Let Sleeping Dukes Lie

by Emily Windsor

  Aideen waited for him to speak. For once, she was going to let someone else do the talking.

  “I apologise for last night,” he finally said.

  “Which bit?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Which bit are you apologising for? The kiss? For being discovered? Or for stating that you’ve found a wife in such a pompous way.” Bah. She never could hold her tongue – it was like trying to gag a rooster at dawn.

  He stalked closer, and she had to admit to a frisson of excitement. His stride was meant to intimidate, to make a person step back, but as a child she’d loved to be pushed high on the swing, so high she’d squealed in fright and exhilaration. She might fall. She might be hurt.

  The feeling was the same.

  “I apologise for putting us both in this intolerable situation.”

  Ah, so he was regretting it.

  Over the course of the morning, she had convinced herself that maybe a long engagement would be best. To see if they would suit, see if they could sit in the same room together for one whole hour without provoking or…kissing.

  It was true she could retreat to Ireland, but gossip travelled faster than the four-in-hand club at full tilt, and no doubt Da would hassle some squinting squire into marrying her. One with sweaty hands and fetid breath, and in that company the duke emerged a better option, even putting aside his verdant gaze and firm thighs.

  So, the duke then…but with an extended engagement.

  Perchance, they could attend the theatre and take rides in Hyde Park. Talk sensibly and find what else they had in common. And when the Season ended, if they were still contrary, they could part amicably, the gossip having died down. A little.

  But it seemed he had changed his mind. Well, no matter, she would weather the ruination.

  “’Tis fine,” she agreed. “I do not wish to marry a duke.”

  “I beg your pardon?” He peered with incredulous eyes. She’d always thought the colour akin to spinach, but they were lighter in the day, almost like lichen in an Irish forest. “Everybody wishes to marry a duke,” he said somewhat arrogantly.

  “I don’t. All that prancing around and sniffing at people.”

  “I do not prance…ever.” He took another step forward, although he glanced at the open terrace door with narrowed gaze.

  “Oh, ’tis well for a duke,” Aideen continued, feeling quite roused. “You prowl around and appear haughty, and all the women throw their skirts up and–”

  “I have not perceived your skirts sailing skywards.”

  She was about to say he never would either when he took another step, leaned close and inhaled.

  “I didn’t mean sniffing quite so literally,” she whispered.

  “You drank chocolate this morning.”

  “Yes.”

  Green eyes gleamed before he started to sink downwards.

  Appalled, excited and utterly bewildered, she followed his broad shoulders as he kneeled before her, his nose practically in her gown. She could even make out the dark auburn strands in his harshly restrained hair.

  “Miss Quinlan, become my wife.”

  “Erm. Why?”

  The duke’s shoulder twitched, and she realised he was laughing. With face now raised, she could see the mirth, lips curving and little lines crinkling to the side of his eyes.

  He appeared younger, warmer.

  He appeared suave, virile, aristocratic and awfully difficult to refuse.

  “Only you would ask me that,” he said. “But I believe we’d deal well together.”

  “We vex one another.”

  “Not all the time,” he drawled from the ground. “Do you need me to point out the advantages? Or are you avenging yourself on my knees.” He shuffled. “Aideen,” he said seriously. “I am a duke, and I do not ruin young women. I am sure we can put aside our vexations and pass a pleasant life together. And we do have a certain…attraction.”

  Pleasant sounded most dull but he was correct about the attraction. She hesitated for the briefest of moments.

  “I… Yes, I will marry you.” There, it was said, and she would ask for a long engagement in just one moment.

  She’d thought resignation would be the overriding expression on his handsome visage, but it was more possessive as he rose to his full height once more, looming close.

  Oh, lawks, what had she done?

  Would he kiss her? To seal the agreement? They’d never kissed with forethought…at least not on her part.

  “Mr Beckford informed me you were raised in your mother’s religion which makes the process easier. Despite your voluble curses and praises of the saints, you are not in fact Catholic. Did your father not protest?”

