What the Duke Wants

by Amy Quinton

  As such, I shall expect you within an hour of receipt of this letter. Do not further disappoint me on this or the consequences will be unpleasant for you and your friends working for the Beckett Family.

  Sincerely and Affectionately, Your Uncle by Law,

  Lord George Beckett, Earl of Swindon

  She choked back a sob, choosing instead to harness her anger and inner strength. The nerve of that judgmental, fat bastard. She ran into the library looking for paper to send off a quick note of her own. Dansbury had warned her that if she had any contact from her uncle, to notify him immediately—and if he wasn’t here, to notify Stonebridge. Well, she may not want to notify His Grace, but she trusted Dansbury. And until he arrived, she would repeatedly remind herself that her racing heart was caused by anxiety over the note from her uncle and not due to anticipation of seeing the duke again.

  Chapter 17

  Grace was pacing the library floor, her nerves on edge, when Stonebridge arrived per her summons. She furtively wiped her clammy hands on her dress as the butler stepped aside to admit him. He looked handsome as always and was dressed to perfection—not overdone, but simple, pressed, and well-tailored. He was clearly concerned, though, and he did not hesitate; he strode across the room with long strides, and grasped her hands in his.

  “Grace, I came straightaway. What has happened?”

  “Dansbury said I should contact you if he wasn’t here.”

  At his nod of agreement, she released his hands, walked over to the large library table in the center of the room, and picked up the letter from her uncle. She turned and handed it to the duke, who had followed in her wake.

  “It’s easier if you just read it,” she said and stepped back, hands clasped behind her, as he began.

  She watched him, taking advantage of his distraction to study the beauty of his face and the concern etched clearly on his brow. She watched his lips, so full and seductive, move as he mouthed the words as he read. She longed to reach up and kiss the corner of his mouth. She was overcome with awareness but chased the thought away.

  When he finished, he looked up at her and searched her eyes a moment before he smiled. He was trying to reassure her with that smile, but also, she detected a hint of pride in it.

  He was proud of her? She smiled in return to let him know she was fine.

  “Grace, do not worry. I shall speak to your uncle today. You must remain here at Lady Harriett’s house.”

  “But, why? Not that I’m anxious to return to Beckett House or anything. I just can’t help but think something is going on. What is going on, Duke? And what of my friends in Beckett House? Are they in some sort of danger? Does this have anything to do with my father knowing your father?”

  “Why would you say that?”

  She chose not to answer, saying instead, “Are you forever going to be suspicious of me and of my father? I keep thinking we’re moving past that, yet it seems like you are never truly letting go of your doubts.”

  “Grace, until I have the answers, and proof to support them, I will always be suspicious. It’s why I’m good at what I do. I refuse to let my desires and feelings rule my head.”

  “But I want you to trust me.” She shook her fist at him in frustration.

  “And I want you to trust me like you do Dansbury.”

  She snatched back her letter, walked over to the fireplace on the far wall, and tossed the letter in. She turned back to face him—brushing her hands together as if ridding them of something foul. Again, he had followed in her wake.

  “To earn trust, you first have to be trustworthy and demonstrate trust in the other person in return. Do you trust me, Duke?”

  “Yes. I want to.”

  She heard the unspoken ‘but’ in that statement and wanted to stamp her foot in aggravation. Stupid, stupid man.

  He stepped closer, close enough for her skirts to brush his leg.

  “Don’t you ever just go on instinct, Your Grace?”

  He took another step, and this time she had to tilt her head back to see his face.

  “Yes. In fact, my instinct, right now, is screaming for me to kiss you. Tell me, Grace, would you welcome my kiss?”

  He looked at her and desire flared to life in their eyes. Their craving was mutual, and a dangerous, forbidden thing.

  * * * *

  Grace nodded in answer to his question, though he would have missed it if he weren’t studying her so keenly. Relief warred with warning bells in his brain. He touched her face, rubbed his thumb across the smooth satin of her cheek—he was amazed at the softness. She leaned into his hand, and that was all it took for the dam to break. He slid his hand around the back of her neck and pulled her to him as his lips swooped down and captured hers—at long last.

