Let Sleeping Dukes Lie

by Emily Windsor

  A maid stood by the large range, stirring a wholesome smelling vat of stew whilst a man sat at the scored table perusing a stained book. His head turned to the maid. “Those potatoes can go in now, Maisie.”

  He buried his nose in the creased pages, muttering to himself and scribbling notes in the margins.

  The chef’s hand, for who else could he be, swiped out to grab a chunk of…proper bread which sat on a plate to his side, and she heard a whisper of a curse as he followed the words with his finger.

  “Dia dhuit,” Aideen said loudly, narrowing her glare as she entered.

  “Dia is Muire dhuit,” the chap replied, before twisting his head, eyes flaring in horror.

  She recognised him from the day she’d married, as all the servants had been gathered at the hallway in welcome: deepest black curly hair tumbled over a handsome forehead, whilst pale-blue eyes flickered in worry within an extremely pale face.

  If he was a French chef then she was Queen Maeve of Connacht.

  “Where are you from?”

  Obviously realising there was no talking his way out of this – even if he was Irish – the chef bowed his head. “Wicklow, Ya Grace.”

  “Hmm.” She stalked over, eyes flicking to the gawping maids. “Let us continue this conversation outside…and bring that bread.”

  The sun shone weakly as they climbed the steps to the gardens, a haze preventing its full warmth, and the not-so-exotic chef desolately followed three feet behind.

  “So,” she began, pausing under an apple tree, “why the pretence?”

  “I…” He peered at the heavens as though expecting divine help from the saints above.

  “No yarns. The truth.”

  He scrutinised the ground as though the aid of the inhabitants below might be more useful in this situation. “I trained in Dublin, in the best houses, Ya Grace. But I married an English lass, and she was so homesick for London. I tried to find work here but everyone wants a fancy French chef.”

  “So you thought to be one?”

  “Had to. Otherwise I was treated like dirt, told I was a thieving bogtrotter, that I’d snaffle the silver and cook their children.” He tugged at his thick hair. “A few would have taken me on but at half the wage, and we’ve four babes with another on the way.”

  “The dowager duchess said you had seven children.”

  His eyes shifted. “Four. Seven…hard to keep tally, Ya Grace.”

  Having been prone to exaggeration herself on more than one occasion, she could hardly admonish. “And does she know you are not in any way French?”

  “I dunno to be truthful. I knew a French fella once, a footman, so I’m grand fait with the accent. I gave it lots of zhats and zizes and it seemed to work. Even threw in a few zut alors.”

  Aideen doubted the astute Meghan had been fooled for a moment but it was obviously her soft heart which had been touched by the…seven children. “But the food? You say you’ve worked in the best houses but it’s…it’s…” She trailed off.

  “I know how to cook the finest English and Irish dishes, but I was employed as a French chef, so I’ve been cooking French fare.” His gaze flickered. “I’ve a book, but it’s all in foreign so I’ve had a few problems, and I can’t afford to buy one in English. But I’ve made friends with a Frenchie in the ale-house and he gave me a few hints.”

  “Such as?”

  “Lots of herbs and pepper. Don’t overcook the meat. Cut everything up really small and splash around the salt.”

  Aideen was sure Jacquiers at The Clarendon would be spitting bile at this summation of French cooking. “Why haven’t the servants said anything?”

  “Everything was grand.” He shrugged. “I cook French fer upstairs and no one’s complained, but I cook Irish or English fer downstairs.” He handed her a piece of the bread, wrapped in a serviette.

  Biting into it, she was transported home. To evenings by the fire with Seamus, slathering butter on warm bread until it ran down your fingers.

  She missed home, she realised. The hills so verdant it burned the eyes, the freshness of a spring morning, the lichen-covered forests. She missed the laughing people, the cuddles from Uncle and the harsh coastal wind blowing her hair free and wild.

  Not everything there was perfect, but London was all stern propriety and icy stares. Indeed, her own stern duke needing warming with some hot Irish stew and a soft caress.

  Looking up, she noticed the man fiddling with a thread on his worn jacket.

  “Your French dishes are awful… I’m sorry.”

