She Tempts the Duke

by Lorraine Heath

  “I’d trust him with my life. Just as I do you.”

  Rafe seemed taken aback. He glanced down at his polished boots.

  “Rafe, I know I should have taken you with me. I would ask you to forgive me for leaving you behind,” Sebastian said quietly.

  Rafe lifted his head, studying him for a moment as though judging his sincerity, then nodded. “Consider it done.”

  “That easily?” Sebastian asked, unconvinced.

  “I blamed you when I should have been blaming Uncle. He’s dead. Let the past be buried with him.”

  “I do hope someday you’ll tell me what happened with you during all those years we were away.”

  “Someday, perhaps. Although I wouldn’t hold your breath waiting for it.”

  Sebastian nodded. He’d have to be content with that.

  As he and Rafe began walking toward the carriage to join the others, Rafe said, “Something seems different about Pembrook.”

  “It’s once again a place of love.”

  “Love Mary do you then?”

  “I always have.”

  “This evening, dress in your finest evening gown,” her husband had told her an hour earlier. “I am of a mind to have a very formal dinner.”

  No company he assured her. Only the two of them. His plans coincided well with hers, because she was of a mind to tell him that she was with child. It chilled her to the bone when she realized that if Lord David had killed her, he’d have killed her child as well.

  It had been two weeks since that awful night when Lord David had dragged her up to the tower. She awoke often with nightmares, the sound of the gun’s report echoing between the stone, the look of desperation on Sebastian’s face when he reached for her, his cry, “Noooo!”

  He remembered screaming her name, but little beyond that. She recalled it all, every horrifying second, when she thought she would plummet to her death, when his arm snared her from the opening, when he threw them back, twisting his body so he was beneath her, cushioning her landing.

  His blood, her tears, his heartfelt words. How they held each other in bed that night and every night since. The one thing they’d not done was make love. It was enough to hold each other near, to listen to each other breathing. To awaken in the throes of a nightmare and to feel his lips brush across her brow as he whispered soothing words.

  “It’s all right. Everything’s all right now.”

  His arm was healing. Today was the first that he’d been able to manage without the sling. She’d caught him a couple of times testing it, extending it, nodding as though satisfied with his efforts. She’d been so afraid he’d lose the arm, when he’d lost so much.

  She gazed at her reflection in the cheval glass. She wore her pale pink gown with the dark green velvet trim. At her throat was the emerald the lords of Pembrook had given her.

  A light knock sounded on the door and Colleen opened it.

  “Is she ready?” an impatient voice asked in a low whisper.

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Mary walked across the room, stepped into the hallway, and smiled. “You must be hungry.”

  “For the sight of you.”

  Poetry from her nonpoetic husband. Oh, and he did look handsome, although she knew he wouldn’t believe her if she said the words. He was freshly shaven, his hair styled to perfection. He faced her squarely, his eyepatch giving him a rakishness that set her heart to fluttering. He wore an unbuttoned black swallow-tailed jacket with black trousers and a pristine white shirt. His vest and cravat were gray. Where a pocket watch would be housed was a small lump that she knew was the soil he’d carried with him, wrapped in her ribbon.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he said with appreciation.

  “You must not believe these are merely words, because they carry the weight of my heart,” she said. “To me, you are truly handsome.”

  He smiled, a true smile that touched his gaze, and although only one side of his face curved up, the other too burdened by scars, it was enough. “As I have said before, you are mad.”

  His tone was light and teasing and it lifted her spirits.

  He extended his arm. “Shall we?”

  She wound her arm through his. “Your arm has healed?”

  “Almost completely,” he said as they descended the stairs. “A few twinges here and there.”

  “I thought we might have your brothers here for Christmas.”

  “I would like that. Perhaps while they are here we shall have a portrait done.”

  “I am not having a portrait done with Tristan.”

  “I want one of you and me,” he said quietly. “And one of my brothers. They will not be us as boys. Those portraits are gone forever I fear, but Tristan has heard of a rather good artist who goes by the name of Leo. Word is that he has a talent for capturing on canvas a person’s heart. Perhaps he can portray me with kindness.”

  “If he is half as good as claimed, and he sees what I see, I believe you will be most pleased.”

  They reached the foyer and he escorted her down a hallway.

  “This is not the way to the dining room,” she pointed out.

  “I’m quite familiar with the layout of the residence.”

  “Then why would you take a wrong turn?”

  “Not a wrong turn. I have something in mind before dinner.”

  He approached a set of double doors guarded by two liveried footmen. It led into the largest salon in the residence, where grand balls had once been held.

  “Sebastian—”

  “Shh.”

  The footman opened the doors. When Mary and Sebastian stepped through, music began to play. Her eyes widened at the sight. A small orchestra sat in the balcony. A half dozen chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Every candle in every one was flickering. There had to have been over a hundred. The room was alight as no other in the residence had ever been. A mirrored wall reflected the polished floor and the flowers arranged around the outer edges. Nothing else was in the room. No furniture.

