Forbidden to Love the Duke

by Jillian Hunter

  “Certainly not. I wouldn’t be employed as your governess if I did. And now I’ll expect you both outside in the garden in half an hour. I’ll have Cook pack a small hamper for your breakfast.”

  Walker sniffed. “Are we studying French?”

  Ivy returned to the door. “No, morals. I shall read to you. Perhaps Aesop and a good dose of sunshine will chase away the darkness in your young minds.”

  * * *

  James found Ivy under the weeping willow by the lake, reading “The Boy Who Cried a False Alarm” to the children. He stood back, listening to her, and wondered when Aesop had become a writer of torrid fables that put immoral thoughts in a man’s mind. Surely that was not the fabulist that James remembered from his early days. The tales James recalled had been told to frighten him and Curtis into behaving. The ruse hadn’t worked on him then and it didn’t now. He doubted it would do much to change the children’s behavior, for that matter, even though Ivy appeared to have their complete attention.

  It wasn’t the fable’s fault, of course. Or Aesop’s. It was the appealing voice of the storyteller who read the tale with unselfconscious vigor, acting out a part here and there for her enthralled audience, one of whom spotted James in the background and gave an unholy shriek.

  “It’s the wolf!” Mary cried. “Run!”

  James growled at her. “And I’m going to eat you for ruining the reading, not to mention giving me away.”

  Mary’s eyes widened as if she wasn’t sure he was only teasing. The truth was he had been enjoying himself. He didn’t often catch Ivy unawares. She was different with the children, her defenses down. Now she had to worry about a wolf.

  Or perhaps two. James might be overreaching, but he had reason to suspect that she had another admirer.

  “Let’s get the wolf!” Walker shouted.

  Ivy closed the book, giving James a look. “Stop it, children. These dramatics are not appropriate. You’re too old to behave like this.”

  Walker vaulted over Ivy’s lap, snatching a willow branch on his way. Ivy started to rise from the blanket, only to be lifted without protocol to her feet. In the process she bumped against James’s hard chest and he refused to budge an inch.

  “Walker. Mary,” he said to the children, but he was staring into Ivy’s eyes as he spoke. “Go inside the house. I must speak to Lady Ivy alone.”

  “Is she going to be dismissed?” Walker inquired, his willow branch drooping.

  Mary sighed. “Elora must have arrived.”

  * * *

  “Go inside,” the duke said, his stare so forbidding, Ivy knew that her dismissal could be the only explanation.

  She hadn’t lasted as long as the least valued of Henry VIII’s wives. She’d be happy to leave with her head, not to mention her heart and virtue, intact.

  “Have I done something wrong, Your Grace?” she asked, running through any actions on her part that might have offended him. Perhaps she had not fallen into his arms as he expected. Perhaps she had been meant to serve as an unwilling lover until a voluntary one appeared. All his talk of fulfilling her contract, and—he looked a little annoyed. What could have happened?

  “You have been sent a gift,” he said in an accusing tone, his left hand behind his back.

  “A gift? Sent here to me?”

  “That is what I said. And I believe you said that you did not have any present admirers to distract you from your duties.”

  “Well, I don’t. This gift is most likely from my sisters.”

  He lifted his eyebrow. “It was sent from London. Do you have another sister in town that you’ve forgotten to mention?”

  “Of course I don’t.”

  Ivy forced herself to meet his stare. Her last journey to London had reinforced her sense of loss and defeat. “Are you going to give it to me or not?” she asked, not caring how discourteous she sounded. She hadn’t done anything wrong. He didn’t need to be so abrupt. Why on earth should he resent her receiving a package?

  “Here.” He produced a black velvet oblong box wrapped in a scarlet silk ribbon.

  Ivy took the box reluctantly. “How do you know it came from London?”

  “A footman from Fenwick brought it here this morning. Evidently it was sent to you at the manor and your sisters opened the outer wrapping. Aren’t you going to open it?”

  “Do you need to watch?”

  “Not if you have something to hide.”

  “What would I have to hide?” she asked, feeling guilty without knowing why. She and her sisters had never received gifts, only bills, after their father’s death. She didn’t know anyone well enough in London who would send her a present.

  Did this have anything to do with Rue’s disappearance that night in the hotel? She had an awful sense that night would come back to haunt them.

  “Would you like me to open the box for you?” the duke said, looking for all the world as if he wanted to.

  Ivy frowned at him. “I’ll open it myself, thank you.”

  “Then, unless you suspect it contains some embarrassing or unsavory contents, I suggest you do so.”

  Her mouth pinched, she untied the ribbon and stared at the diamond-and-pearl necklace carefully pinned to the bottom of the box. “This belonged to my mother,” she said, biting her lip. “I sold it as a last resort.”

  He stared at the necklace, his eyes narrowed in speculation. For a moment Ivy thought he understood more about its reappearance in her life than she did. At length he said, “Perhaps there was a mix-up, after all. Could your sisters have sent it to you as a token of family affection?”

  Ivy shook her head, afraid to voice her suspicion. She could only assume that Mr. Newton had discovered the pearls to be paste and had sent the necklace back, demanding a return of the money she had already spent.

