The Courtesan Duchess

by Joanna Shupe

  “Your Grace!” Angela exclaimed, her expression one of surprise. “We did not know you had arrived.” Theo came in right behind her, both of them staring curiously at Colton.

  “I know. I came up here first.” He placed his hands on his hips. “I would like my wife to have the chambers adjoining mine, as is her rightful place in this household. Please clear your belongings out tonight.”

  Angela’s cheeks flushed. “Oh, of course,” she breathed. “I never meant any disrespect to Julia. I offered to move and she told me—”

  “Well, now I’m telling you,” Nick said, his voice edged with hard steel.

  “Of course. Right away. If you will excuse me.” Angela turned and left.

  “Colton, that was unnecessary,” Julia protested.

  “No, he is right,” Theo put in from the doorway. “She should have given up those chambers without being asked. Good evening, Your Grace.” She curtsied.

  Nick gave Theo a small bow. “Lady Carville.”

  “Will you be staying with us a few days?”

  “Yes, until my wife is back on her feet.”

  Theo shot Julia a brief glance. “How interesting,” she murmured. “Well, I shall see both chambers are cleaned and readied.” She left the room, closing the door behind her.

  Julia shut her eyes and rubbed her temples. Heavens, she was exhausted, confused, and angry. Colton had been nothing but a nuisance since coming to England. Had he truly been disappointed she hadn’t miscarried? Was he so cruel? Tears pooled behind her lids, both for their child and the man she’d fallen in love with in Venice—a man she knew she’d never see again.

  “You need to rest,” Nick said, his tone flat. “I shall return to help move you to your new chamber.”

  She nodded and heard him leave the room. Rolling over, she unleashed her tears into her pillow.

  Nick closed his wife’s door and strode down the hall. Emotion churned in his gut and he desperately needed a drink. He’d ridden half the night and all day, hardly leaving the saddle except to change horses, the fear over Julia’s health nearly driving him mad.

  And seeing her so pale and tired, it had been all he could do to stop from wrapping his arms around her and never letting go.

  What was wrong with him?

  She had likely tricked him in the worst way a woman could deceive a man. Yet, he couldn’t get her out of his mind. For six weeks, he’d tried to forget her—and failed. Nights were the worst, when the smell of her . . . the feel of her . . . the taste of her haunted him. And after what happened at Madame Hartley’s, Nick hadn’t the desire to try again with another woman. So he was trapped, desperate for the one woman he could not allow himself to have.

  He’d vowed to stay away from Seaton Hall, hoping the terrible need would dissipate. Then in September, when he learned whether the babe was his or not, Nick could leave without regrets. After all, she hadn’t wanted a husband—she’d wanted a baby born under the protection of the Seaton name. Julia had said herself that he should leave and go back to Venice.

  Clearly the woman did not yearn for him.

  So why was he so bewitched by her?

  He found Thorton, the butler. The man had been at Seaton Hall for as long as Nick could remember. Although in his late sixties or early seventies, Thorton was remarkably spry for a man of advanced years. When Nick and Fitz had arrived earlier in the evening, Thorton had almost sprinted in an effort to alert the staff of the duke’s presence.

  “Have Mr. Fitzpatrick located and sent to the study,” Nick ordered.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Thorton returned in his raspy baritone.

  Nick strode into the opulent study, a room used by his brother, his father, and the rest of the bloody Colton dukes. If that wasn’t depressing enough, the room held especially dark memories for Nick since he’d discovered his brother’s body here.

  He went to the sideboard and was grateful to find it well stocked. He poured a healthy glass of his father’s best whisky. At least he didn’t have his mother to contend with any longer. He could still remember many of the scoldings she’d given him—in front of his father, of course—in this very room. Her favorite topic had always been the disappointment that was her second son.

  Then, the night after his brother’s funeral, he’d stood here with both his parents, hate and blame in their eyes as they stared at their only surviving child. Nick had tried to explain, but no one believed him. So he’d stopped explaining.

  He tossed back a mouthful of spirits, chasing away the bitter memories with the oak and peat-flavored whisky. Christ, he hated this place.

