The Duke's Privateer (Devilish Dukes Book 3)

by Amy Jarecki

  Seductive.

  “There she is now,” said Weston, gesturing up to the landing.

  Sher was a man of culture, trained in the art of controlling his emotions, trained to model the epitome of dukedom. But when he set eyes on the Duchess of Danby, his chin hit his chest. “Holy Mary, mother of God,” he muttered.

  “Indeed, sir.”

  Weston faded into oblivion as Sher watched Eleanor start down the stairs. Aside from the color, the gown had miraculously transformed into a work of art. Gone were the lace flounces, replaced by an elegant bodice, which, on any other woman, might be considered plain. But Her Grace needed no lace or ribbons. The tasteful satin bodice hugged her breasts, making them swell above the neckline in an unignorable presentation of creamy flesh.

  Sher rubbed his fingers together, knowing exactly how soft and how utterly delicious those bosoms were. If only the ball were over and he could lead her upstairs now. Though she had convinced him of her adoration in the carriage, he’d waited until tonight. He wanted their first union to be magical.

  Unforgettable for them both.

  Climbing, he met her halfway and offered his hand. “You are a vision.”

  “Why, Duke.” Eleanor blessed him with a sultry chuckle, one he felt swell in his chest and travel southward. “So are you.”

  Hoy, why must the ball be tonight? “I’m glad you approve,” he said, resolving to make the best of the affair. After all, creating memories was not to be rushed, but savored like a dram of whisky from a bottle aged for a hundred years or more.

  When they reached the vestibule, Sher pulled a box from inside his coat. “Though your pearls are lovely, I’d rather hoped you might wear these this evening.”

  He opened the box and presented her with an exquisite set of amethysts, consisting of a necklace with one large stone in the middle, flanked by stones decreasing in size until they met at the clasp. The ensemble included a matching bracelet and teardrop earrings.

  Gasping, she brushed a finger over the gems. “They’re stunning.”

  “To adorn the throat of a true beauty.” He set the box on a table and removed the necklace, holding it up. “May I?”

  “Now, please,” she said, lifting her curls just high enough.

  It took no time at all to replace the pearls with the amethysts. “These were my grandmother’s, given to me by Mama on my twenty-first birthday—it was her way of telling me to take a wife.” He chuckled. “And now that I have found my bride, I hoped these would either go with the lavender or the pink—or even a traditional ivory ballgown.”

  “Thank you. They make me feel like a princess.”

  “If you ask me, being a duchess is far more fun.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because princesses are confined to court and a host of courtly rules.” He held out his hand. “May I sign your dance card, Your Grace?”

  “You may.”

  Sher proceeded to sign his name on every single line.

  She nudged in beside him. “Scandalous!”

  “It is ever so fun being a duke.”

  “Truly? Because you can break the rules you despise, and enforce those you believe to be of great import?”

  Sher regarded her out of the corner of his eye. Yes, he had been the prime minister’s enforcer. “Only when it serves to prevent the kingdom from falling victim to yet another bankruptcy…Your Grace.”

  She sighed. “I suppose that is why I retired, then. You couldn’t blame an entire country’s bankruptcy upon a harmless privateer.”

  He leaned low enough to whisper in her ear. “My privateer.”

  “Duke, are you flirting with me?”

  “Most definitely, yes. Did you not know that courting includes all manner of flirting?”

  Snapping open her fan, Eleanor batted her eyelashes. “Then do continue.”

  As the guests began to arrive, they moved to the receiving line while the orchestra played in the background. Sher usually made certain he was unfashionably late to balls to ensure he wouldn’t be marshalled into a line and forced to greet hundreds of guests, but being at Rawcliffe beside Eleanor, made the task palatable. She was gracious, and welcoming, and though she had met almost no one, she remembered the names as the steward, Mr. Hops, called them out, and spoke to each guest as if she’d known them for years. But most remarkably, Her Grace kept her father on her right, introducing him as Viscount Lisle, esteemed Admiral of His Majesty’s fleet.

