The Autumn Duke (A Duke for All Seasons Book 4)

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The Autumn Duke (A Duke for All Seasons Book 4) Page 4

by Jillian Eaton


  Shameless little chit.

  As a man who exerted ruthless control over every facet of his life and expected the same of those around him, he should have been repulsed by her lack of decorum. But he wasn’t. Far from it, in fact. For some inexplicable reason he liked Katherine’s bold demeanor.

  Not that he was about to admit as much.

  “I highly doubt that,” he responded stiffly, his stare rising from her exposed bosom to a painting hanging high on the wall of a fox hunt in full bore. Normally he would equate himself to one of the huntsmen dressed in red, but for some reason he suddenly felt as if he had more in common with the small orange fox darting into the underbrush.

  “And why might that be?” Katherine asked.

  “Because I wasn’t there,” he said brusquely.

  “You weren’t at your own ball?”

  Now she sounded like one of his damned sisters.

  “No.”

  “Well…why not?” Those plump lips pursed, and he swallowed a groan as he imagined her mouth closing around his–

  Stop right there, he told himself viciously. Under no circumstances was he going to imagine Lady Katherine Dower sliding down his body and using that wicked tongue of hers – he just knew it would be wicked – to drive him absolutely wild. Except he just had, hadn’t he? As evidenced by his raging cockstand.

  Damn and blast.

  This had really gone too far.

  “Because I disdain them, along with anyone who finds whirling around a room for hours on end a suitable means of entertainment.” Cold blue eyes flicked scornfully across swirling gray. “Now if you’ll excuse me I have better things to do than spend my time in the company of a duke-hunting debutante who couldn’t make her advances anymore painfully obvious if she tried.”

  He marched past the piano towards the door with every single intention of leaving, only to realize the lace on his boot had come undone. Kneeling more out of habit than necessity, he quickly twisted the leather tie back into place. Before he’d finished heat bloomed at the nape of his neck, a sure indication someone was looking right at him. Or, in this case, looking at his arse.

  “Are you quite done staring?” he said coolly, thick brows gathering in a scowl as he turned to face his dark-haired nemesis. She grinned unrepentantly, a puckish fairy hell bent on destroying whatever vestiges of control he had left.

  “That depends,” she chirped.

  “On what?” he growled.

  “On if you’re done bending over.”

  Byron didn’t have words. Lip curling in a snarl that sounded more wolfish than man, he spun on his heel and stormed out of the drawing room, slamming the door forcibly behind him in a message that couldn’t have been more clear: Leave me the hell alone.

  Chapter Four

  “I’ve found him,” Kitty announced as she swept into Regina’s bedchamber.

  “You’ve found who?” Regina murmured without looking up from the book she was reading. Or at least pretending to read, for surely no one could make out any words when their eyes were filled with tears.

  “The man I am going to marry. Gina, what’s wrong?” Pushing any thoughts of handsome, blue-eyed dukes (temporarily) by the wayside, Kitty ran to her friend and climbed up in bed beside her. How many times had they sat like this, side by side with their backs pressed against a row of pillows as they talked about their woes and their worries, their hopes and their heartbreak?

  Too many to count.

  “Is it your husband?” Kitty asked when Regina pressed her lips together and closed her eyes. “Is the break more serious than the doctor thought? I’m sure he will make a full–”

  “His leg is fine.” Opening her eyes, Regina drew a deep, shuddering breath and dashed at the tears on her cheeks with small, angry little jerks of her wrist. “Or it will be fine, in time. It’s his heart that is the problem. He doesn’t have one.”

  “This calls for wine,” Kitty decided.

  “Oh, I really don’t think–”

  “Two bottles ought to do it.”

  When they arrived, she handed one to Regina and kept the other for herself. Twisting the cork, she drank straight from the bottle, and after a moment’s hesitation the Duchess of Glenmoore did the same.

  “Now,” Kitty said matter-of-factly, reaching for one of the chocolate sweets that had been brought up along with the wine, “what has Andrew done this time?”

