What a Duke Wants

by Lavinia Kent

But how would they react when they realized it was all a farce? Mark could not possibly mean to marry her.

  She focused on Mark’s face, trying to understand what she saw there. Anger marked the crease in his forehead. The firm line of his lip bespoke determination. His fingers twitched with barely controlled violence. He was ready to fight, to take on any challenge.

  She could feel Wimberley draw tight beside her, the muscles of his arm flexing beneath her touch. Lord Peter had come up behind, his large body prepared to charge to her defense.

  Three big, strong men ready to tear one another apart on the dance floor—over her. She ran her fingers across Wimberley’s jacket, seeking to reassure. Then she dropped her hand, stepping away from him and toward Mark.

  Searching his face, she sought the clue of what she should do next, what she should say. How could she avoid trapping them further, avoid trapping him?

  “Do not poke fun at me, Your Grace,” she said quietly, seeking to give him an out. “They will all take you seriously.”

  He dropped his voice to match hers. “And what if I am serious? What if I think it is time we let our intentions be known?”

  “You cannot be.”

  Isabella glanced about the room. Every head was turned in their direction. There was not even the polite pretense that they were not the center of attention. Even the orchestra was stilled, turned to see what would happen next.

  Mark spoke loud and clear. “I intend to marry you, Miss Isabella Masters. I want you—no one else. And I have been recently informed that what a duke wants—a duke gets. Questions?” His tone did not invite answer.

  Isabella had thought she could feel no more pain. She’d been wrong. The impossibility of Mark’s proposal felt like the final straw, that little bit of extra weight that would send her crashing to the floor.

  She dropped her eyes, staring at the buttons of his coat. “But you do not know everything about me.”

  “We must talk further. I know more than you think.” He spoke softly, hardly louder than a whisper, but his voice brooked no argument.

  “You do?”

  “Yes.” Mark glanced at Wimberley and then back to her. “I know about Foxworthy. Where can we have some privacy?”

  “Perhaps . . .” Wimberley spoke from beside her, letting the word draw long as if he sought what to say next. “Perhaps, Strattington, you would care to dance with Miss Masters? I had planned to open the affair by leading her in a waltz, but now that you have gotten ahead of me and announced your engagement I can think of nothing more fitting.”

  She looked out over the empty dance floor. Once the orchestra began it would be much harder for everyone to hear what was being said, and after the first minute other couples would need to take to the floor, granting them some privacy—as much privacy as you could have in a ballroom.

  Everyone would still stare at them, but they would at least be pretending not to.

  Mark bowed his head to her, the perfect angle for a question one was sure of the answer to. “Miss Masters, would you care for my escort to the floor?” He offered his arm.

  It was her last chance to run. She could crash through the crowd, make it to the street. The ring Mark had given her at the masquerade hung on a chain about her neck. It could supply any funds she needed. She could be free—as free as she had ever been. No need to hold her head up, no need to pretend.

  Or she could take Mark’s hand, dance with him in public, be claimed by him before all society. She did not know his game, could not believe he truly meant marriage, but she did trust he meant well.

  She trusted him. She had avoided giving in to her feelings, giving in to her desires, for so long, but she could no longer.

  She did trust him.

  She lifted her hand, watched it move toward Mark, watched the fingers take his sleeve. She did not feel the thick silk of his coat, although she could see its softness. She did not perceive the warmth of his body, although she well knew his heat. Her hand moved as if by itself, controlled by unseen forces.

  They turned as one toward the dance floor. The crowd parted before them. Wimberley gestured and the waltz began.

  Mark placed his hand low on her back, brought the other out before him. Her own shaking fingers gripped his waist.

  He swept her out onto the floor.

  The crowd still did not react, did not indicate what society’s decision was.

  Once around the floor. Twice.

  The first couple joined them. Wimberley and his marchioness. Then Violet and Lord Peter. Masters and Clara. And then finally others. A decision might not have been reached, society might be waiting to know the truth of the situation, but good manners would prevail.

  And then she saw him. Just as the swirling dancers filled her view, Isabella saw the Duke of Hargrove again, standing at the side, scowling.

  The dance floor was not a good place to talk, but he had little choice. Mark kept his voice quiet, speaking to Bella and only to Bella. “I am going to go right to the heart of the matter. Foxworthy.”

  “You know I killed him?” Her voice trembled only a little as she whispered, her eyes darting nervously to the edge of the dance floor.

  “If we are quiet enough nobody can hear us—and yes, or at least almost yes. After some investigation I assumed it was him you had spoken of at the masquerade.”

  “I am glad that you know. I have wished so often that I could confide in you, share my troubles.”

  “You always could have.”

  “It did not seem that way.”

  He glanced back at the ballroom. “I cannot claim that my actions this evening demonstrate that I will do anything to protect you. It was only a room full of busybodies that I took on. But Bella, I would slay dragons for you.”

  She closed her eyes, but he could see her careful consideration in the gentle movement of muscles upon her brow. She opened her eyes and stared at him. “I know. I didn’t before, but I do now.” She glanced toward the ballroom herself. “And yet I think they are worse than any dragon.”

