In Need of a Duke (The Heart of a Duke Book 1)

by Christi Caldwell

  “My lord?” she prodded.

  Michael held out his arm.

  Lady Aldora hesitated for the slightest moment before placing the tips of her fingers on his coat sleeves and allowing him to guide her toward the steps.

  “I must thank you for your help,” she said.

  “You do know if I’m to help you that you’ll eventually need to confide what it is you’ve lost.”

  If he hadn’t been peering at her from the corner of his eyes, he’d have failed to note the way her mouth tightened into a firm, unyielding line. He waited.

  “It really wasn’t my fault,” she confessed.

  “I’m sure it wasn’t.”

  At the dry humor lacing his words, her pursed lips slanted down at the corners. Even frowning she possessed a unique beauty that Michael believed could rival Athena.

  “My lord—”

  “If we are to avoid discovery, I’d suggest you lower your voice, my lady. That is if you are attempting to avoid discovery.” He shot her a bemused look. “Ahh, so it would seem you are planning to meet someone out here. Tell me.” He leaned close. “Has a certain lord garnered your affections?”

  “You presume too much, my lord,” she said a touch too quickly. The pale moonlight highlighted the splotches of color that heightened her cheeks. Hmm, so the young lady had put rather a lot of thought into securing a match with the Marquess of St. James. The thought shouldn’t rankle…and yet, it did. Very much.

  Jealousy churned in his gut. Michael shoved aside the unpleasant (and unwelcome) emotion.

  They moved through the grass still slicked wet from an earlier morning shower. Lady Aldora slipped and he wrapped an arm about her waist, holding her up.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Michael led her to the row of shaped topiaries that rested at the base of the balustrade and stopped. He gestured to the ground. “What is it we are looking for this time? An earbob?”

  She shook her head. “Though if it were an earbob, I venture it would be nigh on impossible to find.”

  “You are right there, my lady. A glove?”

  “No.”

  “A fan then?”

  Pale pink color continued to grow in her cheeks until blazing red splotches glowed in the moonlight. Hmm, fascinating. Michael fell silent. What had his vixen lost this time?

  “Uh-you see I dropped my, my…”

  “Your?”

  “Spectacles.”

  Michael grinned. So the lady wore glasses.

  Lady Aldora’s lips tightened. “Do you find that funny, my lord?”

  Somehow it made her all the more perfect. It also well explained her inability to see him or her missing necklace in Hyde Park those two days ago.

  He held a hand to his heart. “Not at all, my lady.” He directed his attention toward the ground, dropping to a knee, he felt around the damp earth for the missing treasure.

  She sank down beside him and her mint green skirts fanned a soft breeze upon his skin. Michael sucked in a breath and glanced over at her. What was it about this bespectacled, troublesome miss that had so captivated him? Why when the last thing he wanted or needed were any emotional entanglements should he be so intrigued by this small slip of a woman?

  Lady Aldora caught her lower lip between her teeth. Brown eyes flecked with gold held his, and he was overwhelmed by a desire to lose himself in their shimmering depths.

  Michael gave his head a shake. Good God, where had this poetic drivel come from?

  “Are you all right, my lord?”

  If he were smart, he’d storm off and escape this maddening hold she possessed over him. She was a sorceress and he was helpless to resist her lure.

  “My lord?”

  Michael cupped her cheek, his fingers taking the time to memorize the satiny smoothness of her flesh. Her lashes fluttered as she leaned into his touch, and he wanted nothing more in that moment than to lay her down and worship her beneath the moon’s gentle beams.

  There was no helping it. He was lost.

  Chapter Three

  Aldora knew there was everything scandalous about her being alone with the Marquess of St. James. Since her father’s death, sensibility had dictated her every action. Even her decision to pursue the marquess had stemmed from her need for a gentleman who possessed a distinguished title, power, and the trace of scandal that would make him slightly less than illustrious. After all, what gentleman would burden himself with a debt-ridden family and a dowerless wife?

