The Duke's Temptation

by Raven McAllan

  “Then I commend you.” The park was getting busier with traders and milkmaids. Gibb sighed. “I expect we need to get back.”

  “I suppose so. I enjoy our outings.” Evangeline slotted Honey in behind Gibb’s horse and made sure she presented a picture of subservience. Gibb turned around in the saddle.

  “What on earth are you doing? You look, not to put too fine a point to it, constipated.”

  “I what?” Evangeline was so startled she let her hands drop the reins, and it was only due to Honey’s good nature that she didn’t career into a pie seller and make him spill his tray of pastries. “No, don’t say it again. I’m not, I am practicing to be your inferior.”

  “You…” Gibb did allow his horse to break into a trot and swore as he brought him back into a walk. “Why?” he asked, as they turned into the road that led to the mews behind his house, where the horses were stabled.

  “I thought it might help, and make life easier for you.”

  “Not a chance. It will make people think I’ve become feeble-minded. Now come on and ride alongside me.”

  * * * *

  Over a month later, Gibb looked back over the previous weeks. Had he been in London for so long? He’d achieved a lot, been frustrated in many things, and to his amazement found a friend in Evangeline.

  And, Gibb allowed, made an enemy in Denby Crowe, who could hardly bear to spend time in the same room as Gibb. He’d asked diffidently if he could stay around while his younger sister came to the capital for a few weeks, prior to her debut the following season. Gibb could hardly have refused that, but it made him uneasy. On several occasions he’d thought himself watched, as the hairs on the back of his neck had lifted and his scalp had prickled.

  His sojourn in the capital lengthened, with no noticeable end in sight, and, most annoying to him, many hostesses rushed to engage Gibb to come to whatever entertainment they had arranged. It was a fine juggling act to accept as few invitations as possible without offending anyone. If he had his way he would ignore them all, but for various reasons did not. One had always supported him, another was a friend of his late parents. A third’s husband had been his compatriot at Eton. And so it went on.

  Perforce, at some he encountered Denby. To Gibb’s knowledge, Crowe had never been high on any hostess’s list of preferred guests, and that, Gibb surmised, was to Crowe another reason to dislike Gibb. As he could do nothing about any of it he took care to watch his own back.

  A few days later, early in the evening and deep in thought, Gibb tied his cravat and shuddered at the idea of the hours ahead. It was a pity his friends and acquaintances took the fact he was still in town as a sign he needed to be entertained, and the dowagers and pushy mamas as an indication he was ready to remarry. He required neither and would be a lot happier staying at home. However, some things couldn’t be passed over. The entertainment of that evening was one of them. One of the few people who hadn’t hounded him after Hester had died was her brother Henry. He’d known what his sister was like, commiserated with Gibb, said he was there if Gibb needed him and let Gibb do as he wished without any comment. Tonight was to be the first ball held by Henry and his new bride. They had married in Norfolk and Gibb had made his apologies as, he’d explained, he was needed elsewhere. An excuse he’d made real. Henry might be forgiving, but his siblings were less so and the last thing Gibb had wanted was to ruin the day.

  It was therefore important that he show his face at the ball where, he was reasonably certain, the niceties would be preserved. Henry’s bride was what Gibb thought of as sweet, innocent and without an original idea of her own. Someone he would steer clear of if he thought she had any interest in him. However, even though he had no more than a passing acquaintance with the lady, it was obvious she worshiped her husband. Her eyes followed him and he had been informed—in total secrecy—by no less than three of his peers that the lady referred to Henry for his opinion about everything. From whether her choice of hat was suitable to what to eat for dinner or their activity each evening. She seemed to suit Henry, who told Gibb it was gratifying to be deferred to in such a manner, and that he enjoyed the feeling that his wife needed him. Gibb thought that without a doubt she was what Henry, a gentle soul, required. It would not suit him, however.

