The Duke's Captive

by Adele Ashworth

  And then everything reeled—the tumultuous clashing noise of the ballroom below, the loud pounding of his heart in his chest, the blood rushing through his veins. He heard laughter below and knew at once it wasn’t the gods but his peers, snickering at him—his life and the joke it had become.

  “Who told you this?” he asked at last, his voice quiet and remarkably steady.

  Fairbourne studied him closely. “Lady Isabella mentioned it when I arrived about an hour ago.”

  Ian’s eyes narrowed as his mind began to churn with questions. “Lady Isabella?”

  “In fact,” Fairbourne continued, his lips curling up slyly, “I believe she was waiting for me at the door. I can only surmise that she expected me to relay the news to you as soon as possible.”

  “To me,” Ian repeated. He stiffened and inhaled deeply, shoving his fists in his pockets. Flatly, he asked, “And why do you suppose she’d expect that?”

  Lucas nonchalantly pulled down on his cuffs. “Maybe Lady Cheshire’s friends don’t think a marriage to Mr. Whitman would be in her best interest. And if they’re under the assumption he’s going to propose soon, perhaps they’re a bit . . . concerned.”

  “And do you suppose,” Ian continued, his tone sardonic, “that they would think I’d be inclined to save her by proposing to her first?”

  Fairbourne’s eyes widened in a depth of surprise he couldn’t hide. Then he laughed softly and shook his head. “I truly doubt it, Chatwin. I can’t imagine there’s a soul on earth who would think you’d have the least bit of interest in marrying Lady Cheshire, especially Lady Cheshire. Bedding her, certainly; taking her for a mistress, maybe. But never marriage. You’ve exposed her as a fraud and clearly despise her. At least . . . that’s what you’ve led her and her friends to believe.”

  Which was probably the truth, as Ian considered it more fully. If she’d been any other scheming society miss, he could have believed they were all trying to coerce him into proposing to a woman he desperately wanted, just to keep her from marrying another. But not Viola. He’d never given her any indication he might consider pursuing her as a wife. In fact, everything he’d done since he’d come back into her life had supported just the opposite. He’d even said as much. She would never, in countless years, expect him to ask for her hand.

  But Jesus . . . marriage to Miles Whitman? Just remembering how she had smiled seductively at the man moments ago, and the thought of Viola in bed with him, moaning as he touched her intimately, stroked her, aroused her, entered her . . .

  Sweat broke out on his upper lip and he shakily wiped it away with the back of his hand. He felt nauseated of a sudden, desperate and thoroughly bewildered.

  “So what in Christ’s name do they think I’m supposed to do about it?” he grumbled, staring down at the dance floor again, seeing nothing.

  “I’ve really no idea. You know how ladies plan things that make absolutely no sense.”

  “But—why now?” Ian asked, more to himself as he stared off into the distance. “And Miles Whitman? He’s not titled, not wealthy, and she told me she’s not interested in marrying again anytime soon.”

  Lucas stepped closer to him and lowered his voice to say carefully, “Maybe she needs to.”

  Ian felt his body grow cold; his eyes shot back to lock with Fairbourne’s. “What are you implying?”

  Lucas inhaled deeply and slipped his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “If you can’t figure it out, or simply don’t want to be bothered, you can always go back to the country and relish in the fact that if she’s anxious for a husband, she must be desperate. Desperate women will marry even penniless men, those socially beneath them, or those for whom they hold absolutely no affection, which I suspect is the case with Whitman. If that is indeed what’s happening, then you, my friend, should be very pleased. You can savor the fact that in the end you got the ultimate revenge.”

  With that, Fairbourne brushed by him and sauntered away.

  It took Ian only ten minutes or so to find her in the crowd, sipping champagne as she stood next to a sideboard, huddled with several ladies, including the apparently conniving Lady Isabella. He needed to get Viola alone but decided it might help to break the ice between them if she was forced to be polite.