  All the rules drummed into her head from early on flew right out at the touch of his hand.

  The feel of his skin on hers, the smoldering intensity of his sapphire gaze, the unabashed teasing that drew her to him were far from logical and reasonable decisions. No, St. James, this relative stranger to her had begun to make her crave…him—the man, not the title. Aldora reached up and stroked the pendant at her neck, the metal heart all but burned her fingers. The talisman that had brought love and happiness to her friends who’d worn it before her had worked its magic upon Aldora.

  As if drawn by her movement, the marquess’s gaze lowered, and then lingered upon the rapid rise and fall of her décolletage. He held his hand up. “May I have this dance?”

  Logic reared its bothersome head as a quiet laugh escaped her. “But there is no music.”

  He arched a single brow. “Shh, don’t you hear it?”

  Aldora strained to hear the distant sounds of the orchestra’s strings. She shook her head. As long as she could remember, her vision had been poor. She’d never before realized her hearing, too, was a problem.

  “Then you aren’t listening to what is right before you,” he chided. “Close your eyes.”

  She hesitated for the fraction of a moment before doing as he bid.

  “Now listen. What do you hear?”

  Aldora listened. The chirp of crickets filled the quiet. She smiled.

  “Ahh, so you hear it. What else do you hear, my lady?”

  She focused on the nighttime song of a lone robin. “A bird,” she whispered.

  A breeze rustled the trees around them and set the leaves to dancing.

  “And what else?”

  Aldora opened her eyes. “You. I hear you, my lord.”

  “Michael. I want you to call me by my given name.”

  Aldora had scoured through the book of peers. Milburn Michael Christopher Knightly, the Marquess of St. James. He preferred to use his middle name, and it suited him vastly better than his given one.

  It was a scandalous proposition and yet…

  “Very well. Michael,” she said, testing out the feel of his name on her lips. In the secret of these grounds, it felt right.

  Michael. The archangel who’d defeated the demon. How perfectly appropriate for this man who would slay Aldora’s monsters, even if he did not yet know it.

  He placed his hand at her waist and proceeded to waltz her through the garden, dancing to the night music. Their body movement was in symphonic harmony; he seemed attuned to her every step. Aldora studied the rugged planes of his cheeks. Here she was so very close to that which she’d schemed these many weeks over, a match with the Marquess of St. James. Yet as they danced around the grounds, she wasn’t thinking about her father’s debt or her sisters’ security, or the material possessions they’d been forced to sell off.

  All she could think about was him, and how being in his arms felt like she’d at last discovered everything she’d never realized she needed or wanted.

  Michael should be committed to Bedlam. There was nothing else for it.

  But an inexplicable madness had overtaken him. Why else would he be waltzing an unwed, respectable, very marriageable lady around his host’s grounds? Alone.

  There was also the matter of Lady Aldora believing he was in fact someone else—his brother, to be precise. His gut clenched as the acerbic bite of jealousy climbed up his throat and threatened to choke him. Michael had never before coveted St. James’s title until two days ago when this u
nconventional young lady had landed at his feet in Hyde Park. Since that moment he’d thought of nothing but her. Her smile. Her cheeky retorts. Her sharp wit.

  Michael’s gaze fell to her bow-shaped ruby red lips. And he’d thought about those too. It took every last shred of decency buried deep inside him to resist the lure of the supple flesh.

  He wanted to kiss away the lies between them. Wanted her to look at him, and not only see him, but want him. Michael made the mistake of glancing once more at her mouth and lost the silent battle warring within him. Michael lowered his lips and claimed the lush flesh.

  Her lithe body stiffened and then seemed to melt against him. He angled his head, exploring the feel and contour of her lips. A sigh escaped her, and he slipped his tongue inside, needing to learn the taste of her.

  She touched the tip of her tongue to his, first hesitant and then grew more bold.

  Lemon and honey. She tasted like utter sweetness.

  “Aldora Adamson, if you have a brain in your head, you will not be out here.” The harsh whisper cut into the magic between them.

