Dreaming of the Duke (The Dukes' Club Book 2)

by Eva Devon

  She tsked. “Desist in your irascibility.”

  At this, he grinned, apparently mollified by the wine. “You really are quite a picture when you are in such a state.”

  “I am not in a state,” she huffed.

  “You are.”

  She hmmphed again. “Now. To continue.”

  He waggled his brows then drank from the bottle once again.

  “Many Viking warriors died in this country and they were frequently buried here in elaborate graves under the earth.”

  “How fascinating.”

  “Yes. It is really. . .” She stopped. “I say, are you making fun?”

  “Of you, love?” He shook his head, pursing his lips in exaggerated serious. “One should never dare to do such a misdeed.”

  She lifted her chin again. “Indeed, they should not.”

  He gestured with his own hand, a suspiciously similar movement to her own earlier gesture. “Do go on.”

  “As I was saying, these Viking burials are key to understanding their role here in the establishment of our society, and most certainly in understanding the vast travel and trade that the Northmen partook in.”

  “So, there’s an ancient plunderer buried on this land.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Any treasure do you think?”

  She was tempted to scoff, but held in such thoughts. It was to be expected in one who was not an academic. “It is impossible to tell what objects are buried in the barrow. And it also largely depends on your idea of treasure.”

  “I suppose one might consider anything buried for such a long time treasure. Especially if it is indicative of a society’s makeup.”

  Her heart warmed. The words which he’d uttered seemed impossible. No one. Absolutely no one besides her brothers or her father had ever uttered such a sentiment. Her cheeks began to burn with happiness. “You understand,” she said.

  He held out the bottle of wine to her. “I understand that it is important to you and that history is just a few feet beneath the soil before us.”

  Cordelia swallowed.

  “What’s important to you is important to me,” he said softly.

  She took the bottle of wine and lest her eyes grow watery, she took a quick drink, savoring the crisp, sweet notes of peach and apple. She had no idea what to make of such a statement. She and her family had held the importance of archeology in mutual esteem.

  Jack had no reason at all to feel thusly. And from his words, his consideration had only to do with her opinion on the matter.

  It was a rare feeling.

  She took another drink, overwhelmed by the realization that someone might put her desires in a place of importance without her having to do a good deal of cajoling. “I appreciate that. Thank you.”

  “You’re happy, aren’t you?” he asked, a surprising degree of happiness in his own voice.

  She handed him back the bottle of wine. “I am. Yes.”

  He leaned towards her, and brushed his thumb over her lower lip then licked the drop of wine he’d removed. “Then there’s really only one thing to do.”

  The flushed feeling raced over her entire body, skin aflame, and lips parting. “What is that?”

  Leaning in, he pressed his lips to her ear and whispered softly, “We dig.”

  Chapter 21

  It had never occurred to Jack that there were varying sizes of shovels or that one might use them in a variety of ways. Well, he must have known at some point. Of course he knew. He’d been in the army after all. And while he’d never dug, he’d seen it done. Officers didn’t dig unless something as dire as rat eating had commenced. Not if the men were going to follow orders. But Cordelia had thrust a shovel in his hands, pointed at the grass covered dirt and marched off to talk to her foreman, John Upton.

  She’d quickly taken the shovel away with a yelp of dismay when she’d realized he’d made a total hash of things. Apparently, she’d assumed that all men knew how to wield a shovel. She’d been mistaken.

  But who knew there was a science to digging? Surveying? Certainly. But digging? According to Cordelia there was and she’d sent him off with a village boy to cordon off the whole area with sticks and white string.

  Since just yesterday and its discovery, the barrow was a mulling, busy place.

  For her, he’d hired in a few workers. And she’d taken to it with the sort of zealotry one expected from parliamentarians blathering for the majority.

  He’d never seen anyone so. . . So . . . Happy. And last night had been perfect bliss, making love to all hours, listening to her discuss her plans for the site. He’d never imagined that he could be so content in a woman’s company. Content didn’t cover it, really. Cordelia was indescribable in her enthusiasm for him and for her life.

