She Tempts the Duke

by Lorraine Heath

  “What of her?”

  “My heart goes out to her. You might have been a bit kinder to her.”

  “Twelve years, Mary. There is no kindness left in me.”

  She glanced away and he wondered if she feared what she might see in him if she looked too closely. He had taken to avoiding mirrors whenever possible. It wasn’t so much the scars that bothered him any longer but rather what he saw in his eye. If eyes were truly the window to the soul … he did not fancy what he saw within his.

  “When confronting your uncle last night, you said that you were a soldier,” she said after several moments of reflection.

  “Yes. I did not mean to stay away so long, but there never seemed a good time to sell my commission. Then we declared war on Russia, and to have left then would have shown me to be a coward.”

  “I suspect you were anything except a coward. Shall we sit?”

  She indicated a wrought iron bench. He would have preferred walking, but he nodded and followed her over. In her youth, she’d been a bundle of mischievousness—which was part of the reason she’d uncovered his uncle’s plot. And now she sat on the side of the bench that would give her the clearest view of his mottled flesh. She was no fool, so it had to be a conscious decision on her part.

  “Scoot over,” he said. “I fancy sitting in that spot.”

  He was not facing her directly, knew she had a limited view of him, but she studied him with an intensity that made him think she could see all of him, clear through to the center of his darkened soul. “Were you wounded in battle?”

  He gave one brisk nod. To his horror, she rose and walked toward him. He should have stepped away, but the challenge in her eyes held him immobile.

  “You don’t have to hide from me,” she said, her voice a whisper on the waning breeze. She placed one of her delicate hands on his shoulder, and ever so slowly as though he were a skittish stallion, she glided her fingers up until they rested against his jaw. He could feel the pressure but not the softness of her skin. He wanted to shove his fingers into her hair, tear it down, watch it unravel over her shoulders. The need to wrap his arm around her waist, draw her up against him, press her close until her every curve had made an indentation against his body, and blanket his mouth over hers astounded him. He wanted to get lost in the sensuality of a kiss. He wanted the heat of her flesh to brand him. Even as he had these tumultuous thoughts, he was repulsed by the savagery of his desire. Dear God, this was Mary. She deserved more than uncontrollable lust from him, but he’d not been with a woman since before he was wounded. He longed for the gentle touch, the silky skin moving sensuously over his. He longed to be held, and to hold, to skim his fingers—

  Then he saw the tears welling in her eyes. They achieved what his own thoughts couldn’t, dampening his desire with unerring swiftness.

  “Do not weep,” he ordered through clenched teeth.

  “It must have hurt terribly.”

  Unbearably. If not for his need to reclaim Pembrook, he’d have succumbed to the allure of death. But he’d not admit that, not reveal that weakness, not even to her. “Others were worse off.”

  “Your eye—”

  “It’s gone.” Left on a godforsaken battlefield. Although he had not memory of it or the specific pain that might have been associated with it. The agony had encompassed all of him. It had been months before he’d been able to identify where specific points of pain originated.

  Blinking, she glanced away. “Does it hurt now?”

  “Sometimes it aches, but it is a minor inconvenience.”

  She released a small laugh, filled with sadness and perhaps a touch of admiration. “Spoken like a true soldier.”

  “It is what I am. A soldier. I don’t yet know how to be a duke.”

  She returned to the bench, sitting where she hadn’t before, giving him the luxury of joining her. Once he was seated, she said, “I believe you will make an excellent duke.”

  Better than his uncle at least. “You shall make an excellent viscountess.”

  She glanced at her fingers, steepled them, wove them together. “I shall certainly try. Although I’m not certain you know me well enough to make a claim about my suitability.”

  He realized she was still upset that he’d not visited before now, that he’d left her to discover along with everyone else that he and his brothers had returned. He regretted it, the impulsiveness of it, his inability to trust her now when she had saved him before. He regretted that he’d hurt her, but at the time it seemed the wisest course of action. He couldn’t risk losing Pembrook or his titles. Reclaiming them had filled his life with purpose. “Have you changed so much?” he asked.

