The Mad, Bad Duke

by Jennifer Ashley

  Alexander nodded grimly. “Your friend may have instructed her, but this Black Annie made it with you in mind. Witches can be deceitful. It is part of their trade.”

  Meagan smiled suddenly, dimples appearing. “Oh, goodness, I’ve just thought. Deirdre paid such a sum of money for it, and if Black Annie meant it for me all along…But why on earth should she?”

  “I do not know, but I will question her.”

  Meagan lifted her brows, as though wondering exactly how he’d go about this questioning.

  He dug his hands harder into the chair back. “Meagan, you must marry me. I have seen what your countrymen do to a woman who is ruined. Her family hides her, if they do not outright disown her. Men assume she is fair game and proposition her. She is treated as a whore when she may only be guilty of trusting a blackguard. In Nvengaria we would not dream of doing this. We do not punish a woman for what a man has done, and if he dishonors her and she shoots him, it is regarded as justifiable and she is praised for her bravery.”

  “Good lord.” She put her fingers to her lips, touching the pad of the lower one, and her eyes took on a thoughtful gleam. “I hadn’t thought of shooting you.”

  “You looked quite unhappy to see me today. I would not have been surprised had you brought a pistol with you.”

  “I am unhappy because you are a whirlwind.” She began to pace, her hands curling. “You put visions into my head of making love to you in some luxurious marble bath. And then you sweep me away from the dance floor to the anteroom, and today you sweep me here and ask me to marry you. You like to sweep, Alexander, and I cannot move quickly enough out of your way.”

  “The marble room is the bath chamber in my house,” he said. “I had the same vision.”

  “I thought you did.” Her face turned red again, blending to her fiery hair. “How embarrassing.”

  “I did not find it embarrassing. I found it arousing and frustrating. I am not marrying you simply to satisfy propriety. I told you that we could marry in name only, but that is not quite true. I want you. If this spell will have me lusting after you night and day, I want you in my house so I can conveniently have at you.”

  Her eyes widened. Clearly, she was unused to gentlemen expressing lusts so boldly. Alexander was not used to women who did not expect that. He saw turbulent waters ahead.

  “And what happens when the spell is broken?” she asked.

  “We will see what happens. Until then, I refuse to die of longing. Nvengarians are not Englishmen. We act on our passions, we are lovers with our wives, and we are not ashamed of what is between us.” He leaned forward, his need soaring. “I do not want you ashamed of what you feel or what you want from me. I want to know what you need, no lies and no evasions. You tell me your needs, and I will fulfill them. That is my promise to you—my duty—as your husband.”

  She stopped pacing. “Nvengarians are rather breathtaking, Your Grace.”

  “Alexander. There will be no formality between us.”

  “But you are quick to give commands. Do you expect me to salute you, in private? I will in public, of course.”

  His smile was raw. “I am used to giving commands. It is my way. You may obey or tell me to rot in hell as you like.”

  “But husbands expect their wives to obey them,” she said. “It is part of the vows.”

  “Not in Nvengaria. If a man is a fool, his wife is obligated to disobey him. Who would follow a fool’s orders?”

  “And she can shoot him, presumably.”

  “Only in certain circumstances. I will teach you to use a pistol, so that if circumstances arise that you must shoot me, you will do it cleanly, through the heart, no lingering deaths.”

  She blanched. “I could never shoot you.”

  “You could. I see it in you. You have a heart of steel, my love, and a temper as well.”

  “How can you know that? I only met you last night.”

  Alexander released the chair and walked around the desk toward her. To his joy, she did not back away. “Because you are standing here, alone with me, firing words back at me. I ravished you, I took your virginity, and yet I did not find you today sunk in illness or hysteria. You came here and faced me with the truth. You are strong.” He cupped her chin. “I have never met a woman so strong as you.”

  “Lady Anastasia seems quite capable,” she said faintly.

  “She used to be strong, but the death of her husband robbed her of her heart. She is—broken.”

  “Oh, poor woman.”

  Alexander traced her lower lip with his thumb. “She was married to a Nvengarian, and when he died she nearly died with him. She works to take vengeance on those who caused his death, and she will use who she must to reach that goal. She has a good heart, but her grief has blinded her.”

