The Illegitimate Duke

by Sophie Barnes

  “Is that so?”

  Juliette rolled her eyes and sighed. “Yes, Raphe. He is an intelligent man and therefore more than capable of holding my interest.”

  “Hmm . . .”

  “Was I mistaken or did I hear him laugh at one point?” Gabriella asked.

  “Florian laugh?” Raphe asked before Juliette could answer. “Impossible. The man has the countenance of a marble statue.”

  “No, he doesn’t,” Juliette argued. Something deep inside her revolted against such a bland description of a complex man. “While mostly serious, he conveys more emotion than marble ever could.”

  Gabriella and Raphe both stared at her in complete silence before Raphe quietly mused, “Your study of him is certainly intriguing.”

  “Hardly,” she retorted. “I simply do what most people do when they are conversing. I look at the person to whom I am speaking. If I were to describe anyone else’s expression I would do so with equal flair.”

  “Undoubtedly,” Raphe murmured. His gaze lingered on Juliette for a few more seconds before looking away and turning the subject toward a boxing match he wanted to go and see the following week.

  Juliette breathed a sigh of relief, grateful to no longer be the center of her brother’s scrutiny. Because of course he was right. She had paid greater attention to Florian than she had ever done to anyone else. And her interest in him was founded in more than respect and admiration and a surprising number of shared interests. It was also the direct result of the way he made her feel, of this craving she had developed for his nearness. She could not explain it, save to say it went beyond the physical and the intellectual. It existed deep within her soul and, God help her, refused to be denied.

  It also prevented her from thinking of anything else, distracting her from what Gabriella and Raphe were saying. And with each passing second, her thoughts grew more persistent. They chased her home and up into bed, crowding her mind until she grew restless.

  “Florian.”

  She whispered his name to the darkness while savoring the kiss he delivered in the confines of her mind. Sparks ignited across her skin in response to the utter perfection of it, and heat filled her veins when he pulled her into his arms.

  “Juliette,” she imagined him murmuring close to her ear as he tightened his hold, imagined the palm of his hand sliding over her hip and the strength with which he held her.

  On a sigh of exquisite pleasure, she allowed her most private desires to soar before following him into the land of dreams where additional kisses and slow caresses awaited.

  Bartholomew gripped the fireplace mantel and leaned forward, allowing the heat from the blazing flames to kiss his bare chest. “Tell me you’ve found my son’s weakness,” he muttered, addressing Mr. Smith, who stood a few paces behind him, immediately inside the door to the room.

  “Doing so is harder than we anticipated,” Mr. Smith replied. “The drive with which he applies himself to his work is almost obsessive. As far as I have been able to tell, he does it mostly out of obligation.”

  “In other words, destroying his career would not ensure his suffering.”

  “It would, but not to the extent you hope. For that you have to aim at something he loves more than life itself. Which will be a challenge since Florian doesn’t let anyone close enough to capture his heart.”

  Turning, Bartholomew considered the two naked women who slowly caressed each other on his bed. He’d been looking forward to sating his needs with their lush young bodies, but would regrettably have to wait now. “Leave us,” he told them, his voice prompting both to exit the room in swift succession, the saucy smiles they sent his way encouraging him to make this conversation with Mr. Smith quick.

  “What about the Dowager Duchess of Tremaine? I’ve heard rumors he’s swiving her.”

  Mr. Smith’s hard gaze met Bartholomew’s. “Whether or not he is remains unclear. Either way, their interaction with each other is not suggestive of anything more than friendship and professional partnership. He speaks with her regularly, confides in her perhaps, but losing her would not cripple him completely. His mother, on the other hand, might—”

  “No. You will have to leave Claire out of this.” Not because he particularly cared for her, but because the history they shared had forged a peculiar connection. She was the mother of his child and guilty of doing no wrong. If anything, she’d always done precisely what he wanted, even if she’d claimed it had been for no other reason than to save her son.

  “Perhaps you ought to reconsider going after him then,” Mr. Smith murmured.

