The Duke of Hearts

by Jess Michaels

  “And it shouldn’t be so difficult to avoid this woman. You’ve done so with her uncle for years. That party tonight was unexpected, but we will all be more vigilant about invitations from now on.”

  Matthew found himself nodding, but he didn’t believe what he was agreeing to. In truth, he had the impression that avoiding Isabel might be harder than his friend imagined. Especially since the coiled desire inside of him turned him into a wolf, more like Robert than any of his other friends.

  And that wolf inside told him one thing: to chase her. Not run.

  Isabel staggered as she reentered the ballroom, her head spinning wildly and her lips hot and tingling from Matthew’s hard and passionate kiss. Her heart fluttered as she scanned the room, but did not find him. Had he left? Was he hiding? Was he going to publicly expose her?

  She had not taken two steps into the chamber when her uncle appeared at her elbow.

  “There you are,” he said, his tone odd and echoing and faraway.

  She turned to face him and found he was staring at her with an expression as strange as the tone of his voice. Heat rushed to her cheeks, as she feared she might be showing the strength of her reaction all over her face.

  That would not do.

  “Hello, Uncle Fenton,” she said, her voice shaking. “Were you looking for me?”

  “You disappeared from the ballroom,” he said.

  She swallowed. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I went to the retiring room to gather myself. I have a bit of a headache.” The lies fell from her lips a little too easily. But then, that was what she was becoming: a liar. Matthew certainly thought so.

  Her uncle tilted his head. “Funny, I looked for you in the retiring room.”

  She froze. If Fenton knew what she had done with a man he so deeply despised…oh, it would be very bad, indeed. He could never know. Never.

  “We must have just missed each other,” she breathed.

  He looked at her more closely. “Yes. Well, if your headache is still troubling you, perhaps we should end our night a bit early.”

  She nearly collapsed with relief. “Oh, thank you, uncle!” She clasped his arm with both her hands. “You do not know how much I want exactly that.”

  He arched a brow and looked her up and down. “I shall call for my carriage then. Come along.”

  He moved them toward the door where she had just entered. She couldn’t help but toss one last glance over her shoulder as they left, but found no Matthew within. His friends, all those dukes and their wives, were gathered in a cluster, though, talking and frowning. Had he spoken to them? Did they know?

  Nausea rose in her stomach, and she turned away and focused on making it to the foyer without casting up her accounts. Her uncle called for his rig and she stared at her slippers as they waited, reliving every moment with Matthew in the chamber.

  His anger had been so big, it filled the whole parlor. But the desire was still there, too. Like warring factions trying to lay claim to him. Desire had won for a moment, but she feared the rage, the hatred she had inspired by deceiving him…those would take the war. She deserved it, of course, but it still made her heart sink to think that the conversation they’d just shared would likely be their last.

  “Isabel.”

  Her uncle’s tone was sharp, and she looked up to find him watching her closely. His expression was unreadable but utterly odd. “Y-yes?”

  “The carriage,” he said, motioning to it.

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

  She followed him to the vehicle and let him help her up. He took a place across from her and off they went into the night, away from the ball. Away from the moments that had truly changed her life.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  She jerked her face toward him. “I’m sorry?”

  “You are very distracted, Isabel,” he said, his tone harsh. “Far more than I would expect from a mere headache.”

  She swallowed. If she wanted to survive this mess, she would have to learn to cover her reactions better. She forced a smile. “It was merely a very interesting night, uncle. Nothing more.”

  “Interesting. Yes, I agree. It was a very interesting night.” He leaned back against the carriage seat, his arms folded and his gaze still locked on her. “You created a stir, didn’t you? Even bigger than I thought you might.”

  She wrinkled her brow and her musings on Matthew faded. Her uncle’s demeanor was so very strange now that her heart began to pound. “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing yet,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I must think a bit before we talk about it.”

  “Think?” she repeated. “Think about what?”

  “About your future,” he said. “I realized tonight that you might have a much bigger one than I’d originally hoped for. It changes my plans, that is all.”

  “What do you mean a bigger future?”

  “Perhaps a baron or a second son just isn’t lofty enough,” he explained with a shrug.

  Her heart sank and she slouched down in her seat a bit. Here she had been so terrified about her connection to Matthew she’d thought Uncle Fenton could see it. But he was instead focused on that marriage he planned for her. That future she had tried to ignore was rushing toward her despite each passing moment in Matthew’s arms.

  Now it was almost here. She had to find a way to accept it. And accept that whatever fantasy she had built around Matthew would never be a reality again. Her memories, even the terrifying ones from tonight, would likely be all that kept her warm from this moment forward.

  Chapter Twelve

  It had been three days since the Callis ball, but to Matthew it felt like a lifetime. The fact that he had hardly slept did not make the moments pass any faster, of course. Nor did the fact that every one of his duke friends in town had come to call on him, to ask him questions. So he’d had to repeat the story of discovering Isabel’s identity over and over, reliving it each time.

  But the worst, and best, part of the way he’d passed the days were the intruding thoughts about his encounter with Isabel. Kissing Isabel. Isabel lying to him. And touching him.