  Still, she couldn’t imagine her mother in artificial pearls, unless these were a copy she’d had made of the original necklace to foil potential thieves.

  “I think you need to come inside and sit down,” the duke said, taking the box from her hand. “You do not look yourself.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “I said you need to come inside. You are upset. I can see it in your eyes.”

  And his voice implied he was not giving her a choice in the matter. For five years Ivy had made all the decisions for herself and her sisters. She questioned now whether she could submit to this man for a year, when after only five days she balked at following his orders.

  * * *

  James led her from the garden into the house and ordered her to take refuge in his study. He kept a tight hold on the box. Evidently she’d been too upset to notice the card inside, which he was inordinately curious to read. Her reaction to the pearls had provoked his suspicious nature. His initial thought was that she was unaware she had an admirer, and he would sew his lips together before admitting he was relieved she didn’t appear to care for another man.

  The red bow disturbed him. Red indicated passion. Someone’s heart involved.

  Was someone blackmailing her? Could it involve an unpaid debt she had overlooked, or an old insult on her father’s part? James would not tolerate such goings-on in his house. Intimidation of the weak aroused his wrath, an emotion that simmered close to the surface of his skin since he had been forced to return home.

  He poured a small measure of sherry into a glass and offered it to her. She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t want it.”

  “I insist.” And when in obvious reluctance she raised the glass and drank, making a face, he surreptitiously reopened the box and unfolded the paper inside.

  My dear Lady Ivy,

  Consider these pearls small compensation for the careless act I committed in London. This necklace is only the beginning of the amends I must pay to redress my wrong against you.

  I have not been able to put you from my mind.<
br />
  May I dare to hope the same of you?

  Your servant,

  Sir Oliver Linton

  Her voice startled him into dropping the irritating message. “Did you just read my personal correspondence?” she asked in an incredulous voice.

  “Sorry,” he said insincerely. “It’s a bad habit. I tend to peruse anything that comes across my desk. Here.” He pushed the box and its offensive missive toward her and reached for the bottle. “Have another drink. We can’t have you reading fables when you look frayed at the edges.”

  “I can’t tend to the children when I’m foxed.”

  “You can’t watch over them when there’s a wolf prowling after you, either.”

  “Are you referring to yourself?”

  “Take that drink. One of us needs to calm down.”

  “Stop plying me with sherry and false sympathy.”

  “He’s plying you with pearls.”

  “I don’t even know him.”

  “It would seem he wants to know you. His name is Sir Oliver Linton.”

  “He almost ran me over in the street,” she said, her voice growing high enough to hurt his ears. “An accident is not the start of an affair.”

  “It can be. Most men don’t need an excuse, only an opening.” He scowled, watching her slide the letter into her lap as if she weren’t boiling herself with curiosity to read it. He shouldn’t have made that remark; his father had often said that the devil found a willing helpmate in his eldest son. “Why does his name seem familiar?”

  Ivy was reading the message now, blinking and blushing as she did. “I’ve no idea,” she said, not bothering to look up. “Perhaps he’s sent you pearls in the past.”

  He surprised her by walking around the desk and pulling her from the chair, the letter crushed between them. “If he’s trying to cause trouble, I’ll take care of him.”

  She blinked again. He noticed that her breath came faster, and he wondered if her response was due to some guilt on her part or, as he preferred to think, her reaction to their closeness. “You can trust me,” he said somberly.

  “It certainly doesn’t appear so from our present position.”

  He laughed to subdue an uncontrollable urge to prove her right. His throat tightened as he fought his baser instincts. He was used to acting on his urges. But then he hadn’t found a woman this appealing in a long time. “I’m not surprised that another man desires you.” What surprised him was his resentment of the fact.

  “That isn’t at all what he said. He wants to make amends.”

  Amends, his sweet arse. James recognized an overt move on a woman when he saw it. She ought to have recognized it for the cheap trick it was, too. Playing on her sentiment. Returning her mother’s necklace. Surely she wasn’t so easily swayed by the rogue’s gesture. James could smother her in pearls if that was her pleasure. The thought of her in nothing but pearls brought his blood to a boil.

  “How did he come into possession of that necklace?” he asked, deciding that there was a gap in her explanation.

  Ivy balked, eyeing the door. James decided that if she moved another inch, he would be justified in taking her into his arms until she regained her composure. Or he did his. “I pawned it,” she whispered.

  “Before or after you signed our contract?”

  She moistened her lower lip with her tongue. He realized, in the midst of lusting for her, that she had come to him out of sheer desperation and that he could have been more bloody helpful. “Why didn’t you ask me for the money? I would have been happy to give you an advance of your wages to cover whatever you needed.”

  “I was afraid of what you would demand in return.”

  “That isn’t fair. Have I asked you for anything yet that you did not expect?”

  “Yes. You’re asking me for something right now.”

  She had him there. “Anything you give me of yourself has to be given willingly.” And would be willingly and most gratefully accepted.

