When a Duke Loves a Woman

by Lorraine Heath

  She wasn’t going to point out she no longer wore the jacket, because the duchess wasn’t blind. She lifted her glass. “You wouldn’t happen to know the origin of this fine champagne, would you?”

  “Most certainly not. That is the butler’s job.”

  The litany “Remain pleasant” raced through her head. “You must give him my compliments then as he did an outstanding job selecting this evening’s offerings.”

  “He will not marry you, you know.”

  “The butler? Oh, what a pity as he has such excellent taste in champagne.”

  “My son,” the prow-shaped woman said so tartly Gillie was surprised lemons didn’t fall from her mouth.

  “I’m well aware of that, Duchess.”

  “He will tire of you in short order. He is like his father in that regard, with an insatiable appetite to bed all manner of women, which is the reason my husband took the pox so young. When our two children died, he was already infested—I had barred him from my bed, so we couldn’t replace what we had lost.”

  “Even if you had other children, they’d not have replaced what you lost. People cannot be replaced.”

  “You dare to correct me?”

  “You are in need of correcting.”

  “You impertinent—”

  “Yes, I am quite impertinent. I don’t consider it a fault.”

  “Those with whom my son associates will. He is going to marry one of these girls.”

  Although she was well aware of that, the blow of the words spoken aloud was effectively delivered to her gut, her heart, her head, but she refused to show any reaction. In addition to being quite impertinent, she knew a thing or two about being stoic.

  “That is the reason they are here,” the duchess carried on. “So he may choose one to wed before the year is out. His tendency to bed any lady who spreads her legs will see him following the path of his father into lunacy. He needs to provide an heir before the pox befalls him.”

  “I suspect he is more discerning than you might think.”

  “Oh, I very much doubt it. I smell the stink of you on him when he returns home in the mornings.” She took a step forward. “You will never be more to him than a mistress. You are a commoner. He is a duke. Your place will always be in the shadows, not at his side.”

  “Yet, I have been at his side several times this evening.”

  “Because you are a curiosity.”

  “If you’ll be so kind as to excuse me . . .” She edged past her.

  “I am not yet done with you.”

  Gillie turned back. “But I am done with you. I have a knack for judging people right off. A fellow can come into my tavern without a penny to his name and ask for a pint. I look him over and if I determine when he has the means he’ll pay me for that pint, I pour him one. If I determine he won’t, I show him the door. Unfortunately, Your Grace, I’d be forever showing you the door.”

  “You impudent—”

  “You think you’re better than me because they placed you in a bassinet when you were born instead of on a doorstep. It simply means you had a cozier bed. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s nearly time for the final dance of the evening where I will joyously find myself wrapped in your son’s arms.” She hadn’t danced with him since their first two waltzes and needed time to compose herself before seeing him again. He was too observant by half, and she didn’t want him knowing that his mother had unsettled her.

  Hearing the woman sputtering as she walked away, she did hope the duchess didn’t have an apoplectic fit. How in God’s name had Thorne turned out to have any decency about him at all?

  She considered actually strolling into the gardens, but she wasn’t going to give the duchess the satisfaction of witnessing her doing something even more scandalous, so she returned to the ballroom. But all the din bombarded her. She needed someplace where she could absorb some quiet, or lacking that, since she doubted very much the orchestra was going to cease its playing, she required a few moments in solitude. Surely in this grand residence was one room where she could gather herself.

  She was heading for the stairs when a gentleman, who looked to be Thorne’s age, stepped in front of her. His blond hair was perfectly styled. She could find no fault with his features but was left with the impression he considered himself more handsome than he was.

  His blue eyes slowly wandered over her as though he were snipping away at the stitching of her gown to see what resided beneath. “I daresay, Thorne has excellent taste when it comes to his mistresses.”

  “I’m not his mistress.”

  He smiled, a hideous smile, one she wanted to slap right off his face. “His paramour, then. A tavern keeper. That puts him in the lead I think.”

  She furrowed her brow. “I beg your pardon?”

  “In our youth we started a game: sleeping with a variety of women. An actress, an opera singer, a shop girl. You get the gist. You’re the first tavern keeper.”

  She did, but refused to believe she was on a list. “I’m a tavern owner. And as you and I have not been properly introduced—”

  “The Earl of Dearwood, Miss Trewlove. Your next lover.”

  A burst of laughter broke free from deep within her. “You’re daft. I promise you’ll never be my lover.”

  “When he is again betrothed, he’ll release you. He’s never been one for balancing two women at once. Then you shall become mine.”

  “I’ll never become yours. Now if you’ll excuse—”

  She made to walk by him.

  He wrapped his fingers around her left upper arm. She stilled. “Unhand me, sir.”

  “Take a turn about the garden with me. When we are done, you may decide to spend the full of tonight with me rather than with him.”

  Couples were waltzing over the dance floor. People were standing nearby but it was late into the night, and she suspected they’d indulged in the champagne to such an extent they were no longer paying attention to the details of their surroundings, so they weren’t noticing the inappropriate way he held her arm. Or perhaps it was the pleasant expression that never left his face, the way he could look as though he wasn’t saying ugly things to her. He’d never speak to the daughter of an earl or a duke in such a manner. But then she was neither, and he knew it. Her name told him that much, and he thought little of her because she owned a tavern. “I’ll warn you, sir, once more. Unhand me. Or I shall be forced to punch you.”

