The Desires of a Duke: Historical Romance Collection

by Darcy Burke

  “I promise,” she said. “Be safe. I’ll be here. Waiting for you.”

  Chapter 29

  “That bastard Mercer has more brains than I gave him credit for.” Will stabbed his knife into the roasted pheasant, cut off a chunk, and chewed vigorously. "I can’t believe he managed to elude us all bluidy day.”

  Alaric had to agree—Mercer was diabolically gifted at evasion. Somehow the blighter had gotten wind that the game was up, and he’d taken off like a hunted fox. Alaric, Will, and a team of constables and guards had tracked the earl to his residence, clubs, even a bawdy house he was known to frequent; he’d remained one step ahead and just out of reach.

  With his usual efficiency, Kent had organized teams to keep up the search for Mercer around the clock. After twelve hours, Alaric had reluctantly conceded that respite was in order. Will had insisted on escorting him home, which had led to Alaric inviting his brother in for a late supper.

  To his surprise, Will had accepted.

  Now the two of them were seated in the dining room at one end of the long table. Will had slung his jacket and cravat over the back of his chair and looked perfectly at home. The two of them were eating and talking … generally acting like normal brothers might.

  It was altogether odd.

  And … not unpleasant.

  Alaric sampled the chestnut stuffing, found it moist and flavorful. He attributed that both to his French chef’s talent and the fact that chasing down killers apparently piqued one’s appetite.

  “Where do you think Mercer will go next?” he said.

  Will washed down his food with a swig of wine. “I suspect he’ll try for safer shores. Gut tells me France. He’s a nob after all, and they like to dock there.”

  “According to Kent, you’ve got the most accurate gut in the business.”

  Will dropped his fork, clutched his brawny chest. “Sweet Child of Mary, was that a compliment from His Grace?”

  Alaric’s lips quirked. As a boy, Will had been playful and irreverent; apparently, he’d never outgrown those tendencies.

  “Your buffoonery offends the ducal presence,” Alaric said with mock hauteur.

  Grinning, Will picked up his silver. “The ducal presence better grow a thicker skin if he’s so easily offended.”

  “The ducal heir better get ready for a pummeling if he continues with this baiting.”

  “As if you could pummel me.” Will shoveled in a forkful of asparagus à l’amande. Chewing, he said, “Ach, this is good, isn’t it?”

  “The French know their cuisine.”

  “I don’t mean the asparagus—I mean the two of us. Supping together. Talking instead of being at each other’s throats.”

  Habit put a sardonic reply on Alaric’s tongue. Instead, he said, “Aye, ’tis a welcome change.”

  Will paused, his hand on his wine glass. “I believe I owe you an apology, brother. I misjudged you.” His chest heaved on a breath. “All these years, I’ve blamed you for denying me sanctuary when instead you were … protecting me.”

  The sincerity in his brother’s brown eyes put Alaric at a momentary loss for words.

  “You don’t owe me anything,” he said finally. “Not after Laura.”

  To his surprise, Will merely shrugged. “I’m not so certain that wasn’t Fate intervening. After all, I ended up with the lass of my dreams. Couldn’t imagine being happier than I am with my Bella and our bairns.”

  Will seemed to have no lingering animosity over Laura, his acceptance of the past genuine. Seeing that, Alaric felt a shifting inside himself: ’twas as if a boil had been lanced, the festering guilt draining free. His next breath came easier for it, his entire being somehow ... lighter.

  Leaning back in his chair, he mused, “Will the calf love ever end? In all my life, I’ve never seen a man so happy to be leg-shackled.”

  Will gave him a sly grin. “Well, you have seen my lass—what do you think?”

  “That you are one lucky bastard,” Alaric said sincerely.

  “Aye, I am. Then again, it seems Fortune smiles upon the McLeod brothers when it comes to women. You’ve found yourself a fine, spirited lass, eh?”

  Heat crept up Alaric’s jaw, and a foreign feeling puffed up his chest.

  Pride.

  When he thought of Emma’s plucky determination, her warmth and intelligence, he was astounded that he’d found her. She would make him a fine duchess, provide him with beautiful, feisty children and create a stable, caring home for them all.

