A Duke Like No Other

by Valerie Bowman

  A slight knock at the door startled her back into the moment.

  “Monsieur le Général is here, Madame,” one of the housemaids reported.

  Nicole glanced at the clock on the wall. Mark was right on time. Wasn’t he always? His colleagues called him the stone man. Emotionless, calm, collected, always rigidly in charge. He had no friends. Friends could betray him. He had no family. At least none he would claim. He was like stone. Like a statue, not a human being. He would never allow himself such a flaw as to be late to anything. Very well. He was here and she’d promised him her terms. She might as well get it over with. The worst he could say was no, and she’d prepared herself for that.

  She took a deep breath, sucking in her belly and exhaling slowly. There was only one way to face this pivotal moment. With courage. If she didn’t ask for this now, she would never get it, as this was certain to be the only time her husband would appear on her doorstep, hat in hand, asking for a favor. She had to take advantage of the opportunity, but still, her nerves caused her legs to tremble as she slowly walked out of her bedchamber, down the corridor to the top of the staircase, and grasped the marble bannister.

  She descended into the foyer, made her way to the front drawing room, and stood before the door, her heart beating like a hare’s foot in her chest. She swallowed hard and pushed open the door with a sweating hand.

  Mark stood near the mantelpiece, his arm braced atop it, one hand arrested halfway through his dark hair. He wore dark gray breeches, a sapphire waistcoat, and a white shirtfront. His black boots were shined to perfection, as always.

  The moment the door opened, he dropped his hand and turned to face her. Why did the man have to be so dastardly handsome? Aside from the new crook in his nose, his face looked as if it had been carved from stone. His hair was always perfect, even after he’d been rubbing his fingers through it. It sprang right back into place, the slight curl and the shine of the dark locks falling expertly into step as if they were his soldiers, too frightened of him to not do his bidding.

  Nicole’s eyes met his and a spark of something that felt ever so much like lust shot through her core. Breathing heavily, she immediately dropped her gaze to the floor. Lust? Lust would not be helpful in this discussion. She needed to keep her wits about her. She was about to negotiate with a master.

  She glided to the settee and gathered her skirts to take a seat. “Would you care for some tea?” she asked in a voice that was far too high and unsteady.

  “No,” he said, striding toward her. “All I want is to hear your condition.”

  She cleared her throat, hoping that would help with the high-voice issue and settled onto the edge of the settee. “Always direct to a fault.”

  “Did you expect any less of me?” He grinned.

  “No, take a seat, Mark.” That was a negotiating tactic. If he was sitting too, they would be equals.

  A disgruntled look on his face, Mark reluctantly sat. He chose a chair at right angles to the settee and leaned toward her, forearms braced on his thighs, his powerful frame so close she could smell the scent of his lightly applied cologne. Spicy and reminiscent of the forest. She closed her eyes. More lust. Not helping.

  “Look,” he began. “I know what you’re going to say.”

  “You do?” She furrowed her brow. She’d seen him speaking to Louisa, the Duchesse de Frontenac, last night. Surely her friend had not told him what she wanted, had desperately wanted for years.

  “Yes,” he replied. “I’ve been thinking about it all night. I’m certain there’s a way we can determine how to make it work.”

  She forced herself to smother her laugh, pressing her lips together awkwardly. “Make it work? I thought perhaps you already knew how it worked.”

  He shrugged. “I do, of course, but there are complications. You must know that. It’s far from simple.”

  She pressed her lips together harder this time. Unexpected laughter bubbled in her chest. “I’ve never considered it simple, but precisely what do you mean by … complications?”

  “You know, the usual. Legalities, gossip, that sort of thing. And there is always the issue of timing.”

  She narrowed her eyes on him. What in heaven’s name did he think she was asking of him? “Timing? Legalities?”

  Mark straightened a bit. “Yes, with my new role, the timing of the thing will be of the utmost importance. Surely you can understand that. A divorce has the potential to cause a great deal of scandal for both of us as well as our families.”

  A wave of cold shock stiffened her spine and she gasped, pressing her fingertips to her throat. “A divorce!”

  “Yes,” he replied, squinting at her. He hesitated. “Isn’t that what you want?”

  Nicole sagged against the settee cushions, her heart thrumming madly with a mixture of exasperation and trepidation. “No, you dolt. I don’t want a divorce. I want you to have sex with me!”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Mark sat on the green-and-white-flowered Louis XIV chair in the middle of Nicole’s well-appointed French drawing room, completely dumbfounded. His mouth opened and closed, his eyes blinked repeatedly, and his head cocked to the side as he tried to make sense of the words that had just emerged from his wife’s lips. Surely, he had been wrong before a time or two in his life. When he was younger, a child, perhaps. It had been a long while, but incorrectness wasn’t a completely foreign feeling to him.

  He just couldn’t precisely recall a time when he’d been wrong. He sure as hell couldn’t recall a time when he’d been this bloody wrong. For the love of God, he’d been as wrong as Napoleon’s timing at Waterloo. As wrong as wrong ever got.

  It was an unexpected feeling. As a result, he was anything but his usual calm, collected self when he stared at Nicole and echoed in a stunned voice, “Have sex with you?”