  “It was my mother’s wish, and I don’t believe Da much cared.”

  An imperious eyebrow raised in query but she so hated explaining herself. At least they had that in common.

  “My mother fell ill after my birth and never recovered. Da was too distracted.”

  “I hope you do not require your father to attend the wedding? You are of age, and Mr Beckford stated that he held guardianship whilst you are in England.”

  Aideen frowned. That was true but surely ’twas too soon to be worrying about guest lists. “I assumed a long engagement to be certain we can–”

  “Three days.”

  “What?”

  “We will be married in St George’s, three days hence.”

  “But…but… That church will be unavailable for months. There’s a waiting list.” Curiously, that was the sole argument which came to mind.

  “I am a duke and lists do not apply,” he proclaimed.

  Tapping that damnable cane and dislodging a flagstone, he continued, “Directly after this meeting, I will approach the Archbishop for a special licence. He attended dinner last month, so there should be no problem as we had a different chef then. I shall also inform Prinny this afternoon. He owes me a mint so won’t kick up a storm.”

  Aideen’s mind addled. Dining with the Archbishop. Meeting? Four days. Prinny! “I don’t think–”

  But her thoughts were ignored as her upper arms were grasped and a firm mouth pressed itself against hers.

  He briefly pulled away. “I want you, my chocolate-coated cherry…and soon,” he muttered, before hauling her close again.

  The polite clearing of a throat made itself known from the house and she was instantly released.

  “Three days,” he growled and strode off without looking back – a rather bad habit of his.

  Grumbling at his high-handed tyrannical manner, Aideen glared at the retreating upright spine.

  She supposed she ought to be flattered he wanted her, despite her lowly status, but that wasn’t why she was marrying him.

  It was because she desired the damn man as well…and soon.

  Aideen sighed. No carriage rides in Hyde Park then.

  Chapter Eight

  Only two friends are necessary.

  Rakecombe poked at his dinner.

  It didn’t resemble any rabbit he was aware of, and so sighing, he sprawled back and quaffed claret instead.

  The dining room echoed to the clank of his crystal goblet on the polished surface, and a footman hastily refilled it before returning to his station at the wall.

  Now the lone sound in the cavernous room was the ticking of the clock over the mantel. He gazed around the table that seated thirty-six and wondered why he hadn’t eaten in the study.

  His mother had been called away to an unwell friend in Richmond a day after the Aideen debacle, and so far, he’d dined at his club every night.

  Unfortunately, he’d promised not to dis-employ the French chef while Mother was away and so tonight he was stuck. He could go out, but his wedding was on the morrow and he would require a clear head where Miss Quinlan was concerned.

  Drumming fingers on the mahogany, he considered the investigation. His informant had discovered that before Stafford’s evaporation into nothingness, he’d been seen conversing with
an unknown Frenchwoman. It didn’t mean much, as many émigrés dotted London, but it was interesting.

  But as to the chap’s vanishing…

  Well, nothing had been seen or heard of him, and Rakecombe had covered a lot of ground in the past few days: busy coffee houses, crowded taverns, grim backstreets and squalid lodgings. There were only so many places to hide in London. He could be dead, of course, in the Thames or on a surgeon’s dissecting table, but Rakecombe just had a feeling.

  Stafford’s code name was Chameleon and considering their leader’s propensity for choosing apt aliases, he guessed the chap was veiled from sight and living on air.

  Indeed, Stafford had spent two years in France posing as a wealthy French investor, and one year in England posing as an anti-monarchist, so he was obviously excellent at what he did. Both guises had seen the disruption of several plots against the Crown.

  So why? Why betray after such sterling work? The chap had no family and earned enough for a comfortable house and the odd servant.

  A footman commenced lighting more candles as the room darkened but Rakecombe waved him away. It was so bloody quiet. He may as well retire abed to read.

  “I know he’s here,” bellowed a voice from the hallway.

  “His Grace has requested he not be disturbed,” declared Rawlins the butler, with a tone as arrogant as Rakecombe’s own.

