How to Lose a Duke in Ten Days

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  She considered, nodded. “Yes.”

  The pad of his index finger touched the side of her neck. She drew in her breath sharply and let it out slowly as his fingertip glided down the column of her throat. She strove to stay perfectly still, but her heart began to race before he’d even reached her collarbone.

  His fingertip nestled there, in the indent at the center of her collarbone, and he began tracing tiny circles in that spot, around and around, at the base of her throat.

  “I . . .” She stopped, forgetting entirely what she’d meant to say, for the gentle, musing caress of his finger was spreading heat throughout her body and robbing her of her wits. She felt her knees going weak, and when his free arm slid around her waist, she welcomed it, for he kept her on her feet.

  “I’m going to kiss you.” He didn’t ask if it would be all right, he didn’t wait for an answer, he just did it, capturing her lips with his in a lush, openmouthed kiss. Tender, yes, but deeper, fuller, with something new in it—­an urgency that took her by surprise.

  But she didn’t stop him, and when his arm tightened, pulling her closer, she came without resistance. He felt her yield, and she knew it excited him; his body stirred against hers.

  Her hand lifted, curled at the back of his neck, raked through his hair. Her tongue met his, willing and hot, and for a brief, shining moment, it was glorious.

  He made a stifled sound, and with no warning, he grabbed her arms and pushed her back, away from him. His hands fell to his sides.

  Breathing hard, they stared at each other. “I didn’t tell you to stop,” she panted, working to clear her dazed senses. “Why did you?”

  “I did it out of self-­preservation,” he said between ragged breaths and rubbed his hands over his face. “Much more of that, and it would have been absolute torture for me to stop.” He paused and looked into her eyes. “But even then, I would have stopped, Edie. I would have.”

  She nodded. “I believe you, Stuart.”

  “Best if we go back,” he said, and bent to reach for his walking stick. She realized she hadn’t even noticed when he dropped it.

  Neither of them spoke as they walked back to the house. Edie couldn’t, for she was too dazed, too overwhelmed by his kiss and her own response to it to make conversation. She could only think he felt the same.

  She also knew he was in a state of arousal, she’d felt it when his body pressed against hers. She wasn’t afraid of it, exactly. But she couldn’t imagine what would happen when they were in her bedroom, and she was helping him with his leg. Would he kiss her again? she wondered wildly. How could he not? Would he try to make love to her? What would she do if he did?

  When they reached her room, she opened the door, but when she stepped across the threshold, he didn’t follow her. Surprised, she stopped and turned in the doorway. “Stuart?”

  “I think it might be best if we forgo the exercises tonight.”

  She felt a hint of relief, and yet, right alongside it, she also felt a stab of disappointment that their evening was coming to such an abrupt end. She worked not to let either emotion show on her face. “Of course. If you’re sure?”

  “I am. It’s late, and I have to leave first thing in the morning.”

  “Leave?” she echoed in dismay.

  “Yes. I think I’ll take the milk train. It departs quite early.”

  She shook her head in bewilderment. “But where are you going?”

  He seemed surprised by the question. “Kent, of course. Now that I’ve managed to convince Joanna to go to Willowbank, I have to go rushing down ahead of her and see Mrs. Calloway. Somehow, I have to persuade that good lady, whom I have never met in my life, to take a group of schoolgirls to Italy at our expense, and to lead all the girls to believe it was her idea.”

  Edie lifted a hand to her throat where he’d touched her earlier, and she felt sure he’d have no trouble with the task of cajoling Mrs. Calloway. Even the redoubtable, no-­nonsense headmistress of a girls’ school wouldn’t be immune to his charm. She certainly wasn’t. “I’m sure you’ll find a way to talk her into it,” she said faintly.

  “I hope so, or I shall really be in the suds with Joanna.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “Day after tomorrow, I expect. I shall stop in London on the way down. I want to see Dr. Cahill and hear his opinion of how my leg is getting on. And I have some other business to conduct. So I’ll stay at my club that night and go on to Kent early in the morning to see Mrs. Calloway. I’ll be back here by about teatime, I should think.”