  It was far from what he ever would have expected for his one week with his wife, but he had to admit that there was a feeling in his chest which did resemble. . . Happiness. He’d no idea what to make of it and so when Cordelia gave him a set of small brushes, he didn’t complain, but rather followed her bustling form to an area that had been dug out.

  Her blond hair was twisted atop her head, but several curls had rioted out, brushing the nape of her neck and everything about her was completely alive. All the women he knew, spent their time cultivating ennui. Ennui didn’t stand a chance next to Cordelia’s potent excitement.

  “Now,” she began leaning forward, and gesturing with her hand, though she didn’t touch the earth. “You can see the bow of the boat,”

  He peered closer attempting to see the boat. He peered again.

  She laughed, a delightful, infectious sound which very nearly curled his toes with the desire to toss her over his shoulder and head for a bush.

  Later. That would be for later. Now, he wished to give his full attention to what gave her so much pleasure.

  She smiled at him. “You don’t see it, do you?”

  “No.”

  She waggled her brows and whipped out a brush about the size of the one in his shaving kit.

  He eyed it dubiously. “Are you serious?”

  “Most definitely.” With that she began whisking slowly at the slightly moist dark soil. It fell away in little crumbles and waterfalls.

  “Would it not be faster to use something larger?”

  “It would, but the risk is too great. Some of the idiotic Europeans that have come to Egypt take no heed of preservation. None at all.” Her eyes sparked with fury. “They blast away at the ancient sits for bits of gold. Its disgusting.”

  He listened while she continued to work patiently, her brow slightly furrowed. “So, you work slowly to ensure the artifacts are maintained.”

  “Precisely. You never know what you might find.”

  “Like a small bead off a cloak or a dropped coin.”

  Her hand stilled and she stared up at him, her mouth parting slowly. She let out a contented sigh. “Exactly.”

  That one look slammed through him with a terrifying intensity. That gaze spoke volumes rendering him a position of superiority. He felt it. In her eyes, that somehow he’d not only come up to snuff, but far exceeded anything she might have ever hoped for.

  And then she said it. That dreaded thing that had been said to him time out of mind.

  “Why do you waste yourself on petty nothings, Jack. You’re far too clever for all of that.”

  A muscle clenched in his jaw. His entire body locked up point of fact. A lifetime of criticism recollected by her simple question. “I am not petty. And I don’t consider my life a waste.”

  “No. Of course you’re not. You’re a very good man. I simply meant—”

  The good humor, which had been ruling Jack, turned to ash in his mouth. Every muscle in his body seemed to go cold. What was he doing here with her? Playing with her? Assisting her in this ludicrous operation, pretending as if they would be friends once she had her annulment. Once she was gone. She didn’t want him. Hell, she probably didn’t even like him. She was going to leave him a
s soon as she could and any sort of happiness he’d allowed himself with her would be a bitter memory Another memory to remind himself that he had not been worthy of someone like her. “I—I’m going back to the house.”

  “But we’re about to uncover—”

  “I don’t feel particularly well,” he said, hating his own sudden peevishness. Christ. He was petty. A petty child. Just like his father had always insisted. He’d known it, it was why his grandmother ran everything. He’d refused to let his own failings ruin the dukedom but to hear the words from Cordelia. It was damned painful.

  “If you don’t feel well then you must go back.” Though her voice was soft, there was an edge to her gaze, a sort of impatience as if she was realizing that the temporary flicker of approval she’d felt for him had been a mistake.

  It had been a mistake. And the sooner she realized such a thing the better for both of them. He was for her sexual pleasure and nothing else. He never would be. “I’ll see you this evening.”

  “As soon as the light fades.”

  He started to stride away, his boots thudding against the dug up ground and he hesitated. He was being a total fool. Of course, she enjoyed his company. And though he’d never been friends with a woman there was nothing to stop his current attempt just because he might not live up to her high expectations.

