The Duke of Seduction

by Darcy Burke

  They turned and walked back toward the gate. “I’m going to host a dinner party soon,” Violet said. “I want to show people Nick isn’t really the Duke of Ice.”

  “Isn’t he?” Lavinia gave her a teasing smile.

  Violet winked in return. “Not anymore. You’ll find him quite changed, I think. Diana and I have transformed our dukes—fie on anyone who says it can’t be done.”

  Lavinia recalled the conversation she had with her mother about reforming rakes. “Neither of them were rakehells, however. I can’t imagine those can be changed.”

  “I think it depends on the man,” Violet said. “If a woman is lucky, she can perhaps divert his rakish behavior so that he spends it all on her.” She exchanged a knowing look with Diana, and their mouths curved into rather satisfied smiles.

  “I do believe they’re talking about sex,” Sarah stage-whispered to Lavinia, who burst out laughing.

  Violet and Diana joined in, and by the time they reached the gate, they were dabbing their eyes and making plans to go shopping in the very near future.

  Just before they parted, Lavinia leaned over to Violet and quietly said, “When you send invitations to your dinner party, invite the Marquess of Northam.” That would be one event where she could be assured of seeing him—so they could discuss their mutual assistance scheme.

  Violet’s eyes widened with curiosity, but before she could ask why, Lavinia added, “He’s a friend of Sarah’s brother’s. And he isn’t terribly fond of Society events. I think he might enjoy the company we keep.”

  “I’ll be sure to add him to the list.”

  They said their good-byes, and Lavinia squinted down the path. “My mother is coming.” She turned to Sarah. “She didn’t really want to come today, but I dragged her along. And I’m so glad I did.”

  “I am too. How splendid to see Diana and Violet.”

  “Yes.” Lavinia clasped Sarah’s hands. “I hope you aren’t upset with me and everything that’s been happening. I would much rather trade places with you. You’re far better suited to this than I am. I just want to talk about rocks and dirt and the age of the Earth. No one cares about those things.”

  “Yes, fashion and popular literature are far more interesting.” Sarah rolled her eyes, then laughed softly. “You are my dearest friend, and I love you beyond measure. I am not upset with you. I am happy for you and sincerely hope this chaos draws forth the man of your dreams.”

  Sarah squeezed Lavinia’s hands. “Now I must go before your mother arrives.” She mouthed, sorry as she departed.

  The countess slowed but didn’t stop as she reached Lavinia. “I’m ready to go.”

  Lavinia fell into step beside her. “Then I suppose I am too.”

  Her mother sent her a perturbed look, and Lavinia feared she was in for a lecture. She was right.

  “Why were you conversing with those women?”

  Those women. “They’re duchesses, Mother. They’re also my friends. You like Diana.”

  “I did when she was respectable. Now she’s a pariah. But I suppose that’s just as well since she married one.”

  Lavinia stopped short on the pavement just outside the gate. “Mother. She’s my friend. And a duchess. Have some respect, if not kindness.”

  “She eloped with the Duke of Ruin! You can’t maintain a friendship with her, not in your precarious situation.”

  “Now my situation is precarious?” Lavinia narrowed her eyes as anger coursed through her. “I thought it was glorious.”

  “For now. Thanks to the Duke of Seduction, but my dear, you are not encouraging matters.” She clasped Lavinia’s elbow and guided her across the street. “You could have your pick of any gentleman, and you can barely be bothered to be civil.”

  “That’s not fair. I’m quite civil, pleasant even. Yes, my enthusiasm is lacking from time to time, but so many of these gentlemen are boring and self-important.” She slid an exasperated look at her mother. “I’ll also argue that I don’t have my pick of any gentleman.”

  The Marquess of Northam came inexplicably to mind. She didn’t want to pick him. He was a rake and a poet, which was about as far from science as one could get without falling off the Earth, which one couldn’t do, of course, because it was a sphere.