  Michael’s head jerked up.

  Aldora’s eyes widened, and Michael knew the moment reality had intruded. Her body went whipcord straight in his arms, but it didn’t escape his notice that she did not pull away. She remained exactly where she was, in his arms.

  He drew in a steadying breath and leaned down to place his lips alongside her ear. “A friend of yours?”

  She gave a jerky nod; the top of her brown curls brushed his chin.

  For one infinitesimal moment, he relished being found with her in his arms. She’d have no choice but to wed him…and she’d spend the rest of their lives hating him for being the other brother, the one she didn’t want. As much as he wanted Lady Aldora, he didn’t want her at all costs. What kind of life would it be for either of them if her devotion were reserved for another? Not just any other gentleman, his brother.

  Michael set her away from him. He fished around for her spectacles and then found them.

  Aldora stared up at him as he settled the wire-rimmed glasses on the bridge of her nose.

  Go, before you are discovered.

  As if understanding his unspoken words, she gave another nod, and then hurried out of his arms.

  Michael pressed himself alongside the wall, closing his eyes.

  All that had come between him and the ruination of Lady Aldora Adamson had been the timely—or rather untimely—interruption.

  “Where were you?” The hiss slashed into his thoughts.

  Was this a friend? A sister? It struck Michael how little he actually knew about Lady Aldora.

  “I dropped my spectacles,” Lady Aldora murmured. A defensive edge underlined her words.

  Silence met her admission.

  “Truly?” The unknown lady’s one word dripped with speculation.

  Lady Aldora’s response was lost to him.

  “Come along then. I’ve had the devil of the time trying to explain away your absence to your mother.”

  The rustle of skirts indicated the moment the ladies had left.

  Michael remained at the edge of his host and hostess’ gardens. He stared at the spot where the moon’s beam slanted its rays upon the grass, considering Lady Aldora.

  What was it about her that made him wish his life had turned out differently?

  Having met Lady Aldora, Michael felt more than a mere flicker of interest in something other than the material world. Except this was no mere flicker.

  The things he’d never before considered; a wife, a family, social acceptance, filled him with a longing for something more than the empty world of ledgers and profit.

  After all, gold made for a poor bedfellow. It wasn’t warm and supple and full of laughter. It didn’t wear spectacles.

  Yet, as much as he longed for Lady Aldora, she wasn’t for him and he could no longer lie to her. He was a murderer. A shame to his family’s name.

  But he was no liar.

  He’d allowed this charade to go on long enough. The time for games was at an end. Michael couldn’t let her continue to believe he was another man. It was unforgiveable, and he’d been driven by purely selfish desires—a desire for the young lady herself.

  Chapter Four

  “What did you tell my mother?” Aldora whispered.

  Valera slanted a probing glance in her direction. “I told her you were in the retiring room. Did you really lose your spectacles?”

  Aldora pulled the mud-splattered spectacles from her reticule and held it up for her friend’s inspection.

  “Hmm,” Valera muttered, her tone indicated that she was far from convinced.

  Regardless, amidst the bustling crowd of Lord and Lady Aldridge’s ballroom was hardly the place to address her friend’s very real concerns.

  Aldora fought the feeling of being a child who’d disappointed her mother. She’d make no apologies for pursuing the marquess. She was justified in ways that Valera didn’t, and couldn’t, understand. But oh, how Aldora wished for someone to share her burden. Sometimes it felt like the world and all of its troubles had been placed squarely upon her shoulders, and she was sinking under the weight of it.

  Then she’d met St. James, no, Michael, and miracle of miracles, the man she’d set her sights upon had intrigued her more than any other. Prior to having landed squarely at his feet in Hyde Park, she had prayed that they would prove compatible. That same day they’d met, the marquess had not only captured her interest, he’d made her feel a maelstrom of emotions from amusement to annoyance.

  Valera drew to a stop beside a white Doric column and took Aldora by the arm.

  “Oh dear,” Valera whispered.

