The Reluctant Duke

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The Reluctant Duke Page 6

by Blaise Kilgallen


  “You may call me Tonio when we are alone.”

  Her lips tightened. “I think not. What makes you think I would want such familiarity?” Her brows tilted upward when she frowned. “Your Grace, you take advantage, and I-I won’t be bullied.”

  Sparks ignited in her hazel-green eyes.

  Calming herself after her swift outburst, she controlled herself and continued. “There’s an excellent saddlery in Gillingham, a short distance from here.” Looking down, Caroline smoothed a ruffle on the sleeve of her dowdy, muslin gown. “I’m certain Mr. Leathem will gladly accommodate you. He can take the measurements and fashion a comfortable and safe seat in a matter of days.”

  She watched him stroll toward her like a stalking panther. She kept her slippers rooted to the carpet. When he got close and halted, she had to tilt her chin to look up at him.

  Their eyes locked, and Caroline’s throat went as dry as desert sands.

  Suddenly, the room seemed stiflingly warm, bristling with undeniable tension as if a tightrope stretched taut between them.

  Antonio wasn’t smiling. His dark eyes bored deep into Caroline’s and prevented her from stepping back a pace. Lifting a manicured finger, the duke lightly touched a bent knuckle beneath her chin, almost tenderly. “Why must you fight me, Caroline?” His words were muted, smooth, and caressing, but his tone was insistent.

  Caroline struggled to reply with some measure of haughtiness. “Why do you persist in—in badgering me, Your Grace?” She knew she gulped her words.

  “Because…I need explanations. I need to know what they are.” He shrugged. “Well, I’ll find out soon enough.”

  Caroline was uncertain what Antonio planned to do next. They stood very close. Had she offended him enough that he’d stalk out in arrogant anger? If that were the case, would her words upset a deeper friendship between the duke and her brother? Goosebumps erupted over the skin on her forearms. She was forced to wait to find out.

  Bending toward her, Antonio’s face was so near she could feel their breaths mingling.

  Good Lord! Is he going to kiss me?

  Caught in the lethal pools of his enormous pupils, she wasn’t sure which action frightened her more—his leaving in a huff or dipping his lips to steal a kiss.

  The study door had been left ajar when she entered. Even though she was a widow, to her it seemed proper not to shut it when a woman was left alone with an unmarried man—one who wasn’t an intimate friend. Now panic surged through Caroline, since she was rooted in place and couldn’t move.

  The duke merely ran a tantalizing caress along her jaw, like a snake charmer mesmerizing a cobra without the music. Antonio’s index fingertip lingered on Caroline’s tiny mole, then traced lightly across her full, bottom lip. Unconsciously, her mouth slowly fell open.

  “Umm… do you know you're quite lovely, Caro? Muy linda.” His murmur was barely audible.

  “Your Grace, stop this,” she rasped from deep in her throat. Finding her voice in the nick of time, she backed away from him with great effort. “You mustn’t touch me, it’s…”

  “Call me Tonio,” he repeated.

  Her throat was clogged with a kind of lump; she tried to dislodge it with only minimum success. “A-all right, then,” she coughed out. “T-Tonio.” There’d be no reason to use his name because she didn’t expect to see him again.

  “Ah, so much better, Caro.” He smiled openly now, a tiny measure of entreaty in his tone as he urged, “It’s not so hard to be friends, si? Am I not correct, Caro?”

  Seeing the gleam of masculine satisfaction glowing in his eyes still, Caroline vowed she’d topple him from his lofty perch somehow. He deserved to be taken down a peg or two after browbeating her this way.

  Friends, she thought, mulling his questions over in her beleaguered mind. She and he had never been friends. A friend was someone you knew well and liked. Caroline had no inkling what Antonio Thorndyke, Duke of Weston, was really like. None at all. Instead they were adversaries in the game he insisted on playing with her emotions. She determined not to give in to him anymore.

  Caroline had seen the full force of the Lucifer-eyed rogue dazzle her with his smile in the meadow. Now the color of his eyes melted to a chocolate brown, exuding warmth, transforming him from a worldly, demanding duke to a charming, insouciant, devil-eyed rogue.

  How many personas does this Spanish don have?