  After an “oomph”, the dining room door was thrown open, an outline of black silhouetted against the light.

  “There you are, sitting in the dark on your lonesome. Come along, we are going out to celebrate…or commiserate. You can tell me all about it. I’m all agog to hear how you acted the rake for once.”

  “Winterbourne, did you damage my butler? And what did you discover in Manchester?”

  Throwing himself into one of the delicate hand-carved chairs, the marquess winked. A parrot-green waistcoat clung to his person. Mayhap coquelicot was not so bad.

  “I scarcely trod on his foot. And Manchester was bloody awful. Like the girl said – couldn’t understand a word. No grass for supper though and the women are luscious. Penbury’s sister has an arse like a peac–”

  “Was Penbury there?”

  “Hmm, he’s there. Looks terrible – sweating and casting up his accounts right, left and centre. Enough to make you want to give up the grog,” he said, pouring himself a generous glass of claret. “We had a long chat, when he was able, but he’s not our traitor, I’m afraid. So, where next?”

  “Someone must have seen Stafford. We will talk to that butler again tomorrow.”

  Winterbourne stared aghast, glass held aloft. “Goddammit, you’re getting married tomorrow!”

  “It will only take the morning, if that.”

  He knew the impression he was giving, but to maintain his distance it had to commence now. At the very beginning.

  Since the loss of Gwen, aloofness was a persona he was familiar with, an old friend, and besides, he’d no choice if a similar fate was not to befall his future duchess.

  “Cold-hearted fellow you are, but I have no doubt the delicious Miss Quinlan will warm you through like a pan of pea soup. Now come on. We are off on a spree.”

  Aideen didn’t warm: she seared him, and the pan of soup would be boiling over the stove, causing a bloody great mess if he lost his control.

  “I thought to stay in,” he grumbled.

  “And do what? Eat…” The marquess peered closely at Rakecombe’s full plate. “I say, what is that?”

  “Fricassée de lapin forestière accompanied by l’ail à la Bordelaise.”

  “Hmm. Let’s head to the Cyder Cellars in Maiden Lane for some victuals.”

  “No, I–”

  “They do a devilishly good hashed goose with beans. Not to mention the rich red cherry tartlets.”

  Rakecombe gave a repressed glare but couldn’t deny the hunger worm.

  The Cyder Cellars was heaving with gentlemen and non-gentlemen alike.

  Nobles, actors, singers and poets ate cheek by jowl, the wine flowed in abundance, and the goose was damn good.

  Broad tables filled the room and waiters weaved their way amongst the jug-bitten clientele. Occasionally a fellow sang a ditty or enacted a sonnet or fell over – it didn’t matter as all were vastly entertaining.

  Much as Rakecombe hated to admit it, Winterbourne had been right. He’d spent far too much time brooding in the dark of late. He loved the theatre and song, and yet he’d immersed himself in work, even missing the masterful actor Kean’s appearances.

  A chap across the room broke into song. Una’s Lock, he believed it was entitled.

  “You better listen in,” the marquess yelled above the hubbub. “Might give you some ideas for your wedding night.”

  Grunting a reply, he sank his teeth into the cherry tartlet.

  Winterbourne leaned forward, vile green waistcoat now unencumbered by jacket. “Sooo, Alex…”

  Rakecombe tensed. He should have given the blasted marquess a false name as the chap now used it with impunity. No one called him Alex, except his mother and that was only in private. How would it sound from Aideen’s lips in that Irish lilt – his full name – slow and lyrical.

  He waited for Jack’s interrogation.

  “How did you and the delectable Miss Quinlan end up wrapped around each other like eels? Dashed unprofessional to get caught. I have a rule about that. Number three – Better to die with no clothes on than to be ensnared in a wedding coat.”

  “We were merely kissing,” he answered coldly.

  “Twaddle! Miss Parker is spreading an entirely different story. She squealed there was no gap between you.”

  No, there hadn’t been. He’d felt every inch of Aideen’s fulsome body. And he’d wanted her closer still. He wiped his brow: it was damnable hot in the Cyder Cellars.

