Bewitching the Forbidden Duke: A Steamy Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Scarlett Osborne

  “Just what is it are you rumored to have done this time, Cheshmill?”

  “Oh, it's too ugly for polite company. And there is no need for you to know any of it. Simply inform your daughter that she has found a groom and let nature take its course.”

  “My daughter will not agree to some arranged marriage.”

  Lord Cheshmill looked out at the crowd where his son was steering Lady Rose around the dance floor with the utmost solicitude. She was looking up at him, eyes shining as he led her in the quadrille. “I do not think she will object too much,” he murmured before stepping away from her and losing himself in the crowd.

  Patrick made small talk with Lord Fellowes, who cornered him wanting to know about the import/export business. His Grace, The Duke of Cheshmill was known to dabble, however, it was rather vulgar of Lord Fellowes to bring it up. Patrick had heard that he might be punting on River Tick, and judging by the frayed nature of his duds, that just might be true.

  It would account for his rather forward questions and general air of desperation.

  “I’m sure if you come by my office at Westminster, we can discuss it in further detail,” Patrick said quellingly. He looked around for someone who might rescue him and caught sight of his father milling about. “I see my father,” he murmured. “Must go.”

  With that, he hurried away as fast as he could not wanting to give Fellowes even a moment to come up with a further reason why they should remain in conversation. He cast a look over his shoulder, to make sure he had shaken the man when he bumped into someone.

  “Oh, I’m so…” he began to say before looking forward to seeing the most intense hazel eyes he had ever laid eyes upon. They were so alive and aware, that they stopped Patrick dead in his tracks.

  “Oh,” he said softly, “Good evening.”

  She smiled at him, wide and amused. “I can’t speak to you,” she whispered, “we haven’t been introduced.” Her eyes were dancing with mirth and mischief that he just had to know who she was.

  “In that case, may I have this dance?” he said at once.

  “I would like nothing better. Unfortunately, my dance card is full,” her eyes really did look regretful. Right on cue, a hand took her elbow as Lord Mountbatten appeared at her shoulder.

  “I do believe this is my dance, Lady Melissa,” his smile was pleasant enough as he looked between them, still Patrick found himself suppressing a growl. He had it on good authority that Mountbatten was in the marriage mart this season.

  He watched Mountbatten lead her to the ballroom floor, an inexplicable burning in his chest. “Melissa.” he murmured softly to himself, watching her smile at Mountbatten, those hazel eyes seemingly focused solely on him. He sighed and then stiffened in remembrance.

  A ball to celebrate the nineteenth birthday of Lady Melissa Greyfield.

  That was what the invitation had stated. Patrick could not believe he had forgotten. He raised his eyes to her again, studying her features. The burnished-gold gown she wore matched well with the décor yet managed to outshine it. The emerald at her throat was surely one of a kind, and Patrick knew his jewels. His father was forever sending him to buy some for his stepmother. She moved with easy grace, her smile lighting up the room.

  “I must find someone to introduce me,” he murmured. Perhaps if he cornered her with Lord Mountbatten after the dance, he could get an introduction that way. Or perhaps he could find his father who evidently knew the girl’s mother.

  Yes.

  That would be much simpler.

  He resumed his search for The Duke and before too long, found him in an adjacent hall, at a game of whist. He stood patiently waiting by his father’s chair for him to be done with the round. His father was aware that he was waiting, yet seemed to slow down his game as a result, as if he meant to test Patrick’s patience.

  Patrick took a deep breath and called on all his reserves of strength so he could wait uncomplainingly until his father was done.

  “What is it, Bergon?” The Duke asked, getting to his feet.

  “Father, I was hoping that you might introduce me to the belle of the ball. Lady Melissa Greyfield.”

  “Mmmph. Her sister is much more your speed,” The Duke said making his way back to the ballroom.

  “Perhaps you can introduce me to them both then,” Patrick said not wanting to argue with his father. He had met Lady Rose and she was indeed lovely. But she lacked the spark her sister exuded so effortlessly. It really was no competition. However, he was willing to make both their acquaintances if it achieved his goal.

  They were just in time for the toasts from The Duke of Greyfield, as well as the Prince Regent. Patrick waited until The Duke had taken the Regent off elsewhere before urging his father forward so that he could introduce Patrick to The Duchess and her daughters.

  Her Grace’s brow furrowed ever so slightly as she set eyes on them but then it cleared and she gave a tight smile. His father gave an elegant leg.

  “Your Grace, may I introduce my son, Patrick Dutton, Marquess of Bergon?”

  Patrick bowed to The Duchess, taking her hand and bestowing a kiss above it in the manners of the French, before turning to her daughters with a smile.

  The Duchess gestured toward them with her fingers. “My daughters, Lady Rose and Lady Melissa Greyfield,” she said in a rather offhand manner.

