How to Love a Duke in Ten Days

by Byrne, Kerrigan

  Stomach churning, she read the note again and again, scanning it as she always did for something. Some clue as to who had written it.

  It was never any use. The writing was always different. Very brief. No signature.

  Tears blurred the letters and Alexandra squeezed her eyes shut, despair threatening to pull her under.

  She might have known. Because she’d let herself relax if only for a moment. She’d taken shelter in the shadow of her oak-sized husband, allowed him to shade her from the oppressive glare of the truth beneath which she’d perspired for so many anxious years.

  She’d known that her moments of peace would be tainted, eventually, but she thought she’d have another month. At least a chance to return to Castle Redmayne and receive her duchess stipend before she had to worry about where to send the money.

  Alexandra barely kept herself from crumpling the paper in her fist as her dread heated to a helpless fury. Why must she be the one to suffer, to pay for the loss of her innocence? To be condemned for a torment thrust upon her?

  Why did her frantic decision, made in the mind of a traumatized girl, have to follow her throughout her entire life? Would her children be made to pay for de Marchand’s death? Her grandchildren?

  When would it end?

  She turned the envelope over, wondering how many postmarks it would carry this time. Usually the demands would originate from a telegraph office somewhere rather exotic. Morocco, perhaps. Or Berlin. Then it would make its way through a few countries to wherever she was.

  She’d followed the trail before, even finding the originating telegraph office, but no one had been able to divulge who’d commissioned the message.

  Forever untraceable.

  This envelope, however, was completely blank but for her name written in block capitals. The script neither masculine nor feminine.

  You’ll bring the money to the Redmayne tomb tomorrow night.

  Bring. Not post.

  Which meant …

  “I’m sorry,” she asked the desk clerk in a voice more unsteady than she would have liked. “May I inquire from where this letter arrived?”

  “From here, Your Grace,” the clerk answered. “No postmark. It was delivered in person and left in your box last night.”

  The hand she’d laid flat on the table curled into a fist as she tried to rein in her galloping heart. “By whom?”

  “No one can say, unfortunately.” His mild expression dimmed to one of sheepish regret. “The night concierge was called away from the desk a few times by a rather demanding guest.”

  Her hopes began to plummet. “Would it have been left by a night courier maybe?”

  He shook his head. “Any courier would have known to wait for a desk clerk, Your Grace, as they wouldn’t have known which mail slot belonged to you. We’re not in the habit of releasing room numbers of our guests, I can assure you.” He hesitated. “Though, I suppose it isn’t much of a surprise that you and the duke are staying in our most luxurious suites.”

  After a sharp intake of breath, she felt a pinprick of light pierce her encroaching despair. She thanked the clerk and wandered toward the fireplace, staring at the note as though she could see through it to the answer on the other side.

  Few people knew of her whereabouts in Normandy, and even fewer could confirm that de Marchand was dead.

  Two very specific souls, staying here in this very hotel, had been at de Chardonne when the incident had occurred. Lady Julia Throckmorton and Jean-Yves. Could Rose be nearby?

  Julia had decided to stay in Seasons-sur-Mer for a few days to further her pursuit of Dr. Forsythe. Or was that merely what she claimed? Had she been an enemy this entire time?

  Alexandra shook her head, doing her best to reject the notion. It made no sense. She and Julia had always got on famously, and it was well-known the woman had obscene amounts of money. Alexandra’s monthly payments would have been a pittance compared to Julia’s holdings.

  They’d fallen out of touch since de Chardonne, but had never fallen out with each other.

  According to her unfailing memory, Julia’s bedroom had been on the east side of de Chardonne, which meant the chances of her witnessing them bury de Marchand would be minuscule as the gardens faced the west.

  Besides, the idea that Julia was clever enough to have so ingeniously tormented her this entire time was absurd.

  Wasn’t it?

  Still … could her motive be cruelty? Could she be hiding her wit beneath blond curls and an artless veneer of vapid triviality?