  Bartholomew flinched. “No. Florian might be my blood, but he betrayed me. He brought the law down upon me and denied me the chance to take over Guthrie’s territory.”

  “At least you have the opportunity to do so now.”

  “Yes. But not with Florian in my way. If he prevents typhus from spreading and the people of St. Giles from dying, acquiring the area will be just as difficult as it has always been.”

  “So what do you propose we do?”

  Bartholomew spoke without even thinking. “It is time to destroy Florian before he makes another attempt at destroying me.”

  “Lady Armswell will likely hunt you down herself if you touch one hair on his precious head.”

  “Which isn’t something I find the least bit displeasing. Her anger with me resulted in truly high passion once. Perhaps it can do so again.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  Bartholomew shrugged. “I don’t dislike the idea of it.”

  “Then perhaps you should reacquaint yourself with her now. If Florian found out, the knowledge would probably drive him insane.”

  “Undoubtedly. But he’s not the only one I would have to contend with then. Armswell might be weak, but Lowell isn’t. I’m not sure I’m eager to incur his wrath.” He took a moment to ponder that and eventually decided he was sure about this. “Find something else on Florian. There must be something about him you’ve yet to discover. And in the meantime, send the twins back in. All this talk about Claire has made me eager for a bit of vigorous bed sport.”

  Chapter 13

  Hurrying from table to table, Juliette placed a silk rose upon every plate and made sure the real roses in the centerpieces looked as fresh as possible. “I think we need to switch this one out,” she told Vivien, who was busy arranging gift baskets on a long table. Juliette pulled off a few miserable petals and took a step back to admire her work. “Never mind. I fixed it.”

  Vivien placed a large box wrapped in ribbon next to a series of cards. “Relax, Juliette. Everything looks perfect.”

  “Maybe,” Juliette agreed, but she wanted to be sure. This was, after all, the first event she’d ever hosted, and with some people still not convinced she belonged in Society, she wanted to impress. Especially since she was sure there were many who doubted her ability to pull this off.

  One hundred guests were expected to arrive in less than half an hour, and even though her family would be there to offer support, her nerves still quivered and quaked in anticipation.

  And they didn’t ease up when the first people walked through the door. Quite the opposite.

  “You’re doing well,” Raphe murmured close to her. Since it was his house, he and Gabriella were helping her greet everyone, which was a relief. The thought of doing it alone . . .

  “I cannot wait to bid on that waltz with Florian,” an older woman declared as she made her way past Juliette and entered the ballroom where all the tables were set.

  Her companion chuckled. “It’s the best thing about this whole situation. Just be warned that I plan to outbid you!”

  Juliette groaned. Perhaps she’d made a mistake by offering up such a prize. It had been done with the best of intentions, but from the looks of it, it threatened to be distasteful. Soured by this possibility, she wondered if she ought to pull the waltz with Florian from the bidding. There was still time. Except, it had been mentioned on the invitations as a means to enc
ourage the women. Much as the promise of winning a cognac owned by Napoleon himself was supposed to reel in the men.

  Judging from the turnout, it had worked, but at what cost?

  “I have to say I’m impressed,” Florian said when he arrived and accompanied her through to the ballroom. Heads turned to stare at them—or at him—and snickers permeated the air.

  “You don’t have to go through with this,” she said, embarrassed on his behalf.

  His jaw clenched as he studied the women who’d come for a chance to secure a dance. But then he dropped his gaze to Juliette and allowed a faint smile. “It’s a small price to pay if it means we’ll be able to afford proper quarantine.” His smile vanished. “Your funds have already been well spent on the clinic we set up and on treating the patients back at the hospital. The extra funds you raise today will be most welcome.”

  Comforted by his willingness to help, Juliette pushed her concerns aside and showed him to his table. Amelia, Coventry, Raphe and Gabriella were already occupying the rest of the seats along with Lady Everly.

  Before Juliette could turn away, Amelia caught her hand. “Good luck,” she murmured. “I know you’ll be a smashing success.”

