If I Only Had a Duke

by Lenora Bell

  He dropped his hand from her cheek and pointed into the distance. “Cork Harbor.”

  A solitary lighthouse perched on a rock promontory cast a baleful red eye out to sea, and rising in the distance were the cliffs of Ireland, blanketed in green, misty with fog.

  His shoulders stiffened and his eyes lost their wicked glint. He stood with his legs braced against the movement of the sea and his hooded eyes searching the horizon.

  He must be thinking about the last time he saw those cliffs.

  So many years ago.

  She covered his hand with hers. “Tell me what you see, Dalton.”

  What do you see when you’re ten?

  Not darkness. Not revenge.

  Simply life. Sailors heaving ropes and hoisting sails, singing interestingly bawdy songs about mermaids.

  The rocking of the waves and a swelling of pride. I’m not seasick, Papa. Alec’s heaving in a bucket but I’m strong like you.

  Ten years old and desperate for his father’s approval.

  Mama doesn’t love me best, but who cares? I’m not a mewling mama’s boy like Alec. I’m already a man.

  Delicate touch along his knuckles.

  Soft fingers interlacing with his.

  His body tall. Substantial. Not ten years old.

  Thea’s hand clasping his on top of the ship’s railing.

  His chest tightened. He wasn’t alone. She was here with him.

  Brisk breeze ribboning marmalade curls away from her bonnet and into the sunshine.

  In the distance, jagged cliffs over the ocean.

  “What is it?” she asked softly, the concern flooding her eyes jolting him back to the present.

  “I was ten the last time I saw those cliffs,” he admitted. “Thought I’d invented the world. Thought it was mine for the taking.”

  “Maybe someday if . . . if all goes well, you might bring your mother to Ireland.” The wind whipped curls against her cheeks. “Home is a powerful cure.”

  “The physicians never offered much hope that she’d ever leave Osborne Court,” Dalton said gently. “It’s the only home she has now.”

  “She can learn to conquer her fear with your love and support.”

  Looking into her eyes, banded with pure steely determination, he could almost believe she was right. He wanted to believe O’Roarke was the shadow he’d hunted for so long, and confronting him would end this obsession for revenge.

  “I want you to be right, Thea. Truly I do.” He tightened his grip on her hand. “But I don’t know what will happen tomorrow.”

  “Forget tomorrow, then.” A smile tilted up her lips. “We have this moment. And it’s more than enough.”

  The desire to kiss her was so strong he nearly cast caution to the breeze. He needed to untie that bonnet and chuck it over the railing as well. It hid her too much.

  He needed her free and unobstructed by wire and straw.

  Lower the sails. Calm the wind.

  Stay rocking here on the ocean long enough to make love with Thea one more time.

  A few more hours of sweet, explosive pleasure and whispered secrets.

  “Thea.” The word wrenched from his lips like a prayer.

  “I’m here, Dalton.” Unwavering gaze. Bold invitation in her eyes.

  “Hate to interrupt, but we’re nearly there.” Con’s gruff voice shattered the moment.

  So they were.

  They’d sailed through the deepwater harbor proper, passing the large ocean-going vessels that anchored there while ships with shallower drafts like the Truth and Daylight continued up the river Lee toward Cork.

  The Great Island loomed large to the starboard, the town of Cobh sprinkled with pinpricks of lamplight. The fog was beginning to stack and thicken as the wind weakened. Rows of cannons could barely be seen across the harbor, slumbering sentinels keeping silent watch from the fortifications on Haulbowline Island.

  “We can’t be seen together. Not after yesterday. Trent’s spread the word. Maybe even to Ireland,” Con said.

  “Of course.” Dalton drew away from Thea. “I wasn’t thinking.” And that’s why he couldn’t succumb to these longings. Because he had to protect her from the men who sought to expose his secret. And the dangerous man he sought.

  “I’ll stay below with Thea while we dock,” he told Con. “You leave first with Molly.”

  “I’ll send word when all’s clear,” Con said tersely. “There’ll be a carriage waiting to take you and Thea.”

  Dalton nodded. He owed Thea safe passage to the door of her aunt’s house, at least.

