The Hazards of Hunting a Duke

by Julia London

  Yours forever, M.

  He crumpled the letter and threw it in the fire behind him, then fell back in his chair, his face in his hand. He was sorry for her, but it didn’t sway his thinking—there had never been an understanding between them, particularly not since Miranda had made her feelings known that she valued his title above him.

  And now he had to face his destiny, but he was like a blind man, stumbling toward it through darkness. He wasn’t ready for matrimony, but it seemed that the holy state of matrimony was ready for him.

  Lord God, what a remarkably mixed-up world he lived in.

  He glanced at the gold clock on the mantel. In a few hours, he would be expected at the Prince’s Pavilion in Vauxhall Gardens to auction off the accoutrements of the ton, the proceeds of which would go to support the Foundling Hospital. He stood up and walked numbly through his study and up to his suite of rooms to prepare for the day, for this event was, as everything else in his life, his duty.

  Rain did not deter the ranks of the Quality, for it would be remarked if one of their member was not in attendance when everyone else had braved the weather to donate to a worthy cause. Jared groaned when he saw the throng crowded inside the Prince’s Pavilion to avoid the rain instead of the main promenade around the orchestra tower, which had been the planners’ intent. It was so crowded that there was not a breath of air to be had.

  Jared paused just inside the entrance, surveying the finely dressed crowd. It was an excellent turnout given the weather, and everyone seemed in fine spirits—no doubt with help from the ale he had suggested be made available. He had noted through the years that on average, men tended to be more generous with their purses when they’d been drinking.

  He entered the room with an easy smile on his face, practiced in dozens upon dozens of such gatherings in his life. He greeted and thanked the patrons who had braved miserable weather to support the Foundling Hospital, and accepted their congratulations on the success of the auction.

  As he smiled and laughed and spoke to God knew who, he wondered if she’d come, or if she’d seen the morning Times and had decided against attending an event with so many who would whisper of a new, titillating scandal.

  He was speaking with Lord Valmont when he saw her—she was at the podium where he would stand to auction the items, wearing pale green muslin that was the very shade of her eyes, embroidered with tiny cherries and tied with a sash just below her bosom. She’d wrapped her hair up in an identical strip of green cloth, but a few golden strands had escaped the wrap and reached her shoulders.

  She was marking items, he noted, but she stood alone. While the other women involved in the auction worked together in pairs or groups of three or four, Lady Ava Fairchild worked alone, either by choice or as a result of the scandal that was beginning to brew and swirl around her.

  As he spoke with Lord Valmont, she suddenly looked up from her work, her gaze catching his. His smile went a little deeper, and he lifted his chin just slightly, almost indiscernibly, to acknowledge her.

  But Lady Ava quickly turned away, first right, then left, and without looking at him again, she hurried off the dais and through a door Jared knew, from previous events at the prince’s private pavilion, led to a private receiving room.

  He excused himself from Lord Valmont as soon as he could and continued on toward the dais. He could see Lady Elizabeth, off to his left, modestly dressed, holding court with several young women around her. His father also was in attendance, speaking with the Duke of York. And naturally, Harrison and Stanhope, who had both donated far above what he might have hoped, sharing a bit of ale—and, of course, a pair of debutantes.

  At the dais, he inquired of Lady Bellingham and Mr. Bean how long it would be before the auction started.

  “Oh, my lord, the donations have been so very generous,” Lady Bellingham said, beaming.

  “We are still in the process of cataloguing some of the late arrivals,” Mr. Bean said, perfunctory as usual. “I would estimate another hour is needed.”

  “Thank you. Please see to it that there is ale and food for the guests.”

  “Of course,” Mr. Bean said with a curt nod of his head.

  Jared moved on through the crowd, smiling, greeting, trading small talk, until he reached the door Ava Fairchild had slipped through. With one last look at the crowd to assure himself no one seemed the wiser, he stepped through it.

