The Duke's Suspicion (Rogues and Rebels)

by Susanna Craig

  “A marriage of mutual benefit,” she countered, her voice stronger now, as some of her usual boldness demanded to make itself known. “Henry was always supportive of my work and promised me liberty to continue it. As a married woman, I would have more freedom to travel, to go about my research.”

  After a pause, he nodded his understanding. “Mutual benefit, you said…” He laid the slightest stress on the first word. No doubt he found it difficult to imagine what sort of profit could accrue to any man who would willingly saddle himself with someone like her.

  All her life, people had been urging her to be less selfish. Concentrate. Don’t lose track of time. Keep things orderly. Be more ladylike. She had told herself the criticisms were kindly meant. Don’t you want to marry someday? Mama had been fond of asking.

  And the honest, though unspoken, answer had always been yes. She wanted companionship, for the world could be a lonely place. And yes, she wanted love. But a conventional marriage…?

  What sort of husband do you imagine will be willing to put up with a poorly run household, forgotten meals, overlooked invitations? Not to mention pots of botanical specimens tucked into every corner…

  Well, Henry had been willing. “He wanted to marry me,” she insisted, twenty years of defensiveness coalescing into a bitter kernel of anger she could no longer keep buried. “He cared for me.” Her voice dropped once more to a whisper, and despite the protection of the shadows, she could not meet his eyes. “But he was in love with my brother.”

  Tristan’s response was an eternity in coming. “And did your brother…return his affection?”

  “My brother is capable of loving no one but himself. I doubt he even knew.”

  Somewhere in the depths of the conservatory, water dripped, whether the remnants of raindrops in the eaves or condensation falling from the leaf of a plant, she wasn’t sure. That inner voice, the one that was rarely quiet and rarely allowed her to be, urged her to seek the source of the sound. Anything but sit here and wait, and wait…

  She had not realized his hand lay beside hers on the bench until his little finger brushed against hers. The very slightest of touches, though it sent a spark up her arm that lifted the fine hairs there. A mistaken movement in the darkness, almost surely. She twitched her finger to alert him to his error. But he did not pull away.

  “You would have sacrificed yourself.” His murmured voice was at once mournful and incredulous. “To a marriage in name only. For such a small freedom…”

  “It is not a small freedom to me, Your Grace. Nor was it, I suspect, to him. After all, people are expected to marry, to behave respectably in the eyes of society, whatever their personal inclinations to the contrary. Even if they cannot have the one they love.”

  Another pause. “What about…?”

  It was not difficult to guess the direction of his thoughts. “Children?” She shook her head as matter-of-factly as she could.

  The truth was, she quite liked children. They tended to appreciate in her precisely the things with which adults found fault: her willingness to go for a ramble on the spur of the moment, to get prodigiously dirty in the process, to stop for an hour to observe the wonder in the petals of a flower that others dismissed as a weed. But since motherhood, as far as she had ever seen, consisted largely of teaching children not to do those things, or scolding them for having done so, she had always known she would not make a very good mother. And so she had refused to allow herself to think of it as a loss.

  “With five brothers and sisters, I am sure to have nieces and nephews on which to dote,” she added, as much to reassure herself as him.

  His finger moved, then, but not away. A slow, careful stroke, up and down the edge of her hand, forcing her to quell yet another shudder of longing. “I confess I had a different sacrifice in mind. Erica?”

  When she turned toward the sound of her name, his other hand rose to cup the side of her face, his touch so soft, so gentle, so unlike the man she believed him to be. But, oh, the kiss! This second kiss was all him, firm and demanding, his mouth slanting across hers, compelling an eager moan from her, then swallowing it, only to give it back in the form of a groan of pure need that vibrated against her mouth and made her insides turn to honey.

  Was it surrender to part her lips beneath his, to welcome with surprised delight the slick invasion of his tongue? No. This was not conquest, but liberation. Thus freed, she kissed him back. Pressing her lips against his until his own mouth softened, she then dared to touch her tongue to his. On the bench between them, their fingers tangled and curled together too, another link in a chain of desire.

