If I Were a Duke (Dukes' Club Book 9)

by Eva Devon

  “Lady Eleanor?” he inquired.

  “Mmm?” she murmured, staring out the window, seemingly captivated by the scenery.

  He cleared his throat, a horrible and new habit. “I’ve had an idea.”

  Slowly, she turned back to him. “Oh?”

  “I’ll tell you what I will do,” he said brightly, folding his black-gloved hands together. “I shall have a contract drawn up, making clear your freedoms, both financial and physical. Thusly, you shall be assured of your free rein which will be subsidized by a very large personal allowance.”

  “That is. . .” Finally, one of her slow smiles pulled at her lips. It transformed her already beautiful face into a warm expression. “Most agreeable and I see it as an effort of good will. Thank you.”

  His heart leapt, bloody leapt, at her small indication of pleasure. Good God. What was happening to him?

  He smiled back at her, knowing he had to add one last thing. “But there will be two requisites.”

  She nodded perfunctorily. “Do tell me them.”

  “Apparently, you are supposed to make sure I’m up to snuff as a duke.” He gestured with his hand, wishing to seem light given the topic. “And you will have to give me an heir.”

  “Of course,” she said, once again as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Lord Blakemore already instructed me that I am to help you in your transition. And as to the latter?” She shrugged, a graceful move of her shoulders. “A duke must have an heir.”

  Suddenly, he found that he needed some sort of uncontrolled response from her. Anything. Something. So, lacing his voice with the sort of promise he was so good at fulfilling, he whispered, “Lady Eleanor, I have every intention of ensuring you enjoy the process.”

  Her eyes widened and she abruptly looked back to the bucolic countryside. “That isna necessary, thank you.”

  It was most certainly a response. But not one he’d ever hoped for. Not necessary?

  “Why the bloody hell not?” he demanded, feeling a sincere sense of outrage.

  “I told you,” she said tightly, still focused on the passing fields. “I am not an affectionate sort of person.”

  “Well, I am,” he replied, unapologetically. “Life is pain, Lady Eleanor. But pleasure is there for a reason. I will not bloody well blow out the candle and think of England every night.”

  Slowly, she looked back to him. Her eyes widened at his rather passionate and direct reply. She bit her lower lip then said resignedly, tiredly, “You dunna truly wish to marry me. We truly are too different.”

  The strength of her words was undeniable, even if they were sudden and at contradiction with her earlier amenability. He knew he had no other option except to be honest. “In truth, when they suggested you, I was appalled.”

  She straightened, her spine a veritable poker, her face tightening.

  Well, there he’d gone and done it. Carefully, he rested his hands on his thighs, determined not to be combative. “But only because. . .”

  His courage failed him and it was his turn to look out the window, barely seeing the rolling countryside flying by.

  “Your Grace?”

  He winced, but forced himself to return his gaze to her.

  She bit down on her lower lip again, leaving it a lush red when she spoke. “Because when we met I was most unkind to you.”

  He frowned. He had not expected to discuss it. He preferred not to, but he couldn’t avoid it now. He folded his arms across his chest and forced himself to study her wary face. “Well, yes.”

  Her brow furrowed as if she were struggling with something but then she blurted, “I canna dance.”

  Shaking his head, he began, “You can’t—”

  “Dance,” she cut in, her tone determined and full of remorse. For the first time, her hands fidgeted on her lap. “When you asked me, I was. . . Well, I dunna entirely know what I was. In truth, I was stunned that a man like you asked me at all.”

  “A rake,” he confirmed, still reeling from her announcement. Had he entirely misinterpreted her and the event? Had he lived for over a year with that hellish moment repeating in his head for no reason?

  What a waste, if it were true.

  “Yes, well, and the most popular man in the room,” she said, waving her hands now in complete animation about the air. “And I couldna. . . I canna dance.” Her face grew guarded. “I never learned.”

