Duke of Desire

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  “That pistol pulls to the right,” Ubertino chimed in, breaking the pretense that all the servants weren’t in actuality listening to the conversation. “Had it not, you most certainly would have been dead, Your Grace.”

  Strangely, he sounded approving.

  Hugh frowned, blinked, and shook his head. He looked at Raphael. “And then you married her.”

  Raphael spread his hands. “How could I not?”

  They stared at each other for a long moment.

  And then each reached for a tart.

  Hugh sat. “What were you doing at the revelry?”

  “Attempting to rejoin the Lords so that I might bring them down.” Raphael took a bite of his tart, watching Hugh all the while. “My father initiated me many years ago, but I never truly joined their ranks as I was brought up in Corsica. Now I hope to infiltrate the Lords and destroy them.”

  “That’s my job.” Hugh frowned. “I’m glad that you were there to save Iris, but there’s no need—”

  “Had I wished for your opinion, I would have asked for it,” Raphael interrupted silkily, brushing a crumb from his knee. “Actually it is my job to bring down the Lords of Chaos.” His cold gaze flicked up to Hugh’s face. “My father led them for decades. My right of battle far precedes yours.”

  “I’ve the Crown’s approval and backing,” Hugh said.

  “Do you?” Raphael drawled. “It didn’t help you much last time, now did it?”

  Hugh glared. “I’ll be mounting my own campaign against the Lords—a campaign you are welcome to join. I would like your help, frankly. If we work together—without pride—we’re far more likely to bring down the Lords of Chaos.”

  Raphael rose slowly, extending a hand. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace,” he said with patent dishonesty.

  Hugh grimaced, stood, and shook his hand. “Think about it, Dyemore.”

  He jerked his head at his men and strode from the room.

  Iris blew out her breath and looked up at Raphael. “You will accept Hugh’s help, won’t you?”

  Her husband held out his hand to her. “No.”

  She didn’t take his hand, staring up at him instead. “But if you work together, won’t your chances of bringing the Lords down improve?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t care. I work alone.”

  “Raphael.” She felt tears of anger and frustration start in her eyes.

  It was foolish for him to refuse to work with Hugh. The other man had spent months chasing the Lords of Chaos and had the backing and resources of the Crown.

  On his own Raphael stood a far greater chance of failing.

  On his own Raphael would die.

  She wouldn’t be able to bear it if anything happened to Raphael—anything at all. He might be stoic and grave and nearly stone-like, but she knew now that under that frozen exterior his emotions roiled like molten lava.

  She wanted him safe. She wanted him to simply be with her. To learn to be happy.

  To learn to laugh.

  And all he seemed to care about was his stupid revenge.

  She stood, still ignoring his hand. “Please, Raphael. Please, for me. Let Hugh help you. There’s no need for you to risk yourself like this.”

  “Come with me, Iris,” he said quietly.

  “Don’t you hear me?” She gripped the sides of his coat. If she’d been strong enough, she would’ve shaken him. “I don’t want you to die.”

  “You’re making yourself upset for no reason,” he said, and a trace of impatience finally cracked his facade.

  “You’ve set a course of suicide,” she said, her voice rising. She no longer cared if she sounded hysterical. “I assure you I’m mad with worry for a very good reason.”

  He looked away, his mouth crimped in irritation. “I’ve told you this is my battle—”

  “Fine!” She threw her hands up in the air in exasperation. “It’s your battle, the only important thing in your life, but why do you have to die to accomplish it?” Her voice lowered as tears bit at her eyes. “Tell me, Raphael. Please. Why do you have to leave me alone in order to bring down the Lords of Chaos?”

  “Iris,” he snarled.

  She started at the sound. He’d raised his voice. He never raised his voice.

  Raphael inhaled, looking down and then up at her. “Because it’s the only way to lay him to rest.”

  Her eyes widened in horror. “Him? You mean your father, don’t you? Raphael, his sins don’t require your death. Is that what you think?”