  Aldora shook her head, dislodging thoughts of him, even as her eyes darted around the hall for his six-foot three frame. Had he returned from the gardens? She’d venture he remained outside to give a much needed distance between her and his appearance. “What is it?”

  “You are beyond smitten with the marquess.”

  She peeked around to see if anyone had overheard her friend’s outrageous, albeit true, charge.

  “I am not.” Except Aldora’s tone hardly sounded convincing to her own ears.

  “Then you won’t care that he’s coming this way now.”

  Aldora’s pulse kicked up a staccato rhythm and her hand fluttered to her heart. From across the room, he entered the main hall. His long strides stripped away the distance between them, his movements as purposeful as an avenging warrior of old storming the keep and saving the lady of the tower. Michael drew to a halt in front of her.

  Aldora’s gaze climbed up every inch of his lean, well-muscled form. He possessed a strength and power that was paid homage by artists and sculptors. There was nothing about him that looked marquess-like.

  He bent low at the waist. “If this dance has not yet been claimed, would you do me the honor of joining me?”

  Valera’s gasp blended with the strum of the orchestra at the marquess’s request.

  She didn’t need to even glance at her empty dance card to confirm this set was in fact free.

  Valera placed her hand on Aldora’s arm in a protective way.

  Aldora shrugged her free. “Yes, my lord.” She touched her fingertips to the edge of his extended elbow, and allowed him to lead her toward the dance floor.

  “But he is not—” Valera’s sputtering protest faded in the din of the ballroom.

  The beginning strains of a waltz filled the room just as he settled his hands on her waist. Even through the fabric of her gown, his touch all but seared the fabric, and warmed her skin.

  She looked up at him and found his overly-serious near obsidian eyes upon her. A nervous trill raced along her spine. Aldora attempted to dispel the irrational fear. So much had gone wrong for so long that she was afraid to trust this happiness she felt.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked in hushed undertones.

  Aldora couldn’t very well confide the truth to him. “That I am ha
ppy,” she said, settling instead for closest to the truth.

  His intent stare moved to her lips and she thought of his kiss in the moonlit gardens. Valera’s inopportune appearance had interrupted that precious moment. Heat fanned out in her belly.

  Unable to hold his piercing stare, Aldora glanced around the ballroom and became aware of the voyeurs gaping at her and the marquess. A rush of heat flooded her cheeks and she jerked her gaze back to his.

  “Do you feel that we are being talked about, my lord?” The loud buzz of whispers grew like the incessant hum of a hornet’s nest that’d just crashed to the earth.

  “I do, and I’m not.” He snapped his jaw closed.

  So he felt it too. She peeked around the room and found her mother standing off to the side of the ballroom, fluttering her hand wildly in front of her face, and glaring pointedly at Aldora. Aldora frowned. Mother should be delighted with Aldora’s dance partner, even if he hadn’t made proper introductions and all that.

  “Did you hear me? I said, I’m not.”

  “You’re not what?” she asked, distracted by her mother’s disapproval. This was going to make for a deuced uncomfortable carriage ride.

  “A lord.”

  Why, Mother was going to—

  Her gaze flew to his. What did he say?

  He seemed to read the confusion in her eyes. “I said I’m not a lord.”

  The music drew to a stop.

  He bent low at the waist and then left her standing there staring after him.

  Not a lord?

  A fluttery panic built inside her until her heart threatened to pound its way out of her chest. Aldora tried to make sense of his words through the loud thrumming in her ears. He was the Marquess of St. James. Her throat tightened as she scanned the area for an escape. What game did he play?

  Then Valera was there, blessedly rescuing her from the eyes Society had trained on her. She guided Aldora through the crush of people and ushered her back to her mother with effortless precision that would have made an army general proud.

  “I don’t understand,” Aldora whispered.

  Valera frowned. “I suspect there has been a case of mistaken identity. The man you were dancing with was Michael Knightly, the Marquess of St. James’s younger brother.”