What a Duke Wants

by Lavinia Kent

  Only did she mean to seduce him? She didn’t know what she wanted—only that the closer she got to him, the closer she wanted to be.

  “Where did you get him? He is so beautifully formed.” There, that should delay a moment—she didn’t want this to move too quickly. She needed to be sure what she planned, what she wanted. Men could talk about their horses for hours. It was only too bad he didn’t have a curricle as well. That would have filled up conversation for the rest of the night.

  Instead of answering immediately Mark looked away and hesitated. After a moment, he answered. “He was a gift from my father. He gave him to me about a year before he died. I am not sure I would have survived his death without Achilles.” He gave the horse a hearty pat. “I suppose that sounds silly.”

  Isabella remembered the rag doll she’d poured her sorrows out to when both of her parents died. No, talking to a horse didn’t seem silly at all. “No, I’d love to have a creature to talk to who was just there for me.”

  “Have you never had a pet?”

  “I had a pony when I was very small and I did love him, but it was always clear he was for teaching me to ride and that was all. I would love to have a cat, but it doesn’t work with being in service. I never know where I will end up and so many homes have hounds.”

  “Yes, I would admit that I have hounds myself. It would take some work to get them to accept a cat.”

  “You have hounds?” Did that mean he had a home of his own as well? That would work well for her. There was so much that was unexplained about the man.

  Mark had caught the drift of her question. She could see a desire to backtrack in his glance. Should she let him get away with it if he changed the subject?

  Violet had always said the key to manipulating a man was to never let him know what you were about. She walked away, looking for a place to sit. Now if she could just get him to talk, really talk.

  She wanted to know everything about him—but how much of herself was she willing to share in return?

  She’d had a pony as a child and learning to ride had been considered important. Mark didn’t know why he felt surprised. Many governesses had genteel backgrounds. He didn’t know specifically where a nursery maid or baby nurse fit in the great scheme of things, but it was easy to believe the same might be true. He examined her closely, trying to discern the truth. Was she some poor gentleman’s daughter cast out to fend for herself? It seemed very possible. She did speak like a lady, and while her clothing was clearly that of a servant, there was something about her carriage that said she’d once been used to better things.

  If Isabella had been a lady it might change things. He wasn’t quite sure how, but he was sure that it would. He needed to know more.

  And she’d asked about his dogs. That had been a slip on his part. Telling her that he now owned a pack of the sleekest hounds in the country would only raise more questions. He thought of Pumpkin, the dog that had slept in his room when he was a boy. Pumpkin had come from the best of bloodlines, but an accident with a trap as a pup had left him unable to run with others. His uncle had been ready to shoot the dog when Mark had begged to be allowed to raise him. With great reluctance his uncle had nodded his approval—as long as he never had to see the beast again.

  “I’ve always had a dog or two about. My family always laughed at how I attracted strays. I always seem to be caring for one more creature. I am surprised that I’ve never had a cat, now that you mention it.” There, that did not answer the question about the hounds, but gave her enough that she should be satisfied.

  She shot him a look that told him she knew exactly what he’d done and was deciding if she should let him get away with it. Her nose wrinkled as she looked down at the straw. He could see that she wanted to sit, but did not find the slightly rancid smell appealing.

  She moved to a tack chest and set aside the objects on top. “Tell me more about Achilles, then. He is such a fine beast. He must have wonderful bloodlines.”

  “I didn’t know it was proper for young ladies to talk about bloodlines.”

  “I am hardly a young lady.” She sank down on the chest, spreading her skirts about her. A look of relief crossed her face and he could picture her day spent running up and down stairs at Mrs. Wattington’s request. He should have found her a seat or a bench as soon as she appeared. He’d have to remember that in the future. Offering to rub her sore feet was unfortunately out of the question—for now.

  “You seem very much the lady to me.” And that was true.

  She smiled, uncomfortably, at his words. “Whatever may have been true once is no longer. I am a servant. There is no going back. I should not say even that much, but you do make me wish I could confide all.”

  He leaned against a stall across from her, the darkness creating a private world. “Why don’t you share your secrets? I am very good at listening.”

  Her teeth worried at her lower lip as she stared straight at him. The light from the stable’s single lamp cast long shadows upon her face. “I ran away—years ago,” she said after a moment.

  It explained much about her, but why had she run away and why had her family not come looking for her? “I imagine your parents must be worried about you after all these years. Have you corresponded with them at all?”

  “My parents died when I was very young. My older brother was my guardian until I reached my majority.”

  “Well, if you’re no longer in his charge, why don’t you go back? Surely what you ran from can’t be that terrible.”

  Her lips clamped shut, but then her eyes tilted up a bit at the corner. “I think it’s time for you to answer a question for me. There are things I want to know.”

  Mark pulled in a deep breath and let it out. Achilles mimicked his gesture in a much grander manner and they both laughed, breaking the tension.

  Isabella leaned forward, her lips pouting deliciously. “So tell me, what do you do for the duke?”

