The Duke I Once Knew

by Olivia Drake

  “More flattery, sir? You seem adept at honeyed words.”

  As they seated themselves, he gave her an amused frown. “If we were in a London drawing room, I would presume that you were being coy. But you truly don’t seem to be aware of your own beauty.”

  “I am far too advanced in years to expect such praise—or to believe it.”

  “Advanced in years, bah! Max is one-and-thirty, and I know you to be younger than him.”

  Was he guessing, or had Rothwell been discussing her with his friends?

  She glanced across the room to see the duke handing out wineglasses to Valerie and Gwen, who were perched side by side on a chaise. Abby was pleased to see that Lady Hester had joined them tonight, and was talking amiably with the girls, along with Mrs. Chalmers and Lord Pettibone. Rothwell took a seat close to Lady Desmond and smiled at something she said to him.

  Abby aimed her own smile at Lord Ambrose. “Am I younger than the duke? A lady never reveals her age.”

  “Ah, so you’re mysterious as well as beautiful. I know so little about you, only that you grew up on the neighboring estate. I believe you said your brother resides at Linton House?”

  “Yes, Clifford and my sister-in-law, Lucille, are alone now that their four children have married. I lived with them until recently.”

  His keen gaze flitted to the others. “How does the lovely Miss Perkins fit into the family?”

  “She’s the daughter of my middle sister, Rosalind, who lives in Kent. They came for an extended visit when my brother James’s youngest was christened a fortnight ago. James is our local vicar.”

  “A genteel family, to be sure, yet you’ve sought employment as a governess. Dare I be indiscreet and inquire as to why you’re obliged to earn your bread?”

  “Not obliged, sir. Rather, it is by choice.” Abby decided it wouldn’t hurt to reveal a bit of her circumstances, since he looked rather startled by her admission. “You see, I felt the need for a change after nursing my parents for many years and playing maiden aunt to all the children of my brothers and sisters. My family objected, of course, but they’ve come to accept my decision.”

  Lord Ambrose raised an eyebrow. “I’ve never known a lady who would choose to labor for a living.”

  “I like to keep busy. And teaching one sweet, well-behaved young lady is hardly work. Rather, it’s a joy.”

  “Why not marry instead? In London, you’d have your pick of gentlemen.” He winked at her. “Even at your advanced age.”

  “Perhaps,” she hedged, unwilling to reveal her hope to accompany her sister and niece for the coming season. “But enough about me. If I were to go to London, what would people tell me about you?”

  “That I’m a lovable rogue with a deft hand at cards, and I’m a dyed-in-the-wool member of Rothwell’s raffish set.” He leaned closer, taking her hand and raising it to his lips. “But perhaps I’m of an age to reform my wicked ways should I meet that one perfect woman … a dazzling nonpareil like you, Miss Linton.”

  Lord Ambrose must be very popular with the ladies, Abby thought in wry amusement. With his sandy hair and blue eyes, he exuded an air of boyish charm. She extracted her hand from his. “What fustian. Forgive me, sir, but that is pure humbug.”

  “You wound me, dear lady. Or perhaps that is the sharp pierce of Cupid’s arrow that I suffer.”

  Abby laughed. She couldn’t help herself. “Enough of your romantic nonsense. You must promise me that you won’t use such flattery on Lady Gwendolyn or my niece. They are far too young to see through a man of your vast experience.”

  “Then I shall flirt only with you, Miss Linton.”

  “You’re incorrigible. I do wish you would be serious for once.”

  He placed his hand over his heart. “I can be as solemn as a judge.”

  “Then pray try to see my point. It is my duty to protect Lady Gwendolyn from harm. I only wish…”

  She glanced over at the party to see Lady Desmond lean close to whisper something in Rothwell’s ear. All of a sudden, the duke looked straight at Abby and fixed her with a cool stare. The brief teasing warmth he’d exhibited toward her earlier seemed to have vanished. Did he dislike seeing her in conversation with one of his friends? Had Lady Desmond remarked upon it to him?

  “Wish?” Lord Ambrose prompted.

