Duke of Desire

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  He nodded. “The sooner London society knows we are married, the sooner you’ll be safe.” He gazed out the window, tapping his forefinger against his lips as if thinking. “And, too, they were no doubt headed for London, as the Dionysus will be. That’s where I’ll catch him. That’s where I’ll destroy them.” He shook his head. “I’d thought that I’d be given more time before the Dionysus discovered that you were alive so that my wound would entirely heal, but it seems that hope is not to be.”

  Iris cleared her throat, feeling vaguely guilty that the Grant brothers and Mr. Leland had seen her. “At least in London you can call upon the Duke of Kyle for help with the Lords of Chaos.”

  He glanced at her, black brows drawn. “Why would I need Kyle’s help?”

  She felt her jaw sag. “You can’t take down the Lords of Chaos alone.”

  “I can and I will.”

  Was he that arrogant—or merely mad? Hugh had thought he’d destroyed the Lords of Chaos this last winter, and yet like the many-headed Hydra they’d lived. How could Raphael prevail against such a powerful enemy—especially if he refused help?

  He sighed. “I’m truly sorry you were thrown into the midst of this war, but my plans remain the same: I will find the heart of the Lords of Chaos, I’ll tear it out, and I’ll burn them all to the ground.”

  “But why must you do it yourself?” She leaned toward him urgently. “And all alone?”

  His lips pressed together and he looked out the window. “Because my father was their Dionysus. Because I knew all these years what the Lords of Chaos did and I never moved against them.” He looked back at her and his crystal eyes had iced over. “This is my battle, my penance for what I let happen.”

  “But …” Iris shook her head. “Your father’s actions aren’t your fault.”

  “Aren’t they?” His lips curled in a sneer, but she thought it was aimed at himself. “I could have stopped him. I could have killed him and destroyed the Lords of Chaos years ago.”

  “You would have been hanged for murder if you’d done that,” she whispered. “It would’ve been suicide.”

  He held her gaze. “A principled man would’ve done it and damned the cost.”

  She stared at him, sitting so calmly—so still—as he spoke of violence and turmoil. He was dressed all in black like Death himself, his glossy ebony hair left unbound about his shoulders, his cold gray eyes watching her without emotion.

  But were they entirely without emotion? Or was it a mask like the one he’d worn on the night she’d shot him? Because the thing was, she was at a crossroads. She could let him dictate the terms of this marriage. Could let herself be set gently aside while he went on his destructive way—alone, furious, and suicidal—or … or she could try to break through all that ice and pain and find out what lay beneath.

  She could try to make this a real marriage, with or without sex. Only a tiny percentage of a marriage was spent in the bedroom, after all.

  How a husband and wife got along all the time they weren’t in bed was perhaps, in the end, much more important to their happiness.

  Iris bit her lip. “And after?”

  His eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry?”

  “After you burn the towns and salt the earth of your enemy,” she said. “What will you do then?”

  “What do you mean?” His brows knit. “I will be done.”

  “Done with your mission, certainly, but with the rest of your life? I hardly think so. You can’t be more than five and thirty—”

  “I’m one and thirty,” he interrupted, his tone as dry as dust.

  “Are you?” she said brightly. “I’m eight and twenty. But the point is that you have years yet to live.”

  He cocked his head, watching her a moment, then said, “It doesn’t matter what I do afterwards. All that matters is the downfall of the Lords.”

  He means to die. She knew it suddenly and completely. He wasn’t thinking beyond the defeat of the Lords because he didn’t think he would live past the conflict. Why was he doing this? What was driving him to destroy the Lords and himself at the same time?

  She was suddenly unaccountably angry. How dare he?

  “Humor me,” she said with a hard little smile. “Imagine a world without the Lords. A world in which we have newly married. What would you do?”

  He stared at her for a very long moment, his face expressionless, and she thought he would refuse her request. Would turn aside and lock her out.

