Last Duke Standing

by Cheryl Bolen

  It would be best if she could turn him away completely, but she had not the fortitude to do so. She was too invested in discovering Freddie’s murderer. And . . . she did not like admitting it, but she enjoyed having another person with whom to go over Freddie’s correspondence and other important papers.

  When he came tomorrow, she would scold him and insist that such intimacies never be repeated. But would she even be able to look him in the eye without embarrassment?

  For a second night, but for entirely different reasons, she was not able to sleep.

  * * *

  And he’d thought she was cold! Lady Georgiana Fenton kissed with more ardor than a courtesan. It was as if he’d lifted the cauldron’s lid, releasing all those simmering passions she’d long repressed. Her response shocked him almost as much as his own actions had. He could not remember even thinking about kissing the lady, yet out of the blue he’d been overcome with an urge so powerful that he’d drawn her into his arms as naturally and unknowingly as the compulsion to breathe.

  How thoroughly satisfied he’d been those moments when his lips pressed to hers, when her slender body pressed against him. All thoughts had been obliterated by a surge of euphoria and potent need. Yet underlying the swirl of emotions, the voice of his conscience emerged, telling him how wrong it was to force himself on his dead brother’s betrothed. Just once, he wanted to do the wrong thing. He wanted to peel away her clothing and sink into her.

  But Alex had never been able to turn his back on doing what was right.

  Leaving her was one of the most difficult things he’d ever done. Long after he left her, he could not purge her from his thoughts. He still felt as if her sweet rose scent clung to him. He’d told his coachman to drive around while he collected himself. He felt like an Etonian rattled by his first kiss.

  When he finally made it to White’s he was rewarded with the presence of Sir Arthur, whom he vaguely recognized. Sir Arthur might lament his lack of prodigious fortune, but the man dressed exceedingly well in a freshly starched white cravat and shirt, finely tailored black coat and gray pantaloons that had not a single wrinkle. His expanded waist and graying hair gave credence to his four decades. Alex almost felt sorry for Mrs. Langston. Losing a duke—a young, not unattractive one—for a mere baronet of modest means and unremarkable appearance must have been demeaning to the actress who was herself well past the blush of youth.

  When Alex had first returned to England after being several years on the Peninsula, he’d met Sir Arthur but had not seen him since. As their gazes connected, the older man effected a frown and began to move across the well-lighted chamber. “Ah, your grace, we friends of your late brother are nearly inconsolable. He was a fine fellow and will be much missed.”

  “Thank you.” Alex eyed an unoccupied card table. “Please, come sit with me. I’d like to know about my brother’s last days.”

  As soon as they were seated, the waiter brought brandy. “There’s really not much I can tell you,” Sir Arthur said. “I will say your brother seemed to be in perfect good health. His shooting was accurate. In fact, he rather left the rest of us in his dust. Crack shot, that man. I just can’t believe he’s gone. Don’t understand how so fit a young man could just die in his sleep.” He looked up at Alex. “Though I daresay your family’s cursed. Look at your eldest brother. . .”

  Was the man trying to convince him that Freddie’s life had been taken away because of some physical malady?

  “But my father lived to be seventy,” Alex countered.

  Sir Arthur smiled. “Then I pray you take after your sire.”

  “Would you say you were close to my brother?”

  Sir Arthur did not answer for a moment. “I wouldn’t say anyone was close to your brother.”

  “Only one well acquainted with him would know how right you are.”

  A smile easing across his face, the other man shrugged. “When he was in town—not that terribly often, owing to his preference of the country—he, like me, frequented White’s. He knew how vastly I admired Mrs. Langston, and when he became betrothed to Lady Georgiana, he offered to pass Mrs. Langston to me. I have been incredibly beholden to him for the favor. She could have merited a man far my superior in every way.”

  Alex knew good manners dictated that he deny the man’s modest claim, but Alex had never been able to lie. “I’m surprised Mrs. Langston had no say in who was to be her next protector.”

  “Your brother lubricated my way with a large settlement and a hearty recommendation on my behalf.”

