Book Boyfriends Cafe Summer Lovin' Anthology 2015

by Melinda Curtis

  "Oh, Devon—" Charlotte's sweet voice halted them all. "Do remember that Jack needs some entertainment, stuck here as he is without a flat in London. Don't keep our guest too long."

  Miranda watched in amazement as the duke pressed his lips together and nodded curtly at his step-mother. "Of course, Charlotte," he said without any inflection at all in his voice.

  Miranda followed Devon across the foyer, feeling like a child about to get a scolding. She wondered if everyone in the family got that sinking sensation when the duke frowned. Really, someone needed to take him down a notch or two.

  Chapter 7

  On the far side of the foyer, the duke opened a door and waited, indicating that Miranda should precede him again. Although there was room enough to pass comfortably through the doorway, she was surprised to catch a quick breath of a pleasing scent. Hmmm. Devon smelled of the outdoors, clean air and greenery. With a hint of a musky, male note underneath. She wanted to linger. Of course, she couldn't.

  She stepped into the library, halting so abruptly that he bumped into her.

  "Excuse me." He stepped back, and she turned to apologize, only to notice his nostrils flaring. Was he smelling her?

  "Sorry," she said. "This library is amazing." She scanned the room, almost overwhelmed with the richness of all the leather-bound books, the iron scrollwork forming a gallery at the level of the second floor, the Oriental carpets stretching across the floor. Several round tables were scattered through the enormous room. Each had a chair or two close by for relaxing with a good book.

  Directly inside the door, a square table held a magnificent chess set. She figured Devon probably played. Chess was a complex game requiring mental acuity and strategic thinking. She didn't doubt that he'd excel at the game.

  The tall stacks of books were broken at intervals by burgundy walls, which were themselves closely covered with artwork stretching all the way to the tall ceiling. Over the large fireplace on one wall hung an enormous oval mirror decorated with a coat of arms. The duke's, no doubt.

  At the far end of the room, in front of a double set of French doors, stood a mahogany desk. The computer equipment on the desk seemed oddly out of place.

  Clearly, Devonwood did not intend to have a comfortable discussion at one of the cozy seating areas. He headed straight for the desk and assumed his position of authority behind it.

  He nodded at the two hard-backed wooden chairs facing the desk and Miranda, annoyed at her own cowardly obedience, sat down.

  "Ms. Foxglove." He opened the hostilities with a direct attack. "Your ploy will not work."

  Her heart stopped. "My ploy?" she repeated weakly.

  "I don't know how you wangled an invitation to stay for dinner." He raised a hand. "Nor do I want to know. No doubt it had something to do with Jack's tender susceptibilities and your delightful smile."

  Her delightful smile? Was that a compliment?

  "Jack invited me to stay for dinner. Does he have that right?"

  He made a dismissive motion with his hand. "You aren't intending to dally with Jack."

  "You know that how?"

  His lips turned up in a small smile. "You'd chew him up and spit him out."

  She stiffened. Was he insulting her? "I'm surprised you think you know me so well after such a short acquaintance."

  "I know women." His smile disappeared. "Enough fencing. What is your purpose in prolonging your stay when I've already denied your request for money?"

  "You knew I wouldn't give up," she countered. "Why weren't you surprised to see me at dinner?"

  He gave her a direct gaze that she figured he thought was intimidating. "I allow Charlotte to think she runs the household. But everyone on the property, from the butler on down to the lowest stable hand, knows who signs the payroll."

  Ouch. She heard that warning. Devon was not the kind of man to miss what was going on in his own domain.

  She shrugged carelessly. "Sharmie didn't feel well. We couldn't subject her to a long car trip back to London."

  "Indeed." His brow quirked and she read the clear skepticism in his gaze. "I trust you won't discover, let us say, car troubles tomorrow."

  "Tell me—" She leaned forward and placed her forearms on his desk. "Am I the only one who thinks you're paranoid?"

  "You tell me—" Matching her move, he confronted her over the expanse of the wide desk. "Have I given you reason to believe I'm the sort of man who might change his mind?"