  As if candles had been lit in his eyes, His Lordship played his part, bowing his head and offering greetings. It was even difficult for Sher to believe the man had been silently staring into nothingness only months prior. As the crush began to wane, a Mr. Stourton was announced. Sher vaguely recalled him to be a younger son of Baron Mobray and greeted him cordially. When the gentleman proceeded along the queue, he stopped in front of the viscount and clutched his chest. “Admiral?”

  “My God.” His Lordship blanched. “I…thought I…killed you.”

  “No, my lord. Your actions that night not only saved me, you saved dozens of lives. But you? I saw the cannonball hit the deck. In the burst of flames, I saw your figure hurled into the seas. How is it you are here?”

  A tear spilled from Lisle’s eye. “I’ve asked myself that very question…at least a dozen times since.”

  “Papa, listen to you! You’ve never spoken of the battle,” Eleanor exclaimed. “Mr. Stourton, were you aboard Papa’s ship during the war?”

  “I was his lieutenant. Many lives were lost, but if it weren’t for your father’s bravery, setting a course to ram the French cutter, every last soul aboard the HMS Exeter would have lost their lives.”

  Eleanor grasped her father’s hand. “My father was unconscious for a year after he washed ashore. And only recently has he come out of a silent darkness.” Eleanor beckoned a footman. “It seems you two gentlemen have a great deal of news upon which to catch up. Why not share a glass of my husband’s new whisky in the drawing room?”

  Mr. Stourton bowed. “I would enjoy that very much, Your Grace.”

  Eleanor turned to Sher, blinking rapidly. “Papa seemed truly surprised and happy to see that man.”

  “Perhaps the lieutenant can help him put the pieces together.”

  “Wouldn’t that be marvelous?”

  It wasn’t until after supper that Eleanor actually found the opportunity to dance with her husband and there was no one with whom she would rather waltz. The one and only time they had danced together, she suspected him of meddling into her affairs—which he had been.

  At the time, if anyone would have told her she’d be married to the man within a matter of a month, she would have guffawed. But there he stood, gazing into her eyes, his right hand upon her waist, the other held ready while the orchestra played the introduction.

  “I thought I said I wanted you all to myself,” he said in a deep voice.

  “Unfortunately, your plan was foiled by two hundred and three guests.”

  He started on the downbeat. “I suppose I was a bit optimistic.”

  “It would have been rather rude of us had we ignored them all.”

  “Quite.” He led her into a turn. “You have the grace of a swan.”

  “Thank you. Though I must say, for a man who spent his bachelorhood avoiding balls, you are an excellent dancer.”

  “You flatter me.” He inclined his head toward the hoard of people looking on. “Have you noticed they’re all staring at you?”

  Eleanor stole a peek. Goodness, she’d spent most of her life trying not to garner too much attention—at least only attract the attention of those members of polite society who needed her. For the first time since she’d begun her little importing business, it didn’t matter who was looking or who noticed her or why. “They’re not staring at me, they’re looking at us.”

  “And why do you think that?”

  “Because we are dancing as if we’ve practiced together for years.” She winked. “Why, I believe we a
re as graceful as a matched pair.”

  To that he smiled and whisked her around the floor as if he wanted everyone in the ballroom to know she was his and he adored her.

  He adores me?

  As she gazed into his eyes, she knew it was true. Somehow, through all the secrets and perceived deception, he had fallen in love with her and she with him.

  But the waltz ended far too soon.

  As they applauded the orchestra, Sher whispered in her ear, “After such an invigorating dance, may I escort you to the terrace?”

  Playing along with his courting scheme, she raised her fingers to her lips and gasped. “Your Grace, it wouldn’t be proper. Heavens, I could be ruined.”

  “I see there are at least a half dozen couples out there now. Never fear, your virtue is safe with me.”

  Yes, her virtue had been uncannily safe—even with sleeping in adjoining chambers. Who knew the most notorious rake in London was such an utter gentleman?

