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

by Eva Devon

  “I take that as the highest compliment, Cordy.” Duncan inclined his head, a surprisingly kind look softening his face.

  Imogen found herself surprised. Kindness hadn’t been one of the immediate attributes she would have thought part of Blackburn’s character. Gruffness? Certainly. But it seemed that he couldn’t keep a kind smile from his lips in the presence of a pregnant lady. For some reason, the thought made her heart swell.

  “I knew you would,” Cordelia said simply. “Are the stones large? How big is the circle? I have heard there are varying sizes. Is it as big as the stones at at Stonehenge?”

  Duncan’s countenance filled with pride and what seemed to be wonder of his ancestors. “It is quite large. Very different than Stonehenge. In fact, I think it far more dramatic. And. . . I often wonder, what it was for.”

  A contended sigh escaped Cordelia’s lips. “Ah. Well, some say druid sacrifice, but I have a feeling the stones are older.”

  “There certainly is a power to them,” Duncan agreed gazing out to the sea in the distance. “One wonders if there is some magic key.”

  “Magic?” Cordy shook her head, laughing. “Science!”

  “So skeptical, Cordy?” Duncan challenged. “You’ll find we Scots take the old ones and the wee folk very seriously. Perhaps, on the right day, with the right moon, the stones might reveal their purpose. Perhaps you will find yourself spinning through time, lost to the ancients you find so fascinating.”

  Imogen couldn’t stop her heart from beating with intense admiration for the man. Underneath all his proper exterior, Duncan was a romantic. An absolute romantic who secretly believed in magic stones and perhaps even the wee people too.

  “In my experience, I find that every thing will eventually be explained by science. . .”

  “Your grace,” Duncan said gently, “Who is not to say that the wonders of the universe have all been revealed to us? Surely, there are things beyond our ken. At present, at least.”

  Cordy snapped her mouth shot, stared at him quite seriously then nodded. “My goodness. You’re quite intelligent for an aristocrat.”

  At that, they all erupted with laughter, except Cordy who blinked and looked about. “What? What did I say?”

  Hunt pressed a kiss to her temple. “Oh my darling, something which only you would say and that is one of the reasons I am so desperately in love with you.”

  Cordy blushed. “Well, then. I’m quite pleased I said it.”

  “As am I, Cordy,” Duncan agreed. “I have little use for aristocrats myself.”

  “Oh dear!” Cordy exclaimed, clapping a hand to her forehead. “I meant no insult to Your Grace. You’re a fine host. I often speak my mind too quickly.”

  Imogen rushed forward and gave Cordelia a hug. “We adore you for it.”

  Kate nodded and joined the hug. “Indeed. You were a breath of fresh air when you came to claim your husband last year.”

  “Indeed, I was quite certain Hunt was in for a bad end before you came along” Darkwell added.

  Aston threw his hands up in the air. “The mutual admiration is such that I must join the embrace.”

  “Do so and you’re a dead man,” Hunt gritted.

  Aston chortled. “Better to have lived fully than to—”

  Darkwell grabbed his shoulder. “We like you, Aston, but not that much.”

  Imogen held her friends tightly, their round bellies making it so her arms were outstretched to the utmost. She smiled and though her heart was full of joy for them, she found herself longing. She didn’t allow herself to think of the baby she’d and so long ago and lost often. Now, it was impossible not to miss her and it was impossible not to long for her own belly to be full again. Was it too much to wish for to have a babe in her arms and a man to stare at her with the same sort of admiration that their husbands did. For one brief moment, she allowed herself to glimpse at Duncan. Could he? Could they? It was the silliest thought, and yet it felt so right. She’d played the adventurous widow long enough. But would such a man as he ever want such woman as she? He turned, their eyes locking.

  And to her utter surprise. He smiled. A slow smile, as if he was amazed at the experience of the day and how much he enjoyed it. Carefully, he mouthed two words, thank you.

  In that moment, she knew one thing. He had been just as lonely as she. So, her heart alight with a most shocking hope, she mouthed in return, you’re welcome Duncan.

  It was the first secret exchange between them. She prayed it wasn’t the last. It wouldn’t be if she had anything to do with it.

