He's a Duke, But I Love Him

by Ellie St. Clair

  “Unfortunately, I do not gamble on horses,” he responded. He preferred the card table, where he had some semblance of control, unlike the track where it was all based on the luck of choosing the right horse, and where his father had lost so much of their fortune.

  “Fair enough,” said the Earl with a wave of his fork. “You are a smart lad.”

  Alastair nodded, and once the cake was served, he drew out his pocket watch to determine if the hour was reasonable enough for them to make their excuses and be going. He pushed back his chair to stand and announce his departure when Lady Sutcliffe stood and called all of their attention.

  He thought he heard Olivia groan beside him, but perhaps he was imagining it, so faint was the sound.

  “Th-thank you all for coming,” she said with a slight hiccup, and Alastair frowned. It seemed the lady had drunk one too many glasses of wine with her breakfast. He hoped the Earl would intercede and spare them all the embarrassment that was to come, but unfortunately, it was not to be so.

  “While it was a lovely ceremony,” she said, as Alastair noted a slight weave to her countenance, “I would so have loved my eldest daughter to have married a duke at St. George’s instead of the parlor. Well, Olivia was never one to do as she ought, that is for certain. I suppose I should just be thankful that she ruined herself with a man of such a lovely title!”

  “Mother!” said Olivia sharply, and her father did take the opportunity to sit his wife down.

  “I believe what my wife means to say,” he said, his cheeks red, “is that we appreciate you all being present for our daughter’s marriage to the Duke of Breckenridge. We are pleased to join our families together.”

  Olivia stoically sat beside him, not saying a word, as if this display was somehow not quite unexpected. His own mother looked fairly horrified, while Anne looked positively thrilled. Olivia’s own sister, Helen, he believed her name was, simply sat staring at her plate as she had throughout most of the meal. How could two women be so closely related and yet so utterly different?

  No matter. He realized then exactly why Olivia had felt it so important to continue with the marriage. Her sister likely did not entertain many suitors as it was. A scandal would positively ruin her. It was, perhaps, somewhat noble what Olivia had done, and he felt guilty for his role in forcing her into this marriage.

  There was certainly nothing he could do about it now, however. He reflected on her preposterous suggestion. He supposed it could be done, he thought, though he had been looking forward to bedding his wife tonight. Perhaps he would pay her a visit and see how she responded. A grin flew over his lips. He could seduce her. He had done it before, and she seemed willing and eager enough.

  His mind quickly overcame his body’s desire. No. He would not take advantage of the situation they found themselves in. He would make love to her when — and not if, for he knew she felt something for him — she desired him in turn, however long that would be.

  And if she truly did not want him? Well, then, he would have to consider his options.

  12

  Olivia felt the post-nuptial celebration, despite the most unconventional dialogue and her mother’s drunken speech, had actually gone much better than she could have hoped. The Duke was his usual charming self, and his mother and sister were actually quite lovely. Her own mother, for the most part, had pasted on a charming facade for the Duke’s family, and Olivia was content spending time with both Rosalind and Isabella.

  Yes, it all went very well, except for the fact that she and the Duke had barely spoken.

  It had felt quite strange to leave her family’s London home with the Finchley family — her family now, she realized. She had said goodbye to her mother with little emotion, and had given Helen a sweet smile, whispering in her ear for her to keep her chin up and not let their mother have her way all the time. The only tear that escaped her eye was when her father had enveloped her in a tight embrace. He’d always treated her as more than a daughter, with the respect near to what a son would garner. She would miss sitting with him in the library or his study as they each poured over their books.

  She was about to leave when he called her back for a moment. “Olivia,” he said, then brought her close and murmured in a voice that only she could hear, “Keep up the good work, my little P.J. Scott.”

  She gasped and stared at him in astonishment. How had he known? But he only winked at her and turned her to the door, where her husband awaited to accompany her to his — their — home in the Breckenridge coach, their crest etched on the side.

  The Duke’s sister, Anne, chattered the entire way back to their home, about how lovely the ceremony was and how romantic was their quick marriage. She could not wait to tell her friends all about it, and questioned the Duke as to how long would they remain in London so that she might perhaps find her own husband this year? She seemed so eager to re-enter society herself, her first season abruptly cut short by her father's death, and asked Olivia how many seasons she had been out for.

  “Five,” Olivia responded.

  Anne gasped. “My goodness, that is quite a few!”

  “Yes,” Olivia said with a wry grin. “I have heard that before.”

  “Oh, my apologies,” Anne said, her cheeks turning pink. “I never meant anything by it. Besides, I suppose it all worked out for you with my brother.”

  “Yes,” Olivia said with a nod, “I suppose it did.”

  The Finchley’s London manor was quite grand, and had been in the family for many years. As Olivia spent the majority of the remainder of the day exploring the home, she felt the eyes of the Duke’s ancestors staring at her from their portraits on the wall. Dinner was a small affair following the extravagant breakfast from earlier in the day, and the Duke remained fairly silent as Olivia chattered with Anne, finding themselves well suited to one another.

