The Desires of a Duke: Historical Romance Collection

by Darcy Burke

  He snagged her elbow, drawing her to a stop near his side. He pivoted without releasing her. “There’s no call to be rude. I only wanted to say how lovely you look. It seems the country agrees with you.”

  “Don’t you mean banishment?” she snapped. She wrenched her arm free and took a large step away from him. “I have nothing to say to you. Ever.”

  “Pity, for I’d hoped we might rekindle our acquaintance.” His gaze raked her in a manner that left no doubt as to what he meant by “acquaintance.”

  She stared at him in disbelief. “You’re disgusting. And married. I ought to tell your wife.”

  He laughed. “Tell her what? That you cornered me in a sitting room again? I imagine that will work out quite well for you a second time.”

  “Go to the devil.” Nora resisted the urge to slap his smug face before she whirled about and stalked from the room.

  She hurriedly made her way back to Lady Satterfield, passing the retiring room just as the door opened—and out walked Lady Abercrombie, whom Nora careened into.

  Lady Abercrombie stepped back from her and brushed at her arm where they’d collided. “My goodness, you’re in a terrible hurry.”

  Nora didn’t dare look behind her. If Haywood was in the corridor, and Lady Abercrombie saw her dashing away from him… Wait, how could that be bad?

  Because this was London, and she was Lady Abercrombie. She would make it something bad.

  Nora rubbed a hand over her own elbow where she’d crashed into Lady Abercrombie. It was a shame she hadn’t knocked the other woman down. “Please excuse me.”

  She tried to walk more sedately to the drawing room, but her blood was rushing in her ears, and it felt as though she’d toppled out of the boat after all and was struggling to breach the surface of the water.

  Lady Satterfield was waiting for her in the drawing room and was thankfully alone. When she saw Nora, a small crease formed between her brows. “Is something wrong? You look flushed.”

  Nora winced. She moved closer to the countess and spoke softly, “I’m afraid I took a wrong turn when I left the retiring room and ran into Lord Haywood.”

  Lady Satterfield’s expression deepened to a frown. “I see. Did anything happen?” She also kept her voice low.

  Oh no, did Lady Satterfield think Nora would’ve repeated the same mistake again?

  The countess’s face softened. “Not that, dear. I meant, did he make any untoward advances?”

  “Only verbally. I instructed him never to speak to me again.”

  Lady Satterfield laughed, which put Nora at ease. “Well done. I wish I could’ve seen it.” She linked her arm through Nora’s, and they left the house. “On that note, did anyone see you?”

  “Not with him, but I ran into Lady Abercrombie on my way back. If she saw Lord Haywood…” Nora couldn’t bring herself to verbalize her fear.

  Lady Satterfield patted Nora’s forearm. “Do not worry yourself about it. She saw nothing. Anything she says will be innuendo.”

  “But that’s enough to ruin someone, isn’t it?”

  “It can be…damaging, but I’ll ensure that it isn’t.”

  Nora sent her a disbelieving look as they walked back down to the grass. “How will you manage that miracle?”

  The countess smiled. “Leave that to me, my dear. One doesn’t spend three decades amongst the ton without learning how to survive and how to protect those we care about.”

  Nora’s heart swelled. For a brief moment, it almost felt as though she had a mother again. And that sentiment was enough to drive away the disquiet Haywood had left her with.

  For now.

  Titus stalked into his office, intent on the whisky decanter. He was glad for the abbreviated session in the House of Lords tonight. He loosened his cravat as he arrived at the sideboard. As he poured his whisky, he worked to shove the evening’s business from his mind—he was weary of discussing the Luddites.

  Instead, he preferred to focus on the pleasant afternoon he’d spent at Brexham Hall. He’d enjoyed his brief walk with Nora more than he ought to admit.

  He wished he’d skipped the infernal meeting and stayed to take her out in one of the boats. Instead, she’d likely gone with Dawson, a gentleman Titus didn’t even know but longed to remove from her presence.

  Really? He wanted to deny her the very thing she was trying to gain? She wanted a husband. She deserved a husband. Or at least happiness. And if a husband would afford that, then that was what she deserved.

