Wish Upon A Duke (The Dukes' Club Book 3)

by Eva Devon

  Duncan groaned.

  “Are you unwell, Your Grace?” Angus asked, his face furrowing with concern.

  Aston threw back his head and laughed. “He’s hungry, Alistair.”

  “Hungry?” the barkeep repeated.

  Duncan clamped his mouth shut, not caring at all for the way events had turned this day.

  Aston leaned forward, lifted his tankard and asked in hushed tones, “I don’t suppose the pub serves humble pie?”

  “Stuff it, Aston, or I’ll be yanking out your liver.” Duncan gritted.

  “Ah. Now that’s more like it. No man should be as proper as you all the time. You see, the ale is doing you good.”

  Duncan grabbed the tankard, downed it, and stood. “Its been most illuminating.”

  “You’ll not stay away so long again, Your Grace?” asked Angus, his rough voice surprisingly hesitant.

  Duncan softened. “It’s remiss I’ve been in not paying you my respects. Shall we say you and I shall share a glass once a week?”

  “Once a week, Your Grace? Why, that. . . That. . . Yes, Your Grace. I’d be over the moon and so will my wife. The honor will have her fair to bursting with pride.”

  Duncan nodded. “Good. Thank you for the conversation and your honesty.”

  Angus bowed his head. “You’re a fine duke, Your Grace. And I hope you’re not offended. But I’m proud to know you.”

  Offering the older man a smile, Duncan held out his hand. “And I’m honored to call you friend.”

  With that, he headed out into the darkening early evening, his insides a riot of confusion. He was going to have to apologize. Apologizing meant seeing her again. And seeing her again meant being physically close to her.

  Now, how the devil was he going to survive that?

  Chapter 4

  Each of the three days since he’d been ambushed by the Duke of Aston in the sea loch had been worse than the last. He’d gone from tenant to tenant in the village and asked about his neighbor, something which had never occurred to him before. Not when he had his factotum to rely upon. The gushing praise for the sassenach had only increased with each cup of tea or small dram that he had shared in the small parlors. In fact, it seemed the dratted woman had risen so far above the usual dislike of the English that many of the villagers had taken to calling her our wee English lassie. Something that said wee English lass had apparently found delightful, thus its continued use in the place of Lady Cavendish.

  Old Gregor had apparently been the first to use the appellation when Lady Cavendish had nursed the old man’s dog back to health after a cut paw.

  Duncan didn’t know what to make of it. He’d been rude to her. Rude beyond measure. Was she a scandalous lass? There was no question. Even the villagers admitted she threw wild parties where the whisky and wine flowed, but sure wasn’t she young and pretty and goodhearted? That seemed to be the response of everyone he met. Lady Cavendish had such a kind heart and pretty smile that she could have rode her horse naked through the village like Lady Godiva and his people would have smiled and merely clucked their tongues at the “wee lamb’s” eccentricities.

  Duncan had suspicions that the wee lamb or lassie or whatever his tenants wished to call her was far more scandalous than any of them could ever imagine. . . But there was one thing he couldn’t escape. He was in the wrong. . . No matter how he tried to focus on her behavior, he couldn’t ignore his own.

  Lady Cavendish’ guests were not allowed to shoot. This had slipped from the lips of almost every person with a boy of proper years to go up and beat birds on an estate. The wee lassie couldn’t bear to see the birds killed for a moment’s pleasure. . . And so she’d shared her coin in other ways.

  Which meant only one thing. His factotum had lied through his slightly yellowed teeth. Duncan sighed, stared at the tall red door of Lady Cavendish’s abode and tried not to feel like a fractious lad forced to wash behind his ears. He loathed being wrong almost as much as he loathed sassenachs.

  He raised his hand to knock, but before he could, the door swung open and the air whooshed out of his lungs.

  Instead of some serious butler, there stood the wee lassie herself. Blond hair tumbled freely over her scarlet shawl covered shoulders. A winning smile tilted her lips and it seemed as if her eyes were dancing. Dancing with amusement. She held the door open wide. “At last, Your Grace! I’m delighted you’d do me the honor with a visit.”