  “So you want me to wait to send Joanna off until after you’ve returned?”

  “Yes. I would like to say good-­bye to her before she goes, if that’s all right.”

  “Of course.” She paused, cleared her throat. “Well, good night, then.”

  He smiled a little and leaned closer to her, his lashes lowering. She knew what that meant, and this time, she met him halfway.

  The moment his lips touched hers, all the heady feelings he’d aroused earlier in the garden came rushing back, but she barely had time to savor them before he was pulling away.

  “Good night, Edie.”

  It took her a moment to open her eyes, and when she did, he was already turning away.

  She almost reached out to touch him, hoping it might make him linger. Though she managed to check the impulse, it still left her standing in the doorway of her room in dazed astonishment, and as she watched him walk down the corridor to his own room, she wondered suddenly if she might be in danger of losing the bet they’d made.

  After all, had anyone told her a week ago that she’d be standing here in a state of arousal, dejected because her husband had not come into her bedroom, frustrated because his good-­night kiss had been far too short, and unutterably depressed because he was leaving her for two whole days, she’d have called that person crazy.

  STUART KNEW THAT sometimes, in the game of love, strategic retreat was in order. Usually, that meant a deliberate act designed to make the other person more eager. In his case, however, it was more a matter of distance enabling him to regain his equilibrium.

  It meant giving up two of his precious ten days, but he had no choice. He needed distance and time away because he needed to regain his control. He’d almost lost his head in the garden, not to mention outside her room with her bedroom door wide open, and he didn’t want to risk temptations of that sort. He couldn’t, not with Edie. He had to keep his head.

  To stand there in the garden with her, her mouth beneath his, open and willing, had been so sweet, and she’d come into his arms without resistance, but every instinct he had told him she wasn’t ready. Not for what he wanted.

  He ached with lust. He burned with it. He’d wanted to pull up the skirts of that glistening blue gown and take her down into the grass last night, right there in the garden, and it had been like ripping himself in half to push her away.

  And then, standing at her bedroom door with her invitation to come inside hanging in the air had been like an invitation straight into hell. To have her hands on him in any way at that point would have been akin to torture and possibly damnation as well, for even he wasn’t completely sure what he’d have done after that.

  No, best all around that he’d managed to resist, even if it was the hardest thing he’d ever done, and he’d seized on the excuse to go to Kent like a lifeline, and London, too. As he’d told her, he had business to do there, business that would help him to remember his priorities. His needs were not a priority. And with his body in such a hopeless state, he needed something useful to occupy his mind.

  Because he’d taken the milk train, he arrived in London by midmorning. He stopped at his club, and as he’d expected, he found letters waiting for him there—­from Trubridge, Featherstone, and his other two closest friends, Viscount Somerton and the Earl of Hayward. They had all receive
d the telegrams he’d sent off the day he went shopping with Edie in the High Street, and they all agreed to his request for a reunion in town to welcome him home. All he needed to do was name the day, and all four promised to be there. A fifth letter was also waiting for him in response to another of his telegrams, a letter he hadn’t expected quite yet and one that made him think perhaps Pinkerton’s deserved their reputation as the finest detective agency in the world. They were certainly efficient.

  In reply, he sent a boy across town at once with a request for an immediate appointment, then he went upstairs for a bathe and a shave and to have the laundry at White’s press the morning suit he’d brought with him. Suitably attired for town, he went down to the dining room to have lunch while he waited for a response to his inquiry.

  It came by half past one, and by two, a hansom cab was depositing him outside Pinkerton’s London offices. He was ushered at once into the luxuriously appointed office of Mr. Duncan Ashe, leading detective of the agency.

  “Your Grace.” Ashe, a tall fellow of about his own age with russet brown hair and an agreeable, clean-­shaven face, gestured to the comfortable leather chair opposite his desk. “Please sit down.”

