To Enchant a Wicked Duke

by Christi Caldwell

  Cecily thinned her eyes into narrow slits. “This is about him, isn’t it?”

  Him. The unspoken name that they never breathed. “This is about me,” Nick countered. He layered his arm along the back of the sofa.

  “Do not,” she commanded like a stern governess who’d never brook “no” for an answer.

  “I’ve said nothing.”

  “You didn’t need to,” she shot back. “I know you.” Cecily glanced to the doorway and then scooted to the edge of her chair. She tugged the large piece closer to Nick, scraping the seat noisily along the hardwood. “You have let him turn you into a shell of the person you were.”

  They were both empty caricatures of the people they’d been. Determined to not remind her of the misery of her marriage, he buried that profession. “I want you in the country,” he said in hushed tones.

  Understanding dawned in her eyes. “So, that is why you are here.” She shook her head slowly. “I’m not running to the countryside. And I’m certainly not taking Felicity to where the earl is.”

  He balled his hands. “Do you expect I’d ask you to go off with your husband?” He could not banish the disappointment that her doubts roused. “Go to Suffolk.”

  “To our old home?” Another sad little smile hovered on her lips. His purchase and restoration of that small cottage had begun out of his bid to eradicate the demons that dwelled there and had laid conquest to his past. “Oh, Dominick, you still do not see that nothing can right the past. Nothing can bring Papa and Mama back. Nothing can erase Grandfather’s verbal assaults. Or undo my…” Marriage.

  The word hung unfinished and as real as if she’d uttered it. “But there can be justice.”

  As soon as that whisper left Nick’s lips, worry flooded his sister’s eyes. “You will let him turn you into a version of him.”

  He’d already become that man. Only Cecily and his niece saw good in him, still. He’d not waste his breath trying to convince his sister of the contrary. Nick tugged out his watch fob and consulted the timepiece. “I must go,” he said with finality. “I am meeting Chilton shortly.” He snapped the gold trinket closed.

  Cecily fluttered a hand about her chest and let her fingers fall to her lap. “He has always been a friend to you.” There was something sad and contradictory in that quiet pronouncement. They three had been inseparable as children and Chilton had developed the same apathy for the peerage as Nick himself. She climbed to her feet. “Let your hatred go. It will destroy you.”

  As a boy who’d sustained himself on hatred and survived the hell of, first, his father’s death, then his mother’s, and then the misery of residing with his grandfather, it had been the hope of seeing Rutland love and ultimately lose, the way Nick’s family had.

  This would be an act of vengeance that lived not just for him, but for Cecily, as well. For all they as a family had lost on that dark night.

  He started for the door and had his hand on the doorknob. Nick paused and glanced back. “I’ll ask you again to please leave—”

  “I am not leaving London, Dominick.” Censure laced her reply. “This is where I belong. If you believe something you intend to do will have ramifications on mine or Felicity’s well-being, then you should rethink your course.” A curse stung his lips, but she quelled him with a look. “I. Am. Not. Leaving.”

  Nick dragged a hand through his hair and at her stony expression, the fight withered on his lips. She was as stubborn as he himself. He gave a curt nod.

  “Please, be careful, Dominick.” Her softly-spoken plea rang like a shot in the quiet room.

  “I will do nothing to cause you any more pain,” he vowed.

  His sister held his gaze. “I’m not worried for me.”

  Forcing a grin for her benefit, Nick offered another reassurance and then took his leave.

  Chapter 2

  Miss Justina Barrett had never understood the fascination with diamonds.

  They were clear, colorless, and, in short, dull. And yet, everyone wished to possess them. It was the stone to which all others were held in a comparative failing against. And it was also precisely as the ton had come to see her, six weeks earlier, when she’d made her Come Out.

  Clutching the small book of Shelley’s poems in hand, she ducked her head around the aisle and did a rapid search of The Circulating Library and Reading Room. Her gaze collided with the very figure responsible for her now hiding amidst the aisle of poetry.

  “Is he still here?” Lady Gillian Farendale whispered.

  Justina angled back and pressed her fingertips against her lips.

