Nolan nodded somberly. “I feared as much.” He picked up another sheet. “However, I would be remiss, if I did not at least provide you every reason you should marry me. Or, at the very least, consider it.”
At that romantic request, a shuddery gasp broke from her lips and she buried it in her fingertips. Love for this man filled her as she looked between him and that page.
Then, like the most skilled governesses who’d held her riveted with their scholarly lessons, he carried on. “We laugh when we are together. We aren’t afraid to tease one another, Miss Cunning. Which means we would never have one of those dull, formal affairs where we referred to one another by our titles. Unless you wish to refer to one another by proper title.”
Dazed, she shook her head.
He grinned. “Splendid. May I continue?”
“Please,” she whispered. Her love for him swelled all the more.
He swiftly handed her over that page. She took it with shaking fingers and read the words inked there. Nolan grabbed another sheet. “You’ll never have to give up your scholarly pursuits. I would only ask that you include me when you’re conducting your studies.” He handed over the sheet.
Tears flooded her eyes. She blinked them back, alternating her blurred gaze between Nolan and those beautiful words.
“I’ll teach you how to ride a horse because, well, you really should know how to ride a horse.”
She took that inked promise and lovingly stroked the pledge he’d made there.
“And swimming. Egads, Sybil, you really must swim again and naked,” he carried on, startling a laugh from her. “But only with me. Also naked, of course.” He followed that with a wink.
A shocked gasp filtered into the room from the hallway, momentarily distracting them. They looked to the door.
“Come away, Lady Lovell.”
“But, Lord Lovell, he said…”
Sybil’s father ducked his flushed faced inside the room. “Uh, you must forgive me. You know your mother.” He hastily pulled the door closed behind them.
Sybil stifled the mortified laugh on her lips. “They knew.”
He nodded.
She giggled again. So that was the reason for Mother’s insistence. The viscountess had been correct. “I really must apologize to—” She gasped.
Nolan sank to a knee. “If I were a better man, that interruption from your parents would have bothered me. But I’m not. I’m just a man hopelessly and helplessly in love with you. Asking you to marry me. I—”
She hurled herself into his arms, knocking him back. He collided with the table and Nolan grunted as they came down hard on the floor. “There are more reasons, love,” he said hoarsely, as he levered them up.
“Yes,” she rasped, taking his face between her hands.
“Yes, you’d hear more reasons or yes you’ll marry—?”
She leaned up and kissed him, willing him to feel all the love she carried for him. Nolan drew her close. So much emotion spilled from his eyes, her chest swelled. “I love you,” she whispered.
All hint of teasing and his composed self were gone. He cupped her cheek in his warm palm and she leaned into that touch. When he spoke, his words emerged hoarse. “Again, if I were a better man, I would show you the other list.” He shot an arm out and dragged those pages over. “I would remind you of all the reasons why you should never be with me. But I am not. So I come and ask you to be with me, not just for a winter, but forever.”
Sybil yanked those offending sheets from his fingers. Wadding them in her hands, she tossed the sloppy, haphazard ball aside. “I don’t want a man who is perfect. I want a man who is real and, more, a man who loves me as I am.”
Nolan dropped his brow atop hers. “I would have you no other way.”
Her lower lip quivered. “Nor I you, Noel Pratt. Nor I you.”
“Then, let us seal this bargain with a kiss, love.”
And that was just what they did.
The End
To Enchant a Wicked Duke
By
Christi Caldwell
Dedication
To Sandra Sookoo. My amazing editor. Thank you for being there since the inception of this story and being a remarkable sounding board throughout.
Prologue
Suffolk, England
1807
The Devil had come to claim his due.
The rhythmic click of that very Devil’s cane on the hardwood floors and the slow shuffle of his right leg echoed in the absolute still the shadows wouldn’t brave. From where he stood at the end of the hall, Dominick Tallings clutched his copy of Evelina close to his chest. He ducked his head around the corner and frowned. This is him? He removed his reading spectacles and squinting, tucked them inside his jacket.
