The Duke’s Desire

by Margaret Moore

  As if this were his house, not hers.

  Despite her annoyance, she forced a smile onto her face. “I’m sorry we were not here when you arrived,” she said evenly.

  She always forced herself to speak calmly when she was with the Blackstones, especially since Daniel’s death. She would give them no cause to quarrel with her. “However did you manage to get inside?”

  “Oh, did you not know we had a key? Dear Daniel was good enough to give Fanny one before he passed away. We never had occasion to use it before, but fortunately, we brought it with us.”

  Verity continued to smile. “I trust you have not been waiting long,” she said, glancing at the cloaked Fanny.

  “Not at all. We walked up from the inn and arrived only a few moments ago. Had we known the situation, we would have waited for you there.”

  And come in their carriage, for which she paid, Verity thought grimly. Still, she wouldn’t have minded so much, for Fanny’s sake. She looked exhausted.

  There had been no need for them to walk, in any event. Clive could afford the hire of a carriage as well as she, no matter how much money he claimed to have invested in his cotton mills. He was just too much of a miser to spare his wife the walk.

  “If you had written to apprise me of your intentions beforehand—”

  “Nancy doesn’t want any help,” Jocelyn declared from the front door.

  Glad of the interruption, for otherwise she might have said something regrettable, Verity turned to see her obviously dismayed daughter in the doorway. She gave her a pointed look and smiled all the more, a definite hint to her daughter to be polite to their guests. Any guests, no matter how unwelcome. “Say hello to Uncle Clive and Aunt Fanny, Jocelyn.”

  “Hello, Uncle Clive,” Jocelyn said obediently, and without enthusiasm. “Hello, Aunt Fanny.”

  “Please go to your room and take off your cloak and bonnet. Then you may help Nancy unpack your things when she comes.”

  Jocelyn nodded, all the joy of their return ruined for her, as it was for her mother.

  “This is indeed most fortuitous,” Clive continued as Jocelyn slowly walked up the stairs on the right of the entry. “I was just saying we would have to go to the Jefford Arms for accommodation, wasn’t I, Fanny?”

  His wife nodded.

  A loud and distinctly disdainful sniff from the front door drew their attention.

  Nancy stood on the threshold, one small trunk under each arm, and a bandbox in her hand, glaring at Clive and his wife malevolently.

  Verity hurried toward her. Her back was to Clive and Fanny, so they couldn’t see her expression, which was both determined and pleading. “Look who has come!”

  “I see. Them.”

  “Nancy, please!” Verity whispered.

  With a resigned glance at her mistress, Nancy put an expression on her face that was supposed to be a smile, although it was far more like a grimace than anything else.

  “How do you do, Mr. Blackstone, Mrs. Blackstone?” she inquired with cold civility.

  Before they could answer, she briskly continued, going up the stairs after Jocelyn. “Well, enough chitchat. I’ve got to get to work. Mustn’t malinger. Mustn’t stand about like I’m the emperor of China with all the time in the world to chat and run about visiting folks.”

  “If you’ll excuse me a moment, I’d like to take off my traveling clothes,” Verity said hastily as she hurried after Nancy without waiting for a response from her in-laws.

  “Those crows always come any old time it suits them,” Nancy muttered as she reached the landing and turned toward the upper floor. “Think this is an hotel, they do, with all their coming and going, and him supposed to be in business. My eye! If he is, he’ll soon be bankrupt!”

  Verity let Nancy mutter until they entered Verity’s bedchamber at the front of the house. She closed the door as Nancy put down the trunks. “Nancy, I must ask you again to please try to speak to the Blackstones with some respect.”

  “I do try. I just ain’t very good at it,” Nancy confessed as she faced her mistress.

  Verity began to untie the ribbons of her plain black bonnet. “Please, you must try harder. They are my relations, after all, and I must ask you to respect my wishes.”

  Nancy sighed with the sorrow of the ages. “For you, I’ll do me best—but I can’t promise to do more. They make my flesh crawl!”

  “You know I do not like them either, yet we must be nice to them, for Daniel’s sake, and Jocelyn’s, too,” Verity continued as she removed her pelisse. “They are the only relations we have, after all.”

