What the Duke Wants

by Amy Quinton

  The duke turned away from the door and began untying the belt of his dressing gown as he made his way to the bed. Bryans had followed the innkeeper downstairs to ensure he had no plans to return.

  “I think I migh’ have somefin’ better to offer…to ‘elp you unwind, Your Grace.”

  Stonebridge paused in the act of removing his dressing gown. The muscles in his shoulders and back tensed at the suggestive feminine voice behind him.

  Will I never get some rest this eve?

  He couldn’t begin to imagine how the chit had managed to slip past the innkeeper and his valet in order to enter his room unbidden—not to mention that he was usually keenly aware of his surroundings. What the deuce was in that drink anyway? He tamped down the bulk of his ire and turned about to face the woman who had spoken. He braced his hands on his hips in the world-recognized sign of annoyance.

  The barmaid, Annie, leaned casually back against the door to his room, half-dressed and posed to entice. She audibly sucked in her breath the moment he faced her fully. Probably because he was mostly unclothed, his dressing gown untied and gaping open as it was. Still, he made his anger plain with his eyes and by his stance, yet she seemed determined to ignore it. He took in the sight of her in return. He was irritated, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t take a moment to appreciate her charms before he sent her on her way.

  She was comely and curvaceous, and too young to be missing her teeth or for the toll of hard living to be obvious in the skin of her face and hands. Her top was loosely tied, displaying more than a hint of her overly large breasts, and her leg was raised, her foot resting against the door, baring her leg to his view in an attempt to entice. It wouldn’t take a lot of effort to bed her—in fact his cock stirred with interest at the sight she presented—but he was too smart to tempt disease and a bastard for a single night’s pleasure.

  After one more quick perusal of her voluptuous form, he drew in a swift breath but moved no closer; his patience tonight was finally at an end.

  “Get. Out.”

  That was all he needed to say for her to turn and bolt out the door. He knew how to use his size and commanding voice to coerce when necessary, and he was tired of being bothered today; he had no more patience to be the gentleman and offer kind words to spare another’s feelings.

  “A bit harsh there, wasn’t it?”

  Stonebridge shook his head at the sound of yet another voice coming from the opposite corner of the room. He looked up and beseeched the ceiling. “What will it take to get some peace around here? I feel like a display at the British Museum with the number of people coming through the door.”

  “That’s all right then. I didn’t use the door.”

  The duke relaxed, marginally, and chuckled at the quip as he turned to face his best friend, Clifford Ross, the Marquess of Dansbury, who was sitting in a chair near the soon-to-be-dead foliage in the corner. Cliff was a broad man with golden hair and tranquil brown eyes, deceptive eyes. The man always looked relaxed; he epitomized the state, but in reality, Cliff was always watching, always calculating, always remembering. But he was the only person with whom Stonebridge felt at all comfortable letting down his guard.

  Stonebridge wasn’t really angry at his friend for the intrusion—the information he might impart was too important—and it didn’t strike him at all odd that his friend mightn’t have used the door. The man was astonishingly stealthy for his size. Cliff was pushing six and a half feet and was equally as broad of shoulder, yet he could get in and out of anywhere completely undetected. If he didn’t want you to see him, you didn’t. If he didn’t want you to hear him, you wouldn’t. It was part of the job. Their real job. They were both agents for the Crown, and at the moment they were investigating the murder of the previous Duke of Stonebridge, his father.

  Yes. His father’s death was no accident. Stonebridge had always known—even as a newly orphaned boy he had known, and his conviction was validated three months ago when he received an anonymous note through the mail. The author suggested they had proof his father had indeed been slain and that it was all related to a little known assassination attempt on Prime Minister Pitt, which had occurred at about the same time.

  The rest of the world still thought the worst about his father—that he’d been out ‘carrying on’ with another man—that it was all a tragic yet deserving accident. Now the proof he needed was within reach and Stonebridge was all too eager for answers.