  Their kiss was voracious at first, the culmination of desire thwarted for much too long. He arms slid down and encircled her, pulled her close—body to body. Toe to toe.

  Mine.

  After his initial ravenous fill, he slowed the kiss—to savor her. To know her. He kissed the corners of her mouth, one and then the other, as he had wanted to do on far too many occasions in the past. He kissed the center of her bottom lip, and lightly bit at it, and she laughed at his playfulness. That laugh, so seductive and womanly, jolted him to his boots, and he knew he could hear that laugh every single day for the rest of his life and never, ever tire of hearing it.

  He touched his forehead to hers, content to stand there and be near her for the moment—pretending for a while that they were different people in a different place. A place where they could be together. Yet all too soon reality, in the form of Lady Harriett, intruded upon their idyll.

  “I say, with all the carryings on in here, there’s no need for the fire; might save us a bit with the coal man if you two keep that up.” Lady Harriett chuckled with amusement as she barged into the library. “Now, step away from the gel, Duke, before I have to order a maid mop you up off of the floor, heh, heh. We’ll have none of that going on under my roof, mind, unless you’re willing to do the smart thing and put a ring on that gel’s finger.”

  He lifted his head, but held on a moment longer. He didn’t want to let go. And the thought of marrying her despite the scandal sounded much too good right now.

  I really needed to get my head out of the clouds. Marriage? To Grace? Impossible. Wonderful.

  Grace, having similar ideas, though probably stemming more from embarrassment, pressed her forehead to his chest for a moment more before stepping back and out of his arms. He regretted the loss. And the fullness of her skirts there to hide the evidence of his desire.

  “Well come on then, Duke. Pull yourself together. Think about shoveling snow or mucking out stalls for a minute, then, when you’re able, come around and give this ole gel a hug. You should have sent word you were coming by, I would have laid out coffee. I have half a mind to toss you out on your ear, boy, for not warning me. I’ll make a note of it for future.”

  He turned fifty shades of red and did, indeed, think about mucking out filthy stalls before he was able to turn around. He didn’t easily embarrass, but this was Auntie Harriett, and her good opinion meant the world to him, though he suspected she was far from disappointed. In fact, judging from the gleam twinkling in her eye, he was sure she was altogether delighted over the idea that he was in here kissing her temporary ward.

  He walked over to where Aunt Harriett was standing just inside the door.

  “Aunt Harriett, it’s a pleasure to see you as always.”

  “Oh stuff it, Duke. While I know you are glad to see me, you needn’t sound so formal about it. Are you planning to stay for a visit?”

  He had barely opened his mouth to respond before she answered for him. “No, of course not. I know you’re a busy man, but one of these days you’re going to need to slow down and learn to appreciate some of the simpler things in life…mark my words. And, yes, I can anticipate your next question before you even ask it. And no, you know me better than that. I am not go
ing to chastise Grace for kissing you in my library. She’s the innocent here; you, however? Not so much.”

  He smiled at the woman he loved like a mother. She was one of a kind to be sure, and as much as he wanted to prove her wrong, he knew she was right. He had an earl to see. Especially now that he knew Swindon expected Grace’s arrival within the next few minutes. And time was slipping away. So without much further discussion, he said his good byes and took his leave.

  * * * *

  As soon as he left the room, Lady Harriett homed in on Grace, who was trying desperately to blend in with the curtains on the opposite wall. It was so easy to be overlooked at the Becketts' house—here, not so much (to use Lady Harriett’s favorite turn of phrase).

  Lady Harriett smiled, a mischievous look on her countenance, and said, “Now, come over here, gel, and tell me all about how you’re going to snare that handsome duke for your own.”

  * * * *

  Beckett House, London…

  Later that same morning…

  “I have just one more item to mention, my lord. The property in Oxford, your niece’s bookshop and apartment on the High Street, has been purchased by an anonymous buyer for 1775.51 pounds,” said Mr. Clerkson, Swindon’s secretary.