  “You know much about people,” she said, her mouth moving against his thumb.

  “I have been forced to. I took Anastasia to my bed several times in the past, but she only went there to further her own agenda.”

  Meagan’s eyes flickered at his admission. “And why were you there?”

  “To further my agenda. There was never love between us, nor will there ever be. But we have cultivated the myth of an affair because it suits our purposes. I tell you this so that when other people whisper titillating gossip about us, you are prepared for it.”

  “I see.”

  She clearly did not. He would have to teach her everything, from the ground up. “We have laid down layers of lies, Anastasia and I. It is necessary to deceive whom we need to deceive. You, as my wife, will know the truth, but when you hear the lies from others, you must not correct them. Can you do that?”

  “You mean, instead of wanting me to still wagging tongues, you want me to help you keep them wagging?”

  “About certain things, yes.”

  “Oh dear. I know so very little about intrigue.”

  Alexander’s world, on the other hand, was all about intrigue. “I will teach you. I will teach you so much.” He slid his fingers across her cheek and brushed back a lock of her hair. “Are you willing to learn?”

  “You will give me intrigue lessons?”

  “You will have lessons in many things.” He leaned down and trailed the tip of his tongue over her cheekbone. “I will teach you to receive all the pleasure I can give you and how to pleasure me. How we can enjoy pleasure together.”

  “Like last night?” she breathed.

  “Last night was clumsy. I was not myself, and I rushed things. What we will have will be slow and practiced. There are cults in Nvengaria that teach the art of pleasuring. It is an amazing control of mind and body. I spent a year in one of these cults as part of my training for the duties of Grand Duke. Now I will be teacher.”

  A shiver ran through her body, and he lightly kissed her skin. “Husbands and wives teach each other,” he murmured. “Are you willing to learn from me?”

  “What could I possibly teach you?” she asked softly.

  “Goodness. And courage. You have so much, and I have so little.”

  She closed her eyes, tilting her head back, letting his lips brush her face. “I do not feel particularly filled with goodness.”

  “You are. You do not fear me. Nor do you hate me.”

  “It is the love spell,” she nearly whispered. “Nothing we can do about it.”

  “You are forgiving.” He seamed her lips with his tongue. “I taste it in you.”

  She turned her head to meet his kiss. No, the spell had not dwindled. The pull of Meagan’s kiss made him want to stay here with her and to hell with assassins and spies and Nvengarian intrigue. He curled his tongue into her mouth, and she made a little noise in her throat and laced her fingers around his neck.

  Meagan Tavistock might be unnerved by him and his abrupt proposal, but she wanted him. He felt the threads of the love spell wrapping him, urging him to let his hand drift to the swell of her breast, to cup her buttocks and pull her to him.

  He felt his Nvengarian blo
od heat, the urges of his ancestry running true in him. He’d never experienced these urges with his wife—she’d had her own lovers, and they’d never shared deep passion. They’d made love like friends or casual lovers, and after she’d become pregnant with little Alex, Sephronia and Alexander had only slept together on rare occasions. He’d fulfilled his physical needs on women he trusted, but he’d never fallen in love.

  Meagan was different. His body knew what passion was, and for the first time, it responded to its primal call. Alexander’s control was legendary, but he had the feeling that Meagan could stir the spark that released the beast. It dwelled in a space inside him, circling, waiting.

  He kissed the corner of her mouth, then licked the freckles that crossed her nose. He found them adorably attractive.

  The polished desk became more and more enticing. He could lift her to it, lay her back on its clean expanse, skim her skirts up her legs, and find the heat waiting between them. His erection pushed upward, ready.

  He would have done it had not the door swung open behind him, and the breathless voice of Simone Tavistock filled the room.

  “You see? I knew they would work everything out.”

  Meagan jumped, trying to press Alexander away, but he refused to free her. Sliding his arm around her waist, he turned to face the invasion of her stepmother and Michael Tavistock.

  Alexander made a half bow. “Mrs. Tavistock. I am still waiting for Meagan’s final answer.”

