The Duke’s Desire

by Margaret Moore

  “There was that actress at the Royal Theater, and then the dancer from Paris,” the wife of General Ponsonby said excitedly as Verity came near the small cluster of women wearing very lovely, expensive and colorful gowns. They were also laden with jewelry, and their ornate hairstyles were adorned with pearls, feathers and ribbons.

  Verity told herself she should not feel like a pauper at the feast. She had every right to be here, and she was, after all, in mourning.

  Nor did she wish to attract any attention to herself, in any way, from anyone.

  “And the Duchess of—”

  The thin, middle-aged woman fell silent when she saw Verity, then ran a measuring and slightly scornful gaze over her.

  Verity instinctively clenched her teeth, wondering if the woman was condemning her for her lack of fashionable style or recalling past scandals. “Pray do not let me interrupt you,” she said as graciously as she could.

  The general’s wife glanced toward the duke. “It is not important.”

  “I assume you were speaking of the Duke of Deighton,” Verity proposed.

  She moved conspiratorially closer to Lady Smurston, a large woman wearing an ill-fitting gown of purple that strained against her ample bosom. The gathers at the high bodice did nothing to disguise her equally ample stomach.

  “I confess he quite frightens me,” Verity continued. “He looks so fierce, if he speaks to me, I should probably swoon.”

  “I daresay you will be quite safe,” Lady Smurston replied. “He’s looking at Lady Mary now, and she seems pleased to be the object of his scrutiny. I imagine she’s already planning her wedding clothes.”

  “Oh, surely she knows better!” the gray-haired, black-eyed Lady Percy cried. “Those bad Bromney boys won’t settle down till they’re fifty, if then!”

  “I didn’t know the duke had any brothers,” one of the other ladies remarked.

  “Oh, indeed, he has,” Lady Percy answered eagerly. “The late duke had two wives, you see. Deighton is from his first—to the Earl of Hedgeford’s daughter. After she died, the duke married Lady Crathorn, a great beauty—and proud of it, too. Marrying the duke made her quite insufferable, really. The names she chose for her children! I’m sure she was determined to remind people of her family’s history. Each one is the title of a family into which the Crathorn women have married, at one time or another.”

  Another younger woman, so pale Verity thought she could see the veins beneath her pallid skin, wandered over to them.

  “What are their names?” she asked curiously.

  “Buckingham, who is in the navy and somewhere at sea, Warwick, who is an adjutant to Wellington, and the youngest one is Huntington, a most outrageous rascal. He’s at Harrow with my boy. Hunt Bromney set the headmaster’s coat on fire one day, and nearly burned down the entire school. As for the other things he’s got up to, they are too numerous to mention.”

  “Like his brother’s lovers,” Mrs. Ponsonby said slyly.

  “Why was the boy not expelled?” Miss Pale exclaimed.

  “The duke has too much wealth and too many influential friends,” Lady Percy replied.

  “If I were a vicious person,” Mrs. Ponsonby said with a vicious little smile, “I would caution Lady Bodenham to set a guard outside Lady Mary’s door.”

  “I don’t think a single guard would stop the duke, if he were determined to enter,” Lady Smurston noted.

  Mrs. Ponsonby’s nasty smile grew as she looked at Verity. “Forgive us if we shock you, but perhaps we don’t….” She let her sneering words trail off as she shrugged her grub-white shoulders.

  “I have heard of the duke and his reputation, as well as certain other bits of gossip that some people apparently feel it necessary for all the world to know,” Verity replied with more than a hint of defensive spirit. “However, I should point out that if you believe the duke’s attentions to Lady Mary are not honorable, you should be warning her, not us.”

  Before Mrs. Ponsonby could close her gaping mouth, Lady Smurston colored. “Shh! He’s coming this way,” she whispered.

  “Who?” Verity inquired with forced serenity even as she felt the duke approach, as if he were encompassed by an aura.

  Swallowing hard, Verity didn’t move until Eloise appeared at her elbow, the duke in tow.