  He shifted on his feet, unable to force a smile as he searched for words. “Yes. . . Well. . .”

  God, she was beautiful. Everything about her. And she was so damned effusively happy. How the devil’s sake did a person achieve such delight? Surely, a wicked woman wouldn’t glow with such glee? Would she? It certainly went against everything he’d been led to believe.

  “Are you going to stand on my doorstep all early evening? It is a fine doorstep, if I do say so myself, but the inside is finer. . . And I can give you something more decadent beyond words if you can come in?”

  His chest tightened and he felt a sudden heat, despite the biting cold outside. Decadent beyond words? Despite himself his gaze fell to her breasts. Perfect, round, beautiful breasts that pressed at the scooped neck of her cream colored gown. Her crimson shawl was draped in such a way that the pale, curved tops, peeped free, as if teasing any who might look upon them, daring a person to touch.

  And he wished to. Oh, how he did. In fact, he longed to trail his lips over their beautiful, pale surface.

  “Your Grace?” she prompted.

  “Humph. Yes?”

  She laughed. “Still Humphing I see. Come along then.”

  As she turned and headed into the hall, his gaze was then treated to a fairly stunning view of her sashaying backside, draped in the soft folds of her pale frock.

  She glanced back over her shoulder. “Do hurry, Your Grace. You’re letting the cold in.”

  She spoke to him so easily, as if they’d known each other all their lives. No one spoke to him like that. Not even when he’d been a child. Everyone had treated him with deference, respect, and well a bit of distance. It made no sense. He’d been unpleasant their first meeting. Why was she being so bloody nice? Perhaps things having to do with the English woman did not need sense.

  She led him into a small, surprisingly cozy room. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but not the plush sofa and chairs, crackling fire, and cases and cases of books. The tall window overlooked the loch.

  Suddenly, a horrible thought occurred to him as he stared at those clear, glass panes.

  “I swim in the loch,” he stated bluntly.

  Her blonde brow quirked. “Oh, yes. I know.”

  A strangled noise came from his throat. “You’ve heard?”

  A devilish light sparkled in her eyes. “I’ve seen.”

  How many times had he done that? Swam into her part of the loch without thinking? He groaned.

  “You’re quite the accomplished swimmer.”

  He gave a tight nod. If she started to compliment his limbs again, he was leaving.

  “And you must have the countenance of a merman to survive the cold.”

  He cleared his throat, and glanced to the beautifully tended fire, then the large chandelier over head. Where should he look? Anywhere but at her. At least, she wouldn’t have been able to get a good look at him. Would she? No. Just an arm perhaps. “One of your other guests also must be a sea creature then, given his tolerance for the weather.”

  “The Duke of Aston?” she queried. “You’ve seen him swimming too?”

  He nodded, not about to add that the damned Englishman had ruined a perfectly fine bit of exercise and righteous indignation in their encounter.

  “Oh, Aston is quite the character. The man is mad as loon, a retired pirate if you must know, but he’s quite good fun.”

  A retired pirate? In his experience the English were a bunch of braying mules incapable of discussing more than dogs and the weather. Was Lady Cavendish and all her guests so odd? An
d had she truly called that arrogant tosser, Aston, good fun? What kind of fun did that bastard give her? Duncan clenched his jaw, stunned. That sudden anger he felt? There was only one thing it could be. Jealousy. Deep, irrational jealousy. Why the devil should he feel such a thing for a woman he barely knew?

  “Would you like a drink?” she asked.

  He shook his head. He was not about to start back down the slippery slope of merriment. No. In her carelessly seductive presence, he needed every ounce of resolve he possessed, “I’ve come with a specific purpose.”

  “Ah.” She nodded but still headed to the round table bearing a grog tray near the fire. “Do you mind if I imbibe? Its a bit chilly, even with the fire, and a whisky does the most marvelous things to ones’ insides.”

