The Desires of a Duke: Historical Romance Collection

by Darcy Burke

  “Then what do you propose?” Vivienne demanded, hands on her hips.

  “You come with me to Wyndover Park. It’s only a couple hours’ ride from here. That’s far enough to put distance between you and your pursuers, but close enough that I can have you there quickly. At this point, your safety is paramount.”

  Her expression was unreadable. It might have been the streaks of dirt on her face, but Nathan rather suspected she wasn’t quite certain what to make of him. Good. He’d keep her guessing.

  “How can I help?” the duchess asked.

  “I want to leave without being seen,” Nathan said. “I’ll need you to make my excuses.”

  “Of course.”

  Vivienne nibbled the scone while he and the Duchess of Sedgemere devised a plan. She would tell Sedgemere the truth, but everyone else would be told Wyndover had an aching head and had gone to his room. During the next activity, which was a picnic in the garden, Wyndover and the princess would slip away in his coach and go to Wyndover Park. That evening at dinner, when the duke and the princess were safely at Wyndover Park, Sedgemere would inform the guests that Wyndover was called to his estate in Gloucestershire on urgent business. Wyndover Park was in Nottinghamshire, but Nathan wanted anyone who inquired after him to think he’d left the area. Otherwise, Nathan had thought it best to stick closely to the truth, and he instructed the duchess to say that a fire had broken out at one of the tenant’s cottages. This was true, although the steward at the Gloucestershire estate had the matter well under control—except for the small matter of housing the tenant’s rabbits—and Nathan was not needed.

  “I should return to the house before I am missed,” the duchess said. “I wish you a safe journey.”

  “Tell Elias I’ll write to him with news, and accept my apologies, Duchess, for my early departure.”

  She waved her hand as though his absence was nothing, although he knew it would upset her numbers and cause her some difficulty. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Vivienne. I do hope we can meet again under better circumstances.” She curtseyed again, and then she was gone.

  Nathan leaned against the door. “I think it best if we stay here and out of sight until my coachman sends word that the coach is ready.”

  “I agree, but I must have my bow and arrows first.”

  “You always did love archery.”

  “And a good thing, as my skill with a bow saved me any number of times. I even wounded one of the assassins in the leg. I had hoped his injury would afford me some time, but the others seemed to come even more quickly.”

  “How many are there?”

  “At least three, but there might be more.” She motioned toward the door.

  “I’ll go,” Nathan said. “You stay inside and hidden. Where did you leave them?”

  “I slipped them off before drinking and leaned them against the stone bridge. I must have fallen asleep, and when you woke me, I didn’t think to gather them.”

  “I’ll return in a moment.”

  He opened the boathouse door a crack, peered out. The duchess had returned to the house by now, and no one else was about at the moment. Quickly, Nathan stepped outside and closed the door behind him. The bright sunlight made him squint, but he shielded his eyes and made his way back to the pond and the bridge where he’d seen her this morning.

  He stayed alert, scanning the tree line and the lawns for any sign of movement. The pond was far enough from the house that he heard nothing and saw nothing. Finally, he returned to the spot where she’d been sleeping and circled the area, looking under the bridge and in a nearby patch of fuzzy swamp willows. He imagined her crouching beside the water to drink, tracked his gaze to where she would have set the bow and arrows.

  She would have wanted them close at hand when she sat to rest for a moment. Nathan stood again where he’d found her sleeping. He could still see the indentation of her body in the sand and in the middle of that hollow, a footprint.

  There was no bow, no arrows.

  Nathan put his own foot beside the print. His boot was larger.

  Whoever had been here had tracked the princess, taken her bow and arrows.

  And the assassins would keep tracking until they had her too.

  Chapter 3

  “You don’t know it was the assassins who took the bow and arrows,” the duke said. He was seated across from Vivienne in his well-appointed coach, both of them resting on royal blue velvet squabs and using handholds of gold silk.

  “Yes, I do. You are fortunate the bow and arrows are all they took.” He still had his life.

  “I prefer a fight to running and hiding. I would have confronted and bested them too.”

  He would have given the assassins a good fight, of that she was certain. Unlike Masson, the duke was prepared for an attack, and he looked like the kind of man who could hold his own. British men liked to think of boxing as a sport. In her country, it was much the same. But the assassins weren’t gentlemen or bound by a code of honor. They intended to kill her, and they would do so by any means necessary.

  Still, she was quietly grateful to the duke. His presence had saved her life. If he hadn’t woken her, if he hadn’t looked strong and formidable, she would be dead by now.

  “They must have taken the bow and arrows while we were in the boathouse,” she said. “If they’d come while I’d been sleeping, they would have killed me.”

  “Why not attack us in the boathouse? Why not kill you when I went back to the house to fetch the scone and speak to the staff?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I will write to Sedgemere when we arrive at Wyndover Park. No doubt the bow and arrows will turn up at the house party.”

  She didn’t agree, and the thought made the food in her belly—the duke had procured bread, cheese, and wine—sit like a handful of stones. She’d had that archery set since she was sixteen. It had been a gift from her father on her birthday, and the two of them had spent many happy hours together shooting at targets, laughing, and competing.