  Every inch of her skin craved the feel of his lips, his hands, and the pleasure they promised. But she told herself to be satisfied with his mouth on hers, the way he devoured her every inhibition. With the brush of his thumb along her cheekbone, silk against velvet. With the gentle pressure of his fingertips against her skull and the discovery that even the delicate skin behind her ear could be awakened by his touch.

  Anything else, anything more, would be dangerous in the extreme.

  And he seemed to know it too, for at last he dragged his mouth away on a sigh, though his fingers tightened on her scalp and neck, holding her prisoner to his heavy-lidded gaze. He was a little breathless, she noted with pride, so she spoke for him. For them both.

  “You should go back to your guests, Your Grace. They will understand that you felt yourself obligated to take pity on me and guess my charade when no one else would. They will know that this was only a silly, meaningless forfeit.”

  “Erica.” Half scold, half protest. It was wrong, was it not, to take such delight in the sound of her name on his lips? But she would be a fool to imagine that his kiss meant anything at all.

  “I do not blame the other gentlemen, of course,” she continued. “Miss Pilkington chose a game best played among intimate friends, and I am a stranger whose motives are unknown…”

  At those words, at the mention of Caroline, his softened features transformed almost before her eyes into their customary granite. His hand fell away from her face, and he rose, lifting their still-linked fingers off the bench.

  Carefully, she slipped her hand free and curled it in her lap to hide its tremor. “We must all make sacrifices, you see.”

  With a stiff bow, hardly more than a nod, he turned and left the conservatory.

  To the moonlit plants she whispered, “Then pleasure and joy are both fled.”

  Chapter 12

  Tristan returned to the drawing room because he knew Erica was right. To do otherwise would invite uncomfortable speculation about what had transpired between them over the last quarter hour.

  And exactly what had transpired?

  More than a mere forfeit, despite what she’d said. And he was solely to blame. He’d gone after her. He’d asked uncomfortable questions to which he had no right to expect answers. Then he’d kissed her. Really kissed her. Given in to a temptation that had been plaguing him since the storm began.

  Now that the storm had ended, however, would he be free of the temptation at last?

  Not if the spark of lightning at their touch, the thunder of blood in his veins, was any indication.

  Caroline looked up from her conversation with Beresford and smiled gently at him as he crossed the threshold, her expression mild as always. Every inch the duchess she expected to be.

  A part of him had been hoping to see a flicker of disappointment at his return, he realized. Or jealousy. Anything that might reveal the depths beneath that placid surface. He was not quite fool enough to believe her as shallow and indifferent as she put on. Of course, if that were his goal, he might’ve guessed her charade and won the forfeit. Even a brief kiss surely would have told him more than her face seemed inclined to reveal.

  “Back so soon?” Sir Thomas teased. “Couldn’t you find her?”

  “No.” Mo
re lies. He began to regret that he’d had occasion to grow expert at telling them. “Miss Burke would seem to have asserted her triumph by retiring for the night.” Skeptical expressions made their way around the company, but no one challenged his story or disputed Erica’s victory at charades. “Another game, perhaps?” he suggested halfheartedly.

  “Not for me.” Guin shook her head and rose, a gentle signal to all that the evening had come to an end.

  Tristan stood at the door and bowed them out. “It would appear that the rain has moved on. In a day or two, when the roads have recovered somewhat, I suppose you’ll all be on your way.” It was badly done, he knew. Almost a dismissal. But he could not muster an ounce of regret to accompany it.

  For their part, his guests exclaimed and began to chatter in what sounded suspiciously like relief. After a fortnight, the odd assortment of ladies and gentlemen had grown tired of one another’s company. Except, perhaps, for Lady Lydgate and Lord Beresford, who exchanged a look as the former left the room on the arm of her oblivious—or perhaps apathetic—husband.

  Whitby alone sent him a disapproving glance. He had risen out of deference to the ladies but made no move to depart. Something to report, perhaps. Or to protest.