  "I hope any rational man would keep his mind open to logic and reason."

  "I've yet to hear any logic and reason from you."

  She slapped her hand on the desk. "Then you aren't listening. What does it matter to you what we do with our money?"

  "I have a fiduciary responsibility as the trustee of your estate to maintain your capital. Especially on behalf of the minor children."

  "You think we won't take care of the twins? We love them!"

  "Love is a poor provider when compared to money."

  "I'm not surprised to hear you say that!" She let her eyes roam around the magnificent library. Generations of men had certainly dedicated themselves to the pursuit of money in this family.

  Temper flashed on his face. "You're scarcely advancing your cause to disdain money. Trust me, its absence is not conducive to an enjoyable life."

  She couldn't help rolling her eyes. "As if you would know anything about the absence of money."

  He pressed his lips together tightly. "Once again, we are straying from the point."

  "Well, what is the point? You asked for this meeting."

  He drew a deep breath, deliberately, as if demonstrating to her how much he needed to harness his patience to deal with her, like she was a recalcitrant child.

  Temper blazed through her.

  "Ms. Foxglove," he said. "I think I've come up with a good compromise, shall we say, to meet your request and allow you and Mrs. Foxglove to return to New York and resume your lives."

  Hope spurted within her. "I'm glad to hear that. I knew you could be reasonable."

  He shot her an annoyed glance. "First, I investigated the puzzle of why I was named trustee of your father's will."

  "And?" She leaned forward eagerly. If his father was the real trustee, someone—some court would have to assign a new trustee, surely.

  "Don't look so hopeful," he said wryly. "I don't know who made the mistake, but I am the ninth Duke of Devonwood, and that is the person named in the will. We must presume your father intended to assign the job to my father, the eighth duke, but he failed to do so."

  She leaned back into her seat, as his words tumbled around in her head. The face of the present duke superimposed itself on the image of an old and doddering duke which had occupied her mind since this all started.

  "Shit," she finally said.

  He bowed his head. "My sentiments exactly."

  "But you said you'd found a solution," she pointed out. "That can only mean you've come to your senses and decided to advance us some of our own money."

  "Yes." He smiled, but there was a trap in that smile. She saw it clearly. "I've given orders that the allowances that you and Mrs. Foxglove are accustomed to receive shall be advanced while the estate is probated. That should allow you to live in reasonable comfort, if you can't provide otherwise for yourselves."

  "Provide otherwise for ourselves—" she half-shrieked. "That takes ba—" She broke off, as awareness flared between them. The awareness that had been present since the first moment of their meeting. He was a damnably attractive man, and her entire body buzzed with excitement whenever she was in his company. She couldn't be sure if he felt the same way. He had excellent control of his emotions. But she'd seen a flare of heat more than once in his eyes. Of course, that might have been anger. However, the way he was looking at her right now suggested that he knew she'd been about to say 'balls' and he was smug with satisfaction that she had any sexual awareness of him.

  "You were about to say?" He raised his eyebrows.


  She had to wet her lips before she could speak over the dryness in her mouth. "It takes a lot of nerve for you to talk to me about supporting myself when you've inherited this." She waved at the magnificent library, crowded with priceless paintings and artifacts.

  "I don't think we need discuss my heritage," he said smoothly. "Your allowance will arrive in your bank account tomorrow." He rose from his seat, signaling the end of the interview.

  Miranda jumped to her feet and leaned over the desk. "You will not dismiss me like one of your dogs."

  His gaze fastened on her face and then, surprising her, moved to her lips. "Surely," he said, "you remember that both Jack and Sarah are awaiting your—ah—attentions."

  "First," she snapped, "I want to hear that you've made provisions to pay for my step-mother's wedding."

  "As I explained earlier, that is impossible." He spread his hands on his desk and leaned slightly toward her. "I don't wish to argue about it further."

  "I don't care what you wish! I am not your fairy godmother!"

  Unexpectedly, he grinned. "Enough, minx. You've played your cards, and the hand is done. Be grateful for the allowance."

