How to Deceive a Duke

by Lecia Cornwall

  Her lips twitched, and she lowered her eyes again. What was she thinking?

  “Rose,” he tested her name on his lips. She didn’t answer. “Rose,” he said again, and she looked up with wide-eyed surprise. “Are you truly as innocent as I’ve heard?”

  Her lips pinched, and she raised her chin to a stubborn little point. “Are you as sinful as they say you are?”

  He smiled at her daring. “Probably more so, since most of my sinning is done behind closed doors.” She blushed again, and his grin deepened. Not so daring after all. “Yes, you are definitely innocent. Far too innocent for my taste.” He sipped the whisky, let it burn, but the desire to touch her, to see if her cheek was as warm as it looked, didn’t go away.

  “Don’t men expect the ladies they marry to be innocent? Even the women you share your bed with now were innocent once.”

  Touché. “True enough, Duchess. But I’m not like most men. Have you ever kissed a man? A boy, even?”

  She kept her expression flat, her eyes locked on his.

  “I kissed you,” she said tartly, and he barked a laugh. He got up from his chair, crossed the room, and sat beside her. She held his gaze like a doe before a hungry wolf, but held her ground.

  “No, Duchess, that miserable peck in the church was no kiss at all. I shall have to teach you better than that.”

  He slid his knuckles over her cheek, his touch light, teasing. Her skin was indeed hot, and soft as silk. She lowered her gaze, and her lips parted. She didn’t pull away, though he could feel her trembling.

  His mouth descended on hers, and she made a small noise that might have been fear or desire and raised her hands to his chest. The sweet sound shot straight to his groin. She didn’t push him away, and he brushed his lips over hers and hovered over her mouth, waiting until her eyes drifted shut, and her lips parted. Her fingers curled against his chest.

  He kissed her again, firmly this time, his lips mobile, insistent. She tasted of roses—or perhaps it was the scent of her bouquet—and honey, and innocence. He drew her lower lip into his mouth and she stayed still, allowing it. He moved his lips to her cheek, then over her jaw to the pulse point at the base of her neck and kissed her there too. Her heart was beating like a trapped bird. When he found her lips again, she sighed and kissed him back, tentatively, inexpertly, and he realized that innocence appealed to him after all.

  He drew back in surprise, read the same emotion in her misty gaze. He got up and returned to his distant seat, and she raised shaking fingertips to her lips.

  He forced himself to look bored. He crossed his legs and sipped his whisky, trying to eliminate the taste of her, to calm the desire to seduce her right here in the salon. What would Granddame say to that when she arrived home to congratulate the happy couple? She’d cackle in victory, urge him on, since nothing mattered but getting a bloody heir.

  “Did you like it?” he asked.

  Meg ran her tongue over her lips, tasted whisky. Yes, she’d liked it. She didn’t dare reply. A request for more hovered on the tip of her tongue.

  “You’re trembling,” he said. “I must admit even I found it intriguing. I hadn’t known a woman of twenty could be so entirely untouched. I have you to teach and mold as I wish, don’t I?”

  Indignation pricked her. She stiffened her limpid spine and leveled a glare at him. “I am not interested in being molded, Your Grace. This is duty only.”

  His eyes hardened. She was Granddame’s creature, then. The money, he reminded himself. He still needed his grandmother’s money to run his estates. For the time being, much as he hated it, he must play her game. “Then we understand each other. Once this sham of a marriage is consummated, as unpleasant as that may be for us both, you will retire to Temberlay Castle to live.”

  “I intend to return to Wycliffe Park as soon as possible.”

  Temberlay rose, and Meg watched him prowl toward her, his eyes cold, and her heart climbed into her throat, but he didn’t touch her. He merely leaned on the fireplace. “I am not used to having my orders disobeyed. My time in the army, I suppose.”

  She got to her feet too. “This is not the army.”

  He ran his eyes over her body, and she felt it like a touch. “Christ, they should have sent you up against the French in Spain. Napoleon would have run screaming to hide under his bed and troubled Europe no more. Are all your sisters like you? I suppose I should be glad you wish to retire to the country. Imagine if you’d expected to stay in Town. The ton would have a field day with you.”