  An image of Evangeline came unwanted to mind. Evangeline, cheeks rosy with temper, as she had looked when she’d confronted Crowe. Evangeline laughing in the moonlight, her eyes sparkling and her scent surrounding him as she walked barefoot across his lawn at midnight. Evangeline talking, a chicken leg between her fingers waving around as she made her point about something with enthusiasm. Evangeline, knives in hand, throwing them at him as he stood in his ballroom in front of a makeshift wall. Evangeline as she guided him in her art and cheered as he hit a pillowcase stuffed with straw roughly where she’d indicated. Her feistiness, her determination and yes, her independence. Everything about her called to Gibb.

  But still he hesitated in demonstrating how he felt. How did he know if his feelings of contentment would last? Would she still be as independent if he revealed his feelings? Did he even know what they were? What did he want?

  Gibb put on his signet, adjusted his cravat and picked up his snuffbox. Somewhat of an affectation as he didn’t take snuff, and it was of plain tortoiseshell, not over-decorated as many were. Plus he had neither a secret compartment nor any risqué paintings on it. Such a difference from those of many of his acquaintance, or from the large, ornate ram’s horn mull full of snuff on his dining table in Scotland. That, filled with ‘his sort’, was used a great deal by fellow lairds. This portable pocket one, he supposed, was just something he used as a prop. It often helped to ease awkwardness if, or should that be when men hesitated about how to deal with him. He would open it one-handed and propose the gentleman in question try ‘his sort’. He didn’t mention it was a generic mix from Fribourg & Treyer in Haymarket, with the addition of a hint of whisky from the distillery on his estate in Scotland. The ladies he just complimented on their dress, perfume or jewelry. Very few took snuff and those who did were considered beyond the pale.

  “Don’t wait up,” he said to his valet. “I doubt I’ll stop late at Sir Henry’s, but I might drop into Watier’s afterward.” Evangeline was spending the evening with Eloise, making her costume for her booking at Vauxhall. They were, she had told Gibb, deciding on sequins and slippers. ‘And of course I need to make sure I can move without catching my knives in chiffon,” she’d said with a laugh. “For how galling that would be, if I cut my dress in half instead of my victim’s, er, willing partner’s handkerchief.’ Gibb thought victim was a better choice of title than partner, willing or otherwise, but kept quiet about it.

  With Evangeline happy at home sewing on sequins and ribbons, Gibb entered his carriage and admitted he’d rather be spending the evening with her. Not dependent on each other, he told himself firmly. Just two people who enjoyed each other’s company. He had not many evenings before been invited to take supper with Evangeline and Eloise and enjoyed every second of both ladies’ company.

  This evening, he arrived at Henry’s townhouse within minutes and wondered why on earth he’d called for his carriage when he could have walked the distance almost as fast. The quirks and vagaries of the ton astonished and annoyed him in equal measure. He told his coachman he wouldn’t be needed anymore that evening, he’d walk or arrange for a hackney, and thought, not for the first time, how he wished he could leave London.

  With Evangeline?

  That notion had him rocking on his heels. Did he want that? Whether he did or not, an hour later he wished it was her company he was enjoying, not Henry’s and his bride’s, however welcoming they were. Balls were not his idea of entertainment. In fact, he would admit that this one was rapidly becoming one of the worst evenings of his sojourn in town. As he had expected, Hester and Henry’s sisters were distant and scarcely polite and one too many debs had made sheep’s eyes at him.

  “So, my lord, is this not the m
ost exciting evening imaginable?” Lady Penelope, or was it Prudence or Prunella Sunley—he had no idea which sister it was, to him they were interchangeable—fluttered her lashes at him and tittered.

  Tittering, for god’s sake. Does she know how idiotic she appears? Does she care?

  Whichever Sunley chit it was leaned in toward him—much too close for a so-called innocent debutante—and Gibb gagged as an unpleasant amount of a strong scent hit him with the power of a horse and carriage. “I do love to waltz.” She looked up at him expectantly.

  Gibb, who had told Henry in no uncertain terms that he was stopping for an hour, no longer, and had no intentions of dancing or squiring any young lady, looked at her without expression. “Really?” he said in a scarcely polite tone. “I see young Cedric Popplewell coming over, and I suggest you look to him for a partner. “

  “Oh, I must say,” she spluttered, reddened and glared at him.

