When a Duke Loves a Woman

by Lorraine Heath

  Would she let him have his way with her? Staring into her eyes that seemed to be a mix of green and brown, he very much doubted it. They were from different worlds: a mermaid and a unicorn. He very nearly laughed aloud at that whimsical thought. Still it was the fact that their worlds were different, that she was so comfortable in this one that had brought him here. Well, that and the fact he’d desperately wanted to see her again.

  Since he’d been bundled into the carriage, not an hour had passed that he hadn’t thought of her, wondered what she was doing, who might be calling on her, who might be enjoying her laughter within these walls, who might be the recipient of her rare smiles.

  His thoughts should focus around Lavinia. Yet this woman before him occupied his musings in a way no other ever had. It was an odd thing to find himself inexplicably drawn to a tavern owner. She intrigued him. It was more than her height, the unusual way she wore her hair, her lack of feminine artifice, her unflattering clothing. It was her strength, her kindness. She’d taken him in, not knowing who he was, and had worked like the devil to ensure he survived, expecting nothing in return. All his life, anyone who assisted him, expected something in return. Even the women before Lavinia had required constant doting and numerous baubles in order to ensure their devotion. But a woman who required nothing—how did one ensure her devotion?

  Not that he would ask or expect it of her. She was not for his world. His mother would have an apoplectic fit were he to introduce her. Not only because she was a tavern owner, but because she had no pedigree. She’d admitted as much while caring for him. “I daresay many were surprised the Duke of Hedley granted leave for his ward to marry your brother.”

  Crossing her arms over her chest, she settled back in the chair and gave him a steady glare. “He has more wealth than God.”

  “But he’s not . . .” He cleared his throat. Merely blinking slowly, she wasn’t going to make this easy on him. He shouldn’t have started down this path, but he wanted to know every small detail about her. “His family is not known as I understand it.” As he clearly knew. Mick Trewlove was a bastard, plain and simple. He wore the label like a badge. Or at least he had before he’d married an earl’s daughter.

  “I’m his family. Or at least part of it.”

  “When you were caring for me, you were offended when I used the term bastard.”

  “Not offended. Disappointed.”

  Her words were a hard kick to the gut. He didn’t know why he had no desire to disappoint this woman or why he was intent on impressing her to such a degree that he’d removed the sling supporting his arm before exiting his coach so she wouldn’t view him as a complete invalid. He’d been brought up to recognize that he had an exalted place in Society simply because of the circumstances surrounding his birth. “People are judged by their entry into the world.”

  “Unfortunately. It’s not right for opinions regarding us to be based on something over which we have no control.”

  He gave her a slightly mocking grin. “You swore when you learned I was a duke. Practicing what you are now preaching against?”

  Uncrossing her arms, she ran her finger along the edge of her glass. “It wasn’t because I was judging you poorly. It was . . .” Her voice trailing off, she glanced around her establishment, then released a quick harsh burst of laughter before bringing her gaze back to his. “We can’t really be friends, can we? Different places in Society, and all that. I suppose, when you walked through the door, I’d hoped we might be.”

  He’d rather hoped so as well, but she had the right of it. Every person he considered a friend could trace his or her lineage back generations. Their blood was untainted. They were purebreds. “Do you know who your parents are?”

  Taking a small sip of her whisky, she shook her head. “I know nothing at all about my parents or where they came from. I was left in a basket on Ettie Trewlove’s doorstep.”

  She spoke as though it hadn’t been devastating to be abandoned in such a manner, but how could it have not been? “Aren’t you curious?”

  “Not even a smidge. She’s my mum. She, along with my brothers and sister, are my family. I’ll be honest with you, Your Grace, I don’t give a bloody damn that I’m illegitimate, was born out of wedlock. The circumstances of my birth don’t affect me now. I’ve got my family, my friends, my tavern, my home. That’s all that matters to me. And I’m happy. I don’t go hungry or cold. What more could I ask for?”

  Love came to mind, which was an odd thing when he hadn’t even considered it a necessary requirement for marriage. Love was an emotion other people were allowed to experience but a man in his position couldn’t indulge in such frivolity. “A husband and children of your own?”

  She smiled, her eyes twinkling. “You offering?”

  Her bluntness nearly had him reeling back in his chair, as did the realization he wasn’t as opposed to the idea as he should have been. She was wrong for him on many levels and he was wrong for her on many more. Yet he couldn’t help but think she’d bring a warmth to his life that had always been absent. Still there was no hope for them, and she was teasing anyway. “Afraid not.”

  “Then it’s not really your business, is it?”

  “I suppose you have a point.”

  She scooted back her chair. “It was good to see you’re recovering, Your Grace, but I’ve customers to see to.”

  “I’m not done here.”

  Halfway out of her chair, she gave him a look that no doubt would send many a man scurrying for the door. “I’m not one of your servants to be ordered about.”

  He assumed the scraping of a distant chair was her brother coming to his feet. “I apologize for the blunt wording, but I came here for a purpose and I’ve not yet seen to it. Please sit.”

