The Duke's Secret Seduction

by Donna Lea Simpson

  “I’m so happy we came up,” Hannah said with a watery smile.

  Reaching out around the table by the window, Kittie grasped both their hands.

  They made a tight circle for a moment and then Rebecca said, “Enough of this sentimentality. What think you two of the men?”

  “Rebecca,” Hannah said with gentle reproof. “You are too bold.”

  Her eyes widening, Rebecca gazed at her and said, “And you speak who spent the whole evening whispering and cuddling with Mr. Norton? For shame, Hannah!”

  Her eyes tearing up, the woman looked about to dissolve into a fit of weeping, but Kittie hastily said, “Hannah, you know she’s just teasing! Mr. Norton is clearly smitten with you, but it was he who initiated your close conversation. Even a fool could see that.” She cast a warning glance at Rebecca.

  That woman rolled her eyes, but then turned to Kittie and said, “And you! Who do you fancy . . . the earl or the duke? You can have your pick, you know.”

  “Rebecca, your imagination is running riot. Let us instead turn to you, and your swain, Sir John.”

  “A pleasant dalliance, don’t you think?”

  “Isn’t he a little . . . pardon me, Rebecca,” Hannah said tentatively. “But is he not younger than you?”

  Rebecca, her green eyes flashing, said, “Yes, a good deal younger. At least ten years, I hope.” She leaned forward and lowered her tone. “Ladies, I am thinking, now that poor old William is gone, of taking a young lover to my bed.”

  Hannah cried out in alarm and even Kittie gasped.

  “Rebecca, you cannot mean that, you cannot!” Hannah choked out, her voice tight and strangled. Her pale face had gone white, even to her lips.

  Kittie gazed steadily at her older friend. “Are you teasing again, Rebecca? Or . . . no, I believe you’re serious.”

  “I am. Why should I not? I’ve been married twice, both times to men much older than myself. For once I would like to feel younger flesh meet mine before I’m too old to enjoy it.”

  Hannah fanned herself with her handkerchief and made tiny mewing sounds of horror.

  Shocked too, but unwilling to let her daring friend see how much, Kittie said, “You say that, but I doubt if you will actually do it. You’re no courtesan, Rebecca, you’re a lady.”

  “And ladies take lovers all the time. Do you not read the London papers? There is always gossip over ‘Lady H.’ and ‘Lord B.’ and their scandalous affair, and so on. And sometimes they are even still married. No . . . often they are still married. At least I have waited until my dear William was gone. And if I do take a lover, it doesn’t make me a courtesan, for you know a woman with ‘Lady’ before her name will never be that.”

  “Did you not love your husband?” Hannah gasped out.

  Cocking her head on one side, she replied, “Of course I did, in my own way. But who was speaking of love? William was very good to me, and I was a virtuous and faithful wife to him. But now, while I’m still young enough to enjoy it, I’m going to take a lover, and I’m going to enjoy myself.”

  Reluctantly, Kittie had to say that as shocking as it sounded, there was nothing untoward in what she was doing. When she was married and in society there was much talk about what lovers men and women were involved with, and as long as the parties were discreet, no one thought badly of them for their amorous adventures.

  And this was her friend, not herself. Rebecca was an independent woman, with an income of her own and a home to retreat to if she so desired. It made a difference in how she was perceived that she had those things.

  “And so, Sir John is the man?” Kittie asked, trying to digest the notion.

  “If I can catch him,” Rebecca said, thrusting her determined chin out and nodding. “He is as pretty a young man as I have ever seen, and witty, too. But don’t worry, Kittie, I promise we’ll not carry on our assignation until I leave here.”

  Not having even thought of that complication, Kittie was grateful to her friend for her delicacy.

  “Come, ladies, be honest with me,” Rebecca continued, including Hannah in her glance. “We have all been widows long enough. Do you mean to tell me that neither of you has thought of bedding down with a man again?”

