The Desires of a Duke: Historical Romance Collection

by Darcy Burke

  “Why would you be surprised?” Alaric said in even tones.

  “The passing of Lady Osgood—so very shocking to the sensibilities.” Mercer shuddered. “It appears you’ve managed to escape unscathed. Must be those hardy Scottish sensibilities of yours.”

  Mercer’s cronies tittered.

  “I had nothing to do with Lady Osgood’s death. Anyone who claims the contrary can meet me at dawn,” Alaric said coldly.

  “At dawn? How uncivilized an hour. Lord knows I have plenty of engagements,” Mercer said with a brittle laugh, “and cannot possibly rearrange my schedule to fit you in.”

  “Well met, gentlemen.” Gabriel, the Marquess of Tremont, came up to them. If Tremont’s astute grey gaze took the full measure of the tense situation, his pleasant expression showed no signs of it. “Mercer, I believe some friends of yours are looking for you. Something about an entry in the betting book.”

  “A gentleman’s work is never done.” Sketching a bow, the earl sauntered off, his entourage tagging at his heels.

  Alaric said in low tones, “I’d like to rearrange more than that bastard’s schedule.”

  “Mercer’s just looking to stir trouble. Don’t give him the satisfaction.” Tremont slapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s have a drink and talk of more important things.”

  They managed to find prized seats by a private hearth.

  “They don’t make chairs like this anywhere else,” Tremont said, stretching out his legs.

  “They do if you pay them enough.” Alaric had commissioned furnishings from the same manufacturer for his study at Strathmore Castle, and it had cost him a pretty penny.

  Tremont regarded him with a dry smile. “We aren’t all as rich as Croesus, you know.”

  While the marquess had improved the financial situation he’d inherited, apparently he still had a ways to go. Alaric understood the other’s predicament. After all, he’d spent his tenure as duke replenishing the coffers left empty by his guardian’s profligacy.

  “You will be once our venture is settled at month’s end,” Alaric assured him.

  “I do have some good news on that front. I spoke with Burrowes today, and he’s decided to stand firm with us. His show of support should help us cauterize this wound yet.”

  “Well done,” Alaric said. “That is the best news I’ve had all day.”

  “What are you two up to now?” said an amused voice. “Whatever it is, may I join in?”

  Marcus Harrington, Lord Blackwood, was another friend from his Oxford days. Blackwood had been the spare to the title back then and after University had bought a commission in the army. His training was still evident in his militaristic bearing, the precise cut of his golden brown hair. After his brother’s death, he’d acquired a marquessdom and a marchioness soon thereafter.

  All three stood and exchanged bows.

  Alaric said, “Care for a hand of cards, Blackwood?”

  “Why not? I could always do with some of your gold.”

  At one o’clock in the morning, Alaric left the table with heavier pockets, bowing to the good-natured groans of his friends. Outside, he descended the steps of the club, aware of an edgy energy that the night’s distractions had not quelled. As he headed toward his carriage parked up ahead, he considered making a stop at a bawdy house. Mayhap a fuck was what he needed to rid himself of his inexplicable itch for Miss Kent once and for all.

  Yet for some damnable reason, he didn’t feel like bedding a whore.

  The oncoming rattle of wheels made him look to the road. A black carriage was flying over the cobblestone; the driver, a fellow obscured by a dark hat and greatcoat, must have bacon for brains for driving that fast down St. James. Trash fluttered from the open window. As the vehicle passed him, Alaric glimpsed whipping curtains, a face split by a scar into two menacing halves, metal glinting—

  Even as he threw himself to the ground, the shot rang in his ears. He lay on the pavement, blinking up at the stars. Muffled shouts came from the distance. Scorching pain flamed over his arm, and the night descended upon him.

  Chapter 11

  The stillroom, with its bottle-lined shelves and large work table, was a refuge for Emma. Claiming that remedies were not her forte, Marianne’s housekeeper generously allowed Emma use of the space below stairs whenever she wished. At present, Emma was working on a salve for Mr. Pitt’s aching knees and the second footman’s bad back. She added drops of camphor to the bowl, stirring it into the thick concoction of beeswax and rosewater.