  “What do you have?” Stonebridge decided to get to the point. His friend wasn’t just stopping by to share the latest on dit.

  “You mean, besides the fact that this plant smells intoxicated?” Cliff laughed. “Unfortunately, not a lot, yet…Kelly and MacLeod arrived late last night with our man as planned. His name is Paddy Murphy. He’s a former Irish assassin and mercenary with loose ties to the United Irishmen—or a known supporter, at any rate. He hasn’t been officially seen or active since 1798, when he vanished in September of that year only to resurface last week in Belfast. We’re positive he sent the note.”

  “I knew it,” interrupted the duke as he slammed his fist against the nearby door frame. He could taste victory, and he wanted to shout ‘I told you so’ like a two-year-old. They were so close.

  “Yes, it cannot be a coincidence. His disappearance coincides perfectly with your father’s death. Murphy has been quite resistant to our methods of persuasion so far, but we’ll get it. He’s adamant he wants to speak to you and only you. He wants reassurances and safe passage to America.”

  “Ha! Not likely. And I find it difficult to believe he can resist persuasion with MacLeod around; that’s one big Scot.”

  “We haven’t used the Scot. Yet.”

  “This man might have murdered my father and you’re going easy on him?”

  “We don’t yet know he’s the one that pulled the trigger, so to speak. But I admit the evidence is damning. The problem is, well, the problem is the man is elderly and quite emaciated and somehow it just doesn’t seem right to use physical force on someone in his pitiful condition. He’s sharp, though, and strong willed. I’ll give him that.”

  “You sound admiring, my friend. Has he indicated why he’s been in hiding all these years? And why is he contacting me now? After all this time? And for that matter, who hired him to begin with?”

  “No and no, and we don’t know. We suspect he’s been in hiding because he failed in his job to kill Prime Minister Pitt. We think he’s coming out now due to the current conditions in Ireland—disease and famine is widespread there, as you well know. I think it’s simply a matter of survival. He’s gaunt and hunger is a powerful motivator. As far as who might have hired him, besides the United Irishmen? The only other group with the strongest motivation is the Secret Society for the Purification of England.”

  “Ah, yes. The aristocracy and their secret societies.”

  “Well, they certainly weren’t in favor of the PM’s politics seeing as how they wanted all immigrants out of England full stop. As far as I know, we still don’t have a lot of concrete information about that group, only suspicions. Anyway, I’ve sent off a note to the Home Office asking our contact there to forward anything we have on Paddy Murphy and the assassination attempt on Pitt around that time. I’ve also asked him to send anything we have on the Society. I expect to hear something in the next day or two.”

  “Good thinking. Let me know what you find out. You are coming to Beckett House, aren’t you?”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t miss seeing my best friend get engaged, even if…”

  The duke merely lifted his brow. He didn’t need words to remind Cliff that the topic was strictly off limits. And he was well aware of Cliff’s thoughts regarding his fiancée and their engagement.

  Cliff chuckled as he left, via the door this time.

  * * * *

  The next morning…

  On the road to Beckett House…

  Amberley, West Sussex…

  Stonebridge leaned against the carria
ge window and perused the walking stick in his hand. The body was polished black with a silver handle and complementary tip, its handle fashioned in the shape of a lion’s head. He held up the stick to the sunlight streaming in through the carriage window and rolled it back and forth in his hand, watching the light catch on the two emeralds that made up the lion’s eyes. The emeralds were a bright, deep green, and the exact shade of his own eyes. It was the sole reason he had splurged on its purchase—a little vain perhaps, but he was, in a way, quite proud of his unique eye color because it represented a family trait that had been passed down through many generations of former dukes.

  They had left behind the horrid inn at the first light of dawn. The innkeeper was less sycophantic, so perhaps the man had finally got the message that he was overdoing his subservience the night before. Stonebridge was relieved to be away, regardless.

