When the Duke Found Love

by Isabella Bradford

  “March and Brecon?” he repeated. “What do they have to do with this?”

  “Because I cannot disappoint them, either,” she said, sounding determined yet defensive. “Because they are acquaintances of Lord Crump and applaud our match as a most admirable one for us both. Brecon in particular was most helpful to Mama with the legal arrangements.”

  Belatedly Sheffield recalled his first night back in London, and how Brecon had been with Lady Hervey, discussing the betrothal of her difficult daughter. Sheffield had been amused and intrigued at the time. Now, knowing both the daughter and the future groom, he was instead horrified that Brecon’s habitual helpfulness had led to this match.

  “But this is exactly what I mean,” he insisted. “We are all too bound by conventions of our class, and too accepting of marriages that are arranged not from love but from power and economics. Why should you accept Lord Crump if you do not love him?”

  “Because I must,” she said. “Because ladies like me cannot afford to rebel like that, or we will never marry. Because I’ve already done too many things I shouldn’t have, and now only a gentleman as impeccable as Lord Crump can redeem me.”

  He hated hearing the resignation in her words, her acceptance of a fate that seemed unspeakably dire to him. Crump might purify her reputation, but he’d also crush her spirit and rob her of any happiness in life. All that fire and passion he’d tasted in her kiss, along with her wry humor and impulsiveness and beauty, would be completely wasted on a husband like that.

  “Consider Lady Enid,” he urged. “She’s not afraid to break free of her match.”

  “Our situations are entirely different,” she said firmly, but now there was a bitterness in her voice, too. “I love my family and therefore respect their choice. I do not have a gentleman like Dr. Pullings waiting for me, nor would his lordship be nearly so obliging and generous as you are to Lady Enid. No, I will marry him, because I must. I must.”

  He wanted to save her. How could he not? He wanted to be her hero, to tell her he’d find some way to help her free herself of her betrothal, to miraculously do the same for her that he’d done for Lady Enid. But she was right. Her situation was different. Her personality and their intertwined families made matters infinitely more complicated, and he thought again of how the only possible way to rescue her would be to marry her himself.

  Even if he were to pursue such an irrevocable step, she seemed so thoroughly resigned to her fate and so determined to obey her family’s wishes that he wasn’t sure she’d accept. She believed she needed redemption by way of a saintly husband, and he couldn’t offer that, not by half. And there he would be, the dashing Duke of Sheffield rejected in favor of the sour-faced Marquis of Crump.

  He’d be worse than merely ruined. He’d be an out-and-out laughingstock.

  But when Sheffield watched her now, leaning over to welcome Fantôme back to the bench, he knew he wouldn’t abandon her. She might not want him, but he wanted her, and for now that was what mattered.

  “Good dog,” she murmured, smiling at his dog if not at him. In return Fantôme snuffed and snorted with a stick in his mouth that wasn’t the one Sheffield had thrown. Proudly he dropped it at Diana’s feet instead of Sheffield’s, and added a pretty bow as well.

  “Fine fellow,” she continued, reaching out to ruffle his ears as she praised him. “Fine, handsome fellow. If it weren’t for Fig, I’d wish for a dog exactly like you.”

  Sheffield sighed and tried not to think how ridiculous it was to be jealous of his own dog. “Who or what is Fig?”

  “My cat,” she said, running her fingers beneath Fantôme’s collar to make him lean against her knees and groan with pleasure. “She is much like Fantôme, in that she is beautiful only to me.”

  Sheffield sighed again, thinking how woefully low their conversation had sunk that it now dwelled upon pets. On the other hand, he’d gladly grovel like Fantôme if it meant that he, too, could press his head against her knees like that.

  “Fantôme likes cats,” he said. “But then, Fantôme likes everyone.”

  She looked up at him with frank skepticism, her wide blue eyes entirely capable of squeezing his heart.

  “Fantôme can’t possibly like cats,” she said firmly. “Fantôme is a bulldog, and bulldogs kill cats, given half a chance.”