  Then the baronet must have been most beholden to Freddie. “And the arrangement has been mutually satisfying?” What had gotten into him? Alex had never before asked another man such a prying question. “You don’t have to answer. I have no right to ask so personal a question.”

  “I don’t object to answering. On my part it’s a most satisfactory arrangement, and Mrs. Langston is never happy without a man in her life—though I’ve always thought she truly loved the late Duke of Fordham.”

  And now Sir Arthur’s competition had been eliminated.

  It was impossible for Alex not to think of Georgiana and compare her to the aging actress. It was like contrasting diamonds to tin. No wonder Freddie had quickly dismissed his mistress after winning the affections of Lady Georgiana Fenton. Alex found his breath growing short at the memory of their shared kiss, and he suddenly became irrationally jealous of his brother. Had she ever kissed Freddie as she’d kissed Alex?

  Alex yanked his thoughts away from her. “About my brother’s last day. . . Did he seem oppressed about anything? Lethargic? Angry? There must have been something.” Alex knew full well none of those things had caused Freddie’s death, but he needed to see how Sir Arthur reacted.

  “Knowing the late duke, I would say it was a fitting last day. He was in good spirits. His shooting had been most fulfilling, the company was congenial, and the liquor flowed. All of us had a wonderful day. Not much of a night. We’d risen early and drunk too much. I daresay we were in bed by ten o’clock.”

  “Nothing was said that might have upset my brother? No angry words spoken?”

  Sir Arthur’s brows lowered. “You don’t think he took his own life?”

  “No, nothing like that. It appears he died of natural causes.” Not exactly a lie. It did appear he died of natural causes. “I only wondered if something oppressive could have affected his health. It’s so unnatural for one of his age—one in perfectly good health—to expire while sleeping.”

  “True, though I can think of nothing that could have made him melancholy. Quite the opposite, actually. He was in very good spirits. He was greatly looking forward to marrying Lady Georgiana.”

  “Your chamber was next to his, was it not?”

  “Yes, I suppose it was.”

  “And you heard no noises in the night?”

  Sir Arthur chuckled. “As much as I drank, I rather fell into my bed and I’m afraid I slept like the dead . . .” He stopped, and stiffened. “Do pardon me for my insensitive comparison.”

  “No pardon needed.” He wanted to gauge Sir Arthur’s opinion of Freddie but dare not hint at the suspicious nature of Freddie’s death. “Given that Freddie was not one to have close friendships, other than the long-standing one with Pomfoy, would you say you thought of him as a friend?”

  “I was flattered to count him as a friend.” His bushy eyebrows lowered. “Why do you ask?”

  Alex usually avoided lying at all costs, but there was nothing usual about these circumstances. “My brother had a small bequest that each of his friends be bequeathed a bottle of his favorite brandy.”

  “Ah, but your brother had a fine appreciation of good brandy. I should be honored to receive it, though it would be difficult to drink. It’s something I should like to keep to be reminded of Frederick Haversham, the late Duke of Fordham. My friend.”

  He didn’t sound like a man capable of murder.

  * * *

  Even if she was determined t
o repel any intimacies with the reigning Duke of Fordham, Georgiana was vain enough to wish to look pretty when in his presence. She had dismissed the first three dresses Angelique had presented. “I believe I’ll wear the white one with the tiny purple flowers.”

  “Oh, mademoiselle, that is my favorite on you. White is so stunning with your dark hair and uncommonly white teeth, and the delicate flowers add to your . . . la féminité.”

  It was as if her maid could tap into her thoughts. How else could Angelique know that on this day Georgiana wished to cast away her careless disregard of appearance and wanted her expected caller to find her lovely? Could Angelique possibly know about the kiss? Could she sense that her mistress was mightily fighting her attraction to her dead fiancé’s brother? Angelique beautifully fashioned her hair into a cascade of ringlets that swept away from her face. It was a much more elaborate style than what Georgiana normally wore during the daytime. As she stared into her looking glass, she was inordinately pleased with her appearance. Because of the flattering dress and stunning hair, she hoped no one would notice the dullness of her eyes from lack of sleep. All because of that wretched man and his wicked kiss!

