The Duke’s Desire

by Margaret Moore

  “That’s quite all right,” he assured her, giving her a smile. Galen Bromney’s smiles were not particularly rare; however, a sincere smile on his face was. “I’m glad to know I was not under attack.”

  The girl’s eyes widened as she clutched her ball close. “Have you ever been under attack?”

  “Once or twice,” Galen replied ruefully.

  The girl’s mouth formed an awestruck circle.

  “At the risk to my reputation, and to be completely honest,” Galen confessed, “the weapon was words, not a sword.”

  The child’s face fell and quite suddenly Galen felt the most outrageous sense of loss. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am the Duke of Deighton,” he said formally, making his very best bow.

  He was absurdly pleased to see the awe return to her blue eyes as she made a graceful little curtsy. “I am Miss Jocelyn Davis-Jones,” she replied gravely.

  “How do you do, Miss Davis-Jones?”

  “Very well, thank you, Your Grace.”

  He was impressed that she knew the proper form of address. “Are you all by yourself?” he asked, looking around for other children.

  “Yes,” she said in a tone that was both hurt and defiant.

  She must have seen the puzzlement in his face. “They didn’t want to come outside, so I came by myself. I don’t mind being alone.”

  “Admirable independence, Miss Davis-Jones.”

  “I would rather be at home. I don’t like it here.”

  “I am sorry to hear that.”

  The child flushed. “Lady Bodenham is very nice, and her house is wonderful, and her cook makes lovely puddings, but I miss my own house.”

  “I do, too,” Galen confessed. “My house is in Italy.”

  Her brows furrowed. “Are you Italian?”

  He shook his head. “No, but I have lived in Italy for the past ten years, and I think of it as my home.”

  Indeed, his villa was more of a home than his family’s seat had ever been, even if it could be just as lonely.

  “Oh. I suppose I had better go in for tea now.”

  “I don’t think it’s quite time yet,” Galen said. He nodded at the ball in her hands. “I haven’t played football for a very long time. Would you like to play a game?”

  Jocelyn Davis-Jones tilted her head and scrutinized him skeptically. As she did, he realized he wanted this child to like him, although he couldn’t say why.

  “You might get your clothes messy.”

  Galen suspected this warning had been given to her many times. “I am willing to accept the consequences,” he declared bravely.

  He was rewarded with a smile before the girl put the ball on the ground. While Galen wondered if her bountiful curls were natural, she suddenly—and without a word of warning—kicked the ball directly at him.

  With a dexterous leap, he eluded it, then scrambled to catch the ball with his foot. He kicked it back toward Jocelyn while he crouched down in anticipation of the next kick, regardless of the crease of his trousers or what his valet might say.

  The little girl was fast, and soon had the ball between her feet. In another instant, it came flying along the ground toward Galen, who threw out his leg in a wild and foolish attempt to stop it.

  With a roar of dismay and not a little pain, he fell to the ground.

  “Are you hurt?” Jocelyn cried worriedly.

  “No,” Galen muttered as he grabbed the ball and got back on his feet as fast as his thirty-year-old legs and one slightly pulled muscle would let him.

  He held the ball out, dropped it and caught it midair with a kick. With a bleat like a lamb, she was after it and Galen took a moment to brush bits of greenery from his trousers.

  At the sound of a foot colliding with the ball, he looked up, then dashed across the open space to intercept. He gave a cry of triumph as he returned the ball without having to bring the rolling object to a complete stop.

  The child ran the other way to catch it, but before she could, it disappeared under a particularly bushy shrub. Bending over, she peered under it. “I can’t see where it went!”

  Galen hurried to help her look for it.

  They were both bent over and scanning the thick trunks and branches of the smoothly pruned bushes when they heard a woman calling Jocelyn’s name.

  His companion straightened. “That’s my mama. It must be time for tea.” She glanced worriedly at the bushes that had apparently swallowed up her toy. “She’ll be upset if I’ve lost my ball.”

  “Then I shall stay and look for it,” Galen offered. “I’m sure it can’t be far—although I did give it a prodigious kick.”

