A Duchess for all Seasons: The Collection

by Jillian Eaton

  “Well, well, well.” Dropping the jacket onto the back of a chair, he began to loosen his cravat. “What do we have here?”

  The first time he’d seen Lady Vanessa he had been immediately captivated by her beauty. A willowy blonde with ice blue eyes, plump red lips, and features so delicate they might have been spun from glass, she was the epitome of a classic English rose. Yet while her physical appearance was what had initially piqued his interest, it was the seductive gleam of naughtiness in her gaze that kept it.

  Derek had always been a man in possession of…darker appetites. And Vanessa, for all she might have looked and acted like a proper lady when out in public, was only too happy to feed his baser instincts when they were in private.

  Her myriad of talents in the bedroom, coupled with the fact that she was already married and as such had no ridiculous illusions about becoming the next Duchess of Hawkridge, made her the perfect mistress.

  Vanessa gave a tiny, indecipherable squeak of alarm as he approached her from behind and his desire deepened. Of all the roles she’d played a damsel in distresses had never been among them, and he was looking forward to how far she would carry it out. Although he wasn’t quite certain why she was on the floor with her head under a table.

  “I hope you’re not wearing anything under those skirts,” he said silkily as he crouched behind her and began to slide his hand up her calf. “Or else I’m going to have to – bollocks!”

  Without warning Vanessa kicked back with all the strength and temerity of a mule, the heel of her slippered foot striking precariously close to his nether regions. Cursing, he scrambled back onto the sofa, both hands draped protectively over his cock and balls. A few inches higher…

  “If this is some sort of new game, I fail to see the appeal,” he said darkly.

  “Game?” An outraged female voice that was decidedly not Vanessa’s rose up from underneath the table. “This isn’t a game, you overreaching oaf! How dare you touch me in such a familiar manner!”

  “I…” Quick witted with a dagger sharp tongue, Derek rarely found himself at a loss for words. But as he stared down at the shapely derriere that belonged to someone other than his mistress, he couldn’t think of a single thing to say. “I…I…”

  “I, I, I,” the impertinent voice mocked. “Why not try an apology, or better yet an explanation? Or are you such a rogue and a rake that you greet every woman you come across by running your hand up her leg?”

  The chit was in a dark room wedged halfway beneath a table and she wanted an explanation from him? Eyes narrowing, Derek shot to his feet.

  “I do apologize,” he said stiffly. “I…thought you were someone else.”

  “You thought I was someone else?” the voice scoffed. “Pray tell, who else do you know who has her head stuck under a table?”

  “I think the better question is what you are doing with your head stuck under a table.”

  “Clearly I am looking for something.”

  Clearly.

  “And what would that something be?” he asked. “A lost earring? A necklace? Your dignity?”

  “If you must know I am looking for Henny.”

  Confused, his gaze swept the room, but unless there was someone hiding behind the curtains they were the parlor’s only two occupants. “Is Henny a pint-sized elf?”

  “Do not be ridiculous. Henny is a hedgehog.”

  Of course she was. Because the only thing stranger than encountering a woman with her head stuck underneath a table was a woman with her head stuck underneath the table looking for her pet hedgehog.

  “I wish you luck in your search,” he said brusquely before he walked around the sofa and picked up his jacket. He was halfway to the door when the panic in the unknown woman’s voice gave him pause.

  “Wait!” she cried. “You can’t just leave. You have to help me.”

  “Do I?” One dark brow lifted as he turned around. “And why would you require the help of a – what was it? Oh, yes. An ‘overreaching oaf’? Don’t worry, I am not a complete cad. I’ll send for help.”

  “No, you can’t!” She said it so quickly that the corners of his mouth twitched despite his annoyance at having been kicked, mocked, and insulted. In the span of a few seconds his mysterious assailant had done what no other woman – or man, for that matter – had ever dared. He should have left her to her fate without a second thought. And yet…

  With a loud, irritated sigh, he dropped his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. “I suppose this can be my good deed for the year. What are you stuck on?”

