The Desires of a Duke: Historical Romance Collection

by Darcy Burke

  Which led to thoughts of Aunt Havens.

  She was fine for right now—mostly fine, anyway—but Kate needed to keep her safe when she wouldn’t be able to be by her side.

  Ravenwood, she remembered suddenly.

  Warmth spread through her. She was no longer in this alone. Her spirits lightened. Gone were the days of Kate and Aunt Havens against the world. Now there were three of them. Ravenwood would keep everyone safe.

  She reentered her aunt’s sitting room just in time to see Aunt Havens swat Jasper out of her embroidery basket.

  “Beastly creature,” she muttered with a comical eye roll toward Kate. “Can’t he see I’m working?”

  Kate scooped the adorable beast into her arms and stretched out on the chaise longue. “What are you working on?”

  “A gift for you.”

  Kate sat up, intrigued. “What is it?”

  Aunt Havens hid the basket from view. “Something for you to remember me by. I think you’ll love it.”

  Kate’s heart skipped a beat as the blood drained from her face. “I don’t need a gewgaw to remember you by. Don’t say things like that.”

  “Memories are good things, not bad things, Kate.” Aunt Havens smiled. “Just think of all the memories you’re making with your husband. Isn’t life so much richer with love in it?”

  “My life is richer with both of you in it.” Kate pushed stiffly to her feet, leaving Jasper to look after her aunt. “I’m going to my room to begin preparing for tomorrow. When you decide to stop talking nonsense, knock on my door.”

  Chapter 21

  Kate’s eyes refused to focus on her wardrobe. She was too afraid. Her heart seized up every time she considered the possibility of losing Aunt Havens.

  Of course she knew her aunt would die someday. Everybody eventually died. But there was no reason to prepare for death now. Not today, not this year, not anytime soon.

  Aunt Havens might get confused sometimes, but she was otherwise in the peak of health. More fragile than before? Perhaps. Too thin? Possibly. But no one was asking her to scale a mountain. Her days were filled with nothing more strenuous than petting a puppy and embroidering squares of linen.

  As long as she stayed here at home, took her meals with Kate, and spent her time relaxing—there was no reason to think there weren’t many happy years ahead of them. Decades, even.

  Aunt Havens had cared for Kate her entire life, and now it was Kate’s turn to keep Aunt Havens safe.

  When at last the knock came on Kate’s door, she sagged with relief. Aunt Havens had abandoned her funereal line of thought and had decided to help Kate select her wardrobe for tomorrow’s event after all.

  Except the knock hadn’t come from the corridor, but rather the connecting door leading to her husband’s bedchamber.

  A glance at the clock on the mantel indicated it was far too early for Ravenwood to be home from Parliament, but why on earth would his valet be begging entrance at this hour? Or—God forbid—Aunt Havens hadn’t come to patch things up and accidentally wandered into the wrong bedchamber, had she?

  Heart in her throat, Kate flung the door open wide.

  Broad shoulders, a mop of chestnut curls, and clear green eyes met her gaze.

  “Ravenwood?” she choked out in surprise, a half-hysterical laugh wheezing from her lungs.

  He lifted a brow. “You were expecting someone else?”

  She threw herself into his arms and wrapped her arms about him tight.

  Yes. Yes, she had been expecting someone else. Yes, her aunt was becoming so erratic that for a moment, she had truly believed her aunt had entered the wrong bedchamber and was trying to find her way out.

  Kate buried her face in his chest, but the words would not come. They hurt too much. Scared her too deeply. She didn’t wish to talk about her aunt’s fickle sanity. She didn’t want to think about what it might mean.

  She just wanted to forget. To feel better. To let someone else be in charge.

  Ravenwood was safe. His arms were safe. Warm, strong, dependable. He had never let anyone down in his life. He was the one person she could rely on without fail.

  She hugged him tighter.

  “What happened?” he asked as he stroked her hair.

  “Aunt Havens,” Kate mumbled against his cravat.