  “And blood is thicker than water,” Nancy said, and sighed as if they had had this conversation many times before as, in fact, they had.

  “Yes. Jocelyn can hear how you speak to them, you know, and you influence her a great deal. Unfortunately, if anything were to happen to me, they would be her guardians, so we must take care to ensure that she does not upset them.”

  “Aye, I know,” Nancy admitted remorsefully, “and I’ll try harder, really I will.”

  Verity smiled. “I know. Now will you please go and see what Jocelyn is up to? She need not come downstairs at once, if she doesn’t want to.”

  “I daresay she won’t,” Nancy said, “but I’ll do my best to persuade her.”

  “Thank you, Nancy.”

  “How long do you think they’ve come for this time?”

  “I saw only a small valise, so perhaps this will be a short sojourn.”

  “I hope to heaven you’re right!” Nancy declared with a brusque nod as she headed for the door. “Or I’ll probably bust a stay trying to keep me thoughts to meself.”

  When she had gone, Verity rotated her neck, already feeling the tension Clive always engendered.

  It seemed she had left one anxiety-inducing scene for another—but at least this one she was familiar with and she knew how to conduct herself.

  Nevertheless, Verity would have preferred to hide upstairs, too, until Clive and Fanny got annoyed and left, but as that would be altogether too rude, she could only linger for a few moments to tidy her hair.

  “Oh, shut that mouth of yours and stop whining!” Clive commanded his wife in a harsh whisper. He ran his finger along the marbled mantelpiece, stopping when he touched the heavy silver candlestick. “We’re here and we’re not leaving until I say so.”

  “But, my love—” Fanny began as she hovered near the door.

  Clive’s mouth twisted with anger and disgust. “Are you such an idiot you can’t remember one thing I say? I’m sure there’s more to her visit to that woman than a change of scene.”

  “What else—?”

  “Something,” Clive said darkly. “And I want to know what.”

  Fanny wanted to weep, but Clive hated it when she wept, so she turned away and surreptitiously wiped her tears before they fell.

  As she did, she wished again that Verity’s father had never met her brother, Daniel. Then, when Verity’s wastrel father had died penniless, her kindhearted brother would not have taken it upon himself to look after Verity. He would not have married her and spent all that money on this lovely house, so much finer than the one she shared with Clive.

  Her gaze roved over the walls painted a pale sea green, the fine floral brocade of the sofa and drapes, Daniel’s portrait over the mantel, the silver candlesticks that she knew Clive coveted as if they were solid gold, and finally the thick, luxurious carpet upon which she stood.

  In her wildest dreams Fanny had never supposed her placid brother would marry Verity Escombe, whose family’s lost wealth came from a source that filled him with repugnance, or that there would be a child who would take away her inheritance.

  She knew Clive had not expected it, either.

  “What are you doing hunched over like that?” Clive demanded querulously. “Stand up straight, can’t you?”

  She did as he commanded.

  “Here she comes. Now for heaven’s sake, smile. And try to find out why she really we
nt to Lady Bodenham’s.”

  “Yes, Clive.”

  Unfortunately for Fanny, Verity had gone to Eloise’s solely for a friendly visit and no other reason. As for any other subject, such as the unexpected arrival of the Duke of Deighton, Jocelyn never spoke of him, and Verity had ten long years of practice when it came to keeping secrets.

  A fortnight later, sitting in a leather-covered wing chair, surrounded by books he had never read and pictures he never noticed, his favorite dogs at his feet, Sir Myron Thorpe nodded off over a brandy. It had been a long, boring day, and he would be a happy man once he had some company for the hunting season.

  Yawning prodigiously, he moved to pick up another piece of pineapple from the plate at his elbow when he happened to look out his study window.

  He abruptly straightened, as alert as a hound—something he rather resembled—catching the scent of a hare. His awakened dogs lifted their heads and sniffed the air.

  “Charles, my telescope,” he cried to an elderly servant who was making a halfhearted attempt to clean the hearth.