  Looking past him, no doubt to her brother, she gave a quick shake of her head before dropping back into her chair. “Get on with it then.”

  “I need your help finding someone.”

  “The footpads who made off with your watch?”

  “No. My bride.”

  Chapter 8

  His pronouncement shouldn’t have twisted her heart, crushed her chest. She was a silly goose to have entertained for even a few seconds he might have been making an offer when he’d mentioned husband and children. Of course they’d never marry. He was a bloody duke and she a tavern owner. But still, the knowledge that he wanted her to help him find a bride was ludicrous. Perhaps he’d taken a blow to the head that had turned him into a simpleton. “You want me to serve as a matchmaker?”

  His lips twisted into an ironic grin. “Hardly. I was in this area of London the night we met searching for the woman who had left me standing at the altar earlier in the day.”

  “Don’t take this wrong, but if she left you”—she couldn’t imagine any woman being daft enough to do such a thing—“mayhap you’d be better off letting her go.”

  “No doubt. But that is presently not an option. It’s imperative I find her.”

  He had to love her desperately to be so intent on locating her. “What makes you think she’s in this area?”

  “She’d discussed her destination with one of the staff after making her retreat from the church.”

  “On the day you were to wed?”

  “Yes.”

  “That must have been a shock for you. And mortifying as hell.”

  “I’ve had more pleasant days. So where would a lady go if she wished not to be found?”

  “She’s nobility then?”

  “The daughter of an earl.”

  “Her name?”

  “I don’t see that knowing it would assist in our search.”

  So he was striving to protect the woman’s reputation even if she didn’t seem to give a bloody damn about his. She didn’t particularly like how his calling it our search had pleased her. She wanted to be irritated at his assumption she’d help him, but that too pleased her, that he wanted her assistance, was banking on it, felt as though he could rely on her. “I at least
need to know what she looks like.”

  “Then you’ll help?”

  “I’ll make some inquiries.” Leaning forward, she placed her forearms on the table. “Why would you think she’d be roaming the streets during the dead of night?”

  “I was out of my mind with worry, driven by anger, and well into my cups, having stopped for numerous pints during my quest—for fortification, of course. I’d been searching for her ever since we’d discovered she’d left.”

  “What did you do to make her want to cry off?”

  “That is an excellent question and I very much look forward to learning the answer.”

  “Could she be with child?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. She’s a genteel woman of good breeding. I’ve never touched her.”

  While his confession came as a relief to her, she also found it difficult to believe. “You never touched her. Ever?”

  “When we danced, of course. I offered my arm when we went on a stroll about the gardens. I kissed her hand when she accepted my offer of marriage.”

  She stared at him. “You’ve never done more than kiss her hand?”

  “I am a gentleman.”

  “Are you a virgin?”

  “Good God!” He seemed absolutely appalled. “A lady doesn’t ask such impertinent questions.”

  “But I’m not a lady. So, are you?”

  “What has that to do with anything?”

  “Are you?” she insisted.

  “Of course not.”

  “Did you not desire her?”

  He studied the little bit of whisky that remained in his glass. “I do not see how the specifics regarding our relationship are going to help us find her.”

  He was correct, of course, but some little devil inside her was envious of a woman she’d never met, because she’d garnered his affection. Still, she could not help but wonder what about him had caused a woman to run off. While searching for the elusive bride, it might behoove her to make inquiries about him as well. Maybe he wasn’t the sort to whom she’d want to return the girl, but even as she had that thought it seemed incongruous with what she knew about him thus far. “Description?” she asked, changing the path of her inquiry as he had the right of it and her previous question had been rude and truly none of her business. Nor would the answers assist them in their search.

  He lifted his gaze to hers. “Short of stature. I barely have to raise my arms when we waltz.”

  That was certainly something he wouldn’t be able to say if they waltzed. Not that they ever would, not that she suddenly wished they would. Nor did she wish to envision another woman in his arms. “Hair?”

  “She’s fair. Blond.”

  “Light blond? Dark blond?”

  His brow furrowed. “Blond.”

  “You’re certainly a man for detail. Eye color?”

  He looked lost, as though she’d asked if his betrothed possessed a tail. “Surely she won’t be identified by her eyes.”

  “Does she have freckles? Is there anything that stands out about her?”

  “She’s quite fetching.”

  She fought not to laugh. “That will make her easy to spot.”

  He scowled. “I have a miniature of her that I could bring to you.”

  “That could prove helpful.” And ensured she’d see him again. Reaching across, she placed her hand over his clenched fist that rested beside his glass. “You’ve set an impossible task for yourself. If she doesn’t wish to be found, you won’t find her. This area is crowded with immigrants and the impoverished. There are warrens of slums. Two, three, four families are crowded into dwellings.”

  “I’m well aware of that. Still I need to try.”

  “Why don’t you return here tomorrow afternoon? We’ll have a look ’round some lodging houses and shelters.”

  He gave a brisk nod. “I appreciate your willingness to help.”

  “Her absence could mean nothing at all. Maybe she simply got nervous about getting married. Now she’s afraid to return home, fearful you and her family will be angry.”

