The Duke of Kisses

by Darcy Burke

  “West will no more scold him than you’ll allow me to go out later.”

  Ivy laughed. “True. Still, I’d like to know who he is so I can glare at him surreptitiously.”

  Fanny peeled her wet gloves from her puckered fingers. She looked at Ivy in question.

  “Just drop everything on the floor.”

  Fanny’s maid, Barker, an efficient woman in her middle thirties, arrived. “I’ll get the fire going, and they’ll set the bath up in front of it to lessen the chance of a chill.”

  Ivy inclined her head toward the maid. “Thank you, Barker.” She returned her attention to Fanny, who was fumbling with the ribbon of her bonnet. It was the driest part of her, but her hands were too cold to function anymore. Ivy took over, untying the ribbon and removing the hat. “Who was the gentleman?”

  “The Earl of St. Ives. He lifted me from the water and carried me to Lavinia’s curricle.”

  “He carried you?”

  Fanny heard the concern in her sister’s voice and sought to placate her. “He was doing me a courtesy.”

  Ivy turned Fanny around and began to unlace her gown. “Huntwell, St. Ives’s seat, isn’t far from Stour’s Edge—maybe fifteen miles. How interesting that he was the one to rescue you.”

  That explained, somewhat, why Fanny had encountered him in December. Though fifteen miles wasn’t walking distance. What had he been doing at Stour’s Edge that day?

  She’d find out next time she saw him, and she was certain she would. Something was happening between them. She could hardly wait to see where it led.

  Chapter 3

  David hadn’t expected to see Fanny that evening, but he’d gone to two routs and a ball just in case he was wrong. He was not. He was, however, quite popular, as his rescue of the Duke of Clare’s sister-in-law was on everyone’s lips. As a result, he’d suffered far more conversation with strangers than he’d ever hoped to engage in. Thankfully, Anthony and Ware had accompanied him and had known precisely how to extricate them all from the situation.

  At last, they were ensconced at a table in the corner at Brooks’s sipping brandy, and David was finally able to relax.

  “This is grueling,” David said. “I don’t know how you keep up.” He was exhausted from making polite conversation and feigning interest. There was, perhaps, a reason he spent most of his time outdoors with little to no company.

  Ware peered at him in curiosity. “You didn’t make it look difficult. In fact, you seem an accomplished flirt.”

  David snorted before he took a drink of brandy, welcoming the smoky liquid tantalizing his tongue. “Flirting doesn’t take effort.”

  For whatever reason, flirtation had always come naturally to him. It was an easy method of communication—flatter and amuse, then duck away. And in a few cases, take the flirtation to the next stage.

  “True,” Ware said. Anthony nodded in agreement. “But are you more than that?” Ware waggled his brows at David.

  Anthony chuckled. “He doesn’t strike me as a rake, Felix. Though he did look rather interested in Miss Snowden. He all but abandoned your racing meeting.”

  “I saw that.” Ware sniffed in mock annoyance.

  “If I have to choose between racing and women, I’ll choose women.” That hadn’t always been the case, but after his accident, he’d welcomed their distraction.

  Anthony raised his glass. “Amen.” He took a drink, then narrowed his eyes briefly toward David. “You seem taken with Miss Snowden. First, you wanted to dance with her instead of my sister, then you went straight for her at the park.”

  Was he? He was something, and he probably shouldn’t be.

  Ware looked past David toward the door. “Oh hell, here comes Clare.”

  David resisted the urge to turn. “He’s coming this way?”

  “Yes, he looked around, saw us—likely, you—and is making his way in our direction.”

  “We won’t abandon you,” Anthony said. “Clare’s an affable sort anyway. Did you know he was called the Duke of Desire?”

  “I did not.” And why on earth would he?

  The duke arrived at their table. He was an imposing figure with broad shoulders and ink-black hair. But then he smiled, and David glimpsed the “affable” man beneath the formidable exterior.

  “Good evening. I’m Clare.” His voice was as dark and potentially dangerous as the rest of him. He glanced at the other gentlemen. “Ware, Mr. Colton.”

