The Duke of St. Giles

by Jillian Eaton

  “I have been listening,” she said defensively. “It’s just… It is a lot to take in.”

  “Then you know how I felt when you told me your feelings that afternoon in the horse field.”

  “Dizzy and overwhelmed and rather faint?” she guessed.

  “Aye.” He rubbed his chin. “Something like that. You asked if I’d come to take you again for ransom and I am here to say I will never again take you against your will. If you go with me this time, it is your choice and yours alone. I will not make it for you.”

  Emotion began to build inside Emily like a bottle of champagne tipped upside down. West had come back for her. He wanted her. It was almost too unbelievable to be real. “Go… go with you where?”

  “Anywhere you wish. Anywhere away from here.” He lifted his arm as though to touch her, only to drop it with a muttered curse and a sideways glance towards Petunia who was making no effort to disguise the fact that she was doing her very best to eavesdrop on every single word. “Is there somewhere you can meet me? Somewhere you can go alone and we can talk in private?”

  Emily opened her mouth to tell him he could call on her at home, only to snap her teeth together with a rueful shake of her head. Even if West hadn’t been the man responsible for her kidnapping, her father would never allow it. In the duke’s eyes West would be nothing more than a common criminal; not fit to cross the street in front of his daughter let alone sit beside her and sip tea in the parlor. The life she and West had shared at Rosemore was gone, replaced with a world where social standing was king and proper etiquette its queen.

  “Lady Emily…” Petunia’s voice rang out, the note of warning in her tone unmistakable. Glancing quickly over her shoulder, Emily gave her companion a reassuring smile.

  “Only a moment more!”

  “One minute and not a second longer,” came Petunia’s stern reply.

  Nodding to show she understood, Emily turned hurriedly back to West. “There is a small communal garden at the far corner of Grosvenor Square.” She kept her voice deliberately low, making it impossible for Petunia to overhear. “I could meet you there tomorrow evening at the stroke of midnight.”

  Something glowed in West’s eyes – anticipation? – before he inclined his chin and said, “I will be there. Oh, and Princess,” he continued when Emily would have hastened back to Petunia, “make sure you come alone and do not tell anyone.”

  Emily paused with her skirts lifted to her ankles to give him a querying glance. “That sounds rather ominous.”

  “Do you remember Lord Collinsworth?”

  “Of course.”

  “He has made my return to London very… difficult.” West’s countenance darkened into a scowl. “There isn’t a Bow Street Runner alive who would come after me in St. Giles, but if they knew I’d ventured as far out as Grosvenor Square…”

  “You do not have to say anything else,” Emily said hastily, ignoring the peculiar tightening at the back of her throat. To be quite honest she’d all but forgotten Lord Collinsworth and his determination to hang the murder of his wife around West’s neck. It had all seemed so absurd to her at the time – rather like something out of a melodramatic dime novel – that she hadn’t given it another moment’s worry.

  But West certainly seemed, if not worried, than at least concerned, and a small part of her she wasn’t at all sure she liked very much could not help but wonder why, if he were as innocent as he claimed, he would return to London in hiding. “I will not breathe a word to anyone. You have my promise.”

  The trace of a smile lifted one side of his mouth and he raised his arm to brush the back of his knuckles gently across her cheek. “I was afraid you would never want to speak to me again. I thought you would be furious with me for the things I said and the way I acted.”

  “I was,” Emily admitted even as she sighed and leaned into his hand. “Although now I know firsthand how my confession must have caught you a bit off guard.”

  “A bit,” West said wryly.

  “And now you have had… what, exactly?” Her brow creased as she struggled to recall if West had given her an explanation for why his feelings had shifted so dramatically in the time they’d been apart. “A change of heart?”

  “No.” He tucked a stray curl behind her ear, the pad of his thumb lingering on the sensitive curve of her lobe. “Not a change, a—”

  “LADY EMILY!”

