The Desires of a Duke: Historical Romance Collection

by Darcy Burke

  “Petunia, Petunia!” Townsend shouted, his tiny feet rushing toward the kitchens. “Petunia! We must summon His Grace. Petunia, where in all that is holy are you, woman?”

  Doors opened, and voices sounded above from the guests’ wing as Townsend continued calling for Petunia.

  In any other situation, the scene before Luci would have incited a least a slight chuckle as the butler mimicked a bird in flight. There was no humor to be found—for anyone.

  “Oh, Your Grace!” Townsend said, staring toward the top of the stairs. “Please, do not look. This is not for your eyes.”

  The duke stepped into view at the top of the stairs. He’d likely only retreated to the shadows down the upper hall and waited for the alarm to be sounded. However, he was still garbed in his wedding day finery with a tumbler in his hand. It could not be… He’d worn a red robe only moments before. He started down the stairs, a grey lock of hair falling before his narrowed glare as he scrutinized the scene below.

  As if he hadn’t watched Tilda fall backwards after pushing her.

  Luci’s hands balled into fists at her sides, and her face heated in rage.

  The man had pushed his new bride down the stairs and had the audacity to lumber upon the scene as if he were unaware of the death his shove had caused.

  Tilda deserved better. Certainly more than the devil-may-care attitude of the scoundrel she’d wed.

  Luci would see the man punished, if it were the last thing she ever accomplished.

  Chapter 1

  It is hereby announced that this writer has born witness to the Marquis of Camden scandalously parading his mistress about in polite society. As this writer can also attest, Lady Camden and Lady Lucianna were also in attendance at the soirée the marquis saw fit to escort his mistress to. Shame on a man who does not value family over his own pleasure.

  -Mayfair Confidential, London Daily Gazette

  Hanover Square, London

  March 1815

  “Preposterous, senseless rubbish.” Roderick Crofton, the seventh Duke of Montrose, pushed the London Daily Gazette away from him on the breakfast table and scowled at his now cold morning repast. “Nothing but a scandal sheet, I tell you. Get this out of my sight.”

  “Certainly, Your Grace.” A footman hurried forward to remove the paper. “May I bring you anything else? Tea, perhaps?”

  Tea? No. Roderick did not desire tea. He craved a newspaper that took an interest in reporting true and accurate facts regarding current events, not another gossip rag that took great pleasure in ruining upstanding gentlemen.

  Not that Roderick personally knew the Marquis of Camden; however, the Mayfair Confidential had set its sharpened teeth upon him only two months prior.

  “Your Grace?” the footman asked once more.

  “No, no, Joshua.” Roderick waved his hand in dismissal. “Unfortunately, you cannot provide what I need.” When the servant’s shoulders slumped, he continued. “However, that is no fault of yours, I assure you.”

  When Joshua took his place against the wall, Roderick took hold of his utensil and pushed the cold eggs about his plate. If he did not consume at least half the food, Cook would likely chase him down and demand he eat—or else. He’d never discovered what she meant by “or else,” and he damn well didn’t plan to. He speared a sliver of pheasant and placed it into his mouth and then chewed slowly. Perhaps it would appear he’d eaten more if he remained at the table longer. Blast it all, but he was no longer a boy in knee breeches.

  He did not need a woman, no matter that she’d known him since birth, following him like a clucking chicken. If Roderick found he was not hungry, then he would not eat.

  Period.

  End of story.

  Until Cook gained word and saw his untouched plate.

  With a sigh, he scooped a mouthful of tepid porridge from his bowl and crammed it into his mouth before he could change his mind.

  He supposed someone looking after his well-being was appreciated.

  For all the headaches the woman caused him, he was grateful to have her.

  Joshua yelped in surprise when the sound of the front door slamming, followed by pounding footsteps, approached the Montrose townhouse dining room.

