The Desires of a Duke: Historical Romance Collection

by Darcy Burke

  If Gareth hadn’t understood his own feelings before then, there was no doubting them now. He had thought—suspected—that Cleo was as attracted as he was, but he hadn’t known if she felt more. But as her words lingered in the air, confirming what he yearned for, it seemed as though the earth finally went still beneath his feet again. After days of being off balance, caught between disbelief and alarm that he was falling in love when it was almost too late, he found he finally knew what he wanted.

  He had tried to love Helen, he really had. After the bowling match, he’d kept his distance from Cleo and paid more attention to his betrothed. It hadn’t helped—if anything, it had only convinced him he’d made a terrible error. Helen was as lovely and sweet-tempered as he had originally thought, but she was also far quieter. She was reserved and polite with the guests, and more than once he saw her glance longingly out the window, as if she couldn’t wait to escape the room. For the life of him he couldn’t remember why he’d thought she would make a good duchess; of course one could learn it and grow into it, and his mother was ready and able to teach her, but he suspected it would take years for Helen to feel at ease as the Duchess of Wessex and mistress of Kingstag Castle.

  But when he looked at Cleo, more and more he saw someone who would be a splendid duchess from the beginning. She knew all the guests within days. His mother remarked on her effortless conversation. His sisters, who had been so eager to meet Helen, had quickly switched their adoration to Cleo, with her bold and unusual clothes and friendly manner. Even Sophronia liked her, and Sophronia was the harshest critic Gareth had ever met. What’s more, she was used to running a large business, overseeing more than a dozen men, and managing her own finances—much the same skills that would be required to run Kingstag. He doubted anything would daunt her, including him in his worst temper.

  And then there was the way she made him feel. When she smiled at him, Gareth would swear he could still feel the electric tingle in the air, as if lightning had struck him anew. When she laughed, he wanted to kiss her. When she took his arm, he wanted to carry her off into the shrubbery. And when she put her fingers on his lips, he wanted to fall to his knees and make love to her on the spot.

  But deciding what he wanted was only part of the difficulty. He knew what he would have to do, somehow. It would be unpleasant, no doubt, and he didn’t quite know how to go about it, but this was a risk that was definitely worth the reward.

  “Cleo.” He took a step toward her. She turned her face away, biting her lip, but otherwise she didn’t move. He took another step and reached for her hand. “Tell me what you want,” he murmured.

  “It doesn’t matter what I want.”

  “It does to me.” He edged a step closer. She smelled of roses, soft and beautiful. “I didn’t believe in love, let alone love at first sight. I am torn in two, caught between what I want and what I’ve promised. Tell me what you want, darling, and I will move heaven and earth to do it.”

  “I want my sister to be happy.”

  “Only your sister?”

  A shudder went through her. “No,” she whispered despondently. “But how can this end well for everyone?”

  His fingers tightened on hers. “I promise it will.”

  “How can you promise that?” She shook her head. She pulled her hand loose and finally turned to face him. There was no sparkle in her dark eyes now, no teasing curve to her lips. It was all he could do to keep from touching her. He wanted to hold her close and swear that everything would fall in place. Her unhappiness gutted him. “My parents—my sister—what will they think if you cry off? How could I cause such humiliation for my own wicked desires? Do you know what people will say about me, if you desert Helen for me? I can’t, Your Grace.”

  “And what will your sister think of me if I marry her strictly out of duty?”

  For a long moment she said nothing. “I hope you won’t—I hope you’ll be happy with her, and she with you. But I won’t interfere in my sister’s marriage.” She turned and hurried away, her footsteps muffled in the fog.

  Gareth watched until she disappeared around the trees before cursing under his breath. He had to think; he had to find a solution to please everyone. He had learned to be a duke at age sixteen, responsible for solving his problems and everyone else’s. This was no different ... merely his entire future happiness was at stake.

  He was startled out of his thoughts by Blair, who came trudging across the lawn with a pistol case in hand. His cousin stopped short when he saw Gareth. “Wessex.”

