Daring to Love the Duke's Heir

by Janice Preston

  The nerve of him! ‘My sister is in the carriage outside,’ said Liberty, shedding her dripping cloak. ‘She was too afraid to come in and speak to your father.’

  ‘Too afraid or too sensible? I suspect the latter. Perhaps you would be wise to pay more attention to your sister’s instincts.’ His bored tone sent Liberty’s temper soaring. ‘Invite her to join us, William, if you please. She cannot wait outside. But I shall still require a maid,’ he called after the departing footman.

  He eyed Liberty again, from head to toe, and she squirmed inside. She had donned her best Pomona-green bombazine afternoon dress for this visit to the Duke, but His Lordship’s impassive inspection made her feel as though she was dressed in rags. It was not the height of fashion—she had been unable to reconcile herself to wasting money on new gowns when she had a trunk full of barely worn dresses and accessories from five years ago—but it was respectable.

  ‘One cannot be too careful.’

  He means for himself! He is not concerned with my reputation, only that I might try to entrap him!

  Liberty squared her shoulders and elevated her chin. ‘The drawing room, sir?’ She was proud of the haughty tone she achieved.

  Utterly unruffled, he strolled to a nearby door and opened it. ‘This way, ma’am.’ His tone conveyed bored amusement.

  She swept through, head high. How dare he treat her as though she were of no consequence? Although, she had to admit it was humiliation that spurred her rage. Undoubtedly, to a duke’s son, she was inconsequential. He followed her inside the elegantly furnished room with its vermilion-painted walls above white-painted wainscoting, its high ceiling with elaborately moulded cornice and three tall windows dressed with delicately sprigged floor-length curtains.

  ‘You are suffering under a misapprehension.’

  She started at the voice behind her. She halted her inspection of the room and turned to find him closer than she anticipated. Nerves fluttered deep in her belly as she got her first good look at his pale silvery-grey eyes and the utter confidence they conveyed. And why should they not? Not only was he the son of one of the most powerful Dukes in the land but he was sinfully, classically handsome with a straight nose, sharp cheekbones and a beautifully sculpted mouth above a determined chin. Those silvery eyes of his seemed to penetrate deep inside her and yet they were as opaque as a silver coin, revealing no hint of his thoughts.

  She stepped back, dragging her gaze from his. His beautifully tied cravat—how Gideon would appreciate such skill in his valet!—sported a simple gold pin in the shape of a whip and his olive-green superfine coat hugged wide shoulders and well-muscled arms. Beneath that form-fitting coat he sported a grey-and-white-striped waistcoat that did nothing to hide the heavy muscles of his chest. Her eyes travelled further, skimming the powerful thighs encased in cream breeches. He had the look of a Corinthian...the name given to gentlemen who enjoyed and excelled at physical sports such as riding, boxing and fencing, according to Gideon.

  The face of a Greek God, the body of a warrior and a duke’s son. How could one man have so many advantages in life? Her gaze snapped back to his face, the sight of those powerful thighs imprinted on her brain. He was watching her. By the quirk of his lips, her perusal of his person amused him. Mortified at being caught studying him as a sculptor might study his subject, Liberty swallowed and then sucked in a deep breath. That did nothing to calm her nerves. Male and spicy, his scent filled her and those butterflies in her belly fluttered even more.

  She forced a scowl to her face. This was Lord Alexander Beauchamp: the devil who was leading Gideon astray. She tilted her chin and looked down her nose at him, but the look that satisfactorily quelled the most persistent of tradesmen dunning for payment made no impression on His Lordship, judging by the arrogant lift of his eyebrows.

  ‘Misapprehension, my lord?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  His deep cultured tones penetrated all the way inside her, stirring yet more fluttery sensations as she felt the full force of his attention.

  ‘Allow me to introduce myself.’ He bowed, the action somehow mocking. ‘Avon, at your service. Miss...?’

  His words jerked her from her irritation. ‘What did you say? Who is Avon?’

  ‘Alexander is my brother. My younger brother. I am the Marquess of Avon, hence Lord Avon.’ His head tilted. ‘Do you require an explanation of courtesy titles? I understand you and your brother were not raised in aristocratic circles.’

