His Duchess

by Charlotte Russell

  Victoria could have cheerfully listed quite a few of the duke’s faults, but she also remembered that he had defended her before her cousin and he had graciously taken her cat in. So, she politely agreed with the marchioness, “Yes, you are correct.”

  Her visitor suddenly laughed and reached over to pat her hand. “Miss Forster, relax. By the by, might I call you Victoria?” She waited for a nod from Victoria then continued. “I truly am here as your friend. This is what friends do, talk about men. It can be a fascinating topic. Therefore, may I tell you that Taviston asked me about you last night?”

  If the marchioness thought such a statement would help her relax, she was off the mark. But Victoria still couldn’t resist the question, “He did?”

  “Indeed.” She waggled her forefinger at Victoria. “But do not fear I gossiped about you. I told him the facts I knew of you and that is all. He seemed most curious, I might add.”

  “I suppose I can understand his inquisitiveness. I have caused him a few inconveniences,” she said sheepishly.

  “Ah, that sounds promising. Do tell.”

  Victoria shook her head. “I do not think it would be wise to share those stories with you, my lady. Not that I think you are a gossip,” Victoria said with alarm. “I simply do not want to incur any more of the duke’s wrath.”

  “More than one story? His wrath? My curiosity only increases,” the marchioness responded with raised eyebrows.

  Victoria stared helplessly at her caller. Lady Northfield certainly deserved consideration as a friend but she could not bring herself to reveal the humiliating events.

  “Oh, all right. I will pretend to not be disappointed,” Lady Northfield replied with a frown, contradicting her statement. “I do believe I understand your position. Just promise me that perhaps someday I can hear these delightful stories. I can only imagine how Taviston would respond to ‘inconveniences.’ He is quite the most proper man.”

  “I promise to tell you someday, Lady Northfield.” Perhaps when they were ninety.

  “Oh, do call me Jane, please.” The marchioness gave Victoria a radiant smile.

  She returned it warmly. At last, a friend her own age. Hopefully this association with a member of the peerage would be free of singularly embarrassing moments.

  Jane gave Arthur one last pat, gently pushed him to the floor, and rose. “I am thinking of hosting a dinner party in a week or so. I should be horribly disappointed if you couldn’t be there, Victoria.”

  Rising as well, she answered, “I have already disappointed you once, Jane. I shouldn’t wish to do so again. I eagerly await your invitation.”

  “Excellent! Now, I won’t keep you any longer.” She linked arms with Victoria, and they headed for the door. “Thank you for receiving me. I do hope to see you soon.”

  Chapter Ten

  Taviston stood immobile outside of Hookham’s for a full minute after Miss Forster stunned him with her words and her actions. She had been thinking about the color of his eyes? And then run off. The woman was an enigma wrapped in a luscious little package.

  Today she had worn a thin pale green muslin gown with a darker green spencer over it. She had donned a bonnet, but it hadn’t covered her hair. Instead, it had hung down her back. The woman was a fashion conundrum. She looked perfectly presentable today; the green color suited her well. The dress was a little worn, but still it flattered her figure. Yet last night’s ball gown had been a catastrophe. Very odd.

  To his consternation, he couldn’t stop thinking about that figure of hers. For such a small thing she was certainly well-endowed. A flare of lust shot through him.

  Two days of outlandish behavior from her hadn’t yet dulled his untenable desire. Hell and damnation, this was no way to think about a proper young lady who was nevertheless in no way appropriate for him and the Duchy of Taviston.

  With a start he realized he still stood in the middle of Bond Street, no doubt with unseemly carnality burning in his eyes, if anyone cared to look closely. Hookham’s employees were returning to the shop. He glanced down at the books in his hands and then strode back into the library, ahead of most of the other patrons. He located the book his mother had wanted and then checked out all three tomes.

  Upon leaving the shop he decided to head over to White’s for an early dinner. His earlier jovial mood irritated him. He couldn’t rationalize his cheerfulness. Miss Forster had bumped into him at Hookham’s and he’d beamed at her like a lunatic. What was the matter with him? Why should one exasperating female put him in a happy mood? She was nothing to him.

