What Would a Duke Do?

by Collette Cameron

  Marked uncertainty shadowing his features, he lingered a foot inside the door. He’d donned neither his hat nor gloves, but held them in his left hand.

  She permitted herself a leisurely perusal of this ebony-haired powerful lion of a man, from impressively wide shoulders, to a narrow waist, long well-muscled thighs, and calves ensconced in midnight Hessians. Her gaze made the return journey, every bit as enjoyable as the first, until her attention rested upon the molded planes of his dear face.

  Perhaps, she also permitted her focus to hover on his lips as she recalled the kisses they’d shared. If she closed her eyes, she imagined she could feel his lips upon hers still.

  Gabriella’s heart gave a queer flutter. She loved him.

  Had loved him since…Well, she didn’t know exactly when he’d entered her heart and set up house without so much as a by-your-leave. But he had entrenched himself there. Had taken over, and now Maxwell, the eighth Duke of Pennington, had absolute rule of the organ.

  What’s more, she didn’t mind at all, and she wouldn’t object in the least if he felt the same. But did a lady just come out with it? Ask a gentleman if he loved her too? If that was the reason he’d changed his mind about seizing Hartfordshire Court before learning of his grandmother’s letter?

  But what if he didn’t love her? What if his only interests were Hartfordshire and lust for her body? Straightening her shoulders, she brought her chin up. She’d know the truth, at least. That was something. Everything.

  A hint of vulnerability creased the corners of his eyes. “You shouldn’t be out here, Gabriella.”

  Not chérie or minx or vixen?

  She almost bit her lip and had actually lifted her right toe before she caught herself.

  He shook his head and took a pace forward. “It’s not—”

  “Done?” she shrugged, and forming her mouth into a disinterested moue, brushed her hand down Balor’s neck. “I know. But, you see, Maxwell, I wanted to speak with you before you left. I feared that after you departed for London on the morrow, it might be some time before you returned. If, you returned at all.” Nothing too terribly subtle about that. Would he understand the meaning in her words she wanted him to?

  “And that distresses you?” After setting his possessions on a low stool, he prowled nearer.

  Swallowing, she managed a small nod. “Yes, I find that it does. Very much, in fact.”

  He was upon her now, and she pulled her gaze upward from his waistcoat, past his starched neckcloth and the ruby pin twinkling there, over the light stubble shadowing his strong chin, to his firm mouth then higher still until she met his gaze.

  The intensity of those hot eyes sent a sensual shiver jolting to her knees, which had inconveniently decided to take this moment to become the consistency of strawberry flummery.

  “Why, may I ask?” His regard sank to her mouth.

  Was he also remembering their passionate embraces?

  “I find the idea of you leaving for a lengthy stretch quite distresses me.” Good Lord, could she sound anymore prim or tight-laced?

  He brushed her cheek with his finger, then her jaw, then the seam of her lips. “Why?”

  She tingled all over, and he appeared as cool as the proverbial cucumber. Blast the man. He wasn’t making this easy.

  Shouldn’t a gentleman, a duke for goodness sake, do the gallant thing and declare himself first? But what if he believed the gentlemanly thing was to let her make the choice, because before, he hadn’t given her an option?

  Gabriella grasped his lapels, running her fingertips along the fine fabric. “I shall miss you beyond measure. Quite unbearably, truth to tell. And I don’t wish to be miserable every day, wondering when you will return. If you will return.” He started to open his mouth, but she quickly put a finger to his lips. “Don’t you dare ask me why again,” she ordered, low and husky.

  At that, he cocked an eyebrow, maddeningly wicked and self-assured, and had the gall to nip her finger before capturing it in his palm and whispering, “Why?” his voice deep and gravelly and seductive.

  Standing on her toes, she cupped his nape. “Because, you obnoxious, irritating man, I love you.”

  The very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly to your service.

  What an appropriate time to remember a line from Shakespeare.

  With a rough groan, Maxwell swept her into his arms, capturing her mouth in a scorching kiss that promptly sent every coherent thought in her brain straight out of her mind. He gripped her bottom, pushing his rigid length into her belly, and devoured her mouth.

