How the Duke Was Won

by Lenora Bell

  Charlene smoothed the thin skin of her mother’s hand. “You must. Please. For me. For Lulu.”

  Her mother nodded. Her eyelids drooped, and her voice grew dreamy as the laudanum took effect. “What was he like, your duke?”

  “He’s not my duke, and if you must know, I hate him.” Charlene’s heart thumped an erratic, contradictory cadence. “He’s arrogant and unfeeling.”

  “Darling, dukes are always arrogant. Why shouldn’t they be? They’ve got the whole world on a tether.” Susan’s lips curved up. “But was he handsome? That’s what I want to know.”

  Charlene crossed to the window. It was raining. Sheets of silver driving against the cobblestones and flooding the gutters. She traced the path of a raindrop down the windowpane.

  “He has the most vivid green eyes,” she said. “Every time he looked at me I felt like I was standing in a tree-­lined avenue, and the branches had interlaced into a canopy above me, surrounding me. It was the kind of green that told the sun what color to be as it filtered through the leaves.”

  “Oh, gracious.” Susan smiled weakly. “It’s worse than I thought.”

  “I don’t like losing control, Mother.”

  “You never did, even as a babe. You always rearranged the covers and ordered me around in your forceful baby language. But there are ways to bring a man to his knees, Charlene, ways to ensure he never leaves you, until you want him to.”

  “The earl left you.”

  “Your father was a mistake. He plied me with jewels and flattery, but the second he found out I was with child, he cast me off, denying your claim, when anyone can see very well you are his. I would have given you up if it meant you could have been raised a lady.”

  Charlene crossed back to the bedside. “I’ve had a taste of luxury these last few days. I can safely say that wealth and social position don’t equal happiness, or even basic decency.”

  “Still, why not let the duke provide for you?”

  That was the best life her mother could conceive. To be owned. Set up in an apartment in a fashionable district, with a maid and three footmen and a generous allowance for gowns and jewels.

  Exactly the bondage Grant sought for her.

  “I told you,” Charlene said. “I hate him.”

  “If you insist.” Her mother wiped the corners of her eyes with the handkerchief. “Just remember that sometimes hate has a strange way of feeling an awful lot like love . . .” Her voice trailed off and her eyes closed.

  “Is she sleeping?” Diane, or Dove as she was known to the patrons of the Pink Feather, poked her sleek, dark head around the door.

  Charlene nodded. She tucked the covers around her mother and kissed her forehead.

  In the hallway, Diane hugged Charlene. “Welcome home. Everyone’s dying to hear where you’ve been.”

  “Nowhere in particular.”

  “Don’t give me that. Come upstairs with me and tell us.”

  Charlene followed Diane down the hallway and through the door that hid the back staircase to the Aviary, where her mother’s exclusive beauties entertained their clientele.

  “I heard what happened with Grant. God, how I loathe him.” Diane shook her head as they climbed the stairs. “Do you know he’s hired us to dance at an entertainment tonight? We daren’t say no. He’s in a rare bad temper these days.”

  Charlene faltered, nearly missing the next stair. “You’ll never have to dance for him again, Diane. I promise you that.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I can’t tell you now. Soon, though. Trust me.”

  The tables and chairs had been cleared to the sides of the Aviary, and the ladies were trailing after Linnet, like geese learning to fly in formation.

  “Remember, you are Birds of Paradise. Flitting from branch to branch.” Linnet flapped gracefully around the room, her long white-­blonde hair floating behind her.

  “This is for the performance,” Diane explained. “One of Lord Hatherly’s notorious Cyprian affairs.”

  “Will Grant be at the ball tonight?” Charlene asked.

  “Of course. He has to make sure we perform to his standards,” Diane said bitterly. “The audience will be mostly peers, so we’re sure to find new admirers, and Grant will secure new investors for his schemes.”

  This could be Charlene’s opportunity. She’d been thinking that it would be best to find a way to give Grant the payment outside of the house. Catch him off guard. She didn’t want to be alone with him ever again. If he refused to take the money, Kyuzo would convince him, but first she would face him on her own.