  Her eyes widened. It was the kind of thing her father might have said. “How dare you—” she began, but the doors swept open.

  “The Countess of Wycliffe and Lord Hector Bryant,” Gardiner intoned, but Flora was already racing across the room toward her.

  Nicholas watched the mother of the bride dissolve into tears more appropriate for a wake than a wedding. The bride herself was dry-eyed and strong.

  Lord Hector Bryant bowed stiffly, his eyes wary as he offered terse congratulations and shook Nicholas’s hand. He accepted with a crisp nod.

  No one at all, it seemed, was happy. Except perhaps Granddame. She hadn’t arrived to enjoy her victory as yet.

  “Where is my grandmother?” he asked Gardiner.

  “She has gone upstairs to rest, Your Grace. She pleads a slight headache.”

  Nicholas frowned. Granddame had the constitution of an army draft horse. She did not get headaches. She probably had a scythe of her own, and would do fierce battle with the Grim Reaper when he came for her. He felt a prickle of suspicion climb his spine. He dismissed Gardiner.

  “The wedding was—” The countess struggled for the right word. “—brief.” She regarded him as if he were a man-eating tiger that hadn’t been fed.

  “Mercifully so, Countess,” he replied, and smiled charmingly when Flora gasped.

  “Mother, do sit down,” his bride said. “Gardiner will be bringing tea shortly.”

  But Flora was bristling with indignation. “Your audacity, Your Grace, is quite—” but her daughter’s hand on her arm stopped her. He was about to bid her continue when the doors opened again.

  “My apologies, I’m late,” Sebastian said, grinning like a fool. His eyes fell on the bride, and he swept toward her. He sketched a bow, and kissed her hand with an exaggerated flourish. “My congratulations, Your Grace. I wish you well of Nicholas.”

  She looked at Nicholas expectantly.

  “May I present Viscount St. James?” he said tersely. “Sebastian, sit down.” He didn’t like the gleam in Seb’s eyes as he ogled her.

  His bride simply raised her brows. “You make it sound as if I can expect difficulty with my husband, Viscount St. James.”

  He grinned again, and actually giggled. “Difficulty with Nick? Not at all. In the right hands, he’s quite malleable.”

  Flora gasped, and his bride’s expression declared instant dislike for the viscount.

  “St. James, have you been drinking?” Temberlay asked.

  “I stopped at the club on the way back to spread the happy news of your nuptials.” He turned back to the bride. “I understand you have sisters at home, Your Grace. Are they all as lovely as yourself? May I call you Rose? Calling you ‘Your Grace’ makes me think of Nicholas, and I’d much rather think of you,” he purred.

  The countess clenched her fist.

  The new duchess took her mother’s hand and tucked it into her own. “No, you may not,” she said. Sebastian’s grin faded and he blinked like an owl at the set-down.

  Nicholas watched Hector rub his chin, trying to hide a smile, and felt a grudging admiration of his own. Poor Sebastian. He’d made the mistake of assuming Rose Lynton was a witless country bumpkin. He’d thought so himself, but she had passed this first test, and had come out every inch a duchess.

  Gardiner returned with tea, and Rose indicated with a nod that he could pour out.

  “Would you care for tea, Your Grace?” she asked him.

  “No tha
nk you. I have business to attend to this afternoon, and I must go.”

  “Business? Today?” the countess gasped. “No wedding breakfast? Not even champagne and a toast to the—happy—couple? This is a shoddy affair!”

  His bride’s cheeks colored, and she dropped her gaze, but said nothing.

  “Duty before pleasure,” he said. “Though I’m sure Gardiner would be happy to bring you some champagne if you wish it.”

  The new Duchess of Temberlay looked up at that, her hazel eyes molten pools of dignity. “No, I think not. I wouldn’t dream of keeping you here if you have business to see to, Your Grace. You may go. Good afternoon.”

  He felt his skin heat at her audacity.

  She turned her back on him and made a bland comment to her mother about the warmth of the weather, as if she’d already forgotten him. Her mother’s eyes were round as millponds, and Hector and Sebastian were looking from her to Temberlay and back again, waiting for his reaction.

