Duke of Treason

by Lisa Torquay

  A groom came to take the horse. She exchanged some words with the boy and turned towards the front gate on foot. She came to give Iseult back. Anger at the rejection of his gift imploded his self-control, as it happened with everything that involved that woman. Launched out of the study, he rushed to the front door, throwing it open.

  “You cannot stand even a gift that has come from me.” He growled to her in deep voice.

  Swivelling to him in one graceful movement, her eyes clasped on his, the world stanched. Neither said anything for long seconds. The absolute one thing he wanted to do was to grab her and take her to his chambers and lock the both of them inside it. Preferably forever.

  “I must not accept it.” She curtsied with that haughty poise of hers, in the motion to leave.

  Never!

  He surveyed the street, satisfied with the deserted state of it. “Come in.” He uttered, knowing the insubordinate woman did not obey his orders. Ever.

  For a flashing moment, her stance hinted at an expression so akin to disappointment. “Your Grace will forgive me, but I have to go.” She began to turn to the gate.

  “You either enter with your own legs or with mine.”

  That fascinatingly red-hot fury splashed on her flawless face. And he went more aroused, if possible, with the bright crimson on her delectable skin. The same colour that she displayed when she… Damnation!

  A derogatory little smile drew in those cushioned lips that once closed around his… “I dare you.” And she gave him her back, him, a Duke, for pity’s sake! Had the curvaceous woman no decorum?

  He assumed a nonchalant posture. “Alright. I do not think you would mind a certain tale of a certain dungeon to circulate in The Times, would you?” He would not tell it to a soul even under torture. Well, not if it was not her torture anyway, the best one of his life.

  “You despicable scoundrel!” She breathed heatedly.

  This powder keg was his. Only his!

  In stomps, she climbed the front steps, and he bowed to her with a secret winning smile. So, this was not the best trick to bring her inn, but who cared?

  In the marble floor parlour, she gyrated to him as he closed the door. He did not ring for servants, thus there were none there.

  “Say what you must and then I will return home.” She demanded.

  That feminine hat impeded him from seeing her glorious hair and he fantasised taking it off her head. “Why did you give Iseult back?”

  Self-righteousness covered her flawless face. “I will not accept gifts from such as you.”

  Deadly serious, his burning perusal took her in with undisguised coveting. “You have no qualms offending a Duke.” He bought the damned horse thinking of her. This rejection slipped down acidly.

  Her chin lifted a notch more. “I do believe we are past these social rituals.”

  Stare narrowing on her, he retorted, “In town we are not.”

  She made a gesture that approached disguisedly a roll of the eyes and a prayer for patience. He enjoyed disconcerting her. All too much.

  “You forced me to come in to talk about etiquette?” Impatience vibrating in her. But there was something else, too. Colour high on her cheeks, a quick moistening of her lips, restless gaze. No indifference, there, no, sir.

  One elbow propped on the door frame, ankles crossed, not a care on the world, he measured her from the top of her hat to the boots under her skirt. “Talking was not exactly what I had in mind.”

  Her liquid eyes bulged, darkening, as aroused as he. “I will not consort with you ever again!”

  He left the door frame and prowled to her. “Indeed?”

  “Yes!” This came breathless and so silky.

  He came closer. “Not even on an angled mattress?” His hoarseness spoke volumes, he lamented.

  Air sucked and caught between those catastrophic lips. “If you have nothing important to say, I will take my-“

  Somehow, he managed to corner her against the wall. Her head raised to meet him, hat falling. She was so delightfully small! The exact size for him. He wasted no time in caging her with his hands.

  “What will you take, Annabel?” He murmured, losing control in meteoric speed. “Me? In your mouth, hopefully?”

  Her head bent to the wall, lashes falling, as if she was melting.

  “Devil take me, Annabel!” He rasped. “But you almost got the best of me in the dungeon.” About to shame himself, he struggled to cool down a little. Without success.

  Murky gaze roving over her, all he wanted was her legs around his waist and him pounding in her blindly. The floral scent and woman emanating from her did not help his case. In the least.

  “Stop it, Romulus.” But the throaty plead sounded exactly the opposite of it.

  “You will have to be more convincing, Annabel.” He should throw her on his shoulder and take her upstairs.

  As she opened her magnificent eyes anew, she grilled him. “We are in different sides.”

  Ragged breathing, he tried not to capture her mouth. “Politics does not go to bed.” He murmured in her ear.

  She inhaled deeply. “I think it does.” Pushing him, she broke the spell, glare incinerating him. “If you will excuse me.”

  Straight back, chin up, she pulled the door resolutely and disappeared into the street. Together with his peace of mind.

  * * *

  Annabel climbed the stairs to her drawing room flustered, hot, confused. And frustrated. The ruse with the unnerving man made her almost forget all her good intentions. The ball of fire he deflagrated in her insides almost too intense to resist.

  She should not have ridden there personally, she concluded. Branson, the coachman, could have performed the task easily. Something pulled her to the house, and she followed it like the silly ninny that she was. Now she scorched with his very effective provocation mixed with the near fall that mortified her. One more second, and she would have given in. It took a cycloptic will power to pull him away and rush from his luxurious town house.