  “Your Grace?” Abbott, the butler who’d overseen this town house in Titus’s father’s time, stood at the threshold. “There is a letter from Lady Satterfield on your desk. It arrived while you were out.”

  Titus took a drink of whisky as he went and located the note from his stepmother. He set the glass down to open the paper. Immediately, a cold sweat dappled the back of his neck.

  Kendal,

  I am concerned that a rumor that has started about Miss Lockhart will spread. She was seen leaving a private rendezvous with Lord Haywood this afternoon. It was a chance meeting and one that no one witnessed, but the woman who saw her immediately afterward—that detestable Lady Abercrombie—seems intent on disparaging Nora. I’m going to do my best to quash any gossip, and would appreciate any help you can offer.

  Lady S

  Rage heated his blood and sent tremors through his hands. He crumpled the paper and dropped it on his desk. “Abbott,” he barked.

  “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “Have my coach brought back around—I’m going to the club.” He meant to find Haywood and ensure the knave never again came within fifty paces of Nora.

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Abbot didn’t question the sudden change of Titus’s evening plans, which was a bit surprising. Titus didn’t remember the last time he’d done anything spontaneously.

  But this was necessary. He picked up his whisky and tossed it down his throat in its entirety. The liquor warmed his belly, stoking the anger that the lecherous Haywood had provoked.

  A scant twenty minutes later, Titus strode into Brooks’s and immediately walked into the subscription room, where a good number of London’s gentlemen would be gambling and drinking. He scanned the tables for Haywood and located him seated near the corner, playing whist.

  He strode to his former crony with purpose, aware that dozens of pairs of eyes followed him. When he arrived at the table, the occupants looked up at him in concert, but he noted this from the periphery of his vision—his primary focus was on the reprobate who’d dared insult Miss Lockhart a second time. “Stand up, Haywood.” He kept his voice low and didn’t give a whit that it carried a dark menace. In fact, he liked that.

  Haywood’s eyes widened, and he briefly touched his chest, looking mildly affronted. “I’m in the middle of a hand.”

  “I wouldn’t care if you were in the middle of using the privy. Stand up.”

  Haywood’s brow furrowed. “Really, Kendal, I must ask that you wait.”

  “It’s quite all right,” said the gentleman to Haywood’s left. “We’ll pause the game.”

  Haywood looked at his tablemates. “If you’re certain you don’t mind.”

  Titus’s patience withered until it was nearly gone. He was about to physically drag the man out of his chair when he finally stood.

  “Come.” Titus bit out the command and gestured for Haywood to follow him. He led the scoundrel to his private chamber.

  “What the devil is going on?” Haywood asked as they mounted the stairs. “You haven’t spoken to me in nearly a decade, and now you interrupt a perfectly smashing game of whist. I hope you haven’t upset my streak.”

  Titus waited to answer until they were inside his private room. A footman opened the door and closed it behind Haywood. It took everything Titus had not to smash his fist into the man’s ruddy face.

  “I haven’t spoken to you in a decade because I haven’t had reason to. Now, however, I have a reason, and you will heed every word I say. You are going
to deny that you saw Miss Lockhart today.”

  Haywood appeared utterly nonplussed. “I already said that I did.”

  Titus’s right hand curled into a fist. How he ached to hit the man. “Say you were mistaken. Furthermore, you are not to speak to Miss Lockhart again. You are not to speak of Miss Lockhart. You are not to come within fifty paces of Miss Lockhart. In fact, you are not to look at Miss Lockhart. Do I make myself clear?”

  With each directive, Haywood’s mouth had opened a little further until his jaw had gone completely slack. He stood like that, gaping at Titus for a moment. He closed his mouth and did the damnedest—no, the stupidest thing. He laughed. “I beg your pardon? Is this some sort of joke?”

  Titus took a step toward him. “You are the only joke in this room.”

  Haywood sobered. “Now, there’s no call to be rude. Why do you care if I speak to Miss Lockhart?”

  “Because you ruined her chances at a decent, happy life once, and I won’t allow you to do it again.”

  “Who are you? Her father?” He laughed again, but without humor this time. “This is rich. You used to be the worst rake in town.”

