My Favorite Duke (The Duke Hunters Club Book 2)

by Bianca Blythe

  He took a cup of tea from the countess, but he wasn’t in the mood to drink it, despite a sudden tiredness.

  All he’d done was lose a day of searching for the person who was truly responsible for the criminal activity in the region. He sighed. He would be forced to stay here tonight.

  He glanced at Lady Juliet, remembering the sudden pinkness in her cheeks when she’d thought he’d been someone else.

  What had she made of the night’s events? The countess did not seem overly concerned about her, and he doubted Lady Juliet had informed her family.

  He forced himself to make polite conversation with the countess, but the task was difficult, and he was relieved when the countess had a servant show him to his guest room and arranged for another servant to show him the grounds.

  CHAPTER NINE

  JULIET HADN’T ACCOMPLISHED anything.

  She had to leave; staying was impossible.

  Not when she hadn’t heard from Horatius. Perhaps last time she’d not been successful, but she should have known better than to take a carriage. The gilt crests and bright primary wheels indicated money, and it was no wonder two highwaymen had become intrigued.

  No.

  She had to visit her darling duke. That much was clear.

  But she absolutely could not be caught again. Some people traveled easily: men.

  If she traveled, she would need to disguise herself. Her safety depended upon it.

  Because if she didn’t find out... Her heart tightened at the thought.

  Juliet refused to live the same life as her mother. She knew better.

  Perhaps she might borrow some clothes, a particular type of clothes.

  She looked outside. Some days the servants hung their attire on the lines. Unfortunately, today was not such a day. There were no clothes she might conveniently take, hoping no one would notice a pair of missing breeches and a shirt and coat.

  She bit her lip. A servant probably would notice if a portion of his attire vanished. Stealing clothes would not be a nice thing, and Juliet always strove to do nice things.

  There was a guest though in the castle. A guest who probably possessed too many clothes. A guest who didn’t even handle his clothes and was probably sharing her father’s valet.

  Though her father’s valet was a man who could note if the smallest thread was in danger of unraveling, a man who could sort buttons with ease, and for whom no detail was too obscure to be mastered, even he would not be able to notice if some of his charge’s new attire disappeared.

  Juliet smiled and widened her shoulders. Everything would be fine. Worry was unnecessary. She had a plan. Her first wonderful plan had landed her a duke, and this second plan would ascertain he was the right one.

  She needed to borrow some of the Duke of Ainsworth’s items. Juliet hopped from her bed and exited the room. She strode confidently into the hallway, gazing at the familiar items in the hallway. She tried not to linger on her stepmother’s changes.

  She marched toward the stairs, just as she did multiple times each day. She told herself everything was fine, but each step seemed more difficult, as if someone had clipped shackles onto her feet.

  This was the ladies’ section, she reminded herself.

  She waited at the stairwell, hoping the butler wouldn’t sense her presence. She swallowed hard and glanced at the corridor past the stairwell. That corridor was devoted to male guests.

  The Duke of Ainsworth would be there.

  Her heart thumped oddly, even though she knew there was nothing strange about lingering on this side of the corridor.

  After all, she could simply be admiring the view. Naturally, the view was better when the sky was not cloudy, and most people found views more interesting when fog did not cover most of it.

  Still. Perhaps people did not spend enough time admiring fog. The various shades were perhaps subtle, but that did not mean they were not worth looking at. Personally, Juliet found gray an overlooked color. It combined two of the best ones and should perhaps be given more credit.

  Not that Juliet would admire the fog now.

  She had to pay a visit to the duke’s room. No doubt, the duke was wandering the gardens now, looking for the elusive flower that apparently only grew in her particular section of Westmoreland. The day might be unideal, one that might bring irritation to painters schooled in the Italian style of art, who might be puzzled by the lack of fluffy clouds and cerulean skies for them to depict, and perplexed how to render streams of delicious sunlight when there was none, but the duke didn’t require azure skies, heavenly clouds, or golden beams bestowing halos onto everything to look at flowers.

