She Tempts the Duke

by Lorraine Heath

  But she feared that for her there was no shelter.

  Footsteps sounded, rushing toward her. Sebastian—

  He grabbed her, hooked his arm around her throat, cutting off air. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream. A cloth covered her nose. She recognized the pungent smell from when the physician had tended Sebastian’s festering wound: ether. The darkness hovered at the edge of her vision.

  “Sleep, Duchess,” Lord David murmured. “For a little while at least.”

  She fought harder to escape his clutches, but she only managed to fall into oblivion.

  Sitting at his desk, Sebastian poured more brandy into the glass, downed it, relished the burn. He glanced over to the chair where Mary usually sat, watching him. When his frustration level grew because of lack of success in finding anything that would prove his uncle’s machinations, he would look at her and find solace, the strength to carry on. He couldn’t imagine her not being there.

  He didn’t want her to leave, dammit. He shouldn’t have challenged her. She was no doubt packing her things now. Perhaps she would only go as far as her father’s estate. Then he could ride over to visit with her from time to time. He could share his progress.

  He downed more brandy. What did she care of his progress? Had she not made that clear enough?

  Were you not listening? he chastised.

  He’d been too angry to give credence to her words. How could he make her understand?

  He withdrew the pouch from a pocket in his trousers. From the moment he’d poured soil into it and closed it off with Mary’s ribbon, it was never far from him. The ribbon curled around his finger. He unfurled it, drew comfort from its tenacity as it wound once more around him. It had faded with time, become worn and frayed, but still it remained steadfast. Like its owner.

  Like Mary.

  He brought the bundle to his nose, inhaled the rich scent of—

  Mary.

  It was not the fragrance of rich soil that filled his nostrils, that brought solace. It was a fainter fragrance. A hint of orchid, but more the essence of Mary, trapped in the ribbon that still clung unyieldingly to his fingers.

  All these years, she’d been with him. During his darkest moments. During his worst despair. During the long days and nights when death hovered.

  Always he had clung to this. A handkerchief given to him by his father. Soil gathered by his own hand. And a ribbon given to him by Mary. Without hesitation. Without question.

  He’d fought, battled, schemed. He’d always thought it was Pembrook to which he so desperately wished to return. Pembrook. He’d thought it everything. Only now did he realize—

  The crash of breaking glass shattered his thoughts. Glancing over, he saw a stone resting on the carpet. Around it was tied a ribbon. Mary’s ribbon. The one she wore when she was of a mind not to take the time to pin up her hair.

  His gut clenched with foreboding. He rose with such force that the chair tumbled backward. He snatched up the rock. Paper was wedged between the stone and ribbon. The knotted ribbon would not give way to his clumsy fingers.

  Fingers he realized that were trembling.

  He rushed to the desk, grabbed the letter opener, and used it to slice free the ribbon. The paper fluttered down. He grabbed it, unfolded it, and stared at the familiar penmanship.

  Admire the work you’ve done on the tower. Shall make it so much easier for your wife to fling herself off of it.

  Tell no one or she will fall to her death.

  Come alone or she will fall to her death.

  Bring no weapon or she will fall to her death.

  You have ten minutes to join me here or she will fall to her death.

  Your beloved uncle

  Sebastian took little time to prepare. He grabbed his greatcoat and slipped it on as he charged through the door into the courtyard.

  He looked up at the tower. He’d managed to knock down a portion of the wall, but not all of it. Through the opening he’d created—an opening large enough for a person to stand in—he saw Mary at its edge, her skirt billowing in the wind. Lightning flashed, and he saw her more clearly. Saw that she was not there by choice, that a man held her.

  Dread slammed into Sebastian. He’d hoped to see something different, even knowing that he wouldn’t. Was that not the purpose of hope? To give a person a reason to carry on, even when all was lost?

  How she would chastise him if she thought for a moment that he had given up. All his life—even when he’d thought her absent—she’d been there urging him on. And now he was in danger of losing her.

