How the Duke Was Won

by Lenora Bell

  “Yes.”

  “I fancied myself in love when I was your age. Her name was Yuki and she was the daughter of a wealthy merchant. I was a humble fisherman’s son. I loved her in secret for years.”

  “Did she return your affection?”

  “It doesn’t matter. You know the rest of the story. The boat that captured me. I never saw Yuki again.”

  The boat that captured me.

  Five small words to describe so much suffering. He’d been a slave on that boat for six years before he’d made his escape into the streets of London. Charlene’s heart ached for the young man Kyuzo had been. Penniless and foreign in a strange land.

  “I didn’t know,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Not your fault.” He stared at the wall. “My bloody fault for getting drunk that night, thinking of my hopeless love. I wasn’t watching when they drugged me.”

  “You have to go back to Japan. Maybe she still loves you. Maybe she’s waiting for you, staring out to sea every day, faithful to your memory.”

  Kyuzo snorted. “Too late now. She’s forgotten about me. And I have a new life here in England and I’ve had new loves.” He stared straight into her eyes. “It’s not too late for you, Charlene. You are still very young. You will find love again.”

  “Never. I’ll never let this happen to me again.”

  Kyuzo smiled. “Always so dramatic.”

  Charlene stared at the painted scenery panels propped against the storeroom walls. Bright blue skies. Fluffy white clouds.

  The fantasy of a world without coal smoke.

  “I will give Lulu a perfect life,” she vowed. “I’ll live only for her.”

  “Honorable,” Kyuzo said. “But dramatic.” Still smiling, he rose and offered her his hand, helping her stand. “Go home. You shouldn’t practice today.”

  Charlene untied her skirts and donned her plain straw bonnet. “Thank you.”

  Kyuzo nodded and began his katas.

  Charlene walked slowly across the piazza. Kyuzo was wrong. There was no chance that she would find love again. She would devote the rest of her life to her sister’s happiness.

  She was so engrossed in her plans for Lulu’s future that she didn’t notice the carriage outside their house until it loomed in front of her face.

  With a queasy stomach, she registered the rampant lion worked in gold on the side.

  Lord Grant. Inside the house. With Lulu.

  She ripped off her bonnet and slammed the front door open, immediately recognizing the sound of Grant’s voice coming from the front parlor. There was no time to run back for Kyuzo. She had to face this on her own, before Grant hurt Lulu. She raced down the hall and burst into the parlor, counting on the element of surprise.

  The baron was seated in a chair by the fireplace. She lunged for him, but strong hands caught her arms from behind and wrestled her into submission. She twisted her neck to see the identity of her captor. It was the scar-­faced guard, Mace. He must have been waiting beside the doorway, with instructions to subdue her upon entry.

  So much for the element of surprise.

  “Ah, Charlene, at last,” Grant said. “Join us, won’t you?”

  Diane and Lulu were sitting opposite him on a sofa. There were tears streaking Lulu’s cheeks. Charlene’s heart clenched.

  She relaxed in Mace’s arms, feigning docility.

  Beside Mace there was another guard, equally muscled and scowling.

  Charlene prayed Kyuzo came home early. There was no way she could defeat three men.

  She realized with a sinking heart that Grant was idly turning his branding iron in the flames, until the iron glowed orange.

  “Charlene, tell him it’s not true,” Lulu blurted.

  “Yes, tell her, Charlene,” Grant said. “Tell her this is a respectable boardinghouse and Dove here is a virtuous boarder.”

  If Charlene’s hands had been free, she would have struck the ugly smile from his face.

  “Sweetheart, I didn’t want you to find out like this,” she said.

  “What are you saying?” More tears escaped Lulu’s eyes.

  “Don’t be coy, Charlene.” Grant lifted the brand, evaluating the color. “Tell her the whole truth. This is a brothel. The girls are whores. You are a whore.”