  She shot to her feet and strode to the mantel, crossed her arms over her chest, and whirled to face him, her eyes blazing green fire. “Yes, you idiot. I want a baby. What in Hera’s name made you think I wanted a divorce?” There was a slight redness to her cheeks that made her all the more appealing. She was magnificent when she was angry.

  “Last night you said the comte wanted to marry you,” he retorted. Wait. What? She wanted a baby?

  “He does want to marry me, but that doesn’t mean I want to marry him.”

  Mark stood too. He followed her to the mantel and stopped not two paces from her, his arms crossed over his chest. He’d let the baby comment go for the moment. “Then why did you mention it?”

  She hastily shrugged one shoulder. “You seemed preoccupied by his presence.”

  Mark pressed a fist to his forehead where a headache was beginning to form. How the hell had he misread this situation so damned badly? “The duchess led me to believe you have a bevy of admirers.”

  “Also true,” Nicole clipped.

  “Wait.” He shook his head, still trying to come to terms with what she’d said. “Are you telling me you don’t want a divorce?”

  “No, I don’t want a divorce,” she snapped. “Are you mad? That would bring an avalanche of shame on both our families.”

  He narrowed his eyes on her. “Are you having an affair with the comte?”

  She gave Mark a condemning glare. “That is none of your business, but if it makes you feel better, no. Any child I bear would be yours without doubt if you agree to my condition.”

  Mark paced away from her and scrubbed his hands through his hair again. He wanted to pull out his bloody hair. What she’d just said was so unexpected, he was having trouble comprehending, it, and he sure as hell didn’t know how to respond, which was the antithesis of how he usually handled things. Normally, he knew precisely what his opponent was going to say. How had he not seen this coming of all bloody things? A baby? A baby meant they would have to make love. But she hadn’t said that, had she? She had used the word “sex.” Which was curious. What in the hell was going on?

  He rubbed his eyes with the balls of both hand
s and faced her. “You want a baby?” The word felt oddly foreign.

  “Yes.” She nodded matter-of-factly. Her throat worked as she swallowed.

  “From me?” It was an asinine thing to ask, but his surprise was making him asinine today.

  She cocked her head and replied in a voice dripping with sarcasm, “You happen to be the only husband I have.”

  Jesus Christ. Mark pressed his fingers against his throbbing temples. “Why has this never come up before now?”

  She actually rolled her eyes. Rolled them. “Because you’ve been avoiding me for ten years. Or didn’t you recall that?”

  “I have not been avoiding you for ten years. You’ve been in France for ten years.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “Oh? You’ve never visited France in the last ten years?”

  He flared his nostrils. “You haven’t visited England?”

  “There’s little use arguing about this.” She slashed an arm through the air. “The fact is that you know my condition and it’s up to you to say yes or no. The cards are in your hands. It’s your play, General.”

  He paced away from her. Damn it all to hell. He’d thought about a divorce. He’d been prepared for a divorce. He’d been ready to accept a divorce. A baby? He had no bloody idea how he felt about a baby. He’d never considered one, had just accepted the fact that he would remain childless. Given the state of the rest of his family, it was probably best that way.

  “Why?” he finally demanded, pacing back toward her.

  “I want a baby. You happen to be the only means by which I can respectably get one.”

  “But why do you want a baby? There’s no title to secure.”

  She clenched her fists against her sides, her arms straightened and shaking with what he could only assume was pent-up rage. “Oh, yes, of course, you would think that’s the only reason I would want a baby.”

  “Tell me why,” he demanded through clenched teeth.

  “What does it matter?” She looked away, the stiffness draining from her arms. Was it his imagination or did he see a flash of vulnerability in her eyes before she glanced away? She swallowed and her throat worked.

  “I’m curious,” he replied, tempering his angry tone.

  She turned her back to him, facing the doors. “Curiosity isn’t part of this negotiation. Suffice it to say I want to be a mother. What do you care? You’ll get an heir and I’ll care for the baby entirely. You won’t have to lift a finger.”

  He studied the graceful line of her slender neck, the little wisps of russet hair that had escaped her chignon. “You expect me to rut with you, produce a child, and never see the babe again?”

  Nicole took a deep breath. Her shoulders lifted and settled back. “You may visit, if you choose. A child should know his father. I simply wouldn’t expect it of you.”

  An odd mixture of hurt and outrage shot through Mark’s chest. What kind of monster did she take him to be? He stalked in front of her to see her face, and force her to see his. “You think I’d leave my son in France of all places?”

  She raised her chin to look him in the eye. Her cheeks were flushed. “I would be willing to stay in England until he’s, say, ten years of age.”

  “And go where afterward?”

  She splayed her hands wide and shrugged. “Back to France? Anywhere.”

  “What if the babe is female?” he added.

  She nodded slowly. “So be it. I only require the one.”

  He narrowed his eyes on her. “What if I want an heir?”

  One red eyebrow shot up. “I assumed you didn’t give a toss or you’d have come looking for me before now.”

  That was so close to the truth he snapped his mouth shut. They stood in charged silence broken only by the steady tick of the mantel clock.