  While she was still making up her mind, Antonio broke off abruptly, and his tone changed. “Now, where were we?” he asked, his mood slipping into business.

  “Ah, yes. Briella’s new sidesaddle. I’ll send for Mr. Leathem immediately.”

  Aware of his newest demeanor, Caroline breathed easier. He no longer threatened seduction, so she relaxed; conceding he’d won their initial battle of wills.

  “I thank you, Caro, for the direction. Briella will be as pleased as I am. I look forward to your visit to Westhaven Hall with Hal on Monday next.”

  He bowed abruptly, said, “Adios, until then,” and strode from the room.

  * * * *

  Caroline dropped into the nearest chair, her legs too weak to support her. Her heart still banged against her ribs, and she placed an open palm over the left side of her chest. When she looked down at her fingers, they were trembling. She tightened them into a fist and buried her hand in the folds of her gown.

  She heard Ripley wish Antonio good speed, heard the front door snap shut.

  It took several more moments to restore her equilibrium. She was shaken to the core by Antonio’s autocratic dominance. While he was present, the temperature in the study had warmed twofold. Or was it her imagination? Now cool air invaded and left her chilled. His abrupt leave taking had left her all but abandoned and lonely. How in the world could that be?

  Caroline pulled herself together and mulled over her reactions from moments ago. At first, she denied what she was feeling. Thinking more rationally, she began to understand. She had wanted him to embrace her, ached to have his mouth blending with hers in a tender kiss.

  She may have dismissed his flirting at the party and yesterday in the meadow. But here, standing next to him in this room and gazing up into his handsome face, every nerve in her body came alive, ready to accept what she wanted him to teach her.

  A wave of guilt akin to fear settled deep inside her. Caroline pressed shaking fingertips to her heated cheeks. Good grief, she’d never before experienced such wanton feelings. She shouldn’t even be thinking of them. The most terrible transgression she had ever committed was riding astride Demon. Otherwise, she’d always been a well behaved, proper lady.

  Oh! What shall I do now?

  Caroline stood up and paced around the room until a solution came to her. She remembered that Antonio and Briella would be in London for the Season. Thank goodness! Until they were gone, she’d be careful to avoid the duke. She would curtail her morning jaunts and make certain she had no reason to see him. It hurt her more to avoid Briella, but she couldn’t help it.

  The rogue had let her know in so many words that he planned to seduce her. She wasn’t so naïve that she didn’t guess what he was thinking. He probably believed she would fall willingly into his arms and into his bed. The idea infuriated her. “Humph!” she huffed. “The man is arrogance personified.”

  I thought I buried my romantic fantasies years ago. Do you suppose they’ve come back to haunt me now? What if I haven’t forgotten them as I thought I had?

  Antonio Thorndyke was truly dangerous. Unfortunately, she couldn’t help wondering what might have happened if he had stayed a while longer.

  Chapter 7

  Briella and Antonio were finishing their noon meal. The sound of horses’ hooves and the crunch of carriage wheels grating on the gravel drive hurried them out of their chairs toward the front entrance. A footman flung both massive entry doors wide in welcome for Elizabeth Thorndyke.

  The Dowager Duchess of Weston had arrived at Westhaven Hall.

  Belmont stood on the landing
while two footmen rushed down the stone staircase to open the carriage door and let down a set of small steps. Slowly, a tall, silver-haired lady of regal bearing, dressed in a lustrous mauve silk gown, was helped down from the vehicle. With a grandson’s sense of alacrity, Antonio descended the stairs to greet his and Briella’s grandmother.

  “Grandmama, welcome. We weren’t certain when to expect you.”

  “Well, young man,” she said, looking up at her tall grandson. “I wasn’t sure I was going to come at all. At my age, I don’t know if I’m up to taming your hoydenish sister.”

  Grabbing her skirts and raising them too high, which allowed her slender calves to show, Briella raced down the front steps. She halted in front of her grandmother. The wrinkles on the Dowager’s brow deepened as she inspected her granddaughter’s unladylike descent, noting the girl’s behavior was the antithesis of an aristocratic English lady.

  “Oh, Grandmama, I’m so glad you came. I need your help now that you’re here,” Briella gasped, breathless, after skipping so hastily down the steep staircase. “I’m looking forward to all those English fiestas!”