  “Or maybe, as you’ve implied, she had a rather good reason for not walking down the aisle. I won’t rest until I know what it is.”

  It was an odd thing that the whisky was not as tasty as what he’d had earlier. He’d always favored Dewar’s, but as he sat on his terrace, staring out into the darkened gardens, he wondered if his absence of enjoyment had more to do with the company he was keeping—his own.

  He’d felt rather inadequate responding to questions regarding Lavinia, his answers falling well short of the mark. He tried to recall her more clearly.

  Her eyes. Closing his, he dropped his head back and envisioned them. They were the color of moss mixed with the shade of freshly turned earth. A narrow black ring circled her iris. When she became passionate her eyes darkened with her intensity. When she laughed they lightened with her joy. He could see them in exquisite detail. The eyes of a tavern owner.

  But for the life of him he couldn’t recall Lavinia’s.

  From the moment Gillie had called out in the alleyway that fateful night, he could recount every word she’d spoken. Try as he might, he couldn’t evoke a single conversation he’d had with Lavinia. Other than his proposal to her, which, in retrospect, had been quite bland.

  “Will you honor me by becoming my wife?”

  “I’d be delighted.”

  It had been lacking in passion, but then passion wasn’t needed for marriage. Of course, a commoner wouldn’t know that. Commoners were ruled by baser instincts. It was the reason they gave birth to children out of wedlock.

  He couldn’t imagine the sort of person who would leave a babe on a doorstep. What if the woman hadn’t taken her in? What if she hadn’t been discovered until the elements had their way with her, snuffed out her life?

  The rage that burst through him with the thought caused his hand to tremble. No doubt his reaction was the lingering result of a dying man grateful to the woman who had saved him. That his heart had sped up at the sight of her when he’d first entered the tavern, that he was anticipating seeing her on the morrow was merely coincidence, the consequence of not yet shaking off how close he’d come to death and how she had pulled him from its gaping maw.

  Chapter 9

  Standing in front of the mirror, Gillie studied her reflection, disgusted with herself because she wore one of her finer dark blue skirts and a white blouse, both usually reserved for when she paid a visit to her mum. She’d added a short dark blue buttonless jacket with tiny red hollies embroidered on it, which she generally wore at Christmas. That particular occasion was months away, but there she was dressing to impress a duke.

  She blew out a great gust of air. She’d change into her normal working clothes but little time remained before the tavern would be opening at ten, and she was running behind. This morning she’d bathed and washed her hair. Naturally today the short strands had decided to mutiny once they were dry and had been sticking up like the quills of a hedgehog. So she’d had to wash it again and brush it continually to keep the locks from rebelling as they dried. Then she’d debated her attire as though he wasn’t accustomed to seeing ladies dressed in the finest of silks. She’d decided to add the jacket at the last minute because, although it was August, it was possible it might be cool out.

  With another put-upon sigh, she spun on her heel and headed out. She should not have agreed to help him. Yes, she knew these streets but he’d set an impossible task for himself. “A needle in a haystack,” she muttered as she entered the tavern through the back door that led into the kitchen.

  “Caw, Gillie, is it Christmas already?” Robin asked from his place at the large wooden table where those who worked for her took their meals.

  “No, lad, but I have an errand to run later and thought it might be cool out.”

  “Going to see Father Christmas?”

  “No! It’s not yet time for Christmas.”

  “I think you look lovely,” Hannah said as she stir
red a large cauldron on the stove. There was no doubt her cook enjoyed the meals she prepared. She’d been a skeleton of a widow when Gillie had hired her, but now was plump curves that provided a comforting cushion for her children, even if they were nearly grown.

  Gillie felt the heat warm her face at the compliment. “I dressed for the weather.”

  “Of course you did. Jolly Roger told me you had a gentleman caller last night.”

  “Don’t be daft. He was merely a customer.”

  “You don’t sit with customers.”

  “It’s difficult to explain.”

  Her cook grinned slyly. “He said he was a handsome fella.”

  Rolling her eyes, she released a quick burst of air. It was going to be a day for sighing. “Is that soup going to be ready when we open?”

  “It’s ready now. Would you care for some?”

  “No, thank you.” Her stomach was stupidly knotted up. She doubted she could eat anything at the moment. “I simply wanted to make sure everything is ready.”

  She marched through to the taproom, the main part of the tavern. Standing behind the counter with two rows of casks lined up at his back, Jolly Roger was setting up the till. “You are the biggest gossip this side of the Thames.”

  He glanced over his shoulder, his gaze lifting slightly to meet hers. For all of his breadth, he didn’t match her in height. “What’d I do?”

  “You don’t need to be telling people my business.”

  He shrugged offhandedly. “Not every day a toff walks in here. And you’ve never sat with a bloke before.”

  “I sit with my brothers.”

  He laughed, returned to counting out the money. “Not the same, Gil. Not the same.”

  She should dismiss him for talking to her with such disrespect, let him struggle to find work elsewhere. Pity she liked him as much as she did, and he was a good worker. “When things slow down this afternoon, I’ll be stepping out for a bit.”