  He chuckled low, darkly. “You are a feisty wench. I see why Thorne is so taken with you. I can’t wait to experience your fire when you spread your—”

  Her balled fist struck quick and hard, an uppercut to his chin that sent his head flying back and him reeling, arms windmilling, into the dancers before he landed prone on the floor with a thud. Women screamed, couples scattered. The orchestra went quiet. People stared at her, stared at Dearwood.

  Suddenly Thorne burst through the gathered crowd, placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, his eyes scouring her as though he was searching her for injury. “What happened?”

  “I asked her to dance,” Dearwood announced loudly, holding his jaw, trying to shove himself to his feet, but seemingly unable to get his legs beneath him. Two gentlemen helped him up. “I merely asked her to dance.”

  Thorne didn’t look at the man who claimed to be a longtime friend. He merely held her gaze. “Gillie?”

  She knew, with every part of her being, he was asking her to confirm or deny Dearwood’s words, and that he would believe her over whatever nonsense the earl blurted, but she couldn’t tell him the truth, the ugly sentiments the man had uttered. She couldn’t admit to him or the gathered crowd that someone thought so lowly of her, would think her worthy of such debasement. She heard mumblings and mutterings from those standing around her, and the truth to which she finally gave voice was probably not the truth he wanted to have confirmed. “I shouldn’t have come. I don’t belong here.”

  Within those few words spoken, Thorne heard a myriad of others: I don’t belong with you.
You don’t belong with me. Our worlds can’t be mixed.

  He had little doubt Dearwood was lying, but what proof did he have for calling the man out? And the fact she wouldn’t tell him alerted him that the blasted earl had done something more than ask her for a dance, something she feared would bring judgment upon her, not the man who deserved it.

  “What the devil is going on here?” his mother asked, sweeping into the circle.

  “A misunderstanding, I think,” Thorne said. He turned to Dearwood. “I suggest you leave immediately, so you can have a physician examine that jaw.”

  Dearwood, to his credit, merely nodded and began walking away.

  “I warned you about inviting—”

  “Mother.” She snapped her mouth closed. “I believe our ball has come to an end. Miss Trewlove, allow me to see to your hand.”

  She angled her chin. “It’s quite all right, Your Grace. I’m accustomed to jabbing drunkards.”

  A few gasps filled the air.

  “I believe it’s time we took our leave,” Mick Trewlove said, coming to stand beside his sister.

  “I’ll escort you to your carriage,” Thorne said.

  “Please don’t,” she said, and his heart squeezed painfully.

  “Gillie, I’m not going to have you walk out of here alone as though you’ve done something unforgiveable. I’ve known Dearwood a good many years, and I know you’d have not struck him if he didn’t deserve it. Allow me to escort you out.”

  She nodded, and he offered his arm. Thankfully she placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. He waited until they were out of the ballroom, with Mick Trewlove and Lady Aslyn leading the way, before asking, “Did he really ask you to dance?”

  “He did.”

  “I suspect that wasn’t all.”

  “Thorne.”

  He pulled her to the side, near the armor that had once protected an ancestor, and he wished to God he could protect her as effectively. “In a few minutes those who are not staying the night will be walking past here to get to their carriages. What did he say?”

  She licked her lips; a small pleat appeared between her eyebrows. “He told me about a contest you and he engaged in, to see who could bed the greatest variety of women. He was quite impressed you’d added a tavern owner to your list.”

  He slammed his eyes closed, cursed beneath his breath. When he opened his eyes, he pressed a kiss to that delicate crease before holding her gaze. “Gillie, that was more than a dozen years ago, when I was young and ill advised. You can’t possibly believe what’s happened between us is because of a stupid game from my youth, surely.”

  She shook her head. “No. But he called me out for being your mistress, informed me you would toss me over and then I would become his. People know what’s between us.”

  “They’re speculating, guessing. It’s what they do, damn them all to hell. I’m so sorry, princess.”

  “I’m not a princess, Thorne.”

  “You are to me. I need to finish up here, and then I’ll come to you.”

  He was grateful she nodded, that she wasn’t entirely done with him. After he saw her safely into her brother’s carriage, he headed back into the residence. People were wandering into the entryway. “I say! I have an announcement you won’t want to miss. Everyone make your way back to the ballroom, please.”

  Expecting something titillating, perhaps even his disclosing which lady had caught his fancy, no one hesitated to return to the grand salon. Standing at the top of the stairway, he looked out over the eager crowd. Only his mother appeared worried. For good reason, he supposed, since he continually disappointed her.