  Kittie drew in a sharp breath, reminded suddenly of the last moments of the evening the night before when the duke saw them to their carriage. He had helped the others into the carriage, but when it came her turn, he grasped her around the waist and lifted her, rather than just handing her in. His touch, so strong, sure and intimate, had affected her pulse, which hammered erratically, and when she gazed back out at him there was a strange expression on his face in the moonlight, one of uncertainty.

  Or was it just a trick of the light?

  “Kittie! Did you hear me?”

  “What? Oh, I beg your pardon, Rebecca, I was—”

  “Yes,” the woman said with a sly expression. “I know. You were thinking of a certain gentleman, no doubt. But which one, I wonder? The older, more polished earl, or the younger, more powerful duke? What a dilemma, to be sure, to choose between an earl and a duke.”

  “Now you are talking errant nonsense,” Kittie said sharply.

  “But both men did seem rather taken with you,” Hannah said, ever timid but gaining in boldness by Rebecca’s example. “Even I could see that.”

  “And she was completely taken up with her Mr. Norton!” Rebecca sat back in her chair and observed Kittie. “Yes, I think you might be interested. Oh, I’m not suggesting a dalliance such as I am contemplating; you’re far too conventional for that. But did you not say just last night, when we talked before retiring for the night, that you missed being married? I would say that for your purposes, the earl is likely the better possibility. A duke is perhaps too high even for someone as pretty as you. But an earl . . . and a lifelong bachelor, too. He may just need an heir or two and be thinking of setting up his nursery.”

  Kittie shook her head, but just then Oliver came in, bowed and said, “The Earl of Orkenay requests your company, Mrs. Douglas. He bids me to pay his compliments to all the ladies, but to ask you if you will walk the garden with him?”

  Rebecca gave her a significant look and Hannah murmured her encouragement.

  Kittie turned to the footman and said, “Tell Lord Orkenay I will fetch my shawl and be out directly.”

  It did occur to her as she hurried outside that she would have liked him more if he had come in to pay his compliments directly, rather than sending Oliver, but what did she know of manners among such an elevated group as the earl inhabited? Among the upper echelons of the nobility perhaps this was perfectly acceptable.

  She saw him before he saw her and examined him. He was a nice-looking man, for all that he was ten or fifteen years her senior. His hair was going to silver, but his form was lithe and youthful and his step was not weary in the least. Could she imagine him as a companion or . . . or a husband?

  How foolish of her though, when all they had done was have a few conversations. Though she had to admit he had made his admiration plain, and had she not had far more foolish maunderings concerning the duke, and that based solely on his tender letters to his aunt?

  The earl turned just then and his gaze brightened. He came toward her as she approached him on the crushed limestone pathway. “Mrs. Douglas, how lovely you look today!” He took her hands and held her away from him, looking her over in an admiring way.

  She smiled, and yet could not help noticing that she felt nothing when his hands held hers, not like her absurdly wild flights of fancy just at the touch of the duke’s hands on her waist. How odiously idiotic she was. She took the earl’s offered arm and they strolled down the stone path among her roses. The air was misty and cool, just the way she liked it.

  “You must pardon my approach and request this morning, Mrs. Douglas,” he said earnestly, squeezing her arm to his side. “I would not in the normal course of things send a footman to make my request, but my boots suffered from the walk down here—it rained las
t night and the path is rather muddy—and I did not want to spoil the hallway nor the parlor with my muddy boots.”

  “How considerate of you, my lord! I would never imagine a gentleman of your status to be so . . . thoughtful of the maids.” It was, indeed, not merely highly unusual, but in her experience unheard of.

  “I assure you, I’m the most domestic of gentlemen. A stern look from my housekeeper and I quail, my dear. And I am mindful that Lady Eliza’s household is small and taxed with extra guests; I could not add to your own worries, as, I’m sure, the chief administrator of the household. What impression would that make on you? But my intention this morning is not to talk of myself, but to speak to you on a matter very near to my heart.”

  She glanced over at him quizzically. He guided her to a stone bench and they sat down. Birdsong trilled in the air and the breeze freshened, ruffling the flowers and making the branches sway. Lord Orkenay wrapped Kittie more closely in her shawl. Roger would never have thought of such a tender attention; perhaps there were consolations in marrying an older man.

