by Darcy Burke
“Good evening,” he said, standing next to her chair. “I’m delighted to see you.”
She didn’t look up at him. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“It’s a public ball.”
She flicked him an exasperated glance. “I mean, you shouldn’t be here talking to me.”
“Why not? There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
Now she looked at him, her eyes narrowing. “Please stop,” she hissed.
“I came to ask you to dance. You should try the waltz again.”
Pressing her lips together, she directed her attention toward Lady Dunn. Sitting at a table near the center of the room, she hadn’t seemed to notice that the Duke of Desire was talking to her paid companion. “No, thank you.”
When he didn’t leave, Ivy glowered up at him. “You should go.”
“No, thank you,” he parroted back to her. “If this is the manner in which I have to wage my courtship, then so be it. I’ll stand here until you change your mind.”
Courtship? She rose from the chair and angled herself toward him. “What the devil are you doing?”
“Courting you.” He turned to face her, his features now so familiar that she wondered how she could go without seeing them. His eyes darkened, and the edge of his mouth ticked up. “I’m going to marry you, Ivy.”
Her breath caught. He couldn’t mean that. “You’re as arrogant as ever.”
“About this, yes.”
“About everything. You told me you possessed a special skill.”
“I did, didn’t I?” he murmured.
Marriage. To the Duke of Desire. Her pulse quickened, and she pivoted away from him, facing the center of the room. “Please go away.”
“If you insist. But I’ll be back.”
She turned her head and glared at him. “No. I want you to leave me alone.” She clenched her teeth as tension gripped her frame.
He moved the tiniest bit closer. “Why? I’m offering you marriage. You would be my duchess.”
“I’ve no interest in marriage, especially to a man with your reputation. You’re a philanderer, a libertine, a rake. I have every expectation you would continue in that vein.” She couldn’t stand here another moment. She started to go, but he discreetly—but only briefly—touched her arm.
“I’m not that man anymore. I’ve changed. You’ve changed me. Please don’t go.”
“You give me no choice. Can’t you see you’re making this worse? Every time you pay me attention like this, people notice. You’re the Duke of Desire. I’m no one. I like being no one. Furthermore, I’d like to keep my job.”
Ivy stalked away from him, heedless of where she was going. Once she was outside the cardroom, in the octagon room, she turned to the left and went into a doorway. It was the stairwell up to the musicians’ galleries. She didn’t go up but stood in the darkened shadows to regain her composure.
West wanted to marry her. Was it because of the risk of a child? She didn’t want his pity. But was that all it was? Could it be possible he wanted to marry her for her?
If she was with child, she’d be a fool to say no. The difference between raising a bastard in God knows what kind of circumstances and the child of a duke was cavernous. She’d do what was best for the child, even if it meant suffering his libertine lifestyle.
Her heart clenched in anguish as she leaned back against the wall.
“There you are.” The masculine voice startled her.
Ivy focused in the dim light and sucked in a breath. It wasn’t West, but Peter. Apprehension swept through her. “What are you doing here?”
Peter stepped farther into the stairwell. “I saw you leave the cardroom. What were you doing talking with the Duke of Clare? I thought you said he wasn’t courting you.”
She flattened herself against the wall, growing alarmed that she was trapped. “He’s not.” Though it wasn’t for his lack of trying.
Peter moved toward her. “Perhaps he’s just trying to get what you gave me all those years ago. I wouldn’t blame him. You’re incredibly beautiful, much more alluring than you were in your youth. I daresay you’re more experienced now too. I’d like to find out.” He stepped close enough that he filled her vision.
Ivy pushed at his chest. “You’re vile.” She tried to get past him, but he clasped her waist and pressed her into the wall.
“I’m not finished yet. I think I’d like a sample right here. Right now.”
She shoved him harder, digging the heels of her hands into his ribs. “Don’t touch me!”
He stumbled back but quickly rebounded with a snarl. He advanced on her again. “Don’t forget that I can make your life miserable. I’ve been paying attention tonight. I know who your employer is. What would Lady Dunn say if she knew the truth about you?”
