How the Duke Was Won

by Lenora Bell

“Gracious heavens! Is it wriggling?”

  Charlene smothered a laugh. Alice should be on the stage with that natural comedic talent.

  The duke pulled a slender silver flask out of the pocket of his discarded waistcoat and unscrewed the cap. He grabbed Alice’s hair, tilted her head back, and poured something down her throat. She struggled and coughed, but he held her motionless, pinioned with one large arm.

  “This will calm you.” He poured more down her throat. Then he took a large drink himself. “All of you. Have a swallow. It will warm you.”

  Lady Augusta held out her hand with a flirtatious smile, and the duke handed her the flask. She took a long swallow and didn’t even cough. She gazed challengingly at Charlene.

  Charlene took the flask and drank. It burned down her throat and set her empty stomach ablaze, leaving a pleasant aftertaste of peaches. She handed the flask to Lady Vivienne.

  The duke sat down and removed his boots, emptying a brackish stream of water from each. “My valet won’t be happy about these.” He reached into the top of one of the boots and pulled the knife out of what had to be an internal holster. He began carving the peel off an apple with one long, continuous stroke.

  Charlene couldn’t help staring.

  All the girls stared.

  His white linen shirt was still wet and transparent and did more to emphasize than hide the powerful muscles of his chest and his flat, ridged abdomen. There was black hair under his armpits, and his skin glowed dark bronze in the sunlight. She even saw a faint line of dark hair leading into his pale, fawn-­colored buckskin trousers.

  He was a prize specimen.

  They should lock him in a cage at Edward Cross’s menagerie on King Street with the lions and tigers and let all the young ladies have a gawk.

  WILD DUKE IN HIS PRIME, the sign would read. PREFERS CHOCOLATE AND VIRGINS. STAY BEHIND ROPES.

  He’s beautiful, she thought. And then, I want him.

  The longing came from some elemental, undiscovered corner of her mind. She wasn’t accustomed to wanting men. They wanted her. And she’d always vowed never to be owned, never to relinquish her freedom.

  Yet here she was. Wanting.

  It wouldn’t matter what she wanted two days from now, she reminded herself. She would never see the duke again. She had to rein in her emotions. Remember this was a task. A role. Nothing more.

  Seduce a duke.

  Exit stage left.

  She studied her rivals. Lady Vivienne had made a bed of grass into a throne and somehow managed to stay elegant and unruffled even with a mud-­encrusted hem, damn her. Lady Augusta was the type of girl who needed all the male attention for herself. Even now she was wringing the edge of her petticoat, deliberately pulling it higher than necessary to reveal shapely ankles and trim calves, glancing coyly at the duke to see if he was watching.

  He was watching, out of the corner of his eye, with an indulgent smile, like some Ottoman pasha surrounded by his harem. Women must have thrown themselves at his feet and lifted their petticoats all the time. It was his due.

  Charlene narrowed her eyes.

  Wealth, privilege, and beauty. Once again she dearly wanted to wipe that smug smile off his face. With her elbow.

  Alice sat down beside Charlene and leaned in to whisper in her ear. “What did you think of my eel dance?”

  “You’re a wonder,” Charlene whispered back.

  Alice smiled modestly. “I do try.”

  The duke finished peeling the apple and held it out to Charlene with a wicked glint in his eyes, like the serpent tempting Eve. “Try a Golden Pippin, Lady Dorothea.”

  Her breath caught.

  She reached for the apple. His fingers brushed hers, and she felt his touch all the way to her toes.

  He held her gaze as she took a bite. The crisp tartness burst in her mouth, followed by a mellow honey flavor. The other ladies faded away. Without warning, she was back in the kitchen with her neck arched and her breasts crushed against his chest, tasting chocolate and spices on his tongue.

  His lips curved in a lazy smile that said he knew exactly what she was thinking about.

  She lowered the apple from her lips.

  This Eve already knew about sin.

  And she’d do the tempting, thank you very much.

  Chapter 13

  How was James supposed to make a rational choice when every shadowy recess of his mind was flooded with the blinding need to ravish Lady Dorothea?

