What the Duke Wants

by Amy Quinton

  Unlike with the duke and his kiss.

  With him, her thoughts scattered like the wind. She was on fire with passion, and the world about them fell away into oblivion. And afterwards, she relived the kiss over and over and over. For days. And nights. In her dreams. Where she awoke overwhelmed with sensation and touching herself…

  She stopped, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. She looked about. Oh, it really was a good thing one’s thoughts were one’s own. Goodness. If the people walking by had even an inkling of what she was thinking, they’d be mortified and expire on the spot. She laughed at the thought. It was odd what things she found funny these days.

  But her chuckles died in her throat as she caught sight of the very man who occupied her mind day after day: Stonebridge.

  Her hand rose to her chest as if she could physically steady her racing heart. He was so mind numbingly handsome and her heart literally ached with the knowledge that he would never be hers. It was so ridiculously unfair.

  She watched as he entered a nearby building. He hadn’t seen her amidst the crowd, of course. Once out of sight, she was able to walk again. She strode forward hesitantly. Honestly, she should flee to the safety of the hotel, not loiter outside, dying with curiosity and the desire for just another, quick glimpse, but alas, she couldn’t make herself leave.

  She passed the building he had entered and tried hard not to be so obvious as to ogle the door, but she did look and made note of the sign identifying the place as the offices of Tolley and Brinks, Esquire.

  She passed a few more shop fronts, then turned. Her face was warm with embarrassment.

  What am I doing?

  She walked past the solicitors’ office again and passed a few more shops before shaking her head, resigned.

  “Extra! Extra! Read all about it! Prince Regent plans Grand Jubilee in London!” called out a young boy, hawking broadsheets nearby. She heard him above the general din of horses, carriage wheels and people bustling about their business as she maneuvered her way through the throng of carriages to the opposite side of the street.

  Once there, she purchased a paper, then made her way to a nearby bench which happened to be situated directly across the street from the duke’s solicitors’ office. Convenient, that. She sat, only for a moment, mind. To read the paper. Honestly.

  Oh, who am I trying to fool?

  For half an hour, her heart missed a beat every time the door to the solicitors’ office opened. Really, what was she planning to do once he did come out? Dash into his arms? Call his name from across the thoroughfare? Run away and hide? She asked herself these questions, over and over again, the entire time; she certainly was no more aware of the latest news than from before she’d bought her paper.

  Finally, at long last, he came out of the building, and he saw her instantly. She stood on reflex and looked back. For an eternity but only a minute, they stared at each other across the avenue, and her heart thundered faster than ever. Before reality intruded. This wasn’t wise and just as she recognized the truth of that, she saw his expression change from surprise to murderous.

  Right. Time to go.

  She tried to go around the bench at the same he stepped out onto the street.

  Zounds! He was coming.

  But in her haste to leave, she rounded the bench too carelessly, only to have her reticule catch on the bench’s arm, jerking her to a stop. Unfortunately, her nerves, along with the bench, conspired against her, and she stumbled to her knees.

  The hand holding her bag came down hard onto the bench seat, over the arm rest. She’d have a bruise under her arm tomorrow from that. The straps of her reticule, still caught, pulled tight on her wrist, turning her skin white, then red and puffy. Her other hand, which had whipped out reflexively, hit the ground. It just stopped her from cracking her chin on the bench.

  Why, oh why, did I even get out of bed this morning?

  She closed her eyes in humiliation. All around her, people fell silent; even the boy no longer peddled his papers. She could make out the occasional horse and carriage, but even the whinnying of a nearby horse sounded like laughter to ears colored with embarrassment. She could hear the sound of running feet, boots striking on cobbles, and she knew that Stonebridge was dashing across the street—coming to rescue her.

  He arrived a moment later, slightly out of breath, and she smiled at the thought that he’d run all that way…in public. For her.

  “Grace, are you all right? Here, let me assist you, please.”