  Olivia felt for the girl, who was so eager to begin life as a young woman of the ton, and yet had continued to be delayed through no fault of her own. Olivia resolved to speak with Alastair to ensure that Anne could return to events in due time. She herself could now accompany her as a chaperone. How amusing, she thought, that she would now be eligible to act as chaperone. It had been six months since the death of the former Duke of Breckenridge, and while Olivia knew the pain was likely still there, it was a reasonable amount of time to reappear in society.

  She retired early that evening, making her way alone upstairs and down the hallway to her new bedchamber.

  Olivia wondered what it must be like for the dowager duchess to have her here in the home, assuming what presumably had once been her chambers when her husband was alive. No matter, though, she was pleasant to her and seemed genuinely welcoming.

  Her maid, Molly, who had left her parents’ employ to come with her to her new home, had arranged most of Olivia’s clothing and possessions within the chamber. Olivia felt that the sooner she had her own things in the space, the sooner she would feel more comfortably at home. Already, however, she far preferred the decor of this house to her parents’. The white walls set off the crimson beddings and curtains, while the mahogany armoire and dressing table were rich and inviting. Mercifully, there was no pink to be found anywhere in the room.

  “You looked beautiful today, Lady Olivia — that is, Your Grace,” her maid said as she took the pins out of Olivia’s hair, letting it fall to her shoulders in cascading waves before beginning to pleat it.

  “Oh Molly, Your Grace sounds so formal and you have known me for far too long. Olivia is fine,” she said to the girl.

  Molly nodded but seemed unsure, though she chatted on about the beauty of the new home as she helped Olivia undress and step into her nightgown and wrapper. “Your husband is very handsome,” she said, then as a blush rose in her cheeks, added, “My apologies, my lady, that was far too forward of me.”

  “Not to worry Molly,” she said with a twist of a smile. “You’re not the only woman to feel that way.”

  With a confused look on her f
ace, Molly opened her mouth to speak, but before any words came out, a knock sounded at the door adjoining her bedroom to her husband’s. “Oh!” Molly said, her hand flying to her lips. “That must be him. If that will be all?”

  “Yes,” Olivia said, turning back on her seat toward the mirror as Molly opened the door and scurried down the hall before Olivia bid the Duke to enter.

  He cleared his throat from behind her.

  “Wife,” he said, his eyebrows rising as she turned to face him.

  “I have a name,” she said, looking up at him, her eyes crystallizing. “Olivia.”

  “Very well Olivia,” he said, her name sounding nearly foreign the way he rolled it off his tongue. “And you must call me Alastair.”

  She nodded.

  “You looked very beautiful today,” he said, the enchanting grin back on his face, although Olivia could see it did not quite meet his eyes.

  “There is no need to charm me, Alastair,” she responded. “I meant what I said today. A civil arrangement will suit me fine.”

  And will keep my fickle heart from falling for you, only to be broken, she thought.

  Suddenly she realized the reason why he may be here, in her chamber.

  “Unless, that is, you feel it necessary tonight to….”

  “No, no,” he said, his hand sweeping out in front of him. “I do not expect anything from you, unless you should choose it.”

  She looked up at him, at the olive tones of his skin visible where he had already removed his cravat, showing the smooth lines of his chest, and the strength in his legs underneath the tight-fitting breeches that left little to her imagination, though her mind roamed there anyway. She remembered the way her hands had roamed over his strong jaw, and entwined in his stylish tawny hair, shorter on the sides, but curling on top. She felt a pull deep inside her that longed to say, yes, please, give me a wedding night. She yearned for his hands on her body, craved to feel his lips on hers again. Their hurried kisses in the Argyll Rooms had not been enough. She wanted more, wanted him.

  But it could not be. For she knew herself. Whatever emotion she felt was typically strong and passionate, be it exuberance, sorrow, anger, or love. She did not have a great deal of control over her sentiments, and if she gave him her body she would be giving him part of herself, and she would desire more than just the physical connection. And with a man like him, that could only ever lead to heartbreak.

  “I believe … I feel that for now I would prefer our arrangement to remain according to the terms we set out this morning,” she said, her eyes on the Oriental rug that adorned the floor of her room.

  “Very well,” he said. “Goodnight, then … Olivia.”

  “Goodnight Alastair.”

  With that, he turned on his heel and returned to his chamber, closing the door behind him and leaving Olivia feeling slightly bereft and completely alone. It was her own fault, however, and she resolved it was time to sleep and she would feel much better come morning.

  She had never been one to take to bed early, however. How many nights had she spent hours in the library, studying or working on her articles, while the rest of the house slept around her? She loved this time of day, the time when she could do as she pleased without her mother looking over her shoulder or a servant ready to respond to her every need. She was actually truly well and completely alone and she should rejoice in it, not feel sorrowful, she told herself.

  She picked up the candle on the side table by her bed, and first put her ear to the door adjoining her chamber to Alastair’s. She could hear his footsteps within, telling her he was there, and she slowly opened the room’s other door which led to the hall, shoving her long blonde braid behind her shoulder.