  His face fell bleak. “Well, that’s it then. I’ll gather m’things. Forgive me, Ya Grace, fer–”

  She held up a palm. “But your bread and the aroma of that stew are divine. So, present your finest meal tonight – nothing French – and we will talk again tomorrow.”

  Aideen watched the chef’s eyes lighten. She knew hundreds from the Emerald Isle had come over, thinking the London streets were paved in gold. But the reality was equally grim. Blood and sweat lined these streets too – of strife and poverty and the hardship of war.

  “Ta, Ya Grace. I’ll cook ya a fine bit o’ home, I will.”

  “Wonderful. And one other issue…Monsieur Pascale Dupont.”

  He coughed, eyes twinkling. “Er. Mr Padraig Duffy, at ya service.” And he bowed.

  “Hmm. Please send up a light luncheon of that bread and then I’ll starve my stomach until tonight. We will also see about a book on French cuisine. No harm in adding another string to your fiddle, so to speak.”

  The chef nodded and with a jaunty wink, headed back.

  “And by the way,” Aideen called, “there are only three children, are there not? Or is it two, Padraig?”

  A waggish grin crossed his handsome face. “Depends if ya include the one in the oven, Ya Grace.”

  Evidently her fellow countryman didn’t need to kiss anything to talk blarney.

  ∞∞∞

  Rakecombe felt…unsettled, odd and a dab nauseous.

  And it wasn’t the food either. A perfect lamb roast had been presented tonight: tender cuts of meat – not bleating – with a fresh minty sauce, fluffy perfectly cooked potatoes and reassuringly normal-shaped carrots.

  Vaguely, he wondered if Aideen had dismissed the French chef but didn’t ask. Couldn’t speak. Every word he thought to utter felt trite and banal after last night’s bestial act. So he quaffed more claret instead.

  He hadn’t intended to dine at home as he’d wanted to visit Bluey, but the chap’s wife had sent a note saying he was insensible due to laudanum and to call on the morrow, so he’d been at a loose end.

  When he’d returned from a meeting with Rainham, a note had been pinned to his bathing device, requesting his attendance at dinner. It wasn’t the words that had intrigued him, however, but how the hell that note had got there in the first place.

  His chambers were always locked or Thorn was present. After all, he did occasionally have sensitive information in the safe. So how had Aideen managed to enter?

  Stealing a glance, he then wished he hadn’t. She looked so very lovely.

  Perhaps dining at home hadn’t solely been curiosity about the note’s placement, but a need to make sure she was well, that her eyes were not sad or hurt by his utterly uncivilised behaviour.

  But she was obviously quite well. In fact, fairly stupendous and currently wittering on about replacing his study chair as it was far too old and uncomfortable for him to sit in.

  Where was the anger he’d expected? The profanities and flashing ire? He’d anticipated nettle patch curses and furious obsidian eyes, but she was so cheerful it made his teeth ache.

  A cerulean gown had been poured over her tonight, the silk tight and revealing, and although the majority of her hair was swept back, two fat coils were draped over her décolletage, ocean black against the luminosity of her skin.

  The current unsettled feeling had arisen when he’d noticed the dark smudges on her neck as she’d bent to pour the mint
sauce. Smudges he’d caused with his lips and teeth.

  He’d taken his wife like a whore and the thought nearly brought up his lamb. Aideen deserved better than him, better than a foul, angry wreck that in turn shouted, ignored and then swived her in a bloody corridor as though she was his next breath.

  Goddamn, she’d looked so sublime last night after his evening of blood and pain, and the past days of intense want had crashed over him.

  Need, possession and all the sentiments he’d vowed never to feel for Aideen had surged as she’d stood her ground before him, wilfully declining to return to her bedchamber.

  All this time, he’d tried so hard to stay away. To stand firm for her own safety, to live their lives apart, but one look from those coal eyes and all his vows had fled.

  But throughout this self-admonishment, a part of him – located south of his belly but north of his knees – affirmed how very good it had been. How tight and eager her body had felt. How he himself hadn’t escaped unmarked as his neck still tingled from those sharp nails.

