Dukes In Disguise

by Grace Burrowes, Susanna Ives, Emily Greenwood

  “You taste good,” he said, kissing his way down the center of her chest. “Of roses and fresh bread. Maybe a hint of basil. Delicious.”

  Her hands landed in his hair, holding him close. “You are ridiculous.”

  What Con was, was determined. Determined to look after this household that he’d neglected for the past several years. Determined that the sense of usefulness and mutual caring he’d found here wouldn’t be left behind when he departed from Lesser Puddlebury.

  And determined that Julianna would at least consider coming with him.

  She grasped intuitively something Con was only beginning to realize: Infatuation and desire were but the immature and frolicsome impersonators of love. True love got up early to make the bread, taught a little girl her letters by the light of a tallow candle, and asked an old man to sharpen the knives, simply so he’d have an excuse to sit by the warmth of the kitchen hearth.

  True love was a lot like being a duke: endless helpings of duty, hard work, and honor, mostly in the name of aiding others to thrive or preserving them from folly. Con had spent days marveling at Julianna’s discipline and self-restraint, and nights wondering if she was as passionate about her pleasures as she was about caring for the children.

  The notion enthralled him as no mere passing encounter ever had. Ridiculous, to be nigh thirty years old and never truly have made love.

  Con put his ridiculous mouth to Julianna’s nipples and made her wiggle and sigh for a good five minutes, long enough to convince him that being enticed did, indeed, agree with her.

  “Do you know,” he murmured, “how lovely you look to me when you’re sewing up Harold’s breeches? How much I want to kiss you when you’re kneading the hell out of the bread? How much I resent that you send MacTavish and the boys to replace your roses, but never send me?”

  Julianna traced the contour of his right ear, an oddly pleasurable caress. “If MacTavish and the boys are off cutting roses, then you are in the kitchen, reciting poetry and scrubbing the pots for me, aren’t you?”

  “Strategy,” Con whispered. “How I adore a woman with firm command of strategy, but Julianna, now isn’t the time for subtlety.”

  She ran a toe up his calf. “It’s not the time for ducal proclamations, Connor. You do know how to go on in bed?”

  He retaliated by sitting back enough to ruffle the curls between her legs. “Right now, I barely know my name. I know only that I want to be inside you.”

  She stretched, she arched, she let him play for a few minutes, or perhaps she was learning a little bit how to play herself.

  “I know your name, Connor,” she said when Con had her moving restlessly against his hand. Her sex was wonderfully damp, and Con’s cockstand rivaled a drover’s staff. “I know I want you inside me.”

  “Do you want me inside you now?” He would expire if she said anything other than yes.

  Julianna grasped him by the shaft, the first time she’d put her hands on that part of him, and drew him right against her.

  A yes, by God.

  Con braced himself on his arms and kissed the woman he hoped would become his duchess. The joining was easy and sweet, also profoundly tender. He knew by watching Julianna’s face, that in accepting him this way, she also said yet another good-bye to her late husband and to the young woman who’d married years ago with such hopes and innocence.

  He kissed her as they joined, kissed the passion and the welcome, the grief and the approaching glory. When Con was hilted inside her, he lowered himself to his forearms.

  “Julianna, I will not fail you.”

  She undulated sumptuously, and words became superfluous. Con did not fail her. He sent her into pleasure’s maelstrom easily and often, until consideration alone made him pause.

  “I could love you all night,” he whispered. She might be making up for lost time, appeasing years of unsatisfied desire while he was learning to love a woman, truly love her, for the first time. Fresh bread came into it, folded towels, the boys, washing the eggs with Roberta, and reading stories.

  Asking his siblings for help was part of it, as was trusting that Lucere and Starlingham could manage without him too.

  Loving Julianna involved all of Con, and the joy of that, the odd, unexpected passion of it, was like coming home to himself in a way that being just another duke could never accomplish.

  Julianna’s fingers brushed over his derriere. Enough.

  Never enough. Con sent her over the edge one more time, then withdrew and allowed himself the consolatory bliss of spending on her belly.