  "You may be done. I am not."

  She smoldered. How dare he dismiss her as if she were Daisy, revealing his secrets? She wanted to continue arguing, until he relented. But Jack was waiting, and he might be a better lever. Arguing with Devonwood was a bit like trying to cut out a hat pattern with a pair of tweezers. You might succeed eventually, but the better course of action would be to find a new tool.

  She lifted her chin. "I trust," she said, "that I am now free to go to the village with Jack?"

  "You don't need my permission for that," he said coldly. "But do I need to warn Jack that you're a Venus fly-trap?"

  Her mouth snapped closed. "Jack might get lucky. But you don't need to have any fear I'll ever eat you!"

  Too late, her words traveled through her ears and into her head. She hadn't just said that, had she?

  The look in his eyes said otherwise. Amusement sparked first, and then was chased away by anger. Why would he be angry?

  "Never is a long time," he snapped. "Go make Jack's evening."

  Before she could move, the library door opened and the butler slipped inside.

  "What is it, Lotter?" Devon's voice had returned to its customary cool courtesy.

  The butler inclined his head. "Your grace, Mrs. Wilkins has requested the presence of Ms. Foxglove in Mrs. Foxglove's room."

  "What?" Miranda whirled around. "What's wrong?"

  "I have not been in attendance on Mrs. Foxglove myself," the butler said. "But I believe her condition has deteriorated."

  Devon's eyes narrowed. "Have a car and driver ready to take our guest to the hospital if it should become necessary."

  "Certainly, your grace." The butler made his little bow again and began to withdraw.

  Miranda rushed toward the door. She turned back to glare at the duke across the length of the library. "I'm not done with this conversation."

  Chapter 8

  Devon watched his new ward's pert backside rush out of the library. What a damned coil. Miranda Foxglove was a conniving minx, no doubt about that. But she was also a hot little number, with her almond shaped eyes and sleek black hair. He could certainly think of a few things he'd rather be doing to her than reading her a lecture in the library. But there was something incestuous about thinking of doing those things with someone who was under his financial control.

  He pushed back the bitterness that tried to sweep over him. No doubt, this was another problem his father had managed to dump on him, even from beyond the grave. More dependents. More people wanting something from him and giving nothing in return.

  He stoked his anger to avoid thinking about the way Miranda had been so warm and affectionate to everyone she met. Well, everyone but him, that is. How did people get to be that way? He'd never understand it. She and her step-mother clearly enjoyed a close relationship. They were always in near proximity to each other, and Miranda would lightly touch Sharmie's hand or arm whenever she wanted to get her attention. How did people touch each other non-sexually like that? Just thinking about it made something inside him seize up.

  Sarah and Jack were already fighting over her attentions. She'd even given Highgrove a warm smile when he left the office. Who the hell was Highgrove to her?

  All in all, despite the insistent demands of his body, the best solution was to get rid of the Foxgloves first thing in the morning.

  He pressed a button and Lotter immediately entered the library.

  "See if you can find Jack." Devon was ashamed to feel a little spurt of satisfaction that Sharmie's illness meant that Jack and Miranda wouldn't be going to the village tonight. Although he would never admit it, he envied Jack his easy charm. His brother was able to pursue a woman in whom he was interested without having to worry about conflicting responsibilities. Jack would never be stuck in the thankless role of trustee. He didn't have to chastise Daisy, or teach Godfrey his manners.

  No, Jack could flit off to the village for a drink and a spot of flirting and whatever else he might be able to charm out of Miranda, with her kitten-face and luscious mouth.

  "Yes, your grace." Lotter broke into his thoughts. Devon was glad for the interruption. He couldn't even think about that mouth without getting uncomfortable. There was no point torturing himself as the Foxgloves would definitely be leaving in the morning.

  Two minutes later, Jack slouched into the room, a glass of whiskey in one hand, and a pout in the other.

  "Was expecting a bit of liveliness tonight now that we finally have interesting guests," Jack said, "not another sermon from you."