  Abby decided to be frank. “I only wish the duke had not brought his paramour to this house. He should have known better than to risk a situation where his innocent sister would meet such an unsuitable female.”

  “Don’t blame him, blame the spots.”

  “Spots?”

  “Our original plan was to stay at Pettibone’s estate in Surrey, but when we arrived, it was to find that his entire staff had come down with the measles. Imagine that! With the prizefight looming, Rothwell couldn’t chance Goliath falling ill, so we decided to come here instead. It was all very spur-of-the-moment, I assure you.”

  “I see.” That did explain quite a lot, yet Abby still felt uneasy with the circumstances. “Nevertheless, I cannot approve of him permitting his sister to associate with his mistress—even if it is far from the London gossips.”

  “Perhaps I should let you in on a little secret, then.”

  “Secret?”

  “I wouldn’t be so certain that Lady Desmond is Rothwell’s mistress.”

  “But I—” Abby stopped herself in time to keep from admitting that she’d caught the two of them in flagrante delicto in the library. The mere memory of that scene filled her with heated indignation. “I assumed it must be true. They do seem very partial to one another.”

  “Partiality can also mean courtship. As I am certainly partial to you, Miss Linton.” He caught her hand and kissed it, then let her go. “Ah, there’s that batty old butler now, come to summon us to the table. And just in time, before you should wrest an offer from this hardened bachelor!”

  Chapter 14

  The next morning, Valerie and Lady Gwendolyn walked arm in arm toward the stables. Listening to their chatter, Abby smiled, for one would never guess they’d met for the first time less than a day ago. Valerie was every bit as horse mad as Lady Gwen and once they’d decided on an early-morning ride, it had been impossible to dissuade them. The paths might be damp, the puddles many, but the girls were keen for a canter nonetheless.

  Valerie glanced over her shoulder while continuing down the path. “Are you quite sure we can’t attend the prizefight, Aunt Abby?”

  That topic, regrettably, had come up at dinner. Abby would rather they’d never learned of it, for her niece was too often drawn to the forbidden. “No, you most certainly may not. It isn’t a proper place for ladies.”

  “But Lady Desmond and Mrs. Chalmers are going.”

  “Young ladies, then. And pray do not badger me, for His Grace has said no most emphatically, and I concur with his decision.”

  “We do have the picnic tomorrow to look forward to,” Lady Gwendolyn pointed out.

  “Yes, indeed!” Valerie’s face brightened. “I’m so happy Lord Ambrose suggested it. It shall be so much fun. On our ride, we must keep a watch to find the perfect spot.”

  Holding the heavy skirts of their riding habits, they skipped ahead while Abby followed at a more sedate pace. It was a joy to see them so exuberant. Especially Lady Gwendolyn, who had blossomed simply by having a friend close to herself in age.

  Even so, she was the quieter half of the pair. At dinner the previous evening, she had been demure and well behaved, listening wide-eyed to the swirl of conversation and speaking only when someone directed a comment or question at her. Valerie, on the other hand, had chattered vivaciously with everyone, in particular Lord Ambrose, who had been seated beside her. At bedtime, Abby had been obliged to have a talk with her niece about the importance of allowing other people to get a word in edgewise.

  She’d also taken care to warn them both again that Lord Ambrose was an outrageous flirt and they mustn’t take his compliments too seriously. Abby herself had been the
recipient of several teasing smiles and winks from him during dinner. She would never admit it to the girls, but of all Rothwell’s friends, Lord Ambrose was the one she liked the best. He was a charming man with a ready wit and an engaging smile. Like the duke, he’d no doubt left a trail of broken hearts over the years.

  At the moment, though, she needn’t worry about him beguiling her two adolescent charges. It was not quite nine and too early for any of the London party to be awake.

  Except …

  Her steps faltered as she spied Rothwell riding in the paddock.

  As irksome as a bad rash, he sat astride Brimstone, putting the massive black stallion through his paces. They were a sight to behold. Broad-shouldered and fit, the duke appeared to be at one with the horse as they soared over rails set as obstacles at regular intervals.