  “It was a crocked kick, or I would have caught it,” Jocelyn declared.

  “It went exactly where I meant it to go. Or rather, in the right direction,” Galen replied defensively.

  Jocelyn’s expression betrayed her dubiousness. “You wanted it to disappear in the bushes?”

  “No, of course not. I was aiming for you.”

  “But I was way over there!”

  “Well…” Galen had to laugh. “Very well, my aim was off—but you were moving in this direction, weren’t you?”

  “Jocelyn?”

  Galen and his little friend both turned to find a young woman looking at them quizzically.

  Verity Escombe.

  At the sight of her instantly recognized face, a host of emotions shot through Galen—of joy, dismay, anger and excitement.

  He took a step forward, then caught himself.

  He had never wanted to see her again. During these past ten years, he had hoped he would never see her again. Good God, why did he have to see her again?

  It had been ten years, yet Verity Escombe was much the same, with those questioning blue eyes that her daughter had inherited and her lips parted as if about to ask a question, or in anticipation of his kiss.

  He noted her gown of plain black, with a high waist in the fashion of the day. A thin black lace shawl covered her slender shoulders. Her light brown hair was simply and plainly dressed, and she wore no gloves.

  He looked at her left hand and saw the wedding ring.

  “Mama, this is the Duke of Deighton,” Jocelyn announced, hurrying forward and taking her mother by the hand to lead her toward him. “We’ve been playing.”

  He glanced at the child. No matter how he felt about Verity, he wouldn’t hurt her little girl by being rude, so he bowed elegantly and spoke as if he had never met Verity Escombe before.

  As if, ten years ago, she had not seduced and abandoned him.

  Chapter Two

  C ompletely shocked, her heart pounding, an excitement she couldn’t subdue battling with dread, Verity’s mind raced back to the last time she had seen the Duke of Deighton.

  Naked, he had sat up in his bed and begged her to tell him what was the matter. Sobbing with remorse for her selfish, lascivious act, she had not answered. She had run away as fast as her trembling legs and bare feet could take her.

  Afterward, desperately hoping she would never see Galen Bromney again, she had hurriedly departed the house where they had both been guests, giving Lord Langley the excuse that she was needed at home.

  Now here he was, looking as handsome and elegant as when she had first set eyes on him ten years ago. His eyes shone with that same mixture of apparent interest and self-confidence, and his smile still seemed to offer a great compliment.

  And even after all this time, he continued to wear his dark, waving hair rather unfashionably long.

  Before she had met him, she had heard speculation that the notorious Duke of Deighton thought himself some kind of Samson to have such hair, although few men could boast shoulder-length curling locks and yet look so undeniably masculine. Indeed, his hair gave him a hint of the savage, implying that he was capable of primitive passion.

  So she had felt the first time she had laid eyes on him, and so, she realized as heat blossomed within her, did she still.

  As for the duke’s sexual prowess, she kn
ew for a fact it was not exaggerated.

  She looked at her daughter, who was ignorant of any relationship between her mother and this man.

  Jocelyn must remain ignorant, and so must everyone else, unless their lives were to be fodder for gossip and scandal, and her daughter face a future of undeserved notoriety.

  “I am delighted to meet you,” the duke said in that smooth, deep and seductive voice no other man possessed.

  “You must be Mrs. Davis-Jones, if this is your daughter,” he remarked with another little bow.

  “Yes, I am, Your Grace. Come, Jocelyn, we must excuse ourselves and go in for tea,” Verity said, without meeting his gaze.

  “Are you coming in for tea, too?” Jocelyn asked him.

  “No.”

  Verity began to breathe again.

  “I intend to take another turn about the garden before I enter the lion’s den,” he added.

  “There are lions here?” Jocelyn demanded excitedly, obviously expecting to find a menagerie somewhere on the grounds of Eloise’s estate.

  The duke chuckled softly, and Verity noticed the wrinkles around his eyes. “A figure of speech only, I’m afraid.”

