The Duke's Untamed Desire

by Amy Jarecki

  “Eleanor?” she asked.

  “Hmm?”

  “Do you know who Mama has invited to this house party?”

  Holding the wool tightly wound on her finger, Eleanor shook her head. “Not at all. When I asked, she shook her finger under my nose and said it was a surprise.”

  “Wonderful. My dear mother and her surprises.”

  “But she did say she’d invited the Dowager Duchess of Ravenscar and her son.”

  “I should have guessed. Her Grace is one of my mother’s closest friends. But the last time I saw her son, he was fourteen—and had already inherited the title.”

  The crochet hook moved with lightning speed, whipping three stitches. “Was that six years past?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then he’d be at least twenty, would you say?”

  “Twenty.” Georgiana snorted. “Still quite young.”

  “Indeed, though most likely one of the wealthiest men in the kingdom. I say he’s rather handsome as well.”

  “I suppose he spends a great deal of time in London during the Season.”

  Eleanor drew a length of wool from the skein. “Such is the lot of dukes and their duties to the House of Lords.”

  What if Mama hadn’t invited Evesham? Moreover, what would Georgiana do if he came? How would she be able to keep him from attending the fair. Worse, the man who caused her a great deal of disconcertedness would be sleeping under the same roof—though hardly nearby in a castle as palatial as Hardwick Hall.

  The confounding fact? Once she and Eleanor arrived at the estate and the guests were assembled for afternoon tea, the Duke of Evesham was nowhere to be found.

  Chapter Fifteen

  BENEATH A DRIPPING sycamore, Fletcher’s Gordon Setters, Max and Molly, obediently sat beside him while blinking the rain from their eyes. For the love of God, Georgiana’s birthday celebration had already begun and there he stood watching the blacksmith from Datchet as he changed a wheel on his town coach.

  This was not what he’d anticipated when he’d decided to take a detour to Colworth to collect the dogs. Only about seven hours for the return journey, he’d figured if he rose at dawn and drove the horses at a steady trot, he’d arrive at Hardwick Hall by midafternoon.

  He snapped open his pocket watch and tapped it. Blast, blast and double blast. There was no chance he’d make afternoon tea, and fairly likely he’d miss dinner. And dammit all, he shouldn’t care.

  But he did.

  Fletcher normally abhorred country house parties. In truth, he’d only been invited to one, and that was right after he’d become a duke. Once his notoriety of a scoundrel became known, he hadn’t received invitations to grace the halls of any nobleman’s country seat. Invitations to balls and soirees came often enough when he was in Town, but rarely when he was in residence at Colworth. No, no one wanted the Duke of Evesham to make a sham out of their country party.

  The irony was his unsavory reputation had come about quite by mistake. He’d been attending his one and only country party when a Miss Maidenblossom had swooned. Walking behind the girl, he’d been minding his own affairs, when suddenly the doughy-faced debutante toppled backward, right into Fletcher’s arms.

  Once everyone turned, gaped, and assumed the worst, pandemonium ensued. The young lady’s mother immediately insisted they wed, as did the damned hostess—even after he explained that he’d had no choice but to catch the girl as she fell. Aghast, he informed all in attendance that he refused to be tricked into marrying Miss Maidenblossom and he resented her mother’s inference of his inappropriate behavior—in broad daylight when she was but twenty paces ahead. Worse, when they refused to let the matter lie, Fletcher finally burst a spleen and told the woman that should her daughter ever fall again, he’d step aside and let the spoiled child drop.

  Good God, he’d been fortunate to escape the country estate with his cods attached. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so boorish with the “let her drop” comment, but those vicious women had cornered him. It was as if the three vultures had colluded to have the debutante trick him into an unwanted, ill-timed marriage.

  Needless to say, since then, he’d heartily embraced his differences with the rest of the nobility. He might be the product of the sixteenth Duke of Evesham’s loins, but Fletcher had been raised a commoner. His mother had enjoyed none of the comforts of the wealthy. She cooked, cleaned and mended for the townsfolk and barely eked out a living. Hell, she had no time or use for highborn airs. What he’d learned about polite society had come from attending Eton and Oxford. Though an outcast, Fletcher had spent his days observing his “betters”. As a result, he was able to turn on the charm when he so desired, but most often he did not.

