Forbidden to Love the Duke

by Jillian Hunter

  Did he still hear crying? Had he been weeping in his sleep? He staggered from the bed but made it no farther than to the clothes chest before he had to rest.

  “Damn, damn, damn.” He grasped another post, struggling to remain upright.

  From his viewpoint he could look through the window to the garden. Was a deer running through the park? A maid? Was he hallucinating? Why was he clutching a pair of scissors? He glanced up again. He saw nothing in the garden but the familiar blur of hedges laid out beneath the moonlit trees.

  His hand loosened from the post.

  The crying had stopped, but he heard soft voices in the hall. His instincts told him that his sanctuary had been invaded. He had ruined a young woman and failed as her protector in one single night.

  * * *

  Ivy went to Mary without a moment’s hesitation. She had only an inkling of what the child had witnessed in her past, but she vowed it would not happen again. “What is it? Walker again?”

  “N-no.”

  Sweet mercy. “Then what is it, my dear? Why are you crying so?”

  “Papa might be killed. Uncle James is sick. And I peeped in on Walker. He’s wet the bed, my lady, and I don’t know how to tell him that our mother is never coming home.”

  Ivy was ashamed at how relieved she felt that Mary’s distress did not stem from catching her governess in an indiscretion. “Tomorrow we shall make other arrangements. Perhaps I shall sleep in the dressing closet between you and Walker. Come here. I have a handkerchief to dry those tears. I know how sad you must be.”

  “Have you been sad before?”

  “Oh, very.”

  Mary trailed her to the wardrobe, whispering, “Is the maid still in your room?”

  Ivy closed the drawer and then the wardrobe door. “The maid?” she said, turning around woodenly.

  “The one I saw you talking to before I came in. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Ladies like to talk to each other. She had a funny voice. Was she angry with you?”

  Ivy dabbed gently at Mary’s face. Was this how it started? A small untruth meant to protect an innocent person? What if Mary mentioned the “maid” to James? Would Ivy lie again to prevent James from challenging Oliver to a duel? A little lie that grew into a circle of deceit like a serpent consuming its own tail and ensuing self-destruction? Better to say nothing than to deceive.

  “You may always interrupt me when you are upset, Mary. That is why I am here. Calm yourself. Sleep in my bed tonight. I’ll ring for another maid to change Walker’s sheets.” And she would peep in on James on the way, allowing the moron in the maid’s cap to escape before a servant on the estate sighted him and roused the duke from his bed.

  * * *

  But the duke was not in his bed. And it was Ivy who almost panicked, not Mary, when she encountered James lumbering down the hall toward them in his nightshirt, dripping the poultice she had applied and brandishing a pair of scissors. To be fair, he did look like a mythological monster and her frayed nerves could not be expected to withstand another shock tonight. As soon as she realized he was in a feverish state and had no idea what he was about, she returned to her practical self—she who mopped up messes, tended the ill, called out instructions, and promised herself she could have brandy and a private bellow when it was all over.

  Mary came to her senses as most young women eventually do in a crisis. She ran back to her room to ring for help and settle down to read Walker stories in his bed when he woke, while Carstairs and three able young footmen guided the duke back into his chamber. Ivy nearly fainted when she discovered the chaos he had wreaked. The bronze-gold bed tester shimmered against the parquetry floor. Side tables and chairs had been overturned as if swept by a dragon’s tail. Whatever had caused him to go into this frenzy?

  Even when incapacitated the duke was a power like no other man Ivy had known.

  She hung back as Wendover and the footmen herded him back into the bed, Wendover shouting for someone to call back the physician and James, in response, ranting about the insanity of Napoleon Bonaparte and an intruder in the park.

  “Doesn’t anyone believe me?” he roared.

  Ivy stood back from the doors to his room. It was improper for her to be present at all in the duke’s extremity. What did it count that he had proposed to her during the height of their pleasure? There had been no witnesses.

  He might forget his promise by tomorrow. He might not remember it now.

