How to Deceive a Duke

by Lecia Cornwall

  Like the sitting room, the bedchamber was done in shades of pink and green. Luxurious damask curtains draped a huge bed that occupied one entire wall. The head of the bed bore the ducal crest, embroidered and framed, and Meg winced. The hind caught in the wolf’s merciless clutches was out of place here, or perhaps it wasn’t. This bed was designed for the grand task of breeding heirs.

  With Temberlay.

  Her stomach climbed the back of her throat, and she stared at the bed. His ravishing, stunning kiss still burned on her lips. He said he planned to teach her things in this bed, intimate things she couldn’t even begin to imagine. Or could she? A shiver, half fear, half anticipation, crept up her spine. Hadn’t she imagined exactly this when she gazed at the scandal sheets?

  She pushed the wicked thought away. Scandal sheets and imagination were one thing, but bedsheets and Temberlay in the flesh were something else entirely. She ran her hand over the fine bed linens, tempted to tie them in knots and escape out the window. He would be naked, as would she . . . She gulped.

  “This is the dressing room. It connects to His Grace’s suite,” Anna said, opening a smaller, narrower door. “Beyond that are His Grace’s apartments.”

  Meg stared at the door that led to his rooms. Would he stride through it tonight, come to her? Or was she expected to go to him? She wished her mother had stayed, so she could ask.

  She returned to her sitting room, where a tea tray already waited.

  “Is there anything else I can bring you, Your Grace?” Anna asked.

  Rest well this afternoon. You’ll need your strength tonight. His words echoed in her mind. Meg swallowed the lump in her throat and shook her head.

  She let Anna unpin her veil and loosen her hair before she left. She turned to the light luncheon Cook had kindly provided as the staff left and shut the door behind them. There was enough bread and cheese and sweets to feed an army of duchesses. Did they too expect she would need her strength? Her cheeks burned. A copy of the menu for the wedding supper, sent up along with her tray, confirmed it. Seven courses of fish, fowl, vegetables, sauces, meats, and pastry had been planned.

  She imagined Amy in the kitchen at Wycliffe, working alone, and wondered just how many servants were required to produce a meal of this caliber. She hadn’t even asked about the guest list. Perhaps there were several dozen people expected. Her stomach quailed and she put down the apple tart she’d been about to eat.

  She tiptoed to the connecting door to his apartments and put her ear against it. Would it be locked? She turned the latch, and the door opened.

  The scent of his soap reminded her she was trespassing. His dressing gown hung behind the door, his brushes sat on the table. She crept to the wardrobe and opened it, expecting to find a dozen other outlandish outfits, but to her surprise, his clothing was sober, well tailored, and the height of refined elegance. She ran her fingers over the fine wool of a dark blue coat. Why hadn’t he worn this to the wedding?

  At the back of the cupboard, a scarlet military tunic glowed, a hero’s coat, just as Gardiner had said. Hector had said there was more to Temberlay than salacious gossip. Meg only knew him as the Devil of Temberlay, rake, gambler, and lover. Which was the real Temberlay?

  She opened the door to his bedroom. His bed was even larger than hers, and the ducal crest had been carved in oak in his room, a reminder of duty, responsibility, and power.

  There was another shelf of books here, and still more volumes on a battered campaign table that stood in the corner. She ran a finger over a divot in the wood. Was that a bullet hole, or the careless mark left by a booted foot propped on the mahogany surface?

  She glanced at the books, wondering what a man like Temberlay liked to read. There was a treatise on artillery, an atlas, and a tome on astronomy, among others.

  She picked up a book with an exotic blue leather cover, embossed with swirls and arabesques and set with gems. It had no title, so she opened it.

  Her eyes widened in surprise.

  Every page had drawings of naked men and women, together, embracing, caressing. She stared at a sketch of a woman on her back, her face slack, her eyes closed, as a dark-haired man kissed her throat, his hand on her breast. The woman’s fingers were tangled in his hair, white on black. Was it Temberlay? She couldn’t tell. She tilted the book and looked closer.