  He turned back about to call out to her but she was completely absorbed in her work. Oblivious to his presence. Oblivious to the lack of his presence. It was a brutal moment as his heart spasmed in his chest. She didn’t truly care that he was going back to the house. Worst of all, he cared that she did not.

  *

  Jack strode into the house, his mood as black as thunder, only to be met with the deep rolling laugh of another man and the higher, delighted peels of a young woman.

  Who the devil?

  He glanced at the closed parlor door, considered hesitation, then cast the notion aside. He threw open the door.

  A young woman sat on the settee near the fire, her head slightly back, red curls tumbling about her shoulders, her face flushed. Her skirts were fluffed out about her and from under the hem peeped a pair of large, shining boots with massive silver spurs.

  Sounds of enjoyment emanated from under the voluminous folds of the skirts.

  There was only one man who would wear such outlandish shoes. . .

  “Aston!” Jack roared, his patience gone.

  The sounds of masculine contentment paused.

  The young woman’s eyes snapped open and she let out a shriek of dismay.

  A large hand reached out from under the hem, grabbed it and swept the fabric up just enough for the Duke of Aston to stick his head out from underneath. His long, dark hair was in a riot about his swarthy, unshaven face. “My good man, I’m not finished. And a gentleman never leaves a lady without her denouement. So, if you will just shove off for a minute or two.”

  “No, I will not shove off.” Jack, ground his teeth together. He was in no humor for the outlandish, scandal riven duke who’d returned to England last year.

  “Well, if you’d care to join then,” Aston said jovially. “I’m sure the young lady wouldn’t mind.”

  The young lady in question, laughed and batted her lashes at the prospect.

  “No,” Hunt retorted, curling his hands into fists. “There will no joining. There will be no denouement. You will hie yourself hence.”

  Aston arched a single brow. “Who are you and what have you done with the Duke of Hunt?”

  “Aston, I’m in no mood—”

  “The Duke of Hunt that I know is always in a mood. In fact, the Duke of Hunt is a randy goat who’s happiest, bottle in hand, and lass upon his knee. So what the devil’s happened to him . . . er. . . you?”

  Jack frowned, suddenly unsure how to get rid of the man with out divulging too many details. “I’m entertaining if you must know.”

  Aston shrugged, the young woman’s skirts fluttering over her stockinged thighs. “We shall make a merry party then. Four is even better than two in my experience.”

  It took every fiber of will Jack possessed not to stalk across the room and punch Aston. “You will touch no part of my wife,” he gritted, aware that he was about to make little sense. “If you meet her, you will then not think of her, and after that, you won’t look at her either.”

  Aston pursed his lips. “Never mind all this looking and thinking. Could you say that again?”

  “You will not lay your hands upon Cordelia. Not even in greeting. You will not—”

  “No. No. No,” Aton cut in. “Your wife, say that bit again.”

  Jack paused. He’d said his wife without even thinking. But she wasn’t. Not truly. “I misspoke.”

  Aston pulled down the young woman’s skirts in one swift move, then jumped to his feet. He headed for the sideboard and grabbed a bottle of brandy. “One never misspeaks the word wife.”

  Jack stood still, debating whether he should just turn and stride out of the room or whether he should stay and put his situation before the crack brained duke who had spent a decade as a pirate, or privateer as the arrogant old boy insisted.

  Aston took a swig of brandy from the bottle then smiled at the young woman he’d been about to swive. “My dear girl, I am loathe to leave you in the lurch, but noblesse oblige insists that I come to aid of a fellow duke.” He offered her his hand then escorted her toward the door. “Will you mind, if I delay the conclusion of our frolics?

  She smoothed her skirts then grinned up at Aston. “As long as we frolic several times.”

  Aston lifted her knuckles to his mouth then nibbled.

  Jack scowled. Usually such antics would be perfectly acceptable, enjoyable even but not bloody well now.