  The damned towel was hanging over the privacy screen across the room, but even that—even forgetting to tidily fold a handkerchief on the night table—pleased Con. A fellow in love was allowed to be a bit disorganized about his passionate encounters.

  He tended to his lady, then to himself, and left the towel on the night table when he climbed back into bed.

  “I do believe, Julianna St. Bellan, that recourse to a timekeeping device would suggest, more than an hour has elapsed. Come here.”

  She curled close, her head pillowed on Con’s shoulder. “I don’t want to get up. My own bed feels miles away, across an arctic plain, down miles of lonely corridor.”

  Her bed was probably four yards from Con’s.

  “I’ll tuck you in when it’s time to placate appearances.” Con kissed her brow and started mentally composing a letter to Uncle Leo. “Sleep now.”

  She murmured something and did that thing with her toes that made Con’s heart purr.

  “What time do we leave for market?” Con would make sure she slept in. Fortunately, eggs and toast were among the fare he’d learned to cook.

  Her eyes opened, the butterfly kiss of her lashes sweeping upward against Con’s shoulder.

  “Connor, you cannot come to market with me. We’ve been through this.”

  Perhaps Starlingham had a point. Perhaps the cuddling part mattered rather a lot.

  “When you become intimate with a man, then his escort is yours to claim, Julianna. I don’t indulge in an amour and then pretend a woman who has granted me the greatest liberties means nothing to me.”

  Connor wouldn’t allow such a callous lout among his distant acquaintances.

  Julianna hiked herself up on an elbow to peer at him. Con had forgotten to blow the candle out, but it would soon gutter on its own.

  “Connor, I must tolerate Maurice Warren’s escort at market, at the very least. He’ll see me from shop to shop and merchant to merchant as he always does, ensuring I get the best bargains. Then he’ll bow me on my way, if I’m lucky. Lately he’s had a look in his eye I haven’t found at all comforting.”

  Julianna brushed Connor’s hair back from his brow. He’d come to love that casual touch from her, for she did it even before the children.

  “What sort of look, Julianna?”

  She flopped to her back so they no longer touched. “Like he’s about to propose. I strongly suspect he’s about to propose. Either that, or he’ll call the mortgage due that John signed with him five years ago. Possibly both. Both is my worst nightmare, but it makes the most sense.”

  Chapter Five

  * * *

  Julianna had forgotten how an argument with a man could sour everything, though that probably explained why John had never told her of the mortgage he’d signed with Maurice Warren.

  She would have sold her wedding ring, her dresses, her grandmother’s cameo—anything to avoid relying on Maurice Warren’s good offices to see the farm through a bad year.

  Now, she would have sold her soul not to feel the nagging tension between her and Connor across the breakfast table. She’d wanted an hour of passion last night, a respite from her cares, an interlude of simple adult pleasure.

  Not too much to ask, but so much less than Connor had offered her.

  Tenderness, passion, caring, ferocious cherishing, such as even Julianna’s late husband had never quite conveyed in years of marriage.

  And the
n questions she could not answer: Had she ever seen this mortgage document? Was it a mortgage or a promissory note? What were its actual terms? Was forfeiture of the farm required by the note, or had Warren merely implied as much? Where had the money gone that John St. Bellan had supposedly borrowed so shortly before his death?

  Julianna could answer none of it, but neither could she afford to provoke Maurice into foreclosing. Months ago, Maurice had begun implying payment was overdue, and this morning, Julianna could hardly keep her tea and toast down, she was so unsettled.

  “May we have a turn on Mr. Yoder’s mare before you go into York?” Harold asked MacTavish.

  “Best not,” MacTavish said. “When you borrow a horse, you don’t go lending it around to others. You lot behave yourselves, and I’ll be back from York with our Mrs. Periwinkle as soon as I can.”

  “I’d like to see this mare,” Con said. “Perhaps you might stop back this way after you’ve picked her up?”

  A look passed between the two men. Bertie used the moment to take another piece of toast from the plate in the middle of the table. Con plucked it from her grasp and added butter—not too much, but not skimping either.