  Upon her arrival at Glenmoore Manor, it had become readily apparent that the duke and duchess were not enjoying marital bliss. This wasn’t the first time Kitty had discovered her friend in tears, but she dearly hoped it would be the last. Regina was the kindest, sweetest soul she knew, and her closest friend didn’t deserve to spend her nights crying over a husband who needed to appreciate his wife for the blessing that she was.

  “It isn’t what he’s done,” Regina sniffled. “It’s what he’s not doing. I know he cares for me. Mayhap even loves me. But he refuses to admit it and I cannot fathom why.”

  “Wine,” Kitty ordered, pointing at the bottle Regina had set aside after only one sip. She knew getting foxed could not solve all of the world’s ills – she had only to look at her aunt to realize drinking often caused more problems than it fixed – but surely if there was ever a time and place for a little reckless indulgence, this was it. “And don’t forget the chocolate,” she added when Regina obediently lifted the bottle to her lips and took a sip.

  “I’m so very glad that you’re here.” Managing a watery smile, Regina reached across the bedspread and patted Kitty’s hand. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

  “I am very glad I’m here as well.” Kitty took another swig of wine as the sun sank beneath the horizon and night unraveled across the sky like a dark, velvet blanket. “Now let’s focus on something important – like why you failed to mention my husband was living next door?”

  Regina’s brow creased. “Your husband? I don’t–”

  “The Duke of Wakefield,” Kitty said impatiently, leaning back on her elbows amidst the plethora of feather down pillows. “I met him just now in the drawing room and my heavens, Gina. If I were a squirrel I would have climbed that man like a tree.”

  Regina spit out a mouthful of wine. “Katherine!”

  “What?” Lifting her shoulder in a careless shrug, she once again brought the wine bottle to her lips. “It’s true.”

  “I am sure he was at our wedding, although the entire day is a bit of a blur,” Regina admitted. “I know he has three sisters and they’re all currently in residence at Wakefield Park, but other than that I’m afraid I don’t even know enough to formally introduce you.”

  Kitty drummed her fingers on the edge of the bedside table. “That’s all right, I introduced myself. I knew there was a Duke of Wakefield, of course, but given that he’s never made any public appearances – or at least none that I can recall – I always assumed he was old and had a large wart on the end of his nose.” Her fingers abruptly stilled as a horrific thought occurred. “There isn’t a Duchess of Wakefield, is there?”

  “Not that I’ve ever heard of.”

  Kitty breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh thank goodness.”

  “I take it your introduction went well, then?” Regina ventured.

  “Heavens no. He called me a duke-hunting debutante and slammed the door so hard the entire house rattled. Quite the temper, that one.” Although though to be fair, it had taken a fair bit of provocation on her part to incite it. Like a deep lake that was smooth on the surface and filled with jagged rocks below, Byron kept his emotions beneath the water. But right before he stormed out she’d finally managed to steal a glimpse at the man under all those hard layers of self-imposed control.

  And she very much liked what she’d seen.

  “Yet you still want to marry him?” asked Regina, visibly confused.

  “I do not want to,” Kitty corrected. “I am going to. Unless he has a skeleton in his closet I don’t know about, or a wart that he’s hiding some
thing on his person, he is absolutely perfect. Checks off every single box on my Husband List, and you know just how many boxes there are.”

  “A lot,” her friend said with a sage nod.

  “Indeed.”

  Both women were quiet for a moment.

  “He’ll come around, you know. Your duke,” Kitty clarified when Regina lifted a questioning brow. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you. It’s the way I’ve always wished a man would look at me.”

  “Men look at you all of the time,” Regina protested.

  “No.” She sipped her wine. “They look at my face. Which, to be fair, is worth looking at. They look at my bosom. They look at my dowry. They look at my hips to gauge how many heirs I’ll be able to give them. But they never look at me.”

  “Not even the Duke of Wakefield?”

  Kitty didn’t bother to muffle her snort. “Especially not the Duke of Wakefield. But that’s going to change,” she said confidently as she brought the bottle to her lips. To her surprise she found it nearly empty, and downed the rest in a long, lingering swallow. The wine was sweet on her tongue and gave her head a pleasant lightness, although she had a feeling it wouldn’t feel nearly as pleasant in the morning.