  He tilted her face toward his, frowning. “Is she all right?”

  “Yes,” she said fiercely. “But she acts like she’s going to die.”

  Ravenwood made no answer.

  Kate appreciated his reserve. She didn’t need to be told the obvious—that someday it would happen. That it would hurt deeply. That she would never truly get over it.

  Ravenwood understood. He would not be a duke today if he too had not experienced loss. He knew better than to fill the silence with platitudes about enjoy the moments you have or she’ll go to a better place. Those things were true, but right now they gave no comfort.

  Only his warm, steady embrace brought comfort.

  “You’re home early,” she murmured into his chest.

  “You’re up late,” he countered softly. “’Twas the first time I returned from Parliament and saw light still flickering beneath the door. Are you tired? Do you want to sleep?”

  “Yes. No.” She gave a hiccupy laugh at her own muddled thoughts. “I don’t know.”

  He scooped her up in his arms and carried her to her bed.

  She was already in her nightrail. She’d gone ahead and prepared for bed once she’d realized her mind was incapable of focusing on tomorrow. She hadn’t climbed into bed, however, because she had been hoping for a knock at the door.

  Now that he had arrived, she wasn’t certain she was ready to be left alone. But he was a busy man. He hadn’t yet had a chance to unwind from his exhausting parliamentary session.

  She knew what a toll being around so many people took on him. To recover, he needed privacy. Not a wife plagued by fears of an eventuality that could still be many years away. She would not be offended if he bid her goodnight and retreated to his own chamber.

  He tucked her into bed, then sat in the closest chair to begin tugging off his boots.

  She held her breath as he removed his gloves, his overcoat, his waistcoat, and piled each neatly folded item on the cushion of an empty chair.

  When he was clad in nothing more than soft calfskin breeches and the billowing white lawn of his undershirt, he slid beneath the sheets of her bed and pulled her back into his arms.

  She clutched him tight.

  He kissed the top of her head and just held her.

  “Aunt Havens thinks she’s going to die,” she whispered after her heart had calmed. “She’s making a token for me to remember her by.”

  He brushed stray tendrils from her face. “You don’t need a token.”

  She shook her head. Not now, now ever. Aunt Havens was unforgettable.

  He stroked his thumb against her cheek. “Perhaps she isn’t expecting to die anytime soon, but wishes to create some sort of keepsake while she’s healthy and still can. Think about your artists. Painters paint portraits they hope will live on, without specifically thinking about their mortality. They just want to create.”

  “Yes,” she decided firmly. He was right. “That’s all it was. She’s trying to be practical.”

  Which proved that Aunt Havens’ mind was still sound. Only a sane person planned for contingencies and concerned herself with mundane practical matters. There was nothing at all for Kate to get in such a tizzy over. She nestled closer into Ravenwood’s arms.

  “You’re the bravest person I know,” he told her softly.

  Her? She lifted her head in surprise. “In what way?”

  “You don’t hesitate to open your heart.” He cupped her cheek, his eyes dark. “For some people, that is the most frightening risk of all.”

  She scoffed at the absurd notion. “I’m not brave. I’m a coward. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m terrified of being alone.”

  His eyes met
hers in silence.

  “Don’t leave me,” she whispered.

  “I won’t.” His mouth covered hers.

  He pulled her close. His kisses weren’t tentative. They were demanding, urgent. In his arms, she wasn’t just safe. She was alive. Every fiber of her being was attuned to the heat of his skin, the hard planes of his muscles, the eagerness coursing through her veins. Everything she needed.

  She met each kiss with passion. Her body still remembered the delicious, foreign sensation of his strong fingers against her bare skin and she longed for him to do it again. She tangled her fingers in his hair and pressed herself against him.

  He was strength and power. Gentle and resilient. He was so much bigger, so solid and commanding, that she couldn’t help but give herself to him completely.