  “I’m going with you to the Cyprian’s ball,” she announced.

  Linnet stopped floating. “What was that? You’re coming with us?”

  All five ladies stopped dancing and stared.

  “Are you certain you want to go to such an affair?” Diane asked.

  Charlene nodded. “I need to give something to Grant in a public setting. I don’t want him knowing I’m there until the last second.”

  Diane lifted a pink satin mask lined with pink and white feathers and pearls from a table. “We’ll all be wearing these. No one will recognize you.”

  “Perfect,” Charlene said.

  Diane fit the satin mask over Charlene’s face and tied it in back with the long pink ribbon. One of the other ladies brought a mirror. The mask made Charlene’s eyes tilt up. She looked entirely un-­Charlene-­like.

  In the disguise, she wouldn’t have to worry about encountering someone such as Lord Dalton. And the duke had said he wouldn’t visit London until next week. She’d be in Essex with Flor by the time he arrived.

  “Did I overhear you saying something to your mother about a duke?” Diane asked.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Diane’s eyes widened. “That bad? I’m sorry, darling.”

  “I’m not thinking of him. There’s work to be done.” She wasn’t thinking about green eyes and charcoal hair. Playful lips. Strong, calloused hands, rough against her skin, stoking the blaze in her belly.

  The more Charlene tried not to think about the duke, the faster the memories came. The one-­sided quirk of his lips when he smiled. What his hands felt like sliding down her spine and smoothing the curve of her hips. The taste of chili and chocolate on his tongue. The low hum of his voice.

  Her defenses had frayed around the edges, unraveled. There were cracks in the shuttered citadel of her heart. Longing swirling like dust in a piercing shaft of sunshine.

  She’d just have to shut the blinds, close her heart, and block out the memory of his eyes.

  “Your Grace, we weren’t expecting you in London for several days yet.” Lord Desmond offered his hand. He was fleshy, florid, and had a high-­pitched voice that grated on James’s nerves. But when he’d determined to make a suitable marriage, James had known there would be one of these in the bargain. An avaricious father-­in-­law, hungry to secure his daughter a duke.

  “Lord Desmond.” James accepted a cigar and a glass of port. “I’m here to speak with Lady Dorothea.”

  Desmond shook his head. “Won’t be possible, I’m afraid. My lady countess claims there was a bit of unpleasantness. Says you’re not to be allowed near Lady Dorothea until the wedding.”

  “I only require an hour. The countess may chaperone.”

  “So sorry.” Desmond’s jowls quivered when he shook his head. “There’s nothing that moves that woman once her mind is made. Not even a ducal visit. I do believe she thinks you’ll ruin the girl. Tarnish her lily-­white reputation and all that.” He winked. “Bit of rogue, are you?”

  “I’ll hardly ravish your daughter in plain sight of her mother.”

  Desmond cleared his throat. “Again, I’m terribly sorry, but Lady Desmond was even making noises about taking Dorothea to the country, to visit her aun
t until the wedding.”

  James raised his eyebrows. There was something odd here. First the countess was throwing her daughter at him, and now she wanted to whisk her away to the countryside.

  “I knew your father well, you know,” Lord Desmond said, changing the subject. “Such a damned shame. Gone too soon. And your brother, too.” He gestured for a footman to pour more port. “But you’re the duke now, eh? There’s something to be said for that.”

  He raised his glass. Lowered it when James didn’t join him in the toast.

  “Heard you were engaging in a bit of commerce?” Desmond asked. “Not short on capital, I’m sure?”

  Desmond’s greedy squint made James’s stomach roil. He settled back in his seat. “Not at all.”

  Desmond heaved a sigh. “Glad to hear it.” Obviously his affection for his new son-­in-­law was contingent on solvency.

  “That’s part of the reason I came to speak with you, though,” James said. “I need someone looking after my interests in Parliament when I’m back in the West Indies. The duty import tax on cocoa is outrageous. I trust now that our families are allied, you will take up my concern. I would see the tax lowered on cocoa grown specifically on farms that don’t use slave labor.”