  “Will you honor me with a dance, Mary Easton, Duchess of Keswick?”

  Tears stung her eyes, but before she could answer he was sweeping her over the dance floor.

  “However did you manage this?”

  “With a good deal of help from my brothers and your father. The orchestra traveled from London and stayed with him until I was ready for them.”

  “I love waltzing with you,” she told him. He was a marvelous dancer when he had the room in which to move.

  “I thought if we practiced, by next Season I might not make such a mess of it.”

  “We don’t have to go to London. We can stay here if you prefer.”

  “I will have a seat in the House of Lords. I cannot shirk my responsibilities. Besides, my wife once told me that she loves the glitz and glitter that is London.”

  He swirled her from one side of the room to the other. She caught their reflection and thought she’d never seen a happier couple.

  “And the timing will work out well,” he continued. “I’m having this residence razed come spring.”

  He had mentioned doing so before but she’d thought it was only the emotion of the moment. “I told you it’s not necessary.”

  The final strains of the melody faded and another began before they could even take a breath.

  “I think it is. This house is … cold. You were right about that.”

  “But it’s your legacy. You were correct about that.”

  He smiled, and she thought she’d never tire of seeing his mouth curve up. When they were aged and glancing at each other across a room, still he would have the ability to cause her heart to soar. “I want something here that is not tarnished by hatred or jealousy or murder. We’ll hire an architect and he’ll design whatever you wish: small or large. I care not. The land holds the history of Pembrook, not the brick and stone. We’ll build a new legacy for my heir.”

  She released a quiet breath. “He may be here sooner than you think.”

&nbs
p; He stopped as though he’d rammed into a wall. His gaze dropped to her stomach. “Are you?”

  With tears in her eyes she nodded. “Yes.”

  He knelt before her and pressed a kiss to her waist. “It will be a boy.”

  “I feel that way as well, but if it’s not—”

  “No matter. She will ride across the dales as though she was born to them. And a brother will someday follow in her wake.”

  He brought himself to his feet and lifted her into his arms. The orchestra continued to play as he strode from the room.

  “Are you carrying me to dinner?” she asked.

  “To bed. Tonight, Mary, I’m going to make love to you.”

  “You always did. I don’t need the words.”

  “But I want you to have them. Every day, for as long as we breathe.”

  Epilogue

  He waited for the dark of the moon. Call him superstitious, but it seemed important that what he wanted to do should take place on an eve when there was no moon. Just as there had been no moon on that fateful night so many years before.

  Mary rode beside him, as she had so long ago. Only he held the lantern. What an unchivalrous cad he was to have not thought to take it from her before.

  He had hired architects to design the new manor house. It would be built on top of a rise and look out over all the land where the Dukes of Keswick had once ridden. Where the present duke now rode beside the lady he loved. The one he had always loved. The one he would always love.

  “Are you lost?” she asked.

  He laughed. God, but it felt good to laugh. “Not anymore. Not with you at my side.”

  With the light from the lantern, he could see her smile. She knew what he was saying. She gave him purpose. She was his lodestar, his compass, his true north.

  “Be that as it may, we have been traveling in circles for almost an hour now.”

  “I can’t find it,” he admitted, disappointed with the truth. He’d thought he’d never forget a single moment of that night. Perhaps it was a good thing that some of the memories were fading away, to make room for better ones.

  “Find what?” she asked.

  “Do you remember that night when I asked you to stop, and I gathered up the soil?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. It was a rhetorical question. Of course she remembered. “I was looking for that spot.”

  “I think we’ve gone too far south.”

  “I was thinking we hadn’t gone far enough.”

  “Is it important?”

  “I thought it was. But now I realize it’s not. This place will do just as well.” He extended the lantern. “Will you hold the light?”

  She took it from him. He dismounted and knelt between their horses.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Returning the soil to the land.”

  “Are you sure you should do this? You kept it with you for so long.”

  “I’ll keep the ribbon. I intend to thread it through my watch chain.”

  “Help me down so I can be there with you.”

  He did as she asked. Then crouching, he very gingerly untied the ribbon and unfolded the handkerchief. She knelt beside him and watched as he sprinkled the soil over the grass.

  “I’m not certain you should have done that.”

  “I am.” He took the lantern from her and set it on the ground. Then he brought her to her feet and splayed his fingers over her stomach, where their child grew, one who would one day gallop his horse over the soil as his ancestors had. “It’s where it always belonged. Just as I am where I belong: with you. I love you so much, Mary.”

  Reaching up, she cradled his face. “I love you, Sebastian. With all my heart, with all I am.”

  Taking her into his arms, he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her deeply.

  The ghosts from the past no longer whispered to him. All he heard was her sweet sigh.

  All he knew was that when he was with her, he was as whole as any man had ever been.