  Charlene turned to Lulu in anguish. She should have prepared her. This was the worst possible way for her to find out. Charlene had been so concerned with keeping her sister innocent that she hadn’t even taught her how to defend herself. She’d been so wrong.

  “Diane,” Charlene said briskly, with a confidence she didn’t feel, “please take Lulu upstairs. This is not a conversation for her ears.”

  Diane glanced fearfully at Lord Grant.

  “I’m the one you want, Baron,” Charlene said. “Here I am. At your bidding.”

  Grant regarded her with half-­lidded eyes. “I’ve waited a long time to hear you say those words.”

  Charlene schooled her face into an expressionless mask. “If you let Lulu leave, I’ll be yours.”

  Lulu’s hazel eyes swam with tears. “I can’t leave you here.”

  “Everything will be fine, sweetheart. I’ll be up soon.”

  Grant nodded, and Diane gathered Lulu and hurried from the room. Charlene heard their footsteps running down the hallway and up the stairs. When she was sure they were safe, she faced Grant. “Our guard will be home any moment,” she lied. “I’m sure you remember him?”

  “I do indeed.” Grant smiled. “Only I happen to know he’s in the Drury Lane theater right now and won’t be back for an hour.”

  Damn.

  “You shouldn’t have humiliated me in front of Lord Hatherly,” Grant said. “I was hoping for his patronage. Instead you made me a laughingstock.” He struck the iron against the stone of the mantel and sparks flew.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” he repeated, rising and walking toward her.

  Keeping an eye on the glowing iron, Charlene allowed him to grab her collar and march her to the mirror over the mantelpiece.

  Grant stood behind her, using his free hand to force her to look into the mirror. “You were fashioned for a man’s pleasure, Charlene,” he whispered in her ear. His fingers closed around her throat. “See these plump lips?” He squeezed her cheeks until her lips popped open. “And this glorious hair . . .”

  He released her face and tugged at her chignon until her hair tumbled loose. His breathing quickened.

  Desperation and anger threatened to boil over. She had to remain calm and search for the best opportunity to strike.

  “Come to the point, Grant.” She spoke with as much bravado as she could muster.

  “You want the point?” Grant pulled her back against his hard length, holding the branding iron inches from her neck. “I have two points for you.”

  The guards guffawed loudly.

  “Did you know that your mother was the first female I ever had?” Grant asked. “My father bought her for me when I was only fourteen. Oh, she was a skilled teacher, your mother. I was so grateful for her instruction that when I came of age, I helped her fund this little venture.”

  “And we repaid your loan,” Charlene said. “We owe you nothing.”

  “You don’t know the whole story,” he said calmly, as if he’d been discussing the weather. “I purchased this building, and I never once charged rent.”

  That couldn’t be true. Charlene always set aside three hundred pounds per year. True, she’d never met the landlord and didn’t even know his name . . . oh, God.

  “Charlene.” Grant sighed. “I invested so much, and received so little. I was grooming you to be my private songbird. To grace my apartments and make me the envy of every gentleman in London. How disappointing. You could have been such a success.”

  He pushed her away from h
im and she stumbled against Mace, who grabbed her shoulders.

  “Now I have to break you, instead,” Grant said softly. “I was going to brand your shoulder, but now I think I’ll find someplace more . . . visible.”

  Mace stuck a hand down her bodice and ripped the gown off her chest and over her shoulder. Charlene struggled, but he held her in an iron grip.

  Grant made a mocking approximation of a bow. “Please excuse my associate. He’s only a rough sort with no schooling.”

  Despair choked the anger from Charlene’s heart. She was outnumbered, outmaneuvered.

  Emotion makes you weak, Kyuzo had said. But how could she remain calm when she was about to be branded?

  Grant ran a finger down her neck and over the top of her breast. “Here?” He traced a circle on her breast, just above her nipple.

  His finger continued across her shoulder, down her arm, and over the sensitive skin of her inner wrist. “Or here?”