  “If I knew that then I wouldn’t be stuck now, would I?” she replied tartly.

  Saucy little wench. He was looking forward to hearing her stuttering apology when she realized just whom she’d been speaking to in such a disrespectful manner.

  “Do not kick me again,” he ordered as he crouched beside her and began to feel along the table for any sharp edges her gown could have gotten snagged on.

  “What are you doing?” She craned her head around, offering him a glimpse of wide green eyes and thick curls the color of smoldering fire. He’d never cared for red hair. It was too bold. Too messy. Too temperamental. Vanessa’s cold beauty was much more to his liking.

  “Hold still.” His fingers bumped against a piece of scrollwork on the edge of the table. At some point the scrollwork must have come loose for a nail had been used to secure it, and it was the nail head that had caught the woman’s dress. “I’ve almost got it – bollocks,” he cursed under his breath when the fabric slipped from his grasp. “I thought I told you to hold still!”

  “I am holding still.”

  “No,” he said through clenched teeth. “You’re not. This blasted sofa is in the way. I’m going to have to straddle you.”

  “You’re going to have to – what are you doing?” she yelped when he mounted her backside as one would a mare, muscular thighs gently squeezing her slender hips. From this position he was finally able to get a firm grip on the nail...and his grip wasn’t the only thing that was firm. For such a bristly little thing she was certainly soft in all the places that counted.

  He was half-tempted to explore more of those soft places, but not fancying another kick in the groin he ignored his misplaced arousal (for he knew the woman his body really desired was Vanessa), and quickly got to work on the nail. Unfortunately, in a twist of horribly bad timing, no sooner had he pried the dress free than the parlor door suddenly swung open.

  “Eleanor?” a lady’s shrill voice rang out. “Eleanor, are you in – oh! I am so sorry, I did not mean to…Eleanor? Eleanor, is that you?”

  Derek willed the redhead to remain silent. They may have been fully clothed, but their current position didn’t exactly lend itself to innocence. Surely she knew what would happen to her reputation if she was discovered kneeling beneath a man in the dark confines of a parlor. But apparently she either didn’t know, or she didn’t care, and he inwardly cringed when she promptly responded with a cheerful, “Yes Mother! It’s me.”

  “Now you’ve bloody well done it,” he growled as he swung his leg over and stalked to the far side of the sofa, bracing his hand on the wooden armrest. But he knew no matter how much distance he put between them, it would never be enough. The damage, such as it was, had already been done.

  Now that she was no longer stuck, the redhead – Eleanor – quickly backed out from beneath the table and stood up. Innocent green eyes, flecked with gold and framed by thick auburn lashes, met his. There was a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks, like cinnamon dusted on the top of a queen cake. He was suddenly filled with the nearly irrepressible urge to brush his thumb across her face and see if the freckles would melt away beneath his touch. A peculiar urge, as he was not an affectionate man. But then this had been a most peculiar evening.

  “What have I done?” Eleanor asked, her brows knitting with confusion.

  “What have you done?” His laugh was flat and humorless as his calculating gaze flicked to the
woman who remained frozen in front of the door. At least she’d had the presence of mind to close it behind her, but rumors had a way of slipping through even the smallest of cracks. Rumors that would ruin him as surely as they would ruin Eleanor. If not for that wretched will…

  “You’ve damned us both,” he said grimly. “That’s what you’ve done.”

  Chapter Three

  Eleanor was not surprised to discover the man who had grudgingly helped her was handsome. If there was one thing she’d learned over the past six Seasons, it was that arrogant men tended towards handsomeness. A pity, really. All those chiseled jaws and thick hair and strong chins wasted on conceited scoundrels who falsely believed they were superior to their peers because of their physical appearance, when in fact it was the inside of a person that mattered most.

  Her scowling rescuer was tall and broad-shouldered with black hair swept back from a high, smooth temple and side whiskers that extended all the way down past his ears. He had distinct, evenly spaced features and a perfectly well-shaped mouth that was ruined by a frown. His eyes were the color of rich dark brandy, the sort her father kept high on the shelf in crystal decanters and only drank on very special occasions. A wide chest tapered down to a narrow waist and then widened into muscular thighs enclosed in fawn colored breeches. Eleanor’s cheeks pinkened when she remembered how those thighs had clenched around her hips, and she abruptly diverted her gaze to her mother.

