She Tempts the Duke

by Lorraine Heath

  “Mary?” he croaked.

  She smiled in answer, just a soft tilting up of her lips. Familiarity fed a ridiculous notion to speak with her first, to ask how she was, then go in search of his uncle.

  But then he saw the pity in her lovely green eyes, the tears welling. His gut clenched. He had both dreaded and anticipated this moment of seeing her again. And a pain far worse than anything he’d endured on the battlefield pierced his heart.

  He knew what he’d become. Had smashed the mirror that had first revealed it to him. He would have spared her the horror of it, but to expose his uncle he had to expose himself. Just this once, and then he would be done with it.

  “Don’t,” he commanded, barely moving his lips, the force of the word not carrying beyond her ears.

  Blinking back her tears, setting her jaw in a familiar determined manner, she gave a quick nod and squared those distracting bared shoulders. “Your uncle knew only that you disappeared. No one knew where you’d gone, what your fates had been. Speculation abounded that you’d died. Wolves, illness, murder. So many stories. No one knew which was true. But after all this time, the certainty was that you were dead.”

  It was Tristan who laughed darkly, without humor. “Well, then it seems that word of our demise was a bit premature, doesn’t it?”

  Mary nodded. “For which we’re all grateful.”

  Sebastian doubted that his uncle would be as pleased. He slid his gaze over to the party’s hostess. She, too, was gripping the banister now, reminding him of a baby bird that had suddenly found itself shoved out of the nest before it was ready to test its wings. He couldn’t risk taking pity on her, of showing even a hint of weakness. She was the devil’s plaything, and while she might be innocent, she could still prove very dangerous. “Where is he, madam? Where is your husband?”

  She appeared dazed, her brow deeply furrowed. “Playing cards most likely.”

  “Send someone to fetch him.”

  From a well of indignation deep inside her, she regained her equilibrium, drew herself up to her full height, and matched him stare for stare. “See here! I am not to be ordered about in my own house.”

  “It is mine,” he ground out, descending two steps. She released an ear-splitting screech and, with hands fluttering, raced down the stairs. “Lord David! Lord David!”

  Sebastian went down two more steps, heard the echo of his brothers’ boots hitting the marble after his. “I am the true Duke of Keswick. My brothers and I are reclaiming what was stolen from us.”

  “You look like your father,” a gentleman announced.

  Sebastian almost laughed. “I no longer do, but Tristan does. Remarkably so. As my twin, he will serve as proof enough that we are who we claim to be. And I wear our father’s signet ring.”

  He thought the ballroom had been quiet, but if at all possible a heavier silence descended, with the solemnity of a funeral. He had not expected jubilant rejoicing but he’d hoped for a bit more acceptance. He could feel the stares, sense the speculation. He did not like airing dirty laundry before strangers, had considered confronting his uncle in the privacy of his library, but the man had earned a public flogging. This was as close to one as Sebastian could deliver.

  “What the devil is going on here?”

  And at long last, there he was: the usurper. Blustering and lumbering his way through the crowd. By Sebastian’s estimation at least three hundred people were in attendance. When his uncle reached the stairs and looked up, he came to a staggering stop. Sebastian knew he shouldn’t have been, but he was surprised by the man’s appearance. He didn’t know why he had expected him to remain the same when no one else had. His uncle had never been particularly tall, but he was stockier than he’d been in his youth. Obviously he enjoyed the fruits he’d stolen. Rings adorned thick well-manicured fingers. His hair was awash in white. His nose was pointing too high in the air, a man who thought he was owed things he was not.

  “Greetings, Uncle.”

  Lord David shook his head in obvious disbelief before glancing around with wide eyes, perhaps searching for a hole in the floor through which he could conveniently drop. “My nephews are dead.”

  Sebastian did laugh then, although it more closely resembled a bark. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d truly laughed, but he knew it had been before his father died. “Believing your own lies?”

  “I don’t know who you are—”

  Sebastian was down the stairs so quickly that his uncle barely had time to take two steps back before Sebastian’s hand was wrapped firmly around his throat. He heard gasps, a muffled cry, a few clearing throats, and harrumphs, but no one came forward to challenge him. He could only imagine the pending threat that his misshapen face conveyed to anyone who might consider interfering. It would not be tolerated. Not by him, and not by his brothers. He suspected they were silently issuing warnings with their stances. By God, but it seemed each of them had learned to convey menace without bothering with the nuisance of words. A talent that came in handy when confronting one’s enemies—and there could be no doubt that Lord David Easton was enemy to one and all.

  When Sebastian was a lad, he’d thought his uncle to be a towering man, fearsome and invincible, but now Sebastian loomed over him. And he’d not lived a life of ease. His muscles were firm, his body hardened by the challenges of war. He could take a man down with a sword, rifle, or pistol. He could destroy a man with his bare hands if need be. The temptation to do so with this bit of excrement was almost overwhelming.

  “You know damned well who I am,” Sebastian said evenly, although his voice was seething with a fury that threatened to bubble past the surface. He’d known it would be difficult to hold his emotions in check, to act a gentleman rather than a barbarian, but he was rapidly reaching the end of his tether. He should have had a life of few worries, attending schools, being educated in the ways of a future duke.