  “It matters not. We are to marry. She will produce an heir, live in the country, and we will stay far from each other’s lives.”

  Jack’s eyes narrowed. “And you think Miss Q will stand for that?”

  “She’ll have to. I am not giving up my work and ’tis dangerous to have her close.”

  “Well, best of luck, but I don’t think you have a chance in hell. I also think you underestimate her gravely. She’s a plucky lass with a bright mind. Remember that Frenchman last year?”

  No, he didn’t want to remember. Her bruised face. Her torn dress. The blood under her fingernails.

  Did Winterbourne not see that was exactly why they would live their lives apart?

  Disregarding the question, he was about to dig into another cherry tartlet when a slap on his back interrupted him.

  He turned.

  Oh yes, his other friend.

  Bram Walcott, the Earl of Kelmarsh, former comrade and now happily married rusticator stood before him, beaming with bloody good health and a brown glow to his skin. He looked like a peasant.

  “Bram?” he said, standing, “what are you doing here?”

  Shaking hands, he noticed the change in his old friend – no shadows encircled his eyes and his lips fell to an easy smile. Was that retiring? Or marriage?

  Last year, Bram had dis-attached himself from Crown work, but it hadn’t been without its problems, and during the course of his troubled courtship, Rakecombe himself had met Aideen.

  In fact, when you came to look upon it, his upcoming marriage was all Kelmarsh’s fault.

  “You didn’t think we’d miss the wedding, did you? And Sophie is Aideen’s cousin. I worried you’d be drinking claret in some shadowy corner of that mausoleum of yours and reading dreary poetry, but the butler told me you were here with this rogue.”

  “I was more worried,” the rogue drawled, filling Bram a glass, “that Rakeprude might need some instruction before his wedding night. We could provide him with pictorial explanation.”

  Rakecombe couldn’t prevent his lips from vaguely twitching. Winterbourne did amuse from time to time.

  Another patron clambered onto the adjoi
ning table and took a deep breath.

  “Poets praise Chloe’s shape, her complexion, her air,

  Coral lips, pearly teeth, and fine eyes;

  A fig for them all, they can never compare

  To my charmer’s elastic white thighs.”

  “Chap’s bawdy song reminds me of that widow at Oxford. Remember Mrs Chloe Russell?” Bram lolled in his chair, looking content after four jugs of claret, three glasses of port, two brandies and a cheroot. He also looked stewed to the gills, thought Rakecombe, speculating on his own external status.

  “Lud,” replied Jack. “Fine figure of a woman and the instigator of many a cub’s dreams.”

  “Was it you?” Bram pointed a finger at the rogue. “I always believed you won that bet.”

  Rakecombe sprawled back, frowning. He knew the bet they talked of. Mrs Russell had been the widow of a former professor. Pretty and vivacious, there had been a wager as to who could bed her first with the claimant having to describe her garters as proof. Sometime later, the absurd wager had been collected, but neither description nor name of the victor had been made public.

  “Nope, too young.” Jack held his palms up. “You forget I’m a fresh pup compared to you two, and I was just finding my feet in those days. Wish I had though; she had bosoms like–”

  “Winterbourne,” snapped Rakecombe, “Mrs Russell is a respectable lady.”

  “Alex, my fine fellow, you have to loosen up. ’Tis only in jest. I advise some brandy before tomorrow night….and tomorrow morning.”

  “I can only hope,” Bram slurred, elbows now on table, “my mother-in-law hasn’t had time to speak to your betrothed about the wedding night.”

  “Why?” asked Rakecombe, intrigued and worried in equal measure.

  “’Cos she fed Sophie some cock and bull story about stamens, stigmas and pollination.”

  Silence met this pronouncement.

  “Gads,” muttered Jack, “no wonder debutantes look so petrified. Still, I’m sure you have a vague idea of what to do, Alex, and you can always send for me if you have trouble. I can call instructions from behind a screen. Or you could blindfold me. Millie has a–”