The Duke of Danger

by Burke, Darcy

  Lionel tossed him a smoldering glower.

  “I can see not,” West said. “Ivy mentioned things seemed a bit…strained this afternoon.”

  “What did my wife tell her?”

  West snorted. “Ivy and I are not going to play messenger.”

  The footman arrived and poured a glass of whiskey for Lionel, then deposited the bottle on a table near West’s chair. Lionel scowled before taking a drink.

  “I’m sorry things aren’t going well, but take heart. It’s only the first day.”

  The first of a lifetime of days.

  “What were you expecting?” West asked.

  Lionel stared into his glass, tilting it this way and that to watch the amber liquid rise and fall. “I’d be content if we could be cordial.” And what had she ever said or done to allow him to think that was a possibility?

  West had snorted. “Cordial. Content. Sounds like a goddamned business arrangement.”

  “It is.” Lionel took another drink, welcoming the heat that burned his throat.

  West shook his head. “And that’s what you want?”

  No, he wanted to find a wife he could cherish, as his father had done his mother. He’d wanted to have children he could dote upon. Instead, he’d become a killer who didn’t deserve any of those things, and now he was—rightfully—stuck in a marriage that would be cold and empty. And probably very, very long.

  “What I want doesn’t matter.”

  West scoffed. “When did you become a bloody defeatist? If you want a real marriage with her, it’s up to you to try.” He sipped his whiskey and stretched his legs out, crossing them at the ankles. “You could always seduce her.”

  Now Lionel laughed. “Of course the Duke of Desire would suggest that. I, however, am the Duke of Danger.”

  “I’m beginning to hate that name,” West said. “You are not a bad person.”

  Ha, tell that to his wife. He looked into the fire, feeling as dreadful as he had when he’d arrived.

  “Perhaps we should forego our evening’s plans.”

  Plans? Hell, he’d forgotten they’d had actual plans tonight. They were supposed to meet with the Duke of Kendal and some other lords to discuss some bill or other.

  Lionel tossed back the rest of his whiskey. “I’d welcome the distraction. Are we meeting in Kendal’s room?”

  “Indeed.” West finished his drink and set his glass on the table. “You certain you’re up for it?”

  “I agreed to this union with the full knowledge of what it would entail. I will learn to navigate it.” He hoped.

  West’s brows pitched together as he drew his legs in and edged to the front of his seat. “I’m aware of what you agreed to, and I have to say I don’t know how you can commit to a life of celibacy. Unless… Do you intend to be unfaithful?”

  “Is it being unfaithful if your wife has no expectation of fidelity?” Just asking the question made Lionel queasy. This was not the marriage he envisioned. “I’m not sure I can do that.”

  West nodded slowly. “I figured as much. A lifetime is a very long time, however. I wouldn’t fault you for being tempted.”

  “Spoken like the true Duke of Desire,” Lionel said drily. He hesitated before asking a serious question, “If Ivy told you that she didn’t want you in her bed any longer, would you look elsewhere for comfort?”

  West’s nostrils flared. “Hell and damnation, I don’t even want to consider such a thing. I love my wife with everything I am. Without her, without what we share…” He shuddered. “I’d rather die, I think.”

  Lionel’s feelings were similar, but not the same of course. Because he wasn’t in love with his wife. And it was a damn good thing too.

  * * *

  Two nights gone. Emmaline stood in her bedchamber as her maid, Lark, laced her dress.

  If she continued to count each day like a prison sentence, it was going to feel exactly like a…prison sentence.

  But isn’t it?

  No, marriage to Sir Duncan would have been far more distasteful. He would expect things she didn’t want to give. Axbridge expected nothing. Except pleasantness apparently.

  Emmaline didn’t want to think about being nice to Axbridge. “How do you like it here, Lark?”

  “I like it fine, my lady. The staff has been most welcoming. Mrs. Wells is a jolly sort.”

  Yes, the housekeeper was very friendly. Emmaline was inclined to keep her at bay, but wasn’t sure she’d be able to. She’d befriended the staff her whole life. They’d been her playmates and her confidantes, and in many instances—when her parents were away—her family.