  He put his hands on her waist and picked her up with ease, turning her to face him. He caught her gasp of surprise in his mouth. This kiss wasn’t the slow, tentative peck he’d given her on the settee. This was ravishment, pure sex, an onslaught she wasn’t prepared for. She pressed her fists against her chest, tried to shove him away.

  He heard her mother’s warble of dismay, and Hector’s exclamation of surprise. His tongue slipped into her mouth when she opened it to protest, sparred with hers. The intimacy was stunning, unbelievably . . . delicious. She stopped fighting as his mouth moved expertly over hers. Her knees weakened and she sagged against him. She slid her arms around his neck, and he drew her closer, pressed her body to his.

  “For pity’s sake!” Flora cried, and his bride pulled away, suddenly remembering where she was.

  No one else in the room said a word.

  The hazel of her eyes was gone, subsumed into the black of her pupils. She stared at him for a moment before she wiped the back of her hand across her lips. He leaned in again, and heard her expectant intake of breath. His mouth watered, but he put his lips to her ear instead, and kissed the lobe.

  “Rest well this afternoon,” he murmured. “You’ll need your strength tonight.” He stepped back, and she put her hand on the back of the settee to steady herself. He gave her a rake’s grin, the kind of smile even an innocent could recognize as masculine superiority. He’d won that round, and she knew it.

  Without another word, he turned and strode out of the room, with Sebastian at his heels.

  Meg watched him go, bemused, and baffled. What on earth had just happened? The world had tilted on its axis, forever changed with one simple kiss. But it wasn’t simple. There was more. She thought of the night to come, felt her stomach coil with smoke. He was the master of this game indeed, and she didn’t even know the rules.

  Chapter 12

  Flora watched Temberlay leave after ravishing poor Marguerite before her eyes. “Well, I see all the stories I’ve heard about that man are true!” she snapped.

  “What do you think of your new husband, Meg?” Hector asked, but she was staring at the door with her mouth open.

  Flora shook her daughter’s arm. “Perhaps you should get some rest this afternoon.”

  Marguerite turned to look at her, her eyes still wide. “You will return for dinner?” she asked. “There will be a wedding supper, surely.”

  “Are you certain you wish to remain in this house, married to that man? Hector could still arrange an annulment,” Flora said. “Even after that kiss.”

  “All I would have to do is admit I am not Rose. If the marriage is to be valid, then it must be cons—”

  Flora held up her hand. “I cannot bear to think of it!”

  “Is it so terrible?” Meg asked.

  Flora felt Hector pinch her arm to silence her. “Temberlay may not be what he appears, Meg. There are other, better, stories about him too.”

  Flora pulled her arm free indignantly. “From what I’ve seen here today, they can’t possibly be true!” She read the reproof in Hector’s eyes and glanced at Marguerite’s pale face. Her eyes were on a statue in the corner of the room, a Grecian maiden tied to a stake. She reminded herself that Marguerite was sacrificing herself for the sake of her family.

  “I’m sorry, Marguerite. I’m all nerves and hysteria today. Of course he will make a good husband.” She tried to feel it, but her conviction melted like butter.

  She was thankful that Rose had not married him. She would have wilted under the man’s insults, and that kiss would have killed her outright. Flora embraced her daughter, kissed her hot cheek, felt her cling for a moment before she stepped back and squared her shoulders.

  “I will see you both at dinner,” she said with the kind of bright tone she used when things couldn’t be worse. Flora had no idea what to say, how to help, though she wished she did, now of all times. She might have with Rose, but Marguerite was stronger, smarter, the one she leaned on now Marcus was gone. She struggled for the right maternal words to say. She’d been a bride once, facing her wedding night with the same fears Marguerite had now, but the fierce bravery in her daughter’s eyes stopped Flora. She knew that look, Marguerite at her most determined, her most capable. Perhaps everything would be well after all, and she needn’t worry.

  Hector caught her arm.

  “Come, Flora. I’m sure Meg has things to do this afternoon, and we must go.”

  He took her elbow firmly and led her toward the door.