  “Christ,” he muttered as he pulled his horse up short in front of Mattigan’s Bookshop and slung himself down. He secured the animal to a nearby post and patted the mare’s shoulder before he looked up at the building with a smile.

  Mattigan’s was a favorite haunt of his. When he read, he forgot everything around him. Everything that troubled him. He needed that escape now more than ever, which was why Mattigan’s note that a few of his requested books had come in was like a message from the heavens. Matthew was more than ready to forget his troubles.

  When he opened the door, the little bell rang and his smile widened. Mr. Mattigan, a portly man of middle age, looked up from his ledger behind the high desk across the room and his face lit up. “Ah, sir, sir, welcome to you.”

  Matthew came across to him, hand extended, and the shopkeep shook it none too gently in his enthusiasm. “Mr. Mattigan, I was so very happy to get your message. My books are in?”

  “They are at last, and with my apologies in the delay,” Mr. Mattigan said with a contrite incline of his head. “The French are most dastardly when separating us from our entertainment.”

  Matthew laughed. “I think that is overstating it a bit. I think I’ll look around a while before I settle the tab and pick up my parcel.”

  “Of course,” Mattigan sat, patting his arm. “Take your time.”

  Matthew drew in a whiff of the air as Mattigan returned to his place at his desk and took up his pen once more. The smell of paper and ink filled his lungs, and for the first time in days, Matthew was at peace. He stepped toward the shelves and heard the low murmurs of other patrons from down the aisles. Book people. The very best of people, he’d always thought.

  He trailed his fingertips along the spines of the books, tilting his head to see the titles of the works, the authors. He�
�d read most of them, he owned most of them, piled on shelves here in his home in London or out in his far more impressive library in Tyndale. Luckily, there was always a supply of authors, scribbling wildly by candlelight to give him something new to enjoy.

  If only his favorites would write faster.

  He turned the corner of one aisle into the deeper shelves away from the door. As he did so, he came to a sudden halt, for standing at the end of the shelves of books was Isabel Hayes.

  She had not seen him, that much was clear. She was too engrossed in the volume she held in her hands, her eyes wide as she turned a page and reached up to twist a loose lock of hair around her fingertip.

  She was exquisite in that moment, and he drank her in. Her dark hair framed that pale, slender face to perfection. There was a sweetness to her lips and an innocence to the way her dark brown gaze darted across the line of words before her. She was utterly engrossed, and for the first time he did not think of her like she was at the Donville Masquerade. There she was temptation and pleasure, sin and seduction.

  But the Isabel who stood just feet away from him now was something…more. Still tempting, yes. But also lovely and light. He had the sense that he could settle in beside her and read over her shoulder for a few hours. Or discuss whatever she was so interested in until they had worked out the problems of the world. Or at least the plot holes in the story.

  His heart had begun to pound and for a moment, he considered just walking away. Only she looked up at him before he could and their eyes locked. He saw abject terror flit through her entire being. She nearly dropped the tome in her hands, and she pivoted to make her own escape.

  “Running again?” he asked.

  She froze and then slowly turned to face him. She had not the ability to erase emotion from her face, it seemed, for all her fear and guilt and pain were obvious still. She glanced up at him, fighting for bravery even though her hands were shaking. So much so that he heard the faint rustle of the pages from her book.

  “N-no,” she whispered, then cleared her throat and repeated the word louder. “No, Your Grace. I was just…stunned to see you here of all places.”

  He arched a brow and eased closer a step, though he had no idea why he did it. He should avoid this woman, as he had promised each and every friend that he would. But seeing her here, in this place he considered almost sacred…well, he found he couldn’t walk away so easily.

  “Here of all places,” he repeated. “That does not bode well for your judgment of my intelligence.”

  Her lips parted and she jerked the book up to her chest, almost like a shield. “I-I didn’t mean that, of course.”

  He found himself smiling. Smiling even though he knew she had lied to him. Who she was. What she was.

  “What did you mean then?”

  She stared at the floor with a focus any person would envy. “I only meant that this place is so…special to me. An escape. I was shocked to look up and find you here.”

  He wrinkled his brow. “That is exactly how I feel about Mattigan’s.”

  Her lips parted and she glanced up. Once again those dark brown eyes held his and he was lost for a moment in chocolaty depths. Pulled back into memories of when those eyes were lit with ultimate pleasure.

  “Then you must also understand why I wanted to run when I first saw you standing there,” she said.

  He leaned on the shelf with his elbow. “I thought you said you weren’t running.”

  She shrugged. “I’m not going to treat you like a fool, Your Grace. We both know escape was my intention.”

  “And why?” he asked.

  “I thought it best,” she said. “Considering how you must—”

  She cut herself off with a wavering exhalation of breath, like whatever she might say was painful.

  “How I must?”

  “Hate me,” she whispered. “I thought I should leave you alone considering how you must hate me.”

  Isabel could hardly breathe as she watched Matthew’s face transform with her words. It crumpled and then went softer.

  “I don’t—” He stopped and seemed to struggle for what to say. “Isabel, I was angry when I realized you’d lied to me. When I realized who you were.”