  In a meadow of purple flowers with her sunshine curls tumbling around bare shoulders.

  That wet shift of hers wasn’t hiding much. He could see her corset through the white cotton, and the swell of her breasts. He didn’t have to imagine what color her nipples were. In the brief glimpse he’d had last night, he’d seen rosy, up-­tilted perfection.

  He wanted to lay her down in the meadow grass and flowers. Tug the shift over her breasts, unlace the corset. Watch her nipples stiffen in the late summer breeze. Close his mouth around one peak and listen to her gasp.

  She took another bite of apple.

  A bee buzzed past his ear. He needed to taste her, the tartness on her tongue, the honey between her thighs.

  She smiled. A new variety of smile. A knowing, seductive, Cupid’s arrow of a smile aimed firmly below the waist.

  It hit the mark.

  He shifted in the grass, crossing his legs. He couldn’t recline in the center of a group of innocent debutantes and treat them to an anatomy lesson on the aroused male of the species.

  Think about wriggling eels. Latin verbs. Family crypts.

  There. That last one had worked. He was only recently out of his mourning blacks. His father would have expected him to be a failure at this. To be ruled by his passions instead of rationality. He had to prove the old despot wrong.

  He wasn’t here to find an enthusiastic bedmate. He was here because he urgently required a suitable duchess and an heir. He was no longer the devil-­may-­care spare. He had obligations. A factory to complete. Import taxes to lower. A rebellious daughter who needed a mother’s care.

  He had to find a suitable wife and fulfill his obligations as swiftly as possible so he could return to Trinidad. Back to the life he’d built for himself. Not with the tainted, corrupt Harland family wealth but by his own sweat and hard work.

  There was absolutely no place in his plans for bucolic frolicking with golden-­haired sirens who couldn’t keep their opinions to themselves and probably would scandalize the ton more than appease it.

  He held out an apple to Lady Vivienne.

  “Are you fond of the hunt, Your Grace?” she said in her cultured accents, taking a few ladylike nips from the apple. She nodded at the woodlands in the distance. “You must have a splendid fox season.”

  She perched in her petticoat and shift, elegant and unflappable as ever. Staying with the approved topics. Stables and hunting. Was there something in the duchess manual about that? When all else fails, a man will always be happy to expound upon hunting.

  “I’ll be here for a few more months,” he said. “Do you enjoy riding to hounds, Lady Vivienne?”

  “Certainly.” She smiled. “I hope that’s not terribly shocking. I was raised on horses, you see, and, if my flattering brothers are to be believed, I’m the equal of any equestrian.”

  Lady Augusta pouted. He wasn’t paying her enough attention, apparently. “And what pastimes do you enjoy, Lady Augusta?” he dutifully asked.

  “Who, me?” She fluttered her eyelashes, speaking in the breathy, little-­girl voice that was probably supposed to make him feel protective but only made him want to cringe.

  “I’m the picture of domesticity,” she said. “I enjoy embroidering table linens. And . . . baby dresses.” She twirled a blonde curl around her finger. “I want heaps of children. Simply heaps.”

  Well. T
his certainly wasn’t a conversation they’d be having if the mamas were here. As if she could read his mind, Lady Augusta continued. “My heavens, if our mamas could see us right now. Why, I would fear for your safety.”

  “Oh yes,” Miss Tombs said. “My mama wouldn’t approve. Not one bit.” She retrieved the flask from the grass and took several more swallows. “Especially if she saw me drinking this . . . what is this?”

  “French brandy. I have a whole cellar full.”

  “Oh dear. Mr. Shelley would be so dismayed. You know I’ve never touched a drop in my life.” She swallowed more. “I find I quite like it!”

  “Steady on—­I think you’ve had enough.” James grabbed the flask. “We haven’t heard from you, Miss Tombs,” James said, to distract her. “What about you?”

  “I’d like to see the . . .” Miss Tombs stopped speaking. She lifted her finger. “I’d like to take a bath,” she pronounced. “A nice, long, hot bath to wash all this mud away.” She giggled. “Really, that’s all I want from life.”