  And what about Jean-Yves? Cecelia’s dearest, fatherly companion sent to keep her safe.

  He’d buried the man she’d murdered.

  He could have taken the razor blade from his pocket when they’d gone. Along with any other bit of evidence he needed.

  Was it possible his concern for Alexandra was feigned? That his absolute loyalty to Cecelia was a lie?

  Alexandra’s chin quivered at the thought. They’d been so certain all this time that he was the last pure and decent man left in their sphere.

  To find that the older man’s kindness had been contrived would break Alexandra’s heart.

  But it would kill Cecelia.

  Dear, trusting Cecelia who, despite being abandoned, bullied, and blamed for her mother’s sins, still managed to find the goodness in everyone. She loved the old man to distraction, doting upon him like a surrogate elderly father.

  Even though she “employed” Jean-Yves, the Red Rogues had visited enough to have seen that, other than the occasional errand, Jean-Yves was more of a companion than a servant. He spent most of his time with his feet up by the fire in his own sitting room while Cecelia read to him. Or gloating as Cecelia let him win at chess. His title as employee was more for his pride than for his keeping, and Cecelia had even shared the amount she’d settled upon him as a salary, which was more than generous.

  So, was Cecelia’s generosity not enough for him? Were the fine wines and expensive, comfortable shoes he favored purchased with Alexandra’s blood money?

  A calculating thought helped to smother the flames of her fear. If Alexandra were anything like Francesca, she’d see this as an opportunity.

  She was to bring the money to the dig site. Not mail it. Nor wire it.

  Bring it. Which meant tomorrow night, she might finally face her tormentor. Perhaps glean some answers. And if a surrogate was sent for her blackmailer, there was still a chance she could use her newfound title, wealth, or influence to sway some information from a hired brigand.

  A heavy and terrifying thought snaked through her.

  What if this was her final payment? What if she met her doom in Redmayne’s crypt?

  She swatted at the idea. It made no sense that her blackmailer would wish her harm. If she were dead, the source of the funds dried up, as well.

  It made more sense, now that she was a duchess, her tormentor wanted to discuss new terms.

  How utterly lamentable, that such a thing would be the lesser of two evils.

  Heavy boots approached across the marble floors and Alexandra blinked like a madwoman, hoping to erase all traces of emotion. She’d recognize the sound of that confident stride anywhere.

  She summoned a smile from deep in her wounded soul, but it faltered when she met the concern in his gaze.

  “Did you receive bad news?” he queried, a note of concern lacing through his comforting baritone. “You’ve gone a bit green about the gills.”

  She stared at the paper, moving her eyes as though it contained more lines than only the one. “It’s my, um. My parents.”

  “They’re upset about the wedding,” he said wryly.

  She looked up, blinded for a moment by how the morning light painted a cobalt sheen into the ebony of his hair. Next to his tawny glory, her pallor must appear positively anemic.

  “On the contrary,” she rushed to appease him. “They’re sending along their felicitations.”

  “You appear to me anything but felicitous.”


  She let out a nervous laugh that escaped at a higher pitch than she’d thought possible. “I’ll grant you they’re … a bit piqued that they weren’t at the wedding, but Father might not have been able to make it anyway, and Andrew is abroad and couldn’t have taken the journey on such short notice.”

  She hated how easily the lies tripped from her tongue.

  One dark, scarred brow lowered. “Then … why do you look as though someone walked over your grave?”

  Because there was a small chance someone wanted to make his ancestor’s grave her own.

  Tomorrow night.

  She lowered her voice to a whisper, painfully aware of their public venue. “I am tremendously abashed to be so indelicate as to inquire about my um … my stipend. I would send it to them, if I may, to ease their financial distress.”

  And she would. Whatever was left of it would go to her parents and her brother. She’d make certain they were taken care of should anything happen to her.