  “I envy you your confidence.” Resting her chin on the edge of her palm, Regina sighed and picked at a loose thread on the coverlet. “How can you be so certain?”

  “Because I have a plan.” As a determined smile slowly unfolded across her countenance, Kitty reached for another chocolate. “And the Duke of Wakefield doesn’t have a chance.”

  “I think I am dead,” Kitty announced the next morning. Rolling onto her side, she cried out in agony and yanked a pillow over her head as sunlight stabbed her in the eyes. “And if I’m not dead,” she continued, her voice muffled against the pillow, “I should soon wish to be. Why the devil did I drink so much wine?”

  She waited for an answer, and when there was none forthcoming she slowly – very, very slowly – lowered the pillow and sat up amidst a tousled pile of blankets. A quick glance around revealed the bedchamber was empty with no telling when Regina had departed. If the damned sun was any indication it was well into the morning, and her friend had always been an early riser while Kitty preferred to lounge about until noon. There could be no lounging, however, when one had a duke to catch. Managing to stretch her arm out towards the bell pull, Kitty gave it a sharp tug and waited for a maid.

  “Coffee,” she managed, squinting blearily when a middle-aged woman dressed in a crisp black uniform arrived. “Dark as sin with a plate of eggs and hard cheese. A slab of bacon as well. Oh, and best toss in a few of those little cakes with the powdered sugar. I had three yesterday and they were positively divine.”

  Eyes wide, the maid nodded and then slipped from the room. Waiting until the door had closed, Kitty rolled off the mattress and stumbled barefoot to the dressing table. Pushing aside a collection of glass perfume bottles and little tin jars, she made a face at her reflection in the mirror. A woman with deep smudges beneath her eyes and a nest of ebony hair snarled on top of her head made a face back.

  “You look a fright, don’t you?” she muttered at her reflection. “No less than you deserve for drinking an entire bottle of wine. I honestly don’t know how Auntie does it.” Not for the first time she wondered how Tabitha was doing in Scotland, and prayed she was a sight better than her favorite niece. She’d written her aunt a letter when she first arrived at Glenmoore Manor, but had yet to receive a response.

  “Your breakfast, my lady.” The maid returned with a large silver platter and a pitcher of coffee that Kitty could smell from across the room. Mouth watering, she made herself a plate and ate standing up, shoveling food into her mouth with her fingers. The sugared biscuits soon did the trick, and within a few minutes, to her relief, Kitty’s pounding headache began to subside.

  The maid returned to help her dress and managed to tame her wild locks into something that vaguely resembled a chignon with loose tendrils curling down from her temple and behind her ears. She chose to wear a blue dress edged in ivory scalloped lace and was combing through her bonnets when she heard a telltale clatter of hooves, indicating someone had arrived – or was just about to leave.

  Rushing to a window overlooking the front drive, she pressed her gloved fingertips against the smooth glass pane and peered out. There, two stories below, was a magnificent gray horse being held by a groom. The animal was fully tacked and waiting for its rider. Kitty’s breath hitched when the Duke of Wakefield emerged from beneath the marble portico and began walking towards his horse. Desperate to have a word with him before he left, she whirled around in a flurry of skirts and dashed from the bedchamber.

  “Wait, my lady!” the maid cried. “Your shoes and stockings!”

  But Kitty was already racing down the stairs, her bare toes nimbly jumping from one step to the next with nary a pause in between. Snatching up her dress to avoid tripping over the hem, she hit the foyer at a dead run and skidded through the front door just as it was closing.

  “My lady,” exclaimed the butler, visibly startled by her sudden appearance. “What are you–”

  “Can’t speak, Grieves!” she called back over her shoulder. “I’ve a duke to catch.”

  Quite literally.

  It was to Kitty’s favor that Byron did not immediately mount his horse. Instead he took his time pulling on a pair of leather gloves and inspecting the positioning of the saddle. Tiny stones bit into the soles of her feet as she slowed to a walk, shook out her skirts, and adopted an expression of lofty calm that might have been believable if not for the pink flush in her cheeks or the shortness of her breath.