  The latch rattled in his sitting room, and she heard the door open. Footsteps came toward the bedroom, and she raced for her own rooms, still clutching the book. She shut the door and froze, her ears pricked for sounds of pursuit. Was it Temberlay, returning? After a few moments, all was quiet.

  She opened the book again. Was this how it was between men and women? Is this what Temberlay would do to her, here, tonight, in this very bed? She stared at the smooth satin counterpane and swallowed.

  In some of the paintings, sloe-eyed women draped in exotic garments of colorful silk lay with their lovers in lush gardens under crystal stars. Each lady reclined serenely as he knelt between her thighs, or caressed her from behind. The male member was as large as a stallion’s. Surely there couldn’t be room for such a thing in the tight trousers English gentlemen favored. The women did not appear to be distressed. In fact they looked as placid as mares.

  It seemed there was a vast number of ways to accomplish the deed. Legs, arms, mouths twined together in endless variations.

  She shut the book with a snap, and paced the floor, thinking. Her heart was pounding, her skin hot. The paintings made her feel warm, restless, tingling.

  Her mother had said to lie still. Temberlay had insisted that innocence was an inconvenience and a hindrance to pleasure. She was mystified.

  She shut her eyes and fled to the safety of the sitting room, and tried to concentrate on the sober book on travel, but the images of Temberlay, and bed, refused to leave her alone.

  Chapter 13

  Nicholas was shown into the drawing room of Ives House to see his friend and comrade in arms, Major Lord Stephen Ives.

  “Hartley! I heard you were about to get married. Actually, you’re Temberlay now, aren’t you? Should I bow?” Stephen asked.

  Nicholas didn’t answer. “I’ve come to ask a favor,” he said.

  “Do you wish me to stand as best man, perhaps? Come and sit down. Whisky or tea?”

  Nicholas set his hat on the table and followed Stephen into the drawing room. “Neither, and the wedding was this morning. Other than the requisite witnesses, there were no guests.”

  Stephen’s smile faded. “I see,” he said, and Nicholas wondered if he did.

  “I understand you will be going to Vienna with Lord Castlereagh for the peace conference, Stephen.”

  “They seem to think I’ll make a suitable aide to the ambassador,” Stephen replied, taking a seat across from Nicholas. “Do you wish to come as well? We could use an officer of your particular talents. Talleyrand will be there, and that’s one Frenchman who is even more slippery and dangerous than Napoleon. We’ll have our hands full making sure he doesn’t negotiate us into allowing France to keep half of Europe.”

  “I have responsibilities here, I’m afraid,” Nicholas said, wishing again he was free. “Do you remember Lady Julia Leighton?”

  Stephen’s brow furrowed momentarily. “Of course. She was betrothed to your brother, wasn’t she? My sister knew her slightly as well, and they spoke at parties when they met, since you and I served in the same regiment as her brother James. Dorothea hasn’t heard from Julia for some time, though she sent her condolences after David’s death. Have you word of her?”

  “She is under my protection for the time being, but she wishes to leave England,” Nicholas said.

  Stephen’s face clouded. “Ruined?”

  Nicholas nodded. “I don’t have the full details, since she will not reveal them. My brother died in a duel shortly after she admitted she was with child. Her parents declared her dead, and I put her up in a house nearby, but her father insists she must leave London, or better still, the cou
ntry.”

  “And the child?”

  Nicholas tried to read his friend’s face, searching for an indication of scorn or disgust, but there was only vague interest.

  “A boy,” Nicholas said. “Not David’s, though. She named him James, after her brother.”

  He could tell by the flush of Stephen’s skin that he remembered James Leighton. “A thousand men would have died if James Leighton had not sounded that alarm, and I would have been the first of them. It cost him his life, and he died a hero.” He looked at Nicholas. “You knew him better than I did, since his sister was betrothed to David.”

  “Since childhood. I was wondering if you would consider taking Julia with you and Dorothea to Vienna. She could be a companion to your sister.”

  Stephen looked thoughtful. He rose and poured two tumblers of whisky and sat down. “What about her son?”

  “She has said she will not give him up. There is a nurse, of course.”