  How ridiculous that all things considered, her heart leapt over the fact that he had used her given name rather than Miss Radclyffe, as was proper.

  “I’ll be fine, thank you, Your Grace.”

  After he helped her up, he worked to untangle her bag whilst she evaluated the state of her dress. It was dirty, of course, so she made to brush off the loose gravel and dirt as best she could. She could feel her knees burning as her movements made her stockings rub against the scrapes. They were bruised as well; she could feel it every time her hand brushed one. In addition, her left hand was throbbing from where she scratched it on the pavement as she attempted to catch her fall. Even the fabric of her dress hurt her as it caught on her wounds, but the pain was good in that it distracted her from the imposing man beside her.

  He untangled her reticule, and handed it to her before taking her right hand, and placing it firmly on his arm. She could see his emotions warring between concern and anger. Dansbury had warned her to stay with Aunt Harriett, and of course she had disobeyed.

  Stonebridge, surprisingly, kept his counsel the entire way back to her hotel. No inane pleasantries. No inquiries into her health, the weather, Napoleon, the state of the kingdom. And she didn’t bother to question how he knew where she was staying. He nodded politely at the people who attempted to waylay them, but made it clear he was not prepared to stop for a chat.

  Once inside her hotel, he guided her to the main staircase and simply said, “To your room.”

  Succinct and abrupt as usual.

  At least he hadn’t already known which room was hers. When they arrived, Bessie was there, packing away their belongings for the return trip to London.

  “Madam, Miss Radclyffe is injured. Please go downstairs and bring back whatever suitable liniments they have to treat minor scrapes and bruises.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  After Bessie left, Grace sat on a chair, and watched, bemused, as he patrolled the floor. After a minute, he turned to face her, and as usual, got right to the point.

  “Why were you out on the streets alone? I’m quite sure Dansbury told you to stay with Aunt Harriett…er, Lady Ross.”

  He was mad; she could see that. Not only did he speak with an angry tone, but his hands opened and closed as if he only just stopped himself from shaking her. She was surprised by the contradictory look in his eyes—which showed concern, worry, possibly desire if she were not mistaken, and ire. That thought of his desiring her thrilled her as much as the sight of him surprised her earlier. A dangerous feeling to say the least.

  She smiled wryly, which only served to intensify the look of desire part about him before saying, “Well, good morning, to you, Duke. What brings you to Oxford?”

  “Don’t try to change the subject, Grace. Don’t you realize? Actually, forget that. I see you’re packing for London. Good.” He continued to pace the floor and as he did, ran his hands through his hair in agitation. She was pleased.

  No one said anything further before Bessie arrived with the requested supplies. He relieved her maid of it all and without pause or even asking permission, bent to the task of tending to her hands.

  Grace was astounded. What was he doing tending her wounds? It simply wasn’t done, but she was too astonished and pleased to stop him, either. His touch was surprisingly gentle, yet sure, and she was taken aback. She just couldn’t believe he was there, on his knees before her and unaware of the shocked expression she wore. Grace looked over at Bessie. Her maid didn’t
appear surprised in the least; she simply stood there, smiling serenely, as if his behavior weren’t odd at all.

  Grace hissed in a breath as he swiped over a particularly deep scrape. She refocused on the man knelt before her. He hesitated, and his shoulders tensed briefly at the sound of her indrawn breath before he relaxed and resumed his task.

  She could see him clearly for he was so close, and the room was bright with morning light streaming in through the window. And she relished being able to study him uninhibitedly. This close, she could make out the tiny things. Like the shape of his ear: she had the sudden, inappropriate urge to kiss the shell. She saw the beginnings of fine lines around his eyes; he looked tired, yet intent on his task. She saw the shape of his brows and the direction of which the small hairs lay shaping his eyes. She saw his eyelashes, inky and black and far too long for a man.

