Only a Duke Will Do

by Sabrina Jeffries

  He started, then remembered what he had revealed in anger. “I suppose,” he said evasively, bending his mouth to kiss her.

  She turned her head aside. “Why would you spend your youth in a brothel and then…be celibate in India?”

  “I’d had my fill of them by then,” he admitted.

  If she ever learned the full truth about that time in his life, she would know the weakness that remained in him, despite his grandfather’s cursed training. And then she would use it to control him. He had no doubt of that.

  “Most men—” she began.

  “—do not discuss their ill-spent youth with their wives,” he finished. Lifting her in his arms, he headed out of the dressing room. “It was long ago, hardly worth discussing. I sowed my wild oats like every other young man. But now I am old enough to want to sow something more fruitful—”

  He broke off with a groan. “Forgive me,” he murmured as he carried her through her bedchamber and headed for his without pausing.

  She buried her face against his chest. “It’s not you who needs forgiveness. I’m the one who—”

  “It’s fine,” he said tersely, not wanting to think about her sponges.

  “I just want you to know how I regret being a coward and not telling you.”

  “It’s fine,” he repeated. When she winced, he softened his tone. “We can wait a while to have children, sweetheart.”

  Reaching his bed with the turned-down covers, he laid her on it, then slid into it beside her. “But I do want one thing in exchange for my indulgence.”

  She turned toward him, her face instantly wary. “Oh?”

  “No more separate beds, all right?”

  Breaking into a smile, she cuddled up next to him. “If that’s what you wish. I only did it so—”

  “Yes, I figured that,” he cut in, not wanting to hear one more word about how she had been sneaking out to deal with her sponges. “Do whatever you must in your dressing room. Just return to my bed when you are done.”

  A teasing light shone in her eyes. “What if my bed is more comfortable?”

  “Then we will move into your room.” He caressed her cheek. “As long as we sleep in the same bed, I do not care which one it is.”

  That brought a soft smile to her lips that sent his blood into a stampede. Tenderly, she brushed a lock of hair from his eyes. “You are not the sort of husband I expected you to be.”

  Catching her hand, he pressed a kiss into the palm. “Oh?”

  “I never guessed you’d be so…possessive. Not after you had what you wanted from me, anyway.”

  What he wanted from her? He had nothing close to that. What Grandfather had never beaten out of him was his darkest weakness—his craving for the sweet affection and abiding love that he had seen the Trusbuts show each other.

  But that would always elude him. Grandfather had made him incapable of giving love, incapable of feeling anything but lust and obsession. And what woman would show him the love he craved when all he could give her was passion?

  “Does my possessiveness bother you?” He held his breath.

  “Sometimes,” she admitted. Then, with a sensuous smile, she ran her finger down his chest. “And sometimes it arouses me.”

  He hardened instantly. “Does it?” he choked out.

  Her hand dipped down to his abdomen. “Oh yes. I may not have inherited Mother’s need for variety in men, but I certainly inherited her…urges.”

  “Thank God,” he rasped, as he covered her mouth with his.

  Perhaps passion would be enough for them.

  But later, as she lay sleeping beside him and the night stole into the room she had finally agreed to share with him, he stared up into the quiet and once again wished for something more, something deeper.

  Something he knew he could never have.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Dear Cousin,

  I had no idea you were capable of being such a tyrant to your poor wife. Do you even have a wife, or is this the opinion of a bachelor who fancies that he can bully any woman into doing what he pleases?

  Your surprised relation,

  Charlotte

  Two days later, the London Ladies finished interviewing their potential candidates. As Louisa sat with Simon, Mrs. Harris, and Regina in his study, she couldn’t help feeling relieved to have it over with.

  Raji swung about the room from shelf to shelf, but none of them paid him any mind. The same had not been true of their candidates. Simon had purposely kept Raji in the study for the interviews, one of his little tactics for throwing the men off guard so he could get some honesty out of them.

