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

by Eva Devon

  She nodded tersely, and hurried down the path now, not quite knowing how they had fallen into such a personal conversation. She knew so little of love. Except for James, she really had no idea how to relate to a loving family any longer.

  A great wave of sadness crashed over her. She’d been born to so much privilege. And yet, her future husband, a bastard, seemed to have known more love than she ever had.

  She was happy for him. Indeed, she was. Life without love was terribly cruel. She wouldn’t wish it upon anyone. She remembered, still, the feeling of being safely ensconced in the arms of a family. She shook the thought away.

  “You’ve grown melancholic,” he said suddenly, having picked up his own pace. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t my intent.”

  She forced herself to stop. How the blazes had he noticed that? Usually, she was so very good at hiding her true feelings.

  “I am nothing of the sort,” she denied tightly, falling back on her ways of dealing with pain. “I am merely attempting to deduce where the gardener might have gotten to.”

  “Of course,” he said, though he clearly did not believe her. That was dratted annoying.

  “Now, why don’t you go off and smell the lilacs?” she asked, gesturing to the flowers. “You seem to like flowers.”

  He laughed again. “Trying to be rid of me?”

  She said nothing.

  “There. I’ll look at that pretty yellow flower.” He pointed to the wild grouping of plants.

  “Yes?” she asked warily, wondering what he was up to and fighting a sigh. For a man who said he knew medicinal plants, he was proving ignorant.

  He stopped, plucking a small yellow flower betwixt his strong, surprisingly callused fingers.

  Holding it out to her, he said, “For you.”

  Clearing her throat, she took it and said, “Thank you.”

  “Brew it and drink it,” he instructed her. His gaze was deep and knowing. “It will assist with your sadness.”

  “What?” she gasped.

  “St. John’s Wort,” he said simply, his head cocked down ever so slightly. “It is good for many things. Burns, skin irritations, intestinal problems. . . And mild melancholy.”

  And with that, he sauntered down the path as if he had not a care in the world.

  She watched him go, holding the flower in her hand, completely stunned. Whatever Anthony Burke was, he was nothing at all what she expected.

  She liked him.

  And that was a very upsetting thing, indeed.

  Chapter 6

  The Duke of Aston’s townhouse positively glittered with luxury. Eleanor crossed into the foyer and fairly boggled at the towering art surrounding her. It was a riot of color and majesty. If one was looking for quiet elegance, this was not it.

  Oh no, this was a roaring love of art and beauty.

  She cocked her head backwards and took in the mural painted across the ceiling. The vast painting of the Greek gods was sumptuous and took her breath away.

  “It’s a bit of an eye opener, is it not?” Ayr asked, stepping out from an arched door to her left.

  She clapped her mouth shut. “Och, it’s lovely.”

  “Thank you.” He leaned against the wide, carved door frame. “Now, come in, they’re waiting for you.”

  She tensed. They. For some reason, she felt a great deal more trepidation about this meeting than she had with her soon to be husband. But she nodded, taking in how easily Ayr seemed to be in his opulent surroundings.

  She carefully skirted him as she entered the long salon, decorated with emerald green silk walls and more paintings done by old masters.

  There, sitting on an embroidered settee sat the Duchess of Aston, her red hair curled and falling down about her stunning face.

  A blue ribbon was laced through her hair and she handled a small child on her lap.

  Eleanor smiled at the baby who could not be two years of age.

  “Come meet my littlest sister and stepmother,” Tony said softly. “The other three are in the garden.”

  It was hard to believe Tony had so many sisters. But there it was.

  Picking up her pace, she wove through the numerous tables and chairs until she stood before the fire and her future family.

  “Your Grace,” she said with a curtsy.

  “Och, you must call me Ros, everyone does.” The duchess gave a wry grin. “Well, everyone I like,” the duchess said.

  She nodded, wondering if she dared. They all so seemed familiar. So kind.

  But in all this strangeness, she decided to focus on the one person in the room that she thought she might best understand.

