The Way to a Duke's Heart: The Truth About the Duke

by Caroline Linden

  She smiled. “Far better. He was serious and quiet, and never vexed me at all. And then he tragically died. He was my great-aunt’s idea. My parents sent me to her to recover my nerves after—”

  “Very wise of them,” he said when her words abruptly ran out. “My father merely imposed his will, when I wished to marry a girl he didn’t approve of.” He paused, and Tessa darted a surprised glance at him. It was too dark to see his expression clearly, but she sensed his light tone was contrived. “He was right in the end, of course, but I didn’t realize it until long after I’d taken myself off to London in high dudgeon.”

  “To recover your nerves?” she said, and he laughed, a bit ruefully.

  “My pride, at least.”

  Tessa thought about that. Being sent to Scotland to her great-aunt had allowed her to do the same. A year away from her family and the gossip had given her time to recover her confidence and dull her rage at Richard, and then she had rebuilt her life as she wished it to be: she had left a girl in disgrace, and came back a free woman, even if the widowhood had been a lie. “Pride is important, too,” she said softly.

  He was quiet for a long moment. “It can be,” he finally replied, almost too quietly for her to hear.

  They lay for a while, touching each other, content to be together, watching the moonlit shadows sway and wave across the ceiling. The rainstorm had died out, leaving behind the peaceful fresh air that follows a storm. She felt the same way, as if a storm had blown through her and left a refreshed calm in its place. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d ever felt this way—if, indeed, she ever had.

  “How long can this last?” she whispered. “I fear I will wake at any moment, and find it was just a dream.”

  “ ’Tis not a dream.” He kissed her shoulder.

  “No.” She turned her head to face him, silver-gilded in the moonlight. “But I fear it cannot last.”

  His face grew still. “Why not?”

  Tessa opened her mouth, then turned away. “I’ve finished what I came to do in Frome. I’m expected in London—as are you, I expect, eventually.”

  “Ah.” The bed ropes creaked as he rolled over. “Yes, I suppose I am.” For a long moment he was silent, then went on. “I’ve not been candid with you. I, too, had a particular reason for coming to Frome.”

  “Of course,” she said, puzzled. “The canal.”

  “Not precisely.” He heaved a sigh, and then sat up as if he would get out of bed. “My father died recently.”

  “Oh,” she mouthed in soft regret. “I’m sorry . . .”

  He waved one hand. “I hadn’t spoken to him in over a decade. We didn’t . . . get on well.” He hesitated and she didn’t know what to say. Tessa knew she’d been a puzzle to her parents, especially to her father—What sort of girl thinks about money more than gowns? Papa had wondered in bewilderment—but she’d never doubted they loved her and cared for her well-being, even after her lunatic behavior on her wedding day. What sort of man had Charlie’s father been, not to speak to his son for ten years?

  “When he died, my brothers and I learned he’d had a secret.” Again he paused, his jaw hard. “A terrible secret, actually, as it could cost us our inheritance, and me, the title.”

  Tessa sucked her lower lip between her teeth. That was a terrible secret indeed, if it could cost him his earldom. Instinctively she began thinking of ways to solve the problem. “Can it be fixed? Or perhaps hidden? If no one knows this secret, how can it harm you?”

  He glanced at her, wryly amused. “You really don’t read the gossip papers, do you?” She shook her head, and he sighed. “My father was the Duke of Durham, Tessa. I’m the eldest, the heir to it all . . . except that my father had a clandestine marriage sixty years ago, and no one knows what happened to the woman. If she still lived when my father married my mother, I could be pronounced a bastard, and heir to nothing.”

  Her mouth had fallen open halfway through this explanation. “A duke?” she repeated. “You’re a duke?”

  “If all goes well, yes. I’ve got to prove it before a hearing of the Committee for Privileges in Parliament before the Crown will grant the title.” He looked at her expression and gave a short laugh. “Good Lord, it’s not as bad as that.”

  “No, no,” she said, scrambling to adjust her thoughts. “I never said it was bad—”

  “Your expression said it all.”