  Despite the uncertainty, she couldn’t regret what she had done. She had given herself to him of her own will. Even if she weren’t bound to him for a year, she knew she wouldn’t leave him by choice. She would love him long after her legal obligation was fulfilled.

  For five years she had lived her own life. She hadn’t cared what anyone thought—until he had broken through her isolation and forced her to return to the world that existed outside Fenwick. He couldn’t simply leave her to manage Mary and Walker on her own. What if she had conceived a child tonight? Had he left a will to cover this eventuality? Why was she letting herself fear the worst?

  The duke’s roar broke through her reflections. “Why won’t anyone believe me?”

  “Believe you about what?” Wendover patiently asked with the measured respect of a lifelong friendship.

  “England has been invaded by an army of maids,” James replied, and although Carstairs closed the doors and Ivy heard no more, she knew that this was not the end of the matter.

  The duke would live to recover and cause more trouble in her life.

  * * *

  She was still awake when the sun rose. Mary had come back to Ivy’s room, where they had held a nightlong vigil, each one taking turns to scout the hall and return with news.

  “His valet knocked and was admitted at two,” Mary reported.

  “The maids brought in boiling water,” Ivy announced at dawn.

  “You should have seen his breakfast.” Mary crawled into Ivy’s bed. “It was enormous, and I’m so hungry.”

  “So am I,” Ivy said, sighing in relief. “Sneak back to your room, miss. Try to get some sleep.”

  Mary turned onto her side. “Do I have to?”

  “A good spy can’t be caught in her night rail. I shall commend you to the Alien Office for your intelligence work.”

  Mary rolled off the end of the bed. “You’re ever so silly.”

  “Be sure to take your passport. Beware of iron spikes in the hall.”

  “Lady Ivy?”

  Ivy listened to the clatter of activity outside her room. “Later, Mary. I have to wash and dress and look presentable.”

  Mary giggled. “Good luck.”

  “You—”

  Mary darted into the hall and closed the door.

  Chapter 25

  By morning, word had spread through the house that in the physician’s opinion the bloodletting had caused the duke to run a high fever, which proved that his body had responded to medical treatment. Dr. Buchan had completed an anatomical examination of the duke and declared him fit.

  Ivy was astonished when she was called into the drawing room. Smartly turned out in a white muslin shirt with a steel gray coat and matching trousers, James did not resemble the monster she had met in the hall last night. True, he looked a trifle pale. His cheeks seemed drawn. And she was hesitant to meet his gaze. She was afraid she would find his eyes devoid of any emotion for her. She was too vulnerable to have him dismiss what they shared with a look, or worse, to act as if nothing had changed between them at all. Nonetheless, she had known what she risked.

  But then courage compelled her and she looked straight up at him. There was a sexual heat in his gaze that she might have attributed to lingering fever—until he strode from the fire to kiss her on the cheek in front of Wendover, Carstairs, and the two footmen who had just entered the room behind her.

  “I’ve shared the news
,” he said in a hoarse voice that made her shiver in her shoes. “I hope you don’t mind. Wendover is to be my best man. We’ll arrange the wedding plans this week.”

  She glanced around, savoring the smiles and murmured congratulations reassuring her that James had remembered his promise. His smug grin also reassured her he hadn’t forgotten the hours of pleasure spent in his bed. She felt as though she’d walked through a storm and emerged in the middle of a rainbow.

  How had he managed to return so quickly to his devastating self after scaring the wits out of her? It was a tribute to his unbendable will and stamina and her answered prayers. Now if only she could forget Oliver’s surprise visit and hope that Mary had already put it from her mind.

  “If you don’t stop touching me, James, everyone in the house will guess what we’ve been doing,” she whispered as one of the footmen placed a tea tray on the table.

  He led her to a chair, speaking in her ear. “I’m only doing my duty.”

  “Seducing the governess?”

  “Begetting an heir,” he said rather loudly.