  “Lavinia, pay attention!”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “I don’t want you to spend time with the duchesses right now. Not at this important time—your entire future is hanging by a thread.”

  Lavinia gritted her teeth and swallowed a sarcastic suggestion that her mother should have been on the stage. Her flair for the dramatic was unparalleled. She thought of Violet’s dinner party and vowed to find a way to attend. Father would be amenable to the idea. He was far more concerned with aligning himself with dukes than paying attention to gossip and nastiness.

  They completed the walk home in silence, and upon their arrival, Lavinia went directly to her room. To hell with Society and its stupid rules. She had half a mind to ask Lord Northam to find her a husband as far outside London as possible.

  An academic in Oxford could be perfect, and she began to see how love could play a secondary role. If she could have security and contentment without the drama of the ton watching her every move—and judging them—that might be enough.

  Sarah’s words came back to her. Perhaps she would be lucky enough to find the man of her dreams amidst the chaos. With Northam’s help.

  Why was it that when she thought about finding a husband, Northam had begun to spring to mind?

  * * *

  The following day, Beck walked to the park. He should have gone yesterday, but it was cold and damp, and he suspected Lady Lavinia wouldn’t go out in such conditions.

  Or perhaps he’d just wanted an excuse to avoid her for a day. Which was silly since he’d agreed to help her find a husband. And she was going to help him find a new young lady to write about. Just as they couldn’t keep meeting in libraries, they probably shouldn’t keep meeting at the park. Their promenades had likely already been noted, which was the primary reason he’d refrained from going yesterday.

  As soon as he passed through Grosvenor Gate, he saw her. She stood with her mother, and they were surrounded by a variety of people. Thankfully, Devaney was nowhere to be seen.

  Beck considered whether he should bother. To intrude could result in a scene like the other day. He’d already decided he didn’t want to be linked to her in that way. Hell, in any way.

  Except he was linked to her. At least privately. From the minute he’d brushed his lips against her neck, they’d become intertwined somehow.

  Intertwined? Dear God, that summoned thoughts better left unthought. Hadn’t he already vowed to not think them?

  As he stood there dithering, Lady Lavinia squinted in his direction. Dammit, the woman needed glasses. He’d like to see her in them. Perhaps he could convince her to wear them. Only it wasn’t her decision, apparently. He didn’t know her mother at all and had scarcely spoken to her father, but was inclined to dislike the woman.

  Lady Lavinia continued to look his way, and his decision was made. Against his better judgment, he leapt into the fray.

  “Why, it’s the Marquess of Northam,” her mother said, grinning. “Again.”

  Beck stifled the urge to roll his eyes as he bowed to her. “Lady Balcombe, a pleasure to see you this fine afternoon.”

  “And you, Lord Northam. I daresay you’re here to see Lavinia. Why don’t you take a promenade?”

  That was precisely why he hadn’t wanted to come over. Not because he didn’t want to promenade with her, of course—and he needed to so they could exchange information—but because of the attention it would draw. He managed to lift one side of his mouth in a semblance of a smile at the countess. “I’d be delighted. If Lady Lavinia is amenable?” He turned to her, and she practically snatched his arm in her haste.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  They walked away from the group, and with each step, he felt her re
lax more and more. “You’re quite tense,” he observed.

  “You saw that gaggle.” She peered up at him with a dry stare. “Haven’t I reason to be?”

  “Every single one.”

  “Every reason ever?”

  “Yes.”

  She laughed. “Thank you. Now I must castigate you. Where were you yesterday?”

  He looked down at her in surprise. “Were you here?”

  “I was.”

  “You’re rather hardy to brave the chill.”

  “It wasn’t that cold. Besides, I had to get out. Too much time indoors makes me a bit mad.” She flashed him an endearing smile. “That’s why I like rocks and dirt so much. I was constantly digging in it as a child, much to my mother’s displeasure.” She shrugged. “I just liked being outside.”