  And so, with a deep breath in an attempt to calm his nerves, he straightened, pulled down on the edges of his waistcoat, and casually walked toward the gossiping group.

  Lady Isabella noticed him first and stopped speaking in midsentence, her eyes opening wide in surprise.

  He stopped directly behind Viola and clasped his hands behind his back. “Good evening, ladies,” he drawled.

  Viola whirled around at the sound of his voice, gaping at him, unable to hide her surprise in her pinkened cheeks. The others remembered their good breeding and curtseyed appropriately.

  “Why—what are you doing here?” Viola stammered.

  He almost smiled as he glanced around the ballroom. “It’s a party, and I believe I was invited.”

  She tossed a glare at Isabella, who demurely shrugged and faintly shook her head.

  He cleared his throat. “Lady Cheshire, may I have a word in private?”

  He watched her bite her bottom lip and frown very slightly in hesitation, and for a second or two, he thought she might actually decline his invitation. But when her friends said nothing to dissuade her and refused to come to her defense, she realized she had no choice.

  Planting a false smile on her lovely face, she nodded once. “As you wish, your grace.”

  “Please excuse us, ladies,” he said, feeling a genuine sense of relief as he raised his elbow.

  Avoiding his gaze, she gingerly placed her gloved palm on his forearm, and with that, he led her away from the safety of her companions and toward the south-facing, opened French doors.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked stiffly as they walked out onto the balcony.

  “I thought a little fresh air and privacy would be nice,” he replied after a moment.

  “Nice for what?”

  He sighed. “Must you always feel compelled to argue with me, Viola?”

  To his great surprise, she didn’t answer, though she remained aloof and stiff in posture, keeping a fair distance from him as they walked side by side.

  The cool breeze welcomed him, helped him breathe easier, relax a bit, concentrate on what he wanted to say, even though he really had no idea how to begin. She saved him the trouble by suddenly breaking free of his arm and moving quickly away to stand by the balcony wall.

  “What do you want, Ian?” she asked cautiously, turning to look directly at him.

  He paused in front of her and stuffed his hands in his coat pockets. After a slight pause for confidence, he murmured, “You look beautiful tonight.”

  She smiled wryly. “Thank you. But surely you didn’t bring me outside to tell me that.”

  “No.” He glanced out over the lawn below, noting footmen lighting torches as darkness began to fall. Then peering back into her eyes, his tone grew serious. “How are you?”

  Her brows rose. “I’m very well, thank you.”

  Her politeness was beginning to irritate. “Stop being coy, Viola.”

  “What do you want, Ian?” she repeated, her own annoyance coating her words.

  He took a step closer, staring down at her face. Finally, he said huskily, “I suppose I want to apologize.”

  That confession seemed to make her uncomfortable. She glanced away from him, shuffling from one foot to the other as she crossed her arms over her stomach.

  “For which part?” she asked softly.

  He thought about that for a moment, then decided to just be honest. “I’m probably most sorry that I left you in bed that final morning when all I wanted was to make love to you again.”

  If he’
d expected her to sweetly succumb to his charm and truthful disclosure, he’d sorely miscalculated. Instead, she snickered caustically, raising the back of her gloved hand to cover her mouth as she did so.

  He stiffened. “You find my honesty amusing, madam?”

  She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, your grace,” she said, straightening and glancing around them to be certain they weren’t overheard. Dropping her voice to a near-whisper, she added, “But really, of all the . . . questionable things you did to me in the course of two days, held hostage in your fishing shack—”

  “Cottage.”

  She nodded once. “Cottage. Of all those things, you’re apologizing for leaving me in bed that morning and not making love to me again?”

  The manner in which she overpronounced the words, and the tremble in her lips, which she squeezed together to keep from laughing again, thoroughly deflated and embarrassed him. And experiencing such unexpected feelings where Viola was concerned, when he only wanted to explain himself, left him somewhat bewildered—and irritated beyond measure.