  “The new gowns came for me and Polly,” Violet said. Perched on the table next to the bowl, she swung her legs idly.

  “That’s good, dear,” Emma said absently.

  Thank God she had a few mundane activities to occupy her. If not, she might have been driven mad by her thoughts. Do not think about him, she reprimanded herself.

  “There’s ribbons and slippers to match,” Violet went on.

  “Mmm.”

  As Emma concentrated on giving the salve a good mix with the wooden spoon, she kept hearing Strathaven’s seductive voice, the wicked things he’d described last night. The pale fire of his gaze licked through her.

  You could let go of fear and worry, Emma. Put yourself into my keeping. You could trust me to give you everything you need.

  A shiver ran through her. She ought to have been shocked. Disgusted.

  Instead, his words set off a deep, explosive resonance that shook the foundations of her being.

  ’Twas a yearning she could put no words to—an urge so terrifying that for the first time in her life, she’d not only stood down, but fled. Only she couldn’t run from herself. From the strange, mortifying, exhilarating impulses that Strathaven had awakened in her.

  She’d dreamed of him last night. Of them, tangled skin against skin. In sleep, she had no control over her will, and she’d let him do everything he’d described to her. His hands, his mouth, his command ... Pleasure had trapped her like a bell jar, and there’d been no escaping the confines of her own surrender. He’d owned her breath, her body, her soul—and she’d never felt more free. She’d awoken bathed in perspiration, the tips of her breasts pebbled and throbbing, her sex slick with dew ...

  “I don’t think I’ll have much use for a new wardrobe,” Violet droned on. “I’m planning on joining Astley’s and becoming a circus performer.”

  “That’s nice, dear,” Emma said.

  Silence met her words.

  She looked up from the bowl. “Sorry,” she sighed. “I wasn’t listening, was I?”

  “Not to a single word I was saying.” Vi’s golden-brown eyes narrowed. “What is the matter with you, anyway? You’ve been acting strangely all this week.”

  “Nothing’s the matter. I’m just ... preoccupied.”

  “By what? Making salve?” Vi’s gaze rolled upward. “Back in Chudleigh Crest, you did that while tending to Papa, sewing up petticoats for me and Polly, putting out Harry’s latest fire, and cooking supper. No, something’s going on,”—Vi tapped her chin—“and I’d put my money on the duke.”

  Though her pulse skittered, Emma spooned salve into the waiting jars. “I’ve cleared up the matter with the magistrates. I’ll have no further dealings with him.”

  Why doesn’t that make me feel relieved?

  She told herself that things were better this way. She had to admit that she was not as in command of her carnal impulses as she’d believed, and staying away from Strathaven was clearly the safest option. After all, she’d offered to make amends; he’d refused. She’d done what she could. As for furthering her investigative skills, she’d simply have to find another way to convince Ambrose ...

  The sound of rustling silk made her turn to the doorway. One look at Marianne’s grave expression, and even Violet said in alarm, “What’s wrong, Marianne?”

  “I’ve just received some rather disturbing news.”

  Emma’s nape tingled with premonition. “What is it?”

  “It’s Strathaven,�
� Marianne said. “He’s been shot.”

  Chapter 12

  If there was anything Alaric despised, it was the sick bed.

  He’d spent half his youth in one, the boredom and helplessness nearly as bad as the illness itself. He’d hated the quacks; summoned by Aunt Patrice, they’d arrived to Strathmore Castle in droves, vials of potions rattling in their carrying cases. Some supposed cures had actually made matters worse; after being dosed with a tincture of belladonna, he’d retched for hours. Writhing and shivering in his own sweat, he’d prayed for an end to the suffering.

  Lady Patrice had nursed him tirelessly through it all. Having lost her own son to scarlet fever, she wasn’t taking any chances with her new ward. Between her, the stifling sickroom, and uncontrollable episodes of pain, he’d felt like an osprey stuffed in a canary cage.

  Like Ares imprisoned in that bloody jar.

