What a Duke Wants

by Lavinia Kent

  “Milton, as always.” Brisbane turned to Mark and it was impossible to miss the glint in his eye. “I am afraid I was just leaving, but you must meet His Grace of Strattington. I know you were well acquainted with his uncle. Do forgive me.” And then he was gone. Were dukes also given a special cloak of invisibility? If so, Mark wanted to know where his was. He rose from his chair and acknowledged Milton.

  “Good to meet you. As Brisbane said, I knew your uncle well. We were in school together. A fine man. Such a pity about both him and your cousin—but good for you, heh?” He gave Mark an elbow nudge.

  It seemed rude, the height of rudeness, to comment on death as being good for anyone. Mark almost smiled politely, but then he remembered Brisbane’s words. He stretched to his full height—it must be hard being a short duke—and peered down his nose at Milton. “Actually it was most unpleasant. I have never considered death good, having seen too much of it in the war. And you, have you ever experienced a good death?”

  Milton took a step away, lost his jovial expression. “Do forgive me. I meant no harm. As I’ve said, I was friends with your uncle—and your cousin, Lord William.”

  Mark just continued to glare.

  Pushing his shoulders back, Milton tried again. “And how are you enjoying London? It is quite an exciting time with the coronation. I am sure you must have spent hours with His Majesty. I do look forward to the ceremony.”

  Despite Brisbane’s comments it probably would not do to say exactly what he thought of all the pomp and foolishness. “It certainly is different than what I am used to.”

  “And tomorrow evening? You must have invitations to all the best affairs. Will you be making the rounds?”

  “I try to restrict myself to one, perhaps two, parties an evening.” He did not want to get back to Isabella too late. His worry over her absence returned to him. It was far, far past when Douglas should have sent for him. It was time for him to go and seek her himself.

  “And which will you be attending tomorrow?”

  “I thought perhaps Lord Richard Tenant’s masquerade.” He spoke the words before he saw the trap.

  “Oh, then perhaps I will see you there. I must introduce you to my oldest. Caroline was a great favorite of your uncle’s. I am sure you would enjoy a dance with her.”

  Isabella could only stare aghast as the Duke of Hargrove entered the room. Did he remember her from the inn? Surely not. She looked far different here than she had in her plain gray dress with her hair pulled back. It was possible that she sparked some flash of memory, but she could not have made a true impression on him.

  “It is so good to see you, brother.” Annie rose with a smooth grace she had not yet demonstrated. “Richard will be so sorry to have missed you. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “I was coming to ask that of you. I am not sure why you and my brother wished to host this masquerade tomorrow night—and why you chose not to have it in my ballroom—but still I wish to do what I can.” He pulled out a handkerchief, edged in rich plum lace that matched his waistcoat, and lightly dabbed his lip. He turned back to Isabella, making it clear he expected an introduction.

  Isabella almost held out her own hand. She didn’t know what she would say, but—

  Reaching out a hand and laying it on Isabella’s arm, Annie smiled at her brother-in-law. “Let me make you known to Miss Bella,” she glanced about the room, “Miss Bella Crumpet. I have been looking for a companion, on Richard’s advice, and have decided upon Miss Crumpet.”

  “I am pleased to meet you, Miss Crumpet.” Hargrove looked anything but. “There is something familiar about you. Have we met before?”

  He couldn’t remember her. He couldn’t. Had they met sometime previously that she did not recall? “I do not believe so, Your Grace.”

  “Probably not, then. I am sure you’d have remembered.”

  “Do forgive me, my lord, but I must be going. I am sure you and Lady Richard have much to talk about.” Isabella eased toward the door.

  “You will be by first thing tomorrow, will you not, Miss Crumpet? I do have plans that I need your help with.” Annie moved to intercept her.

  “Surely you do not plan to put the poor girl to work on your masquerade on the first day?” Hargrove stared at Isabella coolly. She was tempted to wipe her nose to be sure there was not a blob of chocolate cream upon it.

  Annie squared back her shoulders. “That, I believe, is my own business.” She turned to Isabella. “You will be here?”

  “Yes.” Until she decided what she was doing she would hold tight to the one friend she had.

  She should have taken Annie’s offer of a carriage. While it was still several hours until full dark, the streets had taken on the quiet feeling of a forest before a storm. London could never be still, but it seemed everyone moved with silent purpose.

  Passing the shop with the bonnet she had so loved earlier, she paused for a moment, distracted by the perfection of the foolishness. She was about to turn away when a man’s reflection joined her own. He was only an inch or two taller than she, but the width of his shoulders almost doubled her own.

  “You’ve caused me quite a lot of trouble, Miss Masters,” he said, moving to block her escape. She knew that voice. It was the man who had grabbed her on the stairs at the inn, the last rider who had followed after the man in the blue coat. She had been found.

  She started to turn, but his hand gripped her arm, forcing her to stillness. “Just keep looking at the hat. I am sure you would look quite fetching in it.” His fingers wrapped tighter.

  “I don’t know what you want,” she replied, keeping her eyes locked on his reflection in the glass.

  “I don’t believe that. Why would you have taken it if you didn’t know what it was?”

