How the Duke Was Won

by Lenora Bell

  Flor turned to Lady Vivienne. “I hope you don’t marry her. She’s no fun.”

  “Flor!” The duke rose and turned toward the house. “That’s enough now. Go upstairs this instant.”

  Flor’s lip trembled.

  Lady Vivienne stared down her nose at Flor disdainfully.

  Charlene took Flor’s hand. “We’ll walk back together, shall we?” she said softly. “Your father doesn’t mean to speak in that tone, he’s only tired from his long ride.” She tossed him a look.

  He narrowed his eyes.

  Charlene tugged Flor back to the house, before she said something else she’d regret.

  Chapter 16

  Are you going to marry Lady Dorothea?

  How could he?

  James positioned a log on the block and hefted an axe.

  She’d just demonstrated why he couldn’t marry her. She was actively encouraging Flor in her rebellious ways.

  He slammed the blade into the wood.

  Crack.

  She was impulsive.

  Splinter.

  Irreverent.

  Thud.

  And worst of all? Impossible to ignore.

  It was almost as if she was two ­people. One intent on meeting her exacting mother’s standards, and, underneath the thin layer of propriety, someone fearless and outspoken, with passionate convictions and a decided disdain for social conventions.

  He threw the newly split wood on the woodpile and paused, leaning on the axe.

  The way they’d been tearing across the lawn, whooping and pretending to be shipwrecked boys.

  The shock on Lady Vivienne’s face. Where are your bonnets?

  He smothered a smile. It had been undeniably amusing.

  No. Not amusing. Deplorable. Highly inappropriate.

  Flor had too much of James in her. She was restless. She couldn’t sit still in the classroom when there were lawns to run across, rules to flout.

  Probably Dorothea had been exactly the same at her age.

  He wasn’t here to find a sensual goddess with a razor-­sharp intellect and a rebellious mind. He’d found that. And she was driving him insane.

  He split wood until his arms ached and sweat dripped down his chest. He should go in and dress for dinner, but he wanted to exorcise Dorothea first.

  He stood behind the old unused barns he’d converted into a workshop. He liked the large open space with no velvet draperies or ornamental plaster.

  Most nights he slept in his workshop, on a pile of cushions. The nightmares were shorter out here. Less vivid. They seemed to fade the farther he was from his mother’s chambers in the east wing. He hadn’t visited that wing since he’d come back. Bickford had informed him that her chambers had been preserved exactly the way the duchess had left them. The household staff had loved his charming mother.

  A shiver chased across James’s shoulder blades.

  He positioned more wood on the block.

  He didn’t want to revisit buried pain. He needed to follow the plan. Conclude things swiftly and return to Trinidad. But Dorothea did have a point. He’d had no idea there was corruption at the Banbury Hall manufactory. He couldn’t be there to oversee every aspect of the business on two continents. Of course he would rectify it immediately, but it galled him that it had happened in the first place. He’d find a manager he could trust.

  He was only one man. And he was being split along so many different fault lines.

  He could still see the accusation in her blue-­gray eyes. He’d disappointed her. Why did that sting so much?

  “Hiding, Your Grace?”

  Dorothea rounded the wall of the barn, her cheeks rosy, fists planted on her hips. The riding habit was gone and she was wearing something pale pink and virginal, but her hair was a windswept cascade of golden curls escaping from a bright red silk bandeau.

  He placed another log on the block and raised his axe.

  “Well?” she said.

  “What? What do you want from me?”

  Crack.

  “Go apologize to your daughter.”

  Splinter.

  “I can’t do that.”

  Thud.

  “Why not? She’s your daughter. Don’t you love her?”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Try to explain.”

  He sighed and set the axe aside. He turned his back to her and stacked the fallen wood on top of the pile. “It doesn’t matter if I love her. I have to keep my distance. She can’t become too attached. I’ll be leaving soon.”

