The Heiress Gets a Duke

by Harper St. George

  He had not wanted to cause her pain, but what right did he have making that decision when the far nobler one would be to secure the future of the families who depended upon him? One door had stood between him and the right decision. One door, and he had let them down. Again.

  “It appears quite dead.” Leigh’s voice filled the cavernous room from the doorway.

  Evan let his arms drop to his sides when he saw the tear in the burlap. Sand rained down from the bottom corner as if through an hourglass to create a miniature dune on the floor. Leigh came farther into the room still dressed in his evening finery minus his hat and gloves. Beside him stood Jacob Thorne, the earl’s illegitimate half brother. The three of them owned Montague Club with Evan holding a lesser share. Thorne was also dressed in his evening finery, but his coat and waistcoat were made of velvet and were a deep blue in color as opposed to the traditional black and white of the aristocracy.

  Despite the different hues of their skin—one was pale and the other golden brown—the two were obviously brothers to any onlooker who cared to make the connection. They were the same height with the same breadth to their shoulders. Though their features were slightly different, they were clearly defined by the sharp angles that had been distinct to the earls of Leigh for centuries. The same devil lurked in their smiles, though Leigh’s was more rapacious while Thorne’s carried a devil-may-care buoyancy.

  Gesturing to the area marked off with ropes where they held their mock fights—and sometimes real fights if gambling was involved—Evan asked, “Are you offering to spar with me, Leigh?”

  Leigh smiled, his limp more pronounced than usual as he came to a stop and leaned heavily on his silver-topped cane. “Not in your current mood. It may not appear this way at times, but I do value my life.”

  “Thorne?”

  Thorne shook his head and grinned as he made his way to the lounge area in the corner of the room. Pouring himself a finger of brandy, he said, “I have a later engagement that’s a damn sight more appealing than fighting with you tonight, Sterling.”

  Evan’s own name. It was such a simple thing, but it reminded him that there were people in the world who did not view him by only his title. There had been a time when he had simply been Lord Evan Sterling. God, he missed that.

  “Only one?” Evan adjusted the batting around his knuckles and flexed his fingers to test for comfort. Still too loose.

  “Two if she brings a friend,” said Thorne, folding himself into the sofa.

  Evan shook his head. If only a woman would cure the deep well of frustration lodged within him. Ironically, one woman could. His arms ached, but the irritation persisted, so he moved to the next sandbag hanging from the ceiling, catching Leigh eyeing his current attire skeptically. Evan had shrugged out of his coat, waistcoat, and tie when he had walked in but still wore the rest of his clothing from the ball. He knew the questions would come, but he could not help but wince when Leigh spoke.

  “You blocked the door.”

  Evan gritted his teeth and gave the sandbag a series of one-two punches. “I did.”

  Leigh waited, and when it was evident an explanation was not forthcoming, he sighed and leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. “Did you even kiss her?”

  Glaring at his friend, Evan stopped to pull the cloying linen of his shirt away from his neck. When that failed to ease it clinging to his shoulders and back, he cursed and ripped away the first couple of buttons. Pulling the offending garment over his head, he used it to wipe the sweat from his chest and neck and then tossed it aside.

  “I did.” Oddly, he was reluctant to elaborate. The kiss had been far more heated and exciting than he had expected. August was attractive, and he had never considered kissing her to be a hardship, but he had not expected the strength of her response. Nor had he anticipated the intensity of the passion it would ignite so quickly. It was a singular experience that he did not want to ruin by talking about it.

  Leigh waited again, as if expecting more. Evan went back to pounding the sandbag. His thoughts of August were so convoluted, he knew that talking about her would not help.

  “I assume it was enjoyable?” prompted Leigh, clearly amused.

  Evan remembered the soft little moan she had made in the back of her throat when he touched her nipple and gritted his teeth as blood started to flow to his cock.

  From his place on the sofa, Thorne added, “You were kissing your heiress in a room alone and barred the door when you could have been discovered?”

  “Correct,” Leigh answered for him. “He refused to give us entry to discover them.”

  “Had you already gained her agreement to marry you?” asked Thorne.

  “No.” Evan paused and gave voice to the idea that had been taking shape all this time. “If the past year has taught me anything, it is how to be a good negotiator. I shall find out what she wants, what she finds important, and give it to her if she agrees to my terms.”

  The room was silent as the men pondered this. No one asked why his change of heart, which was for the best, because he did not want to discuss it.

  “What do you think she wants?” Leigh looked thoughtful as he straightened.

  “Freedom. To be treated as an equal. I need to figure out how that translates to marriage.”

  Thorne rifled through the newspapers and periodicals scattered on the table before him. The papers crinkled and fluttered until he found the one he was looking for and pulled out the long sheet. Walking over to Evan, he handed it to him and said, “Middle of the page.”

  Evan’s gaze quickly went to the illustration of a disgruntled and unattractive woman wearing a top hat bearing stars and stripes reminiscent of the American flag. Suffrage dealt a blow was typed in bold lettering beneath it. A quick skim of the article informed him that the Supreme Court of the United States recently had cause to decide a case that had been brought before them. They had found that the Fourteenth Amendment of the Constitution did not guarantee citizens, including women, the right to vote.