  “I’ll join you later in town,” Con said.

  Dalton laid a hand on his arm. “No. Stay with Molly and Bronagh. I can find O’Roarke alone.”

  Con searched his face for a few tense moments. “All right, then. But if you need me you know where to find me.” Con struck Dalton lightly on the shoulder. “Be careful, you ungrateful gobshite.”

  “And you, you grizzled bastard. Try not to muck things up too badly with brown-eyed Bronagh.”

  Chapter 22

  “The carriage will be waiting farther down the quay,” Dalton told Thea as they descended the gangplank, she shrouded in her voluminous gray cloak, and he in the sober black coat, a blue kerchief around his neck, and his scuffed old boots.

  He never had polished them.

  She’d seen through his act so easily. The face he showed the world, the blasé charm and careless laughter.

  He’d lowered his guard with her and she knew him better than anyone in the world now. And the wonder of it was that she still clasped his hand as they walked along the wooden pier of the Cork harbor.

  “Your aunt’s cottage is near Balfry House?” he asked her.

  “Very near. Along the coast road.”

  “I’ve heard about this marmalade your aunt makes.” Dalton wanted to bring back her smile. “Do you think she’d be willing to part with a jar for a hungry traveler?”

  “She never lets anyone leave Ballybrack without a jar. Dear Aunt Emma. I’ve missed her. I’d like you to meet her.”

  “I’d like that,” he admitted.

  He couldn’t force himself to push her away anymore. He was tired of it. He wanted to be with her. And every second he spent with her was going to be as good and perfect as he could make it.

  “Perhaps before we go to Ballybrack we could . . . visit Balfry House first?” she asked. The words slipped out in a nonchalant tone, but he knew what they meant to her.

  He squeezed her hand lightly. He wasn’t afraid of crushing her delicate bones anymore. He knew she was made of fire and steel.

  He didn’t have to search for O’Roarke until tomorrow.

  One more day with Thea. Unmasked and free from the weight of secrets and lies.

  Visiting Balfry would force him to face those awful memories, but she’d be there by his side, holding his hand as she did now.

  “Why not?” he said with a smile. “You can show me the Sleeping Venus. Point out all her hidden symbolism.”

  Her answering smile lit the misty spring afternoon like a glimpse of July sunshine. “I’d love to show you! The afternoon is the perfect time of day for illuminating the play of light and shadow along her limbs. Artemisia was very skilled at the technique of chiaroscuro.”

  Chiaroscuro. The contrasting of light and dark.

  Passionate, full-of-light Thea by his side. And dark, secret twisting of vengeance in his gut.

  Dalton knew exactly what would happen when she showed him that painting. She’d hook her hand through the tassel on the drapes and slide the curtains open, and something would open inside Dalton as well.

  Something would shift inside his chest as sunlight pierced the gloom and settled directly upon a rich, beautiful painting, not half as beautiful as the woman by his side.

  And maybe he was ready for that now.

  “Goddesses,” Dalton said with a knowing glance. “I like goddesses. Especially when they’re in my bed.”

  �
�I thought you said no more beds.” Her lids lowered seductively over blue eyes misted with gray.

  “And I think you want more scandalizing.”

  Hang it all, he needed to kiss her when she smiled at him in that fully wicked way. He caught her waist in his hands and pulled her against his chest.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed. “We’re on a public pier, darling.”

  “Darling?”

  Her cheeks flushed. “Er . . . that is—”

  “No, don’t retract it. I like darling far better than arrogant arse . . . and I don’t care who sees me kiss you. We’ll scandalize every quay worker from here to Dublin.” He’d kiss her and claim his patch of sunshine in this gray, uncertain world, if she’d have a sinner like him.

  He cupped her cheeks in his hands and brought her lips to his mouth.

  She tasted of the butter and marmalade she’d slathered on the hard, stale bread this morning to make it more palatable. He kissed her hungrily, reveling in the silken smoothness of her plump lower lip, worrying it between his teeth before plunging inside her mouth with his tongue.

  She rose on tiptoes and knotted her arms around his neck, demanding more.