  She twisted around to face him. “Have you?”

  Far more than he cared to admit, far more than he wished her to know. In spite of all he’d achieved, he suddenly felt unworthy. Not that she sat in judgment of him, but perhaps she should.

  “Regrettably, I have. But then I suppose the years take their toll on everyone. I’d certainly not expected to find you grown up.”

  “What had you expected?”

  He wanted to laugh like a maniac at how naïve he’d been. “I’m not sure. To step back into the way things were, I suppose. Even knowing it was gone.”

  “Have you been to Pembrook?”

  He saw the sorrow in her eyes, as though she wished she had the power to spare him what he had seen. “Yes. It was like walking through a house of ghosts. Father never closed it up, never draped cloths over the furniture, the statues, the paintings. It was always kept ready. Now it is covered in dust and the hills are barren of sheep.”

  She placed her hand over his bare fist, pressing into his thigh. “Before I came to London I rode to the highest hill on your father’s land, where I could see Pembrook. It seemed so dark and foreboding. I couldn’t bring myself to go any nearer. Not until you returned. Now here you are and I am the one who will not be in Yorkshire.”

  He couldn’t imagine it. A heaviness settled in his gut. All these years, his thoughts had centered around Pembrook, yet it had never occurred to him that he would not hear her laughter echoing over the dales or catch glimpses of the sun reflecting off her hair.

  He could think of nothing to say except that Fitzwilliam was a fortunate man, and he’d already told her that. What the deuce was wrong with him? Why was he suddenly without words, without thought?

  “I’ve strayed from my purpose in coming here.” The words sounded as though they came from a great distance, were not spoken by him.

  “I thought you came to visit,” she said softly.

  “No, I … I came to thank you for your assistance all those years ago.” He removed a small wrapped package from his jacket pocket and extended it toward her.

  He saw the hurt wash over her expression. Was he doomed to always wound her—keeping secrets, withholding his trust, talking only of superficial things, offering gifts for dangers confronted?

  “You do not owe me. My actions that night were done with no expectation of reward.”

  He didn’t know how to respond to her heartfelt declaration. He should have waited until Tristan returned from the docks so he could accompany him when delivering the gift. He doubted his brother would be tongue-tied. He’d make light of it. But Sebastian had not wanted to wait. The truth was he’d wanted a few moments with Mary alone, although for the life of him, he didn’t understand why the yearning had been so strong. Perhaps because she’d been a friend more to him than to the others. Now that she was grown, he didn’t appreciate that they’d noticed the beauty she’d become, or that they’d noticed her before he had.

  “It is only a small token of our appreciation,” he finally said.

  “So, it’s from all of you then?” Now she appeared disappointed.

  He didn’t understand her mercurial moods. He’d known women over the years—many women—but he’d been only interested in determining how best to quickly divest them of their clothes. He’d certainly had no interest in figurin
g out anything beyond that. He felt as though he were lost at sea, drowning in tidal waves of uncertainty. What did she want him to say? He would say it if it would please her, would bring the smile back to her face.

  “Yes. From all of us. I selected it.”

  He must have gotten it right because the disappointment retreated. Thank God. That was troublesome. That he cared about disappointing her. When they were children, he had simply accepted that she’d always be there. He’d never weighed his words or his actions. Now he measured each one and found them sadly lacking.

  His inadequate conversational skills didn’t bode well for his success in finding a woman to marry him. If he wished to place blame elsewhere, he could blame it on his throbbing face or the lingering results from the trauma of his wounds, but he feared the fault rested with something more, some deficiency in him that was doomed to unravel the friendship they’d possessed as children.

  She lowered her gaze, hesitated. “A lady should not accept gifts from a gentleman.”

  “It is from three friends. And we are hardly gentlemen.”