  Emmaline turned her head so she could half see Lark. “Has anyone asked you any questions?”

  The maid finished fastening the gown and stood back. “No, but I know they’re curious. I expect Mrs. Wells will work up the courage to inquire.”

  Emmaline smoothed her hands over her skirt. “Then we shall tell her what we discussed—that Lord Axbridge and I are merely getting to know each other.” That would explain their separate bedrooms, if not sufficiently account for their not spending time together.

  Lark, who was a few years older than Emmaline and had stood with her during her elopement, her failing marriage, and Geoffrey’s death, cocked her head at Emmaline. “It doesn’t look like that, if you’ll pardon my saying so. It’s hard to get to know someone when you don’t see them. Perhaps you ought to have a meal or two with his lordship.”

  She had a valid point. Plus, it would be a step toward pleasantness. What on earth would they talk about?

  “You might also consider putting his ring back on,” Lark suggested.

  Emmaline glanced at her bare hand. Perhaps she should. It was just a piece of jewelry. Wearing it didn’t signify anything. “I’m going down to breakfast.”

  Lark inclined her head and began to tidy the chamber as Emmaline left to go the dining room. She’d dined in her chamber yesterday morning but had informed the staff that today she would break her fast downstairs. Then she could decide which she preferred.

  As she approached the stairs, she encountered Mrs. Wells carrying a tray—a breakfast tray.

  “Oh!” The housekeeper came to a stop, her eyes widening briefly. “I thought you were taking breakfast in your chamber. Did I get that wrong?” Her brow furrowed beneath her cap.

  “I told Tulk last night that I would come to the dining room this morning. Perhaps there was a miscommunication.”

  Mrs. Wells smiled. “Well then, let’s just take this downstairs. Go on ahead, my lady.”

  Emmaline started down the stairs.

  “I hope you don’t mind my saying how happy we are to have you here,” Mrs. Wells said.

  Emmaline smiled over her shoulder. “Thank you.”

  “We’re just thrilled his lordship finally has a marchioness.” She laughed. “Soon—God willing—mayhap there will be children too.”

  The last step tried to trip Emmaline, and she grabbed the railing to steady herself. Or maybe it was just the housekeeper’s words.

  “Are you all right, my lady?” Mrs. Wells asked.

  Turning toward the dining room, Emmaline gave the housekeeper a reassuring nod. “Fine, thank you.”

  “I didn’t mean to speak out of turn,” Mrs. Wells said, wincing slightly as they made their way to the dining room. “I’m afraid I’m just so overjoyed that I can barely contain myself. Lord Axbridge had such a close, warm relationship with his father. He’s going to be an excellent parent.”

  He had? Emmaline’s curiosity was piqued in spite of her intent to despise Axbridge. “How long ago did his father pass?”

  “Eight years.” She shook her head.

  They moved into the dining room, and Mrs. Wells placed the tray on the table. She moved the pot of chocolate and the other items from the tray.

  “How did it happen?” Emmaline asked.

  “A fit of apoplexy, I’m afraid.” The housekeeper averted her gaze. “It was very sad.” She brushed her hands on he
r apron. “Can I get you anything else?”

  Emmaline sensed the woman didn’t wish to discuss the matter further and didn’t blame her. Servants weren’t supposed to gossip, and Emmaline oughtn’t encourage it. “No, thank you. And I appreciate you telling me about Lord Axbridge and his father. It helps me get to know my husband.” Suddenly, the excuse she’d discussed earlier with Lark didn’t seem like an excuse. Emmaline didn’t know Axbridge, and they couldn’t possibly have a close relationship. Certainly nothing intimate.

  Mrs. Wells dipped a brief curtsey. “My pleasure. Just ring if you need anything.”

  Emmaline watched her go, then poured herself a cup of chocolate. As she lifted the cup to her lips, a small ball of fur leapt onto the table, causing her to jump. Chocolate sloshed over the edge of the cup and splashed onto the front of her gown.