  Verity took a firm grip on her daughter’s hand. “Come along, Jocelyn. We mustn’t be late for tea.”

  She felt Jocelyn’s reluctance, yet she ignored it. “We mustn’t keep the others waiting, and I’m sure the duke has…wishes…”

  He smiled as her words trailed off. “She has been very pleasant company.”

  “There’s my ball!” Jocelyn suddenly cried, pulling away from Verity to retrieve her toy from beneath a bush a few feet away.

  Leaving Verity almost alone with the Duke of Deighton—a smiling, seductive, still oh, so desirable Duke of Deighton.

  She rushed after her daughter and again took her by the hand.

  “Goodbye, Your Grace,” she said as she led Jocelyn away with all the dignity she could muster, which was quite considerable.

  “That is more than you said the last time, my sweet,” the Duke of Deighton murmured as he watched them disappear from sight.

  “I don’t understand it. We just arrived,” Nancy Knickernell muttered emphatically as she obeyed her mistress’s request to pack their bags.

  Seated at the lovely mahogany vanity table where she was putting the finishing touches to her hair before going below to join Eloise, Lord Bodenham and the other guests before dinner, Verity could see Nancy—and her frustrated expression—in the vanity mirror.

  Nancy’s tone, however, was always emphatic and her expression often seemingly annoyed, so much so that when Verity had first come to live with Daniel Davis-Jones, she had feared Nancy didn’t like her. It was only after several days that she realized a sort of disgusted, emphatic tone was Nancy’s typical one.

  “It is lovely here, and it was kind of Lady Bodenham to invite us, but I think we have stayed long enough,” Verity replied. “Jocelyn is anxious to get home, and so am I. Besides, Lady Bodenham has more guests arriving every day now, and I would rather be at home than in a great deal of company. I was not as ready to be among strangers as I thought.”

  The much-freckled, red-haired Nancy straightened and hurried to take the young widow’s hand. She patted it sympathetically. “Don’t pay no mind to me. I spoke without thinking.”

  “No, I’m sorry to be such a bother,” Verity replied. She was also sorry to have to lie to the woman who was more like a kind and helpful older sister than a servant, yet she had no choice.

  Just as she had no choice except to get Jocelyn away from this place and safely home again.

  Despite that fervent desire, she dared not keep to her room tonight, tempting though it may be. To do so might make people think about her more than they would otherwise, and cause unwelcome speculation.

  “How do I look?” she asked as she stood and slowly turned in a circle for Nancy’s critical scrutiny, pretending she was well content with her clothing and hair.

  In truth, she wished she did not have to wear black anymore, and that she dared to dress her hair with more style.

  “Pretty as a picture, and no mistake,” Nancy said.

  “Well, maybe it’s better we’re getting away from these nobs and their servants,” she continued with a philosophical sigh. “My word, some of them is as arrogant as their masters and no mistake. This valet come today—he’s the pip, he is. Tried to tell me his name was Claudius Caesar Rhodes.

  “‘If that’s true, then I’m Queen of Sheba Knickernell,’ I told him.”

  Verity smiled and pitied the poor, unsuspecting fellow, for she could well imagine the venom Nancy had infused into that remark.

  “He’s the Duke of Deighton’s manservant, though, so what could you expect?” Nancy eyed her mistress shrewdly. “Is that why you want to go?”

  Verity struggled to betray nothing. “Why would I leave just because the Duke of Deighton has arrived?”

  “Because you’re a beautiful woman, that’s why. Everybody’s heard about the duke and women. I heard tell he’s had so many lovers, when somebody asked him to name them all, he couldn’t do it.”

  “Or wouldn’t, perhaps, if someone was so impertinent as to ask such a question. Besides, he would have no interest in a widow of my age.”

  “Lucky for you!” Nancy’s expression changed to one of avid curiosity. “It’s true that he’s had lots of lovers, isn’t it? Some Parisian actress, and one that he more or less gave to the Prince Regent?”

  “Nancy!”