  As she watched him, with the light from the window on the unmarred side of his face, it occurred to her that had he not been scarred, he would’ve been the most handsome man she’d ever seen.

  Then he opened lips both beautiful and ugly. “I think I would defer to my wife,” he murmured. “What would you have me do? What is this fairy-tale life you insist we explore?”

  Iris fought the urge to roll her eyes. What an incredibly stubborn man. “Do you like the country or the city?”

  He shrugged. “Either.”

  She grit her teeth. “Choose.”

  He eyed her a moment. “Very well. The country.”

  “Good. The first thing a newly wedded couple must decide is if they will spend most of their time together in the country or in the city.”

  “Is that what you did in your first marriage?” he asked, his voice flat.

  She blinked, taken aback, but she should have remembered: he wasn’t unsophisticated in the art of verbal dueling. “No. James was an officer in His Majesty’s army. The first years of our marriage were spent on the Continent.”

  “And after that?”

  “I lived in his town house in London,” she replied, her voice steady.

  “Without him?”

  She lifted her chin. “Yes.”

  His eyes were ice gray, but they watched her with his full attention. “Was that his decision or yours?”

  “I …” She glanced down at her lap, trying to order her thoughts. “It was a mutual decision, I think, though we never discussed it. The marriage was not … a fond one. He was twenty years my senior.” She looked up at him and smiled, though her lips trembled. “My mother was so happy when he proposed. It was considered a very good match for me. James was titled and rich—at least richer than my family.”

  “I see.” His voice was deep. Calm. Certain. “I would much prefer that you live with me. Always.”

  “As would I.” Her smile widened in genuine happiness. Suddenly she felt much more sure of herself. “So.” She cleared her throat. “I like the country as well. Perhaps we could refurbish the abbey—bring in new servants from London if you don’t want to hire the local people—and then we can live there.”

  He frowned. “I have other estates. One in Oxfordshire and one in Essex. Both houses are in disrepair, though.”

  “Indeed?” Iris leaned a little forward in excitement. “Then perhaps we should make a tour of your estates first before deciding on which to live at?” She suddenly thought of something. “That is … Oh, I beg your pardon. I’m assuming your finances allow for the repair of your estate houses?”

  Raphael waved that worry aside. “My grandfather was in debt. My mother’s dowry settled the Dyemore fortunes. My father just never bothered to have the estates properly repaired. Don’t worry. I have ample funds.”

  “Oh, lovely,” Iris murmured. “I do enjoy decorating.”

  “And that is what you’d like to do?” he asked curiously. “Spend your life in the country refurbishing my manors?”

  “Oh, we’d do much more than that. Part of the time we’d spend in London, visiting friends.” She ignored the fact that he didn’t seem to have any friends. “I’m very fond of reading and collecting books and I’d like to frequent the booksellers to build a library, with your permission?”

  He nodded.

  She smiled. “Edinburgh is also known for its booksellers. I’d like to travel there, and perhaps to the Continent, to Paris and Vienna.”

  He stirred. “It would depend on the state o
f the conflicts between the governments there.”

  “Yes, of course.” She waved that concern aside. “Once we’ve repaired and redecorated one of your estates, we can spend most of the year there. I’d like to plan a garden. Build a library. Go on walks and riding. Oh, and”—she glanced at him a little shyly—“I’d like to have a dog if I may. A little lapdog.”

  “Naturally,” he said, staring at her intently. “But I don’t understand. If you wish for a dog so dearly, why don’t you have one now?”

  “I live with my brother, Henry, and my sister-in-law, Harriet. They’re both very kind to let me live with them. James’s estate was naturally entailed. He left me a small portion, but to have my own establishment would have stretched my funds.” She inhaled and smiled ruefully. “Harriet doesn’t like animals.”

  “Ah.” His eyelids had half lowered over his gray eyes. “I assure you, you may have as many canines as you wish. An entire pack.”

  “Thank you.” She sighed happily.

