The Duke’s Desire

by Margaret Moore

  “But how could I?” she demanded, all her old frustration and resentment rising in her. “I didn’t know what was wrong. Then slowly, gradually, I discovered all—all—that my family tried to hide. I found out why my father didn’t love me, why he could hardly bear to look at me, and why he sought solace in a bottle.”

  She clasped her hands together fervently. “Galen, I know what it is like to be always on the fringe of society, never quite belonging, always set apart through no fault of one’s own.

  “You say being a duke will protect us, but you know the ways of the ton—or you should. They may be somewhat more subtle, but they will be just as cruel.

  “And when Jocelyn is a young woman, what will the men think? I know full well. Like mother, like daughter. She will be propositioned and pursued as if she were little better than a harlot.”

  Verity’s voice dropped to a low whisper. “She may even think that of herself and give herself to men she does not love, for passion or security.”

  She came closer to him, gazing steadily at him with her determined blue eyes. “I will not subject my daughter to that. If you care for her at all, you won’t wish it upon her, either.”

  “I do care for her, and that is why I cannot dismiss her from my life. I am willing to play the role of family friend, if that will content you.”

  “And I have explained to you, people may guess that at one time, you were more than that to me.” Her eyes pleaded with him to understand. “You must do as I ask, for Jocelyn’s sake.”

  “Is there no way I could see her, not even at school?”

  “I will never send Jocelyn away to school.”

  “She is a clever child and should have every opportunity my money can afford, Verity. I will make my financial contributions in secret, and her relationship to me can remain unknown.”

  “No. I will not send her away. She has had enough upheaval in her life.” Verity’s steadfast gaze faltered. “Besides, I would be too lonely without her. She is all I have.”

  “Yet you think nothing of condemning me to loneliness. Without…” He hesitated a moment. “Without Jocelyn, I have no one.”

  “You have many friends, many interests,” Verity replied. “And I think, before long, you will have a wife. Then, later, other children. You will forget—”

  “About you and Jocelyn? Never! I never forgot you before, try as I might, and now that I know about my daughter, I will not banish her from my life.”

  She reached out and took his hand. “Nevertheless, you must try to do just that. You must make a new life, Galen, and forget the past.”

  His fingers tightened around hers as his gaze searched her face. “And you? Will you make a new life, or will you continue to hide yourself away, with only Jocelyn and Nancy for company?”

  Her head bowed and a tear fell to the ground.

  “I love you, Verity! I do not want to live a new life if you are not in it! Please do not send me away. I love you. I need you. I want to marry you!”

  Galen took her in his arms and kissed her.

  As his tender yet insistent lips moved upon hers, she did not fight the desire of her heart and yearning for his love.

  A low moan escaped her throat as she gave in to her desire.

  “Oh, God, Verity,” he murmured as he dragged his lips across her flushed cheek. “I have only just found you again.”

  It took the memory of every veiled insult, every sly insinuation and scornful glance, to make her pull away.

  “It must be this way, Galen, for our daughter’s sake,” she said. “It must be.”

  “You will not marry me?”

  “No.”

  His voice dropped to a distraught whisper. “You said you loved me, yet you are willing to abandon me again.”

  Her eyes shone with something more than tears as she raised her head and looked at him. “There is only one person who I love as much as you, Galen, and that is Jocelyn. It is only for her sake I ask this. For her, I would break your heart—and my own.”

  “Verity!”

  “Please, Galen, go,” she whispered, needing every ounce of her resolve and concern for her daughter’s welfare to say it.

  He reached out to take hold of her shoulders. “If I must never see you again, for our daughter’s sake, let me tell you once more how I love you.”

  “Galen, please, it is too much,” she stammered, holding him away from her. “I cannot bear it.”

  “Then let me kiss you again.”

  “Galen,” she protested feebly as he drew her close.

  She did not have the strength to refuse. She did not want to refuse.