  “Well, why are you calling yourself the Earl of Gresham if you’re really a duke?” she retorted, aggrieved. “If I’d known you were a duke . . .”

  “What then?” he prompted when she stopped speaking and scowled. “You would have been kinder to me? Been dazzled by my superior status and curtsied in polite awe when we met?”

  “Don’t be silly,” she said, flustered, and he laughed.

  “I’m not sorry, and I refuse to apologize if it would have meant any changes in the way you behaved toward me.” His gaze grew hot and wicked as it dropped, lingering over her exposed breasts. “In any way,” he repeated in that low, dark voice that made her heart leap.

  Tessa looked away, trying to hide her brilliant blush and resist the urge to throw herself at him again. When he looked at her that way, he wasn’t the vexing Lord Gresham—or Duke of Durham—but Charlie, sinfully attractive and maddening and so endearing it made her chest hurt.

  “I haven’t got the dukedom yet,” he went on in a less seductive tone. “I suppose I haven’t really got the earldom, either, but I’ve been called Gresham since I was born. A year ago someone began sending my father letters, first claiming knowledge of this long-missing first wife and then demanding five thousand pounds in exchange for his silence. My father reacted in his usual manner: he sent a horde of investigators to find the miserable swindler and put a swift and bitter end to him. Unfortunately for Durham, they failed, and even more unfortunately for me and my brothers, my father never told us about any of it. We didn’t learn of it until he was dead, and now it’s on our heads to prove ourselves legitimate, or lose everything.”

  She thought for a moment. “Was the woman from Frome?”

  Approval flashed in his eyes. “I have no idea.”

  “No?” She frowned. “Then why did you come here? It’s hardly a scenic sort of place . . .” She looked up. “Mr. Scott.”

  Charlie nodded once. “I knew you would deduce that. He’s the blackmailer.”

  Tessa’s mouth dropped open. “No! He is? How do you know?”

  “My brother Gerard tracked the blackmail letters to Bath, where two were posted. A clerk in the post office positively identified Hiram Scott as the man who sent them.”

  “It’s incredible,” she protested. “Why on earth would he do that—in public view, where anyone might observe him? Even my brother William, who is the mildest of gentlemen, would have killed him for such a thing.”

  “Durham would have retaliated, yes,” he said with an odd, twisted little smile, making her think he meant his father would have unleashed the wrath of God upon Mr. Scott.

  “Well! I never expected that. I thought he must have some information about the missing woman, or . . .” Her voice trailed off as she thought hard. “Oh,” she whispered as the truth dawned on her. “Of course . . .”

  “What?”

  “And I met Mr. Scott in Bath,” she went on, thinking aloud. “At the York Hotel, right where you were staying—did you expect that, or was it happy coincidence?” She waved one hand as Charlie said nothing, looking suddenly wary. “I wonder you didn’t think I was involved, once you saw me meeting him. And all this time I thought you were merely annoyed by what I said!” She glanced at him and smiled broadly at his disbelieving expression. “I’ve wondered for so long, but it all makes sense—finally! I see why you took to Eugenie so quickly! And you came to Frome to find Mr. Scott, but you really did only want an introduction from me,” she went on, putting all the pie
ces together with great satisfaction. “I knew there was something, some reason why you’d singled us out for your attentions, and I was right!”

  He began to laugh, harder and harder until she thought he would be sick.

  “Oh, really, I don’t think it’s as amusing as that,” she said in reproof. “Why are you laughing?”

  Quick as a cat, he rolled over, pinning her under him. “You,” he said, still chuckling. “You.” He kissed her, a deep stirring kiss that ended with her arms around his neck and his hands roving beneath the bed linens twisted around her.

  “Tessa darling, you amaze me,” he murmured. “I’ve spent hours plotting how to keep you from discovering I suspected you of being involved in blackmail and that I followed you to Frome for the sole purpose of unmasking Scott. I should have known you would puzzle it out no matter what I did.”

  “I’m not offended,” she explained, very reasonably, although her breathing hitched as his wicked hands stroked more slowly over her skin. “It makes perfect sense; of course you should have suspected us. I suppose I didn’t help, did I, by trying to avoid you?”