  “You drink whiskey?” he asked, his voice tinged with far more astonishment that he’d intended. Devil take it, did they all drink the stuff?

  “Indeed.” Her slender fingers wound their way around the throat of the beautifully cut crystal decanter. “From your distillery down the glen, no less.”

  A glass of whisky might not be remiss, he considered, his resolve already wavering. In truth, what harm could the drink of his people do him? It might be the only way he got through this meeting. He mouth certainly was resistant to the words he’d come to utter. “I suppose it would be rude of me to let you drink alone.”

  That damned cheeky grin of hers returned. “Oh yes,” she agreed. “And he we can’t have you being rude.”

  Duncan arched a brow. “Are you mocking me?”

  She licked her lips, the lower one now glistening in the fire light. She poured out two glasses then gave him a small salute. “I must confess to it.”

  As she reached out, offering him the other glass, he said flatly. “People don’t.”

  Her fingers brushed his ever so slightly before she asked lightly, “What?”

  His mind seemed to blank at just the mere touch of her soft hand against his much larger and rougher one. When was the last time he’d felt the touch of a woman? Besides the other day when her glorious form had been plastered against his? The soft curves of her breasts would no doubt fit the palm of his hand—

  “Your Grace,” she queried.

  What was he saying? He cleared his throat. Oh. Yes. “They don’t mock me.”

  “In truth I think I was teasing you,” she said gently. “I would never be so cruel as to mock you.”

  Semantics. Surely she understood the power of dukes? “People don’t tease me either.”

  She tsked. “How sad. A good teasing is marvelous medicine.”

  He imagined that being teased by her on a daily basis would be quite the tonic. But he’d never been one for medicine. No. He did just fine on his own. Truly. “Now, I’ve come to apologize,” he said bluntly, desperate to get it over with.

  He gripped his glass tightly. If he focused his attention on the cup in hand, well then, she couldn’t distract him with her copious charm.

  She gave a small nod, mirroring his sudden seriousness. “Have you? Do go on then.”

  That seriousness of hers didn’t quite seem genuine. “Madam, can you take nothing soberly?”

  She laughed again and tossed her head, golden curls dancing. “No. Have a sip of whisky, Your Grace. It will do you wonders.”

  Why was everyone of these sasssenachs insisting a drink would do him good? Still, he lifted the glass and to his own surprise, downed it in one. The burn felt perfect and he had the foreign desire to ask for another. To feel the burn again. Because that burn countered the desire that was coursing through his veins.

  She unsettled him. That’s all there was to this. The sooner he did what he’d come for, the sooner he could be out of her disturbing presence. Aye. That’s what he wanted. Not her. Never her.

  She lifted her chin, glancing through her lashes. “Am I that bad?”

  “Devil take it lass,” he rasped, barely able to tamp down the fire growing inside him that her every look seemed to flame. “Can you not laugh for one moment?”

  She cleared her throat and seemed to fight her smile. “I shall endeavor for a moment’s solemnity whilst you apologize.”

  “Humph. . .” Duncan couldn’t quite stop himself in time. He was being an arse. But she put him on edge and in a lustful need in a way he couldn’t recall.

  “I was wrong,” he bit out.

  “About?” she asked, batting her lashes with exaggerated innocence.

  “It wasna your guests that were shooting birds on my land.” Each word came out begrudgingly. But he’d done it. It was more infuriating that the recently reappearing brogue, so long gone from his speech, had slipped back into his words at his jumbled senses. Senses that were off kilter because of her.

  “No!” she gasped.

  “Stop that!” he commanded.

  “Stop what?” she asked.

  “Mocking me”

  She laughed. “Teasing you, Your Grace. You’re so serious, I can’t seem to help myself.”

  “And how else should a duke be?” he challenged. It struck him as particularly ludicrous that a wee English woman should come up to his lands and proclaim him too serious. Did she not know the plight of the Scottish people? No. Of course she dinna. She might take an interest in the village, but that dinna mean she understood the deep wounds his land had felt in the last century.