Ivy’s shoulders drooped. She didn’t want to bring shame upon the viscountess. She couldn’t. “What do you want?”
“A kiss to start. You’ll be my mistress. I’ll get you a house here in Bath and then move you to London for the Season.” He smiled encouragingly. “It won’t be taxing for you. Indeed, it will be a vast improvement on your current situation. I don’t wish to be a boor—we were good together all those years ago. It will be good again. You’ll see.”
Ivy stared at him, wondering how he could possibly believe she’d want him after the way he’d abandoned her. “I was terribly foolish then.”
“Yes, but now you’ll have me to take care of you.”
Rage and hurt swelled inside her and burst free. Without thinking, without care, she swung her hand up and hit him in the eye. He jumped back, giving her the opening she needed.
And she ran.
After watching Ivy leave the cardroom, West had gone directly into the tearoom next door, which, like the last assembly, was being used as a room for only gentlemen to drink and wager. He waved for a footman and sat down at an empty table.
“Whiskey.”
The footman nodded.
West scowled. She was being stubborn, he told himself. Except he knew it wasn’t that simple, not when she brought up his reputation. That, unfortunately, was a valid argument against marrying him. He’d never demonstrated an interest in taking a duchess or a desire to remain faithful to one woman for a long period of time.
How in the hell was he supposed to convince her that he’d changed, that for the first time in his life, he wanted one woman—for as long as he could imagine. Forever.
He tossed back the whiskey and signaled the footman for another. As he brought it to the table, West saw Bothwick enter. Fury nearly pushed him from the chair, but he didn’t rise. He couldn’t just go over and hit him, as much as he wanted to.
Instead, he drank the second whiskey.
Then Bothwick’s gaze landed on him. His brows drew down, and he moved purposefully toward West’s table.
West tensed, ready—and eager—to strike.
A footman arrived at the table just as Bothwick did. The viscount requested a whiskey, and the footman took himself off.
Bothwick pulled a chair out and flounced onto it, grimacing. “I saw you talking to that woman—Miss Breckenridge? She’s not who you think she is. Though maybe that doesn’t matter if you’re just looking for a shag.”
Once more, West had to fight to keep himself in the chair. The footman brought the whiskey, and Bothwick immediately asked him to bring another.
The viscount emptied his glass and leaned forward, regarding West intently. “Be careful she doesn’t try to trap you into marriage.”
“That would be my fondest wish,” West said, tapping his fingers on the table as agitated energy coursed through him.
Bothwick’s eyes widened. “What’s that? Are you mad? She’s a common trollop. I speak from experience. She’s the chit I told you about—she tried to snare me in the parson’s trap, the whore.”
West had heard more than enough. He stood quickly, knocking his chair to the floor, and reached over to grab Bothwick by the lapel of his coat.
Curling his fingers into the fabric, West dragged him from the chair as he stepped around the table. “You’re the whore.” He let go of Bothwick as he sailed his fist into the man’s jaw.
Bothwick staggered backward, his hand coming up to his face. “What the devil?”
West walked toward him, aching to hit him again. “Don’t insult my future wife.”
Realizing West meant to continue his abuse, Bothwick turned and fled into the cardroom. The bloody cur. West dashed after him and caught him by the back of his coat. He dug his feet into the floor and pulled Bothwick back, turning him around so he could punch him a second time.
Bothwick’s eyes were wide as West landed a hit against his nose. Bone crunched as blood spurted. Bothwick fell, sprawling on his back. He cradled his hand against his bleeding face.
Rage burned through West. “I demand satisfaction.”
Shaking his head, Bothwick brought his other hand to his face as blood continued to pour over his mouth and chin. Someone handed him a cloth, and West emerged from his haze to realize the cardroom had gone eerily silent. He looked up from Bothwick and saw that everything had stopped, that everyone in the room was staring at him. Movement caught his eye. Dartford was cutting a path toward him.