  “I’ll pass by here on my way to York,” MacTavish said, pushing back from the table. “My thanks for an excellent omelet, Miss Julianna.”

  “Take Mrs. Yoder some roses, please,” Julianna said. “And thank the Yoders profusely for the loan of the mare.”

  Connor had asked MacTavish to fetch the mail from York, today of all days, so Julianna would take the children with her to market. Maurice was not fond of the boys, though neither was he rude to them, nor they to him—overtly.

  All too soon, the boys were on the front porch, faces scrubbed, hair combed back, and Connor was leading Horty around, the cart rattling behind her.

  “Where’s Bertie?” Harold asked. “She’s never late.”

  “Miss Roberta tarried arranging the flowers in my room,” Connor said. “I account myself most privileged.”

  He was up to something, but at least he wasn’t sulking. Last night, he’d argued, he’d fumed, he’d argued some more, but then he’d grown quiet, wrapped himself around Julianna, and rubbed her back until she’d fallen asleep.

  “What will you do to pass the time?” Julianna asked, pulling on her driving gloves. These were gardening gloves in truth, but they protected her hands well enough.

  Con scratched Horty’s hairy neck. “I’ll get some weeding done, beat a few rugs, maybe make a cobbler.”

  “Cobbler for dessert!” Lucas yelled, which caused Hortensia to startle.

  “Into the gig,” Connor said. “I’ll hand your mother up.”

  Did he know he referred to Julianna as their mother? The children didn’t seem to mind… and neither did Julianna, really. Con kissed her on the cheek in parting and tousled each boy’s hair.

  “Best behavior, gents. Spend your tuppence well.”

  Julianna unwrapped the reins from the brake. “What tuppence?”

  “For many jobs well done,” Connor said. “I’ve asked the boys to help Miss Roberta choose some hair ribbons. She said she’d prefer green, because it’s MacTavish’s favorite color.”

  Damn him for his thoughtfulness. Sixpence was nothing to most households, but to these boys… Julianna could not recall when she’d ever given them money of their own. She simply hadn’t any money to give.

  Roberta dashed onto the porch, her hair in lopsided braids courtesy of Ralph’s attempt to be helpful. Practicing for if he ever had to braid up a mane or a tail, he’d said. Con tucked tuppence into Roberta’s hand, and lifted her into the back with the boys, though he hugged the girl conspicuously in the process and been hugged in return too.

  Julianna searched Connor’s gaze for something—ire, reassurance, clues—but he was very much the duke this morning, not the lover, not the amiable relation.

  “Horty, walk on,” Julianna said, giving the reins a shake. Hortensia obliged with a mule’s version of alacrity.

  When Julianna glanced over her shoulder at the foot of the drive, Connor stood before the house, merely watching, while she drove off to meet a man she didn’t like or trust, but would probably marry.

  * * *

  Con had purposely not cleaned his boots very well, and he’d borrowed a too-large, dusty coat from MacTavish. Because Con wouldn’t put anybody to the bother of ironing his clothing, his attire was wrinkled, if presentable by village market standards.

  The two-mile walk into the village set Con’s wound to itching, and also gave him time to think.

  He’d sent MacTavish into York’s pawnshops with two trunks of London finery, including watches, cravat pins, a spare pair of brand new Hoby boots, cuff links, fobs, and assorted whatnot. More trunks had of course gone north with Freddy, and yet still more clothing hung in cedar-lined wardrobes at Mowne.

  None of which Con could retrieve without risking Uncle Leo’s notice, or unacceptable delay.

  “Well, if it isn’t yet another genteel stranger lounging about trying to look inconspicuous and mostly failing.” Starlingham took up a lean next to Con outside the posting inn. Across the street, the market day merchants were doing a brisk business on the Puddlebury village green.

  Con had warned the boys to ignore him and had also given them tasks more specific than that.

  Starlingham blew the foam off a tankard of ale. “How’s the, er, injury?”

  “Healing. How do you find your accommodations?”

  Con was also holding a tankard of summer ale, as were various others loitering outside the inn. The day was sunny, noisy, and not a duke’s usual summer diversion.