  “What is this?” asked Evan.

  Thorne shrugged. “Figured your bluestocking might be on the side of women’s suffrage.”

  Was she? Evan was dismayed to find that he did not know. It was a fair assumption, but it only emphasized how little he knew of the woman he was planning to make his wife. If she were an ordinary aristocrat and this an ordinary marriage, it would not matter. He doubted his own father had known or even given a damn about his mother’s political thoughts when they had married. He likely had been unaware that she might possess any. But this was a new world, and August was a different type of woman. Evan was not in any way guaranteed her hand.

  He had been going about this all wrong.

  Thorne stared at him. “Have you never once courted a woman?”

  Evan laughed. “No. Have you?” He had spent his life avoiding the matrimony trap.

  “No, not courting for marriage at any rate, but it is very simple.”

  Leigh ran a hand over his hair in exasperation and said to his brother, “You forget that as a son of a duke, he has never had to use charm.”

  It was true. Most people went out of their way to court his favor.

  To Evan, Thorne said, “You have to find out what she likes and pretend to like it, too. Talk with her about this.” He pointed toward the paper. “Express your deep sorrow for the ruling.”

  Evan was skeptical, so his voice was laced with sarcasm when he asked, “And then she will fall down on her knees and agree to marry me?”

  Leigh gave a dramatic sigh before saying, “No, but it will soften her to you. It is your only option given your abhorrence of entrapment. Find a way to use it to your advantage.”

  Wiping a hand on the back of his neck, Evan slung the hair out of his eyes. “For centuries, wealthy heiresses have been lining up to marry dukes. Why am I the one who has to g
o crawling on his knees to one?”

  “Because you are the one who has chosen a difficult bride,” Leigh pointed out.

  Evan grumbled inwardly and changed the subject, tired of talking about himself. “What of Wilkes? Have you found him?”

  Leigh smiled. “Jacob found him.”

  “In Rochester,” answered Thorne. “Has a woman there. He has been persuaded to pay five thousand. Says he does not have the rest, but he will fight you again. This time without shoes. The match should generate the rest he owes you and more. You keep the pot, of course, if he wants to keep his life.”

  “Good. When can we do this? Tomorrow?” Evan was ready to fight the bastard right now.

  Thorne shook his head. “Likely a week, maybe more. No broken bones, but he took some persuading before he agreed to hand over the five thousand.” He flexed his fingers, drawing Evan’s attention to the scabs on his knuckles. “You will want him healthy first.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Somewhere safe where he won’t run off again,” Leigh answered.

  Leigh had been running this bare-knuckle boxing league since before he and Evan had finished school. He had contacts and hideouts that Evan knew nothing about, and Evan wanted to keep it that way. He did not ask any more questions.

  “So we have a little time,” said Evan.

  The five thousand would have to pacify the creditors for a bit. He would have to figure out a way to get August’s agreement during that time. Clark seemed to think that the creditors would not be held off much longer.

  “Do you plan to hold Violet Crenshaw as a reserve?” Leigh’s question was quiet, his face still.

  “No. I will have August.” After a beat, Evan added, “One way or the other.”

  Leigh nodded as if something had been decided. “Good. Then I will start my plan for the sister.”

  It took a moment for him to comprehend Leigh’s intention. Even then, he thought he must be mistaken. “What plan?”

  Shifting his shoulders, Leigh spread his fingers on the hawk’s head of his cane. He was prevaricating, as if reluctant to say more. Disquiet caused a prickling sensation to travel up the back of Evan’s scalp.

  “I have decided that it is time to take a wife. Why not an heiress?” Leigh gave him a bitter smile.

  Evan thought of the girl he had met at the Ashcrofts’ party. She was young. Was she even twenty yet? Her eyes had been innocent even in her anger with him, and there had been a gentleness about her that was missing in her older sister. The wave of protectiveness sat uneasily inside him, but he took up the role it cast him into anyway. “But why?”

  Leigh shrugged, his gray eyes glittering with interest. “She is beautiful, and she pleases me. Why not?”

  Evan had known Leigh since their days at Eton, and while they were nearly the same age, there was something about Leigh that made him seem decades older at times. But it was not the age difference that bothered Evan so much as the depths the man would stoop to get what he wanted.

  “She is too innocent for you.”

  Though Leigh’s expression did not change, he squared his shoulders and his jaw hardened. “What precisely do you mean by that?”

  Evan frowned, struggling to articulate the unexpected protectiveness within him. “I mean you will run her over and make her miserable. She has been sheltered and is not bold like her sister.”

  “I’ve met her. She can hold her own with me.” The corner of Leigh’s mouth kicked up in a smirk.

  “When did you meet her?” asked Evan.

  Leigh’s smirk widened into an actual smile. “Earlier tonight. I appreciate your concern for your soon-to-be sister, but she will not come to any harm with me. She will be kept in luxury and given a child or two to dote over. Is that not her fate regardless of who the husband is?”