  “I believe you’ve already been introduced to everyone here, Your Grace,” Eloise said, “except for Mrs. Davis-Jones.”

  Verity had no choice except to turn to him and curtsy.

  “Your Grace, allow me to present Mrs. Davis-Jones. Mrs. Davis-Jones, the Duke of Deighton.”

  “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Your Grace,” Verity replied as etiquette demanded.

  His gaze held hers as if he were attempting to mesmerize her. This close, she could see the flecks of gold in his remarkable eyes. The last time she had seen them this close, she had thought their golden tints the reflection of the light from the glowing candle, the same light that made his naked flesh look as if it glowed, too.

  He reached out and took her gloved hand. For a horrifying yet thrilling moment, she thought he was actually going to kiss her palm—an outrageously intimate thing to do in company.

  Fortunately, he merely brushed her knuckles with his lips.

  Even then, her heart raced and her whole body warmed, with both excitement and embarrassment.

  “Ah, Mrs. Davis-Jones, I understand that you are an expert on marital bliss,” he remarked with blatant and arrogant sarcasm as he raised his eyes to look at her.

  She would not be upset. She would not show anything except mild interest as she withdrew her hand. “I fear the duke is mistaken. I am not an expert on anything.”

  Eloise glanced from one to the other, her fan fluttering about her chest. Could it be that Eloise felt as warm as she? Verity wondered.

  Indeed, she would not be surprised if every woman in the room was warmed simply by the excitement engendered by the duke’s virile presence.

  “It seems my dear cousin has finally decided to settle down and marry,” Eloise announced.

  The other ladies couldn’t have looked more taken aback if he had suddenly declared a burning desire to become a circus performer.

  “It’s true, it’s true,” the duke said with a sigh, and a twinkle of mockery in his eyes. “I have decided to put my neck in the matrimonial noose, like so many others before me.” He faced Verity. “Lady Bodenham tells me you and your husband were devoted to each other, even though he was much older than you. Well, I suppose one must take what one can get in the marriage mart.”

  In the face of such blatant insolence, Verity’s shoulders straightened and her chin lifted a little. “I loved my husband, though he was indeed considerably older than I.”

  “Of course. All widows claim they loved their husbands.”

  “Are you accusing me of lying, Your Grace?”

  The tips of the Duke of Deighton’s ears reddened. “I would never accuse a lady of deliberately lying.”

  “Perhaps this is a subject we should not pursue,” Miss Pale murmured tentatively.

  The duke ignored her and it seemed he recovered quickly from her reminder that it was not in the best of taste to speak of marriage to a widow, for he immediately said, “I confess myself fascinated with married life and marital bliss. Would you say disparity of age is a good thing, then?”

  She would not let him bait her. Good God, had she not learned at an early age to ignore those who would taunt her? “I was not aware that love paid heed to age.”

  “We all pay heed to age.”

  “Apparently some more than others.” She cocked her head and regarded him pensively. “Is it your intention to marry without love? In that case, perhaps we should hear what the Duke of Deighton would consider necessary to ensure matrimonial happiness without love.”

  “Based upon observation, I would say similarity of station, similarity of interests and—” he grinned with what looked like pure deviltry “—similarity of age.”


  “It occurs to me that the duke must be most familiar with unhappy marriages, for it would seem my late husband and I are the exception to your rules, and we were very happy until death took him from me.”

  She let the awkward silence last a moment before continuing. “Of course, marriages without love are the common thing among the nobility, are they not?”

  “I do not think the dear duke need worry about that,” Lady Smurston interjected with a simper. “Women are all too anxious to fall in love with him.”

  “Or to make love with me, at any rate.”

  As all the ladies save Verity looked scandalized, Eloise swatted her cousin with her fan. “Galen! Such talk!”

  “Forgive me, Eloise,” he said without a hint of contrition.

  Verity hoped the duke would decide this was an appropriate time to move on, but instead, he again fastened his intense, sardonic gaze upon her. “Davis-Jones? That is a Welsh name, is it not?”

  “My late husband was Welsh.”

