The Reluctant Duke

by Blaise Kilgallen

  Caroline would rather go on with her life alone than drown in a melancholy sea of unhappiness when the duke grew tired or bored and left her for another, as he seemed so frequently to do.

  I’ll never agree to be his mistress. Never, never, never, she vowed.

  Should he even so much as ask, she would be devastated.

  Was it so wrong to harbor a romantic dream? Buried deep, she knew what she truly wanted quite desperately. The same kind of romance and love her parents had shared. And what her dear father wished for her on his deathbed. If she couldn’t have it, she would do without. Therefore, she may as well forget Antonio Thorndyke.

  The Wiltshires joined Caroline and Sir William as they stopped for refreshments. “Who is the lady with the duke?” Caroline inquired to no one in particular. Even if it hurt, she had to know. “What in the world happened to Lady Maribelle?”

  Lady Wiltshire responded. “Didn't you know? Lady Maribelle is no longer the favorite in the race for the duke's proposal.”

  “And,” Trevor Wiltshire informed Caroline with a sly grin, “that is Lady Isobelle Ware. I rather doubt you’ve made her acquaintance. She is what commonly known as a fashionable impure. A courtesan. Fetching piece, don't you think?”

  “Trevor!” his wife, Susan, jumped on him quickly for his indiscreet remark. “Leave off.”

  “Sorry, m'dear.”

  Watching them from a distance, Caroline saw Antonio lean down to Lady Isobelle with a lover-like smile. The lady in question hung heavily on the duke's arm. Caroline abruptly turned her back and placed her unfinished champagne ice on a refreshment tray held by a nearby servant. She had meant to forestall any introductions as the duke approached until she realized what she had done was to cut him and his companion quite rudely.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Antonio quirk a haughty eyebrow at her. He touched his hat brim to the cluster of nobles as Caroline watched his expression tighten. He and the lady strolled by without stopping to chat.

  Caroline felt a bit childish after her action. Nevertheless, had her life depended on it, she couldn’t rein back the jealousy that galloped through her at that precise moment.

  Excusing herself on pretense of finding the retiring room, she threaded her way through the throng. Suddenly, a very familiar voice from behind whispered in her ear.

  “Are you enjoying your evening, Senora Lockler?”

  An icy tone colored his words. Stung, Caroline turned to see if Antonio had the gall to confront her with that awful woman. But he was alone. Swallowing her prideful response, she answered, “Very much so, Your Grace. And you?”

  “Muy divertido. Most enjoyable. When you mentioned tonight’s entertainment, I brought a companion with me. Yes, it’s been…most entertaining,” he replied.

  “And your…er…new companion? She thought so, also?” Caroline blinked. Why did tears try to escape from behind her lashes? She fought hard to suppress them and forced an awkward smile on lips that felt more like a grimace.

  Antonio gazed at Caroline’s face and knew she was struggling with some unknown emotion. But with what? Anger? Hurt? Or could it be…jealousy? No. Surely, that’s quite impossible.

  “The lady tells me our evening has been most gratifying,” Antonio finished with a cool smile.

  “Do you always treat your discarded ladies…so shabbily, Your Grace?” Caroline could have eaten the words, having blurted them without thinking. She earned a fiery flash of his hot temperament when she became cannily aware of her impertinence. Antonio’s chilly smile didn’t reach his eyes flaming with arrogant ire.

  Still Caroline went on to add a worse blunder. “I’m told your newest lady is nothing but a…”

  Antonio’s tone could have chipped ice, chilling her with a closed expression that interrupted her quite curtly. “Nothing but…a what? I want you to explain exactly what you mean, Senora Lockler.”

  Jealousy, painful disappointment, and a touch of righteous anger led Caroline down a path she would have avoided had she been wiser. “I heard she’s said to be a…a…f-fashionable impure.”

  “I see. And what do you suppose that signifies?” Antonio asked, his jaw clenching as he clamped his back teeth together.

  “I…I believe…” Caroline began. “Oh, I don’t know what I’m saying. It's none of my affair, anyway,” she exclaimed quickly, embarrassed and confused.