  As long as you don’t bollix things up.

  He pushed aside the doubt that had been plaguing him since the steamy interlude in the gallery. He told himself that such concern was natural seeing as how he was facing the prospect of marriage once again. But this was Emma, not Laura. And this time he knew what he was up against—what he was and wasn’t capable of.

  He’d been clear with Emma. She wouldn’t expect his love.

  Wouldn’t expect him to be more than he was.

  They would have passion and laughter, even affection. After the debacle of his first marriage, it was more than he expected to find with any woman. He wanted his ring on Emma’s finger as soon as possible.

  “When this business with Mercer is done, I’m going to marry her,” he said.

  Will gave a knowing nod. “Don’t worry, we’ll find the bastard soon. With Kent tapping his old Thames River Police cronies to help scour the ports, we’ve got tabs on the water routes—”

  A commotion outside the dining room cut him off. Jarvis entered with unusual haste.

  At the unflappable butler’s ruffled expression, Alaric frowned. “What is it?”

  “Your Grace, you have a visitor …”

  “I’m not a visitor, you old fool,” said soft, imperious tones. “I am family.”

  Alaric shot to his feet, Will following his lead.

  A diminutive figure dressed in a brown velvet travelling ensemble entered the room. Beneath the brim of the feathered leghorn hat, her bright blue eyes latched onto him. She gestured him over with a regal wave.

  When she held out her hand, Alaric bowed over it out of habit. He kissed the translucent, veined skin above her large carnelian ring.

  “My dearest boy,” she said, sounding out of breath, “I’ve heard all the news, and I could stay away no longer. In fact, I would have been here earlier had it not been for a broken axel. Such inconvenient things, carriage wheels. Now are you well? Have you been ill? I’ve brought the medicines—”

  “I’m fine, Your Grace.” Recovering from the shock of her sudden arrival, he said, “I don’t believe you’ve met my brother.”

  “Your brother?” Her gaze swept over Will, lingering on his open collar and shirtsleeves, before returning to Alaric. Sotto voce she said, “Not much of a family resemblance is there, my dear? But I suppose all McLeods are not created equal. Different stock, you know.”

  Will turned ruddy.

  “Since William and I share a father, we are from the same stock,” Alaric said tightly.

  Her blue eyes shimmered. “Oh dear. I’ve thought of you as my own for so long that sometimes I forget. Forgive me?”

  The familiar mix of guilt and annoyance knotted his insides. Reminded him acutely of the failings Laura had accused him of. For despite all that he owed the lady before him, he’d never been able to feel more than gratitude toward her. A sense of obligation.

  “There is nothing to forgive,” he said curtly. “May I present to you Mr. William McLeod? Will, say hello to Lady Patrice, the Dowager Duchess of Strathaven.”

  An hour later, Patrice finally went upstairs to bed, leaving Alaric to bid goodnight to Will.

  In the foyer, Will said in a low voice, “She’s quite an, ahem, interesting lady, your aunt.”

  “She’s your aunt, too,” Alaric said irritably.

  “Right.” Will cleared his throat. “Is she always this … full of energy?”

  “Hysterics are part of her daily regimen.” The minute Alaric said it
, shame tugged at him. “She means well,” he amended. “During the years when I was ill, she cared for me as if I were her own. Nursed me day and night.”

  Then why don’t I feel true affection for her?

  Laura was right about one thing: I am a coldhearted bastard.

  “Can’t blame her for worrying after you, I suppose.” Pausing, Will said, “You have enough on your plate as it is, what with Mercer still on the loose. How do you plan to manage her as well?”

  Alaric’s temples throbbed just thinking about it. In spite of the lateness, Lady Patrice had insisted on summoning the housekeeper to review the week’s menus; she’d wanted to ensure that the meals suited his delicate constitution. Then she’d directed two maids to change his old bedclothes to the new ones she’d brought because Scottish flannel would help him sleep better. She’d had those same blurry-eyed maids search through her mountain of luggage to locate a satchel of white sage. Apparently, some quack had sold it to her, claiming that burning the herb would ward off evil and keep Alaric safe.

