Bachelor Duke

by Mary Nichols

  Sophie did not think it at all surprising he should have been mistaken for a visiting royal. He was so particular in his dress, which, though not flamboyant, was certainly outstanding. The cut of his plum-coloured velvet coat, the precision of his cravat, the jewelled fob that hung across his brocade waistcoat, the studied casualness of his hairstyle spoke of wealth, but most of all it was his bearing that made him stand out. It was not pride exactly, but self-assurance, giving him an air of importance, of one used to command and of having his commands obeyed.

  ‘Oh, are you come to take Miss Langford away, your Grace?’ Theodore asked, as Harriet crossed the room to join them. ‘We were having such an interesting conversation.’

  ‘Miss Langford has been telling us she is writing a book,’ Peter added, in a way which she could only describe as mischievous. ‘And we are all agog to know who will be in it.’

  The Duke looked at Sophie, and although his smile remained fixed, something in his blue eyes told her he was displeased, but she could hardly explain that the reason she had mentioned the book was because they had been quizzing her about her relationship with him and she needed to divert them. ‘It was only a passing mention,’ she said. ‘Everyone has been so kind as to be interested in my travels.’

  ‘Indeed.’ The one word was enough to reinforce her conviction she was going to be roasted over it.

  ‘Miss Langford has turned down an offer from a Italian count,’ Ariadne put in, making Sophie groan inwardly. ‘And he went off to fight for France because of her rejection.’

  ‘I never said that,’ Sophie protested. ‘I simply said he went to France. His reason for going had nothing to do with me.’

  The young people about them looked at each other in perplexity. Perhaps Miss Langford had been humming all along and the Duke knew it. Or perhaps he had a more personal reason for wishing to silence her. Either way they were intrigued.

  ‘I am afraid you will have to remain in ignorance, at least for now,’ he said, smiling easily at them. ‘I would like to have Lady Harley and Miss Langford safely home before everyone starts leaving their routs and balls and theatre visits and the roads become even more congested as they chase about town to catch a glimpse of this or that royal personage. I fear London has gone quite mad.’

  ‘Then I propose to go mad along with them,’ Peter said. ‘Shall you join me, Buskin?’

  Theodore agreed with alacrity and the two young men, with others who had been on the periphery of the group, set off ‘emperor hunting’, leaving Harriet and Sophie to take leave of their hostess and accompany the Duke to his carriage.

  Surprisingly, the Duke said nothing about Sophie’s book; in fact, he hardly addressed her at all, confining himself to speaking to his sister about their forthcoming engagements.

  ‘Lady Myers has invited us to a ball next week,’ Harriet told him. ‘I know Sophie is not officially out, but I do not think that signifies, considering she was used to attending such functions with her ladyship in Naples. I can see no harm in her going and it promises to be a grand occasion because Lord Myers is well known to so many of our foreign visitors. Shall you go?’

  ‘If my duties allow, then I shall certainly escort you.’

  ‘Good,’ she said, much relieved. ‘A whole evening in the company of Cousin Alfred and his mother would be the outside of enough.’

  ‘From that I collect he has offered himself as your escort?’

  ‘Yes. I told him I thought you would be going, but then he said we could make up a little party. What could I say but that we should look forward to seeing him there?’

  ‘After the scene his mother made in front of your friends, I wonder he has the effrontery to suggest it,’ Sophie said. ‘And if he speaks to me, I shall certainly tell him so.’

  ‘You will not,’ James put in. ‘You will keep your tongue between your teeth and smile.’

  She chuckled. ‘That might be a little difficult, your Grace.’

  ‘Nevertheless, you…’ He stopped suddenly when he realised she had been teasing. ‘Oh, Sophie, what am I going to do with you?’

  ‘Nothing, my lord, above what you are doing already, giving me a home and allowing me space and time to write.’

  Was that all she wanted from him? he asked himself. Had the few weeks she had been living at Belfont House not made her realise there was more to life than that? Was she sincere in her determination not to marry? Or was she deluding herself?

