Four Dukes and a Devil

by Cathy Maxwell

  Sighting him several yards away, she couldn’t help but stare.

  How splendid he looks, she thought. His bold, darkly arresting features and natural strength cast every other man around him into the shade. But there was more to Quentin than just a pleasing face and physique—there was the dynamic inner man as well. As she now knew, he was intelligent and charming, worldly, with a self-effacing sense of humor and a surprising appreciation of the absurd. To some he might appear cynical, even jaded, but underneath he possessed a gentle compassion and a generous heart. She only wished he wanted to share that heart with her.

  Her fingers clenched around the wooden parasol handle she held, longing rising inside her in a now-familiar ache. With a sigh, she turned away.

  “Is everything all right, dear?” Aunt Ava murmured in a soothing voice. “You seem a bit blue-deviled today. I’m not used to seeing you without your usual, jolly smile.”

  She gazed at the older woman, a part of her wanting badly to confide. Instead, she forced a happier expression onto her face. “Only a bit wistful over thoughts of home. I have not seen my little sisters in more than a month’s time, and as much as I am enjoying myself here, I shall be glad to be back among everything and everyone familiar.”

  “Well, of course you shall. Although, might I venture to wonder if mayhap there is another reason as well?” Her aunt’s shrewd gaze drifted away, settling for a brief, but pointed, moment on Quentin. She raised an inquiring brow.

  India glanced away. “No, it’s nothing like that…nothing serious that is. Nor do I wish it to be.”

  Liar.

  Aunt Ava gave her a kindly smile. “It’s just as well, I suppose. He is a good man and an excellent friend to my sons, but he’s complicated. Despite his title, I suspect only the very deepest love will ever induce him to marry. And that love will need to be returned in even greater measure by his bride. So it is good that what’s between you is nothing serious. You are young yet, India. You have time.”

  But I have no time, she thought with a sudden bleakness. Since he has already stolen my heart.

  To her relief, everyone’s attention was soon called by Lady Pettigrew informing her guests that their picnic luncheon was served.

  The rest of the afternoon passed at a leisurely pace—the food delicious, the games entertaining, the ruins providing an intriguing tableau on which to climb and comment. India spent little time with Quentin, passing much of her day with Mallory and the Misses Ossley, as they sat on lawn blankets chatting and cheering their chosen men on to victory in the cricket match.

  Hours later, she stood, brushing off her skirts, as everyone readied themselves to depart. She sensed a man approach and glanced up. Her shoulders drooped when she saw it wasn’t Quentin. “Oh, hallo, Mr. Harte.”

  “Miss Byron.” He sent her a toothy smile. “May I say you’re looking as lovely as a newly opened rose today.”

  She said nothing.

  Apparently taking her silence as encouragement, he tugged at his coat sleeves and straightened to his full height. “I was wondering…that is I hoped I might persuade you to drive back with me. This is our last outing together for a while, after all.”

  Drive back with him? Absolutely not.

  But then her gaze drifted toward Quentin, watching him laugh at some remark made by Philipa Stockton—a very attractive, very widowed, female guest.

  Does he want her?

  She frowned, not at all liking the direction of her thoughts. Emotions churning, she found herself suddenly anxious to depart. “Yes, all right. You may see me home.”

  “I assumed you wouldn’t—” he began. “What did you say?”

  She looked at his astonished face. “I said yes. I am ready to depart whenever you are.”

  “Then let us away immediately!” Grinning from ear to ear, he offered her his arm.

  What in the blazes does she think she’s about? Quentin wondered, as he watched India walk across the field with Peter Harte of all people.

  Has the puppy coerced her into it?

  But she didn’t appear upset, nor was she turning back to send him a “help me” look. In fact, she wasn’t sending him any looks at all.

  He shouldn’t be surprised by her reproof, he supposed, not given his lack of attention toward her today. But ever since that kiss by the stream, he’d known he needed to put some distance between them.