  As usual, she brushed off his objections by simply ignoring them. Or growing tearful.

  Obligation or not, one hour in her presence was already driving him mad. With the hunt for Mercer, he had enough to contend with. The last thing he wanted was to deal with an anxious, overbearing dowager.

  Then it struck him. He wouldn’t have to deal with Patrice.

  Because he’d found someone else perfectly suited for the task.

  “We’ll rendezvous at Kent’s tomorrow morning,” he said. “I have a plan.”

  Chapter 30

  “You want me to entertain your aunt?” Emma said.

  “Just for a few hours.” Alaric put on his most charming smile. “It’ll be good for you to get to know the old girl. You talk about the importance of family, after all. Don’t you wish to be acquainted with mine?”

  They were in a private parlor of the Kents’ townhouse. Alaric had arrived moments before and asked to speak with Emma in private. The door was open, Mrs. Kent just outside. Which was unfortunate because Emma looked delectable in dotted muslin trimmed with lavender ribbon. She reminded him of a bonbon, and he would have dearly liked to savor every bit of her. Instead, he’d had to settle for a quick kiss that only made him hungry for more.

  Time for that later, he told himself. Deal with the problem at hand—or, rather, the one waiting in the carriage.

  “I’ve never had tea with a duchess before.” Emma nibbled on her lip. “What if I say or do something wrong?”

  “Just be yourself. You’re perfect.”

  She eyed him suspiciously. “Why are you pouring on the butter boat?”

  “It is the truth.” Taking her hand, he played his trump card. “It would relieve my mind, pet, knowing that Lady Patrice is here with you. Until we hunt Mercer down, I need to know that the ones I care about are guarded and safe. It will allow me to focus on catching the villain.”

  “I’ll take care of your aunt,” Emma said instantly. “You can entrust her to me.”

  “Thank you, sweeting.” He paused; in all good conscience, he couldn’t leave without tipping his hand a little. “You recall I had a digestive illness in my youth?”

  “You mentioned it when we were talking about the family who ate the poisoned mushrooms.” Emma tilted her head. “Why do you bring it up now?”

  “At times, the disease was quite debilitating, and Aunt Patrice devoted herself to my care. Tirelessly. I owe her more than I can say.” Treading with care, he said, “She is, however, possessed of a ... nervous disposition. She can be rather lively.”

  “Livelier than a bunch of Kents? I doubt it. Don’t worry about a thing.”

  Her nonchalance relieved him. Curling his finger beneath her chin, he said, “I knew you were the one for the job, pet.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I’d rather help hunt down Mercer than be a nanny for your aunt.”

  “That wasn’t the job I was referring to.”

  “Which one, then?”

  “The one of being my duchess. You are going to take me on, aren’t you?” he murmured. “I find that I cannot wait to have your answer.”

  Her eyes were so clear that he could read his future in those tea-colored depths. His breath held in anticipation. To be so close to what he wanted ...

  “Yes, Alaric,” she said. “I will marry you.”

  A feeling flooded him like sunlight. It took him an instant to recognize it as ... happiness.

  “Thank you,” he said hoarsely.

  He was about to draw her into his arms when Mrs. Kent’s discreet voice came through the open door. “Ahem. Her Grace got tired of waiting in the carriage. She’s in the drawing room.”

  “We’ll be right there,” Emma called. To him, she said in hushed tones, “Let’s not share our news just yet. We must not distract everyone from the business at hand.”

  He wanted to shout it from the rooftops … which was as embarrassing as it was absurd. What had happened to his much vaunted self-control?

  Begin as you mean to go on. Discipline yourself. Don’t make the same mistakes.

  “As you wish,” he said with a bow.

  When they entered the drawing room, Aunt Patrice was perched upon a curricle chair, her hands folded upon her tan skirts. Tea sat untouched in a cup next to her. Her eyes went from him to Emma, and her brows inched toward her beige turban.

  “Is this who you kept me waiting for, dear boy?” she said. “Well, don’t dally. Introduce us.”

  “May I present Miss Emma Kent?” he said.

  Emma curtsied. “Good morning, Your Grace.”