  He cleared his throat and she looked up.

  “I have one other estate,” he said softly. “A house on Corsica.”

  Corsica. Where his servants came from. Where he seemed to have come from.

  “Will you tell me about it?” she asked.

  “It lies high above a bay on the south of the island,” he said, “built on white cliffs by my mother’s grandfather. He was from Genoa and we have lands there, though I’ve never seen them. There is white sand on the bay and I swam there as a boy—a young man, really. Rode my horse there as well. The sea is a different color in Corsica, clear and green blue. The sky is wide and sunlit. On my estate we grew chestnuts, and I used to walk among the trees, dipping in and out of the shade and the sunlight.”

  His words enthralled her. “Why did you leave?”

  He looked at her. “To finish it.”

  She didn’t dare ask what “it” was.

  “I would like …” He paused. “If it is possible—after it is over—I would like to travel to Corsica again.”

  For some reason her eyes stung. “I would like that, too.”

  The carriage was silent a moment as they rumbled along the road.

  Then Raphael tilted his head. “And is that it? A decorated country house, dogs, books, and travel? This is all you wish for your life?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not a very complicated woman.” She half smiled. “I don’t need jewels and carriages or parties and scandal. A fire and a dog on my lap while I read and I’m perfectly happy.”

  He snorted. “I’ve married a dormouse.”

  She bit the inside of her cheek. He’d brutally refused her before, but surely now …

  She cleared her throat. “I … I’d also like what any other woman wants from her marriage …”

  He cocked his head in inquiry.

  Oh, for goodness’ sake! The man couldn’t be so obtuse.

  She forced a trembling smile. “Children.”

  He stiffened, and any hint of the camaraderie they’d found fled. “No.”

  He’d spoken too sharply to her.

  Late that evening Raphael watched his duchess as the carriage drew into a large inn for the night. They’d barely exchanged two words for the rest of the day after he’d cut short their conversation about children. She had done her best to act as if nothing were wrong, but he could see that she’d lost the light that shone in her eyes when she’d discussed decorating his houses and building a library for herself.

  He looked away from her pensive face. What had she expected? He’d already made clear his terms. Surely she didn’t want to mate with such as he? With the blood that ran in his veins, with the stain that shadowed all that he was? She wasn’t aware of the latter, but surely she’d understood what his father was?

  What the Dyemores had been for generations?

  Better by far to end his filthy line with himself than to continue the corruption any further. To risk what his father had done—

  No.

  He blinked, shaking his head to push the thought away. For a ghastly moment he imagined he smelled cedarwood, but that was madness.

  He set his jaw and realized that she was watching him, her brows drawn together.

  No. No, better to end it here.

  His duchess opened her lips to speak and he stood and slammed open the carriage door, startling Valente, who had been setting the steps.

  Raphael jumped to the ground and turned to hold out his hand to his duchess. “Come. Let us find rooms for the night.”

  For a moment she sat and eyed him thoughtfully and he wondered if she would disobey him. But then she stood and took his hand and he was relieved. He grasped her fingers and had the insane notion that he’d never let her go.

  She stepped down from the carriage, looked around the inn yard, and murmured, “Your men are causing a commotion.”

  He glanced up as he tucked her hand firmly in the crook of his arm. “Are they?”

  His Corsicans were mounted to protect the two carriages—the one he and Iris rode in and another carrying baggage and servants. His men circled their horses in the muddy inn yard as hostlers shouted and ran back and forth, trying to handle all the horses while the Corsicans swore at them.

  “You travel like some Ottoman potentate,” his duchess said with a hint of disapproval.

  He couldn’t help it. He bent low over her golden head and whispered into her ear, “No. I travel like a duke.”

  He heard a snort from her, but chose to disregard it as he led her into the inn. Ubertino had already spoken to the innkeeper, and the man met them in the entryway.

