Compromising the Duke's Daughter

by Mary Brendan

  * * *

  It seemed mere minutes later that he halted at the top of Upper Brook Street and dismounted, lifting her down immediately. ‘Nobody’s about...you’re unseen,’ he growled.

  Without another word he swung into the saddle. But the horse remained motionless till he’d watched her petite figure hurry out of sight into the grounds of her father’s mansion.

  Drew turned the animal he’d appropriated from the tavern, spurring it into action. Seconds after rounding a corner at a gallop his raging emotions were no longer controllable. He vaulted from the chestnut’s back almost before it came to a standstill. Wildly he strode to and fro, then threw back his head to roar a curse at the storm-washed heavens. He was a damnable fool. It had taken time and effort to set up the scheme to trap Saul Stokes and his gang of crooks and he knew he’d have to act swiftly to end it because of his obsession with Lady Joan Morland.

  He’d had a similar lust for her years back when she’d arrived at his hunting lodge one evening, searching for Luke Wolfson. Drew recalled that he’d believed her to be an exquisitely pretty new recruit to the cathouse that operated a mile or so distant, close to the Devon coast. Then she’d told him more about Wolfson and it had become clear that she honestly knew his best friend. Lady Joan hadn’t been role-playing to excite his interest, but using her legitimate title. Drew had sobered up quickly and called for a carriage once he understood that he’d confused a peer of the realm’s daughter with an opportunistic doxy on a home visit.

  When he’d escorted her back to Thornley Heights her father had gone into a rage—as was to be expected from a man who’d discovered his maiden daughter being returned at dawn by a stranger.

  Despite her infuriating reluctance to explain herself, and the explosive altercation with her father, Drew had rued parting company with the enchanting chit so speedily. The Duke of Thornley had accused him of sullying his daughter with a callous seduction, so he might as well have got hung for a sheep as a lamb. But although Alfred had offered to make him rich as Croesus the moment he signed a marriage contract, there was no inducement that would make Drew turn both their lives miserable. For all his cynicism towards wedded bliss, he still held taking vows a serious business, though he’d no intention of entering the married state himself.

  A harlot might have brought him up, but Drew liked to think that his stepfather’s influence weighed on him equally with his mother’s. Joan was sweet and innocent and this evening he had been on the point of stripping her of those tender qualities along with her clothes. Despite his conscience bothering him he couldn’t quash a burning need for her that was making him want to hurtle back to catch her before she escaped.

  He hunkered down, arms stretched out and head lowered to them, dragging controlling air deep into his lungs while wondering if his early upbringing had corroded his soul. A wink of lightning on the horizon heralded the storm’s cessation. Drew raised his eyes to smile at it. He’d been close to the point of no return in that damned coach, then nature came to his rescue, knocking some sense into his head before he did something they would both have deeply regretted. She might have surrendered quickly, but she’d been frightened enough to run from him as soon as the web of desire in which he’d had her bound disintegrated.

  But...she’d tasted sweeter than honey, he ruefully reminded himself, and the throb in his loins wouldn’t let him forget it. He wanted more of her. But he’d leave her be because it was over now...it had to be.

  In a fluid movement he rose to his feet and ran a hand over the nose of the placid horse before mounting it.

  * * *

  ‘I thought I might expire from the fright of those thunderbolts!’ Mrs Finch thumped her ample bosom in emphasis. ‘I’ve not known such a storm since I was a little girl. And of course childhood exaggerates the experience.’ She glanced at her hostess. ‘You say you slept right through it, Maude? Most odd! I thought the worst might pass us by, but suddenly it was right overhead and loud enough to wake the dead.’

  ‘I’m a very deep sleeper,’ Maude replied, taking a treacle biscuit from the plate. She indeed did go out like a light at bedtime. Since the Duke had left for Devon, his wife had found a tot from the decanter helped ensure unbroken slumber. There was no great passion between the couple, both in the autumn of their lives, but Alfred was a fine companion and Maude missed having his warm presence lying beside her. Although she understood the reason for his absence, she wanted him back as soon as maybe.