  He marched up the steps of White’s, dropped his books off at the cloakroom, and proceeded into the dining room. He took a seat at a small table and signaled a servant. Soon he had a glass of brandy within reach and had placed an order for roast beef.

  “Well, well, well. How are you, dear brother?” Peyton dropped into the chair opposite Taviston and grinned across the table.

  Taviston’s irritation swiftly shifted from Miss Forster to his brother. Peyton always made him feel that way. Despite that, he still held a measurable amount of affection for his brother and he tried to let his fondness overshadow his annoyance.

  He summoned a smile. “Peyton, you scoundrel. What are you up to? Would you care to join me for dinner?”

  “You know I would love nothing better. I can easily spend a solid hour trying to convince you to join me in some illicit amusement this evening.” Peyton’s shining blue eyes all but lit up the room. They were the same sparkling color as their mother’s and James’s.

  Despite himself, Taviston chuckled. Peyton’s goal in life was to lure him into shedding some of his responsibility and indulging in all manner of improper and outrageous behavior. In contrast, Taviston aimed to make his next youngest brother more responsible and less disreputable. By Taviston’s account they had been working at these cross-purposes for at least twenty years. It was the backbone of their relationship.

  Peyton gave his order to the waiter and then settled more comfortably in his seat.

  “Did you hear of the uproar on Bond Street?”

  Taviston felt his shoulders start to slump and quickly stiffened his spine. It wasn’t Miss Forster’s cat that was the menace, it was the lady herself.

  “No, I haven’t heard a thing about it. What happened?”

  He was getting very good at these spur-of-the-moment lies. His brother would be impressed, if only he knew.

  Peyton took a sip of his brandy. “About an hour ago someone thought there was a fire in Hookham’s. The patrons spilled out into the street and halted traffic for quite some time. Oddly enough, there wasn’t any sign of fire at all.”

  “Hmmm. No fire. I don’t suppose there was smoke?” Taviston contained the smile playing about his lips with great effort. This conversation would be so much more amusing if Peyton were in on the joke, but he was not going to explain his acquaintance with Victoria Forster to his brother. Absolutely not.

  “No. Not a sign of fire or smoke. Listen, Taviston, I have splendid plans for this evening. You really must—”

  Peyton was interrupted by the arrival of their food. Taviston threw him a triumphant look and then they both picked up their forks with their left hands and began eating. Left-handedness was about the only trait the two of them had in common. Peyton’s russet-colored hair set off his blue eyes and it was often said he had the face of an angel. Taviston always added, “and the heart of the devil.”

  After they had made a good dent in their meals, Peyton persisted in his objective. He dabbed his lips with his linen napkin and then said, “Truly, Taviston, you would never regret accompanying me tonight. I have quite an evening planned with two of the most beautiful women you have ever seen.”

  Unless one of them is a petite, sandy-haired, blue-eyed graceless nymph, I am not interested. Taviston shot his brother a quick look to make sure he hadn’t uttered that outrageous sentiment out loud.

  “I am not the least bit interested but I will remind you to
keep yourself out of trouble,” Taviston admonished, just as he always did.

  This was generally how their conversations went. Unless it was Taviston trying to convince Peyton to actually do something with his life, such as enter the military or the government. Fortunately, Peyton did stay away from serious trouble. Oh, he was a rake of the first order, but he steered clear of true scandal. Taviston would never have tolerated any tainting of the family name and Peyton well knew it. He kept his disreputable behavior within bounds and in return Taviston hadn’t forced him into taking a position he didn’t want. Yet.

  They finished their dinners and then carried their brandies into one of the numerous dark-paneled sitting rooms of the club. They settled themselves into chairs in a far corner.

  His brother was ready to launch into another round of verbal enticement when the Marquess of Northfield threw himself dramatically into an adjoining chair. “Good afternoon.”