  ‘Sophie,’ Harriet put in, ‘Alfred knew his mother had gone too far and has written to apologise for her behaviour and I do not want to cause more gossip by cutting him. I am not asking you to be more than polite.’

  ‘Very well, I shall be excessively polite. One can often achieve more in that way than in heated exchange, and keep one’s dignity into the bargain, don’t you think so?’

  ‘Indeed I do.’

  ‘Does that mean you will have to invite him to your ball?’

  ‘Your ball, Sophie. It is being given in your honour, but, yes, he will be sent an invitation.’

  ‘And Lady Colway?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ James snapped.

  ‘What a pity,’ she said with a sigh. ‘I was looking forward to being excessively polite to her too.’

  He laughed, but in truth the subject was becoming a little too embarrassing and he quickly changed the subject by asking Harriet when she proposed to hold their own ball.

  ‘I think as soon as it can be arranged, don’t you? Then Sophie can accept whatever invitations she chooses. There is so much going on, what with the official celebrations, we need to give people plenty of notice or they might find themselves too busy. Of course, if I can prevail upon someone very important to attend, they will drop everything to come.’

  He laughed. ‘Am I not important enough?’

  ‘You know I meant one of our eminent foreign visitors.’

  ‘Like the Tsar? Or the Grand Duchess?’ he queried, teasing. ‘Blücher, perhaps, though he told me he is sick to death of being pursued and cannot even dine in privacy; his hostesses sell tickets for people to stand on their stairs and watch him going into the dining room.’

  Sophie’s laughter pealed out. ‘Oh, they never do! You have the right of it, my lord, London has gone quite mad. But I beg you not to go to such lengths. If you insist on having a ball for me, then let it be a quiet one with a few select guests…’

  ‘Nothing would please me more,’ Harriet said, ‘but I doubt it will be possible. The Duke is too well known and we have been invited everywhere; everyone will expect a return invitation. Besides, you have become a person of interest in your own right and those of our friends who have not already been introduced will want to meet you.’

  ‘I wish that were not so,’ Sophie said.

  ‘How can that be?’ James queried. ‘Everything you have said and done so far invites attention. Talking about writing a book and having offers from counts…’

  ‘It was no more than the truth. I am writing a book. Harriet will tell you I spend many hours in my room working on it. And Count Cariotti really did offer for me.’

  Where had he heard the name before? He racked his brain, but could not bring the occasion to mind. Had the man been in England? Had he met him here? Or had he met him in Europe when he had been incognito? How important was it to remember?

  ‘Then, you must have known the Count very well.’ It sounded like a casual remark, but Sophie had long since discovered the Duke rarely did anything casually.

  ‘No, I did not. He was Papa’s friend, not mine. Papa had many friends of all nationalities.’

  ‘I am sure he had,’ he said, leaning back in his seat again. Drinking and gambling companions, he decided, not true friends, men who could turn from friend to enemy in the blink of an eye. He sighed, asking himself what he had done to deserve being saddled with this spirited young lady who attracted attention wherever she went. Even the Regent had heard of her and asked about her. He had begun to wish she was the dowdy schoolgirl he
had first taken her for, then she would have passed unnoticed. ‘But you are not in Italy now, where intrigue is a way of life. This is London, England, and I am on the Regent’s staff.’

  ‘Your Grace, I would not for the world embarrass you. In future I will be the model of maidenly virtue. And if anyone should ask about my book or my lovers, I shall deny all knowledge of them. And I shall be excessively polite to everyone.’

  It was a statement that made him laugh and she found her own mouth twitching. He might be severe, might act the heavy-handed patriarch, but he could be soft when he chose and he had a wonderful sense of humour. For that alone she could forgive his other foibles.

  Their coachman had managed to find a way through the press of people, mainly by cracking his whip left and right and shouting, ‘Make way for his Grace, the Duke of Belfont’, and now they drew up at the door of Belfont House and James escorted them inside.