  Time stood perfectly still as they explored the other’s mouth between whispers of adoration and heartfelt apologies. A hunger and yearning swirled within her, increasing in intensity, until she made little mewling sounds against his lips.

  “Maxwell, please,” she pleaded, for what she didn’t know.

  A horse snorted in what very much sounded like an equestrian chuckle, and Maxwell finally lifted his head.

  She cried out in protest, trying to claim his lips once more.

  His features strained and eyes hooded, he shook his head. He rested his forehead against hers. “No, mon amour. I’m almost beyond restraint, and I refuse to tup the future Duchess of Pennington in a pile of straw.”

  She didn’t think the idea so very awful. In fact… “Perhaps not the first time, but mayhap some time?” she asked coyly.

  He growled low in his throat and nipped her neck. “Vixen. Siren. Temptress. Minx.” Smoothing errant strands of hair from her cheek, his gaze so tender, she wanted to weep, he asked hesitantly, “Do you truly love me?” Awe, wonder, and disbelief blended together to make the question harsh and raspy.

  “I do, Maxwell.” She put a palm to his cheek. “I truly do. I’ve loved you for so long, but I was so hurt and angry, I refused to see it. Stubbornly refused to acknowledge what I knew to be true.”

  Something wondrous lit in his eyes, and he pressed a reverent kiss to her forehead then encircled her with his arms.

  “And you’ll marry me? Because you want to?” He spoke against her hair, his lips a warm caress. “I cannot imagine ever loving another woman as I do you. And if you should refuse me, I’ll understand. I shall, truly, because I doubt your grandparents will ever agree to the match. They might even cut you off and forbid you to see me.” His embraced tightened. “But I shall never wed, then. I’ll carry you in my heart until I draw my last breath, Gabriella, my love.”

  “I’ll gladly marry you.” She smiled up into his face, caressing his bristly jaw. “Without regret, whether or not my grandparents’ consent. Although, I suspect they’ll be amendable as long as they know I wed you of my own free will. I love you, dear man.”

  Emotion choked his ragged voice, and he swallowed audibly, pressing his cheek into her hair. “No one… No one has ever said they loved me before.”

  A broken cry escaped her, and tears leaked from her eyes. “Oh, my darling. I shall tell you every day upon awakening, every night upon going to sleep in your arms, and a thousand times in between. I love you. I love you. I love you.”

  He tilted her chin upward until their eyes met. “Forgive me, Gabriella. I was an utter fool. The things your grandfather revealed to me tonight…” He closed his eyes. “Well, let’s just say I’m profoundly glad the sixth Duke of Pennington’s blood does not flow through my veins.”

  “I regret you had to learn that ugliness,” she whispered.

  “I’m not,” he said quite fiercely. “It’s a relief. I’ve often thought my father and I were somehow different than the previous dukes. Now I know why.”

  “It’s all so sad, really.”

  “How long must I wait to make you my wife?” Maxwell smiled into her eyes, and she wanted to weep from joy. To shout her jubilation. To take him to her bed right then and there.

  Head angled, she tipped her mouth upward. “I believe you mentioned a special license?”

  “I did, indeed, chérie.”

  “Then I
choose tomorrow, by the river where you first kissed me.” She clasped his hand, bringing to her heart. “Shall we tell the others our good news?”

  “I’ll need a fortifying kiss before I interrupt your grandfather’s dinner,” Maxwell claimed, mischief and desire playing across his mouth. “The man fairly terrifies me.”

  Gabriella was happy to oblige for several long and most delicious minutes.

  London, England

  Late April, 1810

  Lilting music filled his ears as Max guided his wife of just over a month around the sanded parquet floor of Mathias, Duke of Westfall’s ballroom. Invitations had awaited them upon their arrival in London, and a steady stream continued to pour into the Mayfair manor every day. News of his nuptials had traveled throughout London’s elite circles with prodigious speed.