  As her maid was finishing Georgiana’s hair, Roberts tapped at her chamber door and informed her that she had a caller. Her heartbeat accelerated. Fordham. Then the butler added, “A Lord Hickington.”

  Her whole demeanor caved. Even though she intended to avoid any intimacies with the duke, she was disappointed he wasn’t her caller. She was even more disappointed to have to face Louis Hickington. He was actually one of the reasons she had consented to wed Freddie even though she had not been in love with him. He had once been a most determined suitor. Getting married was the only way she could convince Lord Hickington—and other suitors—of her complete disinterest.

  She had hoped that Fordham—as he had vowed to do—might have gotten the opportunity at White’s last night to tell Lord Hickington she wasn’t receiving callers. Now it was up to her to deliver the annoying man the message in person.

  He stood when she entered the drawing room. He was a very fine looking man. She believed him near the same age as the new Fordham heir, about nine and twenty. He was taller than Fordham. Lord Hickington had always been interested in fashion and had a propensity to overdress with bold colours and unforgettable embellishments like chunky jewelry featuring animal heads and cravats of non-traditional colours, like blue. Today he gave a nod to tradition by wearing a white cravat, though the height of his shirt points—hugging his square-cut cheeks—and the elaborate tying of his cravat were anything but traditional.

  His expertly cut black hair was all that was fashionable. He moved toward her, regarding her with icy blue eyes. “Allow me, my dear Lady Georgiana, to offer you my deepest sympathy on the death of your betrothed.”

  She nodded as she extended her gloved hand for him to kiss. Unlike that odious Fordham, this man at least had the decency to not actually press his lips to her glove. As he made the motions, she could not help but to think of how every touch of Fordham’s unhinged her—and how nothing this man could possibly do would ever unhinge her.

  But, then, no man ever had before. Until Alex Haversham, the present Duke of Fordham.

  She took a seat on a sofa near the fireplace, and he sat opposite her on a matching sofa. “In spite of your great loss, you’re looking beautiful, my lady.”

  She wondered if he had noticed the tell-tale signs of her missing sleep. If he did, he would attribute it to Freddie—and not to Freddie’s rakish brother! “My so-called beauty is not a subject I care to discuss. In fact, I wasn’t planning to discuss anything with anyone. I haven’t been receiving callers.”

  “Fordham had said something to that effect, but as you and I are such old friends, I could not stay away when I knew you must be suffering. I am honored that you did not turn me away. I had to come and offer my services to help you in any way possible.”

  “That’s very kind of you, but I need no assistance.”

  “I shan’t want to think of you being mired in grief—not when you’ve always meant so much to me.”

  “I’m not mired in grief. I’m kept very busy. You see, the late Duke of Fordham named me as executor of his papers. It’s a mammoth task which not only keeps me very busy, but it also keeps my mind off my grief.”

  “But you need a man to see to your well-being. Hartworth’s still at Alsop Hall, is he not?”

  “I don’t need a man.” Least of all her spouse-dominated brother. Besides, Fordham was here. He’d promised to keep the gawkers at bay.

  “My dear Lady Georgiana, you haven’t changed one iota. Always so independent. I’m happy you’ve not changed. I fell in love with that feistiness and everything about you the year you came out, and my feelings have never wavered.”

  She raised her brows. “Did I not hear of you courting Dorothy Hemmings?” Dorothy Hemmings had been a great heiress of Welsh coal mines. She had since married the Earl of Carley.

  “Only after you accepted Fordham’s offer. I will own, I was devastated.” He sighed. “Alas, my heart was not into the courtship of the coal heiress. I kept pining away for the beautiful daughter of the Marquess of Hartworth.”

  She cupped her hands to her ears. “I will not listen to such comments. How dare you when my dear Freddie’s just been buried.”