  And so she knelt down before the settee and asked, “And what’s your name then?”

  “Her name is Charlotte,” the duchess replied, her voice full of pride. “My husband does insist on calling her Charlie.”

  Eleanor laughed. She couldn’t help herself, for the redheaded little girl fussing with her ribbons did look, indeed, as if she could fulfill such a name.

  “How do you do?” she asked, holding out her hand. “I’m Lady Eleanor.

  And the little girl, quite delighted to be made much over, did not hesitate but took her hand then laughed.

  “Nor,” said Charlie.

  Eleanor swallowed her fears of wondering what Ayr and his stepmother might think, for she’d always liked children and babies and they liked her.

  So, she reached into her reticule and pulled out a small, red ball. “Would you like to play?”

  Charlie clapped her pudgy hands and wiggled off her mother’s lap.

  “How did you know she’d like that?” the duchess asked. “You dunna have siblings, do you?”

  No. No siblings, she longed to say. She was alone in the world. Instead, she simply shook her head.

  Not looking away from her small, new friend, she replied, “Who wouldna love a bright new ball?”

  Ayr laughed gently. “Right you are.”

  Much to her shock, Ayr knelt beside her.

  Charlie jumped forward and right into Ayr’s arms. “Hug.”

  Ayr obliged.

  She watched the obvious love between brother and sister and she swallowed. Once, long ago, she’d been loved like that. She could still remember being held close by her mother and father as they danced about the nursery.

  Blinking quickly, she started to pull back, seeing how happy Charlie was with him.

  As if sensing her sudden feeling, Ayr turned Charlie in his arms and said, “Shall we have a game?”

  Charlie laughed again, pointed at the present and proclaimed loudly, “Ball!”

  Eleanor smiled then held it out to her.

  Giggling happily, Charlie grabbed the ball then threw it back to Eleanor.

  Eleanor caught it, grinning at the child’s obvious happiness. She was so glad that the child seemed so loved, so cared for.

  She lifted her eyes to Ayr and caught him gazing down at his little sister as if she were the greatest treasure in all the world.

  Her heart did a strange leap and she looked away and rolled the ball back to Charlie.

  “Mama!” Charlie shouted and pelted the ball at her mother.

  “Yes, my darling!” the duchess exclaimed as she jumped from her seat and ran along the room then rolled the ball back to her daughter.

  Charlie kicked at the ball and tottered towards the duchess.

  “Tea, Your Grace,” a footman called.

  “Just put it by the fire,” the duchess instructed, catching her daughter up and showering her with kisses.

  Eleanor folded her hands and began to sit back, believing Charlie to have been distracted. But then the little girl wheeled around and charged at her, laughing. “Nor!”

  Much to her delight, the little girl grabbed on to her arm then pointed to the tea. “Cake!”

  “Yes,” Eleanor said solemnly, knowing the importance of cake. “Cake.”

  For, after all, there was a beautiful chocolate cake beside the tea service.


  Quickly and easily, the duchess poured tea. While Charlie tugged at Eleanor’s bonnet strings, dancing them about, the duchess passed out cake.

  “Come, my darling,” the duchess said, handing the little girl a small plate and a slice of cake. “Tony, call in the girls.”

  Just as ordered, Ayr went to the window, opened a latch and called, “Cake!”

  A cackle of delight echoed in from outside and Ayr turned back to the room, waggling his brows. “That’s done it then.”

  Charlie grinned happily, her blue eyes dancing with delight as she clasped her plate, no doubt proud to be the first to be served. But then she looked to Eleanor, carried her plate over, picked up a small piece and held it out. “Cake. Nor.”

  Eleanor grinned back and took the cake dutifully. “Why, thank you!”

  Then she ate it, gobbling it up much to Charlie’s delight. The little girl shrieked with happiness.

  After a moment, Charlie went back to her mother.

  As she did, a gaggle of redheaded girls of various young ages darted into the room, skirts aflutter. They all gave quick curtsies and then amassed around the tea tray, clamoring for tea and plates of sweets.