  “Why on earth not?” he asked. He was astonished that a ward of a duke could be so lacking in the education needed for a young lady to succeed in society.

  Her face grew positively stone-like. “It was not deemed necessary for me.”

  “My God,” he growled. The emotion coursing through him was one of shocking fury. He wanted to march up to Scotland, dig up her guardian’s corpse and throttle him. Ice queen or no, no one deserved to be put in such a position as she had been.

  “Do not pity me,” she protested, hands once again folding tightly in her lap.

  “I’m not,” he countered, confused, still absorbed with the image of throttling a corpse.

  “You are,” she bit out, desperate now. “I see it on your drattedly handsome face.”

  He could not stop his smile, one that arose from the inevitable pleasure of being found desirable by a beautiful woman. “Handsome, am I?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I am not blind.”

  “Eleanor,” he said softly.

  She tensed at the use of her given name, but he did not relent. “I promise you two things. You’ll bloody learn to dance and with me, if you like.”

  The blush pink of her cheeks deepened and her mouth parted slightly. “And the other?”

  “No one will ever put you in such a position again,” he vowed. “Where you are at a disadvantage in company.”

  To his shock, he realized he was so angry his hands were shaking. He balled them into fists. He could not recall a time when he’d felt such an incredible need to pummel a man. Her guardian. For it was that old man who had put her in a place where she was forced to give a man the cut rather than admit her inability. What sort of guardian did not prepare his ward for such a situation? A cruel one.

  She gazed at him as if she had no idea what to make of his promises.

  Drawing in a calming breath, he said, “I must beg your forgiveness.”

  “My forgiveness?” she echoed, her determined chin lifting again. “Surely not.”

  “I thought very ill of you when you gave me the cut,” he confessed truthfully. “It never occurred to me it might be for something that had nothing to do with me. I have been most arrogant and trivial.”

  She glanced away, sadness softening her features. “You owe me no apology, Your Grace. I have long regretted our meeting. I can still see the pain on your face. . .”

  “Never mind my face,” he cut in, determined that neither of them should suffer from that awful moment an instant more. “I’m a strong fellow. I’ll recover, lass.”

  He forced himself to calm, unused to such strong emotions now. He had not felt so intensely in some time. “Now, tell me, after all this, what are we to do? Remain unaffectionate and distant? Or can we attempt to make a good marriage?”

  Her gaze darkened as she prepared herself to say something it seemed he might not like. “I can never love you, Ayr. But I can try. . . I can try for the rest.” Her lashes shadowed her pale cheeks. “Will that be good enough?”

  “It will have to be,” he said, hoping it would be enough. Hoping that at least, it would be a start. “When shall it be then?”

  The coach rolled to a stop before the beautiful palace. The sound of the footman jumping down to the gravel drive filled the air.

  “As soon as it can be arranged,” she replied, her voice surprisingly rough with emotion. As soon as the door swung open, she dashed out of the coach.

  Tony watched the quick descent of the woman who had been so cool and composed just a moment ago and wondered what madness he was in for. For Lady Eleanor Paisley was a woman
of many facets. And he was going to discover every single one.

  Chapter 5

  Eleanor hurried along one of the myriad raked gravel paths, not daring to look back at the imposing man just a few steps behind her. She didn’t need to look! She could feel him. Drat the man! Just his presence was a force to be reckoned with.

  In all her life, she couldn’t recall anyone who simply filled the space they were in with such power and confidence as Anthony Burke.

  Somehow, she’d allowed herself to forget that about him. Or, at least, the intensity of it. She’d forgotten how tall he was. He stood well over six feet. She’d also forgotten how wicked his masculine smile was, how hard his jaw appeared, how chiseled his cheeks looked. My God, he was a god amongst men. There was no denying it.

  His shoulders were the stuff of Atlas and his body looked as if, under those expensive fabrics, was the form of a Spartan. A man trained for battle from birth. And yet, he had an easy, seductive air, despite the danger about him.

