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

by Eva Devon

  Eleanor lifted her chin. “I’ve a mind to change my style.”

  “And you may do as you please now,” the Duchess of Aston said brightly. “Shall we choose together?”

  “Splendid.” She’d never done anything so enjoyably trivial as shop for gowns with another lady. She found she quite liked it.

  Mademoiselle Yvette slipped back into the room. She carried an opened bottle of champagne and several glasses.

  Eleanor gaped as Madame Sophie did the honors.

  “And you’ll be joining us, ladies,” the Duchess of Aston declared.

  “Bien sur!” Madame Sophie agreed.

  Eleanor felt it again, that astonishing sense of happiness she’d felt on her wedding day. Could people really be so joyous?

  As she gazed on the ladies before her, shop ladies and the duchess, all happily chatting and pouring champagne, she realized that, yes, they could.

  And if she was clever, she could be, too.

  She cleared her throat and eyed the Duchess of Aston who clearly was in love with her husband. A husband who adored her and Eleanor said softly as a glass of champagne was put into her hand, “Perhaps you can assist me in choosing a few other items.”

  The Duchess of Aston grinned knowingly before she winked. “Silk, my dear. Silk.”

  Laughing now, barely daring to believe this was all happening, she lifted her glass. “Silk it is.”

  Chapter 15

  Tony climbed up the steps to his new townhouse, doing his very best to feel buoyant. It was not as easy as he was accustomed to. Still, he’d managed to secure his first step forward. At least, he hoped so.

  As he entered the grand foyer, he divested himself of his cloak and hat, wondering what his wife had done all day. Had she thought of him at all?

  “Good evening, Your Grace.”

  That soft, siren of a Scottish burr floated down the wide staircase and he raised his gaze to the landing.

  His hand gripped the small package he was carrying and he found himself utterly tongue-tied.

  For Eleanor stood radiant, bathed in the glow of the dancing wall sconces.

  In a gown of ruby red, she met his gaze unwaveringly.

  Then, she smiled, a slightly uncertain smile. And in that moment, he knew she was as uncertain in all of this as he.

  “Good evening, Duchess,” he replied, his voice a soft growl.

  “Do you like it?” she asked, gesturing to the silk that spilled over her body like water.

  It caressed her curves, adding to their appeal. The golden buckle tied just under her breasts, plumped up the swells which seemed barely captured by the scalloped bodice.

  Shot through with gold thread, the gown shimmered. Her long, white gloves ended just above her elbows, exposing a great deal of creamy skin as her sleeves were but mere caps of some transparent material.

  Was this Eleanor? The young lady who had come to him like a governess? It was and she was magnificent.

  He blinked as he realized he had been holding his breath.

  “Like is not the word. What have you done to your hair?”

  She blanched and her hand shot up to touch it. “Is it not. . .”

  “It is beautiful,” he cut in, realizing the error of his words. But God’s teeth. The way it had been coiled and curled atop her head made a man long to pull out the pins and spill it down her back.

  “Thank you,” she said. Then with the confidence of a princess, she descended the steps, her matching red slippers peeping out from under her gown.

  “Have you dined?” she asked.

  The hour was quite late he realized, and he nearly kicked himself. He’d been quite caught up in estate and government matters after he’d gone to the bookshop. And frankly, he had not thought her eager for his company. Still, that didn’t excuse his thoughtless. Had she waited for him?

  “I confess, I ate oysters near parliament,” he replied.

  “Oh good,” she said brightly.

  His heart sank. Was she pleased to avoid his company then?

  “I’ve never been to the opera,” she said suddenly.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Mozart,” she said, her eyes dancing. “The Marriage of Figaro.”

  Much to his consternation, he merely stared at her, captivated by her seeming transformation. She seemed more at ease, more like she was herself.

  “It involves a tailor and a—”

  “Yes,” he laughed, shaking himself from his reverie. “I’m familiar with it.”

  “You looked a bit confused,” she explained, tilting her head back slightly, exposing the line of her throat, to better meet his gaze.

  “Are you asking me to—”

  “Take me,” she supplied. She smiled tentatively. “Would you?”

  His heart leapt into his throat and, once again, he felt that incredible pleasure at the possibility that he might please her. “Nothing could make me happier.”

  Then. . . Then his wife, with the high wall about her heart, looked up at him through her dark lashes and asked softly with a now shocking smile, “Nothing?”

  He swallowed, wondering what the devil had happened since last night.

  He thrust the small, brown paper wrapped package between them.

  She stared at it.

  “It’s for you,” he breathed.

  “Thank you,” she replied as she took it in her hands.

  “Open it,” he said, feeling as nervous as a schoolboy.

  Wordlessly, she pulled on the sting and took off the paper. She clasped the leather-bound volume in her hand and studied the title.

  “A Pocket Flora and Fauna of Scotland,” she whispered. Her voice hitched and she did not look up at him.

  “Eleanor?” he asked carefully, panicked at her reaction. He’d cocked it up. She hated it. Had he bought something silly? Something which she already had or felt beneath her, given her already, no doubt, great knowledge of the subject.