  Mace brought both of her wrists together in one of his enormous paws. He smiled nastily. “The wrist would hurt something awful.” He used his strength to force Charlene onto her knees.

  She assumed the shikko posture. Heels together, crouching in preparation to strike. She bowed her head. Mace thrust her arms out to their full extension.

  Grant was wearing polished boots. Charlene bowed her head further, until she could see her wavy reflection in his boots.

  She knew what she had to do.

  When he lowered the branding iron, she would block and deflect it, forcing the iron back toward him. He’d be so worried about marking his handsome face that he’d drop the iron, and she’d use the chaos to run for help.

  It was her only chance.

  She looked up at Grant. Smiled.

  He frowned. “Why are you smiling?”

  Because he had no idea what she planned for him.

  Chapter 27

  Lies and trickery, trickery and lies, the carriage wheels chanted mockingly as they ground along the worn cobblestones of Covent Garden.

  James punched the leather upholstery, welcoming the pain that blossomed along his knuckles. He knew this area well. He and Dalton had misspent quite a bit of their youth drinking cheap ale in the basement taverns that doubled as brothels on Maiden Lane. By half past four this afternoon, there would be no respectable females left on the streets.

  The woman he sought, this Charlene Beckett, was no respectable lady.

  She’d impersonated Dorothea, clearly with the goal of cheating him into marrying a complete stranger, for reasons he had yet to fathom.

  The countess must have been complicit. That was the only conclusion to draw about why she hadn’t let him see Dorothea before the wedding.

  But why?

  Why was this happening to him?

  Because every single time you allow yourself to care about someone, it all goes to hell. Haven’t you learned that bloody lesson by now?

  How would he explain to Flor that the woman she thought of as her new mother was a fraud and imposter? It would break her heart. Again.

  James groaned aloud. The old duke had to be laughing from his special place in hell. James had managed to land himself in a tangled mess of grand proportions, proving his father right yet again.

  Pieces of the puzzle fell into place: the fact that no gently bred debutante could possibly know professional wrestling moves. He’d known that but hadn’t seen through the ruse. He’d been so blind. Also, the cryptic comments she’d made in the conservatory, after he’d given her the ring.

  I have something I must tell you . . . I’m not her. The woman you’re talking about.

  He’d been so addled by lust that he’d completely ignored her warnings. There would be no more half truths, no more evasion.

  The door to number fifty was ajar. He heard voices coming from a nearby room.

  He heard her voice.

  He walked swiftly down the hall, pausing outside the door of a small parlor. The first thing he saw in the room was a tangle of blazing gold hair falling around rain-­drenched blue eyes. Charlene was kneeling in the grip of two unsavory-­looking characters, and a man James recognized as Lord Grant was brandishing a glowing fire iron over her wrist.

  What the hell was happening here?

  “You won’t be smiling when I’m through with you,” James heard the baron say. The tip of the fire iron pulsed orange.

  James’s stomach dropped into his boots.

  She was in danger.

  Instinct took over, obliterating thought. He charged into the room and lunged at one of the men, smashing his fist into his nose. The man toppled to the floor with a crashing thud. The scar-­faced man came at James. James feinted right and swung with his left, impacting the man’s jaw and snapping his head back.

  He caught a glimpse of Charlene grappling with Grant. She blocked the burning iron with her arm in a surprising blur of motion.

  Scarface lunged, and his fist connected with James’s gut, momentarily knocking the wind from his lungs. James gave a gasp of wild laughter. It would take a lot more than that to fell him.

  He lifted his head. Two brutes stared at each other.

  Scarface didn’t like what he saw. His face whitened, and he abruptly turned on his heel and fled from the room.

  James flexed his stomach muscles and took a breath. Bruised. Not broken. He was well acquainted with the difference.

  Now for Grant.

  James spun around.

  Grant was watching him, his elbow collaring Charlene, with the heated iron nearly brushing her cheek. “Don’t come any closer,” he warned.

  James stood still, not daring to breathe.