  “So speak. Tell me about Foxworthy, tell me why you fled.”

  She swallowed, looking over his shoulder at the dancers beyond.

  He drew her closer, blocking her from all others. “I will protect you, no matter what. Just tell me everything.”

  She shuddered and he saw her debate, then she leaned forward, whispering the whole sordid story to him, telling him of her family’s scandals, of Foxworthy, the man in blue, her other pursuers. She paused, as if wishing to say no more, and then told him of Hargrove and Lord William.

  He knew his eyes widened for a moment as she spoke of his cousin, but he kept his face calm. Only when she spoke of Hargrove’s continued threats did he allow his lips to draw tight.

  He drew her closer, closer than propriety would allow. He would focus only on what was important. “But it was an accident, Foxworthy’s death. Surely you do not hold yourself responsible for that?”

  She closed her eyes. “During the daylight hours I do not. I know there is nothing else I could have done, but at night, at night I see his face as he lay there on the floor. I cannot forget the blankness of his gaze. He was not a nice man. He may even have been an awful one, if all I have heard is true, but no one deserves that. No one deserves to lie there on the floor like that.”

  “I do understand. I have killed men—in the war. Each and every time it was justified, I had no choice, and yet it is impossible to forget their faces. It is a burden I carry with me always.”

  She dropped her head, looking down at her feet. “I have been running from that burden. I did not realize it until this moment. I thought I was running from fear and scandal, but I have been running from what I did. I know there is nothing else I could have done, but at night, at night I see his face as he lay there on the floor. That is when the bad dreams come.”

  “I would protect you even from those if I could, but if you are like me, you may not forget but you do learn to live with it. You will find new dreams, pe
rhaps a home with children and a meowing kitten. Duchess has not forgiven you for deserting her.”

  “I did not mean to. I wanted to bring her with me. I hated to leave her, but I could not see how to manage it. I knew you would care for her.”

  “So you do trust me?”

  The music ended before she could reply and their shoes clicked on the marble as they left the floor. The sound was not one she was familiar with. When had a ball ever been so silent?

  Mark squeezed her arm in a gesture of reassurance. “Trust me,” he whispered.

  Before she could answer the yes that was ringing through her mind another voice interrupted. “How touching, Miss Masters,” Hargrove said. “What a pity it is not to be. I happen to know the new Duke of Strattington has no intention of marrying you. Shall I tell them why, Strattington?” He spoke loudly so the whole room could hear.

  Mark had never felt such violence course through him. “Do you really wish to do this now, here? I would have thought that dawn and pistols were a more appropriate forum.”

  “Do not overestimate your power, pup.” Hargrove pulled his shoulders back. “I have been playing this game far longer than you.”

  Mark stepped forward. “And look where it has gotten you, arguing over pieces of paper with a mere chit.” He sent Bella a look full of apology. “You have them now. Leave her, leave us, alone. I think your time would be far better spent looking over your estate books and counting up the seats you control in Commons. Foxworthy is dead. Let the matter rest.”

  “Do you presume to tell me what to do?” Hargrove’s fists clenched.

  Mark looked down at them. “So dawn it will be. Do you prefer swords to pistols?”

  Silence reigned again as everyone turned to hear their exchange.

  “Are you threatening me, boy?”

  “I am not a boy—or a pup. I am the Duke of Strattington and you would be wise not to forget it.”

  “You are not a duke. Your uncle was a duke. Your cousin would have been a duke. You are nothing more than a placeholder.” Hargrove puffed up his chest, stepping toward Mark.

  This time Mark did laugh, long and deep. His eyes swept the gathering. All could be won or lost by a tone of voice. “A placeholder. I never thought of it like that—I will not even dispute the term, if it pleases you. But do not forget, I am a placeholder with power. Power I am not afraid to use.”

  “Hah.” Hargrove refused to back down.

  “Do you really want to push me and find out? I assure you I can piss as far as the next big dog—and with considerable accuracy.”

  Isabella’s mouth dropped open at his crudity. He did not even look at the crowd.

  Hargrove stepped toward him.

  Mark matched the step.

  “I do not see what you can do to stop me in taking any action I wish,” Hargrove said.

  Mark stood up straight. He felt power flow into him. For the first time he understood what it was to be a duke. “You are right,” he said. “I probably cannot stop you, but I can promise you would live, or not live, to regret your actions.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “I thought that we’d already established that. I knew you were older, but had not realized that senility might be setting in.”

  Hargrove sputtered. The crowd gave a low laugh.

  Mark smiled, victory in his grin. “And do not think my threats are idle,” he said. “I do not know when two dukes last met at dawn, but I’ve never been afraid of risking death. Those years in the infantry do have some advantage. You have not yet told me your preference, swords or pistols?”

  Isabella stepped forward, moving between them. “Stop it,” she said.

  Sweat beaded on Hargrove’s brow. It was clear he had never believed Mark would stand up to him. He tried one last time. “I am not going to fight you over a woman of her kind. It’s not like you actually mean to marry her. We’ve all heard the rumors about her.”

  Mark pulled in a breath. He could feel the crowd consider, think about all the past rumors. Could he have come so far only to lose now? He could see in her face that Bella would not marry him if she thought it would bring him ruin.