  The truth of it was she should avoid meeting him. Completely. Or she would make a fool of herself again and again. There could be no point in mulling over the prudence of having started this whole thing. It had been done, full stop. It would be stupid to continue it, she knew. She must not connect herself to a criminal, one that stood on the very verge of exposure. With her own help.

  What if she travelled to visit friends in the country? A couple of weeks and this would be over, for sure. No. She needed peace and silence before she received another assignment. If she would get them in town remained to be seen. The most important thing, she must stay away from him. He dominated the best part of her conscious thoughts, her nightly cravings and the jumbled, troublesome pieces that populated her chest, to which she wished to give no name.

  A knock on the door and Stevenson, her butler, came in with a letter on a silver tray. The Marchioness of Darby, returned to town, inviting her to a soiree with her group of scientists, philosophers and artists. To discuss Schelling, the recent German philosopher she had been reading in the castle.

  Oh, fabulous! Another thing to remind her of those agonisingly sizzling days in Blackthorne!

  She would love to see his aunt again and to take part in her illustrated group. With hopes she would not meet the blackguard, she sent a note accepting it.

  * * *

  The marchioness’s town house witnessed one of the first noble houses that London saw with the increasing urbanisation of the last decades. More and more noble families built town houses these days as city life became the norm among them. So, Annabel was enchanted with the witnesses of past architecture she saw all around the construction, in and out.

  As the butler led her to the drawing room, Lady Derby came to greet her with warm regard.

  “My dear!” She took Annabel’s hands. “What a delight to have you here.”

  Since the soiree gathered men and women intellectuals, it happened in the evening. Thus, wine flowed from footmen’s trays.
She accepted a glass and took a seat, relieved that the lady’s unnerving nephew was nowhere to be seen. About a dozen people sat in a circle of settees, disposed to favour discussion. After the due introductions, the group invested time in philosophical pursuits.

  The evening elapsed in smart, pleasant conversation and she enjoyed a wonderful time. It drew to an end and the lady’s guests started to depart.

  In preparation to take her leave, she turned to the door and her heart drummed, threatening to leap from her ribs. The very villain leaned on the door jamb. Boiling heat bathed her insides. He had been there the whole time, darn him!

  “Romulus, my boy,” Charlotte’s melodious voice echoed on the nearly empty drawing room. “Keep Lady Winchester company, will you? While I bid good night to my other guests.” Fan in hand, she followed the last of the people leaving.

  “I am leaving too, my lady.” The older woman pretended not to listen it as she closed the door behind her.

  Black suit, black waistcoat, black cravat and, surprisingly enough, white shirt, his tall, broad frame took all her view. Or her eager gaze took all of him, she could not tell. What she did understand was that air became scarce and inappropriate thoughts made their best to muddle her defenceless mind.

  “My lady.” Deep tones, he bowed to her after he positioned himself by the hearth. The fire played with his sleek hair to the sides of his square jaw.

  “Your Grace.” She curtsied automatically when she became able to unglue her coveting stare from him.

  A couple of footmen still collected the remnants of the soiree and the clinking of glasses filled the awkward silence.

  “I should be calling for my carriage.” Eyes on the door to her right as a life saver, she hoped her knees supported her until she sat in her vehicle. Gyrating, she sought her escape.

  “You once asked me why my regiment thought me dead.” His low tones stopped her in her tracks.

  She turned to him so abruptly, her purple skirts flew around her legs. “And you demonstrated unbending resistance to answer.”

  The footmen deserted the room.

  That lopsided smile flirted with his sensuous mouth. “Let us just say that I was too… distracted to formulate a coherent answer.”

  Intense vermillion tinted her cheeks at the memory of exactly how she asked it. They had been in the dungeon and she had been trying to extract answers, very intently, she should admit.

  “And now?” Impossible not to fidget with her fan, as she forced herself to be unruffled.

  “I am still too distracted.” His nearly green irises dead focused on her. “By your beauty and brightness, I mean.” Locking his hands behind him, he displayed his broad chest. Which she remembered so vividly, despite the layers of fabric he hid it under at that moment. “I can manage, though.” He complemented.

  Her instincts clawed at her, clamouring she run to him, from him. With him! Anything but keep this motionless, waiting.

  “You learned my mother died in France, during the Revolution.”

  Nodding, she clasped her hands together. “Your aunt mentioned it.”

  “In reality, she was murdered.” A shadow of sorrow passed over his rugged features.

  “Goodness Gracious!” The only thing she found to exclaim.

  “For more than ten years, my father tried to track the assassin and discovered he had been one of her suitors.”

  Her overwhelming astonishment spoke for her.

  “She did not accept his suit, preferring my father. The murderer did not take it well. When he met her in Paris, he took advantage of the riots to kill her.”

  “And he was not brought to justice?” Her pleated brows and hands to her chest expressed sympathy for him.

  “No.” He paced the carpet. “The police counted her death among so many others that occurred in those days.”

  “Did your father not succeed in taking him to trial?”