  Chapter 7

  Duncan had never thought of himself as particularly skittish. All his life, he’d climbed the bens and explored every glen on his massive estate in all weather. And highland weather was nothing to be laughed at in its variance. And if that didn’t convince him of his own fortitude, then there was the fact he was damned good with a pistol and a rapier, having fought many a duel in France before he’d become Blackburn, and if pressed, his fists were marvelous, hammer like weapons. But these three English lasses, two of them clearly full with bairn, had his heart leaping into his mouth like an old woman’s every other moment.

  Thank god the day was a mild one.

  Still! Had they no sense? Did their husbands not ken their precious cargo? He’d seen the love between the couples. Aye. He’d witnessed the adoring looks that no doubt symbolized the loving actions which had got the lasses with bairn in the first place. So, why devil take it, was he the only one who seemed to have to bite his tongue and not demand the wee lasses stop prancing over rocks and streams like sure footed ponies.

  In truth, he was a breadth away from ordering them all back and safe but realized he’d sound like an absolute nanny goat.

  Cordelia, who he much admired despite her recklessness, was hopping about the large Pictish, carved stones like a death defying mountain sheep and the Duchess of Darkwell and Lady Cavendish were smiling at her, chattering away, making notes, and in general moving over the uneven earth as if it were as safe as an Edinburgh ballroom.

  “You’re clearly not married, are you Blackburn?” The Duke of Darkwell observed, as he leaned against one of the leafless oaks towering above the ancient stones. The arrogant Englishman lit a cheroot. Slightly blue smoke wafted up to the naked, gnarled branches.

  Duncan folded his hands behind his back, determined to continue to be pleasant to the pack of English guests. “That I’m not. But what makes you say it?”

  “Oh, the look of terror on you face, old fellow,” proclaimed the Duke of Hunt who strode up to Darkwell, gloved hand out. “Give one over, Darkwell.”

  “You’ve got your own,” Darkwell replied, arching a black, supercilious brow.

  Hunt grabbed at Darkwell’s pockets, patting heavily. “I’ve run out, so give one over.”

  “The devil you say,” Darkwell said, batting at Hunt’s hands. “How’d you smoke them all? Turn chimney?”

  “They’re the only way to keep my nerves in a reasonable state,” Hunt said, clearly not flummoxed by Darkwell’s resistance. In a quick jab, he grabbed at his fellow dukes’ cloak. “Just look at her, leaping about like that.”

  Darkwell brushed him off. “Keep your paws off. My man just got clean this morning. And my wife has been following your wife into the breach like one of Henry V’s archers. So, I bloody well need this,” he twirled his cheroot, “more than you.”

  Duncan stared at the two dukes who gave off the decided air of irritation at each other, and barely controlled worry over their women. Up until moments ago, they’d both oozed perfect calm in regards to their wives all morning. He then glanced at the cavorting ladies. “You’re concerned about them?”

  “We know you’re a Scotsman, Blackburn, but that shouldn’t make you a total dolt,” Hunt drawled.

  Ignoring the jibe since they were his guests and one had to keep up Highland hospitality even if it felt like rubbing salt on a wound, he pointed out, “You don’t seem at all bothered.”

&nbs
p; “Never let them see you blink, old man,” Darkwell said before handing Hunt a cheroot lit from his own.

  “They’re your wives,” Duncan said flatly, eyeing the cheroots with a measure of longing but he’d given them up when he’d left France.

  “And?” prompted Hunt with a measure of impatience.

  “Just tell them to stop,” he said simply, stating what seemed absolutely obvious to him.

  Hunt and Darkwell stared at him for a long moment, both of their gazes wide, cheroots midair. Then great guffaws of laughter erupted from them. Hunt grabbed onto Darkwell, coughing he laughed so hard.

  Darkwell threw his head back, chortling. “Oh. That’s good.” He looked at Hunt. “Just tell them.”

  Hunt snorted then started coughing again until he was breathless. “I had no idea you were such a fool, Blackburn.”

  Duncan bristled. What the devil had he said that warranted such amusement?

  Hunt held up a hand. “Take no offense but. . .”