  “Ian, please,” she said through a sigh, cutting into his thoughts. “If you’ve nothing more to say—”

  “Oh, I have plenty to say, Lady Cheshire,” he drawled, attempting to recover his dignity before she left him to expose him to her friends as a foolish nitwit, or worse, a lovesick puppy—which he would be unable to deny without sounding ridiculous. He stepped even closer to her, fairly trapping her against the wall, drawing satisfaction in watching her merriment fade. “Do you know, this is the same balcony we stood in front of months ago, when we met again at a party just like this one and I asked you to paint my portrait?”

  She said nothing, just eyed him nervously after casting a fast look over the wall and down to the lawn below.

  “Even that night,” he continued matter-of-factly, raising a hand to rub his chin with his fingers, “I felt the strangest attraction to you, Viola. I didn’t at all understand how I could so thoroughly despise you, want to see you ruined both socially and financially, and yet on that evening suddenly feel the need to take you in my arms and kiss you passionately. It made no sense, and truly angered me, but I did want to kiss you then, and I was very much aware at the time that you were anxious for me to do it, too.”

  She faltered with that admission, blinking quickly as she began to wring her hands together in front of her stomach.

  “And that’s what I found even more uncanny,” he continued in a husky whisper, watching her closely. “Beneath your nervousness and confusion at seeing me again, you radiated a very strong attraction to me.”

  She swallowed, seemingly mesmerized by his gaze. Then, recovering herself, she lowered her lashes and shook her head matter-of-factly.

  “No, Ian, that’s wrong. What you felt from me then was fear and desperation in knowing I’d been discovered. I also felt confused, true, because I didn’t understand why you didn’t recognize me, but that’s all. Anything else is part of your imagination.”

  “You’re lying, Viola,” he said, ignoring the tinge of hurt at her passionate denial as he tossed a quick glance toward the ballroom. Then, looking back into her beautiful eyes, he squeezed his palms together in his pockets to keep from reaching out to her. “You cannot convince me that even now we don’t desire each other. I feel it, and so do you.”

  She smiled snidely. “You’re so arrogant, your grace. I don’t desire you at all. Isn’t that perfectly clear? Can’t you just leave me alone, as I am attempting to do with you?”

  “No.”

  That simple answer, spoken so quietly and quickly, caught her totally off guard. Even in the dusky glow of a late summer evening, he could see her body start to tremble.

  “Have you thought about me these last few weeks?” he asked gently.

  She looked away from him, rubbing her upper arms with her palms. “To be honest, I’ve been very busy. John Henry is back in town and—”

  “Are you carrying my child, Viola?” he whispered.

  She seemed to still before him, then very, very slowly turned to gaze at him once more, her eyes now wide and frightened, her skin suddenly pale.

  “Is that why you’re so anxious to marry Miles Whitman?” he added before she could offer an excuse of a reply. “Because you think you have to?”

  He waited for what seemed like decades for her to answer, his heart pounding harder with each passing second. Finally, she straightened and dropped her arms to her sides, smoothing her skirts as if ready to walk away from him.

  “That is not something I would even know yet, your grace,” she said flatly. “Now if you’ll excuse me—”

  He reached out and grabbed her by the elbow, pulling her closer to him. “Then why suddenly plan to marry a man who does nothing to advance you socially or financially?” Lowering his voice to a whisper, he added, “I know you’re not in love with him.”

  She gazed up into his eyes, her expression now taut with tightly controlled fury. “Why did you leave me in the cottage?”

  The question took him aback. “That’s not an answer. You’re changing the subject.”

  “No, I’m not. It’s the answer.”

  He didn’t at all understand her female mind, and the more she evaded his very easily answerable questions, the more annoyed he became. Inhaling deeply to stay his temper, he replied, “I left for the reasons you were told, Viola.”

  Her brows rose as she looked him up and down. “You have exemplary servants, your grace. I wasn’t told anything.”