  This kiss was gentle, tender and tasted of the salt of her tears.

  With a ragged sigh, he stepped back. “May I write to you?”

  “That would not be wise.”

  “Will you write to me in London to tell me how you and Jocelyn are?” he pleaded. “No one in my household will wonder if I get a letter addressed in a lady’s hand.”

  Hearing his mournful, heartfelt words, she could not refuse his request. “I shall write, Galen, but it cannot be often. I will have to find a way to post it in secret, but I shall write. I give you my word.”

  He grasped her hand and raised it to his lips. “Then I shall be content, or try to be.”

  “And so must I.” She drew her hand away. “What of Lady Mary?”

  “Oh, yes. Lady Mary.” He shrugged. “Perhaps…in time…when I am able to contemplate marriage to anyone but you…”

  He abruptly turned and strode a few paces away, then just as suddenly halted and looked back. “Goodbye, Verity. Give my love to Jocelyn.”

  She nodded.

  He wheeled around and marched down the path. Around the bend.

  And out of her life. Again. Forever.

  She wanted to moan with despair, or scream in agony. She wanted to weep and wail, gnash her teeth, tear her hair.

  But most of all, she wanted to call him back to her.

  She did none of these things, for she would not make her daughter suffer for her happiness.

  So instead, after several minutes had elapsed, Verity wiped her eyes, sighed heavily, straightened her shoulders and headed back to her house.

  She did not see the man behind the oak on the other side of the path who had watched and listened, a dark scowl marring his familiar features.

  “London?” Myron said with a snort, coming out of doze and half out of his chair as he stared at Galen, with whom he had been sharing a companionable moment of calm in the drawing room before the ladies—and possibly George—came down for dinner.

  “Yes. I’m sorry, Myron, yet I fear I must return immediately. Tomorrow, in fact. There is some business I have only just remembered, no doubt because I’ve had such an enjoyable time here.”

  “Thanks to Lady Mary, eh?”

  Galen forced a noncommittal smile onto his face and remained enigmatically silent.

  “Well, if you must, you must. I’m dashed grateful you came down at all.”

  “Myron, it is I who am grateful,” Galen replied truthfully. “And I’m very sorry indeed I never came before.”

  If he had, perhaps he would have encountered Verity and Jocelyn sooner, and maybe he could have found a way to be part of their lives. Somehow.

  Regrettably, he could never come here again, because he did not think he had the strength to stay away from them if he was so nearby.

  “You must promise to visit me when you come to London,” Galen said.

  Now that he had regained his friendship with Myron and valued it as he always should have, he didn’t want to lose that, too.

  And it could very well be that Myron might be able to give him additional news of Verity and Jocelyn from time to time.

  “That’s very kind of you,” Myron said.

  He was so obviously delighted, Galen felt another twinge of guilt for not inviting him before this.

  Then Myron frowned. “The ladies are going to be very disappointed you’re
leaving us.”

  “I think you overestimate my attraction.”

  “Do I? I’m sure Lady Mary has been entertaining certain hopes.”

  “Led on by my own esteemed cousin, surely. Still, I am not saying that she need be disappointed.”

  “And here I was really wondering if you were contemplating the pretty widow,” Myron said sheepishly.

  Galen managed a wry laugh. “No, no widows for me, thank you.”

  Myron seemed relieved, and a new thought came to Galen.

  What if Myron were interested in Verity?

  No, it couldn’t be. It mustn’t be.

  Yet if Verity were to marry anybody, even Myron, that would free her from her in-laws. If he wanted her to be free—and he did—he should even encourage that. As for Myron, he was a good, kind, generous soul.

  Despite such reasoning, Galen felt physically ill at the thought of Verity married to anybody except himself.

  Perhaps he was leaping to conclusions unnecessarily.

  “Mrs. Davis-Jones is pretty, of course,” he remarked. “Have you taken a fancy to her?”

  “Demme, no!” Myron cried, truly horrified. Then he blushed like a boy telling a dirty story.

