A Duke Like No Other

by Valerie Bowman

  She eyed the shadow again. Her brain told her she should be frightened, but a thrill of excitement shot down her spine. This time she took a tentative step toward him, hoping to catch a glimpse of his face.

  “A silver spoon,” she clarified. Too bad. It was too dark to see his features.

  “Ah, the aristocracy does love its silver,” the deep voice said as the shadow bent down and rummaged through the servant’s pockets. A spray of light from the room above the mews cast a glow upon him. All she could see at the moment was his back. He wore a soldier’s uniform. That served to ease her nerves a bit. Surely a soldier wouldn’t harm her. Would he?

  He located the spoon, stood, and offered it to her. The light played across his features then and Nicole sucked in her breath. Dark hair, darker eyes, a strong brow, perfectly straight nose, and the most heavenly firm lips anyone had ever been graced with. Good heavens. Since when did she look at men’s lips? Hmm. Perhaps since she’d noted how large and wet and bulbous the Marquess of Tinsley’s were. The marquess dabbed at them with his handkerchief often, never failing to make her shudder. This man’s lips, however, were the opposite. They were … kissable.

  “I believe this is yours?” the soldier said, startling her from her indecent thoughts.

  Nicole glanced down, realizing he’d been holding the spoon out to her the entire time.

  “Oh, yes, yes, of course.” She reluctantly took the spoon from his hand. His fingers brushed over hers. They were both wearing gloves, but the contact still caused an unfamiliar and delightful pang in her middle.

  “Looks as if someone will be in need of a new footman,” the handsome stranger said, pulling his hand to his side.

  “Yes,” she answered inanely. She should thank him, turn, and rush back to the house as quickly as possible. She’d been reckless coming out here. She needed to change her shoes before her mother saw them and scolded her for ruining them. For some reason she couldn’t make her feet move, couldn’t turn away from this enigmatic man.

  “What is your name?” she blurted, ignoring years of proper schooling on etiquette and decorum. One did not ask a man his name. One certainly did not ask a man his name while alone in the dark near the mews.

  Surprisingly, the man laughed. She liked his laugh. It was deep and genuine. “What is yours?” he asked.

  She smiled at him coyly. “Why won’t you tell me yours?”

  “Ah, sweetheart, you’re clever. Always answer a question with a question when trying to find out something from another person. It gives you the upper hand.”

  She couldn’t help but smile wider at that reply. He was cagey. He’d also called her “sweetheart” and she should slap him for that. Instead, it sent a funny little tingling sensation all the way down to her toes. No one had called her “sweetheart” before. No one she wanted to, at least.

  “Aren’t you going to tell me?” she prodded. She’d never been one to give up when she really wanted something, and tonight she really wanted to know this man’s identity. He was obviously one of the soldiers who’d been invited, or so she guessed, but she wanted his name.

  “Suffice to say I’m someone who enjoys a stroll in a darkened garden more than being cooped up at a ball meant to assuage the guilt of the aristocracy.”

  “Assuage the guilt?” She blinked. What in the world did he mean? “Grandmama invited several friends to this party as well as the soldiers.”

  “Grandmama?” His dark brows arched. “You live here?” He nodded toward the mansionlike town house.

  “Yes, my mother does too.” She shot the hulking edifice a quick glance. Her cheeks warmed. She’d never felt embarrassed to be wealthy before, not even when she’d been at the runners’ office, but suddenly the house seemed ostentatious. Where must this soldier live? Had he ever seen such a grand home before?

  “What about your father?” he asked.

  “He died when I was a child.” Why was she telling this complete stranger so many details about her life? The truth was, she’d barely known her father. Her uncle and her cousin Harry took care of her mother, her grandmother, and herself.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, sweetheart. I lost my father too young as well.” Genuine regret sounded in his deep voice.

  “I’m sorry too,” she murmured.

  “Who did you say your mother is?” His handsome features moved in and out of the shadows as he cocked his head to consider her.