  He raised his brow in question as the dining room door slammed against its hinges, revealing his stable hand, Lucian, his clothes disheveled and his cap clutched to his heaving chest. For all his bluster, he stood silently, staring at the floor, waiting for Roderick to address him. This was the same lad Roderick had gotten into trouble with in their youths for leaving tops on the upper-floor landing—causing not one, not two, but three maids injury. And now, he cowered before Roderick as if he would rip the stable hand limb from limb if Lucian spoke out of turn.

  “Speak, Lucian,” he finally commanded.

  “I have news, Your Grace,” he mumbled, keeping his eyes trained on the floor.

  “And are you worried this news will displease me?” Roderick pushed his onyx hair from his eyes, tucking it behind his ear. He needs must make a note to have his valet trim it or procure a stronger pomatum to keep the blasted strands from falling into his face. “Out with it.”

  “Your Grace, I…” Lucian started again after taking a deep breath.

  “Enough with formalities,” Roderick said, pushing his chair back to stand.

  “I think I have finally determined the source of the Mayfair Confidential column.” He dared a glance at Roderick and seeing his pleased expression Lucian continued. “There is a woman. She’s come and gone from the Gazette on five occasions over the last fortnight. She was there in the late-night hours, and while I have not confirmed, I suspect a new column was printed in the London Daily Gazette today.”

  “You are correct.” Roderick nodded to Joshua to remove his plate of hardly touched food. “Have you ascertained the woman’s identity?”

  A moment of excitement hung in the air.

  “No, Your Grace.” Lucian shook his head. “I wanted to make certain you approved of me looking further into the matter. I do know she does not find full-time employment at the paper, nor does she have relatives within the Gazette. I asked about the business, but no one was familiar with her—or they refused to comment.”

  “Of course, I want you to investigate further.” Roderick’s command thundered, and once again, standing against the wall, Joshua flinched. “This woman, whoever she may be, is responsible for destroying my life. I will see she pays for her actions.” He needs must calm his anger, especially if he wanted to keep his footman from expiring from fright. “What can you tell me of this woman? Is it possible I am acquainted with her?”

  Lucian pulled at his coat as if noting for the first time his ramshackle appearance. “She arrives in a fancy carriage each time, leaving it down the street. She enters the business without so much as a glance over her shoulder. This was why it took me so long to figure her out. If I were the one exposing men of the ton, I would be paranoid and watching my back at every turn. But this woman, her chin is always high, raven hair always perfectly groomed, and her gowns are impeccable, likely made by the finest modiste in London.”

  “You suspect she is of noble birth?” Why hadn’t the notion crossed his mind before? Roderick had suspected the culprit to be a jealous lord, not a woman—especially not a lady of class.

  “I have little doubt of it, Your Grace.”

  “Then you have my permission to look into the woman further; however…” This was not an entirely new venture, sleuthing. He’d been investigating random men and businesses for several years now; though it was imperative that he not draw attention to his activities. “Do not let the woman know we are on to her, or she is likely to vanish.”

  “Certainly, Your Grace. I will bring you information as soon as I know anything more.” Lucian bowed and turned to leave.

  “And, Lucian.”

  “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “Do bathe and get some rest before going back out.”

  The servant smiled, we
arily. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  Roderick glanced back toward the footman pressed against the far wall; he seemed unimpressed and no less anxious by the kindness Roderick had shown Lucian.

  No matter, he had many important things to accomplish, far more dire than convincing a new servant he was not the beast he appeared to be despite his jet-black hair, severe jawline, and penetrating ice-blue eyes. He only knew these terms for a gentleman’s appearance because Lady Daphne was always going on and on about his dashingly handsome face.

  His gut twisted at the thought of the young woman, so innocent and shy. It would have been a pleasure to take her as wife and make her the Duchess of Montrose. Yet, that had been another thing stripped from him by the Mayfair Confidential. What his father’s dastardly friends hadn’t stolen from him, the person who’d published the damning column in the London Daily Gazette had.