  “You’re very skilled at that, aren’t you, Your Grace?”

  Impressive how she made his title sound like a scurrilous oath. He rested his hands on the stack of wood. He knew her well enough by now to know that she wasn’t finished giving her opinion, not by half.

  “At what, Lady Dorothea?”

  “You’re so good at running away. At keeping your distance. Not letting anyone close to you.” Her smoky voice was getting closer. Soon he would smell fresh, lemony tea roses. Feel her warmth and fire behind him.

  He gripped the wood hard enough to drive a sliver into his palm. Still he didn’t turn around. He couldn’t. If he turned around, he’d want to take her in his arms, kiss those full lips. Make promises that were impossible to keep.

  “Flor needs you. You’ve no idea how much,” she said. “When was the last time you read her a story?” She didn’t wait for him to respond. “And another thing. You need to send that governess away. Do you know what she makes Flor read?”

  “I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.” He turned around.

  And almost fell to his knees.

  She was haloed by golden curls ablaze in the fading sun. So achingly sweet. He clenched his hand into a fist, and the sliver pierced deeper.

  That’s what you get when you think about kissing her. Pain. Remember that.

  She extracted a slim volume from somewhere in her skirts and read the title aloud. “A Token for Children: Being an Exact Account of the Conversion, Holy and Exemplary Lives and Joyful Deaths of Several Young Children, in Two Parts.”

  She waved the book at him like a weapon. “Joyful deaths. Of children.”

  “Doesn’t sound very cheerful.”

  “And another thing.” Dorothea advanced toward him. “Miss Pratt smears lemon juice on Flor’s cheeks to make her skin lighter. It’s abhorrent. I won’t have it.” She tossed the book onto the woodpile. “That’s what I think of Miss Pratt.” She wiped her hands on her skirts. “Your Grace.”

  “I didn’t know about the lemon juice. I’ll certainly command that to stop, but I did give her license to select the reading materials she thought best suited to teach my daughter to rein in her temper and become a proper young lady.”

  “A proper young lady.” She spat the words like an obscene oath, direct kin to Your Grace. “Proper is another word for prison, if you ask me.”

  “I don’t recall asking you.”

  “A proper young lady shouldn’t run on the lawn, or cry because she needs attention, or read adventure books. A proper young lady should walk sedately, keep her chin up, and read insipid morality tales. Is that it?”

  This was definitely striking close to home. She must have hated her governess as a child. James pictured her plaguing a steady stream of governesses. Goading them into unbecoming fits of temper. Putting toads in their beds. Sending them screaming for the nearest mail coach.

  “I don’t want to take the joy out of her life,” he said. “That’s not my aim. I’m only trying to protect her, to guide her. I was sent down from school, disgraced forever because of one impetuous, rebellious decision.”

  “You will transform your vibrant, healthy, curious child into a model of silent, docile propriety. I say that’s too bad.” She narrowed her eyes. “Too damn ba
d. Do you think that if she speaks softly and never runs that the rest of England will let her forget who she is?”

  “It will ultimately be for her own good.”

  Dorothea shook her head. The red bandeau slipped. She brushed curls away from her cheeks impatiently. “That’s no excuse. She needs to be included in your life. Let her come downstairs tonight.”

  Any other young lady would have been begging him to keep his scandalous by-­blow hidden. The marchioness’s reaction had been typical of the reception he expected from the pious ladies of the ton. “It would antagonize my other guests.”

  “Only for a moment? She’s so very lonely.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “She needs love and acceptance. Don’t abandon her.”

  “She needs to learn to control her emotions.”

  “Not every word that comes forth from your mouth is scripture, and not all your decisions are holy commandments.”

  “You’re quite free with your criticism. You disapprove of the way I conduct my business and the way I educate my daughter. Tell me, Lady Dorothea, why you would possibly wish to continue your stay in my home a moment longer?”

  There, that had silenced her. But only for a moment.