  Liberty’s face burned. Mrs Mount had warned them that their background would swiftly become common knowledge in the ton. No doubt His Lordship also knew her grandfather was a coal merchant. Without volition, her chin rose even higher than before.

  ‘I am not ignorant of such matters, sir. If Gideon ever has a son, he will take Gideon’s next highest title, Viscount Haxby, as a courtesy title to use as his own until Gideon’s death, when he will become the Earl of Wendover.’

  ‘I am relieved you have learned something since your brother was elevated to the peerage. The fundamental etiquette of introductions appears to have passed you by, however. It is customary to introduce oneself in return.’

  Infuriated that he was right, her face scorched even hotter. Lord Avon might resemble one of the marble statues she had admired at the British Museum last week, but he was as patronising and pompous as any man she had ever had the misfortune to meet.

  She stiffened her spine and again looked down her nose. ‘I am Miss Liberty Lovejoy.’

  Chapter Two

  Dominic bit back the sudden urge to laugh. Liberty Lovejoy? What parent would saddle their daughter with such a name? They had no choice over surname, to be sure—he was well aware Lovejoy was the family name of the Earls of Wendover—but what was wrong with naming their daughter Jane or Mary? Liberty Lovejoy—she sounded like some kind of actress. Or worse.

  Still...he controlled his amusement and bowed. ‘And to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit, Miss Lovejoy?’

  He found himself scrutinised by a pair of intelligent, almond-shaped eyes. They were extraordinary and he found himself being drawn into their depths. They were the dark blue of the summer sky at midnight, with golden flecks in the irises and fringed with thick golden-brown lashes. Tawny brows drew together in a frown and her lips, soft pink and lush, compressed. He waited for her reply, controlling his visceral reaction to Miss Liberty Lovejoy. He was well practised in that art—his position as heir to a wealthy dukedom as well as his honour as a gentleman meant he simply did not indulge in idle flirtations.

  ‘Your brother is tempting my brother into entirely inappropriate and wild behaviour and I came here to dem—beg your father to stop your brother from leading Gideon astray.’

  Her velvety eyes glowed with fervour and he didn’t doubt her genuine concern. His heart sank at the news that Alex might be falling back into his old, wild ways. He had already heard tales circulating about the newly ennobled Lord Wendover and his readiness to sample every entertainment available to a young, wealthy man about town, but Alex’s name hadn’t arisen in connection with them. The last he had heard, Alex was living at Foxbourne Manor in Berkshire and making a success of his horse breeding and training establishment—gaining a reputation for providing high-quality riding and carriage horses.

  ‘Please be seated, Miss Lovejoy.’ Dominic indicated a chair by the fireplace.

  With a swish of her skirts, she settled on the sofa. Mentally, he shrugged. He would allow her that small victory. He studied his visitor as he strolled across to sit by her side—his scrutiny, his pace and his choice of seat specifically intended to ruffle her feathers. A man had to have some fun, after all.

  Her gown looked new, but was outmoded by a few years, with its high neck and ruff of triple lace, and he couldn’t help but notice how beautifully it clung to her curves. His pulse kicked, but Dominic controlled his surge of desire for this voluptuous woman. He pride
d himself on his self-control. In every area of his life. He sat, half-facing her, noting the crease of a frown between her tawny eyebrows and the tension in the lines around her mouth.

  ‘I trust you have no objection to my sitting next to you?’

  He allowed one corner of his mouth to quirk up and was rewarded by Liberty’s subtle but unmistakable shift along the sofa, increasing the distance between them. The faint scent of roses drifted into his awareness—the scent of his late mother, remembered from his childhood—and all thought of teasing Miss Liberty Lovejoy vanished, swamped by a swirl of memories.

  His mother had been on his mind more and more lately—ever since he had decided that this was the Season he would choose a wife. It was time to marry. Time to produce an heir. Time to fulfil the vow he had made all those years ago after his mother had died. He straightened, rolling his shoulders back. The sooner he addressed Miss Lovejoy’s concerns, the sooner he could get on with compiling a list of candidates suitable for his bride.

  ‘Tell me why you believe Alexander to be in any way responsible for your own brother’s behaviour,’ he said. ‘Is he not his own man?’