  Unmercifully the rain pelted the stone, slashed sideways, drenched her, no doubt soaked the stone floor, making it slick. How easy it would be for her to slip out.

  To fall an incredible distance and to land in a crumpled heap. Broken. Dead. Gone from his life when she’d only just truly returned to it. They had been strangers, cautiously waltzing around each other, until the night he’d begun destroying the tower. Something had happened that night. Something had shifted within him. She, with so little force, had knocked down the walls to his heart.

  He’d just failed to let her know it. That was the reason she’d lashed out at him tonight. Because she didn’t know what he felt.

  He would not survive losing her. He knew that now. He could give up Pembrook. He could give up his titles. But he couldn’t give up her. Never her.

  He bounded across the green to the looming tower, through its door, and up the stairs. At fourteen, he’d been terrified of what might happen when he reached the top but he’d carried on because he was the duke.

  He was more terrified now, but he raced up them because of what might happen to Mary if he didn’t.

  At the top, the door was ajar in dark invitation, awaiting him. It seemed only appropriate that what had begun here, should end here. In that room, he’d learned there were more things to fear than the dark. At this moment, the terror of what he might lose sent shudders through him. But he couldn’t let his vulnerabilities show. For Mary’s sake, he had to be stronger and more courageous than he’d ever been in his entire life. Considering the challenges he’d faced, that was saying a lot.

  Taking a deep shuddering breath, he marched into the room. He should have accomplished more here. Should have hired men to help him tear it down, brick by brick. Just as Mary had suggested. She was so wise, so thoughtful. He relied on her counsel, yet had seemed to ignore it of late. Whatever had possessed him to discount her?

  The lantern set on the table provided enough light for him to see that his uncle held Mary close, the end of a pistol’s barrel tucked up against her chin, causing her head to tilt back at an awkward angle. He knew the direction the ball would travel through her, knew she would be dead before it finished its journey.

  She looked limp and appeared to be struggling to keep her eyes open. “Don’t give into his demands,” she slurred. “Don’t let him have Pembrook. He doesn’t deserve it.”

  “Shut up, girl,” his uncle warned, shoving the barrel in deeper, forcing her head even further back.

  “What did you do to her?” he asked.

  “Bit of ether to subdue her.”

  He needed to stall for a bit of time so she could regain her wits in case his plan didn’t work and she needed to make a run for it. “Interesting scar on your cheek, Uncle.”

  His face twitched and Sebastian thought he wanted to rub it but in order to do that he’d have to release his hold on Mary. “Damned signet ring,” he muttered.

  “You were the one who attacked me at the Weatherlys’. Do you intend to murder us all?” he asked.

  “Accidents. I cannot control accidents. Or a distraught soldier wanting to kill a coward. Or ruffians who have a score to settle with someone from the darker parts of London.”

  “You hired the men who attacked Rafe?”

  “Of course I did. Fools. Not as skilled as they advertised.”

  You underestimated Rafe, he thought, and wondered exactly how Rafe had acquired his t
alents.

  “Do you not think suspicions will be aroused when we all meet untimely ends?” he asked.

  “Suspicion is not proof of evil deeds done. If it were, half the men I know would be sitting in Newgate.”

  If they were his acquaintances, they probably should be.

  “But your death will be the most dramatic,” his uncle said. “Your wife went completely mad, shot you, and in her grief over killing you, threw herself from the tower.”

  “You do have an imagination. The makings of a macabre novel. But you don’t have to kill Mary. You only need to kill me.”

  “And leave her as a witness to tell the world what I did?”

  “She was a witness before and she kept it all to herself.”

  It was difficult to tell in the dim light but he thought his uncle paled. Lightning flashed, eerily illuminating him.

  “What did she witness?”

  “She overheard you tell someone to kill the lads in the tower.”

  He laughed, a mad sort of sound that echoed between the stone walls. “She’s the one who knocked out the guard, unlocked the door. I should have known. I thought it was the stable boy. He even confessed before he died in the dungeon.”