  Head shaking, he raked his hair. “The man disappeared.” He stanched a couple of feet in front of her and she had to lift her head to meet his eyes. “During the war, I came to know he fought as one of the officers.”

  “You went after him.” Oh, dear.

  “Precisely.” Even shuttered, his expression spoke of vehement single-mindedness.

  “Did you.. did you-“ Unable to complete the question, she waited.

  “No, I did not kill him.” His stance flew away in his memories. “I came to know he died in battle before I could find him.”

  “But you intended to take revenge.” She needed to know what kind of man he had become.

  “I intended to take him to court and see him hanged.” Fierceness overtook his features.

  There, standing so proud and firm before her, she could only imagine the pain he went through with the loss of his mother. A nearly ineluctable impulse of closing the few feet between them and enfolding him in her arms spread in her. She tensed to prevent herself from doing it. She would not be able to stop. Ever. “How long?”

  “How long I ‘disappeared’?” He crossed his arms over his chest.

  She nodded.

  “For about two months.” His scrutiny of her did not relent.

  “That was why they thought you dead.” She mused aloud. “And maybe officers on leave spread the rumour here in London.”

  “It may have been the case.” Forceful air left him. “Little chance of writing for I travelled incognito.”

  “Why did you not write before you left?” It would have saved a lot of heartbreak, she thought grimly.

  “I did not have the time. My superiors took the opportunity to send me on other missions, too.”

  “I-“

  The drawing room door flew open. “Romulus, my boy!” His cheerful aunt broke the sorrowful atmosphere. “You should take Lady Winchester to the library. I am sure she will be entranced with the collection of books you helped me gather.”

  She rushed to answer before him. “I am sorry, Lady Derby.” She drafted a faint smile. “I should go right away.” She just wanted the solitude of her home to munch on what he revealed.

  “How unfortunate, my dear.” Her shrewd observation allowed nothing to go unnoticed. “We shall see it another day, no doubt.”

  “No doubt, my lady.” She replied distracted and curtsied. “Your Grace.”

  Head spinning with thoughts, she left as quickly as decorum allowed.

  * * *

  His aunt fixed him with one of her knowing stares. “Did you manage to tell her what you came here to tell?”

  Naturally, the woman who helped him into adulthood invited him to this soiree. He did not have time to finish the book they were discussing, so he declined her invitation. But asked who had accepted. He thought it better to meet her here, because whenever they were alone, conversation was the last thing in his mind. “I had to.” He rubbed the nape of his neck, under his queue.

  “I assume you two did not meet recently.” She sat on a settee.

  Respectfully sitting on a chair, and not plopping on it as he wished, air blew from him. “No, not really.” He paused, unsure as to how much he should disclose to her.

  “In her estate, before she married, then.” Her maternal instincts continued as sharp as ever.

  He nodded. “We wanted to get married as soon as I could obtain leave.”

  “But…?” She sounded as if she was trying to open a difficult bottle of wine, though she never had to do it once in her life.

  “There were rumours that I was dead and she married another.”

  “Rumours?” She said bewildered. “I spent a lot of time in the country at that time, raising your cousins. I do not remember these things.”

  “Didier must have heard something.” His younger brother sowed his wild oats in town at that time.

  “If the girl says she learned them, she cannot be wrong.” The Viscountess adjusted one of her bracelets distractedly. “She is a very forthright type of woman.”

  “Undoubtedly.” He agreed, one of the qualities he r
eluctantly admired in her. Among many others, he had to admit.

  It was long before he took his leave, promising the lady he would be prepared for the next soiree.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Annabel sat in her study, checking her household expenses, when Peter brought in The Times. Even though this type of newspaper did not figure among the lady-like reading in the ton, she did not care. It was important to keep informed when one worked for the government.

  Her attention caught at once on the top headline.

  NAPOLEON - it said–The defeated general made an attempt to escape the island of Saint Helena, promptly prevented by a group of intrepid men. It is said Lord Blackthorne had a pivotal role in identifying and stopping his allies from rescuing Bonaparte. Hail the Duke for one more heroic deed!

  Head spinning, she must read the lines more than once to make sense of them. The blasted man was not helping the French general! He worked against him. In favour of King and Country.

  A myriad of entangled emotions coursed through her at the knowledge. Relief, for he would never go to court martial. Stupefaction to know that he had been a war hero more than once, maybe several times. Shame, for her to believe him capable of treason. But the one that burned her as if a splinter of wood on fire landed directly from the hearth on her skin, was anger. Intense anger at the fact he did not trust her enough to tell her. At least, to signal that they stood on the same side! He had accepted her accusations and suspicions without countering them. Question was why? All evidence she gathered pointed to treasonous actions, and he did not have the decency to correct her. Darn him! If she never saw the blackguard again, it would be too soon.

  That anger bloomed so blazingly in her that she feared if she saw him she would wrestle with the man until the death.

  Thus, she avoided every possible social occasions and places where he might be. Even if she did not know how long he would remain in town. Apparently, he favoured the castle in Cornwall. For which she did not blame the Duke. She missed the place herself and often caught her nostalgic self daydreaming about it.