  But when she looked up at him, her eyes shimmered. “Och, Tony. I have never received such a kind gift.”

  The use of his name. His given name, nearly undid him.

  She gazed up at him with those shimmering eyes. Then, to his utter amazement, she raised herself up on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you.”

  And with that, he knew he was lost. He was falling in love with his own distant wife. And there was nothing to be done about it.

  *

  As Tony changed into evening attire, she had pored over the small volume, marveling at its beautifully painted and detailed pages.

  He had chosen something specifically for her.

  Any other man might have chosen a glittering bauble or a bit of ribbon. Tony had chosen a book about plants.

  Even now, she could not hide her smile. It was such a small yet perfect gesture. One she couldn’t help but acknowledge. She’d slipped it into her evening reticule, stunned to find she had every intention of carrying it with her.

  They had ridden in companionable silence to the opera. Both of them were not quite sure how to proceed now that they had found some safe footing.

  Now, they walked down the ornate and gilded hall of the opera house, the center of gossip and, it seemed, admiration. It was a far cry from her first days amidst the ton.

  She’d been barely noticed then and since she’d refused to dance, well, she’d been. . . Tolerated.

  Now, on Tony’s arm, people smiled at her. She hoped that they would smile at her for her own merits, too. But it would take time. Like all things.

  He escorted her into their private box and assisted her into a gold-edged chair.

  The din of the crowd was fairly overwhelming. Below, the orchestra was warming up their instruments.

  “They are all looking at you, you know?” he whispered into her ear.

  “They’re all amazed you chose me,” she countered, draping her shawl on the back of the chair.

  “That is not why, Eleanor,” he said firmly. “It is because you a
re the most beautiful woman here.”

  She scoffed, “The things you say, mon.”

  He laughed.

  “Now, I’m not so easily flattered,” she informed.

  His lips twisted in that lopsided grin of his. “The truth won’t sway you then?”

  She shook her head, not believing him, but still full of excitement.

  Just across from them, the Duchess of Roth and her husband, the duke, sat. The young duchess waved her fan in salute.

  She smiled back.

  It was so strange to suddenly be companions with the elite of the ton, but here she was.

  Despite the fact that the orchestra began to play the overture, the audience continued to chatter merrily.

  “Is this normal?” she asked.

  “Oh yes,” he said. “Many of the people here have seen The Marriage of Figaro twice in the last fortnight. Some more. The opera is a place to see and be seen.”

  “I thought they were here for the performance,” she whispered.

  “That, too,” he informed. “But there will be many performances tonight.” He winked. “And not just the one on stage.”

  “Indeed?”

  He laughed. “You don’t wish to know.”

  “And if I do?”

  Much to her delight, he flushed. “I’m not certain you wish to hear the latest scandal from your husband.”

  “Is there a better person to hear it from?” she queried lightly.

  He grinned at that. “I suppose not. But surely, gossip doesn’t interest you.”

  “Information always interests me,” she teased.

  “Well then, I shan’t point,” he said. “But if you look to the corner box, you’ll see the famed actress, Mrs. Barton. She doesn’t particularly like the opera, but she does rather like her current patron, the Earl of Cairnsby.”

  “My goodness.” She spotted the stunning woman dressed so stunningly and scandalously, she could scarce believe it. Still, the woman was a marvel what with her dark, coiled hair, diamonds winking, and her expanse of ample bosom embraced in purple silk.

  “I think you’d like her.”

  “An actress?” she asked, surprised.

  “Yes, and renowned horticulturalist,” he said brightly. “She has quite a collection of hothouse plants in the house gifted her by the Duke of Axleton.”

  “Who’d have thought it?” she exclaimed. “One doesna think of actresses digging in the dirt.”

  He laughed again. “One doesn’t imagine duchesses doing it either.”

  “Fair point,” she agreed. She leaned towards her husband and whispered. “Should I converse with her?”

  “You can do whatever you like, Eleanor,” he said softly, confidently. “You’re the Duchess of Ayr.”

  “So I am.” She bit her lip, her heart swelling at the freedom he was presenting her. “I just never thought.”

  “You can speak to who you like, invite who you like, support what you like, Eleanor. No one is going to stop you. Certainly not me.”

  She studied him then, truly studied him. He meant what he said. “Do you not care?”

  “I care deeply what you care about,” he countered earnestly. “I want you to know that. I may not always understand why you support something. But the fact that you support it? That is what matters.”

  She arched a brow at him. “And if I supported something odious?”

  He cocked his head to the side, unprovoked. “Would you?”

  She blushed. “No.”

  “I thought not.” His twinkling gaze turned dark with something deep and honest. “I wouldn’t have married you if I thought you would.”

  “Truly?”

  Nodding, he reached for the champagne that had been secured in a silver urn for them.

  “Even if it had meant eschewing the dukedom?” she asked, determined to see the depth of his commitment.

  “I can live with a wife who does not love me,” he said, adding, “barely. But I cannot live with a cruel person.”

  She sat straighter. “You amaze me, sir.”

