How the Duke Was Won

by Lenora Bell

  “I know.” Nick sighed. “Forgive me, I’ve a demon of a headache. Best to go and sleep it off.” He rose and threw down his napkin. “Give my regards to the archbishop.”

  James finished his breakfast alone, his mind returning to the orchid conservatory and Dorothea, where it had been ever since he’d left her at the entrance to Vauxhall last night. It was against his moral code to ravish an innocent debutante, even if she was his fiancée. That’s why he had to marry her immediately. She could already be carrying his heir.

  Lady Desmond had been absolutely right to refuse to let him see Dorothea, because he couldn’t control himself around her. And he didn’t want to. He was going to claim her again and again.

  The thought ignited sparks in his mind.

  She wouldn’t leave his bed until he’d exhausted every single way to make her smile, moan, and cry his name.

  The duke’s diamond ring was knotted inside a plain cambric handkerchief, concealed in the pocket of Charlene’s cloak. She turned her head toward the main entrance for the hundredth time. She’d sent a note to Manon asking her to bring Dorothea to St. Paul’s Church on the west end of the piazza, in secret, on a matter of urgency.

  They were nearly a half hour late.

  Charlene couldn’t afford time to sit and think. She needed to be out doing things, keeping her mind off Ja . . . dukes. She had arrangements to make for Lulu’s apprenticeship. A physician’s appointment to force her mother to keep.

  She had to stop thinking about green eyes that stared into her soul and uncovered her deepest longings. Silken flower petals trailing over her lips. The sore place between her thighs that throbbed with the knowledge of him, the pulse that still beat his name.

  She couldn’t blame him for taking what she had freely offered. He’d thought she was his future duchess. So here she sat, draped in black, possibly carrying a duke’s illegitimate child. She was her mother’s daughter after all. Her carefully constructed defenses had crumpled like foolscap in his embrace.

  The church’s great carved door swept across stone floors. Sunlight pierced the gloom, illuminating a marble angel reclining on a pedestal. Manon appeared. When her eyes found Charlene, she opened the door wider and stepped aside. Lady Dorothea glided across the floor in a straw bonnet covered in a white dotted veil and a pale pink gown trimmed with embroidered lilies and seed pearls.

  Charlene’s jaw clenched. How could anyone have mistaken her for this picture of fair English maidenhood, swathed in shell pink—­graceful, dainty, and demure? Charlene rose, but Dorothea motioned her back onto the oaken pew and took a seat next to her.

  Manon stood guard behind them, ready to alert them if anyone entered the church. She gave Charlene an encouraging nod.

  Dorothea turned to Charlene, the summer-­sky blue of her eyes visible through the pale gauze of her veil. “Miss Beckett?” she whispered.

  Charlene nodded. “Thank you for meeting me, Lady Dorothea.”

  Dorothea peered at Charlene through her veil. “Are we truly so alike? I’ve been so curious ever since Mama told me what happened.” Her eyes searched the galleries before she untied the ribbon holding her white veil in place.

  When she lifted her veil, Charlene’s heart pounded. It was like looking in a mirror with slightly wavy glass that distorted the image almost imperceptibly.

  Charlene lifted her own veil.

  “Oh!” Dorothea’s hand flew to her mouth, stifling the exclamation. “Extraordinary,” she whispered. “We could be twins.”

  The two girls stared at each other in fascination. No wonder the deception had worked.

  “We shouldn’t be seen together,” said Charlene, replacing her veil. “The countess would be furious. I have something I must give you.”

  Dorothea covered her face again. “I had no idea you existed. Why did Father keep you from me? I can’t express how very discomfiting it is to arrive home after a long journey and find that not only do I have a sister but my mother paid you to procure me a duke.” She smiled. “I certainly wasn’t producing any prospects . . . but still.”

  Charlene wanted to take her hand, but she stopped herself. She had to give her the ring quickly. They couldn’t be seen together. “I hope I haven’t caused you any pain.”