  Upon his first foray to Bon Chance, after being heartily congratulated, the dukes of Asherford, Westfall, Bainbridge, and San Sebastian had taken him aside for a finger’s worth of brandy. Unwed themselves, each had teased him unmercifully about having been snared by the parson’s mousetrap.

  “Yes, and now that I’m off the Marriage Mart, my friends, there’s one less peer for those title-hungry huntresses’ to snare. You’d best be on your guard, lest you find yourselves saying, ‘I do.’”

  They’d cursed him for the worst sort of friend for even suggesting such a wretched thing. But like Max, each knew full well he was expected to marry and produce an heir, no matter how reluctant they were to enter the blissful state of matrimony.

  A primal smile bent Max’s mouth. Those gents could mock all they wanted, but he had no complaints whatsoever. His wonderful, unpredictable Gabriella was every bit as capricious inside as outside the bedchamber. That promised tumble in the hay had proven quite invigorating. As had the delightful joining in the library yesterday and the exhilarating tussle in the carriage the day before. Each and every one initiated by his seductress of a wife.

  Yes, indeed, God had smiled upon him the day he’d met this enticing armful he now called wife. “Enjoying yourself, Duchess?” He adored calling her that and seeing the pink bloom in her cheeks.

  “You well know I am.” She discreetly craned her elegant neck. “So are Ophelia and Jessica Brentwood.” She slid her eyes sideways, and he followed her glance.

  Ophelia danced with a dashing ship’s captain, and the Duke of Kincade, only arrived from the Highlands last week, skillfully swept Jessica amongst the other dancers.

  “And Rayne Wellbrook and Sophronie Slater too.” Gabriella tipped her head toward the young women. “Though, honestly, they look slightly more terrified than excited.”

  “The Season can be a bit daunting for those unaccustomed to it.” He would’ve eschewed most of the invitations they’d received, but as Gabriella had never had a Come Out or a Season, he felt compelled to allow her to attend whatever routs, soirees, balls, and other assemblies she desired.

  The set ended, and she excused herself to use the lady’s retiring room. Halfway across the floor, Nicolette Twistleton, Miss Ophelia, and Everleigh, Duchess of Sheffield joined her. Their gay laughter rang out as they made for the ballroom’s exit.

  “You look exceptionally pleased with yourself. Not at all like the sour-faced chap at the Twistleton’s musical a few weeks ago.”

  He tore his gaze from his wife long enough to nod a greeting at Bainbridge. “I’m happier than I deserve.”

  Unusually reflective, Bainbridge leaned against the column conveniently situated between them. “I wonder if I’ll be as fortunate as you, Dandridge, Sutcliffe, and Sheffield. Somehow, I think not. Particularly since you were privileged to pick your duchesses, and mine was chosen for me many years ago. And as my dear mama reminds me on a daily basis, Lady Lilith Brighton is now eight-and-ten. Everyone expects me to set a wedding date.”

  Sutcliffe approached, champagne in hand. “What’s this? Bainbridge, are you contemplating marriage as well?”

  “Not by choice, by God,” Bainbridge vowed. “Not yet, in any event.”

  “I’ve been in search of you all evening,” Sutcliffe said. “Westfall wants a word. Something about a horse he wants to acquire.”

  With a weighty sigh, Bainbridge straightened. “Yes, I think I’ve located the stud he’s been seeking. Oh, and Pennington, so far, I’ve not been able to find the matched grays you asked me to watch for. I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”

  Max had been trying to find Breckensole’s stolen horses for the better part of a month without luck. They’d show up eventually though. A fine pair like that would draw attention and when they did, he intended to recover the team. Not out of any great love for Breckensole. Although, he’d been admirably civilized since Gabriella announced she would marry Max with or without her grandparents’ blessing.

  Personally, he believed Breckensole had agreed to the quiet ceremony the next day because he truly loved his granddaughter and was absolved from having to part with coin for a formal wedding. That, and if the old curmudgeon cut her off, not so much as a farthing would make its way from Max’s purse to Breckensole’s.