  “Blair.” Gareth stared at the case. “You look like a man on his way to a duel.”

  “The duel was at dawn.” Blair looked troubled. “Bruton and Newnham.”

  “They’re cousins,” said Gareth in shock. “And the best of friends—or so I thought. What did they duel over?”

  “Rosanne Lacy. Newnham was courting her, but judging from what I just witnessed, Bruton will be marrying her.”

  “What you just witnessed,” he repeated.

  “Miss Lacy flying across the field, barely dressed and sobbing as if her heart would break.” Blair’s face twisted. “She flung herself into Bruton’s arms and I could see it in Newnham’s face. He loved her and yet knew he’d lost her. It takes a strong man to watch the woman you love marry another man.”

  He heard again Cleo’s anguished voice, asking what her sister would think if he jilted Helen for her. Cleo loved him, but she couldn’t betray her sister.

  On the other hand, the notoriously aloof Earl of Bruton had somehow fallen in love with the girl his cousin was courting, and he’d found a way to marry her. Gareth ignored the matter of the duel and focused on the result, which was that Bruton was marrying the right woman for him.

  Somehow Gareth had to do the same.

  “I trust no one was hurt,” he said. When Blair shook his head, Gareth added, “Excellent. Then it seems everything has worked out for the best.”

  His cousin jerked up his head and gave him a strange look. “You really think so?”

  He nodded. “Absolutely. I must remember to wish Bruton happy. He certainly deserves it.”

  “I expect he and Miss Lacy will be very happy,” said Blair slowly.

  “Yes.” Gareth grinned. “I expect so, too.”

  Chapter 9

  Cleo took the long way back to the house before shutting herself in her room for the rest of the day. The conversation with Wessex whirled round and round her brain until her head ached. Every accusation her father had hurled at her seemed to be proven: she was wicked and reckless and dangerous to her family. Not only had she fallen in love with her sister’s fiancé, she had only by the very thinnest of threads held herself back from kissing him. She never should have walked out into the mist with him. She never should have bowled with him. She never should have come to Kingstag at all. She ate dinner in her room and sent for her trunk to begin packing, so she could leave as soon as the wedding was over.

  She only ventured out of her room late at night, when the house was quiet at last. She couldn’t sleep and thought a turn in the garden might soothe her spirits. It must be beautiful in the moonlight. But a muffled sound caught her ear as she passed her sister’s room, and before she could reconsider, she tapped gently on the door. “Helen!” she whispered into the jamb. “Let me in!”

  The door jerked open and Helen stared at her with wide, wet eyes. She turned her face away, swiping her handkerchief over her face. “Cleo. You’re still awake.”

  She felt a chill of guilt. The duke had hinted that he didn’t want to go through with the wedding, and now Helen was crying. She stepped into the room and closed the door. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing!” Her sister folded the handkerchief into her pocket and went to sit on the sofa. She looked up, a wobbly smile on her face. “Nothing at all.”

  “I can see very well that something is wrong.” She sat next to her sister. “Why are you crying?” A sudden fear gripped her. “His Grace didn’t make you cry, did
he?”

  “I haven’t seen him all day,” said Helen, wringing her handkerchief and missing Cleo’s breath of relief. “How could I, when Mama kept me in this room all day with the dressmaker fussing over my gown, and had Rivers put up my hair three different ways to see which was most flattering, and wouldn’t even let me go down to dinner because she thought I looked pale? She told me I must keep up my strength because I’m to be mistress of a castle.” Her face began to crumple.

  “Oh my dear.” Cleo bit her lip. “What brought all this on?”

  Helen gripped her hands together in her lap. “The wedding, of course. She’s determined that everything must be perfect, because otherwise His Grace will be disappointed or ashamed of me. I don’t think I can be perfect anymore. I don’t know if I can do ... this.” She waved one hand around the beautiful room, but obviously including everything about Kingstag.

  In spite of herself, a poisonous weed of hope sprouted in Cleo’s heart. “What do you mean, you don’t know if you can do ... this?” She waved one hand around as Helen had done.

