When the Duke Was Wicked

by Lorraine Heath

  When the dance ended, he escorted her to where Lovingdon waited. He was the only partner she wanted this evening, but she knew he would give her no more than a single dance. Still, it was better to have one dance than to have no dance at all.

  She was aware of his gaze roaming over her as she neared, and when those amber eyes returned to meet her blue ones, they were smoldering with an intensity that heated her core. It couldn’t have been more obvious that he desired her if he shouted it from atop the stairs. But in his case, desire was not love. He’d had women aplenty but only ever loved one. She wanted to see evidence that he loved her.

  Just a little. That was all she would need.

  He offered his arm, and she placed her hand on it, relishing the firmness of his muscles bunched beneath her fingers.

  “No lessons tonight,” she said. “Don’t teach me anything or demonstrate particular behaviors. Just dance with me to dance with me.”

  She peered over at him to find him watching her steadily. “I can’t give you what you want.”

  “All I want is a dance,” she assured him, wondering when their relationship had transformed into one where she could not be totally honest with him.

  His eyes never leaving hers, he swept her into the fray of dancers. No words, no conversation to distract. She was aware of every aspect of him. The dark blond locks rebelling to fall over his brow. The smoothness of his jaw, which she wanted to scrape her lips over. The perfectly knotted cravat that she wanted to unknot. His bergamot scent that wafted toward her. The heat of his touch, the nearness of his body.

  By all appearances, by all actions at the moment, he loved her. It had been one of his axioms.

  He will look at you as though you are the only one in the room.

  If he were anyone else, she would have thought, He wants me not my dowry. But she knew that her dowry was nothing to him.

  And he wasn’t anyone else. He was Lovingdon, haunted by his first love, by the woman he insisted would be his only love. She could not imagine an emotion so great that it dwarfed all others. Yet even as she thought it, somewhere in the back of her mind she heard, Oh, but you can.

  She would always love him, but it didn’t prevent her from loving another. Why could he not do the same?

  She wasn’t even aware of the music drifting into silence until he stopped moving. He tucked her arm into the crook of his elbow and they strolled leisurely toward the edge of the dance floor.

  He won’t be in a hurry to be rid of you.

  All the signs pointed toward love, and yet—

  I can’t give you what you want.

  His lessons had been for naught. He couldn’t help her determine if a man truly loved her, because the signs could be misread, misinterpreted.

  Trust your heart.

  Hers was the heart of a fool.

  Never taking his gaze from hers, he lifted her hand to his lips. The heat of his mouth seared the skin through her glove. She swallowed, licked her lips. His eyes darkened.

  “Enjoy your next dance,” he said, before releasing his hold on her and handing her off to Vexley.

  She watched him walk off, then with determination turned to Vexley and smiled. She very much intended to enjoy the entire evening, Lovingdon be damned.

  Standing in the gazebo, smoking a cheroot, Lovingdon looked out over the stream where the dappled moonlight danced over the water. The smoke he released momentarily clouded his vision. He wished it would cloud his mind.

  He wanted Grace to find love, knew she wouldn’t find it with him, but the acknowledgment didn’t stop him from wanting her. He had watched her dance with one gentleman after another, and each gazed at her adoringly. He could hardly blame them. Her smile was the sweetest, her laughter warmed the soul. It was when he saw her slip into the garden with Somerdale that he decided he needed to leave, because his first inclination had been to follow them out and plant his fist in the center of the man’s face.

  He wasn’t jealous, but merely being protective. She was wise, smart, able to look out for herself. He had given her enough warnings that she would not find herself forced into marriage by an overzealous suitor.

  Hadn’t he taken Juliette for walks in the garden at night whether the moon was full or absent, and behaved himself? A kiss on the back of her hand. Twice he leaned over for a kiss on the cheek. Once he had grazed his mouth across hers in much the same manner that Grace had described Somerdale’s kiss. Innocent. Respectful. Boring as hell.

  Only now did he realize how dull his courtship had been. He had loved Juliette. He held no doubt. He had been a boy on the cusp of manhood, eager to please her, terrified of frightening her with his passions, so he’d held them in check.

  Why could he not do the same where Grace was concerned?

  He caught the whiff of her rose and lavender fragrance before he heard her slippers crush leaves, before the floor of the gazebo vibrated as she stepped upon it. He felt her warmth as she neared. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her reach for his cheroot. She plucked it from his mouth, turned, leaned back against the railing and took a short puff. He was mesmerized watching the smoke escape through her slightly parted lips.

  She extended the cheroot toward him. He took it, studied it. “Does your father know about your bad habits?”

  “There are a good many things about me that my father doesn’t know.”

  He wondered how many of those things were secrets kept from him? A lifetime of exploring her would never be enough. There would always be something new to learn, something new to relish. He couldn’t travel that path. “Shouldn’t you be inside dancing?”

  “I’ve worn out three pairs of slippers. I’ve had enough of the ball. I think I’ve had enough of the Season.”

  He shifted his position until he was facing her squarely. “What do you mean by that?”