  “My accommodations are… interesting. I’ve never been to a village market before. Puts one in mind of a London ballroom with livestock.”

  Starlingham had a point. Across the green, a pair of fiddlers busked for pennies. The tavern had set up a keg to draw custom on the front terrace, much like a crystal punch bowl drew thirsty debutantes. Business was being transacted, of course—much business occurred at Mayfair’s social gatherings too—but the general air was convivial.

  “We’re not so different,” Con said as a sizable ewe darted away from the green and a small boy pelted after her.

  Starlingham stuck out a booted foot, stopping the ewe for the instant the boy needed to grab two handfuls of fleece.

  “Thank ’ee, sir!”

  Starlingham lifted his mug and smiled. “You mean people the world over aren’t so different from one another? Do you feel a poem coming on? I’m told the Lakes will bring out the poet in anybody.”

  The Lake District lay farther west. Perhaps Con and Julianna would honeymoon there.

  “I mean dukes aren’t so different from the farmers in the dales. How fares Lucere?”

  “Can’t say, which suggests he hasn’t shot anybody—or been shot. Which one is Cousin Jules?”

  Con had spotted Julianna before he’d ordered his ale. She’d worn a straw hat without so much as a ribbon to dress it up, and that very plainness made her easy to track.

  “She’s with the gent in green.”

  “Blond fellow going a bit portly amidships? Squire Lumpkin? Why isn’t she with you? If I had a Cousin Jules who looked like that, she’d have my devoted escort.”

  She did have Con’s devoted escort. “Squire Lumpkin is Maurice Warren, who has both farming and mining interests in the area. Wealthy gentry.”

  “Mines,” Starlingham said, taking a sip of his ale and wiping his mouth on his sleeve with the practiced indelicacy of any yeoman. “Don’t care for them. My papa refused to own them. He said he couldn’t trust the factors not to employ children. Nasty business when children are hacking themselves to death on coal dust before they’re properly grown. The gent in green is sticking quite close to your cousin.”

  And Julianna was tolerating Warren’s presumption. Letting him lean close and attend every word of her conversations with the merchants, though Warren didn’t even carry the lady’s bas
ket.

  “If I asked you for all the coin you have with you, would you lend it to me, Starlingham?”

  “Don’t be daft. I’d give it to you if you promise not to thrash me for implying you need the charity. Pity I haven’t much coin, though. My valet or coachman usually carries the purse. This is the best ale I can recall having.”

  Well, damn. “Fresh air and the good Yorkshire sunshine give a man an appreciation for the simpler joys. How dare that presuming buffoon?”

  Warren had just doubled the amount of honey Julianna had placed in her basket. Reached right past her and dropped a second sizable jar next to the first, then stood by while Julianna parted with coin she could not spare.

  “Are we still leaving next week?” Starlingham asked, a bit too casually.

  “You’d rather tarry here?” Con certainly would. For the rest of his life.

  “Uncle Leo would grow suspicious,” Starlingham said. “Can’t have him playing skittles with your pin money.”

  “Spoken like a true friend who occasionally owes me blunt.” Con bumped his tankard against Starlingham’s. “Until we do leave, I’ll pass the time folding linens and stitching hems. If you see the Sun come out, pass along my best regards.”

  Starlingham gave a minute bow, and Con set his half-full tankard on the nearest table for some enterprising child to enjoy… or sheep, or stray duke in disguise without much coin.

  Ralph came sauntering across the road, hands in his pockets, a gleam in his eye. He sidled right past Con, as if the abandoned ale were his goal, but spoke loudly enough for Con to hear.

  “You were correct, sir. Mr. Warren’s a right bastard, and I’m not sorry I’ve used bad language.”

  “Save it for when we get home,” Con said, shading his eyes to admire the very modest church steeple. “Tell Harold and Lucas to do likewise. Good work.”

  Good work, but bad news. Con made his way to the vendor selling lemons, limes, and oranges, bought the best two on offer, and tucked them into his pockets. He tugged his hat brim down and found a handy patch of shade near the smithy, from which he could watch Mr. Warren work his wiles on an unsuspecting widow.