Duke I’d Like to F…

by Sierra Simone

  “Then let me come to your home.”

  “Violet—”

  “Max,” she snapped. “If you do not tell me precisely when, then I’ll show up and surprise you.”

  “I won’t let you in. I’ll have the doors and windows locked at all times.”

  Silly man. She slid her hand up his chest, tucking her body close to his. “No, I don’t think you will. In fact, I don’t believe you’ll last even fourteen days this time.”

  “Do not try to play games with me. You will lose.”

  She nipped his jaw with her teeth—and he shivered in response. Moving away, she whispered, “We shall see, Your Grace. We shall see.”

  Most days, Max avoided visiting his clubs. They were a waste of time, the rooms filled with brash young men barely older than Will, laughing and joking as if they hadn’t a care. They caused Max to feel a hundred years old. Had he ever been so carefree, so jovial?

  Not since assuming the title at fourteen, certainly. After a decade of wrangling the ducal accounts into shape, including taking risks on the London Exchange to refill the empty bank accounts, he’d been ready to do his duty. His choice of bride, the daughter of a high-ranking earl, had seemed a good one at the time, but he and Rebecca had been a poor match.

  From the start, there had been problems in the bedroom. She preferred he not undress, and refused to let him see her without clothing. She remained perfectly still during the act, not complaining, but not participating, either. Kisses were to remain chaste and he was to leave immediately upon finishing.

  Unhappiness had gnawed at him until Rebecca started increasing. Then he’d taken a mistress, relieved to finally enjoy himself with an eager partner. It had been selfish of him, a decision he’d regretted when his wife found out. Hysterical over his infidelity, Rebecca had gone into early labor and died whilst delivering Will.

  A year into his marriage, Max was left widowed with a young son. And guilt. Plenty of guilt.

  And the guilt hadn’t yet subsided, not even sixteen years later.

  None of it had been Rebecca’s fault. Max should have been more patient, more understanding. He should have tried harder to explain his needs and desires, instead of rushing off to another woman’s bed. Young and stupid, he leaped into marriage with the belief that a wife was no different than the other highborn ladies he’d slept with, the lusty widows and bored society wives.

  But Rebecca had been different. It was Max who hadn’t bothered to adjust his behavior, and he’d caused her death. Not a day went by when he didn’t chastise himself over what he’d done, and he would repeat his pledge never to marry again.

  Some men were not cut out to be husbands.

  Still, he had no choice but to protect Violet.

  Brooks’s was quiet at this time of morning. After handing his hat and cane to the attendant, Max found his quarry in the main room, nursing coffee. Only a handful of men were spread out amongst the furniture.

  Wingfield frowned at Max’s approach. “Why must I be here so early, Ravensthorpe?”

  Max slid into the chair opposite. “Because I wish to speak with you. And you are at my service, not the other way around.”

  Wingfield scowled but said nothing as he took another sip of coffee.

  After an attendant brought Max a cup, they were alone again. Max came right to the point. “You will cease your pursuit of Lady Violet.”

  The young man’s mouth fell open. “You have no right to—”

  “I have every right,” Max said icily. “I am a close family friend and have known the girl since she was born. You are not good enough for her.”

  “Not good enough for her?” Wingfield’s voice rose several octaves. “The girl is the unequivocal flop of the season. I am doing her a favor by paying her attention.”

  His little mouse, a flop? Outrage roared through Max’s veins like cannon fire, yet he tamped it down, hiding his emotions behind a bored expression. “You are a drunk and a spendthrift. Also, I have it on good authority that you’ve had mercury treatments—multiple times, in fact. You are not marrying Lady Violet.”

  Twin spots of scarlet dotted Wingfield’s cheeks. “How dare you? My father—”

  Max sighed loudly. “Your father is in debt to the West London Bank for hundreds of thousands of pounds. Would you care to guess the identity of that bank’s largest shareholder?”

  Wingfield sputtered. “Are you . . . Is this a threat?”

  Christ Almighty, how was the world to survive with men this stupid?

  “Yes,” Max admitted, and then downed the rest of his coffee. “I am threatening you in order to keep you away from Lady Violet. Is that clear enough for you, Wingfield? Shall I put it in writing so there are no misunderstandings?”

  Wingfield swallowed hard. “No, I understand. I’ll stay away from her.”

  “Good.” He rose. “See that you do.”

  Wingfield mumbled, “She’s a stupid cow, anyway.”

  Max’s entire body clenched and he leaned close to the younger man’s face. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing.”

  Max’s hand shot out and he jerked Wingfield up by his collar, lifting the younger man until his feet barely touched the floor. Conversation in the room died, every eye turned their way. No one would dare say a word to stop Max, one of the most powerful men in Britain, from doing whatever he liked with this piece of filth.

  “How dare you insult her.” He tightened his fist, cutting off Wingfield’s air supply. “If I hear of you talking about her, I will feed you to the pigs on my estate. Are we clear? You don’t breathe her name ever again. If you see her on the street, don’t even offer a polite greeting. She no longer exists for you.”

  Wingfield gasped, his eyes bulging, but Max didn’t let up until the other man nodded. He let Wingfield go and straightened his cuffs. “Glad we understand each other.”