  Instead he’d had hardship, blood, and horror. His brothers had experienced much of the same. He’d been born to protect them, to care for them, and all he’d managed was to lead them through the gates into hell. He’d let them down. His father would have been sorely disappointed in him, but no more so than he was in himself.

  “We can go before the Court of Chancery if you wish, but one way or another I will hold the titles that my father passed down to me. You can skulk away quietly or you can fight me on it. But let me warn you that I was a captain in Her Majesty’s army. When I have an objective, nothing will sway me from reaching it. Tristan has sailed the seas. You’re nothing to him. While Rafe … well, let’s just say that he knows a dark side to London that terrifies even me.”

  His uncle dug his fingers into Sebastian’s wrist and gagged. His eyes bugged.

  “You have one day to pack up your things and leave. We were given much less time to run from Pembrook with our lives. Take one item that does not belong to you, and Tristan will deal with you the way he saw thieves dealt with in the Far East. He’ll slice off your hands.”

  “And be glad to do it,” Tristan announced laconically, as though the task would involve little more effort than swatting a fly.

  His uncle’s eyes rolled upward. Another gag. A huff. A gurgle.

  Sebastian knew he should release his hold, but he seemed incapable of letting go. This man had been responsible for the last twelve years of misery. In their absence he’d lived the life of luxury that they should have. From them, he’d stolen. In all likelihood he’d killed. He didn’t deserve to draw in breath. He didn’t deserve—

  On his shoulder, Sebastian felt a touch as light as a butterfly’s passing, but it communicated an urgency, caught his attention as shouts and orders would not have.

  “You’re killing him,” Mary said quietly. “After all you’ve endured, surely you don’t want to find yourself led to the gallows now.”

  No, but suddenly what he was doing didn’t bring enough satisfaction with it. He’d dreamed of this moment, anticipated it, and yet it was sadly lacking. His
uncle was not a worthy adversary. He was little more than pond scum. Sebastian flung back his uncle, watched his arms windmill madly before he landed with a hard thud on the floor, sprawled out like an overturned tortoise. “Sunrise, day after tomorrow, I expect you to be gone, Uncle. Then I never want to set eyes on you again. The same holds true for my brothers. Our compassion has reached the limits of its tether. Challenge us on this and you shall see hell unleashed.”

  Glancing around, he saw expressions of horror, confusion, disbelief. And the pity again—when his gaze fell on Mary. The pity made him feel like a vile beast, because he was no longer certain that it was his marred features she took pity on. He feared it was his actions, his words. He’d hardly behaved as a gentleman. He should have called his uncle out, he supposed, no matter how it might have been frowned upon. Although judging by the reaction of the guests, his attempt at retribution was being met with equal disfavor. Not that he gave a bloody damn.

  His uncle deserved to rot in the nearest cesspool.

  Sebastian did little more than give a brisk nod toward Mary before marching up the steps. He strode from the residence hoping he had made it perfectly clear that the Duke of Keswick was at long last home.

  Unfortunately the harder task still lay before him: convincing himself.

  Chapter 3

  What followed was total and complete madness.

  As soon as the brothers disappeared through the doorway a crescendo of objections, protestations, speculations, and assurances rose to a deafening knell. It was all a person could do to think, much less converse.

  Mary stood clutching the banister, because it was the only way to prevent herself from barreling up the stairs after them. What a disaster that would be. Her reputation would no doubt be questioned, possibly destroyed. A lady didn’t go gallivanting after a retreating gentleman, especially one who had behaved as anything but a gentleman, and yet she had so many questions. Where had they been all these years? What had delayed their return until now? What had happened to them while they were away?

  They had grown to manhood, obviously, but it had not been a pleasant journey. With wintry eyes that had sent a chill through her bones, they had each looked so harsh, unforgiving. Not that she blamed them. They’d suffered the worst sort of betrayal. Their own blood had wished them harm, had sought to murder them.

  “I thought they were dead,” Lord David was blubbering now as one of the lords questioned him regarding how all this could have happened. “I’ve not had a word from them in all these years. I’ve served as steward to the duke’s holdings, because my brother would have wanted it. Their distrust and accusations are uncalled for.”

  No, they’re not, she had an urge to shout. You locked them in the tower. Why do that if your purpose was not to kill them?

  Lord David was sweating profusely, fighting for breath, the whites of his eyes clearly visible as he searched frantically around him at those who had once expected him to rise in their ranks.

  “I’m telling you,” he ranted on as though questions had been asked when in truth people were only staring at him. “I’d have not petitioned to gain the title if I’d known they were alive. I did all in my power to find them. They did not wish to be found. Even you all thought they were dead. You’ve heard the rumors. Wolves, disease, murder. How was I to know the truth? Did you know? Did any of you know?”

  Then his wild gaze fell on Mary, and she saw hatred there, directed at her as though he suspected, as though he knew what she’d done. A shiver of dread coursed through her, but she angled her chin defiantly and met his gaze with a challenging one of her own.

