A Duke to Die for: The Rogues' Dynasty

by Amelia Grey

“Because the Duke of Blakewell is the last name on my father’s list.”

  What in the hell was she talking about? He became more intrigued with each word she spoke.

  “What list is that, Miss Tweed?”

  She clasped her lovely hands together in front of her, and once again she looked straight into his eyes. “If you don’t know what I’m talking about, Your Grace, we have a problem.”

  “At last we agree on something. Those are the truest words you have spoken thus far.”

  A wrinkle of concern settled between her eyes, but it in no way detracted from her beauty.

  “You were supposed to receive a letter and some rather important documents from a solicitor named Mr. Conrad Milton that would announce my arrival and explain everything about me.”

  Blake immediately thought of his desk. Not only was the blasted thing covered in account books that hadn’t been reviewed, along with papers and documents that hadn’t been signed, it was littered with all kinds of correspondence that hadn’t been opened.

  For the first time since becoming a duke, Blake wished he had taken his responsibilities as the Duke of Blakewell a little more seriously.

  “I’ve been behind on mail recently. Just tell me why you are here.”

  “All right.” She unclasped her hands and calmly let her arms fall comfortably to her sides. “I am your ward and your house is supposed to be my new home.”

  Blake couldn’t have been more shocked if she’d thrown cold water in his face.

  “What? No. This is ridiculous.” A strained chuckle caught briefly on his breath. “I can assure you that you are not my ward, Miss Tweed.”

  She took a deep breath but otherwise remained composed.

  “If only that were true, Your Grace, but I’m afraid it isn’t. I don’t know what happened to the letter or the documents you were to receive, but rest assured there are papers that prove the Duke of Blakewell is next in line to be my legal guardian and the sole trustee of my inheritance.”

  “Guardian? How old are you?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “But you carry yourself like…”

  “Someone older?”

  She was not only beautiful, she was perceptive, too. Why was he finding everything about her appealing? She was obviously laying out some elaborate scheme and expecting him to swallow it, yet still he found her fascinating.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “I assure you I’ve had to grow up quickly.”

  For a moment Blake thought he saw a hint of wistfulness in her bright blue eyes, but it was so fleeting he wasn’t positive. And nothing else in her manner had caused him to think she was in the least unsure of herself, which was remarkable concerning her situation, if the tale she told was true.

  “Regardless of your age, I can’t be your guardian. Don’t you know who I am?”

  A knowing smile gently lifted the corners of her attractive lips. Blake’s lower body responded once again.

  “Your reputation stretches much farther than all of London, Your Grace. In the scandal sheets, you are referred to as the Devilish Duke.”

  Far from being insulted that she brought up that nickname Society had placed on him some years ago, he threw up his hands and said, “My point exactly. Who in their right mind would expect me to be the protector of a young lady’s reputation? I’m the kind of man fathers safeguard their daughters against. There has been a mistake.”

  She didn’t appear perturbed in the least. “I agree. I can only assume your father was the Duke of Blakewell who agreed to be my guardian, should anything happen to Lord Palmer.”

  “Who is Lord Palmer? I thought you said your father was Sir William Tweed.”

  Another smile played at the corners of her lips, irritating the hell out of him even though he found it extremely provocative. There was nothing humorous in this debacle if, by some cruel twist of fate, she had truly been left to his care.

  “Lord Palmer was my guardian for the past year and a half. Before him there was Lord Brembly, and before him, Viscount Westhavener.”

  Blake stared in disbelief. “How many guardians have you had?”

  Very sensibly she said, “Far too many, I assure you, Your Grace.”

  “I’m trying hard not to be frustrated, Miss Tweed, but I’m not making much progress because I’m not seeing a connection between you and me, or my father.”

  She remained so calm it was maddening. It annoyed the hell out of him and challenged him at the same time. This lady was very confident of her place in life, though he couldn’t imagine why, considering the convoluted story coming out of her.

  She lifted her slightly arched brows. “I’m afraid the explanation is rather lengthy.”