  “Not Fantôme,” Sheffield said. “He can’t even kill a spider. He is the mildest, meekest-tempered bulldog in creation. That is how I acquired him. His last owner—the keeper of a tavern in Boulogne—had hoped to prosper by fighting him in the pits. Fantôme had demonstrated neither interest nor aptitude for fighting, and the tavern-keep was attempting to improve his fighting spirit by whipping him bloody. I was a witness, and bought the dog to stop his suffering, unaware of what a lazy beast I was acquiring.”

  “He was flogging this sweet dog?” she asked, horrified by the story. “Poor, poor Fantôme! Oh, Sheffield, how fortunate that you saved him.”

  That was likely more praise than he deserved, but he’d take it. “If you rub the fur on his back the right way, you can still see the scars. Proof that there are tenderhearted bulldogs.”

  “I accept your proof, though I’d never have thought it possible,” she said, her sudden smile unexpectedly shy. “You are kind, Sheffield. I accept that, too.”

  As if Fantôme understood—and Sheffield was willing to believe he did—the dog pulled himself up on the bench beside him, squeezing in on the far end and forcing Sheffield to move closer to Diana. It was neatly done, and almost, almost sufficient for him to forgive Fantôme for jumping against Diana earlier. With a contented sigh, the dog rested his jaw on Sheffield’s thigh and rolled his eyes upward so obviously that Sheffield chuckled.

  “You see how he is,” he said. “Entirely docile and tame. Pray remember that reputations are often given, not earned.”

  She glanced at him uncertainly from beneath her still-crooked hat. Blast, did she think he was speaking of her reputation?

  “I meant Fantôme’s reputation,” he said quickly, and he was rewarded to see how she relaxed.

  “Indeed,” she said, fussing with her skirts, but somehow in the process managing to slide a fraction closer to him on the bench. There was that single, sudden dimple, a winsome little beacon in her cheek as she watched him from beneath her lashes. “Does that mean that the scandalous Duke of Sheffield is at heart docile and tame as well?”

  He chuckled, as much from the sight of the dimple as from what she said.

  “Docile and tame?” he said, resting his hand along the back of the bench, and incidentally behind her back as well. “No, I fear not. It’s not in my blood.”

  She didn’t move away. She smiled and brushed aside a random wisp of hair that was dancing against her cheek.

  “Perhaps not,” she said. “But you are … kind.”

  Hell. She thought he was kind. Being kind was for elderly tea-drinking aunts. Being kind did not earn invitations into ladies’ bedchambers.

  He kissed her anyway, curling his arm around her shoulders to draw her closer. Almost at once the desire returned to ignite between them, instant, undeniable lust that made him want to devour her. This time he impatiently pushed the hat clear from her head and thrust his fingers into the golden tangle of her hair to cradle her head. Freed of the hat, she tipped her head to one side to make their mouths match more perfectly. She curled one hand around the back of his neck, slipping her fingers beneath his queue to lightly stroke his nape. He’d never thought of the scruff of his neck as being particularly sensitive, but when she touched him there, he felt a startling shudder of excitement race down his spine.

  He groaned as his mouth ground against hers, and at that point it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to slip his hand into that tantalizing opening in her capelet and beneath her linen kerchief. At once he found her breasts rising from her stays, the flesh warm and rounded and even more wondrous than he’d imagined it to be. She didn’t squirm away like some women would, b
ut instead arched into his caress and made a low purr of pleasure that was at once charming and seductive.

  Forcibly he reminded himself that they were on a bench in St. James’s Park in the afternoon, which was not exactly the best place for undressing an earl’s daughter. But when she kissed him like this, he was tempted, sorely, painfully tempted, to forget they were in an open, public place and toss up her skirts and do exactly what he wanted with her—and what she wanted, too, from the way she was pressing her breast into his palm.

  At least he was considering it when Fantôme abruptly leaped from the bench and began to bark.

  He pulled away from Diana, intending only to be interrupted long enough to scold his dog.

  “Quiet, Fantôme, quiet!” he shouted, but the dog was already racing away across the grass toward Lady Enid and Dr. Pullings.

  “No, no, no,” Diana said breathlessly, tucking her kerchief back into her bodice. “Why did they need to return now?”

