The Desires of a Duke: Historical Romance Collection

by Darcy Burke

  He grinned back at her. “Point, even.”

  She returned his smile, her eyes sparkling. “I’ll give credit where credit is due. You’re a good fencer.”

  “As are you,” he said, wiping the sweat from his brow. “I haven’t been this well matched in years.”

  “I thought you’d take it easy on me,” she said, her voice softening as though she was admitting a dark secret to him. “But I’m glad you aren’t.”

  He came toward her. “I want to protect you, Vivian, not cage you.”

  “Sometimes they are the same thing,” she said.

  He knew that firsthand. In the past, the Clocktower had felt like a prison, keeping him from embracing anything normal. But these past two weeks with her had made him wonder if he could be both spy and husband. He’d existed with dual identities for so long the mere possibility of having someone in his life who understood all the aspects of his personality seemed like paradise.

  “Again?” He queried.

  She nodded. They fought longer and harder, each scoring points against the other. When finally they were both straining for breath, she pushed forward, pinning him back against the tree. Her foil crossed over his chest, his own thrown up to fend off her thrust. The cool metal did not abate the burn of his body at her closeness. She leaned forward, and he breathed in the welcome scent of roses. For a minute, they remained poised like this, their eyes fixed on each other, as if they could see into the depths of each other’s souls. She dragged in another breath, her kiss-worthy lips quivering.

  Just as he would have brushed his lips against hers, she lowered her foil, sighing. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that before. About Evan and your superiors.”

  He followed her lead, dropping his blade as well. “You should say whatever you feel. You need time to accept all of this.”

  She tapped the side of the blade against her leg, her expression pensive. “I don’t know what I feel. Confused, I suppose.”

  “Might I help?” he asked gently, not wanting to pressure her. “Perhaps I could explain things more thoroughly. Give you some clarity.”

  She shook her head, giving him a sad smile. “There are some wounds only time can heal. I’ve spent so long blaming myself for Evan’s death—thinking that even though I didn’t kill him directly, I was still the reason we were in London. Now I know the blame lays nowhere other but with Sauveterre.”

  “You couldn’t have saved him,” he said, the familiar line bursting from his lips before he could stop it. It felt as false when he said it to her as it had every time one of his friends repeated it about Louisa. Perhaps guilt knew no sense. The heart attributed culpability, whether or not the mind knew it to be false.

  “I know.” She turned, walking away from the tree, back toward the house. “Which makes me even more determined to find and gut Sauveterre. If your grand ‘spy senses’ can help me to do that, then I’m grateful not just to you but to your training.”

  He trailed after her, resisting the urge to fold her in his arms. Her brother’s true vocation was something she’d have to come to terms with on her own. “My skillset does make me extraordinarily useful in this case.”

  She tilted her head toward him, her foil still in her hand, but pointed downward. “I’m not surprised about you, James. I think a part of me always knew you were involved in something dangerous. I’m not happy you didn’t tell me before, but I do understand your reasons.”

  He let out a sigh of relief. Maybe there was hope for them after all. “Thank you.”

  “Evan always said to fight fire with fire,” she said. “Well, I’m bringing a damn inferno to the party, then.”

  That evening after dinner, Vivian curled up in an armchair by the fire in the library. Her body ached from their rigorous fencing, but it was a good ache—a reminder she’d done something for once. She’d fought James on equal footing. She hadn’t given in to the urge to flee far from here.

  She still couldn’t make sense of what their relationship would become, but at least for now, her mind was clearer. That was the beauty of spirited exercise. She resolved to challenge him to another match tomorrow, and the day after that, onward until she could find the right words to express the tumult of her thoughts.

  Untucking her locket from underneath her gown, she lifted it up, surveying it. The gold was dingy, burnished. She flipped the clasp open to the portrait of Evan.

  “How could you?” She murmured. “How could you lie to me for so long?”

  But she knew the answer. It was the same reason James had kept the truth from her too. To protect her—not just from enemies of the nation, but their own people. She closed the locket, dropping it back underneath her gown. Fine, so she understood why they both had lied, but that did not make the revelations any easier.

  This new knowledge did not bring Evan back from the grave. Nor did it show her how to continue with James. All she could see was a lifetime of him holding back a part of himself from her. He’d do his spy work—whatever that was—and she’d stay home, raising their children.

  She’d gone from the lonely existence of governess to perhaps an even lonelier one as duchess; married to a man she wanted desperately to know. But when he’d spent his life perfecting fabrications, she was scared to trust that anything with him was genuine.

  Even if it felt realer than anything else she’d ever experienced.

  Just as she was about to pick up her book again, James poked his head in the doorway. “May I join you?”

  She nodded.

  He sidled in, taking a seat in the chair across from her. “I have another proposition for you.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Will I get to know all the facts ahead of time?”

  “Yes. As long as I can say it without endangering anyone, I will tell you everything you want to know.”

  She leaned forward. “You have my interest.”

  He grinned, his enthusiasm catching. “We will begin your defensive training tomorrow, but there’s more. I want to instruct you on how to be an agent with the Clocktower.”

