That lightened Nora’s mood. She turned her attention to the appointments in the drawing room.
Aylesbury’s family arrived. Eva carried her enormous pregnancy as well as could be expected. Gareth insisted on plumping some pillows to prop her up. Padua, stunning in a dress the color of celadon pottery, laughed at something Ives said as they passed through the doorway.
Aylesbury followed them in. “Are your plans set for next week?” he asked Ives.
“Tickets bought and berths secured. We will sail into Genoa, and proceed from there.”
Aylesbury cast a glance at Padua’s torso. “Would it not be wiser to put this off until after that child is here?”
Ives laughed. “That would put it off a long while, Lance. We have only just learned of the blessing.”
“Special care should be taken.”
“You just do not want him to go,” Padua said. “Why not admit it? You know the physicians in Italy are equal to any here, should such be needed.” She took a few steps and kissed Lance on the cheek. “I promise to take good care of him, and let him come back. It will not be forever. Besides, Marianne has a glow about her that suggests you may have your own announcement soon.”
Mama overheard that. She turned wide, questioning eyes on Marianne.
“It appears so,” Marianne whispered. “I will know for certain soon.”
“While he is overcome with joy at the news, be sure to ask for more jewels,” Mama whispered back.
A squeal interrupted any further advice on the matter. Nora jumped up, ran, and threw her arms around a tall blond man who had just been brought to the doorway.
Tall, handsome, and dressed in his naval uniform, Vincent’s gaze took in the company. Nora danced around him with happiness. Marianne rose to make introductions.
Did she imagine that Lance examined him most closely while welcoming him to the group? Was that a glint of jealousy in those dark eyes? She led the way down to dinner, rather liking the idea that it was.
* * *
After dinner, Ives and Gareth retreated from the dining room after a half hour of port and conversation. Lance asked Vincent to stay.
He inquired after Vincent’s commission and ship, and the plans for the next voyage. He poured more wine, and took the man’s measure. Vincent answered with enthusiasm. His apparent love for the naval service added its own high notes, but Lance recognized a man hoping a duke’s interest would open possibilities in his career.
“Your sister is much improved,” Lance finally said. “Marianne has great hope that will continue, and that Nora will return to her former self.”
Vincent’s interests switched from himself to Nora. “I can never thank Marianne enough. I could not be here, and without her . . .” He drank more wine.
“She has a friend. A gardener. I saw them together when we visited Marianne’s mother last week.”
“A gardener? That is good. She needs friends.”
“To live a full life, she may also need a good man. One who understands her, and who asks for no more than she can give. I have asked and he may be such a man. I am not sure he is just a friend either. I think I witnessed a stolen kiss in the conservatory. Of course, with the glass so distorting—” He shrugged. “Would you object if she formed a tendre for this gardener? As her brother, you have some say.”
Vincent frowned over the question. Lance did not blame him. Nora had not been born to marry a laborer.
Then Vincent laughed tightly, to himself mostly. He looked Lance in the eyes. “It is hypocritical of me to be particular, when my first tendre was for a gardener.”
In the silence that followed, Vincent looked for a reaction. Lance gave him none. He cared not what preferences men had. Vincent would not be the first officer with these, not by far.
“Does Marianne know?”
“I doubt she is even aware of such—she does not know. I wanted to tell her, long ago and many times since.”
“I expect so. Now, as to your sister, and her gardener, if affections develop, I will bring the man to Merrywood, and ensure she has a secure future. I will back him in whatever he chooses to do in life. You are not to worry about her.”
“I thank you for that.” Vincent glanced at the door. “Are they not missing us?”
“Probably. However, I have something for you, before we join them.” Lance reached in his coat and removed a paper. He set it in front of Vincent. “The valet removed that from the bottle, and kept it. You are fortunate that he also removed and destroyed the bottle.”
Vincent looked at that paper a long while. Then he picked it up, and held it to a candle’s flame. It began burning.
“If he had left the bottle, nothing would have been found. I have traveled far and wide, Your Grace. There are cultures with medicines and herbs we never see here. There are shamans who concoct all kinds of potions unknown to our chemists.”
Expression firm, and not the least contrite, Vincent dropped the burning remnants of the paper into his glass.
“She told me she had been raped, when I visited her in Wiltshire soon after her illness. She could hardly speak of it, and barely understood it herself, but she managed enough to damn him. I knew your brother, you see. Knew him too well. Better than I ever knew you or Lord Ywain. I would visit my mother when on school holidays, and later. I saw him with his friends, and knew what was in him. He guessed what was in me too.”
“Did you confront him?”
“As soon as I could ride to Gloucestershire, I found him and called him out. He laughed. Then he described how he would break me, ruin me, if I breathed one word of my accusation. I knew he could do it. So I began to make other plans.” He gestured to the ashes in his glass. “If you read the note, you saw how contrite I was. He had interfered with a promotion last year, just to make sure I had not forgotten his power. I groveled in that note, begging his forgiveness so he would cease to act against me, saying I would speak no more of the matter that estranged us. I offered the wine as a gift of appeasement. I chose one of rare quality. I convinced the château to add this other label with my letter, so he would not want to drink it in company unless it was that of his accomplices. I imagined him opening that bottle, and toasting to my humiliation.”