  The innkeeper was bewigged and smartly dressed in a brown suit and looked rather like a prosperous merchant. He had a broad smile on his face, and he began a low bow that faltered when Raphael walked into the light.

  “Your … Your Grace.” The innkeeper swallowed and recovered, although his smile was less enthusiastic and his gaze seemed fixed on the right side of Raphael’s face in horrified fascination. “We are honored by your presence. I’ve made ready our best rooms for you and your duchess. If you’ll come this way I’ll show you to a private dining room.”

  “Thank you,” Iris replied, and the innkeeper shot her a grateful smile.

  The man led them past a common room and into the back of the inn. There he bowed them into a small but comfortable room with a crackling fire and a polished table. They’d hardly sat down before maids started hurrying in with platters of food.

  The table was laid, the maids stared at his face and whispered, and then they were gone again.

  Leaving him alone with his wife.

  Raphael cleared his throat and reached for the bottle of red wine. “Will you have some wine?”

  She leaned forward, her expression determined. “Do you mean to sleep with me tonight?”

  He looked at her.

  She was like a dog that would not leave a bone. She sat across from him in his mother’s old yellow dress—the same dress she’d worn ever since he’d risen from his sickbed. He couldn’t wait to clothe her in brocades and velvets. To present her with everything she deserved as his duchess.

  Now her rose-pink lips were pressed into a line as she awaited his answer, her brows drawn together. She watched him very seriously.

  And dear God, he wanted to kiss her. To pull her from her chair and taste her sweet mouth again. To make love to her until she gasped and panted.

  Instead he poured wine into her glass and said calmly, “I will share your room, certainly.”

  “And my bed?”

  His eyes flicked to hers, so stormy. “If that is what you wish.”

  Her lips crimped together and she lifted her wineglass to take a sip.

  He filled his own glass.

  She put hers down. “Do you like women?”

  “What?” he growled, impatient.

  She took a deep breath. “Do you prefer men?”

  “Ah.” He understood what she asked now. He watched in amusement as her cheeks
pinkened, but she kept her gaze determinedly on his. “No. I prefer women.”

  “Then please explain to me why you won’t bed me,” she said.

  “I have no wish to continue my line.” He clenched his jaw. “To continue my father’s blood. You know what he was. Do you really want children of his bloodline?”

  “But—”

  “Have some chicken.”

  “Raphael—”

  “I do not want to discuss this matter.”

  “I am your wife.”

  “And I am your husband.” Raphael found himself on his feet, leaning across the table, breathing in his duchess’s face. Her lips were parted, her eyes wide. He closed his own eyes. No. This was entirely unacceptable. “Your pardon.”

  He pushed back his chair with a horrible scraping sound. He could not remain in this room with her. This line of discussion had stretched his control thin.

  “Where are you going?” she called behind him, sounding anxious.

  “For a walk,” he muttered. “I need air.”

  He yanked open the door to the room and found Valente and Ubertino outside. He nodded to them. “Keep guard over her. Don’t let her out of your sight.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Ubertino answered for them both.

  He strode through the inn, past a maidservant who stifled a shriek at the sight of his face, out through a knot of locals in the front room, and into the cool night air, several yards away from the entrance.

  God.

  Raphael tilted his face up to the heavens. The moon hung high in the sky. They’d driven late into the night because the journey to London was several days and he wanted to get there as swiftly as possible.

  He turned, gravel grinding beneath his boot heels as he walked. The stables were beside the inn, and he could hear his men’s voices.

  Bardo looked up as he entered. “Your Excellency.”

  Raphael nodded. “You’ve found enough room for the men?”

  “Yes, Your Excellency.”

  “Good man.” Raphael clapped him on the shoulder before moving down the row of horses and Corsicans.

  Ubertino had helped him choose his men, and most of the Corsicans had been with him for several years. He knew each by name, and he felt a little calmer now that he was walking among his men. Some were still grooming or watering their horses, but a few had finished and were sitting on barrels with lit pipes.