  Darkwell took another look at Hunt, then they looked at their wives, and off they were bellowing with laughter.

  Aston strolled up, bottle in hand. “What have I missed?”

  “I’ve no idea, but I fear they’re candidates for Bedlam,” Duncan said tightly, not caring for the turn of events at all. Once. . . Once, years ago, he’d been like them. Laughing. Making jokes. Smoking, drinking, making merry as they put it. But he’d let that go. Unlike them, he took being a duke very seriously and well, it positively rankled for them to be laughing at him now.

  Hunt sucked in a breath. “Old fellow, you’ve got it wrong. You’re the candidate.”

  “I don’t see how,” he replied, his good humor dimming. It had been a relatively pleasant morning. But of course it couldn’t last. They were English after all.

  “What’s the Scotsman said now?” Aston asked, grinning. “Another gem, no doubt.”

  “He said. . .” Darkwell began to laugh, a dry bemused laugh. “He said. . . We should just tell our wives what to do.”

  Aston stared at Duncan, much like the other two inbred sots had done, his lips twitching. “You didn’t?”

  “What, damn it?” he exclaimed finally. “Husbands are supposed to tell their wives what to do. The law and God command it.”

  “I’d like to see the law and god go toe to toe with my wife,” Hunt quipped, giving the heavens a quick glance as if God might be eaves dropping on their conversation. “Oh, wait, I’ve seen it. They both lost in colossal fashion.”

  “God?” echoed Duncan, dumbfounded by the sudden odd jump of the conversation.

  “You see, Cordelia doesn’t worship god, old man.” Hunt gave a glance so full of love and admiration in his wife’s direction that Duncan nearly squirmed.

  “I don’t follow,” Duncan said tightly.

  Hunt’s whole damn face transformed into that of a man entirely besotted as he stared at his wife. “She worships rocks,” he said reverently.

  Duncan blinked with shock, having been raised on hell fire Scottish kirk preachers (not that he’d always followed their dictates). “Surely that’s blasphemy.”

  “Isn’t is glorious?” Hunt said, beaming now as he studied Cordelia who was nose to stone with the Pictish rock.

  “You actually are mad,” Duncan managed.

  Aston laughed, slinging his arm around Duncan’s shoulder. “Aye, mate. They are. Mad in love. Thank god you and I still have our wits about us. Its a dangerous road they’re on. Its all staying in, behaving, being a goody goody. . .Oh wait, you do that already don’t you Blackburn. Why aren’t you married again?”

  He opened his mouth ready to point out the importance of choosing a proper mate then stopped himself. What would he say? What could he say to these men? He might not understand them but there was one thing that couldn’t be denied. They loved their wives and their wives loved them. “Because I have yet to find a perfect partner as they have done,” he said simply.

  Darkwell and Hunt grinned.

  “And you’ll search to the seas run dry, mate. They’ve got the only two women worth having,” Aston bemoaned, hanging his head.

  “We have,” agreed Hunt.

  “It’s true,” put in Darkwell. “Though Imogen would make a marvelous duchess if she would settle down.”

  “That one?” Aston queried, arching a russet brow. “The stars will fall from the heaven first.”

  Duncan ground his teeth together. How the devil had Imogen entered their discourse? Frankly her name on Aston’s lips made him wish to punch the arrogant ponce. Again.

  Hunt wagged his brows. “Oho! I do think our good duke fancies our merry widow.”

  Duncan forced a careless expression to his face. How in god’s name had he looked for Hunt to say such a thing. “She’s quite attractive, of course.”

  “You really know how to admire the ladies,” Darkwell said.

  “In Scotland,” he said. “It is not necessary to inundate a woman with admiration.”

  “No,” Hunt said. “In Scotland, you just brain them and drag them home to your castle is that it?”

  For one intense moment, Duncan very nearly pounded his fist into Hunt’s mouth. But he was above such things now. Perhaps in his youth. Perhaps when he’d been a damned heathen in Paris when Versailles was at its’ height of glory. But not now. Now, he was in control. “In my experience, the more compliments one gives a woman the less one means what one says.”

  Darkwell snorted. “And yet, the more compliments you give old boy, the easier the lady acquiesces.”