  His tense expression relaxed a bit, as though relieved the source of her distress was something as paltry as money. “I’ll have my solicitor contact theirs upon our return to Castle Redmayne to set up an allowance for your family.”

  His flippant benevolence pricked her conscience with a thousand poisoned needles, and the toxins coiled in her gut as she choked on her reply.

  “Their need is a little more dire than that, I’m afraid. Might I send it in a post or with a courier? It would save you and your solicitor the trouble,” she rushed to offer.

  “A courier from France? Are they so in need they cannot wait out the week for us to return home?”

  “I’m ashamed to say … that might just be the case.” Alexandra dropped her head, the shame very, very real. Shame for being deceitful. For casting her own family in a worse light to save her own secrets.

  He put his hand beneath her chin, lifting her overwrought gaze to meet his own. “I’ll wire my solicitor today, have him courier it to Bentham Park straightaway. They’ll have it in two days.”

  Alexandra never thought it would be possible to feel both tenderness and desperation at once. But here it was warring inside of her with enough enmity to make her ill. “Might we just visit a bank in town? Draw upon funds there?” she suggested hastily. “My father is … as I said, he’s not well. And my brother doesn’t know the extent of our troubles. He would rather the money come from me, I think. It would ease his tattered pride.”

  The scar in her husband’s lip deepened, as it did when he was perplexed or displeased. “I’ll lose some in the exchange rate…”

  “Take it from my next payment. From my trousseau or in lieu of a ring,” she blurted. “You can dock it from whatever you like. Indeed, I vow that I will endeavor to see after my own maintenance from here on out. I’m an educated woman, after all, willing to work for my own fortunes. I don’t want to be a bother. I don’t … I don’t want you to regret—”

  A finger pressed over her lips, silencing her, before lifting to dash at a tear she hadn’t realized had escaped. His savage features glowed brilliant in the break of the sun, but what truly astounded her was the temperate compassion with which he regarded her.

  “No wife of mine need ever know shame.” This was decreed with a steely yet tame sort of affection that stymied her into silence. “So many of the old nobility are in similar dire circumstances these days. What with agriculture giving way beneath industry and tenant farmers abandoning their lands for more profitable factories.” He lifted his finger from her lips and smoothed at her trembling chin. “If you promise to lift your spirits, we’ll go to the bank in Le Havre tomorrow and I’ll draw upon whatever sum you like.”

  “T-truly?”

  “Don’t look so surprised,” he chuffed. “I’d not deny your family a living, and perhaps in time your beloved brother can learn a bit from Ramsay and me about venture schemes and capital markets. I’ll do what I can to build the Bentham title once more. As you help me secure my legacy, so I can help secure Andrew’s. It’s the least I can do.”

  A surge of relief, gratitude, and an emotion so powerful Alexandra couldn’t begin to define it, drove her against him in a scandalous public display of affection. “What did I do to deserve such a generous husband?” She let a few more tears fall, these wrought of happiness.

  He gave a little bemused chuckle, his big hand drawing little circles of comfort on her back. “Well … you must have been very wicked, indeed, to have been sentenced to a life in my company.”

  “No.” She pulled back to look up at him, searching his rather bewildered expression. “No, you are wonderful. Truly, incomprehensibly wonderful. You are quite literally saving the lives of those I love most in this world. I’ll do anything I can to repay you.”

  * * *

  Piers basked for a moment in her exuberant gratitude. Surely, she was exaggerating the scope of his assistance, but if the result was her arms around him, who was he to say nay?

  Besides, he didn’t hate the idea of collecting upon her appreciation …

  He’d missed this. The press of her body against his. The scent of her hair. The gentle weight of her cheek on his chest.

  Though they’d spent an inordinate amount of time in each other’s company, he’d been careful, so careful, not to fan the sparks of his ever-present desire into an inferno that might reduce them both to naught but ash.

  Three days.

  Three days and he’d spread her naked upon a bed and not let her up until neither of them could move. Then they’d eat, rest, and do it all again.