  “Decrease duties on cocoa. I shall make it my personal mission next session.” Desmond raised his glass. “To a partnership of mutual interest.”

  This time James raised his glass. He disliked Desmond, but unfortunately he had need of him.

  “Lady Dorothea is young and fertile.” Desmond swallowed his port. “I daresay you’ll get your heir, and several spares, and she’ll have . . . say, six hundred pin money per annum?”

  The old weasel. That was highway larceny, but James didn’t care to argue. If he couldn’t see Dorothea, he wanted to stay as briefly as possible.

  “Fine,” he said. “But I’ll expect her to adhere to my rules of conduct. It will all be outlined in the contract.”

  “No trouble there. Lady Dorothea is as pure and meek as they come. Never given us a moment’s worry.”

  That didn’t sound like Dorothea, but her father would hardly suggest otherwise.

  “I’ll also ask that you monitor the progress on my gravest concern—­the abolition of slavery,” James said.

  Desmond steepled his fingers and leaned back in his chair, his waistcoat buttons straining to contain his ample belly. “The abolitionists are causing quite a storm. Quite a storm. I support the cause, don’t misunderstand me, but I have interests in the African Company and would not wish to see anything hasty occur.”

  James gripped his cigar so tightly that it nearly snapped in half. And so it was with the men who profited from the trade—­willful bigotry and ignorance. “You are wrong, Sir. Slavery must be abolished throughout the world.”

  “Come, come, let’s not talk of our differences,” Desmond said. “You say you’re going back to the West Indies soon?”

  “I’ll return to England only rarely. I’ve grown accustomed to life in Trinidad.”

  “Wish I could move abroad, sometimes. Escape my darling wife.” Desmond winked.

  James couldn’t stomach any more of this conversation. It would be better to conduct his future business with Desmond through intermediaries. Murdering his father-­in-­law wouldn’t help his reputation.

  James slammed his glass down. “I must visit my solicitor and some of my old set. There’s an affair at Hatherly’s tonight.” And every night from what Dalton had told him. Their old friend Nick, Lord Hatherly, had become quite the hedonist.

  Desmond stood as well. “Hatherly? Now there’s a fellow who knows how to throw an affair.” Desmond walked James to the door. “I’d join you, but there’s some tedious charity event. Always something with my wife.”

  “You’ll inform Lady Dorothea I was here.”

  Desmond nodded. “I daresay there’ll be time enough to talk to the gel after the wedding. Only two weeks away, is it? You should be off enjoying your last days of freedom. I was no better at your age.” He winked again. “I remember the week before my wedding . . .”

  “I’ll be on my way then—­”

  “ . . . or rather I should say I don’t remember. There was a great deal of rum involved. If I recall, we ended up in a jolly nunnery in Covent Garden . . .”

  James accepted his coat and hat and made his escape before he learned more nauseating details.

  As he climbed into the barouche, he glanced up at the house. A curtain rustled in an upstairs window. He caught a brief glimpse of flaxen hair. Dorothea had been watching him.

  How strange that they wouldn’t let him see her.

  He still had a swarm of unanswered questions.

  And now he was even more convinced she was hiding secrets from him.

  Chapter 22

  Charlene hid at the back of the group, staying close to Diane as one of Grant’s scowling guards escorted them into Lord Hatherly’s estate through the servant’s entrance. The man was barrel-­chested and had a jagged scar running across one cheek. The guard looked dangerous and difficult to throw.

  Charlene held the heavy black silk purse stuffed with pound notes under her cloak, ready to give to Grant.

  The baron was waiting for the girls behind a red velvet curtain on a stage that had to overlook the ballroom. Charlene could hear male voices from beyond the curtain, an occasional high-­pitched female laugh.

  “My birds,” Grant said. “Your adoring audience awaits.”

  He’d been drinking. Charlene could tell by the way he swayed, almost imperceptibly, on his feet, and by the sharp juniper scent of gin mingled with the bitter orange hair pomade.