  Elizabeth turned to Antonio with eyebrows raised. “This is your sister?” she remarked, leaning heavily on a sturdy Malacca cane.

  He was grinning. “Si, abuelita.” May I introduce Briella Constanza Maria de las Torres Thorndyke?” he said, turning his eyes toward his sister. “Isn’t she a beauty?”

  Elizabeth rolled the bright blue eyes so like her middle-aged son’s, tilting them upward. “Come, come, Antonio.” She tapped his arm with a gloved, commanding hand. “Help me into the hall. I’ll look the gel over after I’ve had my tea.” Elizabeth hadn’t spoken once to her granddaughter.

  Antonio glanced at his sister but didn’t scold. He saw Briella’s cheeks grow pink, her eyes downcast.

  Briella forgot to curtsy, and she realized by her lack of proper greeting, that her grandmother was annoyed. She knew she’d been chastised by her grandmother’s unspoken putdown.

  Nevertheless, both grandchildren ranged themselves beside the aged duchess. Each took an elbow and helped her up the stairs to the hall’s entrance.

  Belmont stepped aside and bowed deeply. His mien was imperturbable, like any well-trained butler. “It is very good to see you again, Your Grace.”

  The duchess bobbed her head at the family’s old retainer.

  Following the group of three aristocrats, numerous footmen, their arms loaded with boxes and baggage, mounted the stairs to the Dowager’s second storey suite. Belmont alerted the servants, and within a very short time, tea was served in the blue salon.

  All but ignoring Briella, Elizabeth conversed exclusively with Antonio. Briella remained silent, looking humbled.

  Finally, Elizabeth set her teacup down. With an imperative wave of her gnarled, be-ringed fingers, she motioned Briella to come and stand before her. For long moments, Elizabeth studied her granddaughter, sliding her gaze over the perfect features, golden complexion, glistening ebony hair and slim, womanly figure.

  Self-conscious under her grandmother’s scrutiny, Briella fidgeted, wearing an uneasy smile.

  “Stand still, gel, until I can get a good look at you.” Bringing a lorgnette up to her eyes, Elizabeth said, “It’s been, what…more than eight years, Antonio? Eight years since I’ve seen you and the gel.”

  Elizabeth had counted those years, hoping she’d see her youngest son, too, before she went to her final rest. Sebastian’s children had been born and had grown from childhood to adulthood while living in Spain. The rift between her and Sebastian, his firm decision to desert England and remain on the Continent, had been a bitter pill for her to swallow. But swallow it she did. Now, he’d written to her for help to launch Briella into London’s Polite Society.

  “Come along during that time, haven’t you?” Elizabeth said, sliding a swift glance toward Antonio. “You, missy,” she said, turning back to address Briella. “I remember as a scrawny, little bratling. And by your lack of proper manners, I can see your parents have let you run wild. Humph! Now, they want me to make something of you.”

  The regal duchess leaned forward, twirling Briella around by tapping her gently on her hip and backside with her cane. After another considering pause in which she intensified her appraisal, Elizabeth said, “Well, my gel, I think you’ve got the makin’s. We’ll get to work on the morrow.”

  With a dismissive flick of her hand at Briella, the duchess turned to her grandson. “Right now, Antonio, I’d like to rest these old bones. The long trip from Stanton House was tiring, even for an old war horse like me.”

  * * * *

  Briella’s lessons began in earnest the next morning. She complained immediately to her grandmother that she had no time to enjoy a short morning ride.

  “Nor will you, my dear,” Elizabeth replied.

  Elizabeth and her granddaughter were closeted alone in the small back parlor. The Dowager had warned Briella in no uncertain terms, “I’ll give you permission to ride when you learn how to behave properly, my gel, not until then. Your etiquette and deportment lessons are more important. We have other fish to fry besides horseback riding if I’m to get you ready for London.”

  Antonio had made himself scarce. He was in the midst of architects’ drawings, tradesmen’s estimates, and consultations with his Uncle Carlos as to where best to situate a new winter Riding Hall for his Andalusians’ training. Additional stabling was already started. It would accommodate the horses Antonio brought from Spain for breeding purposes. Erecting more horseboxes had been his first order of business when he arrived. If he were to remain in England, his family’s facilities in Spain needed to be duplicated. They needed to be finished before England’s cold weather set in. To be safe that meant by late October.