  "Forget about the Foxgloves, Jack." Devon worked hard to keep his voice even. "We've concluded our business and they'll be leaving in the morning."

  "You don't want me to have any fun," Jack accused.

  "I don't want you to encourage them to stay. The younger one is very annoying."

  "Annoying because she prefers me to you?" Jack raised his brows. "I saw the way you were eying her at dinner like she was the main course."

  "How poetic, Jack." Devon yanked over his computer and opened it. He wasn't as fond of playing the tyrant as his family thought, but he didn't intend to be badgered in his own home. "Do as I say."

  ~*~

  "Sharmie!" Miranda burst into the room, guilt propelling her forward. "Are you sicker?"

  Sharmie opened her eyes. "Sorry." She glanced at Mrs. Wilkins, who was standing by the side of her bed. "So much trouble."

  "It's all my fault." Miranda knelt beside the bed.

  "Shhh…" Sharmie said weakly. "Of course it's not your fault." Her words were barely audible.

  Miranda looked up at the housekeeper. "What's wrong?"

  "She has a high fever and has been suffering from nausea." Mrs. Wilkins straightened a towel placed next to a clean bowl on the nightstand. Everything about the housekeeper was neat as a pin, from her gray, starched uniform, to her tidy bun. Her tall, bony frame gave her the appearance of a starving governess, rather than that of an extremely capable housekeeper.

  Miranda placed a hand on Sharmie's forehead. She was burning hot. "Should we take her to the hospital, Mrs. Wilkins? The duke said he would provide a car."

  "No," Sharmie whispered. "No hospital."

  "I don't believe she's sick enough for the hospital," Mrs. Wilkins said, turning to the door. "I'll leave you now but please call for assistance if necessary." She pointed to a sleek keypad by the door as she left.

  "Sharmie!" Miranda leaned over the bed. "I brought this on you. I tempted fate by pretending you were sick just so we could stay here."

  "Don't be silly." Sharmie's voice was weak. "But I don't think I'll be able to leave tomorrow."

  "You just focus on getting well. I'll deal with the duke if he intends to be difficult."

  ~*~

  In the morning, Miranda woke with a start, aware immediately that she was in the
luxurious home of the Duke of Devonwood. Her suite included not only a spacious bedroom, with tall windows overlooking a magnificent garden, but also an attached sitting room with a working fireplace, and a small balcony. The coral and pale yellow color scheme was both elegant, and unusual enough to be interesting.

  She didn't have time to admire the décor. Besides the fact that the duke was still denying their request for money, another problem was worrying her. Swinging her legs out of bed, she tried to avoid facing it. But it had to be dealt with.

  Sharmie was sick. Truly sick, not just feigning illness. Miranda dressed in a hurry, but she was guiltily aware that she was trying to look her best, just in case she ran into a certain very interesting man.

  Her rose sundress flattered her figure with its princess lines, and she slipped on a pair of high-heeled gold sandals, rather than the flip-flops she might have worn at a less illustrious address. She applied day makeup in the marble bath, and brushed her long hair until it gleamed.

  Her stomach rumbled. But she wanted to see Sharmie before going downstairs for breakfast.

  When she walked down the hall and knocked softly on Sharmie's door, she was surprised to see it opened by a uniformed nurse. The woman blocked the doorway, as if she were guarding the Crown jewels.

  "May I come in? I'm Miranda, your patient's step-daughter."

  "Mrs. Foxglove is resting." The woman folded her hands on the slight swell of her stomach. "There is no need to disturb her."

  "Is she better?" Miranda tried to peek around the broad blockage in the doorway.

  The nurse stiffened. "I am not at liberty to discuss her condition."

  Of all the ridiculous situations. Miranda turned and fled down the stairway. One thing she'd already discovered about the home of a duke—no one cared what she or anyone wanted, other than the master. Clearly, the nurse reported either to the duke himself, or to one of his staff, and he was the only person who counted.

  Miranda did not like this feeling of losing control of her life.

  She stormed down the broad staircase, crossed the grand hall, and peeked into the dining room. It was empty.