  Finally, Mark drew a deep breath and fixed his gaze on hers anew, searching for … what? He wasn’t certain. “So that’s it, one child? You don’t care whether it’s male or female. We … what? Make love until you find you’re with child and then we stop, I assume.”

  “Precisely, but…” She bit her lip and glanced down at her slippers, the red in her cheeks deepening.

  Oh, Christ, this couldn’t be good. “But what?”

  “It wouldn’t be…” Her voice was nearly a whisper.

  “Wouldn’t be what?” He leaned closer to better hear her.

  She lifted her head again, the color still riding high on her cheeks. “It wouldn’t be ‘making love’ as you said. It would merely be sex for the purpose of procreating.”

  All the air rushed from Mark’s lungs. What in the name of God was the woman talking about? He splayed his hands wide in a gesture of complete exasperation. “I don’t even know what that means.”

  She delicately cleared her throat. “We don’t need to … ahem … enjoy it. That’s all I mean.”

  His head jerked back as if she’d struck him. “Sweetheart, I’m going to enjoy it one way or another.”

  Her mouth fell open, but she snapped it shut in a scowl. “Fine. I only mean it doesn’t have to be anything more than … the act.”

  “The act?” He was truly affronted. “You may recall that our time together in bed wasn’t our problem.” His tone dropped, and for a moment, he let his gaze slide over her features. “We always enjoyed ourselves, Nicole. I did, and I know you did too. You never had to act.”

  Her eyes locked with his for an instant and darted away like a frightened bird. “Must you make this more difficult than it needs to be?”

  He braced a forearm against the mantel and stared at her. “Yes, I think I must.”

  She balled her hands into fists at her sides. “You’re infuriating. Just give me your answer. Yes or no.”

  Mark straightened, brushed his hands down his lapels, turned on his heel, and strode toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” she called after him, her voice slightly panicked.

  “Back to the inn. This time I need time to think about it.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Nicole spent the next few hours trying to reply to correspondence. Her cousins from England had written her. Her mother had written, too. As usual, Mother’s letter was riddled with persistent questions about whether she and Mark had been in contact. Letters had also arrived from acquaintances in both England and France. Nicole had put off her correspondence for weeks, preferring to go for a ride or to do something active versus sitting at a stuffy table in a pristine room to write about things that had already happened.

  She was more interested in what was going to happen and how she could participate in it. It was why she’d chosen the life she had. Why she’d come to France. The French were less judgmental than the English. They overlooked things like women wearing riding breeches and married women being husbandless for years. Few people had asked her questions about her husband in all these years. The duchesse had. She was a dear friend. But even Henri had only asked a few questions, nothing too prying. Nicole had left England and her family for more than one reason. But despite the friends she’d made and the life she’d created in France, she was still lonely.

  She propped an elbow on the writing table and rested her chin on one palm, the quill balanced in her other hand. She tapped the writing instrument against the vellum. What was Mark going to say? He had to say yes, didn’t he? He wanted his promotion more than he wanted anything else and she’d already made it clear that the babe would not be a burden to him. An image of his face, the way a muscle jumped in his jaw, darted through her memory. She’d angered him when she’d told him it would just be an act. It had wounded his pride.

  The man took great pride in his performance in bed. She couldn’t mock him for it. He had been magnificent. She fingered the lace at the edge of her bodice. The nights she’d spent with him had been unforgettable. She still woke up some nights, restless and drenched in sweat, remembering them. A small sigh slipped from her lips. She’d been rash. She should have waited for him to say yes before she told him it would just be
an act. Her own pride had got in the way, as it was prone to. She had wanted to wound him. It was deuced uncomfortable, asking one’s husband to take one to bed. He’d rejected her ten years ago. She didn’t want him to think she actually looked forward to it.

  Feeling restless, she tossed down the quill. Was she looking forward to it? Ever since he’d arrived with his demands, she’d tried not to think about how it would be to be in bed with him again. If they even used a bed. A reluctant smile tugged at her mouth. They didn’t have to. He’d taught her that. Up against a wall could be quite enjoyable given the right partner, and blast it all, Mark had been the right partner. They’d only stayed together a few months after their marriage, and in those few months he’d learned every inch of her body, knew exactly where to touch her and how. He’d taught her his body too. She knew what he liked and how to—

  Her cheeks flamed. She grabbed a delicate boned fan from her desktop, snapped it open, and fanned herself rapidly. Merde. In the one day Mark had been back, she’d blushed more than she had in the entire last ten years. How could he do that to her again? She was no longer a modest young girl. She was a woman full grown.

  She’d considered it all last night, had been unable to sleep because of it. She and Mark would have to have relations in order to produce a child. That was a fact. But she couldn’t give herself to him again. She couldn’t open up all those old emotions that had scarred over in the last ten years. She could not allow that to happen, and the only way it wouldn’t happen was if they didn’t repeat the passionate nights they’d spent together when they’d been young and, she at least, had been in love. That would end in heartache and disaster. She’d barely survived it the first time. She couldn’t live through it again. To make their bargain work she must have a condition on her condition: they would simply have sex. Not make love.