  Before Evan could answer, Leigh turned and made for the door, his limp slightly more pronounced than it had been earlier in the evening. “I will leave you to your frustrations. I need a drink.”

  Leigh was right. Her fate would be set either way. Until now Evan had assumed that marriages simply happened. Families had discussions, arrangements were made, a date was set. Never once had he considered the actual convincing of a bride. It was almost demeaning. Perhaps it might have been demeaning had the bride not been August Crenshaw. Earning her acceptance and respect filled him with anticipation. It was a precise goal, when all of his goals seemed to be moving targets lately, that he was confident he could reach.

  Chapter 11

  Be bold, be bold, and everywhere be bold.

  Edmund Spenser

  August sat at her dressing table staring at herself in the mirror. She had allowed Mary, her startled maid, to stay only long enough to strip her of her ball gown and help her into her nightgown and wrapper before bidding her a good night, preferring to unpin her hair herself. However, she couldn’t concentrate on the chore because oddities in her reflection kept distracting her. First it was the color high in her cheeks that wouldn’t seem to leave. Then it was the way her eyes shone. They seemed almost vivacious in the muted tones of the oil lamp. Now, while it seemed unlikely, her lips appeared to be still swollen from his kisses.

  Pausing in her task, she dropped the hairpins into their dish and touched her mouth. Yes, they were definitely fuller than usual. Her fingertips drifted down to the small bit of skin exposed above the high neck of her nightgown. The touch ignited an ember slumbering in her belly. It was a faint echo of the flame Rothschild had brought to life in her. Moving her hand down lower, she tentatively touched the nipple he had stroked. It stood up beneath her touch, round like a gumdrop caught beneath the linen.

  Before Rothschild, she had kissed precisely three men in her entire life, not counting the chaste kisses on her forehead given by her father or Maxwell. The first had been a hastily stolen kiss at a dance when she was eighteen. The man, a son of her mother’s friend, had pressed his lips to her cheek and turned seven shades of red when she had pushed him away. The next kiss had happened a year later at a summer party at the cottage in Newport. More curious about kissing at the worldly age of nineteen, she had encouraged a childhood friend to kiss her on the mouth. His lips had been dry when they had brushed hers and had left her feeling awkward and relieved when it was over.

  The third kiss had been a couple of years later. Also in Newport over the summer, this one had been by a son of Papa’s business associate. The family had visited from Chicago, and August had liked him right away. Handsome and intelligent, he had been the first man she had ever tentatively begun to imagine a future with. Uninvited, he had kissed her rather roughly on the beach one night. She had been both stunned and appalled. When she had managed to push him away, he had sneered and said that it was a good thing her family had money because she was too cold for any man to want.

  To her everlasting shame, the words had cut deeply. Everyone knew that Violet was the desirable one, while August was the bluestocking. The one who, while pretty enough, would only marry when she found a man who could overlook her many shortcomings. She was too opinionated. Too intelligent. Too mannish.

  Too cold.

  It was the last one that had haunted her most. What if she was too cold for any man to want?

  The puckered nipple reflected in the mirror seemed to suggest otherwise. She moved her hand to her other breast and cupped the small mound, allowing her thumb to play over her nipple as Rothschild’s had done. It tightened under her touch, and if she kept her eyes closed tightly, she could almost imagine that it was him touching her. A dart of pleasure moved from her nipple to her belly, burrowing so deeply that she had to press her thighs together. She pinched the little nub of flesh as he had done and was gratified when another pulse of desire shifted through her. She remembered how he had whispered her name, and the thrillingly rough sound he had made deep in his throat.

  Flattening her ha
nd to her pounding heart, she opened her eyes to her reflection. With her hair in careless waves around her and eyes wild with arousal, she almost didn’t recognize herself. Her skin prickled with gooseflesh, but she was anything but cold now. He had proven it. If nothing else, she could thank him for that.

  No, that wasn’t true. He had given her something else. When he could have had Violet—Hadn’t he said that his mother had chosen her? Hadn’t her own parents offered Violet up on a silver platter?—he had chosen August.

  I would have one thing that is mine. I would choose my own wife. I choose you.

  The memory made a smile curve her lips. The words were so simple, but they had settled down inside her like warm whisky and softened her hard edges. Almost no one had ever wanted her for her. Her mother wanted her to be more like Violet, and her father—while encouraging her business-minded pursuits—had marveled at her, like an eccentric he didn’t quite understand but was willing to humor. Was it possible that this man, this duke, was willing and able to see her and accept who she was?

  Charlatan. Trickster. Fortune hunter. All of those could be applied to him. She understood that it was in his best interest to get her on his side, and he’d likely say anything to make that happen . . . but what if . . . what if he meant it?

  Shaking her head, she reminded herself that whether he meant the words or not, he only wanted to marry her because of the money that came along with her. He was an impoverished nobleman who had figured out that marrying an heiress would solve all his problems, and he wasn’t above seduction to get what he wanted. It would serve her best to simply focus on the physical. His kisses might have been tinged with coercion, but the thick length of manhood swelling against her thigh had been genuine desire, if the anatomy books she had devoured as an adolescent had been correct.