The Duke of St. Giles

by Jillian Eaton

“The new colt,” the redhead repeated slowly. “Aye, I imagine he needs quite a bit of checking up on.”

  “My thoughts precisely.”

  Their gazes met and held. After a moment Mattie shrugged, turned on her heel, and left without another word, leaving everything she hadn’t said lingering in the room behind her.

  Completely oblivious to the meaningful exchange that had just taken place, Sullivan sank back down onto the chaise lounge and stared blankly at the floor. “She ignored me. It was as though I wasn’t even here.”

  “You needn’t sound so shocked.”

  “No woman has ever ignored me. Ever.”

  For the first time all morning a genuine grin flirted with the corners of West’s mouth. “There’s a first time for everything. By the by, don’t touch Mattie either. In fact, don’t touch any of the maids.”

  Sullivan sighed. “Is there anyone in this godforsaken house I can touch?”

  “Certainly.”

  The gambler leaned eagerly forward. “Who?”

  “Yourself,” West said with a grin before he stood up and left the room in search of Emily.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  He found her in the field sitting beneath an old oak tree, its limbs so twisted and gnarled it was impossible to tell where one ended and the next began. The colt was splayed next to her, his fuzzy head resting trustingly in her lap, his long, lanky legs stretched out in the grass. They both looked up as he let himself through the wooden gate and started across the field. From this distance it was impossible to tell Emily’s reaction to his presence, but the colt’s was clear enough. With a snort and a squeal the miniature hellion leaped to his feet and took off bucking, causing his chestnut dam to give a weary sigh and lumber over to inspect the new intruder.

  “It’s only me,” West murmured when the mare stopped and eyed him with suspicion. The colt nudged her flank and she flicked him with her tail, as though to say, didn’t I just get rid of you? West grinned. “He takes after his sire, I am sorry to say.” The mare bobbed her head in agreement – or so it seemed – before she shuffled forward and nosed at his trouser pockets. When she realized he hadn’t brought any treats with him she huffed and wandered off in the direction of the water trough with the colt frolicking playfully at her heels.

  Raking a hand through his hair West continued on towards the oak tree. Emily tilted her head back as he approached, but made no move to stand. On the contrary, she looked quite comfortable sitting on the ground with her legs crossed at the ankle and her palms splayed out on the grass behind her. The blue trim on her dress matched her eyes, making them seem larger than normal in her sun flushed face. A faint sheen of perspiration glistened high on her brow, a testament to the rapidly rising temperature. She’d rolled up her sleeves and rolled down her stockings, West noted, the latter of which had his gaze flicking down to her calves for the briefest of moments. The woman truly did have the best legs. They were not ordinarily something he took note of – breasts and buttocks held that particular honor – but he couldn’t help but notice Emily’s, especially when she was flashing them about so often.

  “Hello,” she said simply when he stopped and, not knowing quite what to do, stuffed his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels.

  “Hello.” It was ridiculous that he should feel so awkward. He’d certainly not had trouble coming up with things to say to her the day before. But for some reason this day felt different. This day felt… new. As though they were beginning from scratch. As though he was not keeping her here against her will. As though he’d come across her by pure happenstance. As though anything could happen.

  “It was so nice this morning I couldn’t help but go for a walk. I hope you did not mind. Berta didn’t seem to think you would.” Emily toyed with the end the braid she had draped over one shoulder and West found himself wondering if her hair felt as soft as it looked. It really was a pretty color. Before he’d dismissed it as plain brown, but with sunlight filtering through the silky strands he saw it was actually a combination of dusky blonde, gleaming auburn, and roasted chestnut.

  “Did you?” she asked.

  He blinked, refocusing his attention. “Did I…?”

  “Mind that I stepped out for a walk?”

  “No.” He shook his head. Shifted his weight from the left foot to the right. “No, not at all. When I said you could have the run of the grounds I meant it.”

  One side of Emily’s mouth quirked in a half smile. “Are you going to stand there all morning, or would you like to sit?” She patted the ground beside her. West eyed it dubiously.