  “I did too.” He recalled growing up in Devon near the sea. “I liked to walk to the beach and watch the ocean. The sight and sound of the waves is what spawned my love of music, I think.”

  “How so?” She watched him intently, and he realized he’d never shared this with anyone. Not because it was a secret but because it had simply never come up.

  “The rhythm. I found it soothing, like a song. My nurse used to sing to me. She was Irish. She had a beautiful, lilting voice.” He closed his eyes briefly and could almost hear her croon on the wind.

  “That’s lovely. I never thought of it that way before. To me, the ocean is harsh and relentless, carving away at the earth and yet gentle and creative, taking what it breaks away and building it anew.”

  The way she described it moved him, and he suddenly wanted to write down her words for a song. He worked to commit them to memory. “You speak with a poet’s tongue,” he said softly.

  “I hardly think so, but thank you for the compliment.” She stared at him a moment. “On second thought, you’re the expert. If you say I am capable of poetry, who am I to quarrel with you?”

  “A saucy vixen with a sharp tongue, that’s who.” He was teasing her, but also maybe flirting. As he’d done the night he’d met her. Only this time, she didn’t seem offended. No, she appeared—maybe—to be flattered.

  “First I have a poet’s tongue, then I have a sharp tongue? Which is it?” She sent him a playfully demanding stare, but all he could think about was her tongue. Damn it all.

  He cleared his throat. “We should focus on what we need to discuss. I received a letter from my friend at Oxford, Horace Jeffries. He’s coming to town, and I’ll arrange for you to meet him.”

  “How will you do that?” she asked.

  “I haven’t quite worked that out yet. I suppose I could bring him to the park?”

  She nodded. “That would suffice. Might he be invited anywhere? Or perhaps he could obtain a voucher for Almack’s.”

  Beck shuddered. “I never set foot in there. Not that they’d have me.”

  “Too rakish?”

  “Quite.”

  “Well, you needn’t come. We’re not trying to determine if you and I will suit.”

  No, they weren’t.

  “I’ll work something out,” he said. “In the meantime, we need a way to communicate. We can’t keep meeting in the park. It won’t matter if we aren’t trying to see if we suit because everyone else will be. If they aren’t already.”

  Lavinia nodded, her lips pressed together in a pensive line. “Yes, I know. My mother was thrilled when she saw you enter the park, and she expected that you would come over. I think it’s important we avoid each other for the next several days. And yet, how will we communicate about our objectives?”

  “I actually have a plan for that,” he said. “There’s a hollow in the trunk of the tree in the southwesternmost corner of Grosvenor Square. If you want to tell me something, leave a note in the hollow. I’ll check it every day.”

  She looked at him in admiration. “Well done. And if you need to tell me something?”

  “I can do the same, but I’ll understand if you can’t get there to check every day.”

  “I’m sure I can come up with something. It’s not unusual for me to take walks with my maid or a groom. I’ll just have to come up with a reason to visit that same tree.” She cracked a smile.

  He had a sudden thought. “What if I signal outside your house that there’s a message?”

  “What sort of signal? Perhaps a sign that reads, ‘There’s a letter for you in Grosvenor Square’?” She laughed. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist. Of course not that.”

  He laughed with her. “No, not that. Something more…subtle.” He considered a moment as they sobered. “I’ll tie something to the iron fencing in front of the house across the street.”

  “Oh, that’s a brilliant idea! Far better than my suggestion.” She smirked, and he chuckled again. Droll was perhaps not an adequate description of Lady Lavinia’s humor. “And I’ll see it easily since my bedroom faces the street—second floor in the corner.”

  “Now that we have that settled, we should turn back and on the way, you can tell me if you’ve identified a young woman for me to help.”

  They pivoted on the path, and he sensed a slight change in her body—she tightened up again, though not as much as when they’d departed. “What’s wrong?” he asked, worried that she’d changed her mind about helping him.

  “I’m not entirely certain I have a candidate yet.” She worried her bottom lip, which he’d never seen her do before.