  Unfortunately, the honesty he’d elicited from Mr. Duncombe was rather unexpected. Raji’s antics had prompted the man to make disparaging remarks about the Indians Simon had governed. Obviously Mr. Duncombe had thought to ingratiate himself to Simon with such slurs. Little did he know.

  “Well?” Simon asked her now. “What do you think of them?”

  She sighed. “Obviously Mr. Duncombe is out of the question. I think we can all safely agree that he was…well…”

  “As dumb as they come?” Simon suggested helpfully.

  While the other ladies struggled to hide their smiles, Louisa shot her husband an arch look. “I would have said he showed himself to be—to use Miss Crenshawe’s term—an ‘ass,’ but I suppose ‘dumb’ fits him well enough.”

  Chuckling, Simon turned to the others. “The rest of you agree?” When they nodded, he added, “So Duncombe’s out.” Simon sat back in his chair, but wouldn’t look at her. “And…er…what did you ladies think of Godwin?”

  She scowled. “You know perfectly well what we think, you smug devil. We’re not fools. It was painfully evident that in person, Godwin is too fiery even for my tastes. Fielden was more level-headed and sound in his opinions, by far.”

  “Good of you to admit it,” Simon said, a hint of relief in his voice.

  “How could I not, when Godwin suggested such tactics as our forcibly taking over the prison to illustrate our determination to improve the conditions?”

  “It was an interesting idea,” Mrs. Harris said, gamely defending her friend.

  “It would have got you all shot.” Simon glanced at his wife. “And much as I support your aims, I really don’t want to become a widower just yet.”

  She shot him a look. “Go ahead. You may now officially gloat.”

  “I am not gloating,” he said, though a smile hovered about the edges of his lips. “I am merely congratulating myself for my good sense in marrying such an astute and clever female. And one who is honorable enough to own up to being wrong, even when it pains her.”

  “If you think that flurry of compliments will turn me up sweet…” She gave him a small smile. “Then you are probably right, you cocky devil.”

  “So what happens now?” Mrs. Harris put in. “I’ve never been part of a political campaign.”

  Simon explained the process, then added, “We’ll have to make sure that Fielden’s speeches have the proper focus. And if we get him mentioned in the press—”

  “You keep saying ‘we,’” Louisa put in. “Does that mean you’ll help us?”

  Simon glanced around at their hopeful faces, then sighed. “Yes. I suppose it does.”

  “Good,” she said. “Because he made it very clear that he would only run if you and I throw our support behind him.” And it warmed her heart that her husband would do so. Indeed, his answer had quite astonished her.

  As their political discussion turned to small talk, she admitted that Simon had been astonishing her often of late. First there’d been his shocking agreement to her sponges. Then his adept handling of the interviews and amazing willingness to help them with their campaign. What was she to make of it?

  It contrasted sharply with the darker side of him she sometimes saw, like when he left their bed to spend hours hunting through letters. His obsession with finding out the truth about Mr. Hunt was disturbing. She began to think it
was more than just his way of atoning for his perceived error. It had to do with thwarting his grandfather, as if doing so would purge some pain in his soul.

  She’d asked Regina about the Earl of Monteith, but Regina could tell her little. The man had apparently only paid attention to Simon. Regina had said, however, that Grandfather Monteith had never spent one minute with Simon without instructing him—how to act, how to stand, how to speak.

  Louisa glanced to where her husband talked with the ladies with his usual easy charm, and a chill struck her. As surely as Simon crafted his whittled creatures, the earl had crafted Simon’s smooth statesman’s manner.

  What she wanted to know was how. By admonishing him? Or by using some other darker method? Simon clearly despised him, so the man must have done something to him. Why else did Simon sometimes turn into a ferocious creature she hardly recognized?

  Like when he’d exploded in anger in her dressing room. Not that she blamed him for that; any other man would have done the same. But the way he’d taken her afterward, so fiercely, so urgently, had frightened her.

  At the same time, she’d reveled in its wildness. Oh Lord, when he made love to her she became this incredibly wicked creature, wallowing in the secrets of the bedchamber that he taught her.