This was the man who had Father sobbing from sunup to sundown? Who had Mother shut away in her rooms with the curtains drawn? This was the man who’d ultimately seen Dominick’s time at Harrow ended, and had him called back to Suffolk? All hint of strength his impressive height and broad-shouldered form conveyed, shattered by that limp.
Yet, the stranger walked these halls as though he owned them. Without benefit of the servant, whose escort he’d turned away.
The floorboard under Dominick’s feet groaned in protest, shattering the quiet. The Devil spun with such speed, Dominick froze, immobile. Even with the length of the darkened hall, the soullessness of those dark brown eyes shone bright, glittering with gold—the color of greed and wealth.
The Marquess of Rutland flicked a cold, disinterested stare over his shaking person. Then with precise steps, he continued forward, until he disappeared around the corner. The faint click of Papa’s office door opening and closing signified the late night meeting had commenced.
Heart knocking against his ribcage, Dominick picked his way quickly down the hall, overstepping the worn floorboards given to creaking. Holding his breath, he came to a stop outside Papa’s office.
“You are officially out of time, Tallings.” The marquess’ deadened tones befit the Devil he was purported to be.
“I have a family. A son, a daughter, a wife.” Did that weak, threadbare plea belong to his once joyous papa? “You’ll destroy us.”
“Your family isn’t my responsibility,” the marquess drawled. Ice skittered along Dominick’s spine and he dug his fingers into his book. “Your failings are.”
“Why are you doing this?” Papa begged.
Lord Rutland’s menacing whisper pierced the quiet. “You have until the end of the week to pay your debt.”
The click-clack-click-clack of the marquess’ cane indicated the man moved. Dominick hastily backed away, tripping over himself. He stumbled and the book flew from his hands, sailing through the air, as he landed hard on his buttocks. Pain shot up his spine. The door opened. Ignoring his discomfort, he glanced frantically about as Lord Rutland stepped into the hall and pulled the wood panel shut behind him. The marquess limped closer and closer. And then stopped, towering over him.
Dominick’s mouth went dry.
The marquess flicked a frosty stare over his trembling form. Then, stepped around him. As if he didn’t matter. As if he wasn’t worth the effort to waste a “pardon me” on.
Dominick stared unblinking at the man’s retreating form. “You’re a monster.” Those childlike words echoed off the walls and he cringed as the marquess wheeled back to face him. Fighting for courage, Dominick pressed on. “My father has devoted his life to Tallings Iron and you come here,” he slashed the air with his hand, “and bankrupt my father. Leave us destitute. Without so much as an apology?” Tears filled his eyes. Then, what good would an apology do?
A hard grin split Lord Rutland’s lips. “If you learn nothing else, know this: never make apologies for who you are or what you have done. You may despise me, for actions that your father is guilty of, but I own who I am. Your father has not.” And then with an infuriating dismissiveness, the marquess continued his slow walk down the hall.
A te
ar streaked down Dominick’s cheek and he angrily swiped at it. “Someday, I’ll destroy the people you love,” he vowed. His voice shook with the force of his loathing. Where had that bold threat come from? Where, when fear rolled through him in waves?
The marquess merely glanced over his shoulder. Pain briefly flickered in the man’s eyes and then it was gone, so Dominick was left to wonder if he’d merely imagined it. “I love no one. You would do well to learn now that revenge and hatred will make you far stronger than love,” Lord Rutland said, jerking his chin at him. “You see, I will leave this house and your family and not ever think of you again, and that is where strength comes from.”
With that, the gentleman left.
Dominick remained sprawled on the floor. Afraid to move. Afraid to breathe. He sat with the clock ticking away the seconds.
We have nothing—
From within the cottage, his mother’s quiet weeping penetrated the thin walls of their home. Crying. She was always crying. Had been since he’d arrived home a fortnight ago. Abandoning his book, he shoved to his feet, drawn toward the sound of his mother’s despair. He stopped outside her rooms. Door cracked, the faint glow of a candle spilled into the hall. Seated on the edge of the bed, her back to him, Mama shook like a frail reed caught in a windstorm.