  With that, Max collected his things and strolled onto St. James Street. Instead of taking a hansom home, he decided to walk and clear his head. Rage from the encounter with Wingfield continued to burn through him, and he still had no idea what to do about Violet.

  Two days had passed since the night of the ball . . . and he was already weakening. The craving for her lurked his blood, always present and growing stronger every minute.

  I don’t believe you’ll even last fourteen days this time.

  How had she known?

  She was so certain about him, about them. The folly of youth, he supposed, not to understand the whole picture. He was bad for her, too old and too . . . rough. She deserved better. Someone sweet and kind, closer in age. Hell, Max would be lucky to live another twenty years. She needed a man who could marry her, give her children, and make her laugh into her old age.

  Max was not that man.

  Yet he wasn’t certain he could stay away from her. He thought of her nearly all the time, his cock currently chafed thanks to his hand and his memories. Like a teenaged boy, he’d stolen a small jar of oil from the larder to protect his skin while pleasuring himself.

  It would be funny if it weren’t so mortifying.

  As he crossed Piccadilly, he spotted a camera shop in the middle of the block. He recalled Charles mentioning Violet’s interest in photography. Did she frequent this establishment?

  She’d always been a clever and curious child, asking him questions about Will, the ducal estates, and anything else that crossed her mind during the Mayhew dinner parties. Math and history had been her favorite subjects, as he recalled, but they’d even debated philosophy at one point. Those qualities, along with her current voyeuristic tendencies, likely made her a stellar photographer.

  Charles hadn’t seemed appreciative of Violet’s photography habit, but it was important to nurture hobbies, even for women. Perhaps especially for women, as they were told so often what they could not do, rather than be allowed to express themselves. Max would hate to see any of Violet’s creativity stifled.

  He was walking toward the shop before he coul
d think better of it.

  A bell chimed over the door as he entered. A middle-aged man emerged from the back and his eyes widened at the sight of Max. “Good morning. How may I help your lordship?”

  Max didn’t bother to correct the form of address. “I am interested in purchasing some photography equipment for a friend. Is there anything new or something you’d recommend?”

  “I’d be honored. Has your lordship an idea of this gentleman’s level of experience with photography?”

  “It is a she, and no.”

  “I see. Then allow me to recommend this latest Kodak box model, the number one. Most women find it lighter and much easier to operate. It also comes pre-loaded with a flexible roll of film.” The clerk pointed to a camera in the glass case. “It is our best seller.”

  “I’ll take that, then.”

  “Excellent.” The clerk withdrew a box from a locked drawer under the case. “Shall I wrap it for your lordship?”

  Max considered this while he studied the other items in the case.

  Have them deliver the camera with a note saying you cannot see her again.

  The black heart in his chest instantly rejected the idea. He needed to watch Violet’s face as she unwrapped his gift, see the youthful exuberance that hadn’t yet been snuffed out by this harsh life. Drink in her happiness as if it were his own.

  He wasn’t ready to give her up.

  You’ll regret this.

  Pushing aside his conscience, he handed the clerk his card. “If you would, yes. Have it delivered here.”

  The man’s brows shot up. “Your Grace. Forgive me, I hadn’t known. I shall see to it personally.”

  “Thank you.” Max placed his bowler atop his head and left the shop, feeling lighter than he had in two days.

  Soon, my little mouse. Soon.

  Chapter Seven

  Violet was in her dark room, developing photographs. She loved swirling the paper in the chemicals, watching the still image slowly take shape before her eyes, preserved forever. Memories that no one could take away, indisputable proof that someone had put their mark on this earth.

  It required patience, which Violet had in abundance. After all, hadn’t she waited years for Max to finally notice her? And now that he had, she’d never been happier.

  What if I cannot change Max’s mind about a relationship?

  Then life would march forward. Women were more independent nowadays, at least outside of the ton. Perhaps she could convince her parents to let her live over her favorite camera shop in Chelsea in a set of small apartments. She could sell her photographs for money and support herself. Unless she could marry Max, there was no pressing need to find a husband.

  I won’t marry you.

  If she couldn’t change his mind, then she would suggest a long-time affair. Better to have Max in her life and suffer the social consequences than to live without him.

  She removed the last photograph from the fixer bath and rinsed it in fresh water. Then she hung the paper on a line to dry along with the rest, taking a moment to appreciate it. This image might be her best yet. The light had hit the buildings perfectly, the women in the foreground sharp and clear. A perfectly captured London morning.

  It took several minutes to clean up and remove her apron. Coming down the narrow attic stairs, she heard her parents arguing inside their bedchamber. She started to creep by, ensuring not to make a sound on the way to her room, when she heard her name.

  “. . . Violet’s two suitors?” her mother shouted. “You are supposed to be hurrying them along.”

  Violet paused. Why were they discussing her marriage prospects?

  “Only one now,” her father said. “Wingfield’s gone to Devonshire for the rest of the season.”

  Wingfield had left town?

  “So marry her off to the other one. I need her settled, Charles. You promised me.”

  The other one? Violet had no idea who they were discussing.

  “I don’t know, Elsie. Sundridge seems a bit dim.”