  She looked one way and the other, but seeing no one, she began down the hall and tiptoed down the stairs as she tried to recall where the library was located. It didn’t take long for her to find the room, and she eased open the door, pleased to find it dark and empty. She used her own candle to light others in the room and take a better look around.

  It did not boast the bookshelves of her father’s own library, but it did include a sizeable desk as well as comfortable dark brown leather and walnut wingback chairs and a matching thick window seat that overlooked the street below. She wandered around the room, finally coming to sit on the edge of the seat. She curled her legs below her as she looked out on the Mayfair streets of London. She set no light beside her so that she would not be visible to any passersby, but instead took her fill of all that stood out below. The hour being late, there was little activity outside, but the gas street lamps provided pools of light, accented by the dim light falling from windows of homes whose occupants were similarly awake.

  She saw movement underneath her, and she rose as she leaned forward to see who it might be as she took in a form emerging from the doorway below her. When he walked beneath the streetlamp, she swallowed hard as she realized it was Alastair, providing instructions to the groom as he entered his carriage.

  She felt a pang in her chest. It was her wedding night, and her groom was off to heaven only knew where. A club, a gaming hall, a — a mistress? Her heart skipped a beat. Did it really matter? She had told him this is what she wanted, nothing but an arrangement. He had come to her bedchamber, providing her with the invitation for a wedding night, and she had refused. So why did this streak of jealousy tear through her?

  Because she wanted him to want her, despite her refusal to him, which she knew made no sense whatsoever. It was bad luck on his part that he had been caught with a young, unwed woman of society. He had paid for it with marriage, but he would not change his life.

  Olivia stood, cursing herself for the foolish emotions wreaking havoc on all rational thought. Her jealousy was not only for want of Alastair’s desire, but also for the easy way which he passed through the night. He could travel throughout the city at any hour he pleased, without comment or repercussion. Were she to be found doing the same, however, it could mean scandal and ruin. Well, additional scandal and ruin, she thought, rolling her eyes.

  She meandered back through the library and the corridor to her rooms. As she shut the door behind her, she steeled herself with new resolve to keep Alastair far, far away, and not let a sliver of him enter her soul.

  As he entered the gaming hall, Alastair was soon greeted by lords of his acquaintance, as well as the card dealers and serving girls who knew him. He was not a regular visitor, but he did find himself in an establishment such as this from time to time when he was looking for a bit of fun.

  He had entered the rooms of his wife this evening unsure of what to expect. Had she seemed to want him, he would have celebrated his wedding night in typical fashion. But the usual talkative Olivia Jackson — no, Olivia Finchley now — had not been the woman with whom he had flirted, danced, and kissed. Instead, she had been replaced by a much more cold and tight-lipped version of herself, at least when she was addressing him. After she had dismissed him, he had paced his room for a few minutes before feeling the need to escape it, and soon had ended up here.

  Lord Merryweather approached him shortly, greeting him with a slap on the back. “Breckenridge! Congratulations on your wedding this morning, man. But whatever are you doing here, in a gaming hell, on your wedding night?”

  Alastair gave his friend a rueful grin.

  “I think marriage will take some time to grow on me,” he said. “In the meantime, what’s the harm in having a bit of fun?”

  Merryweather shrugged his shoulders, though he did give Alastair a bit of a sideways glance.

  They made their way to the faro table, though as they passed the men playing whist, Alastair thought of his beautiful blonde wife and her expertise in the game. Perhaps if nothing else she could provide him with a bit of education on how to become as proficient as she.

  As the game began, his opponent soon had a serving girl sitting on his lap. Serving girl was a bit of a loose term, as the women in this club certainly served more than drinks. Ano
ther scantily clad woman brought Alastair his brandy, asking him with a sly smile if he would like anything else.

  He smiled at her. She was beautiful and certainly attractive with midnight black hair and a dress leaving very little to the imagination. He opened his mouth to agree but the words seemed to stall on his lips. The usual desire he might feel for such a woman did not seem to be present. Instead, he felt … guilty. He had a wife at home, an alluringly stunning woman who many a man would be grateful for, and here he was considering a whore in a club. When he thought of making love to a woman, the only image that came into his mind was a blonde with a wide smile, generous hips and crystal blue eyes. He shook his head at the woman and she moved off with a backward glance.

  Alastair gave a slight growl of frustration. This was why he did not want a wife. Sure, she may tell him this marriage was just an arrangement, but that did not change his unease at the entire situation. He was a cad, or would be should he continue to find his desires slaked elsewhere. And yet she certainly seemed to no longer have any interest in him.

  He sighed and threw down a card. He didn’t know what was to happen next, but one thing was for certain — the life he had known was over.

  13

  Olivia sailed into the dining room the next morning, seeming to purposefully time her entrance so that Alastair was nearly finished with his breakfast, yet would now have to politely wait for her. His mother typically broke her fast in her rooms, and Anne had long since eaten. The footman pulled out Olivia’s chair and she sat with the flourish of a queen, smiling broadly at her husband.

  “Good morning, darling,” she said as she picked up her teacup.

  “Good morning, Olivia,” he responded, looking warily up at her as if he knew something was afoot. “What has caused you to be in such high spirits this morning?”