  “You want me to be a spy?” Perhaps she should reevaluate her previous assessment of him as sane. “I can’t be a spy. I haven’t a stealthy bone in my body. If you hadn’t been gone from the estate so much, I’m sure you would have found me earlier.”

  “No one’s ever taught you how to be furtive.” He propped one elbow up on the arm of his chair, resting his head in his outstretched palms. “It is a skill, learned and practiced like any other. After I am through training you, I swear to you that you’ll be able to creep through any room unnoticed.”

  She closed her book, setting it on the table. “And I would take orders from you, yes?”

  “Yes. I assign the missions.” He nodded. “I took over after my father’s death four years ago. For almost a hundred years now, a member of the Spencer family has run the Clocktower.”

  “So many rules and regulations you must have to learn,” she said. “How do you ever keep track of what you can say freely?”

  His lips turned up slightly, the barest hint of a grin. “Lots and I do mean lots, of practice.”

  She stood, going to the teacart and pouring herself a cup of tea. Northley had just refreshed the pot, and preparing the cup would give her time to think. She held up another cup, but James refused her offer.

  She splashed cream and sugar in her cup, and then took the tea back to the chair. “I don’t know if I’m comfortable with more lies.”

  “The most important things are true. You and me. Our marriage.” For a minute, he paused, his gaze resting on her face. “I confess to some selfish desire in wanting you to join our ranks. We’d be together far more often, and I’d be able to share basic information with you that I would have to keep to myself otherwise.”

  She imagined nights spent with him in some shadowy corridor, forced to wait there until their opponent left the vicinity. They’d put the time to good use, finding all the right places to touch, the threat of possible exposure f
ueling their passion...

  She took a drink of tea, coloring as she realized his eyes were on her. “What would becoming a spy entail?”

  “For now, it would be simple missions. Reconnaissance, eavesdropping, and evaluating the intelligence received by other spies. Document retrieval, if you’re with a more experienced agent. Largely, the same thing you’ve been doing in the last half a year. Nothing too perilous. The last thing I want is to endanger you further, but you’re already in this life.” Having completed a full circuit of the room, he retraced his steps anew. “There are other spies who will handle the more dangerous missions, like persuading an asset to our side or...”

  He stopped himself in time, but she did not need him to finish the thought.

  She peered over her teacup at him, widening her eyes in faux doe innocence. “Or elimination?”

  He stopped his pacing, turning on his heel to meet her gaze. The muscles in his throat worked as he swallowed. “Or elimination.”

  “You who speak so highly of justice,” she murmured, setting her teacup down on the table.

  He came to her, finally plopping onto the seat next to her, his long legs stretched out before him. “It is because of the terrible things that I have done in the name of my country that I caution you against vengeance. Once you take a life, you’re forever changed and not for the better. You’re a good person, Vivian. I don’t want to see that stripped away from you.”

  She didn’t feel like a good person. Hadn’t she burned that bridge the day she accepted a position in his employ under false pretenses? Yet he still saw something worth championing in her.

  “This spy proposal of yours,” she began. “Would I have to answer now? Or could I have time to think about it?”

  “You may have as long as you need,” he said. “But what I've told you has to stay between you and me alone.”

  She nodded. “I understand. Would you still teach me self-defense?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief at that. The idea of being unprepared for Sauveterre's attack ate at her. “Good. Because I need time to think about this.”

  “You are my wife, Vivian.” He rose from his chair, crossing to the door before turning around. “I am never going to take your choices away from you. You must find your own path--but I hope it's with me.”

  Chapter 17

  The next morning, Vivian stood in the center of the small clearing, waiting for James. Nixon had escorted her to the copse after breakfast. While she still found his brute size intimidating, she’d discovered that Nixon was quite nice. He’d told her a few stories of his past work with James as they walked into the forest, though she suspected the names of their associates had been changed to protect their identities. A rose by any other name would smell just as sweet, Shakespeare wrote. Maybe it didn’t matter what name James went by—as long as his feelings for her remained the same.

  She ran a hand down the sea-green muslin of her simple day dress, one of her old gowns from when she’d been a governess. Northley had smacked her hand away when she’d reached for her fencing trousers, claiming that if she was going to fight, she ought to learn to do so in the clothes she’d normally wear. She supposed Northley had a point—though it was slightly disconcerting to have the maid speak about fighting so authoritatively.

  Though her old dress still fit the same, it didn’t feel right on her anymore. In a little over a fortnight, her life had changed so much. She was constantly spinning, readjusting as another new bombshell hit her and disrupted her hard-won equilibrium. Her brother had been a spy. Sauveterre was an operative. James was one too, and his sisters. At this point, she’d started to wonder who in her acquaintance wasn’t a covert agent.

  She took a deep breath, lowering herself down on an overturned log toward the end of the enclosure. Nixon’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t comment. She liked that about him. He’d told her earlier that they were going to be training in self-defense today.

  Which would put her one step closer to being able to defeat Sauveterre.

  She reached up, untying the knot that tied her bonnet under her chin. The most important thing was stopping Sauveterre from hurting other people. And making him rue the day he ever met her brother. That goal had not changed—perhaps it was the only thing that still remained the same.

