My Wild Duke

by Eva Devon

  “Ah.” Aston nodded as if he hadn’t just lit a match to Adam’s fury. “A Juliet then. She doth teaches to burn bright, and all that.”

  Sighing Adam replied, “Yes, actually.”

  “Ah, the bliss of a beautiful woman.”

  “She’s. . .” He frowned. How did he explain it? How did he explain her? “Not exactly beautiful.”

  “Worse then,” Aston groaned. “She’s interesting. Give up now, man. An interesting woman is the downfall of men like us.”

  He was not about to pursue that he and Aston belonged in the same category of man.

  “She’s getting married,” Adam informed him, the words a bitter gall on his tongue.

  “Marvelous.” Aston took off his hat and twirled it on a black-gloved finger. “You can bed her then in a few weeks.”

  Adam narrowed his eyes. “Would you say the same of your wife?”

  “Don’t be a fool,” Aston replied simply. “She’s married to me.”

  Adam snorted.

  “And I might add,” Aston clapped his hat back on his head. “Ros is a superior sort of woman who’d never marry someone she was not completely and totally in loving lust with. Clearly, your lady is subpar.”

  Adam paused. There was something wrong in all this. “I didn’t think so.”

  Aston stared quietly then observed, “It’s a surprise then.”

  He gave a curt nod.

  “Something happened then to push her to the brink.” Aston tilted his head back gazing up at the stars hidden somewhere behind London’s coal-darkened clouds. “It’s never a whim. Women are not driven by whims as many men would believe. It’s usually cold, hard logic that pushes them into wedded misery.”

  His breathing slowed. He’d never asked her why. God, what kind of a man was he? He’d proposed to be her friend. . . And what? He’d just thought the worst of her?

  “I’m a total arse,” he breathed.

  “As we all are in love.”

  “Stop saying that.”

  “That you’re in love?” Aston grinned. “Right.”

  “Thank you.”

  Swinging his legs down from the bench, Aston began boldly, “Since you’re in the bed of Venus—”

  “Aston!”

  Aston blinked innocently. “Yes?”

  He sighed and wiped a hand over his face. “Have you seen my brandy? It’s not here.”

  “I’ve got it.”

  Aston had always been notoriously good with brandy. He could drink bottles of the stuff and still kill a man with the perfect aim of his pistol.

  “Give it over then.” He extended his hand. “Why in God’s name were you drinking in the dark?”

  “One has to do something when they’re waiting.”

  Adam took the bottle from Aston’s grip and swigged.

  “Oh.” Aston eyed the angle of the bottle. “You’re far gone, lad. Far, far gone.”

  Adam leveled Aston with a ball-crushing stare to which Aston answered with another merry grin.

  “Out with it then,” Adam growled, wiping the brandy from his lips.

  “I’d like you to join a committee.”

  “Pardon?” He could not have understood correctly. Aston and bureaucracy did not seem to go hand in hand. “Apparently, I’ve lost my hearing as well as my heart, if your accusations are to be believed.”

  “You heard correctly.” Aston’s tone turned serious. “A committee.”

  Adam gaped. He couldn’t help it. Was this the wicked captain of the high seas? “Good God, man, what’s happened to you.”

  “The weight of a moral burden and my power has finally fallen upon me,” Aston intoned, a hand to his heart. “House of Lords, and all that. Dukes actually make things happen as opposed to the rest of the ponces littering that chamber.”

  “A committee?” he repeated, still unable to give it credence.

  “Mmm. Deuced boring, but that’s all those fools seem to respond to.” Aston stood. “I’d like you to speak about your work.”

  “Ask my brother.”

  “He’s got his own borough,” Aston pointed out patiently as he started to rifle through the maps on Adam’s desk. “And doing quite a lot to convince those ponces in Bristol not to go around the law and engage in the slave trade in any backhanded way.”

  “The corruption—”

  “Is rife,” Aston cut in quickly. “Now, we need more fight.”

  “Fight?”

  “Mmm.” Aston looked up. “The state of things betwixt our nations is. . .”

