The wind had been blowing that night ten years ago, making the single tree near the house moan as it bent and swayed.
At least he thought it had been the tree. Perhaps it had been himself moaning, for quite a different reason.
Staring unseeing out the window, he remembered the events of that night as he had a thousand times before.
After an evening spent with the utterly boring Lord Langley and barely noticing the shy miss who had sat in the corner like a mouse expecting him to pounce, for once not half-drunk, he had been awakened by the soft sound of his door opening. Then came the glow of a single candle’s flame.
There had been something almost supernatural about that glow that made him sit up straight. He ignored the chill of the air upon his naked chest, which rose and fell with his rapid breathing.
Holding the candle, her long brown hair unbound, and wearing a simple white nightdress, Verity came into his room.
He would have been only slightly less surprised if she had been a ghost. He wondered if she walked in her sleep, and he waited to see what she would do. He had heard it was not wise to wake someone in that state, and given that she held a candle, he didn’t want to startle her and make her drop it upon her thin nightdress.
It was very thin, so thin he could see her rosy nipples clearly, and the darker triangle lower down. A simple drawstring at the neck was all the closing it had. One pull, and it would loosen and fall.
She came straight to his bed and set the candle down on the table beside him before looking directly at him.
He knew immediately that she was as wide-awake as he.
Completely taken aback, he started to speak—but she leaned toward him and laid one slender finger against his lips. Then she gently traced their outline.
It was a simple gesture, yet one that had set his blood pounding fiercely in his veins, firing his desire more than another woman’s boldest caress.
He could smell the light perfume of her naked skin mingling with the candle’s wax and see how her nightgown grew taut over her unexpectedly voluptuous breasts.
When she moved back, he felt a loss as great as another might for a fortune sunk to the bottom of the sea—until she pulled the drawstring, then tugged the nightdress lower.
And lower. Soon it was a discarded heap on the floor.
Wordlessly, wonderingly, he held out his hands and helped the lithe beauty into his bed. They said not a single word as they began to caress each other.
No word need be said, for it was as if he had waited all his life for her to be in his arms. Guided only by her soft breathing and low moans, he gave pleasure, and received it.
Never before or since had he felt as worthy and desirable and irresistible as Verity Escombe made him feel that night. No act of love had ever been as exciting, or as sweet.
When she parted her legs for him, he gently pushed into her with barely suppressed urgency, until he encountered the barrier of her maidenhead.
Suddenly uncertain, he hesitated—until she pulled him closer and wrapped her legs around him, drawing him further inside.
He needed no more reassurance or encouragement. Moving as if they were one body, their panting breaths mingling, the climax was not long delayed.
Afterward, when he was sweat slicked, sated and satisfied beyond measure, she lay still beneath him, breathing softly.
Enveloped by a tenderness he had not known he possessed, he whispered her name and reached out for her.
Only to have her scramble from the bed. She tugged on her nightgown and ran from the room.
Despite his pleas to tell him what was the matter, she had left him.
As if he carried the plague.
For ten years, he had wondered what had brought her to his bedroom and into his arms.
For ten years, he had tried to convince himself it didn’t matter. He had commanded himself to forget what had happened and told himself his act of love had no serious consequences, for either of them.
He knew better now, and this time, he would not let Verity run away without an explanation.
“Mama?”
Verity sat up. Jocelyn stood uncertainly on the threshold of the doorway between their bedchambers.
“What is it?” Verity asked softly.
She sucked in her breath when her bare feet touched the cold parquet floor, then hurried to Jocelyn. Crouching down to her level, she put her arms around her daughter. “Are you ill? Did you have a bad dream?”
For weeks after Daniel’s death, Jocelyn had had nightmares. She had not been so troubled for some time, but perhaps the upheaval of travel had brought them back—another good reason to return home.
Jocelyn shook her head. “I woke up when you came to bed and now I can’t get back to sleep.”
“Oh.” Verity took her daughter’s hand and led her to her huge bed with its heavy curtains and slippery satin sheets. “Were you cold?”
“A little.”
“Climb up and snuggle with me, then,” Verity said, cuddling under the expensive coverings beside her daughter. “There. Is this not better?”
Jocelyn nodded.
“You will sleep well again when we’re back home.”
“Will you sing to me, Mama?”
“Gladly, little girl, gladly,” she answered with a smile full of love.
“The one about the three ships, Mama,” Jocelyn replied with a yawn.
Quietly Verity sang her daughter’s favorite song until her eyes closed and the slow rising and falling of her chest told her she was asleep.
How young Jocelyn looked when she slept, more like a toddler again, with her damp curls and dark eyelashes fanning on her smooth cheeks!
Did the duke look young when he slept, too? Verity wondered. Somehow, she thought he would, and that perhaps in sleep she would see even more of a resemblance between her daughter and her natural father.
That thought made her more determined to flee than ever, before anybody else noticed how much Jocelyn looked like the duke.
She decided she should carry Jocelyn back to her own bed, or Nancy would be shocked into a panic when she awoke and found her charge’s bed empty.