  “Because it’s the time we agreed, that’s why,” Sheffield said, his mood black. Twice he’d been interrupted while kissing her, twice in less than an hour, which was two times more than any man should be expected to bear. He retrieved her hat from where it had fallen behind the bench and handed it to her. “I expect you’ll want this.”

  “Goodness, yes,” she said. She was twisting her hair back into some semblance of decency, clumsily shoving hairpins in willy-nilly and making it clear even to him that she never dressed her hair by herself. Finally she gave up, stuffing her hair back into her cap and pushing her hat on top. “If Mama or Charlotte ask questions, I’ll have to blame the wind.”

  He loved how she looked, disheveled and flushed, but no mother would ever accept her appearance as having been caused by the wind. “They’d believe that?”

  She sighed. “Do I look that mussed?”

  “Yes,” he said, reaching out to tuck a few last wisps of hair back under her cap. Mussed was far too genteel a word for how she looked. Tumbled would be more apt, even ravished, if they’d had another ten minutes alone. “But you were with Lady Enid the entire time, and that makes for a sufficient explanation.”

  “I trust so.” She glanced back at the two others approaching, making sure they were still out of earshot. “We are even now. I kissed you, then you kissed me, and that last—I believe we kissed each other. But that must absolutely be the last time.”

  He sighed. “You said that before.”

  “Yes, but I mean it now.” Pointedly not looking at him, she drew herself up, sitting very straight and folding her hands in proper ladylike fashion. “It must be that way, Sheffield, for all the same reasons I said before. It must. I hope Lady Enid will not guess that I’ve been kissing you.”

  “She won’t,” he said, not about to agree to never kissing again. “Look at Enid. She’s just as, ah, mussed as you are.”

  In fact, both Lady Enid and Pullings looked much more the worse for wear than Diana and he did, and Sheffield would wager ten guineas that they hadn’t been interrupted by a watchful dog. It wasn’t that their clothing had a certain haphazard air; both of their faces were still flushed, with that drowsy look of satisfaction that Sheffield recognized from his own experience. Clearly the preacher hadn’t stayed up in his pulpit, but had ventured into his congregation, not that the congregation seemed to have objected.

  “I suppose she is,” Diana agreed slowly, less adept than Sheffield at reading the obvious.

  Sheffield smiled. “Ah, loving in the park beneath the wide blue sky,” he said to no one in particular. He stood, ready to greet them. “Good day to you two. I trust you have amused yourselves?”

  “Good day, Sheffield,” Enid said, and she blushed an even deeper shade of crimson. “I, ah, I came across Dr. Pullings whilst walking. He was my brother’s tutor, you see, and I haven’t —”

  “It’s not necessary, Enid,” Sheffield said as gently as he could. “Diana knows all.”

  Enid’s eyes widened with dismay. “All?” she said faintly, her gaze darting toward Diana. “Everything?”

  “As much as I know,” Sheffield said, more honestly than the rest of them realized. Who exactly knew what would make for an interesting discussion? Obviously Enid and Pullings knew about each other, as he did himself. Now Diana also knew about Enid and Pullings, but the latter two didn’t know about Sheffield and Diana—if in fact there was anything to know, which Sheffield had to admit he didn’t know, either. It made his head ache.

  Fortunately Diana had no such reservations.

  “I’m so vastly happy for you, Lady Enid,” she said, rising to embrace Enid and do the instinctive cheek kissing that women used to seal agreements instead of shaking hands. “Now you must introduce me to Dr. Pullings.”

  The introduction was made, with Pullings managing to be courteous, if a bit confused. Sheffield wasn’t surprised. Although Diana was on her best and most generous behavior, a lady as beautiful as she was could leave even a parson in a state of confusion.

  “I cannot tell you how grateful Lady Enid and I are, my lady, and we shall forever be in your debt,” he said, his bow stiff and formal. “You and His Grace together have brought us not only happiness but hope for our love.”

  “His Grace and I have not exactly acted together, Dr. Pullings,” she said, smiling to keep the rebuke a gentle one, “but rather in concert. Pray recall that I am betrothed to the Marquis of Crump, and together is a word that should only link my name to his.”

