Julianna led Con into his bedroom, then closed and locked the door.
“Rains might come tomorrow,” she said, “and ruin what promises to be a good harvest of wheat. The blight can show up on the potatoes. Harold could come down with a lung fever. Roberta might step on a nail, for she does love to go barefoot in the grass. Horty could turn up lame. The roof might leak, the chickens all die.”
“Hush,” Con said, putting a finger to her lips. Eggs were a major staple at breakfast and a significant part of other meals as well. “You are frightening me, and I’d flattered myself that I possessed some modicum of courage. I have four siblings who test that courage regularly.”
Siblings whom he… missed. Quint had surprising reserves of discretion. Hector brought good humor with him nearly everywhere. Tiger had a practical streak not often seen in a duke’s daughter, and Freddy… Freddy had an enviable store of derring-do.
“Family tests our courage,” Julianna said, kissing Con gently. “They die, blast them. Your papa left you too soon. John should be sitting out on the porch this instant, watching the moon rise over a lovely farm. The land tests my courage, the children test everything in me… MacTavish will come.”
Nobody reassured a duke, and yet, Julianna’s embrace was not only reassuring, but fortifying. Whether MacTavish came in time or not, Julianna’s affection and loyalty would not waver. Her kisses said as much. Her hands, stealing little caresses as she helped Con disrobe, made the same promise.
Con provided reciprocal courtesies, unhooking this, untying that, until they were both under the covers, her head resting on his shoulder, her bare knee tucked across his thighs.
“Your wound has healed quickly,” Julianna said.
Everything in Con had healed during this interlude in Lesser Puddlebury.
“I’m worried.” He could say this to her, in the dark, under the covers. He could say it to her anywhere, and she’d not judge him for it.
“So am I. Let’s distract each other, shall we?” She slid her hand slowly down, down, to grip Connor snugly by something much more interesting than his worries. Her touch was gentle but sure, and quite… inventive.
Inspiring, even. When Con would have retaliated, Julianna rose over him instead.
“Not tonight, Connor. Tonight you let me love you. You have exhausted yourself these past two days, doing MacTavish’s work. Tonight, you enjoy your rest.”
Con should protest. He should remonstrate, and review options, and think up contingencies. He should go downstairs and pen an imperious epistle to Uncle Leo and pawn the last set of fine clothes he possessed to hire a messenger to gallop to Scotland…
Though in which direction Scotland lay, Con could not have said just then.
Julianna’s idea of distraction included using her mouth in ways Con, with all his London experience, would never have expected of a woman. Her attentions proceeded at a luxurious pace, as if she enjoyed driving Con to incoherent sighs.
“You excel at distraction.”
“Mmmm.” Followed by a swirl of her tongue, left then right, then right, right…
Con gathered her braid at her nape, though whether he was bent on encouraging her or dissuading her, even he could not have said.
“Julianna, please…”
She nuzzled him in the most lovely, indelicate location, then sat up. “I was never so daring as a younger woman, never so selfish or indulgent of my curiosity. I hope you’re convinced of your own fortitude, sir.”
Con hauled her over him as gently as madness allowed. “Fiend. Lovely, luscious, delectable, sweet—for the love of God, Julianna.”
With no ado whatsoever, she’d swooped down on him, joining them in one glorious descent. She was ready—she was wonderfully, enthusiastically ready—and yet, a small corner of Con’s awareness, the part not praying for restraint to match his supposed fortitude, was admiring more than Julianna’s naked form.
To love like this in the face of possible ruin took courage. To know that tomorrow might bring more uncertainty and worse options, and yet love tonight with unfettered passion, that took… that took a degree of faith and strength that stole a man’s breath.
Julianna was loving Connor with all the hope in her, all the faith she had in herself, laid before him like a feast of optimism, resilience, and loyalty. We’ll manage, she said with every kiss and caress. We’re in this together.
And she was right.
