What a Duke Wants

by Lavinia Kent

  She gulped, glanced up at him and then back down. “I didn’t believe the pictures. I should have.”

  Not knowing what to make of that he put it aside for later—much later.

  She moved her hand again, watched his body clench in response.

  That was enough. He reached forward and caught her hand, stilling it. “My turn.”

  Placing a hand on each of her thighs he pushed her skirt up, inch by inch. Her arms dropped behind her again as she leaned back.

  Her muscles were tight and he sensed that not all of it was anticipation. He slowed his movements yet again. Bending forward he blew softly on her bare breasts. Playing a little longer would have its own rewards.

  He opened his mouth, caught her nipple between his teeth, felt her squirm and cry out under her breath. “I can’t wait until we can do this every night, every day, until we are wed.”

  His jaw tensed, almost bit hard. He had not heard that. Had she really said that? Could it have been his imagination?

  All he could feel was shock—and then greater shock as after only the slightest of taps the door to the hall swung open wide.

  She felt his body tense. He pulled back, his face still.

  She couldn’t believe she had said that. She refused to—and then—scratch. Tap.

  The slight noise drew her gaze from Mark’s face. She glanced over his shoulder and clenched in horror as the door pushed open. An unknown maid walked in, a large snifter of brandy in hand. The maid pulled up short at the sight of them, her face paling. “They said you were out,” she murmured as she began to back out of the room.

  Isabella shut her eyes tight, prayed that when she opened them she would not be sitting on a table half naked, staring at an open door. Squeezing her eyes as tightly as she could, she formed the picture she wanted to see when she opened them again. One. Two. Three.

  She should have been more specific in her wish.

  She was not staring at an open door. Now she was staring at not only the chambermaid but at the maid who had been watching Joey, and behind her—behind her was Mrs. Wattington.

  Isabella’s whole body went cold. It felt as if ice had formed in her veins. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to move again as each muscle in turn froze solid.

  Joey’s thin wail pierced the air. He sounded as desolate as she felt.

  It was Mark who moved her legs together, brushed her skirts down over them, and turned to stand in front of her, blocking her fully from view. She could only hope he’d somehow managed to fasten his breeches. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the thought of him standing exposed before Mrs. Wattington.

  There was silence.

  It was a second that seemed to last for an eternity.

  Isabella waited for Mrs. Wattington to say something. She always had something to say. Why silence now?

  Mrs. Wattington’s gaze was not on Isabella, however. It was firmly set on Mark. Isabella could only pray again that he had fastened himself up.

  Mrs. Wattington pursed her lips so tight that Isabella was sure they would fuse. Stepping into the room, she started to say something and then stopped. She stepped back for no reason that Isabella could understand, her delicate pink complexion growing white.

  Finally she spoke, addressing Isabella. “Joey has awakened unwell. My maid fetched me when you could not be found. See to him, then attend to me in my chamber.” She nodded to Mark with utmost and unexpected politeness and left the room.

  The maid stared for another moment and then turned and fled.

  Mark stalked to the door and slammed it shut. He stood facing it for a moment and Isabella could feel him try to gather himself. He turned slowly, examined her more closely.

  “I am sorry. That was my fault. I should have locked the door. It never occurred to me that anybody would enter without being bidden. Do you want me to have the girl dismissed?”

  “Oh no. That would never do. She was only doing her job.” Isabella thought that one dismissal for the day was enough. She had no doubt what would occur when she went to Mrs. Wattington’s room. She was only surprised that she would be allowed near Joey first.

  Joey. She would focus on Joey, allow him to be the only thing she thought about

  “I must check on Joey. I do hope he is not ill. It would be so dreadful if he were sick here, so far from home.” She slid from the table and tried to pull up her corset and bodice.

  “And, of course, the first thing you think of is Joey, not yourself. Oh, come here. Let me take care of that.” Mark pulled her over and fastened her bodice with great skill and speed. She did not wish to consider where he had picked up such mastery.