When he arrived at West’s side, his eyes were dark, his brow strained. “Did you just challenge him to a duel?”
Apparently. West hadn’t really thought about it before speaking. He’d fantasized about it, of course, but he hadn’t imagined he would actually issue a challenge. But now that he had, he didn’t regret it. “I demanded satisfaction, yes.”
The man who’d handed Bothwick the cloth helped him to stand. The viscount’s blood had soaked through the cloth. A footman rushed forward with another. Bothwick dropped the blood-soaked one and pressed the other to his face. When he spoke, his words were a bit garbled. “You…wan…marry…a low…slut?” He looked toward the doorway that led to the octagon room, which in turn led to the corridor and vestibule.
West followed Bothwick’s gaze and froze. Standing just inside was Ivy, her face white and her eyes wide.
“Can believe you wan duel over someone like her.” Bothwick coughed into the cloth.
As everyone’s attention turned toward Ivy, there could be no question whom he was referring to. Hell and the devil.
Lady Dunn stood from a table near the center of the room. “What’s going on?”
“I believe Clare is going to marry her,” a woman answered, pointing toward Ivy.
The Countess of Dartford had made her way to Ivy’s side and was now clutching her hand. Another movement caught West’s eye. His mother—this occasion only wanted her presence—moved into the cardroom from the ballroom. Her gaze was dark and assessing, going from West to Bothwick to Ivy and back to West with supreme disapproval.
“I’d say your prognostication about cocking this up was regrettably accurate,” Dartford whispered near his ear.
West would’ve laughed if the situation wasn’t so goddamned tragic. What the hell had he just done? He’d told the world that he was willing to defend Ivy’s honor, and by God, he would.
He turned toward Ivy. “Yes. I would marry her, if she will consent to have me.”
A shrill voice filled the room. “That’s preposterous.”
Everyone turned to look at the woman who’d spoken—the Duchess of Clare. West glared at her with rancor, as if he could take her down with a mere look.
The duchess shook her head. “You can’t marry someone like her, nor can you duel over her.”
West would never hit a woman, but he dearly wanted to throw something in her direction. He settled for another venomous stare.
Ivy spun and left with the Countess of Dartford on her heels. Lady Dunn stood and followed them, albeit at a slower pace. Still, West had never seen her move that quickly.
He started forward, but Dartford grabbed his arm. “You have to let them go. This is already a disaster.”
Yes, it was. West turned and stared coldly at Bothwick. “Name your second.”
Chapter Twenty
Heart pounding and breathless, Ivy rushed along the corridor into the vestibule.
“Miss Breckenridge—Ivy!”
The sound of Lady Dunn’s voice made her slow. Lucy’s touch on her arm gave her the barest sense of security. But it was fleeting. She needed to get out of there. Now.
They waited at the entrance for Lady Dunn to catch up to them. She gestured toward her coach, which was one of a few parked right outside. Most people walked to the Assembly Rooms. This evening, however, Lady Dunn hadn’t wanted to walk that far, though it was only a short distance.
Silence reigned as they made their way to the coach. Lady Dunn climbed in first and sat in the front-facing seat, while Ivy and Lucy sat opposite her.
Lady Dunn looked a bit pale as she regarded Ivy. Her lips pursed briefly before she asked, “What was that about? Does Clare really wish to marry you?”
Clearly, since he’d said so in front of everyone. “Yes.”
Lady Dunn sagged back against the squab as the coach began moving. “Thank God for that, at least.”
Except Ivy didn’t want to marry him. “I refused him.”
Lady Dunn blinked at her while her jaw dropped for a moment. “Why on earth would you do that? Don’t be silly, Ivy.”
Anger swirled in Ivy’s chest. She wasn’t silly. “If you knew what I have been through, you wouldn’t call me silly.”
Lady Dunn tapped her cane once on the floor of the coach. “Then perhaps it’s past time you tell me.”
Yes, perhaps it was. Ivy glanced over at Lucy, who gave her an encouraging look. She took Lucy’s hand and gently squeezed.