  Emily cringed as Petunia’s voice rang out yet again, this time loud enough to send a few mourning doves up in flight. “I am sorry, but I have to go.” On impulse she threw her arms around West’s broad shoulders and, ignoring Petunia’s shocked gasp of outrage at the sheer impropriety of it all, kissed his cheek. “I will see you tomorrow night,” she whispered before she picked up her skirts and hastened back down the path.

  When she was once again at Petunia’s side, Emily found herself being met with tight-lipped disapproval.

  “Are you quite finished?” her companion asked, gray eyes flashing.

  “Yes.” Emily disguised her joyful smile with a delicate cough and slipped her hand through the crook of Petunia’s elbow. “We can return home now.”

  “We most certainly can and on the way you will tell me precisely who that man was. And no dancing around it,” she warned with a wag of her finger. “I want the truth, dear, and nothing less.”

  The truth. Emily bit back a sigh as they started to walk, retracing their steps from earlier in the morning. With a well-practiced flick of her wrist Petunia snapped open her parasol, shading them both from the sun.

  “The truth is I fear I have fallen in love with him.”

  The parasol wavered. “Love? You have fallen in love with the man who kidnapped you?” Petunia squeaked, sounding aghast at the very idea.

  To hear it from another person’s lips it sounded absurd, but then Emily supposed most love stories were a bit fanciful. Love was not meant to be predictable or practical. It was not something tangible you could put in a box or set on a shelf. It could not be defined or explained. It could only be felt. With the mind. With the heart. With the body and the soul.

  What she felt for West… What she felt for West could not be easily explained. Not to Petunia. Not to her father. Not even to herself.

  They’d reached the edge of the street and she waited until they were safely across to the other side before she said, “Right or wrong, I have never felt more alive than when I am with him. I do not know how else to say it.”

  In tandem they stepped neatly to the side to avoid being run over by a hand-pushed cart piled high with burlap sacks. The anxious looking driver tipped his hat as he rushed past, and Petunia gave a short nod in return. “I admire your honesty, dear. And I suppose I must note this is the first time you have smiled since you returned home.”

  “Only because I have been—”

  “Tired. Yes, so you keep saying.” Turning right, they left the busy sidewalk behind them in favor of a quiet, tree lined lane with a pond on either side. White ducks swam languidly through the sun kissed water, reminding Emily of her feathered friends at West’s estate, although these seemed quite less opinionated. “You know your father will not understand,” Petunia continued, except this time instead of censure her voice held a twinge of sympathy.

  “I know.” Reaching out, Emily twisted off a budding rose from a rosebush and twisted it idly between her thumb and forefinger. More than not understanding, she knew he would never accept West. Not as a man, and certainly not as a man eligible to marry his daughter.

  Even if her father never learned of West’s involvement in her kidnapping he would still recognize his name for everyone who was anyone had, at one point or another, heard of the Duke of St. Giles. While Emily was willing to forgive and forget West’s criminal history, she feared her father would not be so easily swayed. And if they were to ever marry she would need – and want – not only his permission, but his blessing as well.

  Her lips pinched as she imagined bringing West home and expl
aining who he was. Yes, Father, this is Mr. Westley Green. You may know him better as the Duke of St. Giles. Yes, I am sure you have heard of him before. Has he committed any crimes recently? Well, except for kidnapping and being brought up on charges of murder…

  Her father would never approve. He may have been remarkably open-minded for a duke, but even he would not allow his beloved daughter to marry one of London’s most notorious rakes.

  Not to mention the fact that West had never said anything about marriage. Or love. Or commitment. Or any of the other half dozen words a woman wanted to hear after she pledged her heart. Yes, he had come after her. But he’d never said why.

  What if he still did not feel the same way she did? What if he wanted her for a night instead of a lifetime? A few weeks instead of forever? Did he see her as a mistress or a wife? Did he even want a wife? If so, he’d never mentioned it before. A tightness took hold of Emily’s chest, squeezing her from the inside out. She pulled at the collar of her dress, desperate to draw a deep breath and settle her mind but the questions kept coming one after another with no way to shut them out.