  He forgot where they were, forgot everything except the crashing wave of need. He ripped the bow of her bonnet ribbons apart and flung the ragged, obstructionist bit of straw and silk away.

  She gasped as a cart promptly squashed her millinery beneath its wheels.

  “Never mind,” he growled. “I’ll buy you another. I’ll buy you a new gown, too. And silk garters. Blue ones.” That was a lot of shopping. He’d never taken a woman shopping before. But who cared? He’d never felt this way about a woman before.

  “Garters,” she said breathily, flashing him a smile. “I like silk garters.”

  He claimed her soft lips again, picturing her in blue silk garters, white stockings, and a smile.

  He’d pose her on the ducal bed at Balfry House in exactly the same position as the Venus. And then he’d pleasure her so thoroughly the walls of that crumbling ancient house would shake and moan and all the bad memories would flee.

  She broke free for a moment. “Dalton,” she breathed.

  “Mmm.” He kissed her soft neck. The stubborn point of her chin. The tip of her slightly upturned nose.

  He’d known her such a short time. How had she woven herself so completely into his thoughts . . . and his life? It was difficult to imagine being alone again.

  He wanted to believe that he could change with her. Become the man she thought he was.

  Noble and good.

  A thought struck him then. A memory. His hand clasping a pen and scratching words across a page. He lifted his head.

  He’d written the letter to her mother. Her parents could be on their way from London right now, hoping to salvage their daughter’s reputation.

  The reputation he’d thoroughly ruined. Christ. What had he done? He had to warn her.

  “Thea, I—”

  “Didn’t you say O’Roarke’s ship is called the Rambler?” she interrupted, staring beyond his shoulder. “You’d better turn around.”

  Something in her voice made him glance up sharply and twist to look behind him.

  His heart stopped beating.

  Right there beside them.

  A well-appointed brig with dark wood gleaming in the morning sun and the name Rambler in gold lettering on the side, plain as day.

  How had he missed it? How had Con missed it?

  Numb with shock, Dalton’s mind registered that the ship was preparing to leave. The sails billowed.

  “Well?” Thea pushed curls out of her eyes and cast him a challenging look. “What are you waiting for? Let’s go find him!”

  She gave him a shove on the chest and ran past him.

  Stunned, Dalton’s blood froze.

  Thea. Running toward God knew what danger. He chased after her but she was already running up the gangplank, lifting her skirts to run faster, her hair streaming behind her as she ran.

  Everything a blur now.

  He vaulted up the gangplank, catching hold of Thea’s arm.

  A man in a blue officer’s coat with shiny brass buttons sped toward them. “Here now, what’re you doing? This ship’s about to sail. No visitors.”

  And then Dalton saw the man standing at the prow of the ship with an expensive spyglass held in his hand, sighting the horizon. He was garbed unmistakably as a gentleman among the sailors and officers.

  O’Roarke.

  Dalton grabbed hold of the officer’s sleeve. “Is that the owner of this vessel? Mr. O’Roarke?”

  The officer’s eyes narrowed. “Who wants to know?”

  That was all the answer Dalton needed.

  “Keep this woman safe,” he said urgently, thrusting Thea gently into the officer’s arms.

  Struggling to ignore her indignant cries of protest, he sprang across the deck. Force of habit jerked the kerchief over his lips, whipped the ivory-handled knife from the special sheath inside the top edge of his boot.

  “O’Roarke,” he bellowed. “Turn around.”

  He didn’t turn, but Dalton could tell by the guilty hunch of the man’s shoulders, the tensing of his knees, that O’Roarke wanted to spring over the railing and plunge into the ocean to make his escape.

  This was the man he’d been hunting.

  Sailors climbing down from the riggings now, hurtling toward Dalton. Any second he’d be mobbed by men, unable to move.

  But he couldn’t knife a man in the back.

  “O’Roarke,” he bellowed.

  The man straightened his knees and turned.

  Slash of dark auburn hair under the top hat, and slitted green eyes.

  Young. So young. Too young. Mid-twenties at most.

  A weight crushing his chest, not enough air to breathe. Knife still gripped in hand.