  Glancing at the happy children, Eleanor felt a wave of awe at the small family who loved each other so much.

  For all that she might have reservations about her new husband, he was a good brother and was clearly part of a loving family.

  Ayr offered her his hand. She hesitated but then took it, knowing his touch would shock her as it always did.

  The feel of his warm, strong fingers about hers caused her breathing to slow.

  He gazed down at her and said softly, “You’re wonderful, Lady Eleanor. Absolutely wonderful.”

  She couldn’t reply for she had no idea how to respond to the feelings building within her. Feelings she’d long since thought lost.

  Quickly, she looked away. The pain of loss suddenly pressed in on her heart despite the lovely moment. Once, she, too, had been part of such a family, but that had vanished.

  “Shall I sit beside you, Charlie?” she asked abruptly, turning from her future husband.

  Charlie kicked her feet on the settee and nodded. “Nor.”

  Drawing in a steadying breath, Eleanor sat beside the small girl and put all her focus on the child.

  Before she could say another word, the bevy of girls flung themselves on the settee beside her and Charlie. Their mother busied herself with the teapot.

  As they gobbled their cake, the sprightly lot pelted her with questions.

  “I’m Amelia! You’re to be our sister?” the eldest asked around a bite.

  “Indeed, I am.”

  “You’re very pretty,” another little girl observed.

  “Not as pretty as you,” Eleanor replied. The girl, who looked about six years of age, blushed a fiery red.

  “You shan’t take Tony from us?” the next to littlest asked, her shocking, curled red hair bouncing about her freckled face.

  “I wouldna dream of it,” Eleanor assured. “Will you come and stay with us?”

  The child gave her an imperious nod that looked a good deal like her father, whom she’d observed at balls.

  “I’m very excited for your wedding,” the girl said.

  “May I ask why?” Eleanor asked.

  “I love weddings because I love cake.”

  Eleanor laughed. “I quite love cake, too.”

  With that, Charlie handed her another bite of chocolate from her own plate. “You. Nor.”

  Eleanor smiled at the group of small girls, blinking tears back as quickly as she could. She made certain not to look at her new husband.

  For she could not bear to see Ayr’s warm, admiring gaze looking upon her. No, she did not need his affection or his praise. Biting down on the inside of her cheek, she felt him staring at her, full of questions, no doubt.

  But she had no answers to give. None that were not full of pain and regret. And she would not drag him into that. Not for anything.

  Chapter 7

  Lady Eleanor had not been at home for nearly a week. Tony ground his teeth together and threw his coat down on a nearby polished bench.

  The servant in Charles Eversleigh’s dueling club darted forward, wordless and efficient, picking it up. He trotted quickly to the other side of the room, hanging it neatly on a peg.

  Tony cursed. He wasn’t usually rude. He usually took care of his own things within reason. But he was in a state and he needed a fight. He turned slowly, surveying the dueling room with its rows and rows of rapiers and cutlasses hung with care along the walls.

  The oak floor positively gleamed, polished with so much wax that one might skate about it.

  He ground his teeth down, hoping beyond hope someone would suddenly appear to give him as good as he could give.

  As if he’d summoned the man from his mind, Lord Charles Eversleigh stepped through the tall doorway at the other side of the room, rapier in hand. “I’m ready when you are, old boy.”

  In the years that had passed, he had somehow made the transition from pup to old boy. It had been quite a moment when Tony had realized he was a man in his father’s friend’s eyes.

  He nodded, a rush of need pulsing through his body. He hadn’t felt that need in a long time. Lady Eleanor had certainly brought it to life with her abrupt avoidance.

  He picked up his blade and walked over to the dueling strip down the center of the long room.

  Charles joined him at the opposite end, his white shirt flowing about his chiseled physique.

  Taking his stance, Tony waited for Charles to advance. The black-haired, black-eyed lord was the most dangerous man in London with a blade. Tony couldn’t wait to clash with him.