  “I just enjoy your company so much, my dear,” he said after a pause. “I have never met a lady quite like you. You are a rarity, I feel, a beautiful woman who has no vanity, nor any pretense.”

  She was abashed; never had a man been so forthright in his admiration, but she honored his honesty. It was said without expectation nor with any demand in his tone. “You make me blush, my lord, with your kindness.”

  “No,” he said earnestly, pressing her hand. “I’m not kind, I’m honest. I feel like my whole life . . . but I get ahead of myself. I will not push my suit too hard. It is sufficient to say, I think, that I consider you the most lovely, sweet, honorable woman of my acquaintance, and I wish to further our friendship.”

  She felt a little trill of anticipation to think that he might be seriously interested in her. No woman in her position could afford to do otherwise than consider her own future. “I’m honored by your esteem, my lord, and return the wish for friendship.”

  “Then I consider myself the most fortunate of men,” the earl said, rising and laying one gentle kiss on her hand. “I must return to the duke and our companions, but I think you will see all of us before the day is out and I look forward to more conversation then.”

  He bowed and left her, but she sat in the garden for a while, wondering if the clear impression she had received—that he wished her to consider him a possible suitor for her hand—was justified.

  And how did she feel about him if what she thought was true?

  • • •

  The afternoon had become overcast with a rumble of thunder in the distance on the other side of the fell, but instead of seeking shelter, Alban paced the length of the Bodenthorpe Cottage rose garden and tried to pinpoint the source of his agitation. He would enter presently and visit Lady Eliza and her company, but first it behooved him to attain a measure of serenity.

  What was wrong with him? It was true that he was not pleased with the way his visit to his aunt was proceeding. He had intended to enjoy the quiet and solitude of Yorkshire and the company of his beloved aunt. Finding that she was blind and had not seen fit to tell him about the momentous change in her circumstance had been the first blow. Learning that her companion, a Mrs. Douglas of no discernible family and with only a tenuous connection to gentility, was her trusted helper, attendant and even friend, had added to his uneasiness. The little he had been able to ascertain about her in the days he had been there was that she was of gentle birth, but had married poorly, lived precariously, and had descended to the position she now held.

  But she was far too beautiful to be a paid companion to an elderly blind woman. Every time he looked at her he felt the unwelcome stirring within him. She was not suitable for a mistress, though, because he could see how much his aunt relied on her. To take her away from Lady Eliza would be cruel and heartless, and yet, he could not have her as long as she remained in his aunt’s employ. It was an impossible situation, and he had resigned himself to admiring her looks, enjoying her company—surprisingly, she was an intelligent conversationalist, for a woman—and nothing more.

  He stood and stared up at the house. If only he could trust that Orkenay would be so circumspect. Ah! He had happened on the burr under his saddle. It was the thought of Orkenay, and how devoted he seemed to Mrs. Douglas, that made him uneasy. And that was likely just because he suspected the earl would try to seduce Kittie Douglas away from her honorable employ. He was worried for his aunt, that was all.

  He nodded briskly and strode to the door, banging on it with an unwarranted clatter. His aunt had no butler, so Oliver, her footman, opened the door and bowed. “Is my aunt in the parlor?”

  “She is, your grace.”

  He strode in, only to find the parlor full, with Orkenay, Sir John and Bart already there, and the ladies too.

  “Alban,” Bart cried, strangely cheery, his face flushed and eyes glittering. “I knew you would head here eventually. It looked like bad weather was closing in, and so, when you didn’t come back, we thought we would join the ladies for the afternoon. Your aunt was kind enough to extend the invitation to dinner, as well.”

  “I was only gone a while conferring with Mr. Lafferty! Is Boden so lacking in congenial pastimes that you must turn to Bodenthorpe Cottage?”

  “After all, Alban, you did,” Sir John said, with a secretive smile.

  “It is my aunt’s home. I hope I can visit my aunt with no accusation of any other motive being levied against me.”

  “You are far too irritable, nephew. Come talk to me.”