  “Excellent, most excellent,” replied the earl, salivating over the vast sum as he rubbed his hands together in greedy anticipation of adding to his own coffers. A knock at the door prompted his secretary to rise and make ready to leave; their meeting was at an end anyway.

  “Come in.”

  The butler opened the door at his summons and announced, “The Duke of Stonebridge, my lord,” and stepped aside to allow the duke to enter. There was no question as to whether or not he was ‘at home’ to the duke.

  “Your Grace, what a pleasant surprise. Come in, come in. Brandy? Cigar?”

  “No, thank you, Swindon.”

  “Fine. Fine. To what do I owe this honor, Your Grace?”

  “I’m here to discuss Miss Radclyffe and one final detail regarding Beatryce’s settlements.”

  Swindon’s eyes bulged out of his head.

  “Your Grace.” He had stood upon the duke’s arrival. Now he plopped back into his chair, shaking his head in forced dismay. “I am dreadfully sorry about her. We’ve tried our best; honest, we have. I think it’s her common blood…”

  “Pray stop before you say something you will regret, Swindon. Miss Radclyffe has been a most agreeable companion to my dear friend, Lady Harriett; nevertheless, I am concerned. Lady Harriett seemed particularly distressed this morning over the idea that Miss Radclyffe was planning to remove herself from Dansbury House and spend the rest of her time in London, here—at Beckett House.”

  “Of course, you see, Your Grace…”

  “Naturally, since I am fond of Lady Harriett—you realize she’s like a mother to me—I assured her that I would handle the situation as I find the thought of her in distress most distasteful.”

  “Certainly, I understand, Your…”

  “Further, I assured Miss Radclyffe, though she vehemently denies it was anything but her own decision to leave so abruptly, that I would see to it she could stay with Lady Harriett for the remainder of the season—with your full blessing, of course.”

  Damn. Stonebridge had him cornered. He could only agree to allow Grace to stay with Lady Harriett. Shite.

  “Certainly, Your Grace. While I do miss my niece, she can stay with Lady Harriett for as long as she likes…with my full blessing, of course.”

  Stonebridge smiled and nodded his head in acknowledgement of the earl’s graciousness.

  “I am most pleased to hear that. I am sure both ladies will be relieved knowing you feel this way. Now, about Beatryce’s dowry, I believe we have come to a general agreement over the terms; however, I have one—trifling—change I would like to see. An addition to the total cash amount. It’s a negligible sum, really, but important for a project I am undertaking for a…special friend. Specifically, I would like to increase the cash portion of the dowry by…let me see, I have the figure written here. Ah, yes…1775.51 pounds.”

  Stonebridge looked up from his notes.

  Damn, damn, and damn. He knows. His ‘adjustment’ was the exact amount of the purchase price of Radclyffe’s shop.

  And Stonebridge was no longer smiling. Shite.

  “I see, Your Grace.”

  “Clearly, I hope.”

  “Well,” the earl choked out after wiping at his sweating forehead with a cloth, “I shall have my solicitor draw up the final papers then, if that is all.”

  “Indeed, that is all. For now.”

  Chapter 18

  Oxford…

  Grace’s Store…

  Dansbury walked into Grace’s bookstore and stopped, surprised by the work in progress. A counter was being constructed at the back of the room, and there, amidst the dust and commotion was his quarry, Mr. Smythe.

  Mr. Smythe, attentive to his surroundings, noticed him immediately.

  “Lord Dansbury, what a pleasant surprise. Welcome back,” Smythe said with a smile as he approached Dansbury, hand outstretched for a shake. He was a much more jovial and relaxed man than the one Dansbury met with Grace in this very room not three weeks before. He had a twinkle in his eye and a wide friendly grin. Even his clothes were less ragged, though still simple and tidy.

  “Mr. Smythe, it’s a pleasure to see you looking so well. I admit my friend said you would be here, but I am quite surprised to find all of this—” Dansbury gestured toward the room at large. “—going on. What is going on, by the by?”