  “Well, you’ve known Lady Bodenham a long time, and she’s his cousin, so she might—”

  Nancy fell silent when she saw her mistress’s look. “I was just thinking aloud,” she muttered as she went back to the packing. “Excuse me, I’m sure.”

  Verity sighed softly. She couldn’t fault Nancy for her speculative remarks, for in truth, Eloise had often regaled her equally curious friends with tales of her cousin’s supposed liaisons and bets and duels.

  If she hadn’t, Verity thought bitterly, perhaps she might not have been so fascinated by him, and so excited when she first met him.

  “Your hands are shaking,” Nancy noted, her tone at once wary and accusing. “Are you sick? Is that why you want to go home?”

  “No, I’m not ill, only tired,” Verity answered. “It’s difficult staying up so late. I’m not used to the nobility’s hours.”

  “Or that Lady Bodenham’s tongue wagging everlastingly, I don’t doubt,” Nancy said as she started to fold one of Verity’s plain petticoats. “She only asked you here because she was curious to see you in widow’s weeds, if you ask me.”

  “Nancy!”

  “Well, it’s true,” Nancy answered defiantly.

  “Partly, perhaps,” Verity agreed. “So it’s not so very strange that I want to go home, is it?”

  “Not a bit, and ’scuse me for kicking up any fuss at all. When are we leaving?”

  “I shall ask Eloise if we may have a carriage to take us to the inn for the post chaise early in the morning. You will be able to have everything packed in time, won’t you?”

  “Oh, aye, I will,” Nancy confirmed.

  “Thank you. I shan’t stay late below.”

  After Nancy nodded, Verity went into the adjoining bedroom. It was really intended to be a dressing room, but rather than have Jocelyn far away in the nursery, Verity had asked Eloise to fit it up as a bedchamber. Nancy also slept here, so between their cots, there was not much extra room.

  Jocelyn was already washed and in bed. A single candle burned on the small table beside her.

  “You look pretty, Mama,” Jocelyn said with a satisfied smile.

  “Thank you.” Verity tucked the covers around Jocelyn’s shoulders. “Try to go right to sleep, little girl. We shall have to be up very early in the morning.”

  “I don’t want to go home.”

  Taken aback, Verity sat on the bed. “I thought you didn’t like it here.”

  “That was before I met the duke.”r />
  Verity briskly tucked the covers around her some more. “Won’t you be happy to be back home?”

  “I liked him. He was jolly. Not what I thought a duke would be like at all. He’s not very good at football, but he tried. Didn’t you like him?”

  “He seems nice.”

  “I thought we weren’t leaving till Friday. That’s another four whole days.”

  “I know, dear. However, Lady Bodenham has so many other guests now, and I am feeling a little homesick, so I thought we should leave.

  “Now be a good girl and try to get to sleep. We have a long journey ahead of us—but home will be at the end.”

  Still not mollified, Jocelyn nevertheless nodded and snuggled beneath the covers. “I wish I could say goodbye to the duke.”

  “Nancy’s got to finish the packing. She’ll be in the other room if you need her,” Verity said, ignoring her daughter’s comment. She blew out the candle. The moonlight bathed the small room in silvery light. “Good night, sleep tight, my little girl.”

  “Good night, Mama.”

  Outside in the corridor, Verity took a deep breath before heading below to Eloise’s finely furnished drawing room. There were several other guests already in attendance, including, she noted at once, the Duke of Deighton, leaning against the mantelpiece and smiling at young Lady Mary.

  She wouldn’t look at him again if she could avoid it, Verity vowed as she continued to scan the room for Eloise. Not when he looked so handsome and elegant in his black evening dress, his pose casual yet reminiscent of a lion sleeping in the sun.

  A lion quite capable of pouncing and trapping his prey, if he so desired.

  Unfortunately, Eloise was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps she was still upstairs trying to coax her husband into his evening dress. It was no secret that Lord Bodenham detested parties of any sort, unless they were hunting parties involving horses and his beloved hounds.

  Well, she could not linger at the entrance like a dressmaker’s dummy, Verity thought, so she started toward the group of women nearest to the door.