  She drew in a sharp breath but, before she could reply, William appeared in the open doorway.

  ‘Miss Hope Lovejoy, milord,’ he said.

  Dominic stood. A young lady bearing a familial resemblance to Liberty Lovejoy entered the room, her cheeks blooming a becoming shade of pink. Out of habit, Dominic registered her appearance with one sweeping glance. Pretty. Golden-haired. Delicate features. Taller than her sister, with a trim figure, enhanced by the latest fashions. He couldn’t resist glancing once again at Liberty and making comparisons. No. He wasn’t mistaken. It would appear Liberty was a woman prepared to make personal sacrifices to ensure her younger sibling enjoyed every advantage. Was it that same trait that had driven her to come here and confront his father? That took some courage. His opinion of Liberty Lovejoy rose. Just a notch.

  He bowed to Hope and directed his most charming smile at her, fully aware it would further vex the still-smouldering Liberty. ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Lovejoy.’

  Hope would prove popular with the gentlemen of the ton, he had no doubt. And she was fully aware of the effect of her beauty upon members of the opposite sex, he realised, as she rewarded him with a coquettish smile and a swift, appraising glance through her long lashes. A poorly stifled hmmph from Liberty reached Dominic’s ears, stirring another urge to laugh which he manfully resisted.

  ‘I am Avon. Please be seated.’ He gestured to the place on the sofa he had recently vacated. ‘Your sister and I were about to discuss the reason for this visit. Ah, Betty, Thomas, thank you.’ A maid had come in with a dish of macaroons, followed by another footman carrying a tray bearing a bottle of Madeira and three glasses. ‘Please be good enough to pour the wine, Thomas. Betty—will you sit by the window once you have served our visitors? You may remain until our visitors leave. Thank you.’

  Liberty glowered at him, clearly irritated by the implication that her motives for this visit might differ from her stated reason. But, from a young age, Dominic had known his duty was to choose a suitable, well-brought-up lady as his future Duchess and it was now second nature to avoid any risk of getting trapped into an unsuitable alliance through carelessness.

  Hope had now settled next to Liberty on the sofa and so Dominic moved to stand by the fireplace while he waited for the wine to be served.

  ‘So. To continue with the reason for your visit, Miss Lovejoy—you lay the blame for your brother’s wayward behaviour at the door of my brother?’

  She raised her gaze from the contemplation of her glass. ‘Yes.’ She bit delicately into a macaroon.

  Dominic frowned at her brusque reply.

  ‘Why?’ Two could play at that game.

  The pink tip of her tongue as it rescued stray crumbs from her lips did strange things to Dominic’s pulse rate. Irritated, he willed his body under control. Simple lust—not difficult for a man like him to resist. Yet he could not tear his gaze from her mouth as she chewed in a leisurely fashion, her fine tawny brows drawn together in a frown of concentration.

  ‘Gideon has never been on the town before,’ she said eventually. ‘He is a...a...greenhead, I think is the word. He is being led astray by your brother, who appears intent on introducing him to every vice known to man.’

  I sincerely hope not. Reading the earnestness of Liberty’s expression, Dominic doubted she had the first idea of the full extent of the vices available in London to eager young bucks with money to burn. But he trusted Alex not to return to his past reckless behaviour. Didn’t he? He made a mental note to check up on his brother’s activities. If he felt Alex was in danger of sliding back into his old, wild ways, he would nip that in the bud before their father and stepmother came up to town.

  ‘I am sure Alex is simply helping your brother to find his feet in town,’ he said. ‘I fail to understand why you feel he needs your protection. What would he say if he knew you had come here to speak to my father?’

  Liberty’s cheeks bloomed red. ‘He would object, of course.’

  She was honest, at least. His opinion lifted another degree.

  ‘Then you will do well to allow him to determine his own path. No man would take kindly to his sister trying to control him. I presume you are older than him?’

  ‘We are twins but, yes, I am the elder.’

  ‘Twins? No wonder he objects to your interference. Heed my advice, Miss Lovejoy, and allow your brother to be his own man.’