  “Perilous.”

  A shadow passed over Aston’s usually roguish visage. “I foresee another war, but that’s not why I’m here. I want you to convince the Royal Navy to stop slavers in British waters.”

  “And if they did?” he asked, intrigued.

  “With the might of Hail Britannia, they’d be able to free the souls aboard, of course.”

  Adam did not immediately feel joy. Nothing was ever as it seemed when it came to nations and armies. “And what would happen to those souls?”

  “That is unclear,” Aston sighed. “And another reason you should join the committee.”

  “I was about to leave England,” Adam stated, the brandy not so appealing now.

  “Were you, indeed?” Aston folded his arms across his chest. “Been planning the trip long have you? Or did a bit of unrequited lust drive you to the decision?”

  He made no reply.

  “Ah. It’s not unrequited. The lady isn’t quite ready to hoist her curtain, but she wished to.”

  “Shut it.”

  “Well, you can run if you like.” Aston sat on the desk, making the room his home. “What would you do?”

  “I’d go back to work,” he bit out. Really, he should be annoyed, but the duke was just too odd and clearly passionate about the same causes to quibble with.

  Aston looked about the cabin then stood. “Noble work it is, too, but just imagine. . . You’ve one ship. How many does the Royal Navy have? How many could be saved?”

  “You make it sound so bloody noble.” Adam put the brandy bottle down on the desk. “I know the English. They don’t do anything out of the goodness of their hearts.”

  “I’m not naive,” Aston agreed, his arms dropping to his sides. “But isn’t something better than nothing at all? Imagine the full force of Britannia fighting for what you believe.”

  “I’m an American,” Adam reminded.

  “Trifles,” Aston scoffed as he twirled a strong hand. “Many of your founders would have applauded your notions. I knew several. Comprise is necessary to achieve anything, but it can tire the soul. Let’s liven it up again.”

  “I—”

  “Don’t answer now. Give it some thought.” Aston clapped him on the back. “Come to the party. Your brother and his wife will be there.”

  “She’ll be there, too,” he fairly bemoaned. Good God, was that him?

  “All the better. Show her what a good time you’re capable of having without her. Drives the ladies mad, that,” Aston declared as he headed out of the cabin.

  He didn’t wish to drive her mad. He wished her happy. But now, he also wished to know what had driven her to such a sudden and seemingly rash decision. She had no obligation to tell him, but he had to find her and at least try. Or at least, that was what he told himself as he backed away from the brandy bottle and decided to go in search of evening kit instead of a fight.

  Chapter 13

  The Duke and Duchess of Aston threw the most sumptuous and entertaining parties of the season. It was an accepted fact and so the events were often crushes of the most important people in London. Well, in Europe, really.

  Unlike some nobles, the duke and duchess were not determined to keep common folk out of their gathering. They invited artists, writers, political people, and the great thinkers of the day.

  It was an interesting mix and tonight was no different.

  At one time, Beatrix would have thrilled to be at such a gathering. Now, sh
e stood waiting to be announced with Hyacinth, her hands shaking.

  She should not have agreed to attend. She should have insisted on private meetings with all the potential lords. But Hyacinth had convinced her that since all three were to be in attendance, it would be her best opportunity to see if she approved of one more than the others. It was a more natural setting, after all, than an interview. In the morning, she could send out her letters.

  So, she had donned a gown that had been meant for her first season. The gold shot pale silk slid over her skin like Adam’s caress.

  She blanched at the thought. After his departure, she had struggled to gather herself. It had been next to impossible.

  When she considered the getting of an heir with the men on her list, she felt nothing except a satisfaction that her duty would be achieved.

  When she thought of Adam as the role of father. . . My God, she could think of nothing else but how that child would be potentially made.

  Suddenly, her name and the dowager duchess’ reverberated through the huge ballroom.

  They entered to the sound of hundreds of people suddenly growing fairly silent.

  As she stood just at the entry, she girded herself. Squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin, she clutched her cane and marched forward.

  The room erupted into titters of gossip which set her teeth on edge.

