by Darcy Burke
And what would Val think of her working as a barmaid?
Isabelle stiffened. She refused to let his or his grandmother’s opinions—or anyone else’s—dictate her life. She’d always done what she must to survive, and she would continue to do so.
As the silence stretched while the woman studied Isabelle, rejection seemed imminent. Isabelle was about to turn when the woman said, “Well, you look reliable. Are you reliable?”
“Very. And I can start immediately.”
The woman’s face lit, and she grinned. “You should have started with that. I need someone tomorrow. In fact, if you can come in now, I’ll give you a tour and get you situated so you can start right up tomorrow.”
It was exactly what she needed, if not what she wanted. “Show me what I need to know.”
The woman held the door open and beckoned her inside. “I’m Prudence. Welcome to the Wicked Duke.”
The…Wicked Duke? It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t own a tavern. He was a duke.
“I’m Mrs. Isabelle Cortland. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Prudence led her through a passageway into the kitchen, then turned and narrowed an eye at Isabelle. “You don’t sound like our usual barmaid, but then you said you aren’t a barmaid. What are you, exactly?”
“A governess until recently.”
“Well, you’ll fit right in here. We get all kinds in the Wicked Duke—blacksmiths, members of Parliament, barristers, vicars, dockworkers, even dukes.” Prudence chuckled. “Well, the two dukes who own the place, anyway.”
Isabelle swallowed as unease flitted through her. “Two…dukes own this tavern?”
Prudence nodded. “Colehaven and Eastleigh, but don’t let them intimidate you. They’re as normal and friendly as anyone.”
Eastleigh.
Isabelle should politely decline the position and keep looking. Except she’d been looking for hours, and this was the only thing she’d found. She needed to get away from Barkley before he took an uncomfortable moment and made it into something far worse. What did he have to lose since she was on her way out?
No, she couldn’t walk away from this. That Val owned the place was an even better reason to take the job. She knew it would be well run and, most importantly, safe. As safe as any tavern could be.
“Tomorrow is one of our biggest days of the year,” Prudence said, drawing Isabelle from her concerns. “We celebrate St. Valentine—both the actual saint and the Duke of Eastleigh, since he is named after the saint. That’s why we need you so badly.” Prudence smiled at her. “Are you ready to become acquainted with the Wicked Duke?”
Isabelle choked back a laugh. Oh, she was plenty acquainted with a wicked duke. And what would he say when he learned she was his newest employee?
She ought to tell him, but suspected he might not like it. Which was ironic since he’d offered to help her—an offer she’d vehemently declined, and yet here she was in his employ. This was different, she reasoned. This was a job, and he hadn’t hired her.
Hopefully, she’d find something else, but in the meantime, this would have to do. She hoped Val would understand.
Despite his desire to stay away from all Society events, Val found himself at a ball that very evening. He hadn’t wanted to go—because of the wager—but he knew he couldn’t withdraw from Society completely. His position in the Lords required at least a modicum of social engagement, and then there was his grandmother. If he didn’t demonstrate at least a half-hearted attempt to feign interest in finding a wife, she’d never let him alone.
Unfortunately, his pretense, for that was precisely what it was, would only encourage the wagers and, in turn, the matchmaking mamas. To avoid being announced, he slipped into the Mortrams’ ballroom from an adjoining salon. Nevertheless, he was set upon almost instantly as young misses eyed him while not so subtly dangling their dance cards.
Val ignored the lot of them while he searched for the dowager. She was seated across the ballroom, naturally, and it was some time before Val was able to reach her.
Viola stood beside her, a cheerful smile lifting her lips. “Good evening, Val. You stole into the ballroom like a thief.”
“Why would you do that?” Grandmama asked crossly. “Never mind. I hope you won’t do it again.”
“It seems I’ve gained a bit of notoriety.” Val was all too aware of people staring at him—more than normal.
“You’re always notorious,” Viola said unhelpfully. “Or at least popular. Everyone wants to talk with you or dance with you. Or marry you,” she added with a teasing giggle. She’d obviously heard about the wagers.
He gave her a look that promised retribution, and she merely batted her eyes in faux innocence.
If she knew about the wagers, Grandmama did too.
“Of course he’s popular,” the dowager said. “He’s Eastleigh. Do you know how many women would love to be your duchess? Particularly after the last one—they’re all desperate to prove that you deserve a better wife.”
Val wasn’t sure that was true at all, but he wasn’t going to debate her. It wasn’t worth debating her on most things. However, the time was coming when he’d have to tell her the truth, that he wasn’t ready to marry again and didn’t know when he would be.
Besides, he was still young. Plenty of gentlemen didn’t marry until they were well into their thirties. His friend Jack Barrett wouldn’t even contemplate marriage until he was thirty-five. That was simply the way it was done in his family—attain professional success and then wed. Jack was currently gaining political momentum, and Val fully expected him to be appointed to the government when the Whigs took power.
Val might not be as deep into things as Jack, but he took his position very seriously. “Grandmama, I’m far too busy to spend time searching for a wife. There are simply too many issues facing the country that must be addressed.”
“I can’t argue that, especially after what happened to Prinny. Some people are so uncivilized.”