  As Valerie and Lady Gwen drew near, he reined in his mount alongside the white fence. They chatted for a moment; then the girls disappeared into the stable. Abby was relieved that her niece seemed more interested in the ride than in flirting with him, despite Rosalind’s scheme to acquire a duke as a son-in-law. He was much too seasoned a rogue for a mere schoolgirl. How embarrassing it would be if her niece made a cake of herself over him.

  It was awkward enough to face him after the scorching kiss they’d shared the previous afternoon. They’d been surrounded by people at dinner. He’d sat at the head of the table, too distant for private conversation, though several times she’d caught him looking intently at her, his expression inscrutable.

  Now, Abby was tempted to beat a swift retreat. But she forced herself to continue walking toward the stables. It was her duty to see the girls safely off, and she would not give him any cause to chastise her.

  Besides, she’d had enough with being lily-livered. She hadn’t stood up to her family and left home only to turn coward now.

  As she approached, Rothwell waited for her by the fence. Meltingly attractive in a blue coat, buckskins, and gleaming black boots, he sat straight in the saddle, the morning sun gilding his coffee-brown hair. The horse tossed its mane and snorted, but he controlled the beast with effortless ease.

  Was it true, as Lord Ambrose had suggested, that Lady Desmond was not the duke’s paramour?

  At dinner, Rothwell certainly had been attentive to the delicate blond beauty. He had seated her in the honored spot to his right. His manner had been well bred and sociable as he’d chatted with her and his other friends. Abby had caught only snippets of their conversation, which had centered around people and events in London, subjects as far out of the realm of her experience as the moon. It remained a mystery as to whether he was courting Lady Desmond for the purpose of marriage or a sordid liaison.

  Abby paused to sketch a curtsy. “Good morning, Your Grace.”

  When he inclined his head in a nod, she continued walking along the path toward the open doors of the stable. She hadn’t taken more than three steps when his commanding voice halted her.

  “Running off so quickly, Miss Linton?”

  Her fingers twined in the lavender muslin of her skirt, Abby spun toward him. The sun was bright in her eyes, the golden rays limning his masculine form. “Pardon me, but I really must go and check on the girls.”

  “The groom is there to help them mount. I doubt you would be of much assistance.”

  “It is my duty, nonetheless.”

  “Then I absolve you of it. Come closer now.”

  She took several steps and stopped again, her cautious gaze flicking to Brimstone. Clearly displeased to be kept on a firm rein, the horse bucked its head against the bit. “Was there something you wished to discuss, Your Grace?”

  “Yes. Pray walk over here to the fence.”

  “Why? I can hear you perfectly well.”

  “Come,” he ordered, though not without a hint of amused exasperation. “Surely you will not allow an irrational fear to control you.”

  How dare he taunt her. Yet he was right. And hadn’t she just been lauding her own bravery, anyway?

  Teeth clenched, she forced herself to pace forward, keeping a close watch on the colossal horse. Befitting his name, Brimstone appeared to have sprung from the fiery depths of Hades. His dark eyes were wild, his manner restive, a front hoof pawing the dirt.

  The strong odor of the horse pervaded the air. Her breathing came in shallow spurts and her palms felt clammy. It was all she could do to stand her ground. “There, Rothwell … you have had your way. Now … say what you will and be done with it.”

  As she glanced up at him, he didn’t look annoyed in the least by her impertinence. Not that she would have cared, anyway. She was too busy wrestling against the urge to flee. All that stopped her was the determination not to disgrace herself by acting like a ninny.

  Just as he parted his lips to answer, however, the clopping of hooves came from the direction of the stable. She jerked her head around to observe the approach of Lady Gwendolyn mounted on Pixie, her gray mare, and Valerie on a chestnut. The middle-aged groom named Dawkins rode behind them on a large bay.

  Abby stood very still, her feet rooted to the ground. She felt trapped in the midst of too much horseflesh with nowhere to run. There was no need to worry, she assured herself. Only a simpleton would feel such trepidation over so commonplace a sight as people on horseback. Yet her mouth felt as dry as dust, and a light-headed sensation made her teeter on the verge of a swoon.