  “Because you’re sorely in need of reform.” A glint appeared in her eyes. “And I’ve never been one to shirk a nearly impossible challenge.”

  Damn her for making him smile. “And I suppose you’re precisely the irascible girl to attempt such a fool’s mission?”

  “I am.”

  She walked toward him. “You don’t fool me. You cared about those girls at the factory. You hate the evil of enslavement. And you love your daughter. Somewhere deep inside that murky heart of yours, you want to do the right thing, but you’re afraid of losing her, as you lost the rest of your family.”

  She went too far. So why did he want to kiss her so badly?

  In his defense, the red ribbon tied around her curls was taunting him. It kept slipping down, threatening to loose a flood of silken temptation.

  They stared at each other like a matador and bull. He could almost feel steam rising from his nostrils.

  Somewhere a crowd roared for blood.

  Hang it all. He was His Disgrace. The exiled scoundrel.

  He’d show her how badly in need of reform he was.

  He closed the distance between them with one long stride and buried his fingers in her hair.

  The silk bandeau finally lost the battle and slipped loose, sending honey and sunshine curls cascading around her shoulders.

  Like a man who’d been wandering the desert for days, he found the wellspring of her lips, all the reasons he shouldn’t kiss her disappearing like footprints in shifting sand.

  Her soft, encouraging little moans destroyed his control.

  “Dorothea,” he groaned into her hair.

  He took her mouth, crushing her hips against him, kissing her as if they’d been the last two humans on earth. As if the fate of civilization depended on this moment.

  There was this.

  Her heat burning through his linen. The urgency of her mouth moving beneath him, unconsciously mimicking the act of love. Opening for him, welcoming him inside.

  He dipped his fingers into the edge of her bodice, skimming across the tops of her velvet-­soft breasts. She shifted back in his arms, instinctively giving him better access.

  If he slipped her bodice a few inches lower and lowered his head, he could feast on rosy nipples.

  Instead, he buried his face in her curls, inhaling the fresh, innocent scent of tea roses.

  He couldn’t ravish a trusting debutante outside by the woodpile. No matter how saucily she goaded him to it.

  He wrenched away, cursing himself for a lust-­addled fool. “I’m sorry. We shouldn’t . . .”

  She looked up at him, breathing heavily, her blue eyes hazy. “That was . . . most definitely a ten.” She smiled shakily, adjusting her skirts. “I knew you had it in you.” She tossed her head but failed to sound truly flippant.

  “Dorothea . . .” he began, not sure where he was going.

  “I must return. Mother will be worried about me. You will apologize to Flor, won’t you?”

  “Of course. I was always going to.”

  She nodded. “Then we’re even,” she said, and left.

  James watched her walk away, hips swaying, hair spilling down her back. He could chop down this entire forest and it wouldn’t erase the memory of what had just happened.

  Maybe she was right. Maybe he was scared of losing Flor. He’d chosen solitude over connection a long time ago, after his mother died and his father tried to beat the rebellion out of him and then banished him to the West Indies.

  That wasn’t something that would ever change.

  But he was going back to Trinidad and leaving his wife in England. He’d only return when it was absolutely necessary, for business, or to father more spares.

  Dorothea was a female who would always follow an unpredictable path. He admired her mettle, but he wasn’t looking for strength of spirit. He required a wife who would be his emissary of propriety and respectability, soothing gossips and investors while he remained overseas.

  Lady Vivienne would never wrestle him to the floor.

  Or throw his library books on the woodpile.

  He needed to make a decision. Before he did something truly depraved with Dorothea and the choice was made for him.

  Chapter 17

  There they were. His two remaining duchess candidates. Seated side by side in the salon after another interminable dinner, as different as two women could be. Fire and ice. Propriety and passion.

  The mounded tops of Dorothea’s breasts glowed above pale pink velvet, and diamonds gleamed in her hair, her ears, and at her throat, enough to finance an entire battalion.