  “If one of those gentlemen loves me, it doesn’t matter, because I don’t love him. I enjoy them. I enjoy them all. But my heart fails to speed up, my skin doesn’t grow warm. I don’t anticipate their nearness.”

  “That doesn’t mean you won’t come to love one of them.”

  “But it would be a passionless love.”

  And she so deserved a passionate love, a man who could not live without her. A man who woke up each morning and smiled because she was in his bed, a man for whom she was the sun and the moon.

  Without looking at him, she held something toward him. He snatched the bottle from her. “You little minx. No glasses?”

  In the light of the full moon he saw her slight smile. “I was attempting to escape from being so civilized.”

  “Well, you accomplished that.” He removed the top from the bottle and offered it to her, not at all surprised when she took it. Too many shadows prevented him from observing the minute movements of her delicate throat as she swallowed, but he could see her faint skin washed by moonlight. His blood thrummed.

  He retrieved the bottle from her and enjoyed several gulps, barely savoring the flavor of whiskey. She’d brought his preference, not hers, had known his preference. Juliette had never imbibed with him, nor smoked, nor used profanity. But then he’d kept all his vices on a short leash when she was alive. He hadn’t wanted to offend her. He’d loved her, there was no denying that, but in being true to her had he been true to himself?

  “You look as though you’re deep into heavy thoughts,” Grace said.

  “Berating myself for failing to discover a man who loves you more than he loves your dowry.”

  “My father says I’m searching too hard. Perhaps I am.”

  She grabbed a beam, swung around and stepped through an opening onto the ground.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “I want to walk along the stream.”

  “I smell the scent of rain on the air. You should head back to the manor if you’re going anywhere.” Taking another swallow of whiskey, he didn’t want to admit his disappointment because she was leaving him already.

  “You’re h
ardly made of sugar,” she called over her shoulder. “You won’t melt if you get wet.”

  No, but he’d get chilled. So would she. Dammit. “Grace, you don’t know what creatures are about.”

  “When did you become a coward, Lovingdon?” she taunted.

  Blast her. He leapt off the gazebo and trudged after her, aware of the occasional raindrop pinging off him. “I’m a grown man, not a young boy in search of adventure.”

  “Are there adventures to be had here, do you think?”

  Chuckling, he caught up to her. “Most assuredly. Especially if your father finds us out here. Rifle in tow, he’d no doubt hunt me down.”

  “He trusts you to behave, at least where I’m concerned.”

  “Yet you know that I don’t always behave where you’re concerned.”

  In spite of the gathering clouds, he could see her smile in the moonlight. The rain began to fall in earnest. He needed to get her back. He didn’t want to risk her catching her death. “I think you’re out here trying to tempt me into wickedness again.”

  “It’s crossed my mind that wickedness without love is better than no wickedness at all.”

  “I thought you valued love above all else. If you’ve been wicked, it’ll be harder for him to love you.”

  At the water’s edge she faced him. “Will it? If he truly loves me, shouldn’t he love every aspect of me? That’s what I want. A man who will love every aspect of me, even the imperfections.”

  “A woman who admits to imperfections, a rare find indeed.”

  She abruptly spun about, presenting her back to him, and he had the sense that perhaps she hadn’t been teasing and that maybe he shouldn’t have either. He moved up until he could see her profile and the tears glistening in her eyes.

  “Grace?”

  She shook her head. “There’s something I haven’t told you, something that’s not talked about, and yet there are times when I feel this overwhelming need to shout about it.”

  “You can tell me.”

  She shook her head.

  With one hand, he cradled her cheek. “Sweetheart, whatever it is—”

  Lightning flashed, thunder crashed, the air reverberated, and frigid rain poured from the heavens.

  Grace hunched her shoulders. Lovingdon tore off his jacket and draped it over her head to shelter her from the rain as much as possible. “Come along, we need to get back to the manor.”

  “There’s an old crofter’s cottage just beyond the trees. It’s nearer.”

  He didn’t argue as she began trudging away from the river, but worked to keep pace and keep his jacket over her. The wind picked up, slapping rain against them. Blast it! Where had this come from? A flash of lightning guided their steps. Another rumble of thunder cracked above them.

  As they passed into a clearing, Lovingdon caught sight of the silhouette of a small building. It looked sturdy enough. As long as it had a sound roof, he’d be happy.

  With a bit of fumbling, he found the latch, shoved open the door, and guided Grace inside.

  “There’s a lamp on the table just inside the doorway,” she said, and he felt more than saw her moving away from him.

  He found the table, realized he’d clung to the whiskey the entire time. Lightning arced through the sky, provided him with a glimpse of the items spread across the table. He set down the bottle and snatched up the box of matches before all grew dark. He struck a match, lit the lamp, and turned to the room, the only one in the dwelling. Grace was crouched before the empty fireplace. To his right was a bed, neatly made. As a matter of fact, everything appeared tidy. Drawings were pinned on walls around the room.

  “It appears to be clean,” he said.

  “It’s where I come to draw.”

  He glanced back at the bed.

  “Sometimes late into the night,” she explained, as though she knew he was confused by the out of place furniture. “Father had it redone for me a few years back.”