  He walked down a narrow corridor to the private receiving room, opened the door, and stepped inside. It was dark, save for the light of the gray day that filtered in around the drapes.

  There was a burst of loud laughter from a group in the pavilion that caused her to move. He saw her then, standing with her back against the wall, her chest rising with each anxious breath, her golden hair visible in the dim light. Jared quietly closed the door behind him. “Lady Ava? Are you all right?”

  From where he stood he could see her swallow deeply. “Perfectly fine,” she said softly.

  He moved slowly toward her, taking in her lovely face and neck. She anxiously pressed her lips together and looked away from him. She seemed, he thought, to feel trapped. He closed the distance between them and touched his hand to her temple, brushing a strand of silky hair behind her ear. His hand drifted to her shoulder. “Where is your sunny smile, Lady Ava? I have missed it these last two days.”

  She turned her head to look at him with pale green eyes that were full of an emotion he could not fathom. “I cannot smile”—she sucked in her breath when he touched his fingers to the smooth ridge of her bare collarbone and continued breathlessly—“when such wretched things are printed. I may very well be ruined.”

  “No,” he said as his gaze slipped to the swell of her breasts. He’d always considered her a shapely woman, very appealing in her looks, but he had not, until this very moment, desired her so completely. “No, not ruined.”

  She gave him a skeptical look, at which Jared smiled, and she visibly shivered. He was not the only one affected by the close proximity of their bodies in a darkened room.

  His gaze fell to her lips as he caressed her collarbone and her neck with the back of his hand, enjoying the warmth of velvet-soft skin, detecting the scent of rose petal soap. He caressed her as if he possessed her, which, for all intents and purposes, he did in that moment.

  “You cannot be ruined if I am an honest man. And, madam, I am nothing if not an honest man.”

  Her pulse leapt beneath his hand; she lifted her face, eyeing him intently, her eyes glimmering in the dim light. “What do you mean?”

  Her husky voice and her glimmering eyes were all working on the man in him. He leaned down so that his lips were just a moment from her temple. “Ssh…this is a delectable moment and I would not lose it to words.” And then he kissed her temple, so lightly, so breathlessly that she shivered again, only more violently than before. His hand fell to her shoulder to steady her; the other he slipped around her waist, pulling her into his body as he slid his mouth across her cheek to her lips. She moved slightly, angling her head toward him, and Jared nipped at her plump lips.

  But when he slipped his tongue into her mouth, a harder, more powerful desire began to possess him. He wanted her. He hadn’t felt a woman in his arms like this—not like this, not like he felt her in his arms—and he wanted to touch all of her body, to smell it, taste it, feel it. She was pulsing beneath his hands, her body coming alive, responding to his touch. He slid his lips to her chin, then to the hollow of her throat, sliding down farther, to her bosom, his hand on her hip, kneading the soft flesh, the other finding her breast.

  When he squeezed the flesh of her breast, she gasped with pleasure above him, and it stoked him like the flames of a fire.

  Jared rose up again, covered her open mouth with his, her breast with his hand. He tangled the fingers of his other hand in her hair, pulling her head back and lifting her face to him.

  He held her so tightly to him that he could feel the pounding of her heart against his body and
the palm of his hand. It was an exquisite sensation, building a fever inside him and spreading like liquid fire to his limbs. He groaned with desire, pressing his body tightly against her, and Ava curved into him. He dipped his hand into the bodice of her gown and filled his palm with her bare breast. She gasped again, and her head fell back against the wall behind her, but he hardly noticed, for he had freed her breast from the confines of the gown and dipped his head to it, taking it eagerly into his mouth.

  Ava grabbed his head, her fingers raking through his hair as he devoured her breast. Her hands fluttered to his shoulders and down his arms, gripping him as her body rose up to meet his mouth, pressing into him for more. He let go of her breast and raised his mouth to hers as his hand swept down her side, around to her hip, squeezing her, then down her leg, and around to the apex of her legs at the same moment a roar of laughter, followed by a collective shriek, went up outside.

