Forbidden Desires of a Seductive Duchess: A Steamy Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Violet Hamers

  Lady Arabella threw off her helmet, beaming as she stepped forward, holding out her hand to shake Charles’s. He took it, pressing it in his as he shook it firmly. “Your skill is excellent, My Lady.”

  “Thank you,” she said. A strand of her hair had fallen loose, and the tip of it was stuck just beside her mouth. “Thank you for actually fencing me.”

  “What? You think I’d let you win?” he asked with a laugh.

  “No, but I’m glad you didn’t.”

  “That was quite the duel,” Fabrizio said, clapping his hands. “I haven’t seen swordplay like that since I was on the circuit myself.”

  “Thank you, Fabrizio,” Lady Arabella said, breathlessly. “Have you had breakfast, Mr. Conolly?”

  “I have not,” Charles said, his stomach rumbling.

  “Me either,” she replied. They put away their foils, then left their helmets on one of the benches.

  They walked together, talking companionably as they went up to the breakfast room. Annette followed behind them. Ever present, yet always silently observing.

  “So, Mr. Conolly,” Arabella said. “Have you often been in the country?”

  “No, My Lady,” he replied. “I have not had the pleasure.”

  “Then you must come riding with me soon,” she said. “Lord Drysdale will likely tag along, too, but there’s nothing as pleasant as a ride in the countryside.”

  “I would be happy to, My Lady,” he said.

  “Good. It’s settled then.”

  She smiled at him as they neared the breakfast room. Her smile seemed to light up the dim hall. Light spilled in through the doorways, lighting her up from behind.

  It wasn’t often that Charles felt as though he was being treated as an equal. However, he had certainly made an ally of Lady Arabella.

  When Arabella and Mr. Conolly arrived in the breakfast room, her father was the only one still there. He liked to sit, reading the morning post and drinking tea. It was Arabella’s favorite room in the house, with lemon yellow and cream striped wallpaper, and large windows, through which light emanated.

  “Well? How did it go?” her father asked, slipping the letter that he’d been reading into his jacket pocket.

  “She’s a strong fencer,” Mr. Conolly said. “She beat me thoroughly.”

  “He put up quite the defense,” Arabella added, as she sat down at the mahogany wood table. “Mr. Conolly is equally as strong.”

  “Have you fenced much, Mr. Conolly?” the Duke asked.

  “Yes, Your Grace, I was in the fencing club while at Cambridge.”

  “Ah, I see.” The Duke smiled. “You didn’t let Lady Arabella win?”

  “I wouldn’t dare, Your Grace,” Mr. Conolly replied, buttering a slice of toast, then biting into it.

  Arabella grabbed a slice of toast from the rack, slathering it with marmalade and butter. She was pleased with herself. He certainly hadn’t let her win—she knew by now when someone was letting her win.

  She poured herself a cup of tea, then ate with absolute relish. There was nothing so pleasant as toast and tea after a good bout of fencing.

  “So, I take it you’ll be all ready to move forward with the estate planning?” her father asked.

  “Of course, Your Grace,” Mr. Conolly replied.

  “Very good.”

  Arabella looked up at her father. He was frowning thoughtfully. He stared down at the white tablecloth. He drummed his fingers in agitation.

  “Pappa?” she asked, watching him seem to shake off his thoughts. He looked at her. “Is something wrong?”

  “Heavens, no. Nothing at all, my sweet.”

  “All right.” She went back to her tea and toast. It was odd. For a moment, he had seemed…distracted. Worried about something. But now he was smiling.

  “You know, she hasn’t beaten me at a duel yet,” he told Mr. Conolly.

  “It’s true,” she agreed.

  Charles and the Duke were cloistered in the Duke’s study. The sound of quills, scratching across paper was the only sound that filled the room. The Duke paused in his writing, to take a sip of the brandy that was near at hand.

  Charles glanced up to find the Duke studying him. “Is something wrong, Your Grace?” he asked.

  “Take a break, Mr. Conolly,” the Duke suggested.

  Charles set his quill down, next to the paper. He sat back in his seat, folding his hands. He, too, had a glass of brandy, but he made it a habit not to drink until he had finished his work.

  The Duke was taking his time broaching whatever was bothering him. Charles took a sip, letting the smooth, oaky taste of the drink permeate his tongue.

  “I know that you’ve helped many gentlemen of the ton with their affairs,” the Duke began.

  “I have been most fortunate,” Charles replied.

  “Some of them with things of a very…private nature,” the Duke said.

  “Yes. I have kept those matters utterly a secret,” Charles assured him, feeling like the Duke was about to reveal something equally private. “I will take those secrets to my grave.”

  The Duke nodded, inhaling deeply. He had let his mask slip, if only a little. There was a haunted cast to his gaze. “Mr. Conolly,” he said, at last. “What if someone was being threatened—for the sake of argument, let’s say a letter, from an unknown source? What could be done?