  And now he was dead.

  She closed her eyes.

  To her shock, Wyndover’s gloved hands clutched her bare ones. Once again, she was aware of how dirty and unkempt she was. His gloves were perfectly white, while her hands were dingy with grime.

  “I can see the loss of the bow and arrows has upset you, but you don’t need them any longer. I’ll protect you. I won’t allow any harm to come to you.”

  If he had been Glennish, one of her countrymen, she would have accepted his words without comment. It would have been his duty to protect her. But this man owed her nothing. Why should he risk his life for her? Why should he comfort her or dirty his hands for her?

  “That is very kind of you,” she said carefully. “Do you mind if I ask why?”

  He did mind, at least she surmised as much when he released her hand and sat back. “Because you are in danger. What sort of man would I be if I did not help someone in danger?”

  “A typical man,” she said.

  He folded his arms over his broad chest. The late morning sun sliced through the carriage windows, which he had insisted need not be covered, making his hair look even lighter and his blue eyes look almost clear.

  “I don’t agree. Most men I know would do no different.”

  “Then you have not spent much time at court. The men I know do nothing if it doesn’t benefit them. I have been to the court of your King George when he was still well. I saw little difference.”

  He pressed his lips together, and she watched with an interest she could not quite control as they gradually released and became full again. She wondered what it would be like to kiss those lips, to caress those perfect cheekbones, to stare into those bluer-than-blue eyes. What kind of lover would this man be?

  An unselfish one, she decided. The thought did nothing to distract her from the wayward path of her thoughts.

  “I haven’t spent much time at court, but I have been in Parliament for several years. Political expedi
ency is the way of most powerful men, but that doesn’t mean that they are not good men at the core.”

  She let out a huff of breath and looked away. Let him hold on to his naïveté. She couldn’t forget the carnage political expediency had wrought on her country, her family.

  “I’ll replace the bow and arrows for you.”

  She jerked her head to stare at him in astonishment. “You needn’t do that.”

  “I want to. I recall how much you enjoyed archery.”

  “You seem to remember me very well. Why is it I have such a vague recollection of you?”

  “It wasn’t for lack of trying on my part. I tried to catch your attention, but you were politely indifferent.”

  She smiled. “That is an apt description, I suppose.”

  “Very apt. I’m not particularly witty or fascinating. I suppose I didn’t interest you.”

  Poor man. He thought he’d bored her.

  “I’m afraid there is very little you could have said or done to capture my attention, Duke. Even if you had been as amusing as Leland Vibosette”—one of Glynaven’s most witty actors—“I would not have sought you out.”

  “You find me distasteful in some manner?”

  “No, not at all. I find you too much to my taste.”

  His brows came together in confusion. It made him look a good deal younger and quite adorable. Perhaps she had drank too much of the good red wine he’d given her on an empty stomach.

  She gestured toward his face. “I don’t like men who are more attractive than I. I suppose it’s vain and shallow, but I like to be the pretty one.”

  His brows rose again, and he stared at her for a long moment. His eyes seemed to look right through her, to the point where she wanted to shift with discomfort.

  “I don’t know what you look like now under the mud and grime, but if it’s anything like what you looked like when I first met you, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

  She gasped in surprise at his words. She’d been complimented before, of course, but never had any man’s words sounded so sincere, so heartfelt. There was almost a tone of anguish in his voice.

  “That’s not true,” she whispered. “I’m short and dark.”

  “You are petite, and your skin looks touched by the sun. Your hair is the most lovely shade of dark brown I have ever seen. But you are more than physically attractive. When I met you before, I found you graceful, well-spoken, and kind. Your servants could not praise you highly enough.”

  Her heart pounded so hard in her chest she had to press her hand to it. “You flatter me.”

  “No. I speak the truth. In all honesty, I would never have wanted any harm to befall you or your family. But I would be lying if I did not say I think I am the most fortunate man alive to have found you this morning. And I don’t think it’s merely coincidence.”

  “You think it fate?”

  “I think I have another chance to make you see me as something more than a…pretty face.”

  “Then you have an ulterior motive for helping me too.”

  His eyes narrowed, and his jaw tightened. “What have I done to deserve such an insult?”

  “Nothing. I did not mean to imply—”

  “Yes, you did. You think I help you because I hope to take you to bed, because I want some sort of payment from you?”

  She didn’t answer. That was exactly what she thought. Shame crept through her, making her face hot.

  “I won’t deny that I would rejoice if you fell completely in love with me, if you wanted me in your bed. But I would help you even if you were an ugly old crone missing half your teeth.”

  She believed him too. The force of his conviction was entirely convincing.

  He looked away from her, his eyes on the countryside visible through the carriage windows. Vivienne was not often sorry, but this was one of those rare occasions. She found she wanted him to look at her again, to speak to her with that warmth in his voice. Instead, they sat in silence for the next hour until they reached Wyndover Park.

  “Your Highness,” Nathan said, as the coach came to a stop. “We have arrived.”