Worry knotted his insides and he cast a look down the hall in the direction of his father’s office. What would happen to her when she discovered Lord Rutland’s demands on Papa? Backing away from her room, he paused outside his sister’s chambers. He pressed the handle and stuck his head inside. Just a year older than himself, Cecily had taken on more responsibilities these past days than any girl ought to ever know.
Mama said we will lose all, Dominick, and Grandfather will have no choice but to take us in.
Her quiet, even breathing indicated she slept, sheltered in this moment from their mother’s sadness. For now, untouched. Dominick pulled the oak panel shut behind him.
An eerie chill lingered in the midnight air. Hesitating, he cast a glance at his chamber door, wanting nothing more than to seek out his rooms and forget about his father’s failing business and his mother’s misery and Cecily’s fears. He wanted to bury his head in Byron’s work and remember how everything had once been…but there was Papa.
With a sigh, he started back down the hall. Dominick rapped once. “Papa?” Silence rang loudly. He knocked again. “Papa?” He pressed the door handle and stepped inside the dimly lit office. He blinked, bringing the room into focus. DripDripDrip. Dominick squinted, his gaze going to the upended bottle of brandy trailing the remnants of the bottle onto the floor. His mouth went dry and he took another hesitant step forward.
Then froze. He stood transfixed in an unending moment of horror.
“Papa,” he whispered, his stomach heaving. The glow of a lone candle cast shadows upon his father’s lifeless body—mouth opened in a silent scream, his eyes bulging—as it swung from a makeshift noose from the rafters. Dominick stumbled inside and then pulled the door closed, locking it behind him. As he leaned against it, borrowing support, he fought to draw in a breath.
Dominick pressed his eyes closed. Don’t look. Don’t look. Because if he looked, it would make it true. His panic mounted, threatening to pull him under.
Stop!
For Cecily and Mama he would have to be strong. He forced his eyes open. Taking pains to avoid his father’s frame as it twisted in the silence, Dominick stalked over to the cluttered desk. His shoulders shook under the force of his tears. He sucked in a shuddery sob and pulled a drawer open. Fishing around inside, his fingers collided with cold metal.
He placed the blade between his teeth and righted the upended chair underneath his father’s dangling body. Scrambling atop the oak chair, he forced himself to look. His eyes met his father’s bulging, lifeless ones. A moan spilled from Dominick’s lips and he quickly snatched the knife. He proceeded to saw the velvet strap used as a makeshift noose.
He’d destroyed Mama’s curtains. Sweat beaded on his brow. As his arms strained under the efforts, he focused on the pain. Anything but the streaks of tears still left on his father’s once-smiling cheeks. The stench of spirits slapped at Dominick’s face. Papa rarely indulged in spirits. Now, it would be the last scent he wore on his person. The cord snapped and Dominick stumbled. With a grunt, he fell over, landing hard on his back. His body muted the fall of his father’s prone form as it came down over him.
A humming filled Dominick’s ears as he stared at the rafters overhead. He is still warm. When did a body begin to go cold? He didn’t know how long he lay there. Mayhap moments. Mayhap minutes. Mayhap longer. He rolled his father’s dead body off and began dragging him over to his beloved leather chair. Sweat stung Dominick’s eyes and blended with tears. His arms strained under the effort of hefting his father’s lifeless frame, and he focused on the hatred that blazed to life. Fueling him. Making him stronger.
Numb, Dominick stared several moments at his once-great hero. With fingers that shook, he closed his father’s eyes.
And as he slipped away from Papa’s now-tidied office, his father’s garments and cravat properly arranged and evidence of his cowardly act largely hidden, Dominick found the Marquess of Rutland was correct. Revenge and hatred would make him far stronger.
He steeled his jaw. And for Papa, he would, one day, have revenge.
