The Duke of Dark Desires

by Miranda Neville

  Jane didn’t make the mistake of tackling her grievances and misdemeanors head-on. “Does Nurse Bride sleep through everything?” she asked instead in a conversational tone. “I find it incredible that the row Laura was making didn’t wake her up.”

  “I daresay she’s been at the whiskey. I know she brought a bottle or two with her from Ireland.”

  “I don’t drink whiskey, so you may find it harder to escape now I am here.”

  “You think so?” Fenella asked with a shrug and a gleam in her eye. Jane admired her spirit.

  “Since I’m new, I beg you won’t test me on my first day. We’ll walk in the park together, but you can’t go out looking like that or you truly will upset the horses.” Fenella didn’t laugh, but Jane thought she wanted to. “Show me your room and I’ll help you tidy your hair.”

  Each girl had her own bedroom, decently furnished and heated but lacking in charm or the warmth that came from personal touches. In fact the entire nursery quarters were a little grim. A small and untidily shelved collection of books was the only evidence of scholarship and there was nothing to amuse: no toys or games or even pictures on the walls.

  Annoyed as she was at the duke, it was good that she had an appointment with him this evening. She had a feeling that his aim was dalliance while her own goal was to interrogate him about which of his relations could have been in Paris in 1793. Neither wish was going to be satisfied. Instead the duke was going to hear about the need for improvements in the nursery and ways in which he could be a better brother. She didn’t think he was going to enjoy it.

  Chapter 4

  A year and a half ago, engaging in a legal death match with various relations, Julian had won the dubious right to inhabit the family’s London house. Dubious because despite its size and excellent address, the Hanover Square mansion was drafty, underfurnished, and lacking in creature comforts. Now that he could afford to hire a staff large enough for the place, it seemed less like a barracks. It would be better yet refurbished and modernized, if he decided to hold on to the house instead of moving to more convenient quarters. It wasn’t as though he had any attachment to family tradition. It was just a house. What did he need with ten bedchambers and a series of rooms designed for grand entertainments?

  But now he had his half sisters occupying an entire floor and a governess in the duchess’s suite. The latter was why he’d excused himself after dinner with Isaac Bridges and a pair of art collectors, instead of attending a literary salon or entertainment of a less elevated kind.

  The library was his favorite room, perhaps the only one he liked, and the only one that he would leave as it was. Unlike the rest of the house, it hadn’t been looted during the years when the invalid fifth duke lived in retirement at Denford Castle while greedy relations made use of the London house and helped themselves to valuable souvenirs. The Fortescues were not, apparently, literary in their tastes. The shabbiness of the walls and carpet suited the gleaming gilt on the leather spines of the books. The paintings hung above the bookcases were quite good, the globe superior (Miss Grey had been right about Vaugondy and he wondered how she knew), the desk and library table solid, unpretentious old English pieces.

  Amid this scholarly sobriety, set in an alcove of bookcases opposite the fireplace, was the oddity that appealed to Julian’s sense of the ridiculous: a luxurious divan, upholstered in gold brocade. Unlike the closer, albeit female, relations of the former duke, he knew nothing of Fortescue history and traditions. Son of a black sheep, he’d never been welcomed into the family or visited the place before he inherited it. Thus, he liked to speculate about how the incongruous piece was introduced and for what purpose. Had the almost incoherent fifth duke enjoyed reclining while he read? Perhaps he, or one of his predecessors, used the cushioned magnificence to satisfy earthier desires. Or maybe—Julian particularly enjoyed this fantasy—a Duchess of Denford took private pleasure while feigning studious enlightenment. She would summon a footman, or perhaps her husband’s secretary, and await him with her hooped skirt raised to reveal pretty legs in clocked silk stockings.

  He’d never indulged himself on the couch. It was the scene of his failed seduction of Cynthia and he hadn’t made the attempt with any other woman. Until now.