  As soon as the pretty piece had swept out of the room, Aston shut the door and blew out a breath. “She’s going to be the death of me. Morning. Noon. Night. The lass is insatiable. Indeed, I think she might even out pace—”

  “Aston,” Jack cut in, “Such details are not necessary.”

  “You usually enjoy details.”

  Jack let out a sigh. “Nothing in my life at present is usual.”

  Aston extended the bottle of brandy. “Unburden yourself, my friend.

  Jack opened his mouth, about to do just that but then he stopped. “What the devil are you doing here? You’re only an honorary member of the Dukes’ Club.”

  “I met the Duke of Roth in Jamaica last month. Told him about the goings on with the Duke of Darkwell and his new wife and Roth insisted that if ever I was in need of a rendezvous, that I should bring my pretty bird to this place. I don’t think there is anything honorary about my membership anymore.”

  Jack hmmphed.

  Astons’ brows rose, astonished.

  Jack groaned then wiped a hand over his face. He’d never hmmphed once in his life. Not until he’d met Cordelia.

  “Have a drink,” Aston ordered. “And tell me all about it. You’re clearly in dire straits.”

  Jack wiped a hand over his face, groaning at the perversity of his situation. “I’m married.”

  “I’d surmised that much.”

  “Too a damn infuriating woman,” Jack clarified.

  Aston laughed merrily, “Aren’t they all?”

  “Perhaps,” Jack agreed. “But this one is the queen of the infuriating women. The empress supreme. Divine goddess of them.”

  Aston rolled his eyes. “That’s a great many adjectives.”

  Letting out a sigh, Jack folded his arms across his chest. “My wife cannot be described without a veritable thesaurus of words.”

  Taking a swig of brandy, Aston leaned against the fireplace mantle. “In my experience women are no where near as complex as you seem to think your wife.”

  Uncomplicated? Aston had no idea about the depths of his Cordelia. He could likely mine for decades and never find all the slivers of her personality. “For starters, she’s not in all true legality my wife.”

  That seemed to grab Asto
n’s attention. “I beg your pardon?”

  Jack leaned forward, speaking slowly, “She’s not actually. . .”

  “Then why the devil say so.”

  There was little he could do but shrug and stare at the brandy bottle in longing. Still, getting foxed probably wasn’t the best plan at present. “It’s complicated.”

  “Evidently.” Aston shook his head as if beset by woe. “How has this woman put you in such a state?”

  How could he explain it? How could one explain how frustratingly glorious Cordelia was? “I’m in a state as you put it because she’s not for me,” he said tightly. “Or more apt, I am not for her.”

  Aston let out a low whistle. “I see.”

  Clearing his throat, Jack looked away. “She’s seeking an annulment. Our marriage isn’t valid.”

  “So why all this moaning then.”

  “I do not moan,” Jack protested, snapping his gaze back to the pompous bag of wind.

  Aston gave him a challenging stare.

  “Well. . . perhaps a trifle,” Jack conceded. “You see, I—I like her.”

  Aston took another long swallow, leaving the bottle half full, and yet the man stood quite solidly. Perhaps due to the mantle’s solid foundation. “How can this possibly be a bad thing?”

  Jack held his breath a moment, debating whether it was a wise course to discuss this with the wild duke. But then again, Aston had a pragmatic if outrageous view of the world. If anyone would listen without judgment it was Aston. “Because she’s leaving,” he managed.

  “Then ask her to stay.”

  “Its not that simple.”

  Aston crooked a half smile. “Yes, it is.”

  “I will never be a good husband and she deserves one.”

  “Ah.” Aston took another swig then gestured dramatically with the bottle. “That’s a different game.”

  “Yes,” Jack admitted.

  “Well, if that’s it.” Aston gave a shrug that was suspiciously French. Perhaps all those years in the French Caribbean had had their effect because the man fairly exuded a jovial acceptance of life’s foibles. “You know what must be done then.”