  He paused, his face unable to hide his disappointment. “That is not very complimentary.”

  “Forgive me, you’re correct,” she rushed and then she continued fervently. “I think I have not given you enough credit.”

  He popped the cork and leaned forward. With that wicked smile of his, he said, his voice a low rumble, “No, you have not.”

  She could make no reply to the scandalous heat of his words as if he were promising her something then, not censuring her. As if he were inviting her to know him. Not the man she’d heard about, but him.

  How could she deny that?

  He passed her a bubbling flute and the opera began in earnest.

  Sitting quietly now, his body languid and powerful even in repose, she could scarcely contain herself. Just his very near presence, and the way he’d just spoken to her, ignited some spark deep in her belly. A spark that Margaret had mentioned.

  For, in his voice, she’d felt caressed, touched. Moved.

  Instead of the dread that she’d been feeling in what she knew she must try to do, she felt something else. With the small book he’d given her and what had just transpired, she felt. . . Anticipation.

  Chapter 16

  Tony led his wife up the dimly lit stairs towards their rooms. It was a far cry from the ascension he’d experienced the night before. The reticent, distant woman had been replaced by an effervescent one who could not stop speaking of the glory of the opera and its singers. She had not seen such dancing! Such costumes! Such scenery!

  “I do not know why one does not go to the opera every day,” she enthused.

  He smiled at her, delighted by her enjoyment. “We can if you’d like.”

  They stopped at her bedroom door and he readied for her protestations of exhaustion. After such a lovely night, he was not going to risk ruining it.

  So, he bowed and said, “Goodnight, Duchess.”

  He started to turn towards his door, but her hand seized his forearm.

  ’Twas like being burned and given solace at once, that mere touch of hers. My God, he was a man in trouble. For, just that touch made him long to throw open her bedroom door and show her all that could transpire between a man and woman. Yet, he could not. He could not until she wanted him to.

  “Yes, Eleanor?”

  “I dunna wish you to go, Tony,” she said softly.

  He gazed down into her green eyes, usually so cool. Now, they flashed with fire.

  “Do you wish to converse more?” he inquired, not allowing himself to wish for anything more.

  She reached behind her and turned her door handle. Shaking her head, she walked backwards, her hand slipping to his.

  With shocking confidence, she led him in.

  A fire had been lit and its red glow bathed them both in its soft, passionate hue.

  Her black hair shone in the light and the shadows of her breasts beckoned. But he dared not believe it was why she was bringing him with her. He could not bear another night like the previous one.

  “Eleanor,” he began.

  “I should like you to kiss me,” she cut in, then she clamped her mouth shut, either astonished by her own proclamation or unsure.

  “Are you certain?” he queried. “You have not seemed to wish it.”

  “I’m quite certain,” she said without hesitation. “I had my reasons but I do believe I have reconciled them. Only, I’ve little experience. And I know you have a great deal of it. So you must forgive my lack of skill.”

  The sincere flood of words touched him. He was no fool to make light of her agreement now. Without needing to give it thought, this was a moment which could ruin or make his marriage.

  So, he did not laugh or smile. Instead, he followed her solemnly further into the room until they stood before the fire.

  “I will not kiss you unless you truly wish it,” he said gently.

  “I wish you to,” she urged. “Please keep in mind what I said.
I’m certain I can learn.”

  “Oh, Eleanor,” he breathed as he slowly slipped his hand to her waist. Her eyes flared at the intimate touch, and he wondered if it was too much, too soon. But he wasn’t going to kiss her primly. He was going to kiss her properly.

  “Your concern for me is kind,” he growled. “But I promise, you were born for this. And I want to kiss you very much, indeed.”

  Those emerald eyes of hers sparked with surprise and there it was. What he had been hoping for. Desire. It flashed in her eyes, demanding he do as she beckoned.

  “Proceed then, if you please,” she whispered.

  She closed her eyes and tilted her head back ever so slightly.

  Now, he could not hide his smile. He had a terrible feeling that if he kissed her like this, she’d be as stiff as a post.

  “I’m going to shock you now,” he said.

  “Are you, indeed,” she blurted.

  “Yes,” he said, savoring the moment.

  Before she could give him a setting down, he determined to not allow himself to be afraid. So, he picked her up.

  She yelped.

  Cradling her to his chest, he carried her to the chair before the fire and sat. With her upon his lap.

  She stared at him as if he had gone mad.

  “Do you find this acceptable?” he asked, his hands resting softly on her sides.

  She nodded, her eyes wide. “Strange, but acceptable.”

  “It is perfectly allowed for you to touch me,” he said, aching to feel her hands on him.

  “Oh.” She frowned. Then, rather woodenly, she rested her hands on his shoulders. “Like this?”

  “However you like,” he offered, thrilled that she had at least made the attempt.

  Her mouth parted as if the idea had never occurred to her that she might do what she liked in this. Her palms softened against his body, and he loved it. Loved it more than he could possibly say.

  Carefully, he stroked her dark hair back from her face. And he merely looked at her, really looked at her, trying to truly see the woman she was.