  She was slurring her words. Was she . . . drunk? He was beginning to think there was something a bit off about poor Miss Tombs.

  Lady Dorothea was silent for once. She plucked one of the lacy purple flowers.

  “And you, Lady Dorothea,” he prompted.

  “If I could have anything in this life, it would be for females to have the same rights and freedoms afforded to males,” she said softly.

  “Gracious, Lady Dorothea,” said Lady Augusta. “Are you a bluestocking?”

  “But I’ll take smaller victories,” Lady Dorothea continued, disregarding Lady Augusta. “The good health of my family. Rain drumming against a window while I laugh and cry over a book.”

  James stared, entranced.

  Miss Tombs recaptured the flask. “Brandy!” She licked the last drops. “I like brandy!”

  James wrestled the flask away. “It’s time I escorted you home. I’ll wait beyond those trees while you dress.”

  Who knew bride hunting would turn out to be so disastrous for one’s clothing . . . and sanity? There would be hell to pay back at the manor when the mamas saw the bedraggled state of their dear daughters.

  They were met an hour later in the great hall by a pack of furious mothers. James would have preferred to face Napoleon’s battalions.

  “We’ve been worried half to death!”

  “What happened to your boots?”

  “Lady Augusta, where is your bonnet? Your cheeks are as red as a tomato!”

  Dalton stood behind the buzzing swarm. He shrugged and mimed, “Sorry,” then jerked his head toward the hallway and made a motion like he was tipping back a bottle.

  James lifted his arms, and the tide of distraught voices quieted. “Ladies, please. All will be explained. We had a small mishap, but all is well—­”

  “We were capsized!” Miss Tombs appeared under his outstretched arm. Her hair stuck out at odd angles, and she swayed back and forth. He had to place an arm around her waist to steady her.

  “And then there was an eel in my hair with horrid little eyes and sharp teeth, but the duke routed him.” She did a brief recap of the eel-­dispelling dance. “And then”—­she paused for effect—­“he ordered us to remove our gowns!”

  Oh, dear Lord.

  There was the ominous silence of troops readying their rifles for a volley.

  Dalton made a choking sound and clapped his hand over his mouth.

  A sly smile played over Lady Dorothea’s lips. She was clearly enjoying his time in front of the firing squad.

  The mothers clamored for an explanation, all speaking at the same time.

  “Surely that can’t be true.”

  “Remove your gowns? Preposterous.”

  “You must be mistaken.”

  “What is the meaning of this?”

  “It was a preventive measure, you understand,” James said. “Your daughters were cold and wet. The walk home in sodden gowns would have exposed them to a chill.”

  There was a moment of stunned silence. Then the squawking started again.

  “You walked home?” asked Lady Gloucester, her voice rising above the others. “What happened to the boat?”

  “Froggy drowned,” said Lady Augusta. “And I nearly did as well. His Grace rescued me. He plucked me out of the water with only one arm. Imagine that!”

  Her mother raised her eyebrows. “I am imagining it.”

  “Miss Tombs, come here this instant,” Lady Tombs demanded.

  Miss Tombs wove forward on unsteady legs. Her mother grabbed her chin and sniffed her breath. “You would not, by chance, have given my daughter spirits?”

  “Brandy!” pronounced Miss Tombs gleefully.

  Her mother’s jowls quivered. “This is the limit. The absolute limit. Is life one colossal joke to you, Your Grace? How dare you smile when my daughter was nearly drowned! And then to corrupt her with the Devil’s water. Come, Miss Tombs. We are leaving this instant!”

  Miss Tombs glanced from her mother to the duke and then back to her mother. “We are?”

  Was that a triumphant gleam in her eye? It almost seemed as if she had staged the scene somehow.

  “There’s no need for that,” he said. “It was only a few drops to warm them.”

  “My mind is quite made up. We ride for London.” Lady Tombs grabbed her daughter’s wrist and dragged her across the room.

  Miss Tombs waved to Lady Dorothea. “I do hope we meet again.”

  Funny, she didn’t sound drunk now.