  Instead of sitting behind the large desk, Nick chose a small chair by the fireplace. A brief knock sounded before Fitz lumbered into the room.

  “Good evening, Your G—”

  “Do not say it,” Nick snapped. “I’ve been Your Grace’d to death since returning to this damned pile of rocks.” He stood and returned to the sideboard, where he poured Fitz a whisky as well. “Sit, Fitz.”

  Nick handed Fitz the glass and retook his own seat. “Tomorrow, I want to ride out to the forest path and look at where my wife fell. I want to verify for myself it was an accident.”

  “You suspect otherwise?”

  Something about it gnawed at Nick. Two mysterious falls in such a short period of time, if one considered his mother’s death. Could it be coincidence?

  When first told of the dowager duchess’s death, he’d assumed Satan had grown tired of waiting for the harpy and arrived to collect her. But now he wondered over the circumstances. Had she tripped or had it been . . . something else? Seemed unlikely. Sheer evil was deuced difficult to kill, after all. And who would’ve wanted to do her in? A disgruntled staff member weary of being berated?

  Yet with his own share of scrapes, Nick had learned to trust his instincts. And right now, two falls appeared too much to brush off—at least not until he checked Julia’s accident site for himself.

  He shrugged. “I confess I do not know. But to trip and fall at the precise point where the path steepens? You of all people know the danger in assuming that tragic events are mere coincidence. So until my curiosity has been satisfied, I want her protected. In fact, when I go back to London, I want you to remain here in my absence.”

  Fitz scowled, the scar on his face twisting viciously. “Why?”

  “It appears my wife needs more watching over than I do.”

  Fitz shook his head. “No. Why will you be goin’ back to London?”

  Because I cannot stay here and not touch her. “It is better if I leave.”

  “Better for who?” Fitz gulped some whisky, the small, delicate glass almost comical in his large hands. “I never picked you for a coward.”

  Nick started to deny it, but Fitz knew him too well. So he said nothing, merely stared into the fire.

  “How long will you be stayin’, then?” Fitz asked.

  “Until she’s mended. Perhaps two or three days.”

  “Aye, I’ll watch over her, but you’d best take heed in London. If somethin’ happens to you whilst I am here, I’ll never forgive you.”

  “You needn’t worry. Quint hardly leaves my side as it is. He’s taken your warnings regarding my safety to heart.”

  “When will you be forgivin’ Lord Winchester, then?”

  Nick’s shoulders tightened. “When I bloody feel like it, Fitz.” He hadn’t spoken to Winchester since the day in his study, when his friend told him of Julia’s financial troubles. “And why do you care?”

  “I don’t. Seems a shame, though, to throw away an old friendship because Winchester did the gentlemanly thing.”

  “The gentlemanly thing?” Nick growled through a clenched jaw. “Helping my wife pose as a whore to trick me? Making a fool out of me? Lying to my face? Is this what gentlemen do where you’re from?”

  Fitz shook his head. “No. Where I’m from, if a man ignored his wife for eight years, leavin’ her to almost starve, her family would be meetin’ him in a back alley with
a fist or two.”

  “Yes, her family. Not her husband’s best friend.”

  “Winchester considers her family, though.” He drained his glass and rose to his feet where he towered over Nick. “And you know it. You just don’t want to admit you’re wrong. You never do, you bloody stubborn duke.”

  Nick’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, and this stubborn duke can have you sleeping in the stables if you aren’t careful.”

  Fitz threw his head back and chuckled. “I’ve slept in worse spots than your stables, Your Grace. In fact, it’s a palace compared to some of the Dublin alleys I’ve found myself in. I’m off to bed, unless you’ll be needin’ anything else.”

  “No. You’ve done enough for one night.”

  Thorton came in next. “Your Grace, the main chambers have been readied for yourself and Her Grace.”

  “Thank you. I will see to settling my wife in her new room. Have her maid move Her Grace’s things in the morning.”

  “Very well, Your Grace. Good night.”