  He had a small, round scar on his temple, and she had yet another craving to kiss it…weird. It was odd the details you noticed in an intimate setting such as this, the minutiae you didn’t see on a quick glance and the proper distance between you. And she saw him then, on a human level, as a man, real and alive. It shook her to the marrow of her bones.

  Unexpectedly, he stood, startling her out of her silent study. He had finished cleaning and applying the liniment to her hand. It was not appropriate for him to see to her knees to tend to them, and they both knew it. He would leave that task to Bessie. Though she wished he wouldn’t.

  She stared at him standing there proud and confused. Happy and angry. Frustration surging out of every pore. Finally, he simply turned and headed for the door. “Grace, I’ve got to go; I’ll see you in an hour. Be prepared to depart for London at that time.”

  Chapter 15

  The Stonebridge Mansion in Mayfair, London…

  The Next Evening…

  Stonebridge entered his home in Mayfair, tired and dusty from his frantic ride to London from Oxford. He had not ridden to Town with Grace and Aunt Harriett despite every cell in his body desiring he do so. He knew he had to travel on ahead, at a faster pace, so he could meet with Cliff before Grace arrived in Town as she would expect delivery of the lockbox’s contents upon her arrival, assuming the box did indeed belong to her father.

  He expected Cliff to be waiting for him; he was not disappointed.

  “Your Grace, Lord Dansbury awaits you in your study,” stated his butler before he had even removed his great coat.

  “Thank you, Ledbetter.”

  “Your Grace.”

  He entered his office to find Cliff relaxed on one of the leather sofas, his booted feet propped on a low table before him. One arm was spread across the back of the sofa; his other rested on the arm. He held a glass of brandy in his hand. The table underfoot was scattered with papers.

  He barely glanced at his seated friend before loosening his cravat and taking the chair opposite the sofa. He didn’t beat around the bush.

  “What did you find?”

  Cliff laughed. “What? No ‘How was your trip, Cliff?’ ‘Did you run into any trouble along the way, Cliff?’” in typical Dansbury style.

  The duke just looked at Cliff, who shook his head, set his drink on the side table, and fortunately got on with it.

  “Right. So what would you like to hear about first, Duke? The will naming Mr. Smythe as Miss Radclyffe’s guardian—you know, the man Miss Radclyffe didn’t acknowledge she knew when she and I met him in Oxford just last week? Or how about a partial copy of a formal Writ of Execution for the life of one Prime Minister Pitt the Younger from the Society for the Purification of England? The idiots. Oh, I know, how about your father’s personal notes from his hunt for the would-be assassin?” Cliff smirked, his entire manner dripping with sarcasm, as he picked up a small leather-bound journal from the table before him and shook it in the air before replacing it back amidst the scattered papers.

  “Damn…”

  “Indeed.”

  “Did you read my father’s journal?”

  “Yes.” Cliff passed him the journal. “I’ve marked the most interesting pages. He mentions the Society and the usual suspects involved there, but with the addition of one new name we haven’t heard in connection with them before: Swindon.”

  “Swindon? I’ll admit he holds similar views as that of the Society, but Swindon? He barely leaves the comfort of his own sofa. I cannot imagine a person less likely to involve himself in secret society meetings.”

  “All true. He’s a right lazy bastard, to be sure, or a cunning one. Just consider the possibility, and he does have an estate near Stonebridge Park. Also, your father mentions our would-be assassin, Murphy, in his notes. Are we still holding him, by the by?”

  “Yes, MacLeod has him. He’s pretending to befriend him in order to get him to open up more.”

  “Good. I don’t know how your father found out about Murphy; he just identifies him as the assassin. And he suspected Murphy had headed straight for Swindon’s estate to convalesce from his injury.”

  “Well, it all fits, but it’s difficult to look past Swindon’s character and picture him in a role of power like this. And he would have to be in a position of power for no one to have suspected him of being involved in the Society before now.”