  Would he answer her? Mr. Smythe—she reverted to the more formal—was the only man she could remember meeting who had not instantly made her aware of his station in life. Every man from footman to gentleman seemed to place tremendous importance on what he did in life—or in the case of the gentlemen, great pride in how little they actually did. Mr. Smythe had never made any mention of his life beyond saying that he was with the duke’s party.

  If she even was to consider seducing him she needed to know more.

  He took a couple of steps forward until he stood above her. Leaning forward, he rested an arm on the wall behind her. “I’ve just told you I was in the infantry.”

  That was true. He had mentioned it, but he had not been detailed. But then, even while she ignored the war, she had noticed that the men who had seen the worst of battle were the ones who said the least. It was the men who had done little more than polish their own boots who had the longest stories to tell. “Yes, you mentioned that you were in some very unpleasant places, but surely you must have mustered out years ago. How does that answer my question?”

  “I suppose because I don’t feel I’ve done much since leaving the army. Life was so intense while I was there, every decision mattered. It is as if I lived in a brilliant oil painting and now I am stuck in a pen and ink drawing. Life is not the same. I did manage my father’s estate for several years right after I got out, but it was a very small estate, and in truth my mother could have managed it just fine without me—as she did for all the years I was away. The duke offers me new opportunities.”

  That all made sense, but she was left with questions. If he’d managed his father’s estates, then what had the duke been doing? Why would an illegitimate son manage them? And his mother? If she’d been the duke’s mistress, then what was she doing anywhere near the estates? There was something here that did not make sense at all. Isabella closed her eyes and tried to remember everything she’d heard about the Duke of Strattington. Mrs. Wattington had been quite prolific on the subject since speaking with him that morning. The duke ha
d recently inherited from an uncle. That meant the duke’s father must be a younger son and that would explain the small estate. The current duke had never been expected to inherit as he’d had a cousin of about the same age. But then the cousin died in some type of hunting accident.

  The new duke was traveling to the coronation, although he was still in mourning, but would return to his estates immediately after. And he looked very handsome in the severe black he wore to mark his mourning, although Mrs. Wattington rather thought he’d look handsome in anything and didn’t understand why the duke bothered with mourning when he’d barely known his uncle. Mrs. Wattington had managed to share all that information in the space of three breaths. Isabella rather thought it had taken her longer just to think it.

  She looked up to find Mark staring down at her, his eyes focused on her lips. Yes, she had been lost in thought for too long.

  “Are we done, then? Or do you have more questions?” Mark leaned toward her, his intent clear.

  She edged away, but not too far. “You still haven’t told me what you do for the duke.”

  “I thought I had. I manage his estates.” He reached forward and ran a finger across her lips.

  “You’re his agent, then?” She tried to focus on his words. An estate agent would be good. They made a handsome living—and they had wives.

  No, she was not going to think about that.

  Mark’s fingers stopped at the middle of her mouth and plucked at the lower lip. It felt so good. Thinking of anything but his fingers grew difficult. It was so much easier to feel than to think, so much easier to let thoughts of what she wanted, what she needed, slip away.

  “His agent. That would be one way to look at it.” His finger teased her again.

  It was all she could do not to lean forward and lick. There was something else she needed to ask. Something else important. Oh yes, the mother. Why was his mother living on the estate? She tried to find the words—which would not have been easy at the best of times and was nigh impossible as Mark stared down at her, his own lips parted, his breath a tangible force between them.

  She tried again to focus her thoughts, but all she could think was how dark his eyes looked in the shadows and how tiny points of reflected light flickered in them. She wanted to lean forward and examine them more closely.

  “Are you going to kiss me?” he asked.

  She might be in a daze, but Isabella could not mistake his repeating her question from last evening. It would be dangerous, not as dangerous as the inn’s steps, but still, anyone could come in.

  She wanted to, though. Oh, how she wanted to.

  She reached up, tangling her fingers in his dark curls, mussing them hopelessly. “If you walked around with your hair like this no one would ever believe the duke trusted you with his estates.”

  One corner of his mouth curled. “No, I daresay they would not.”

  She pulled him closer. “Do you want me to kiss you?”

  “I want whatever you are willing to give me.”

  He was honest. It reassured her, made her feel even safer. When she was with him nothing bad could happen, all her worries fell away.

  He would never betray her.

  No, she had to be more careful. Betrayal came when one least expected it. “I think it will be kisses for now. I can’t say I’d want to do more than that in a stable.”

  He chuckled. “You are always so honest with me. I can always trust you to tell me the truth.”

  The truth. He thought she was telling him the truth? Well, she was—just not very much of it. It brought back her thought of a moment ago. Betrayal came when least expected.

  She raised her lips, parting them as she moved, eager to avoid any further discussion. It would be easier to become his lover than to tell him the full truth about herself.

