A Duke Like No Other

by Valerie Bowman

  She obviously didn’t have much sense. She could have been killed or raped. If not by the chap who’d stolen the spoon, then by him. Of course he was no rapist or murderer, but she didn’t know that. She’d been unwise to leave the party alone. Especially looking like that. Her hair was the deep red of fire. Her eyes were a curious green color. Her face looked as if it had been drawn by a master. High cheekbones, slight winged brows, petal-pink lips that pursed when she was amused. He’d been toying with her by not telling her his name, and he wasn’t entirely certain why. He’d pretended he didn’t know her either, but of course if her grandmother lived here, she was the granddaughter of the dowager Countess of Whitby. It would be simple enough to ask someone and discover the girl’s name.

  The thief sputtered and woke up. Her pushed himself up to his elbows uneasily and lifted a hand to rub the large knot forming on his forehead. “Wot in the ’ell is going on ’ere?” he growled.

  Mark leaned down and braced a hand on his knee. “You have been caught stealing, my friend, and I suggest you hie yourself off before the good lady of this household calls the watch on you.”

  The man’s eyes widened with panic. “It was ye wot ’it me?” The thief scrambled to his feet, his eyes filled with fear.

  Mark straightened and then bowed. “Yes, it was me.”

  The man patted his pocket, obviously searching for the pilfered spoon.

  “It’s not there,” Mark said calmly, leaning one shoulder against the side of the mews, lighting a cheroot, and regarding the chap down the length of his nose.

  “Ye took it?” The man’s face remained scrunched into a scowl.

  Mark pulled the cheroot from his lips. “I gave it back to its rightful owner, who indicated that she might ask a footman to call the watch on you, as I said. I suggest you go.”

  The man took a tentative step backward, eyeing Mark with suspicion. “Ye’re not gonna turn me in?”

  Mark waved the cheroot in the air. “I have better things to do than incarcerate poor people who make bad decisions. I suggest you look for decent work and stop this type of thing. The army is always looking for good men, you know.”

  The man shook his head slowly. “I’m not a good man.”

  “No, you’re not, but you could be. Think about it.” Mark reached inside his coat and pulled his calling card from his pocket. He handed it to the man. “If you decide you’d like to change your life, get in touch. Otherwise, begone.”

  “Thank ye, thank ye, sir,” the servant said. He stooped to gather his bundle from the ground and took off at a lumbering pace around the side of the mews.

  Mark turned around and contemplated the town house. Then he tossed his cheroot to the ground and snuffed it under his boot. He sighed. He would make his way back into the ball. No doubt he’d regret his decision, but he wanted to see the redhead in full light. Would she be as beautiful as he imagined? There was only one way to find out.

  * * *

  Mark shook his head, bringing his thoughts back to the Duchesse de Frontenac’s ballroom and his gaze back to Nicole’s familiar face. Memories were dangerous. They could make you want things that were impossible, like people to be different from who they were.

  “Is she happy here?” he asked, turning his attention back to the duchesse. The words surprised him. He hadn’t meant to ask them.

  The duchesse glanced wistfully in Nicole’s direction. “She spends her time at the local orphanage, tending to the children.”

  Mark furrowed his brow. An orphanage? That was surprising. Was that what Nicole wanted him to think she was doing? Had she asked the duchesse to tell him that? He narrowed his eyes on the duchesse. “And?” That wasn’t all Nicole spent her time doing. He was certain of it.

  The duchesse shrugged. “She occasionally assists the local police with solving a crime or two.”

  “The gendarmerie?” Mark’s crack of laughter shot across the room. “That sounds more like her.”

  “Yes. The gendarmerie are quite thankful and extremely discreet.”

  “Does the comte know what she does?” Mark couldn’t keep himself from asking, again imagining his hands around the comte’s slender throat.

  “You’d have to ask the comte,” the duchesse replied with a wry smile.

  Mark stared across the room at the couple. “Are they lovers?” If he were going to ask a great many blunt questions this evening, he might as well ask the one he wanted to know the most.