  “I should like a tour of the house, please,” Meg asked the butler when he returned.

  He bowed. “Shall we start with the library?”

  The breakfast room, den, drawing room, and sitting room were all on the way to the library, and each room was filled with roses—pink, red, yellow, and white. The lavish arrangements had obviously been prepared especially for her—well, for Rose—and every blossom reminded Meg that she was a fraud.

  She decided she hated roses.

  There weren’t any flowers in the library. Bookshelves soared to the ceilings in the vast room. It was his room, she could see at once, though she couldn’t imagine him with a book in his hand. There were decanters on a small mahogany table near the desk, deep leather chairs, and the room smelled of tobacco.

  The bust of a soldier glowered at her, warned her away, standing guard in Temberlay’s absence.

  “An extensive library,” she said, aware that Gardiner was awaiting her reaction.

  “If there is anything in particular you wish to read, you need only ask His Grace. Most of the books are from his own collection.”

  “You mean the late duke, I assume?” she said. Surely this Temberlay did not read. Wherever would he find the time?

  “I mean Duke Nicholas, ma’am. The late duke did not enjoy reading.” He pointed to a portrait of a gentleman who resembled Nicholas only slightly. “That’s the fifth duke.”

  “Is there a portrait of my, um, husband?” she asked.

  “Not as yet, Your Grace. I’m sure there will be in time. There are many fine family portraits at Temberlay Castle.”

  She walked around the room. A statue of a naked nymph graced a pedestal near the window. She grinned at Meg with cheeky delight. Now that spoke of Temberlay.

  “His Grace encourages the staff to read his books whenever they wish. He has only just finished shelving the many books he brought back from Spain.”

  “Oh?” Meg looked at the butler, read the admiration in his eyes.

  He led her to a space on the shelf and pointed. “His Grace served with Lord Wellington on the Peninsula for three years. He is a true hero. You may have read about his service in the Times.”

  Meg touched the cool leather spines, reading the titles. Her father believed war was an improper topic for ladies and forbade any mention of it. The Times too was forbidden. She had heard of Napoleon, of course, but she knew nothing of the battles, or the heroes. She took out a book of paintings of the Spanish landscape.

  He offered her another boo
k. “If I may be so bold, I recommend this one—a tourist’s guide to Spain and Italy, written in the last century, before the war. Shall I send both books up to your apartments?”

  “Yes, thank you,” she murmured, already lost in exploring the shelves as he crossed the carpet silently to pull the bell. There were thousands of books on every topic—science, architecture, gardens, mathematics, and history. She felt a thrill run through her. She had been forced to sell most of Wycliffe’s library, and she missed the pleasures of good books. Despite her father’s strict rules, she had spent hours reading.

  She stopped at a book on horses, felt again the pang of loss. The paintings reminded her of her father’s fine stable of Thoroughbreds. They had been the first things that had to be sold— Arabella, her foal, and the Wycliffe Arabian—just days before his death. They’d been her father’s pride, her joy, and she dreamed of having them back again. Wycliffe’s stables had been famous, and she’d loved the horses. They hadn’t cared that she had red hair instead of blond. She ran a fingertip over the painted fetlocks of a fine stallion, so like the Arabian.

  “Your Grace?”

  She turned at the sound of a timid voice. A young maid curtsied. “I’m Anna. Mr. Gardiner has asked me to assist you.” She came forward and tucked the stack of books under her arm. “If you’ll come this way? Mr. Gardiner said tea would be sent up to your apartments shortly. Cook also baked some cakes for you this morning. She is very excited about the wedding supper, since there was no breakfast this mor—” She paused. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. My tongue runs away with me at times. It is not for me to question arrangements.”

  Nor was it up to her, apparently. “Perhaps I might see a copy of tonight’s menu?” Meg asked. “Not to make changes, of course, but simply out of interest.”

  They reached the second floor, and a pair of footmen swung open a set of double doors as they approached.

  She stepped into an elegant sitting room. Anna bustled to the windows and opened the drapes, letting sunlight fill the room. “There’s a lovely view of the garden,” she said, and crossed to open another set of doors, which led to the bedchamber.