  He wanted to examine the drawings, especially the one that appeared to be a bunny with only one ear. He wondered if it was a sketch from her youth, as it seemed an odd choice for a woman. He remembered often seeing her, when she was younger, with sketchpad and pencil.

  Crossing the distance separating them, he placed the lamp on the floor and crouched beside Grace. “And you have some firewood and kindling.”

  “The servants keep it tidy, as I never know when I might want to come here alone.”

  He worked diligently to get a fire going. “If I didn’t know you so well, I would think you’d led us here on purpose.”

  “Only to escape the rain. I assure you that I’m well aware you’ll never love me, and without love how can one make love?”

  The fire caught and began to crackle. He wished he could make love to her, could give her what she wanted. He turned to find her simply sitting there, rocking back and forth. “You need to get out of those wet clothes. The fire is not going to provide you with enough warmth.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Humor me. Health is a fragile thing.” Standing, he strode over to the bed and pulled off the quilt. “You can use this to cover yourself.”

  He walked back over and held the quilt up so it served as a curtain between them. “Come on now, Grace.”

  “I’m not going to disrobe in front of you.”

  “You’re not in front of me. I can’t see you.”

  “The fire will warm me.”

  “It’ll warm you faster if you’re not drenched, and I don’t intend to stay in sodden clothes. You’ll catch your death and I won’t have that on my conscience.”

  “I’m not your responsibility.”

  She sneezed, sniffled. Blast her!

  He crouched beside her. “Grace, don’t be so stubborn. You’re safe with me.”

  She was staring at the fire, refusing to look at him.

  “I’ve seen plenty of women.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” she asked, and he could not mistake the pique in her voice or the way it made him want to smile.

  “I’m not boasting, but merely pointing out that I’m skilled enough around women’s clothing that we can do this without me seeing you at all.”

  He moved around behind her and began to work on the fastenings. She wiggled her shoulders. “No!”

  She started to get up, and he wrapped his hand around her arm, bringing her back down. “You’re pale, you have chill bumps that I can see, and your skin is like ice. Perhaps I’m overprotective, but by God, I’ll not have you ill on my watch.”

  She studied him for a moment. He thought she might argue further. Instead, she nodded and presented her back to him. He quickly unfastened her dress and slipped the shoulders down her arms. He should have stopped there. He knew he should stop there. Instead he rubbed his palms briskly up and down her arms.

  “How can you be so warm?” she asked.

  “I have more meat on me.” He moved away, stood, and lifted the blanket until it hid her from view. “Come along now. Discard the clothing.”

  He could hear her moving about, and fought like the devil not to imagine the bodice skimming down her torso, past her hips, her thighs—

  The blanket was snatched from his fingers and she draped it around herself.

  “There is little point to removing your wet clothes if you’re going to get the blanket equally soaked.” He knelt so he could glare at her on eye level, but she once again averted her gaze. He reached for the ribbons of her chemise. She shoved his hand away and it accidentally brushed over her breast.

  Something wasn’t right. It was too soft, too malleable.

  “Grace—”

  “Please leave me alone.”

  He should do as she asked. He’d never forced himself on a woman, but something was going on here. He retrieved the whiskey from the table where he’d left it earlier. “Here, drink this.”

  She upended the bottle as though her life depended on it. The blanket slid down, pooled at her hips. He
could see the beginning of a scar, or perhaps it was the end. It peeked out above the lace of her chemise. To the side something else peeked out.

  With his forefinger and thumb, he took hold of the rumpled linen. She grabbed his wrist. Holding her gaze, he saw the discomfort in hers. He was so accustomed to her confidence and boldness. He almost released his hold but realized that he had to know the truth.

  She licked her lips, swallowed, gave the barest of nods. Slowly, ever so slowly, he pulled out the long strip of linen. Without it, her chemise appeared painfully empty on the left side.

  Calmly, not wanting to startle her, taking the same sort of care that he took with a nervous filly, he tugged on the ribbon of her chemise.

  “Lovingdon—”

  “Shh.” Cautiously, he untied the ribbon, then the next, and the next, the material parting. With great consideration, barely breathing, he moved aside the cloth to partially reveal one side, to reveal the thick rigid scars where once a left breast had been.

  “Now you know why it is so important that he love me, for me.”

  Chapter 14

  Grace had always expected to feel shame at this first moment when a man gazed upon her chest, but she saw no revulsion cross Lovingdon’s features.

  “What happened?” His voice was rough, scratchy.

  “A malignancy.”

  He leapt to his feet as though she had lit a fire beneath his backside. He tore at his waistcoat, popping off buttons in his frenzy to get it off. His cravat came next. He slung it across the room. He unbuttoned his shirt, stopped and glowered at her. “Are you going to die?”

  She heard the devastation, the pain so deep that she wanted to weep. She shook her head. “No, I shouldn’t think so. If I weren’t so slender, if I were not as flat as a plank of wood, I might not have noticed the growth for years, but I did notice and it was enlarging, so Dr. Graves said the best thing was to remove everything that might have a chance of becoming infected. He examines me every few months to make sure nothing else is amiss. You know how good he is.”

  Lovingdon glared at her. “Can he guarantee that you’re all right, that you won’t die?”