  “All right, well let me know when you do. The editor of the Morning Chronicle is pestering me for a poem. You mentioned Miss Pemberton may not appreciate the attention. Should I not write another poem for her?”

  “No, you should not. Actually, I do have an idea.” Her voice trailed off along with her gaze. Then she took a deep breath, and he had the sense she was summoning courage. “My friend Sarah Colton.”

  He blinked at her in surprise. While he’d thought of writing about Miss Colton next, he’d abandoned that idea after learning how much Lady Lavinia disliked it. “She doesn’t share your views on my interference?”

  “On the contrary, she’s a bit jealous.” Lady Lavinia winced. “If only you’d written to her in the first place.”

  “I might have if I’d met her instead of you that night.”

  Their gazes connected, and he was suddenly more aware of her hand on his arm than he’d ever been. Heat radiated from her touch, and he recalled the scent of lilies and honeysuckle—how she’d smelled when he’d kissed her neck.

  She looked away first. “Yes, well, if you could write a poem about her, she would appreciate it. As would her mother. Apparently, she prays for it daily.”

  Beck groaned. “Perhaps this is a mess. I hadn’t intended for it to become such a…thing.”

  “It’s too late now. It’s quite the thing.”

  He hated all the trouble he’d caused, and he wasn’t sure he’d successfully find her a husband. He wished there was something else he could do. Something he could control. A thought occurred to him. It was a small gesture, but he suspected she’d appreciate it. “Lady Lavinia, does your interest in geology extend to fossils?”

  Her dark eyes brightened. “Oh yes, I have a small collection.”

  He did too. He’d gathered them around his home as a boy, and now they sat in a box in his study. They’d be much more appreciated in her possession. He made a mental note to write to his stepmother and have her send them to him.

  “Would it be untoward if I asked you to call me Lavinia?”

  Her question caught him off guard.

  She waved her hand. “Of course it would be. But I don’t care. We’re friends, and my friends call me Lavinia.”

  “It wouldn’t be appropriate.”

  “No, but our entire association isn’t appropriate. As long as we’re breaking the rules, we may as well go all in.”

  He smiled at her argument. “All right.”

  She tipped her head as she looked up at him. “Your friends call you Beck?”

  He nodded. “My given name
is William Beckett. I was Viscount Beckett before I inherited the title. Everyone has always called me Beckett or Beck. Except my mother. She called me Will.” A long-buried pang of sadness crested over him—like a giant wave from the sea, a disruption in the rhythm.

  “When did she die?” Lavinia asked softly.

  “When I was fifteen.”

  “You miss her.”

  He nodded. “I do, but I was lucky to gain a stepmother I love and who loves me.”

  “Bother, we’re nearly back,” Lavinia said. “But I think we’ve said all we need to.”

  Not really. He was enjoying their conversation far too much. On the other hand, he was eager to get home and empty the words milling about his head onto foolscap.

  “Look for my sign,” he said. “I’ll let you know when Horace arrives and when you should come to the park to meet him.”

  “Very good. And you’ll write a poem to Sarah. Make it good, please—your best. She likes dogs, if it helps to know that. And horrid novels, but maybe don’t write about that.”

  He laughed again. “I’ll write something deserving of your praise.”

  “Don’t write it for me. Write it for her future husband.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  They walked to her mother, and he left rather quickly, both because he was eager to write and play his guitar and because he didn’t want to make small talk with the countess. Or encourage her to think he was going to court Lavinia.

  That wasn’t going to happen. They were friends, and he liked that, despite the oddness of it. A rake and a young unmarried lady were the unlikeliest of friends. And if Society knew of it, there would be hell to pay.

  Luckily, Beck didn’t believe in hell. He couldn’t. Many would say his sister was there, and that was a notion he simply couldn’t endure.

  Chapter 7

  Grant her high favor and be glad

  For the smile she bestows, dear lad.

  Give your care to this charming miss