The Duke's Captive

by Adele Ashworth

  And she had done exactly as he’d planned. She probably would have left that night had he simply confronted her. By setting up such an elaborate ruse, he’d drawn her further into his web, making it harder, or more complicated, for her to leave. And the only reason he could possibly want that would be to draw out a lengthy ruin.

  Oh, yes. He’d organized meticulously, though the nature of his scheme still remained a mystery.

  “So why tonight? Why am I here now?” she asked, feeling bold despite his commanding form. “I can’t imagine that you simply want to chat about the wrongs my family did you over a lingering dinner and a bottle of fine wine.”

  For a long moment he did nothing but stare into her eyes, his jaw fixed, tension radiating from his body like a tiger posed to strike. Then, without any hint of propriety, he glanced down to her breasts, enhanced by her low-cut gown and a tightly strung corset, and the heat she suddenly felt from him made her nearly swoon. Instinctively, she raised a gloved palm and covered her cleavage from his view.

  He chuckled at her vain attempt at decency, then stepped away from her and walked to the window, shoving his hands into the pockets of his dinner jacket as he peered out to a looming, deep green twilight. She just watched him, unable to move, barely able to breathe.

  “I find it remarkable,” he finally revealed, “and a perplexing stroke of irony, that the only woman I’ve been attracted to in ages is the one person in all the world I should despise on principle.”

  She didn’t know how to take that at first. Her heart fluttered from his honest disclosure, but reservation grounded her in her own determination, and so she remained unwilling to divulge anything about her feelings or thoughts without careful consideration. And she certainly wasn’t going to admit how much the inexplicable, alluring force between them bothered her, too, and always had.

  Trying to be rational, she said, “I suppose it would be a good idea to discuss what happened five years ago.”

  He exhaled fully and looked at his polished shoes. “Even if that were true, and we discussed every aspect of the cruelties done to me, it would never be enough to right the wrongs.”

  “Is that why I’m here? To help you right the wrongs?”

  He said nothing to that. After a long moment, she clasped her hands in front of her, shoulders stiff, legs trembling beneath her skirts, and asked bravely, “How much do you remember?”

  He glanced at her askance, eyes narrowed. “I believe, madam, that I remember the important things.”

  She swallowed. “Then you must remember how much I did for you—”

  “How much you did for me?” he cut in, incredulous, standing fully erect and turning to face her squarely. “You left me there to die, Viola.”

  Her heart tightened with anguish. “I helped them rescue you.”

  “You did?” His brows rose. “And how exactly did you do that?”

  Raising her chin a fraction, she replied, “I left the key—”

  “You did nothing.”

  His dark, whispered words expressed a cold detachment rather than hot rage, and she took a step back, baffled by his demeanor, and more than a little alarmed.

  “You knew I was there and did nothing,” he continued, his tone low, expression grim. “You protected your despicable family by allowing me to suffer in chains and darkness for five long weeks while they blackmailed my sister into trading me for diamonds. That is what you did, Viola. And you are as culpable as they are.”

  “If that is what you think,” she remarked bravely, voice shaking, “then you don’t remember much at all.”

  His nostrils flared; his jaw tightened. “I remember being abused, starved, and drugged. I remember being teased and humiliated while I lay helpless on a cold cot. I remember nearly dying.”

  “Do you remember that I nursed you? Comforted you? Talked to you?”

  The tiniest flicker of hesitation crossed his features. Or perhaps disbelief. And then it disappeared, masked by ruthless calculation.

  “What I know, Viola, is that you escaped justice for allowing the torment to continue when you could—should—have had me rescued. And that’s all that matters now.”

  At last he said it, admitting the reason he’d hunted her down after all these years.

  Tense, she asserted, “Everyone involved has been punished—”

  “Except for you.”

  She shook her head bitterly. “Oh, sir, I have been punished more than you know.”

  “Don’t mock me, Viola,” he murmured with disgust. “Your life since leaving Winter Garden has been a fairy tale for which any country miss with a tarnished past would disown her family to savor. You are a lady now, a wealthy lady at that, and have fashioned a new and marvelous life for yourself. I, madam, am the one who suffered, and suffers still.”

  Suffers still . . .

  The hurt he exuded coiled around her like a snake, suffocating and painful, tightening its grip on her emotions even as she fought to come up with an explanation of her motives all those years ago. But clearly she couldn’t argue with him now, and he obviously didn’t want to hear details as she remembered them, even the ones she thought were valid. If she told him anything more, tried to describe from her perspective all that had occurred, he certainly wouldn’t believe her, at least not now, and might instead try to use her words against her.

  “So now you want me to suffer, is that it?” she asked softly.

  For several long moments he watched her intently, his head tipped to the side, hands still in his pockets, his beautiful face partially hidden by the plants at the window as dusk deepened to nightfall. She waited, expecting nothing, uncertain and afraid, desperate to tell him everything but knowing he’d reject her words strictly because he’d drawn his own conclusions that fit the facts as he remembered them.