  “Come away immediately, Miss Tombs. I just know you’ve caught a chill.”

  “Lady Tombs, if I have given offense, I’m heartily sorry,” James said to their departing backs, not really meaning his words.

  He rounded on the remaining ladies. “Anyone else wish to leave?” He swept a hand toward the entrance. “The door is there.”

  Mothers froze.

  No one said anything.

  Lady Dorothea smoothed a hand down her waist, pulling the fabric of her ruined gown tight against the swell of her hip. Which made him recall the way her generous curves had appeared to advantage in her wet, clinging petticoats. And how she’d nestled against him when he’d carried her out of the river as though she’d been

  fashioned expressly to fit into his arms. And the wit and fire in her eyes as she’d advocated for the freedoms of females.

  He needed a damned drink.

  “Right, then,” he said briskly. “Despite our detour into the river, we will follow the schedule and visit my new manufactory. I suggest everyone take a brief rest. We depart promptly after luncheon.”

  He cut a swathe through enemy lines, avoiding Lady Dorothea’s amused gaze, avoiding her everything, and retreated to the manly haven of the library, where Dalton was waiting with more brandy.

  James didn’t usually drink this much, but these were desperate times.

  “I want her gone,” James said to Dalton after he’d dulled the keenest edge of his frustration.

  “Which one?”

  “Dorothea.”

  “Oh, so now she’s Dorothea.”

  “What? Did I say Dorothea? I meant Lady Dorothea. Although if she’s a proper lady, I’m a damned milkmaid.”

  James paced across the library carpet. “She’s more of a menace. A destructive force of nature. She should come with a warning printed on her forehead: DANGER! MAYHEM! RENDING CLOTH AHEAD!”

  “That bad, eh?” chuckled Dalton. “What did she do this time?”

  James warmed his hands in front of the fire. He should probably change into clean clothes, but all he wanted to do right now was have a drink, blessedly free from all things feminine.

  “She capsized my rowboat searching for some rare bird she saw in the trees,” James said. “Then she caught her skirts on a rock and nearly
drowned, and I had to cut her loose with my knife.”

  Dalton grinned widely. “Splendid. At this rate I’ll win the wager before sundown.”

  “What? Are you mad?”

  “I’ll even increase the stakes. Five hundred pounds.”

  “You are mad.” James dropped into a chair. “You see what she did to my cuffs?” He held up his muddied sleeves. “And just look at my boots.”

  “Since when do you care? Always been unfashionably rough-­clad.”

  “Yes, but the boots are only the start. Imagine what she would do to my heart.”

  Dalton shook his head in mock sympathy. “So. Tell me, old friend. You saw them all in their wet petticoats. Who has the most shapely . . . you know.” Dalton made a round grabbing motion in the direction of James’s chest.

  James raised his eyebrows. “Really? You’re going to ask me that? Find out for yourself,” he said irritably.

  “I might do, at that.” Dalton kicked his heels out and crossed his legs. “Lady Augusta’s been making eyes at me while your back is turned.”

  “What a hell of a morning. A few sips of brandy and Miss Tombs acted as if I’d poured a whole bottle down her throat. I should have listened to you. This was a terrible idea.”

  “I hate to say I told you so . . .”

  “Then don’t. I’ll get through this. We’ll follow the schedule. Visit the manufactory so my new fiancée will give a glowing report to her papa on my business concerns. Then a trot through the woods, one more dinner, and it will all be over.”

  “Quite right. Follow the schedule. Choose someone suitable such as Lady Vivienne. Nothing simpler.”

  James raised his eyebrows.

  “What are you looking at me like that for?” Dalton asked. “It’s probably a very good plan.”

  “Only?”

  “Five hundred pounds says it’s not going to work.”

  Chapter 14

  Two hours later, near the entrance to the duke’s cocoa manufactory outside the nearby town of Guildford, Charlene was wondering how she could find a way to be alone with him with all these ­people around.

  He was a true duke this afternoon, buttoned and gloved, tall and commanding in his black beaver hat and black wool greatcoat.