  Blake glanced up at the clock on the mantel. It was past three o’clock already, and he hadn’t even started on the accounting ledger. No doubt he wouldn’t make it to see Morgan’s horse compete at Rotten Row—and he wouldn’t make Race’s card game either if he didn’t get Miss Tweed settled right away. The work for his solicitor would just have to wait until tomorrow.

  “As soon as I find or receive the correspondence you’ve mentioned, I’ll have my solicitor look it over and straighten this out. In the meantime, tell me where you need to go tonight, and I’ll see that you get there.”

  Her shoulders stiffened, though just barely. “I have nowhere to go, Your Grace, but here.”

  Those simple but unflinching words took the starch out of him. Either she had come up with the grandest scheme imaginable to get in his good graces, or she was serious.

  Blake turned away from her for a moment and silently cursed under his breath. What the bloody hell was he going to do with her?

  He turned back to face her and said, “Perhaps you have a relative or a friend who will take you in.”

  “None that I know of.”

  “You have no relatives at all?”

  His question brought a long moment of silence from her. There was an uncertain quality to her eyes as they searched his face.

  “Surely if there were anyone, my father would have put their names on the list before that of a stranger.”

  That she had no one was hard for him to believe. Sometimes Blake felt as if he were in some way related to half the people in London, and because of his grandmother’s four marriages, he probably was.

  “I’ve had a very long day, Your Grace. May I sit down?” she asked.

  He couldn’t very well say no. “Yes, of course.”

  If he’d been thinking clearly, he would have asked her to take a seat earlier, but nothing had gone as it should have from the moment he walked through his front door. Ashby had even had to prompt him to do the proper thing and offer tea.

  She sat on the dark-green brocade settee with surprising assuredness for a nineteen-year-old with no place to stay. Blake was in no mood to sit still, but he took a side chair opposite her anyway.

  Mrs. Ellsworth, his housekeeper, brought in a tray with tea and placed it on the table that stood between him and his guest. Blake waited impatiently while tea was poured, though he declined a cup.

  He watched Miss Tweed sip her tea from the dainty china and noticed her hands again. He liked the feminine look of them. Her fingers appeared smooth and nimble, nails neatly trimmed. He had the sudden thought of those hands feather soft on his chest, trailing seductively over his body.

  Blake mentally shook himself and said, “It looks as if I’m going to need that lengthy explanation after all, Miss Tweed. Where exactly did you say you come from?”

  “Originally?” That wistful look came into her eyes, but again only for a moment. She took a deep breath, and he had the feeling she was calling on some inner strength to sustain her.

  Blake realized that she wasn’t one to feel sorry for herself, and he liked that about her. He rarely noticed so many things about any young lady. Over years of attending the Season, he’d come to think that there was little difference among them, but Miss Tweed could have him rethinking that.

&nb
sp; “I was born in Dover, but I haven’t lived there for quite some time. My parents were killed in a carriage accident when I was seven. I went to live with my only relative, my father’s half brother, Lord Phillip Bennett, and his lady. Unfortunately, Lord Phillip met with an untimely death at sea a couple of years later. Viscount and Viscountess Westhavener were next on the list. They were wonderful to me. They hired a governess who taught me to read, write, and add numbers as well as all the things a young lady is supposed to learn to adequately manage a large household. I was with them for four-and-a-half years.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Viscount Westhavener was struck by lightning late one afternoon as he walked in his garden. The viscountess asked that I be allowed to stay with her, but unfortunately it couldn’t be allowed. My guardianship had already been decided by my father’s long and able list.

  “I had to go live with Lord Brembly and his lady in Dorset. When he died by falling off the roof, I was uprooted once again and sent to Mr. Henry Pippin’s home in Essex. He was thrown from his horse and killed shortly after I arrived, so I was moved yet again to Lord Palmer’s home. Regrettably, he succumbed to consumption only a few weeks ago.”