  When his hand cupped her breast, she arched into his touch. She craved this, craved him. His fingers found her straining nipple. Tugged. Teased. A sharp longing began between her legs, building with every pinch of his fingers, every lick of his tongue against hers.

  Her head fell back. With him, she felt more than mere comfort. She felt desired. Every kiss told her how badly he wanted her. She was important. She was his.

  He yanked up the hem of her nightrail. She parted her legs. She was his. Her body throbbed with anticipation.

  She wanted him to take his time. She wanted him to hurry. She wanted—

  He lowered his mouth to her breast just as he dipped a finger into the slick heat between her legs.

  She gasped at the unexpected pleasure of the twin sensations. Her muscles tightened as she arched into him. Her mind could no longer process anything except the sensual pressure building inside her. She gripped his shoulders as if to let go would mean falling into an abyss and he was the only one who could save her.

  Perhaps he was the only one who could save her. She had never felt so valuable, so treasured as she did with him.

  A moan escaped her lips as his thumb rubbed against a sensitive spot at the apex between her legs. Her body thrummed with coiled desire. She didn’t want his wicked fingers anymore. She wanted him. Her husband.

  The French letters.

  Frustration ripped through her as she realized it was long past the moment to start soaking protective sheaths in water. He was here now. Her body was ready now.

  This was the moment to show him how deeply she longed to connect with him and how much he meant to her. He had accepted her. All of her. He had not only given her a home, but made her feel it. Home was more than a house. It was his arms, his garden, their bed.

  Their future.

  She had decided weeks ago that there was no possible way she could ever let Ravenwood go. The bigger question was ensuring he had no reason to let her go.

  He desired her. That much was clear. They were good together, even out of the bedroom. He’d proven that in his garden, time and again. He wanted her.

  He also wanted a family.

  The idea of losing a child still terrified her. It likely always would. But she no longer equated the thought with loneliness and regret.

  She had Ravenwood now. As long as they were together, she would never be lonely. Her biggest regret would be walking away. Not having his child. Not building a family.

  This was the first time he had come to her bedchamber since their failed wedding night. She was bared to him. Open to his touch. To pleasure.

  If she stopped him again, how long would it be until he came back? Did she even wish to stop him? She moaned. Her body certainly didn’t. Her hips rose to meet him with every thrust of his finger.

  She shoved both hands to his waist, yanking up his shirt, tugging at the fall of his breeches. She wanted all of him, right now. She wanted to give him all of herself.

  He flung his shirt over his head and unbuttoned his fall.

  She reached for him.

  If a child came from this union, it would not be a nightmare, but a miracle. A gift. A baby would be part of themselves. Someone they both would love. Someone utterly worth the risk.

  A shiver danced over her skin as the hard length of his member nudged against her aching core. She belonged here. She belonged with him.

  He belonged inside her.

  She gasped and tightened her grip on his hair as he eased between her legs. He was too big, too hard, but as soon as his finger returned to her sensitive nub, everything fell away.

  All she could feel was pleasure.

  She wrapped her legs about his hips. Pressure built as their bodies merged together. Every surge, every thrust, not only brought her closer to him but also made her feel part of something bigger. With him, she was more than merely Kate.

  She was complete.

  Chapter 22

  Ravenwood awoke with his forearm muscles tingling. He’d fallen asleep with his arms about his wife, and they’d slept the night wrapped in each other’s embrace.

  He slid out of bed as carefully as he could without waking her and set about collecting his discarded clothing.

  While it was unusual, perhaps, for a duke to spend the entirety of the night in his duchess’s bedchamber, he did not believe the practice to indicate a lack of propriety on the part of the husband—and he didn’t care a flying fig if it did.

  As far as he was concerned, sharing a bed with his wife was about to become his favorite custom.

  He felt himself smiling as he bathed, dressed, and prepared for the day. He felt like his entire body was smiling, inside and out.

  Katherine had that sort of effect on him.

  His step lighter than it had been in years, he made his way to his office. His thoughts, however, were still with Katherine.