  She raised her drink and took a sip, her pink tongue lightly swept over her lower lip as though she didn’t wish to miss a drop of the delectable nectar. “Well, I know three rather well and all three of them put together aren’t as serious as you.”

  “Aston is little better than a court jester, and if he’s your example of a duke, you might as well present a dancing monkey” he intoned then nearly kicked himself. H sounded like an old parson. Truth be told, despite himself, he’d liked the arrogant English duke who’d carried no airs and been quite blunt about Lady Cavendish’s innocence.

  Her face softened. “It is acceptable to enjoy yourself every now again, Your Grace.”

  “You seem to do nothing but enjoy yourself,” he scoffed, then ground his teeth. How did he explain that once, he’d been free and cavalier. His entire youth in Paris had been one spree after another. It had been his father’s merry making that had shown him that a spree could sink one’s entire life into hell.

  Still, each time. Each bloody time he opened his gob. He managed to say something that made him sound an utter arse. And he wasn’t. He wasn’t an arse. Or at least, so he’d believed for some time. Perhaps no one had done the kindness of pointing it out to him until Lady Cavendish and her guests due to his status in these parts.

  She nodded, those gold curls of hers brushing along her pale neck. “I’m quite happy, you know.”

  He scowled.

  And that was it.

  Finally he could do nothing else but let out a deep laugh. A laugh so deep in nearly curled his toes. “I don’t know how you do it, but you seem to put me at my wits’ end every time I see you.”

  “It is the job of a woman, Your Grace.”

  He shook his head, not letting her deny the compliment. “I know many women, and none have affected me thus.”

  “I thank you then.” She gave a small curtsy. “I must admit, I find you to be one of kind as well.”

  Suddenly, the air, though chill with the setting in of a highland winter’s eve, turned hot. His hand tightened about his empty glass lest he allow himself to fantasize about caressing her soft cheek, cupping her chin, then tilting her head back to take his hungry kiss. For he was a man ravenous, having starved himself for ages, standing now before a beauteous feast.

  “Am I indeed?” he asked, his voice rough, even to his own ears.

  “You are,” she said softly, her eyes sparking in the firelight. “I had my suspicions from what every one said, that you were different. But from the moment you ran into me and tumbled me to the ground. . . I knew. There is not another man on this earth like you.”

  Tumbled.
Ah, that word. If only he had tumbled her in truth. To feel those pale thighs against his hands, to curve his hips against hers? What better paradise could there be?

  The voice of reason usually so loud in his head, whispered against his wild thoughts that he was on dangerous ground. But something about Lady Cavendish made him not give a fig for his previous restraint. He had a distinct feeling that like a man who’d avoided the bottle for years, only to be surprised by a freshly poured cup, that he was going to drown in his vice.

  As she said, perhaps it was alright to have a good time every now and then. He was the duke after all. Who, if not he, could be allowed one dalliance. Just one? Couldn’t he? One wouldn’t break everything he had built with just one secret affair?

  That winning smile of hers, as if she carried all the hopes and answers to all the pains he’d ever known, pushed him over the brink. He had to have Imogen Cavendish, come ruin or no.

  Chapter 5

  Imogen sensed the abrupt shift in his demeanor. He wanted to kiss her! It was there in his cobalt eyes. Those orbs had changed from determined, at wit’s end as he claimed, to smoldering with desire. My god, she’d never seen such eyes. Eyes so blue that they could cut through to her very soul. For the first time in years, she suddenly found that she might just wish fairy tales were true. But she’d learned that young girls often married old men rather than handsome knights, and as much as she might wish it, this duke would more likely prove a frog than a prince. But she couldn’t stop the sudden fluttering of (Yes!) her heart!

  It was most disconcerting. For she’d learned that pleasure could easily be had with out love. The years since her marriage had proved it time and again and she’d enjoyed every moment without a second thought. But under the duke’s hot gaze and rather arrogant air, she felt vulnerability she hadn’t felt since. . . Well, since before her wedding as a naive, hopeful young girl. It was the most delicious and frightening of feelings.