by Gaelen Foley
Thus, Maggie found herself enclosed in a dim room with the Irish stranger.
When they were alone, he turned to her with a decidedly wayward sparkle in his eyes, and—duke or not—Maggie wondered if she ought to worry.
“So. Is the ol’ cyclops right?” he inquired. “Should I expect yet another challenge from this brother-in-law you mentioned, on account of your visit here—neighbor?”
The image of Edward’s placid smile flitted through her mind. In truth, he was the most even-tempered man alive.
He’d have to be, to marry Delia.
Still, it might be wiser not to tell Amberley that, just in case he had it in his head to try misbehaving with her. He seemed very much a rogue.
Maggie just shrugged, preferring not to lie.
“I see,” said the duke, then gestured to a chair. “Do you care to sit, my lady?”
“No, thank you, Your Grace. But do feel free, if you wish to.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” While the duke dropped lazily into an armchair, she walked across the Persian carpet toward the center of the room, putting a safer distance between them.
Then she stood with her feet together, both hands clenching her reticule tight against her waist.
Every drumbeat of her pulse seemed to chide her. This was not the done thing. Not at all. Not proper, not decent, not right.
So, why, then, did she feel such a thrill in this man’s presence?
The shadows pressing in on all sides made their secret meeting seem all the more intimate, here in the glow of two candles.
This could get her ruined, she was well aware.
At least, now seated, the warrior duke did not seem quite so large and intimidating. She was grateful for that.
Leaning back in the armchair, Amberley watched her face with guarded amusement. “Now then: Lady Margaret Winthrop. Concerning what happened in the ballroom, if you have information of some sort that could shed light on this whole debacle, that would be most welcome.”
“First of all, I’m sorry Lord Bryce was so unpleasant to you—”
“Unpleasant?” He laughed. “The man accused me of murdering my own kin.”
She winced. “Yes. He can be rather rude.”
“So I’d noticed. What else can you tell me about this suitor of yours? Why don’t we start with a name? Who the blazes is he?”
“Oh—Dorian Lacey, the Earl of Bryce. He’s the heir of the Marquess of Dover.”
“Is he now? Quite a catch there, young lady.” His blue eyes sparkled with dangerous mirth in the candle’s glow.
Maggie furrowed her brow at his teasing.
“Tell me.” He tapped a finger to his square chin thoughtfully. “Has the tot ever been in a duel before?”
“Not that I know of, no.”
“Is he a good shot?”
She shook her head. “I’ve no idea.”
“Does he regularly take target practice?”
“I-I don’t think so.”
“Ah. Then let us rename him Lord Mincemeat, for that is all he is now.”
She gasped.
“Calm down, Lady Margaret. ’Twas a jest.”
“That’s what worries me!” she burst out, staring at him in bafflement. “Shouldn’t you be a bit more—oh, I don’t know—concerned about this?”
“Sorry, I shall try to look grave. Is he right-handed or left?”
“How should I know?”
“Oh, I should think that a woman would notice such things about her beau’s touch. Unless he has not yet dared to explore those lovely—”
“Sir!” she choked out, appalled. Yet her heart skipped a beat. And then began booming.
Amberley grinned at her. “I beg your pardon, my lady. Please forgive a soldier’s blunt tongue and rough manners.” He paused while she stood there with her face radiating fire like a star. “But after all,” he said, “you’re on the other side in this matter, clearly. The least you should expect, coming here, is a wee bit o’ ribbing.”
“But that’s just it! I’m not on anybody’s side. That’s why I’m here. I don’t want this duel to happen at all!”
“Neither do I. Unfortunately, it’s not up to you—or to me, for that matter. It’s entirely in the hands of Lord Mincemeat. He’s the one who started this. If he wants to live, he can apologize. You’re free to tell him I said so. He didn’t seem to hear it when I told him myself.” He shrugged. “But perhaps he’ll listen to you, if you’re his sweetheart.”
Maggie stared at him, routed. He just looked at her, not budging an inch.
Oh, this was not going at all according to plan. She lowered her head fretfully and rubbed her brow, fighting exasperation.
“Would you like to sit down, Lady Margaret? You look a bit pale. Oh, er—can I offer you some…refreshments?” The great barbarian abruptly stood, blanching with apparent chagrin that he had not remembered hospitality till now.
Some duke he was.
“No, thank you,” she said crisply, lifting her head to pin him with a withering stare. “This is not a social call.”
He lifted his eyebrows. “Right,” he said after a moment. Then his rapid-fire questions resumed. “Do you have any notion why your suitor saw fit to accuse me of murder?”
“He didn’t mean that, I’m sure.” Maggie shook her head in frustration. “It’s just he was quite close friends with your predecessor. Richard? They were of an age and went to school together. From what I understand, Bryce was distraught when he died. I suppose now he probably just wants someone to blame.”
“His words were outrageous. Did you hear them?” he demanded.
“I did. And I…I apologize on his behalf.”
“Well, that’s very civil of you, my lady, but the apology can only come from him.”
Maggie sighed. “I’m afraid the chances of that happening are very slim, Your Grace. I don’t believe his mouth has ever formed the words I’m sorry.”