  That was no excuse, however. His lie of not wanting her especially had no excuse.

  “Can we acquire a puppy?”

  Aideen’s eyes were wide with artlessness as he shook his noggin to clear it. What?

  “I want a puppy. Please, husband of mine. Uncle Seamus has forever kept dogs and I miss them. Their wiggly tails and cute snuffle wuffs and–”

  “I beg your pardon?” he spluttered. He never spluttered. Spluttering was for callow youths and men without teeth. But then it wasn’t every day your little fire of a wife, who ought to be spitting venom, requested a puppy and waffled on about…snuffle wuffs?

  “I’d like one. I thought you may have friends with some pups.” She smiled, face open, and he felt instantly on guard. What was she up to?

  “I do not have any friends.” He didn’t mean that. Well, he did but he didn’t mean to say it.

  “I see you talking to people at balls.”

  “They are acquaintances. Aideen–”

  “Well, can you ask them?” she pleaded. “I think a puppy would enliven this echoing place a little. Have you tried the mint sauce, by the way? It’s divine, so fresh. And I know you like cherry tarts, so–”

  “Aideen. I apologise.”

  Hellfire. In the past year, he’d made more apologies than in his entire life, even filched one from his wife’s favourite book last spring. Considering the circumstances, he could hardly use that Mr Darcy’s again – he’d be cast out for plagiarism.

  She stared, eyes wide, a morsel of lamb held to her lips.

  Gritting his teeth, he continued, “I’d had an awful night, but it was no excuse to…” He tried to think of a word but none were suitable in delicate company.

  “Ravish me?” she supplied. Thankfully she’d dispensed with the servants whilst they ate. “Make passionate love?” she suggested, chewing thoughtfully. “Oh, this lamb is divine. You can almost taste the sweet spring grass, and the potatoes are so flavoursome. Don’t you agree, Your Grace?”

  He didn’t know what Aideen schemed, but she was tangling him in knots.

  Was this her revenge? Talk him to death with superficial chit-chat about food and puppies. Had she been taking advice from Winterbourne? That was his tactic.

  “I was not gentle,” he continued, “and–”

  “Alex,” she interrupted firmly.

  Peering up from his flavoursome potato, he paused, anticipating the worst. He wished she’d just cosh him over the head with her goblet or curse him to the seven dirges of Hades or press her fingers into the knife wound on his arm. Then he’d feel better.

  Aideen licked her lips. “Have some more carrots, they’ve a luscious honey glaze.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  God defend me from my friends; from my enemies I can defend myself.

  Rakecombe speculated if his brain was decaying.

  Last night, after dinner, Aideen had personally seen to the pouring of his brandy in the study, plumped his cushions and heaved off his boots. He felt as if a doctor had called and confided that her husband only had days to breathe before cocking his toes – except no one had thought to inform the incipient dead one.

  There was no other reason why Aideen should still be treating him with such… He hesitated to say sweetness as that had connotations of charm and he had a horrible feeling it was anything but.

  Currently, she was smothering a thick raspberry jam on his breakfast toast. Admittedly, it was excellent jam and divine bread but that was beside the point. He narrowed his eyes and scowled.

  His wife was up to something.

  A pale-pink day dress adorned her this morning and although it was utterly fetching, he didn’t think Aideen was a particularly pink person. Rose ribbons twisted within her hair and she chatted gaily about nothing in particular, ringlets bobbing.

  Normally, he avoided breakfast – for the food and his wife – but after last night, he’d been intrigued as to whether the chef could repeat his success and if Aideen would continue to be so…sweet.

  Yes, to both.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t like this side of Aideen, it was…restful, but so far he’d been forced to bite his lip thrice to prevent himself from provoking, if only to see that rousing flash of temper.

  Another downright incommodious sensation was that he felt wholly unsure of himself.

  Always, he’d known the path he trod, the route he would take, but he was aware the path he’d thought to stomp down when he’d made Aideen his bride might have been…uncharted.

  He couldn’t stay away. That was the truth. He never had.