  How she wished Adam was beside her to make a jest or, at the very least, an accurate summation of the fools eyeing her.

  Instead, Hyacinth touched her white-gloved arm. “You are splendid, my dear. They have nothing to match you.”

  The words should have given her comfort. They did the opposite for they only invoked the disparity in how she once was to how she was now.

  Still, she followed the dowager into the ornate ballroom. Ignoring those around her, she hoped, instead, to see the Earl of Ellesmere, the Marquis of Huxton or Viscount Rockford somewhere in the mirror-lined, rectangular room.

  They were nowhere in immediate sight.

  The Duchess of Aston appeared before them, fan fluttering, red hair curled to perfection and a gown that looked like sin fairly painted onto her lithe body. “Dearest Dowager Hyacinth, where are your rapscallion sons? I long to see their wives.”

  Hyacinth laughed. “They have grown old and happy to sit by the fire. They’ve gone down to the country.”

  “Lucky them,” Duchess Rosamund declared, her beautiful Scottish burr as lovely as spun clouds. “Now, are you dancing this evening?”

  “Of course,” Hyacinth said, then gestured to Beatrix. “As is my young charge.”

  Beatrix nearly let out a bleat of protest, but she managed to contain it.

  “Och, Lady Beatrix. It’s a pleasure.” The words were genuine and kind. “Now, what lucky young man shall we find for you to bewitch.”

  “Viscount Rockford?” Beatrix blurted.

  The duchess blinked at her specific request but smiled, nonetheless. “I do believe he’s at the gambling tables.

  “The Marquis of Huxton?” Beatrix asked, hearing the hint of desperation in her own voice. Blast, she must sound like a loon.

  “Alas, he sent his apologies.” The duchess scanned the company. “I can recommend—”

  “The Earl of Ellesmere?”

  Hyacinth gave her a slight prod with her elbow.

  Beatrix paid no mind. She was here for one reason. And dancing wasn’t it.

  “I do like a young lady who knows her own mind,” the duchess said, clearly choosing to ignore the oddity of the whole affair. “He is somewhere about. Let us find him.”

  To her consternation, the duchess drew her away from Hyacinth and began leading her through the crowded room, taking her time as if she had not noticed Beatrix’s cane at all.

  “Ellesmere is a fine fellow and handsome to boot,” the duchess praised. “I don’t wonder at your wish to lead him in a merry dance.”

  “I do not require a merry dance,” she said softly, as her nerves began to abandon her.

  “Do you not?” Rosamund tapped her arm lightly with the fan. “What a shame. They are the thing to live for.”

  She was tempted to reply that she doubted that very much.

  “Ah!” Duchess Rosamund bounced on her toes. “There he is.”

  Searching the crowd for the sight of the handsome man she had seen on an occasion some time ago at a country house party at her home, she frowned.

  There was bright conversation coming from near the punch table.

  The sound of a particular voice traveled to her and she nearly stopped. “I think perhaps I should—”

  “Nearly there,” the duchess urged, fairly popping her into Ellesmere’s sight.

  The earl was beautiful, indeed. Tall, over thirty with a divine head of hair and a set of eyes that would have made any young lady swoon.

  Any young lady but herself. That was because beside him was standing the very man who had made her body burn with untold hunger this very afternoon.

  The duchess unfolded her fan. “Ellesmere. You must dance with Lady Beatrix. She expressed a curiosity about your part of the country and I knew only you could do it justice.”

  The artful fabrication did nothing to stop the sensation that Beatrix was about to fall through the floor in mortification.

  Captain Adam Duke stared at her then swung his gaze to Ellesmere. His gaze, which had been hot and rather friendly just a moment before, hardened.

  “Him?” Duke growled.

  “Him who?” Ellesmere asked, clearly missing the brief recognition between Beatrix and the captain.

  She nearly panicked.

  “Why, yes,” the duchess said quickly. “Who else might tell Lady Beatrix about Dorset? Are you familiar with it Captain Duke?”

  Captain Duke’s gaze narrowed. “No, but I’ve heard it is a beautiful spot for weddings.”