  Over the years he’d rather enjoyed having a reputation of being a rogue and a rake even though the moniker had been earned in the midst of a misunderstanding. Truly, Fletcher rather liked the fact that most members of the ton gave him a wide berth. They left him to his own devices and that’s what he wanted. He was born a bastard and no matter what the slip of parchment had said—the one signed by the sixteenth Duke of Evesham on the eve of his death—Fletcher could not escape the reality of his lowly birth.

  Except where Lady Georgiana played into the equation. He withdrew the locket with the curl he’d snipped, opened it, and drew it to his nose. Her scent still lingered. Closing his eyes, the sensation of the silkiness of her hair tingled on his fingertips while his blood stirred.

  When it came to Her Ladyship, all of the balance and harmony in his well-organized world distorted into a messy array of...Fletcher pocketed the locket and patted Max on the head. “Well, when it comes to Her Ladyship, she renders me incapable of rational thought.”

  Tossing his head, the dog yowled and wagged his tail.

  “Perhaps you’re right. Attending a country party hosted by Lady Derby is not the act of a sane duke.” Why had the baroness taken a liking to him? She wasn’t one of those desperate mothers trying to find a match for her daughter before the Season’s end. Or was she?

  Molly stood, looking at Fletcher expectantly.

  “No, that does not mean we’ll be turning around and heading back to Colworth.” He pointed directly. “Sit.”

  With his single command, the female Setter joined her mate, keeping vigil beside their master. If only humans could be half as obliging. Earlier that day, the dogs had received Fletcher with vivacious enthusiasm, and doubtless were presently on their best behavior because, at long last, they were out and about on an excursion into the unknown—excited to be reunited with the leader of their pack.

  “Beg your pardon, Your Grace,” said the smithy, holding what looked to be a piece of the axle.

  Fletcher ground his molars. “Do not tell me that is what I think it is.”

  “She’s fractured. Mangled. And I’ve no better news than to tell you I’ve naught but to take it to my shop for repairs.” The man threw a thumb over his shoulder. “The Hanovers take in boarders. I’m certain Your Grace and your servants can find a warm meal and a place to bed down just yonder.”

  Fletcher crossed his arms. “Do you aim to repair my mangled piece of iron or replace it with a new one?”

  “I can solder it.”

  “But then the metal will be weakened. It will be far more likely to break.”

  “A bit weaker, sir, but functional.”

  “Replace it with new.”

  “That will take two days, mayhap three.”

  “Now why does that not surprise me?” Fletcher turned to his coachman. “I’m leaving you in charge of seeing to the carriage repairs. Thank God we brought my horse.”

  “You’re continuing on in this squall, Your Grace? There’s at least two hours’ journey to Twickenham, and that’s only if the roads aren’t washed over.”

  Stay at some hovel in Datchet or ride on for an entertaining evening with Lady Georgiana? “I’m fully aware of the hazards. I’ll take the dogs with me. The pair of them enjoy the rain more than the sunshine.�
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  ELEANOR SAT ACROSS the enormous table and spoke quietly with Mr. Greg, the vicar’s son. Sighing, Georgiana pushed bits of pigeon pie around her plate. The enormous vases of calla lilies and candelabras adorning the center of the table made conversation across the way challenging, though not impossible.

  “I believe forks were invented to assist in conveying the food from your plate to your mouth, dear,” said Mother in a controlled but audible tone from the far end of the table.

  “Can you believe Englishmen didn’t adopt forks until the eighteenth century?” Papa held up his dessert fork and examined it. “And now it seems as though we have a specialized spearing utensil for every dish.”

  Chuckling, Georgiana took a bite, thankful her father had directed the attention away from her.

  “What say you, my lady?” asked the Duke of Ravenscar, seated beside her. “Do you think an array of forks are necessary in a formal place setting?”

  She speared a piece of pigeon meat. “Years ago I married into a simpler life and I now reside in a cottage where, when one sits down to dine, there is only one fork for each person.”