  “Must you? I wouldn’t bother if I were you,” he said, unrepentant at how rude he was. Gibb bowed as the young lady glowered. He smiled grimly and turned on his heel. That was it. His duty was over and he could leave in the knowledge he’d done as he said and showed his face. He made his brisk farewells to the newly married couple, let Henry extract a promise to meet him at Tattersall’s the following day, and left the ballroom before he could be accosted by anyone else.

  As he reached the front door and accepted his cloak and cane, a fellow peer and someone who was more than an acquaintance but not a close friend approached him.

  “Ho, Gibb, you off to Watier’s?”

  Gibb inclined his head. “Just so.”

  “Then I’ll come with you, if I may?” Anthony Tarporly asked. “I’m heading that way myself. I’ve had enough of the ball. There wasn’t even a decent card game. What made you show your face?”

  “Henry is my late wife’s brother,” Gibb said, rueing the stiff note in his voice. He forced himself to relax. “I promised Henry I’d take a look in and toast him and Mary.”

  He watched the other man assimilate his words. And those unsaid, along the lines of, ‘Unlike her parents, Henry never blamed me for Hester’s death. I blamed me, though.’

  “Ah yes, a lovely couple,” Anthony said in a sickly voice after a second. “Almost it makes me think about putting my head in the parson’s noose. Almost. What about you?”

  “Me?” Gibb stood back to let Anthony precede him down the shallow flight of steps to the pavement. “As I’ve intimated ad nauseam, I’ve done it once and once was enough.”

  “Ah. Pity. Are you sure?” Anthony stared at him earnestly as they made their way down the street, their footsteps echoing hollowly on the cobbles. “Because if you do need to beget an heir, I could have a solution. The thing is, I did wonder if, now that you’re back in circulation, and getting bothered, you’d find your way to perhaps offer for Margaret, m’sister. The pater says she’s nigh on the shelf and needs to wed and soon. She’s had a season already, plus this one, and not taken, and would make someone a suitable, biddable wife. I thought maybe…” He raised one eyebrow and let his voice trail off. “You need an heir and all that, and she’d not bother you to change your ways or… Oh blazes.”

  “You thought?” Gibb said in a voice icy enough to freeze water as he resisted the urge to throttle Anthony. “Did you not hear a word I said? You thought that I would be willing to tie myself to someone half my age? Someone who is no doubt needy and would not be satisfied to plow her own furrow within the precepts of a marriage I, I mind you, dictated. A child. Whatever you say, you know the way a woman, even a female, half woman, half child’s mind works. Want, need… Good god, have you learned nothing about me?” he burst out as his ire began to force every other emotion out of the way to let itself be known. “My first wife died because I could not give her the attention she wanted, and you, you think to inflict that on me again. To say nothing of how it would affect your sister.” He threw his hands in the air in disgust. “Some brother you are.”

  Tarporly’s mouth dropped open as he stared at Gibb. As it might, Gibb thought unrepentant, as every last annoyance and irritation came to the fore.

  “Is this all your own idea or did your parents put you up to it?” Gibb demanded. “I doubt it came from your sister, who on the one occasion I recollect I ever noticed her looked as if she was about to burst into tears and almost ran in the other direction.” He paused, swallowed and reined his temper in with difficulty. Tarporly looked at him warily, as if trying to decide whether to run or stand his ground. Sensibly, he kept his mouth shut.

  “Does that mean you have told her she should look in my direction?” Gibb demanded. “For if so, be thankful dueling is frowned upon.”

  Tarporly shifted from one foot to the other. “Oh, come on, Gibb,” he said, placatory. “It was a suggestion, nothing more. I thought it would prevent you having to trawl the debs.”

  “Anthony, to save yourself further embarrassment, listen to me. I have no intention of trawling anywhere,” Gibb said, his anger gone. What was the point in continuing to lose his temper with someone who had no idea why Gibb was so irate? “Or remarrying. Where did you get the idea I would?”

  “Mama. She says the tabbies are saying you need to and it’s best to do it now. So as Margaret is single and ready to wed, the obvious conclusion was suggest her to you.” He shrugged. “Nothing ventured and all that.”

  “And does your sister know you are talking to me like this?” Gibb asked in a voice that could crack glass.