  Simone’s wide smile beamed. “Well, of course she will. She is kissing you, is she not? And to think, I worried about her prospects just yesterday.” Simone pressed her hands together and stepped toward her husband. “This is so delightful. I believe I shall swoon. Do catch me, Michael darling.”

  “No.” Michael Tavistock put firm hands on his wife’s arms.

  She sent him a startled look, then gave a decided nod. “You are quite right. There is no time for swooning; there is so much to do.” She bent a steely eye on Alexander. “You told us you’ve obtained a special license, but a hasty wedding will never do, Your Grace. The banns, St. George’s, Hanover Square, a proper wedding breakfast, and all the trimmings. Prince Damien swept my daughter away from me and cheated me out of a grand church wedding, but you, Your Grace, will not.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The denizens of the pub in Wapping, within smelling distance of the river, had become used to the two foreigners who wandered in most nights and spoke together in the corner. The publican tolerated them because they bought his best ale and paid an exorbitant price for it without question. The sailors and fishermen who frequented the tavern had at first regarded them in askance, but as the two in the corner only gabbled in German and left everyone else alone, the regulars grew used to them and finally ignored them.

  One of the men was called Otto von Hohenzahl. Fifty years old, he had gray hair, an athletic build, and a round pink face, obtained from a lifetime of enjoying hearty beer and warm red wine. He spoke German in a thick Austrian dialect of the region just outside Vienna to his younger, dark-haired companion.

  “Alexander was to have met with me last night, he and his Lady Anastasia. She kept the appointment, but he did not. So where was he, eh?”

  The slimmer man at his side slurped his ale, which he admitted was not bad, although not up to Austrian standards. “A funny thing, mein Herr. He was with a woman.”

  Von Hohenzahl traced the rim of his tankard. “Not Lady Anastasia. She was speaking to me, trying to pry secrets from my lips.”

  The younger man smirked. “No, he was with a red-haired English girl. A fraulein. A miss.”

  “Wirklich?” Von Hohenzahl’s lips twitched into a dark smile. “The rogue. Or was she paid?”

  “No, mein Herr, this is very interesting. Her name is Meagan Tavistock, and she has a connection to Princess Penelope of Nvengaria. Her father married Princess Penelope’s mother. This must be some kind of game the Nvengarians are playing.”

  Von Hohenzahl looked at him sharply. “What game, I wonder? But it does not matter. I want Alexander. I will have him, I swear it.” He clenched a gloved fist as though enclosing Grand Duke Alexander inside. He was determined to use Alexander to reach Nvengaria and have it—not for Prince Metternich, but for himself. With Alexander under his control, he would have the power to walk in and overthrow Damien. He would be given the credit of bringing the Nvengarians to heel, he who’d been shunted into minor positions despite the fact that he came from an old and wealthy Austrian family. Alexander was a formidable man, but von Hohenzahl knew the secret that would put Alexander in harness. “You have been watching him,” he continued. “Have you witnessed any change?”

  The younger Austrian shook his head. “Not yet. But I have not seen what goes on inside his house. It is impossible to get a spy in there.”

  Von Hohenzahl nodded, not angry. “I know this. Alexander is fanatically careful. But soon, Peterli, soon he will be in my hand and all his care will mean nothing.” He smiled, his eyes glittering. “What will Alexander say when he discovers that my secret weapon against the Nvengarians is Alexander himself?”

  “I will enjoy finding out.” Peterli chuckled.

  “And my master, Metternich, will be pleased when I hand him the keys to the kingdom of Nvengaria. Perhaps he will make me a count.”

  “Your master will reward you well, that is certain.” Peterli cast his gaze toward the bar where a young woman was sending them an impish grin. “Now, perhaps we should reward ourselves this night.”

  Von Hohenzahl followed his colleague’s gaze and snorted. “Not here. The ladies are too dirty. I will take you to a house where the ladies are clean and friendly, and you may have as many as you like at once.”

  Peterli laughed, eyes twinkling. “You are generous, mein Herr. Please, take me to this house.”