  “I’m sorry I was gone so long. I was looking for Henny, you see, and then I became stuck under the – what is it?” she asked when Lady Ward began to vehemently shake her head from side to side. “What’s wrong? Are you ill? You didn’t eat the shrimp, did you? Because you know what happens when you eat shrimp.”

  “Oh Eleanor,” Lady Ward cried, clasping her gloved hands beneath her chin. “What have you done?”

  Eleanor’s fair brow creased. Why was everyone under the impression she’d done something? Other than threatening to turn Henny loose on Lord Stanhope – no less than he’d deserved for nearly crippling her with his clumsy feet – she’d been on her best behavior for the entire evening. She hadn’t brought up a single new invention over dinner or made an embarrassment of herself while dancing. Yes, she’d gotten stuck under a table…but that wasn’t her fault. What was she supposed to have done? Just leave Henny in the parlor to her own devices? Speaking of which…

  “Henny!” Her eyes widened. “I still need to find her.”

  “Will you forget about that damn animal for one moment! This is serious, Eleanor.”

  “You – you cursed.” Shocked to her very core, Eleanor stared at her mother with her mouth agape. “You never curse.”

  “Yes, well, I’ve never walked in on my daughter in a compromising position with a man before either! I need to sit down,” Lady Ward muttered, clutching her temple. “I’m feeling very faint. Black dots. There are black dots everywhere.”

  “Here.” Moving with impressive speed, the man whose name Eleanor still did not know lifted a chair and placed it behind her mother. Then he rocked back on his heels, crossed his arms, and skewered her with a glare so frigid she felt the chill of it all the way across the room.

  “Your chaperone is correct,” he said. “This is serious. Someone of your age should have known better than to put herself in such a vulnerable position.”

  Eleanor blinked. She knew two and twenty wasn’t considered young by any means, but she liked to think she had a few years left before she was sentenced to spinsterhood! Never mind that was precisely the sort of life she had in mind. But it was one thing to refer to herself as a spinster. Quite another when someone else did it, especially when that someone else was an overweening lord easily five years her senior!

  “Someone of my age?” she replied indignantly. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you are not a fresh-faced debutante, inasmuch as you possess the ignorance of one.” One thick brow arched. “You should have known better than to have been alone in a room without a proper chaperone. You’ve ruined both of our lives, you stupid girl. And you don’t even have the good sense to realize it.”

  If her jaw had dropped when her mother cursed, it positively sagged wide open now. But while most women would have burst into tears under the weight of such a crushing insult, Eleanor rose to the occasion like an Amazon strapping on her battle armor. Marching right up to her dark-eyed antagonist, she fearlessly jabbed a finger at the middle of his rock hard chest and snapped, “Better a stupid girl than an arrogant bounder whose head is so inflated it’s a wonder it remains attached to your neck!”

  “Eleanor!” Lady Ward gasped, looking up at her daughter with horror. “You cannot speak to his grace like that! Apologize at once!”

  Her slim shoulders stiffening, Eleanor stepped back and frowned down at her mother. “I most certainly will not. Did you hear what he said to me?”

  “Please darling,” Lady Ward pleaded. “For once in your life, do as you are told.” She lowered her voice and flicked an anxious glance over her shoulder to where the stranger stood with an oddly smug expression on his face, as if he were greatly anticipating whatever Lady Ward was about to say next. “Don’t you have any idea whom you are speaking to? You have just insulted the Duke of Hawkridge. You simply must apologize.”

  So the conceited cad was a duke, was he? Well bully on that. It didn’t matter if he was the King of England. A fancy title did not give him the right or the means to belittle her.