  Poor Pullings squeezed his eyes shut in mortification. “Please, please forgive me, my lady,” he said. “I never intended to slander either you or his lordship.”

  “I don’t believe you did,” Diana said, glancing back at Sheffield. “I only wished everything to be perfectly clear.”

  She was smiling still when she looked at him, but there was a touch of defiance, too, or was it a challenge? It did seem like a damned curious time to think of Crump. Still, Sheffield smiled in return, wondering what the devil she was plotting next. She could hardly blame him for what had happened here at this bench, for she’d been every bit as eager as he. Hadn’t she said herself that they were even?

  “Perhaps next time Lord Crump can join us, too,” Lady Enid said, eager to smooth the waters as she clung to Dr. Pullings’s arm. “In Sheffield’s carriage, I mean. In the park.”

  “Another time, yes,” Sheffield said blandly. The last thing any of them should wish for was Crump’s gloomy presence, but he’d no wish to go into that now. Instead he glanced at the lengthening shadows across the grass and drew his watch from his waistcoat; the hour was, as he’d suspected, much later than it should be.

  “Nearly five, Enid,” he said. “I fear I must dutifully return you to your home before your father himself comes hunting after us.”

  “I fear so,” Enid murmured, her round face puckered with regret as she clung all the more tightly to Dr. Pullings. “I wouldn’t wish Father to react violently, and yet I fear he’d do exactly that.”

  “Come, Your Grace, let them say their farewells in peace,” Diana said, lightly tucking her hand into the crook of Sheffield’s arm to turn him away. “Lady Enid can join us when she’s ready.”

  Sheffield nodded. “Don’t dally with the good-byes, Pullings,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ve no wish to face Lattimore’s temper. Here, here, Fantôme, you’re included, too.”

  He looked down at the dog, who had seemingly fallen asleep leaning against his leg after his long and busy afternoon of interrupting. Sheffield gave Fantôme a gentle prod to roll him into action, and let Diana lead the way. Generally he didn’t like women who tried to take command, but with Diana he had already learned that she’d be leading him somewhere interesting.

  Besides, her hand on his arm was likely going to be the last opportunity he had to touch her today, and he covered her hand with his, just to make sure she didn’t escape as they slowly headed toward where they’d left the carriage. He liked walking with her. She was exactly tall enough at his side,
and likely because of that unconventional upbringing in the country, she had a long, brisk stride, and she’d no trouble keeping pace with him.

  “You know Lord Clump will never join us,” she said, clearly striving to sound stern and practical again, in contrast to her tousled state. “You’ve said that yourself. Besides, if he did, you couldn’t send Lady Enid off alone with Dr. Pullings. His lordship would never condone such an arrangement.”

  “Never, never, never,” Sheffield said mildly. “I warrant he’d never condone you kissing me, too.”

  Her cheeks pinked again. It was so easy to make her blush, and so charming when it happened, too.

  “I told you, Sheffield,” she said. “That can never happen again. If it were possible and you weren’t part of my family, I would remove you entirely from my life and never see you again.”

  “By Jove,” Sheffield said. “Another never! Your obsession with finalities astonishes me.”

  “Stop it, Sheffield,” she said crossly. “You know exactly what I’m saying.”

  “Perhaps,” he said, giving her hand a fond little squeeze. “But that is not to say that I agree with it.”

  “You must,” she insisted. “You have no choice in the matter.”

  “But I do.” He smiled down at her. “And where you are concerned, I will never, ever say never.”

  “Here I am,” Lady Enid said, hurrying to join them. “Forgive me, but—but it was so difficult to part.”

  “Only for a short while, Enid,” Sheffield said. Mindful that they would soon be near the carriage, he eased his arm free of Diana’s hand and replaced it with Lady Enid’s. “We were just planning our next jaunt when you joined us.”

  Diana shot him a murderous glance. He merely smiled.

  “Oh, how vastly fine of you both!” Lady Enid exclaimed, grateful teariness in her voice. “You’ve made me so happy. I shall never be able to repay you, you know.”

  His smile widened, and he made sure it reached Diana as well as Enid.