  “Thinking of myself would serve no purpose. What is done is done.” She stepped back from him and smoothed down her skirts. If she just kept moving she would not have to think. If she did not think she did not have to accept that any of this was real.

  He caught her as she started to move toward the door, his lean fingers caressing her cheek. “I will make this right, Isabella. We will talk later—reach an understanding.”

  The door closed behind Isabella with a light click.

  Mark walked to the window and stared out into the darkness. He’d been a fool. Had she really mentioned marriage? Even now he was not sure, his mind so blurred by the aftermath.

  It had been wrong to seduce her, no matter how willing she’d been. It had been even worse allowing them to be caught. He’d been practicing seduction for over fifteen years now and had never come close to being caught. Well, there had been one time in Lord Besley’s library, but the lady involved had made it very clear that the risk was part of the thrill for her.

  He was trying to distract himself.

  He had created this situation—or had he? Could she have planned it, arranged for them to be caught, attempted to force his hand? He considered—and rejected. No, she had been as shocked as he was, perhaps more so, by the intrusion. And it would not have fit with what he knew of her character.

  Bloody hell, harming Isabella had never been part of his plan, not that he’d had much of a plan. There were enough shadows in Isabella’s eyes without his adding to them.

  Why had he ever brought her to his rooms? He could have examined her cheek somewhere else. And why had he bloody well not locked the door? He hadn’t even bothered to take her to the bedchamber. If they’d been in there he would have heard the door open. The bloody maid would probably have just left the brandy on the table, for that matter. It wasn’t like the bloody bed needed to be warmed at this time of year. Bloody, bloody, bloody hell.

  Pressing his face against the glass he wished it was as cold as a December day. He needed something to clear his wits and tell him what to do.

  Oh, he knew what to do. It was what he’d wanted to do anyway. He’d set Isabella up as his mistress. He’d promised to take care of her and he would.

  He couldn’t even pretend it would be a hardship.

  He’d wanted her to have a choice. He’d wanted to be her choice, or at least he told himself he had.

  He pulled back to look at his face reflected in the dark glass. If he’d truly wanted to give her a choice, wanted to put her first, he would have told her everything before. He hadn’t wanted her to have a choice. He’d just wanted her to think that she did. He hadn’t been willing to take the risk—and now all might be lost.

  Had she really mentioned marriage? Would she ever forgive him if she had? Once she realized who he was, and she must have by now, she’d understand that marriage was impossible. She would be pleased by what he could offer her. What woman would not be? Every woman wanted beautiful gowns and sparkling jewels.

  So why did his gut remain knotted? Why did he dread seeing her face now that he was the duke, not simple Mr. Smythe?

  He put the thought away. Mrs. Wattington still needed to be dealt with. He walked toward the bedroom and considered which finery to don. If he was going to act the bloody duke he’d better dress like the bloody duke. And he had a certainty
that the bloody duke was required for this interview.

  Bloody, bloody hell.

  Isabella paused outside Mrs. Wattington’s door. Her hand was shaking and she refused to reveal even that much. Her chest hurt with the effort of holding her breath steady. At least Joey was fine.

  All the boy had required was a new wrapping of dry cloths and a good cuddle and he’d been just as happy as could be, completely unaware of all the trouble he’d caused. She’d given him an extra hug and kiss as she left him, confident that it would be her last. Missing him would be just one more pain to add to her others.

  There’d been the smallest of temptations to pretend that he was ill. Under those circumstances she was sure that Mrs. Wattington would keep her on until the crisis was past. That, however, would not have solved anything.

  Looking down at her still quivering fingers, Isabella knocked and then hid them in her skirts.

  Mrs. Wattington opened the door quickly. The shock of it caused Isabella to step back. Mrs. Wattington never opened the door. She always called for Isabella to enter—unless she’d been expecting someone else.