  “Good night, Thorton.” Nick finished his whisky and stretched. He was exhausted. The sooner he got Julia settled, the sooner he could find his own bed.

  When he knocked softly on his wife’s door, there was no answer. He peeked in—only to see she was fast asleep. Moving silently, he came forward, intent on scooping her up. Instead, he found himself pausing by her bed.

  Her breathing even and deep, she looked peaceful. Innocent. Her long blond hair swirled around a face carved by angels, and while the covers hid her body from his view, Nick remembered every luscious bit. Dreamed of her curves each night. Merely being in the same room with her made him ache.

  Hard to say why, but he wanted her in the room directly next to his. Because you’re a fool, a voice whispered in the back of his head.

  He pulled back the bedclothes and sucked in a breath. Her night rail had crept up her legs, revealing creamy, smooth thighs, while her breasts, now even larger with pregnancy, strained at the bodice. Desire punched Nick in the gut, and he closed his eyes, fighting to regain control.

  He tried not to think about sliding into her bed, naked, and making love to her.

  When he felt more himself again, he lifted his lids—and that’s when he spotted the gentle swell of her belly. It wasn’t much but he could see a bump under the thin cotton. Christ, it was truly a baby. Nick dragged a hand down his face, emotions cascading though him.

  The plan was solid, he reminded himself. When it was proven the child wasn’t his, he could leave the country without giving the boy or girl the protection of his name. If he happened to be wrong and it was his . . . Well, he’d never wanted to be a father—he didn’t know how, really—and he didn’t want to stay in England.

  But it wasn’t really his child . . . was it?

  The possibility was too much to think about. Nick slid his arms underneath Julia, one behind her neck and one under her knees. She sighed as he lifted her, her arms winding around his neck. Nick smothered a groan. Not only were her breasts crushed against his chest, but also her scent—gardenias, so sweet and familiar—enveloped him. It made him long for those innocent nights in Venice, before he knew of her deceit.

  Nick slowly traveled the long corridor and turned the corner. The duchess’s chambers adjoined his at the far end of the east wing, though he’d never slept in the master suite. The last time he’d been at Seaton Hall, his father had still been alive. It had been Harry’s funeral.

  Nick nudged open the door with his boot and stepped inside Julia’s new apartments. The rooms were large, decorated with his mother’s heavy hand. Nick made a mental note to tell his wife to redecorate at her leisure. Now that he’d gone though the estate finances, he knew they could well afford any changes she wanted to make to Seaton Hall.

  Hell, she could burn the place down and start over for all he cared.

  He leaned over and gently placed Julia on the bed. When he tried to pull away, she tightened her arms. “Nick,” she breathed against his throat.

  He froze. Indecision gripped him, anger and pride battling the raging lust in his groin. How easy it would be to give in, he thought. To sink into her softness and slake his need for her. Only, what then?

  A quick glance at her face convinced him she was asleep. Relieved, he untangled her arms from around his neck and lifted the bedclothes to cover her. He stood for another minute, watching and wanting her. Torturing himself.

  Before he could prevent it, Nick bent to place a soft kiss on her forehead. Her skin was cool and supple, and it was hell to pull back. Sighing, he went to the adjoining chamber and fell into bed, clothes and all.

  The next morning, the two women were already seated in the breakfast room when Nick arrived.

  “Good morning, Your Grace,” Lady Lambert and Lady Carville both called cheerfully.

  “Good morning, ladies,” he answered. After a restless night, he’d been up for hours, having already broken his fast and gone for a morning ride. “Lady Lambert, would you be so kind as to ride out with me this morning? I should like to see the exact place in the path where my wife fell.”

  His brother’s wife nodded. “Certainly, Your Grace. I would be happy to accompany you. I’ll change and meet you in about twenty minutes.” She stood and hurried from the room.

  Lady Carville gave him a shrewd glance. “Why, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “I don’t know yet. It may be nothing,” he answered honestly. “But my years abroad have taught me to be cautious about accidents.”

  “Yes, I had heard you met with a few supposed accidents yourself. Do you believe Julia is in danger?”