  “We plan to ride all the way around the lake,” Lady Gwendolyn called out. “Are you certain you won’t go with us, Max?”

  “We would greatly welcome your company,” Valerie added with a flirtatious fluttering of her lashes. “On such a fine horse, Your Grace, you must be quite the brilliant rider.”

  “Perhaps another time,” he said, tempering his refusal with a smile.

  The girls appeared too excited by their impending ride to be disappointed by his rejection. The party set out along the dirt path with Lady Gwendolyn in the lead.

  As they rode past, Abby pressed her palm to her bosom. Her heart thumped so hard that it seemed necessary to trap it inside her rib cage. She took several quick breaths before glancing up to see Rothwell watching not them, but her. His look was intent yet unfathomable, and she couldn’t help feeling defensive under his scrutiny.

  Striving for coolness, Abby gathered her shattered nerves. “You really ought to go with them. Your sister sees so little of you.”

  “I have other plans for the morning.”

  “Ah, yes, your prizefighter, Goliath. Well. Don’t let me keep you.”

  She started to sidle away when he said, “I haven’t dismissed you. Come back here at once.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it is my wish. Please.”

  Abby disliked that he had authority over her. Yet when he spoke in that silky, confident tone, she felt compelled to obey even though disquiet gnawed at her insides. Keeping a wary eye on Brimstone, she edged closer to the fence.

  Rothwell leaned down slightly, the saddle creaking. “Look at me, Abby.”

  He spoke her name like a caress, lending an intimacy to his words. With great reluctance, she tore her gaze away from the great black beast. Their eyes met, and his were deep and steady, radiating warmth.

  “I am in complete control of Brimstone,” he said. “It is impossible for him to hurt you in any way. You are perfectly safe with me. Do you understand that?”

  The certainty in his manner seemed to shrink the dread inside her. It was as if he’d thrown her a lifeline that channeled support and strength into her. She could feel the flow of that reassurance into every pore of her body, wrapping her in comfort and protection. When he regarded her with such conviction, she felt an irresistible desire to believe whatever he said.

  Ever so slowly, she nodded.

  “I want you to step up onto the fence now,” he said.

  The knot of her fear expanded again. “No!”

  “I’d like for you to stroke his mane, that’s all. You need to do this, Abby. For
your own peace of mind.”

  “That isn’t necessary!”

  “Yes it is. There’ll be a fence in between you and Brimstone at all times. Remember, I shan’t allow him to hurt you. Now, put your foot on the bottom rung of the fence. There’s a good girl. Look at me, not at him. You can trust me, Abby.”

  She gazed up into his warm gray eyes and glimpsed the boy she’d once loved. Max. Heaven help her, he was handsome with that lock of dark hair fallen onto his brow and the charming curve to his lips. He had grown into a fine-looking man, so much so that she felt a different sort of agitation assail her insides.

  Under the influence of his encouraging voice, her anxiety ebbed and somehow, without conscious thought, she found her fingers grasping the top of the fence while the toes of her shoes sought the bottommost slat. She drew herself up and clung there, her pulse hammering at the nearness of the horse. To distract herself, she concentrated on Rothwell’s leg, the buckskin breeches molded to his powerful thigh, the glossy black boot with its pair of tassels. He could control his mount with his knees, she reminded herself, and he surely had a secure hold on the reins …

  “Give me your hand,” he urged softly.

  She had a clawed grip on the fence. Though a splinter had poked into her forefinger, she scarcely noticed the prick. He kept talking to her in that soothing tone until she uncurled her fingers so that he could grasp her wrist.

  Warm and large, his hand swallowed hers, leading it inexorably upward until her bare palm settled over the long strands of the mane. Brimstone shied slightly and she sucked in her breath with a shudder.

  “Easy now,” Rothwell said, though whether to the horse or to her, Abby didn’t know. Nor did she care.

  She was too focused on the warmth of the animal’s neck against her skin, the rough silk of its mane. Childhood memories pushed into her mind to ease the stranglehold of her dread. She had ridden often before her mother’s terrible tumble all those years ago. She remembered loving the freedom of cantering through the meadow, the sun on her face and the wind in her hair …