  “I thought you were happily married,” Duncan said, strangely displeased that the man would say such a thing given his martial bliss.

  “I am,” Darkwell said lightly. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t remember what occurred in bed sport.”

  “What sport?” Kate said, suddenly just a few feet away.

  Darkwell smiled then pulled Kate to him. “We are discussing what a dastardly fellow I was before I met you.”

  “Oh dear! Have you hours, Blackburn?” Kate asked, batting her dark lashes, all the while lovingly caressing her belly. “That’s how long it would take to hear his sins. Possibly days.”

  It was impossible to do anything but acquiesce. “I see, good lady, that you have tamed him just enough to keep him as your pet.”

  Hunt and Aston snickered.

  “Pets?” Cordelia asked, waddling quite efficiently to the small grouping.

  “Yes,” Duncan said. “Kate’s husband.”

  “Oh! The domestication of the male species. Not for the feint of heart if you ask me.” Cordelia leaned up on her toes and planted a kiss on her husband’s cheek. “But well worth it. Now. . . That stone. I think I should do a rubbing. I brought the necessary—”

  “I say, are we going to eat any time soon?” Imogen asked, slinging one of the baskets the servants had brought along on her arm. “I’m positively ravenous.”

  Easily, Duncan slipped the basket from her grasp. “Whatever the lady requires.”

  Darkwell raised his brows knowingly. Duncan glared. Perhaps he was attracted to Imogen. But he was not going down that path. No, he was destined for a nice Scottish lass. A daughter of a laird who had never tread from the proper path and never would. Lady Imogen Cavendish was a lovely lass. But she wasna the lass for him.

  Chapter 8

  Imogen popped the warm scone covered with butter and jam into her mouth and sighed with pleasure. If it was possible, the Duke of Blackburn’s cook was better than hers. The food items had been kept delightfully warm by the ingenious hotboxes brought by Blackburn’s two servants. She couldn’t wait to taste the hot wine steaming in her cup.

  The weather was chill, but cold weather had never stopped a Scot or Englishman from his outdoor pursuits. Why, she was fairly certainly they would have even come out if snow had been falling.

  She licked the jam from her fingers then stopped, leaving her hand mid air and her lips parted.

  The Duke of Blackburn sat on t
he wool blanket directly across from her, his bright gaze trained on her every move. Slowly, she lowered her hand to her lap and snatched up a linen napkin. “Terrible manners. I do beg your pardon.”

  “You certainly enjoy food, don’t you.”

  She peered at him. “Is that an insult?”

  “Certainly not,” he replied, his countenance surprisingly relaxed given the disdain that had darkened his gaze when she’d come upon him with Darkwell, Hunt, and Aston.

  “Most women I know barely eat in front of men,” he continued, popping a bite of scone into his mouth, managing not to spill a crumb. “Something I know to be an affectation rather than a truism to ladies’ appetites.”

  She studied him, frustrated and fascinated that she couldn’t quite draw a clear picture of him. On the surface he seemed so unapproachable, so stiff, so unkind, but she’d seen beneath that mask he wore and longed to find more.

  It was also incredibly annoying that he could eat so fastidiously. Crumbs were scatted about her. Everything he did seemed to be so ordered.

  “Do you truly think that about ladies,” she asked.

  “Yes.” He took a careful swallow of wine then put the cup down.

  She adjusted her skirts over the tartan wool blanket and faced him more squarely. “Would you say that goes for all women’s appetites in front of men.”

  He shook his head, his dark hair caressing his brow. “I don’t follow.”

  “Well, for instance.” She took a deep gulp of wine and nearly swooned when the delicious taste of cinnamon, orange, and nutmeg burst on her tongue. “Do you think a lady might deny her appetite for reading lest a man think her a bluestocking?”

  “Certainly,” he said tersely. “Sad though it may be.”

  “Sad?” she piped, stunned and simultaneously delighted, despite his blunt tone.

  “I do not care for silly women,” He arched a disdainful brow as if the very thought of silly woman made him slightly ill. “Though I know many men do. Even in France the women may look like frothy flowers, but they are quite educated. It’s ridiculous to think that women’s intellects are somehow inferior to mens’.”