  Her sister sighed. “Being a duchess sounded so delightful: beautiful clothes and jewels, the highest society, never worrying about money or being received or given the cut direct. And it made Mama and Papa so happy—I cannot tell you how it eased their minds about everything when I accepted Wessex. I don’t think I’ve ever seen them happier.”

  Cleo pressed her lips together. She was growing thoroughly tired of her parents’ feelings. What sort of people grew happier at the cost of their children’s joy? Because it was clear to see that Helen, whatever her original feelings about her marriage, was decidedly not happy now. And if Helen wasn’t happy, perhaps she oughtn’t to marry Wessex. She couldn’t bring herself to say such a thing, afraid of persuading her sister to do something she’d regret just because it suited Cleo’s own wishes. But neither could she advise her sister to forge ahead regardless of her feelings. “But you are not happy.”

  Helen jumped up and paced away. “I know I should be. Most of the time, I’ve wanted to run into the woods and hide, even as everyone tells me how fortunate I am.”

  “Many brides have nerves,” murmured Cleo.

  Her sister nodded, nibbling her bottom lip. “Were you nervous, when you married? Are all brides?”

  “All brides should be happy,” said Cleo diplomatically. She hadn’t been nervous, she’d been eager. Why, if she were in Helen’s shoes, about to marry Wessex ...

  But she wasn’t.

  “Do you think I will be?”

  She blinked at the question. “What?”

  “Do you think I will be happy?” repeated her sister. “Married to the duke. Mama sees no other possibility—who could be unhappy, married to one of the richest dukes in England?—but you’ve always been honest with me. What do you think of him, Cleo?”

  She sat like a woman turned to stone. How could she possibly answer that, after the traitorous longing that still stained her soul? Wessex was everything she thought a man ought to be, and more. He was the friend she longed for, the companion she had been without for so long, the lover she dreamt of at night. But he would never be hers. “He’s very kind,” she managed to say. “Handsome. Charming, in a wry sort of way. I think he’ll be a good husband.”

  “But do you think I can be happy with him?” Helen seized her arm, her fingernails digging into Cleo’s flesh. “Do you?”

  Her heart broke at her sister’s expression, anxious and yet hopeful. She swallowed hard. “It doesn’t matter what I think,” she said quietly. “Only you can know what your heart compels you to do. Your happiness is in your hands.”

  Helen’s gaze bored into her. “Yes,” she murmured. Her grip loosened on Cleo’s arm as she turned away, her eyes growing distant. “Yes, it is. If I tell him—if I make him understand how I feel—he will have to listen. He did ask me to marry him, and a man doesn’t do that lightly, does he? If I persuade him that all this is too much ... Yes, I think he will understand. It’s not too late, is it?”

  “You mean ... the wedding?” Cleo frowned a little. “Has it simply overwhelmed you?”

  “Has it!” Helen gave a disbelieving laugh. “To no end! I have no idea who half these guests are, and if I have to listen much longer to Mama talk about how perfect Kingstag is and what an honor it is to be mistress of it, I may scream. You were so clever to elope, you know. You spared yourself immense aggravation.” She stopped, looking startled, then flashed a cautious grin. “I shouldn’t have said that, should I? Well, I think I’m done with doing what I ought to do.”

  “Oh,” said Cleo, disconcerted. “Good.”

  Her sister laughed again. “It is good—or rather, it will be, thanks to you.”

  “I just want you to be happy,” Cleo repeated. And she would do whatever it took, including going away and never visiting her sister and her too-tempting husband again. Wessex was not hers to lose; he was Helen’s. And Helen certainly wouldn’t lose him to Cleo.

  Helen smiled. Tears still glittered in the corners of her eyes, but they no longer ran down her cheeks. “You do, don’t you? Oh, Cleo, I think I would have gone mad without you. Sometimes I feel as if you are the only one who truly understands me.” She flung her arms around Cleo, and Cleo hugged her back, heartsick. If Helen really hadn’t wanted to marry Wessex, there might have been a chance ... but it was foolish to have let the thought cross her mind. Firmly she smothered it, renewing her silent vow to leave as soon as the wedding took place.