  He’d meant what he had said about her being brave. She opened her heart and loved completely and unconditionally, without reservation. Unlike him, she didn’t hold back when she feared the possibility of getting hurt.

  He shouldn’t either. Not with her. Not when they were so close to having the sort of marriage, the sort of connection he’d always dreamed of having.

  If he wanted that kind of life, then he had to risk opening his heart to get it.

  Oh, who was he fooling? She’d been in his heart for some time. He sat down at his desk and unlocked the drawer that contained his poetry.

  Slowly, he paged through the words he’d written since Katherine had turned his world upside down.

  It hadn’t happened overnight, but the truth was as apparent to him on the page as it was in his heart. He’d fallen in love. Wholly, hopelessly, irrevocably. Every word on every page declared the truth.

  He wondered what she might say if she knew he’d written such wistful, lovesick verses about her.

  The memory of her dismissal of people like him as fools pretending to be Lord Byron made his ears burn with shame. He knew what she’d say. He slammed the book closed and locked it back in its drawer.

  Perhaps someday he might risk showing her one of his poems. Years from now. When he was certain she loved him unconditionally.

  He forced himself to turn to his ledgers. There was no House of Lords meeting tonight, but the Coinage Committee was scheduled to present their final recommendations tomorrow. He would ring for a breakfast tray and spend the entire day finalizing his portion of the report in order to keep his mind free from parliamentary duties.

  Tonight was about Katherine.

  He was so proud of her. Not just for daring to dream, but daring to accomplish her dreams. It wasn’t that she believed failure wasn’t an option. All that mattered to her was that she tried. And because of her optimism and perseverance, every time she tried—she succeeded.

  The House of Lords could use a few more like her.

  Ugh. Ravenwood rubbed his face. The blasted Coinage Committee.

  Over the course of the next several hours, he worked without cease. He penned the final flourishes on the report he’d spent the past month on just as the light in his windows began to fade dramatically.

  Dark clouds rolled over the fading sunset. If
the black horizon was any indication, it was going to rain all night long. He glanced at the clock on the mantel. Seven o’clock.

  It was time to get ready for tonight’s performance.

  He pushed to his feet just as his butler entered the room bearing a sealed missive on a silver platter.

  “Pardon the interruption, your grace. An urgent message has arrived. A footman is waiting below to run your response back to his master.”

  Ravenwood’s stomach sank as he recognized Lord Montague’s seal. The marquess was the only other member of the Coinage Committee with any brains. An importunate message at this time at night could not presage anything good.

  He lifted the folded parchment from the silver tray and sliced open the wax. With trepidation, he began to read.

  No.

  His eyes fluttered closed and he curled his fingers into fists. The other half-dozen imbeciles comprising the Coinage Committee had decided to eschew Ravenwood’s clearheaded logic, and were instead at White’s gentleman’s club on St. James Street, attempting to sway the vote before it even happened.

  They wanted to ignore the dismal slope of the post-war economy and cast all coinage in gold, and in larger sizes. They thought a nation rich enough to do so would raise England’s prestige in the eyes of all competing nations. They even considered pennies with the faces of their peers.

  Montague and Ravenwood recognized such twaddle for the poppycock it was. What England needed was to stabilize its currency, not to unbalance it further.

  They should be reintroducing silver, not hemorrhaging gold. They needed to define a predictable value for the pound sterling. Anything they could to curb its disquieting devaluation.

  The ton, however, liked sparkle more than they liked logic. Who wouldn’t wish to see his profile silhouetted in gold?

  Idiots, all of them. If such a foolish idea gained wings, the House would pass the motion with a near unanimous vote.

  Ravenwood could not let that happen.

  By himself, Lord Montague would not be able to stem the tide. The gold fanatics would poison the ears of anyone within reach and tomorrow they would disregard all of his month-long research as being capricious and irrelevant. All anyone would care about was the chance to see their face reflected back at them.