  Thea by his side, somehow, eyes stormy and intense.

  The world stopped tilting and slid back into place.

  Two huge sailors and the officer nearly upon them. Dalton thrust Thea behind him, keeping his hands on her arms so she wouldn’t spring forward as she had with Albertson in the alley.

  He braced for the impact.

  “Stand down,” the man with the green eyes shouted, and the sailors skidded to a halt.

  Thea’s fingers scrabbled at Dalton’s hands where he still held her imprisoned behind his back. He loosened his grip and she shifted to his side.

  Dalton’s hand flew to the piece of calcified rock hanging against his chest. His fingers closed around the familiar jagged edges.

  Ghost footsteps echoed behind him.

  Wait for me, Dalton. I want to come, too.

  Go back to the house, Alec.

  Memory jarring with reality. Stomach-churning leap of hope.

  Dalton pulled the kerchief off his mouth, needing to shatter the silence. “But you’re dead.”

  Leaf green eyes hardened to flint. “Not dead, as you can see.”

  Not dead. Not dead.

  Dalton’s mind spun.

  If not dead . . . then . . . “You’re my brother, Alec.”

  Chapter 23

  “What were you going to do?” Alec asked tersely, anger mottling his face with red. “Knife a feeble, elderly man in the back like a damned coward?”

  It was Alec. Something in Dalton knew without the shadow of a doubt.

  Alec was American?

  A jag of hysterical laughter caught in Dalton’s chest. It was laugh or weep.

  “Father was right,” Alec spat. “You’re an animal.”

  “I thought you were . . .” Dalton couldn’t finish the sentence. His mind had reached some insurmountable wall.

  He wanted to reach out, touch this phantom brother, take his hand. And all he saw in Alec’s eyes was disgust.

  “Leave us,” Alec said, waving the sailors and the officer away.

  “Sir, I think I should stay,” the officer said. “For protection—”

  “No.” Alec sh
ook his head. “Go.”

  The men walked away, leaving them alone in the prow of the ship.

  Thea drew closer to Dalton’s side until her shoulders collided with his arms. “You’re Dalton’s brother?” she asked, her brow furrowing.

  “Who’s this, then? Your doxy?” Alec asked with arched eyebrows, surveying Thea’s windswept curls and travel-worn cloak.

  Dalton took a menacing step forward. “You’ll speak to her with proper respect. She’s a lady.”

  “Doesn’t look it.” Alec snorted. “Decadent aristocracy, living for pleasure, squandering your wealth on gambling and fancy ladies while your tenants starve. You sicken me.”

  The loathing in Alec’s voice was palpable. He may as well have spat on the deck.

  “You’re one of the aristocracy, Alec, I hate to tell you,” Dalton said.

  “Don’t call me Alec. My name’s Patrick. Patrick O’Roarke. I was raised in the proud city of New York and I’m an American.”

  “We thought you were dead,” Dalton said. “Murdered. Your clothes washed up on the shores of Balfry. The note the killer left . . .”

  “He’s not a killer,” Alec said coldly. “He’s my father.”

  “But he stole you.”

  “For good reason.”

  “Didn’t you have memories of that day? You followed me outside onto the cliffs. I let go of your hand . . .” The memory was so strong for him.

  “I had hazy memories but they faded. They were replaced with my new life. I’ll never be like you. Never accept wealth I didn’t earn. Riches steeped in the blood of others.” His green eyes narrowed to slits. “Oh yes, I know all about our sire, the old duke.”

  Dalton’s breath rattled in his chest.

  What lies had O’Roarke fed to Alec? What truths?

  Thea placed a hand on his arm. “Why don’t we begin again? Where’s your father, Mr. O’Roarke? Still in New York?”

  “Gone and buried.” Pain flickered through Alec’s eyes. “Six months ago. On his deathbed he begged me to come back here, to the old country, to settle his remaining affairs. I found a letter. A confession.”

  Dalton tensed. “He confessed to stealing you.”

  “He confessed to rescuing me from our criminal of a father, the Duke of Osborne. That’s you now, isn’t it? The heartless duke. Corrupt as the bilgewater on a ship.”