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  BOURNE

  London

  Winter 1822

  The eight of diamonds ruined him.

  If it had been the six, he might have saved himself. If it had been the seven, he would have walked away with triple his holdings.

  But it was the eight.

  The young Marquess of Bourne watched the card fly across the lush green baize and slide into place next to the seven of clubs that lay face up on the table, teasing him. His eyes were already closing, the air was already leaving the room in a single, unbearable rush.

  Vingt et deux.

  One more than the vingt et un on which he had wagered.

  On which he had wagered everything.

  There was a collective gasp in the room as he stayed the movement of the card with the tip of one finger—as bystanders watched the horror unfold with the keen pleasure of those who had narrowly escaped their own demise.

  The chatter started then.

  “He wagered it all?”

  “Everything that wasn’t entailed.”

  “Too young to know better.”

  “Old enough now; nothing makes a man faster than this.”

  “He’s really lost all of it?”

  “Everything.”

  His eyes opened, focusing on the man across the table, meeting the cold grey gaze he had known his whole life. Viscount Langford had been a friend and neighbor to his father, handpicked by the former Marquess of Bourne as guardian to his only son and heir. After Bourne’s parents’ death, it had been Langford who had protected the Marquessate of Bourne, who had increased its holdings tenfold, ensured its prosperity.

  And then taken it.

  Neighbor, perhaps. Never friend.

  Betrayal scorched through the young marquess. “You did this on purpose.” For the first time in his twenty-one years, he heard the youth in his voice. Hated it.

  There was no emotion on his opponent’s face as he lifted the mark from the center of the table. Bourne resisted the urge to wince at the dark scrawl of his signature across the white page—proof that he’d lost everything.

  “It was your choice. Your choice to wager more than you were willing to lose.”

  He’d been fleeced. Langford had pressed him again and again, pushing him farther and farther, letting him win until he couldn’t imagine losing. It was an age-old play, and he’d been too young to see it. Bourne lifted his gaze, anger and frustration nearly choking the words. “And your choice to win it.”

  “Without me, there would have been nothing to win,” the older man said.

  “Father.” Thomas Alles, the viscount’s son and Bourne’s closest friend, stepped forward, his voice shaking in indignation. “Don’t do this.”

  Langford took his time folding the mark and rising from the table, ignoring his son. Instead, he leveled Bourne with a cool look. “You should thank me for teaching you such a valuable lesson at such a young age. Unfortunately, now you’ve nothing but the clothes on your back and a manor house empty of its contents.”

  The viscount cast a glance at the pile of coins on the table—the remainder of his winnings from the evening. “I shall leave you the money, how’s that? A parting gift, if you will. After all, what would your father say if I left you with nothing?”

  Bourne shot up from his chair, knocking it back from the table. “You aren’t fit to speak of my father.”

  Langford raised an eyebrow at the uncontrolled display, and he let silence reign for a long moment. “You know, I believe I shall take the money after all. And your membership to this club. It is time for you to leave.”

/>   Bourne’s cheeks flamed as the words washed over him. His club membership. His land, servants, horses, clothes, everything. Everything but a house, a few acres of land, and a title.

  A title now in disgrace.

  The viscount lifted one side of his mouth in a mocking smile and flipped a guinea through the air toward Bourne who instinctively reached out, catching the gold coin as it glinted in the bright lights of White’s card room. “Spend it wisely, boy. It’s the last you’ll have from me.”

  “Father,” Tommy tried again.

  Langford turned on him. “Not another word. I won’t have you begging for him.”

  Bourne’s oldest friend turned sad eyes on him, lifting his hands in a sign of helplessness. Tommy needed his father. Needed his money. His support.

  Things Bourne no longer had himself.

  Hatred flared hot and bright for the briefest of moments, before it was gone, extinguished by cold resolve, and Bourne placed the coin in his pocket and turned his back on his peers, his club, his world, and the life he had always known.

  Vowing revenge.

  Early January 1831

  He did not move when he heard the door to the private room open and close quietly behind him.

  He stood in the darkness, silhouetted by the painted window overlooking the main room of London’s most exclusive gaming hell. From the club floor, the window appeared as nothing but a stunning work of art—a massive piece of stained glass depicting the fall of Lucifer. In brilliant hues, the enormous angel—six times the size of the average man—tumbled toward the pit floor, cast into London’s dark corners by Heaven’s Army.

  The Fallen Angel.

  A reminder, not simply of the name of the club, but of the risk that those who entered took as they set their marks to the plush baize, as they lifted the ivory dice, as they watched the roulette wheel turn in a blur of color and temptation.

  And when The Angel won, as it always did, the glass reminded those who lost of how far they had fallen.

  Bourne’s gaze flickered to a piquet table at the far end of the pit. “Croix wants his line increased.”

  The pit manager did not move from his place just inside the door to the owners’ suite. “Yes.”

  “He owes more than he will ever be able to repay.”

  “Yes.”