  “Used to be. We’ve matured past that, haven’t we, Haywood?” He took another step toward him. “Or are you still behaving like a lad who can’t keep his cock in his breeches?”

  Haywood’s eyes narrowed. “You go too far.”

  Another step forward. “I’m not sure I’ve gone far enough. If you so much as think of Miss Lockhart, let alone approach her, you will be sorry.”

  Something lit in Haywood’s gaze—an acknowledgment of Titus’s anger, perhaps. “I have no reason to speak with her again anyhow. She propositioned me—a married man.” He shook his head. “She’s every bit the trollop she was all those years ago.”

  Titus didn’t think. He just acted. His fist connected with Haywood’s half smirk, sending the degenerate’s head snapping backward.

  “Christ!” Haywood’s hand came up against his mouth as his tongue darted out to catch the blood from his split lip.

  “I believe I told you not to speak of her, and yet you did. Do it again, and you’ll be looking for a second.”

  This seemed to finally sink into Haywood’s pea-sized brain. He blanched as he licked another drop of blood from his lip. He nodded slowly, his eyes failing to meet Titus’s.

  Titus moved past him, catching his shoulder against Haywood’s bicep and knocking him off-balance. He opened the door and addressed the footman in the corridor. “Please have this rubbish removed from my chamber.”

  Titus didn’t look back as he made his way downstairs. Energy still thrummed through him as if he’d raced his horse across his estate at a breakneck pace, but there was satisfaction too. And that was a damn sight better than the outrage he’d felt earlier.

  When he reached the subscription room, he was aware of the buzz dying more quickly than usual, of the stares that seemed to burn straight through his coat. He’d created a bit of a sensation by directly approaching Haywood and taking him upstairs, and that rankled. He could only imagine what they would say when they learned he’d hit Haywood. But Haywood wouldn’t tell them that. He was vain and self-important enough to fabricate a story to explain his split lip. Still, people would draw their own conclusions.

  Titus shrugged the irritation away. People would always draw their own conclusions. And there was nothing he could do about it, save intimidate them, which he was not above doing. Instead of keeping his attention forward and ignoring everyone as he typically did, he sent a few well-directed stares, silently communicating that they should all mind their own business. Would they? How much influence did the Forbidden Duke really carry?

  He didn’t really give a damn what any of them thought. He did, however, care what they thought of Nora. She hadn’t deserved what had happened to her nine years ago, and she sure as hell didn’t deserve it now. She especially didn’t deserve Haywood causing her yet more heartache.

  At least that would stop. Titus was certain he’d successfully prevented Haywood from bothering her again. He’d pen a note to his stepmother as soon as he returned home and assure her of that fact.

  Then he ought to visit his mistress. He still hadn’t been to see her since that first night. He’d much rather visit Nora and ensure she was all right after her encounter with Haywood, but he wouldn’t do that either. No, he’d do what he’d done every night the past week—he’d go home alone and dream of an auburn-haired beauty with enchanting tawny eyes.

  He had to accept that he was far more interested in Nora than he ought to be. This changed nothing, however. He wasn’t looking for a wife, and if he were, she would never want him once she learned the truth about the past. It was past time he quashed his inconvenient attraction.

  Chapter 8

  When Nora came down to dinner the following evening, she stopped short in the doorway. Kendal stood near the table, talking to Lord Satterfield. He looked terribly handsome, dressed in an impeccable dark blue coat and pantaloons that had to be the absolute latest in the style of men’s garments. They hugged his thighs, presenting an exceptional portrait of a virile gentleman.

  “Kendal, you’ve come for dinner!” Lady Satterfield’s exclamation came from just behind Nora.

  Both men turned to look at the doorway, and Nora fought to keep a blush from staining her cheeks. They could have no idea that she’d been standing there gaping at Kendal. Lady Satterfield, on the other hand, might very well have caught her in the act.

  Nora moved into the dining room along with Lady Satterfield, who went to her stepson. Kendal bussed her cheek in greeting. “I hope it’s no trouble that I’ve come.”

  “Never. I see your place has already been set,” she said. “Let us sit. Harley looks ready to serve.”