  She fought her smile and lifted her chin. “You didn’t tell me your name yet, why should I reveal mine?” This felt suspiciously like what flirting must feel like.

  His smile returned, a white flash in the darkness. “Very good, sweetheart, eye on the prize.”

  “You’re obviously a soldier.” She wanted to kick herself for the foolishly obvious words as soon as they escaped her mouth.

  “What gave me away?” He grinned at her and his teeth were perfectly even behind those arresting lips. He took a step toward her.

  “Your hair arrangement, obviously.” She grinned back and took a step forward as well. Did this soldier like to be teased? He was certainly much more interesting to speak with than the Marquess of Tinsley, a man who never encountered a jest he didn’t misunderstand.

  “Ah, it has a tendency to do that.” The soldier removed his hat and ran his fingers through the slightly curly dark locks. His hair looked like black silk. Nicole longed to run her fingers through it too. She squeezed the spoon in her hand instead.

  “I must get back,” she finally announced, hoping the regret in her voice wasn’t too obvious. “But before I go, I’ll give you one last chance to tell me your name.”

  His grin was utterly captivating. “Why would a nice young lady like you want to know a mere soldier’s name?”

  “So I can follow your career?” The words flew from her mouth before she had a chance to stop them. “Besides, my uncle says there are many years of fighting ahead of us. How do I know you won’t be a captain one day?”

  His posture straightened and a spark of determination shone in his dark eyes. “I’m going to be a general. You can count on it.” And then, “What’s your father’s name?”

  She plunked her free hand on her hip. “That wasn’t even a good attempt.”

  “You cannot blame me for it, can you, sweetheart?” His teeth flashed again in the darkness.

  Every time he called her “sweetheart,” her palms got sweaty and her heart raced a little. The endearment felt … illicit.

  “I’ll just go back in and ask Joseph, the footman, to call the watch to get this”—she glanced down at the still-unconscious thief—“ne’er-do-well out of here.”

  “No need. I’ll take care of it,” the handsome stranger replied.

  Very well. There wouldn’t be a bounty for a crime like this. Bow Street wouldn’t be interested. She reluctantly returned to the house, stealing a glance at the soldier twice as she went. He tipped his hat to her, and her stomach did a little flip.

  Oh, how she hoped she would see the handsome stranger again.

  * * *

  Loud laughter brought Nicole’s attention back to the Duc de Frontenac’s dinner party. With Mark there, sucking up all the oxygen, she was suddenly aware of how stuffy and close it was in the crowded room. Her kid slippers pinched her feet, making her want to step out of them and flee, shoeless, onto the balcony for fresh air.

  It was no surprise that Mark had come here tonight. The man was pure arrogance. No doubt he’d waltzed right into the party this evening and demanded entrée. She should have guessed he would. He wasn’t one to sit around in a rented room crossing his fingers and contemplating things. He was a man of action. They’d had that in common when they met. No doubt he’d bribed a servant to tell him where she would be tonight. The man was a master spy; deducing her whereabouts was hardly a challenge. It had been her mistake to leave him unattended in her château. She’d have to speak to the servants.

  The crowd in front of her thinned, allowing her a momentary uninterrupte
d view of Mark, head to toe. She hadn’t been mistaken earlier at her house. He looked good. No wonder the French ladies hovered around him. She’d been shocked to see him today. Shocked and a bit elated. Not because she missed him. Never that. Only because she’d always expected that the next missive she received about her husband would be the news of his untimely demise.

  He was smart, he was calculating, and he was an excellent spy. He was also reckless. He’d do anything to get his man, win his case, excel at anything. His own life was nothing in pursuit of his goal: to be the best damned spymaster London had ever known. She’d heard enough rumors about him over the years. He’d accomplished that goal and then some.

  He’d managed to survive the wars. He’d managed to get himself promoted to the rank of general. And now he needed her? For another promotion. She sagged against the wall. Of course he did. His work was all he cared about. At the expense of all other things … including their marriage.