  “There,” she said, patting Helen’s back. “Dry your eyes. You only have one more day before your wedding.” The words were like a blow to her heart. “It’s finally upon us,” she said, her voice only breaking a little at the end.

  Helen laughed, swiping at her eyes. “Yes. So it is—and I am ready for it at last,” she said. Her doubts seemed to have been allayed, which meant they couldn’t have been very serious doubts. Cleo told herself that was a good sign. “Thank you for coming. You’ve done me a world of good.”

  Helen mustn’t know that her conscience was only just holding back the longing she felt. Helen didn’t know her sister was thinking impure thoughts about her future husband. Cleo gave a shaky smile. “I’m delighted to be of help, any help I can be.”

  “Believe me,” said Helen earnestly, “you’ve been more help than you know.”

  Gareth realized two truths that day.

  First, he couldn’t marry Helen Grey. Not only did he not love her—and suspect she did not love him—but the mere mention of Cleo made him forget the very existence of his betrothed bride. Just a glimpse of her snared his attention, and the very sound of her voice made him deaf to anything and anyone else around him. Everything she did persuaded him she would be perfect as his duchess—not a biddable ornament but a true partner. Gareth had little choice but to admit he was utterly lost.

  But second, Cleo would never do anything to hurt her sister, even if she did want him as badly as he wanted her. What could he say to that? Gareth had sisters, too. He would never want to hurt them. Still, it would hurt Helen far worse to end up married to the wrong man, and he knew he must speak to her. Somehow—without mentioning Cleo—he would persuade her to break it off. It would be a great surprise to all the guests, but he was sure his family would support him, particularly when he revealed his true affection to them.

  But there his plans were thwarted. For the rest of that day, Helen seemed to have gone into hiding. He finally located Sir William and inquired, only to be told Helen was busy with her mother, having her dress fitted. Mention of the wedding gown only made Gareth more anxious to see her, but she wasn’t at dinner. Neither was Cleo. He went to bed determined to see both of them the next day.

  He hadn’t counted on his own mother and sisters, who surprised him with a private family breakfast the next morning in the duchess’s sitting room. “After today you will belong with your wife,” his mother told him with a smile as they lingered over coffee, “but we wanted you to ourselves one last time.
”

  “I refuse to give you all up,” he replied. “Surely you’re not planning to leave after tomorrow?”

  Serena laughed. “Of course not! But you won’t want us about anymore, when you have Miss Grey.”

  Gareth had to bite his tongue to keep from correcting her. “I shall always want you about. Who else will protect me from Sophronia? She was threatening Jack with her dirk the other day.”

  Bridget hooted. “Perhaps Mrs. Barrows will! She’s not frightened of Sophronia.”

  An excellent idea, thought Gareth, sipping his coffee to hide his reaction to her name. He quite liked the idea of Cleo defending him.

  “Come, girls.” The duchess rose from her chair. “Your brother has a great deal to do before the wedding tomorrow. We must leave him in peace.” They protested a little, but bade him farewell with much laughing and teasing.

  He turned to his mother as the girls trooped out. “May I ask a question, Mother?”

  “Of course,” she said in surprise.

  Gareth took a deep breath. “Would you have married Father if you had known how little time you would have together?”

  Her lips parted. “Oh, my. Without a doubt. I loved him too much. A year with him made me happier than a lifetime with any other man could have done.”

  He nodded. “For years I thought otherwise, you know; that the pain of losing him was so great, you must have wished you had never loved him at all.”

  She put her hands on his arms and studied his face. “No. The love was greater than the pain.” She hesitated. “I wish you every bit as much happiness, Gareth, and for many more years than I had.”

  “I thought you might say that.” He kissed her cheek. “Thank you, Mother.” He ought to have listened to her from the start, he realized, and set off to make her wish come true.

  Unfortunately, his luck was no better this day than the last. By the time he found Helen and was able to manage a quiet word with her alone, everyone had gathered for dinner.