  He could remember every scandalous word:

  It is hereby stated that this writer has born firsthand witness to the

  7th Duke of Montrose, scandalously alone with a golden-haired nymph

  in his private opera box, all whilst betrothed to Lady Daphne.

  As this writer can also attest, Lady Daphne’s hair is pure night,

  compared to the observed doxy’s crown of light. Let this article stand as proof

  that Lady Daphne would do well to find herself another eligible

  lord to take as husband.

  -Mayfair Confidential, London Daily Gazette

  Lady Daphne’s father had decided to do just that: secure another eligible lord for her to take as husband.

  Roderick had been so hell-bent on finding out the truth of his family’s missing fortune, he hadn’t even thought about the repercussions of being seen in public with another woman. At first, he’d pondered the idea that the Mayfair Confidential writer had actually done him a glorious favor. He hadn’t loved Daphne. She was sweet, innocent, and beautifully angelic even with her dark locks. And with time, he had no doubt an affection would have grown between them, despite the girl’s lack of passion for anything of substance.

  Bloody hell. His fury over the situation returned whenever he thought of it; his pulse beating erratically, and his blood hammering through him.

  There was no more Lady Daphne in his future. And with her gone, so was the dowry he’d counted on to restore at least a portion of his family’s coffers. Admittedly, it was much less than he needed to secure the Montrose line and keep it from ruin, but it would have bought him enough time to find the men responsible for swindling his father out of every coin not nailed down.

  He should be donning riding garb and Hessians for an afternoon at Hyde or Regent’s Park to socialize and search for a new bride. If he had half the sense he claimed to have, Roderick would be doing just that. Unfortunately, he’d inherited more than just his midnight looks from his father. Apparently, he’d also gained his lack of wisdom.

  The time would come to begin his search anew for a wife, but that wasn’t now. Perhaps he’d look through the few invitations that had arrived over the last few days and select a few social gatherings to attend. Maybe a ball or a recital.

  At the moment, Roderick needed something to ease his fury and cool his heated blood. That was something a ride in Hyde Park could not do.

  However, he knew the exact place it was acceptable to thrash another—and it was called sport.

  Chapter 2

  Lucianna wanted nothing more than to strike down the man before her; however, he was not the cause of her rage. Nevertheless, he would do for now. She gracefully stepped back as her opponent lunged at her. Behind her mask, she grinned as the man’s foil thrust into empty air.

  Recovering quickly, he returned to the en garde position and awaited her next move.

  She took a deep breath, though it did nothing to calm the raging current within her.

  The nerve of her father, bringing his mistress to a ball when he knew bloody well his wife and daughter would be in attendance. It was the height of embarrassment. What galled her further was the way her mother, Lady Camden—a pillar of London society—had shrugged and moved on to the refreshment table as if there were nothing she could do about it. As if she weren’t utterly mortified by her husband’s scandalous actions. At one time, her mother, Eloise Constantine, had been the envy of every woman at the ball. The rare, dark beauty every woman wanted to be and every man wanted to bed. But nearly twenty-two years with Luci’s father had broken something in the woman.

  Not broken…utterly obliterated.

  With time, her dark locks had lost their luster and finally given over to grey, her shoulders were not as straight as they’d once been, and her friends had, one by one, distanced themselves from the marchioness.

  Did they think Luci’s father’s rakehell ways would rub off on their own dear husbands?

  Luci didn’t doubt for a second her father would corrupt any man that gave him a speck of devotion. She’d spent years outraged over her mother’s situation, but what could a mere child do to change anything, especially when Lady Camden appeared unconcerned with her position.

  Luci held her foil out in a point-in-line manner. She tired of this match.

  She could have bested her opponent in her sleep.

  This would force him to defend himself by enforcing a beat, a tap to her blade to either initiate an attack or provoke a reaction from her.

  There was nothing more she wanted than for her opponent to force her to react.

