Forbidden to Love the Duke

by Jillian Hunter

  “It’s no inconvenience. My jacket and gloves are sufficient. Let me draw it around you a little tighter.” His big hands cocooned her in the coat. “That’s better. What do you think of our dragon?”

  She lifted her hand to the sanctuary ring, tracing her bare fingers over the dragon’s unfriendly face. Tears came to her eyes. It was a dramatic gesture. She did not completely trust the duke’s motives, knowing how he coveted the manor, and how, in less than a week, he had thrown her life into chaos.

  “It’s wonderful,” Lilac said, poking her bright head around the door. “Very kind of you, Your Grace. We’re falling apart at the seams, you know. I’m not sure whether Ivy told you, but you were our last hope. Won’t you come in and take shelter from the storm awhile? We don’t have much to offer in the way of refreshments, but Cook usually saves a bottle of sherry for Christmas. You will have to excuse the condition of the house. As much as we adore it, we are not blind to its faults. Still, there is no place like Fenwick Manor. If you’re lucky, you might even meet a ghost tonight who is grateful for your good deed. Quigley, please take the duke’s men to the kitchen. We can at least offer them a bit of warmth by the hearth.”

  * * *

  James didn’t look at Ivy. He didn’t dare. She removed his coat, handed it back to him as if it were a castoff, and curtsied with a resigned sigh. “Welcome to Fenwick Manor, Your Grace. I’m surprised that you survived the garden at night.”

  He allowed himself a covert glance at her curvaceous form before one of her sisters brought her a dressing robe. The damp air had moistened her night rail so that it clung to what appeared to be a lovely pair of full breasts and a rounded belly. It wasn’t a long enough look to appease his curiosity, but he felt uncomfortably hard and looked forward to a restless night. However, with a chorus of suspicious sisters and servants in the wing, he would simply have to keep his carnal longings for the governess to himself. Fenwick Manor would help distract his fancies.

  While his servants melted away to the kitchen fire, he entered the house that had sheltered the four noblewomen in secret if shabby glory.

  What a magnificent study in English architecture, both the manor and its mistress. What a sin that Fenwick had suffered from the lack of care it deserved. The quartet of impoverished sisters should receive accolades, not condemnation, for keeping the manor in the family’s hands.

  The fireplace loomed empty and bleak in the great hall. James guessed it cost too much to light coals, even on rainy nights. He noted the absence of a fire screen and iron firedogs. In days past the family would have gathered before a robust blaze in comfort.

  Lavish carvings of roses and dragons covered the walls between linenfold paneling. Ivy followed his stare and said, “There used to be tapestries where you are looking.”

  “They fell,” Lilac said eloquently. “Then we sold them.”

  “It’s incredible.” He shook his head.

  “Yes, it is,” said the tall, dark-haired woman with the gun hidden in her skirts. “And it belongs to us.”

  He blinked. The four of them couldn’t possibly hope to maintain this house much longer on what he would pay Ivy as a governess. Brave spirits wouldn’t carry anyone to the bank. It would be a tragedy to watch this manor and its beautiful gardens come to sorrow all for a want of funds. The urge to protect rose inside him, only to clash with his possessive nature. What could he do, knowing any benevolent act might cover a selfish motive?

  “I’ve returned the sanctuary hold to its home,” he said, lowering his stare to Ivy’s face. How lovely she appeared in the candlelight. Her dark green eyes had turned hazel. He saw her gaze lift guiltily from his mouth and felt a sting of gratification. She would not forget him again. “I should have come earlier in the day. Or sent my servants alone, but I thought I’d at least look familiar. I shall leave now.”

  The palpable relief in the room amused him. He had made a poor impression. Never had he been so aware of the power he held and so uncertain of how to use it.

  “Thank you,” Ivy said with a thin smile. “Perhaps you might call at a better time and tour the back gardens.”

  “In the daylight,” Lilac added.

  “Perhaps next spring,” Rosemary said, making no attempt to hide her distrust or her pistol. “The rose walk shows beautifully in May.”

  He granted her a cynical smile. “I’ll wait for the invitation, then.”