  “Evening, Clare,” Anthony said.

  “Care to join us?” Ware invited, gesturing to an empty chair next to David.

  “I would, thank you.” The duke moved behind David and sat down.

  David turned to him. “I’m St. Ives.”

  “Yes. My sister-in-law’s daring rescuer. I wanted to thank you for your quick thinking.”

  “How is she doing?” David asked, hoping he didn’t sound too eager.

  “Very well, thank you. My wife also wishes to extend her gratitude.”

  A footman stopped by the table, and the duke requested a glass of whatever they were drinking. Clare turned back to David. “You’re new to town?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry about your father. He went so quickly, or so I heard.”

  “He did.” The pain was still fresh enough that David had to work to keep the memory at bay. He sought to redirect the conversation. “Ware and Anthony have been introducing me to London.”

  “Well, you can’t have a better guide than Ware. He knows all the best amusements, and if he can’t find one, he’ll make one.” Clare tipped his head toward the earl. “What do you have planned that I should be aware of?”

  “Nothing you should attend,” Ware said with a sly smile. “Unless you’re looking to return to your premarital reputation, and I would doubt that.”

  Clare laughed as the footman brought his brandy. He nodded in thanks before responding. “I assume you’re planning some sort of hedonistic party—I hear you’re quite good at those.”

  “I went to a few hosted by Viscount Lockwood for inspiration, though mine are not nearly so large or, I hope, scandalous.”

  Clare and Anthony both laughed, and David’s curiosity was piqued. “Who is Lockwood, and why are his parties scandalous?”

  “He hovers near the edge of Polite Society,” Clare said. “I like him, however, even with that nasty scar.”

  Ware picked up his brandy. “His parties are exclusive and only for the sexually bold.”

  Clare nodded. “That’s an apt description. I’ve been to a few myself. Anonymity is key, though I admit I went once without a mask. Why hide my identity when everyone already assumed I went?” He glanced toward David before sipping his brandy.

  “You have a point.” Ware leaned back in his chair. “You’ve never been, have you, Anthony?”

  His shoulders twitched. “No, and I don’t plan to. The notion of shagging one of my mother’s friends hidden behind a mask is enough to make me cringe.”

  They all erupted in laughter before David asked, “So, Ware, you are offering an alternative to Lockwood? No masks?”

  “People can wear whatever they like. Mine are unmarried gentlemen and Cyprians only.”

  “Ah, so I wouldn’t be invited in any case, which is just as well,” Clare said. “Will you attend, St. Ives?”

  It was an innocuous question, but David recognized it for what it was: a query into the sort of man he was. Clare had been stealing looks in David’s direction as they’d discussed Lockwood’s libidinous parties, as if he’d been gauging David’s reaction. It seemed he was judging David’s worthiness. His respect for Clare shot up.

  “That sort of party doesn’t particularly appeal to me,” David said.

  Clare regarded him for a moment, then gave a single nod, perhaps in approval. “I see.”

  “I’m also planning some racing events in Hyde Park,” Ware said.

  “Are you?” Clare’s dark brows lifted. “Dartford will be delighted.”

  “Of cours
e. We can’t have a race without him.”

  “He wouldn’t allow it.” Clare grinned, turning toward David once more. “Dartford is a friend of mine—he adores racing. And anything else that would make your heart pound. He’s called the Duke of Daring for a reason.”

  David had studied Debrett’s and knew Dartford was an earl. “Why is he called a duke?”

  “They’re nicknames,” Clare said. “Started by my wife, actually.” There was a note of pride in his voice. “And her friends, including the Countess of Dartford. They call us The Untouchables and assign us names befitting our reputations.”

  Such as the Duke of Desire. David only nodded. A thought occurred to him and gave him a sudden queasy feeling. “Do I have a name?” He couldn’t imagine he did. He hadn’t done anything to gain a reputation at all.

  “Not that I’m aware of. Ivy—my wife—will know. I’ll ask her and let you know.” He scrutinized Ware for a moment. “Do you have a name?”

  “The Duke of Distraction?” Ware looked around the table for their reactions.