  His gaze went to the painting on the wall, which brought that mythological scene to life in darkly exquisite oils. He’d commissioned the work from an Italian master, and it showed the God of War, his muscles rippling and fists raised against the curved walls of his cell. The artist had captured Ares’ expression admirably, and it wasn’t a pretty picture. It wasn’t meant to be.

  To Alaric, it was a reminder: he’d never let himself be trapped again.

  “How are we doing today?” came a bright, female voice.

  Annabel McLeod entered the room, Will trotting at her heels. The two had showed up after the shooting—summoned by Jarvis, the old betrayer—and proceeded to nurse Alaric, who’d been too weak to fend them off.

  Now he glared at his sister-in-law. She had pulled back the sleeve of his robe without so much as a by-your-leave and was fussing with the dressing on his right arm.

  “Are you trying to finish off what the assassin started?” he said.

  Annabel narrowed her violet eyes at him. No tepid lass, his brother’s wife. Her temper could flare as brightly as her hair. The Scotsman in him respected a woman who could give as good as she got. Of course, this made him think of Miss Kent.

  Did she know that he’d been shot? If she did, would she care?

  Only insofar as she’d like to finish the job.

  “If you’d hold still instead of thrashing like a lamprey, I’d have an easier time of it,” Annabel said tartly. “Dr. Abernathy said to check the wound at least once a day.”

  “He may be Scottish, but he’s still a quack,” Alaric grumbled.

  “You keep your tone civil, or I’ll take my leave and my wife with me,” his brother growled from the other side of the bed.

  Turning his head on the pillow, Alaric inquired, “Oh, you’re still here?”

  “You bloody ingrate—”

  “Enough, you dunderheads.” Annabel peeled away his bandage with enough force to make him inhale sharply. Her auburn brows knit together as she peered at his injury. “The wound’s oozing, but it doesn’t look infected. The mold paste appears to be doing its job.”

  “The paste was a fine touch, lass,” Will said. “Brains as well as beauty. I’m a lucky fellow.”

  Seeing the smug expression on his brother’s face, Alaric thought he might be ill again. For all his brawn, Will was naught but an oversized pup when it came to his wife. What a chump.

  Although Alaric had to admit that Annabel had proved rather handy in this instance. The daughter of a country physician, she’d been the one to suggest smearing his wound with the concoction of fermented bread, an infection preventative that her father had used with great success. Dr. Abernathy had been intrigued in her fount of knowledge, and the two had had quite a time of it, debating ways to treat Alaric’s injury. He’d felt like a side of beef with two chefs arguing over which was the best way to serve him up.

  “I’m the lucky one.” Adoration shone in Annabel’s eyes as she gazed at her husband.

  Devil take it, the two should just find a bedchamber and be done with it.

  She set a tray over Alaric’s lap. “As for you, Your Grace, you’d best eat something if you hope to regain your strength.”

  His stomach churned at the sight of the gruel; it brought back memories of the old duke’s punishments. Of the tasteless mush he’d been given to cure him of his “malingering.” He’d sooner starve than eat a spoonful of such shite again.

  “I’m not hungry,” he said testily. “I’d like rest and privacy, if you please.”

  Fists on her hips, Annabel looked ready to argue, but Will intervened. “Not until we talk.”

  “About what?” Alaric said.

  “Who’s out to kill you, for starters.”

  “That’s none of your affair.” In a moment of weakness—which he chalked up to blood loss—he’d told his brother everything, from the poison in his whiskey to the shooter last night.

  Will glowered at him. “We’re kin. Of course it’s my affair.”

  Jarvis’ wizened head poked into the room. “Your Grace, Mr. Kent has arrived.”

  “Send him up,” Will said before Alaric could answer.

  Jarvis—or should he say Judas—shuffled out to do Will’s bidding.

  “What the devil is your partner doing here?” Alaric demanded.

  “I asked him to come. He’s the best investigator in London.” Will folded his arms over his chest. “And something tells me your particular predicament calls for the best.”