His lips twisted. “I could accept it in writing.”
She offered him a wan smile, and they gazed at each other for a moment.
It puzzled her that Amberley didn’t seem to want this duel, even though he’d likely win it.
Capable a fighter as he most likely was, it seemed he only wished for peace.
“Were you really in the Army from the age of sixteen?”
“Aye.”
She shook her head to ponder it. “That’s little more than a child.”
He shrugged with a weary half-smile. “Aristocratic families have to do something with their younger sons, don’t they? My grandfather, William, was the youngest of three. The first became the duke, the second was for the church, and the third was sent off to the Army. So war-fighting became my line’s specialty, I suppose you might say. And now I have a question for you, Lady Margaret.”
“Yes?” she whispered, entranced by the sound of his voice. His deep purr of a brogue wrapped around her, enchanting her senses.
“Why are you really here, love?” he asked softly. “Beggin’ your pardon, but I don’t think you came here at all to help me. You came wantin’ me to help you.”
“I thought I could at least shed some light on why Bryce…” she began, but her excuses trailed off, and she stared at him. “Will you? Help me, that is.”
He studied her. “What exactly do you expect me to do?”
“Spare him!” she pleaded. “I don’t want you to kill him. I know you probably could—”
“Oh, aye,” he assured her.
“But I’ve come to ask you not to,” she said in a heartfelt, humble tone. “For my sake.”
He narrowed his eyes at her, contemplating her request.
She faltered as he sat there, stony. “I know you don’t know me, but I-I throw myself on your mercy as a gentleman, Your Grace. That is all.”
A low growl escaped him. Maggie saw the chivalry that flickered behind the hard, devil-may-care veneer. But he seemed to fight it. He jumped out of the chair and paced over to the fireplace, w
here he propped an elbow on the mantel.
“Quite a risk you’re taking for that jackanapes, coming here. You know as well as I that if anyone found out, it could destroy your reputation. Are you so in love with this idiot?”
“Well—” The question startled her for some reason. “It…it’s my duty.”
“How’s that?”
She deflated. “I mean to make him my husband before the Season’s out, and I think he’s almost ready to propose.”
“Oho! Is that right?” He began laughing.
Maggie scowled. “You don’t know how long I have been working on this! It’s…important.”
“Well.” A wicked grin flashed across his face. “Felicitations, Lady Margaret.”
That grin worried her.
“I just want to make sure I understand,” he said. “So you set your cap at the future marquess, and now you’ve almost brought him up to scratch.”
Maggie glared at him.
“You’re not here for love’s sake, then, but ambition, yes?”
“No! Not ambition,” she insisted. “Practicality.”
“Ah, of course. Righty-ho,” said the duke, deviltry dancing a wee Irish jig across his face. He flared his thick eyebrows, then drummed his fingers on the mantel. “Let me see if I have this right: I’ve got the future wife of my enemy here alone in a room with me. What an interesting state of affairs.”
She frowned at him. “We are not engaged yet, but he is nearly poised to propose. Unless you kill him!”
“I see. Still…” His teeth flashed white in the candlelight. “As much as you tug on my heartstrings, my lady, I confess, it does get the wheels in a man’s brain turning.”
“How now, Your Grace?” she said, and drew back, offended.
Very well, not offended, exactly, but unsettled for certain.
Maggie braced herself for anything, seeing the merry glint in his dancing eyes.
“Tell me this, Lady Margaret.” He sauntered closer, leaning down to whisper, “What might you be willin’ to do to persuade me to spare your precious boy?”
He reached out and cupped her cheek in one large, warm, capable hand, and Maggie quivered.
“After all, if I spared his life for your sake, as you begged me so prettily, I should need some form of recompense. So tell me, my lady. What’s his life worth to you?”
Maggie held perfectly motionless, searching his cobalt eyes. The wicked innuendo in his question stole her breath, but she refused to back down.
Yet it was not the thought of Bryce’s survival or her life inside Delia’s prison that inspired the next words from her lips, but the scarlet image that unfurled in her mind, of this man raining kisses all over her body. The dark, violent hurricane of him sweeping her off her feet and…
She chased away a whirlwind of wicked thoughts, but her voice came out as a breathy whisper: “What did Your Grace have in mind?”
CHAPTER 5
A Devil’s Bargain
Connor jolted at her so-willing answer. Mother Mary. Why, he had not been expecting that.
All this time, he had merely been toying with the girl, in truth, pumping her for information, and frankly, he was shocked she had not run screaming from the house.
The little thing had had such a demure, refined look, like sugar wouldn’t melt on her tongue. But, much to his roguish astonishment, she had stood her ground. And now, sweet heavens, in answer to his probing, it seemed the lady was game for a bit o’ sport.
Perhaps she figured that if she was going to have to make concessions to get what she wanted, anyway, then she might as well enjoy it.
Especially since it was clear that young Lord Mincemeat had never touched her or taught her what that tantalizing young body of hers could do.
Oh, to be sure, having quickly concluded that this naïve damsel had nothing to do with the threat against his family, he could think of a long list of naughty games he’d like to play with her.