Chapter 1
Just outside London
England
1820
There were different levels of evil.
Some men bore that transparent blackness with their every deed, every word. Other men had contaminated souls only the Devil himself could see and know.
Sated and now bored from an endless night of sex, Nick Tallings, the Duke of Huntly, contemplated the cherubs in the mural overhead with jaded eyes. Those plump, winged creatures danced amidst a pale blue sky. Only one foolish fat-cheeked angel hovered too close to the earth, a serpent near its feet. It spoke to the rose-cheeked, smiling cherub’s ultimate finish. He grinned coldly. It was the unsuspecting who were ultimately always ruined. His father had been proof of that. Nick’s smile withered and he swung his legs over the side of the enormous four-poster bed.
Two cream white arms wrapped about his waist. The sultry owner of them pressed her breasts against his back. “Never tell me you’re leaving already,” she breathed against his ear. She flicked her tongue over his lobe. “You are all that is keeping me sane in the country, darling.” There was a faintly desperate entreaty there. Lady Marianne Carew, a lady once heralded as a Diamond of the First Water. How quickly a person fell.
Then, he well knew that.
Nick shoved away her hand. “I’d hardly call East Grinstead the country,” he drawled in frosty tones. He grabbed his breeches and stuffed one leg in and then the other.
The lady flopped onto her back and stretched catlike in her supple grace. Her red-tipped breasts bobbed with that slight movement. “Oh, poo, Huntly,” she pouted. “You know I cannot return to London.”
He did. It enhanced the overall convenience of dealing with a viper like her. Not that he’d any qualms in dealing with sinners whose souls were as black as his own. She had proven a lusty diversion and, more, invaluable in terms of information she’d handed over about the Marquess of Rutland. The man who’d destroyed her family. A shared enemy was a powerful thing. Nick grinned coldly. Apparently, Rutland had missed that particular lesson. “We are done here,” he said, bluntly.
All traces of sleep vanished from her voice. “Done?” she squeaked. The bed creaked with her sudden movement as she shoved upright, a display of carnality in all her lush nakedness.
“We both received what we desired in a partnership,” he said coolly, pulling his shirt on. “And were well pleasured for it.”
The siren, unhappily married to an ancient baron, had provided countless nights of pleasurable diversion. Her usefulness, however, had come to an end. “I have more information about him.” All earlier vestiges of de
speration gone, the husky promise there brought him slowly around.
“Do you?” he asked in deliberately neutral tones. Long ago, he’d learned to reveal little in the way of one’s thoughts or feelings. To give little away. He’d spent years expertly crafting a mask, so that at seven and twenty years of age, it was the only skin he knew.
Marianne climbed from the bed and stalked over with long, languid steps that artfully displayed her well-rounded form. “Lady Rutland delivered her third babe.”
There it was. The information he’d been awaiting. Nick snapped his cravat and set to loosely tying it in a sloppy arrangement that would have had his valet in tears. “Did she?” The marchioness’ most recent pregnancy was what had allowed him to set his plan into motion.
“Ah, but that is not all,” she teased.
“Oh?”
“It was a very difficult delivery. The papers say she almost died in childbirth. And the babe is weak.” A sick desire sparked in the lady’s eyes. As she stroked a hand over her breast, her breath caught.
Her depravity would have repelled a more honorable man. Nick hadn’t been that weak-willed fool in many, many years. “Your information is reliable?” he demanded, impatiently.
“Very,” she purred.
He picked his way around the garments haphazardly thrown about the night prior and grabbed his jacket.
“Surely that excites you as much as it does me,” she wheedled.
It did. But not for the same reasons that drove her madness. Again, she wrapped a pair of long, slender arms about his waist and caressed her clever fingers down to the front of his breeches. His shaft jumped reflexively under her ministrations.
“I see that it does.” Her low, throaty laugh spilled past her lips but ended on a sharp gasp as he gripped her wrist and thrust it away.
A Heart of a Duke Regency Collection : Volume 2--A Regency Bundle Page 113