  “I don’t care who he is,” she said, and was rewarded for her bold statement when the duke’s smug smirk was abruptly replaced by a hard, narrow-eyed scowl. “I’ve done nothing but call a donkey a donkey.” Her head tilted thoughtfully to the side. “Or in this case an ass an ass.”

  “Oh,” Lady Ward moaned as she tipped forward and dropped her head between her knees. “The dots, the dots.”

  “Mother, you are not going to – Henny!” Eleanor cried with delight when she saw a tiny black nose peeking out from beneath the curtains. Scurrying over to the window, she snatched up her pet and quickly returned her to the safe confines of her pocket. The little hedgehog let out a squawk of protest before curling up into a ball and promptly falling asleep, no doubt exhausted by all of the excitement she’d caused. Turning back towards the middle of the parlor, Eleanor discovered her mother sadly shaking her head from side to side while the duke stared at her as if she’d suddenly sprouted a third arm.

  “What the devil did you just put in your pocket?” he demanded.

  “That was Henny. My hedgehog.”

  “You have a bloody hedgehog?”

  Her lips thinned. “Have you listened to anything I’ve said?”

  “I’ve done my best not to,” he drawled, an insufferable smirk toying with the corners of his mouth.

  Odious man. One would think a duke would possess better manners. Then again, she couldn’t exactly say she was surprised. Her sixth Season nearly completed and she’d yet to meet a single lord who was tolerable enough to engage in conversation for longer than five minutes. Presumptuous swine, the lot of them. And this one was no different from the rest.

  “Now that I have found Henny, I am no longer in need of your services.” She gave a vague sweep of her arm, dismissing him as if he were nothing more than a lowly footman. But he didn’t leave. Instead, much to her general annoyance, he addressed her mother.

  “Might I have the pleasure of learning your name, my lady?”

  “Lady Ward, Your Grace,” said Eleanor’s mother with a tight, uneasy smile that furrowed her brow. “Lady Helena Ward.”

  “Lady Ward.” The duke bowed, and Eleanor rolled her eyes. “I am sorry to make your acquaintance under such…straining circumstances. But I should very much like you to believe me when I say that absolutely nothing untoward happened between your daughter and me, despite what it may have looked like. However, let it be known I do realize the gravity of the situation at hand, as well as the fate that awaits your daughter should any word
of this ever escape the room.”

  “Of course nothing untoward happened,” Eleanor burst out. “I’d rather kiss Mr. Haybeak!”

  Mr. Haybeak was her pet duck.

  “Eleanor, be quiet,” Lady Ward snapped. “Let His Grace speak.”

  “Why should he be allowed to talk while I–”

  “Eleanor.”

  “Fine,” she grumbled. “Henny and I will be over here.” Giving her pocket a reassuring pat, she retreated to the far corner of the parlor and pretended to look at the leather bound books lining the shelves.

  “Please let me apologize on behalf of my daughter, Your Grace. She has always been headstrong. I fear her father and I did not do enough to curb her willfulness when she was a child, and she has carried that willful nature into adulthood.”

  Eleanor bit back a snort as she pulled a book off the shelf and began to flip through the pages. In a society where tenacity and intelligence were frowned upon while docility and obedience were encouraged, she was glad to be in a possession of a willful nature.

  “I can see that, Lady Ward. Your daughter is certainly…unique.”

  “Thank you,” Lady Ward said, even though it was obvious the duke had not been paying a compliment.

  “I take it she is unmarried?” he asked.

  The book bobbled in Eleanor’s hand. Why would a duke care if she was wed or not?

  “Yes, Your Grace. Although not for lack of offers. My daughter is very particular.”

  This time Eleanor couldn’t quite silence her snort in time. The only offer she’d received had been from a baron old enough to be her grandfather. He’d passed away in his sleep before she’d been able to reject it.

  “And she is not currently engaged?”

  “No, Your Grace.”

  The duke sighed. It was a heavy sigh. The sort of sigh a man gave right before he stepped up to the gallows and stretched out his neck. “Then I am afraid I see no other recourse.”

  No other recourse? She didn’t like the sound of that. She didn’t like the sound of that one bit. “What are you–”