  “Thank you.” He availed himself of the invitation. “And thank you for making time for me today. I’m sure you are quite a busy man.”

  “Not at all. We are honored to have Your Grace as a client, and we are happy to assist you at any time.”

  He smiled. Rank did have its privileges. “You indicated in your letter to me that you have some of the information I requested?”

  “Yes. Some. It’s only been two days, so anything I have from our New York offices had to be conveyed by telegram.” He paused. “The expense for cables back and forth shall be quite high, I fear.”

  Stuart waved that trifle aside. “It doesn’t matter. Money is no object.”

  “I took the liberty of assuming that from the urgent wording of your telegram. I’ve supplemented what we’ve been given by our New York agency with information we’ve been able to gather from newspapers archived here in London. Scandal sheets, mostly, both British and American. It’s not much, as I said, but I expect to have a complete dossier for you by next week. In the meantime, I thought you would wish to hear what we have thus far?”

  “I am all ears.”

  Ashe opened a file on the desk in front of him. “Frederick Van Hausen. Born in New York City, thirty-­one years of age, the only son—­only child, actually—­of Albert and Lydia Van Hausen. Educated at Harvard. There was some scandal involving him there, something illegal, but he wasn’t prosecuted. Father got it hushed up, apparently. I don’t have details, but I can probably obtain them, if you like.”

  “I do like. Find out all you can. Go on.”

  “He is unmarried. He was engaged for a brief period last year to Miss Susan Avermore, also from a prominent New York family, but the marriage didn’t come off. Some say it’s because he expected Miss Avermore to bring an income from her father with her when they married, and her father refused flat out. But we haven’t had time to verify that. His parents have a home on Madison Avenue, but he no longer lives with them. He has a brownstone of his own just off Central Park. He also owns a summer home in Newport. Van Hausen is quite the sportsman, plays tennis and golf, sails yachts, owns racehorses—­”

  “Racehorses?” Stuart frowned, thinking back to the other day, and Edie’s short, clipped answer about her father’s racehorses.

  “Your Grace?”

  He shook his head. “Sorry, I was woolgathering.”

  “The Van Hausen family is one of the wealthiest and oldest families in America. Knickerbockers, Your Grace, if you are familiar with the term.”

  “I am. So,” he murmured, “Van Hausen fancies himself an aristocrat, does he?”

  “They all do. That’s how other Americans regard them. Rather the same way men of my class here in England regard a man such as you. Not that a Knickerbocker is anything to a duke, of course,” he rushed on, looking a little abashed.

  Stuart smiled in reassurance. “I take no offense, Ashe. Go on.”

  The detective turned a page. “The father owns a shipping company and is very successful, very wealthy. Van Hausen had an enormous sum settled on him by his father when he came of age, but American men are also expected to take up a profession and earn their living. In fact, there’s enormous pressure to do so.”

  “Ah, so he’s had to cut his own jib, has he?” Stuart murmured. “How’s that working out for him?”

  “Not so well. He tried for the bar, and failed. He turned his hand to business investment and speculated with his money, but lost a lot of it. The racehorses, for example, have cost him dear. He leans toward riskier investments that promise higher profits.”

  “So he’s a gambler.” Stuart considered. “And intemperate. Eager to make his mark in the world and do it quickly. A man who cares what ­people think of him.”

  “He seems so, certainly.”

  That boded well. Stuart leaned back, one knuckle pressed to his lips as he stared past the detective toward the wall, past the painting of the Thames that hung there, trying to see all the way to New York and into the mind of the man he intended to destroy. “He’s the sort of man who wants power. He doesn’t have it, but he thinks he’s entitled to it by birthright. He’s incapable of earning what he wants, so he wants what he hasn’t earned. The sort of man who, if he wants something, thinks it’s all right just to take it.”

  “Possibly. As yet, I can’t say.”

  “I can.” Stuart met the other man’s eyes across the desk. “I can.”