  He stared at her, his brows drawn, and for a moment she thought she had broken through to him. Thought he might answer the question and come back to her.

  But then he looked away. “I’m not trying to kill myself, but if I die you won’t be alone. You have your brother, your friends, Kyle.”

  She looked down and dashed at the tears with the back of her hand. As if any of those people were the same as he.

  “Please,” he said, his voice like drifting smoke. “I don’t want to argue with you. Won’t you come with me?”

  She didn’t want to argue with him, either. It made her heart ache and left her weary and sad. She took his arm because she didn’t know what else to do.

  He led her out of the sitting room and up the stairs, and she wondered if there was any argument she hadn’t used. Anything she could say to stay him from his course of action.

  Raphael stopped suddenly, and she looked up and saw that they’d come to the duchess’s chamber.

  She frowned and peered up at him.

  His eyebrows were still drawn together, as if he wasn’t sure what her reaction might be. As if their fight had made him sad as well. “Do you remember that I said I had something to show you?”

  Back when they were entering the house. Before she’d seen Hugh. Before their argument. “Yes?”

  He pushed open the door to her bedroom. “Look.”

  She went inside and saw Valente sitting on the floor in front of her fireplace with a basket. He had a silly grin on his face.

  She glanced over her shoulder to Raphael. “What—?”

  Her husband tilted his chin toward Valente and the basket. “Go and see.”

  At the same time she heard an animal whimper.

  Her lips parted and she picked up her skirts to hurry to the basket. It was lined with a soft blanket and inside was the sweetest little blond puppy, looking very sorry for itself.

  Iris stared, torn. Did Raphael think a puppy would be an adequate substitution for him?

  The moment the puppy saw her it began whimpering and yipping, trying to climb from its wicker prison, but its legs were too short to make the attempt and it ended by falling backward, revealing that it was female.

  It was hardly the puppy’s fault that she was angry with Raphael.

  “Oh,” Iris breathed, sinking to her knees on the carpet opposite Valente. “She’s perfect.”

  Somehow the words made tears start in her eyes again.

  She picked up the puppy, which wriggled in Iris’s hands until she held the small animal against her chest. The puppy promptly began licking Iris’s chin with a tiny pink tongue.

  Iris looked up at Raphael through her tears. “What is her name?”

  He shook his head. “She has none that I know of. You must give her one.”

  Iris stood, cradling the still-squirming puppy carefully, and went to her husband. “Thank you.”

  She stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the lips, trying to convey all she’d said before. All he’d pushed aside.

  Stay. Stay. Stay.

  Raphael took her arms gently and kissed her, angling his face over hers. He embraced her as if she were a lifeline.

  As if he wished to remain with her forever.

  The puppy yelped and he took a step back, breaking their kiss.

  Drawing away from her without effort.

  He walked out of the bedroom.

  Iris closed her eyes to keep her sorrow and tears in. She kissed the top of the
puppy’s silky head and whispered in her ear, “Tansy.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  So Ann set off with El’s heart fire carefully cradled in her hands. She walked through the barren wastelands for three days and three nights until at last she came once again to her father’s hut.

  El lay still, gray, and cold, only a whisper of breath leaving her lungs, but when Ann held the stone cage near her, the heart fire flew from the rock walls and disappeared into El’s chest.

  At once she took a deep breath.…

  —From The Rock King

  The night of the Bartons’ ball, Iris stepped carefully into the carriage with the help of her husband and settled back onto the squabs. Her peach watered silk gown had turned out beautifully. It was a robe à la française with cascades of white lace at the wrists and pinked rosette ruffles down the skirt front.

  She watched Raphael opposite her in the carriage. He seemed as cold and aloof as when she had first met him at that ball so many months ago, but she could see beneath that mask now. He was focused, his eyes on his prey, intent on the hunt.

  She shivered and turned to the window. She understood now why he was so obsessed with the Lords of Chaos, but her understanding didn’t make her any happier.

  In fact it frightened her—that he would give up so much in pursuit of justice. Why did he have to be the sacrifice?