  “Ah, you see, the d…er, new owner and I met briefly the last time he was here, and we discussed recreating this counter here; like it was before…for…well, before. So that’s what I’m doing, making it ready, as much as it is possible, for her. I mean, the new owner’s return.”

  “I see.” And indeed, Dansbury did see. He also noticed that Mr. Smythe did not mention Miss Radclyffe nor Stonebridge by name and had looked about him quite thoroughly before speaking of it at all. Smythe was being careful.

  “Yes, the new owner appears to be a generous man. Why don’t we go upstairs where we can find a cup of tea and speak in private?” Mr. Smythe gestured toward the doorway at the back of the shop.

  “By all means. After you,” Dansbury said with a smile.

  Once upstairs, Mr. Smythe directed him to a comfortable chair in a cozy drawing room. The man brought out a tray of tea and a plate filled with bread and cheese. Mrs. Smythe was not at home, so it was just the two of them.

  “I apologize for the mess. We’ve only just taken up residence within the last week, you see. Most of the pieces here belong to Miss Radclyffe. When the earl tossed us out, I had them all stored in a barn just outside of town until I could figure out what to do with it all. Lucky for me, His Grace swooped in and sought to restore everything for Miss Radclyffe.”

  “I noticed, before, that you did not refer to Miss Radclyffe or Stonebridge by name when we spoke downstairs. Why not? And why are you speaking so openly of them now?”

  Mr. Smythe assessed him for a moment until he seemed to come to some sort of decision.

  “The duke said you might be by here, and that I can trust you. Miss Radclyffe also seemed to trust you when we met before, which carries the most weight in my book. So I’ll try to be frank and hope that I am as good a judge of character as I think I am. The earl is monstrous, and there is no doubt in my mind that he has people watching this place all of the time—he has done for years.”

  “Did you happen to mention this to the duke?”

  “No, I did not. The subject never came up. As I said before, we met only briefly and the entire discussion centered on restoring this place, better than it was before, for Miss Radclyffe.”

  Dansbury measured the man before him and decided to trust him. He decided that the best way to approach the man was with upfront honesty.

  “Mr. Smythe, the duke and I are part of a team of agents working fo
r the crown. We’re attempting to determine the members of a secret society of Englishmen who are determined to purge England of all immigrants. They call themselves—”

  “The Society for the Purification of England.”

  “You’ve heard of them.”

  “Yes—sanctimonious bastards that they are, I know of them. Sorry, you were saying?”

  “Precisely. Hmmm, we’ll come back to how you know of them in a moment. As I was saying, we believe they are responsible for attempting to murder Prime Minister Pitt the Younger in ‘78 and for successfully murdering the previous Duke of Stonebridge the month after. We discovered a “Writ of Execution” calling for the assassination of the Prime Minister, though it is not intact with some of the names burned away. We suspect Swindon’s involvement, possibly in some capacity of power.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me, though I have no evidence to support it.”

  “Yes. Well, we also know that the former duke knew John Radclyffe. I must admit, we are attempting to discern Mr. Radclyffe’s involvement in all of this. We want to determine the truth and hold the men responsible accountable for their actions. So I’ll ask you straight out, was Mr. Radclyffe a traitor?”

  “First, I can tell you, my lord, that despite suggestions to the contrary, Mr. Radclyffe, John, was sympathetic to the Irish. I know you do not hear it in me now, but I was born in Ireland myself. Through the years I have worked to refine my accent; despite it, John took me on as his apprentice and the decision to work out my Irish accent was one I made on my own. John would never be involved in any nefarious scheme to kill anyone—for any reason. John was the kindest man I knew; the kindest man I know.”

  Mr. Smythe paused to take a sip of his tea. Dansbury waited patiently for him to continue, pleased that his assessment of Mr. Smythe was spot on.

  Mr. Smythe continued, “I can confirm that the previous duke and John were friends. They knew each other at Oxford. And they maintained contact with each other through the years. I actually have some of their correspondence, and I feel comfortable passing that on to you before you leave today. But you must pass them on to the duke.”