  Stephen sighed. “Dorothea was brokenhearted when she lost her husband, and then her child. She has not been the same since Matthew’s death, and I’m not certain how she would react to having another woman’s baby near her.” He shook his head. “Nor am I sure the ambassador will approve of having a fallen woman among the British contingent.”

  “Julia’s smart. I daresay she’ll make herself useful.”

  “Is she likely to, um, commit any future indiscretions?”

  “It was a surprise to everyone that she committed the first. She is hardly likely to trust another handsome face. I proposed to her, Stephen, and she refused.”

  “Are you in love with her?” Stephen asked in surprise. Nicholas thought of his bride. Would he have been happier to find Julia under the veil instead?

  “No,” he replied. “It was a gesture for David’s sake, and for hers. I wanted to protect her and the child. We grew up together, and she’s like a sister to me. Julia made a mistake, and she will pay for it for the rest of her life. The bastard who seduced her won’t face such scorn.”

  “I’ll broach the subject with my sister. Company might do her good, especially a friend like Julia. She’s refused every invitation for months. I can’t leave her here alone, and I’m hoping this trip to Vienna will revive her spirits, but I can’t force Julia and her child on Dorothea if she isn’t ready. Will that do?”

  “For now.” Nicholas picked up his hat. “Thank you.”

  Stephen followed him to the door. “When will we meet your bride?”

  Nicholas shook his head. “I only just met her myself this morning, at the wedding. I plan to banish her to Temberlay Castle first thing tomorrow.”

  Stephen folded his arms. “You surprise me. You show Julia such compassion, yet you have no regard at all for your bride? You were always most chivalrous with women in Spain, whether they were ladies or camp followers.”

  “This isn’t Spain. I have no idea if she deserves my compassion or not. She’s a complete stranger, and my grandmother has paid her well for the honor of becoming a duchess. I, in return, have one more responsibility I do not want.”

  “I’ve never known you to run from a challenge, Nick. In Spain, the bigger the danger, the faster you’d go toward it. You never took the easy way in my recollection. I know the field you’re facing now may not be optimum, but this is simply another battle to be won. Perhaps you’ll find your bride to your liking. She was brave enough to marry you, and that alone speaks well of her. ”

  Nicholas remembered the kiss, the way she handled Sebastian. “She shall get as good as she gives.”

  Stephen shook his head. “I shall wish you happy anyway, old friend. You deserve it.”

  Nicholas climbed into his coach. “Pulteney Street,” he ordered the coachman. Was Stephen right? He’d imagined a wife would be one more burden, another dull duty. Was she?

  Tonight he would bed her, a virgin stranger, and Stephen was right about one thing. He had the same feeling in his gut he always got before a battle.

  Chapter 14

  “What will you wear for dinner tonight, Your Grace?” Anna asked, and Meg realized that the magnificent wardrobe that had been purchased for Rose was now hers. She hoped again that Rose was safe. If her sister was here, preparing for her wedding night, would she be as afraid as Meg was?

  Her stomach quivered again. “I’ll wear the gray silk.” It was demure and unassuming, and even if she was the bride, she hoped the other guests would outshine her, draw attention away from her.

  “How many people are coming for dinner?” she asked.

  “There will be six, I believe, or possibly seven. Her Grace—the dowager duchess, that is—thought your sister might attend.”

  Meg looked up in surprise, then realized that Anna meant her, Meg, not Rose.

  “No. She is—out of Town.”

  “There are some lovely diamond earrings and a matching necklace that would go with this gown if you’d like to wear them tonight,” Anna suggested, fastening the buttons.

  Rose would leap at the chance to wear diamonds. They’d have difficulty getting her to take them off again at the end of the evening. But Meg was an imposter, the paste jewel and not the priceless gem. She imagined the duchess tearing the diamonds from her neck in a rage when she realized, and she most certainly would without the veil. Meg sat at the dressing table. “No jewels tonight. Since there was no breakfast, I shall wear my wedding veil to dinner. Tuck my hair up under it.”

  If Anna was surprised she didn’t let it show. Meg picked up a red silk fan and unfolded it. It was the kind of toy Rose would have loved, if she didn’t have diamonds to hold her attention. In low light, with the veil hiding her hair, and the fan hiding everything but her eyes, Meg hoped the duchess wouldn’t recognize her.