  She lingered for one moment more, inhaled sharply, ascertained the butler was not gazing toward the stairwell, then she darted to the men’s corridor.

  Her heart thumped madly, and she slunk behind a door, gathering her thoughts.

  She hadn’t been to this corridor since she was a child and had decided to explore the castle properly. The exploration had been quickly halted, stopped by the housekeeper, and she’d never been here since.

  It’s just a corridor.

  She inched by the walls, lest a chambermaid throw a door open suddenly. The servants were loyal to her stepmother, and any strange doings would be promptly brought to her attention by the current housekeeper.

  Her stepmother seemed to always be searching for reasons to express a reason for her superiority over Juliet. Expressing reservations about Juliet seemed another way to insult Juliet’s mother.

  Still, Juliet vowed not to turn back. She’d come so far. She refused to make this journey again, and she was certain if she did return, that was precisely what she would do.

  Juliet needed to visit the Duke of Sherwood, and this was simply the initial step.

  It was only when she entered the hallway that she realized she did not know which room the Duke of Ainsworth was in. Each door looked intimidating.

  Still, her father was not holding a house party. No one would be in the other rooms, so she may as well enter the first one.

  She paused at the door, striving to hear any sounds that might indicate the duke had declared a desire not to view flowers while it drizzled, no matter how much he claimed to enjoy them.

  There were no sounds, and she entered the room.

  She hesitated.

  Masculine forest green fabrics were swathed over a four-poster bed. Though her father did not enjoy horse riding with the enthusiasm required to be an avid hunter, he enjoyed the country aesthetics otherwise. He preferred to be in Westmoreland, where he might view his vast estate through the safety of windows, and where his land seemed unending, an experience which differed from in his London townhouse, where the experience was quite the opposite.

  The room didn’t seem occupied by anyone, but she returned to the hallway, her heart beat oddly. She strode hastily to the next room. This time she didn’t linger on the decor, and she ascertained quickly that no one, much less a duke, even one of questionable dress taste and ascetic interests, was present.

  The search continued similarly for a few more rooms. Toile and tartan prints merged.

  Finally, she came to another room.

  His room.

  At least, there were no other reasons for so many books to dot the various sideboards and other sturdy horizontally inclined objects in the room. The books looked thick and unwelcoming, as if they’d been placed there to dissuade her from entering.

  No matter.

  She wasn’t going to look at any books, even if to wonder at the man’s fascination with science, and his odd comfort with the no doubt excruciating boredom bound to follow.

  Instead, Juliet marched to the man’s wardrobe. She clasped each handle and opened it. Rows of breeches and trousers stared at her, and she grabbed a pair of each before she could hesitate. She examined the materials, even if it felt odd touching fabrics the Duke of Ainsworth wore. Finally, she tucked some clothes into her basket.

  SOMEONE WAS IN LUCAS’S room
.

  In itself, this was not an utterly odd state. Normally, he was quite prone to having servants darting in his room to clean it or tuck hot bricks underneath his blanket.

  Still, Lucas hadn’t anticipated Lady Juliet to be in his room. Her auburn hair was unmistakable, even if, for some odd reason, her attention was fixed on the contents of his wardrobe.

  Usually, if a woman snuck into his room, she waited on the bed, preferring the softness of his linens to the intellectual strain of assessing his attire.

  He frowned, and his heart, which never seemed inclined to travel usually, seemed determined to sink to his stomach.

  Lady Juliet must have figured it out.

  She must have determined he was the highwayman. No doubt, she was searching for his scarf from that night or some other sign. Great Olympus, perhaps she was searching for coin stolen from traveling.

  Well, she wouldn’t find that.

  He was not a real highwayman.

  Still, discomfort continued to surge through him. She shouldn’t be here. That much was certain.