  Even if West did desire a wife, and he wanted that wife to be her, did she truly want a husband who lived his life outside the law? Did she want her children to grow up doubting their father? Could she ever marry a man her father did not approve of?

  As doubt and uncertainty began to once more slither through the cracks in her resolve Emily unconsciously dropped the rose. It tumbled down the length of her skirt and caught in the hem, clinging to the rich fabric before it fell to the ground and was crushed beneath the heel of her boot.

  Neither West or Emily or even Petunia noticed the bushes to the far left of the path tremble as they parted ways, nor did they see the small child dressed all in brown sneak from the thick foliage and go racing across the park towards a waiting carriage.

  They didn’t see a the man tilt his head out the window to listen to what the boy had to say, nor did they see him drop a handful of coins into the lad’s tiny fist and shoo him on his way with a disdainful smack to the back of his head.

  They didn’t see the man’s wicked smile and, with too far of a distance between them, were unable to hear his maniacal laughter as it rang through the park.

  CHAPTER NINTEEN

  The Village Square

  Blooming Glen

  The market was a crowded, bustling place. Mattie moved through the chaos with ease, keeping her basket of eggs out of harm's way as she carefully weaved her way around red-faced merchants, shrieking children, and women toting fans bigger than their heads.

  Every Sunday after church services Blooming Glen’s tiny village square filled to the brim with farmers and gentlemen alike, the latter easily identifiable by the cravats and fancy top hats they insisted on wearing even when the sun set the temperature to blistering.

  “Ye look like a fool in that thing,” Mattie said, glancing sideways at the man who strolled beside her, dressed to the nines in a shiny green waistcoat, red – red! – pantaloons that were tucked inside knee high black riding boots, and a towering top hat with a feather pinned to one side.

  Nonplussed by all the attention he was receiving, Sullivan merely shrugged and flashed her a grin. “Jealous, darling? I would be too if I had to wear such drab attire out in public.” Reaching out, he touched the collar of her plain brown dress. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but it looks like you’re wearing a potato sack.”

  She slapped his hand away. “I am not jealous.” Even though she was, just a little bit. But she’d tucked away her yearnings for the finer things in life a long time ago, and she refused to let them surface now. “And besides,” she continued with a sniff, “this dress is perfectly suitable! In case ye have forgotten ye are in the country now. Clothes like that make ye stick out like one of those pink birds they have at the zoo.” Her lips pinched together as she struggled to recall the name of the birds in question. “Ye know. The ones that stand all funny like.”

  Sullivan raised an eyebrow. “I believe you are referring to flamingos.”

  Of course he would know what they were called. The bloody man seemed to know about everything and he was always inserting his opinion whether it was asked for or not.

  When she first learned he would be staying on at Rosemore for an undetermined length of time she’d been convinced they would kill each other sooner rather than later. For reasons she couldn’t fully explain or understand Sullivan managed to get under her skin like no one else, and it seemed the feeling was mutual. They could not seem to have a simple conversation without arguing, and their arguments were always over the most trivial of things. Why, only yesterday he’d been complaining about the way she talked! He’d likened her voice to a cat screeching, while she in turn had compared him to a preening dandy.

  He hadn’t liked that, she recalled with a tiny slip of a smile. They’d gotten right in each other’s faces, both of them causing such a ruckus Bea had come running down from the upstairs hallway where she’d been dusting. Before she came bursting into the parlor, however, Sullivan had taken Mattie’s arm and for a moment… for a moment she’d thought she saw something other than annoyance flash in those gorgeous blue eyes of his.

  Her active imagination at work again, she thought now as she peeked at him out of the corner of her eye only to catch him staring at a group of women fanning themselves beside a flower vendor.