  “Of course, he is,” Honoria Fairfax said, with far greater discretion than the other lady. “He is always here.”

  Always here. In short, wherever Justina happened to be, so too went the gentleman. None other than the Marquess of Tennyson. He’d presented himself as a suitor at her first ball and had shown unswerving attentions since.

  “I asked my sister to find information about the gentleman,” Gillian whispered. It was no secret the lady’s sister, Genevieve, had wed one of the most notorious rakes in London. As such, Lord Tennyson was the very manner of man the gentleman would have once kept company with.

  “Well?” Honoria quietly demanded.

  “They say he has…wicked proclivities.” Gillian paused. “Behind the chambers’ doors,” she added on a hushed whisper that barely reached Justina’s ears.

  Honoria gasped. “Gillian!”

  The gentleman stopped suddenly and his sapphire cloak swirled about his ankles. Heart racing, Justina layered herself against the row of books.

  Will you leave, already?

  She peeked her head around once more, just as the marquess disappeared down another aisle. Good. Now she could at least withdraw her book—

  Honoria leaned around her and assessed the library. Then she took Justina by her spare hand. “Go,” she whispered.

  “But…” Justina looked forlornly down at the copy of Shelley’s poems.

  “Before he returns,” Honoria urged, that reminder springing her into movement. Regret filling her, Justina stuck the volume onto the shelf and with Gillian trailing behind, they rushed through The Circulating Library.

  With every step, her pulse pounded loudly in her ears as she waited for Lord Tennyson to step into their path and halt her retreat.

  Honoria grabbed the door handle and shoved the door open; that movement setting the tinny bell a-jingle. The trio hurried outside into the bustling streets of Lambeth. Justina and the two ladies now at her side, well knew of the marquess’ tenacity. As such, they continued their quickened pace along the crowded pavement, weaving between gypsy caravans, until they reached Honoria’s family carriage.

  The driver stood in wait beside the opened door and immediately handed them inside. A moment later, the carriage dipped under his weight as he reclaimed his perch atop, and then the conveyance lurched forward.

  Justina released the breath she’d been holding and peeled back the edge of the red velvet curtain to look outside into the busy streets. Hardly the fashionable end of London, Lord Tennyson belonged in the streets of Gipsy Hill as much as King George himself did.

  “He is making more of a nuisance of himself,” Gillian said, echoing Justina’s very thoughts.

  “All gentlemen are nuisances,” Honoria countered with her usual jaded cynicism toward the motives of young lords. Though, in the reflection of the crystal windowpane, worry marred the young lady’s features.

  Justina didn’t know all the details surrounding the young woman’s scandalous childhood, as the daughter of a publicly gossiped about mother, but she had to believe decency remained. What was the alternative? To find that they lived in a world where a man had no use for a lady beyond a pretty face and the babes she would give him? “That is not the case,” she said softly, letting the curtain fall back into place. Even if her own father was a rotted bounder with a black soul. “My sister’s husband is proof to the contrary.”

  Edmund Deering
, the Marquess of Rutland, had proven more loyal and devoted to every Barrett sibling than even their own father.

  Honoria pursed her lips. “Between Gillian and me,” she said, motioning to the pale-blonde beauty on the opposite bench. “In all of our Seasons, how many honorable suitors have we had?”

  Given their cleverness and spirit, they should have had countless.

  Honoria formed a circle with her fingers.

  “You make it sound even worse when you present it that way,” Gillian muttered.

  Ignoring the other woman, Honoria directed her next question to Justina. “And how many honorable suitors have you had who genuinely care to hear your opinions and share your thoughts?”

  She wrinkled her mouth. Her silence stood as a damning confirmation to the other woman’s correctness. Since she’d set foot in Almack’s and been labeled a Diamond, she’d been swarmed by suitors. Not a single one of them had complimented anything more than her hair, smile, and even, on occasion, her teeth. Which had only fueled her annoyance with Society. She’d been relentlessly pursued by gentlemen who knew nothing about her…and who only wished to possess her. Then, when have I ever freely spoken my mind? Mayhap if she had, men would treat her as more than an object.