  “I’ve always known my parents would choose a husband for me. I’m the dutiful daughter. That’s me.”

  There was a hint of rebellion in her voice that warmed Charlene’s heart.

  “Sometimes I feel like a marionette at Punch’s Theatre and Mama is pulling my strings. Have you ever felt that way, Miss Beckett?”

  A feeling like vertigo nearly knocked the breath out of Charlene’s chest, pushing her over the edge of a new awareness. “I know exactly how you feel,” she said. She’d grown up envying Dorothea, but her sister’s life hadn’t been a fairy tale. She had a domineering mother, a foolish, philandering father, and the burden of society’s expectation to make a brilliant match.

  “Everyone says the duke is brutish and disreputable,” said Dorothea. “Is it true?”

  Charlene shook her head vehemently. “Don’t listen to them. He likes to be shocking, that’s all. He carries knives around in his boots and plays Spanish guitar. You’ll never know what he’s going to do next . . . but he’s not at all unkind. You’ll see. He’s strong . . . and good.”

  Dorothea’s head tilted to one side. “You sound as though . . . I don’t know . . . as though you admire him.”

  “I admire his unconventionality.”

  “You don’t have feelings for him?”

  The laugh Charlene mustered sounded false to her ears. “He’ll be kind to you.”

  “You didn’t answer my question, Miss Beckett.”

  There, she sounded like the countess for the first time. It was good to see Dorothea had some of her mother’s spine without the ruthlessness. “Of course not,” Charlene said.

  Dorothea grew still. “You’re lying. I can hear it in your voice.” She gripped Charlene’s fingers. “Can I marry someone my sister loves?” she whispered. “Can I?”

  Charlene blinked away unexpected tears. “The countess hired me because I was raised to be a . . . courtesan.” She rushed her words, feeling as though she was polluting Dorothea somehow, even by saying them. “The duke requires a respectable, suitable bride. I want you to marry him. You’ll be a perfect duchess . . . and I hope you will be a good mother to his daughter Flor.”

  Dorothea searched her face through the gauze. “Mama told me about the daughter, and I know I could never fault her for being born on the wrong side of the . . . that is to say . . .”

  “It’s all right.” Charlene knew Dorothea hadn’t meant to offend her. “I’m relieved to hear that you are sympathetic.” And now her work was done. She knew that Flor would be in caring hands. And James would be pleased with his suddenly sweet-­tempered and respectable bride.

  “Here.” Charlene thrust the linen-­wrapped ring into Dorothea’s palm. “This was meant for you.” She rose. “I must go.”

  “Wait.” Dorothea caught her arm. “There’s something else. The duke sent word to my father this morning that we are to be married by special license tomorrow. Why is there such a rush?”

  Charlene’s gut clenched, as if someone had struck her. They were marrying tomorrow.

  “Miss Beckett?”

  “The duke and I . . . last night . . .” Charlene began, but the words wouldn’t come.

  “Yes?” Dorothea prompted.

  Charlene could see her brow furrow through her veil.

  “Oh,” Dorothea breathed. “I see.” She tucked the ring into her reticule. “In that case, do you truly think he’ll believe we are the same person? What if he guesses the truth and sweeps you off to one of his castles in Northumberland?”

  Charlene turned away. “That will never happen.” She smiled, even though she felt more
like crying. “Marry him, and be happy.” She was surprised to find that she meant it. If circumstances had been different, perhaps she and her half sister could have been friends.

  Lady Dorothea rose, and Charlene followed. “I’ll try,” Dorothea said. She hesitated, stretching out her hand for a shake and then impulsively giving Charlene a brief hug. “I wish you the best, Miss Beckett.”

  Charlene and Manon exchanged a smile before Charlene hurried back toward the bustle of the piazza. Her hand involuntarily patted her empty pocket.

  Dorothea would marry the duke tomorrow, and there would be no more diamonds for Charlene.

  Just as well, she told herself. Diamonds were only a way of saying, I own you. And Charlene could never accept that.