This was what it felt like to be loved, for himself, unconditionally, come what may.
Con returned her passion, cherishing her every curve and callus, her every sigh and whimper. He couldn’t sustain nearly as much restraint as he wanted to, but that was part of loving, too—the surrendering, to passion, to hope, and to pleasure. They soon lay in a tangled, panting heap of warmth and wonder, the only sounds their breathing and the rustle of the covers.
“I love you,” Con said, mustering the energy for one last, lovely kiss to the lady’s lips. “I love you.”
“Then I am already your duchess, and you are my duke, for I love you too. Come what may. Blow out the candle, Your Grace, and dream with me.”
Chapter Six
* * *
Never, ever would Julianna regret the nights she’d spent in Connor’s arms. His reserves of tenderness and passion—and his displays of imagination—would keep her memories warm into great old age, even through Yorkshire winters, destitution, and the possible heartbreak of failing the children who in the past week had taken to calling her Mama.
“Where’s MacTavish?” Roberta asked over the last of her cobbler.
“Probably on his way home right this instant,” Julianna replied. “We gave him much to do in York, and Mrs. Periwinkle might have been reluctant to leave her sister. Would you care for another serving of dessert, Bertie? You didn’t take very much to begin with.”
To give away MacTavish’s portion of the cobbler had been a slip. The boys exchanged looks that said they well knew Julianna was anxious.
“Let’s save the last of the cobbler,” Connor said. “MacTavish will be hungry after days away from home cooking. Children, if you’d help with the dishes, your mother can assist me to don my finery.”
Con had called them all together on the porch after luncheon and explained exactly what was afoot. He’d used simple language, nothing alarming, and yet, the children seemed to grasp the gravity of the situation.
Without a word of protest, the boys rose and took their dishes to the slop bucket.
Roberta turned huge blue eyes on Connor. “Mr. Warren pinched me once. On my arm. I didn’t do anything wrong either. I don’t like him, and he’s not nice.”
“Where did he pinch you?” Connor asked.
Roberta pointed to the muscle near her shoulder, which Con kissed.
“I will make him pay dearly for treating one of my ladies ill, Roberta. He should not have done that. If anybody else ever behaves similarly, you tell your mama, your brothers, or me.”
Roberta studied Connor with a seriousness that tore at Julianna’s heart, while the boys silently cleared the table.
“Will you be my papa?”
Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.
Con’s smile was sweet and grave. “If your mama will have me, and I hope she will, I would be honored to be a parent to all of you.”
The children were safe, in other words. Whatever else happened to the farm, the children would be safe. Connor would find the coin, the determination, the way forward, regardless of his family’s foolishness, or the already strained ducal exchequer.
“I’ll shine your boots,” Harold said, “as soon as the dishes are clean.”
“I can brush your hat and jacket,” Ralph added.
“I’ll start pressing your shirt,” Lucas chimed in. “And don’t worry, I won’t scorch it. Roberta will make sure I’m careful.”
While Julianna would help Connor as she tried not to panic. For the sun was setting, and even a duke could not win back a farm without the means to first i
nvite himself into the requisite game of chance.
* * *
The ducal finery felt the same—pressed, starched, exquisitely fitted—and yet, it felt different to Con too. A costume, chosen for his purposes, not simply the outfit handed to him by his fussing, fawning valet. Another exquisitely embroidered waistcoat, another perfectly starched cravat.
They were his battle dress, now.
“Will I do?” Con asked, turning slowly, arms outstretched before the children. Julianna had pronounced him ready for the evening before they’d come downstairs. She’d refused to kiss him, saying she must not wrinkle his cravat, but Con sensed the worry in her.
Four equally fretful little faces surveyed him from the sofa.
“You’re very fancy,” Ralph said. “Mr. Warren won’t like that you’re fancier than he is.”
“Good.” Harold passed Connor a spotless top hat. “The more Mr. Warren doesn’t like it, the happier I am. He pinched Roberta, he wants to steal from Mama. He deserves to land in Horty’s manure pit.”