  He turned to the door.

  “Your coat isn’t even dry, Your Grace,” Ivy said hesitantly behind him.

  “That’s fine,” he said, his servants reappearing at his side. “My carriage is supplied with coal braziers and brandy. As you’ll learn when my coachman collects you on Friday. Until then, ladies, I bid you good night—with apologies yet again for the intrusion.”

  * * *

  Ivy stared at the family portraits lining the hall while Rosemary stood at the window, watching the duke’s coach disappear into the rain. One painting of a Restoration ancestor seemed to smile at Ivy in understanding. Ivy’s father had insisted he was a rogue courtier who didn’t belong to either side of the family. Her mother contended he had slipped into the gallery because his ghost could not give up flirtation. He stood with a sword at his side, and even though his eyes sparkled with questionable integrity, the sisters had decided to adopt him. His mischievous presence lifted their spirits.

  Ivy smiled up at him. The duke uplifted her, too.

  “I swear he’s winked at me more than once,” Rue said, putting her head on Ivy’s shoulder.

  “I believe that.” Ivy smiled. “You’re beautiful enough to stir a ghost’s passions.”

  “Speaking of passions,” Lilac said. “I do believe he desires you, Ivy. I can still feel it in the air.”

  Ivy turned to see Lilac propped against the balustrade at the top of the stairs. “The rogue? He’s never winked at me in his life. Or death, I mean.”

  Lilac shook her head. “I mean the duke. He wants you. It was ever so obvious. For a moment when you opened the door, I thought he had come to abduct you. It would have been terribly romantic except for the rain. What a pity he couldn’t have met you when you were on the market as a wife and not governess. You might have mentioned how handsome he was. He’s truly a magnificent man.”

  Ivy laughed in embarrassment. “What are you talking about?”

  “The duke. If he ever calls again, I hope it’s on a clear evening.”

  Ivy sighed in exasperation. “You don’t understand. He wants this house. He didn’t chase me through the garden the other day out of romantic fantasy. Couldn’t you tell how eager he was to look inside and assess our poverty?”

  “I agree with Lilac,” Rue said, frowning as Ivy’s shoulder was immediately withdrawn as a cushion for her head. “He might wish to acquire Fenwick, but his eyes gave his other desires away. Think about it. If he wanted a proper look at the house, he could have come in the morning. But it was Ivy he wanted to see, and he couldn’t wait. You should tell him to find another governess, Ivy.”

  “Well, I signed a contract,” Ivy said bluntly. “And I’ll do whatever is necessary to keep the manor.”

  Rosemary glanced around in amusement. “Will you do anything?”

  “We’ll have to see,” Ivy said. “I might.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Lilac said, laughing in delight.

  “That’s how the family started. Let’s hope that isn’t where it ends.”

  Chapter 9

  Ivy woke up, stiff and cold. The journey to London had drained her. She took a moment to adjust to the dim atmosphere of the unfamiliar chamber. It was supposed to be a respectable hotel, but during the night there had been a party in another room that had gone on into the wee hours. Ivy wasn’t certain whether she had dreamt Rue sneaking into the hall to investigate.

  She sat up in bed and shook Rue gently awake. “It’s not raining. With any lu
ck we’ll make it to the pawnbroker’s shop and be home before supper. I’ll have to buy a new dress in the village and shoes and stores for the pantry. We all need cotton stockings and shifts. If we have enough money left over, we’ll buy rose water and gloves.”

  Rue sat up and combed her fingers through her hair. She was avoiding Ivy’s eyes. “What a horrible place this is.”

  “Why did you leave the room last night?” Ivy asked.

  “There was a party down the hall, and I was hoping to catch a servant in passing and have him ask the guests for a little consideration. You were sleeping peacefully. I couldn’t sleep at all.” She slid from the bed. “Come. We’ll do what we have to do.”

  Ivy glimpsed her sister’s face in the mirror. “Do you feel well? Look at those circles under your eyes. I wonder if you took ill in the rain.” But then the four sisters had all been on edge lately. “Everything will be better soon.”

  Rue smiled wanly. “Yes. I believe it will.”

