How the Duke Was Won

by Lenora Bell

Manon nodded and plaited Charlene’s hair into a loose braid, tying the end with a silk ribbon.

  “What a strange situation, don’t you think?” Charlene asked the maid. “Thank you for helping me.”

  Manon giggled. “So theatrical, non? Hidden identities, handsome dukes, gowns that give way on cue . . .”

  “I truly thought my time before the curtain was over. Seems I’ve been given one more chance. I mustn’t fail.”

  Manon folded the torn lace-­covered dress over her arm. “Don’t worry, chérie. The duke is halfway in love with you, he just doesn’t know it yet.” She left, shutting the door between the rooms behind her.

  She was wrong, of course. Men like the duke didn’t know how to love. They only knew how to possess. He was a man who took what he wanted, when he wanted it, and brooked no arguments. What would have happened if she hadn’t been able to defend herself when he’d accosted her that afternoon, when he’d been dressed as a footman?

  Had she been the woman who’d caught his eye, or would he have done the same to any of them and she’d merely been the most convenient?

  She had to try to understand what he desired, what would bring him to the point of offering marriage. Play the coquette, or continue provoking him with unconventional behavior? It was difficult to tell which approach would succeed.

  Charlene flopped onto the bed and spread his black tailcoat over her chest. It smelled of freshly cut pine boughs, masculine and woodsy. There was a hint of smoke from the fireplace. The apple tang of expensive spirits.

  She slid a hand down the smooth cotton of her nightgown, under the coat.

  Her fingers moved down her abdomen and lower, between her thighs.

  There’d been a thread tied here. Stretched between her body and the duke’s fingers while he’d played his guitar. She’d experienced every forceful strum and stroke on the strings as if he’d been playing her.

  The wool of his coat scratched her cheeks and lips. His scent surrounded her. His fingers strummed, coaxing sighs from her lips. Her breathing quickened.

  She thrust the coat aside and swung upright.

  She was the one being seduced, damn him. It wouldn’t do.

  She had to remember the secrets a handsome, charming exterior could hide. She’d seen it too many times before. There were girls bearing the mark of Lord Grant’s branding iron on every street in Covent Garden. Charlene had nearly become one of them.

  A man who treated women like livestock.

  Was the duke any different? Assembling a harem to compete for his favor.

  Charlene had to stop thinking he was somehow better. He was an aristocrat, arrogant and controlling. Women were pawns, to be manipulated for his purposes and discarded if they failed to please.

  She must remain strong and in control.

  He had a weakness, and she would find it.

  Tomorrow, Charlene would don her disguise and be the most cultured, alluring debutante the duke had ever met. She would simper, and bat her eyelashes, and reel him in.

  Tonight, in plain cotton with her hair braided, she was simply Charlene. Defensive, ill-­mannered Charlene, who cared nothing for maintaining a slender figure.

  She wrapped one of Lady Dorothea’s soft ivory-­colored pashminas around her shoulders and slipped out of her room and down the stairs. She tiptoed through the cavernous dining hall with its mahogany and bronze sideboards, and out the back door she had seen the servants entering from. She followed a long hallway with multiple doors, taking a few wrong turns before she found the narrow servant’s stairs leading down.

  Charlene swung the kitchen door open and froze. Her candle flame danced over gleaming copper pots, cured meats hanging from wide ceiling beams, and a tall figure looming over the black iron kitchen range.

  It was the duke.

  Chapter 9

  Lady Dorothea stood in the kitchen doorway clad in a thin white cotton shift and ivory shawl, her hair loosely braided and cascading over her shoulder almost to her waist. The candlestick she held illuminated blue-­gray eyes gone wide with surprise.

  “Can’t sleep, Lady Dorothea?” James asked.

  “I . . . ah . . .” She looked like she was going to run away, but then the surprise melted and was replaced by a saucy glint. “I had a midnight craving.” She entered the kitchen and set her candlestick on the table. “May I join you?”