  “James,” Charlene said, her lips twisted with anguish. “What are you doing here?”

  Grant tightened his grip around her neck. “Not another word,” he spat. “Whoever you are,” he said to James, “this is a private matter . . .” He craned his neck, disbelief contorting his face. “Harland?”

  “Seems we have a mutual interest, Grant. Release the woman. There’s no need for violence.” James gave him a smile that told him in no uncertain terms what would happen if he didn’t follow instructions.

  “Bit late for that, wouldn’t you agree?” Grant extended his boot and poked at the heap of flesh and muscle that had been his guard. The man remained down. “Is he dead?”

  “He’ll live,” James grunted.

  Charlene tried to speak, but Grant’s fingers closed around her mouth. James nearly lost control and made a move, but he had to wait for the right moment. The branding iron was too close to her face. She’d already been burned. He could see an angry red weal snaking across her bared forearm.

  “I own this woman. She’s mine to mark.” The baron’s arm trembled, and the iron bounced near Charlene’s face. She bent her neck away from the heated metal.

  James sucked in a breath. He’d have to risk it. If he was quick enough, he could put himself between the iron and Charlene.

  He took another step forward.

  “Don’t come closer,” Grant shouted. “Why do you care? What’s she to you?” He squeezed his elbow tighter around Charlene’s neck. Her fingernails clawed at his arm as she struggled for breath. “I knew you couldn’t be as high and mighty as you pretended.” He bit her earlobe, and she cringed. “Deeper pockets opened her legs, eh, Harland?”

  “Drop the iron and give me the woman, or I’ll kill you,” James replied. “Simple choice. Life. Or death.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” hissed Grant. “You’re the duke now. You can’t go about murdering peers.”

  “That’s right, I’m the duke. And believe me, the arrogant despots glowering on my ancestral walls have nothing on me. My heart is darker, my fists bloodier. The only difference is I fight on the side of justice. I’d have no problem sending a coward like you down to hell to meet the
other dukes of Harland.”

  Grant blanched. His hand wavered, lowering the iron a fraction. It was all Charlene needed to swivel and break his grip. She put several paces between them, drawing deep, gasping breaths and clutching the mantelpiece.

  Grant flicked the back of his wrist at her. “I don’t want the duke’s leavings. When he tires of you, and you’re whoring on the streets for shillings, I’ll spit in your face.”

  He spat on the carpet, so intent on humiliating her that he didn’t notice James stalking closer. James shattered his fist into the baron’s long, straight nose with the full force of his fury.

  The baron’s nose wouldn’t be straight any longer.

  Grant tottered for a moment, a nearly comical expression of surprise frozen on his face, then he hit the floor with a thud that shook the floorboards.

  A barrel-­chested older man with black hair and black eyes bolted into the room.

  “Kyuzo,” Charlene shouted.

  She seemed happy to see him so this couldn’t be another of Grant’s men.

  Scarface lumbered to his feet, lunging at the newcomer, but was felled instantly with one perfectly timed blow to his jaw.

  Charlene caught James’s eye. “This is Mr. Kyuzo Yamamoto,” she said.

  “You have an excellent left hook, Mr. Yamamoto,” James said.

  “Thank you. And you must be Charlene’s duke,” Yamamoto said.

  “Kyuzo,” Charlene exclaimed, her voice hoarse and weak.

  Yamamoto frowned down at the three large men sprawled across the carpet. The baron’s nose bleed was turning the carpet red. “We should take these vermin back to the gutter where they belong, Your Grace.”

  “Indeed, Yamamoto. My thoughts exactly.”

  Yamamoto crouched down, hoisted the baron by the armpits, and began dragging him out of the room.

  “I’ll be right back,” James told Charlene.

  She nodded. The depths of her blue-­gray eyes brought all the questions swirling back, like ocean waves closing above his head.

  He wrenched his gaze away and dragged a slumbering brawler out of the room.

  There would be time to seek answers later.