  Hoping that was true, Juliette made her way to where Vivien was already standing. They waited while footmen served tea and refreshments. Conversation filled the air like a swarm of bees buzzing about their hive. Inside her tummy, Juliette felt the uneasy flutter of wings. Her heart began beating faster and she drew a long breath to steady her nerves.

  “Are you ready?” Vivien asked when it looked as though all the guests had received their refreshments.

  “No. But the faster I begin, the faster it will be over.”

  Vivien grinned. “Just look at one person and ignore the rest. That’s what I always do.”

  Juliette looked out over the tables dotting the room and instinctively focused her gaze on the man whose serious demeanor served as a welcome anchor. She spoke to him, her voice cutting through the din and forcing the room into silence.

  “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. As you are aware, the lives of fellow citizens are currently threatened by a terrible disease, the funds to help them, too few to make a difference.” She cast a quick look at Vivien, who gave her a nod of encouragement. Relaxing a little, Juliette turned back toward the crowd, surveying it slowly for added effect. “This is why I’ve invited you here today. Your presence is a testament to your kindness, your willingness to help those in need.” She gestured toward the table behind her. “There are twenty wonderful donations to be auctioned off here today. Ladies and gentlemen, I encourage you to bid as much as you can afford and to do so with the assurance that your money will be spent on those who need it the most.

  “First up, I offer two books written by Benjamin Franklin, donated to us by The Book Company. They are his autobiography and Poor Richard’s Almanac. The latter is signed by the author himself and the combined works hold an estimated value of one hundred pounds.” Juliette took a deep breath before asking, “Would anyone like to offer one hundred and ten?”

  Hands began to rise, driving the bidding up. Juliette’s pulse raced, increasing in speed when someone shouted, “Two hundred and fifty!”

  “Three hundred!”

  Overcome by the positive response, Juliette watched and listened with increasing awe as the number rose to a staggering 480 pounds before it was won by Lord Yates. He winked at her as he settled back in his seat, his goodwill implying that he held no grudge against her.

  Grateful, she thanked him with a smile and moved on to the next items. The silk ball gown from Madame Lizette’s brought in two hundred pounds, a cigar box with mother-of-pearl inlays ended up fetching 230 pounds.

  The gift baskets were less successful. Containing soaps and perfumes, most of them went for fifty pounds, except for the one with a puppy inside, which was won by Baron Hawthorne for six hundred pounds.

  “I’ve been looking for a greyhound exactly like this one,” he exclaimed with a burst of enthusiasm. “It reminds me of the one I had as a boy. The coloring is identical!”

  Juliette grinned as she picked up the coveted bottle of cognac and held it up for all to see. A hush fell over the room, and then Lord Wilmington spoke. “I’ll start the bidding at five hundred pounds, if that’s acceptable to you!”

  Juliette’s fingers trembled in response to the shocking sum he suggested. Fearing she might do something awful like drop the bottle, she set it aside carefully and nodded. “Yes. That sounds more than reasonable.” She’d intended to start at two.

  “I’ll give you six,” another gentleman blurted.

  Excitement increased as voices clamored for attention, driving the bidding up until Juliette felt somewhat dizzy. They were now at 1,000 pounds! She glanced at Vivien, who looked just as dumbfounded as she felt.

  It wasn’t until the sum arrived at 1,500 that the voices weakened as fewer people engaged. Eventually, Wilmington got the bottle he wanted for an astounding 1,600 pounds.

  Juliette blinked, still dazed from what had transpired. She dropped her gaze to the spot on the table where the card promising a dance with Florian rested.

  Hesitantly, she picked it up and turned it over in her hand, her chest squeezing her lungs as she wondered which of these women he would end up having to dance with. And not just any dance, but the waltz. Her heart thrummed with an almost unreasonable desperation. He wasn’t her betrothed. He was simply a friend, perhaps a colleague, so for the idea of him waltzing with another to bother her so was ridiculous. And yet, she knew what it was like to be held in his arms, to have the intensity of his gaze fixed only on her, and the notion of sharing that experience with another woman broke something inside her.