  “Precisely my point,” Honoria said gently.

  Justina angled her head up. “Yes, well, just because we haven’t found an honorable gentleman, doesn’t mean he doesn’t exist.” For if there was no one out there who fit with every dream she’d long carried of her future suitor and husband, what was there? Men such as her father, Chester Barrett, Viscount Waters, who her poor mother found herself tied to until she drew her last breath? A man who’d never allowed his wife a free opinion. A cold chill stole through her, leaving an empty bleakness at the possibility. I will not be my mother.

  Gillian held a hand up. “Before we debate the merits of all gentlemen, I expect we should give proper focus to just the one.” Lord Tennyson. He was becoming increasingly bold in his pursuit. Tenaciously so. “You must send word to Lord Rutland,” Gillian insisted.

  Honoria and Gillian exchanged a look. “Though it does pain me,” Honoria said in somber tones. “I do agree with Gillian.”

  “Phoebe only just had her babe.” Justina frowned. “I will not burden them,” she said quietly.

  The pair on the opposite bench fell silent and a somber pall descended over the carriage. With the exception of Justina’s family and the two women before her, no one knew the details surrounding Phoebe’s confinement. After a difficult pregnancy, by her mother’s missives, Phoebe was perilously weak. God himself with the Devil aiding, could not pull Edmund away from her side. Nor would Justina dare ask or expect that.

  Her mouth tightened involuntarily. She was strong enough to hold off her father and any scheming suitors. Though, if she were being honest with herself, she did miss the support of her fearless sister and brother-in-law.

  “We’re here.” Gillian’s quiet pronouncement cut across Justina’s thoughts. Both friends stared back at her, their eyes radiating concern.

  Fixed in her seat, Justina again looked out the window at the white stucco façade of her townhouse. The front door stood open as two strangers stepped outside, a trunk in their arms, carting off her family’s belongings. Her throat worked.

  “I’m sorry, Justina,” Honoria said softly, a remarkable crack in the young lady’s always-present strength. Yes, because it did not take much figuring to ascertain precisely what the gentlemen in their formal cloaks and monocles were doing here.

  She managed a nod, and continued staring as two familiar creditors streamed out into the street with smaller trunks in their arms. Which books had her father sold off now? Works by the Great Bard? The gothic novels she’d once favored above all other literary works? Her gut clenched. How many years had she failed to appreciate that room?

  “If he knew, Lord Rutland would never allow this,” Gillian said passionately.

  “No, he would not,” Justina murmured. He’d already come countless times to her wastrel father’s rescue. Only… “Threats will not change a man,” she said, more to herself. “And with Edmund away, Father is who he has always been.” And who he would always be. A drunkard, who craved gambling almost as much as those disgusting spirits. “I must go,” she said quietly and reached for the handle.

  Honoria settled a hand on Justina’s knee, staying her movements. “I’m delaying my visit with Phoebe until later in the Season,” she began. “I will remain with you. She would rather I be at your side.”

  Given Honoria’s rightful loathing for London, it was a testament to the other woman’s goodness as a friend that she’d offer to remain here on her behalf. They may have begun as friends of Phoebe merely looking after the youngest Barrett, yet in such a short time, they’d become so much more. “Thank you,” Justina said quietly. She held her friend’s gaze. “When you do leave, I would have you say nothing to Phoebe.” She held the other woman’s gaze. Tight white lines formed at the corners of Honoria’s mouth. “My sister needn’t worry about me.” Not when she was still weak from the sudden, complicated delivery of her latest babe.

  Gillian clapped her hands. “Nor will she have to worry. We are both here with you, and then when Honoria leaves, I will still be here. As such, you’ll be in splendid hands.” A mischievous glimmer lit the lady’s pretty green eyes, earning a groan from Honoria. “I’ll help you avoid unwanted suitors.” She winked. “And help you sneak off to steal time alone with the wanted ones,” she whispered, startling a laugh from Justina.

  “You will do no such thing,” Honoria said, swiping a hand over her eyes.

  “Oh, never,” Gillian vowed with deep solemnity. Then ruined that show with a wink.