“It was a long plot you hatched.”
“One has time to think on the details while out at sea. I could not touch him any other way, Your Grace. Not through the law. Not even through gossip. He was your brother, so I do not expect you to understand or forgive, but I did my duty as I saw it.”
“Do you know who those accomplices were?”
“I regret I do not. Perhaps, with time, my sister will remember.”
Lance knew he should feel worse about this than he did. Angry. Even vengeful. Blood was supposed to be thick, as Mr. Payne said. Only, when he looked at Vincent, what he really saw was Nora’s dead stare during that first carriage ride.
“There is no proof. More importantly, my wife holds you dear,” he said, standing. “Let us join the others.”
* * *
Marianne watched Lance and Vincent enter the drawing room. They had spent a good amount of time alone together. They appeared friendly as they came and joined with the company.
She made her way over to Lance. “Do you like him?” She nodded her head to where Vincent chatted with Eva.
“Very much.”
“I am so glad. I hoped you might become friends.”
“I do not know about friends. After all, he is competition, and I find myself jealous where you are concerned.”
“You know you have no competition, and never will, Lance. With all the love in my heart for you, there is no room for even the slightest flirtation with another man.”
“That is good to hear, darling. I will hold you to that, forever.”
“Besides, he probably has broken hearts all over the globe.”
/> “Undoubtedly.”
She stayed close, so she felt his warmth. She looked out over her company. “I think it has gone well, don’t you?”
“Magnificently, although yesterday the butler petitioned me for mercy and deliverance from your rule. You will be a grand hostess, at many more parties.”
“None so important as this one. Look, they are all here. Every person who is important to me, together, in one place. My family.”
He kissed her cheek. “Important to both of us, Marianne. But come with me now.”
They slipped out of the chamber. Taking her hand, he led her up the stairs.
“I do not think hostesses retire before their guests leave,” she said. “I am sure it is not done.”
“Family will not mind. Nor are we retiring. We will return before too long.”
To her surprise, he did not lead her to her chambers, or even to his. Instead he went to the door down from hers, the one that led to the duke’s apartment.
She had spent the last weeks emptying these chambers of everything. Even the walls had been stripped. Nothing of Percy, or any prior duke, survived. Then she had sought the aid of an architect in rebuilding and redecorating. It had only been finished three days ago.
Aylesbury walked around, surveying the results.
She followed him, until he ended his tour in the bedchamber. “Do you like it?” she asked. “Do you think you might use it all one day?”
He looked this way and that, nodding. “I believe I will. Your taste suits me. I like the gothic touches.”
“I am so glad. You were no help at all, and I thought I would do it all wrong.”
“I do not think you will ever do anything all wrong, darling.” He pushed on the bed’s mattress, testing it. He glanced back at her. “Actually, I think I will begin using the chambers immediately.”
“Now you are being naughty. It can wait a few hours.” She looked down at her dinner dress, then gestured to it to remind him of the poor timing of his whim.
He pulled her into his arms. “If I ever stop being naughty, I hope you have someone shoot me.” He kissed her deeply, and caressed her the ways he knew would leave her helpless soon.
She fought it, but only briefly. Their guests would not mind waiting. Most of them would probably guess what was happening. She embraced him, and let him have his way with her body, and her heart.
He managed it all without causing one lock of her hair to come undone, and without either of them undressing. When she released her hold on the bedpost and stood straight, her skirt fell into perfect folds. A stroll in the garden would have mussed her more.
He looked at the bed. “We will sleep here tonight, so the chambers and I reach a right understanding regarding who is allowed, and what ghosts are not. Also, I want my heir to grow accustomed to his home.”
“Your heir?”
“I heard you talking about our child. I understand that women share such things with each other because, well, they are women. But I am wounded you did not confide in me too.”
“I did not want to get your hopes up, only to disappoint you.”
“You could never disappoint me, darling.”
“It is only that I do not know yet.”
“I know. I am certain.”
She looked in his eyes. He was certain. She suddenly was too. She threw her arms around him. “I have been bursting to tell you all the last week. Are you happy?”
“What a question to ask me.” He took her face in his hands and kissed her softly. “Even without this news I am the happiest of men, Marianne. This only makes our lives more perfect. I would say it makes me love you more, but that is not possible. However, this brings me great joy. I can picture the child already. I will raise him to be honorable, strong, and good.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Good?”
He smiled and kissed her nose. “Well, maybe not too good. We don’t want him to be boring.”
She nestled against him in his embrace. She closed her eyes and savored how they shared the joy, and their love. More perfect, he had called their lives now. Tears formed as she thought just how perfect. She thanked fate for bringing her and the Wicked Duke together.