  “Very well, but we mustn’t be long, else our guests will think we’ve abandoned them.”

  Arm in arm they strolled outside, greeting people as they moved along the terrace, almost as if they had been married for years. Sher stopped in the shadows of a chestnut tree. “I’ve grown fond of you.”

  “Fond?” she asked, wondering if this was part of the courting ploy or if he was trying to move circumstances along. “I—ah—”

  “What is it?”

  “When we were all but forced to marry, I never thought I’d feel anything but scorn for you.”

  He stepped away and looked out over the rail. “I see.”

  Eleanor slid her hand into his. “But I was wrong.”

  His fingers tightened around her palm. “You were?”

  “Yes, Duke.” Reaching up, she turned his chin, rose onto her toes, and kissed his lips, not caring if everyone could see. “I feared I displeased you.”

  A deep chuckle rumbled from his chest. “I would never court a woman who displeases me.”

  Even in the shadows, the dark desire in his gaze made her shudder, made her want to throw her arms around him and kiss him as if there were no tomorrow.

  “Come with me,” he growled, tugging her down the stairs and through the gardens.

  Eleanor laughed as she checked over her shoulder. It seemed no one had noticed they’d slipped out of sight. “But our guests.”

  “They can live without us for ten minutes.” He tugged her behind an azalea and pulled her flush against his body. “I’ve been waiting for you to come to me.”

  Eleanor’s mind reeled while he clamped his mouth over hers. The moment their lips touched, Sher took command, his kisses deeper and more intense than ever before—than she had ever dreamed possible. His hands moved up and down her back, then slid to her bottom, his fingers kneading her flesh and tugging her flush against his hips.

  His erection pressed into her, building an urgent need—so powerful she wanted to climb inside him. Unable to stop herself, she rubbed against him. “God save me, I want my legs around you.”

  “I need your legs around me,” he growled.

  “Can we slip above stairs without anyone knowing?”

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass who sees us.”

  “Your Graces?” called Mrs. Temperance from the terrace. “It’s Margaret!”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Eleanor led the way to the nursery, her feet barely touching the steps. Bursting inside, she found Margaret red-faced, wailing like a banshee in Miss Repast’s arms.

  The nursemaid faced them, her expression stricken. “Your Graces, she’s burning with fever.”

  Sher squeezed Eleanor’s shoulder. “I’ll go fetch the doctor.”

  “Thank heavens he was on the guest list,” she said, holding out her hands. “Have you given her willow bark tea?”

  With a pent-up gasp of frustration, Miss Repast placed the babe in Eleanor’s arms. “I tried, but she refused.”

  “We must cool her somehow.”

  “I’ll douse some cloths in the bowl.”

  “Yes, at once.” Margaret would not be consoled as Eleanor placed her in the cot and removed her gown and pilchers. “There, there, sweeting, the doctor will be here soon.” She accepted a damp cloth from the nursemaid. “Keep them coming.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  As Eleanor spread the cloth over the baby’s skin, Margaret shrieked, shaking her little fists and kicking her legs. “I know, I know. Being ill is no fun at all.”

  Again and again they swapped out the cloths, while the cries grew so shrill, Eleanor’s head rattled.

  “Mayhap try the tea,” said Miss Repast, handing her the cup.

  Kneeling beside the cot, Eleanor drizzled a bit into the child’s mouth, only to have her cough and sputter, launching into a new cacophony of hysterics.

  Sher barreled through the door, his eyes wild. “Dr. Roberts has already taken his leave. I’ve sent a rider to see if he can intercept his carriage and turn it around.” He moved beside her. “How is she?”

  “No better.”

  “Allow me to try to console her.” After removing his coat and draping it over a chair, he pulled the crying babe into his arms. “Hush, little sprite,” he whispered into her downy hair as he began to pace.

  Eleanor shifted up to the chair and watched while the Duke of Danby paced the floor with the naked child, patting her back while whispering softly beneath the overtone of Margaret’s hysterics.