  He poured himself a drink and took down a volume of prints to study while he awaited the appointed hour with keen anticipation. He hoped the governess wouldn’t succumb too easily. The longer and harder the siege, the more satisfying the surrender.

  “Your Grace?”

  Miss Grey stood in the open doorway with that indefinable allure that belied her plain attire. If he couldn’t have hoops, there was something equally beguiling about excavating the beauty muted by the spinsterish but full-skirted gown. One of the things he particularly noticed about Miss Grey was her skirts. The new, narrower skirts that went with the high waists from revolutionary France apparently hadn’t reached that distant island of hers, for which he was profoundly grateful.

  “Come in, Miss Grey.” She stepped forward perhaps a yard or two, regarding him steadily, her displeasure evident. “Sit down, please.” He indicated the divan, on which she perched with her hands folded gracefully in her lap, her back straight. His mind’s eye envisioned her sprawled wantonly there, voluminous skirts raised for his exploration.

  Knowing the power of silence to disconcert, he let her sit for a pause. He wasn’t expecting an accommodating interview, knowing that he had ground to make up after his performance in the nursery. He’d been harsh with Fenella, too harsh, but the girl irritated him. Her superficial resemblance to his stepfather Osbourne was part of it, but that wasn’t her fault. Beneath her rebellious exterior he detected a yearning for approval. He’d felt that way once and despised the emotion. At school and in society he’d cultivated an air of arrogance to combat indifference and scorn until the pretense became reality. Now he was a duke and could be as arrogant as he wanted, merited or not.

  He stood in front of the governess with his arms folded, hoping to intimidate her with his large nose, his height, and his high rank. He couldn’t congratulate himself on the outcome. She remained serene, finally giving him a quizzical look and a twitch of a smile. He had a feeling she was on to his game.

  Going over to the drinks tray, he gestured with the decanter. “Will you join me in a glass of brandy?” he asked, expecting her to refuse. Even in Saint Lucia surely governesses didn’t drink with their employers.

  “Thank you, I would like that.” She took the glass and sipped appreciatively at the excellent old spirit that has somehow escaped the Fortescue depredations. “You’d like to hear about your sisters?”

  “Later,” he said, pulling up a chair and leaning back, legs outstretched so their knees almost, but not quite, touched. “First tell me if there’s anything you need. If they’re anything like the rest of the house, the children’s quarters are inadequately furnished and I’m sure there are things you need for teaching. Books and so forth. You may use the library, and order anything else you need.”

  “Thank you,” she said, obviously gratified and surprised. “I will make a list.”

  “Speak to Blackett. He’ll see to things. I’ve also arranged for drawing lessons. Bream will be here tomorrow morning after breakfast. Are they any good?”

  “I don’t know yet. We’ve mostly been getting to know each other today.”

  Julian listened while she talked about compositions and arithmetic and French. Considering how little weight he’d given to her qualifications when he hired her, he’d managed to provide his sisters with a surprisingly competent teacher. If she could instill them with even a tenth of her poise and charm, they might turn out quite well. Even Fenella.

  “There’s one area of study for the young ladies I cannot manage without your help,” she said.

  And there was only one area in which he wanted to help, and the young ladies would not be involved.

  “They know nothing about the Fortescue family.”

  “There is
no reason why they should. They aren’t related to the Fortescues in any way.”

  “You are their brother and therefore they are part of the family. It is fitting that they should know about your relations. When they come out in society your connections will be theirs.”

  “I don’t see the need. I am not on speaking terms with anyone on the Fortescue side—except for Blackett. He has to talk to me because I pay him.”

  “You don’t speak to your family?” Now he’d shocked her. Her sherry brown eyes looked huge and her red mouth formed an appalled oval. Clearly he and Miss Grey had vastly different experiences of family life. “You have a position and a duty. You owe them your assistance and in return they give you respect and support. That is what it means to be a duke.”