  Satterfield always sat at the head, with his wife at his right and Nora on his left. Tonight there were two seats on the left, which meant she’d be sitting next to Kendal.

  While Satterfield held his wife’s chair, Kendal performed the same service for Nora.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, feeling unaccountably nervous.

  The first course, including soup, boiled beef, and carrots was served, and wine was poured. Nora had been overwhelmed by the wealth of food since her arrival at the Satterfields, but was beginning to grow accustomed to it. It wasn’t that she and her father had gone hungry, but they’d led a very simple life.

  “The weather has been exceptional,” Satterfield said. “Did you ride today, Kendal?”

  “I did.” He looked at Nora. “Do you ride?”

  “Not well. My cousins—they sponsored my first Seasons—introduced me to it, but I never mastered the sport, I’m afraid.”

  “We shall have to rectify that,” Lady Satterfield said. “I can picture you in a cunning riding hat. We shall have to shop for a habit.”

  Kendal chuckled as he flashed his stepmother a look. “And what of the horse? She’ll need something to ride.”

  “We have a horse.” She looked at her husband. “Don’t we, dear?”

  “Not one that is suitable for Nora. However, I’m certain Kendal has an appropriate mount.” He sent a questioning look at the duke.

  Before Kendal could respond, Lady Satterfield interjected. “I just remembered that Mrs. Gilchrist invited us to ride at their house outside town.” She looked at Nora. “Would you feel comfortable doing that?”

  Nora had met Mrs. Gilchrist and her son Mr. Barnaby Gilchrist yesterday at the picnic. She’d taken a walk with Mr. Gilchrist, and he’d talked mostly of horses. And fish. She’d enjoyed her time with Mr. Dawson more. But then neither could compare to Kendal.

  She stole a quick glance in his direction. His dark hair brushed the top of the white collar at the back of his head. The contrast was striking, especially when compared with the warm bronze of his skin. He was clean-shaven, but she could detect the dark shadow beginning to creep over his jaw. She looked away quickly, lest he catch her.

  “Nora?”

>   Lady Satterfield’s query reminded her that she’d forgotten to answer. “I think I’d prefer to wait to ride in public until I’ve mastered at least a few practice walks.”

  “Kendal, do let us know when you can take her for a ride,” Lady Satterfield said.

  The duke looked at Nora, and the impact of his gaze curled her toes. Goodness, she was as fervent as she’d been in her youth. Had she learned nothing? Resolved to ignore her attraction to the duke, she focused on her meal and tried to think of Mr. Dawson, who likely wouldn’t care if she could ride or not.

  “Kendal, how are your stables at Lakemoor?” Satterfield asked. “We didn’t venture up for a visit this past fall. I shall make it a priority this year. You put on quite a hunt.”

  Nora peeked over at him. Did he host a hunting party? She was surprised, given his reputation. She didn’t think he socialized at all.

  “It’s a small affair, if you recall.”

  “Yes, but I like that. So many hunting parties have little to do with hunting.” Satterfield chuckled. “Or so it seems.”

  “That’s because Kendal only invites local gentlemen and you, my dear,” Lady Satterfield said. “It isn’t a proper house party at all.” She looked at her stepson with slightly pursed lips but said nothing more.

  “It isn’t a house party.” Kendal’s tone was light, but there was a thread of steel.

  Nora had the sense that Lady Satterfield wasn’t pleased with Kendal’s lack of social activity.

  Lady Satterfield sighed. “Yes, yes, I know.” She sipped her wine, then offered her stepson a warm smile. “Whatever makes you happy, dear.”

  Was that what made him happy? Keeping to himself? Did he prefer isolation? Having endured nine years of that, Nora suppressed a shudder. While she’d found Society challenging, she couldn’t imagine going back to a life of seclusion and hoped she wouldn’t have to.

  The conversation turned to a variety of topics—from Kendal’s work in the House of Lords to Nora’s family to the theater. It was, overall, one of the most pleasant evenings Nora had spent, and by the end of the last course, she’d actually relaxed in the duke’s presence. Maybe he wasn’t so forbidden after all. At least not to his close family—not that she believed she was one of them, but for now, she could perhaps enjoy this familiarity.