  “I thought you didn’t believe those rumors about her husband’s death,” Galen asked, searching for a possible explanation for Myron’s reaction.

  “Oh, that. No, I don’t.”

  “What then?”

  “She’s not…that is, her mother…”

  Galen’s jaw tensed. “What is the matter?”

  “Well, in my last letter to Justbury Minor I told him that you had come down and I mentioned my pretty bereaved neighbor. Today I received a reply. I fear I have been noticing somebody I should not, and I must say I’m rather shocked your cousin does, although I suppose the old school ties may be just as strong with the weaker sex.”

  “What the devil are you talking about, Myron?”

  His friend blushed. “It seems, um, that Mrs. Davis-Jones is not the child of her mother’s husband.”

  Deep in his heart, Galen had wanted to believe that Verity was exaggerating the stain of illegitimacy, but if kindhearted, jovial Myron could look as if he had just revealed that Verity was a multiple murderer, what would other people be like? Other men?

  “Since she seems to be a gentle, demure woman, and since I know how rumors can run rampant with very little encouragement,” Galen replied, “I hope you won’t feel called upon to repeat what you have heard. There is her innocent child to consider, too.”

  “Yes, yes, you’re right,” Myron acknowledged, and Galen subdued a sigh of relief.

  If he prevented even one person from spreading the story of Verity’s past, that would be something.

  At the sound of rustling skirts and Eloise’s exclamations, Myron got to his feet and gruffly cleared his throat. “I’ll let you disappoint the ladies and tell them that you’re leaving us.”

  “Of course.”

  With a subdued sigh, Galen turned to greet Eloise, who fluttered in with an aura of lacy bits and perfume, her chartreuse evening gown both ugly and revealing. Lady Mary, much more tastefully attired in pale pink silk and with a single rose in her hair, entered with her.

  “You both look enchanting,” Galen said.

  Lady Mary’s smile grew a little bolder and she sidled a little closer. Really, one would think he was a wolf, the way she behaved when she was near him, Galen thought with sudden irritation.

  “Thank you, thank you!” Eloise gushed as she sat on the edge of the sofa and adjusted her glove. “That is more than George ever says. Indeed, I could stand in front of him naked and he wouldn’t say a thing.”

  Struck dumb, no doubt, was Galen’s first thought. “Where is he?”

  “Still trying to get his cravat tied properly,” Eloise replied. “Your man Rhodes has come to his aid, so we should be seeing him soon enough.”

  Galen decided he had better get his announcement over with. “I am sorry to say that I shall be leaving for London very early in the morning. If you ladies have any commission for me there, or wish me to convey any messages, I shall be de lighted to do so.”

  Lady Mary looked stunned, and Eloise frowned as darkly as she could.

  “You must stay as long as you like, Lady Bodenham, Lady Mary,” Myron hastened to add. “Indeed, after all the excitement of having such marvelous company, I shall turn as growly as a bear if you decamp, too!”

  “Whatever can there be to make you leave in such a rush?” Eloise demanded.

  “Estate business,” Galen replied simply. The less said, the better.

  “I thought your man Jasper handled all that.”

  “He cannot sign my name on legal documents,” Galen replied.

  This was quite true, although it had nothing to do with his return to London.

  “Oh, well, then,” Eloise said grudgingly as she reclined on the sofa.

  “We shall miss you, Your Grace,” Lady Mary ventured.

  “I hope we can renew our acquaintance at a later date, Lady Mary,” he replied gallantly.

  When he saw her pleased smile, the noose tightened more.

  Chapter Thirteen

  T he next morning, as Verity made some desultory efforts to sweep the kitchen floor before Nancy returned from the market in the village, she tried not to remember Galen and his culinary efforts. She would not shed tears when she moved the little pot in which he had boiled an egg, and she would not wax sentimental over the cloth that had protected his fingers.