  She watched lantern lights pass outside.

  They had only slept together last night—nothing more. And while Iris was glad that she hadn’t had to make love with Raphael while she was angry with him, a part of her missed their closeness.

  It was hard to sleep with a man and not become … attached to him. Her friend Katherine had moved from lover to lover, as free as a butterfly, but it seemed Iris was not made of the same essential material.

  Or perhaps it was simply she and Raphael. The volatility of their combination.

  The carriage pulled to a stop in front of a new town house made of white stone.

  “Come,” Raphael said, helping her down.

  There was the usual crowd outside—the carriages dropping off guests, ladies and gentlemen trying to make their way to the door, and liveried footmen jostling each other.

  Inside, the crush continued up the narrow stairs to the ballroom.

  They were announced, and for a moment it seemed as if everyone in the room was silent.

  Iris looked out over the brightly colored crowd and took a deep breath to steady herself. This was her first public event as the new Duchess of Dyemore. She could see people whispering together throughout the ballroom and she couldn’t help but wonder if it was she they were gossiping about. Just today she’d found out that the news of her wedding had spread throughout London.

  Apparently she and Raphael were the scandal of the season.

  She swallowed and pasted a serene smile on her face as they strolled into the ballroom.

  Iris nodded to a trio of ladies she knew vaguely and smiled at Honoria Hartwicke, a friend of Katherine’s. Honoria gave her a wink, and Iris began to relax. This was just like any other ball, after all. The important point was to parade about, showing off one’s finery, and be sure to nod to the correct people.

  She’d done this innumerable times.

  “Shall I find you a glass of punch?” Raphael murmured in her ear after ten minutes or so of perambulating the hot room.

  “That would be delightful,” she said gratefully.

  “Perhaps you’d care to take a seat?” He indicated a group of chairs in a small window alcove.

  She nodded gratefully—she wouldn’t mind a moment to herself before braving the eyes of the crowd again. Raphael seated her before he left.

  Almost immediately her hopes of a respite were dashed when a pair of ladies strolled over. Iris knew one of the ladies very slightly—Mrs. Whitehall was a matron and staple of society events.

  Iris rose when it became apparent that they meant to converse with her.

  “Your Grace,” Mrs. Whitehall exclaimed, “may I present Miss Mary Jones-Thymes? Miss Mary Jones-Thymes, Her Grace the Duchess of Dyemore.”

  Iris inclined her head as Miss Jones-Thymes, a lady of middling years with suspiciously red hair, curtsied.

  “The news of your marriage is quite the talk of the town, Your Grace,” Miss Jones-Thymes said carefully.

  Iris smiled. “I’m not surprised, it was so sudden.” She told them the fictitious tale about the highwaymen and Raphael’s gallant insistence on marriage to save her good name.

  “What a terrifying story,” Mrs. Whitehall said when she was done with the recitation. “You must’ve been very frightened.”

  Iris agreed without any deceit on that account.

  Mrs. Whitehall pursed her lips into a little moue. “It’s just too bad that your brother was unable to help you with the decision to marry. Negotiating the marriage contract should always be done by a gentleman who has the best interests of the lady involved. I find that every woman needs the level influence of masculine counsel, especially when making such important decisions.”

  Iris’s smile grew a trifle stiff. “I think I made an adequate decision all on my own.”

  “But did you, Your Grace?” Miss Jones-Thymes asked gently. “I’m not at all sure that you were aware of all the facts when you made such a precipitous decision.”

  Iris narrowed her eyes. “What facts are you referring to?”

  The ladies before her exchanged a look.

  Mrs. Whitehall cleared her throat. “There are rumors, my dear. Rumors that, had you or your brother been aware of them, might have made you more cautious about leaping so rashly into matrimony with His Grace.”

  Iris firmed her lips. “I find I have no interest in rumors.”

  “No?” Miss Jones-Thymes purred. “Not even that the Duke of Dyemore enjoys the company of little boys?”