  Three eternal, infernal days.

  Her rapid breaths against him had begun to slow as she took the comfort his embrace offered her. Not for the first time, Piers found himself thanking the stars that this eccentric, impulsive woman had proposed to him. His marriage, while fraught with danger both physical and emotional, had exceeded his expectations in almost every aspect.

  Not that his expectations had been particularly high.

  Quite the opposite, in fact.

  But the thought of lording over Castle Redmayne with Francesca Cavendish felt as arduous as a prison sentence.

  Because marriage to Alexandra had thus far been something like freedom. What other woman would toil alongside him as he excavated stones from a centuries-old catacomb? What man could boast of a wife who was as learned and well traveled as he? Perhaps more so? How many men could entertain the idea of taking their woman on exotic adventures to the far-reaching corners of the globe?

  Exotic often meant uncomfortable and dirty, and his wife didn’t seem to be put off by either of those conditions.

  Was it possible that he’d found in her a companion whose wanderlust matched his own?

  Three days and he’d have his answer.

  Wait. Christ. He was such a dolt. In three days her courses were due to arrive. If they did, would he have to wait five more subsequent days to claim her?

  Could he?

  He’d never been squeamish about such things.

  Was she?

  When he’d descended the stairs, he’d been stunned to find her already dressed and waiting. The startling pallor of her cheeks and the mist in her eyes had worried him.

  Because over the course of the past four days, he’d begun to suspect that she was being honest … At least about her lack of a pregnancy. He’d watched her closely for any signs of such a condition, and had encountered none.

  But this morning she’d been so wan and sickly, he wondered if she was struck by the illness that plagued most mothers in the mornings.

  Guilt pricked at his relief to find her distress was merely emotional rather than physiological. So much relief, in fact, he didn’t at all mind being a little oversolicitous to her inquiries for money.

  Not if it brought her color back and soothed her sorrow. It wasn’t her fault her father’s fortunes had failed. Women had little power over such things, and he could only imagine the helplessness of it, or the intense discomfort of being reduced to
beg for money from her husband to spare her family shame.

  He’d longed for the return of her smile.

  She’d been energetic and enthusiastic in the mornings. Her wit had been sharp and her disposition, for the most part, sunny. For all her blunt and impulsive interactions, she’d displayed fathomless wells of patience with workmen and students, alike. Even her corrections didn’t ruffle the most fragile of male egos as her praise and passion for her work were more effusive and openly genuine. She spoke every language, he was certain of that. French, Italian, German, Portuguese, and had even been able to translate an Arabic text that had stymied Forsythe.

  That had been a particularly enjoyable moment.

  They all had, if he was being honest. Every moment in her company was more pleasant than the last.

  He’d relished discovering his past alongside her more than he’d ever imagined. It was like uncovering his own mystery buried with the bones of his ancestor.

  Ivar Redmayne had been interred by a people not his own, who’d respected him enough to bury his possessions alongside him. He’d died alone while his son was away at battle, but buried with him were treasures that bespoke a beloved and powerful man.

  Trinkets made by a granddaughter. A fur cloak crafted lovingly by his wife, Hildegard, a depiction of her etched into the inside of his shield.

  Redmayne men, it would appear, had a penchant for possessive, bordering on obsessive, relationships with their women.

  Something to keep in mind, when navigating this complex arrangement with his own wife.

  Setting her gently but firmly away from him, he kissed her forehead and strode to the concierge to make arrangements for a meeting with a bank in Le Havre for tomorrow.

  That done, he’d turned around to find that, once again, Lady Julia Throckmorton had arrested the attentions of his wife.

  As usual, the vapid woman chatted animatedly, flailing her hands this way and that. However, Alexandra was less engaged than was her habit. Her delicate features still knotted into a sullen frown she was obviously trying to untangle into some semblance of amiability.

  It appeared that Lady Throckmorton had worn out her welcome where his wife was concerned.