  “Not at all.” He was kissing her neck. “It was very unsporting of you to avoid me.”

  “Of course, if I had decided to blackmail you, you wouldn’t have found me out as easily as that,” she pointed out. “I wouldn’t have been so foolish as to let anyone see me posting the letters, and I certainly would have collected the funds. Five thousand pounds is a large sum, and if you put it into the right investments—”

  “You would have taken me for everything I had,” he agreed. “And my only revenge . . .” He tugged the twisted sheet out of the way and raised her knee. “ . . . is this.” He lowered his head, pressing soft kisses against her throat, slipping slowly down the length of her body.

  Tessa sucked in an unsteady breath. She was wrong. He was taking her for all she had: all her sense, all her reason, every ounce of her justified restraint. With one wicked kiss he stole them all and locked them out of her reach, leaving her defenseless against his sly smile and knowing touch and the scorching look in his eyes when he told her he wanted her without saying a word. And the frightening part was, she liked it. It thrilled her. She didn’t feel odd or awkward when he looked at her with that smile, and when he kissed her like this . . . His tongue swirled over her navel and she quivered, grasping at the bedclothes in search of anything to tether herself to solid ground.

  “When . . .” she gasped. “When did you decide I had nothing to do with it?”

  His mouth was hot and soft against her belly. “When I met you in Frome,” he murmured.

  “Because I . . .” She lost her train of thought as his fingers ran up her leg, curving gently under her knee and easing her legs apart. “Was it because I introduced you to Scott?”

  “No.” He was laughing at her, she could tell from his voice, but only a small part of her brain registered it. And it was much too small a thing to protest now, when his teeth nipped at the tender flesh of her inner thigh. “Stop thinking about it, please.”

  “Because I allowed you to come along on my tour at the ironworks?” she persisted.

  “No.” His fingertip ran down the furrow between her legs, and her eyes rolled back in her head.

  “Because . . . Because I . . .” She sucked in her breath in a long, aching gasp as his tongue flicked over the same path his fingers had just taken.

  “Tessa,” he said, looking up at her through the disheveled waves of his hair, falling over his brow. He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen, braced on his elbows, his arms forcing her legs apart, leaving her wantonly exposed to his eyes and his lips and his tongue and whatever sinful plans he had for her.

  “Yes?” Her voice barely worked for the desire humming through her veins; she could almost hear the roar of it in her ears.

  “Stop thinking.” He bent his head again, and this time she did.

  Chapter 15

  Tessa opened her eyes to a strange ceiling and frowned, wondering why it was different today. It took a moment for remembrance to flood back, but it did, in intense, heated waves. Hardly daring to breathe, she darted a look sideways, and saw Charlie, asleep on his stomach, his head pillowed on his arms. His dark hair fell around his temples in rumpled waves, his eyelashes short and dark against his lean cheeks. His wicked, perfect mouth looked softer, less lively but no less dangerous, without its usual grin. If she hadn’t been persuaded that he was the handsomest man she’d ever seen, this sight would have done it. Her stomach dropped even as her heart skipped a beat, at the memory of what they had done last night.

  Even worse was what she had done. She had gone out at night, alone, in the rain, to the lodging of an unmarried man. She had kissed him and told him to ravish her. She had spent the night in his bed, without any attempt at discretion. And now it was bright out already, leaving no hope that she might creep back into Frome unnoticed. She began to tremble at the ramifications. William would be horrified at her. Louise would disown her in a storm of tears and anguish. Even Eugenie would look at her with pain and regret, kept from fainting only by her wild hopes that this might entice Lord Gresham to offer to marry her.

  She darted another glance at Charlie, this time of longing. God have mercy on her, but she no longer felt like protesting Eugenie’s hopes. When he laughed at the way she humiliated Richard Wilbur, she had almost burst into tears—she, who never cried. That rash fit of spite had haunted her for nine years. Her family had feared she was unbalanced; at times she thought they still did. Her father had to pay off Richard over his public embarrassment and broken marriage contract. She was neither permitted nor invited to go anywhere for a full year, as everyone they knew whispered about her uncertain temperament. And she’d been so angry, she hadn’t even cared for several months.