  He hadn’t even meant to kiss her, it had just happened. And once he’d tasted her lips again, he’d been lost. Tearing himself away from her had been a wrenching experience, one he’d found nearly impossible to manage. But manage he had.

  Yes, he wanted her—so badly he ached. But where would it lead? She might fascinate him now, but what of later? Surely his interest would fade. No, he decided, it was best to make a clean break while it could still be done. Which is why he forced himself not to stride across the grounds after her, especially when he saw Harte hand her up into his curricle.

  Let them go, he told himself. Let her go. It’s best for us both.

  Twenty minutes later, India gazed around at the passing countryside, aware she didn’t recognize anything about her surroundings. “Mr. Harte, are you certain this is the way to the Pettigrews’? I don’t recall following this path earlier today.”

  He tossed her a quick glance, then looked ahead again. “Well now, that’s because it isn’t. I decided to take a detour. But not to worry, I’ll have you back soon enough.”

  “A detour, but—”

  “There’s a stretch of land just ahead with a superlative view of the ocean. Glorious cliffs. I thought you might enjoy seeing them.”

  “I would have appreciated it more had you thought to advise me of your plan before we set out.” Her mouth tightened, deeply regretting her impulsive decision to let him drive her home. “As beautiful as the view may be,” she continued, “I don’t think we have time to tarry. My aunt is expecting me and will wonder where I am.”

  “We’ll only be a little late. Nothing to cause concern.”

  “Still—”

  “Here we are.” With a quiet command to his horse, he brought the curricle to a stop. After securing the reins around the brake, he leaned back and took a dramatic breath of the salt-scented air. “Ah, isn’t this spectacular?”

  She couldn’t help but agree. The rugged cliffs formed a majestic curve that hugged the grassy green landscape, while below lay a narrow strip of toast-colored sand beach. Beyond stretched the ocean, shimmering blue as far as the eye could see. Yet, lovely as the view might be, the landscape was empty, the only sign of human habitation a small cottage perched on a similar jut of land some miles in the distance.

  “It is breathtaking, however—”

  Before she could finish her comment, he vaulted from the carriage and hurried around to her side. “Come,” he entreated, stretching up a hand. “Let us walk a few yards.”

  “Mr. Harte—”

  “Five minutes. Surely you can spare five minutes?”

  Five minutes, hmm? If it would appease him enough to get him moving again, she supposed it was worth the delay. Besides, if she didn’t agree, she feared he would keep her here arguing for double that amount of time. Placing her hand in his, she allowed him to help her to the ground.

  She strolled next to him, the sea breeze ruffling her pale yellow muslin skirts.

  “Have I told you how beautiful you are?” he said.

  “On innumerable occasions.”

  “Then let this be another. You are as radiant—”

  “Please, Mr. Harte—”

  “Peter,” he implored, turning his earnest gaze on her. “I so wish you would call me Peter.”

  “Mr. Harte, while I thank you for your kind words, I have no need of flattery.”

  “Perhaps not, but you are worthy regardless, in spite of your unwise preference for Weybridge.” He slowed to kick at a feathery tuft of grass. “Although I could not help but notice a slight cooling between the two of you lately. Have you quarreled?�
��

  She glanced toward her slippers. “Not at all.”

  “Is it because he’s leaving tomorrow without making you an offer?”

  “His intentions remain as fixed as ever.” And they do, she thought, since he’s never intended to marry me.

  “He ought to have secured your hand, if he means to do so. He’s too arrogant by half, you know.”

  “He’s a duke. All dukes are arrogant. It’s in their nature.”

  “Still, he doesn’t deserve you.”

  She continued their walk, hoping the five minutes was nearly over.

  He kicked more grass. After another few feet, he stopped and turned to face her, catching hold of her hand before she could prevent it. “Miss Byron,” he said. “I know you have not favored my suit in the past, but my feelings for you remain as strong as ever.”

  Oh, heavens, surely not again!