  “Kitten!” Axbridge’s voice boomed from the doorway. He strode inside and went quickly to the table where the ball of fur—a black kitten with a white spot on its nose and white V over its chest to match—had leapt.

  Emmaline set her cup down and watched as the cat dashed across the table, jumped to the floor, and bounced from the room. Axbridge glanced at her gown. “I’m terribly sorry about that.”

  “I didn’t realize you had any pets.”

  “I didn’t until this morning. I found her in Hyde Park on my ride. She was alone and crying.”

  Emmaline’s heart pulled. He was kind to animals, damn him. “So you brought her home?”

  “I couldn’t leave her there. I see cats in the park from time to time, but they typically run off. Not this one. She actually ran toward my horse, the idiot.”

  “She’s not an idiot. She’s a kitten. And she clearly knew you wouldn’t trample her.” Just as Emmaline knew he wouldn’t. But why would she think that, given what she knew of him?

  He blinked at her, seeming surprised. No more than she was.

  “So yes, now I have a cat. Do you like cats?”

  “In fact, I do. I had a few when I was younger. I miss having a pet, actually.” She suddenly wondered why she hadn’t taken one—or more—in after Geoffrey had died. That certainly would’ve assuaged her loneliness.

  “Then perhaps she should be yours,” he offered.

  “Oh no, I couldn’t. She chose you. Does she have a name?”

  “Not yet. I’m open to suggestions.”

  She took in his riding clothes—snug breeches topped with a bottle-green coat. Gleaming Hessians encased his calves. “Do you ride every morning?”

  “Whenever possible. Do you ride?”

  “When I had a horse, yes.” She missed that too.

  “What happened to it?” he asked, gripping the top of one of the chairs at the table.

  She didn’t want to think about Pearl, her horse, whom she missed desperately. “I had to sell her after Geoffrey died.” She tried to keep the sadness from her tone but failed. In this moment, she struggled to remember why she hated this man when it was Geoffrey who’d caused her pain.

  “I’ll buy you a new one,” he said quietly.

  “That isn’t necessary.” But oh, how she wanted it.

  “Nevertheless, you shall have one. You’re a skilled rider, I presume?”

  “I’ve been riding since I was four years old.”

  “Then I would say you’re a skilled rider.” He looked at her, his blue eyes assessing but warm. It was the longest she’d been in his company without voicing her dislike for him in some way. It was hard to do that to a man who showed compassion to a kitten.

  And so she said nothing, and he simply gave her a nod before turning and quitting the room.

  She exhaled, only just realizing she’d been holding her breath. Picking up a napkin from the table, she dabbed at the chocolate that had seeped into her bodice. She’d need to go up and change so Lark could work the stain out.

  After finishing her breakfast, she stood. Her eye caught a black fluff skirting along the edge of the room, a long, dark tail brushing along the curtains hanging at the windows.

  Emmaline crept toward the kitten while speaking to her in soft, soothing tones. “Well, good morning, kitty. Aren’t you a sweet little thing?”

  The cat paused, her tail twitching slightly. She nuzzled the drapes.

  Crouching down, Emmaline held her hand out for the kitten to smell her. The kitty turned, letting her pink nose lead her. After a quick sniff, she thrust her head into Emmaline’s palm. With a smile, Emmaline petted the soft fur and was immediately rewarded with loud purring. The cat butted her head harder into Emmaline’s hand, provoking her to laugh. It felt good.

  Soon Emmaline was seated on the floor with the cat in her lap shedding black fur onto her chocolate-stained dress. It was the happiest moment she’d had in months.

  Happy.

  Could she find that again? She hoped so.

  She realized in that moment she had to try. She could’ve simply left the dining room without addressing the cat, but she hadn’t. She needed to do the same with her life.

  She was a marchioness who didn’t have to fret about her future. The world was before her—she only needed to decide what to do next.

  Chapter 6

  Lionel nodded at the footman as he walked into his town house late that night. He’d gone to the club where he’d spent the evening playing cards with West and the Earls of Dartford and Sutton. They’d also been joined for a while by the Earl of Knighton, whom Lionel had met several times. He was expecting a child soon with his new wife, and between him and the others, the aura of marital bliss in the room had been nearly enough to make Lionel gag. He’d compensated by beating them all handily and taking their money.