  But he was not fool. If he made the first move, the bout would be over before it began. Charles was too good.

  So, as Charles came down the strip, blade swinging, Tony bounced on his feet, balancing his weight.

  The sing of the blade came down and Tony riposted, quickly twisting.

  In a flurry of silver, they danced down the room.

  The clang of blades filled the air, joined by their mutually controlled breathing. Charles’ eyes blazed with intent as he attacked.

  God, why the devil was she avoiding him? Had he offended her when he’d told her she was wonderful? Why the devil would that do it?

  The blade point sang forward stopping just before skewering him.

  “Not quite here, are we, old boy?” Charles drawled, walking away, giving a casual tug to the shirt open at his neck.

  Tony winced as he realized how close he’d come to becoming a human pin cushion.

  Charles did not allow for dulled blades. Only men who could control themselves were allowed in the club. Only men who knew exactly what they were doing and how to handle themselves. It was a whispered about and exclusive set in London. Many a young blood came to these rooms, ready to prove themselves, only to be sent away, tail between their legs.

  Tony nodded, lifted his guard and rocked back and forth, forcing himself back to the present.

  Charles smiled, a wicked smile. Again, he launched forward, his blade flashing as it sped through the air.

  Tony met blow for blow, darting quickly and parrying the perfect execution of his opponent.

  His breath came in steady takes and he forced himself to think clearly, his footwork light.

  Why the devil wasn’t she answering his calls? They were to be married on the morrow. It had all been arranged and yet. . . She had not seen him, and had been out! Out! Did she honestly think he’d believe such a thing?

  The blade sang forward again, stopping but an inch from his gut.

  “Tony, we’ve just polished the floor,” Charles said sardonically. “Let’s not bloody it.”

  Tony groaned.

  Charles whipped his blade out to the side, point down. “It’s a woman, is it?”

  Tony hedged, “Why do you say that?”

  “I know that sound.” Charles exam
ined his blade before he gave Tony a knowing look. “It’s always a woman that evokes such particular grief in a man.”

  “Your wife?” Tony asked, hoping that he wouldn’t be utterly alone when he was married. Surely, he’d find men who were made mad by their spouses.

  “Once upon a time,” Charles supplied. “She and I are now forever twined in connubial bliss.”

  Tony ground his teeth.

  “Ah.” Charles cocked his head to the side. “You do not force such a thing.”

  “Bliss?” Tony scoffed, gripping the hilt of his blade like a lifeline. “I’ll be lucky if I have a connubial truce.”

  “Been in the wars, have you?” Charles mocked lightly.

  “Wars?” Tony echoed, driving his free hand through his hair, not caring if it left him looking like a madman. “She won’t even meet to parlay.”

  “You’ve struck some sort of nerve then,” Charles said easily.

  “The wrong one,” Tony intoned, unable to shake the unfamiliar feeling of dread which had fallen upon him in recent days.

  Charles pursed his lips. “Not necessarily.”

  “She loathes me,” Tony said.

  “You?” Charles laughed, a sound which once had been dark, but now was jovial. “No one could loathe you.”

  “She must, I tell you,” Tony insisted. She’d been so kind to his stepmother and sister. They’d adored Lady Eleanor. But she had barely paid him notice and had not been particularly communicative in their last meeting, as if wishing to be anywhere but with him.

  Charles gave him an assuring look. “Clearly, she doesn’t know you yet.”

  “Thank you for that.”

  “Come.” Charles crossed to him and reached for the rapier. “Blades are not for you just now.”

  “What is then?” Tony asked, allowing the rapier to be taken but still needing to do something. “Fists?”

  “Good God, you’re getting married tomorrow,” Charles exclaimed with mock horror. “Can’t have you looking like you’ve been in a prize fight.”

  Tony straightened. “You assume you’d land a blow.”

  Charles arched a dark brow.

  Tony laughed then. They were equally matched in a boxing bout. Charles knew it, but they’d both go home looking black and blue if they started now.