  Grant reached for Linnet’s cloak and pulled her toward him. “What do you have under these long cloaks, eh? Pink feathers, like I asked?” He groped her breast through the black silk. “I like the masks. Nice touch.”

  He bent Linnet’s head back by the hair and kissed her, thrusting his tongue into her mouth noisily.

  Gorge rose in Charlene’s throat as she remembered the feel of those lips on her own mouth. She hadn’t meant to give him the purse until the girls were on stage, but she couldn’t wait now.

  “Lord Grant,” she called, her voice ringing strong and clear.

  He lifted his head. “Who’s that?”

  Charlene slipped between the girls and lowered her hood. She lifted her mask for a moment, before dropping it again.

  “Charlene? What the devil?” Grant released Linnet and stepped toward Charlene. “What are you doing here?”

  She drew the purse from under her cloak, squaring her shoulders. “I came to repay our debt and secure our freedom.”

  Turning to the scar-­faced guard, Grant guffawed loudly. “Hear that, Mace? She wants her freedom.” Mace laughed, rough and mean.

  Charlene extended the purse.

  Grant’s face lost its mocking smile. “Go home now. I’ll visit you tomorrow.” He slapped Linnet on the bum and pushed her toward the stage. “Time for the performance. Go show ’em your feathers.”

  “No one’s going anywhere until you accept this purse.” Charlene raised her chin, staring straight into his eyes. She took another step forward, away from the group, until she was standing close enough to touch Grant.

  “Where did you find the money, Charlene?” His voice took on a sharp edge. “Been whoring on the side? By God, if that’s true, I swear to you that I’ll mur—­”

  “Take the payment.” Charlene held the heavy purse outstretched, even though her arm ached with the strain.

  He folded his arms over his chest. “Birds, if you don’t head for the stage this instant, Mace here will become angry. And you don’t want to make him angry.”

  Mace’s scowl deepened, the violet scar puckering across his cheek.

  “Have you ever thought about our feelings?” Charlene asked. �
�Have you ever given one moment’s thought to the consequences of your actions?”

  Grant scoffed. “Why should I care? I purchased these birds. I own them. And they have a dance to perform. Now out of my way.” He knocked her aside.

  She stumbled but swiftly regained her footing, raising the purse again. “You don’t own us,” she said. “You never did.”

  Mace cracked his knuckles. He was favoring his right knee. An old injury? Could give her an advantage.

  Diane stepped out of the group and came to stand beside Charlene. She folded her hand around Charlene’s elbow, propping up the outstretched arm that held the purse. “Take the payment, Baron,” she said, her gold eyes flashing.

  “Go on stage now, Dove,” Grant said. “There’s a pretty bird.”

  “I’m not a pretty bird. And my name is Diane.” She narrowed her eyes. “Not Dove.”

  Charlene smiled at her gratefully. “Thank you.”

  Diane nodded.

  “What a touching scene,” Grant jeered. “What do you call it? Mutiny of the Whores?”

  Mace grinned. “I know how to deal with mutineers. Should I take ’em outside, my lord?”

  Charlene took a deep breath, preparing to drop the purse and assume a defensive posture.

  “This is becoming ridiculous. Do you hear them cheering, birds?” Grant gestured toward the curtain. “There’ll be a riot if you don’t appear soon.”

  The other ladies drifted closer, forming a tight semicircle behind Charlene and Diane, glaring at Grant. Charlene’s heart swelled. They were so brave, these women who came from nothing, with only their bodies to sell. They stood beside her. Supporting her. Giving her the strength she needed.

  Charlene shook the purse. “Accept our payment.”

  Grant nodded at Mace, but before the guard could take action, a tall man in a well-­cut black coat stepped out from the shadows of the velvet stage curtains. For one heart-­stopping second, Charlene thought it was James.

  But he was still in Surrey.

  This man was tall and broad-­shouldered, true, but his hair was chestnut and hung past his collar, far longer than fashion dictated, and his eyes were gray. “We’re ready for the performance, Grant—­” He stopped. “What’s happening here?”