  Patrick smiled wide, “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He made a leg first to Lady Rose and then to Lady Melissa. When his blue eyes met her bright hazel, hers were dream-catching sunbeams and sparkling with merriment.

  He was fascinated.

  Melissa was enjoying herself, savoring all the attention she was receiving as well as the good wishes, the camaraderie, even the occasional proposal. She had taken Brynn’s advice and immersed herself in the experience.

  But then she’d been craning her neck wondering where Lord Mountbatten had gone to when someone bumped into her from behind. She had turned around, eyebrows already haughtily raised when she fell into eyes the color of sky crystal, regarding her with the kind of fascination one usually reserved for exotic animals.

  Her eyebrow rose of its own volition and she smiled, taking him all in. She had never seen him before which was strange as the ton was not that large.

  But when she found out who his father was, she was indeed not surprised that she did not know him. They did not run in the same circles. Even though Cheshmill was a Duke, he was hardly top of the trees. He was known to have a hand in commerce and was little better than a mushroom or a nabob.

  Not that Melissa cared about such things, but her mother certainly did. She was quite surprised that The Duke and his family were even invited to her ball. His wife was known to be quite vulgar. It was all a little too finicky for Melissa, given her early morning activities, but whatever the reason they were here, she was glad. The Marquess of Bergon had certainly piqued her interest with his glacial eyes and his blatant stares.

  “It is very nice to–formally–meet you,” Rose said stepping in front of Melissa and blocking her view of the Marquess. Her lips twisted as she took a step to the side so that she could keep him in sight. He looked startled by Rose’s abrupt interruption of the conversation they had been carrying on with their eyes; which Melissa supposed was something.

  Her musings were interrupted by Sir Rogers, who came to claim his dance. Sighing inwardly, she followed him to the ballroom floor, hoping that she would get to exchange a few more words with the Marquess before the night’s end.

  Meanwhile, she meant to continue enjoying herself.

  Lady Rose and her mother entreated Patrick to stay a while and socialize with them. He was very flattered by the attention even though something in his chest was hot and tight with annoyance at the evident popularity of Lady Melissa on the ballroom floor. She had not been joking when she said her dance card was full.

  Lady Rose, however, unlike her sister, rebuffed two suitors who came to claim a dance, in favor of speaking with Patrick. He
r mother watched them covertly and Patrick could not tell whether she was pleased with her daughter’s interest in him or horrified. Patrick knew well his family’s reputation, knew that men of His Grace of Greyfield’s caliber barely tolerated his father and if it were not for the title, they would likely experience the cut direct.

  He knew it because he spoke not just with the nobility but their servants as well, and for the right coin, they were quite happy to tell him what their masters and mistresses really thought of him and his family. As a man of business, it was an important ace up his sleeve.

  He knew that the problem was that many noblemen envied them; for title or not, there were quite a number who were impoverished. His father’s cleverness in investing in the Far East, though seen as vulgar, was also very profitable. They might call The Duke of Cheshmill a merchant behind his back, but to his face, they were all gushing platitudes.

  Patrick regretted that he was forced to negotiate the fine line between commerce and nobility without any offense to both. It was a delicate undertaking that took him out of town a lot. It was no wonder he had not met the Greyfield daughters before today.

  He kept one eye on Lady Melissa even as he chatted pleasantly with Lady Rose. The former was talking animatedly to her dance partner and Patrick wondered idly what she could possibly be saying.

  He lazily alternated between watching Lady Melissa and listening to Lady Rose and it was during one of the periods when his eyes swung toward the younger woman, that he saw a man snaking his way over to her, his eyes malevolently bright with intent. Patrick tensed, not knowing what could be going on. He watched the man approach Lady Melissa, and involuntarily took a step toward the ballroom floor. His heart rate sped up as he sensed the onset of danger. Suddenly there was a piercing scream, the music stopped and the man had a knife to Lady Melissa’s throat!

  Patrick took another step closer to the action, as the man shouted for everyone to stay back.

  “I only want th’ necklace,” he declared, dragging Lady Melissa toward the French doors.

  Patrick took another step toward them. Lady Melissa’s eyes were so wide and scared, he felt compelled to remove that look from her face. Stepping lightly, he made his way to the wall, using the crowd of people to disguise his hurried advancement to the French doors. He stopped to grasp a heavy brass candlestick along the way. The man was still shouting to everyone to stay back, the knife had nicked Lady Melissa’s throat and there was a round red bud of blood hanging off his knife.

  Patrick moved faster.

  “I won’t hurt her. I won’t. I just want th’ necklace,” the man repeated again as Lady Melissa struggled in his arms.

  Patrick crouched by the windows, lying in wait. As soon as the man stepped over the threshold, he got up to his full height and hit him across the base of his head.

  The man made a strange sound of surprise and loosened his hold on Lady Melissa who promptly leaped away from him. The man wheeled around to face Patrick, his eyes were wide and unfocused.