  “Sit on the grass?”

  The musical sound of her laughter filled the air. “Yes, on the grass. You needn’t make it sound as though I have just asked you to sit in a dentist’s chair. It will not bite, I assure you.” She drew her legs to the side, making room.

  West glanced quickly over his shoulder. If Sullivan caught him sitting in the middle of the field like a loon he would never hear the end of it, but his friend was nowhere in sight, no doubt passed out in his room sleeping off the effects of their ill choices from the night before. Shrugging out of his satin waistcoat he spread it out carefully on the ground and sat on top of it, eliciting another peal of laughter from Emily. “What is so amusing?” he asked, slanting her a sideways glance.

  “You,” she said, her blue eyes sparkling with mirth. “You may have been raised in St. Giles, but you play the part of a duke very convincingly. I can see why your staff addresses you as such.”

  Somehow West didn’t think he was being paid a compliment. “Is that so?”

  Her head bobbed up and down. “It certainly is.”

  “Well Madame,” he drawled, bending one knee and draping his elbow across it, “if I am a duke than you are no duke’s daughter. Sitting in a field with grass stains on your stockings and horse slobber on your skirt. What would your father say?”

  The light in her eyes abruptly dimmed, and West could have kicked himself. Aye, he thought silently, bring up the man you’ve kidnapped her from. That will put a pretty smile on her face. You bloody lummox.

  “My father would not be surprised,” she said quietly, her gaze shifting down. “He has always been very indulgent with me. My mother died when I was only twelve, and I am all the family he has left.”

  Two things which West already knew. After all, he’d selected Emily with cold, calculating purpose, wanting someone without brothers or cousins or uncles. With the exception of her father and two aunts who lived outside of town Emily was all alone. It was one thing they had in common. One thread that bound them even though they’d grown up worlds apart.

  “You can write him a letter, if you’d like,” he said, surprising himself.

  She looked up. “A letter? Truly?”

  “Do not act as though I’ve just handed you a bouquet of flowers,” he said, uncomfortable with the gratefulness he saw in her eyes. “I needed you to write one anyways to request the ransom. A letter written in your hand and one of your hair ribbons should be enough to convince your father you are alive and well and waiting to return.”

  “The ransom,” she said, bitterness surpassing gratefulness as her mouth twisted around the words. “I’d nearly forgotten.”

  As had West, which was an excellent example of why he needed to think of Emily as a means to an end, not a beginning.

  “How much am I worth? I fear I’ve forgotten. Ten thousand pounds? Twenty?”

  “Thirty,” he said flatly. Guilt crept up over his shoulders. He shrugged it away. It was too late to go back now. Too late to change his mind and kidnap a different woman. Although if given the choice… if given the choice West rather thought he would make the same exact decision all over again. And that knowledge weighed on his shoulders far heavier than any guilt.

  “Thirty thousand pounds.” Bringing her knees up, Emily wrapped her arms around them, linking her hands together. “What will you do with such a fortune?”

  “Retire.” The word wa
s out before it had time to fully form in his mind. He bit back an oath. Wished he could bite back the word. It wasn’t what he’d meant to say. Except… except maybe it was. Maybe he really was ready to retire. Maybe he was ready to give it all up. To live out the rest of his days as a gentleman farmer, content to raise horses and children. West blinked, startled at the direction his mind had veered this time. Horses he could understand. He’s always had a natural affinity for them; an ability to discern the fastest and the purest of blood with little more than a glance. But children? That was a future he’d never considered. Criminal, yes. Horse breeder, perhaps. But father?

  To be a father he’d need to be a husband, and to be a husband he’d need to take a wife. Something he’d never thought of before because he did not want it, or because he’d never met a woman like Emily?

  A woman who would be a good wife. A woman who would be a loving mother. A woman who wouldn’t be drawn to drink, or earn her money on the flat of her back, or throw herself at another man because she was wretchedly bored of her rich, titled husband.