  The noise seemed to waken her from his attention to her, and she dragged her mouth from his, choking and pushing him away from her. “This is madness!” she cried. “I am on the precipice of ruin and I am throwing myself into the abyss of it by being here with you now!”

  “No, you don’t understand—”

  “I understand completely, and I—”

  “I want to marry you,” he quickly interjected.

  It took a moment for his words to find their place in her mind, and when they did, they clearly shocked her. She reared back as if he’d burned her, her expression hurtful, as if she believed he was jesting somehow.

  “Did…did you…”

  “I did just express my desire to marry you.”

  She still seemed unconvinced, still looked at him distrustfully, and he suddenly realized that he’d gone about this all wrong. What an idiot he had been! He abruptly went down on one knee and took her hand in his. “Lady Ava—”

  She gasped, and covered her mouth with her hand.

  He didn’t smile, but looked directly into her eyes as he covered her hand with both of his. As peculiar as it was to him, he realized he suddenly needed her answer. “Lady Ava, would you do me the honor of being my wife?”

  She gasped again, only heavenward, then slid down the wall to her haunches, so that she was eye level with him. She cupped his face in her hands, her gaze intent. “Do you sincerely mean this?” she asked him earnestly.

  “Would I ask this, the answer to which will shape the rest of my life, if I did not sincerely mean it?”

  “But we hardly know one another!”

  “We know that it would be a good match of fortune, standing, and compatibility, do we not?”

  “Yes…with the possible exception of fortune, my lord, for I have none.”

  “I don’t care.”

  She drew several breaths as she studied his face, her eyes full of confusion and mistrust, but also a glimmer of hope.

  “Lady Ava, you must end my agony,” he said quietly. “Will you accept my offer of marriage?”

  For a moment, he feared she would reject him, and the swell of bitter disappointment filled his throat, surprising him. But then she smiled brilliantly, illuminating the dimly lit room. “Yes,” she said. “Yes!” She lurched forward, kissing his face, almost knocking them off balance in the process, their fall stopped by his stength.

  He kissed her, aware that he was, remarkably, relieved and even a bit happy that she had consented. He lifted his head and grinned. “I should very much like to continue this happy moment, but I must go now and do my duty.”

  She nodded, her eyes still full of astonishment. He leapt to his feet, reached for her hand, and pulled her up, then helped her arrange her gown. When he was satisfied that her gown was properly arranged, he smiled at her. “You want this, don’t you?”

  She laughed a little, her smile beaming up at him. “More than you could possibly know, my lord.”

  He kissed her cheek, then opened the door for her.

  When the Marquis of Middleton and Lady Ava Fairchild emerged from the private receiving room, the assembled crowd went mad with titillation. But their excitement at being present for a piece of delicious scandal was nothing like the small riot of gossip that quickly spread throughout their ranks.

  The marquis, they said, had asked for Lady Ava’s hand in marriage and she had accepted.

  Men wondered if he knew she had no money. Women, their feelings bruised by this sudden pairing, wondered if she knew he was having a love affair with Lady Waterstone.

  And as the auction proceeded—Lady Ava handing the items to be auctioned to Lord Middleton (who raised a record sum for the hospital)—only three people were not gossiping excitedly about the extraordinary news: Lady Elizabeth Robertson, who took the news quite hard; Sir Garrett, who perhaps took the news even harder; and the Duke of Redford.

  Several people standing near the duke said that, in fact, he looked furious.

  Eleven

  E arly the next morning, Jared was summoned, as he fully expected he would be, to Redford House, the massive town house on Park Lane where his father held court. He strode ahead of the butler who announced him into the large study where his father was standing at the massive hearth, warming his hands.

  The duke did not offer a hand to his son—he barely spared him a glance at all. “How dare you,” he said calmly, “make an offer of marriage without my consent.”