  She hadn’t told him what her one condition was. It may have been petty of her, but she wanted to make him wait, to make him squirm and wonder. For a man so used to being in control, waiting was torture. But, she also hadn’t been ready to vocalize what it was she wanted. The moment he’d asked her for a favor, she’d known. She’d always known what she wanted from him. He wasn’t going to like it. He might well say no, even if it cost him his promotion, and that was why she needed more time to come up with the perfect way to phrase it. She’d learned long ago that with Mark, presentation made a difference. He was too smart to be manipulated. She had to be careful, very careful.

  She nodded politely at something one of the people surrounding her said and then asked the comte in a quiet whisper if he might fetch her a glass of champagne. Henri trotted off to do her bidding and her attention immediately reverted across the room to where Mark stood. He was clearly in the middle of a story because he was speaking with his hands while the ladies surrounding him all stared at him with wide eyes and rapt interest. Nicole had intended to come to this soiree tonight, enjoy the company of her friends, and hope that the right words to explain to Mark what she wanted would present themselves in the morning. A good night’s sleep often helped with such dilemmas.

  But she’d underestimated Mark. She’d forgotten for a moment how used to getting his way he was. He wasn’t about to not follow her out tonight. He’d want to see what she was up to. See what company she kept. Try to guess at what her one condition might be so he would have the upper hand in tomorrow’s negotiations.

  Henri returned with a glass of champagne and presented it to her with a flourish. She couldn’t help but think that Mark would never present anything with a flourish. The man was not a flourisher.

  “Merci beaucoup,” she replied, gracing the comte with her most flattering smile. Frenchmen so loved to be flattered. Mark didn’t need to be flattered. His own arrogance outweighed anyone’s flattery.

  She took a long sip of champagne, trying not to let her gaze travel yet again to her husband in his arresting black evening attire, the pretty French girls in pastels hovering near him like beautiful butterflies.

  She couldn’t help herself. Within moments she was glancing across the room at him again. She narrowed her eyes. Yes, he was here for a reason. He wanted to guess her condition. Too bad for him it would be the absolute last thing he would ever guess.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Mark kept his most charming smile glued to his face. The smile he used when he was at a party surrounded by women lavishing him with attention. He smiled and nodded and even winked at one or two of them, the boldest ones. But he didn’t enjoy their simpering company, and while to all appearances it looked as if he was paying attention to each of them and enjoying himself, his senses were fully attuned to what was happening across the room … with Nicole.

  She’d traded the snug breeches for a dazzling ball gown of sapphire blue. The bodice hugged her generous bosom and fell in graceful folds down her long legs. She looked … magnificent. But then she always had. The two of them had had a score of problems, but attraction had never been one of them. He would be lying, however, if he didn’t admit he preferred her in breeches.

  The damned comte was hovering near her, his thin hand sometimes darting out to touch her arm. Mark growled under his breath. He’d done his research on the comte this afternoon. The man came from a dull if reputable family. He owned a nearby estate that was mostly supported by the lavender trade. He was rich but not indecently so, and he’d been hanging after Nicole for the last two years.

  Mark took another sip of his champagne (damn, he wished it was a brandy) and replied in fluent French to something one of the cheekier young ladies had said to him. The French were much bolder than the English. They said and did things that would be considered scandalous at ton events in London. It was one of the things he appreciated about this country. One of the few things.

  Another covert glance showed her laughing at something the comte had said and lifting her graceful white-gloved hand to her forehead to expertly swipe away a red curl that had come loose from her coiffure. Mark narrowed his eyes on the couple. What he hadn’t been able to discern in his research this afternoon was whether Nicole was infatuated with the comte. For that, there was only one way to tell and he was engaged in it at the moment … watching them together.

  “Mesdemoiselles, you must scatter,” came a musical voice from behind him. “You are behaving like a hive of bees. No doubt the general is afraid you may sting him.”

  Mark turned his head to see a lovely blond woman in her early thirties waving her hands at the young ladies surrounding him. The ladies lifted their colorful skirts, frowned, and gave him reluctant looks as they flew away to the four corners of the room, leaving him alone with the blond woman.