  ‘And you, my dear?’ Mrs Finch glanced at Joan, chatting with her daughter on the sofa. ‘Were you disturbed by the celestial fireworks?’

  Joan put down her teacup. ‘Indeed I was, ma’am. It was an...extraordinary night.’ Joan fidgeted at the memory of that extraordinary night. She hoped the other ladies didn’t notice her growing pink; if they guessed what was on her mind they’d blush, too, especially her poor stepmother who could be excused for swooning on the spot! Joan had thanked her lucky stars that Maude had slept through the tempest.

  After Drew had set her down Joan had avoided the main entrance and dashed to the side of the house. She’d managed to slip in through the servants’ quarters, but not unassisted, as she’d hoped. The door she’d left open had been locked, no doubt by a vigilant footman. But Pip had been making his stealthy way out of the house just as Joan had been attempting to make her way in.

  They’d crept into one another in the dark quadrangle, stifling their squeals of surprise. Pip had blinked in disbelief on seeing Joan’s damp and dishevelled state. He’d quickly shown her which entrance to use. The youth didn’t ask her business and Joan returned the favour, although she’d guessed, from Pip’s dry attire, that an attic tryst with Anna probably provided the reason for him being up and about at such an hour. She had planted a finger on her lips and Pip had given a nod of understanding. The young groom had doubtless wondered why his master’s daughter was abroad on such a filthy night. The upset with the beggars would still be fresh in his mind and Joan imagined Pip might link the two incidents, and come up with Drew Rockleigh as a possible connection. She’d been out after dark with that gentleman once before when she should have been tucked up in bed and Pip knew about it because he’d driven the gig that had taken her to Rockleigh’s hunting lodge. But she trusted Pip to keep his lips sealed on what he suspected.

  Joan’s brooding was interrupted as the door opened and a visitor swept into the rose salon before the maid had a chance to dodge past and warn them of Lady Dorothea’s visit.

  ‘I have come on an errand for Lady Regan,’ Dorothea announced.

  ‘How nice,’ her Grace replied with an inflection reserved for her sister-in-law’s pomp. ‘Have you time to take tea with us or must you quickly report back to her ladyship?’

  ‘Indeed I shall have tea; I am able to tarry a short while as Lady Regan is presently with her modiste.’ Dorothea smiled magnanimously, removing her black gloves and bonnet.

  Although her husband had expired over fifteen years ago Dorothea was still particular about wearing deepest mourning. Maude found it quite odd, especially as Alfred had told her that his sister had been unhappily married. His late brother-in-law had divided his time between his wife and his mistress, the Duke had recounted, with the paramour getting preferential treatment. Dorothea had produced no offspring whereas his mistress had given birth to four. Dorothea’s attitude towards her late husband might lead a person to believe the woman lamented the loss of a paragon of virtue rather than a selfish adulterer. She treated his memory to every respect and showed no sign of ever having despised him, although apparently she had, quite violently.

  ‘So what errand might we help you with?’ Maude asked while the maid served more tea.

  ‘Lady Regan is holding a salon tomorrow afternoon and would like us all to attend.’ Dorothea’s eyes shifted to the two young ladies, listening politely. ‘She has invited the Denbys and especially wants L
ady Joan and Miss Finch to come along, too, so they might get to know Cecilia better. The girl is in need of some friends of her own age to take a drive with and go to the shops and so on.’

  Maude’s usual response to Lady Regan’s invitations was to quickly find a reason to be unavailable.

  ‘I think that sounds agreeable,’ Joan interrupted the preliminary to her stepmother’s declination. ‘I’d like to see Miss Denby again and I expect that Louise would, too.’ She gave her unsuspecting friend a little nudge.

  Louise smiled gamely, but shot a quizzical glance at Joan.

  ‘It is quite an honour for you girls to be asked.’ Dorothea primly folded her hands in her lap. ‘Her ladyship is not one to regularly have young people about her.’