  She lifted her gaze to his. The clover green in her eyes reminded him of the verdant hills of home. He could look forever, and never tire of them. On the top of one rounded cheek, he spotted a bold freckle. He wanted to remove his glove and trace his finger over it. But he feared his errant hand wouldn’t stop there. He would want to touch the whole of her cheek, trail his thumb over her plump lips, especially the lower one that appeared as welcoming as a pillow. He’d had little enough softness in his life, and the temptation to revel in it here was almost beyond enduring. He’d been on the verge of explaining that based on the idle banter Rafe had overheard at his club from those who were at the ball before seeking more wicked pleasures, the brothers were seen as little more than barbarians. But his thoughts toward her exemplified his point. If not for the maid standing nearby, he wasn’t certain he’d have been able to restrain himself. She was such a temptation—sweet, innocent, a beauty beyond measure.

  And she belonged to another man, but that truth seemed to hold him in place rather than cause him to depart as it should.

  “So many of your freckles disappeared,” he said quietly, knowing he was veering from one tawdry subject into another—one that had the potential to be far more dangerous.

  “With you gone, I had little occasion to play in the sun. And then, of course, a lady should never be without her bonnet or parasol.”

  “I rather liked the freckles.”

  She smiled, a ravishing smile that transformed her lovely features into an exquisiteness that was breathtaking. “I abhorred them. And you are a gentleman. You may have come across as somewhat brutal last night, but I believe the situation regarding your uncle warranted it.”

  Her words sent his thoughts careening back onto the path they never should have left. If only his menacing, harsh outlook were limited to last night, but a part of him embraced the brutality as a means of protecting himself. He wasn’t proud of it, but he knew he needed it to survive, to do what had to be done in order to reclaim Pembrook. “Because you’re our friend.” He nudged the box against her hand.

  He could not have been more pleased when she took it, removed the paper, opened it, and gasped. It was a simple necklace that sported nothing more than a small oval emerald that matched the shade of her eyes.

  “Oh, it’s so lovely.” Smiling brightly, she held out the box. “Will you place it on me?”

  He would have to remove his gloves in order to grasp and work the delicate clasp. He was shaken by the immediacy with which his fingers trembled. The thought of them being so near to her skin, of his knuckles touching the silkiness at the nape of her neck—

  He shot to his feet while he was still able to stand without his lower body revealing the errant direction of his thoughts. This was Mary. God, she deserved more than a rutting bull or a man with lascivious thoughts who would like nothing better than to take her behind the rose bushes for a leisurely sojourn into pleasure. She was a lady. Betrothed. Hardly deserving of the beast he’d become. “I’m sure that is a task more suited to your maid. It was a pleasure to see you again, Mary. I wish you well in your marriage.”

  Before she could respond, before he could fully recognize the emotions that might have played over her face, he spun on his heel and slammed into the maid whom he hadn’t seen. Standing on his blind side, dammit. “Out of my way, woman!”

  He stormed from the garden as though the very hounds of hell were nipping at his heels. How could so simple a request have unmanned him to such a degree?

  He was the Duke of Keswick for God’s sake. But at that moment he wished he was back on a battlefield. It was so much easier to fight an enemy that was not himself.

  What the deuce had just happened?

  Mary rose to her feet, stared after Sebastian’s stiff retreating back, and plopped back down in confusion. Had she offended him in some manner? His reaction was the strangest thing. He had been staring at her with such intensity that she’d barely been able to draw in a breath. For the briefest of moments, she thought he was on the verge of leaning in to kiss her. For the briefest of moments, she had wanted him to.

  What a disaster that would have been! Dear, kind Fitzwilliam had been forgotten. Only Sebastian had filled her senses. The size of him, the breadth of his shoulders, the expanse of his chest. The fragrance beneath the cloves that was the true essence of him. He’d always smelled like the heady soil of Pembrook: earthy and rich. For a moment it was almost as though they were there, as though the pain and separation of the intervening years had never happened.

