one of them ventures up here again before morning,” she said testily. “The inn is packed, and their staff doesn’t appear to be in any hurry to accommodate us. And I don’t like having everything so messy.”
He rose. “Yes, they do seem inattentive. They should have come by now to find out if we need anything else. I’ll have to go remind them who’s paying for all this.”
She burst into laughter.
“What’s so amusing?” he snapped.
“You’re a land agent, remember?” she pointed out rather gleefully. “I don’t think they’ll be quite as receptive to Mr. Kale’s bullying as they would be to the duke’s.”
Damn. He’d forgotten about their masquerade. “They will be if I give them enough gold.”
“And that will draw even more attention to us than you already have by taking a suite of rooms.”
He snorted. “This hardly qualifies as a suite of rooms.”
“No? When Dom and I traveled to London six months ago, I shared an inn room—and a bed—with an elderly woman I’d never met, and he shared one with her son.”
“Holy God,” he muttered. “People do that?”
“All the time.” A mischievous glint shone in her eyes. “Except, apparently, for the rich Mr. Kale, land agent, who can afford a suite of rooms for him and his wife, even though he claims he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself.”
He narrowed his gaze on her. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’
“Immensely,” she said with a grin. “Though I shouldn’t tease you about it. I like having my own room and my own bed.” Then her face fell, and she turned wary again. “That is, my own place to sleep, for of course you’ll want the bed, and since we are definitely not sharing that—”
“Oh, for God’s sake, what kind of gentleman do you take me for? I’m not going to make you share a bed with me, and I’m sure as blazes not going to make you sleep on the settee. I’ll take this room; you take the bedroom.”
She eyed him skeptically. “Are you sure? That settee doesn’t look terribly comfortable.” Her tone hardened. “And if you come crawling into bed with me in the middle of the night—”
“I wouldn’t do that. Lock the bedroom door if you don’t trust me.” He drew himself up. “I can sleep somewhere other than a bed for one night.”
“If you say so.” She turned for the bedchamber, then paused. “There is one problem, however. I’ll need help . . . um . . . unfastening my gown and my corset.”
“Confound it all to blazes,” he muttered under his breath as a stark image of peeling her out of her clothing sent a jolt of hot need through him.
She faced him, her cheeks scarlet. “What?”
“I’ll go fetch a servant for that.” He hurried for the door.
“That would be good, thank you,” she said with obvious relief. “Though they might wonder why you aren’t helping your wife yourself.”
“Let them wonder.” With that, he fled the room.
But downstairs he found a scene of utter chaos. Apparently some rich baronet had arrived with a slew of friends to enjoy Brighton, and the inn’s staff was scurrying to make them all comfortable. It rapidly became apparent that he and his “wife” were of minor importance compared to Sir Somebody. The irony of it didn’t escape him.
After trying to catch someone’s attention and being put off time and again, he resigned himself to the torture of attending to Lisette himself. As he climbed the stairs, he wondered how often he’d thrown an inn’s staff into confusion when he’d traveled. Granted, he usually stayed with friends or at one of his own residences along his route, but occasionally he had to make do at an inn.
That was a vastly different experience. His servants were sent ahead to make everything ready, he walked into a true suite of rooms already prepared for his arrival, his meal was perfectly ordered, and he had only the inconvenience of a different bed than he was accustomed to.
Entering their room here, he looked around and suppressed a grimace. All right, so perhaps he’d been a bit spoiled in the past. Because that bloody settee looked more uncomfortable by the moment.
There was no sign of Lisette—she must already have retired to the bedchamber, weary of awaiting his return. He knocked at the closed door. No answer. When he tried the handle and it turned, he felt a surge of satisfaction. At least she trusted him that much.
He opened the door and warned, “I’m coming in, Lisette.” Then he walked in to find her fast asleep on the bed, fully clothed.
She lay on her side with her back to him. As he approached, he noticed that her hands were tucked up beneath her cheek like a little girl’s. An unfamiliar tender emotion twisted in his chest. She looked peaceful, angelic even, with her breasts rising and falling in an even rhythm and her hair lying disordered across the pillow. She must have taken it down, for it seemed devoid of pins.
A sudden fierce urge to caress it seized him, and he choked back an oath. None of that now. It would only increase his disturbing attraction to her. Which was also why he shouldn’t be standing here gawking at her like some besotted greenhead. He should leave.
But lying there in her clothing couldn’t be comfortable for her. At the very least he ought to help her undress. Though it seemed a damned shame to wake her when she slept so peacefully.
Fine, then he just wouldn’t wake her.
With that decision made, he walked to the end of the bed, where he removed her shoes. Her feet were daintier than he would have expected for such a tall, buxom woman. She had trim ankles and slender calves, what he could see of
them. Her stockings had been darned a number of times, and he scowled at the sight. It wasn’t right that a woman so intelligent and beautiful should have to live without something as basic as new stockings. If she were his . . .
But she wasn’t, and he didn’t want her to be. Any woman who married him would have a life of misery ahead of her, and Lisette already saw marriage as a prison. She’d also made it clear that she had no intention of being any man’s mistress.
So there was no future for them. Which was why he shouldn’t be standing here, drinking up the sight of her asleep, wondering what it would be like to slip into bed beside her and kiss her senseless.
Suppressing an oath, he moved to stand next to her back. He had to finish this and leave, before he did something he regretted.
But now came the tricky part. Kneeling, he smoothed her hair aside so he could unbutton her gown. Her breathing altered its rhythm for a moment, then resumed. He undid her laces, and the fabric parted to reveal a wrinkled linen chemise that made his breath catch in his throat. She would be naked beneath that chemise. It would be so easy to run his hand inside the corset along the curve of her spine. To slip it down over the full hips that were inches away . . .
With a groan, he rose and strode from the room, shutting the bedchamber door firmly behind him.
He scrubbed his hand over his face. Clearly the family tendency toward madness was seizing him early. Otherwise, why would he be contemplating caressing the woman’s body while she slept?
Why would he be standing here hard and aroused, with no possibility of getting any satisfaction for it?
Cursing whatever impulse had made him loosen her gown and laces, he contemplated the settee with a scowl. He’d need a bit of fortification to be able to get any sleep on that ungodly piece of furniture, especially in his present state.
So he headed out the door to the taproom.
7
LISETTE LAY THERE, tense and waiting, until she heard the duke leave their rooms completely. Then she released a long breath.
The Duke's Men [1] What the Duke Desires Page 10