  “I hope not. In any case, I will leave Fitz here to watch out for the three of you when I leave.”

  “Do you think it necessary? Perhaps you should stay until your son or daughter is born.”

  Nick’s spine straightened. It was on the tip of his tongue to insist the child wasn’t his, but he refrained. Time would prove him right. “No, I must leave. But if the babe is not born before September, I will return.”

  Understanding dawned in Lady Carville’s eyes, and she sighed. “Have you thought as to the consequences of your mistrust, Your Grace? She’ll likely never forgive you.”

  “Then we shall be even. If you’ll excuse me, madam.”

  His mood decidedly sour, Nick found Fitz readying three mounts in the stables. There was a small mare for Lady Lambert, a massive hunter for Fitz, and Nick’s new stallion, Charon. Purchased three weeks prior at Tattersall’s, Charon was sixteen hands high and solid black. Spirited and stubborn, Nick had enjoyed turning him loose on the grounds earlier this morning.

  “You sure to be wantin’ me along?” Fitz asked as Nick approached.

  “Definitely. I would rather not be alone with Lady Lambert. Besides, I want your opinion on the spot where my wife supposedly fell.”

  “Worried she’ll throw herself at you, eh?”

  Nick remembered several uncomfortable exchanges with his brother’s wife while Harry had been alive. She’d taken every opportunity to flirt with him, even in front of Harry. He’d never encouraged her, but she had been persistent, surprised that the Depraved Duke would balk at cuckolding his brother.

  And then there had been the fateful night, the one where it all turned to hell.

  “Just stay close,” Nick muttered, and grabbed Charon’s reins. In one fluid motion, he vaulted into the saddle.

  “Well, here she comes now.” Fitz motioned toward the house and Nick turned to see Lady Lambert, looking cheerful as she sauntered out to the stables in a brown riding habit.

  When she reached them, Nick could see her displeasure as she absorbed the fact that there were three mounts, not two. “Fitz will ride along,” he announced.

  She nodded and moved to the mounting block. A nearby groom held her mount while she seated herself on the mare.

  Nick made an impatient gesture toward Fitz, so his friend quickly swung himself onto the hunter. “Let’s go,” Nick said, and led Ch
aron toward the forest.

  The three of them took off at a steady clip. It was a clear, crisp spring morning and the familiar sights and smells reminded Nick of his boyhood, tramping about the estate. He could still recall the head gardener, a grizzled Mr. Thompkins, who never minded a small boy following him about. Because of Mr. Thompkins, Nick knew the name of almost every flower and tree on the property. As if that knowledge would ever do him any good.

  Nick wondered when Lady Lambert would begin talking. She was never one to remain quiet, and he suspected she had quite a bit to say to him after eight years.

  He didn’t have to wait long. As soon as they passed the pond, Lady Lambert maneuvered her horse next to Nick’s, Fitz trailing behind.

  “Your Grace,” she began, her voice no louder than a murmur. “Should we not at least discuss what happened that night?”

  “No, we should not.” That night was the last thing he wanted to think about. He kept his eyes forward, his concentration on the path.

  “But you must allow me to apologize.”

  Nick said nothing. Apologies wouldn’t bring his brother back. Or repair the damage to Nick’s reputation. And then there was the matter of his guilt, which no apology would ever eliminate.

  “I am different now, you should know,” she continued. “I see how foolish I was then. Oh, Nick—”

  His eyes, narrowed in warning, flew to hers.

  “I mean, Your Grace.” She blushed and looked away. “I merely wanted you to know how much I regret what happened. And I hope one day we can be friends.”

  He couldn’t form a response polite enough for a lady’s ears, so he kept quiet. He prayed she would do the same.

  Fitz called, “How much farther, Lady Lambert, if you don’t mind me askin’?”

  “About ten more minutes, I think. It was right before the big bend in the path.” She shifted in her saddle and smoothed her skirts. “Have you been to visit your mother’s grave, Your Grace?”

  He sighed. The unpleasantness of this journey knew no bounds, apparently. “No, I have not. But do not worry. I plan to dance a jig on it before I leave.”