  Sebastian’s stomach roiled. “You tortured him?”

  “The guard said it was someone small. The lad was small.”

  “And no one noticed that you killed him?”

  “He was a stable boy. I told the servants that my nephews must have inspired him because he ran off. Why would they think I lied?”

  “And the man who was to kill us?”

  “I sent him to find you. He failed. Hanged himself.”

  “I suppose you helped him along.”

  He smiled cunningly. “I did. Big fellow. Hurt my back hauling him around. It’s still bothersome.”

  “And did you help Father along as well?”

  He chuckled darkly. “Do you want a confession?”

  “I want to die knowing the truth.”

  “The truth. I loved her. You should have been my son.”

  Her? His son? Sebastian thought of his mother’s portraits still hanging in the manor. Mary had thought it odd. “You loved my mother.”

  “I loved her with all my heart. Your father was duke by then. Keswick wanted to approve her before I asked for her hand in marriage. So she and her family came here for a country party in the fall. Your father strode into the room and conquered her with little more than a smile. They were married by Christmas. He only took her because I wanted her.”

  Sebastian had been only four when she died. Yet he knew without doubt that his father loved her. With all his heart. He always spoke of her with reverence and adoration.

  “I left. For years I lost myself in wine and women. Then I came to my senses. I knew if I ever wanted to find love again, I needed to be a duke. So I killed your father easily enough. But then you and your brothers ran off. And I had to wait to make a bid for the title so suspicions would be few. Then I met Lucretia. She wanted a duke. She wanted me! But then you came back. I can only have her if I have the title.”

  “I understand the power of love, Uncle. What it will make men do. Take me, but let Mary and my brothers live.”

  “Sebastian, no,” she pleaded.

  “Mary,” he ground out, glaring at her, wishing he had time to tell her everything. All that he felt, all that he realized too late. “You will do as I say. As I desire.”

  “Your brothers will seek revenge,” Lord David said derisively.

  “No. Neither of them cares about the titles or the estates. They’ve made lives for themselves apart from all this. I’ve written them a letter. It’s on my desk. Mary will take it to them. It instructs Tristan to set sail with Mary and Rafe. They’ll get word back to England that the ship sank, and that they’re dead.”

  His uncle laughed. “You truly believe they’ll do this, give all this up?”

  “Neither of them wants it. They never have. It’s always been only me. I am all that stands between you and the title.”

  “Sebastian, no!” Mary shouted.

  His uncle shook her, and Sebastian held his breath. If the pistol went off, all this would be for nothing. All the pain he’d endured, all the suffering … for nothing.

  “Who’d have thought you’d be so clever?” his uncle asked.

  “But you release Mary now.”

  His uncle studied him, and he saw the pistol lower a small fraction. “You must think me a fool to believe such a poppycock scheme.”

  “I swear it on my father’s grave. And do you know why I will do this?” His hand was in the pocket of his greatcoat, his fingers curled around the handkerchief, the ribbon wound around his finger. He removed the bundle—

  “What the hell?” his uncle shouted, pointed the pistol at him—

  Mary screamed and shoved at his arm—

  Using the only weapon he had, Sebastian slung the linen bundle toward his uncle to distract him as he lunged—

  An explosion ripped through the night. Something scalded his arm.

  He saw his uncle duck to avoid the soaring object, lose his balance, his feet slipping out from beneath him—

  “Mary!” Sebastian yelled.

  She was in the path of his flailing uncle, caught in the maelstrom, her arms windmilling—

  Sebastian reached out, snaked an arm around her, jerked her into the curve of his body as he flung himself to the side, and crashed into the wall, plummeted to the floor, Mary sprawled over him. He heard his uncle’s high-pitched shriek, saw the look of terror on his face as he disappeared over the ledge.