  Anthony Burke was temptation in human form.

  She’d known handsome men. Good men. Kind men.

  But she’d never known a man who could crook his lips in a lopsided smile and make her feel as though the world were turning upside down.

  It had been all she could do to retain her composure. Luckily, she’d succeeded. She always would. She had to.

  But now, the deuced bounder was striding behind her. And he was making merry chatter about the beauty of the flowers, the scent of the lavender in the air, and the fact that they should return next spring to see the bluebells.

  Bluebells.

  Anthony Burke, Duke of Ayr, was waxing poetic about the beauty of bluebells which would carpet the forest floor in eight months’ time.

  The world had gone mad.

  And his voice? It was hot, honeyed whiskey. The sort of thing that warmed one up from the inside out on the coldest of winter days. She shivered despite the delightful warmth of the late summer day. It was not a shiver of dread. Oh no. It was one of forbidden anticipation.

  “I thought you had an appointment,” he said brightly, stepping beside her.

  She looked at him askance, bustling along. “I do.”

  He clasped his hands behind his back, his dark hair playing jauntily at his temples. “Your gardener seems to have forgotten.”

  “No doubt, he’s about here somewhere,” she huffed. It did seem as if the gardener had forgotten. In her experience, gardeners were often forgetful types, much happier digging in the soil and whispering to their plants rather than negotiating the conversations of humans.

  Still, she wasn’t giving up finding the fellow just yet.

  So, she turned to her left, past a groomed topiary. She started down one of the many pathways that led through what appeared to be a man-made wilderness.

  Just the sort of thing Anthony Burke, no doubt, thought divine. It occurred to her that he was one of those fellows that favored sentiment. It was shocking given his masculine nature. But stoic men did not go on about bluebells and lavender.

  She doubted his genuine love of plants. Surely, it was merely a tactic to soften her.

  Knowing about medicinal plants? Ha!

  “I beg your pardon, but did you just snort?”

  Her eyes flared and she looked at him with momentary panic.

  Had she?

  Dear God, she had.

  There it was again. That wolfish smile. “I would dearly love to know what thought caused it.”

  She arched a brow at him. “No, you would not.”

  “Ah,” he surmised, good-naturedly. “I have caused you amusement. I’m glad.”

  “You shouldna be!” she exclaimed, distraught at how he seemed to take everything in stride. Surely, a man so beautiful was petulant? But there didn’t seem to be a revengeful or petulant bone in the new duke’s hard body.

  He grinned. Grinned!

  Did the man have no sense of self-preservation? Was he determined to remain blithe to every withering comment?

  As she looked at him, and saw his dancing eyes and cheeky grin, she realized that, yes, he was going to do just that. How very alarming.

  And yet, she couldn’t help but admire his sense of optimism. The world had not worn him down yet. Perhaps, he had not had sufficient cause to feel worn down by it.

  Frowning, she suddenly said, “Forgive me. I’ve been remiss. Will I meet your mother?”

  The words were out of her mouth before she could stop herself and she quickly realized that the question could be the gravest of errors. She did not know if his mother was a lady, if his father approved of her, or if he’d even seen her in years.

  His grin dimmed and a dark shadow traced through his gaze.

  “No,” he said softly. “My mother died when I was little more than a boy.”

  Feeling horribly awkward, she looked away. “Forgive me. I was thoughtless.”

  He was silent for a moment, and walked with her companionably. But then he replied, “It’s a reasonable question as not much of my history is known.”

  “Just your reputation,” she said gently.

  “Are you, by chance, teasing me, Lady Eleanor?”

  “I suppose it is possible,” she admitted, feeling rather sensitive to have mentioned a subject which gave her pain, too, the loss of a parent.

  “She’d have liked you,” he said abruptly.

  She nearly stumbled over a rock. “I beg your pardon?”

  “My mother,” he replied, easily clasping her elbow, guiding her along. “She’d have liked you.”