  He couldn’t be in the same room with her without an overwhelming urge to throw her over his shoulder and claim her. He wanted her in his bed, wearing those diamonds and nothing more. He wanted to strip away the thin veneer of propriety and delve into the passion he’d glimpsed simmering beneath her genteel façade.

  Her fire heated his blood, and her intelligence and wit dared him to imagine new possibilities.

  “Perhaps Lady Vivienne might play the pianoforte, Your Grace?” the marchioness suggested.

  James tore his gaze from Dorothea and nodded his assent. Lady Vivienne took a seat at the polished maple pianoforte. She wore a modest white gown and simple pearl jewelry that set off her dark hair and eyes. She was elegant, reserved, and the obvious, prudent choice.

  She’d soothe the gossips and rehabilitate his reputation. Everyone knew his father had nearly disowned him. No doubt many questioned his fitness to assume the title. That last stunt at Cambridge had been the culmination of an illustrious career of transgressions, ranging from brandy binges to tupping a don’s wife. And staying abroad for ten years hadn’t won him any hearts.

  He needed to prove them wrong, win them over, and Lady Vivienne would be an excellent weapon.

  The Scarlatti sonata she chose had been written for harpsichord and lost something when played on the pianoforte, but it was a virtuoso piece and required an expert touch. Her nimble fingers flew over the keyboard, her left hand crossing over her right to perform the trills. It was a flawless performance, calculated to dazzle and impress.

  The music she played was meant as a minor-­keyed frenzy of frustrated longing. While she hit every note, it left him unmoved.

  The thought of bedding her was uninspiring . . . but that had been his aim. He’d wanted a business arrangement, a marriage of convenience.

  James imagined proposing to her.

  “How do you feel about marriage, Lady Vivienne?” he’d ask.

  “It’s what one does, I suppose,” she’d answer, yawning.

&n
bsp; And on their wedding night.

  “Shall we go to bed?” he’d ask.

  “It’s what one does, I suppose.”

  At the pianoforte, Lady Vivienne frowned slightly, completely focused on her task, ruthless in her single-­mindedness. Was she too cold and detached? She had treated Flor with disdain when they caught his child running on the lawn. Would she learn to love Flor with time?

  After her daughter finished playing, the marchioness turned to Dorothea. “Would you care for a turn on the pianoforte, Lady Dorothea?”

  “I’m afraid Lady Dorothea can’t play this evening,” said Lady Desmond. “She . . . had an accident with her jewelry box this morning. Crushed her finger.”

  The marchioness raised her quizzing glass and trained it on Dorothea. “Is that so?”

  “Only a slight injury. I might sing a song instead,” Dorothea suggested.

  The countess startled. “No, I’m sure the duke wishes to play his guitar again. Would you honor us?”

  Interesting. The countess didn’t want her daughter to perform. Now James’s curiosity was piqued. Was she worried her daughter would do something outrageous? Sing a bawdy song and embarrass her?

  “You’ve had enough of my guitar. I would rather hear Lady Dorothea sing,” he said.

  Dorothea smiled at him and his heart skipped a beat.

  “I shall perform something current,” she announced, rising from her seat. “From Mr. Bishop’s The Libertine, which I . . . we . . . recently had the pleasure to see Miss Catharine Stephens perform at the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden.”

  Lady Desmond half-­rose from her seat, as if she wanted to run and silence her daughter. She dug her nails into silk brocade.

  The curve of Dorothea’s hips settled into the deep arc of the pianoforte. Drawing a breath that made her bosom rise and fall over pink velvet, she knotted her hands in front of her waist.

  One more breath like that and they’d be staring at her rosy-­tipped breasts again.

  Please God, no more nipples, he prayed. He wouldn’t be responsible for the consequences. Not after he’d spent every second since their kiss this afternoon imagining what might have happened if his fingers had slipped two inches further into her bodice.