  “Alban is just tired of company, perhaps,” Orkenay said, from his position winding wool for Kittie Douglas.

  Alban shot him an irritable glance, but was caught by the very homely nature of the earl’s activity. He stopped. “Orkenay, you are becoming domesticated, like Bernard there,” he said, indicating the fat, lazy old tabby tom who adorned the hearth, letting his belly spread as he lolled over on his back. “I shall broadcast this about London, you know, and soon you will have every tabby in every parlor all atwitter that you are finally ready to settle on one woman.”

  “How mean-spirited you are today, Alban,” the earl said lightly. “But I think I would not object to being compared to that old tom if I was allowed to have my Kittie,” he added slyly, glancing at his companion, who colored prettily and ducked her head, winding her wool with ferocious concentration.

  “How very precious,” Alban sneered, unable to contain his vexation.

  He was rewarded by a wide-eyed look of consternation from Mrs. Douglas and he regretted his ill temper immediately. He was becoming a bear, but he didn’t know what was wrong with him.

  “Come here, Alban,” Lady Eliza said with a tone that brooked no nonsense.

  He hoped he was man enough not to object to her hectoring. He sat down beside her.

  “What is wrong with you today? I will not have you roaring at my guests nor even at your own guests, and certainly not at Kittie.”

  “My apologies, Aunt. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  “That is not an excuse. However, I will not spend our time together quarreling, even if you do deserve a thorough tongue-lashing. But know that I will not have you acting so poorly without remonstrance.” She reached out for his hand and grasped it.

  Gazing down at it, he noted that her hands were as bony and strong as always, and she had lost none of her fierceness of attitude. It was what he had always loved about her, her absolute indomitable spirit. Why did he so appreciate it in her and abhor it in other women, condemning it as unwomanly? He supposed there was a vast difference in what one would want to see in one’s relation and what one would want to see in a wife or mistress. He turned in his chair and could see Orkenay winding wool, still, for Mrs. Douglas, to whom he was whispering.

  “What do you know about her?” he asked, almost talking to himself.

  “Of whom are you speaking, nephew?” Lady Eliza said, her tone forbid
ding.

  He still held his aunt’s hand. “You know I’m talking about Mrs. Douglas. Do not try to reprove me. You can no longer cut through me with your gaze, as you once did, anyway.”

  She tightened her grip and his hand went numb. “But I am still not a fool, Alban. You’re being abominable today. What is wrong with you?”

  He was silent. What could he say? He had come north for peace and to see his beloved aunt, and he supposed he had pictured a quiet bucolic visit with walks over the fells with his Aunt Eliza and the occasional hunting party with Bart and the others. Instead there was a veritable country house party. But his aunt seemed to be enjoying herself thoroughly, and he had no right behaving like a selfish ogre.

  He cradled Lady Eliza’s capable hands in his own and examined her, the strong Alban jaw, the wrinkles now tracing lines down from her nose to her mouth, and the milky opacity of her once-clear eyes. He would start anew. Taking a deep breath, he said, “You’re right; I’ve been an ogre and a bear and I will start again.”

  Lady Eliza nodded. “Good boy. Tell me what is happening in London; give me all the gossip. And tell me about the poor queen and her daughters and young George. I have heard that he is getting enormously fat and fancies himself ill. Is that true?”

  Alban talked to her for a while as he watched the others. Bart was completely taken with one of Mrs. Douglas’s widowed friends, Mrs. Billings. Alban could not see the attraction himself; the woman was well enough looking, he supposed, but her pale eyes were often watery and she seemed on the verge of tears. Bart had been suffering himself of late from a depression of spirits. It would seem, strangely, that in buoying the despondent Mrs. Billings, Bart’s own woes were forgotten.

  And then there was Sir John, the mysterious young fellow who had somehow insinuated himself into the party heading north.

  Lady Eliza at that moment squeezed Alban’s hand and said, “Enough of court gossip; tell me of your friends. I know Bart well enough, of course. But Sir John . . . from his voice he seems a most pleasing young man, though he has been very circumspect with me when I ask him how he came to know you and why he decided to join you in Yorkshire.”