  She tried not to think about that strong hand, cupping her arm with such ease. “Truly?”

  “You might not think it a compliment since she was a traveler,” he said hesitantly. He stopped, holding her still. “But she’d admire your stiff spine and unwillingness to be intimidated by a duke or a fellow like me.”

  Her heart pounded in her chest at their close proximity and the intimacy which had so seldom been in her life. Somehow, she knew, what he was saying was important. Powerful. “A fellow like you?”

  He winked. “Yes, a right devil.”

  She laughed, a deep, rolling laugh that came as free as the bubbling burn in her favorite glen. It felt. . . It felt marvelous.

  “Smelling salts!” he cried. “Smelling salts!”

  She tsked. “What are you rabbiting on about?”

  “I feel faint,” he said playfully, leaning down to shorten the distance in their heights. “You laughed.”

  She scowled. Then unbidden, she laughed again.

  “Apoplexy!” he announced to the empty garden. “I’m sure I shall suffer it.”

  “Stop that now,” she said, but could not stop the smile now pulling at her lips.

  “Duly chastised, Lady Eleanor.”

  “Hmph.” She turned away from him, not quite certain how she felt that he’d made her laugh so freely. In some ways, it felt, well, it felt a bit like a betrayal of James. Except, it was just a conversation with the man she was to spend the rest of her life with.

  Still, why did he have to be so genial? So pleasant? Why, oh why, was he trying so hard to make her smile?

  She licked her lips then offered, “I am sorry about your mother. I lost my parents when I was small.”

  He followed her comfortably, lessening his stride to keep beside her. “That must have been very difficult.”

  “It was,” she confessed, refusing to let that particular well of pain rise up within her.

  “I was lucky to have her for so long, my mother,” he said softly. “She was a grand woman. Good, kind, full of craic.”

  She furrowed her brow. “Craic?”

  “It’s an Irish word. It means good fun, essentially.”

  “Irish?” she blurted, astonished at this piece of news.

  “Now, don’t be tellin’ me, lass, you’re down on the Irish?” he said with a suddenly, shockingly, thick brogue.

  “Not at all, mon,” she replied, ruffled he’d even tease such
a thing. “I’m just surprised. You sound so. . . So. . .”

  “English?” he supplied.

  “Aye,” she replied, deepening her own burr.

  “I had the Irish taken out of me at Oxford,” he stated easily. “It was explained to me that if I ever wanted to be taken seriously in English society it was best I not speak like a peasant.”

  The touch of bitterness in his words moved her.

  Perhaps, his life had more complexity than she’d imagined. “You werena raised in a great house, were you?” she asked gently.

  It was his turn to laugh. A giant, rumble of a sound. It boomed about him and wrapped her up in it.

  “I assume that means no.”

  “No, lass,” he confirmed. “The closest I ever was to a big house was when our caravan was parked on its land.”

  “Caravan?” she repeated in a half-whisper. “You mean to say—”

  “We traveled about the land,” he clarified, studying her carefully, “my mam and me.”

  She was uncertain how to reply. She knew many people frowned on the travelers. She herself did not. She liked that some people found other ways of living than the cold one she’d been forced to experience. “That must have been—”

  “Liberating. I’ve never liked to stay in one place long. Which was why life at sea agreed with me.”

  She blinked, trying to make sense of him. “But you’ve been in England for some time now.”

  “I have,” he agreed pleasantly.

  “Why?” she demanded. “If you like to travel so much?”

  If she were he, she would have taken to the world and never looked back. Such an opportunity had never come to fruition for her.

  “My father.” He smiled then, an expression which seemed his favorite. “I happen to like him and his wife.”

  She frowned. “I see.”

  “Are you certain?” he queried. “You look perplexed.”

  “Well, I have no family to be close to,” she said without self-pity. “I imagine filial ties are very powerful.”

  “They aren’t always. But my da is a good man and I love him.”