  ‘So...why is she keen to cosset Cecilia Denby? She’s only eighteen and seems rather a henwit, if I might speak plainly.’ Maude frowned.

  ‘Her ladyship is generous and charitable to a fault,’ Dorothea replied.

  The Duchess and Mrs Finch exchanged a glance that disputed that comment.

  ‘Well...that is settled then; we shall go to Lady Regan’s tomorrow and get to know Miss Denby better.’ Joan hoped her stepmother wouldn’t take offence at her assertiveness.

  ‘I’m not sure I wish to know the chit any better.’ Patricia’s sniff preceded, ‘She was flirting outrageously with Henry Laurenson with no thought to how it looked.’

  ‘She was just letting off steam,’ Joan said mildly. ‘It seems Mr Stokes keeps a strict eye on her.’

  ‘Unsurprisingly...’ Maude sighed, selecting another biscuit.

  Joan didn’t want the ladies to rescind agreement to the visit, so quickly stood up. ‘I think I shall take a stroll in the conservatory,’ she announced.

  ‘I’ll come, too,’ Louise piped up, guessing that her friend had something to tell her in private.

  Chapter Nine

  On learning how greatly Maude adored growing things, the Duke of Thornley had commissioned a magnificent glasshouse as his second wife’s wedding gift. The Duchess’s fond husband paid adventurers to bring all manner of flora from the foreign lands they visited, setting his team of gardeners to nurture the exotic blooms for his wife’s pride and joy.

  A pleasing floral fragrance was in the air and the linnets in gilded cages up in the rafters filled the warm space with a natural melody.

  Joan often sought this little sanctuary when in a reflective mood. When feeling nostalgic, she’d sit on the little bench and think of her beloved late mama, wrapping herself in wistful memories of the final months they’d spent together. The Duchess of Thornley had been far more excited than she had over her debut. Joan had indulged her frail mama’s every whim, wearing the gowns that the Duchess preferred to those she liked herself. She went to every function her mama wanted to attend, without demur, although some had not been at all to her taste. She’d assured her mother she was having a fine time, yet she’d been crying inside.

  Her parents had wanted to keep the news of the Duchess’s ill health from her, fearing she would be too upset to grant her mother her final wish and make her come-out.

  But for all their attempts to protect her Joan knew her mama didn’t have long to live. She’d learned of the awful truth through a closed door; it had been another occasion when muted voices uttering a name had brought her to a halt, straining to hear a conversation that would shock her to the core. That afternoon had remained etched into her mind—even the weather had mocked her with its bright February sun on that darkest of days.

  Inside the room her parents had been talking about her in low sorrowful voices. The Duchess had expressed concern that her daughter—even more than her son, who was too young to comprehend—should be sheltered from knowing she was dying.

  The sound of her father weeping and her mother comforting him had made Joan hurry blindly away to seek the sanctuary of her own room. Henceforth when her mother coughed and grew thin and pale, Joan accepted without question her mama’s mild explanation that a lingering chill was to blame, playing her part in the poignant deceit. Although she had wanted to rave at the pain of it, she did not. She would have done anything, told any lie, to make her mama’s last days as joyous and carefree as possible. At night she had muffled her tears with the blankets and in the mornings had risen as bright as a lark to go on outings with a smile pinned to her lips.

  ‘Have you caught a chill?’ Louise sounded concerned when her friend gave a lingering sigh that was followed by a sneeze.

  Joan dabbed her nose with her handkerchief. ‘I expect I’ve taken in a bit of pollen.’ She touched a fingertip to the silky petals of a gardenia.

  ‘Is your cousin holding the children’s reading class this week at the vicarage?’ Joan busied herself watering some plants with a small copper can, determined to cheer up. ‘I should like to be of help again, if he’ll have me.’

  ‘I thought the Duke had banned your further visits, following the incident with the beggars,’ Louise cautioned.

  ‘The Duke is hundreds of miles away, and besides, Pip now knows which route to take to avoid Ratcliffe Highway. I’m sure Papa would not object too much.’