  He’d watched her fight to keep her eyes open, watched her lose the battle and fall asleep, her cheek resting on the squab. She must have been exhausted, because she did not move. She slept like the dead.

  He wished he had a wet cloth to wipe some of the dirt from her face. He imagined she looked lovely when sleeping. Soon enough, she would be able to bathe and sleep in a bed. Perhaps that would restore her. In the meantime, he could make plans to travel to London.

  Thank God his mother had left to spend the rest of the summer in Bath with her friend Lady Tribble. He did not want to have to explain his arrival with a princess of Glynaven in tow. As it was, he would have to think what to tell the staff. He had not been expected to return after the house party at Sedgemere’s residence, and the staff had been reduced accordingly. That meant fewer people to trust to keep quiet.

  “Your Highness,” he said again, a little louder this time.

  Her eyes opened, so vibrantly green, and she sat stiffly. For a moment, she looked about in confusion. Finally, she notched her chin up. “We’ve arrived.”

  “Yes. Welcome to Wyndover Park.”

  She peered out the window at the front of the house where the coach had stopped after making its way down the long drive. He was the tenth Duke of Wyndover, and the house was an old one. It had been refurbished every hundred years or so, but it retained some of its ancient charm—turrets and towers and crenellated parapets.

  The coach door opened, and he stepped out first, holding his hand out to assist her. She took his hand, her gaze on the house.

  “It’s very grand,” she said, looking up. “Very imposing.”

  “It was meant to be.” He tucked her arm in the crook of his elbow and led her toward the door. “It was built for an ancestor of mine who was a baron. Wyndover Park—it was not called that then—was the sole protection for farmers and tenants when there was an attack. At one time, there was a drawbridge and moat. Now, only what would have been the keep remains. It has been modernized, of course.”

  “Of course.” She paused just before they reached the door where he could see his butler, Chapple, stood just inside, waiting to greet him.

  “I want to apologize,” she said, “for my thoughtlessness in the coach. I impugned your honor, and you have every right to be angry with me.”

  “All is forgiven.” He waved a hand as though to waft away the smoke of discord. “I’m not one to stay angry for long, and I can hardly blame you. After what you’ve been through, questioning men’s motives means survival.”

  She gave him another bewildered look. Soon enough she would take him at his word.

  Nathan gestured to his man just inside the door. “My butler, Chapple. Good that you hadn’t returned to London yet, Chapple.”

  “I was still putting the staff through its paces, Your Grace. I received word you would be returning and have made certain all of your requests have been granted. This, I presume, is the young lady who will be occupying the yellow room.”

  Nathan had seen the butler’s gaze drift over the muddy clothes, but his expression remained respectful.

  “Yes, Lady Vivienne”—he gave her a look rife with meaning—“my butler, Chapple.”

  “My lady.” Chapple bowed.

  “I hope I didn’t put you to too much trouble,” she said.

  “None at all, my lady. May I have the housekeeper show you to your room?”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Perhaps the footmen might bring hot water for a bath.”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Is there any luggage?” Chapple asked him.

  “Sedgemere will have mine sent with Fletcher. The lady has none.”

  “We might ask one of the maids to peer into Her Grace’s dressing room, but I’m afraid your mother is a good deal taller than Lady Vivienne.”

  A good deal wider
too, Nathan thought.

  “Perhaps one of the maids might have a dress she could borrow until Lady Vivienne’s might be laundered and returned.”

  “I will see to it, Your Grace.” Chapple raised his hand, and what Nathan assumed must be every servant in the house came forward. The princess was led away, surrounded by the housekeeper and maids while Chapple issued orders at the manservants in rapid succession.

  Nathan’s head hurt from the morning’s exertions. He backed away, seeking the solace of his library. “Chapple, bring me every copy of The Times you can find,” he ordered. “No matter how old.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Have Cook send tea with brandy and”—what was it sick people ate to restore their strength?—“and broth of some sort to Lady Vivienne’s room after her bath.”

  “Broth, Your Grace?”

  “Just do it, Chapple. Don’t stand there staring at me. I want those copies of The Times.”

  Nathan stalked away, muttering, “A man can’t even request broth without his servants gaping.”

  Once in his library, he sat in his favorite chair beside the fire and propped his feet on a nearby table. His mother would have been appalled, but his mother was in Bath. Good thing too, or else he would have been answering all of her pointed questions about the princess rather than enjoying a few minutes’ solitude and quiet.

  A brisk knock sounded on the door, and Nathan dropped his feet. So much for solitude.

  “Come.”

  Chapple entered, arms laden with newspapers. “The Times, Your Grace.”

  Nathan rose and took them. From the weight of them, he judged his butler had unearthed at least a dozen copies, if not more.

  “Is the—Lady Vivienne settled?”

  “I believe she is enjoying the broth you requested, Your Grace.” Chapple smirked. Nathan had never seen his butler smirk before, but he didn’t know how else to describe the expression on the man’s face at the moment.

  “That will be all, Chapple. I don’t wish to be disturbed.”

  “Would you like Cook to send broth for you too, Your Grace?”