  Arden emerged first from the woods, James on her heels. Vivian’s heart soared at the sight of him. He held back, surveying the thicket, his Roman nose wrinkling as he thought. Scruff dotted his chin, giving him a rugged appearance. He wore no coat, his white cambric shirt straining against his broad shoulders as he strode forward, content there was no immediate threat of danger.

  And though she could not explain it, though he’d dealt a vicious blow to her established order two days prior, she felt safer now that he was here.

  He came toward her, brushing a kiss across her cheek. She leaned into him, but in a second he was gone, standing in the center of the grove with Arden and Nixon.

  “First, we’ll demonstrate the moves, and then you can try them out,” he said. “I want you to feel confident that you’ll be able to defend yourself in any given situation.”

  She nodded. “I understand.”

  To start with, he led the group through a series of stretches to prepare them for the exercises. Once they were ready to begin, he gestured for Arden and Nixon to face each other, while he took a seat next to her on the bench. “The point of any self-defense technique is to give you a chance to escape. The agents you’re fighting with—or against—have years of experience. They can take care of themselves. I don’t want you to put yourself in unnecessary danger. Do you understand, Vivian?”

  “Leave the gallantry to the professionals?” She did not tell him that she’d already started imagining making Sauveterre bleed.

  His eyes narrowed, and she suspected he knew she’d lied. Her emotions were too transparent around him. If she did accept his offer, how would she ever be a proficient spy when she couldn’t lie effectively? It seemed impossible.

  “First, we’re going to discuss soft targets. Do you know what those are?” Upon her negative response, he tapped his left eye with one finger, then his ear. “I want you to remember this: eyes, ears, mouth and nose. Throat, groin, fingers and toes. Say it back for me.”

  “Eyes, ears, mouth and nose. Throat, groin, fingers and toes,” she repeated, cocking her head. “It sounds like a nursery rhyme I’d teach Lord Thomas.”

  “Good, then you’ll remember it better,” James said. “Those are the areas of your body that no matter how strong you are, remain susceptible to attack. So if you’re in a confrontation, you want to go after the soft targets.”

  Vivian surveyed her hands. “But how will I possibly have a chance against someone who is, say, twice my size?”

  “No matter how strong you are, it still hurts like the dickens when someone hits those softer areas,” Arden replied. “Say Nixon comes at me from the front. I divert him with both thumbs jammed into his eye sockets.”

  “What will that do?” she asked.

  Nixon grimaced. “It’ll bloody hurt.”

  “It’ll send a sharp jolt of pain through him, and gives her enough time to either combine that with another move—like a knee to the groin, or a strike with her elbow to his mouth—or leave the area entirely.” James reached forward, tapping her ear.

  “I could also have slammed my palms upon his ears,” Arden added. “That would daze him, again giving me a better chance at escape.”

  Vivian touched her eyes, then her ears, and onward. “So the main goal in any attack is to get away.”

  The main goal in any attack against Sauveterre would be to strike him dead, but somehow she didn’t think James would agree with her.

  “There are three most likely attacks: a sudden onslaught from the front, a throat grab, or an approach from behind,” Arden said. “Watch what I do when Nixon tries to attack me from the front.”

  Nixon came at her, crowding
her aggressively. Arden slapped him in the neck, stunning him. Nixon reeled back, landing on the ground. Arden extended a hand, pulling him back up.

  Vivian’s jaw dropped. “How was that possible? You hit him once and he went down.”

  “It’s about knowing where to hit.” Arden ran her finger down the back of Nixon’s neck. “There’s an artery here, you see? If I slap with the palm of my hand, it affects Nixon’s ability to breathe. When he falls, I have a chance to get away.”

  She demonstrated it again with the same result. Nixon fell to the ground, and Arden ran.

  James reached for her hand, helping her up from the bench. “Now it’s time for you to try. And don’t hold back—no matter what you do to me, I’ve had much worse. I will gladly take whatever pain you deliver it means you’ll be safe.”

  One glance at his face told her he meant it, too. This man, this spy, had dropped everything to defend her. He was not the man she’d believed he was. Perhaps he was better. His words of protection were not empty promises. She knew undeniably as he rolled up his sleeves and stood back from her that he’d rather die than let her fall into the hands of a villain.

  For all she knew, she’d be dead now if he hadn’t intervened.

  She gulped.

  Clenching her fists at her side, she took a step forward. James approached her, swinging his arms and getting into her space. She reached up, slapping him. When at first, she didn’t hit the right area he had her repeat the move. It took her several tries, but finally she slapped him with her palm out, and he went down.

  “Oh!” She exclaimed, running to help him up. “That does work.”

  He grinned at her, brushing the dirt off his breeches. “You did marvelously. You remind me of Arden when she first started training.”

  She blushed. “Thank you.”

  “Songbird’s the best we have,” Nixon chimed in, heading back to the middle of the makeshift ring for the next exercise.

  Arden laughed. “Flattery will not gain you reprieve from arse-kicking.”

  Nixon shrugged. “’Twas worth a try.”