“He has been stealing from Mama,” Lucas said. “Mr. Greenower and Mr. Plumley said as much.”
“Where’s MacTavish?” Roberta whispered.
Con was out of excuses for MacTavish, and Julianna had given up an hour ago. The summer sun was sinking inexorably toward the green horizon, and Con’s hopes were sinking with it.
Julianna met his gaze over the children’s heads, the look in her eyes resolute. “MacTavish will come. He’s never let us down, never shirked, and he’ll not—”
Roberta bolted to the window. “I hear wheels! He’s home!”
The children thundered onto the porch, waving and yelling uproariously as a bay mare trotted up the lane, MacTavish at the reins, a plump, graying woman beside him. The trunks were gone, a good sign, and MacTavish wasn’t scowling any more than usual. He pulled the gig up before the house and swung the housekeeper down.
“What’s all this racket? You’ll spook the poor mare, and she’s had a long, tiring week.”
MacTavish apparently had too, but he was back, and Julianna and the children were swarming about him, all smiles and hugs. Con came down the porch steps, waiting, because MacTavish obviously had something to report.
When the children had dragged Mrs. Periwinkle into the house with Julianna in tow, Con offered MacTavish a hand.
“Welcome home. You had me worried.”
MacTavish watched the others depart, his expression hard to read. “I am sorry for going a bit off schedule. I got engaged.”
Ah, hence the slight daze in MacTavish’s blue eyes. “Congratulations. So did I.”
“Maud said we should give you lovebirds some privacy. I told her she was daft. Never knew how much sense a daft woman could make when she’s determined to celebrate her engagement. Then there were the pickpockets.”
Not pickpockets, please God, not pickpockets now. Much less pickpockets, plural.
“How much did they get?”
“You lot, with your fancy airs… They get every groat from you every time, because you expect some grimy boy to be fumbling at your watch chain. That’s not how they operate.”
“MacTavish, my fist will operate on your newly engaged face if you don’t get on with the telling. My family—and our mule—are depending on me to save the farm on the turn of a card tonight. For that, I need money, not a parable.”
MacTavish’s grin was a work of benevolence. “And the mule? That’s the last time I argue with Maud Periwinkle MacTavish. The pickpockets got nothing, for all their trying. A good pickpocket dresses like quality and works with two accomplices. The finest of the three lifts the goods from your pocket so lightly you never feel but a bump and jostle. Quick as a wink, he hands off the goods to the second, often a lady, the prettier the better. The third fellow, looking a bit down on his luck, takes off at a conspicuous run, but has no contraband on him, while the lady slips quietly away.”
Well, yes, that was how it was done. “You were followed by pickpockets for days?”
“Most tenacious and best-dressed criminals I’ve ever seen. I had to take some of your goods to every pawnbroker in York to get the best price. If I’d left them all with one, he wouldn’t have been as inclined to bargain.”
MacTavish passed over a reassuringly heavy bag of coins. “You’re set, lad. I’ll mind the farm, you catch a rascal. The whole shire will be in your debt, and you’ll never want for cobbler again.”
Julianna had come out on the porch and stood at the top of the steps, her shawl clutched about her. Con took one instant to imprint the image of her there among her vining roses, then blew her a kiss.
“I’m off to battle. Wish me luck.”
“Faciemus proelio,” Julianna said, blowing him a kiss in return. “Failing that, knock Maurice Warren into the dirtiest manure pit you can find and blacken both of his eyes. Roberta asked me to tell you that. She said manure stains never come out.”
“Remind me not to cross our daughter,” Con said, bowing. “MacTavish, if you could drop me outside the village before returning the mare, I’d appreciate it.”
“I can do better than that,” MacTavish said, passing over a silver flask. “I can tell you who plays in this card game and how they play, how much they already owe Warren, and how many daughters they have to dower.”