  ‘It is good of you to offer to tutor them, Joan, but Vincent has abandoned those lessons.’

  ‘Why has he done so?’ Joan swung about with the copper can poised in mid-air. The vicar had been teaching the children before she volunteered to help; she was sure he wouldn’t have given up on the school simply because her father had vetoed her attendance.

  ‘The bishop sent Vincent a letter expressing disquiet about the vicarage being used as a ragged school.’ Louise raised her eyebrows. ‘Mama and Papa were talking about it over breakfast. Apparently Vincent caved in straight away on the matter, as his living depends on it.’

  ‘Your cousin should be praised rather than condemned,’ Joan said pithily, putting down the watering can amidst a forest of ferny leaves. ‘How did the bishop find out about it?’ Sudden enlightenment caused her to sigh. Her father had doubtless pulled strings with distinguished ecclesiasts. If the ragged school were closed, there would be no further need for her to travel to the stews and risk her life and reputation undertaking charity work. The bishop wouldn’t want a horror story circulating that a duke’s daughter had had been assaulted by ragamuffins due to her association with a clergyman of the diocese.

  Joan pinched her nostrils to contain another sneeze erupting. She suspected she had caught a cold from the drenching she’d got on that stormy night.

  Though they were close Joan hadn’t told Louise about what had happened, knowing her friend would be rightly shocked to hear what she’d done. If her rendezvous with Drew ever came to light she’d have no choice but to disclose her motive for it and expose Stokes as a fraudster. But she could no longer lie to herself about the real reason she’d gone to see him: I think you’re as eager to taste me as I am to have you, he’d taunted her and her denial, though immediate, had easily been proven fake.

  Joan knew her life had changed...she had changed; Duke’s daughter or no, she’d become enslaved by a street fighter. And it was driving her mad...

  Every waking hour—and there were very many now sleep seemed impossible—was filled with memories of Drew Rockleigh and the feelings he’d awakened in her. She’d gone to meet him with the best of intentions, but now believed she’d only made matters worse for them both.

  He’d refrained from accusing her of meddling, courteously praising her instead. She’d sensed his annoyance stemmed from a genuine concern for her welfare because she was privy to a crime. From that Joan deduced Stokes to be a dangerous man as well as a crooked one. At the outset, she’d intended to extract a promise from Drew that her visit to his hunting lodge would remain their secret. In the event she’d forgotten to mention the incident that concerned her papa so greatly that he constantly fretted on it. Ironically, that epi
sode was of less importance now she’d behaved with even greater abandon with Drew Rockleigh. She thanked heaven that her father knew nothing of that!

  The memory of their shared passion had intensified rather than faded as the days had passed. At night, undressing and donning her negligee caused excitement to shiver through her. Silk slipping against her skin might have been phantom lips tracing her flesh. The yearning for him to touch her again was pitching her into uncertainty over whether what they’d done was right or wrong. Her upbringing could only present one answer to the conundrum, but she was a woman as well as being a duke’s daughter. She had the same feelings in her body and soul as did Anna, who no doubt revelled in her beau’s caresses during secret meetings with Pip. But what was Rockleigh to her? Certainly he was not her beau. He’d not murmured a single affectionate word to her that night as he’d disrobed her to touch her intimately. But he had spoken to her in a way calculated to crumble her defences and heighten her response to him. Even now, those gruff commands could make a mingling of shame and excitement heat her blood.

  Weeks ago the vicar had told her that the Squire was popular with women; Joan knew it had been no exaggeration. But was there a young woman who received tender words as well as artful kisses and caresses from him?

  ‘Are you listening to a word I’m saying?’ Louise tilted her head, gazing at her friend’s distant expression till Joan gave her an apologetic smile. ‘I thought you’d engineered our escape to the orangery so we might have a gossip about seeing Miss Denby later in the week. Are you after all the grisly details of her thwarted elopement?’

  ‘No!’ Joan clucked her tongue. ‘Well...maybe...’