  “That’s logical,” agreed her elder brother, Roland. “After all, a person can only use one fork at a time.”

  Georgiana gave the future Baron of Derby a smile in thanks for his practical opinion. The best thing about the house party was seeing Roland, his wife, Clarice, and their three children, who were presently away visiting Clarice’s sister in Derbyshire.

  Mama sniffed and motioned for the footmen to start the next course. “You and your bent for reason, Son.”

  “I do believe a proper selection of forks on the table is a testament to the style and etiquette of our class,” said the Dowager Duchess of Ravenscar. “It separates the wheat from the chaff, so to speak.”

  Beside Her Grace, Mr. Peters raised his glass. “Here, here.” The gentleman had been introduced as a well-to-do gunsmith and Georgiana had hopes of conversing with him about his potential interest in her pumper. He also seemed to be on quite friendly terms with Ravenscar’s mother.

  What an interesting group Mama had assembled—nothing at all what Georgiana expected. Mr. Greg was a year or two younger, Miss Peters, Mr. Peters’ daughter couldn’t be older than twenty and the Duke of Ravenscar had only just graduated from Oxford—and had been talking throughout the meal about his plans to tour the theaters of Europe.

  She sipped her wine. At least Mama hadn’t conspired to bring a host of guests together for a match-making soiree, which would have ended up in a complete disaster.

  But Mother had seemed so unusually fond of Evesham. That he wasn’t in attendance came more of a surprise. Perhaps Mama had invited the duke and he’d sent his regrets. After all, it wasn’t everyone who was able to put their lives on hold and venture to Twickenham for a week-long soiree.

  Georgiana took another sip, the warmth spreading through her chest. Perhaps she was a tad disappointed not to see him.

  “What do you think of this storm that has rolled in?” asked Ravenscar.

  “I’m very glad all of the guests arrived before the thunder and lightning began.” Georgiana looked to her mother to see if there would be a comment about guests who had not yet arrived, but Her Ladyship was engaged in conversation with the dowager duchess. “I cannot imagine traveling in such weather.”

  “I doubt anyone would. When the rain pours as it has done today, the turnpikes are awash. ’Tis very dangerous.”

  “Indeed.” Georgiana gripped the serviette in her lap and twisted it. Perhaps Evesham was detained and the weather prevented him from coming? Stop, you dolt. The duke isn’t here and Mother hasn’t mentioned him. Surely he’ll not be coming...and that is definitely a boon considering the fair at Richmond Park.

  After flummery with raspberry sauce was served, Mama announced that once the gentlemen enjoyed their cheroots, their presence would be needed in the music room where the ladies would entertain them with a recital.

  Georgiana and Eleanor exchanged panicked looks but waited until the men had moved to the saloon to voice their dissent. “A recital, Mama?”

  “I seem to recall the last time you two ladies were in attendance at one of my house parties, you partook in a recital.” The baroness looked to Eleanor. “Do you still play the pianoforte, my dear?”

  “I do.”

  “Well then it is settled.” Mother looped her elbow through Georgiana’s and proceeded to the music room. “Miss Abagail plays the violin, and you certainly have not lost your voice, sweeting.”

  “I beg your pardon? I haven’t sung in ages.”

  “Balderdash. I heard you singing in the bath only a fortnight past.”

  “I may sing when I’m alone, but I have not performed before a crowd in ages.”

  The baroness smiled as if she hadn’t a care. “This is hardly a crowd, my dear. And you may as well stop your arguing, lest I be forced to prevail upon Her Grace to play the bagpipes.”

  “Bagpipes?” The dowager duchess gave a very subtle snort. “My mother would roll over in her grave.”

  Mama released Georgiana’s arm and turned. “Priscilla, do you not recall in your first Season, you told Lord Sussex that you played the bagpipes?”

  “Oh, goodness, I’d forgotten...”

  While the two ladies continued reminiscing about Seasons of ages past, Georgiana joined Eleanor and Abagail at the pianoforte. “I’m afraid I’ll make the pair of you look awful.”