  Aideen twisted his insides, pureed his brains to syllabub and turned his controlled lust into a rabid beast. And if staying away from her had caused the debacle the other night, he’d have to consider a different course of action.

  The problem was he couldn’t think of one. And that in itself was inexplicable.

  “Would you like more chocolate, dearest Alex?” she simpered, and he ground his jaw.

  If it was a ploy, all this niceness, he wondered who would break first? Aideen or himself? Neither of them had the temperaments for it.

  Well, what was sauce for the goose was sauce for the gander.

  “Thank you, my little leprechaun,” he purred with a malevolent grin. “I do believe I will. And with one more spoonful of sugar, I really cannot get enough, my cherished cherry.”

  She smiled, but he detected a curl to the lip as she dumped three spoonfuls in his cup. “Oh, darling Alex,” she chirped, sliding it over, “you must also have a biscuit then. They are Irish and so sweet on the tongue.”

  He nibbled the end. It was rather good. “Thank you, my innocent imp. I do so like an Irish tongue in my mouth. I do beg your pardon, I mean biscuit.”

  Smiling again, Aideen sipped tea, but he noticed she’d purposely veiled her eyes with those dark lashes. He wondered what curses were rattling through that hasty noddle of hers – no doubt they involved sharp teeth, dogs and his tallywags.

  “What are your plans for today, beloved spouse?” she enquired with a Cheshire cheese grin.

  “Busy, my sweet sprite. I am at the House of Lords all morning and then with my steward for the afternoon. I also have to meet Winterbourne this evening, so I’m afraid I shall miss your melodiousness at dinner. And you, my flitting fairy?”

  Was there a flash of disappointment in those eyes?

  “I am shopping for new night-rails.” She beamed, twirling an ebony ringlet around her finger. “I seem to have…torn two of them. Rent beyond repair. Unusable. Have you any colour preference, my cherished husband and master?”

  Hell. The winning shot.

  His lust burned, and he grinned grudgingly in acknowledgement of a superior…master. “Considering I am being buried beneath your charm and benevolence, my effervescent elf, perhaps a reassuring black might be apt.”

  Bottomless eyes flashed at last. “Just so, my beloved Alex darling.”

  Aid
een collapsed back in the breakfast chair, quite at sixes and sevens as Alex darling left the room.

  Who would have thought being nice was so tiring?

  ∞∞∞

  The day had been devilishly dull and Rakecombe wished he was now home, trading sweet nothings with his wife.

  He still had no idea how to reconcile his Crown work with his marital status and keeping his duchess from harm, but something had to give – he was going mad.

  “You’re very quiet tonight, Alex,” said Winterbourne, frowning. “Oh, I should ask, are we on given name terms? I would say so, if we are headed to Charles Street, and… Where was I before I interrupted myself? Oh yes, well, quieter than usual, which isn’t saying much.”

  It appeared Jack had been taking wittering lessons from Aideen – or was it the reverse? There must be some rule fifteen about driving your companion to distraction with meaningless prattle.

  They strode towards Bluey’s home, eschewing the carriage as instructed by the chap’s wife. Jack was even clothed in a dark ensemble for once, although he sported hessians – hardly a covert choice as the swinging gold tassels would be visible all the way from the Tower.

  “Your boots are unsoiled. Gives you away,” Rakecombe grumbled, whacking his cane on his own grubby but eminently comfortable top boots.

  “Brummel told me to clean them in the froth of champagne for shine, but I swear my Miggens drinks the bubbly stuff and spits on them instead. I’ll tell him to rub in some horse shi–”

  “Do you ever feel as though Mother Nature is tossing you around?” he interrupted. Not that he wanted the rogue’s advice, but anything was better than inconsequential babble.

  “Hardly,” Jack said with a grin, “but if you mean in terms of love, no. Ladies enjoy my company. I enjoy theirs. End of story. They never feel anything deeper and vice versa.”

  Rakecombe wondered if that was because the marquess only showed the world his annoying bonhomie and rascal smile, rather than the warrior he’d seen that night in St Giles or the gentleman who’d pledged a fortune to a charity hospital. He considered saying so, but his own life was in too much of a mess to be spouting forth.