  To the ladies’ bickering, Justina pushed the door open and accepted the hand of the waiting servant with a murmur of thanks. Tossing a wave over her shoulder for her friends, she rushed along the pavement, up the steps. Their loyal family butler, Manfred, pulled the door open.

  She shrugged out of her cloak and turned it over to a waiting footman. “Manfred,” she directed at the wizened butler.

  “The viscount wishes to see you in his office, Miss Barrett.”

  Dread took root in her belly. Inevitably, there was only one matter of business her father cared to discuss—her marital state and, more importantly, how it served him.

  The old butler gave her a pitying look.

  Feeling much the way Joan of Arc no doubt felt being marched up to that dreaded pyre, Justina mustered a smile and strode down the corridors. The heel of her boots clicked quietly on the wood floor as she moved deeper down the halls until she, at last, reached the dreaded office. She rapped once.

  “Enter,” her father boomed.

  Taking a deep breath, she plastered the expected smile on her face and stepped inside. “Fath—”

  “Close the door, gel,” he barked from where he stood at his sideboard.

  Justina pulled the panel closed and started across the room. As a young girl, she’d often wondered if her father called her “gel” and “girl” because he couldn’t be bothered with remembering her name. To him, she and Phoebe had only ever served one purpose—to make a match that would save him from debtor’s prison. The pain of that truth had eventually dulled, leaving a marked numbness for this man who’d given her life. With stiff footsteps, she came forward. Before she’d even fully sat, her father spoke.

  “I’ve had another bad turn at the gaming tables,” he said swiftly, unexpectedly.

  He always had bad luck at the gaming tables. He did not, however, bother speaking to his daughter about such matters. “Father?”

  “Been losing of late,” he muttered and waved a hand.

  Of late. In short, since Edmund, the son-in-law he feared above all others, had left for the country with Phoebe. With Rutland gone, there was no one to keep the wastrel viscount in check. Not that anyone could truly keep him in check. Not with his hungering to sit at those gaming tables. “Never had much
interest from the gents with your sister,” he mumbled, more to himself with a brutal candidness that made her curl her fingers into the palms of her hands. “But you, pretty face and skill enough on the dance floor, caught the Marquess of Tennyson’s notice.”

  An icy chill rolled along her spine. This is what he intends. To maneuver her into a match with some fat-in-the-pockets lord, who’d forgive her father’s debt. In an interesting reversal of events, Lord Tennyson had been in search of a fat dowry but a positive turn at the tables had boosted the gentleman’s fortunes.

  “The Marquess of Tennyson wants to properly court you,” he went on.

  “A man who’d brush his hand over my buttocks during a dancing set is about as proper as a pig in church,” she muttered under her breath. A selfish, horrible part of her soul hated her mother for leaving her here with her sire, who, with his machinations, was far worse than any determined matchmaking mama in the realm. And a small, horribly selfish part of her wished Phoebe was here, still. And more, Edmund. Their presence had deterred the viscount in his ruthless attempts at selling her off to the highest bidder.

  Her father ambled his corpulent form over to his desk. “Promised me he’d forgive my debt.”

  Short, pudgy, and balding, the coldness in the viscount’s eyes was only rivaled by the greed in his heart. Justina had spent so many hours searching for a glimpse of the man who’d somehow won her mother’s hand. Loathing burned her tongue like vinegar on an open wound. “I hardly know Lord Tennyson,” she said slowly in even tones meant to drum logic into a man who’d never loved, or even cared for his family. Nor, despite what her father might wish, would she ever wed a man who’d have any dealings with her reprobate father.

  “Bah, doesn’t matter if you know him.” He settled his sizeable girth in the worn leather seat. “You will know him.” He laughed as though he’d delivered a witty jest; his heavy form shaking with his hilarity so that liquid droplets tumbled over the rim of his glass and smattered the top of his hand. He pressed his fleshy lips to the moisture much like a starving man with his first taste of food. “Anyway, it is time you make a match.” Her father peered at her down the length of his bulbous nose, with assessing eyes that counted her inherent value.