  Silence drew on as everyone waited for her to speak. Which she had to. Of course she did. Florian had told her so. The hospital needed the funds. She could not be selfish.

  Bracing herself, she straightened her spine and hardened her resolve. She could do this. “Just as the gentlemen here were eager to bid on the cognac, I believe there are many ladies who would like to bid on the rare opportunity to waltz with Florian, the future Duke of Redding.”

  Whispers ensued and Juliette clutched the card in her hands even harder. “As with the cognac, I propose we start the bidding at five hundred pounds as well.” She heard Vivien’s gasp and glanced toward her.

  “What are you doing?” she mouthed.

  Juliette wasn’t quite sure, except that it had occurred to her that a high enough sum might discourage anyone from bidding, which was really just as bad as telling everyone that the waltz was no longer available.

  Desperate to steady her riotous nerves, she sought her anchor and found Florian’s gaze intent on her. The flutter in her belly, which had long since subsided, returned with a vengeance, stealing her breath.

  “Five hundred and fifty,” someone called out.

  Vivien gasped again, as did Juliette, her attention on Florian straying to the person who’d spoken. It was the older woman who’d told her friend about her intention to win.

  Juliette bristled. “Five hundred and fifty pounds,” she repeated. Just in case someone else had missed it.

  “Five hundred and sixty,” a lady said from across the room. Juliette recognized her as one of the debutantes she’d seen in the women’s retiring room at the Hawthorne Ball.

  “Five hundred and seventy,” the older woman responded.

  Her friend added an extra ten and other women joined in, sending the bidding higher and higher until it surpassed one thousand.

  It was very strange, feeling happy and horrified at the same time.

  “This is amazing,” Vivien said as another hundred pounds was added.

  Juliette had to agree. She stared at Florian and saw he was looking equally stumped. And then her gaze caught Amelia’s right before she turned to whisper something in her husband’s ear. Coventry frowned, hesitated a second and finally nodded.

  “Two thousand pounds,” Ame
lia said, her voice echoing through the room.

  Juliette stopped breathing. Had Amelia lost her mind?

  The stillness consuming the air illustrated the unified bafflement of those present.

  Then someone spoke. “She can’t do that! It isn’t fair!”

  Another woman could be heard saying, “The Duchess is already married. What need has she for a waltz with Florian?”

  Disapproving murmurs ensued, silenced only by one proclamation. “Make that two thousand five hundred!” It was the older woman again, her voice carrying loud and clear.

  Juliette reached for the edge of the table to steady herself. In her hand, the card shivered in concert with her trembling heart.

  If only she had the funds herself, she’d happily offer them up on—

  “Three thousand,” Amelia said. She gave Juliette a pointed look, the sort compelling her to act quickly.

  Feeling as though she was trapped in wobbly jelly, she spoke as swiftly as her tongue could manage. “Three thousand pounds by the Duchess of Coventry. Going once. Going twice. Gone.”

  Air rushed from her lungs as some congratulated Amelia and others simply took their leave with disgruntled mutterings.

  “Did that just happen?” Vivien asked.

  Juliette shook her head. The nervous tension inside her began to bubble, and then she laughed, the absurdity and shock of it all transforming into mirth. “Apparently so,” she managed while still attempting to come to terms with her sister’s extravagant gesture.

  Looking toward her table, Juliette’s gaze was drawn to Florian. She wondered what he was thinking about all of this, but it was difficult to discern since he was talking to Raphe and Coventry.

  Knowing she had a few practical matters to see to before she could join them, she reached for a piece of paper on which she’d listed each prize. Grabbing a pencil, she wrote down the names of the winners and the final bids, tallying the sums at the end.

  “How does it look?” Vivien asked.

  Juliette set her pencil aside and looked at her. Excitement buzzed through her veins. “Four thousand, seven hundred and sixty pounds.”