  “Is that what it means? I had no idea. Perhaps you don’t know, Miss Grey, but I was never intended to be duke. I came into this position only through a series of misfortunes. Fortescue males in the last twenty years have been plagued by early death and the inability to produce sons. When I, son of a disreputable and despised distant cousin, turned out to be the next in line, they were universally appalled. They did their best to make the title a hollow one, laying claim to most of the family fortune.” He sipped his brandy, letting the mellow spirit soothe his bitterness. “You’ll agree, I’m sure, that even a dukedom is worthless without an estate. They managed to get away with a sizable portion, and I consider they have received assistance enough.”

  The tale seemed to cause Miss Grey some concern. She frowned and appeared to be in deep thought.

  “Don’t worry, Miss Grey. Even half the Denford fortune is splendid by most standards. I can afford to pay your salary. And if you insist on learning about the glories of the Fortescues, I recommend you apply to Blackett for information. He was something like great nephew to the fifth duke, much closer than I. It was just his misfortune that his branch is through the female line.”

  “I will do that,” she said, recovering her serenity. “Now I would like to speak a little more about your sisters. They tell me they spend little time in your company.”

  “What do they need me for?”

  “They lost their father and now their mother has gone away. You are their family now.”

  “Family again. You seem monstrously keen on family, Miss Grey. I do not share your sentiments.”

  “Perhaps you don’t know what it is to lose everyone.” Her voice dropped and the very flatness of her expression, usually so bright and fluid, told him that she spoke from the heart. Beneath her blithe exterior lurked a sad history that could no doubt be exploited with a show of interest and sympathy. But he disdained such tactics, just as he refused to talk about his own past. Women liked that, he knew. They liked to think they had a man’s confidence, that he was opening up and revealing his heart. He would not do it. A love affair was supposed to be a happy thing (until it ended badly), and his past was ghastly enough to cast a damper over what should be joyful. If hers was equally dismal he’d rather not know. He would woo her with wit and wine and a web of sensuality, and his own native cunning. If he couldn’t succeed that way, then he would have to fail.

  Thankfully she didn’t allow herself to remain downcast. “You have a mother and sisters, and my task is to care for the latter and prepare them for life as the sisters of a duke. I wish you would be kinder to them, especially Fenella.”

  “Fenella has been told half a dozen times that she must not go out without permission or company. London is not the same as the Irish countryside.”

  “As I explained to her. But she is bored and lonely. She feels different from her sisters because she looks different, and from you since you share their appearance. It is hard to be plain among such beauty.”

  “Doubtless you are right but there’s nothing to be done. She will get on much better if she curbs her defiance and learns to accept what she has.” He talked fustian; he had never tamed his defiance. The truth was he understood his middle sister very well. “The girl needs to learn that the gods show no justice in the distribution of gifts. There is no magic solution to a dearth of advantage, whether it be beauty, talent, or worldly position. We must harden our hearts against the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune and make the best of what we have. No one can do it for us.”

  “We are not all lucky enough to have help, but if assistance is at hand, there is no point refusing it.”

  “My dear Miss Grey. I take it you are offering my recalcitrant sister your help and I wish you all success. It’s a greater task than I would be willing to take on.”

  She swirled the brown liquid around her glass, gazed into it, and raised it to her lips. “Very fine cognac,” she murmured. Had she given up the argument so easily? In that case she was like no woman he’d ever encountered. “Will you take them to the theater, as you promised? At least Maria and Laura. It is unjust to punish them for Fenella’s disobedience.”

  Of course she hadn’t given up. But it gave him a chance to turn the subject to what interested him: getting to know Miss Grey better. Much better. “I’ll take them if you will come too.”

  “I cannot leave Fenella. There’s no telling what mischief she’ll get into if I leave her with only that drunken nurse for company.”

  “You’ve discovered Bridey’s little vice.”

  “You knew! And yet you left your sisters in her charge.”

  “That’s why I engaged you. If I take all three girls, and you, to the play at Drury Lane, what will you do for me?”