  “Prettily done,” Aunt Patrice approved. “I’ve always said that manner is more important than a title. And your maturity is so refreshing,” she added in conspiratorial tones, “for chits fresh out of the schoolroom can be a dreadful bore.”

  “Thank you.” A line appeared between Emma’s brows. “I think.”

  Alaric coughed into his fist and thanked his lucky stars when Will and Kent strode in. After the men paid their respects to the ladies, he said, “Where shall we start today?”

  “Just heard from Cooper,” Will said. “He’s tracked down one of Mercer’s who—” He cut himself off suddenly, darting a look at Patrice. “One of his, er, female acquaintances, I mean. She may have some information.”

  “Excellent,” Kent said. “Let’s start there.”

  “Strathaven, I had better accompany you,” his aunt interrupted. “With your delicate health, you need someone to look after you—”

  “I will be fine. You must stay here and visit with the ladies.”

  “But surely I could—”

  “I should enjoy chatting with you, Your Grace,” Emma said. “I am curious to learn more about Scotland and the home that Strathaven grew up in. Please, won’t you keep us company?”

  Patrice looked from him to Emma. Gave a reluctant nod.

  “Thank you, Aunt,” Alaric said with satisfaction.

  He kissed Patrice on the cheek and took Emma’s hand.

  “I’ll see you soon,” he said. “Take care, pet, and don’t get into trouble.”

  “That goes double for you,” she said.

  “She’s an odd duck, isn’t she?” Violet whispered.

  Standing by the sideboard with her sisters, Emma shot a worried glance at the dowager. Luckily, Lady Patrice was chattering away feverishly with Marianne and didn’t seem to have overheard.

  “Alaric says his aunt is a bit high strung,” Emma replied in hushed tones. “But she’s a good sort and looked after him when he was a boy.”

  “I’m sure she’s just anxious about the men’s mission,” Thea said softly. “As we all are.”

  Vi snorted, piling an assortment of cheeses and sliced meats on her plate. “She’s a bit high strung? She makes the horses at the Ascot seem sedate by comparison.”

  Emma had to admit Lady Patrice’s conversation was an unending ricochet, a fusillade of words that bounced from topic to top
ic with no apparent connection. Seeing Marianne discreetly hide a yawn, Emma felt a prickle of guilt. Little Edward’s nightmares had kept his mama up last night, and Marianne showed signs of being peaked, which was unusual for her.

  Going over, Emma said, “Marianne, don’t you have an appointment this afternoon?”

  Marianne’s emerald eyes lit up. “My … appointment. Yes. I nearly forgot.”

  “Don’t let me keep you, Mrs. Kent,” Lady Patrice said generously. “The girls can keep me company. I’ve yet to talk about Strathmore Castle, which Miss Emma has expressed interest in.”

  As Marianne made a graceful exit, she paused behind their guest. She mouthed to Emma, Thank you. Emma managed a discreet wink in reply.

  “Now what would you like to know about Strathmore?” Lady Patrice said.

  “Is it really a castle?” Vi said, popping cheese into her mouth.

  “Indeed. It has grand towers and turrets, a magnificent crenellated profile, not to mention a lovely drawbridge,” the dowager said proudly.

  Emma tried to think back to her father’s history lessons, when he’d taught them about the tumultuous relationship between the English and the Scots. “Was it built as a fortress to defend against border invasions?” she asked.

  “No, my dear. It’s not that kind of a castle.”

  “Oh. What other kind is there?”

  Lady Patrice’s azure eyes blinked at her. “Well, the kind that looks lovely, of course. Strathmore embodies the majesty of a bygone era and was designed by one of the foremost architects of the Romantic Revival.”

  “It’s a … fake castle?” Vi said.

  “Young lady, there is nothing fake about Strathmore.” The lace on the dowager’s bosom quivered. “The papa of my own dear duke spent a king’s ransom building it. It is the noblest house in the county—I daresay in all of Scotland.”

  Vi looked unimpressed. “But there’s never been any sieges there? No battles or bloodshed?”

  Thea nudged her. “Your home sounds very grand, Your Grace.”

  “I can’t expect you to understand,” the dowager sniffed. “Coming from Chuffy Creek …”