  Chapter 25

  “There’s still time to stop the wedding,” Nick said.

  James shook his head. No there wasn’t. Not when Dorothea could already be carrying his child.

  He’d wanted to hold the ceremony in his town house, where Flor and Josefa would be arriving soon, but the countess had insisted on a church, saying something about her cousin being the curate.

  Standing in front of a gold-­draped altar, with an elderly clergyman in black robes, white cravat, and white curled wig presiding, all James could think about was the orchid conservatory. The scent of crushed petals and the sound of Dorothea’s soft moans.

  Sunlight danced across the red carpet. The wedding party entered the church.

  James’s heart nearly galloped out of his chest. Dorothea was radiant in pale rose silk shot with gold threads that shimmered in the sunbeams filtering through the round stained-­glass window.

  So beautiful.

  She’ll do.

  She wore a broad-­brimmed bonnet trimmed with pink tea roses that shaded her face, but he could tell she was nervous and unsmiling. She walked down the aisle with small, tentative steps.

  He willed her to hurry, needing her standing next to him, joining with him in name, and then in body. He craved the heat of her smile, the challenging glint in her eyes. He even welcomed her talent for infuriating him, the way she flouted propriety, the mocking way she said his title.

  When she finally stood beside him, James took her hand. Her eyes widened, and she snapped her head straight, her bonnet brim hiding her from him.

  Something was wrong.

  She seemed . . . different. It was probably just wedding-­day nerves.

  “Dorothea?” he asked. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, Your Grace,” she whispered.

  He craned his neck to see her face. Why didn’t her eyes tilt at the right angle? They were clear blue, with flecks of flinty gray, but they were rounder. Were her cheekbones sharper? Was her lower lip thinner?

  Was he hallucinating?

  He bent closer. “You are Lady Dorothea?” What a question to ask one’s bride.

  A small muscle pulsed at the crux of her jaw. “Of course I am.” Her voice sounded wrong—­higher, less smoke.

  The doddering clergyman began reading from the Book of Common Prayer, oblivious to their conversation.

  This had to be Lady Dorothea standing beside him, since her parents were here. But James would be willing to wager his estate that she was not the woman he’d made love to in the orchid conservatory. He couldn’t say how he was sure, he just knew.

  His stomach heaved.

  Lady Dorothea turned to face him. Her large blue eyes searched his face. Her gloved fingers tightened around the bouquet of white roses and sage, nearly snapping the stalks in half.

  The clergyman droned on about mystical unions and reverence.

  Lady Dorothea took a deep breath. “Stop,” she said.

  When the clergyman continued reading, not hearing her, she raised her voice. “Please stop.”

  He lifted his head from the prayer book. “My lady? Is anything amiss?”

  “Would you give us a moment, Vicar?” she asked, lifting her chin bravely, reminding James for the first time of the woman he’d held in his arms among the flowers.

  White eyebrows rose. Watery eyes searched for the countess in the first pew.

  James gestured to the clergyman. “We need a moment.” He drew Lady Dorothea to the side of the altar.

  Behind them, the countess drew a quavering breath.

  “Er, what seems to be the trouble?” Desmond’s voice bounced around the vaulted ceiling.

  Lady Dorothea glanced back at her parents fearfully. She set her bouquet on a railing and removed her glove. “Here,” she whispered, sliding something from her finger. “Take this.”

  Her eyes brimmed with tears. Diamond and gold filigree flashed in her palm. His mother’s ring.

  “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “You gave this ring to someone else.”

  James felt as though his head was going to explode. “It wasn’t you at Hatherly’s?”

  She shook her head, her face paler than the flowers in the bouquet.

  “And at Warbury Park? Was that you?” he asked.

  Lord Desmond rose from his seat, his hand resting on his dress sword. “I’m warning you, Harland . . .”

  The nightmare moment bowed and strained like the mast of a ship about to crack in a storm.

  Lady Dorothea’s shoulders trembled. James stared at her, feeling nothing but a sick sense of dread. He had a notion of what she was about to say.