  “You’re quite correct, Senora.” Antonio’s retort was gruff, uncompromising. “Yes, quite correct. My lady friends are none of your business.”

  His expression was shuttered, his face unreadable. Caroline realized he was furious.

  Antonio seethed with anger. Caroline had dared to reproach him—for things and people—even before he knew her that well. His temper had reached a point where he couldn’t care one bit if he had spared her feelings or not.

  “If you must know, I’ll tell you, Senora.” He gripped her arm, bruising her soft flesh. “Isobelle Ware is an old friend, someone I knew when I attended Cambridge. Her husband was elderly and sickly. He was unable to attend to her…needs. She is a passionate and vibrant woman, now, as well as she was then. Surely, you can relate to that, Caro.” Antonio growled out his words, spelling out quite clearly what needed no explanation. “You, too, were married to an elderly husband. Don’t you crave what you’ve been missing?” he finished with a tart sneer.

  Wrenching her arm out of his grasp, Caroline stepped backward and gasped, shocked by his words.

  Antonio read her reaction and knew he’d hurt her as well as shocked her.

  Abruptly, Caroline turned to leave.

  He grabbed her elbow again before she could do so.

  Caroline hissed out at him, suppressing her hurt emotions. “Take your hands off me and leave me alone, Your Grace. I want nothing more to do with you.” Her voice was as clipped and sharp as the crack of a gunshot. She pulled away from him a second time.

  “Would that I could,” he grumbled softly between tightened jaws. Shaking his head, the duke released her. “Excuse me.”

  With that, Antonio left, abandoning Caroline in the midst of a crowd of pleasure-seekers.

  Staring at his departing back, green fire flamed in Caroline’s eyes. She was almost angry enough to chase after him and pummel those broad shoulders in humiliation and frustration. It would have done him no harm, but it would have given her an immense amount of satisfaction.

  Caroline continued her aborted trip to the ladies’ retiring room. After her bruised feelings were somewhat mollified, she strode back to the group’s box. Astonishingly enough, the duke was just leaving it. He nodded stiffly in her direction but didn’t accost her or speak to her again.

  “Dashed if I didn't finally catch up with the young Spaniard,” Lord Major Rossiter told everyone as they resumed their seats. “It was his father, Sebastian Thorndyke that I rode with when I was following Wellington. I thought as much,” he went on. “Seems the man was so taken with Spain, he decided to return after Waterloo and stayed on. He married a Spanish don’s daughter. Young Weston is the result. Quite a handsome chap, wouldn't you agree?”

  Caroline made no comment. Her insides were still rolling with heated humiliation.

  “Wasn't the young duke’s idea to come to England, y'know, but he has responsibilities to the title and all,” Rossiter continued. “Tells me he raises some foreign breed of horses. Andalusians, he called them. Spanish horses. How about that?” the old Lord Major rambled on, not requiring answers, simply an audience.

  The last act of the stage performance broke into Lord Rossiter's rhetoric, and everyone again turned their attention to the playacting. Caroline unobtrusively peered about her with opera glasses but didn’t spot Antonio or his companion anywhere in the theater.

  The evening progressed nicely after that. The six enjoyed a late supper. Sir William expressed a desire to call upon Caroline, but she explained she’d be leaving London and did not expect to return to Town anytime soon. Not wishing to pursue the acquaintance, she
thought it best to discourage the young soldier from the outset.

  The Rossiters and Lieutenant Foxley left Covent Garden together. The Wiltshires escorted Caroline back to Berkeley Square in their carriage, reminding her they’d see her at the last of the big galas, the Cromley Ball, the following evening.

  * * * *

  Caroline mounted the stairs to her bedchamber with a lot on her mind. She was tired, both physically and mentally, from the day’s events and anxious to crawl into her bed for a night's rest.

  Undressed, her hair brushed and plaited, she was tucked under the covers by her maid. Unfortunately, afterward she lay quiet, unable to escape what kept her awake. All her thoughts were of Antonio. Arrogant, unfeeling, licentious, quarrelsome, puzzling, intimidating, demanding, seductive, sensuous, handsome—the Duke of Weston—the man she loved—with all her heart.