  But the stain lasted longer than her anger at Richard’s deception. When her parents had decided to send her away to Great-Aunt Donella in Scotland, she hadn’t protested, even though it still galled her that Richard had been judged the wounded party and she was deemed mad. She’d gone off to Scotland, and when she came back a year later, she brought with her a fictitious husband, sadly dead of pneumonia from the Scottish mists. Great-Aunt Donella supported the story—Mr. Neville had been her idea, after all—and Tessa’s family accepted it with relief. A widow was allowed to be quiet at home; a widow was permitted to do things spinsters, deranged or not, were never allowed to do. And most of all a widow was respectable, while a jilt never was.

  Tessa had persuaded herself that things had come out well enough, since her disgrace meant her father finally allowed her to take over some of his accounts. Her mother had done it for years, but her health was failing by then; within a year she had passed away and Tessa was running Rushwood. When her father died, William was relieved and pleased for her to continue. If she had to be odd and unpredictable, she might as well make herself useful in some way, reasoned everyone in the family. For almost eight years now, that had been her life: the estate, the accounts, managing William’s investments. That suited her, and she had thought it always would. Only now did she admit how lonely it was at times, or how wonderful it was to have that moment of feeling appreciated, admired, understood by someone else. By Charlie.

  But that was all wrong. She knew better than anyone else how dangerous it was to give in to strong emotions. This could end as badly as her affair with Richard had.

  She inhaled a deep breath for courage, and wriggled carefully from the bed, not wanting to wake him. She slipped back into her shift, stiff and wrinkled from a night on the floor, and had a moment of panic when she couldn’t find her dress. She couldn’t remember exactly when Charlie had peeled it off her. On the stairs? Outside the door? Tessa pressed her hands to her mouth as more memories unfurled across her mind’s eye. Goodness; she had no idea.

  Stay calm, she told herself. She had been wearing the dress, as well as a cloak, wh
en she arrived; therefore, they must both still be in the house. Somewhere. With a little cautious searching, she located a silk wrapping gown and pulled it on. It was luxuriously soft, and it smelled of Charlie, coffee and brandy and tobacco. Tessa couldn’t resist the urge to press her nose to the collar and breathe deeply. How had she never noticed before how heavenly a man could smell?

  She tiptoed across the room and eased open the door. When she first glanced out, the corridor was clear, so she stepped out, stopping to close the door as quietly as possible. Then she turned toward the stairs and nearly screamed when she found a man standing in front of her.

  “Good morning, madam,” he said with a bow. He held a steaming pitcher in one hand, and a spotless towel was draped over his arm. “May I offer my assistance?”

  “Oh—ah—well, perhaps,” she said, clutching the banyan closed at her neck. “Have you found a dress, by any chance?” Her face burned as she realized what the servant must be thinking—and that it was all true.

  “Indeed, madam, I did.” His face didn’t betray the slightest scorn or contempt. “I took the liberty of hanging it up to dry, and then sponging the mud off the hem. I shall have it ironed and returned as soon as possible.”

  Tessa cleared her throat. “Oh, really, that’s not necessary, to iron it . . . Could you just bring it now?”

  He looked at her, but bowed again. “As you wish.” He stepped past her and went into the bedroom she had just left. Tessa hesitated, but without her dress she wasn’t going anywhere. Standing in the hall, where she could be discovered by all the other servants, wearing Charlie’s dressing gown . . . She edged back into the bedroom doorway.

  “There you are.” His voice made her freeze. Her eyes flew to the bed. Charlie lay on his back now, arms folded behind his head, smiling his lazy, seductive smile at her.

  Tessa fought down the sudden urge to throw off the dressing gown and leap back into bed with him. She glanced at the servant, who had set down his pitcher and towel and was tidying up the room. She blushed at the disarray of the room, which gave every indication that two people had torn each other’s clothes off and spent the night in sinful debauchery. “Yes.”