  The duchesse clucked her tongue. “Ah, my dear general, you’d have to ask your wife that question, for I am not one to tell such secrets.”

  “The French do love their secrets,” he intoned, his hand tightening around the snifter.

  “Oui,” the duchesse replied, taking another dainty sip from her champagne flute.

  Mark nodded toward Nicole and her band of admirers, staring down the comte. “He wants her, doesn’t he?”

  The hint of a smile touched the duchesse’s lips. “Of course. They all do, but her heart belongs to only one.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  When the comte opened the doors to the balcony, a slight breeze brushed the hair away from Nicole’s forehead. She stepped outside ahead of Henri while he held open the door. She strolled over to the balustrade, braced her hands on it, closed her eyes, and breathed in the heavy scent of lavender.

  The comte’s boots tapped out the sound of his slow approach. “Enjoying yourself?” he asked.

  “Immensely.” She opened her eyes and turned to face him, a forced smile on her lips. “I simply needed a bit of fresh air.”

  The comte tipped his head back toward the brightly lit ballroom. “Is he bothering you? I can ask him to leave if—”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Nicole didn’t have the heart to tell Henri that “asking” Mark to leave would be an exercise in futility. The man did precisely what he wanted, precisely when he wanted to do it.

  “Why has he come?” Henri asked, his light blue eyes probing, his white-blond hair slightly stirred by the breeze.

  Nicole sighed. She opened her mouth to answer just as the doors to the balcony flew open and Mark came striding out, two glasses of brandy balanced perfectly in one hand. With a look on his face that was both smug and confident, he marched up to them and offered one of the glasses to Nicole. “I thought I’d replace that weak champagne with something you’d prefer.”

  She arched a brow at him. “Subtle as ever, I see.”

  Henri tugged on the lapels of his yellow embroidered silk coat and cleared his throat. “Monsieur, the lady and I were having a private conversation and—”

  “And now the lady and I intend to have one.” Mark plucked the champagne glass from Nicole’s fingers, deposited it in the comte’s limp hand, and waved him away. “If you would be so kind as to return this to the kitchens, I’m certain Madame Grimaldi would be thankful.”

  Henri’s nostrils flared. He was no doubt wondering precisely how rude an Englishman could be. Unfortunately for him, he had no clue how impolite and stubborn this particular Englishman could be. Nicole needed to intervene, to diffuse the situation. “It’s fine, Henri. The general obviously has something he wants to say.”

  “Will you be all right?” Henri asked, searching her face solicitously.

  “Oui,” she replied simply, nodding, grateful for Henri’s concern.

  Behind Henri’s back, Mark rolled his eyes. Nicole narrowed her eyes at Mark, but soon the Frenchman was on his way back to the ballroom with both glasses of champagne clutched in his fists, the tails of his long coat flapping behind him.

  Nicole turned to face the darkened lavender fields again. She didn’t want Mark to catch a glimpse of her smile, but she’d asked Henri to come out here precisely for this reason. To see if Mark would follow them.

  She sensed him behind her, as though they stood no more than a pace apart.

  “Thank you for this.” She lifted the brandy glass to her lips.

  “My pleasure,” he intoned. The timbre o
f his voice thrummed through her center.

  She shook away the feeling. He had followed her, of course, but it wasn’t because he was jealous. If he was, it wasn’t about her. He didn’t care about her. He only cared that another man was sniffing around something he considered his. Mark was arrogant and competitive. If the comte had been out here with his cigar box, Mark would have arrived and demanded its return. In fact, if she didn’t mistake her guess, he was probably itching for a fight. She should warn Henri to stay away from him.

  She sighed and settled her shoulders into a straight line. “So, what did you want to speak with me about … alone? I told you I’d give you my condition tomorrow.” She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed speaking her native language. Even though she’d learned French from tutors as a child, English with its crisp syllables and sharp consonants was her first language love.