  Von Hohenzahl tossed the publican an extra coin, and he and Peterli bundled themselves into greatcoats and left the inn.

  From the shadows of another corner, Myn emerged, his large blue eyes thoughtful. The regulars at this public house tolerated Myn more than they did the Austrian gentlemen because Myn, while odd-looking with his waist-length black hair and tall, muscular body, drank ale quietly and disturbed no one. They’d come to accept Myn, who was quiet and calm, and they also sensed it would be unwise to disturb him.

  And so, the men in the taproom that night had done nothing to betray his presence to the Austrian gentlemen.

  Myn set down his ale and walked quietly out after them. He did not speak German, but he had recognized the name Alexander and a smattering of German words taught to him by his old friend Dimitri of Nvengaria. Myn also had an excellent memory for words and phrases, and he would store these up and have someone translate for him.

  Princess Penelope had asked Myn to look after Grand Duke Alexander and keep him from harm, and Myn would obey her, no matter how many people he had to hurt to do it.

  Simone Tavistock got her way. To Meagan’s surprise, Alexander withdrew his suggestion that he and Meagan marry immediately, and promised Simone that they would have a grand society wedding.

  But a month later, caught in a whirlwind of planning, Meagan began to wish Alexander had insisted she marry him immediately.

  First, the jewels began arriving. The morning after Meagan had agreed to wed Alexander—although agreed was not the word she liked to use—a box arrived. Rose and Simone leaned over Meagan as she opened it at the dressing table to reveal a chain of large square-cut rubies bound together with a heavy strand of gold. The rubies glittered dull red against the black velvet of the box, the necklace obviously old and obviously valuable.

  Simone had to sit down and wave her hand in front of her face. “Oh miss, oh miss,” Rose breathed over and over.

  A card inserted into the box simply said, “For Meagan. Alexander of Nvengaria.”

  Each day brought another box. Alexander sent large diamond earrings to drip beneath Meagan’s curls, an emerald diadem, more diamonds for her throat, and
a strand for her wrists. The rings came together, ten lined up in a box. Four were gold, six heavy Nvengarian silver. All bore round or square jewels, diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires.

  This card read, “The Grand Duchess’s rings. Alexander.”

  Meagan touched them gently, realizing that the rings had adorned the hands of the previous Grand Duchess, Sephronia of Nvengaria. Penelope had written about Sephronia in her gossipy letters long before Meagan had met Alexander. Sephronia had been a beautiful woman, adored and admired even while her husband had been feared. She’d been a beautiful society hostess whose balls and fêtes had been perfect down to the last detail. Nvengaria would never see her like again, it was claimed.

  Meagan shut the box in trepidation. Now the rings would rest on Meagan’s hands, and Nvengarians would expect Meagan to host the best balls and fêtes in the land. She groaned and lamented she’d ever let Deirdre talk her into going along to Black Annie’s.

  The ring Alexander sent for the Nvengarian betrothal ceremony, however, he purchased himself. The package arrived straight from the jeweler’s with their emblem stamped on the box. He’d bought her a simple silver ring fixed with two diamonds.

  Another gentleman might have written a flowery declaration that he chose it because the diamonds reminded him of her eyes, but the note simply read, “For the betrothal ceremony. Alexander.”

  Meagan gently laid the handwritten card in the little box where she kept all the others, and lifted the ring to her lips.

  Meagan wore the ring, along with a new gown sewn in haste by the seamstresses Alexander had sent to her, for the Nvengarian betrothal ceremony held in Alexander’s overwhelming house. Alexander’s entourage was smaller than Prince Damien’s had been, but no less enthusiastic. His Nvengarian servants wore dark blue military-style uniforms with medals and highly polished boots, and all had the unruly black hair, brilliant blue eyes, and swarthy skin of Nvengarians.

  The men formed a circle around Meagan and Alexander as they went through the ancient ceremony in the red-ceilinged ballroom, their booted feet keeping up a stamping rhythm. On the outside of the circle were Meagan’s father and Simone, a few close family friends, and Egan MacDonald, the Scotsman she’d met last summer at Penelope’s betrothal ceremony and wedding.