  “The Duke of Amusement,” Anthony put in.

  David had nothing to contribute, so he didn’t. His mind was trying to determine what he might be called and came up with nothing save the Duke of Birds, which, while accurate, was an awful nickname.

  “The Duke of Pleasure.” Clare’s eyes narrowed slightly, and he laughed. “I’ll ask my wife if you have a name too. If you don’t, I’m sure she and her friends could come up with one, though I believe their naming days are behind them.”

  “Please assure her that I don’t need one,” David said.

  “Just so.” Clare finished his brandy and stood. “Thank you for the company. I am anxious to get home to my wife and daughter. Have a good evening, lads.” He turned to David. “Pleasure meeting you, St. Ives. I’m sure I’ll see you soon.” It didn’t appear to be an open invitation to call on Fanny, but David knew that was precisely what it was. This had been an interview of sorts, and apparently, he’d passed.

  This made him inordinately pleased but also a bit queasy. He was supposed to be meeting another young woman—and he would. Soon. He pushed the nagging thoughts from his mind. He inclined his head and lifted his glass in a toast. “Likewise.”

  Anthony and Ware said good night to Clare, and he turned and wove his way out through the tables.

  “He came to assess your worthiness.” Anthony directed his gaze at David.

  David drank the last of his brandy and set his empty tumbler on the table. “So it would seem.”

  “Do you have an interest in Miss Snowden?” Anthony asked.

  “I might.” It was the most he was willing to admit out loud. Yes, he was interested. But there were…complications. Again, that bothersome sensation pulled at his brain. He wasn’t avoiding it—he wasn’t. He was simply adjusting to his new role and making acquaintances, including Miss Snowden’s.

  Ware peered at him over his brandy glass. “And are you really not interested in my upcoming party, or were you just staying that to impress Clare?”

  “I’m really not interested, though I don’t begrudge you such entertainments.” He flicked a glance toward Anthony. “Or you. I hope that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.”

  Anthony laughed. “Of course it doesn’t.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Ware said loftily. “I only associate with lecherous scoundrels.” He exhaled. “But now that Beck has married and completely abdicated any bit of depravity he possessed, I suppose I must accept decent friends too.”

  “He’s referring to his good friend the Marquess of Northam. You placed Miss Snowden in his wife’s curricle this morning. They were recently wed. We’ll introduce you to him if he ever shows up at a Society event again.” Anthony shifted his gaze to Ware. “He’ll come to a race.”

  “Most definitely. Especially since my races will include women—he’s more likely to attend anything if he can bring Lavinia along.”

  “Ah, love.” Anthony lifted his glass in a toast, then frowned at their empty tumblers. “You’re both out.”

  “A solvable problem, thankfully.” Ware drew the attention of a footman, and a moment later, they all had fresh drinks.

  Anthony raised his new glass. “Where was I?”

  Ware snorted as he reluctantly lifted his glass. “Nattering on about love.”

  “Ignore him.” Anthony rolled his eyes. “Ware will never marry, and honestly, who would want him anyway?”

  “No one, which is precisely the point.” Ware grinned widely before he took a long drink.

  “St. Ives, on the other hand, seems amenable to the institution.” Anthony slid him an inquisitive glance. “Or at least courtship.”

  David was more than amenable. He expected to marry. But as with the earldom, he just hadn’t expected to be faced with it this soon. However, with the earldom came responsibility and that damned persistent thing he’d promised. He was nothing if not a dutiful son.

  He tipped his glass to his lips and swallowed a mouthful of the smoky brew. Just once, he’d like to break free.

  After folding the last pair of stockings, Fanny set them atop the stack only to have the entire tower slouch to the side and slide from the table. “Oh bother!”

  Ivy swept into the drawing room and eyed the pile of stockings on the floor. “Problem?”

  Fanny sighed. “No, just a Fanny Moment.” That was what they’d taken to calling her bouts of clumsiness or misfortune.

  “Well, this one is certainly drier than yesterday’s.” Ivy smiled as she joined her in picking up the stockings. Taking several, she sat down at the small round table opposite Fanny and began to refold them. “Are you coming with me to deliver these to the orphanage?”