  No women in her position strolled into men’s rooms, no matter if their father was an earl, and no matter if they’d spent their whole life in this house.

  Perhaps Sebastian was correct. Perhaps she was involved in the criminal affair. Certainly, she was entirely unexpected.

  His heart thudded, but he refrained from the temptation to run.

  Instead, he strolled into the room.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “GOOD AFTERNOON, LADY Juliet.” A deep baritone voice interrupted Juliet’s thoughts, and she leaped. Her nerves tensed, and her heart thumped, but for one moment, she still hoped her imagination was frightening her.

  Unfortunately, footsteps continued, as if someone were trampling upon her heart.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Juliet placed the basket of clothes on the floor quickly, then rotated toward the sound.

  The Duke of Ainsworth was definitely before her. No figment of her imagination could have worn such appalling attire. The man’s dark blue eyes focused on her, and she shivered.

  Juliet opened her mouth, then closed it. There was nothing to say.

  She shouldn’t be here.

  Women shouldn’t be in men’s rooms. Everyone knew that. The Duke of Ainsworth certainly knew that.

  His eyes glimmered, like waves crashing against the coast during a thunderstorm, and it occurred to Juliet that his spectacles bestowed him a mildness he did not deserve.

  The room heated, as if a dust storm were blowing in from the Sahara, soaring efficiently through the rare cracks in her father’s castle, undaunted by the North Wind and the vast distance.

  She eyed the duke.

  The duke eyed her.

  “Are you lost?” he asked, his voice deep and dark and dangerous.

  Something about his voice reminded her of her illicit encounter with the highwayman. Juliet stepped back and banged against the still-open door of the thick oak wardrobe. Some cabinetmaker had created leaves into the frame, and they pressed awkwardly against her spine.

  The Duke of Ainsworth strode toward her, and his face hardened. Somehow, she hadn’t been conscious of his height before.

  Or his breadth.

  His shoulders jutted outward in a manner that would cause a farmer envy and which only made her tremble.

  Juliet shifted her legs over the wooden floorboards. They creaked, reminding her this wasn’t a dream, and she wasn’t in actuality snuggled in her bed, her covers over her, and her head resting on a fluffy pillow.

  “I’m assuming the countess and earl are not tucked in the next room, eager to shout compromised.”

  Juliet remained silent. It might be beneficial if he thought someone might rush to her aid.

  He scrutinized her. She’d never seen eyes that particular shade. That blue was never found in the sky, though on certain days might be found in the lake. They seemed to take her in, and she felt foolish, even though Juliet never felt foolish.

  The plan had not worked, even though Juliet excelled at planning, and even though she needed this plan to function.

  “I don’t think anyone is here,” the Duke of Ainsworth continued, “because you are already betrothed. I wonder what the Duke of Sherwood would make of your presence.”

  “Please don’t tell him,” Juliet said, her voice hoarse, as if she’d spent three hours screaming.

  His expression did not appear dissimilar from one of Genghis Khan’s men, about to lift his saber. Nobody stared at her in such a manner to laugh and tell her to go on her merry way.

  “You’re a dangerous woman, Lady Juliet,” he said.

  “Er—”

  Juliet had never viewed room visiting as a serious crime, but the Duke of Ainsworth, evidently, saw such things differently.

  “Very dangerous,” he emphasized.

  “But you fought in France. You encountered all manner of people.”

  “Precisely.” He stared sternly.

  Guilt moved through Juliet, sweeping over her with the force of the ton streaming into Almack’s at the start of the season. Perhaps the man was more attached to his clothes than she’d realized. She’d assumed his long-out-of-fashion attire indicated a man inclined toward general absentmindedness, one who possessed a disregard for the trends of tailoring, preferring tomes to tailcoats. She’d misinterpreted the situation, and this was one of the rare men given to sentiment and attached to his apparel, no matter how unequal the compilation of fabric and buttons were to the task of suiting the present day.