  “What?” he said before Patrick hit him across the temple again, hard enough to put him on the ground. Immediately there was a surge of noise, movement, and excitement but Patrick only had eyes for one person.

  “Are you well?” he asked Lady Melissa.

  She nodded slowly, her breath hitching slightly, “Thank you.” Her hand went to her throat, caressing her neck in disbelief.

  “You’re very welcome, My Lady.”

  Chapter 4

  In Gratitude

  The thief having been subdued; he was promptly thrown in the dungeons in the cellar of Greyfield House to await the arrival of Bow Street Runners. Guests were invited to leave at their leisure, politely handed out the door by the Greyfield butler. Soon only the family was left, gathered in the drawing room as well as the Marquess and his father.

  Thalia took hold of The Duke of Cheshmill’s arm, pulling him aside. “Did you do this?” she hissed in his ear.

  “Do what, Your Grace?” his voice was low and bored as if he could not fathom what she could possibly be talking about and couldn’t care less.

  “Did you send that man to attack my daughter?” every word was snapped off in irritation.

  The Duke reared back theatrically, staring at her in disbelief, his hand on his chest, he could not believe that she would dare make such an accusation.

  “What fustian nonsense!” he declared, “If I were to send someone to attack one of your children in order to bring this about, it would be your eldest, we both know that. I would have no interest in your youngest.”

  The Duchess looked away, lips pursing in annoyance. Due to the Marquess’ bravery, her husband was plying him with drinks, as he expressed his gratitude over and over.

  “You must let me repay you in some way,” he was saying, his hand light on Melissa’s arm as she stood gazing up at the Marquess with equal adoration. “Name it, it’s yours.”

  Those words made Thalia’s heart sink for she knew without a shadow of a doubt what the Marquess, at the behest of his father, would ask for–Rose's hand in marriage.

  “Your Grace, truly I seek no reward. I did what any honorable gentleman would do, honestly.” the Marquess was so self-effacing, it was difficult to believe that he and The Duke were related. Nevertheless, Thalia knew it was all an act.

  The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

  Melissa alternated between feeling dizzy and faint, and feeling quite giddy. Her hands were shaking and when Brynn pressed a hot toddy into her hands, she drank it down without complaint. She could see Brynn hovering in her peripheral vision, hands wringing with worry, but she only had eyes for the Marquess.

  They had cleaned the nick on her neck and smeared it with a soothing cream. The hot toddy was beginning to warm her up but the most reassuring thing to her after that shocking ordeal was the solicitous presence of her rescuer. His eyes crinkled with concern as his gaze rested upon her wound and he asked if she felt fine.

  “I’m a little shaken, but I shall be well. I cannot express to you enough how grateful I am to you…”

  The Marquess was already shaking his head. “Please Lady Melissa, you have nothing to thank me for. I only did what any self-respecting man would have done.” He reached out, hand hovering over her arm but not touching, “Now please will you sit down? You’re shaking.”

  Melissa hastened to comply, realizing as he said it that yes, her knees did feel rather weak. He hovered worriedly over her as if she might disintegrate if he went too far. “Do you need anything? Another hot toddy perhaps? Laudanum?”

  Melissa smiled. “I am fine, thank you for your concern.”

  Brynn stepped forward at once, hands on her shoulders. “We should get you to bed now, My Lady.”

  Melissa turned her head to glare at Brynn but her lady’s maid would not be dissuaded. “Come on Milady. Let us go,” she said urging Melissa to stand up. With an inward sigh, she did as Brynn urged but not before turning once again to the Marquess.

  “You must promise me that you will call upon us tomorrow for tea, so that I can thank you properly.” She widened her eyes in entreaty because she had found in the past that it worked on most people except Brynn and her mother.

  “Yes of course, if that is your wish, I shall be here,” he said making her a very elegant leg. Melissa smiled and left with reluctance, wanting to turn around and keep him in her sights as she exited the drawing room but knowing that her mother would rail at her for being unladylike if she did.

  She sighed. “Oh Brynn, did you see him?” she asked as they climbed the stairs, her eyes dreamy and far away.

  “I did. T'was a very brave thing he did.”

  “Yes.” Melissa sighed again as her eyes grew heavy. Now that the Marquess was no longer in her sights, she could admit that she was rather tired and worn down. It had been a long day even without having a knife at her throat. She let Brynn undress her and get her into her nightgown before collapsing on her bed, eyes long closed, already dreaming o
f knights in shining armor.

  Patrick was not surprised when his father grasped his arm and pulled him aside. He had been making polite conversation with Lady Rose, who insisted upon giving him a recap of his own exploits as seen through her eyes. It was extremely melodramatic, in Patrick’s opinion, and he had winced inwardly more than once at the praise she lavished upon him.

  He leaned closer to his father so that The Duke could whisper in his ear.

  “Ask Greyfield for his daughter’s hand in marriage.”

  Patrick froze, unable to understand his father’s words. “I beg your pardon?”