  He was not at all sure he wanted Sophie to be a model of maidenly virtue, certainly not like the empty-headed Ariadne Jefferson, who believed agreeing with everything he said in little more than a whisper would entice him to offer for her. Being married to Ariadne, or any of this year’s débutantes, would drive him insane with boredom. His friends naturally reminded him he could always keep his mistress, that the roles of each were different. A wife was for creating a family, for having his household looked after, for being decorative at official functions; a mistress was for love, for entertainment, for relief from the cares of everyday living. He knew that for most men of his acquaintance the arrangement worked perfectly satisfactorily, but he did not want that.

  He wanted wife and lover in one person and that was his difficulty; he had never found one that measured up to his exacting standards. Certainly, Sophie Langford did not. She was beautiful, she was lively and amusing, but she was also independent, outspoken, argumentative. And she was dangerous, like one of Congreve’s unpredictable rockets, which often landed on friend as well as the foe. So, why did he find himself thinking of her so frequently, having imaginary conversations with her, even making love to her? That had shocked him enough to make him stay away from home until the torment of not seeing her got the better of him and he went out of his way to seek her out, as he had done tonight. And what had he done as soon as he saw her? He had chastised her, found fault, accused her of jeopardising his position at court, as if he cared a groat for that!

  He said goodnight to both ladies and watched them as they climbed the stairs, then he turned and went into the book room, where he poured himself a glass of cognac and sat at his desk to study some papers until the inexplicable disquiet he felt subsided and he could go to bed and sleep. He read until his eyes ached, some of it dry reports about his work, and in the end he cast the sheets of paper to one side and sat, sipping his cognac and allowing his thoughts to roam.

  He was back in Dresden in 1812, when Napoleon was planning his campaign against Russia and his troops were gathering from all over Europe to begin the march, including the Italian army whose route took them across the Alps into Austria. Was Cariotti among those? Napoleon had come to Dresden to meet the Emperor and Empress of Austria, the parents of his second wife, and was greeted with flags flying and bands playing. Prince Metternich, the Austrian foreign minister, was known to have doubts about the wisdom of allying himself with Bonaparte, but he set them aside as princes, dukes and counts, with their wives and retinues, enjoyed banquets and receptions, attended mass in the cathedral and went hunting in the royal forests.

  James was among them, pretending to be Jack Costerman, half-French, half-English, whose loyalty, so he maintained, was most decidedly on the side of his French mother. He had infiltrated the French high command and was trusted with secrets that no other agent had been able to discover, all of it relayed to Richard Summers by way of a network of contacts. Where was Sophie then? Where was her father? Could he possibly have been seen and recognised by him? But Langford was dead, so did it matter any more?

  It might, he told himself. With all the foreign dignitaries in London, nothing decided about post-war settlements, and Napoleon Bonaparte, supposedly defeated but living on Elba, too close to France for comfort, anything could happen. Then he would be needed again and if his cover were broken… ‘Oh, Sophie, Sophie,’ he murmured. ‘Was it fate that brought you to my door? Or something more sinister?’

  When he finally climbed the stairs he could not resist turning towards her door, remembering the last time he had done that. It had been his undoing; he had discovered an aching need to make love to her that he could not possibly assuage and still keep his honour. Again there was a light under her door and, before he could stop himself, he had taken the two or three steps needed and knocked lightly, not really expecting a response.

  He was taken aback when the door was opened and she stood facing him with the lamplight behind her. She had taken off her evening gown and was wearing a flowing undress robe of blue silk. Her hair had been unpinned and cascaded down over her shoulders.

  ‘Your Grace, what is wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’ The sight of her set his pulses racing. He felt an almost irresistible urge to reach out and touch the curl that hung beside her cheek and wind it round his finger to draw her towards him so that he could kiss her. The effort not to do so was so great he clenched his fists by his sides and forced himself speak normally. ‘I thought you might have gone to sleep again with the lamp burning.’

  ‘No, I was not sleeping. I was working on my book.’