  Ivy told herself that whatever was wrong with Rue would have to wait until they returned home. She had to keep her wits about her when she dealt with Mr. Newton, the pawnbroker. She’d never had the sense that he cheated her, but business was business, as he said, and he paid her the best price she could expect due to the fact that he’d once gotten into trouble with the authorities for receiving stolen goods.

  An hour later she watched him open her mother’s old jewel casket on his counter to examine the diamond-

  and-pearl necklace. Rue stood at the door, her face turned to the street. “Oh, Lady Ivy, this is a magnificent necklace, crafted indeed to be worn by a noblewoman. I cannot pay you what it’s worth.”

  “I’ll take whatever you can pay me, then.”

  “It’s come to that?” he said in a worried voice.

  “Take the pearls, and the casket. Fenwick is at stake.”

  He removed his spectacles, laid the pearls on a velvet swath, and turned his attention to the intricately carved casket. “Keep the box,” he said after a while. “Only a few were made during Royalist times and carried secret messages for the exiled king.”

  “It will only make me miss the necklace.”

  “This is a unique item. There are panels hidden within that held secret messages, but, alas, all appear to be empty.”

  “Yes. We opened them countless times as children.”

  “I will pay you, my lady, but I do hope that this is our last encounter. You deserve better.”

  “I’ve nothing left to sell, sir.”

  When the time came, she almost could not bear to part with the necklace—ten pounds was generous for a pawnbroker but little compensation for what her family had lost. Rue stifled a sob, which so upset Ivy that she accepted her payment with a hurried thanks and steered her sister out of the shop. “It’s all right, Rue. Everything will be fine once we’re back at Fenwick.”

  Rue pushed through the throng of pedestrians, presumably to reach their parked carriage. “Nothing will ever be right again. We should never have come to London. It’s only a place of endings, and dreams that can’t ever come true.”

  Ivy hurried after her in concern. “You’re not making any sense. Stop a minute. You’re going the wrong way. I wouldn’t have sold the pearls if I’d known you felt like this. Rue, stop.”

  But Rue didn’t stop.

  And in her distress Ivy stepped straight out into the street in front of a speeding phaeton. The driver swerved to avoid hitting her. The lady in a plumed hat beside him covered her face with her hands.

  Ivy would have done the same had she not reared back and fallen hard to the cobbles. A crowd drew around her, preventing her from getting to her feet. The driver jumped down to the curb and instructed his companion to move the phaeton from the flow of traffic. As his long brown hair swung against his face, Ivy braced herself for a public scolding.

  Instead, he looked her over for obvious injuries and shook his head in consternation. Ivy wished he would speak his piece and allow her to disappear. She was famished, weak, and worried sick because Rue was acting oddly, and Ivy suspected that her behavior was not due only to the sold pearls.

  The gentleman standing before her spoke in a museful voice. “I almost hit you.” He grasped her by the wrist and helped her to rise.

  “It was my fault, sir,” she said, shaking out her skirt.

  He glanced past her to the pawnbroker’s shop. “I shall write a sonnet to you. What is your name?”

  Ivy studied him. She could hardly hear what he was saying for all the chatter that had arisen. “What in the world is he wearing?” she whispered to the kind matron who was brushing off Ivy’s cloak. “That long coat and ruffled shirt look like the castoffs of a pirate captain.”

  “Oh, no. He pays a fortune for his wardrobe on Bond Street,” the matron assured her. “It’s essential for an artist of his standing to represent the romantic without appearing to try. He gives me palpitations.”

  “Is he an actor?” Ivy asked.

  “I am a poet, my dear,” the gentleman answered, apparently amused by this conversation. “You must be from the country not to recognize me.”

  At last, a constable arrived, and the poet’s admirers broke apart. Ivy looked about for an avenue of escape and spotted Rue, waving to her from their carriage. She was laughing helplessly at Ivy’s predicament, a welcome state compared to her earlier despondency.

  Still, Ivy couldn’t help noticing that Rue seemed to be stealing glimpses of people in the street as if she were searching for someone she knew.