  Lord Barton’s house was too small for a ball, Raphael thought irritably. The refreshments were well away from the dancing room, and already the passages in between were filled with sweating bodies. He edged past two elderly gentlemen in full-bottomed wigs and came face-to-face with Andrew Grant.

  “Dyemore.” Andrew glanced quickly over his shoulder. “I had no idea you’d be here.

  Raphael raised his brows. “It seemed time to introduce my duchess to society. Are you attending alone?”

  Andrew had an uneasy look in his eyes. “I … I—”

  But before he could answer, his elder brother loomed behind him.

  Viscount Royce’s thin mouth was twisted with irritation. “What’s kept you, Andy, I’ve—”

  He cut himself short when he saw Raphael. “Your Grace.” He darted a glance at his brother. “I had no idea you were in London.”

  “My wife and I only arrived a few days ago,” Raphael said smoothly. He didn’t mention that he’d already seen and spoken to Andrew in London. “Although we were attacked at an inn on the way down. You don’t happen to know anything about that, do you?”

  “Why would I?” Royce glared.

  Raphael shrugged. “Our mutual friend—”

  “Pardon, pardon.” A young man in a lavender suit pushed past.

  “This isn’t the place for this discussion,” Royce hissed. “Follow me.”

  Raphael barely had time to incline his head before the other man was turning and shoving his way through the crowd, his brother behind him. Raphael followed. Interesting that Andrew hadn’t told his elder brother that he’d talked to Raphael. Perhaps he could find an ally there? Andrew had certainly endured the worst the Lords of Chaos were capable of.

  Royce led them through two corridors and finally to a hidden door at the end of a hall. The viscount opened it and gestured Raphael in ahead of him and his brother.

  It seemed to be a small study or sitting room, but it was dimly lit—there was no fire in the hearth.

  Hector Leland rose from a chair as they entered.

  “What took you—” He cut himself off when he saw Raphael.

>   Leland’s eyes widened and darted quickly behind Raphael as if signaling a message.

  Raphael turned, but he couldn’t tell which brother Leland had been looking at.

  In any case, Leland had recovered by the time he glanced back at him.

  “Why did you bring him here?” Leland hissed. He was definitely speaking to Viscount Royce now. He sidled nearer the brothers as if seeking their protection.

  Royce grimaced and abandoned both Leland and his brother to walk across the room to a side table where a decanter stood. He poured himself a large measure and took a sip. “Dyemore was discussing Lords business—out there where anyone could overhear.”

  Even here, in a room far from the crowd, Royce’s voice was low and careful.

  Leland shook his head at Raphael. “To what purpose? Are you trying to goad the Dionysus into killing you?”

  “He’s already tried once,” Raphael drawled. “I have nothing to lose by inciting him further.”

  “That’s not exactly true,” Andrew said quietly.

  The three other men turned to him.

  Andrew blinked as if being the center of attention made him nervous.

  “What do you mean?” Raphael asked.

  Andrew licked his lips. “Well, there must be people you care for? You did save the former Lady Jordan—and even married her. That must mean something, surely? And don’t you have an aunt? Some sort of female relation, anyway. I know you’re a cold brute, but if she turned up floating in the Thames or hanging from a tree in Hyde Park, wouldn’t that make you twitch just a little?”

  Raphael’s veins felt as if they were filled with ice, but he hadn’t time to feel dread. To take in the bone-deep fear for both Zia Lina and Iris.

  Pack animals attacked when one of their own was wounded or showed fear.

  He couldn’t afford weakness here.

  So he went on the offensive.

  He stalked right up to Andrew, making the shorter, slighter man back into Leland. “You seem to know an awful lot about the Dionysus’s thoughts,” Raphael snarled into the other man’s face. “How he plans. How he takes revenge. Even how he kills. So much so, in fact, that I can’t help but think you must be the Dionysus himself.” He wrapped his hand around Andrew’s throat. “And if that is the case, I can stop looking and settle our argument now.”