  Today, he would finish the last leg of his journey to a society house party in his honor being held at Beckett House in West Sussex. Everyone knew he was to announce his engagement there. He wasn’t looking forward to it, which was probably one reason he had been more impatient than usual yesterday. He would much rather be discussing this year’s wool production with his foreman than partaking of mindless flirtation with the latest crop of debutantes and their mothers. Hell, he’d rather watch the grass in the back garden grow. Then, there was the renewed hunt for his father’s murderer. He was anxious to be doing something—anything—toward that end, not wasting time socializing with pompous nobility.

  He really had no choice to attend, though; it was time he marry, and if he wanted to keep his good standing in society, he could not be a recluse. He needed his social contacts to keep his estates running efficiently, information flowing smoothly, and his political allies in line. Most importantly, though, if they were right, and the Secret Society for the Purification of England was behind his father’s murder, he couldn’t let on to anyone in the haut ton that the investigation was active again, and he certainly couldn’t do anything that would hint at where his suspicions lay. Therefore, he had to do the pretty and practice good ton.

  He laid his stick down to rest on the seat beside him and turned his gaze to the scenery passing by as his thoughts returned to the primary reason he was heading to Beckett House: to propose marriage to Lady Beatryce Beckett.

  He tapped his fingers in a staccato rhythm atop his knee as his reflected on his soon-to-be betrothed. He had known Lady Beatryce and her family for many years; her father, the Earl of Swindon, had been a particular friend of his late father’s. Though he had not kept in touch with the family until recently, Lady Beatryce was the first person he considered when he decided it was time for him to marry.

  She had all the necessary background credentials: she had a traceable lineage that was appropriately matched to his own with no glaring scandals in its history. Her family’s current standings, both financially and socially, were in good order. She was the classic English beauty with her pale blonde hair, light complexion, and deep blue eyes; together they would produce exceptional children…and the begetting of heirs would certainly be no hardship. Additionally, her family had unentailed property that bordered his favorite estate, Stonebridge Park, and was offered as part of her dowry. It would make a nice addition to his property there.

  He had watched from afar Lady Beatryce’s attendance at various society events in the little season, and he knew she was graceful and poised. She didn’t appear to be silly and giggly as most debutantes could be. In fact, she appeared to be rather intelligent for the typical society woman. She had been schooled specifically to fill the role of duchess with ease; therefore, she was the perfect candidate to become his duchess in truth.

  Thus, all things considered, he made the decision to marry with a logical mind, not a foolish heart as so many society misses and poets waxed on about. When one had doubts, even if rare, a man could always rely on the logic of facts to reaffirm the rightness of his decision.

  Within days of reacquainting himself with Lady Beatryce and her family, he had spoken to her father, and as expected, the earl was enthusiastic in his acceptance of Stonebridge’s request to court his daughter. Of course he was; Stonebridge was a duke with plenty of money in his coffers to keep him and his duchess comfortable for several lifetimes over. He was also young and handsome, with no prior marriages and no direct descendants in line for the title. In all, he was the catch of the season, and yet sometimes he actually despised that fact because he had no peace when going about in society. But such was his lot in life and he wouldn’t really complain, for the benefits greatly outweighed the inconveniences.

  And it wasn’t completely by chance that he was considered quite the catch. It had taken years to re-establish the Stonebridge name following the scandal surrounding his father’s death. Ever since that fateful fight at Eton when he was thirteen years old, the duke had been forced to lead an exemplary life—there had been zero room for error—in order to overcome public prejudice. And if they were successful in proving his father was murdered? Well, then the Stonebridge name would be completely and forever reinstated in the eyes of society.

  Slowly, he let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Now began the public ritual of courtship, and he was on track toward making the anticipated proposal. In fact, everyone was expecting one to be forthcoming this week; it was the reason for the house party, after all.

  His silent musings were interrupted as he caught sight of two young boys playing at the side of the road. They were laughing and carrying on with sticks and a small, round ball. Both boys were in well-worn overalls, with numerous patches on the knees and the arms of their homespun shirts. Despite their obvious lack of wealth, the joy on their faces was easy to recognize and struck him poignantly as he realized how much time had passed since he had lived so carefree. How quickly life changed, and sometimes you didn’t even recognize it had happened—the change—until you reflected back on a time long gone.