  Elizabeth ordered a talented modiste and her seamstresses to settle in at the hall. The manor abounded with the new faces—a milliner, a boot maker, even a dance instructor and sundry other trades people who were brought in to outfit the Dowager’s granddaughter for the ton’s imminent inspection.

  Briella and Elizabeth were immersed daily by a flurry of silks, satins, laces, ribbons, petticoats, hats, boots and all the other fripperies needed to bring a young aristocratic debutante out in toplofty style. In partnership with the Dowager Duchess, Aunt Mari, Carlos’s wife, was to be outfitted with new gowns suitable for her role as companion and duenna.

  In between fittings and dance lessons, Elizabeth tutored Briella in the proper behavior for an English lady.

  “Oh, Grandmama,” Briella groused. “There is too much to learn.”

  Elizabeth admonished her granddaughter, pointing a manicured index finger. “Never mind, Briella, you must learn, so listen closely. A lady, unmarried or not, must be above reproach at all times. She must speak in modulated tones. No shouting and screeching, hear me,” Elizabeth added with one bristling eyebrow. “By the by, if you can’t play the piano well or sing, keep quiet and don’t offer. You’ll embarrass yourself…and me,” she chuckled, although she wore a stern expression.

  One morning Elizabeth displayed an ivory fan. Briella eyed it where it rested in her grandmother’s lap. “A well bred lady assumes a demure mien. Noisy laughter is strictly forbidden. One must only titter or giggle softly behind one’s fan. Like this.” Elizabeth showed Briella how, fluttering her eyelashes and the fan at the same time.

  Briella giggled. “I’ll look foolish, Grandmama!”

  “You must learn how to flirt, Briella. It is the way of the world. Nevertheless, above all, one’s virtue must strictly never be questioned by anyone. Unmarried ladies are assumed to be innocent and unworldly.”

  “Am I truly so—so gauche?”

  “Yes, but you’ll learn.” The dowager’s blue eyes seemed to twinkle. “Now mind me closely, gel. It’s time you learn the proper way to address English nobility. I shall begin with a duke—like your brother. A duke is the highest non-royal title in the peerage, very much like a prince.”

  Briella g
rimaced, unbelieving. “Tonio—a prince?”

  “I’ll explain more later. Just know that here in England, all princes are also dukes; however, all dukes are not princes.” She smiled.

  “A marquess’s title comes next—heir to a duke. At his birth, Antonio’s first born son will be given the title of marquess.”

  Briella listened intently since it concerned her brother.

  “The next ranking peer is an earl—like your father. And lastly, Briella, there are viscounts and barons.” The old dowager smiled again. “Do you have it all straight now, m’dear?”

  Bored by this folderol, Briella answered with an exasperated sigh. “Yes, Grandmama, I think so.”

  “Are you certain, Briella? I won’t have you making a faux pas when I’m not around to pinch you.”

  “I’ll be fine, Grandmama,” she hastened to reply. “I’ll memorize it.”

  “Good. Now, forms of address.”

  Briella groaned, muttering through clenched teeth. She rose and strolled to a window, drawing a curtain aside and looking out wistfully at the sunny spring day. How she wished she could hop on Maestro and escape into the fresh air if only for an hour.

  “Now then, when you speak with a duke, you must always call him, ‘Your Grace.’ You must never, never,” she warned, “address a duke as my lord.”

  “What about you and Tonio?”

  “We are family, it’s true. But yes, to both, m’dear. It’s proper to use our titles when we are out in public.”

  “Diablo! I hope I don’t forget!” She felt her forehead crinkle.

  “Briella! Watch your language, young lady! I may not know what that word means, but I can guess.”

  “Yes, Grandmama,” she replied, chastened.

  “You’ll be fine, m’dear,” Elizabeth said, patting her granddaughter’s arm. “We’ll practice and practice until it’s perfectly normal for you to say the words. Don’t fash yourself.”

  The most enjoyable lessons Briella spent were with the dancing master. Because of her Spanish heritage, she loved to dance, although the proper English dances were far removed from the fiery Spanish flamenco she learned as a child. Briella practiced the court dances—the quadrille, the galop, polka and, of course, the waltz.

 

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