  “Presuming that the source was unknown, it would be best to find out who it is,” Charles replied. “I would suggest that a private investigator be hired. Once there is actual proof, charges could be brought formally.”

  “What if both parties wanted to keep it a secret?”

  “That, too, could be brought about in secret,” Charles replied. “Depending upon what it is that these threats are over.”

  The Duke nodded. His gaze was on his desk. Charles had the curious feeling that the letters being discussed did in fact exist, and were in the top drawer.

  “Your Grace, are you being threatened?”

  “No, Mr. Conolly,” the Duke said. “I’m inclined to believe that it’s nothing, yet…” He smiled at him, then took a sip of his brandy. It seemed like he shook off whatever shadow rested on his shoulders.

  Charles nodded. “If you find that it’s more than that then, please do tell me. I’m…rather talented at settling issues outside of court to my clients’ satisfaction.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, Mr. Conolly. Thank you,” the Duke said.

  Charles nodded, then returned his focus to the task at hand. He had found that the Duke’s previous will hadn’t been completed. It had been hastily done, and didn’t include most of the Duke’s property. Charles did not, however, forget the conversation that they had just had. The whole time, he kept an eye on the Duke, studying him.

  Charles suspected that the Duke wasn’t an individual who frightened easily. Whatever had been sent to him had visibly shaken him, though. For Charles, it put the estate planning, and his desire to see his wife and daughter’s futures secured in a different light.

  Chapter Four

  Arabella spent the rest of the day, preparing for the small ball that their neighbors, Lord and Lady Dansbury, were throwing that evening. Annette helped her with the preparations.

  Her hair was piled on top of her head, and she was tightly laced. The dress was put on over it. Arabella was dressed in a white crepe gown, which was edged in delicate white French lace. It was lightweight—perfect for a summer ball.

  Annette stood behind her, observing her appraisingly. Annette was dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a genteel demeanor. She was Arabella’s right hand.

  “Anything else, My Lady?” Annette asked.

  “No, thank you, Annette. I am fully prepared to do battle,” she replied.

  “How about your pearl necklace, My Lady?” Annette suggested.

  “The drop pearl, on the golden chain?” Arabella asked, considering it. Annette nodded.

  “The very one,” she replied.

  “You’re a genius, Annette
,” she said. “Do go and fetch it.”

  She stared at herself in the mirror. Prior to her debut, she had been looking forward to the endless string of parties and dancing that it had meant. Arabella had always thought that they would be exciting and full of intrigue.

  Now, though, she was beginning to find the combination of posturing and dissembling tedious. The ton was merely an endless masquerade, where one could never show one’s true face. She knew how they all talked about her, their noses raised as they discussed her preferences. She’d even had a feature in one of the gossip magazines.

  Annette brought her the necklace.

  “Perfect,” she said, the metal chain cool against her neck.

  When she arrived downstairs, she found that Mr. Conolly was there, waiting by the door. He was talking to their butler, Mr. Franks, in an amenable tone.

  As she walked down toward him, she saw the look on his face. Her heart beat faster, and her skin warmed, as he clearly reacted, his lips curving upward—parted a little. His blue eyes blinked, softening. He collected himself, bowing to her.

  “You are the evening star, My Lady,” he said.

  “That’s all rather pretty,” she replied warmly, her eyes catching Mr. Franks as he glanced away from them. “Is that your usual compliment for ladies?”

  He laughed. “No, My Lady. They pay me no heed at all.”

  “I believe you,” she said, as she realized it. She opened her mouth to tell him more, but they were interrupted by her parents as they swept down the staircase in a cloud of rich fabrics and sparkling jewels.

  The carriage was brought around for them all. She peered out through the opened window, the wind cooling her face. When she glanced over at him, Mr. Conolly smiled at her.

  She held his gaze for a moment, then looked back out of the window. Her pulse was racing, her mind a whirl of thoughts. He was common, yet so much more than that. Even then, in a carriage with her parents, as well as Lord Drysdale, it felt like it was just the two of them.

  Her parents had always told her to follow her heart—to fall in love. Would they reconsider? She thought so. They had always done things differently than everyone else.

  She gasped as the lights of Dansbury Hall blazed before them. She could see all of the carriages, lining the drive. From where they were, ladies and gentlemen poured out of the carriages, toward the door.

  As was his usual thing to do when at a ton party, Charles stood near the periphery. Lady Arabella was clearly the jewel of Tiverwell County. She seemed to float around the dance floor. While the gentleman that she danced with might be leading, she was clearly the center of attention.

  “Mr. Conolly!” Lord Danbury called out, waving to him to join the group around him.

  “Lord Danbury,” he said, bowing to the grey-haired gentleman. Lord Danbury was dressed in a black silk coat, which had gold lining, with shiny leather boots, which came to the knee.

  “So glad that you made it, sir,” Lord Danbury said, repeating his sentiments at the door. His pale blue eyes reminded Charles of Father Christmas.