But in point of fact, he had a much better use for the elegant beauty than that. That he could get anywhere. By contrast, the arrival of an aristocratic young lady on his doorstep offered a rare opportunity.
This one was clearly a very well-behaved young miss under normal circumstances. And she had been brave (if a bit reckless) coming here on her quest to save her beau’s life.
Connor could respect that, and had no wish either to harm or to terrify the girl.
Still, he found her unexpected pluck rather hilarious, and couldn’t resist pushing her just a little further, bad as he was. He couldn’t help it.
After all, he now knew that she was made of sterner stuff than first glance would suggest. She had dared to come here, hadn’t she? And if she possessed that sort of grit behind her silk-and-lace demeanor, then, here in the hostile territory of the ton, she could be of use to him indeed—his own native guide to this alien land, as it were, with all its strange rituals and unfriendly tribes.
It was just the sort of alliance he’d have looked for on some reconnaissance mission for the Army deep behind enemy lines. For although he rarely talked about it, Connor had been no ordinary soldier.
Given his three-generation military heritage and all the years he had served from boyhood on, he had tried his hand at many facets of war craft. He’d had a very thorough education. From the geometric calculations of aiming artillery fire, to the care and training of cavalry horses; from the rhetoric of rallying his troops’ morale, to the battlefield chess of strategic maneuvers.
He’d become a bit of a jack-of-all-trades, and that had made him valuable to the generals, most of whom had known his father and grandfather. Between his well-known military lineage and his own proven successes in action, the brass knew he could be relied upon in a range of capacities, so they would often pull him away from his usual regiment and send him off wherever he was needed.
Odd jobs, as it were.
Filling in here for a colonel who’d got his head blown off until a capable replacement arrived. Leading a small squadron there to rescue some high-value hostage. Disrupting enemy supply lines, blowing up bridges, and so forth.
He enjoyed the adventure, the unpredictability of his flexible role, and had declined plum promotions to keep it.
But the area where he’d seemed to fit most naturally was in military intelligence. Slipping behind enemy lines to reconnoiter, surveying territory, sketching quick maps, scouting out advantages or obstacles in the landscapes, discovering enemy troop strengths, or, less frequently, charming his way among the locals to connect with any resistance leaders in towns under enemy control, establishing trust and communication with their groups.
From long habit, he thought like an intelligence officer.
And he was doing that now, sizing up this young woman.
It disturbed him to admit how taken off guard he had been by her beau’s accusation—that he, himself, had murdered his own kin. However outrageous the claim, he chided himself for not realizing in advance that the idea could have occurred to somebody here, especially given his outsider status.
The fact that he hadn’t thought of it—or had deemed it so daft that he hadn’t given it serious consideration—just went to show how out of his element he was in this place.
England. London. Peacetime.
Being a damned duke.
In this situation, he felt like the quintessential fish out of water—but this was Lady Margaret’s world. All the more keenly, he felt the need for an ally who knew her way around the ton, had been born to it.
Lady Margaret Winthrop could help him.
God knew his life had been saved often enough by sharp-witted local guides. They could tell you whom to avoid, who held the real power in these parts, where not to go in town unless he wanted trouble, and all manner of local customs and pitfalls, the ignorance of which could lead to disaster.
In short, she’d make an ideal recruit for the job.
But that prim pursing of her mouth warned him that she had remembered her morals, alas.
Chances seemed slim that she would willingly go along with his request.
No matter. He’d simply have to get the fine lady to compromise herself here just a bit, then she’d have no choice but to help him.
Otherwise, if Connor simply agreed to her request and spared her beau’s life in exchange for her promise of cooperation, who was to say she would still honor their bargain once she got what she wanted?
The duel would be over by tomorrow morning, and she could easily back out, fluttering her lashes, playing the damsel in distress. Take advantage of his sense of chivalry, which, deep down, Connor knew was both his greatest strength and his Achilles’ heel.
No. He could not assume that she’d keep her word to help a stranger—an Irish one, at that, and an enemy of her suitor.
Even so, Connor could tell that the lady liked the look of him.
He had seen that from the first smile they had exchanged in the ballroom. And the attraction was most definitely mutual.
“Hmm…what did I have in mind? An excellent question, my lady.”
She watched him with skittish apprehension, one shoulder drawn back, as though she were half poised to flee. It appeared she already regretted her words signaling compliance with his wishes.
“I suppose that depends on how far. How far might you be willing to go to save your suitor?”
She took a tiny step backward, escaping his light touch on her face. “I-I’m sure I have no idea what you mean.”
“I’m sure you do,” he whispered. “But very well. I shall elucidate.”
He lowered his hand to his side again, the heat of her blush still lingering on his fingertips. He backed off a bit, returning to lean against the mantel. He ran a finger through the layer of dust on it and frowned absently. I really need to hire new servants.
The inspiration for how to achieve his objective came readily enough. He hid a sly smile, then turned to her. “You see, love, soldier that I am, there was many a night bivouacking under the stars, when, long deprived of a lady’s company, I would dream of a finely turned ankle.”
Her eyebrows shot up.
He let his gaze slide down her skirts toward her slippered feet. “Would you by chance have a pair of those?” he murmured wickedly.