  Nodding, Fanny said, “Yes, if you don’t mind. I wanted to speak with Mrs. Frawley.” She managed the establishment with assistance from several patronesses, including Ivy.

  “Oh?” Ivy’s interest was clearly piqued.

  “I’ve been thinking I want to start something,” Fanny said. Her sister had been dedicated to helping both orphans and unmarried mothers and their children for some time. Having spent time in a workhouse herself, Ivy understood the hardships that faced people who were alone in the world. Unfortunately, Ivy had been exactly that person after their parents had turned her out when she was seventeen. Fanny continued, “A kind of workhouse where women can come to learn a trade that they can then do somewhere else. They can learn to sew or to read and write or to become companions.”

  Ivy’s gaze softened. “What a wonderful idea.” She’d been a companion. A patroness from the workhouse where Ivy had lived had seen her intelligence and grace and arranged for a position. “That you have embraced my charitable endeavors so warmly and completely is a gift I deeply treasure.”

  “You’re an inspiration,” Fanny said, carefully stacking her folded stockings. She hadn’t known the truth of Ivy’s departure and the ensuing ten years of her life until she’d come to live with Ivy and West last summer. She couldn’t help feeling angry and bitter about her parents’ treatment of Ivy and the way they’d lied about why she left. They’d told her she’d taken a position as a governess, when in reality, they’d thrown her out after she’d become pregnant by a gentleman who’d vowed to marry her. He hadn’t, of course. He’d abandoned her completely, which was why Ivy despised men. Most men. She adored West. And he worshipped her. It might have been nauseating if it wasn’t like a fairy tale come true.

  “Where do you want to locate this workhouse?”

  Fanny had given this much thought. “It makes sense to have it in London, but I was also thinking it might be nice to have one in the country. There are so few opportunities for women to improve their station. Honestly, I think I’d like to start one in Yorkshire. Just think if something like this had been available to you.”

  Ivy wiped a hand over her eye. “The babe makes me such a watering pot.” Ivy and West were expecting their second child at the end of the summer, and Leah wasn
’t even yet a year old.

  “I’m surprised you aren’t taking a nap while Leah is sleeping.”

  “I wanted to make sure everything is ready to go to the orphanage tomorrow. But now that I see you have everything well in hand, perhaps I’ll do that.”

  Fanny folded the last of her stockings and scooted the pile next to Ivy’s. Having learned her lesson, she didn’t stack them on top of each other. “I’m happy to help. I’ll fold the other linens and box up the other donations.”

  Ivy rose, the slight swell of her stomach barely discernible beneath the drape of her moss-green muslin day dress. “You are the very best sister anyone could want.”

  The butler, Tarenton, appeared in the doorway. “Your Grace, there is a caller. For Miss Snowden.”

  Ivy exchanged a look with Fanny before asking, “Who is it, Tarenton?”

  “Lord St. Ives.”

  Fanny’s heart skipped just before it picked up speed. She’d so been hoping he would call, and yet she didn’t want to deprive her sister of her nap.

  “Show him up,” Ivy said without hesitation.

  The butler nodded and left.

  “But you want to rest.” Fanny stood.

  Ivy waved a hand. “I’ll just sit here while you take a walk outside. That will allow me to rest—the chaise in the corner is quite comfortable—and give you privacy with Lord St. Ives. Just promise me you’ll remember everything I told you about men.”

  “That they’re focused on one thing, and most don’t care a whit how women feel about it. They take what they want, and we can be damned.”

  Ivy smiled in approval. “Exactly. It does seem St. Ives may be in a small minority. He performed quite well under West’s scrutiny last night.”

  Fanny’s eyes rounded—and her heart skipped again, but for an altogether different reason. “What did West do?”

  “Oh look, he’s here.” Ivy gave Fanny an apologetic glance as she turned to face their new arrival.

  David removed his hat and bowed deeply. “Good afternoon, ladies. Duchess. Miss Snowden.” He leaned first in Ivy’s direction then Fanny’s.