  Miss Repast stood by the washstand, dousing and wringing the cloths. “I’m so very sorry. I’ve tried everything. The poor lass has been carrying on since you left.”

  “But that was hours ago,” Eleanor said.

  “I didn’t want to bother you.”

  “Of course not,” said Sher. “You look exhausted. Go on to bed and we’ll wait up for the doctor.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t, Your Grace. Not when Margaret is fevered.”

  Eleanor rose with the cup in her hand. “I agree with Danby. You look as if you’re about to drop. Go on and take some rest for a time. I’ll wake you if she grows worse.”

  After the nursemaid left, Eleanor held up the mug. “Let me try this again.”

  Sher held the baby still while Eleanor managed to coax two spoonfuls into her mouth.

  “Easy, Margaret,” he cooed. “We’ll have you feeling better in no time.”

  Together they alternated pacing, applying cool cloths, and feeding the baby willow bark tea until the poor child collapsed in Sher’s arms, instantly overcome by sleep.

  “Has the fever broken?” Eleanor asked, feeling her forehead. “I think it might be a tad better.”

  “But she’s still warm. Where the devil is Dr. Roberts?”

  “I don’t know. I’d have thought he would have returned by now.”

  Sher tapped the cradle with his toe. “Do I dare put her down?”

  Though Margaret had moved to the cot, she was still small enough to fit in the old cradle. “Gently. Then we can rock her.”

  He was ever so careful with the babe, setting her down like she was as fragile as dragonfly wings. When she didn’t stir, he glanced at Eleanor with a devilishly handsome grin.

  “You’re very good with her.”

  “You sound surprised.”

  Eleanor’s shoulders ticked up. “When I took her on, I didn’t expect you to assume responsibility as well.”

  “You were right to keep her with you and away from the Foundling Hospital. I know that now.” He started the cradle in a gentle rock. “And it is you who is selfless. It isn’t easy to bring a baby into one’s home—especially when one is a spinster with no husband to help her.”

  “Former spinster—and I was quite successful at it, mind you.”

  “You were.” He chuckled. “A bit too successful.”

  “Ah, well. It was time to retire, I suppose, though I have no idea what Prinny will do without me.”

  “Something tells me the prince will be fine.”

  By
the time the physician arrived, and Miss Repast had rejoined them, the windows glowed with the promise of dawn. Moreover, the baby’s fever had broken.

  Dr. Roberts opted not to rouse Margaret, though he did carefully examine her and listen to the tenor of her breathing. “Whatever course you took, it seemed to have worked.” He dug in his bag and pulled out some drops. “If she should fuss again, this is a tad more potent than willow bark tea, but I’m guessing the worst is over.”

  “Thank you,” said Sher. “We feared the worst.”

  The doctor’s eyelids drooped, looking as exhausted as Sher felt. “Infants seem to catch the brunt of illnesses, though once they overcome them, they usually snap back quickly.”

  “We truly appreciate your care. I’ll ring for a footman to show you out,” said Eleanor.

  “No need.” Dr. Roberts picked up his bag and bowed. “Good morn, Your Graces, miss.”

  Assured that Margaret was well and truly on the road to recovery, the duke and duchess left the child in the capable hands of her nursemaid, and Sher escorted his yawning wife to their chambers.

  She leaned heavily on his arm. “Well, that is not exactly how I envisioned the evening to proceed.”

  “Nor I,” he said, stopping at her door, suddenly not sleepy. “Ah…how would you have preferred things to have played out?”

  As Eleanor pulled down on the latch, she took his hand and tugged him inside. “By all means, we would have acted responsibly and been there to see the guests off.” When the door whooshed closed, she raised her curls and presented the clasp of her amethysts, still beautifully adorning such a long, slender neck.

  Sher removed the strand and applied a kiss to her nape where it had been. “And after?”

  “I thought we would…”

  As he released the laces of her gown, he kissed the sensitive spot just below her ear. “Yes?”