“I grew up in Yorkshire. In the town of Pickering, to be exact. I’m the eldest of four children. My family enjoyed a comfortable life, and I was expected to marry someone prominent in the area.” That seemed like someone else’s life. Indeed, telling this felt like it had happened to someone else. Almost. “I went to an assembly when I was seventeen, where I met Bothwick. He wasn’t the viscount then, but he was certainly prominent. In hindsight, he was too prominent. I should have set my sights a bit lower. But I was instantly enthralled with him. And he with me.”
She swallowed and took a deep breath, her hand gripping Lucy’s with tense ferocity. “He claimed to love me and said we would be married. I believed him and allowed him to be familiar.”
“He ruined you,” Lady Dunn said flatly.
A tremor of disgust shook Ivy’s frame. “Yes. He got me with child and refused to marry me. My parents blamed me and didn’t even try to force a marriage. They cast me out instead.”
“Oh, Ivy.” Lucy’s throaty exclamation nearly undid Ivy, but she closed her eyes for a moment and willed herself to continue.
“I went to a workhouse.” She steeled herself to reveal the next part and nearly failed to push the words forth. “The baby was born dead.” She had to stop and take another breath, and she trained her gaze on the corner of the carriage so that she couldn’t see either Lady Dunn’s or Lucy’s faces. Their sympathy—assuming they offered it—would crumble her resolve completely.
“After that, I moved to another workhouse so that no one would know that I’d had a child. There I made the acquaintance of the benefactress, Lady Breckenridge. She recognized that I was not like the other inmates and helped me find employment as a companion. I changed my name and started a new life. I’ve never looked back. Until now.” Anguish clogged her throat. She finally looked toward Lucy as the coach pulled to a stop in front of the town house. A tear fell from her friend’s eye, and Ivy quickly looked away again.
The footman opened the door and helped Lady Dunn out. Ivy and Lucy followed, and they traipsed into the house as if they were marching in a funeral procession. Which Ivy supposed was an accurate description, since the life she’d built—the life she’d worked so hard to earn—had just died.
Lady Dunn asked the butler to send brandy to the drawing room,
then preceded them up the stairs. She pulled off her gloves and took her favorite chair near the fireplace.
Ivy sat down on the settee opposite, and Lucy took a position right next to her. It was strange to have someone at her side. Ten years ago, she’d been completely alone. If she thought about how different things might’ve been if just one person had shown her support… It didn’t bear consideration.
“A tragic story to be sure,” Lady Dunn said, not without an edge of sympathy. “However, that is the distant past, and truly, thanks to your ingenuity, it happened to another person. Now you are Ivy Breckenridge, paid companion, and the Duke of Clare wishes to make you his duchess.” She leaned forward, her brown gaze lively and direct. “Why in God’s name would you refuse him?”
“Because—” She was going to say because of her past, but Lady Dunn had just said that didn’t matter. Hadn’t she? “Are you saying my past transgressions don’t matter?”
Lady Dunn made a sound in her throat. “Not if you marry a duke.”
The butler arrived with a decanter of brandy and poured three glasses, leaving them on the tray. He bowed and left.
“But everyone heard what Bothwick said.”
Lady Dunn waved her hand before she picked up her glass of brandy. “None of that will matter.” She sipped her brandy. “Unless there’s some other reason you don’t wish to marry Clare. In which case, I would tell you to get over it, because if you don’t marry him, you’ll be ruined. Either way, I suppose your employment with me is at an end. Pity.” She gave Ivy a sad smile.
Ivy stared at her, uncertain if the viscountess was happy for her or not. “He’s the Duke of Desire.” She nearly choked on the stupid nickname. “I don’t want to be married to someone like him.”
Except he was also someone who’d done very heroic things. He said she’d changed him… Maybe that was true. Only time would tell, and if marrying him was her only option…
The room seemed to crowd in on her, and her vision tunneled. She lowered her gaze and saw the brandy glass. Leaning forward, she snatched it from the tray and took a long, fortifying drink. Until it was gone.