  But Rue didn’t have any friends in London. At least none that Ivy was aware of. She couldn’t be looking for an acquaintance, unless, against all odds, she had met someone during the night. Her sister in a rendezvous with a stranger? Never. Rue chased away callers from Fenwick.

  * * *

  Sir Oliver Linton found it disconcerting that a lady would ignore him in public. The unfortunate woman appeared unaware of his fame. In this case, however, perhaps it was for the best. Upon reflection, he decided that being seen entering a pawnbroker’s shop did not enhance his reputation, and so he drove about for a good half hour before he parked, leaving his adoring passenger to manage for herself. Alone, he walked back, his head bowed, to the shop he frequented more and more these days.

  The pawnbroker did not glance up at his entrance. “Good afternoon,” Oliver said with false cheer. “Any steals today?”

  “For me or for you, sir?”

  Oliver approached the counter, his gaze lighting on the strand of pearls laid out by the man’s gnarled hands. “Are those genuine?”

  “Yes,” was the curt reply. The pawnbroker rubbed a soft cloth over the necklace and slipped it into a bag. “A sad transaction, though.”

  “I’m no judge of jewelry, but that necklace appears to be very old. Did it belong, by any chance, to the lady in the gray cloak I noticed outside?”

  The pawnbroker looked up steadily. “It was her last valuable possession, or so she believes.”

  Oliver laid his elbow on the counter. The pawnbroker nudged it off. “Is hers a tragic tale?”

  “As you shall never meet, I suppose there’s no harm in telling you. She lives far from here in an old manor. As legend goes, in days past, a royal visitor to the house hid a treasure inside. As a thank-you for the family’s hospitality.”

  Oliver mulled this over. “Wouldn’t the visitor have gifted the owner in gratitude before leaving?”

  “I have told you enough. History has it that the royal visitor escaped the house an hour before his enemies descended upon it.”

  “Then there wasn’t time to explain.”

  “One assumes.”

  “Does the young lady know of this?”

  The pawnbroker evaded an answer. “I underpaid her.”

  “How ruthless of you. She seemed to be an innocent lady in dire stra
its.”

  “And that is why she is grateful to accept whatever I offer her.” He gave a droll laugh. “I show you the same courtesy.”

  Oliver glanced up at the weapons mounted on the wall above the counter. “Except that I’m not a gullible young lady in dire straits.”

  “You’re always in trouble, sir. That’s why I enjoy your visits. By the way, Lady Moffatt’s husband was in the other day. He noticed the cuff links you had pawned and remarked that his wife had bought him a similar pair.”

  Raising his brow, Oliver turned briefly to watch a potential customer peer into the window. For an instant he thought the owner of the necklace might have changed her mind. “So,” he said, returning his attention to the pawnbroker. “Did he buy the cuff links back?”

  “No. He was looking for a bracelet as a surprise for his mistress. He was also looking for the man whom he suspects cuckolded him.”

  Oliver shook his head. “London is such a sinful city, isn’t it? Where did you say the lady who pawned the necklace lives?”

  “I didn’t. Leave her be. At least when she comes to me, she returns home with something to show for her trouble.”

  “Do you believe that the tale of the hidden treasure is true?”

  “I’d stake my life on it.”

  At that moment the doorbell gave a discordant ring. The pawnbroker made a face, indicating Oliver had overstayed his welcome. Then he turned to greet his new customer. Oliver tipped his hat and inched to the end of the counter where an account book lay open. A smudge of fresh ink drew his eye to the last entry.

  Receiv’d a double strand of pearls from Lady Ivy. Fenwick Manor. Kent.

  Oliver murmured his farewell and hurried out into the street. He should be sitting in his garret working on the ode he had promised to write for Lord Moffatt on the occasion of his fortieth birthday. But Oliver had spent the advance a month ago, and his lordship was neither pretty nor in need of rescue.

  Oliver, however, was in need of funds to buy those pearls and return them to their owner. This was the second time today he’d been warned that his affair with Lady Moffatt had been discovered by her husband. It wouldn’t hurt to have a place to escape to in the country. Oliver had fought and won two duels in the past year. There was no point in pushing his luck.