  “Indeed? Then a fine singer, too, no doubt.”

  “Yes.”

  “Love songs, I suppose?”

  What was he getting at? “Sometimes.”

  “Do you sing, too?”

  His lips curved up into a smile that seemed to entice her beyond all measure to lie and say that she did. “No, Your Grace.”

  He arched a brow. “No?”

  “No.”

  “A pity.” He turned to Eloise. “Does Lady Mary sing?”

  “Of course. As I said, she is very accomplished.”

  “I thought so.” He faced the ladies, including Verity. “If you will be so kind as to excuse me, I shall endeavor to persuade Lady Mary to demonstrate her accomplishments.”

  He sauntered toward the wealthy, titled young lady who, it seemed, was definitely the object of his pursuit and who blushed furiously when she realized he was approaching her.

  “I do not think music is all he has in mind,” Mrs. Ponsonby sneered.

  Verity was very glad they were leaving in the morning. She wouldn’t have to endure these gossiping women—or anyone else—anymore.

  Chapter Three

  G alen told himself he would prefer to forget Verity Escombe had ever existed. After all, whatever they had shared once had been little enough, and long ago, and it had never been affection.

  Despite this resolution, he couldn’t prevent himself from wondering when and how the shy, awestruck girl had become the vibrant, defiant woman able to give him his due in a verbal battle, and even send him from the field in embarrassed confusion? Gad, it had been years since anybody had made him wish he had spoken differently, about anything.

  Perhaps marriage had been the making of her, and if so, she must indeed have been happily, fortunately wed—a truly rare thing in this world, he knew.

  “Poor Mrs. Davis-Jones,” Lady Mary noted as she followed Galen’s gaze. “I gather she was quite pretty in her day.”

  Lady Mary’s voice held no malice; nevertheless, he turned to regard her with grave intensity.

  She flushed with embarrassment and put her hand to the gold chain at her slender throat. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

  “Not a thing,” Galen replied. It would not be polite to reveal that he was trying to determine how bad Lady Mary’s eyesight was, for if Verity was pretty in her youth, she was beautiful now, with the fullness of motherhood to round out her slender body, and an unmistakable, intriguing confidence.

  “Your Grace, would you care to join me at the pianoforte?” Lady Mary asked. “Lady Bodenham has some excellent duets. I am sure there must be one you and I both know.”

  While she waited for his answer, she smiled tremulously, as if speaking to him were a great act of bravery on her part.

  It was a reaction he encountered all too frequently. In his youth, it had been a stimulating compliment. Now he found it tiresome.

  “Alas, I fear I am no singer,” he replied truthfully.

  Not like Verity’s Welsh husband.

  He wondered if little Jocelyn had inherited her father’s voice, for the Welsh were notable singers. She must have her father’s dark hair. Those glossy black curls did not come from Verity.

  “Perhaps you could turn the pages for me while I play?” Lady Mary suggested.

  If her smile had not been so guileless, he might have suspected that Lady Mary was not ignorant of the fact that if he stood beside her while she played, her cleavage, such as it was, would be on display.

  Well, why not turn her pages? He had nothing else with which to occupy his time, and he had meant what he said to Eloise. He had returned to England determined to wed, and Lady Mary was not the worst matrimonial prospect he had met.

  After escorting her to the piano, Lady Mary began to perform.

  For once it seemed that Eloise had not exaggerated when it came to a young woman’s accomplishments. Lady Mary had a rich soprano voice and excellent expression, and she played very well, too. Unlike several other ladies Galen could think of, she didn’t seem to choose her music with the ulterior motive of impressing him with her knowledge of Italian or German. Lady Mary sang “Flow Gently, Sweet Afton,” and she sang it both gently and sweetly, as it ought to be sung.

  There was only one thing lacking, he realized, and that was any hint of emotional involvement on the part of the singer.

  When she finished, she looked at him expectantly.

  “That was lovely,” he said. “Will you favor us with another? Perhaps something happier, to fit my mood?”

  She smiled brightly and immediately launched into a lively air about spring, children playing and lambs cavorting. She played so energetically, he almost expected her to fall off the seat.