  But they had, and he took great care not to subject her to his scars. Did he really think her so shallow?

  The thought filled her with disappointment, caused an ache to settle in her chest. He knew as little of her as she knew of him. Once again she found herself wondering why her request to place the lovely gift about her throat upset him so.

  “Would you like me to assist you in putting it on, m’lady?” Colleen asked.

  She smiled at her maid. “No, I believe I shall save it to wear at the next ball.”

  “The pink gown with the green velvet trim?”

  “Yes.”

  “It will look lovely.”

  “I quite agree. You may go inside. I believe I shall sit here for a while and enjoy the gardens while I may.”

  “The residence will not be the same without you here.”

  “I shall try to visit. Often. Go on now.”

  “Yes, m’lady.”

  Feeling like an ungrateful wench, Mary watched her go before turning her attention to the assortment of flowers that were blooming in riotous colors. She should find the energy to gather some for her room, but all she seemed capable of doing was thinking about Sebastian. She grazed her finger over the small emerald. She had once felt so comfortable with him. She could have told him anything. She could have bared her soul to him with no regrets. But the man who had visited with her in the garden now—she did not know him. She didn’t know the journeys he had traveled, what challenges may have shaped him. She possessed a romanticized bent that would see them sitting before a roaring fire, sharing every aspect of the past twelve years. But it was only fantasy.

  Their time apart had truly separated them. Now they seemed to be little more than strangers fumbling into an acquaintanceship. They traversed separate paths, the distance between them ever widening. It saddened her to consider they might never truly converge.

  During one horrendous night they’d shared experiences that had created an unbreakable bond between them. They would forever be connected. But a connection did not ensure a snug fit. At that moment, she wasn’t even certain that she liked the man he had become. He was irascible and harsh. She had yet to see a smile, and the laughter he released was more bark than joy. She had always expected the lad he’d been to return unscathed. She feared that nothing of the boy she’d known had returned at all, because she still missed him, still longed to see h
im again.

  Chapter 6

  Lord Tristan Easton liked the way his name now rolled off the tongue. Although Captain Easton was equally as gratifying. He’d been down to the docks to check on his ship and crew and all seemed well there. He hired a couple of extra thugs to keep watch. He did wish that Sebastian hadn’t blurted out that he’d been to sea. He doubted that the Swine—the name with which he’d christened his uncle the first time a cat-o-nine had cut into his back—would have the wherewithal or intelligence to consider that Tristan had a ship and to come looking for it, but he wasn’t above being prepared.

  Now he strode into Rafe’s office and quirked up a corner of his mouth at the sight of his brother at his desk, looming over a mountain of ledgers. Rafe had been such a sniveling puppy as a boy—he favored their mother to such a degree that their father had spoiled him as he hadn’t his heir or his spare—that Tristan had never garnered much respect for him. But he couldn’t deny that somewhere along the way Rafe had acquired an impressive backbone.

  He finally looked up, and it irritated Tristan to have his brother’s impatient glare land on him. It was strange because in their youth he was the one who never had the patience to deal with the younger boy.

  “Has Sebastian returned from visiting Mary?” Tristan asked.

  “Yes.”

  His brother had also become a man of few words. Even when he was into his cups, he didn’t talk. He was successful, Tristan would give him that, but he was an awfully gloomy sort. But then to various degrees, he supposed they all were.

  “Do you know where I might find him? I stopped by his room. He wasn’t there.”

  “He wanted a woman. I sent him to Flo.”

  Flo, a buxom blond with legs that went on forever. “Excellent choice.”

  With a scowl, Rafe returned his attention to his ledgers. He was damned protective of his girls, but then he seemed to be damned protective of everything.

  Tristan wandered into the room. On his previous visits here, he’d been more focused on his brother than the things that surrounded him. Now he couldn’t help but believe that they were somewhat telling. In a corner stood an immense globe on a wooden pedestal. He went over to it and gave it a spin, caught glimpses of every sea he’d ever sailed.