  Then he was shoving people aside as though they were all beneath him and did not warrant his regard. “The revelry is over! Go home! Leave me be!”

  He broke through the crowd and barreled down the hallway, his wife of a few months traipsing after him, wringing her gloved hands, squeaking like a cornered dormouse. She stopped, turned to her guests, moved her lips, flapped her arms, and released a distressing moan before turning to chase after her husband once again. Mary’s heart went out to her. She’d certainly not warranted this upheaval to her life.

  She was startled when someone gripped her arm. “What is he to you?” Fitzwilliam asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “The man claiming to be the Duke of Keswick. You looked … enthralled.”

  “Joyous,” she admitted, clutching his hand. “They’re alive. Until this moment, I feared they were truly dead. And it is more than a claim. It is the truth. They are who they say they are. We all grew up together, until they disappeared, but I would recognize them anywhere.”

  At least when they were together. She wasn’t quite certain that she could make the same claim if she saw them separately. They possessed little refinement. There was nothing genteel about them. Their character exuded a roughness, their presence spoke of hardships endured, possibly not all conquered. She had long dreamed of seeing them again, but what she had imagined was not what appeared before her.

  People were shoving past them, making their way up the stairs as the drama seemed to have ended. For now, anyway. She ignored the whisperings and murmurings, giving her attention to the man before her even though she dearly wanted to know what people were saying, what they were thinking. “You do believe them, don’t you?”

  He suddenly appeared uncomfortable. “It matters little what I believe. My title is simply a courtesy. It carries no weight.”

  “Among your friends it does.” And she knew that some of his friends held their true titles. They could be powerful allies, should the brothers need them.

  “Come along,” Fitzwilliam said. “It would be best if we left as quickly as possible. I don’t trust the ruffians not to return and inflict chaos. I’d heard of bloodlust, but dear Lord until tonight, I’d never seen it.”

  “They’re not ruffians and they have a right to be angry. Lord David wished them harm. He was the reason they ran away.” She squeezed his hand, wondering how to make him understand, only she glanced around and saw that people were slowing their step, lingering to hear their conversation. She’d not have the recently returned lords serve as fodder for gossip. Although that ship had sailed, she’d not add to its cargo. So instead she said, “I came with Alicia and Aunt Sophie.”

  “You shall all travel in my carriage.”

  “We have our own.”

  “I don’t like the way that man looked at you. He could be lurking about. Considering tonight’s turn of events, it would be unconscionable for me to allow three ladies to travel without a male escort to see after them.”

  They had the driver and footman but she supposed he didn’t consider servants protection enough. Nor could she deny that she rather enjoyed his concern. “We shall need to find my cousin and aunt,” she told him.

  “I shall see to it posthaste,” he assured her. “Do not leave this spot.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  She watched with fondness as he marched off to find them. He would excel as a husband, always seeing after her needs and wants. Caring for her, protecting her. She could not ask for a more attentive man in her life.

  She pressed herself up against the banister to allow more room for others to leave. There was such a din, everyone talking at once. The ladies’ eyes were bright, and while they tried not to show it, it was apparent they were all tantalized by the delicious events that had interrupted the dancing. And she suspected, by the three brothers who had made their appearance tonight.

  Slowing her step as she passed by, Lady Hermione touched Mary’s arm briefly. “Do you know if they have wives?”

  Mary knew precisely to whom she referred. The question bothered her when she knew it shouldn’t. She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “But you do know them.”

  She wasn’t sure. She knew the boys they’d been, but the men who had been here tonight—

  “I know they are who they say they were: the lords of Pembrook.”

  Lady
Hermione’s eyes sparkled. “Handsome devils. Well, except for the duke, of course. What do you suppose happened there?”

  Mary shook her head. “I really—”

  “Hermione!” her father called out. “Come along.”

  Lady Hermione gave Mary’s arm a quick squeeze. “We shall have tea tomorrow. We simply must talk. The remainder of the Season has the potential to be most interesting.”

  Before Mary could respond, the lady was dashing up the stairs. They’d never had tea together before. Based upon the way other ladies were scowling at her, she wondered if she was suddenly seen as notorious, wondered what people were speculating. She refrained from explaining that they’d been neighbors, that she’d helped them escape.

  “He locked them in the tower!” she wanted to shout.

  Instead, she simply endured the pointed glances and nodded politely as two more invitations to tea were surreptitiously given to her. Suddenly, thank the Lord, her cousin was grabbing her arm and propelling her up the stairs, her aunt and Fitzwilliam following.

  “We have so much to talk about,” Lady Alicia said.

  “I know no more than you at this point,” Mary said as they reached the top of the stairs.

  With the crush of bodies, they didn’t get another chance to speak until they were all safely housed within Fitzwilliam’s carriage.

  “Well, I daresay,” her aunt Sophie began, “that was a rather interesting turn of events. Although I’m not certain I approve of the handling of the matter. Such a public display of family feuding is ill-mannered. The situation warranted discretion and much more decorum.”

  “Come, Mama,” Alicia said. “You can’t deny that it was fascinating to watch and quite dramatic. The lords have such presence. They will be the talk of the town tomorrow.”