  She turned her face and tried not to relive that awful moment when he’d confronted her a few nights before. “I’m sorry. I know that is cold comfort and that you don’t truly believe me. But I will keep saying it.”

  He reached out, and suddenly his fingers brushed along the top of her hand. Though they both wore gloves, the electric energy that had flowed between them since that first night in the Donville Masquerade came back in an instant. Her body responded to it, even if she knew it shouldn’t.

  She lifted her gaze to his and found his gray eyes flitting over her face.

  “I was harsh at the Callis party,” he said, his voice low and rough. “I was unkind in my upset. And coarse—I said things a gentleman ought never to say to a lady. I apologize for that.”

  Her lips parted, for in that moment the gentleman had returned. The tender lover. The man who had so captivated her in body—and yes, in soul.

  “I don’t think I am owed anything,” she said.

  “Everyone is owed a modicum of respect,” he said.

  She bent her head. “Well, I thank you for that.”

  For a moment it was quiet between them, and she thought he might make his excuses and walk away, the subject between them closed at last with this less emotional meeting and his final apology.

  Instead, he lifted a hand and tapped the book that still drooped in her own. The one she’d almost forgot all about.

  “What are you buying?” he asked.

  She glanced down at it and then held it out so he could inspect it. She blushed as he glided a finger over the gilded title. “The Monk,” he said with a grin. “Mrs. Hayes, you are interested in such scandal.”

  She held out her hand for the return of the book even as her cheeks burned. “I’m certain a gothic tale feels very silly to you.”

  “On the contrary, I rather like it,” he said with a shrug as he returned it to her custody. “It’s not the best of its genre, though. I think Beckford is a better representation.”

  “I agree,” Isabel said with a smile. “Though in some ways, even more scandalous. There are certainly more deals with the devil.”

  To her surprise, he laughed at the quip, and she stared. He was so transformed when he talked about a subject that was clearly a passion for him. A passion she shared. But when he laughed, that transformation was even more complete. He seemed so light in that moment, so separated from the troubles that had weighed him down in the short time she had been acquainted with him.

  “Isabel?”

  They both turned, and Isabel jolted. She had come to Mattigan’s with Sarah, and the moment she had started talking to Matthew, she’d all but forgotten that fact. Now her friend stood just behind them, staring at then with wide, blue eyes.

  “Sarah, I’m sorry I got caught up talking to the Duke of Tyndale,” Isabel said, trying not to catch her friend’s eye so that Sarah couldn’t send her messages with her pointed gaze. “Are you acquainted with Miss Sarah Carlton?”

  Matthew glanced at her friend. “I believe we’ve met once or twice. Good afternoon, Miss Carlton.”

  “Good afternoon, Your Grace,” Sarah said. “It is lovely to see you again.”

  “And you,” he said. He cleared his throat. “Well, I’m glad we ran into each other again, Mrs. Hayes.”

  She nodded slowly. “As am I. Though I doubt it will happen again, so I suppose this is…farewell.” She almost choked on that last word.

  His expression dropped. “You are likely correct. Good—goodbye.”

  He inclined his head toward Sarah, then pivoted on his heel out of the aisle. She heard him speaking to Mattigan for a moment, though she couldn’t make out the specific words at this distance, and then the bell at the door ran
g and he was gone.

  She sagged against the bookshelf, her heart pounding wildly with the exchange. She’d thought their final encounter had been at the Callis party, when Matthew had kissed her so passionately, angrily. She’d come to accept that fact.

  But this was, in some ways, worse. To have him approach her, apologize to her, even though she didn’t deserve it. To have him connect with her about the book she was buying, like they were old friends. Like what had happened between them was somehow…good…that made it all harder.

  “He is very handsome,” Sarah said as she slid an arm through Isabel’s. “I’d forgotten how handsome.”

  Isabel snorted out a laugh. “How you could forget is beyond me. It haunts my very dreams.”

  Sarah guided her from the aisle and toward a pair of chairs Mattigan had placed before the fire in the back of his shop. They sat there together, Sarah searching her face. “You told me he hated you.”

  Isabel shrugged. “I thought he did. Maybe he still does, he’s just too…too good a man to show it. Because it isn’t right or fair to be cruel to a lady. Even one who deserves such censure.”

  “You don’t deserve cruelty,” Sarah said softly. “You sought out passion. Perhaps that isn’t accepted in our society, but that doesn’t mean it’s wrong. And he gave it, freely, accepting that he would not know your identity. What happened after, the connection you two shared even before you knew that you shared a common link in Angelica…that is unfortunate. But you were no more party to that than he was.”

  “Yes, I was,” Isabel moaned as she placed her head in her hands. “I knew who he was and I still went back. I went back and let him…let myself…”

  Sarah blushed scarlet. “Yes. I know. I know.”

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter now. He was polite and I appreciated that. But it doesn’t change anything. He knows who I am and he wants nothing to do with me. I must accept that and move on. My uncle will demand that I do so, at any rate.”

  Sarah reached out and took her hand. “I wish I could make it different. For both of us.”