“All the better,” Con said, climbing into the cart and taking a seat on the hard bench. They were all the way to the edge of the village before he realized something else that had changed for the better.
His wound no longer pained him. Didn’t even itch, in fact, not in the slightest.
* * *
Getting into the game had been the work of a moment, for apparently, every baronet’s son and squire was tired of losing to Maurice Warren. Con had introduced himself as Connor Amadour, then smiled, bowed, dropped a few innuendos about needing to avoid some London matchmakers, and easily gained himself a seat at the table.
Warren sported a prosperous figure, thinning blond hair, and three gold watch chains stretching across his paunch. His manner was gracious if a bit obsequious. A sennight ago, Con would not have noticed the fawning. Warren also won steadily, which any damned fool would have noticed.
Winning streaks happened—very, very rarely. Long winning streaks tended to happen before the odds, or the machinations of a particular card sharp, were about to knock a foolish man on his arse. One by one, the others at the table dropped out, while Con’s resources dwindled.
He saw Julianna losing one pasture after another. Her orchard, her crops, her home farm, her home wood…
Panic tried to take root, but Con batted it aside. Dukes did not panic, and neither did competent farmers.
“Let’s order another bottle, shall we?” Warren suggested. “Celebration of my windfall, consolation for your losses. A fancy London gent like you can stand to lose a bit, eh? The evening is young, after all. You might win back a bit of your own before we call it a night.”
That sop to Con’s dignity, thrown across a table from which all others had departed, brought with it an alarming realization.
Warren was cheating. Sitting directly across from him, Con could observe him from only one vantage point. Had Lucere or Starlingham been on hand to take the flanking chairs, Warren’s perfidy might have been checked. Con was without his allies and was not himself adept at cheating, nor did he wish to be.
“If I wanted to invest some real money,” Con said as Warren signaled for yet more brandy, “are there opportunities in this area?”
Warren passed the deck over for Con to cut, but instead of cutting, Con picked up the cards and shuffled them. The markings were subtle, barely discernible unless a player was paying attention.
“Real money?” Warren echoed.
“Investment sums,” Con said. “The cent-per-cents are all very well for a sister’s dowry or a widow’s portion, but to hold a man’s attention, something more adventurous is required, don’t you think?”
“A canal would be—�
�
Con waved a hand, his signet ring winking in the candlelight. “Canals were fine for our fathers’ day, but steam will soon make the rails a viable alternative. My brother is something of an inventor, and he assures me this is so.”
The markings weren’t falling into a pattern Con could detect with casual handling, and Warren’s gaze had gone calculating.
“Mining in this region is quite lucrative,” he said. “One needs a sound grasp of the local terrain, such as a lifelong resident of the area has, and familiarity with the mining industry, which accomplishment I can also boast, Mr. Amadour. My own modest wealth owes much to a certain perspicacity where mining ventures are concerned.”
Oh, right. Which was why every fellow who’d left the table had likely lost a good portion of his savings to Warren and now could not risk offending him over even a hand of cards or a jar of honey in the market.
Inspiration came to Con as the serving maid set a fresh bottle on the table along with clean glasses. The deck was marked with minute pinpricks and nicks along the edges of the cards. Con set to subtly adding to the wear and irregularity of the surfaces while Warren blathered on about the potential riches a man of vision might find if he were patient and daring, shrewd and well connected, brilliant but willing to trust those who’d trod the path to riches before him.
Warren ought to be making speeches in the Lords, so impressed was he with his own elocution.
Con kept him going with questions and with brandy, and all the while, Con worked the deck.
And yet, when play resumed, an hour went by with Con barely winning back the sum he’d brought with him.
“Are you tiring, Mr. Amadour? I confess wagering against somebody other than my neighbors is a refreshing change. Suppose we raise the stakes to something a man of your consequence might find interesting?”
In other words, enough of the markings on the cards remained that Warren was confident he could still read them.
Dukes In Disguise Page 10