Verity got up, slipped on her shoes and again regarded her innocent child, the living memory of her passionate night with a man she barely knew. As always, she felt shame and remorse at the thought of her lustful selfishness. If disaster fell upon her and her child, she would only have herself to blame.
Yet every time she cursed herself for her selfishness, she thought of Jocelyn, too, whom she would not have but for the duke. Because of Jocelyn, she could not be completely sorry for what she had done.
She gently lifted her daughter and tried to carry her to the other room without waking her. That wasn’t easy, given Jocelyn’s size, but she managed it, and got her into bed without waking Nancy, either.
Pleased with her success, she returned to her bedroom, closed the connecting door, turned—and collided with Galen Bromney.
He grabbed hold of her shoulders as she stumbled backward.
How well she remembered the strength of his fingers, the feel of his hands on her body, the desire to be held in his powerful arms—memories that she must conquer.
Panting slightly, she twisted away from him and struggled to regain her composure.
“Go away!” she ordered quietly, mindful that Nancy and Jocelyn were only a few feet away.
The hard angles of his face shone in the moonlight as if he were some kind of demonic specter come to haunt her. “That’s not a very polite greeting, considering what we’ve been to each other.”
She sidled away from the door and away from the duke. “We were very little to each other, I think.”
“Ah, you sadly underestimate yourself, Verity,” he replied, his voice low and seductive as his intense gaze followed her. “I remember nearly everything about that night, especially the way you left me. Then you departed Lord Langley’s before I came down for breakfast.”
As tempting as it was to
make him understand why she had left as she had, what good would it do?
“Please leave, Your Grace. You mustn’t be discovered here,” she said, suddenly very aware that she was wearing only her nightdress.
“Because you don’t want anybody to know I am Jocelyn’s father.”
The color draining from her face, Verity stared at him.
“It’s true, isn’t it?” Galen continued inexorably as he came closer to her. “Her age would be right, and she resembles me.”
Verity sidestepped him and crossed the room. “Please leave, Your Grace.”
“I have a right to know if the child is mine, Verity.”
“Go,” she pleaded in a whisper, “and I will tell you all in the morning.”
“Tell me now.”
“It is late—”
“It is indeed late for me to know if she is mine.”
He moved toward her. “She is, isn’t she?” he asked in a whisper as he reached out and took her again by the shoulders. “You don’t have to tell me. I know she is.”
He pulled her into his embrace, and she tried to remember why this was wrong. “A stronger, finer man would have sent you from his bedroom that night. Unfortunately, I was weak.” His voice dropped to a sultry whisper. “You make me weak. Even now.”
Then he kissed her.
Despite his words, there was nothing weak about his kiss. Just as before, on that long-ago night, his lips took hers with passionate possession, demanding that she surrender to his power and give in to her desire.
How tempting he was! How dangerously, sinfully tempting…
But she had learned the consequences of giving in to such dangerous temptation.
She broke the kiss and pushed him away. “Please, Your Grace, go. I will explain tomorrow.”
That was another lie. She would sooner march into a den of starving lions than meet the Duke of Deighton alone.
His expression hardened. “I perceive that whatever attraction I held for you in the past is quite finished.”
“I was young and foolish then.”
“Gad, madam, so was I.” He bowed with stiff formality. “It will be as you wish. We will speak again in the morning. Meet me in the library at, say, nine o’clock? I daresay it will be deserted. Eloise’s guests are not generally the sort to read.”
Nine o’clock. After they had gone.
Desperate to be away from him, she nodded eagerly, then hurried to the door and peered into the corridor. “It is safe to go now.”
She felt him come behind her and quickly stepped aside to let him pass. As he did, he briefly touched her hand.
Her breath caught in her throat even as she steeled herself to order him to go. She would not look into his fascinating eyes.
She would charge him not to kiss her again.
But in the next instant, he was gone.
Galen dressed in the faint light of dawn without his valet’s assistance. Not wanting to disturb anyone and not hungry in the least, he immediately went to wait in the library, which was as silent as his villa on a Sunday afternoon.
He would read, which was how he usually spent his silent Sundays. He scanned the shelves and finally decided on a volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets. However, when he opened the book, he discovered that damp and more than one insect had been at work, more proof if he required it that the books in Eloise’s library were more for decoration than literary enjoyment.
He closed the book, returned it to its place and paced, with frequent glances at the gold clock on the mantel, which was so ornate it was not easy to tell the time the first few times he looked. However, it got easier.
What was he going to say to Verity? he pondered. He must be firm, for he was determined to hear the truth from her own lips. Yet he must not be too harsh, not if he wanted to know more about his daughter, and to see her again. He would ruin any chance of that if he frightened Verity, and he knew he could be very frightening when angry.
He decided just how he would begin, and the tone he would use, and at last nine o’clock came.
And went.
He gave her fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes during which he tried to believe she had not deserted him again, and that he had not been a fool to trust her.