  She smiled. A slow-­blooming smile that unfurled large enough to fill the kitchen and powerful enough to heat the entire estate.

  He couldn’t see anything else.

  He wanted to hold his hands out, warm himself in the heat of that smile.

  It was his turn to stammer. “Of course . . . if you like . . .” He turned back to his pot of chocolate, whisking furiously. He should leave. She was too tempting. Too dangerous.

  One mug of chocolate, some polite conversation, then off to bed.

  Separate beds.

  “What are you mixing?” She stood beside him.

  “My custom cocoa blend.”

  She closed her eyes and inhaled. “It smells heavenly.”

  James stopped stirring. He could see the round swell of her breasts through the thin cotton and wool. Breasts he now knew were the perfect size to fit in his palm. Her long braid was tied with a scrap of blue silk. If he tugged on the ribbon, her hair would come unraveled and spill around her like sunlight tumbling down a well.

  The smell of scorching milk dragged his attention back to the range. He stirred the mixture. Careful, James. You might get burned.

  He cleared his throat, marshaling his thoughts. Yes, they were alone. Yes, she was wearing a cotton shift. Of the thin, transparent variety. But that didn’t mean he had to transform into a lusting beast.

  “Some nights I can’t sleep,” he said. “Drinking cocoa with sweetened milk helps calm me.”

  An understatement. He hadn’t slept more than a few unbroken hours at a time since he’d arrived in England. Always the same nightmare. Mud walls. Smell of damp earth and burial shrouds. Bread. Sour ale.

  “I was too hungry to sleep,” she said. “Mama has me on a strict reducing program. I gained nearly a stone in Italy.”

  You’re absolutely luscious, he wanted to say. Don’t lose an inch.

  “Of course everyone knows that now,” she said with a rueful smile. “After what happened with Lady Augusta.”

  He suppressed a smile, remembering the scandalized reactions of the other ladies. “Indeed. It was difficult to miss.”

  “I’m afraid I ruined the evening.”

  “Ruined? I would say enlivened. Lady Augusta landing on the sofa and then your . . . your—­”

  “My bodice. Ripping.” There was a sardonic edge to her voice. “I’m glad it was so entertaining for everyone. I daresay they’ll be recounting the story of my bodice ripping at Almack’s for all eternity. I shall never be invited back.”

  “Not likely.” He smothered another smile.

  “Oh, go on. Laugh. It was humorous, I suppose.”

  He grinned.

  She smiled back. The intimate, just-­for-­him smile that made him long to do irreparably wicked things.

  No, she was an innocent. There would be no wickedness tonight.

  He crumbled another dark, pressed cake of cocoa into the pot.

  She ran a finger over the spices he’d assembled on the countertop, lingering over orange cinnamon sticks, vanilla and cardamom pods, dried red chili peppers. “I had no idea it required so many ingredients.”

  “On my travels I observed many ways to prepare drinking chocolate. The ancient Aztecs believed the gods granted them chocolate. They forbade women and children to drink it. Priests mixed their own blood with the chocolate and left it as an offering in the tombs of their dead.”

  “Gracious.” She stared at the frothing mixture.

  “No b
lood in this,” he assured her. “Only cardamom and vanilla. Some honey. A touch of chili pepper.”

  She was dreamy-­eyed in the wavering candlelight.

  He reached out, dipped his finger into her braid, coming away with a few stray rose petals. “We might try these.” He crushed the petals and flung them into the pot. “For sweetness.”

  Damn his treacherous body. One touch of her soft hair and he had another situation. At least this time the dressing gown knotted over his clothing provided more coverage. “Fetch those mugs, if you please,” he said, his voice sounding gruff and strained.

  She found two earthenware mugs on a shelf and set them on the countertop.

  He poured the chocolate mixture into the mugs and set them on the kitchen table.

  She reached for a mug.

  “Have a care.” He held out his hand, stopping short of touching her arm. “It’s very hot. Wait a moment.”