  Those were the sorts of women West was accustomed to. Each one worse than the last, some through no fault of their own, others by choice. And those, he thought darkly as he glanced at Emily and caught the tilting curve of her smile as she watched the colt playing in the distance, were exactly the sorts of women he deserved.

  Emily was a lady in every possible way. If she were a horse she would be a refined thoroughbred, sweet and spirited, while he would be nothing more than a mixed blood carthorse, brooding and temperamental. It was a breeding cross he would never dream of making had he the choice, so what made him think, even for a second, that Emily would ever consider the likes of him for a husband?

  He could right every wrong he’d ever committed and still never deserve her. She was above his reach, as untouchable as the moon and stars. And that was where she needed to stay.

  As though she could somehow sense the direction of his thoughts Emily tipped her head to the side and asked, “What would you do if you were no longer the Duke of St. Giles?”

  “Drink and womanize, Princess. What else?” His grin felt forced. If Emily noticed, it didn’t show. Hopping to her feet she brushed furiously at her skirts, slapping the fabric as though it had done something to personally offend her.

  “Berta has breakfast waiting for me at the house,” she said without looking at him. “When would you like to have the letter written by?”

  He stood as well. Picking up his waistcoat he gave it a few hard shakes before slipping the garment back on. “Today. I will have it sent to your townhouse tomorrow. Your father will be given directions on where to leave the money, and when I receive word that he has done just that you will be returned safe and sound, as promised.”

  Emily lifted her chin. “I see only one flaw in your mastermind plan, Mr. Green.”

  “Oh? And pray tell, what is that?”

  “I know who you are, I know where you live, and if you think for one minute that I am going to sit idly by while you spend my father’s money on alcohol and prostitutes you are sadly mistaken!” Emily voice steadily rose with every word and by the end she was shouting so loudly the colt squealed and spooked, zipping across the field to the safety of his dam’s side.

  West scowled. He’d hoped to avoid doing this. Hoped that when the time came Emily would return meekly home and put the entire incident behind her. He should have known better. If the word meek even existed in her vocabulary at all, it was one she never used.

  “I don’t think so, Princess,” he said, his tone ominously low. “If you breathe a word of where you’ve been to anyone you will not like the consequences.”

  “Are you threatening me?” she demanded.

  “No, not you.” Knowing what this would mean to her, knowing what it would mean for him, West hated himself. But it needed to be said, and in saying it he would be killing two birds with one stone. No, not killing. Killing was too kind of a word. Murdering. Slaying. Ripping apart. Those were much more accurate terms for what he was about to do with two simple words. “Your father.”

  Her reaction was instantaneous. Her cheeks drained of all color. She moved her lips, but no sound came out. He waited for her to cut him down. Waited for a scathing remark that would make him feel slightly better about having to be such a heartless bastard. But without a word she brushed past him and stalked away without once looking back.

  Emily was so furious she could have screamed. She would have done just that had it not been for the colt. It had taken her nearly half the morning to earn the fuzzy fellow’s trust, and she felt his eyes on her back as she marched across the field and let herself out of the gate. Seeing as he was the only male she could stand to be around, the last thing she wanted to do was make him frightened of her.

  And so she waited until she was well out of earshot of the field to vent her frustrations. Calling on every curse word she’d ever heard she raged against West until her mind was blank and her body trembling. Not wanting the household staff to see her in such a condition she found a bench around the back of the manor and threw herself down to stare broodingly out at the pond.

  A trio of white ducks preened on the grassy embankment, plucking at their feathers and warbling softly to one another. As Emily watched them the red haze that had seeped into her vision when West said your father began to fade and she took a deep, steadying breath.

  “How could he?” she whispered, drawing her knees up and hugging them tight to her chest. “How could he?”

  He’d vowed not to harm her, and yet her chest ached as though she had suffered a physical blow. Threatening her was one thing. She could handle herself. But to threaten her father… Emily squeezed her eyes shut. And to do it just when she had begun to think… No. Her eyes snapped open. It didn’t matter what she’d been thinking while they sat beside each other and his expression softened as he looked at her, almost as if…

  “Almost as if what, Emily?” she asked herself derisively. “Almost as if he cares for you? West Green cares for no one and nothing save himself.”

