Falling Into Bed with a Duke (Hellions of Havisham)

by Lorraine Heath

  Breathing rapidly, she leaned back slightly, trying to see him more clearly, but they were lost in the darkness. Still, she could feel his gaze homing in on her.

  “I could speak to your father tomorrow evening,” he said. “If you’re agreeable.”

  A bubble of laughter escaped before she could stop it. She pressed her fingers to her mouth as joy spiraled through her. “You keep talking of marriage, but I find it difficult to believe that you truly want me for an eternity.”

  “I shall spend the remainder of my life demonstrating that I do.” He cupped her cheek. “You complete me.”

  She wanted to believe him. He’d given her no reason not to.

  “I’m not like the others,” he said quietly.

  Pressing her face to his chest, she welcomed his arms coming around her, holding her near. No, he wasn’t like the others. He’d never been. The fault was with her. She who was so confident in all matters save this one. He might not say that he loved her, but surely he did. Otherwise, he would have walked away long ago.

  “Yes,” she whispered nodding. Tilting her head back, she met his gaze. “Yes,” she said more loudly. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

  He slashed his mouth over hers. She felt the joy cascading through him, through her. He wanted her. She was lovable. She was going to have her own happily-ever-after.

  Chapter 18

  IT was strange, but when Minerva awoke that morning, everything felt so much brighter, as though every color in the world had become richer.

  Standing behind a curtain while an assistant helped her into her clothing after a fitting for a new gown, Minerva wondered if she should go ahead and talk with the seamstress about her wedding gown. She and Ashe hadn’t discussed how quickly they would marry, but she didn’t want to wait overly long. The end of the Season, perhaps. Certainly not the end of the year.

  During the last dance, they’d spoken not a word. After their torrid encounter in the garden, after his stating he would speak with her father, what more was there to say? He’d made his claim, and while he’d not voiced the words I love you, he’d certainly made it clear that he held her in high esteem and affection.

  He’d held her more closely during the waltz, he’d never once looked away. With his gaze, he communicated everything. He was offering her everything she’d ever dreamed of when gentlemen who barely gave her any attention danced with her. When they hinted that they were her last hope for a marriage and children. That she should be grateful for their attentions, just as they were for her dowry. No romantic notions of love but practicality had ruled the social scene for her.

  Until Ashe. Until he looked at her as though she were more than coins. Until he looked at her—

  “I simply think it’s sad is all,” a lady said coming into the fitting room. “She wore such a moony-eyed expression as they were dancing last night. I thought at any moment she was going to swoon right into his arms. I feel rather sorry for her, making such a fool of herself with him.”

  “I can’t blame her,” another woman said, and Minerva knew that voice. Lady Honoria. “He is the most dashing of the hellions.”

  Everything within Minerva turned to ice. She couldn’t be talking about Ashe. While Minerva considered him dashing, she knew many ladies preferred the playfulness of Edward. Surely, she was referring to him, causing some lady to swoon.

  “To be sure.” She recognized the speaker now. Lady Hyacinth. “I simply find it ironic that she wrote a book on how to identify fortune hunters, and she has failed completely in identifying one and has been totally ensnared by someone who is after her dowry.”

  The assistant reached for the curtain. Minerva grabbed her arm, shook her head, held a finger to her lips.

  “Are you quite sure he’s after her fortune?”

  “Quite. My brother has the same man of business as Ashebury. He’d stopped by to see Nesbit some time back and he overhead Ashebury shouting about his coffers being empty. Of course, my brother made a hasty retreat, not wanting to embarrass the duke when he emerged from Nesbit’s office. But there you have it. Winslow even suggested that I set my cap for Ashebury, as my dowry is nothing to sneeze at. I tried, but it became obvious rather quickly that he needs a substantial amount more than what I can offer. Where is the assistant? I really must get on with this fitting.”