  He considered a moment. “Any other scandals, Ashe? Anything involving women?”

  The detective hesitated, toying with a pencil on his desk. “Other than your wife, you mean?”

  “You may include my wife, and you’ve no need to worry about sparing my feelings on the subject.”

  “If you’re asking for this information about her former lover because you think they might still be lovers, and you want to find grounds for divorce, I can’t help you. Pinkerton’s doesn’t do that sort of thing. We have certain ethical lines we do not cross.”

  “I can assure you, I have no intention of ever divorcing my wife. And I already know the truth of the . . . incident with Van Hausen that ruined her reputation, but I wish to hear the gossip as well, for reasons of my own. You won’t be violating your code of ethics.”

  Satisfied, Ashe nodded. “The duchess excepted, we don’t have anything on other women, yet. The incident involving her—­Miss Edith Ann Jewell, as she was then—­occurred at Saratoga.”

  “Saratoga Springs, New York?”

  “Yes, they hold race meetings there. It was six years ago, during the week of the Travers Stakes. The Travers’ is a bit like our Epsom Derby.”

  “I know what it is. Go on.”

  “Your father-­in-­law and Van Hausen both had horses running in the Travers Stakes that year. The gossip is that Miss Jewell cornered Van Hausen in an abandoned summerhouse near the course. Both of them were seen going in, him first, and then her a bit later. He came out about fifteen minutes after she arrived.”

  Fifteen minutes? Was that all? God, the bastard must have jumped her practically the moment she walked in the door. Stuart rubbed a hand over his face. He would destroy this man. Reduce him to tattered bits of flotsam. “Go on.”

  “She came out a bit later. Her—­” Ashe paused.

  “Go on,” Stuart repeated in a hard voice.

  “Her clothes were quite rumpled, her hat was askew, making it seem . . .” His voice trailed off, and he gave a delicate cough. “Word got round straightaway, of course, and it became a huge scandal. Her father demanded honor be satisfied, but Van Hausen flatly refused to marry her. She was very New Money, not of his class, and his claim was that he was an innocent party and that she was tryi
ng to compromise him and jump into his class by trapping him into marriage. His story was the one believed. It doesn’t matter now, of course.”

  “Only because she’s married to me.” Stuart straightened in his chair. “So what have we got? A man who is greedy, overindulged, eager for power, thoughtless, unscrupulous, a bit of a gambler, and clearly a cad.”

  “That would seem an accurate summary, based on what we know.”

  Stuart smiled, pleased with the many possibilities such a profile afforded him, but then, he’d known there would be possibilities. A man who’d violate a woman against her will was bound to give his enemies ammunition to work with, and though Van Hausen might not know it, Stuart was definitely his enemy. “Excellent work, Ashe. I am impressed.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  “But I need more. Much, much more. We’ll meet again when you have that dossier you’re working up, but I’m certain even that won’t be enough. I want to know everything there is to know about this man, about his parents, his friends, his business associates, his mistresses, everything. Keep digging until you’ve turned his entire life inside out from the time of his birth to this very moment.” He stood up, bringing the other man to his feet as well. “Employ as many men as you need. Spare no expense. I want every detail you can find, down to what material he prefers for his underclothes and what he eats for breakfast.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  With that, Stuart departed to return to his club, stopping along the way only long enough to send another telegram, this one to Edie’s father. When he arrived back at White’s, he walked straight into the bar and ordered a drink. He needed it.

  Chapter 18

  STUART WAS GONE two days. He arrived home around teatime, just as he’d told her he would. Though she was engaged in a battle of croquet with Joanna, she kept watching for him, hoping he’d come out to greet them upon his return.

  He did, and when she spied him coming across the lawn toward her, gladness rose in her like a bird soaring skyward.

  Snuffles spied him at the same time and bounded across the grass to greet him. It took everything Edie had to move at a slower pace, and when they met halfway across the grass, she gripped her mallet hard, fighting the urge to toss it aside, fling her arms around his neck, and kiss his mouth.