  Ellesmere gazed from Duke to Beatrix.

  “I won’t deny it,” the earl said. “It is dotted with beautiful churches and the countryside is superb. Since you are inclined, shall we Lady Beatrix?”

  Suddenly, she felt furious. How dare Captain Duke mock her and possibly ruin her chance? It wasn’t as if he wished to marry in any case. Not that he’d do, anyway.

  So, she cocked a brow at Captain Duke and thrust her cane at him. “Hold this, if you please.”

  His brow creased, clearly flabbergasted, but he took the cane.

  A riot of mixed emotions flooded her, but she accepted Ellesmere’s hand and turned her back on the man who made her feel like such a different person whenever he was present. She couldn’t look back. She could not.

  No, now she could only look ahead.

  *

  The goodwill that had lifted Adam’s spirits did an abrupt escape as he gawped after Beatrix and Ellesmere. He gripped her cane. Years ago, he might have cracked it down over the table laden with a punch bowl large enough for several small children to frolic.

  “You seem put out, Captain,” the Duchess of Aston said, bemused.

  He ground his teeth together.

  Bloody Ellesmere. Why did it have to be someone he knew? Why him? A good man.

  Beatrix held Ellesmere’s strong arm rather tightly as they ventured onto the floor.

  If the bloody earl dropped her, Adam was going to kill him.

  If he married her, Adam might have to kill him, too.

  “Captain?” the duchess ventured, sotto voce. “Please do not suffer an apoplexy. Strong and capable as they are, I’d hate to have to ask one of my footmen to drag you off the polished floor.”

  He snorted.

  The duchess stood beside him, her red head cocked to the side, eyes dancing.

  She was as bad as her husband which, of course, meant that she was exceptionally intelligent with a wicked sense of humor. Just as Aston had said, interesting women were the devil.

  Well, that wasn’t exactly true. Interesting women were a thing beyond compare. And wasn’t there the rub? One couldn’t simply forget an int
eresting woman. Oh no. She lingered. Taunting one from afar.

  “I’m not about to suffer a fit, if that is your concern,” he said through tightly-gritted teeth.

  “Do you also promise not to start up a session of fisticuffs?” she petitioned prettily. “Entertaining as it might be, mine is not that sort of establishment.”

  His spirits, but not his misplaced outrage, sank. “Is it that obvious?”

  A look of pure sympathy softened her elfin face. “I fear for Lady Beatrix’s cane. It looks as if you’re about to snap it in half, mon.”

  “Ellesmere wants to marry,” he said abruptly.

  “Isn’t that lovely.”

  “It is not,” he snarled, trying to keep Beatrix in sight as the couple made their way about the dance floor.

  “You think Lady Beatrix wishes to marry him?” The duchess waved her fan slowly, clearly attempting to give an air that he wasn’t a potential volcano about to explode all over her gilded domicile. “It would explain why she was specific when I asked her if she’d like to dance.”

  “And she said yes?” he queried, his heart sinking further.

  “Indeed.”

  “She hates dancing.”

  “Does she?”

  “Or she did.” He ought to punch himself. It was he, after all, who had showed her she could dance still. Bloody hell, he should be glad she was embracing it, but he could not find it in himself.

  “Ellesmere is an excellent match for any lady,” the duchess said brightly, all the while waving her painted fan.

  “Wife,” the Duke of Aston proclaimed as he sauntered up beside them. “I hunger for a dance.”

  “I am concerned for the health of your guest,” she whispered dramatically. “And my floors. I’m certain he plans mayhem.”

  “Captain Duke?” Aston toshed. “Mild as a lamb. Aren’t you, Duke?”

  “In wolves’ clothing,” piped the duchess.

  “He’s spotted his lady love,” Aston said. “Only thing which could make a man look like that. Whose arms is she in?”

  “Ellesmere,” he ground out, wishing that both the duke and duchess would hie off for parts unknown or, at the very least, the dance floor.

  “Oh, Duke. You’re in for it.” Aston chortled. “Splendid chap. Absolutely charming.”