“Which is precisely why I’m needed and my focus must be elsewhere.” The prince had left Westminster after opening Parliament and someone had shot at his coach, breaking the window. With the Spenceans and other radical groups gathering and causing upheaval, it was not an exaggeration for Val to say they were very busy in the House of Lords.
“Balderdash. It’s precisely because of all that distress that you should have a wife at home.”
Viola gave a tiny shake of her head, silently warning Val to drop it. As if he didn’t know when to back away from their grandmother.
“Do you know what would be nice?” Val asked.
Grandmama’s gray brows pitched to a drastic angle. “What’s that?”
“If you would take half the energy you spend harassing me about a wife and direct it at Viola. At least I actually married. It’s her turn to wed.”
Viola gave him a self-satisfied smile. “Too bad I’m so far back on the shelf, no one can reach me.”
“I’d be happy to give you a push.”
“Stop behaving like infants,” Grandmama snapped. “Eastleigh, humor me and dance with one young lady tonight. One won’t kill you.”
He exhaled in resignation. “Fine, but don’t ask me to go to Almack’s next week.”
Grandmama glowered at him. “You already promised.” She looked toward Viola. “You heard him.”
“Actually, he didn’t.” She tossed a look tinged with apology that was certainly meant to atone for her earlier taunt.
Val inclined his head with appreciation.
After satisfying his grandmother’s request to dance with one young lady, Val left the ball. He’d planned to go to the Wicked Duke but found he didn’t particularly feel like company. There’d simply been too much talk of marriage, and that never failed to raise the specter of Louisa. Even in death, she plagued him.
As he strode along the gallery toward his chamber, he slowed when he reached Isabelle’s door. He lingered for a moment, knowing she was just on the other side o
f a rather thin panel of wood. She was so close and yet utterly untouchable.
He continued on and went into his chamber, where he stripped away his coat and cravat and deposited them in his dressing room for his valet to deal with later. Moving to the sideboard where he kept a bottle of brandy, he poured a glass and closed his eyes as he lifted it to take a sip.
A light rap on his door arrested his movement, the glass stalled in midair on the way to his lips. He turned his head, wondering who would knock on his door at this hour even as his pulse began to pick up speed.
He set the glass down and went to the door. He barely had it open before Isabelle ducked inside. His heart rate increased so that he was sure she would hear it pounding a frantic rhythm. For her.
Words failed him. He was too surprised that she’d come here after her concerns about their past association coming to light. Association? He nearly laughed at the absurdity of that inadequate term.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” she said, taking a position near the door. Her light brown hair hung in a thick, single plait over her right shoulder, and she wore a simple dressing gown with a high neck, the modesty of which did nothing to quell his rising desire. “I wanted to speak with you as soon as possible. I’ve found a job, and I’m leaving in the morning.”
His hopes for the reason for her visit crumbled to dust. She was leaving? “Where are you going?”
She fidgeted with the edge of her long sleeve. “I think it’s probably best if I don’t say.”
“And yet you came here to tell me.” He frowned as dissatisfaction swirled through him. This was not how things were supposed to be between them. How were they supposed to be, then?
“Perhaps I shouldn’t have.” She pivoted toward the door but didn’t move toward it. “I thought… I wanted to say goodbye before I left. I didn’t think I’d see you in the morning.”
He moved, not to block her, but to put himself in her line of sight. “I’m glad you did. I can’t help thinking there’s a reason we encountered each other again.”
Her gaze met his, and in the bright blue depths, he saw myriad emotions, none of which he could define. Her brow arched in that arousing fashion, and Val was suddenly aware of their location and the proximity of his bed. “You think Fate brought us together?” she asked with a sardonic edge.
He lifted a shoulder and edged toward her. “Unfinished business between us, maybe.”
“Perhaps we did need to see each other. Whatever the reason, I am glad to have had your support with what’s happened.”
Need—he wasn’t sure about that. But want? He wanted her more now than he had ten years ago. Which was silly. He barely knew the woman she was today, but he could see that she still cared for those around her, that she possessed a fierce independence, and that she did things on her terms, as much as a woman could. He suddenly envied her freedom.
“Are you certain there’s no other reason you came to see me tonight?” He wanted so badly to kiss her, to see if the spark between them still burned.
“I—” She pressed her lips together, and her eyes glinted with determination. “Yes. I’d like to kiss you goodbye.”
“Just kiss me?” This was how that one night had started, with a single kiss to say goodbye. Then passion had swept them away. Ten years on, surely he knew better. But given the way his cock was hardening, perhaps not.
A faint blush crept up her face. “I shouldn’t have presumed.” She stepped forward, her focus moving to the door.
Val put himself in front of her and lifted his hand to gently touch her temple, brushing a wayward curl behind her ear. “You could never be presumptuous. Not with me. Whatever you want, I would freely give.”
“Then kiss me. One last time.”
Though he could listen to those words in a chorus every day for the rest of his life, he wouldn’t make her say it again. Closing the small distance between them, he wrapped his arms around her and touched his lips to hers. Her hands came up to his shoulders, clutching his waistcoat and making him wish he’d removed more of his clothing.