  She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “If the skill of the actors and the pleasure of your sisters’ company is not enough, you may take satisfaction in doing your duty.”

  “We have already established that I’m not much for duty. But I am not beyond satisfaction. I’ll do it for a kiss from you.”

  “I am in your employ, Your Grace,” she said bluntly. “It is not suitable.”

  “Suitable is one of those words—like duty—that I prefer to ignore.”

  “Do I have a choice? Will I lose my position if I say no?”

  “Will you leave rather than kiss me?”

  “That doesn’t answer the question.”

  She held his gaze without flinching; neither did she shrink away. He was the one to blink first. “The choice is yours. I want no unwilling woman, not even for a mere kiss. If you refuse to kiss me there will be no theater trip, but you will continue as my sisters’ governess.”

  “And if I say yes, will that be an end to it? You will make no more such demands?”

  “That rather depends on how much we enjoy the kiss,” he drawled. “If it is good, and I would be very surprised if it were not, one kiss will be only a beginning. I will want more and so will you.”

  “You flatter yourself.”

  “Perhaps. We’ll find out.”

  “Or not.”

  “Or not,” he agreed.

  She was wary, but intrigued too. The disapproving set of her mouth was contradicted by the way her cheeks flushed, her eyes shone, and her bosom rose beneath the gray cloth. His instincts hadn’t led him astray about Miss Jane Grey.

  Straightening from a near-sprawl, he leaned forward. Almost idly he let his knee brush against hers. His fingers itched to feel the softness of her skin, to trace the plump lines of her mouth, to investigate the shape of flesh and bones hidden beneath layers of cloth and undergarments. Close enough for him to sense the heat of her body, a hint of a tangy scent, she silently summoned him, begging him to take her, but he held back. It was his own desire calling, the irresistible lure of a woman and yellow brocade cushions. Besides, there was no hurry. He let his gaze burn into hers, knowing full well the devastation his Irish eyes could wreak.

  Cynthia had always become adorably flustered when he exerted his wiles. Jane Grey was made of sterner stuff. She returned his stare gravely, tilting her head as though he were an interesting botanical specimen, then her lips curved into a smile.

  “That’s very good, Your Grace.” Her intr
iguing, slightly foreign voice carried a note of amusement. “Do you find those blue eyes knock the ladies over like kittle-pins?”

  “Sometimes. You remain distressingly upright.”

  “I don’t know about that. You may have melted my bones. Let me find out.” Rising to her feet, she pretended to test her balance, then stepped out of his reach and turned her back on him.

  “I was ready to catch you,” he said, likewise standing, “but it appears I’m losing my touch and have failed to render you weak-kneed.”

  “Not that either. I don’t know how it comes about, but both my limbs and my resolution remain strong.”

  Moving behind her, he gave in to temptation and put his hands about her waist, a light touch but enough to discover the shape of the slender span. She tensed. “Well, Miss Grey. Do we have a bargain? We kiss and we all go to the theater,” he said softly, breathing in the scent that was a refined blend of flowers with a spicy hint of orange. Encouraged, he brushed his lips over the base of her neck and sensed her quiver. For a moment he thought he had her.

  Instead she pulled away and spun around. “I’ll think about it.”

  “You’ll enjoy it.”

  “Things that we enjoy are not always right.”

  “That’s a dreary philosophy. I hold to the view that if I enjoy something, it must be right.”

  “Do you, Your Grace? Do you really?” He found her brown eyes uncomfortably penetrating. “Is your life so simple and your conscience so clear?”

  “Of course,” he said. “I only do what I want, and without a care in the world.” The latter part of the statement was a lie of immeasurable proportions.

  “I don’t believe you. No one over the age of fifteen is without regrets.”

  This surely wasn’t a number selected at random. “Why fifteen? What happened to you?” At that age he’d been thrown out of Oxford and begun the happiest years of his life, roaming around Europe with Damian and his other friends.