  The match had been one of parry and counter thus far. No grand moves, no unexpected flèche, and certainly no feint.

  Luci had come to Bentley’s to work off her aggression and anger from the night before; instead, she felt as if she were matched with an amateur. After returning home, she’d hastily hurried to Ophelia’s townhouse and instructed her friend to write the Mayfair Confidential column about her father. Lady Ophelia had done her best to persuade Luci not to write such damning things about her own family—that it could ultimately harm her own reputation. Luci didn’t care. She was beyond giving a whit about her future prospects. Not to mention, she’d failed to make the acquaintance of a man worthy of her love, let alone her respect.

  Lord Torrington, Lady Edith’s betrothed, was the exception, though she was loath to admit the fact aloud. The man had an overinflated, arrogant notion of his own self-worth as it was, and there was absolutely no way Luci would give the man more fodder with which to build himself on.

  Regardless, it was her father whom Luci truly wanted at the tip of her foil.

  Comical since fencing was the one thing her father had taught his eldest daughter. The only thing of worth the marquis had passed on to her as yet. The memories flooded her; not many fond ones surfaced, overshadowed by hours spent at the tip of her father’s foil as she learned harsh lesson after harsh lesson.

  Never had her father taken compassion on her, even during her first years of learning.

  Her opponent hadn’t made the decision to attack or force her to attack.

  Taking one step forward, she thrust the tip of her foil in his direction—a challenge, of sorts.

  Their masks made it impossible for her to tell what the man felt—either reluctance or renewed confidence. And, she knew, neither did he suspect his opponent was a woman. Which was for the best. Luci didn’t desire for anyone to go easy on her because she was female—they were all sportsmen at Bentley’s. Her tall stature and wide shoulders were only embellished by her outfitting.

  Her opponent lowered his foil tip to the ground at his side, admitting defeat.

  Bollocks.

  It appeared she was not to gain the vigorous match she’d desired.

  A part of her longed to place her tip at the man’s heart, forcing him to defend himself; however, unsportsmanlike conduct would have her membership revoked. It was something she’d never jeopardize.

  Luci rolled her neck from side to side, dispelling the stiffness that came with hours on the strip. No doubt also partly
due to her forgoing sleep the previous night to make certain the column reached the London Daily Gazette in time to be printed in this morning’s post.

  No matter that Edith was distracted by Lord Torrington and their coming betrothal ball, and Ophelia would rather have her nose in a book, Lucianna was still determined to fulfill their promise from the night of Tilda’s death. She would expose any scoundrels for their misdeeds, and her own father was not beyond her vengeance. The man she longed to rip apart before all of society—Lord Abercorn—remained just out of reach. But she was certain he could not escape for long.

  Her opponent bowed stiffly and departed the strip.

  Luci was capable of biding her time. Abercorn would misstep eventually—she was certain of it—and Lucianna would be there to take him down. Permanently.

  Turning, she surveyed the room for her next match partner; however, the pickings were slim this early in the day. Many men—the lords who could afford the dues at Bentley’s—were barely breaking their fast at this hour.

  “Are you prepared to take on a skilled opponent, my lord?” A man stepped from the shadows created by the rack holding spare foils and other gear. He was tall, even by her standards, with massively broad shoulders. Thankfully, a man’s sheer size normally spoke of their less than agile abilities. His mask in place and his foil at the ready, he didn’t wait for her response but joined her on the strip. “En garde.”

  His impertinent manners were overlooked when she noted his expert stance and strong hold.

  This was the opponent she’d been waiting for—and his disregard for proper etiquette only fueled her ire.

  Exhilaration hummed through her, but she focused her entire being on the match to come—the correct footwork, the perfect hold on her foil, and, lastly, the appropriate set of moves to gain the win.

  Luci lowered her chin and immediately advanced, her need to take control of the match overpowering her common sense to bide her time and assess the fencer’s skill set.