  While Charles got up as quickly as his creaking knees would let him and tottered toward the tall secretary desk to find the instrument, Myron commanded his now alert dogs to sit, tossed the piece of pineapple into his mouth and went to the window.

  He didn’t wait to swallow before addressing Charles again. “Maybe it isn’t him, after all. I’ve invited him here every year since we left Harrow. I’ve just about given up hope.”

  Charles found the telescope and brought it to Sir Myron, who held it to his eye. Then he nearly dropped it. “Good God, it is the Duke of Deighton, as I live and breathe. And just look at that horse. Where the devil does he find ’em? I’d give six of mine for that one.”

  “Might the gentleman be staying to tea?”

  Charles asked, quite used to his master’s mode of communication, which was inevitably loud and enthusiastic.

  “Tea? Galen Bromney coming to tea? Are you mad? No, he’s finally taken up my invitation to hunt with me. Why else would he come?”

  “Ah. Then I had best inform Mrs. Minnigan.”

  “Of course you should inform the housekeeper! At once! She should prepare the best rooms for him.”

  “Very good, sir,” Charles intoned as he made a little bow and left the room.

  Myron tossed his telescope onto the nearest chair, grabbed his tweed jacket and hurried outside to the wide steps fronting his house, trailed by his excited dogs who no doubt anticipated another foray after rabbits or deer.

  “Gad, I haven’t seen Deighton in, what, fifteen years?” he muttered in an excited soliloquy. “Bit of a ladies’ man after Harrow according to Justbury Minor, but none the worse for it! My God, look at his seat. Perfect! I suppose his man is coming with his things later. Ho there!”

  Galen could not have missed Myron if he wanted to. It was ever thus, from the first day they were at school. Myron’s voice was, by some quirk of nature, loud even when he whispered, which meant he could never be included in the plans of the more daring schoolboys. Nor was he at all capable of deceit; indeed, Galen could well believe dishonesty simply did not exist within Myron’s trusting and honest nature. Unfortunately, that also meant Myron was often treated like the village idiot until Galen had befriended him, something for which Myron had been rather pathetically grateful. At first, his gratitude had been a nuisance. Then it became enjoyable having such a thankful lackey who could always be counted on to say something admiring.

  After he had left school, Galen had almost instantly forgotten all about Myron, until he had learned where Verity lived from the unsuspecting Eloise, and he recalled that his former friend also lived in Jefford. Better yet, Myron invited him to hunt every year, even though Galen had yet to accept the invitation.

  As keen as he had been to rush to Jefford the day after Verity had departed Potterton Abbey, he had not. He had learned to govern his impulses better, with the glaring exception of the kiss he had shared with Verity in her bedchamber at Eloise’s.

  When their lips touched, passion and desire had immediately surged into vibrant life within him, as if he had suddenly been awakened from a long sleep, or as if no time had elapsed since they had last shared a passionate embrace.

  It had taken every ounce of his self-control to leave that bedchamber without kissing her again. Even the simple touch of her hand had kindled more longing within him than he had felt in years.

  As he pulled his horse to a halt in front of Myron, who was both smiling up at him and patting the heads of his large hunting dogs, he reflected that there was a time he would not have felt a particle of remorse for using his friend in this manner.

  Those days were past, he told himself as he dismounted and went to shake hands with Myron, who was a little heavier than he had been of yore, but otherwise not much altered by the passage of time. He was still tall and brawny, with brown hair untouched by gray, and a florid face.

  “Welcome to my humble hunting lodge, Your Grace!” Myron cried happily.

  Galen gave the fine stone manor an admiring glance. “Thank you for the invitation, Myron, although not every man would refer to such a splendid abode as a hunting lodge.”

  Myron blushed like a girl getting her first compliment at a ball. “It’s a trifle, really,” he said with an attempt at modesty quite undone by his obvious pride. “Someplace to display trophies and keep the guns, that’s all.”

  “If it is possible to have that much good hunting around Jefford, I really should have come much sooner.”

  Myron roared with laughter and clapped his hand on Galen’s shoulder so hard he winced. “I do what I can to keep the wild population hereabouts under control. You must be parched. Care for a drink?”