  And it seemed a lifetime ago in which he'd felt so untroubled; certainly before his father’s accident, and now, at thirty, with all he had seen and experienced, Stonebridge knew he would never be able to reclaim that blithe existence. Regardless, his memory of that time was still strong in his mind, and it was those memories that drove him to find his father’s murderer.

  His thoughts were jerked back to present day with the changing sound of the carriage wheels as his coach slowed to make the turn to Beckett House. The impulse to pull on his cravat was nearly overwhelming, but he refrained and forced his pulse to slow. He slammed his disturbing memories away in his mental box. He was nearly there, at Beckett House, and the time for inward reflection was at an end; his public face need be secured.

  Damn, but he hated dealing with the sycophants he knew would be there, and house parties were the worst venue with so few opportunities to escape all the groveling. He knew he would do what he must, though, and on that thought, he grabbed his walking stick and hat as he prepared to exit the carriage, for it had just stopped on the cobbles in front of the house proper.

  A footman jumped from his perch and opened the door for him to disembark. Stonebridge could clearly make out the earl and countess on the front steps, lying in wait to greet him. As he made his way to the door, he started at the image that flashed across his mind: that of a lion and lioness on the plains of Africa, lying in wait for some unknowing prey to pass within reach. And he felt like prey, despite his self-confidence. He tamped down the stray thought, surprised it so easily interrupted his focus.

  “Swindon, it is an honor to see you again.”

  He nodded his head as he approached and shook the earl’s hand, who responded, “Your Grace, welcome to our home.”

  The duke turned to the countess. “Lady Swindon, you are as beautiful as ever. Thank you for graciously opening your home for my pleasure.” He bowed and kissed the air above her hand.

  “Your Grace, may I join my husband in offering you our most gracious welcome? Thank y
ou for gifting us with your presence. We are honored and humbled by Your Grace. I do hope your stay is most comfortable and memorable, and if there is anything you need, please do not hesitate to inform us at once.

  “Your Grace,” she continued without taking a breath, “our butler is on hand to show you directly to your room so you can refresh. I do hope you find your accommodations satisfactory.”

  “Lady Swindon, thank you. I am sure the rooms will be agreeable. My valet, Bryans, is here to direct the unpacking of my carriage; however, before retiring, I should like to take a walk about your gardens to stretch my legs. If your butler would direct me there first, I would be grateful.”

  He desperately needed to stretch his legs after sitting for too long in the confined carriage. Even though the travelling coach was larger than his town conveyance, he felt cramped after so many hours inside, and with it still being before noon of the day, he thought the best time to take a turn about the garden would be now, when there was little chance of him encountering another guest.

  Chapter 3

  An Unfortunately Placed Mud Puddle in the rear gardens of Beckett House…

  A knowledgeable lady understands that, typically, the best way to make a good first impression is not to fall bottom first into a puddle of mud. Alas, Grace Radclyffe, with her inclination towards unfortunate mishaps, found this knowledge to be generally useless in the reality of her everyday life.

  Therefore, despite the uncomfortable feeling of wetness seeping through her gown and the faint-though-nearby sound of dripping mud, she did what any sensible lady of good upbringing would do in less than ideal circumstances. She cursed. With conviction.

  “Bloody hell. Not again.”

  So maybe she didn’t say that. But it was something she occasionally thought in her mind, though only in her mind.

  In actuality, she chuckled lightheartedly (because it’s always best to set yourself and any potential rescuers at ease in awkward situations) and graciously procured the proffered handkerchief dangling over her left shoulder. Then, after clearing the mud from her face so she could actually see and with cheeks tinged only slightly from embarrassment (because, really, that kerchief hadn’t been dangling over her shoulder on its own), she peered up to thank her would-be rescuer and…