  Her lips parted as she inhaled. Her breasts rose, drawing Dominic’s gaze like a lodestone. His pulse quickened and his cravat suddenly felt too tight. The room too warm. He swallowed down his reaction even as he acknowledged that Liberty Lovejoy’s natural, curvaceous femininity was more attractive to him than any of the painstakingly elegant ladies of the ton. He could never act upon such attraction, however—as the sister of an earl and a lady, she was off limits other than for marriage. And she was definitely not marriageable material. Not for him.

  He had sworn at his mother’s death, when he was eight years old, that he would do his duty and make her proud of him.

  Never forget, Avon—you will be the Duke one day. You must never bring your heritage into disrepute. Make me proud, my Son.

  He’d spent his life striving to fulfil her expectations. He had never felt good enough for her while she was alive—other than that one hint of affection he had glimpsed from her, on the day she died—but now, this Season, he would finally prove to her that he was worthy. Besides, it was what was expected of a man in his position, and he owed his father that much, too. His bride must be perfect in every way: bloodlines, upbringing, behaviour.

  And Liberty Lovejoy fitted none of those requirements. Not one.

  Unsettled and irritated by his visceral reaction to this woman Dominic lowered his gaze to where her hands were gripped together in her lap, her kid gloves stretched taut over her knuckles. He choked back his exasperation. It was not Liberty’s fault he found her so...enticing. Her distress at her brother’s behaviour was tangible and the urge to comfort her took him by surprise. He softened his tone.

  ‘What your brother is doing is not so very unusual, Miss Lovejoy. Most young men on the town for the first time behave somewhat recklessly. But they soon settle down and I am convinced your brother will, too.’

  ‘But I must stop him before he squanders his entire inheritance.’

  ‘Are his debts so very ruinous?’ He would have thought Wendover’s estates were wealthy enough, even after the disaster of last year’s harvest.

  Liberty’s lips pursed.

  ‘I am certain you are right, my lord.’ Hope smiled at Dominic and fluttered her lashes. ‘As you might guess, my sister does have an unfortunate tendency to imagine the worst. We do not know the scale of his debts as Gideon, quite rightly—�
�� she cast a quelling look at her sister ‘—refuses to discuss—’

  ‘He is out until all hours and sometimes he does not come home at all.’

  The words burst from Miss Lovejoy as she swept her hand through her hair, scattering hairpins and leaving bits of hair the hue of dark honey sticking out sideways from her scalp. Two locks unwound to drape unnoticed over her shoulder.

  ‘And when he does, he is so...so distant. So secretive.’ Her voice rang with despair. ‘We have always shared everything, but he will not confide in me...the tradesmen haven’t been paid...there is a stack of bills awaiting his attention, yet when I begged him to pay them, all he would say is that he must pay his gambling debts first as a matter of honour. He lost two hundred pounds at hazard last night. Two hundred!’

  Her horror at such a loss was clear, but her words convinced Dominic that she was worrying over nothing. Her lack of understanding of the ways of the aristocracy was hardly surprising when she had not been raised in such circles.

  ‘That does not sound so very bad to me.’

  ‘Not so very bad? Two hundred pounds?’

  He’d intended to reassure her. Instead she was looking at him as though he’d suddenly sprouted a second head.

  ‘Well, no. The Earldom of Wendover is a wealthy one with properties in Buckinghamshire and Suffolk, if I remember rightly. It can stand a few losses at the gaming tables. I am convinced you are worrying over nothing, Miss Lovejoy. You will see. Your brother will eventually settle down.’

  ‘But...the tradesmen. Gideon flatly refuses to pay them. He says they can wait. He never used to be so...so careless of other people, but whenever I remonstrate with him, all he will say is that is how everyone in society carries on.’

  Dominic shrugged. ‘Many do.’

  He did not do that himself. Neither did his father. But he could not deny that many gentlemen considered tradesmen to be at the bottom of the list of debtors to be paid.

  ‘It is your brother’s prerogative to pay the tradesmen who supply your household as and when he chooses, just as it is the tradesmen’s prerogative to cease supplying such late-paying customers if they choose. In my experience, most tradesmen elect to continue enjoying the patronage of their aristocratic clients for the prestige it brings them.’