  “I love you with a passion for the ages,” he continued. “From the very depths of my bones and the heart of my marrow…”

  Heart of his marrow? Where does he come up with such folderol?

  “…As Romeo loved Juliet. As Tristan loved Isolde. As Paris loved Helen…”

  She held her tongue, struck by the irony that all the love affairs he mentioned had tragic ends.

  “You must give me some right to hope,” he went on. “Some sign that you may yet return my love with affection of your own. If you want me to change, I’ll change. If it’s riches you desire, I will obtain them for you. Whatever you want, you have only to say, and it will be yours.”

  Gazing into his pleading eyes, she felt her chest tighten. Even now, she believed he was in the grip of an intense, but fleeting, infatuation that would end the moment she was out of his sight for more than a few days. But what if she was wrong? What if she was underestimating the strength of his emotions? If he feels even a glimmer of what I feel for Quentin, then he has my profound sympathy and understanding.

  “Mr. Harte—”

  “Peter.”

  She exhaled a slow breath. “Peter. I wish I could tell you what you want to hear. I wish I could return your affection. How much easier everything would be if I could. But I am afraid I do not love you, and no amount of time or persuasion will change my mind. I am sorry. Truly I am.”

  His face hardened, anger flashing in his gaze. “I don’t want your pity. I want your love. And if you won’t give it to me, I’ll take it. I’ll make you love me one way or another.”

  Without warning, he hauled her into his arms and kissed her, grinding his lips against hers with a force that made her stomach roil. Twisting in his grip, she fought for freedom.

  “Stop!” she panted, turning her head to evade him.

  But he followed, smearing his wet mouth over hers in several clumsy forays. Increasing the pressure of his kiss, he tried to force his tongue into her mouth. Without thinking, she raised a hand and slapped him, cuffing him hard across the face and ear.

  He reared back, an ugly red mark staining his skin.

  “I said stop!” she yelled, breaking free with a fierce shove. “How dare you touch me. Don’t you ever do something like that again.”

  “But India—”

  “Don’t! Do not speak my name. In fact, don’t ever speak to me again. I have tried to be considerate, putting up with you these past weeks, but I’ve had all I can take. Leave me alone, do you hear? Leave me alone, or I shall tell my father what you’ve done. And I shall tell Spence as well. He won’t like it. He might even demand satisfaction, and I know he’s twice the swordsman you are.”

  His cheeks burned, a sullen expression turning his eyes dark and mean. “Leave you alone? Fine, then, I shall. I wash my hands of you, Miss Byron. You are on your own.” Spinning on his heels, he stalked to the carriage and leapt inside.

  She followed, wondering how she was going to endure the ride home. But she needn’t have worried, since seconds later he gave the reins a sharp flick and set his horse in motion.

  “Wait!” she called, incredulous that he was abandoning her. She took several running steps after the departing vehicle, but it was already too late. The curricle sped faster, racing away into the distance.

  Why that vile little worm, she thought, fury bubbling through her like acid. She stood for a long moment, trembling despite the warmth of the day. Gazing at her surroundings, she wondered where she was.

  Miles and miles from the Pettigrews’, that’s where.

  What’s more, she had no means of transportation and no way of obtaining any, since her pin money was inside her reticule. The reticule she’d left in his carriage.

  What am I to do now?

  Surveying the empty fields ahead, she realized there was only one choice. Walk. And hope someone came along to aid her. Or that Peter changed his mind and returned for her. But somehow, she knew he wouldn’t.

  With a sigh of resignation, she set out. She hadn’t gone far when she noticed a bank of fat gray clouds rolling in overhead, the wind whipping harder at her skirts.

  Oh, wonderful. Rain. Can this day possibly get any better?

  Chapter Seven

  A little over an hour later, Quentin cornered Peter Harte in an unoccupied corridor not far from the Pettigrews’ drawing room. “Where is she, Harte?” he demanded on a low growl.

  “She who?” Harte said in apparent confusion—an act Quentin didn’t believe for an instant.