  Violet put a hand over her mouth. Sundridge? He’d called her Victoria during their first two dances, even after she’d corrected him. He hadn’t let her get a word in edgewise, either, talking about playing cricket each time she saw him. Her parents wished for her to marry him?

  Her stomach turned over, her brain woozy. This could not be happening. And why was her mother so anxious to be rid of her?

  Her father continued. “Perhaps we should let her finish this season and find her a husband next year.”

  “Absolutely not. I want her married as quickly as possible—and it hardly matters to whom. I will speak to Sundridge’s father myself, if necessary.”

  “No, no,” her father said. “I’ll see it handled, though I cannot understand why you are in such a hurry.”

  “It’s best for Violet. Prolonging a betrothal won’t help her prospects. A second season will only make everyone wonder what’s wrong with her.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with her with the girl. A bit shy, is all.”

  “Because you’ve indulged her. Our duty is to see her married now that she is of age. You promised, Charles. Have a betrothal in place before the month is out.”

  Violet put a hand on the wall to steady herself. Before the month was out? That was little more than a week from now. Was her mother serious?

  She hurried away, moving swiftly along the corridor, her ears ringing with impending disaster. She had no destination in mind, only the need to keep going, to put distance between herself and this information.

  Her mother wanted Violet gone. Married off to whomever would have her.

  What sort of mother had no regard for the match her daughter made? Charlotte’s mother hovered at her daughter’s side, ensuring Charlotte only spoke with bachelors from the very best families. Violet’s mother, on the other hand, hadn’t attended large social events in months and anticipated ridding herself of her only child.

  Tears burned Violet’s lids as she moved toward the front door, the desire to escape overwhelming her. Their butler appeared, and his brow lowered in concern when he saw her face. “Did you wish to go out, Lady Violet?”

  “I’d like to take a walk and visit my friend Charlotte.”

  “Of course, my lady. Shall I send for your maid?”

  “No need. I am not going anywhere but to Charlotte’s and it’s not far.”

  “Then allow me to fetch a groom—”

  Instead of waiting, Violet opened the door and dashed down the front walk. When she was far enough from her house, she hailed a hansom to take her to the far side of Grosvenor Square.

  To Ravensthorpe.

  She needed him to comfort her, to tell her it would be all right.

  Even if it was a lie.

  Max’s large home sat on the corner of the very public square. Considering it was the middle of the day, she could not pay a call on him. Instead, she instructed the driver to let her out a block over and she then snuck into the rear of Max’s gardens.

  Tears streamed down her face as she hurried along. Thankfully, the gardeners were on the far side of the property, their backs to the house. After slipping onto the terrace and through the French doors, Violet ran along the corridor, hoping to avoid detection by the staff on her way to Max’s study, where she assumed he was working.

  Not bothering to knock, she turned the knob on the study door and slid in. Max was seated behind his desk, a young man scribbling on paper in the chair across from him. The duke’s head snapped up, dark blue eyes locking on her face—and his jaw dropped. She hadn’t a clue as what to do now that she was here, so she waited, silent tears rolling down her cheeks.

  Max recovered quickly, coming to his feet. “Webber, let’s pick this up later. You have enough to get started.”

  The other man gathered his things and bowed. “Your Grace.”

  Violet moved aside to let the young man pass. When they were alone, she tried to catch her breath, but emotion clogged her throat. Max came toward h
er, concern etched on his handsome features. “Violet, what is it? What’s happened?”

  Without waiting another second, she threw herself at his solid chest. He caught her, his arms holding her tight to his frame, and she breathed in his now-familiar scent of orange and tobacco. He was strong and safe, a balm for her misery. After a few seconds, her tears dried on his necktie, her shudders ceasing. When he picked her up, she clutched at his shoulders and buried her face in his throat.

  He lowered them into a chair near the empty grate. The moment stretched and he seemed in no hurry to make her talk. For some reason, his calm fortitude helped soothe her. Finally, she sighed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have burst into your home in the middle of the day.”

  “I don’t mind, though I do hope you came in the back.”

  “I did. No one saw me except the man who was here a moment ago.”

  “Webber is discreet. His job depends on it. Now, are you ready to tell me what is wrong, or shall I give you a present?”

  She leaned back to see his face. “You bought me a present?”

  The duke appeared adorably embarrassed, with his cheeks turning pink. “Yes, I did,” he said. “Shocking, but I am capable of simple kindness, Violet.”

  This was more than simple kindness. This was . . . monumental. He’d bought her a gift.

  He cares for me.

  Her spirits lifted immediately—a considerable feat, seeing as how she was to be betrothed by the end of the month.

  Max slid out from underneath her and went to his desk. When he came back, he was holding a rectangle-shaped box wrapped in brown paper. “I hope you like it.”

  Was he serious? The box could contain rocks and she would treasure them always. She tore through the paper with all the restraint of a three-year-old on Boxing Day. She gasped. “You bought me a camera.”

  Max thrust his hands in his trouser pockets and gave her a half smile. “I did.”

  “I’ve wanted a box camera for months. How did you know?”

  “I had no idea. The clerk at the store recommended it.”