  The man effected a contrite expression. “Forgive me. It’s just that my feelings toward you are so violent—and unchanging.”

  A thump, thump sounded on the corridor outside the drawing room, and Georgiana looked up to see her mother moving toward them, heavily leaning upon her cane.

  Lord Hickington stood.

  “Mama, may I present to you Lord Hickington. Do you remember him?”

  Lady Hartworth gazed at him through squinted eyes. “I do not, but I daresay he’s one of those men who used to bring you posies and beg you to marry them—before you became betrothed to the king.”

  His brows crumpled.

  “She means duke. You’ll recall my mother is recovering from apoplexy.”

  “I would never have known,” he said, smiling at the dowager. “You’re as lovely as ever, Lady Hartworth.”

  Nodding elegantly, Lady Hartworth preened before turning her attention to her daughter. “I heard a man and came to chaperone. I must scold you for entertaining a man alone in this chamber.”

  Georgiana’s eyes narrowed. “The door was open! And I’m hardly a young maiden who needs to be watched over. I’m four-and-twenty and have absolutely no desire to ruin myself with any man.”

  Her mother came to sit beside her, then raked her appreciative gaze over the gentleman caller. “You must own, Lord Hawkington is a most handsome man, though I do believe I prefer men with sandy-coloured hair—men like the late Duke of Fordham and his heir.”

  “Are you discussing the man sitting across from us?” Georgiana inquired.

  “Of course. Can you not see how handsome he is?”

  “I thank you, my lady, but I am Lord Hickington. Not Hawkington.”

  “Mama, you must keep your opinions to yourself.”

  Lady Hartworth sighed. “Then I shall endeavor to be silent.”

  Her mother was incapable of being silent. Georgiana merely eyed Lord Hickington and shrugged.

  “I was just telling your daughter, my lady, that since the marquess, your son, is not here in London, I felt it my duty to offer my services to a young lady constricted by grief.”

  “I daresay Georgiana would be more constricted by grief if my son were here. As a first born, Georgiana’s accustomed to being the one to make decisions and to order others about. She’s possessed of a very strong personality. Unlike that son of mine. A pity a female cannot inherit.”

  “I assure you,” Georgiana said, “I wouldn’t wish to hold a title like the Countess of Sutherland does. It’s more responsibility than I should like. I prefer domination over domestic affairs.”

  Lady Hartworth nodded with satisfaction. “You see,
Lord Hickman, she’s still feminine underneath her authoritarian demeanor.”

  “Hickington,” Georgiana corrected.

  “Oh, many people call me Hickman,” he said.

  “I thought, dear Mama, you were going to be silent. You know I dislike you praising me to others.”

  A martyred expression crossed Lady Hartworth’s face. “A pity we aren’t Orientals. I understand they hold their elders with reverence and would never criticize them in public.”

  “I daresay you would not be happy with their practice of binding women’s feet so they grow no larger than a biscuit and give them grief until the day they die,” Georgiana countered.

  Lady Hartworth shrugged. “There’s always sedan chairs.”

  “Which I am very happy you’ve abandoned. Look how well you’re walking now.” Her mother had become far too attached to the use of her sedan chair and had to be separated from it not without a great display of tears and pleas.

  Roberts came into the chamber. “The Duke of Fordham to see you, Lady Hartworth.”

  As her mother gleefully told the butler to show in the duke, Georgiana observed that the pleasant expression on Lord Hickington’s face blanched at the mention of Fordham.

  When Fordham stood surveying the gathering at the door to the drawing room, Georgiana’s pulse sped up. What a contrast he was to Lord Hickington. His informal clothing of brown jacket, carelessly tied cream-coloured cravat, buff breeches, and brown boots indicated he had probably ridden over on his horse. She recalled how thoroughly the man admired horses. Yet more than the contrast between overdressed formality and comfortable riding wear, the two men differed in so many other ways. While the viscount had obsessed over purchasing a ring with a lion’s head, Fordham had been leading men into battle. Every inch of his muscular torso bespoke of his supreme masculinity.