  She drew a shuddering breath. “It wasn’t me, Your Grace, on both occasions. It was my half sister.”

  “I see.” He couldn’t seem to feel anything. His body was numb, as if he’d been sinking beneath an arctic sea.

  “Her name is Charlene Beckett,” Dorothea said. “You’ll find her at number fifty, Rose Street, Covent Garden.” She pressed the ring into his palm. “I can’t say more.”

  Alarm bells built to a clanging chorus that filled his head with pain.

  Lies. Trickery and lies.

  Dorothea placed a hand on his sleeve. “Please don’t be angry with her.”

  James brushed her hand away. “I have to go.” He turned his back on her and faced the earl and countess.

  Nick gave him a quizzical look.

  “I will not be married today,” James announced.

  The countess’s hands flew to her cheeks.

  Lord Desmond raised his dress sword. “The hell you won’t,” he roared.

  James strode down the aisle.

  Nick leapt for the earl, restraining him from following. He should have let the earl follow. James would have welcomed the chance to squash Desmond like the bloated tick he was. James had been holding back the tide of anger and frustration, attempting to be civilized enough for London society, but no longer.

  They wanted His Disgrace? He’d give them the scandal they craved, just as soon as he found the woman who had played him for a fool.

  He burst through the church doors, startling his grooms.

  “Rose Street, Covent Garden,” he yelled, vaulting into the barouche.

  With a bone-­jarring lurch, they were off and racing down the street.

  Chapter 26

  Kyuzo dropped his arms. “You’re not yourself today.”

  I may never be myself again, Charlene thought.

  Not when the duke and Dorothea had to be standing in front of a curate somewhere in London, promising to love and cherish, till death do them part. She shouldn’t have cared, but she did. It made her feel helpless, and that made her angry.

  She rolled to her feet, ready to defend against the next attack. They were sparring in a basement room at the Theatre Royal on Drury Lane, where Kyuzo knew one of the managers. He allowed them to practice here, in a small room that he’d furnished with bamboo floor mats.

  The smell of sweat braced her. She adjusted the fabric of the cotton gown she’d tied into a loose a
pproximation of male trousers.

  “Again.” She straightened her back, finding her center of balance and hugging her elbows close to her sides.

  Kyuzo’s bare foot snapped out. Charlene twisted and tried to block the kick, but she lost her balance and crashed to the floor.

  “Emotion makes you weak, Charlene,” Kyuzo cautioned. “Breathe. Empty your mind.”

  The duke made her weak.

  Damn him to hell.

  Kyuzo threw an uppercut punch. Charlene blocked the blow with her left forearm and stepped in for an arm lock, but she miscalculated Kyuzo’s trajectory and ended up strangled, his elbow around her throat.

  She tapped on his arm and he released her.

  “Are you ready to stop now?” he asked. “Your mind is somewhere else.”

  In a church. Where a clergyman was asking the duke and Dorothea to confess any impediment to their lawful union. And Charlene wasn’t there to ruin the wedding in any of the outrageous ways she’d imagined in her lonely bed last night.

  Drape herself across the altar and perform seppuku, the ritual suicide Kyuzo had told her about, where dishonored Japanese warriors took their own lives by slashing a knife into their bellies with one smooth, left-­to-­right slice.

  That would surely stop the wedding.

  Charlene sank to the floor, crossing her arms over her knees.

  “So,” Kyuzo sat beside her. “Are you going to tell me what this is all about? You won your reward, did you not? You paid back Grant and Louisa will have her apprenticeship.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it the duke?” Kyuzo’s face grew fierce, the lines around his mouth deepening. “Did he hurt you?”

  “No.” Charlene hugged her knees against her chest. “Not the way you mean.”

  “What way then?”

  Charlene pressed her forehead to her knees. “Have you ever been in love, Kyuzo?”

  “Oh.” Kyuzo smiled. “So it’s love, is it? Well you have the right of it there. Love can hurt.”