  Those were the type of ladies a man like Eric Sullivan found attractive, she reminded herself sharply as she hastened her step. Soft, lovely, elegant women who wore beautiful dresses and didn’t speak as though they’d just climbed out of the gutter. Not dowdy, red-haired maids who were foolish enough to wear their best dress in the vain hope of earning a compliment or two.

  A dress Sullivan had compared to a potato sack.

  “I will have ye know,” she began as her temper flared, “jest because I’m not some high and mighty lady doesn’t mean ye can – Sullivan?” Stopping abruptly as she realized the gambler was no longer walking beside her, Mattie whirled in a half circle, scanning the crowd. When she spied him cutting a path towards the flower cart she cursed vigorously under her breath, earning the disapproving glare of a well-dressed couple as they walked by arm in arm. “Trust me, if ye had to deal with what I have to deal with ye would be spitting out some choice words as well,” she said shortly. “Now bugger off!”

  “Why I never!” the woman gasped before she tightened her grip on her husband’s arm and hauled briskly away.

  “I bet you’ve never,” Mattie muttered. “Bleedin’ nabobs.” Tightening her grip on the basket of eggs she stood on her toes and squinted at the flower cart. The women were still there, but Sullivan had stopped halfway, seemingly frozen in place while people moved around him in all directions. She would have left him there – gladly, too – but as he was the one who’d driven the carriage that had brought them into the village she couldn’t exactly leave without him. At least not without enduring a long walk home.

  Huffing out a sigh, she fought her way back through the crowd. “What the devil are you doing?” she demanded once she’d reached Sullivan. Pink in the cheeks and rather out of breath, she used her forearm to wipe off the rivulets of perspiration that were making their way down the sides of her face.

  “I’ve seen that woman before,” Sullivan said with a frown. Lifting his arm, he pointed at the lady in the middle of the group. She looked to be in her late twenties without a single defining characteristic. Brown hair, brown eyes. Medium height, medium weight. A rather bulbous nose, Mattie noted. But other than that she could have been one of a hundred different women who looked exactly the same. “But I can’t place her.”

  Mattie shook her head in mock sympathy. “It must be difficult to remember the names of the all the women you’ve slept with. Please, don’t strain yourself.”

  Ignoring her, Sullivan started walking again. “I need to get closer.”

  Not wanting to lose him in the crowd, Mattie latched her f
ree arm in the crook of his elbow and held on for dear life. The group of women looked up as they approached, glanced dismissively at Mattie, and as one unit pinned their eyes hungrily to Sullivan’s well-muscled physique.

  “Ladies,” he said, managing to both bow and shake Mattie loose at the same time. “How are we this lovely afternoon?”

  “Very well,” they all tittered in unison except, Mattie noted with narrowed eyes, the woman in the middle who had caught Sullivan’s attention. She stood motionless amidst her friends, her arms hanging like dead weights at her side and her mouth doing a peculiar open and closing motion, as though she were some sort of fish.

  “I do not believe I have had the pleasure of meeting any of your acquaintances. A grave error on my part, let me assure you.”

  Mattie coughed into her hand. “Bounder.”

  “I am Eric Sullivan,” he continued, pretending not to hear her. “Although you may know me better as the—”

  “Prince of King Street!” a woman on the left with blonde curls and an unfortunately high-pitched voice squealed, clapping her hands together. “Theresa, did you hear him? He’s the Prince. The one everyone is always talking about!”

  “He certainly does get around,” Mattie said with a grin. Not surprisingly, no one paid her any mind.

  “Might I be fortunate enough to learn your name?” Sullivan asked smoothly.

  The woman who had squealed introduced herself first. “Lady Bettina. Oh, it is so exciting to finally meet you. And here, of all places! Theresa, can you believe it?”

  “It’s like a dream come true,” the woman to Bettina’s left purred. “I am Lady Theresa. It is so very nice to meet you.”

  Mattie struggled not to vomit.

  “And you?” Despite the smile on his face, Sullivan’s gaze was suddenly razor sharp as he stared at the woman with the brown hair. “What is your name?”