  There were times such as this that Jared absolutely despised his father. He’d expected questions, but he had at least hoped his father would acknowledge that he had, at last, done as he wanted. “You have cajoled me, threatened me, and you have won. I thought you would be pleased that I have decided to marry as you have been so keen to see me do.”

  “Yes, I am keen to see you married!” the duke suddenly exploded. “But I was keen to see you marry someone of acceptable lineage!”

  “Lady Ava Fairchild is the eldest daughter of the late Earl of Bingley,” Jared said, working hard to maintain his composure.

  “And she is also the stepdaughter of Lord Downey,” he said acidly. “A man who would be nothing more than a commoner had it not been for his uncle’s generous connections. He’s not even come to me to propose the possibility of a match with my son! Perhaps he is wise enough to know that this woman cannot be better suited to you than Lady Elizabeth.”

  “You insult me by implying that someone other than I must speak to you before I am permitted to make an offer of marriage!” Jared spat.

  “It is not only customary, it is necessary. You’re no common smithy’s son!”

  Jared choked on a bark of bitter laughter. “No, your grace, I am not. Would that I were.”

  The duke snorted with disdain. “You’ve done quite well as the son of a duke. What are the terms?”

  Jared shrugged insouciantly. “I have not inquired.”

  His father’s gaze narrowed to little beads of sheer disgust. “Do you mean to tell me that you have made an offer of marriage to a woman who will one day be a duchess without discussing the terms?”

  The question infuriated Jared. “The terms are rather simple, your grace. I chose a virgin of good standing who is capable of providing an heir,” he snapped. “All else is immaterial.”

  “Don’t be coy,” his father shot back, striding away from the mantel to the bellpull. “You know perfectly well that a match of such importance requires a certain appraisal of her suitability.”

  And here it went, their singular inability to speak to one another without harm. “It is not my intent to be coy,” Jared said tightly. “But it is plain that her suitability has more to do with her womb than her fortune.”

  His father gasped. “How dare you be so vulgar with me?”

  “Are you any less vulgar with me? You have told me on more than one occasion that you must have your heir. I have brought you a suitable vessel to provide just that, and now you would know her worth?”

  “As usual, you have no concept of what you say,” his father said angrily. “You are so very careless with this fam
ily’s responsibility.” His gaze raked over Jared. “You are a disappointment to me.”

  “I can be no more a disappointment as a son than you are a father. And frankly, I should rather be careless than heartless. You have interfered with every aspect of my life. Could you not at least allow me the courtesy of choosing the woman with whom I shall spend the rest of my days on this earth? I intend to marry Ava Fairchild, sir. The offer has been made. If that does not please you, there is nothing more I can do.”

  The duke paled; his gray eyes turned wintery. “Nothing more you can do?” he managed, his laugh sour. “You could be the son I raised you to be. You could make a better effort to understand what honor and duty and pride mean before you drag our name through the mud with a woman like that whore Waterstone! You could heed my advice instead of turning your back to me time and again! And now you have only made this situation worse by offering without thought! I would advise you not to engage in any more talk of marriage until this woman has accepted our terms.”

  It was all Jared could do to keep from lunging at the old man. Or wringing his neck. “Her name is Lady Ava Fairchild. And they are not our terms,” he managed to say, his voice full of dark anger. “They are mine. All else may be yours, but this marriage is mine.” He turned and strode for the door before his father could speak, his hands aching to be around his father’s gullet.

  He should have gone to his club or home—somewhere quiet, somewhere he could take a deep breath and calm himself. His father was a difficult man, and Jared had learned when he was a boy that if he took the time to recover his composure, he could usually smash down the hurt and resentment into a compact, neat little box that he stuffed away somewhere deep inside himself.

  But today was different, for he had let go of his pride and conceded to his father’s wishes, had agreed to a perfectly acceptable match, yet his father still found fault. Jared’s anger was so raw that he could scarcely think, much less calm himself. His first thought was to speak with his intended bride and set a wedding date as soon as was possible.