The scent and taste of her was so familiar. He’d never been able to smell lilies without thinking of her.
He let her control the kiss—she’d asked for it, and he would be her servant. She curled her hands about his neck, the warmth of her fingertips heating his nape and scalp, reminding him of a night so unparalleled that it sometimes hurt to think of it. Particularly after what he’d endured with Louisa.
No, he wouldn’t think of her, wouldn’t allow her to sully this moment. Or any moment ever again.
Isabelle’s tongue stroked his lip, and a wave of desire washed over him. He met her quest, touching his tongue to hers as she deepened the kiss. And then they were lost, cast upon a sea of memory and discovery as their bodies pressed together.
This was the dream he’d nurtured for ten long years given form and substance. It was a new dream he’d nurture for another decade. The thought of that—of what she’d said, “one last time,” drove him to claim perhaps more than he should. He moved a hand down to her backside, pulling her flush against him.
She responded by nipping his lip and kissing him again. And pressing her pelvis to his. Her heat caressed his erection, and it was all he could do to keep from sweeping her into his arms and bearing her to the bed.
Val unsealed his mouth from hers. Their shortened breaths filled the air. He pressed his forehead to hers and caressed her spine, her nape, her hip. “Stay with me, Isabelle.”
“That’s what you said to me then,” she whispered.
“I know. I am as seduced by you now as I was then.”
She brought her hand up and touched his face, her palm pressing against his cheek. Her gaze was steady as her lips curved into a sultry smile. “As I am by you.” She touched her lips to his, but it was brief. And then she stepped back.
“As tempted as I am, I have to go.”
“If you ever need me, I am here. Always.”
She nodded, then stepped around him and slipped from his room.
From my life. Again.
Maybe she’d appear again in another ten years.
Chapter 9
There were at least a half-dozen Valentine’s Day balls in town, but one of the most popular events on this romantic day was the so-called Feast of St. Valentine at the Wicked Duke. It was Val’s favorite day of the year for two reasons. The first was because everyone called it “his” day and referred to him as his namesake, St. Valentine.
This year’s feast would be their most ornate yet, and Cole had crafted yet another Valentine beer. Val only hoped he’d brewed enough as they’d run out the last two years running.
Val arrived to a chorus of “St. Valentine!” instead of Eastleigh, which the pub’s denizens called him only on this day. In fact, they wouldn’t just keep their exclamations of his name to his entry, they would shout it out all night at odd intervals as met their fancy.
The main salon, decorated with handmade valentines and clusters of flowers, was sparsely populated since it was still early evening. Those that were already here were the stalwart anti-romantics. That most of the attendees came to this event precisely because they were either not in love or steadfastly avoiding the emotion was the point of the event—celebrating the absence of love and the freedom that brought.
That was usually the second reason it was Val’s favorite day.
But today it was not. Today, all he could think about was love—or something akin to love—lost.
No, not love. Whatever he felt for Isabelle, it wasn’t that.
He needed a night of revelry and abandon. A night of friends and Cole’s beer.
“I’ll be back in a few hours,” Cole said after quickly greeting Val.
“Back? Where are you going?”
“To Lady Donnell’s ball.” Cole blinked at him. “I told you I was going.”
Val vaguely recalled that. “I didn’t think you were serious. How can we have our Feast of St. Valentine if you aren’t h
ere?”
“I will be here, just later. I need to go waltz with my bride.” He stared at Val in question. “You know what Valentine’s Day is actually for, don’t you?”
Val grunted. “Love is making you boring.”
“Love is making me happy.” Cole grinned to further annoy Val. “You should try it again some time.”
Before Val could swear at him, Cole ducked away and left the tavern. Val went to the bar, and Doyle slid him his tankard full of Cole’s Valentine Ale. “He made an adjustment to it this year. Something his betrothed suggested.”
Of course he did. Scowling, Val picked up his mug and took a sip. It was, of course, maddeningly good.
He took a deeper drink and silently chastised himself. He wouldn’t begrudge Cole his happiness—he deserved every bit of it.
“A new barmaid started today,” Doyle said. “Normally, we wouldn’t have her start on a night like this, but with Gertie sick, we were desperate.”
“Excellent, thank you. I’ll just go check on things in the kitchen.” Val strode to the rear of the tavern and into the kitchen, where cooks were bustling here and there. It smelled delicious, and he wondered if he might find a spare piece of ham or beef somewhere.
As he pivoted toward a worktable, a woman came from his left and ran square into him, spilling a jug of wine down his front.
The damp soaked all the way through his shirt, and he looked down at the deepening burgundy stain covering his coat, waistcoat, shirt, and cravat. “Bloody hell!”
“Val?” Still clutching the jug, Isabelle looked up at him, her blue eyes narrowing as she winced.
“Isabelle? What the devil are you doing here?”
Her apparent discomfort increased as she hugged the jug to her chest as if it were some sort of shield. “I’m the new barmaid.”
He was keenly aware of the silence that had fallen over the kitchen as everyone stopped their work and stared at them. Without thought, he took the jug from her hands and placed it on the nearest surface. Then he clasped her elbow and pulled her from the kitchen.