  Turning away from the temptation of her bold eyes, he threw more wood on the range, fanning the glowing embers until they licked to flame.

  When he rose, she was sitting on the bench, cradling the mug in her hands. One side of her shawl had slipped off her shoulder, revealing, through the thin cotton of her nightgown, more than she could know. Full, round breasts with impertinent nipples that begged to be kissed. Even a tantalizing triangle of darkness between her thighs.

  Remember what happened the last time you wanted to kiss her?

  Bam! Flat on your back.

  He wanted to do more than kiss her. Wanted it more than he’d wanted anything in a long time. He couldn’t act on those urges, of course. He sat on the opposite side of the table, putting three feet of sturdy oak between them.

  She blew on her chocolate and took a tiny sip. “Oh,” she said as she stared at him. “How delicious. I wish my . . . mama could taste this.”

  “We’ll visit my cocoa manufactory tomorrow. She can sample some there.”

  “Is it a large manufactory?”

  “The hall is still under construction. I have only a handful of workers at the moment.”

  “But you’ll employ many more in the future.”

  “Several more.”

  “Children?”

  “I believe the minimum age in the contract is sixteen.”

  She nodded and the tip of her long braid brushed against her breasts.

  He took a gulp of chocolate and nearly cursed when he burned the roof of his mouth. Served him right. “Why do you ask?”

  “The plight of children in our factories here in England is a sad one. I hear their ears are sometimes nailed to the workbench if they dare to run away.” She shuddered. “If young girls do manage to escape, they are sold and broken like china, and the pieces are swept into the gutter.”

  What did she know of gutters? “Are you involved in charity work, Lady Dorothea?”

  She glanced up sharply, her eyes clouding. “I’ve visited the rookeries. With guards, of course. Such young girls turning to sin . . . it breaks my heart.”

  He regarded her for a moment. She looked impossibly beautiful with her cheeks flushed from emotion and the heated drink. “You’re not at all what I expected. An earl’s daughter, society’s darling, and yet you are so forthright, compassionate, and . . .”

  Fresh was the word that came to mind.

  Fresh like clear river water after a mountain ramble. Like bread still warm from the range.

  Or the scent of newly roasted cocoa beans.

  The duke reached over and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “You’re a thoroughly surprising woman, you know that?”

  The countess would be overjoyed. This was sufficient ammunition to thoroughly compromise Lady Dorothea. Alone with the duke. Wearing nothing but thin cotton and a shawl.

  Shivering more from the touch of his fingers on her cheek than from the chill in the air.

  Charlene had thought he would kiss her when he’d reached over to pluck the rose petals from her hair.

  The candle flame cast striped shadows along his angular jaw and smudged his eyes with darkness as he drank his chocolate.

  Charlene blew on the grainy liquid and took a small sip. There was the semi-­bitterness of the chocolate tempered by sweet honey and creamy milk. The rich red flavor of cinnamon and cardamom and a hint of pepper that half-­burned her throat.

  He watched her reaction intently. “What do you think?”

  “Truthfully? It’s sinful. Absolutely sinful.” She smiled in the seductive way she’d been practicing in the mirror.

  He took a gulp of chocolate without blowing on it beforehand and bit back an oath when it burned his tongue.

  Charlene had rarely tried drinking chocolate, because it was far too expensive. She tasted the promise of his kiss with every sultry sip. He bided his time. But he was also gripping his mug so hard his knuckles had turned white.

  He was going to kiss her. He had to kiss her. It didn’t matter what he was saying. She heard the desire in his ragged breathing.

  “Tell me about your travels.” Charlene was surprised to find herself genuinely interested. She’d never considered traveling. It wasn’t an option for girls raised in bawdy houses with piles of debt, and vulnerable sisters to protect.

  “I’m always searching for the highest-­quality cocoa beans. Like these.” He ripped open a paper parcel that was sitting on the table, and a stream of dark brown, almond-­shaped beans spilled out.