  The remarkable speed with which she played made it harder for him to let his attention wander during her selection, but it did nonetheless. He wondered what Verity and Eloise were talking about so seriously in the corner. Him, perhaps? Was Eloise making excuses for him again?

  No, it must be something else entirely, for he rarely saw Eloise look so disappointed.

  He dutifully turned a page, then he happened to glance at the large, ornate mirror over the mantel.

  Good God.

  He stared at his reflection as if seeing it for the first time: the dark hair curling about his forehead; the line of his chin to which he had never paid particular heed unless he were shaving; the shape of his nose.

  That surprised, wary expression.

  How old was Jocelyn? Had anybody said?

  She could be ten years old.

  His hair? His chin?

  His child?

  No, surely not! It couldn’t be. Verity would have…what? Come sobbing to him claiming he had despoiled her? Followed him to Italy to demand a marriage?

  Given the man he was, he could imagine why she would not.

  Which did not absolve her from keeping such a secret from him. If he had fathered a child, he should know.

  He realized Lady Mary had paused and turned the page herself. “Forgive me,” he murmured, smiling at her with his very best smile. He touched a curl on the side of her head. “I was…distracted.”

  Lady Mary blushed from the top of her breasts to her forehead.

  Frowning with frustration, Galen strode into the bedroom Eloise had given over to his use during his visit. Like all the rooms in Eloise’s home, this one was decorated with the best furnishings money could buy, if not the best taste. The furniture was massive, and massively ugly, while the color scheme of lime green and gold was nearly enough to make him squint.

  “You may retire, Rhodes,” Galen said to his waiting valet.

  He tried not to betray any impatience, or any sign that he felt as if his world had suddenly been forever altered. He could hardly have chased after Verity when she left the drawing room before dinner.

  And he could be wrong about Jocelyn. Indeed, he had spent the better part of the evening convincing himself any similarity of feature could be mere coincidence.

&nbs
p; His portly valet looked as hurt as only Rhodes could. He chewed his lip like a dismayed child before he spoke. “Retire, Your Grace? Now? Before you’re in bed?”

  “Yes, Rhodes. Now. I think I am quite capable of undressing myself unassisted,” Galen replied.

  “Your Grace,” Rhodes began with dignity, his Cockney origins becoming more in evidence, “I must point out that you’ll probably toss your clothes about and then I shall have more of a job making them presentable. I have already had quite a time with the grass stains. I really think you should reconsider.”

  “Rhodes, I promise I shall not throw my clothes onto the floor or over a chair, and there is no danger of grass stains here.”

  Rhodes’s expression grew rather conniving. “Is there, perhaps, a lady…?”

  “As much as I know it disappoints you, given the exciting life you no doubt thought I would lead when I engaged you upon my return to London, no, there is no lady. There is no gambling, there is no drinking, there is no cockfighting, bearbaiting or whoring, either. In short, Rhodes, my life is as dull as a man’s could be, and tonight, I intend to read.” Galen gave his manservant a very pointed look. “Good night.”

  Rhodes became mobile, albeit barely. He headed toward the door, looking as if he expected to be informed this was some kind of outrageous joke and he the butt of it. “You’re going to sit up and read the Times?”

  “If you find that so surprising, I could always dismiss you, I suppose.”

  Rhodes recoiled, then hurried out the door as if pursued by demons. “Good night, Your Grace! Enjoy the Times!”

  With a sound between a sigh and a chuckle, Galen closed the door behind his fleeing valet, then glanced at the ornate clock on the mantelpiece. Nearly midnight.

  He strolled toward the windows, which looked over the spacious lawn and winding drive leading to Eloise’s manor. The moonlight shone brightly, illuminating the scene with only the occasional shadow of a cloud. He could smell the damp in the air, hinting at rain to come.

  This view was very different from the one out his bedroom when he had visited Lord Langley in Yorkshire. There, the house had been nestled in a valley in a vain attempt to shield it from the winds and rain that blew across the dales.