  “Bloody hell, that’s way too many guardians to have had in twelve years!”

  “Yes, it’s been most unfortunate. And now I find myself at the door of the last man on the list.”

  “Mine. The Duke of Blakewell.”

  “Yes.”

  Damnation. If all she said was true, and it was too bizarre not to be, what was he going to do about her? He was having a devil of a time just keeping up with his duties as a duke. And now he was being pressured by some political hogs to take his father’s place in Parliament. But all that aside, there was no way he could take on the responsibility of a young lady. He didn’t have a thought in hell about what to do with her.

  “Miss Tweed, if my father and mother were here, I’m sure they would be honoured to abide by your father’s wishes and take care of you. But as you can understand, I can’t be your guardian.”

  He wasn’t sure what he expected from her, but it wasn’t the spark of triumph that flashed in her bright eyes. She looked pleased, as if he’d said exactly what she wanted to hear.

  “I understand perfectly, Your Grace, if you feel you can’t be my guardian. I’m going to be twenty at the end of summer, and I truly don’t need anyone to look after me. I’m more than qualified to take care of myself. All you need to do is draw up a document and sign it, giving me power to be mistress over my inheritance.”

  Blake gazed at her lovely face. He could see in the expression on her face and in her blue eyes that she believed what she was saying. She thought she could handle her affairs and take care of herself as proficiently as a man. He almost laughed. He, of all people, knew how difficult it was to keep up with account books.

  She had the countenance of an innocent, not the guise of a woman of the world. Looking at her then, he knew a guardian was exactly what she needed, because he was thinking how kissable her lips looked, how soft her skin appeared, how he would love to feel her shapely body pressed solidly against his.

  He cleared his throat and tamped down his wayward thoughts. She was not trying to be seductive in any manner, yet he found her immensely so.

  “I’m still not totally convinced I’m in charge of you, but I’m certainly not about to sign anything at this point.”

  She placed her empty cup on the tray. “Once you are convinced that what I say is true, I hope you will reconsider allowing me to be mistress of my inheritance. Besides, it’s in your own best interest. I don’t want to see anything happen to you.”

  That was an odd statement. “What are you talking about?”

  “The inevitable, Your Grace. All five of my previous guardians have died. There is a curse on the list of names my father made all those years ago. If you take on the responsibility of being my guardian, I’m afraid you will die, too.”

  A quick smile parted his lips, and then he laughed with ease. She was so refreshingly direct that he was absolutely taken with her.

  “You must be trying to amuse me, Miss Tweed. Congratulations. It’s working. But I’m afraid your mind is playing tricks with you. There is no such thing as a curse.”

  She gave him an indulgent smile but said, “I beg to differ. Everyone who has ever been responsible for me and my considerable inheritance has died an untimely death.”

  Blake had no intention of dying any time soon.

  He gave her a roguish smile and said, “Bad luck, Miss Tweed. It’s all just bad luck.”

  She sat back in the settee and folded her hands in her lap. “Then perhaps you need to think long and hard about that, Your Grace, because all that bad luck just landed at your door.”

  Two

  My Dear Grandson Lucien,

  I recently remembered more words of wisdom from my long-departed friend, Lord Chesterfield: “Whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing well; and nothing can be well done without attention.”

  Your loving Grandmother,

  Lady Elder

  “PERHAPS, MISS TWEED, IT WAS LORD CHESTERFIELD who said something along the lines of ‘If not for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all.’ I think I can weather any purported curse you believe lurks around you or your previous guardians.”

  The Duke of Blakewell was laughing at her. Henrietta’s heartbeat faltered and then quickened again. Why was he not taking her plight and his obvious danger seriously?

  Defiance kicked in, and suddenly Henrietta’s shoulders lifted as if she’d suddenly been set free of some imaginary chains. The Duke of Blakewell might be the first duke she’d ever met and surely the most handsome man she’d ever laid eyes on, but he was also the most infuriating.