  Minerva released the woman’s arm, gave her a nod. She slipped out between the slight gap in the curtains, while Minerva leaned back against the wall, barely able to draw in a breath. She’d dared to believe that he wanted her.

  Perhaps she’d been partially influenced by how precious he’d made her feel at the Nightingale. She’d fallen a little bit in love with him there, carried the emotion with her when she left rather than leaving it behind as she should have done. She’d allowed it to blind her to the truth.

  He might have been more polished and subtle about it, but he wanted from her what every other man only wanted: her dowry.

  HE was sitting at his desk, papers strewn over the top of it, head bent, hair mussed as though he’d tunneled his fingers through it repeatedly. Standing in the doorway, Minerva thought he’d never looked more appealing, and a tight painful ball formed just behind her breastbone. She’d fallen in love with him, but he was as much a fabrication as Lady V.

  She’d arrived at Ashebury Place and—with a secretive smile and a wink—she’d managed to convince the butler to allow her to surprise the duke with her arrival. Having been in this room before, she’d not required an escort. Her heart had been thundering so heavily that she was surprised he’d not heard her walking down the hallway. Then she’d laid eyes on him, and everything had settled into a dull ache.

  “Your coffers are empty,” she said quietly, but still he must have heard her because his head came up swiftly, and if ever there was a person who looked guilty, it was he.

  Shoving back his chair, he rose to his full height, reached for his jacket draped over the back of the chair, and shrugged into it with one smooth movement. “Minerva, what a pleasant surprise. I wasn’t expecting you.”

  Walking toward him, she was amazed that her legs retained the strength to propel her forward. “Your coffers are empty.”

  He arched a brow. “Is that a question?”

  Stopping before the desk, she ran her gaze over him, his perfect bone structure, his perfectly proportioned features. She’d wondered why he’d begun giving her attention, and he’d made her believe that her imperfections didn’t matter. “Are your coffers empty?”

  “Nearly so, yes. How did you learn of it?”

  At least he hadn’t lied, denied it. She’d give him that. “At my seamstress’s of all places. Apparently someone heard from someone else … you know how it goes. There are no secrets among the aristocracy. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t see that it made a difference.”

  She stared at him. “Not make a difference? How could it not? You need my dowry.”

  “Just because my coffers are bare does not mean I was in pursuit of your dowry.”

  She jutted up her chin. “Are you saying it wasn’t a consideration?”

  Somberly, he said, “No.”

  That simple word deflated her. She looked at the papers strewn over his desk, columns of numbers neatly laid out in contrast to the disarray in which the ledgers were arranged. She spied a blue corner peering out, a familiar blue. Snatching it up, at the sight of the painstakingly written A Lady’s Guide to Ferreting Out Fortune Hunters, she was aware of her soul crumbling. The edges were worn, the spine cracked—the usual sign of a book well loved, well read. Well studied. She flipped through the pages. He’d even made notes in the margins.

  She raised her eyes to his. “I thought I was providing information to the ladies. Instead, I provided you with the strategy on how not to get caught.”

  “This doesn’t change anything, Minerva.”

  “It changes everything. You needn’t bother to speak with my father this evening. I have no intention of mar
rying you now.”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “You deceived me.”

  “I’m certain there are things about yourself you’ve not told me.”

  “Nothing as bad as this. You wasted your inheritance. You traveled the world, sought out pleasures, while your estates languished. Did you think there would be no consequences to your unbridled spending, to your failure to take responsibility?”

  “I’m taking responsibility now.”

  “It’s too late. I will not marry a man I cannot respect, and I cannot respect a man who allows his financial situation to get to this state”—she swept her hand over the desk—“and then expects a lady’s dowry to undo the damage.” She was not a woman who cried, and yet she felt the sting of tears. “You should have been honest with me, Ashebury.”

  Turning on her heel, she headed for the doorway. She’d nearly reached it when his voice echoed around her, through her. Full of confidence, warning, and victory.

  “I’m not certain you’re in a position to deny me … Lady V.”