  “Lord no.” Tarporly looked at Gibb in horror. “She would be mortified. A private person is m’sister. Never has a word to say for herself. Drives Mama mad. I mean, there’s such a thing as too shy and retiring.”

  Almost, Gibb felt sorry for the poor woman. Not sorry enough to offer for her, though. “Anthony, take it from me, we wouldn’t suit. No one would. And please, if you value our friendship, pass this about. Gibb Alford is not going to marry. Not today, not tomorrow, not next year, not ever.”

  “Oh, I thought…” Once more Tarporly’s voice trailed off as the carriage rattled over cobbles and slowed to a halt.

  “Don’t think,” Gibb advised him. “It is obvious it addles your brain. How about sorting your own nuptials out? There are plenty of young ladies out there who would jump at the chance of being a bride.”

  “If you won’t marry Margaret, I suppose I’ll have to set my cap at someone,” Anthony said gloomily. “There are heavy hints that I could do worse than Lady Lucinda Best. She’s got a fortune and only brays like a donkey when she’s excited.”

  It was no wonder Gibb lost heavily at cards.

  Or woke up the following morning with the headache from hell.

  Chapter Six

  The note Gibb received was terse and to the point. “I have been given information I think we need to do something about. I am home all week.” It was signed with a simple ‘E’. He studied it for several minutes and wondered.

  Wondering got you nowhere he decided as he ran through his must-go-to engagements for the following days—and nights—in his mind and penned a swift reply.

  Another letter had rearranged a lot of his plans. He’d been waiting to buy Cresswell House, the childhood home of Lady Millicent Cresswell, his late and beloved godmother, for years. But what a time to be told the owners were ready to sell.

  Three months earlier the Dowager Lady Mendip, his godmother’s late son’s wife, had at last agreed it was time to move in with her daughter—much, Gibb surmised, to the annoyance of that lady’s husband—and as no one wanted Cresswell House she’d given Gibb first refusal. At an inflated price, of course, but between them, he and his man of business had managed to get it at a price they’d accepted. Slightly more than he wanted to pay but a considerable amount less than Lady Mendip wanted to sell at.

  However, with a lot of humming and hawing and crocodile tears on Lady Mendip’s part, a deal had at last been struck. Now, though, he had to go down to the house, and look it over to se
e what he wanted done. Nevertheless, he didn’t want to leave Evangeline without his protection.

  Would she go with him? If he didn’t ask he’d never know.

  First things first. He’d go to Evangeline after a mandatory showing at Lady Arthur’s ball. Along with Henry, Julia Arthur was one of the few people who had stood by him through all his earlier troubles and had been kind enough not to say ‘I told you’ so when Hester had disregarded all the warnings he had given her and died for her defiance.

  Now with Anne, her youngest daughter betrothed, she had no more offspring to, as she so elegantly put it, send off into the big bad world without a cushion to fall back on. Julia had laughingly told Gibb he could come drink to the happy couple and escape with his honor and reputation intact.

  * * * *

  “The reputation you cultivate with such assiduousness,” she said with a chortle and a rap of his knuckles with her fan. “But you know, my dear Gibb, it does not put the chits off. If anything it encourages them. Each desires to be the one who tames the tortured duke.”

  He snorted. “Mutton-headed halfwits. They’d be better off sorting out their own lives and leaving me to arrange mine.”

  “Take it from me, that’s what they think they are doing,” Julia said. “Marriage, and thus saving you. I promise you can disappear before supper if you desire, and therefore you need not be overmuch bothered by them. Nevertheless, I do want to see you, and as an old friend, I could say if you hadn’t attended I would feel slighted.” She smiled to soften her words, but Gibb heard the steel and intention behind them.

  “My dear Julia, you are the one person who I can say with all honesty I truly love.” He kissed her cheek and she guffawed

  “Ridiculous boy.”

  “Not at all. Leave Bertie and run away with me.”

  As Lady Arthur was a compatriot of his late parents, she took his declaration in the spirit it was meant, and he watched in amusement as she guffawed out loud and tapped his shoulder, this time with enough force to rock him. “Ha, I wonder if Bertie would even notice?” she asked with glee.