  Peyton gave him an absent-minded “good day” while Taviston tensed and shot a wary look at Northfield. He sensed he was about to be given hell.

  Northfield indicated to a nearby footman that he was in need of a brandy as well. Then he turned to Peyton in the chair and said, “Has your brother spoken to you about Miss Victoria Forster?”

  Peyton sat up a little straighter and threw his brother a narrow-eyed glare. “Who is this chit?

  “She is a lady, Peyton,” Taviston said repressively. He cast about for a change of subject but came up blank.

  “Precisely the information I want,” Northfield insisted while sending a sharp look across to Taviston. “He asked Jane for information about this young woman. Then he proceeded to dance with her last evening.” The marquess sank back into his chair as if he had delivered scandalous news.

  “Well, brother, what say you? Dancing with a woman? I suppose next thing we know you will be parading her through the park in your carriage!” Peyton’s face crinkled with amusement.

  “I hardly think so. She is not the type of woman I would ever consider courting,” Taviston responded with frustration. God help him when he did decide to court a woman, for these two were merciless.

  “Oh, really?” Northfield countered with an inquisitive look.

  “Certainly not. She has none of the qualities I should hope to find in my future bride. She would be entirely wrong for the position.”

  Although Taviston was hard-pressed to think of a scenario, other than marriage, that would allow him to feel her lush body naked beneath his. No. Just because she made him more randy than a stallion did not mean he had to ever act on those feelings. He uncharacteristically ran his fingers through his short hair.

  “You know what they say about protesting too much.” Peyton could not stop grinning at him, which only added to his annoyance and frustration.

  Northfield’s suspicious eyes tracked his every move. Taviston gulped down the rest of his brandy.

  Northfield probed, “If you are not interested in courting her, then why did you inquire about her and why have you been spending time with her?”

  The brandy slid down his throat, soothing his irritation. “We have encountered each other—quite by accident—a number of times in the past few days. Curiosity compelled me to discover who her family were.”

  His statement seemed to satisfy Peyton, but then, his brother hadn’t been present for the bizarre scene with Louisa Browne and their mother. He checked his watch.

  Northfield seemed more reluctant to let the subject pass. He leaned forward with his forearms on his knees and pinned Taviston with a stare. “Tell me about these encounters.”

  He often shared confidences with Northfield, and his brother as well. But not this time. They were too interested in Miss Forster when all he wanted to do was forget about her. Indeed, he would be happy to never see her again.

  “No, Northfield. Now if you will excuse me, I need to return home and dress for this evening’s entertainment.” He rose and waited expectantly for Northfield and Peyton.

  His brother stood hastily and began backing away from them. “Right.” He said, without much hope, “Taviston, about my plans for this evening?”

  “No thank you, little brother.”

  “Good night, then,” he bid them with a quick bow.

  Northfield gave Taviston an unhappy look. “I will walk home with you,” he said while putting up his hand when Taviston began to protest. “I will not speak of Miss Forster again. However, you will be subjected to my prattling on about my newborn son!”

  Taviston flashed him a smile and waved him on. Any topic was better than that of Miss Victoria Forster. He stopped briefly to retrieve the three books he had left in the cloakroom and then he and Northfield quit the club.

  TAVISTON SURVEYED THE main room in which the Langstons were holding their rout. The evening was decidedly boring. He knew almost everyone in the room and yet he did not have the desire to speak with any of them. Northfield and Jane had decided to stay home this evening. He had tried to entice James into accompanying him, to no avail. James had nothing in common with the young peacocks his own age and preferred to spend his evenings working or, God help him, even rarely joining Peyton for a night of amusement.

  No, there was no one of interest here. Regrettably, he had spied Louisa Browne at various times during the course of the evening. He had been doing his damnedest to avoid her, but she had attempted to corner him twice already. Curiously, there was no sign of Mrs. Browne’s “country cousin.” He stayed only in the hope that Lady Tessa Colvin would present herself. He still wanted an introduction to her.