  “I would be delighted,” Galen replied as he followed his host into the front hall, which was decorated with an astonishing array of weaponry. The dogs trotted behind, then wandered off down the corridor.

  “You’re not expecting a siege, I hope?” Galen inquired as he eyed the various lances, crossbows, arrows, bows, swords and pikes.

  “I wasn’t before, but I am now!” Myron chortled as he ran an approving gaze over Galen. “Demme, age becomes you, Deighton! You’re handsomer than ever. We’ll have to fight off the women when they hear you’ve come.”

  Galen sighed mournfully as they entered what Galen took to be Myron’s study, done in age-darkened oak paneling and decidedly masculine. Portraits of hunting dogs and horses covered the walls, and Galen realized the dogs had been headed here, for they now lounged around one particularly well used chair. Their presence and obvious familiarity with their places no doubt explained the heavy odor of dog in the room.

  “Such is the story of my life. Besieged and beleaguered when all I seek is a little sport,” Galen replied.

  Myron grinned as he poured him a large brandy. “Sport is what some of ’em are after, too, eh?”

  Galen could not disagree. “Nevertheless, Myron, I am tired of such empty liaisons. I have decided I should marry, so if you know of any pretty, rich, titled eligible ladies nearby who are in need of a husband, I shall be happy to meet them.”

  Myron walked toward Galen, unmindfully spilling brandy with every step. As Galen took the glass, he noticed that the once fine Aubusson carpet bore evidence that this sort of genial messiness was not unusual in Myron’s study.

  “Married? You?” his host demanded.

  Galen settled onto the worn sofa and regarded Myron with genial amusement. “I am not repulsive, I hope.”

  Myron laughed so hard most of his brandy never stood a chance. “Repulsive? The Duke of Deighton? Oh, sink me for a simpleton, that’s good!”

  “It has been brought to my attention by several well-meaning people that I am not in my youth any longer, and it is high time I took a wife. Therefore, if you have any suggestions, I am all ears.”

  Myron cleared his throat and a serious expression appeared on his pleasant face. “Well, let me see…there’s Lady Alice de Monfrey
—but she’s too old. And the Duchess of Tewkesbury’s daughter—but she looks like a bitch with a sour tooth.” He scratched his chin. “There’s Verity Davis-Jones—no, not her.”

  “What is the matter with her?” Galen inquired lightly.

  “She’s a widow.”

  “A rich widow might be the very thing. Or is she ancient?”

  Myron let out a snort. “Not at all, but she’s not rich or important. Her child stands to inherit a goodly sum when she comes of age, but the mother has only a portion of the income to live on. As for the little girl, she’s a hellion!”

  “Why, Myron, since when have you taken to listening to school-yard gossip?”

  “I don’t! She once stampeded a herd of cows through the main street of the village.”

  Galen subdued a grin. “I find that difficult to believe.”

  “She said the gate to the pasture was already open, but she was laughing so hard, nobody except her mother and that termagant of a servant believed her.”

  Galen wondered if he would ever get the chance to ask Jocelyn herself about that. Even if he didn’t, he already believed her version of events.

  Myron cleared his throat. “And her husband’s demise was said to be rather…hasty.”

  Galen regarded his host with apparently mild interest. “Was it an accident? Is foul play suspected?”

  “Not by anybody who ever met the widow. Unthinkable to imagine her up to no good! Yet here he was in perfect health one week, and the next he was dead.”

  “He was a young man, then?”

  “Good God, no. Fifty if he was a day—but healthy for all that.”

  “What did the doctor say?”

  “Pneumonia.”

  “Is there some cause to believe the doctor would lie?”

  Myron shook his head. “Dr. Newton is very well respected in the county. But you know how women gossip! They always will when the husband is so much older than the wife and then shuffles off his mortal coil so quick. I confess I wondered myself at the time—yet only for an instant. I saw them together a few times, and there’s no doubt she loved her husband very much. Wouldn’t leave him for a day, even when he was well.” Myron sighed. “Gad, we should all be so lucky as to have a woman like that tending to us in our final days!”