  “I’m s-sorry,” she stammered “I shouldn’t have intruded.”

  “No, you shouldn’t have,” he agreed. “Though,” he added, shrugging, “I suppose I’m grateful you did so.”

  “Grateful?” She furrowed her brow, then decided not to question the man’s sudden, if odd, impulse toward gratitude.

  Gratitude was safer than anger.

  “So, you expected to find me here?” her voice wobbled.

  He gave a smug look.

  Oh.

  Had he thought she desired him? She stepped back, banging her back into his wardrobe. “You know I didn’t want to see you? I am a betrothed woman.”

  He blinked, as if her statement had confused him. “Naturally.”

  She furrowed her brow, wondering why he’d expected her here.

  He narrowed the gap between them, and a delicious masculine scent that wafted toward her distracted her from her thoughts.

  Unpleasant men shouldn’t smell so pleasant. Despite herself, she inhaled.

  His eye sparkled, and her cheeks heated.

  This was the home in which she’d been raised. The ceiling height matched that of her bedroom, and the bay window jutted out in the same manner.

  Still, masculine browns and greens decorated this room. Heavy wooden furniture dotted the room, and the thick four-poster bed was draped with thick green fabric, as if the decorator thought all men desired to pretend to be in the forest.

  All her conversations with the Duke of Ainsworth had been tame, yet the man standing before her now could hardly be viewed as benign.

  She tilted her head toward him, gazing uncertainly.

  “Young ladies shouldn’t search a man’s room,” he said.

  Her mouth dropped open, but she closed it quickly. Though she had not been searching his room, she doubted, in this interest, that telling the truth would be of increased benefit. People viewed thievery negatively, and her decision to practice that vice would be unlikely to convince him not to call her father.

  The duke narrowed his eyes. “Is your father in on it?”

  “My father?”

  He nodded. “Did he perhaps put you up to it?”

  His voice had softened, and she stared at him uncertainly.

  “I understand if you were forced,” he said.

  She dropped her gaze down, unwilling to admit this was her idea.

  The last thing she needed w
as for one of them to demand a duel.

  “Ah.” The duke narrowed his eyes. “Well, you would say that.”

  “You remember you invited yourself here? For the flowers?”

  “True,” he admitted.

  She stared at him. “I wasn’t searching your things.” She gestured to his books. “I have no interest in botany. Do you think I would try to steal your musings on petal shapes and scent strengths? No.”

  He blinked, and Juliet picked up her basket, hoping he would not ask to search its materials, then she swept from the room. She hurried out the corridor, her heart beating rapidly.

  Footsteps didn’t follow her. Heavens, she’d done it. She’d succeeded. Well, she’d nearly succeeded.

  But she had attire from a man who most likely would not notice anything was missing, and if he did, a man who could easily replenish his supply of ill-fitting tailcoats that looked like they’d been unpopular cuts even decades ago, a fact not helped by his odd habit of pairing clashing colors together. Juliet marched to her father’s library.

  “Darling!” Her father beamed. “How are you? Isn’t that duke an agreeable man?”

  “He’s—er—lovely.” Juliet shifted her legs. “I’m going to visit Genevieve.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’ll be gone overnight,” Juliet said matter-of-factly. She spoke hastily, and Papa opened his eyes.

  “To see your cousin?” He furrowed his brow. “Whom we recently visited?”

  “Yes.” Juliet flashed him a tight smile.

  “How dreadfully dull.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Papa shrugged. “I suppose you’re your mother’s child.”

  Juliet tightened her jaw. Familiar tension moved through her body, as if contemplating turning her into a marionette.

  “So that’s all?” Juliet asked.

  Too late she remembered she should simply leave, grateful at Papa’s disinterest. But Papa waved her off with a groan she hoped was attributed more to his port-induced headache than to annoyance at her presence.

  Juliet hurried away, her heart hammering. Juliet had never lied before—there’d never been the necessity.