  Save his old friend, Guin and Caroline were the last to leave, his stepmother fulfilling her role of chaperone to the end.

  “Miss Pilkington.” He took her hand and bowed over it, then straightened without releasing her hand.

  She made no attempt to pull away, though her eyes widened. She looked up at him expectantly, if not eagerly. “Yes, Duke?”

  Percy’s perfect bride. A word or two to her tonight, a few more to her father in the morning, and she could be his. Can you think of any reason why I shouldn’t? he’d asked Whitby. A purely rhetorical question, of course.

  But earlier this evening, the answer had become yes.

  “Good night, Miss Pilkington,” he said.

  Was that relief in her eyes as she bid him good night in return?

  When she and Guin had gone, Whitby sank into his chair, a frown etched onto his brow. “Something stronger than tea, Captain?” Tristan offered as he approached the table.

  Whitby shook his head almost absently. “Why did you lie?” he asked after a moment.

  “Did I?” Tristan took the chair opposite.

  “I don’t believe for a moment that Miss Burke escaped your pursuit.”

  Tristan traced the edge of an empty cup with one finger, choosing his words with care. “I found her in the conservatory.”

  “And you—” Apparently thinking better of it, Whitby bit off the accusation. “She’s Irish, Tris. Intimate with men involved in a plot against the British government. A—”

  “I do not believe she is a spy,” Tristan interjected smoothly before Whitby could lay the charge at Erica’s door.

  Astonishment, disappointment, mistrust. Emotions slid across Whitby’s face and were gone, leaving behind a smooth mask of impassivity. The look of a man who knew how to hide his feelings, for his own safety and that of others. “You like her.”

  “I do. She is spirited, engaging—”

  “Beautiful.”

  That too, of course, though hers was not the polished, sophisticated style of beauty to which the word was usually applied. The fire that burned deep within her sent its glowing embers into every element of her being. Her speech. Her hair. Her kiss.

  Unlike Whitby, he did not trouble to keep his thoughts from his face. Reading them, the captain said, “Be careful, my friend. You cannot afford to make that mistake—or any mistake—right now. Unless you relish the thought of home duty, you must treat every person under this roof with suspicion.”

  On the night of his arrival, Whitby’s story had kindled a flicker of doubt that roared now into flame. Did his friend secretly hope that he would be exposed and forced to stay in England? Tristan had told himself it was understandable: an unspoken, unspeakable wish to return to the way things had once been, the two of them outwitting a common foe. Tonight, however, it smacked of pettiness. Jealousy.

  “Even you?” Tristan asked softly.

  Whitby pushed away from the table and stood. “The Major Laurens I once knew would not even have had to ask.” He strode toward the door, pausing on the threshold. “You told me you desired to return to France out of concern for the greater good, Tris. Lately, I wonder if your motives might not be a bit more selfish.”

  Tristan rose too. “You presume a great deal, old friend.”

  “Including our friendship. My mistake.” Whitby nodded crisply. “Right, then. Do as you please, Your Grace.” The honorific stung, as had no doubt been the intent. “Regarding Miss Burke and…all the rest.”

  When the door shut none too quietly behind Whitby, Tristan threw himself into a chair before the fire and studied its dying flames. His thoughts were an uncharacteristic jumble, and he found himself recalling Erica’s description of her chaotic mind, a novice rider jounced about on a trotting horse. Exhausting, indeed.

  In three days, he’d uncovered no proof of Whitby’s allegations, nothing more than the most circumstantial connections—Newsome’s brother, Caroline’s French gowns. And even if one of his guests were desperate for information, which of them would be fool enough to imagine that a man like him left his secrets lying about? No, he kept them close, tucked safely away, like…like…

  Like Erica clutched her journal to her breast.