  Though it was boorish of him, Max had no interest in standing up with another lady for a set or two, and instead went in search of the card room. At least that’s what he told himself as he wended a path to the exit Gabriella had disappeared through several minutes before.

  Once he’d ascended the magnificent curved staircase, he turned right. If memory served, Westfall’s private salon and the retiring rooms were along this wing. He contemplated Bainbridge’s dilemma as he marched along. Poor sot. An arranged marriage with a child, practically.

  Praise God Max had been spared that horror.

  A white-gloved feminine hand shot out and grabbed his arm as he passed the salon. “Maxwell,” Gabriella whispered, hauling him into the room. “You must see this.”

  Had she been snooping again? In his four weeks of marriage, he’d learned his darling wife had a curious streak. About more than sexual acts.

  She swiftly closed the door and with an impish wink, guided him to the fireplace. Flames burned low in the grate, and a turned down lamp sat upon a side table.

  “What exactly is it I’m supposed to be looking at, chérie?”

  She captured her lower lip between her teeth and pointed to the fur rug before the hearth. “It’s fur,” she needlessly announced as she removed her gloves.

  “Yes?” Max crooked an eyebrow, glancing between her and the thick sable fur. He grinned as comprehension dawned. “Why, Duchess, are you suggesting an erotic assignation on a fur rug during a ball?”

  What a wonderfully naughty minx.

  “What if I am?” She tilted her chin up.

  Chuckling, he locked the door then gathered her into his arms. “I can deny you nothing,” he murmured, lowering her to the lush pelt. He leaned over her, brushing a kiss across her rosy lips as he raised her skirts. “You do realize we shall be hopelessly rumpled and wrinkled afterward. Everyone will guess what we’ve been about.”

  “We’re newly wed.” She rolled a shoulder, giving him a sultry look that singed his hair and hardened his groin. “Besides, I don’t care if you don’t.”

  She should, and so should he. But damn, he didn’t. She reached between them, unfastened his falls, and encircled his sex with her warm hand.

  Max groaned, burying his face in her shoulder. “I love you, Gabriella. You are my very life.”

  “Make love to me, Maxwell,” she whispered against his throat before kissing his jaw. “I want to feel you inside me. I want you to give me a child.”

  And of course he did. In that precise order.

  Before you go, if you enjoyed WHAT WOULD A DUKE DO? please consider leaving a review on Kobo.

  USA Today Bestselling Historical Romance Author Collette Cameron pens Scottish and Regency Romances featuring rogues, rapscallions, rakes, and the intrepid damsels who reform them. Mother to three and a self-proclaimed Cadbury chocoholic, she’s crazy about dachshunds and cobalt b
lue, and she makes her home in Oregon with her mini-dachshunds. You'll always find animals, quirky—sometimes naughty—humor, and a dash of inspiration in her novels.

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  Dearest Reader,

  Thank you for reading WHAT WOULD A DUKE DO?

  I adore stories of redemption, and that’s what this story is about. Gabriella and Maxwell learn that love is not enough, but when it is strong and sacrificial, it allows for forgiveness and healing.

  The Duke of Bainbridge and Jessica Brentwood’s story is next in the series. I’m moving the setting to London for their tale, and what a merry romp it will be.

  During the Regency era, any child born within the bounds of matrimony was legally considered progeny of both parents. In the case of the 6th Duke of Pennington, he was forced to acknowledge his wife’s child sired by her lover if he wanted the ducal line to continue, as he’d sired no heir himself. Had the child been born outside the bounds of marriage, he would never have been legitimate.

  As for the transference of Hartfordshire Court, as the estate wasn’t entailed, it could be bought, sold, or even given away. My research also revealed the peculiar window tax which I had never come across before. Obviously, it was a tax geared toward those of means.

  Please consider telling other readers why you enjoyed this book by reviewing it on Kobo. I also truly adore hearing from my readers. You can contact me at my website below. I also have a fabulous VIP Reader Group on Facebook. If you’re a fan of my books and historical romance, I’d love to have you join me. That link is below as well.