  ASHE was angry at the accusations she’d thrown out at him. What did she know of his struggles, of how he’d come to be in his position? Why did she discount his feelings for her just because he was in need of her dowry?

  Spinning around, she glared at him. “Are you threatening me with blackmail? Do you really think I’m the sort to be intimidated by such poppycock? What passed between us doesn’t change anything. I won’t marry you.”

  He strode across the room, stopping only when he was near enough to smell the verbena. “I’m certain your father will feel very differently when he learns that I deflowered you.”

  “It will be your word against mine.”

  If she didn’t look at him with such loathing in the depths of her brown eyes, he might have let her go, but she’d stung his pride. “Truly? Because all of London knows about the heart-shaped birthmark at the bottom of your right hip? Even with your skirts on, I can lay my finger unerringly against it. What will he say then?”

  “He won’t force me to marry a man I have no desire to marry.”

  “And what will London say when they find out that the prim and proper Miss Dodger visited the Nightingale Club three times?”

  “You won’t divulge that. They’ll kick you out. You’ll never be welcomed there again.”

  “What need will I have for the Nightingale when I have a wife to satisfy all my baser needs?”

  “You’re mad if you think I’d welcome you into my bed.”

  “You’re too sensual a creature to not welcome me, to deny yourself the pleasure I can bring you.”

  “Arrogant prig.”

  He gave her one of his more devilish smiles, designed to conquer a woman’s heart. “Don’t be a fool, Minerva. Yes, I need your dowry to set my financial matters to rights, but that doesn’t mean that things can’t be good between us. Things are good between us. The Nightingale proved that.” Before she could react, he grabbed her, drew her in close, and slanted his mouth over hers, determined to remind her of the passion that flared so easily between them, to spark her desire, to—

  The pain hit low, hard, sharp, and doubled him over. His knees slammed to the floor, the rest of him smashed against it, and he curled into a fetal position, fighting to catch his breath.

  “I will not marry a man I cannot love,” she stated flatly, “a man who does not love me.”

  Through his watering eyes, all he saw were her skirts and the heels of her shoes as she made her way out of his library, out of his life.

  Chapter 19

  SHE refused to cry. The stinging in her eyes was the result of London’s wretched air, not her heart’s breaking.

  “I am going to take out an advert in the Times announcing that I will never marry and am no longer entertaining suitors.”

  After returning home, she’d joined her parents in the library. They stared at her following her announcement while she merely tossed back the scotch she’d poured for herself after entering the room.

  “Has something happened?” her mother asked.

  “I misjudged Ashebury’s affections.”

  “How far did you misjudge them?” her father asked, eyes narrowed. She knew his anger wasn’t directed at her.

  “Far enough that he might think you will force me to marry him. But I will not, under any circumstances, marry him.”

  Her father stood. “Difficult to marry a dead man.”

  “Sit down, Father.”

  He narrowed his eyes further.

  “Please.”

  He dropped down onto the sofa beside her mother, who placed her hand over his balled fist, resting on his thigh.

  “I did something I ought not,” Minerva said, “which I will not elaborate on. I don’t regret it. I simply regret that I allowed my judgment to be impaired. I thought he wanted me, but as it turns out, he needs my dowry. I can see now that whenever I asked after his finances, he didn’t give me a direct answer. So I was a fool.”

  “You weren’t a fool,” her mother said kindly. “He’s very charming. It’s understandable that you would like him and trust him. It’s also understandable that being raised as he was, he might not fully comprehend love.”

  Minerva shook her head. “Don’t make excuses for his behavior. All of London makes excuses for the hellions. None of us has a perfect life. We make the best of it.”

  “What’s not perfect in yours?” her father asked.

  “No man loves me.”

  “I love you.”

  The air was getting worse. The damn tears were threatening. “I shall be content with that.”

  “Taking out an advert seems a bit excessive,” her mother said.

  “I don’t want any gentleman callers.”

  “I shall inform the staff.”