  The duke inhaled, and the harsh lines of his mouth eased. “Venezuelan cocoa. You can’t find that aroma anywhere else in England. It grows on my farm in Trinidad.”

  He ran his fingers through the beans. Shaped them into mounds. “They smell of dense forest. Sunlight filtering through striated leaves.”

  Charlene inhaled the earthy scent and took one of the beans in her fingers. “They grow like this? On trees?”

  The duke shook his head. “No, they grow in crimson-­colored pods longer than my hand. When you crack one open, the thick white pulp is sweet and clean.” He stared into the shadowy corners of the kitchen, his voice going dreamy and low. “Popinjays scold overhead. There is the smell of wet, decaying vegetation and the tart green of new life.”

  As she listened, Charlene could see it clearly.

  “Later, the beans are heaped on banana leaves,” he continued. “Covered with more leaves. They’re roasted in the sun until they ferment and turn this orange-­brown color.”

  He rubbed one of the beans between his thumb and forefinger. A thin husk fell off in flakes. “The inside of the bean is crushed to make cocoa.”

  He held out a small, dark fragment. “Taste.”

  She opened her mouth and rolled the bean on her tongue before chewing. More bitter than the drink, with a smokier flavor.

  “Your description of Trinidad is surpassingly lovely,” she said.

  “Yes. But there is so much evil as well. Even though the slave trade itself has been abolished, the horrors continue on Spanish and British sugar and cocoa plantations. Enslaved Africans labor over eighteen hours a day, eating only charred bananas and rice. Most are forced to sleep on wooden planks, twenty to a small room.”

  “This happens on your farms?”

  “No.” He shook his head vehemently. “The farms I invest in are run by free men and women, working for good wages and an equal share of the profits.”

  A duke with a conscience? Was there such an animal? “I’m extremely glad to hear it,” Charlene said.

  “I’ve been writing a monthly report to Parliament enumerating the atrocities I’ve witnessed,” the duke said.

  His fingers splayed on the tabletop. “Some gains have been made. The Vienna Congress. But it’s only a spattering of ink on paper. The inhumanity continues.”

  He was silent for several moments, staring into the candle flame, his melancholy like a gust of wint
er wind entering through a crack in a windowsill.

  She wanted to comfort him, tell him things would be fine. But that would be another lie to add to her collection.

  “I’m sorry, you can have no interest in these grim topics,” he said.

  “On the contrary, I follow the cause of abolition with great passion.”

  “Really? That’s quite surprising.”

  “Why should it be surprising? I can read. I have a mind. We’re not all featherbrains, you know. We think about more than china patterns and ball gowns.” She stared into the candle flame. “I believe every soul is born free. I’m willing to fight for freedom, no matter the cost.”

  He held up his hands. “I meant no offense. It’s only that men like my late father, and all the other complacent peers, molder in their clubs, carving up the world like they carve a roast. Turning a blind eye to the barbarity being carried out in their names.”

  “Will you take your seat and argue your views in person?”

  He shook his head. “I can’t stay in England, where life is preordained. I’ll only be here long enough to take a wife, produce an heir. Ally myself with a powerful political force like your father who can help lower import duty taxes on cocoa that is produced with no slave labor.”

  So that was why he had chosen this particular group of ladies. For their fathers. It all started to make more sense.

  “You’ll leave Flor behind?”

  He paused. “She will be better off here without me. With a mother to shape her development into a young lady. I’ve no idea what to do with a young child.”

  Death lurked in his eyes, shadowed his smile. He was the last of his line.

  She reached across the table and placed her hand on his arm. He was so in need of comfort. Maybe he didn’t realize it, but she could see the hurt in his eyes, feel his need for connection.

  “Your cocoa is growing cold,” he said.

  She raised her mug and took another sip. Her chemise hitched up over her breasts. When she lowered her arm, she dislodged the fabric a bit more and it slipped down, exposing more shoulder and the curve of her breast.

  He gulped his own cocoa. Set his mug down.