  Stonebridge relaxed down into his chair and banged his head on the back as he stared up at the coffered ceiling and tried to make sense of a world where a lazy coward could be responsible for murder.

  “Yet a difficult theory to swallow, to be sure,” added Dansbury.

  “And this writ of execution? I suppose Swindon’s signature isn’t conveniently printed there amongst the others?”

  “Of course not. The document appears to have been partially burned, such that at least two signatures might be missing.” Cliff started laughing, though he tried to control it. “Oh, I can’t help it. I’m trying very hard not to laugh at these clowns for writing up a formal document spelling out their intent to murder the prime minister. What arrogant bastards. It’s a solicitor’s dream come true to be sure. I’d give anything to know who the scribe was. I wonder how much they paid him off to keep quiet. Look at the detail in the stationary heading…” Cliff leaned forward to hand over the document. “It’s meticulous and gold leafed on top of that.”

  Stonebridge didn’t bother to take it, but continued staring at the ceiling. “Good. It should make it easy to track down the scribe then. An expert will be able to come up with a list of people who have the skills and not many will have that kind of talent. Not to mention that they each have their own signature style. It works to our advantage.”

  “I really hate to mention this, but Radclyffe was known for having this talent. It was one of the many things I learned from our Grace…Miss Radclyffe…while on our journey to Stonebridge Park.”

  The duke lifted his head and looked over at his friend at his mention of Grace by name. He wanted to shout: “Yes, and what else did you discover about our Grace over the thousands of miles you traveled with her, practically alone?” But that would have shed too much light on his inner turmoil. As it was, Cliff looked pointedly at his clenched hands. Bad enough he gave away subtle signs at every turn. And Cliff was far too observant to miss them.

  Stonebridge relaxed his hands and laid his head back to ponder the ceiling again. Huh. There was a crack in the plaster and a missing piece of dental molding. After a moment while each man sat in silence, considering their own inner thoughts, he said, “I’ll find out if there is someone who can verify this as Radclyffe’s work while you’re in Oxford.”

  “Oxford?”

  “Yes, to speak with Mr. Smythe. You’re better than I at persuading people to talk. We need to find out why he was named Miss Radclyffe’s guardian and why she went to live with Swindon instead.”

  “Fine. It just so happens I have Mr. Smythe’s direction and had promised to connect with him in future. He’s moved in with his sister for now. I’ll leave tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Smythe is not with his sister.”
<
br />   “He’s not?”

  “No. I’ve reinstalled him in the quarters above the bookstore for now.” Stonebridge knew Cliff would question his motivation for taking care of the situation in Oxford personally. His friend didn’t disappoint.

  “I see. Ah, Ambrose? What are your intentions toward Miss Radclyffe? Do you care for her?”

  Stonebridge sat up from his reclined position and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He looked his friend in the eye.

  “Cliff, we’ve been friends for a lifetime, and for all that you know better than to ask me a question you know I have no intention of answering. And—” The duke took a breath and looked down to his feet for a moment before he looked back up at Cliff with renewed conviction. “—you know how important it is that I do my duty to the dukedom. Nothing is more important. Nothing.”

  The duke stood and made his way to the far side of the library to pour himself a glass of brandy. There was nothing else Cliff could say to that.

  Cliff did not track his movements, but rather, picked up his own drink from the table before speaking, his back to the duke. “There was another interesting item in the lockbox I have yet to mention.”

  Stonebridge practically dropped the decanter onto the bar. He set down the crystal stopper and waited. The crystal rolled in a semicircle until it tapped the side of the vessel with a clink.

  “There was a sealed letter to Miss Radclyffe from her father.”

  “Go on.”

  “In it, Radclyffe urges her to go to Smythe and to stay away from the earl. I believe Radclyffe was frightened for her welfare, and I think Smythe might know more than we realize. It’s even possible, depending on whose side we find he was on, Radcliffe was murdered for what he knew. I’ve never asked Grace about the circumstances surrounding her father’s death.”