  The door burst open, breaking her reverie, and Nancy came bustling in. She set her basket on the table and, with arms akimbo and bonnet askew, regarded her mistress as an overseer might an insolent workman. “What do you think has happened now?”

  “I have no idea,” Verity answered as she laid her broom against the wall, “but please speak softly. The Blackstones are not yet awake.”

  Nancy cast a scornful glance ceilingward, then turned her attention back to Verity. “You’ll never guess.”

  “I think you’re right, so please tell me.”

  “He’s up and left!”

  Verity went to the table and began to empty the basket of the few items Nancy had purchased. “Who?”

  “The Duke of Deighton—and his precious Titus Minimus!”

  Judging by the way she had tossed things into the basket, Nancy had been irritated from the start of her marketing.

  “Why should that upset you?” Verity inquired. “Did you get the flour?”

  “Because folks couldn’t stop talking about it, even with me standing there waiting to pay good money to ’em! And as for that Jill at the mill!” Nancy relieved her feelings by turning around and shaking her fist in the general direction of Jefford. “You’d think he’d jilted her at the altar, the hussy!”

  “Who, the duke or his valet?”

  “Either one—or both, the jade! Took me an age to get her to measure the flour out.”

  “Oh, yes, here it is.” Verity returned the empty basket to its place by the door. “Well, if he is gone, things should soon return to normal. Is Lady Bodenham still at Sir Myron’s?”

  “I suppose so. They didn’t say she’d gone, or that other one, either. O’ course, they wouldn’t have taken no notice of that unless they’d sprouted wings and flown over their heads!”

  “Is that Nancy?” Jocelyn called from the parlor.

  “Yes, she’s home.”

  “Good. The duke would like to speak to her, too,” Jocelyn said.

  Verity had to lean on the table for support. “Who?”

  “The duke. I’ve just let him in!”

  How could he do this? After all she had said…explained…made clear…how could he disregard her wishes so blatantly?

  What if he meant to continue disregarding them? He was a duke, a rich and powerful nobleman. She would have little means to prevent him.

  She glanced at Nancy to see an equally dismayed and suspicious look on her face.

  “
Well, this is certainly a surprise,” Verity said with forced gaiety. “To have a duke take leave of me!” She lowered her voice to a confidential whisper. “You know, I fear you may have been right all along about him. I am so relieved he’s leaving Jefford!”

  “No doubt that Jill will think he’s lingering on after her, and her with them buckteeth.”

  “Let us say our goodbyes quickly, then.”

  She hurried to the parlor, Nancy behind her.

  For the first time, the sight of Galen and his charming smile failed to move her. All she could think of was his selfish disregard for the risk he was taking by coming here.

  “Good morning, Your Grace,” she began coolly as she entered the parlor.

  “Good morning, and pray forgive the early hour of my call.”

  “He says he’s come to say goodbye,” Jocelyn said, and Verity noted the tears welling her daughter’s eyes, and her trembling lip.

  She was doing all she could not to cry.

  Verity glanced sharply at Galen—and in that instant, her anger dissolved. He was looking at Jocelyn with both intensity and torment, as if he were trying to memorize her features and trying not to cry, too.

  She knew then he had not come to make threats or plead with her to change her mind. He had come to see his daughter for what might be the last time.

  “I couldn’t go without saying farewell to you all. I shall never forget your kindness and hospitality,” he said. He smiled, but it was empty of any joy.

  “Well, you’re welcome and goodbye, then,” Nancy snapped from the doorway, where she regarded him with obvious suspicion.

  “You’ll come back, won’t you?” Jocelyn pleaded. “You’ll come to visit Sir Myron again, won’t you? Next time, I can show you how to toast bread.”

  “We shall see.”

  “Jocelyn, the duke has many claims upon his time.”

  “And he’s got to get on his way now, no doubt,” Nancy finished. “Folks to visit, estates to run, parties to attend, the House of Lords to snore in.”