  She glanced around. She was certain she saw one footman grin at another. “Not before the wedding.”

  “A fortnight or so won’t matter. Nor will anything else in the past. It’s not as if we’re going to stand at the altar after we’ve said our vows, waiting for the vicar to shout, “On your marks, get set—”

  “I hope not.”

  “Whether we marry here or in London, we’ll have to celebrate with our tenants. Do you ride a horse?”

  “It’s been years,” she confessed.

  “Can you hold several glasses of apple cider?”

  She gave him a strange look. “Do you mean in my hands while I’m astride?”

  He grinned. “I’m not asking whether you can perform in a circus. Our tenants will want to toast our well-being, and Ellsworth produces a potent cider.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me in the least. In that case, however, I think several sips will probably be my limit.”

  “We’ll decide on your limits later, shall we?”

  “Do you have to speak in such a loud voice about these things?” she whispered.

  He blinked. “What does it matter? We have nothing to hide.”

  He didn’t. Ivy did, and she felt horrible. To start things off by keeping a secret from him felt like a betrayal. And she hadn’t done a thing to encourage Oliver. He’d brought nothing but trouble into her life.

  James straightened, leaving her to blush and meet Wendover’s knowing smile. How was she supposed to conduct herself now? Like a servant or a newly engaged lady? Despite James’s insatiable appetite for passion and his return to good health, she had to consider what sort of impression she made. As duke he could get away with murder.

  He could even make a covert gesture to his best friend, ignore the second footman who brought him the post on a salver, and mumble some excuse about asking Ivy’s opinion on whether she preferred that their wedding be held in London or here in the country, and would she mind walking upstairs to inspect the late duchess’s suite that she would soon take personal possession of . . . in which the duke, she assumed as he trailed on, was to take immediate possession of her.

  Chapter 26

  Oliver brushed down and watered his horse. He knew Rosemary had awakened and watched him from her window, so he gave her a jaunty wave on his way to the gatehouse. A gatehouse, for God’s sake. Had he remained with his feckless circle of friends in London, no one would even ask him why he’d been dressed as a maid. He wouldn’t be sleeping alone. He wouldn’t have been rejected by one temperamental woman and had his writing mocked by her sultry sister.

  He mounted the gatehouse stairs, took a bottle of wine from the cupboard, and drank its contents so quickly he couldn’t make up his mind whether it was Peony or Primrose he fancied most. He stretched out on the uncomfortable trundle bed with his pistol on his chest. He doubted Ivy would tell the duke he’d broken into his house, but the woman did have a mind of her own. Then he fell asleep wondering how he would find a treasure that had eluded discovery for centuries. How did he even know it actually existed? It was certain that he wouldn’t find it lying half-drunk in the gatehouse. Was it worth the price of facing the duke in a duel? Oliver had heard rumors that Ellsworth had lost his abilities as a marksman. Except he didn’t appear at all incapacitated. Anyway, if Oliver killed him, he’d be forced to flee England, without benefit of an heiress or her fortune. One didn’t kill a peer of the realm and resume his activities the next day.

  His plan was unraveling. He had to recover something from the time and money he had invested.

  He was too perplexed to have come to any decisions when hours later he heard Quigley in the garden catching snails. There was a vehicle traversing the bridge, to judge by the muffled clop of hooves and grinding wheels. Or was that Lilac bringing up his tea? Poor lady. For all her loveliness, she could never make a graceful entrance. Her gait unfairly ruined her worth. The girl needed a prince.

  He grunted, pulling a blanket over his head. A moment later Lilac screamed and the clatter of broken china, underscored by a furious roar from Quigley, propelled Oliver down the stairs and out into the glare of a gray morning.

  And a vicious assault in progress.

  Was he seeing things? A man appeared to be chasing Lilac through the roses, and Quigley had taken a shovel to swing at—God, it couldn’t be.

  Oliver opened his mouth to call out the man’s name. But then the front door opened, and out ran Rosemary, holding a pistol in her hands. Oliver thought for a moment that she might shoot him.