  Isabella stepped into the room, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on the floor.

  “You think you’re the smart one, don’t you?” Mrs. Wattington snapped before Isabella was even over the threshold.

  The smart one? Isabella had spent the last hour thinking what an idiot she was, wondering how she could have risked it all for so little.

  Awkward silence continued for a moment and Isabella realized that Mrs. Wattington expected an answer.

  She raised her gaze to the height of Mrs. Wattington’s hands. “No, ma’am. I don’t feel very smart.”

  “Proud, then. I can’t believe I let you near my dear, sweet Joey. I do hope you haven’t corrupted him already.” Mrs. Wattington’s hands clenched tight, the knuckles white with stress.

  The baby wasn’t more than three months old! Isabella doubted her corrupting powers were anywhere near that powerful. And if she was so bad an influence, why had Mrs. Wattington sent her take care of him before coming to her? “I am sorry, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Wattington turned from her in a swirl of skirts. “If it weren’t for His Grace I’d have had you out of here an hour ago. As it is, I can’t believe he had the nerve to ask me to show kindness and understanding. What right does that man have? He obviously was not thinking clearly—didn’t seem like a duke at all. I should have known better than to hire a girl of your age—too young by far. Only got one thing on the mind, you do. I knew I should have taken someone with more experience. If only my dear Henry hadn’t persuaded me you’d be a good companion. I’d heard from my maid that you’d been seen out with a man, an attractive man—but this, I never dreamed of this. You probably had this planned from the start.”

  His Grace had intervened? Mark and the duke must be closer than he’d let on. Isabella sincerely doubted she was more than a year younger than Mrs. Wattington. And as for planning it from the start—yes, her whole goal had been to be caught with a groom in the duke’s chamber of an inn far too close to London. This was exactly what she had wanted. She had to bite her tongue until she tasted blood to keep from spitting out the remarks.

  “I am sorry, ma’am.” She knew she was repeating herself.

  Mrs. Wattington whirled again. “I don’t know what His Grace expects me to do. I can’t keep you. I certainly can’t write you a reference. It’s all fine for the man to say he’ll take care of everything, but that doesn’t tell me what to do.”

  He’ll take care of everything. Those sounded like Mark’s words. For a few moments after she’d left the room, Isabella had dreamed that he meant marriage. It was what she’d been brought up to expect. When a well-bred girl was caught in a compromising situation it meant only one thing—marriage. Of course she was no longer that fine young lady. The same rules did not apply to nursery maids as to daughters of the gentry.

  “I will just have to let you go, no matter what he thinks or does. I don’t see what else I can do. And for that matter I don’t see what His Grace expects to do—at least not that he’d speak to me about. I can think of plenty of other things he’d have in mind. Although I can’t imagine you’d still hold any appeal for him now that he’s had you. Men lose interest very fast.”

  The woman was bitter. Isabella wasn’t sure that it was because of her, or— Her mind suddenly caught up with Mrs. Wattington’s words. “What do you mean His Grace has had me?”

  “Oh don’t be so coy. Had his pleasure on you. Tupped you. Do you really need me say more?”

  “But—His Grace—Strattington—I never—”

  “Don’t be a cow. I saw you with my own eyes, as did half the inn. Are you really telling me that his breeches were down and your skirts were up so that he could put a cool cloth on your face?” Mrs. Wattington glared at Isabella’s cheek. “That is what he claimed, by the way. He seemed to expect that just because he is a duke I’d pretend I hadn’t seen what I saw, that I’d let you continue to care for my innocent Joey.”

  Isabella’s belly filled with rocks, almost dragging her knees to the floor. A moment ago she hadn’t believed this could get any worse. Now she knew better. “The duke, you say? Strattington himself?”

  “You are clearly a wanton. I had no idea you were also an imbecile. Yes, Strattington. How many other dukes have had their way with you today?”