  He cleared his throat. “A few weeks ago, on the evening of the day I was to marry actually, I made a visit to Whitechapel and was attacked by some ruffians. Miss Trewlove stepped in and saved my life—literally. She did it all while knowing nothing at all about me. Not my rank or my position. Fully cognizant of how gossip travels among us, I’m rather certain even those of you who were not introduced to her are aware she owns a tavern, the Mermaid and Unicorn. Since that night, on occasion I have visited and always been made to feel welcome. As a way of thanking her for her kindness, I invited her to my mother’s ball, knowing hers are always splendid and beyond compare, and rather enjoyable. To those of you who made Miss Trewlove feel welcome, thank you. To those of you who did not, you missed the opportunity to meet a rather exceptional woman and your lives are poorer because of that.”

  Turning on his heel, he began walking from a room that was so quiet he would have heard a plume from his mother’s adorned hair fall if it had come loose.

  Chapter 24

  Sitting in her front room, awaiting Thorne’s arrival, Gillie was hit with the realization that her last dance with Thorne was actually the final one for eternity. At the time, she’d thought they would have one more, would end the night circling the ballroom together. So now she concentrated on striving to absorb each moment of what had been their final waltz until it was a part of her, until it could never be forgotten, hoping it would carry her through the days and months and years ahead.

  The way his eyes seemed to adore her, the shade she would see every time she poured a pint of Guinness. The manner in which the lights from the chandeliers glistened over his silky dark hair. The faintest of shadows that had hinted the stubble would soon begin to assert itself, allowing that no razor would ever hold it at bay for long.

  His hands securely holding her, his long legs brushing up against her skirts, the way he swept her over the dance floor with such ease there might as well have been no one else upon it.

  She recalled inhaling his tart fragrance, taking pleasure from his secretive smile, granted only to her, granted always only to her. He would dance with others at other balls. Some day, very soon, he would waltz with his wife. And she wondered if, when he did so, he would think of her.

  Shifting on her sofa, she was torn between wishing she would haunt him and hoping she didn’t. She wanted to be unselfish, wanted his wife to be first among women in his eyes, but she couldn’t quite let go of the hope that he would, from time to time, think of her. They had shared something precious and rare, but she knew deep in her heart the time had come to end it. With her dressed in her fancy clothes and the lovely strains produced by the orchestra still lingering in her mind. She had followed the unicorn into his world, but it was time now to return to hers, without him.

  When the knock sounded on her door, she rose calmly to her feet. She’d removed the false hairpiece earlier, because she’d wanted to welcome him into her abode as herself. It had been a silly thing to wear it. There had never been any artifice between them. She wanted his fingers tangled only in her own tresses, not in some that might have once belonged to another woman or, heaven forbid, some domesticated animal. She’d yet to remove her gown and all its underlying layers, and when she opened the door, she was grateful to see he’d come straight to her without changing from his evening attire.

  One step over the threshold, one slam of the door, a toss aside of his hat, and he had her in his arms, his mouth carrying her away on a current of passion and desire—too soon, too fast, before she’d told him the truth she’d come to understand.

  Pressing her hand to his chest, she pushed him back until she could gaze into his eyes, and there she saw he had come to the same conclusion as she.

  “No,” he said quietly.

  “I wanted you to tell me when it was our last night to be together.” She brushed the dark locks from his brow. “So I will give you the same courtesy. When you leave at dawn, you will not return.”

  “What happened with Dearwood, whatever my dragon of a mother might have said—”

  She pressed her fingers to his lips. “They have nothing to do with us, with this. It was the girls more than anything. One of them is your future, and I will not share you. Or perhaps it was all the portraits. One day one of them will be of your son, must be of your son. Before tonight I don’t think I truly understood the legacy
for which you are responsible. You have to see to it, and you have to see to it without me.”

  He closed his eyes. “Gillie—”

  “I will not be your mistress and I cannot be your wife. Let me go, Thorne, let me go on my terms. Give me that.”

  He opened his eyes. “I would give you the world if I could.”

  She smiled as sweetly as she was able. “Give me tonight, every minute of every hour. And it will be enough.”

  Without another word, he lifted her into his arms and carried her into her bedchamber.

  It had taken her hours to put on the varying layers of clothing. It took him only minutes to remove them, took her less time than that to remove his. Then they fell on her bed as they had so many times before, a tangle of limbs, feet stroking calves, gliding sinuously up, thighs holding close, hands exploring, arms wrapping, capturing, embracing. All the while their mouths taunting and tasting, their tongues lapping and licking, their teeth nipping and biting.

  He marked her with love bites in places no one would ever see: a shoulder, the swell of a breast, a hip, the inside of a thigh. She returned the favor, nuzzling his neck, leaving a mark that branded him as hers, but only temporarily, only for a few days. It would fade away, and she could only hope the memory of her wouldn’t.

  Because, like a miser, she would hoard the remembrances of every moment spent with him. The way he had fought to reach the top of her stairs when surrendering to death’s knell would have been easier. The way his heated breath had first brushed over her breasts. The way he looked at her through his spectacles, the way he watched her without them. Their walks through Whitechapel when she could see he was viewing it for the first time as it truly was, when he was noticing how it differed from the other areas of London he visited. His gentleness with Robin. His kindness with her patrons.

  What it had felt like to waltz within the circle of his arms. The absolute joy and sense of fulfillment that overcame her each time he joined his body to hers. And all the smaller moments that rested in between the larger ones.