  “May I refill your glass?” she asked him, still speaking in what was clearly her native language. She wore a flowing golden gown with rubies at her throat. Her sharp blue eyes seemed to miss nothing.

  “I’d prefer something stronger if you have it?” He afforded her his infamous grin.

  “Oui, but Nicole was right, you are charming,” she said with a sly smile.

  She snapped her fingers and a footman rushed over. She ordered Mark a brandy and turned back to him while the footman hurried off to fetch the drink.

  “Nicole told you I’m charming?” he asked, somewhat surprised by the news, but grinning nevertheless. He’d never met a compliment he didn’t like.

  “Oui, très charmant.” She held out her hand to him. “I am the Duchesse de Frontenac. I believe you met my husband.”

  Ah, so she was his hostess. Yes, he had met her husband earlier tonight in the man’s study. He’d asked for a few minutes of the duc’s time, which had resulted (as he’d hoped) in an invitation to tonight’s party.

  Mark took her hand and executed a deep bow over it. “My pleasure, entirely, Madame la Duchesse. Thank you for graciously inviting me into your home.”

  Her tinkling laughter followed. “You invited yourself according to my husband, but I must say I’m pleased. I’ve been eager to meet you for quite some time.”

  Mark hid his smile behind his champagne glass. The French were forthright. He appreciated that. No doubt that was why Nicole liked it here. He downed the rest of the contents of his glass just before the footman returned and replaced it with a filled brandy snifter.

  “Quite some time?” he echoed belatedly, letting the words linger.

  “But of course. Your wife has told me a great deal about you. Nicole and I have been friends for an age.”

  It surprised him to know Nicole had confided in someone. A Frenchwoman at that. Obviously the duchesse was someone who could be trusted. He still had issues of trust when it came to the French. “I’m certain her words were flattering,” he replied with an edge of irony in his voice.

  “Some of them were flattering,” the duchesse replied, taking a dainty sip of her champagne.

  “And the ones that weren’t?” he ventured, arch
ing a brow.

  “Numerous,” she said simply, with the barest hint of a shrug.

  “I see.” His smile widened to a full-out grin. “How long has Nicole lived here?”

  The duchesse looked at him out of the corners of those perceptive eyes. “Something tells me you already know that, monsieur.”

  He did. Three years. She’d been in Paris before that, but he’d wanted to see if the duchesse would tell him the truth.

  “Besides,” the duchesse continued. “Does it not seem strange to you that a husband would fail to know the whereabouts of his own wife?”

  “I assumed Nicole had told you that we’re…” He cleared his throat. “Estranged.”

  “Yes, she’s told me.” The duchesse glanced over at Nicole and nodded. “We are quite close. I know many things about Nicole.”

  “Such as?” He couldn’t help but ask.

  The duchesse raised her glass to her lips and sighed. “She is clever, she is beautiful, and she is très … lonely.”

  “Lonely?” Mark nearly spit out his brandy. He struggled to keep his face blank. “She doesn’t look lonely to me.” In addition to the comte, there were at least three other men hovering near Nicole’s skirts.

  He focused on Nicole’s features. It was true. Her face was devoid of animation, despite her engaging smile. Her eyes held a certain … sadness?

  “Looks can be deceiving as I’m certain you know, monsieur?” the duchesse said.

  He turned his attention back to the blonde. Had Nicole told the duchesse what he did for a living? That he was a spymaster? Something told him she knew. “Only too well,” he replied cryptically. Yes, looks could be deceiving. And so could words.

  It reminded him of the night he’d met Nicole. She’d seemed so special then. So different from other young woman. She’d seemed lonely then too.

  * * *

  Mark located an animal’s water dish around the side of the mews and splashed it on the face of the man who’d stolen a silver spoon from the most intriguing young woman he’d ever laid eyes on. Too bad she was an aristocrat … and no doubt a debutante at that. The worst kind of aristocrat. Naïve, innocent, and heavily guarded … usually. It had been a surprise to see her outside, chasing down a thief. Not the usual sport for a gently reared girl.