  She raised her face. “Your Grace, you say that now, but your actions speak otherwise. Pardon me for saying this, but you are rather acting like a wolf.”

  He frowned. “Would you like for me to give you an advance on your wages?”

  “I shall have to be a better governess to Mary and Walker in order to deserve that, which reminds me. It’s time for history.”

  “History. My favorite subject.”

  She rose and skirted the chair, curtsying twice while she backed away. “Mine too, Your Grace.”

  “Recent years, I meant,” he said as she slipped into the hall, the jewelry box clutched in her hand.

  He felt thwarted, aroused, infatuated. Both determined he would find out about her admirer and puzzled that she mattered enough for him to bother. She had taken care of herself for five years. She needed an income, not his personal interference. And he needed—well, so much more from her than Aesop’s Fables.

  * * *

  Ivy didn’t know how she managed to hide her vexation from the children until her day off. She avoided their uncle, although she could have sworn he kept her under his surveillance, and it was all the fault of that presumptuous poet who had made her appear to be a deceitful woman. One with a secret admirer, no less.

  She left the house as planned before breakfast and headed toward the gates where Foxx was to pick her up for the drive to Fenwick. She hurried through the mist, feeling guilty for no actual reason. It was possible that Sir Oliver had only meant to send the necklace as an act of penance. The duke’s insistence that he witness her opening the box had transformed a simple gift into an artful deed with covert motives.

  Ivy had let the duke influence her.

  She was afraid that, given enough time, he could influence her in any number of ways. But it had felt rather nice to have the masterful man make a fuss over her and show concern for her well-being, even if she knew what he had in mind. And she wasn’t about to agree with him, but Sir Oliver had overdone his apology.

  Still, what would a poet want with an impoverished lady? Was his conscience so sensitive that he would seek out her prior activity at the pawnbroker’s shop and attempt to redress a wrong with this flamboyant gesture? Ivy simply didn’t know. And quite honestly she preferred to remain in her ignorant state.

  One scoundrel of a duke was enough to deal with.

  One scoundrel who sneaked up behind her in the mist with such stealth that the cry of surprise in her throat died to a gasp before he spoke in her ear. “I hope I didn’t startle you again. The children wanted to wave to you from the front steps.”

  She spun around to stare up into the duke’s face. “I am merely traveling to Fenwick, Your Grace, not to France. I don’t need a farewell party.”

  His grin said that her forgiveness was assumed. “I know that. But they don’t.”

  And while she turned to wave at the two children who, looking utterly miserable in their nightclothes, had obviously been dragged from their beds as an excuse for the duke to—to search her carriage? “What are you looking for?” she said indignantly.

  His dark eyes shone in the breaking light. “Blankets.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Blankets. Brrr. It’s cold these mornings, and as you know, my coach is designed for comfort. Do be home by six. Mary and Walker tend to work themselves into a frenzy if they’re left alone too long. They’re too much for me to manage.”

  “You underestimate yourself, Your Grace.”

  He smiled. “Return to us safely, Miss Fenwick. We’ve come to rely on you.”

  “It has only been a week.”

  He motioned the footman out of the way to personally help Ivy into her creaky old carriage. She felt the pressure of his hand upon her hip, the hardness of his body against hers.

  “Ivy,” he whispered against her cheek.

  She restrained
the urge to turn her face to his. His closeness devastated her, filled her with reckless desire. “What?” she whispered back.

  His mouth slid to the corner of hers. His fingers lifted to the underside of her breast, a sinful caress that fizzed her blood like champagne. “Do you have to go?”

  “I’ll come back.”

  He drew himself upright. “You’d better.”

  “Good day, Your Grace,” she said.

  He glanced back at the house. “One can hope.”

  Chapter 12

  Sir Oliver was as unimpressed by the exterior of Fenwick Manor as he was unprepared for the impact of its interior. With obvious reluctance, Rue Fenwick, recognizing his name, had invited him into the great hall. He managed to overlook her loveliness for several minutes as he cataloged the interior of the house.

  In his mind he heard drums and cymbals, the music of revels and whispers of Tudor political rivalries. His imagination caught fire.

  How could four young women have spent their lives in this splendid ruin and not have found the hidden treasure? They must have heard of it. And how would he delicately approach the subject without appearing to come across as the fortune hunter he was?

  Poetry, of course.

  Words of flattery. He made his living writing sonnets to noblewomen who in turn supported him with little baubles, which he sold and professed to have lost.

  “Darling Oliver, how can you be so careless with your watches?” his last countess had asked him as she lay naked and squashing him to the bed.

  “Perhaps because time flies when I am with you.”

  “You adorable cad.”

  Yes, he was a cad, and were he a more talented cad, he wouldn’t have to write poetry to wealthy ladies of the beau monde in order to survive. He wasn’t much of a gambler. But this endeavor, a treasure hunt, inspired him. He disregarded his stirrings of guilt and allowed Rue to introduce him to her sisters.

  Naturally, he would share in whatever hidden fortune he discovered. But what a complex puzzle of a house. It could take months to search every nook and cranny, and how was one to do so without appearing obvious?