  Whitby’s accusations. His own suspicions. Everything coalesced around that battered, leather-bound book. If only…

  Behind him, the longcase clock struck half-past twelve. By now, everyone would be safely abed. He might investigate certain avenues, and no one the wiser. He might put his intelligence-gathering skills to good use, answer his questions once and for all. And perhaps set himself free of his foolish fascination in the bargain.

  Pushing up from his chair, he set off for the south wing and Erica’s chamber.

  * * * *

  Erica pummeled the down-filled pillow with one fist, then tossed herself backward into its cloud of softness. It didn’t help, of course. It never did. Stillness and darkness were but excuses for her mind to take its nightly journey down the shadowed, rutted lanes of her memory. Every mistake she’d made. Every misstep. Most from so far back in the past that no amends could be made.

  At least tonight, her brain was focused on more recent events. Very recent. The fingers of one hand crept to her lips, wondering if they would feel somehow changed by his kiss. Wondering what might have happened if she had not chased him away.

  Another whomp to the pillow, and she almost missed the click of the door latch.

  Who could be coming into her room at this hour? Even the servants must be asleep. No one here was in her confidence. And until tonight, no man had ever so much as followed her into the next room for the pleasure of her company. She was certainly not so much a fool that she imagined the Duke of Raynham had waited until his other guests had retired before sneaking into her bedchamber to—

  Her spinning mind ground to a halt when Tristan’s tall, broad-shouldered form slipped through the narrow opening.

  Through slitted eyes, she watched him enter and close the door soundlessly behind himself. Somewhere in the furthest recesses of her mind it occurred to her that perhaps she ought to find it alarming to have a man entering her room in the dead of night. But oddly, it didn’t alarm her—not this night, not this man. For one thing, if he had wicked business in mind, it would have been foolish in the extreme for him to have waited to enact his plan until she was back in her room, with every one of his guests in easy earshot. She had only to shout to bring half of Hawesdale running to her aid. And for another…well, it was difficult to imagine the officer and gentleman she had come to know plotting something truly wicked.

  Perhaps just a little wicked, though.

  In the darkness
she pressed her lips together, waiting for him to speak to her. But what had he come to say?

  Or do?

  For a long moment, he stood without moving, presumably allowing his eyes to adjust to the near darkness. She had not drawn the drapes, but the moonlight was feeble, losing its battle with the lingering clouds as it struggled to cast its glow around the chamber.

  By its thin, silvery gleam, his shirtsleeves glowed white. He’d shed his coat—and his boots, she realized when he took his first silent steps across the carpet. Strange. Or maybe not. Maybe that was the ordinary way of such things. Though he did not strike her as the sort of man who would have vast experience with midnight assignations, she had even less.

  He paused to watch her, and she fought the instinct to hold her breath. Having always shared a bedchamber with her elder sister, she had a great deal of experience in feigning sleep. Slow, even breaths. One, two, three. Eyes closed fully now, lest a glimmer betray her. Surely in a moment, he would speak.

  He watched her for an inordinate length of time—or so it seemed to her. Minutes did have a tendency to crawl more slowly in the darkest hours of the night. And she itched, literally itched, with impatience to know what he was thinking, what his expression might be. Nerves fired at random, first on her back, then her shoulder, then the end of her nose, demanding she chase them with a vigorous scratch. In another moment, she would be unable to hold the sensation at bay.

  He moved first. She heard the whisper of fabric sliding against itself as he walked. His formfitting breeches…Lord, but she did not need an excuse to be thinking about his breeches just now. Concentrate. Was he leaving, disappointed in his hopes of finding her awake and waiting for him? Ought she to stir, ever so slightly…?

  Once more, she dared to crack her eyelids. Just enough to pick out his silhouette against the darker shadows of the room’s furnishings. He had indeed moved away from the foot of the bed. But not toward the door. He stood beside the vanity table. Its mirror doubled what little light there was and showed her his movements twice. She knew when he passed his fingers over the borrowed hairbrush and a little pot of scented powder the duchess’ maid had left behind. Over the inkpot and the quills Miss Chatham had supplied from the schoolroom. Over the cover of her journal…