  Mark turned to face the fields, too. He leaned down and braced his forearms on the balustrade. He was so close their arms nearly touched. The scent of him, his subtle cologne, teased her nostrils.

  “Were you going to allow the comte to kiss you out here?” he asked.

  Her brows shot up of their own volition, but she hid her surprise behind her glass, thankful for the darkness on the balcony.

  She shrugged one shoulder. “Were you going to kiss the butterflies?”

  “Butterflies?” Mark’s brow knitted into a frown.

  “Yes. You had quite a group of young ladies surrounding you earlier.”

  Mark scratched at his jaw, a jaw Nicole couldn’t help but notice hadn’t been shaved since this morning and was slightly stubbled. She remembered how that stubble felt against her—she flipped open her fan and fluttered it in front of her face.

  “Girls aren’t my type. I prefer women.” Confidence dripped from his voice.

  “Do you?” She flipped the fan closed and took a small sip of brandy, trying not to think about the women he’d, ahem, preferred, since last they’d been together.

  “Yes.”

  “Like?” She braced herself for the answer. How in the name of Hera had they got into this dangerous conversation?

  “You.”

  For a split second her breath caught, but then she forced the laughter through her tight throat. “Trying to flatter me, so I’ll agree to your request.”

  He turned his face away from hers and stared out into the fields. “Is it working?”

  “It depends.” Another single shoulder shrug.

  He turned back and studied her, his face surprisingly somber. “On what?”

  “On whether you’ll agree to my condition.” She hadn’t meant for her voice to sound quite so imperial.

  “Which is?” His firmly molded lips quirked into a half smile, but he turned his face back to look at the fields again.

  She blew out a deep breath. “Something I’m not prepared to tell you until tomorrow. I haven’t changed my mind, but I admire your tenacity.”

  He watched her out of the corners of his eyes. “You knew I’d be here tonight, didn’t you?”

  She nodded and lifted her glass to her lips. “Of course.”

  “Is that why you came out here on the balcony with the comte? To make me jealous?”

  She touched her fingertips to one diamond earbob. “Are you jealous?”

  “Excessively so.” He said it with enough of a hint of sarcasm that she wasn’t certain he wasn’t jesting.

  She lifted her chin. “He wants to marry me.”

  He still wasn’t looking at her, but out of the corner of her eye she saw his jaw tighten. “You’re already married.”

  A strange thrill shot through her. She was taunting him, for once. It wasn’t often that one had the upper hand with Mark Grimaldi. “A condition that can be rectified,” she breathed.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Mark watched Nicole saunter back into the duc’s ballroom, her hips undulating as she went. He was hard. Blast. When was the last time he’d even looked at a woman with lust? Over the years, he’d taken himself in hand of course, but that had been a physical act, like eating or sleeping. It had been necessary and he’d always had a vision of red hair and petal-pink lips and green eyes the color of sea foam while he’d done it.

  He turned his back on the ballroom and stared, unseeing, at the darkened fields, his free hand knotted into a fist. Now he knew for certain. Damn it. The duchesse had all but told him Nicole was in love with the comte. She was planning to ask Mark for a divorce. That was her condition. Very well. If that was what she wanted, his only option would be to negotiate for time.

  Would she agree to remain married for one year? Two? A year would be the minimum he could agree to. He needed time to establish himself in his new role. He needed time to work out the details of a divorce, politically. If he spoke to the right people, called upon the right friends, they might be able to accomplish it with little fanfare and hopefully minimal gossip. It would be extremely delicate, and one of them would have to plead to either impotence or insanity. Neither was palatable, but perhaps they could think of something to obtain a quiet divorce. His mind whirled with the possibilities.

  Damn. He squeezed his eyes closed and let his head drop forward. How had he got into this situation? The irony was not lost on him. He had spent nearly two decades of his life in service to the Crown. The Crown had demanded everything from him, his loyalty, his time, his lifeblood. There had been no room for a relationship, much less a marriage. It had been nothing but fortuitous that he and Nicole had become estranged. Had they remained together, no doubt she would have left him for lack of attention.