  He strode toward his office, intent on a final glass of whiskey before bed, but nearly tripped over the threshold as he beheld Emmaline. She stood with the kitten cradled in her arms, staring up at the bookshelf.

  He made a small sound to signify his presence, causing her to turn. She wore a dressing gown that covered her from collarbone to toe. Her blonde hair was gathered into a single plait that fell over her shoulder. Her eyes gleamed like sapphires in the dim light offered by the sconces on the walls and the coals burning low in the grate.

  “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I see she’s claimed you.” He nodded toward the kitten.

  Emmaline stroked the cat’s head. “Yes, she’s barely left my side except to run in the garden for a bit.”

  Was she being…nice to him? She wasn’t being cold, and that was an improvement. “I’m glad to see you have a friend here.” He’d be her friend too, if she’d let him.

  Friend.

  The words West had thrown back at him the night before bounced in his head: content, cordial. Now friend. This was some marriage. But it was, unfortunately, precisely what he’d agreed to. However, when she didn’t immediately leave, he felt a tug of optimism.

  She glanced back at the bookshelf. “I don’t suppose you could reach a book for me? I’m afraid I’m not tall enough.”

  “Certainly.” He moved past her to the bookshelf. “Which one?”

  “A Vindication of the Rights of Woman.”

  He arched a brow at her, fascinated by her choice. “Have you read it before?”

  “I tried, but my mother said it was nonsense and took it away.”

  He reached up and pulled the tome from the shelf. Turning to hand it to her, he paused since her arms were full of kitten. She shifted the creature and held out her right hand. He placed the book in her grip.

  “Thank you.”

  He expected her to leave, but she surprised him further by pivoting toward the mantel and inclining her head toward his father’s portrait. “That’s your father?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mrs. Wells told me he died several years ago of an apoplectic fit. That must have been difficult.”

  Now she was actually being nice. He stared at her, uncertain how to proceed, but liking this eminently more than any of their previous interactions, and that included th
eir wedding ceremony.

  “It was rather shocking,” Lionel said, working to keep the memory sufficiently at bay since he detested thinking of it. He focused on the portrait. While it was a good likeness, it couldn’t possibly capture his father’s spirit—his wit, his warmth, the laughter that was always just beneath the surface, ready to explode and light up a room. “I miss him still. I imagine I’ll miss him forever.”

  The kitten squirmed and jumped from her arms, going to the hearth, where she flopped onto the carpet and began to groom herself. “He was a good father, then?” Emmaline asked.

  “The very best. He—and my mother—were much more involved in my upbringing than most parents, I think. My mother wasn’t able to carry more children after I was born, so they showered me with attention.”

  “I can’t imagine what that’s like. What did they do?”

  He went to his desk and perched on the edge, stretching his legs out in front of him. “So many things. We spent summers at Axbridge Hall in Wiltshire and always journeyed to Cornwall, which was one of their favorite places. We loved to sit on the beach and watch the ocean. My father taught me to ride and hunt, while my mother taught me to read and appreciate art.”

  “They sound wonderful.”

  He heard a wistful quality to her statement. Crossing his arms over his chest, he peered at her with interest. “Your parents weren’t like that?”

  “As you said, your parents were more involved than most. I’d argue they were a complete anomaly, at least in my experience and that of my friends.”

  “I do think I benefitted from being the only child.”

  “Alas, I did not, but then I wasn’t the only child. However, my siblings are all much older. My parents thought they were finished bearing children, but I surprised them. To say they weren’t enthused about having another child, particularly a fourth girl, would probably be understating the matter.”

  “Did they treat you poorly?”

  “No, that would require paying me attention, which they rarely did. When I became of marriageable age, I began to interest them, but only insofar as who I might marry. My sisters all married well enough—one is wed to a viscount—but they had high hopes for me, especially when I attracted the eye of the Earl of Sutton. When that didn’t result in a match, they started to see me as a liability.”