  Isabella dropped her gaze to her feet. She wasn’t sure if her mind was whirling like a child’s top or frozen in place. “That was Strattington?”

  “I do believe the shock must have dimmed your wits entirely. Now go. I expect you gone quickly—within the hour if possible. I will not pay for another night’s lodgings. No matter what His Grace thinks there is nothing else to be done. It would be most unwise for you to try and talk to him. He will forget about you by dawn. I hope I am clear.”

  Isabella couldn’t think at all. Her life had dissolved about her once before, but nothing could have prepared her for the cold that filled her now.

  She couldn’t look up at Mrs. Wattington as she left the chamber.

  Chapter 12

  Wages. She hadn’t even asked for her wages. Not that Mrs. Wattington would have paid her anyway, but she should have asked. It would have been the sensible thing to do.

  Sensible. Not that anything she’d done in the last day—the last week—could be described as sensible.

  Isabella sat on her bag by the side of the road and waited. She didn’t even know for what. Morning light was finally filling the sky, but it brought no joy. She’d just left the inn last night and started walking—walking into the darkness.

  Her feet hurt, her legs also. She didn’t know how far she had walked before the sun came up, but it could not have been far enough. The few coins in her bag weren’t even enough to jingle. The innkeeper’s wife had given her enough bread that she wouldn’t starve, at least not today.

  And now she couldn’t move. She needed to go farther, but her feet seemed determined to stay put.

  She’d heard of brave soldiers who after the battle was done were unable to move. That was how she felt now.

  Mark was Strattington.

  Her entire being hurt with that knowledge, immobilizing her. She had dreamed like a fool and once again the world had come to knock her back where she belonged.

  It had been so naïve to let herself begin to believe that she might care for him, might love him. She had let herself believe because she wanted to, because it made everything so much easier—and this is what it got her. Nothing. Less than nothing.

  Mark was Strattington. Why had he not told her? Had he been intent on seduction from the start? But wouldn’t a duke have stood a better chance at persuading a companion and nursery maid than an—an estate manager?

  Ashes. Her mouth tasted like ashes. She’d heard that expression once, but had never realized its truth. Even after Foxworthy died she had not known that lost dreams had a taste, a flat, bitter one.

  Knowing that M
ark was laughing at her, had never cared for her, certainly wouldn’t marry her, was so painful that it felt like a silk cord cutting into her neck, cutting off her air.

  No. Mark had never existed. He had been a creature only of her dreams, her wishes.

  It was the duke who laughed, Strattington, if he thought of her at all. If she thought of Mark by his title it hurt less. She could live with the duke laughing at the trick he had played on her, cursing only that fate had interrupted his ultimate seduction.

  That humiliation was part of why she had walked away from London, back the way they’d come. It would have been unbearable to have him pass her on the road, to know that he might laugh, if he even saw her at all.

  But maybe he would stop, maybe he would call to her to get in, take her sore feet upon his lap and. . .

  She bit down on her lip as hard as she could. Had she learned nothing? Surely she was not still so naïve. She had to stop dreaming, dreaming was for the young and innocent. It had been a long time since she’d been either of those things.

  The pounding of hooves sounded down the road, coming from the direction she had just trudged.

  Mark was coming for her. Her heart missed a beat before her mind took over.

  Mark wasn’t coming. Mark didn’t exist. Strattington would never come for her.

  And a woman didn’t need to be caught alone by the side of the road. She snatched up her bag and hustled over the fence and behind the hedge, ducking low as she went. She bent lower as two men on horseback came up the road at a fast trot—one of them wearing a blue jacket.

  It was too late to flee.

  She huddled lower, glad for the dull color of her dress. She wished she could fade into the low bushes. They paused on a low rise directly opposite her on the road. The one in the blue coat looked around.

  “We must have missed her,” he said to his companion. “She can’t have come this far.”

  “Maybe the innkeeper was mistaken in her direction. I don’t see why she should be heading back the way she came.”