  “Nonsense. Do you still remember My Bonnie Lass She Smileth?” asked Eleanor.

  “Of course.”

  “And I can play a verse on the violin to give your voice a rest,” Abagail volunteered.

  “That would acceptable, though I daresay a violin solo would be far more entertaining than listening to me.” Georgiana plunked out middle C on the keyboard. “You seem to be polished. Do you have a repertoire perchance?”

  Miss Peters looked a tad uncertain. “I plan to play a Bach fugue as well. That should suffice, would you not think?”

  “Bach?” asked Eleanor, not hiding her admiration. “You must be a proficient.”

  “Isn’t that why your mother invited me? After all, my father is merely a gunsmith.”

  Georgiana found the music for My Bonny Lass She Smileth and gave it to the violinist. “I understand your father has done very well for himself. You should be proud.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” said Eleanor, taking her seat at the pianoforte. “Let a man—or woman—succeed on merit rather than his or her birth.”

  By the smiles on all three lady’s faces, they were all in favor.

  Lady Eleanor squeezed Georgiana’s hand. “Imagine how the fairer sex might succeed if merit were the determinant of success.”

  Good heavens, if only society could begin to grasp such forward thinking, peddling her pumper would be so much easier.

  From the back of the room, Mama clapped her hands. “Ladies, we’d best rehearse before the gentlemen join us.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “YOUR GRACE?” EXCLAIMED Dobbs, ushering Fletcher into a long gallery festooned with portraiture of Georgiana’s family. “I cannot believe you’ve been out in this squall throughout the entire day.”

  Fletcher removed his dripping cloak and handed it to a footman as he spied a full-length picture of Georgiana leading a stately chestnut mare. She looked to be in her late teens, perhaps more carefree. “My carriage threw an axle near Datchet. It will take days to repair. I had little option but to ride on.”

  “I commend your perseverance. Allow me to show you to your chamber straightaway.” Dobbs snapped his fingers at the footman. “See to it a bath is drawn at once.”

  A chill coursed across Fletcher’s skin. Dear God, he must be soaked to the bone. “Thank you. And if you would please send up a lad with an old blanket for my dogs to lie upon and dry before the hearth. The poor devils are as wet and cold as I.”

  “Straightaway.” The butler beckoned him. “Follow me.”
r />   Fletcher rubbed his outer arms and gave the butler a nod. “Lead on.”

  A tune from a pianoforte filled the hall right before a beautiful voice began to sing. Another shiver coursed through Fletcher’s entire body but, this time, it had nothing to do with being cold. He knew this voice, though he’d never before heard the woman sing. Leading the dogs away from Dobbs, he soon found the music chamber while the alluring alto continued to mesmerize. Georgiana sounded nothing like Signora Morella. The operatic soprano was practiced and proficient, but Her Ladyship was sultry, raw, and intoxicating.

  Forgetting the water dripping from his clothing, the fact he was bone cold, and accompanied by two dogs, he remained at the jamb of the partially open door and peered inside. Georgiana stood beside the pianoforte wearing an India muslin evening gown of ivory. Her shoulders square, the notes of the aria filled the room with pure temptation. As the sequence ended, she took a deep breath, making round, supple breasts strain against her plunging bodice.

  Leaning forward along with her inhalation, Fletcher’s shoulder nudged the door.

  At the creak of the hinges, Georgiana’s gaze shifted his way. “Ah!” she gasped, drawing her hands over her mouth.

  The music stopped while all heads turned and Rasputin sprang to his feet and barked. Max and Molly lunged against their leads, responding in kind while the Pointer bounded toward them. “Come behind,” Fletcher growled, pulling his pair to heel.

  “Rasputin!” hollered Lord Derby. At the sound of his master’s voice, the overgrown puppy straightened his legs and slid on the floorboards, toenails screeching until the dog stopped and stared, excitedly wagging his tail.

  “Ahem.” Fletcher patted his chest with a snappy bow while the baron commanded his dog to return to his mat by the hearth. “Please forgive me. I was on my way above stairs to don some dry clothes and was stopped by the sound of stunningly beautiful music coming from this very chamber.”