  Before Alaric could argue further, footsteps sounded on the stairs, and, a minute later, Ambrose Kent strode in. He wasn’t alone. Miss Kent followed and mayhap Alaric was hungrier than he realized for she looked luscious in a dress the color of summer peaches. An odd spasm hit his chest when he saw the genuine worry in her eyes.

  She was concerned ... about him?

  “Your Grace. I do hope we’re not inconveniencing you.”

  Alaric’s gaze shifted to the owner of the sultry, feminine voice. He hadn’t noticed the regal silver blonde who had followed Miss Kent in, though by all rights he ought to have. Mrs. Kent, the former Lady Marianne Draven, was an Incomparable after all. She performed an elegant curtsy. Hastily, Emma followed suit, and her unfussy little bob made him want to smile.

  Schooling his features, he tried to discern if Miss Kent’s family had any inkling about the escapade at Andromeda’s or her visit last evening to his home. Given the fact that her brother wasn’t throttling him or calling him out, he guessed she’d kept their encounters under wraps.

  Her discretion was surprising—and irritating. Any other virgin would be clamoring for him to do the right thing. But not Emma Kent, the stubborn, high-minded chit. He, a bloody duke, wasn’t good enough for her. The question flitted into his head—what the hell did she desire in a husband?—and he shoved it out just as quickly.

  He deliberately turned his attention upon her sister-in-law. “Mrs. Kent,” he drawled, “beauty such as yours is never an inconvenience. I’m afraid I’m rather laid up at the moment. Otherwise I’d pay you proper homage.”

  “You had better not,” Will said under his breath.

  Alaric got his brother’s meaning. Although he’d judged his brother’s partner to be a calm, reasonable fellow, the warning scowl on Ambrose Kent’s face suggested otherwise. Which went to show that even a rational man could be made a fool over a woman.

  Well, if Kent and Will didn’t know the difference between idle flirtation and actual intent, then that was their problem. The truth was that it required effort to keep his attention upon Mrs. Kent when all he wanted to do was look at Emma. Surreptitiously, he continued to monitor her.

  She was taking in his private sanctuary, a line furrowing between her fine brows as her gaze hit the painting. He wondered what she was thinking. To him, she looked deliciously out of place in the masculine bedchamber. Against the backdrop of the striped forest green silk walls and heavy mahogany furnishings, she appeared more like a fresh, juicy fruit than ever.

  An image burst upon his brain: Miss Kent naked and tied to his big tester bed, moaning as he buried his face
between her thighs ...

  Beneath the covers, his cock stirred against his thigh. Get a bloody hold of yourself, man. Thank God the tray hid his disgraceful state.

  “It seems I owe you an apology, Your Grace,” Kent said stiffly. “We Kents have misjudged you, and I have come to make amends. The services of Kent and Associates are at your disposal, with my compliments.”

  Alaric was tempted to tell Kent to take his free services and go to hell ... but as much as it galled him, he did need help. Someone was out to kill him, and the Runners he’d hired were proving worthless. They were flummoxed by the shooting, had made no progress on the poisoning either.

  His instincts told him that Kent was a man who could be trusted. And, despite the longstanding animosity between him and Will, the truth was that he knew his brother would never stab him in the back ... however much he might deserve it.

  “Your Grace.” Miss Kent approached the side of his bed. Fingers knotted together, she said, “I am terribly sorry that my actions led to you being harmed, and I hope you will be willing to forgive the past.”

  Her beseeching eyes and sincere apology hit him like pellets of sunshine. His antagonism slowly melted. When it came to the misunderstanding over Clara’s death, he found he couldn’t hold a grudge against Miss Kent any longer. It would be churlish to do so when, in truth, she’d made an honest mistake, and his own actions hadn’t been blameless.

  “Think no more of it. You didn’t shoot me—some blighter did,” he said brusquely.

  He was rewarded by her tremulous smile.

  “Do you know the identity of the shooter?” Kent drew his attention to the business at hand.

  “No. But he had a scar. Like this.” Alaric drew a finger down the middle of his face, mimicking the zigzagging disfigurement. “It was dark, and I didn’t get a good look at the rest of him.”