  After analyzing his scorching, improper remark, Caroline realized that Antonio thought she was an experienced widow. He probably believed he’d done her a favor making love to her at the stream, giving her the same erotic favors he happily bestowed upon Lady Isobelle and many others. The nerve of the libertine!

  The more she thought about it, Caroline was convinced the same assumptions were made by others. She’d been married; therefore, it was reasonable that she was no longer a virgin.

  Only she knew it had been Antonio who’d almost stolen her virtue. She writhed under the counterpane, reliving the feelings he’d evoked from her untutored body. Tears of loss and frustration squeezed from under her lids and rolled down the sides of her face, soaking the hair on her temples.

  Still, she yearned to have him kiss her, make love to her.

  I suppose he is with Lady Isobelle, pleasuring her instead of me.

  Jealousy raged through her. She wanted to be the one experiencing his kisses, his caresses, and his whispered endearments.

  God, I want him to do those things to me. I want him so much I cannot bear thinking of him with that woman. What am I to do? How can I end this torture?

  Why did I come to London in the first place? If I hadn’t been here, hadn't actually seen him with his lady friends, it wouldn't have been so bad. Whatever was between him and me would have shriveled up and died by now. But seeing him—even at a distance—or having him touch me and taunt me with his sensual innuendoes is driving me to distraction. If don’t let go of what plagues me, I’ll end in the loony bin—in Bedlam.

  Caroline rolled over and buried her face in the down pillows to drown out the sound of her sobbing.

  I cannot stay in London much longer. Please God, she prayed silently, let it be only one more day. I desperately need to leave—go home where I belong.

  Finally, Caroline fell into a troubled sleep.

  * * * *

  Lady Isobelle watched with a calculated gaze as Antonio roamed around her bedroom; her eyes devoured the faultless symmetry of her young lover. He had removed his jacket, waistcoat, and cravat and wore only a silk shirt and snug trousers.

  “What’s wrong, Tony?” she questioned. “Do I no longer please you?”

  He glanced back at her regretfully. She reclined on a velvet chaise longue, having undressed behind a screen without help from him or her maid and donned a heavy, satin robe. He knew she wore nothing beneath it.

  Older than Antonio by six years, she knew herself still desirable. Her thick, dark hair flared against the white of her shoulders when she took it down. Her pointed nipples, rouged and aroused on voluptuous breasts, were hidden, but evident, under the clinging robe. She was anticipating what her young Spanish stud would do for her as the night went on. She wore the hungry look of a woman waiting to consume her favorite dessert.

  Antonio, on the other hand, felt uncomfortable and hollow. He was searching for the words to tell Isobelle that their brief liaison was again finished. He would tell her as kindly and swiftly as he could. He even thought to make love to her for a last time, but he changed his mind. He couldn’t do it, not now, nor ever again.

  “Of course, you please me,” he lied.

  Antonio wished he were anywhere else but here, in her bedchamber. It wasn’t her fault. Dios! It just so happened that it wasn’t Isobelle’s bed he wanted so intensely to occupy. Nor was she the one he wanted to find in it waiting for him, holding her arms out to him. Only one woman would satisfy him now.

  “You knew our time together would be limited, Belle,” Antonio reminded her. “I go back to Westhaven in another day. There is much to occupy me there. I—I won’t see you again.”

  “Is it because of another woman?” she asked, crossing the bounds of their relationship even as the words left her mouth. “Have you decided to marry?”

  “You know better than to ask me that,” Antonio snapped with a brisk shake of his head.

  Isabelle released a tortured sigh. It wasn’t easy to give him up a second time. After her pox-ridden husband passed to his heavenly rest, she’d been free to take her pleasure wherever and whenever she wished. By then, Antonio had gone back to Spain.

  Determined not to remarry, she had wealth and a bevy of constant and willing lovers—young and old. Then she and Antonio met accidentally again one afternoon in London. She was the one who re-instigated their on-and-off trysts. And she’d enjoyed every minute of them. He was an exceptional lover, the best she’d had for many years. He’d gotten even better since he had more experience. Of course, she had taught him things, too. Her painted lips stretched in a knowing smile. He’d learned quickly how to please a woman.