  “Will you just tell me who you work for, then perhaps I would know?”

  “Come, come, Miss Masters, you can do better than that. We have been quite patient with you, but I want it now.”

  Isabella closed her eyes for the briefest of seconds. “I really don’t know what you want.”

  The man’s fingers dug into her arm. She was sure to have bruises in the morning. “Just hand the papers over—you must have them by now. I can’t believe you don’t have them with you. Do I need to drag you into an alley and search you myself?”

  “I’ll scream.”

  “I don’t think you will. You cannot have attention drawn to you now, can you? If you scream I will simply say that I apprehended you, that I remembered seeing you fleeing from Foxworthy’s after his murder and wanted to bring you to the authorities. Do you wish to hang?”

  Every nightmare she’d ever had seemed to come true in that one moment. “I will deny I know what you are talking about. It is years later. Who would believe that I had anything to do with such a thing?” She widened her eyes, trying to look even younger than she was.

  “The man I work for will make sure that interest is taken. Do not force him to such measures. He was no fonder of Foxworthy than you, but he must have the papers that you took.”

  “Papers? What papers? I truly am not sure what you mean. I would admit to grabbing some things from his desk, but I was only after letters regarding my own family. There was nothing else of any import. And I certainly do not have them with me.”

  The man loosened his grip slightly, considering her words. “Then why did you take them?”

  “I was just grabbing what I could. I didn’t have time to look for exactly what I needed.”

  “Assuming that you speak the truth—and that is not my decision to make—where are these worthless papers that you grabbed?”

  They were in her room at Masters’s house—or at least that was where she had left them. Should she just say she had destroyed them, tossed them in the fire to burn? The man met her gaze in the window, staring deep into her eyes. It was impossible not to believe that he would know if she lied. “I don’t know. It was years ago. Why did you not ask me then?”

  “It t
ook a while to find out who you were. We thought it was your sister, Lady Peter St. Johns, who had taken them. By the time we realized it was not, you were gone. We might still be looking for you if we hadn’t followed your brother’s man.”

  Even with her fear Isabella stopped at those words. Lady Peter St. Johns. Violet had married Lord Peter then. For the first time Isabella felt some sense of relief. At least that had gone right. Her leaving London had allowed Violet to marry the man she truly loved.

  The relief did not last long.

  The man’s fingers tightened again. “Do not play with me. My employment depends on my getting those papers. I suggest that you find them and fast. You have until tomorrow.”

  That was impossible. “With everything going on with the coronation, that is not enough time for me to retrieve them. I left them behind when I left London. Even if I tried to get them nobody will be receiving until after the coronation.”

  He considered. It was clear he did not like to give ground. “Three days, then. The day after the coronation. But do not think to run. You will be followed, and the next time my employer will not be merciful”

  Then he was gone. A crowd hurried by and he disappeared along with them.

  Isabella was left staring at the hat. It did not seem so enchanting now.

  Chapter 21

  “Where have you been?” He sounded like an overprotective father, waiting at the door. Mark was glad he wasn’t actually waiting at the door. It had been close.

  Isabella walked slowly up the stairs toward him. “You are here early.”

  “Not so early—and where have you been?”

  “Does it matter?” She sounded very weary, her face pale.

  “Of course it matters. I do not like to be kept waiting.” That should have brought a spark to her eyes.

  “Should I just remove my dress and get on the bed then?” She sounded serious, not joking at all.

  He was tempted to say yes. He might have been worried, but there was still that core of anger burning. She was his. She should not be late without his permission. He hated how he sounded, even in his thoughts, but he could not rid himself of the feeling. “That will not be necessary. You simply need to explain why you are so late.”

  He turned and stalked to the bedchamber.

  She sighed softly and followed. “I went out to choose some new ribbons and baubles. I thought that was the purpose of the purses you leave me.”

  “You do not like the purses?” He didn’t know how he knew that from her words, but it was very clear.

  “No. There is not a problem with the purses. I am your mistress. What does it matter how you pay me?”

  “I do not pay you. I choose to give you gifts. That is quite different.” How had they ended up talking about this?

  “If you say so.” It was clear she was not convinced. She sounded so tired, so lifeless.

  She walked to the dresser and started to pull the pins from her hair. “Have you eaten? I am going to call for a tray.”

  “Do I need to demand that you tell me where you’ve been?” He came up behind her and placed a hand on each of her hips.

  She removed the last pin and, as her hair fell down her back, leaned back against him. “It really does not matter. I shopped and wandered for several hours without buying anything. I almost bought a hat, but then lost my taste for it. I had a long tea and then I walked in the park and thought about life. I was out too late, I know. I lost track of time as I wandered and considered. I know it was dangerous, but I truly was not thinking about it. I would have returned sooner if I knew you would be here. I did not think it mattered.”

  “There is more that you are not telling me.” He nuzzled the top of her head, his anger dissipating. Now that she was here, in his arms, the world seemed right again—if only she did not seem so troubled. “You can tell me your secrets.”