  She tried not to think of where he had learnt them. Or why he seemed bent on tormenting her with her own desires, bringing her to the point where she craved him so badly, she would say or do anything to gain her release.

  Her only consolation was that she could do the same to him. And often did, even when he cursed her for it. It was as if a silent war of passions raged between them. Was that what marriage was, this stormy and constant conflagration? She hoped not. While it excited her now, she feared it could become wearying.

  Especially once she had a child. She bit her lip. The idea of having a baby tempted her more lately. She still put her sponges in, but she’d begun to hesitate when she did. Only the lingering image of her half sister’s torment kept her from giving them up altogether.

  “Oh dear, look at the time!” Mrs. Harris exclaimed, drawing Louisa from her thoughts. “We have to go! You and I are to meet the toy shop owner at the prison today to show him the first batch of toys.”

  “Drat it, I forgot.” Louisa shot to her feet, then glanced at the clock. “Can we make it there in half an hour?”

  “You can if you take my barouche.” Simon stood, too. “It is already waiting out front for me to go to sessions. I will go with you to the prison, Mrs. Harris’s coachman can follow at his own pace, and once he arrives, I will go on alone.”

  “We don’t want to inconvenience you—” Mrs. Harris began.

  “It’s no inconvenience. I can be late. Besides, I had a part in your project, too. I wouldn’t mind meeting this toy person to see what came of it.”

  “That would certainly help us,” Louisa said, flashing him a grateful smile.

  Simon’s excellent equipage enabled them to reach the prison in record time. Even better, the toy shop owner proved so delighted with the painted soldiers and fancy ladies they showed him—and so impressed by Simon’s involvement—that he said he would carry as many as they could make. Louisa could hardly contain her elation.

  As Mrs. Harris went off to show the owner where the women worked, Louisa walked with Simon toward the gates. She slipped her hand in the crook of his arm. “I can’t begin to tell you how much the London Ladies appreciate your help.”

  “Just the London Ladies?” he said with a teasing smile.

  “Of course not. And I know helping us has upset your plans somewhat, but—”

  “Wait!” cried a voice behind them.

  She turned to see a nurse from the infirmary running after them. “Thank heaven you’re still here, Miss North…I mean, Your Grace.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Do you remember Mrs. Mickle?”

  “Of course.” Louisa had met Betsy Mickle when the woman and her husband had been imprisoned in the ward designated for debtors. Born into gentility and educated well, Betsy had fallen from grace during her youth and ended up in a bawdy house. She’d had a rocky life ever since, although Louisa had thought things were looking up when Mr. Mickle paid off his debts last year.

  “Don’t tell me she’s back,” Louisa said. “Can’t her husband stay out of debt?”

  “Afraid not. They came in this week, with her nigh on to bursting with a babe in her belly. This morning she went into labor, but now she’s doing poorly.”

  “Oh no,” Louisa said, her stomach sinking.

  The nurse shook her head sadly. “The babe is turned the wrong way ’round. The doctor’s with her and thinks he can set it right, but she’s too agitated to stay still for it. We were hoping you might talk to her, settle her down—”

  “Me? What about her husband?”

  “He can’t bear watching her suffer—they had to send the poor man out. But she was always partial to you. If you could come be with her in the infirmary, she might settle down enough for the doctor to do what he must.”

  “Of course,” Louisa said, but the thought of it struck terror to her soul.

  “My wife cannot do it,” Simon said, laying a hand on Louisa’s arm. “There must be someone else who can go. Mrs. Harris perhaps?”

  “No, I’ll go,” Louisa said. “Really, Simon, I want to do it.” She cast him a game smile. “I need to do it.”

  It was time she faced this fear of hers. For years she’d managed to be busy elsewhere whenever help was needed in the infirmary. For years she’d avoided doctors, even refusing to help Regina at Chelsea Hospital. But if she could put this behind her…

  “Besides, this woman is a particular friend of mine. I can’t stand the thought of her going through this without someone at her side who cares about her.”