  Just because her heart had tripped at the sight of him when he first strode by the drawing-room doorway, carelessly tossing his gloves, hat, and cloak into the hands of his butler as he went, was no reason for her to allow him to use her for his own private amusement.

  “You jest, Your Grace. I’ve read the published letters Lord Chesterfield wrote to his son, and I’m quite certain that quote was not anything he wrote. I think it’s far more likely something you just made up to amuse yourself.”

  A playful smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Humor has its benefits, Miss Tweed.”

  “You might find hilarity in the deaths of my previous guardians, but I do not.”

  His smile slowly faded at her reprimand, but his eyes in no way appeared contrite. “Of course, death is no laughing matter. I didn’t mean to imply it is. I found humor only in your suggestion of a curse.”

  “Why does that amuse you so? I don’t consider a curse a laughing matter, either.”

  Once again a smile, easy and genuine, curved his lips. “I don’t believe in hocus-pocus rituals, Miss Tweed and, quite frankly, until you mentioned a curse, you seemed so… sensible.”

  Henrietta drew in her breath and held it as she studied him for a moment, trying to decide if he’d just bestowed a compliment or a criticism on her.

  Not that it mattered. It was hard not to believe in curses when she had seen them come true. Henrietta had never forgotten the words of the old woman with whom she’d stayed until she could be taken to her first guardian after her parents died.

  Mrs. Goolsby had been a frightful person who didn’t try to hide her fear of Henrietta and the curse she said followed Henrietta. Over the years, Henrietta had tried to forget the sharp-faced woman and her talk of curses, ghosts, and death, but it was difficult when, just as Mrs. Goolsby had predicted, every one of her guardians had died—except the one sitting before her now.

  Because of what she’d read about the duke in the scandal sheets, she hadn’t expected him to be as old as her previous guardians, but she certainly hadn’t anticipated that he would look like the paintings she’d seen of Adonis: tall, proud, commanding, and powerful-looking with his wide, strong shoulders, flat stomach, and lean, narrow hips.
>
  The duke was faultless in appearance, dressed in fawn-colored breeches and shiny black riding boots. His broad chest was covered by a white shirt, a red quilted waistcoat adorned with brass buttons, and a black riding coat made from expensive, lightweight wool. The bow of his neckcloth was uneven and looked as if it had been hastily tied. But far from making him appear disheveled, the informal bow made him look like the devilish rogue the gossipmongers claimed he was.

  His unfashionably long, light brown hair was stylishly brushed away from his face. It hung thick and straight to just below his earlobes. Clean-shaven, his chiseled cheekbones and well-defined jawline accentuated a slightly square chin. His full, masculine-shaped lips and narrow, high-bridged nose matched his aristocratic demeanor, not to mention making him handsome enough to set her heart to fluttering.

  But most intriguing of all were his eyes. They were an unusual shade of grayish brown that was similar in color to that of weathered wood. And for a moment, when she first stared into his captivating eyes, she had the feeling she could look into them forever and never grow tired.

  “I am sensible, Your Grace,” she finally said, taking issue with his unstated assumption that believing in curses made her foolish. “My good common sense is what prompted me to warn you about the danger to your well-being.”

  “Just as my good common sense tells me there is no such danger from something that cannot be seen, felt, or heard,” he countered.

  “How can you doubt there is a curse when you are the only man on my father’s list of guardians who is still living? Even your father—my intended guardian—is no longer living.”

  He casually folded his arms across his chest, looking very relaxed and uncomplicated. “Perhaps that has something to do with age, Miss Tweed. No doubt all the others were my father’s peers and not mine.”

  “Perhaps, indeed, but none of the men in question died of old age. Unless, of course, that’s how your father died.”

  He paused before he spoke. “No, he was leaving his club one night, and he slipped on some ice and fell, hitting his head on a stone planter. He never woke up.”

  She lowered her lashes out of respect and then said, “I’m sorry to hear that. I’m sure it was dreadful for you, but as you can see, all my guardians were killed by accident, except one who died of illness.”