  She rested her head back against his shoulder and for a moment he thought she would answer honestly, but then she pulled back. “What more could there be? Do you worry I have another paramour? A second duke come to sweep me off my feet? I assure you that one is more than enough for me.” Her eyes were closed and he could not see her expression.

  He did worry. That was the thing. He wanted her to be his, completely—and he wanted her to be happy. He was not sure that he liked either feeling. “I am hungry—but not for food.” He let his fingers wander up from her waist.

  Her shoulders tensed and then relaxed. Turning in his arms, she laid her face against his chest. “I’ll ask for the tray to be sent in an hour. Does that suit you?”

  Now his hands moved lower, cupping her buttocks, squeezing lightly—and then harder. He felt himself harden against her soft belly. “That should suit me just fine.”

  He waited as she tilted up her chin and began to kiss him. Her eyelids were still lowered, hiding her gaze. He wished she would look up, but was afraid of what he might see.

  She was crying. In all of her years Isabella could never remember waking with tears upon her cheeks. She slipped from Mark’s embrace, easing away from him in the bed. The whole room was in darkness, the candle gutted on the bedside table. Her pillow was cool to the touch and she turned her face into it as tears continued to stream.

  She had dreamed the most wonderful dream. The cottage, a garden of flowers, the smell of bread baking—and Mark—and a baby, a small, dark-haired creature who had combined the best of both them. She’d felt the baby in her arms, his gentle weight. She’d felt Mark’s hands on her shoulders easing her aches, his soft kiss upon the back of her neck. She’d been so happy, so content. All the desire for family, all the desire to fit in, to belong, captured in one bright moment.

  But it was a dream. A dream that would never be.

  Her heart ached with the longing for it.

  It had been so wonderful and now she was back in her life, back with the whispering man’s threats hanging over her.

  Careful not to sob, she rolled onto her side and stared at her lover. There was just enough moonlight that she could see his sleep-softened features. His long lashes lay heavy against his cheeks. His lips curved upward in a small smile of satisfaction.

  She wrapped her arms tight, fighting the chill that took her. How was she ever going to find the papers she had taken from Foxworthy’s house? Was there a way she could return to her brother’s house? Could she sneak in? It might be possible. She’d certainly left it enough times without being detected.

  Looking about the dark room, she wished that she could stay in this moment, put aside her desire for more—and her fear that she could not even keep this.

  If she could not find a way to retrieve the papers, or could not find the papers at all, what would she do? The whispering man was correct that Mark, that a duke, did not need a mistress hanged for murder. Even the accusation would cause Mark to cast her aside.

  The thought was too painful. She could not risk it.

  It might even be better to hang. That was just being morose, but at this moment, this exact moment, the emotion seemed true.

  Despite the whispering man’s threats she would have to flee again, leave again.

  Could she go to Annie? Surely if she was careful nobody would make the connection. This time she would stay inside, never let her face be seen until they went to the country. She could care for Annie and the child Annie longed for. It would in so many ways be the answer to all her problems. Nobody would seek her there and if she was gone there would be no reason for the man and his mysterious employer to bother Mark. She would never feel the pain of his rejection.

  Mark stirred in his sleep, rolling onto his back and reaching out to lay a hand upon her shoulder. His warm fingers gripped her and then relaxed, reassured of her presence.

  How could a moment so sweet cut her so deeply?

  She started to turn away, but his fingers caught her again.

  He opened his eyes. “You’re crying.”

  Denying it would have been pointless. “Yes.”

&n
bsp; She waited for him to ask why, but he did not. He just stared across the bed at her in the moonlit twilight of the room.

  His hand moved from her shoulder to brush a tear from her cheek. He brought it to his lips.

  “I thought I could make you happy,” he said at last.

  “You do.” It was not a lie.

  “But the situation does not.”

  “I was not brought up for this.”

  “And you want more?”

  She closed her eyes. The word hung on her tongue—it felt as if she had to physically push it out. The word was honest, but it would also leave him unsurprised when she disappeared. “Yes.”

  He sighed and stared up at the canopy. “I don’t have more to offer.”

  “I know. I should be content with what I have. It is far more than I would have expected. You are very generous.”

  “Too generous, apparently. You do not like the purses of coin.”

  “To be honest I do not think any woman would. It makes the fact that I sell myself to you too apparent.”

  Turning back toward her, he brushed her cheek again. “I do not feel that you sell, or that I buy. Why can I not take care of you without it being a transaction? I want to care for you.”

  “If you only wanted to care for me you would have given me enough funds to survive on until I found other employment. I am here because you want me here. Let us be honest. We are always honest in the night—it is only the morning that brings distance and deception. The purses are left in the morning.”

  “I will have to inquire how these things are handled. You make it clear that I have it very wrong.”

  She smiled, with only a slightly bitter edge. “I do not know that there is a right way. And who would you ask? Divers again?”

  “I don’t know who I would ask. Maybe Brisbane?” He said the last as if speaking to himself.

  She had not meant to fight. There was a good chance she would leave him tomorrow—forever—and she had not meant to spend their last night bickering. Even when he had seen her tears she had thought it was concern that marked his face. Now she was not so sure. It was the first time that she’d felt so separate from him in the dark of the night.