  He searched her face, his eyes haunted. “Then I am going with you.”

  “Certainly not. The last thing she needs right now is some strange man looking up her skirts.”

  “Damn it, Louisa—”

  “It’ll be fine, I promise.” She squeezed his arm. “Don’t worry. Just go on to Westminster for your sessions.”

  “I’m not leaving,” he said firmly. “I’ll wait here for you.”

  Her heart gave a little leap. “It may be a while,” she warned.

  “I don’t care.”

  His fierce protectiveness of her brought a smile to her lips. “Thank you.” She stretched up to kiss his cheek. “You’re the best husband a woman could want.”

  She hurried off with the nurse. As they worked their way to the back of the prison, the nurse flashed her a concerned glance. “This is Mrs. Mickle’s first child, you know.”

  “Had she no by-blows when she worked in the bawdy house?”

  “I don’t think she worked there long. She went right to a protector, and then when he proved to be a scoundrel, she was fortunate enough to find Mr. Mickle.”

  “She’d be more fortunate if he could stay solvent,” Louisa said as they entered the infirmary, though Betsy’s fellow really was a dear man. “And now they’ll have a child to feed.”

  At least she hoped they would. As she and the nurse reached Betsy’s bedside to see the woman’s writhing form and sweat-beaded brow, Louisa wasn’t so sure.

  Her first instinct was to turn tail and run. That anyone should suffer this was horrible, but that Betsy, the most good-natured creature in the world, should endure it felt patently unfair. And how could Louisa bear to watch…

  Then Betsy saw her, and any cowardly thoughts of fleeing vanished, for the woman’s face lit up despite her pain. “Miss North,” Betsy breathed, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  Miss North. This probably wasn’t the best time to announce she was now the Duchess of Foxmoor. Taking the chair at Betsy’s bedside, she seized the young woman’s hand. “You didn’t think I’d lose this chance to visit with my friend, did you?”

  The woman managed a shaky laugh, then her face contorted as a
birth pang hit her and she gripped Louisa’s hand so hard she nearly broke it.

  “I’m going to try turning the baby now, Betsy,” the doctor put in. “You have to stay still a bit. Just keep holding onto your friend and talking to her.”

  Louisa didn’t know the doctor, but she’d heard he was reputable. For Betsy’s sake, she prayed that was true and tried not to think of how reputable her sister’s doctors had supposedly been.

  She focused on Betsy’s face and not on the doctor pressing down on her abdomen. “What are you going to name the child?” she asked, doing her best not to show the panic tightening her throat.

  “If it’s a girl…Mary Grace,” Betsy choked out, clutching Louisa’s hand like a lifeline. “And if…a boy…James Andrew. After its father.”

  Despite her aching fear, Louisa smiled. “Those are lovely names.”

  Betsy let out a scream, and Louisa gripped her hand tightly to her breast, praying for all she was worth.

  “Steady now,” the doctor said to Betsy, “the babe is small. That’s good. Makes it easier to turn.”

  “Isn’t there something you can give her to dull the pain?” Louisa rasped as Betsy let out another, fainter scream. “Brandy? Laudanum?”

  The doctor shook his head. “I need her alert so she can push once I’ve got the babe in place.”

  And if he didn’t get that far? No, she wouldn’t dwell on that. She had to be strong for her friend.

  “Now, Betsy, hold still a bit longer,” the doctor murmured, amazingly calm as he pushed and prodded her.

  Louisa glanced over to see the doctor frowning in deep concentration. Betsy had returned to crushing Louisa’s hand, but at least she wasn’t screaming.

  Suddenly, the doctor broke into a broad smile. “I think the little bugger is moving! Hold it…hold it…That’s it! He’s turned!”

  Tears sprang to Louisa’s eyes as Betsy collapsed against the bed with a cry.

  “We’re not done yet, ladies,” the doctor said. “We’ve still got to get him out. You’ve got to push now, Betsy. Push!”