  ‘That damned book!’ he exclaimed. ‘You will ruin your health over it. Now go to bed or you will not be fit for anything tomorrow.’

  ‘Then I shall sleep in. You may call it a damned book, but to me it is a lifeline.’

  ‘I never heard such balderdash. There is no necessity for you to work at all. I have offered you a home—’

  ‘For which I am grateful, but that cannot go on for ever.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Your Grace, you will marry one day. Your wife cannot be expected to house a poor relation unless it be as a servant—’

  ‘Servant?’ His voice was scornful. ‘You would be no good as a servant, I can assure you of that.’

  ‘There you are then! I must become independent.’

  ‘Fustian! You will marry yourself. Already you have admirers…’

  ‘Admirers? Do you mean Theodore Buskin and Peter Poundell? I would have to be desperate to consider either of those. They would be worse than the Count, who at least knew how to dress elegantly and amuse a lady.’

  ‘Then if you are so particular I will find others. I will introduce you to the whole of London—’

  ‘Are you so desperate to be rid of me?’ she asked.

  ‘No, damn you!’ His voice was a hoarse whisper. ‘I want you here where you belong.’

  She was taken aback by his vehemence, but quickly recovered herself. ‘Do you think that being a Duke means you may speak to me in terms you would not use to your lowliest menial?’ she asked coolly.

  ‘I ask pardon for that,’ he said, genuinely sorry for his outburst. ‘But you are driving me to distraction.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why?’ he repeated, wondering himself. Could what she said and did affect him so badly he so far forgot himself as to use language he ought never to utter in a lady’s presence? He felt himself losing control, and always being in control was something on which he prided himself. Was he afraid for her or for himself? ‘Because you seem unable to grasp the rudiments of life as part of my household—’

  ‘Household, my lord? But you have just said I would never make a servant.’

  ‘I meant my family and you know it. As one of the family, you should conduct yourself in a way that does not bring notoriety to the family name. And telling the world you are writing a book because I am too penny-pinching to accommodate you is hardly the way to go on.’

  ‘I never said that! Why does everyone twist what I say? I am becoming afraid to open my mouth at all
.’

  ‘Then pray keep it shut.’

  She glared at him, her eyes defiantly bright, her mouth half-open, as if she had been going to add something and then decided against it. He reached out and put a finger under her chin, lifting it gently to close her mouth. Then, before he could stop himself, he had drawn her towards him and was kissing her. He felt her go rigid with shock; though he knew he ought to apologise and withdraw, he could not. The taste of her lips was exquisitely sensuous; it aroused him in a way no other woman’s lips ever had. He wanted to crush her to him, to carry her over to the bed so invitingly empty behind her, to possess her totally. And as the kiss deepened, he felt her relax. She was no longer rigid, but compliant. Her arms had come round his neck, her fingers were tangling in his hair. It did more than any resistance or anger on her part to make him realise what he was doing was totally reprehensible. He let her go and stepped back.

  His move was so abrupt, the withdrawal of his supporting arms so sudden, she felt her knees giving way. Fearing she was about to swoon, he reached out and grabbed her, holding her upright against his body to stop her from falling. The feel of her soft curves under the flowing robe set his senses reeling all over again. His body betrayed him and surely she must know it? But how could he release her? He never wanted to let her go. Was that why he had been so adamant she must give up her determination to be independent, because he wanted her, desired her, loved her? Good God! Could that be true? But if it was, he had ruined it by his disgraceful behaviour. A gentleman would immediately apologise and offer marriage, and he had always considered himself a gentleman. He had never in his life forced himself upon a woman; most of those he had bedded had been only too pleased to oblige him. Sophie was different, so different she would hurl his proposal back in his face. He leaned back to look at her.

  Her face was charmingly pink and her eyes, though bright, had lost their anger, replaced with perplexity. He smiled crookedly. ‘Sophie, I am sorry. It came to me suddenly as a way of silencing you and I could not resist the temptation.’ As an apology it left a great deal to be desired, but he was still reeling with the shock of recognising the strength of his desire and could not find the words.