  “You know exactly who. Miss Byron.”

  The younger man shrugged, his gazing darting sideways. “How should I know? Haven’t seen her lately.”

  He leaned closer, using his greater height in a way he knew to be intimidating. “Lately or since the picnic? I watched you hand her into your carriage, but no one has seen her since.”

  After the outing, Quentin had driven straight back to the Pettigrews’. While the other guests continued to arrive, he’d gone upstairs to his bedchamber to change his clothes. On his return downstairs, he’d seen Harte, but not India. At the time, he assumed she’d already retired to her room to nap and relax before dinner like many of the other ladies, and thought nothing of her absence.

  But as the minutes continued to tick past, he began to wonder.

  And worry.

  Perhaps it was some sixth sense, but his gut told him something wasn’t right. Having learned long ago always to trust his instincts, he went back upstairs and knocked on her door. Her maid answered, informing him that Miss India hadn’t yet returned. Even more deeply concerned, he’d set out in search of Harte.

  “So,” he now insisted. “Where is India? You did bring her home, did you not?”

  A muscle twitched in Harte’s cheek. “Of course I brought her home. I’m sure she’s around here somewhere. Probably off gabbing with one of the other girls. You know how females are. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m on my way to the drawing room for a libation.”

  When Harte started to move around him, he grabbed his arm and pushed him back against the wall. “You’re lying. I can see it on your ferrety little face. Out with it, or so help me I’ll make sure you’re drinking your meals through a straw for the next several weeks.”

  Harte’s eyes rounded, the heightened color in his face draining to white. “I…I…”

  A sick sensation twisted inside Quentin’s vitals, his grip on Harte’s arm tightening so much the other man let out a yelp of pain. “You what? What have you done with her? If you’ve hurt her I’ll—”

  “No, no, of course I didn’t hurt her. What do you take me for? I would never injure Miss Byron.”

  Relief swept through him. “Well, then, let’s have it. And I want the truth this time.”

  “I…I…left her.”

  He scowled. “What do you mean, left her?”

  “We had a quarrel…and well…in the heat of the moment, I drove off. B-but I’m sure she’ll find her way back,” Harte rushed to assure. “She’s pr-probably found a ride with a farmer or tradesman and is walking through the door even as we speak.”

  Quentin star
ed, wondering if Harte was daft or just stupid? Has he any idea of the potential danger he’s placed her in?

  The younger man let out a fresh yelp, as Quentin’s grip tightened another inch. “You mean you abandoned her? That she’s out there alone somewhere right now, while you were about to have drinks and dinner with the rest of the guests? Why you insufferable toad. You’re beneath contempt. While I can still stand to look at you, tell me everything that happened today between you and India, and don’t leave out so much as a single detail.”

  Harte gulped and began his recitation. By the time he was done, the sick sensation had blossomed once again inside Quentin’s gut. His hands fisted, terrified to know that India was alone and lost in unfamiliar country, miles away from the nearest town. The thought of what could happen to her, especially if she were to be set upon by highwaymen or other unsavory types…well, he didn’t want to contemplate the possibilities.

  With a hard shove, he pushed Harte away.

  The other man curled against the wall, gingerly rubbing his bruised arm.

  “You’re not to say a word of this to anyone, do you hear?” he told him in a menacing tone. “Well, do you?”

  Harte nodded.

  “You’re to pack your bags and clear out now. I don’t care what excuse you use so long as neither my name nor Miss Byron’s is included. Then I want you gone.”

  Harte straightened in clear surprise. “W-what do you mean, gone?”

  “Out! Right now. You won’t even have time for that libation you were craving. Or at least, you won’t if you have any sense, since I expect to find you gone long before my return. If I see so much as your shadow when I get back, well, I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

  Beads of nervous sweat gleamed on Harte’s brow, as he nodded for a second time. “All right, I’ll go.”

  “Good.” He took a couple steps away, then swung around again. “Oh, and Harte.”