  She was going to run. Her gaze darted to the stairs and back, her fingers nervously playing with the chain about her neck.

  Then her gaze came back to him. He saw renewed strength and something else—something he could not identify.

  Her fingers swept lower into the very bodice of her dress. What was she doing?

  And then he saw it. The ruby shone bright.

  His ring.

  His father’s ring.

  He heard the slight gasp from the crowd.

  Even Hargrove had recognized it when they first met.

  She pulled the chain from her neck, unmindful of how it caught against her curls. She held the ring out, letting the ruby catch the light, letting it glow with fire. “Would you like to put it on my finger now? I think I’ve waited long enough for my dreams to come true.”

  Isabella didn’t know how much longer she could go on breathing. She waited as he took the ring, waited for Mark’s words, for his commitment.

  “Yes. Yes, you have, and yes, I would.” He took the ring from her, sliding it off the chain and slipping it onto her finger. It was large, but she did not care.

  “Damn you. Damn you both.” Hargrove cursed as he turned and left the floor, stomping from the room.

  No eyes but hers followed him. Everyone was too intent on what would happen next.

  Mark leaned toward her. “You did mention your family is scandalous?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then they won’t mind this.” He bent forward and kissed her, claimed her—and it was far from a polite society kiss.

  Epilogue

  Isabella opened her eyes slowly and stared across the pillow at the blue glare across from her. Duchess was not pleased to have been left behind. She lifted a leg disdainfully and began to lick her foot, her gaze never leaving Isabella.

  “How did you get here?” Isabella asked, looking about her room in Masters’s house. “Is Mark below? Did he bring you?”

  Duchess turned her head, clearly unwilling to forgive Isabella for her abandonment.

  Isabella scratched her between the ears anyway and laid a kiss upon her head.

  Then Isabella bounded out of bed, dressing as quickly as she could.

  Mark was here. Had last night been a dream? Could he really have meant all those things he’d said? Could all her troubles really be finished? Could society actually have accepted that they would wed?

  She glanced at Duchess. No, not a dream.

  Almost running in her eagerness, she sped down the stairs, heading straight for the breakfast room. He might be a duke, but he still had to eat.

  There he was, seated beside her brother, a full plate of kippers and eggs before him.

  She looked nervously from one man to the other. There did not seem to be any suggestion of bloodshed. Could they have reached agreement? Masters had been plenty mad at being kept in the dark about their engagement.

  Masters stood as she entered the room. “You must forgive me, Isabella. I have an early appointment.”

  Then he was gone, leaving her alone—with Mark.

  “I had two early appointments this morning myself,” he said, rising from his chair.

  “You did?”

  “Yes. First I called on Hargrove. I wanted to be sure that the matter was finished. I must admit to some temptation to make sure he was silent—forever.”

  “I hope you did nothing. I would not want the responsibility of another death. And I think he has suffered enough. Love can make us all act differently than we otherwise would.”

  Mark nodded. “So I found out. He has had the night to think the matter through. I believe to some extent he now regrets his actions.”

  Isabella did not want to think about Hargrove. “You mentioned two appointments?”

  “Yes, I went to see Mrs. Wattington.”

 
“Mrs. Wattington?”

  “I decided to take no chances. She is the only one still left who could tell stories, so I paid a morning visit. She was not amused at the hour at which I called.”

  “I would imagine not.”

  “Although her husband was more welcoming.”

  Isabella could not decide whether to sit. Her stomach was undecided as to whether food was a good idea. “Get to the point.”

  “Even she came around once I made clear the purpose for my visit.”

  “Stop delaying.”

  “I made it known that I would be pleased to become Master Joseph’s godfather.”

  “You did what?”

  “It is rather impossible to say bad things about the people who are securing your son’s place in the world.”

  Isabella could see the wisdom of that.

  “And,” he continued, “it does mean that a certain future duchess will be free to call on them whenever she wishes. It is only natural that you should take an interest in my godson. You may visit Joey whenever you like. Mrs. Wattington has said she would be delighted to meet you—for the first time. She finds it a shame you have never met before.”

  Tears formed in her eyes. She stepped toward him, unsure what to say. And then she said the only words possible. “I love you, Mark. I didn’t get a chance to say it last night, but I do.”

  He took a half step toward her. His eyes met hers and she could see the words within them. And then he said them. “And I love you, my Bella. I don’t know why it took me so long to say it.”

  She reached out and took his hand in hers, grasping the fingers tightly. “I can never begin to thank you. You bought me Duchess, and then you brought her back to me. And now you have enabled me to see Joey again. The problem with running has always been that I’ve left so much behind.”

  “No longer, my love, my Bella. You are done with running.” He pulled her toward him until she was in his arms.

  For a moment they just stared at each other, eyes saying even more than words.

  Then he bent, bringing his mouth to hers. The kiss started soft and then his lips grew more demanding. They moved over hers with such command. Isabella had felt his kiss a hundred times before, but this was different. Could a kiss be softer and more domineering at the same time? This was a kiss of ownership—and offering. This was love.