  “Thank you for inviting me at last minute, My Lord,” Charles said, repeating his own sentiments.

  “Indeed, we had no idea that you made house visits!” Lord Danbury said, turning toward the gentleman and the two ladies in the group. “Mr. Conolly is a barrister. He even makes house visits!” He guffawed, then remembered himself. “Let me introduce you—Mr. Conolly, this is Lord Greyfield, his wife, Lady Greyfield, and Lady Catsmore.”

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Charles said, bowing to them.

  “With whom are you staying, Mr. Conolly?” Lady Greyfield asked. She was a golden-haired lady, dressed in cool grey silk. She had an ostrich feather, arching over her head grandly, and diamonds dripped from her neck. In her hand, she held a white lace fan.

  “I am a guest of the Duke and Duchess of Tiverwell,” he replied.

  “They are our nearest neighbors!” Lady Catsmore, a plump lady in a peach silk gown, said. She narrowed her eyes, turning toward Lady Greyfield. “They have always allowed their daughter to run amok.” She pursed her lips in disapproval.

  “We thought for certain that once she debuted, she would give up wearing the breeches,” Lady Catsmore added.

  “It’s unseemly, for a Lady,” Lord Greyfield stated. Like his wife, he was golden-haired. His chin receded into his neck, making him seem much older than Charles believed him to be.

  “She’s the most fascinating lady of my entire acquaintance,” Charles remarked, feeling it absolutely necessary to defend Lady Arabella.

  They all looked at him, as though he were a traitor. His anger was at a low boil. He had no patience for gossip. Especially when it was nasty. He didn’t care that they were of the ton or not.

  “Yes, well, I imagine that you do not know very many ladies, Mr. Conolly,” Lady Catsmore said, snapping open her silk fan.

  Charles smiled. He was well aware, however—he was not one of them, nor would he ever be. Regardless, he kept his chin raised, pretending that he didn’t know the cruel intent of her words.

  “While that may be true, I do know that Lady Arabella has a good heart. Not to mention, she fences better than most gentlemen of my acquaintance. Excuse me,” he said, bowing to them, then walking toward the refreshments table.

  His ire had risen, in the manner in which they spoke, reminding him of his place, as well as attempting to gossip about and defame Lady Arabella.

  Let them talk. Fifty of them are no nearer to her equal than they are to becoming an angel.

  He watched Lady Arabella as she curtsied to her dance partner. She turned toward him, her eyes casting about the room. She spotted him, there, amongst the crowd. Her face lit up.

  It was the first time that he truly regretted that he was bourgeoisie and not of noble birth. She walked in his direction, fanning herself as she walked toward him. He held her gaze, his heart beating.

  “My Lady,” he said, bowing. Desire for her was a dark wave, closing over his head. He felt both ecstatic and devastated.

  “Mr. Conolly,” she replied, waving her fan to cool herself.

  “You seem as comfortable on the dance floor as you are in the fencing salle.”

  “Of course,” she replied. “Did you not know that dancing and fencing are nearly the same?”

  “Indeed not.”

  “Tonight, Mr. Conolly, I am wearing armor of a different sort,” she replied, holding one hand out, as if to tell him to look. He kept his eyes on hers.

  “I’ve never thought of it that way,” he mused. Her white dress with the delicate lace would never have struck him as armor. Not in the usual sense.

  “It’s often unknown to our supposed better halves,” she replied. “Yet, we ladies do battle on the dance floor.” She turned, so that they were both looking out over the room.

  “With whom are you doing battle?” he asked. A cursory glance around the room made him see that none of the ladies were even looking at them. The Viscount of Drysdale was frowning a little in their direction, however.

  “You’re presuming that the other ladies are my opponents,” she said. “But that’s an entirely wrong assumption. I want nothing to do with the gentlemen upon whom they have their eyes on.”

  “My Lady,” he said. “Are you meaning the gentlemen?”

  “Indeed, Mr. Conolly.” She exhaled, fanning herself.

  “And what are you battling them for?” he asked.

  “My independence,” she whispered, leaning in toward him. He could smell her perfume—rosewater.

  “I can help you with that, you know,” he offered.

  “You already are.”

  When he turned to glance at her, she was watching him closely. He certainly regretted his place in life at that moment. She was stunning, and so, so strong-willed.

  “I don’t think I’ll ever meet your like again, My Lady,” he said, watching her own desire for him, causing her eyes to take on a sultry tone.

 
In a moment, it was gone—she smiled at him. “Will you dance with me, Mr. Conolly? The next one is about to start, and I’ve got no one on my dance card for it.”

  He couldn’t deny her anything, even if he’d wanted to. “Of course, My Lady. Though, I’m not very skilled at it.”

  “It’s all right. This one is very easy,” she assured him. He offered her his arm, and she slipped her hand into the crook of it. Charles allowed her to steer him toward the center of the dance floor.