  “Suffer is a harsh word,” he acknowledged at last, “and whether you believe this or not, I would never want you or anyone to experience what happened to me at your family’s hands.”

  Relief shot through her even as her suspicions heightened.

  “But there is a price to be paid, Viola,” he continued, his voice contemplative. “I’ve spent these last five years thinking of you every day, trying to decide what to do with you.”

  His arrogance gave her anger fresh energy and she fisted her hands at her sides, facing him squarely. “What to do with me? What right do you have to do anything? Why not just leave me alone? You must know I would never talk of that shameful time in my past to anyone.”

  Slowly, he began to walk back to her, his gaze sharp as he focused on her face. “I believe you. And while it’s true you weren’t involved in my abduction as your sisters were, there is no denying that you were negligent, and for that negligence, that inaction, you were never held responsible.” His features hardened as he added, “There has been no justice.”

  “This isn’t about justice, it’s about simple revenge,” she retorted, her voice low and firm. “Perhaps it would be better for both of us if you would get to the point of this pretense, sir.”

  He smirked. “Revenge is never simple. That is the point.”

  “I don’t understand you,” she whispered. “Why am I here dressed like this when you so obviously despise me and every bad memory of yours you believe I caused?”

  He eyed her speculatively for a moment before offering her a daring smile. “Because, Viola darling, there are two things I know about both myself and this . . . situation in which we now find ourselves.”

  She just stared at him, exasperated and confused.

  “The first,” he carried on, closing in to stand before her again, “is that having you simply disgraced by ruin or arrest, if such a thing were possible after all this time, wouldn’t bring me lasting peace. It would be too fast, too unappealing, and would offer me no satisfaction. The second thin
g I know is that I’m dumfounded by the fact that I want you sexually, and I’ve finally realized I won’t be able to rid myself of that desire until I have you in my bed.”

  A small mewl of shock and helplessness escaped her.

  He chuckled. “My admission can’t be all that surprising to you.”

  “Does it matter?” she whispered, glaring at him. “I think you know I will never risk social disgrace and my son’s good name by giving myself to you willingly.”

  Lifting a hand, he rubbed his chin with his palm, eyes narrowed in speculation. “Just as you know you really have no choice.”

  Swallowing tears of anxiousness, she mumbled shakily, “I suppose your desire to make me your mistress is the reason for this elaborate ruse.”

  “Not initially. But after seeing you again after all these years, I can’t help the way my body responds, and so I’ve chosen not to fight it.”

  “That’s disgusting,” she said.

  He shrugged. “It’s the nature of being a man, Viola.”

  Caustically, she said, “And you’ve used this base excuse for forcing yourself upon me—”

  His chuckle cut her off. “Forcing myself upon you? You enjoyed our kissing as much as I did, sweetheart. I think it would only take me minutes to get you naked on my sofa.”

  She flushed under his scrutiny, the truth behind his words filling her with embarrassment. “To be perfectly honest, you grace, for the sake of my son, I would rather marry you and live the rest of my life with your hatred and insults than submit to you as your mistress.”

  His amusement faded at once. “And I would see you dying in prison before I willingly gave you the value of my name.”

  He’d said that so quietly that she almost hadn’t heard the words. But there could be no mistake in his meaning and his ruthless determination to see her slowly destroyed for his gratification.

  “You’re a monster,” she breathed.

  “Maybe,” he admitted, “but you and your beloved family made me that way.”

  Slowly, she shook her head and replied, “I will never accept blame for a situation that was out of my control.”

  He ignored that to whisper, “You can’t fight me, Viola.”

  She gathered strength from his audacity. “Oh, I most certainly can fight you, sir—”

  “And you will lose.”

  A final statement, offered firmly, and with absolute conviction. Appalled, she realized he had already won this battle, whether by tactic or his own stubbornness, and he knew she understood the depth of his purpose. Arguing with him further now would do no good. She needed time to think before giving in, time to plan and organize her weapons against him.

  Inhaling a deep breath, chin raised, she lifted her skirts and stepped past him. “I’m leaving.”

  “I think it would be in your best interest to stay,” he said in quick response. “Our guests are no doubt starting to arrive.”

  That stopped her in her tracks. She spun around at the door. “What guests?”

  “I’m hosting a small party for artists and collectors. The highlight of the evening will be the unveiling of my newest piece, the Victor Bartlett-James original I purchased from you.”

  Her heart seemed to stop as she held his gaze, positively mortified by his revelation.

  “You cannot be serious,” she whispered.

  “Oh, I am most definitely serious, madam,” he replied as he began to stroll toward her. “But what shocks you more? The fact that I would show a piece of erotic art with ladies present, or that I’m aware you knew I was the buyer of your work?”

  God help me. He knows everything. . . .

  She started trembling. “How—How did—”

  “I’m clever,” he finished for her very softly. “And I can afford to buy any information I desire.”

  She fought her own desire to slap him hard across the mouth, to cringe in defeat, to lash out at him in utter disgust. But she refused to lower her lashes and give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d made her truly defenseless to his will.

  “And should I refuse to attend?” she charged, mouth dry, pulse suddenly racing.