  Mark felt her lush lips touch his and gave a silent prayer of thanks, both for the wonder of her lips, but also because he didn’t have to say anything else. If she kept asking questions, at some point he was going to have to actually lie—or trust her with the truth. And he was not yet ready to see the change in her face when she realized who he was. So far his own feelings of being separate from the duke had protected him, but that could last only so long.

  She was soft. He’d thought that before, but now the feeling overwhelmed him. He was only touching her lips, but he felt enveloped in comfort—complete. His lips moved against hers, pressing them even farther open. Her breath filled his mouth and his own swept out in reply. Her aqua eyes opened wide and she stared up at him. He could feel her surprise—and her joy.

  His tongue swept out and licked along her lip line, not seeking entry, but enjoying the fullness of the curve.

  Before things could progress further, Achilles kicked hard against the wall of his stall. He stuck his large head over the top and stared at Mark. It was clear Achilles knew who he believed should be the center of all attention.

  Isabella began to laugh, her whole body shaking with the emotion. “All males are the same.”

  “I beg your pardon?” He turned his glare from the horse and back at her.

  “Oh, don’t look at me that way. Can you say that if I were focusing all my attention on him, you’d react any different? I didn’t think so. Now I want to hear more about you. Where do you live when you’re not traveling with the duke?”

  He focused on her lips again. More distraction was called for.

  He bent his head. There would be no more questions tonight.

  Chapter 9

  “You careless tramp.” Mrs. Wattington’s words echoed through the interior of the carriage. Isabella didn’t know what she’d done to deserve the tramp, but the slap that turned her head with its force was very clear indeed.

  Isabella could only stare and blink, her body shivering with the shock of what had happened.

  Mrs. Wattington had hit her, hit her.

  The thought echoed through her mind.

  The perfection of the previous night—and now this. Touching her cheek gently, she winced. Mrs. Wattington was much stronger than she looked.

  They stared at each other for a second, and then without another word Mrs. Wattington turned her face back to the wall. Isabella wanted to say something, to retaliate in some fashion, but knew she mustn’t.

  She dropped her hands to her lap, squeezing them tight. Then, with a deep inhale, she turned to Joey, comforting the small, screaming boy. He ceased the yell immediately, smiling sleepily up at her.

  His belly felt better and that was his only concern. He closed his eyes and drifted off.

  Leaving her with a mess of stinking baby vomit and an employer who wouldn’t even look at her, although perhaps that was for the best.

  Isabella pulled some damp rags from the pile at her feet and started to dab at the cloth-covered seat. She hardly dared look at Mrs. Wattington’s skirts. They were more than dabbled with sour-milk baby spit-up. They would smell for days, even with a proper cleaning. Did she dare try to clean the sodden dress?

  The decision was taken from her. Mrs. Wattington rapped hard on the roof and the carriage stopped.

  “Out.” The woman’s command was clear. Isabella was obviously not needed if Joey was asleep. She stepped out, and Mrs. Wattington’s personal maid replaced her.

  The fresh air was wonderful and Isabella tried to hide her relief as she climbed up on the box beside the driver. He stared at her cheek for a moment before starting the team. She could only wonder how red it glowed from the slap.

  She’d never been struck before, not by her older and very strict brother, not by any of her previous employers, not even by Foxworthy—and she’d killed him for what he’d tried to do to her. She wished she could say that to Mrs. Wattington. Picturing the woman’s face as Isabella said the words was almost worth the slap.

  Of course she could never say such a thing—not that she’d really have meant it. What had happened with Foxworthy had been an accident.

  Again she forced the picture of him lying
on the floor from her mind, forced herself not to think of the men who now chased her, who threatened her.

  Staying with Mrs. Wattington was fast becoming even more of an impossibility. She’d never known of an employer to become kinder over time. One bad thing always led to another.

  Which left Mark. The time they had actually spent together could be measured in hours, not days, but she felt as if she’d known him her entire life.

  She could even imagine marrying him, being his wife—and wouldn’t that be the answer to her problems. She could marry him and disappear, become a proper matron far from those who sought her.

  There would be no need to flee, no need to leave him. She would simply become someone else.

  When she’d first had the barest thought of the possibility flit at the edge of her mind last night she’d dismissed it, but it kept coming back, growing.

  If they were so happy together after less than a week, think how happy they would be after months, after years.

  Only they didn’t have years, or months, or even weeks. They only had now.

  They had no time for anything.

  Unless she risked it all.

  Could she do it?

  She was convinced he would want to marry her if only they had time—but they didn’t. She would need to persuade him—fast.

  They were made to be together. Everything she knew about him drew her, even if she didn’t know that much.

  They belonged together.

  Swallowing, she put the thought into words.

  She wanted to marry Mark.

  Now all she needed was to do what was necessary.

  She’d watched her older sister charm enough men to know how it was done, to know how much a glance from under lowered lashes could do, how the simple sway of a hip or brush of a breast could entice beyond reason.

  It was the only way.

  It was a great gamble.