  It seemed as though everything had happened within the space of an eternity, but he knew it could not have been more than a few seconds. There had been no time for thought or planning. Only reaction. Only instinct.

  He was shaking badly, as though he’d been dunked in a river of ice. Mary was trembling as well and weeping.

  “You fool! You shouldn’t have come here,” she cried.

  “I couldn’t leave you to him.”

  She lifted herself up and stared down on him. He could see her tear-stained face. “Did you really think he’d believe that hogwash about a letter to your brothers?”

  He threaded his fingers through her hair. “I spoke true, Mary. I was going to explain to him why … show him the soil that I had carried with me for so long.” He swallowed hard. She deserved to know what he only just realized, sitting in his library, when he knew he had a true chance of losing her. “The bundle of Pembrook soil that I took with me, held secure with your ribbon … during the worst times, whenever I doubted what I endured would be worth it, I would take it out, hold it to my nose, and smell home. Always, always the richness of Pembrook filled my nostrils. But I only just realized that it wasn’t the dirt that spurred me on. It was your scent, trapped in the ribbon, the ribbon that always curled around my finger. You were always with me, Mary.”

  More tears welled in her eyes, but they were not the tears of anger or fear. But tears of wonder.

  “I kissed you that night in the garden, knowing what it might cost you, but fearing more what I would lose if I didn’t. Forgive me, Mary, for the selfish bastard I am. I didn’t recognize why I couldn’t let you go. I only knew that I couldn’t.”

  “Do you know now?” she rasped.

  He nodded. “It was never the soil, it was never Pembrook.”

  “What wasn’t?”

  “What I so desperately wanted to return to. It was you. It was always you. I love you, Mary. With all my heart. I’ll tear down the castle. I’ll build you a proper manor. We’ll move to one of the other estates. I don’t care. Just don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me. My life is nothing without you.”

  She wept all the harder, burying her face against his throat. He felt her tears scalding his skin.

  “I’ll never leave you,” she rasped. “I’ve loved you for so long. The boy you were. The man you are. We’ve lost so much time. I don’t want to lose any more.”


  He threaded his fingers into her hair, lifted her slightly so he could gaze into her eyes.

  “No more moments lost, Mary. Not between us.”

  Chapter 30

  It was a beautiful day. Sebastian couldn’t remember a day when the sun had been so warm. The breeze toyed with the leaves in the trees. The sky had never been a brighter blue. It was as though all of nature celebrated the demise of Lord David Easton.

  Tristan and Rafe had arrived the evening before. They agreed with his decision not to lay their uncle to rest in the family crypt. Instead he was to be buried in a churchyard in a nearby village. It was a peaceful, quiet place, too good for him. But Sebastian was weary of dealing with guilt. He could show mercy in this one regard.

  He had informed Lady Lucretia of his uncle’s passing. She sent a lock of hair to be buried with him, but indicated no other desire to mourn him.

  His brothers stood with him at the graveside. Although ladies generally didn’t attend funerals, Mary was there to hold his hand and lend him strength.

  The vicar’s words were short and concise. “May God have mercy on his soul.”

  The plain wooden coffin was lowered into the ground. As two custodians began to shovel dirt into the grave, Sebastian and the others turned and began walking toward the waiting carriage.

  “What of his wife?” Tristan asked.

  “I’ve made arrangements for her,” Sebastian said. “A monthly stipend. She shouldn’t be punished for youthful bad judgment.”

  As they neared the open carriage, Sebastian said, “I need a moment with Rafe alone.”

  He knew he could possibly find a time alone with him back at Pembrook. But he wanted neutral ground. And calm filled his soul here.

  Mary gave him a soft smile and a peck on the cheek before walking off with Tristan.

  “Trust her with a man that none of the mothers in London would trust their daughters with?” Rafe asked. Other than a slight limp when he walked with the aid of a cane, he showed no outward evidence that he’d had an encounter with his uncle’s villainy. Sebastian’s arm was in a sling as it recovered from the bullet that had passed through his muscle.