  He casually shook his head. “You won’t risk it, I’m sure. If you don’t attend, your curiosity about what I might reveal will drive you mad.”

  He was right, of course. He had no reason on earth to protect her virtue or her good name. She had become his puppet, and they both knew it.

  “The depth of your humiliation of me is astonishing,” she breathed, fighting back tears.

  He bit down hard. “I felt the same five years ago.”

  “I will never forgive you for this, Ian,” she whispered in abject sorrow.

  Whether it was her feminine display of helplessness, or her use of his given name, for a second or two she watched him hesitate, saw a flicker of doubt cross his features. Then as quickly as it appeared, it vanished.

  With rigid demeanor, his eyes dark and passionless, he replied, “That, madam, is not something that concerns me.”

  Recoiling inside, she turned her back on him and opened the door, refusing his escort as the two of them silently walked from the encroaching darkness of his beautiful green salon.

  Chapter Ten

  I tried to bathe him today, while he slept from the drug. He is so masculine, so handsome, but he is beginning to lose strength. I want to help him, but they will keep me from him if I do anything else. He needs me, but I am so afraid. . . .

  Viola ignored him completely as he walked by her side down the hallway, past his fabulous foyer, and farther into his impressive home. As they neared the drawing room, she heard voices in what appeared to be a festive gathering, then a deep male laugh. Instinctively, she slowed her stride and paused several steps before the door.

  “How many people are here tonight?”

  He turned to face her. “Counting us, there are now ten, though several others may arrive later in the evening.”

  Livid, she glared at him. “And how are you going to explain my participation in this farce, your grace?”

  He rubbed his cheek with his palm, eyeing her speculatively. “That depends on you, Viola. For now, you’re simply my guest, as are the others.”

  Through a fast, exhaled breath, she demanded, “What is your plan?”

  He smiled. “I wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise, darling.”

  “Don’t call me that,” she ordered in a huff.

  Unfazed, he reached out and pushed the door handle down, then stepped back and motioned for her to enter.

  The sight of the drawing room itself struck her first, amazing her almost as much as the green salon had. No amount had been spared in its decoration, both elegant and sophisticated, colored in deep reds and gold, with dark brown oak furniture, scarlet settees, chairs and drapes, rich Persian rugs of lavish design, two large crystal chandeliers hanging from the gilded ceiling, and intricate artwork displayed on every papered wall. But her appreciation of such beauty quickly turned to uneasiness when she at last gazed upon the party guests. She took in the scene with an odd mixture of anticipation and amazement. For a party this small, the Duke of Chatwin had set up a rather elaborate display of hors d’oeuvres on one side of the drawing room, the aroma of fine meats and pastries filling the air, while on the other stood footmen at the ready, pouring champagne at the sideboard. And directly next to the large mantel and cold grate stood her large Bartlett-James sketch on an easel, covered with black velvet, ready for the unveiling to all.

  Suddenly she felt as if he’d put her on display. Of those he’d invited who were here now, most she knew either personally or by reputation as prominent members of London’s art society, and at their entrance, everyone ceased their conversations and turned to look at them with varying degrees of curiosity.

  “Ladies and gentlem
en,” Chatwin said as he moved into the room, “I’m certain you all know Lady Cheshire, an extraordinary artist in her own right, who has graciously accepted my invitation to join us this evening.” He looked back at her, offering her a smile that never reached his eyes. “Of course you know Lord Fairbourne, Mr. Whitman, from the London art museum, Lord and Lady Brisbane, Lord and Lady Freemont, and Mr. and Mrs. Stanford Quicken. The Quickens only just returned from the Continent with some lovely French pieces to add to their collection.”

  She’d never met the Quickens, but she offered pleasantries to all of them as they did the same in return.

  “Mr. Quicken is also one of England’s finest art authenticators,” he added casually. “His expertise should be especially helpful this night.”

  Confusion enveloped her, followed by a feeling of cold trepidation that settled in the pit of her stomach.

  He noticed her hesitation and explained. “I hope to verify with certainty that the painting I only just purchased is in fact an original and not, I fear, a forgery.”

  Her eyes widened with shock; her cheeks grew hot again with renewed fury. He must have expected her reaction, for his brows rose as he looked at her, daring her to make excuses, to challenge him in front of everyone or flee in shame.

  But instead of giving him the satisfaction, she swallowed a scream of rage and, with remarkable poise, pulled her gaze free of the penetration of his to offer his guests a delicate smile.

  “I’m certainly honored to be included among such distinguished art patrons,” she said, her voice sounding raspy and dry to her ears. It was a ridiculous statement, and yet she had been so completely caught off guard by Chatwin’s audacity in assuming her a fraud that she truly had no bearings for the moment.

  Fortunately, the party resumed as a footman announced that hors d’oeuvres were now being served at the buffet and several people moved toward the food.

  Lucas Wolffe, Duke of Fairbourne, stepped toward her instead.

  “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Lady Cheshire,” he said with a slight bow.

  She curtseyed. “And you, your grace.”