  “Y-Your Grace,” she gasped, causing Byron’s head to whip around and his eyes to narrow. “Fancy meeting you here. I was just about to – to go for a ride myself.”

  “Oh really?” he drawled, his arched brow indicating he didn’t believe her for a second. Taking his gelding’s reins from the footman, he gave a curt nod and the servant hurried away. “Where is your horse?”

  An excellent question.

  “My – my horse? She, um…is having a shoe put on.”

  Byron’s gaze flicked down to where her toes were peeking out from beneath the bottom of her dress. His mouth curled in a derisive sneer as he lifted his head and met her innocent stare. “It seems your mare is not the only one in need of shoes.”

  “Haven’t you heard?” She took a step forward, only to wince and lift her leg when her heel encountered a sharp rock. “Riding barefoot is all the rage in Paris.”

  “You’re going to hurt yourself.” Scowling, Byron led his horse towards her and gestured towards the portico. “Go back inside. We both know you did not come out here to ride.”

  “Maybe not a horse.” The corners of her mouth twitching, Kitty reached out and gently patted the gray’s soft muzzle as he nosed at her side for a treat. Her double entendre could not have been more obvious, and her mischievous smirk widened into a grin when the duke’s neck turned a deep, dark red.

  “You are the most–”

  “Splendidly divine woman you’ve ever had the opportunity to meet?” she suggested. “An angel sent from heaven itself to spread frivolity and good will to man and beast alike? A beautiful example of perfect femininity wrapped in a pretty box and tied with a delightfully witty satin bow?”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw. “No.”

  “No to being splendidly divine,” she ventured, “or–”

  “All of it,” he said flatly. “No to all of it.”

  Her lips pursed. “It was the satin bow, wasn’t it? A bit over the top, I’ll admit. Do you know what I think would be a splendid idea? If we took our morning rides together.”

  Byron looked at her as if she’d just proposed leaping into a boiling tub of hot water. “Don’t be absurd. You do not even have a horse.”

  He had her there. Unless…

  “You! Yes, you.” Smiling brightly at a footman who had the misfortune of walking by at th
at precise moment, Kitty waved her arm and flagged him down. “Would you be so kind as to go to the stable and retrieve my horse?”

  “She doesn’t have a horse,” Byron snapped.

  “Don’t listen to him,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  “But…he’s a duke,” said the footman uncertainly, his gaze darting between them.

  “What is this horse’s so-called name?” Byron demanded, glaring at her.

  “Bacon.”

  “Bacon?”

  Kitty knew it wasn’t the best name she could have chosen, but in her defense she was still hungry, and when prompted bacon was the first word that came to mind. There was nothing she could do about it now but see the charade through and hope the footman didn’t know the names of the horses in the barn.

  “Yes,” she said, lifting her chin. “Her name is Bacon. Because she is…brown.”

  “There is a dark brown mare in the stable,” the footman said hesitantly.

  Byron sighed. “Please don’t encourage her.”

  But the damage had already been done, and within a few minutes ‘Bacon’ had been brought up from the stables in full tack while the Duke of Wakefield looked on, arms crossed and jaw set at an angle of annoyed disbelief.

  “That’s not your horse,” he growled when Kitty took the bridle and gave the mare an affectionate scratch on her shoulder. Small boned with elegant conformation and a sweetly dished face, she was the very picture of a well-behaved lady’s mount and stood obediently as Kitty brought down the stirrups and slipped the reins over her head.

  “Of course it is. We’re old friends, aren’t we Bacon?” She beamed at the mare, who gave a small nicker in return. Muttering something indecipherable under his breath, Byron mounted his horse and turn the gelding in a prancing circle.

  “I ride quickly,” he warned, blue eyes flashing beneath stern auburn brows. “If you fall behind I’m not waiting.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about me, Your Grace.” Lifting her bare foot up to the stirrup, Kitty reached for the leaping horn and gracefully swung herself into the saddle. The seat was a bit difficult to navigate without her riding habit, but after a moment of tugging and adjusting her skirts she managed it just fine. Bringing a hand to her temple, she gave Byron a saucy salute. “I don’t wait for anyone.”

 

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