  “I especially don’t want to see Ashebury.”

  “You won’t,” her father said.

  “Neither do I want him dead.”

  “Bruised?”

  She couldn’t help it. She released a light laugh. “No, although I do believe I left him bruised.”

  “Left hook?”

  “No. A little trick Lovingdon taught me. He’d be proud. I would tell him about it, but then he’d threaten to kill Ashebury, and I can’t hold you both at bay.”

  “Perhaps you and I should go on holiday somewhere,” her mother said.

  “I have something else in mind. I’ll share once I’ve worked out the details. But rest assured, I’m not going to mope about here. I intend to take steps to ensure that I never again cross paths with Ashebury or any other fortune hunter.”

  THE winds shrieking over the moors buffeted the coach as it turned onto the long drive leading to Havisham Hall. Ashe couldn’t claim to have a sense of going home, but he did experience a bit of bittersweet nostalgia at the gloominess settling in that would soon cloak the moors in moon-shadowed darkness. Profound sadness had visited him here, but he’d also known some of his happier moments.

  The Marquess of Marsden had not been a particularly attentive guardian, but neither had he neglected his charges. He would join them at meals, telling them tales of his youth, ones that included Ashe’s father as well as the Earl of Greyling. Through Marsden, Ashe had been given insights into his father as he would have never envisioned him: a rabble-rouser, a student who struggled with his studies, a lad who enjoyed a good prank.

  Sometimes, when the wind was quiet, Ashe would catch a glimpse of the man the marquess had been before he lost his wife in childbirth, before he stopped all the clocks at the precise moment of her death. To love a woman such as that—Ashe didn’t know if it would be a blessing or a curse.

  The coach drew to a stop in front of the manor house that no longer seemed as large and foreboding as it had to his eight-year-old self. He knew the rooms, the hallways, the shadowed corners as well as he knew his own hand. No one emerged to greet him, but then he wasn’t a guest. He was family of sorts. Comfortable here, he bounded up the steps and throu
gh the front door. Silence greeted him. The clocks still didn’t tick, didn’t move forward, didn’t mark time.

  Candles flickered to light the way. He strode down the familiar hall, glancing in through doorways as he went, not surprised that he didn’t find an occupied room until he reached the library. A single flame on a waxed taper set on the ebony desk revealed the bent head of Viscount Locksley as he made notations in a ledger. He glanced up, smiled.

  “Ashe, what the devil? You should have let me know you were coming.”

  He shoved himself away from the desk and met Ashe halfway, shaking his hand, clapping him on the shoulder. “What brings you here?”

  That discussion was for later. “How’s your father?”

  “Mad as ever.” Turning away, Locke crossed over to the sideboard and splashed scotch into two glasses. He handed one to Ashe. “He’s sleeping now. He’ll enjoy seeing you tomorrow.” He sat in a chair before a lazy fire, stretched out his legs. “Bored with London already? Planning our next adventure?”

  Ashe took the chair opposite him. “Planning mine at least. I’m thinking perhaps it’s time I married.”

  “Good God. What’s brought this on?”

  He wasn’t ready to confess. “We’re getting up in years.”

  “We’re not even thirty.”

  “I’m closer than you are.” By two years.

  “But not there yet.” With a blunt-tipped finger, he tapped his tumbler, considering, his green eyes penetrating. Locke had always been the watcher of the group, taking his time, considering all angles, knocking down façades. Perhaps because he’d been cursed with having to witness his father’s gradual decline into madness.

  Ashe supposed that was an advantage to not having his parents about. He didn’t have to witness their aging and infirmity. Although their sudden departure had very nearly destroyed him. While he didn’t want to trade places with Locke, he had no luck squelching that little spark of envy because Locke could at least still talk with his father.

  “Who’s the woman?” Locke asked solemnly.

  “Miss Minerva Dodger.”

  Locke gave a low whistle. “You’ll live like a prince off the money she brings into the marriage.”