  “Dearest Taviston. There you are, my handsome fellow.”

  The shrill voice of Louisa Browne made him realize he had remained in one place too long and she had trapped him.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Browne,” he said with resignation. Escape was essential. As soon as possible.

  “Darling duke, I have told you many times, call me Louisa. We intimate friends shouldn’t use such formality.” She placed her hand on his sleeve and moved even closer.

  He disengaged his arm from her hand and clasped his hands behind his back. Then he turned his frostiest stare on her. “We are not intimate nor are we friends, Mrs. Browne.”

  She used his new position to her advantage and slid around to his right side, slipping her arm through his and pulling him closer. She lowered her voice, “Ah, but I have informed you many times, my dearest duke, intimacy with me is yours for the asking.”

  Taviston craved a scalding hot bath. He withdrew his arm once again and stepped away from her. His next words were spoken through clenched teeth. “And I have advised you on those occasions that I am not in any way interested in what you have to offer, Mrs. Browne.”

  She advanced toward him once again. In desperation, he threw out a question sure to set her off-balance. “Where is your cousin?”

  Her smug smile froze in confusion. “Why ever do you care?”

  “Where is she, Mrs. Browne?”

  Louisa finally inched back away from him and scowled. “The little twit stayed home with a headache. It’s not as if anyone will miss her. She hasn’t a prayer of succeeding on the marriage mart.”

  Poor Miss Forster, to be saddled with such a callous relative. “Inform Victoria that I have something of hers. I will send it over with a footman tomorrow.”

  He took great pleasure in using Miss Forster’s given name and seeing the look of astonishment on Louisa’s face. He turned and left her with her mouth gaping.

  LOUISA BROWNE’S CREAM silk dressing gown trailed behind her as she stalked around her gilded bedchamber. The situation with her cousin had gone from bad to worse.

  “Why, oh why, couldn’t Browne have left that little mouse in the country?” she screamed. “It can hardly be an imposition to keep one small girl at his Rippingale estate. She can’t possibly eat all that much and she certainly doesn’t need fancy gowns for country living in a small village!”

  “Why does your cousin’s presence stir you to s
uch madness? She’s a plain little baggage of no consequence,” Morgan drawled from his prone position on the bed. He lay there like a privileged Caesar from times gone by, tangled amidst the sheets.

  Louisa ignored him for the time being; he was a servant, after all. Things had been proceeding smoothly until two months ago, when her husband’s minute honorable streak had surfaced. On their trip to Rippingale, Browne had suddenly remembered his duty as guardian to Victoria. He had insisted on giving the little twit a Season in London, under the tutelage of his wife.

  Little did Browne know, Louisa had been banking on his absentmindedness. She purposely never mentioned her cousin’s name or status. She wanted Browne to forget about Victoria.

  “Because of the twenty thousand pounds!” she said aloud while whipping around to face the indolent Morgan.

  He propped himself up on his elbows and Louisa didn’t fail to notice the glint in his weasel-like brown eyes. As the situation had become more desperate, she had realized she might need some help. Her servant/lover could do that.

  Morgan said nothing but waited. Louisa folded her arms across her chest, continuing to pace aggressively.

  “My grandmother, Mrs. Flora Putnam—actually she was grandmother to both Victoria and me—left twenty thousand pounds in a trust as part of her final bequest. Whichever of us produces a child first, receives the twenty thousand pounds outright. And yes, before you ask, she was a dotty old woman.”

  “When did she die?”

  “Nine years ago,” Louisa replied reluctantly.

  Morgan lifted his brows in a silent question, apparently not rude enough to ask it bluntly.

  She had never intended to have children. She couldn’t abide the little beasts. Immediately after her grandmother’s death, though, she had changed her mind. She would suffer the agony of pregnancy and childbirth for that money. It was a small price to pay. So, she had continued having affairs with any and all gentlemen who crossed her path, simply dropping her vigilance about avoiding pregnancy. Unfortunately, she had not become with child even once in the past nine years.