  Very slowly, Ian released her elbow, as stunned by the admission as he was infuriated that his staff had neglected to inform her that he had not in fact left her to rot in bed and be shuffled home like a tramp after a drunken night’s tryst. And to think that for nearly three weeks—

  “Jesus, Viola, I’m sorry—”

  “I’m not,” she snapped, taking a step away from him. “Under the circumstances it’s probably a very good thing they’re so discreet. I’m home now, and it’s forgotten. It’s your business where you go—”

  “You don’t understand,” he cut in, reaching up to rub the back of his neck with tense fingers. “My sister had gone into labor and there were complications. Her husband sent word to me, fearing she would die. Because I spent the night with you in the cottage, I didn’t get the message from him till morning. By then I feared I was already too late and wanted to leave at once. I did, however, leave explicit instructions for you to be told the reason for my hasty departure.” He shook his head, reaching out to touch her warm cheek with the back of a finger. “Please believe I would never just make love to you and leave you except in such a dire family emergency.”

  Although she didn’t flinch from his touch, she did pull away from him slightly.

  “What we did was not lovemaking, Ian.”

  “But it was intimate, and went beyond simple coupling,” he replied softly. “You must admit that.”

  She didn’t, just shifted her body nervously, glanced to the ballroom again.

  “How is Lady Ivy?”

  Through a sigh, he maintained, “Doing better. She and Rye have a son and now a healthy new daughter, so I don’t know that they’ll have more children. The birthing was very hard on her and she barely survived.”

  “I’m very glad to hear she did,” Viola said wistfully. “I know what it’s like to suffer like that. Thank God the baby is healthy.”

  He had forgotten her story of how she’d experienced such a difficult birth herself. Now that he knew she’d suffered delivering his son, thinking about it from such a perspective melted his heart a little. He actually had to stop himself from reaching out and drawing her against him.

  In a deep, quiet voice, he returned to the most nagging point of all. “Why in God’s name do you want to marry Miles Whitman? Miles Whitman?”

  She looke
d back into his eyes, her gaze softened, though the crease in her brow revealed a tension within her he wished he understood.

  In a voice filled with sadness, she replied, “Because you left me, Ian.”

  He rubbed his eyes briefly with his fingers and thumb, shaking his head. “I don’t understand you.”

  Bitterly, she whispered, “Then you need to think about it, because you of all people should understand.”

  The fact that she talked in circles, on purpose, only managed to increase his irritation. For a moment it crossed his mind that she might be trying to make him jealous by allowing Whitman to court her openly, as any other lady in her position might, but that didn’t make sense, either. She hadn’t known he’d come back to the city, and there was no reason for her to think he’d have any interest in her romantically, especially the wild notion that he might ask for her hand when he learned of Whitman’s—or any other gentleman’s—interest. No, there was more involved here, something deeper and more complex, and she expected him to discover it without being told.

  He stepped closer to her so that her gown swept around his lower legs. “You do realize, madam, that you’ll be required to succumb to his needs.”

  Her eyes flashed in anger and she fisted her gloved hands at her sides. “And you must realize, your grace, that what I and my husband do privately is none of your business.”

  “True enough,” he agreed soothingly, smiling slyly, “but I wonder if he’ll know that when he takes you as his wife you’ll be thinking of another man.”

  That infuriated her. He could see it in her eyes, in her tight expression and rigid form. For a moment, he suspected she might strike him.

  Reaching up with his hand, he ran his forefinger across her bare shoulder. “Have you considered that, Viola? Did you think of me while I was away?”

  She started shaking, though from rage or desire or fear, he couldn’t guess.

  Finally, in a raw voice charged with emotion, she disclosed, “I have thought of you every single minute of every day for the last five years, Ian. And just because I know it will cut you to the bone, I want to tell you this: Every single time Miles takes me as his wife, climbs into my bed and makes love to me, the memory of you will haunt me, even as I am willing and faithful to him as my husband whenever he needs me for intimacy. I can only hope that such a thought of me, lying naked and satiated in his arms, will haunt you, too—every day, every night, for the rest of your life.”