Fifteen minutes to anticipate her arrival. To be annoyed and then hopeful, then annoyed again. To try to command his emotions so that he wouldn’t upset her or give her any cause to flee.
After that long fifteen minutes, Galen strode into the hall and commandeered the first liveried footman he spied. “I’d like you to take a message to Mrs. Davis-Jones.”
“Mrs. Davis-Jones?” the young man repeated stupidly.
“Yes, Mrs. Davis-Jones.”
“But Your Grace, um,” the fellow stammered, looking down as if feeling a sudden need to count the buttons of his purple jacket. “She’s gone, Your Grace.”
“Gone?” Galen growled.
“Aye, Your Grace, left this morning at six o’clock, Mrs. Davis-Jones, her little girl and that minx of a servant, too.”
“Thank you,” Galen said evenly as he returned to the library and shut the door behind him.
He strode to the window and stared out unseeing at Eloise’s garden and the shrubbery beyond.
Verity had done it again, damn her. She had run away like a thief in the night, without explanation or any concern for him at all.
He had not gone after her ten years ago. This time, though, things were different.
This time, he had a most excellent reason to go after Verity.
And her name was Jocelyn.
Chapter Four
T he hired carriage rolled to a stop outside Verity’s house.
They had disembarked the post chaise at Jefford, a village of five hundred souls in Warwickshire, and hired the innkeeper’s lad and carriage to take them to their house, located a short way beyond the village and down a secluded lane.
“Well, here we are, safe and sound, although my back may never be the same,” Nancy declared. “I swear them chaises get smaller all the time.”
“Or you’re getting bigger,” Jocelyn proposed.
Nancy glanced at her sharply, but a sudden lurch of the vehicle turned her attention to the innkeeper’s son, a tall fellow who seemed all arms and legs and slouching posture, as if he were a sleepy spider.
“Watch it, there, you nit!” Nancy snapped, her command making Jocelyn giggle and Verity give her friend a mildly chastising look. They had discussed Nancy’s language before, with mixed results. At least this time, her choice of chastisement was relatively minor.
With a rueful shrug, Nancy gathered up her skirts and proceeded to climb out, while Verity ran a fond gaze over her comfortable, half-timbered house. Daniel had been a prosperous wool merchant who used local weavers working in their own cottages to manufacture very fine quality goods. He had purchased this home for her before they were married.
Daniel had possessed a more gregarious nature than she at that time in her life, yet he had kindly accepted her desire to live outside the village, away from prying, if well-meaning, neighbors.
She had always loved this house’s extra privacy, for it was well hidden from the road and surrounded by a stone wall, as well as tall oak and chestnut trees. A small wood complete with babbling stream ran across the back of the property.
The leaves of the chestnut trees were turning golden, and the beeches were reddening. Jocelyn would be able to pick elderberries soon, and mushrooms, too. Verity could hear finches singing in the trees, and the harsh caw of a rook in the distance.
Adjoining her land was the large estate of Sir Myron Thorpe, a man of about thirty whose primary interest in life seemed to be hunting and fishing. They were nodding acquaintances only, for Verity did not much care to go about in company, and his company seemed primarily composed of men anyway.
As much as Verity loved the house, so did Jocelyn. Shortly after Daniel’s death, Verity had tentatively suggested moving into the town, only to see her daughter dissolve
into sobs at the very notion. Truth be told, Verity had been relieved, for she did not want to leave her secure seclusion, either.
“Visiting is all very well,” Verity said with a sigh as she reached up to help Jocelyn down, “but there’s nothing like home, when all is said and done.”
“I’m hungry,” her daughter announced as she set foot on the drive.
“I’ll get you something while Nancy deals with the baggage,” Verity replied as she took Jocelyn’s hand to lead her into the house.
From outside, all seemed exactly as they had left it.
But when she put her hand on the latch of the heavy carved door, she realized it was already open.
Trying to remain calm, she let go of Jocelyn’s hand and stepped back warily. “Will you please ask Nancy if she needs any assistance?” she said, smiling at her daughter.
“But —”
“Please, Jocelyn.”
Frowning, Jocelyn did as her mother asked.
When she had turned and gone back down the steps, Verity slowly pushed open the door and peered cautiously into the front entryway.
“Why, my dear Verity, here you are!” Clive Blackstone cried as he appeared at the entrance to her parlor, his lips drawn back in a smile over his crooked front teeth.
Verity would have been happier to encounter a housebreaker, or even the Duke of Deighton, than her obsequious brother-in-law.
“Yes, here you are,” Daniel’s sister, Fanny, quietly echoed from behind him.
Her thin body shrouded in a dark gray cloak, and with her pale face and large, cowlike eyes, she looked like a wraith in the shadows, a distinct contrast to her gaudily attired husband. Clive wore a mustard-colored jacket, burgundy waistcoat with a gold pattern upon it and striped brown trousers. A bulging valise was at his feet.
“We came to visit and were shocked to realize you were not at home,” the towheaded, middle-aged Clive said as he waited for Verity to approach.
The Duke’s Desire Page 4