Keep reading for an excerpt from
THE SURRENDER OF MISS FAIRBOURNE
by Madeline Hunter
Available now from Jove Books
“With your father’s tragic passing, things are much changed, I think you will agree,” Mr. Nightingale said. He stood before her in his impeccable frock coat and cravat. He always looked like this. Tall, slender, dark, and perfect. Emma imagined the hours it must take him each day to put himself together with such precision.
She had never liked him much. Mr. Nightingale was one of the many people who showed a false face to the world. Everything about him was calculated, and too smooth, too polished, and too practiced. While imitating his betters, he had assumed their worst characteristics.
They were in the large back chamber where items consigned for auction were stored for cataloguing and study. It held bins for paintings at one end, and shelves and large tables for other objects. There was also a desk where she now sat. Mr. Nightingale had positioned himself to her side, so she did not have the distance of the desktop between them, the way she would prefer.
Emma of course agreed with his assessment that things were much changed. It was one of those statements that was so true as to need no articulation. She disliked when people spoke this way, explaining the obvious to her. Men in particular had this habit, she had noticed.
She merely nodded and waited for the rest. She wished he would hurry up with it too. These preliminaries were all beside the main point, which was that he was leaving, and some plain speaking would be welcomed.
Worse, she was having difficulty even paying attention to him. Her mind was back in the exhibition hall, wondering what Southwaite was doing and whether he would still be there when she exited this room.
“You are alone now. Unprotected. Fairbourne’s has lost its master, and while our patrons were kind today, they will quickly lose confidence in the sales if you think to continue them.”
That got her attention. Mr. Nightingale had always struck her as a walking fashion plate. All surface and artifice. Not at all deep.
Now he had revealed unexpected capacities for insight, if he had surmised that she considered continuing the auctions at Fairbourne’s.
“I am well-known to the patrons,” he forged on. “Respected by them. My eye for art has been demonstrated time and again during the previews.”
“It is not an eye such as my father possessed, however.” Nor that she possessed, she wanted to add.
“No doubt. But it is good enough.”
Good enough was not, in this situation, truly good enough, unfortunately.
“I have always admired you, Miss Fairbourne.” He flashed that charming smile. He had never used it on her before. She did not find it nearly as winning when directed her way as she did when he cajoled a society matron to consider a painting that had been overlooked.
He was a very handsome man, however. Almost unnaturally so. He knew it, of course. A man could not look like this and not know just how perfect his face appeared. Too perfect, as if a portrait painter had taken a normally handsome face and prettied it up too much, to the point it lost human distinction and character.
“We have much in common,” he went on. “Fairbourne’s. Your father. Our births and stations are not dissimilar. I believe we would make a good match. I hope that you will look favorably on my proposal that we marry.”
She just stared at him. This was not what she had expected. She found herself at a loss for how to respond.
He took a deep breath, as if fortifying himself for an unpleasant task. “You are surprised, I see. Did you think I had not noticed your beauty these last years? Perhaps I have b
een too subtle in communicating my interest. Credit that to my respect for both you and your father. You have quite stolen my heart, however, and I have dreamed for many months that one day you might be mine. I have always believed that you and I had a special sympathy, and under the circumstances I now am free to—”
“Mr. Nightingale, please, let us discuss this honestly if we are to discuss it at all. First, we both know that I am not beautiful. Second, you and I have held no secret sympathy. Indeed, we have rarely had informal conversation. Third, you have not been too subtle in communicating your feelings because you have entertained no such feelings to begin with. You almost choked on your words of love just now. You began making a practical proposal, and perhaps you should continue on that tack and not try to convince me of your long-secret love.”
She put him off his game for a moment, no more. “You have always been a most direct female, Miss Fairbourne,” he said tightly. “It is one of your more . . . notable qualities. If honest and practical suit you better, so be it. Your father left you a business here. It can continue, but only if it is known to be owned and managed by a man. No one will patronize Fairbourne’s if a woman is the responsible authority. I propose that we marry, and that I take your father’s place. You will still have the comfortable life that Fairbourne’s has provided, along with continued security and protection.”
She pretended to think it over, so as not to insult him too much. “How thoughtful of you to try to help me, Mr. Nightingale. Unfortunately, I do not think we will be a good match at all.”
She attempted to stand. He refused to move. Mr. Nightingale no longer appeared charming as he gazed down at her. Not at all.
“Your decision is reckless, and not sensible. What is the good in inheriting Fairbourne’s if you do not continue its affairs? Today’s take will hardly keep you long. As for another match, one that you may consider better, I doubt such an offer will come now if it has not already.”
“Perhaps one has indeed come already.”
“As you demanded, let us be honest and practical. You are, by your own admission, not a great beauty. You have a manner that is hardly conducive to a man’s romantic interests, what with all your plain speaking. You are headstrong and at times shrewish. In short, you are on the shelf for a reason; several, in fact. I am willing to overlook all of that. I have no great fortune but I have skills that can keep Fairbourne’s a going concern. Fate throws us together, for better or for worse, Miss Fairbourne, even if love does not.”
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