  Isobelle knew the young duke could pick and choose, and it would take more than a coquettish glance to catch his eye. It was foolish for young chits on the marriage mart to try to snare him. Isobelle knew his moods too well. She’d known him then when he was young. He was a bit jaded these days by the female conquests he’d made since.

  His awesome title made him even more unattainable, and she recognized that she’d never be able to keep him very long. He’d told her that when they met again during London’s Season. She’d been wise not to fall in love with him, although it wasn’t easy. She knew he would never marry her, could never marry her, may not even want her as his mistress. Nor did she wish to be tied to one man. It was enough to enjoy him for as long as he joined her in her bed.

  “Forgive me, Tony.” Rearranging her thoughts, Isobelle smiled thinly. There was nothing but friendship between them, and both of them knew it. Why then was he pacing around her bedroom like a caged lion?

  “By the expression on your face, Tony, when you returned to our box at Covent Garden, I knew something was wrong. Something drastic had changed. You behaved differently…unsettled…upset. And looked very unhappy. What is it? Has someone new caught your eye? A woman who didn’t give you a tumble?” Her eyebrows lifted slightly in question.

  Was he that transparent, or was she too perceptive? Antonio wondered, but remained silent, dismissing her questions with a wave of his hand.

  “Ah well, my handsome caballero. I think, somehow, I’m right. Have you taken the hook, or has she thrown you back into a troubled sea?”

  Isobelle reached out a manicured hand to Antonio and drew him down beside her on the chaise. “Never fear, Tony. You can always come back to me.”

  A final token of esteem encased in a black velvet box drew an end to their recurring relationship. Fondly, Isobelle patted Antonio’s smooth cheek and sent him away without any nasty recriminations.

  Chapter 17

  Everyone who was anyone was there. The Cromleys’ townhouse on Park Place was ringed with carriages of all descriptions. Hal escorted Caroline. The two of them and the Templetons waited in the carriage line for almost an hour. They had finally attained the red carpeted entrance when a footman pulled open the coach door and let down the steps. Simon exited first with Hal following. He reached back to help Caroline, then Genevieve Templeton. The aristocrats approached the awesomely lit entrance bathed with golden gaslight.

  Inside, the foyer was a mass of fresh flowers, placed
strategically along the walls and hanging within recessed niches. Potted trees rode the steps of the center stairway, arranged along the double hallways leading to the ballroom, which stretched across the entire second story rear of the town house. Trees were placed to give one a sense of walking through a garden arched over with greenery. Flowering plants of many colors were massed at their trunks. At the end of the hallway, the aristocrats stepped onto a landing overlooking the massive ballroom. Caroline could scarcely believe her eyes. There were flowers of every size, description and color everywhere the eye could see. The orchestra’s raised platform was made to look like a gazebo. It was surrounded with blooms and potted greenery. Small, trellised archways had been set up here and there around the perimeter of the sunken ballroom with benches and flowers…and more flowers…to simulate a country garden.

  In the midst of it all, numerous gentle sprays of water looped from hidden fountains. Raining droplets sparkled like diamond waterfalls in the bright lights and fell with bubbling sounds into basins ready to catch them. Through magical engineering, water was flung over and over through the warm air. The magnificent crystal chandeliers spread daylight to the furthest corners of the immense room.

  An imposing footman announced new arrivals to the noisy, bustling crowd already in attendance. “Earl of Crestwood and Lady Caroline Lockler. Earl of Bostwick and Countess Bostwick,” he called out. In the receiving line, Lord and Lady Cromley greeted the guests. A waiting footman gave each lady a long-stemmed rose as she entered.

  The four made their way down the carpeted steps and entered the crush of humanity on the ballroom floor. It was a warm night in mid-June. The French doors to the balcony were thrown open to allow whatever errant breezes might cool the heated bodies crowded into such close company. The smell from Mayfair’s streets, combined with heady the perfume emanating from a myriad of fresh blooms, and the fragrances worn by the guests, was almost enough to overpower one’s sensibilities.