  The damned pups escaped and started to bark. He strode out into the garden and shook his head. Terrible mistake.

  He saw two of everything.

  “What’s happening?” he demanded of Rosemary and her blurry double.

  She ran past him with a look that labeled him as helpful as horse manure. “There’s a man attacking Lilac. Can’t you see?”

  He realized he had his pistol in his hand. He was also still wearing the apron, but its removal would have to wait. He blinked several times. His gaze picked out Lilac in the garden. She had hefted a crumbling urn full of geraniums into her arms and heaved it at her attacker, whose mask had begun to slip.

  And who happened to be the last man Oliver had gambled with in a silver hell in London. “Help me, Oliver!” Lilac cried, reduced to flinging clods of dirt to defend herself.

  He snapped out of his trance to obey, the dogs barking as if echoing Lilac’s plea. Joseph Treadway had his hands around Lilac’s throat, and Oliver raised his gun, aware of Rosemary rushing up behind him. “Please do something,” she beseeched him. “He’s strangling her. I’m afraid if I shoot, I’ll hit her.”

  “The treasure,” Joseph said, spittle and dirt running down his chin. “I want your—”

  “Move back, Rosemary!” Oliver said. “Move out of my way now.” Strangely, she did. Perhaps it was his voice. Perhaps she was indeed an intelligent woman, for she retreated several paces with only a covert glance at Lilac.

  He waited another second, took aim, and said quietly, “Jesus. Joseph, look at me.”

  The man turned reflexively, his grasp loosening on Lilac’s neck, and Oliver pulled the trigger. He hit his acquaintance in the chest; a kill he’d intended and a kill he’d made. He felt Rosemary rush around him. He looked up to find her handing him her gun.

  “Help Quigley.”

  He didn’t know if she’d heard him call the dead man by name. There could still be time for him to find a way to cover the slip. Besides, she was too engrossed in pulling Lilac out from under Joseph’s crumbled body to argue such a point now.

  He turned, sidestepping dogs and geraniums, and took off up the path to help Quigley. But the old gardener had fended off his attacker like a swashbuckler, with a few swings of his shovel.

 
; Oliver raised Rosemary’s gun and trained it on the man Quigley had beaten. Good God. Look who it was. It wouldn’t be difficult to take down a man of Ainsley Farbisher’s age and half-arsed ability. In fact, the old roué was running from Quigley before Oliver needed to intervene. No mask could conceal his lumpy nose and potato-shaped chin.

  “Well, shoot him,” Quigley said, throwing his shovel at the clumsy figure headed for the small carriage on the bridge.

  “I have just killed one man,” Oliver said, lowering Rosemary’s dueling pistol.

  “Aye, a fine shot that. Now do it again.”

  Oliver considered that option, but Ainsley had reached the bridge, and if Oliver gave chase, he took the risk of the old bugger revealing their acquaintance. “Damnation,” he muttered. “He’s got away.”

  “You let him escape.” Quigley wheeled back around toward the sisters.

  Oliver strode through the neatly weeded garden to the spot where Lilac stood, Rosemary trying to shield her from the body at their feet.

  “Oh, Oliver,” Lilac said. “I don’t know what we would have done if you weren’t here. He was going to—”

  “Don’t talk about it,” Rosemary said. “He didn’t do anything.”

  “Yes, he did,” Lilac said. “He choked the breath out of me and said he would kill me if I didn’t yield my treasure. We know what that means. How hideous of him. As if I would give up my valuables without a fight to the death.”

  “We shall talk of it after we’re inside,” Rosemary said, her face colorless. “You need to come into the house, Lilac.”

  “Is Quigley all right?” Lilac asked, craning to look around her sister’s shoulder.

  Oliver wrenched off the apron he was still wearing and dropped it over the face and chest of the man he had just killed. “Quigley appears to be fine,” he said, straightening to study her. “What about you?”