  And now, now that he’d sacrificed everything for his position, they wanted him to settle down and play the happily married man. It was ludicrous, but he’d known his day of reckoning with Nicole would someday come. He couldn’t escape it forever.

  She had expected a missive informing her he’d been killed. She’d nearly received precisely that. Five years ago. He’d been in a French prison camp. They’d tortured him unmercifully. He’d been on the verge of death. His good friend and fellow spy Rafe Cavendish had saved him. Rafe and some of the other spies had snuck into the camp in the middle of the night, overpowered the guards, and sneaked him out. He’d spent months recovering, a dozen bones broken in addition to his nose.

  He lifted his head again. A humorless smile curled his lips. Yes, he’d sacrificed everything for this work, including all relationships. He couldn’t even have friends. Not true ones. Rafe and his twin brother, Cade, were the closest he had to friends, but even they had to remain at arm’s length. He was their superior. They reported to him. He couldn’t risk getting too close. It was the price he paid for being in charge.

  Nicole had no idea how right she’d nearly been. Every day in that bloody prison camp, he’d thought of the nights he’d spent with Nicole during their short-lived happiness. Those memories had got him through some of the darkest days of his life, but he’d return to the prison camp before he’d admit it to her. She would only throw it in his face.

  He turned toward the ballroom. Leaving his snifter sitting atop the balustrade, he pulled a cheroot from his inside coat pocket and strolled to light it from one of the candles that rested on a nearby table. He sucked the sweet smoke into his lungs and blew it out in a perfectly formed O.

  Nicole hadn’t been who he thought she was when they’d married. He’d quickly learned she was a scheming liar. But in those dark, hellish days in the camp, he’d pretended she was the fresh-faced, intriguing girl he’d fallen in love with, innocent and free. The kind of girl who would run down a thief in the mews and charmingly flirt with a virtual nobody in the army.

  Mark groaned. He supposed it was inevitable, them ending this way, her asking for a divorce to marry the comte. The duchesse said she was lonely. Mark didn’t believe it. There were obviously plenty of men eager for her attention and charms. Perhaps by lonely, the duchesse simply meant Nicole wished she could be free to be with the comte.

  As much as
he wanted to punch him, Mark couldn’t blame the comte. Nicole was gorgeous, intelligent, and full of life. She would be a fine wife … to the right man.

  Mark couldn’t blame Nicole either. She shouldn’t have to suffer through life alone for the sake of a marriage that never should have taken place.

  He crossed back over to the balustrade and downed the rest of his brandy. Everything would be fine. He was confident they could come to some sort of an arrangement that would make them both happy on the morrow.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Nicole stared into her wardrobe, pressing her palm against her cheek. What did one wear to have what was certain to be an extremely uncomfortable discussion with one’s husband, whom one hadn’t seen in ten years? Not counting yesterday.

  She finally settled on a simple pink morning gown with capped sleeves and lace along the bodice. It displayed her décolletage to prime advantage, which was what she liked best about it. Mark had glanced at her décolletage last night. It had been surreptitious, granted, but she’d noticed. And she’d been pleased by it. She wanted to have every advantage in this discussion and she was not above presenting a bit of cleavage to secure the upper hand.

  Her maid helped her into the pink gown. Jacqueline arranged Nicole’s hair into a loose chignon, pulling out a few strands to frame her face, the way she liked it. She placed her family’s set of pearls around her neck and dabbed lavender perfume behind both ears. When they were finished, Nicole stared at herself in the large, wooden-framed looking glass in her bedchamber. Did she look as different to Mark as he did to her? Still himself, but infinitely more appealing with new muscles and a thinner face and tiny lines next to his eyes that heightened the air of authority he’d always possessed. And that crook in his nose that somehow made her want to trace it with her fingertip. Or did she just look aged to him? A former beauty (or so she’d been called) rusticating so long the bloom had worn off.