  The vehemence in her voice must have startled the ducks for they spread out their wings and splashed into the pond, their webbed feet pedaling furiously beneath the clear surface. Once they reached the middle they swam in a half circle and turned around to quack at her, their beady black eyes accusing.

  “Oh do not look at me like that,” Emily called out. “You may belong to him, but if you knew what he has done you would be on my side. Furthermore – heavens, I am speaking to ducks.”

  “Better than speaking to yourself, I imagine,” a stranger’s voice drawled out.

  Emily jumped and twisted around on the bench to face the man who had managed to sneak so silently up on her.

  He had the body of a boxer, muscular and compact. His hair was dark blond, his eyes a dark, piercing blue and filled with amusement. He wore green trousers, polished leather shoes, a tucked in shirt of the highest quality linen and a bright red waistcoat with gold brocade trim. Whoever he was, he certainly wasn’t from around here.

  “Who are you?” she asked, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. If someone tried to kidnap her again she really would scream.

  The man doubled over into an elaborate bow. “Eric Sullivan, my lady. Some know me as the Prince of King Street, although I confess I find the title slightly arrogant. Not to say I do not use it when the need strikes.” He grinned. “You may call me Sullivan if you like, Eric if you wish, or – my preferred form of address from all beautiful women such as yourself – lover.”

  She curled her fingers around the edge of the bench. “Are you a friend of Mr. Green’s?”

  “I am indeed. Did he tell you about me?”

  “A lucky guess.”

  Another grin, this one broader and brighter than the last. He leaned against the bench and crossed his arms over his broad chest. “I must admit I do not have to guess who you are. Word travels fast amidst thieves and gamblers, of which I am the latter, and
only occasionally the first. Lady Emily Wilmington, I presume?”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Sullivan.” Her nose wrinkled. “I think.”

  Sullivan’s hearty shout of laughter had the ducks quacking all over again. “Oh, I like you, Lady Emily. I like you quite a bit. Do you mind if I sit down?”

  “Actually, I was about to go—”

  But before she could finish her objection he’s swung himself up and over the bench. Emily managed to sweep her skirts aside just in time to keep them from getting pinched beneath his thighs. He straightened his waistcoat, crossed his legs at the knee, and swiveled to face her with a smile that was dangerously charming.

  “West told me I was not to talk to you, you know.”

  Emily’s brows darted together. “Oh he did, did he?”

  Not looking the least bit guilty for betraying his friend’s confidence, Sullivan nodded with enthusiasm. “He did indeed. I am not to talk to you, touch you, or, I presume, sleep with you. I say ‘presume’ because he didn’t give me instructions not to, but I rather believe it was implied with the no touching rule. Unless you think otherwise.”

  She bit back a smile. “Are you from St. Giles as well?” she asked, neatly sidestepping the subject at hand.

  “God, no.” Sullivan shuddered. “West can have that heathen infested place all to himself, thank you very much. I honestly have no idea what he sees in it, or the people. Filthy little buggers. Although I suppose someone has to look after them all.”

  “Look after them?”

  “Yes. You know how it is.”

  Catching a stray curl as it fanned across her cheek, Emily tucked it behind her ear and shook her head. “No, I am afraid I do not.” But she wanted to. Perhaps if she had some insight into West’s life in the rookery she could know why he did the things he did. Why he was the way he was.

  “I take it you’ve never been to St. Giles?”

  “No.”

  For a moment so quick if she’d blinked she would have missed it Sullivan’s smile dimmed. “I can say, without exaggeration, that if there is such a thing as hell on earth, it is there, in St. Giles. The streets are covered in filth. The tenements are infested with rats. The air reeks of trash and excrement. The people are unkempt and uneducated. Children run naked in the streets, not because they want to but because their mothers sold off their last pair of trousers to buy a bottle of gin. Murder is a daily occurrence, as is rape and abuse and thievery.”