  She descended the stairs slowly, half expecting Temberlay to be waiting for her at the bottom, but he wasn’t. Gardiner glided out of the shadows instead.

  “The Countess of Wycliffe, Viscount St. James, and Lord Bryant have arrived, Your Grace.”

  They were in the salon. Viscount St. James was pressed to the wall, and Flora was holding him there with her own fan, which was pointed at his throat like a weapon.

  “ ’Pon my honor, I vow I was not with him this afternoon!” St. James pleaded. “I have every confidence that he will be here. He must have been del—”

  He caught sight of Meg in the doorway and fell into guilty silence. “Good evening, Your Grace. Forgive me for not bowing.”

  Flora released him and rushed at her. “He isn’t here!”

  There was no need to ask whom she meant. Temberlay was quite obviously, dramatically absent. The room seemed bare without him. Meg felt her heart skip. Had he found out somehow that she was an imposter? She glanced at Gardiner, but his bland face gave nothing away. “Is His Grace at home?” she asked.

  “No, Your Grace, he is not.”

  Meg’s hand tightened on the fan. “And Her Grace?”

  “Her Grace sends her regrets,” Gardiner said. “She is still suffering from headache.”

  “A dozen Your Graces in this place and none of them here for supper!” Flora hissed. “This is an insult!”

  “Not at all,” Meg said, feeling relief flow through her. It was a reprieve, not an insult. She snapped the fan shut and set it on a table. She wouldn’t need it now. “Perhaps it is as the viscount said, and he is only delayed,” she soothed her mother, though St. James’s smirk told her Temberlay had no intention of attending his wedding supper. Another lesson, no doubt. Well, she would teach him one of her own.

  “We are ready to dine now, Gardiner.” Sebastian St. James’s grin faltered. “Viscount, since you likely know the way to the dining room and I do not, perhaps I may prevail upon you to escort me to dinner?”

  He looked uneasy, trapped, but unless he had even fewer manners than Temberlay, there was little he could do but bow and offer his arm.

  She laid her hand on his sleeve, winced at the hard glitter of the diamond and sapphire ring Temberlay had plac
ed on her finger that morning. St. James stared at it as well.

  “Truly, Your Grace, I have no idea where Nick is tonight,” he murmured. She glanced at him, read the lie in his eyes. He knew exactly where her husband was, or at the very least, he suspected. She tossed her head as if it didn’t matter. “He could not be anywhere more important, or in lovelier company than yours—” he said, but she cut him off with a cold glare. He swallowed, and tried to smile reassuringly.

  Lovelier company. She felt her stomach contract. Would he be here if she were Rose? She took her place at the head of the table, and nodded to Gardiner to begin.

  The food was lavish, even if the conversation was sparse. Meg barely tasted what she ate. Gardiner introduced each dish with a flourish as a parade of footmen entered, far outnumbering the guests. The salmon had been brought specially from His Grace’s Scottish estates. The hip of beef had come from Temberlay’s farm, while the strawberries were from his manor in Kent. The pheasant and grouse had come from yet another property, this one in Cumbria, and the vegetables were grown in the glasshouses at Temberlay Castle.

  “Please give my compliments to Cook, Gardiner. Everything is delicious,” Meg said graciously.

  “Tell me where he is!” Flora hissed at Sebastian again when the servants departed.

  “Don’t badger the poor viscount, Mama. Apparently Temberlay has secrets even Viscount St. James doesn’t know, and I would prefer he be allowed to keep the details to himself. I don’t wish to hear them. In fact, if there is somewhere you’d rather be this evening, my lord, then please don’t let us keep you.”

  St. James blinked in surprise at his dismissal. His jaw dropped, and he shut it again with a snap. He rose, and bowed stiffly. “I shall bid you good night, then, Duchess. No doubt you’ll sleep well tonight.”

  Meg felt the barb hit home, felt her skin heat as he turned on his heel and left. His meaning couldn’t have been plainer.

  Chapter 15